Halloween

In truth, horror isn't really my thing.  I don't like scary movies, and scary books are even worse, because they leave so much up to my own (overactive) imagination.

But in honor of the holiday, your prompt for this week:  Write something spine-tingling!

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My response:

Maggie stomped through the trees, leaves crunching under her boots and flying behind her.  Her fingers curled into fists, flexed, and curled again.  Behind her, throaty screams tore the silence of the night.  Maggie threw back her head in a bitter laugh.  "Ha!"

Three years of falling all over herself, trying to get Trevor to notice her, and this was how it ended?  In some Halloween prank?  If Trevor was the kind of guy who would lure her out into the woods just to have his buddies creep up on them and scare her to death, then he wasn't the guy she thought he was.  Her heart wasn't even broken.  It was furious.

She reached into the pocket of her jean jacket and pulled out her phone, holding it up to light her way in the moonless night.  She would find the road.  She'd find a ride home.  And Trevor could find a new puppy to follow him around.  The screams behind her broke into laughter.  Maggie could picture all too well in her mind the chest bumping and shoulder punching as the guys celebrated their so-called victory.

The crackling of leaves and the fury of her own indignation kept Maggie going until only echoes of the boys' voices lingered in the crisp air.  She stopped, checking her phone.  She hadn't bothered to check it when she'd stormed off.  Now she could only guess at how long she'd been walking, and there was no sign of the road.  Wind rattled the sparse branches above her head, and Maggie shivered. 

Then she realized she was staring at her own answer.  She smiled at the phone in her hand and laughed out loud, typing her home address into Google maps.  With a chime and an arrow, her phone pointed her the way out of the woods.  Unfortunately, the arrow pointed back to where Trevor and his friends were.

Maggie sighed.  Oh well.  Maybe they'd give her a ride home and save her the trouble she'd get in if her mom caught her hitch hiking. 

A new round of screams carried on the night breeze.  A chill ran down Maggie's back, and she pressed her hands to her ears.  Both were freezing, and neither did much to warm the other.  It was too cold to be out.  She thought of Trevor's truck and the warm air that would flow from the vent.  He owed her at least that much tonight.

Trevor's voice rose, louder now, and Maggie figured she wasn't far off now.  A string of curses, followed by a howl of pain.  One of his idiot friends probably hit him in the head with a can of beer, or something else moronic.  Then the howl rose in pitch, to a squeal of agony. 

Maggie stopped in her tracks.

But of course they were still putting on an act.  They knew better than she did that she had nowhere to go.  Immature.  Stupid.  Crazy boys, and they were still playing with her. 

Another howl-turned-squeal rose into the night, then the sound of branches snapping and leaves smashing.  "Get in, get in!"  "Get us out of here, man!"  "Go, go, go!" 

Maggie's brow furrowed and she moved closer.  Maybe they'd finally succeeded in scaring themselves.

Then a truck engine roared to life, flooding the clearing in front of her with its headlights.  Maggie blinked frantically as her brain tried to make sense of the shapes and blazing brightness in front of her. 

It was Brian's truck, and the figures leaping around it seemed at first to be the rest of the guys jumping into the bed of the truck.  But there were too many, and some of them weren't shaped quite right. 

A low, throaty growl sounded to Maggie's left.  Her breath caught as she turned.  Something crouched in the headlights, one leg on a lump on the ground, one arm holding a second figure down.  Maggie blinked, and the shapes registered in her brain. Trevor lay on the ground, his red scarf and leather jacket that had looked so sleek when he picked her up tonight were torn and splattered with something dark.  Makray lay next to him, his left leg askew and half his face missing.  The figure above them dipped its head towards Trevor, and he let out a new moan of agony.  When the figure moved again, raising it's massive head, Maggie swallowed, willed her heart to stop pounding, and threw back her shoulders. 

Brian's truck swerved and screeched out of the clearing, screams and moans rising from the bed.  Maggie rolled her eyes.  They really didn't know when to stop, did they? 

With the headlights gone, the clearing was dark again, but Maggie had gotten a good look.  Whoever was playing the werewolf didn't know where she was, and she was going to teach him a lesson before she made Trevor wipe the makeup off and drive her home.  She slipped over to Trevor's truck, put the toe of her boot on the back tire, and lifted herself up.  Her fingers closed on something metallic lying in the bottom of the bed.  Trevor's bat.

Trevor's moans led her back to where they were.  Maggie flashed the light on her cell phone.  She didn't mean to do damage, just make them think twice about trying to scare her again.  But then the wolf turned to her, and she saw the light gleaming in the blood dripping from three inch fangs.  She dropped her phone and swung with all her might.

The wolf dropped as the bat contacted squarely on its skull.  It collapsed in a heap on top of Trevor.  Now Maggie knew why the guys jumping into the back of Brian's truck had looked odd.  Some of them were guys.  Some of them were wolves. 

Maggie dropped to her knees, feeling in the leaves for her phone.  Maggie couldn't hear anything over the pounding of her heart and the rustling of the stupid leaves that were everywhere.  Then she remembered Trevor kept his keys in his pocket.  With trembling fingers, Maggie gave up her search for her phone.  She reached forward and found Trevor's shoe, then his jeans.  Slowly, she worked her way up, trembling when the denim went slick with blood.  Then, finally, the lump of keys in his pocket.

The wolf lay on top of Trevor.  Maggie's brain worked furiously.  Werewolf.  Full moon.  But there's no moon tonight.  Stake through the heart?  No, that's vampires.  Silver bullet?  Maybe.  But if they're wrong about the full moon, maybe they're wrong about the bullet.

The keys jingled as they popped free from Trevor's pocket.

The wolf stirred. 

Maggie didn't have a gun or a silver bullet.  She launched herself towards the truck, leaves flying in the darkness as she prayed she got there before the wolf woke up.  Her hands smacked into the grill.  A shuffle behind her and a growl.  She moved around to the driver's side, fingers wrapping around the door handle.  Had Trevor locked it?  She lifted the handle and felt the snap of the release.

Then a pair of jaws clamped down on her ankle.  Pain seared up her leg, but her boots served to protect her to some extent.  Her boots.

It took all the will power in her body to slam her captured foot down to the ground.  Maggie pulled her other foot up and slammed it down onto the creature's head.  Once.  Twice.  Every strike sent lightning up her nerves.

Then the grip slackened.  Maggie pulled free, yanked the door open, and pulled herself up into the truck.  Slam the door.  Lock it.  Lock the other door.

Then she realized why it had let her go.  It was howling.  Calling to the pack.  Reinforcements.

Maggie slammed the key into the ignition, threw it into gear, sent a prayer up to heaven that her dad had taught her to drive stick, and tore out of the clearing the way Brian's truck had gone.

Fifteen minutes later, as the lights of town grew in front of her, she began to wonder again.  Just a prank that Trevor managed to pull off?  Werewolves?  Or stupid boys?  Did she really get bit by a wolf?  Her ankle didn't hurt anymore.  Maybe it was just her own imagination.  Go back home, or stop for a steak on the way?  Steak sounded good.  Saliva flooded her mouth.  Yeah.  Steak sounded good.

Grab a Book! #3

Usually the name of the game is to grab the nearest book, but I'm changing the rules this time.  Grab the book you're currently reading (and if that includes a few books, grab the one you're most excited about - the one you'd take with you into a bubble bath, should you have time for a soak). 

In order to avoid skipping ahead in the book, turn to the page you're currently at, then turn back 20 pages.  Then count down 8 full sentences on the page, and use that full sentence for your prompt. 

Don't forget to post what book you're reading and the sentence you land on for your prompt, so we know where you're coming from.  (And if you should land on a more exciting sentence on the same page, it's not as if anyone's going to check your work.  Go with what works best for you!)

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My response:

I'm reading FIRE by Kristin Cashore, because I loved GRACELING.
I ended up on page 245 where my line is, "Well," he said, "I hope you keep asking."

Viscount Mullen stormed into the great hall, water spraying from his cloak and boots onto polished marble and expensive rugs.  His valet tried not to cringe, but he could not help it when he took a direct hit to his brow.

"Sorry, Scully, it's miserable out there." 

"Mis're'bl in 'here, too, by the looks 'a 'im!" the scullery maid whispered as she passed Scully in the hallway, both of their eyes fixed on the Viscount's shoulders as he disappeared into the drawing room.

The count stood at the fireplace, a complete picture of nobility in his suit and tails, right down to the glass of sherry in his hand.  He turned, squinting as his son entered the room.

"Here here!  Don't keep an old man waiting, son!"  He leaned on his cane and made his way towards a tall, wing-backed chair.  "What says the Lady?"

The viscount scowled and poured himself a drink before sinking onto a couch by the fire.  He sipped before answering.  "She'll not have me, Father."

The count sputtered, sherry spattering his cravat.  "What do you say?  Has she turned you down?"

"Arrogant.  Prideful.  Cold and ... heartless.  Heartless, Father!"  He shook his head and swallowed down another gulp of comfort.

The sputtering turned into a chuckle, then a hearty laugh.  "And so begins the dance, dear boy.  Oh, do chin up, you're not the first to have a fair face turn up her nose at you.  But there are no rules on how many times you can ask, and, with one such as she ... well, I do hope you keep asking!"

Traveling Shovel of Death

In honor of NaNo coming up, I'm going to do something unusual for the prompt.  I did NaNo for the first time in 2008, and while I will caution anyone and everyone against thinking they're a genius and querying their NaNo novel in December, I do love the spirit of NaNo.  To me, it's all about carpe diem.  If you want to write a novel - write one!  Don't wait for someone to give you permission to, or until you "have more time".  Give yourself permission.  Make time.

(Or if it helps at all, I give you permission!!!)

Now in six years of doing NaNo, I have spent my fair share of time procrastinating in the NaNo Forums (part of the whole experience, guys, go check them out).  The "traveling shovel of death" is a kind of challenge/prompt thread where you insert the ... wait for it ... Traveling Shovel of Death ... into your novel. 

The prompt for this week:  The Traveling Shovel of Death

Enjoy!

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My response:

I meant to kill the voles. 

No, I'm serious, I was so mad at the stupid voles!  I planted strawberries two years ago, and because of bad weather, I didn't get anything that first year.  I was so excited when they sprouted up through the snow with flowers everywhere, and little green strawberries following shortly thereafter.  Just as the berries were starting to ripen, the voles hit.  They ate everything.  Ripe berries, green berries ... they even chewed on the stems, ruining whole areas of the patch.  Oh, how I hated them

Next came the cherry tomatoes.  Then my carrots and beets.  Why would they bother with the poison I laid out for them when they already had a perfect feast laid out?  They were evil, and I was done.

My raspberry patch came on in the last week of August, and I was thrilled.  Then, when I went out with a bowl to gather them, I saw it.  Little, nibbled berries all along the bottoms of the raspberry vines.  I lost it.

The shovel had been in the shed when we moved in, and it proved to be sturdy while I was putting in the garden.  I knew the head was old and heavy, and any little moles it encountered would breath their last.  Armed, I headed back to the raspberry patch.

It was dawn, and I knew the voles would be moving around, so I waited patiently, the head of the shovel growing ever heavier in my arms, but I knew the pain would be worth it.  Finally, the leaves stirred, something rustling in the shadows, just beyond my vision. 

The shovel came down hard.  My aim was true.  I felt a crunch.  Victory!  Then I moved the raspberry vine aside to survey my work.

The only thing worse than not killing a vole was realizing I'd killed my neighbor's cat.  She was a good mouser, so I can only guess she'd been lured into my yard with the same murderous thoughts towards my infestation as I had.  She hadn't had a chance against the shovel.

I threw back my head and pulled my arm back, ready to chuck the shovel over the fence, a growling yell rising in my throat.  My arm swung forward.

"Bea, is that you?  Have you seen my Princess this morning?  I notice she's been spending time in your yard lately ..."

My arm slackened and dropped, the shovel falling to the ground and barely missing my toes.  I murmured a curse, then thanked the Lord I hadn't finished my swing.  Somehow explaining to Verna that her cat was dead seemed easier than explaining to the cops why Verna was dead.  So at least there's that.

Ruins

Let's go with a picture prompt this week:

 

Enjoy!

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My response:

She padded softly across the stone, the mossy surface damp under the pads of her feet.  She kept to the shadows, where she was less likely to be seen.  Hunting in the daytime was difficult for her.  The tall trees of the canopy cast long shadows over the jungle, but her prey had sharp eyes, and her shining black pelt shimmered in the light.  It was much easier in the dark.

But tonight she was hungry.  Only two cubs remained of the three she'd born half a moon ago.  They were so small and helpless, and they drained her strength from her with their own hunger.  She was exhausted, but she didn't dare rest out of sight of her den.  She wasn't the only shadow out hunting this day.

(I know this is shorter than my typical responses, but I'm going to exercise my right to say, nope, I'm not feeling this one.  Maybe it's because I haven't written anything anthropomorphic since elementary.  No offense to Kipling, I just don't think it's my thing.)