Random Writing Prompt: A hint of hemlock, a plaintive whimper, and getting bogged down in the mire

“The Mistress will be pleased, she will! Juice has done it! Yes he has! Juice has poisoned the Pretty Lady! With a touch of tulip, a pinch of petunia, and just a hint of hemlock!”

The slimy skinned, toad faced creature cackled with mirth as he danced around the slumped  form in the flowing dress, her golden curls obscuring her porcelain features. Juice giggled and chortled as his scissors snicked a lock of the hair to tuck into the soft velvet pouch tied at his thick waist.

He hurried back into the thickets, following his own trail of slime easily enough, to find the opening to the tunnels that would lead him back to the Sithen.

Despite his royal invitation, the Dark Queen’s guards still treat him with the disdain of an intruder, catching him up by the hood of his cloak and hoisting him unceremoniously off of his splay-toed feet.

“Now now! No way to treat the Dark One’s Assassin!” he squeaked, and was rewarded with a mailed fist to the side of the head. The slimy amphibian gave a plaintive whimper and obediently fell silent, shrinking in on himself as he was hauled to the Dark Queen’s audience chamber.

“What is in now, Dion?” came the voice like dry twigs rattling in the wind. The Queen of the Dark Court of Faerie appeared translucent, a mere shadow of her former glorious self.

“Juice is here, Marm,” Dion intoned. There was a sound that could have been mistaken for a sigh. Dion had come to them from the British Isles, and Ni’ussys (Nie-oo-sis) was having a difficult time expunging the last of his affectations. She had considered negative reinforcement, however, his magic was one to be reckoned with. She preferred to keep him as a staunch ally, rather than a terrified supplicant. She would weather his ‘charm’.

The Queen beckoned them forwards.

Dion loosed his grip on the pondscum’s cloak, depositing him with a faint splat at the Queen’s feet, before himself, taking a knee and bowing his head. Ni’ussys gave another faint sigh. “Dion, you do recollect that the Slime is an ally of your Queen, yes?” She queried gently. She was also struggling to cleanse her Britannian pet of his deep seated biases towards lower creatures.

“I serve at your pleasure, my Queen,” came the reply. Dion’s standard reply when he was uncertain what she wished of him. He could be rather dense at times.

“Yes, and you are so pleasing to the eye,” she commented with a wry smirk, her fingers toying with the trailing wisps of his chocolate mousse hair. “Thank you, Dion. that will be all.” She dismissed the bigoted guardsman before she had to make compensation to the little toad at her feet.

For his part, Juice was splayed on his face on the floor, unsure of his status in the room, having trouble grasping the meaning of the banter passing above him. All he was certain of was that he did not wish to be the latest expression of the Queen’s love of playing on words. Being Bogged Down in the Mire had become her most recent method of punishing those who displeased her, using her magic to trap the victim chest deep in the swamps at low tide, letting the water rise to their chins while the local fauna swims and creeps and crawls about them, taking bites, laying eggs, and stinging as is their wont. While the Slime made his home in the swamps, this would not be his ideal way to pass time in his home environs.

Dion let the door close softly behind him, and the Queen let her Magic whisper over the Slime’s prostrate form. Juice shivered with pleasure and was instantly at ease. “What have you brought me, Assassin?” came the Royal query.

Juice scrambled to his knees and crawled towards the dais, untying the pouch from his belt, and lifting it in offerance to his sovereign. Ni’ussys snatched up the sac and tore at the lacings, desperate to get at the treasure it held. Her breath hissed in through her teeth as she plucked the strands from their resting place.

“At last! The final ingredient!” She pressed the lock to her cheek, inhaling the sweet stench of a newly slain virgin. “You have done very well, my Pet.” Juice thrilled. This was a term of endearment saved only for those whom the Queen truly valued. He had greatly risen in esteem this day! Which could be either a blessing or a curse in the tangled machinations of the Dark Court of Faerie. He would have to wield his new status cautiously.

30/30 Days

This is a useful tool for anyone who struggles with motivation, but it is especially useful for those of us who have a need to conserve energy, or rest between jobs.

It's a very straight forward concept. You simply set a timer or alarm for 30 minutes. You have 30 minutes of 'up' time (cleaning, puttering, or productivity of any sort, seated or otherwise) followed by 30 minutes of 'down' time (playing Facebook games, watching TV, reading, or any other times wasting/relaxing activity).

Don't push yourself. If you can't manage the full 30 minutes 'up', then don't. If you can't sustain it for more than an hour or two, don't. If you can't manage it every day, or even every other day, don't. It's a tool, not a way of life, not a boot camp curriculum.

I'll admit, that I only do 30/30 days when I'm either feeling exceptionally productive, or exceptionally lazy. It helps to strike a balance between the two.

I'm also planning on using this structure for my NaNoWriMo project next month! Hopefully it will help me reach my goal of 80,000 words in one month without burning myself out.

Random Writing Prompt: A splitting headache, what if it's not in there, and the Queen's English

A splitting headache, what if it's not in there, and the Queen's English For any writer, orator, or anyone with a firm grasp on the Queen’s English, there are few things as terrifying as reaching for a word in a key moment, and not finding it. That feeling of ‘What if it’s not there?’ is a crippling doubt. Sure, it happens to everyone from time to time, but it was beginning to happen to Henry more and more every day. And, accompanying this crippling language barrier was a splitting headache. He was going to have to do something he hated doing. He was going to have to turn to his brother for help. Doctor Davies’ office was full of patiently waiting patients when Henry showed up at half past one the following day. He handed the cheery receptionist his health information, and begrudgingly accepted the intake forms for new patients and retreated to an empty seat to fill them out. He checked off all of his newly acquired symptoms, things that might just be chalked up to old age. However, the DOB section of this questionnaire belied Henry’s grousing as the aches and pains of the old and battered body by declaring that he was, in fact, only in his mid twenties. He filled out the reason for the visit as ‘consultation & referral’, knowing full well that his brother couldn’t very well treat his own family. But Henry didn’t trust doctors, except his brother. So he was willing to trust a doctor in whom he himself placed his trust. “Anything to be rid of this crippling, vocabulary munching, fiend!” as he later declared to his brother in the exam room. “What have you tried?” asks Doctor Davies as he measures his brother’s heart beat, blood pressure, and reflexes. “Mostly homeopathy and superstitious nonsense to this point,” the patient admits, telling of sleeping with sachets full of herbs under his pillow and gargling with lavender oil. “You associate with too many gypsies and apothecaries,” was the prognosis. “Yes, yes, and your medical assessment?” Henry prodded. Doctor Davies wrote out a referral notice and handed it over. “See Doctor Molly Hampshire. She’s a neurologist over at St Joseph’s. It typically takes several months to book an appointment, but if you give her receptionist this, you’ll get in on one of her emergency slots. She’ll want to do a barrage of tests, and I’ve recommended a mild anti anxiety medication to combat the tension caused by having the symptoms to begin with. That should let you relax enough not to add stress to compound the issue at hand.” “I don’t want to be on bloody sedatives, Conrad!” Henry fumed. “It’s not a sedative, Henry. I’m well aware of your wishes in these matters, and I’ll forward along an email to Molly so she isn’t at odds with those preferences,” Davies soothes. He stands stalwart in the face of Henry’s glower. “Just see the woman, Henry. She’ll do right by you. I wouldn’t send you to a quack. And to be honest,” he sets a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “I’m concerned.” The empathy in his brother’s gaze is almost too much for him to take. He begins a fine tremble through his entire body and is uncertain whether it is fury or fear. A bit of both, he imagined. “Do you want me to call Sally?” asked Conrad, referring to his ex sister-in-law. They had remained friends after Henry signed the divorce papers, much to Henry’s chagrin. But perhaps it had been for the best, after all. “Don’t frighten her, Conrad. N-n-nor the children,” he stuttered out, a symptom that cropped up when he was under extreme duress. “I’ll take care of it, Henry.” The doctor let his hand slide off of his patient’s shoulder, and finally broke the prolonged eye contact. “Keep in touch, ya?” Henry nodded as he pulled his cardigan back on and rebuttoned his collar. He stood, giving his brother a familial clap on the back, something they used to do in the old days, taking the elder Davies by surprise. His eyes held a different warmth in his eyes as he bid his patient adieu. Henry stepped out of the exam room, and then out of the doctor’s office, embarking on the journey towards the rest of his life, however extended, or brief that may be.

Visual Writing Prompt: The Tolling Bell

The bells would be tolling soon, and then there would be nothing that could be done. If she were going to make her move, now was the time. She knew this, and yet, she stood, petrified.

There was a faint sound like tiny bells as the small pieces of metal fastened to her wedding clothes trembled against each other with her fear.

This was not the life she wanted. She did not love him. But her grandfather would not hear her pleas. And her father, well, he had long since relinquished anything he had resembling a backbone to the patriarch of their lineage.

Her entire body sang with tension, her muscles longing to spring into action, to flee. And yet, she remained. Where would she go? To whom could she turn to for support? She had no skills short of book balancing and the ability to turn a fair stitch. Were those skills enough for a woman on her own? Could she make a living in a shoppe, or perhaps with a money lender?

She would have to go where no one knew her, and, unfortunately, due to her grandfather’s success in the trades, that was going to have to be far. She knew that there was great value in each of the small chiming bits on her chemise and pants. Would that perhaps be enough to secure her safe passage to the next province, and feed and house her once she got there? Would it be enough of a provision until she were able to secure her own income?

The horse was there, pawing at the earth, it’s saddle already in place. It was ground tied, so all she need do would be to launch herself into the saddle, easy enough for an experienced rider. The gates would be open, to admit the wedding guests. She need only outride the guard, easily enough done on her nimble mount against war horses and fully armed guards. The weight of their armour alone would guarantee her escape.

Then why was she still just standing there, waiting for the bells to toll?

Random Writing Prompt: Someone you know by sight but never met, a suspicious reporter, and the world's worst swordsman.

As a reporter, it’s my job to be suspicious, so I guess I was taking my mother’s advice when she said, play to your strengths. It had always been in my nature to question everything! To never take anything at face value, to always wonder what someone was up to, what was in it for them.

So when I started to wonder why I was seeing this guy’s face every time I looked up, suspicion was just par for the course. I wasn’t being paranoid, I was doing my job. We’d never met, and yet I could recognize him on sight. At the park, at the coffee shoppe, at the grocery store, even at the Delicatessen near my office.

It wasn’t until he tried to join my Kendo class that I became truly paranoid. I watched the guy go through a challenge round with the sensei, proving himself to be the worst swordsman in the world. There was no way this guy actually thought he was up to snuff for this level of the class. It was at this point that I came to the conclusion that he was in fact following me.

So, as he licked his wounds on the bleachers, I continued on with my lesson, and plotted my confrontation.

“So, what category do you fall under?” I demanded, letting my backpack fall to the bleachers with a clatter.

“Excuse me?” he looked cornered and confused.

“Creepy stalker guy, competing journalist, P.I., or something else entirely?” I elaborated, arms crossed, waiting for an answer.

“Ah.....Umm, that would be the latter,” he admitted, his fingers fidgeting before his chest, looking like he was ready to fend off a blow.

I quirked an eyebrow in a manner that invited him to go on.

“Ehm, I’m just an observer, really. Rather, an onlooker, a spectator if you will!” He sounded desperate to assuage my mounting hostility.

“You make my life sound like a sports match,” I commented, dryly.

“Oh, nothing as barbaric as all that,” he said with disdain, his nose crinkling with distaste.

Again, the look that invited a more in depth explanation.

“Ah, well, you see...” I could see that he was thinking on his feet. The question was, was he making it up all together, or just trying to tell me enough to keep his skin in one piece while still keeping whatever secret it was that he was obviously trying to keep.

“You’ve got that look about you that says ‘you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you’,” I commented, unfolding my arms and leaning against the back of tier of bleachers in front of him.

“Um, yes. It’s something like that,” he admitted, reluctantly.

“Try me,” I offered, my voice flat, but my tone slightly less hostile than previous.

He stood bolt upright at that. “Fancy a pint? Or a cup of tea perhaps? Tanic. Good for the blood, that! Nice stiff cup of proper English tea. Just the thing for instances such as these!” He was babbling now, nervous. Perhaps working up the courage to open up to me. I decided to switch tactics, treating him like a source that I wanted inside information from. I cracked a seemingly reluctant smile. “Ya, alright then. There’s a pub up the way that serves a mean chicken pot pie, and has decent enough tea,” I allow. “Shall we change into our street clothes and meet in the lobby?”

He looks at my Kendo duds, and then down at his own, ruffled garb. “Ah, yes! This won’t do for the pub!” he exclaims, sounding more than a bit obvious. I’m beginning to wonder of the man is thick, or perhaps touched in the head.

We part ways, and I wonder to myself as I rinse off in the showers what it is that I’m getting myself into. I send a quick text off to my editor once dressed, just in case. It pays to be cautious when one’s job is to be nosey. <Seem to have a shadow. Male. Have confronted. Coffee at the Dancing Dino pub in Langley. Will advise.> The reply is immediate and to the point. <Ten four. Proceed with caution.>

I rejoin the gangly little Brit in the lobby, and wonder what far fetched explanation he could possibly have for his shadow act over the last several weeks. The trench coat he’s wearing has several bulging pockets, which are red flags to my cautious instincts. However, knowing what I carry in the bowels of my purse, I can’t rightly judge a jacket by it’s bulkiness, now, can I?

“Ah! There you are! Shall we then?” He proffers his arm, like a proper gentleman, or someone that I might be well acquainted with. I’m not sure whether to chalk this up to his own oddness, or just being British.

I take the proffered arm, and we carry on down the street. Little do I know that I am taking the first steps leading to a whirlwind of adventure.

Visual Writing Prompt: A Day At the Spa

She was doing her best to relax under the ministrations of the masseuse -excume me- massage therapist. The woman had been adamant that she didn’t do THOSE kinds of massages. Karina couldn’t help but smile wryly at that thought, which had her mind wandering to thoughts of what sort of relief an orgasm or two might bring... She sighed, and forced her mind away from those thoughts. It wasn’t going to happen any time soon, for obvious reasons.

She took a deep cleansing breath and tried to just let the music wash over her, a nice blend of gentle instrumentation and tranquil nature sounds. As Spa Music went, this was actually pretty decent.

Which lead to thoughts of how she had had opportunity to sample many different Spa’s music selection. Her job had her travelling a lot, and her salary meant she could afford to indulge in these treatments to help with the high stress of the job itself. Hey, it was better than therapy!

But no amount of money in the world could solve her problems now. As advanced as medical science was, there are some things the community simply hadn’t figured out yet. The human body is a complex organism, so intricately wired.

Karina could almost see the therapists eye brow lifting as she felt the tension starting again in she shoulders. “Sorry,” she murmured, and tried to do a better job setting Reality aside for the moment. “Let go, and let God. Let go, and let God.” She repeated the mantra to herself over and over. Karina wasn’t exactly what you would call a religious person, but the sentiment was there. Trust to the Universe to provide for you in this time of need, Stop getting in your own way. Stress just takes a harder toll on your already taxed autonomive systems. Relax...

She didn’t even know she had fallen drifted into a state of half sleep until she felt the gentle double tap that was her signal to roll over. She did so smoothly, relying on her body’s muscle memory to reposition herself.

The girl’s hands -What had been her name? Jeny? Jessica? Jazmine?- worked in circles, massaging in the lotion before applying a more intense pressure and pulling the tension away from her spine and shoulders. She eventually worked out enough knots to apply a technique that Karina referred to as the butterfly spread, asking her to place the back of her hand at the small of her back with she gently pulled on the shoulder blade and then worked her fingers into the hollow under the bone to get at the muscles couched there.

Karina sighed with relief as the pain slowly ebbed away. She was going to have to come to terms with the chronic pain, but she wasn’t going to just sit back and let it ruin her life, either. Karina was not one to sit idly by and let the world keep on spinning without her, She may not be able to control everything about her body, but she was damn well going to take what steps she could! She was not going to be of those victims of a disease that people pitied and thought to themselves “I don’t know how she does it!”

Besides; what were her options? Keep going or give in? Ha! Fat chance of the latter! She was not going to let this thing beat her!

Visual Writing Prompt: Fedora

“It’s the little things that  I miss most about you,” I sniffled, wiping at my nose, and shuffling my feet. “Like having to help you find your belt, or your car keys. I’ve even taken to leaving your favourite fedora in random places around the house. It helps make me feel like you’re still here, like you’re still with me.” I touch the headstone lovingly, the pad of my thumb moving over the slick marble. It’s only been 3 months. The weather hasn’t had a chance to scar and dimple the surface of the rock as yet. But I know that I’ll be back here, every month, tracking the passage of time by how many pockmarks are on the surface of the stone. By how long it takes to obscure the letters and numbers marking your exit from my existence.

Visual Writing Prompt: Ripples in the Swamp

“But where do the ripples go when they die?” Soganna asked her teacher. The elder witch grinned beneath her toadstool cap.

“Nothing ever truly dies, dear one. It simply transforms,” she assures her young apprentice. The girl’s face screwed up in thought as she tried to think what a ripple in the swamp would transform into. Certainly not a beautiful butterfly like the caterpillars they had seen yesterday

“So you mean, that’s why my spells can’t just poof something into existence? Because it has to come from somewhere?” Gleesa gasped as the girl caught onto the one idea that all of her apprentices seemed to have such a difficult time with.

“Yes! That’s it exactly!” She picked up a branch and fed a modicium of her power into it. It sprang into full bloom before the girl’s eyes. “I don’t create life, I coax it out of hiding,” she explains. Then, feeding a little more power into the branch, they watch as he blooms fade, wither, and crumble. “I don’t create death, I hasten it’s approach,” she illustrates.

Soganna nods, brow furrowed in understanding.

Her entire apprenticeship progressed in this manner, Soganna always grasping concepts with ease, and putting them into a practical light that had Gleesa in awe, and her other students thinking that Soganna possessed another type of witchery all together. And though it was not unheard of for a Swamp Witch to have the Sight, Gleesa did not think that was the source of Soganna’s innate understanding of their Craft.

Though she did have to admit a certain amount of envy at the ease with which Soganna learned things which even she had struggled with, or struggled to explain to her students. The teachers had always maintained that there were some lessons which could not be explained but which must simply be felt to understand. Soganna managed to put words even to these abstract concepts. Granted, that it sounded like poetic gibberish to even the High Matron.

It wasn’t until the Winter Ball that a visiting Wizzenholm member heard Soganna’s poetry for what it was, a bit of prophecy.

Ramdom Writing Prompts: Marital bliss, a disturbing photograph, and books flying off the shelves

“You cannot possibly think that I am about to accept an ultimatum from you!” came the incredulous remarks from the next table. The discordant sounds of marital bliss. I almost laughed out loud as the argument progressed. It was difficult to suppress my sudden mirth, not to comment out loud on the obviousness of the universe’s ploy.

“Okay! I get it! This isn’t a problem I can run away from! And it’s obviously not a problem unique to my life!”

I had fled to the coffee shop in an attempt to escape the conflict which had erupted in my home and in my heart.

The stupid thing was, that there could only be one possible response to such an ultimatum. However, I was in shock, feeling hurt and betrayed.

He had known what I was all about when we had started dating. We sat down and discussed things again, when he had asked me to marry him. We had even taken to, every year on our anniversary, revisiting what we wanted and expected from each other and this relationship.

And everything was going smoothly, until the the books started flying off of the shelves.

It is every writer’s dream come true to have something they publish be as well loved by the readers as it is by us. And now here was that dream coming true for me. I was elated to be able to pay off not only my own debts, and our collaborative debts, but his as well! Some of my friends thought it was foolish of me to be quite so generous with my money, however, they were soon quelled to silence with one simple statement; It’s my money, and my Karma.

If they thought I was someone who thought they could buy loyalty or love they were sadly mistaken. Bradley and I had always maintained both a joint and separate bank account. We had always put a minimum of %10 of what we earned into the joint account to cover bills and home and car repairs. Vacations were another matter. We had always shared the burden of extra expenses such as going out for something fun, or household purchases or gift purchases. As far as I was concerned, there was no reason that I shouldn’t begin paying for our just for fun items and let him keep his hard earned money. I had never been one to be a miser with my money. If I had it to spare, I was more than willing to part with it.

However, when the disturbing photograph arrived in the mail, accompanied by a blackmail demand, my only reaction was to forward it to my PR person. Forewarned is forearmed, after all. I sent it by courier, and was not at all surprised to see my phone light up with Janelle’s shining face about an hour later.

“Are you going to confront him?” she wanted to know. No banter, just straight to the point, it was one of the things I admired about Janelle; she knew when to cut to the chase.

“I suppose I’m going to have to, aren’t I?” I muse aloud. I’d spent the last hour in front of my laptop, writing furiously, trying to lose myself in a world of my own creation, and escape the problem at hand. I had never been one for drama. Preferring to turn the other cheek, as it were. However, the minute that the Blackmailer had decided to flex his muscles, he was forcing me to deal with the situation head on.

“She,” Janelle piped up.

“Hmm?” I wondered.

“I bet you lunch at Double Sushi that the blackmailer is the other woman,” she stated, steadfastly.

I sighed and wiped a hand across my face, trying to plug that bit of perspective into my newfound reality, that money really did change some people. Though in my case, it would appear to be the people around me, as opposed to myself. “I’d like to take that bet just to prove I have a little faith left in humanity, but this is a cesspool of human depravity at this point,” I confessed.

“Well then, why don’t we make lunch my treat. Day after tomorrow?” she offered, doing her best not to push, but encouraging me to deal with it promptly.

“Ya, sure,” I sigh again. “I’ll talk to him tonight.”

I set the phone down, and stared at the screen in front of me, willing the characters to come back and chase away the turmoil threatening from the emotional quadrant of my brain.

Three chapters later, I looked up to see the time. Bradley would be home any minute. I saved the document I’d been working on, and closed the laptop, making my way to the kitchen in a bit of a daze.

I fished a bottle of white wine out of the fridge and pulled the cork, pouring two glasses and taking them to the living room. I set them down and settled in to wait. Thankfully for my racing mind, I didn’t have long to wait.

“Halloo the house!” he called from the front hall, as was his wont.

“I’m in the living room,” I answered, and took a steadying breath as I heard him deposit his keys and toe out of his shoes. I stood to greet him with our customary hugs and kisses, and helped him out of his jacket, motioning him to join me on the couch. I laid his jacket aside lovingly and handed him his glass.

“To the end of a long day!” he quipped cheerfully and tapped his glass to mine, taking a swig. I joined him in the swig of wine and held the glass cupped in my hands, a faux pas with chilled wine, of a surety.

“I’m afraid the day may about to get even longer, Brad,” I gently informed him.

“Oh?” He quirked an eyebrow, perhaps expecting a last minute dinner invitation from the neighbours or my parents.

“I received something in the mail today.” I paused. “It was a photograph,” another pause. “Accompanied by a blackmail demand.” My voice was calm, and I hoped, so was my face. His went from curiosity, to shock, to incredulity. I didn’t give him a chance to play dumb. “Who is she Brad? How long?”

I looked at him with what I hoped was an open countenance, wanting this discussion to be as frank and without histrionics as possible. He stared into his wine glass, gently swirling the liquid. A foible of his when he was uncomfortable. “Sidney. We met at the conference I went to three months ago.” Just after sales took off, I noted silently. I waited for him to go on. He knew I wouldn’t pry, or beg. I’d just wait him out.

The long moments drew on and on before he finally took another swig of wine and stood up, pacing. “I didn’t set out to hurt you, Ava. You have to believe me. When things got complicated, I....I just didn’t know what to do.”

“And now?” I wondered.

“I- Well, now that you know...” he floundered. He’d been hoping that I’d find out and become furious. He was hoping that I’d show some spark of jealousy, the same spark that he’d been insisting I had to house, that his own outrageous jealousy was only natural. Well, he was about to be sadly disappointed.

“Do you love her, Bradley?” I asked, genuinely curious.

He sighed, and slumped back down next to me, deflated. “Ya, Ava, I really do.” I could hear the but, and waited for it. “But maybe if you stopped writing so much, and we focused on us more-” he let it hang between us. I’m sure he thought he was being magnanimous, offering us a way to salvage the situation. I saw it for what it truly was, an ultimatum.

I took a long drink from my glass and set it down, empty. Standing, I made my declaration. “I don’t want her in my house, Bradley. If you can’t use her place, get a hotel.” The photo had been taken in our livingroom. “Use the joint account.”

He looked confused. “You’re not going to fight for me? You’re just going to give me your blessing? And then what? Continue on with business as usual? Are you planning on supporting me and my mistress while you continue on being a best selling author? Am I just a trophy to you? A sign of accomplishment? Husband and home? Shall we put in a picket fence?” He was blustering now, and I wasn’t going to have any of it. He wanted histrionics, and I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.

And so I had taken my purse and walked to the nearby café. I had sat nurturing a cup of herbal tea, basking in the heady steam rising from between my palms. And then the Universe had piped up, refusing to let me ignore the issue at hand.

I sighed, defeated, and dug into my purse, pulling out a notebook and pen, which no writer should ever be without. I sat there with my tea getting cold, and drafted a separation agreement. He wasn't going to win in the way he wanted to. I wasn’t going to let him destroy what tranquility I had garnered after several waves of deadbeat boyfriends before him. I wasn’t going to let him tear apart the path I had set out for myself.

I detailed out an agreement that any of my friends would have wailed to see, and he wasn’t going to have anything to complain about. I’d done enough research into divorce for the last book to know what to offer to keep any bloodthirsty lawyer he came up with, satisfied. There would be no long drawn out process here.

I walked back home, the agreement clenched in my hand, and let myself back in. I hadn’t been gone long, about an hour. I wasn’t sure what I’d find. As it was, I hallooed the house, and he answered from his office, out of habit. I walked steadfastly to the door, and watched as he stepped down from the orbital, wiping sweat off his face and neck with a towel. He was shirtless. He knew I loved it when he was shirtless. He gave me a small smile, an uncertain, school boy smile. I walked over and placed the folded sheets of paper in his hand, before turning to leave again, this time, headed for the bedroom.

I pulled a pair of suitcases from under the bed and went to the closet, emptying half of the contents into them, repeating the process with the dresser.

“What are you doing with my things?” he demanded, from the doorway, the sheets of paper open and dangling from his fingers.

“You’re leaving. I don’t care where you go. To her, to your mother’s, to a hotel, but you’re leaving.” I informed him.

“You can’t just kick me out Ava. We have to talk about this.” he appealed.

“There’s nothing to discuss, Bradley. You knew what you were getting into. We discussed just these eventualities. What we’d do if I made it big, What we’d do if we separated after that. And this is what we agreed to. Now, I know were never took into account your cheating, but I think I’ve done fair by the spirit of our agreement. Now please, take your things, and leave.” That was what had made the agreement so easy to draft. We’d already hashed out most of the details verbally, over the years. I just had to commit them to paper.

“You can't just-”

I interrupted him. “Shall I call Wayne?” That shut him up. Wayne was Bradley’s older brother. He had always adored me, and had been privy to many of the details contained in the document still dangling from my husbands listless fingers. He had warned Bradley a hundred times not to screw this up, and that if he was ever stupid enough to do so, not to hurt me in the process. Wayne would not be pleased if his baby brother put up a fight at this point.

I zipped up the last suitcase and handed him a small toiletry bag. “You can feel free to have your lawyer look over the papers before we sign them. I’ll be meeting with mine, and with Janelle the day after tomorrow.” He took the bag and skulked to the bathroom, I followed him, leaning in the doorway. “Do you want to tell your brother or should I?” His spine stiffened at this one, and I could see the wheels churning by his reflection in the mirror. He looked at me plaintively. He knew that how Wayne reacted would very much depend on the precedent that I set.

I took pity on him. “I’ll speak to him, Brad. It’s fine. Just, just make this easy, okay?” He nodded, looking defeated, deflated. He couldn't possibly be disappointed. He was getting everything that he wanted, minus the fireworks.

He moved to the shower, and hesitated. He was covered in sweat from his work out. “Go ahead,” I offered, and tore myself away from the doorway, and the sight of him peeling out of his track pants. This hurt more than anything else had, letting go of the small joys, like joining him in the shower.

I heard the water start as I retreated to the sanctity of my own office, putting on some soothing music, and booting up my laptop. I stared at my phone in my hand, wanting to reach out to someone, but not sure who to lean on in this particular hour of need.

I knew spending the night alone was not such a good idea. It was times like this that I wish I hadn’t given up so easily trying to talk Brad into getting a dog. Well, I guess that wasn’t going to be an issue anymore.

Random Writing Prompt: A multilingual polymath, the reek of purity, and your favorite vacation spot

The hyperactive girl was darting from tree to tree like a ferret on crystal meth, but Arianna couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s exuberance. When Lanna finally joined her on the loungers, her arms were full of coconut husks, palm leaves, sand dollars, and various and sundry other beach treasures.

“Look, Ri! Look what I found!” The girl held up a tiny shell whose underside was an iridescent purple. The staff looked on fondly, appreciating the energy of the girl, and the smiles she easily gave and elicited in turn. The girl who kept the gardens tended had even taken to trying to teach her the local words for different things.

Lanna’s tongue was clumsy with the foreign syllables but that never stopped her from trying, nor did the titters and snickers from nearby as she butchered the words. She’d simply flash them a complicit grin, as though she had just uttered a mouthful of curse words, wink, and soldier on.

Temperance tut-tutted from the shade nearby, ever at odds with the girl’s insistent use of shortened nomenclature. It ran contrary to the stalwart woman’s sensibilities, which was just fine with Arianna, as the rare find of some with sensibilities that were nearly as unbendable as her own was only one of many qualities which had endeared the woman to her, and lead to her becoming a permanent fixture in the young woman’s household.

“You’re not going to win any popularity contests with Lady Temperance if you insist on calling me Ri,” she said wryly, her lips puckered, but her eyes sparkling. Lanna glanced up from her treasures to check for signs of sarcasm, something she had learned to do in the early moments of their acquaintance to avoid paranoid delusions of recrimination. Detecting the glimmer in her mentor’s eyes, she grinned that complicit little grin of hers and peered over her shoulder at the matronly woman, and gave her a withering look of disdain to match the one being leveled in her own direction.

“You really must learn to be more flexible, Tempie, or you’re liable to become obsolete, and Ri may be forced for forgo your employ.” They all three of them knew that nothing could be farther from the truth, but Lanna had taken up the habit of leveling these types of jabbing proclamations at Ri’s majordomo with the smooth fervour of an epithet, but with the gently ruffled edges of a familial jest.

It pleased the young heiress beyond measure to watch the two grow closer with each passing day. Ri depended on Temperance for so much, and it meant the world to her that she had taken so quickly to Lanna, who was not simply some pet project of hers, despite what Tempie quipped. And Lanna held the house keeper cum matron of the house in the same abiding love and esteem which she held her patron.

She herself a multilingual polymath, Arianna intended to give Lanna every opportunity to further her own education in whatever area or direction which she dared to pique an interest. It behooved her to lock the world away behind the doors of the labyrinthine library for whole afternoons while Tempie and Lanna swapped barbs in front of the fireplace, and Lanna gushed over some fascinating new bit of geography, biology or history that had caught her attention in the moment.

Arianna would never have children of her own, due to health complications, and while she had always said that she would adopt, it was this 19 year old waif whom had captured her heart and her attention.

Even Tepid old Tempie, as Lanna liked to call her, was moved to a snort of derision when Master Harper was heard to utter the phrase, “The stench of purity in this abode since you took on that rascallion of an understudy, has doubled, if not tripled.” The dark, gothic, self proclaimed devil worshipper was no where near as wayward as he would like to have people think, and basked in the honour of the use of one of Arianna’s arboretums to double as his studio whilst he poured his poet’s soul onto the canvas one artful brushstroke at  a time.

Lanna, feeding her own, perverse sense of humour, would spend this time sprawled on the chaise lounge, surrounded by religious study guides, and pick opportune moments to muse aloud about this passage or that parable. It quickly became Arianna’s wont to tend to her plants at these times, after prompting from Temperance after chaperoning one such session.

“If you’re determined to gain your merriment from other people’s suffering,” referring of course, to her own sparring matches with the girl, “Then I would suggest a sit in on the young people’s next visit to the Studio.” came the haughty suggestion.

And so it was that Arianna’s Egyptian domicile quickly became young Lanna’s favourite vacation spot.

Random Writing Prompt: Kamikaze squirrels, a party invitation, and trunk monkeys

Nobody ever said parenting would be easy, only fulfilling. However, when one is in the midst of trying to hustle two sets of twins, aged 7 and 5, and their 3 year old sister into a minivan in order to fulfill the social obligation of a birthday party invitation, all the while trying to juggle the gifts and somehow Tetris them into a space that appears to have been assaulted by trunk monkeys,  your only real thoughts are how once they return from the party, they are going to be hopped up on sugar and comparable to a flotilla of kamikaze squirrels.

Random Writing Prompt: A wounded policeman, lightning at 34,000 feet, and clean but shaggy hair

Sergeant MacMillion held his hand to his brow, trying to stymie the flow of blood into his eye which was playing havoc on his depth perception, and therefore, his ability to aim. He finally gave up, and swearing, holstered his weapon. The punk was going to get away.

The young lass whose assault he had interrupted was still trying to settle her clothes back into place, her face still somewhat ashen. “Did he...?” MacMillon asked, hovering near the girl, but not wanting to crowd her in her current state.

She shook her head, her lower lip wobbling. “Thank you!” she bursts out with relief, and moves to throw her arms around the burly Scottish officer. “Oh!” She pulls up short at the sight of the blood still pouring over his now glued closed eye. “You’re hurt!”

She digs into her large handbag and comes up with a kerchief, dabbing it gingerly to the wound. MacMillon submits to her ministrations, noting that nursing him has put some of the steel back in her spine. Her lips are no longer quivering, and even her colour was improving. “I’ll be a’right, Lass,” he assures her. “‘Tis naught but a flesh wound. Scalp wounds always bleed like a stuck pig, if you’ll pardon the pun,” he teases goodnaturedly, and is rewarded with a small smile. He’s sure it is only a shadow of what would normally light her face, but he’ll take his small victories.

“I don’t suppose ye have yer licence?” he asks, hopefully.

“Oh, of course, Officer,” she moves to dig in the bag again to produce it.

“Nay, Lass, I’m not askin’ ta see yer ID. I’d best be gettin’ meself to a doctor, but I can’t rightly drive meself with this here injury. Iffin’ it would na’ be too much of an imposition-”

She interrupts his charming, lilting brogue, “Oh certainly! No problem at all!” She hooks her arm in his, handing him the kerchief to stanch the blood flow himself as she conducts him back to his cruiser, the key’s still conveniently in the ignition.

Thankfully, the girl was too shaken up to consider that he ought to have a partner with him, whose job it would be to see him safely to the hospital in just such an event.

Said partner watched from a nearby fire escape as they exited the alley way and pulled into the flow of traffic.

Taffy was the name of MacMillon’s partner, Angus Taffy. Seeing that both the girl and his partner were seen to, Taffy turned to the task at hand; tracking down the creep who had assaulted them both. His nostrils flared as he scented the night wind, catching the perps scent over the other, turrid scents of a typical Toronto night.

Beyond the smells of urine, defecation, trash, and exhaust fumes, was the smell of blood and leather and cocaine. The perp wasn’t going to be difficult to trace.

It took Taffy all of five blocks to find the guy. He wasn’t even running anymore. He’d stopped to wipe the blood off of the knife and to catch his breath. Taffy could see the glint of the streetlights on a myriad of metallic piercings in the man’s face, though his nose told him that the guy’s shaggy hair was at least clean.

“A tough guy, huh?” Taffy thought to himself, dropping to the street behind his quarry.

“What the-?” he spun to face his assailant, bringing the knife up instinctually. Taffy caught the tweaker’s hand with  ease and torqued his wrist, sending the blade skittering into the expectant stillness of the night.

The pierced faced villain’s cry of pain was cut short as Taffy leapt into the air, dragging the unsuspecting thug with him. And they just kept going, higher and higher and higher.

The guy’s struggles to free himself soon because struggles to get a better hold on Taffy as he became his only lifeline on their steep ascent into the heavens.

Taffy’s nose could smell the ozone as they grew closer to the roiling thunderheads. His captive screamed as a bolt of lightning zapped past them. The extraordinary officer could see the guy’s mind scrambling; which was worse? Plummeting from a height of 34, 000 feet, or getting turned into a crispy critter by lightning at 34, 000 feet? By the way the guys grip tightened on his legs, Taffy was guessing he was going to take his chances with the lightening.

Random Writing Prompt: A toddler drowning in a pool, a tree falling on a van, and a waterbed with air bubbles

I woke in a cold sweat. It was pitch black out, and quiet. Too quiet. The only sound the odd sloshing from my waterbed, the air bubbles from the last time it was filled making their ominous music as I throw my feet over the side of the bed.  The infamous calm before the storm.

I slid out of bed, pulling on the sneakers tucked under the bedside table, and pulling a nearby sweater over my sleep tousled hair, covering my mickey mouse tshirt. I pocketed my cellphone, and made my way downstairs. Buck was already awake, standing patiently by the door, waiting for me. He knew what was coming. He was ready. I took his harness down off the peg on the wall, and he let me put it on him, his training so good, only the full body tremble belied his anticipation to get to work.

I grab my pack, always fully stocked, and ready by the door, and throw it over one shoulder, and my heavy leather jacket over the other. “Alright, Buck, let’s get to work.” He jumps up to open the door, the lever handle no obstacle for the massive husky shepard cross.

Our first task, is the hardest, the waiting. We head to the storm shelter just as the breeze stirs the fallen leaves on the ground. “It’s coming, Buck,” I intone, and open the doors to let him in. I won’t latch them yet, there are neighbours who will likely be joining be before the storm reaches it’s apex.

My shelter is well stocked. They don’t call me the Storm Momma for no reason. At the entrance, the walls are bare, belying the well stocked depths, but nothing at the front will weather the storms initial tantrum. Though some kids have done a lovely mural on the concrete walls. Pandas and unicorns make for a cheerful juxtaposition for the serious purpose of the bunker.

I walk to the back of the bunker, to where the cots are waiting. We prepped them earlier in the week, knowing that the storms were coming. I wipe my shoes with a towel and Buck’s feet, and we both hunker down on a cot, cuddled close, waiting for the action to start.

The rain has started. I’m vaguely aware of it in my doze state, as my body seeks to get as much rest as it can before I tax it to it’s limits.

Hushed voices enter the bunker. “Maria’s got to have her rest, Sweetie, so she can do her job. Let’s lay down and get some sleep, too.”

I feel the cot shift slightly as Buck creeps over to curl up with the newest arrivals. “Traitor,” i think wryly, and pull the blanket to cover the cold gap he’s left in the covers.

The wind has picked up, my hair is tickling across my face. I haul myself to my feet and Buck lifts his head from Susie’s lap, watching me. I signal for him to stay, and nod in silent greeting to Susie’s mom, Claire, and Ted and Maggie who have also arrived. Only ben is missing, but he may have been out for the night, he often was. Ted follows me to the doors to help me close them against the wind, and latch them tight with as little muss as possible.

The solar charged running lights along the floor and ceiling throw harsh shadows over everyone’s faces.

“Is it coming?” asks Susie, who we were all hoping was still asleep.

I sit on the edge of their cot. “Ya, Suze, it is. But we’re safe here, kay?” I reach out to stroke her hair, meeting her mother’s eyes over her head. Her eyes have gone empt and her face has that hollow look it gets whenever she thinks about last year’s storm season. I let my mind follow her down the path of that memory.

Buck had hated me for not letting him dive in that pool, but I knew there was no way he could get to the toddler struggling at the bottom of it. The tree that pinned him to the bottom was too big, with too many snarling branches. If he hadn’t gotten snarled up on his way down, he would have on the way back up, and that was of course assuming he didn’t drown before he realized that he couldn't get the child unpinned. I had to hold Buck while one of the other rescue volunteers held the boy’s hysterical mother.

I had never been one to say I told you so, but this was one of those moment’s when it was hard not to, as I swallowed my own bitter tears, my heart breaking right along with her’s and Buck’s. I had TOLD her it wasn’t safe to be out yet! I had TOLD her there was too much damage to those trees! We had all watched with surreal horror as the damaged oak split down the centre and fell towards to pool....and the toddler...

Thankfully, Suzie and her mother didn’t hate me for not saving her brother. In fact, they sort of idolized me, like some sort of prophet or saint. Sainte Maria. Ya, like I’d never heard that one before....

Suzie yawned and nestled back against her mother. I patted Claire’s hand has I stood to return to my own bed. I pulled my headphones out of my bag, and turned on my MP3 player, ready to drown out the worst of the storm. Buck would wake me when it was time to get up.

And he did, nuzzling me until I pulled the cords from my ears and blinked up at him, blearily. “Alright, basket case, I’m up,” I grumbled, despite the fact that he was the calmest one of us all. Suzie was fussing, and Claire had an edge to her voice as she tried to soothe her. Ted was pacing, eager to get in the Jeep and get to town. Maggie was wringing her hands, knowing that her husband was about to go and risk his life to save others.

“Hey Suze! Why don’t you sing us a song?” I ask, levering off of the cot and making my way to the storage shelves, beckoning for Maggie to come with me. While Suzie sang us a few songs she had learned in school, Maggie and I put together peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everyone. Claire helped Suzie feed Buck as we handed around cans of Five Alive to wash down the sticky sandwiches. I could smell coffee brewing, and could have kissed Ted for doing his part to keep us all sane and alert.

I wolfed down my food and caffeine, nearly scalding the inside of my mouth with the savoury liquid. “Alright, Boys, lets go.” Both Buck and Ted shot to their feet on my say so.

We got the doors open just fine, and we were all relieved that we didn't have to fight against debris to get out. There was a bad storm last year that had trapped us in here for precious hours while other’s bled or suffocated to death until someone came along to look for me. Who was I kidding, it was Buck they had come for.

Ted pulled a couple of branches off of the door covering the Jeep, and hauled those open. I handed Ted the keys and got in the back with Buck. I would be the eyes, and he would be the ears.

It was only a five minute drive to town the way that Ted drove, but to us three, it seemed like an eternity. We knew how precious every minute was.

The devastation wasn’t quite comparable to last year, they had taken some of my advice to heart about storm proofing. But as we came to a halt at a crossroads, we watched storm worn tree tumble over and crush a nearby cargo van. And then we heard the screams.