Tag: fantasy

prompt: Write a story about a character who is experiencing glitches in their reality.

available at Reedsy

It was there again for just a split second, then it was gone. A flash in the eye; something off-kilter just a bit. I couldn’t tell what it was, but it made me think I might be losing my marbles. If I hadn’t been too nervous to try when it was offered in university, I would blame it on it acid flashbacks.

I pulled my hair into a ponytail and tied it with the spare band I had around my wrist. It served as an excuse to stand outside for a moment longer to gather my wits.

The reception had that sterile, cold, hospital feeling down, complete with the forced smiles of the young people in scrubs checking people in and answering questions. I approached the counter when the young woman there waved me forward.

“Hi. I’m Wendy, how can I help?”

“I have an appointment for an fMRI at three,” I said.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Celia Andros.”

After confirming my birthdate and address, she gave me a form to fill out while I waited. I filled out the rough outline of my medical history and wondered why I had to do it so often. My entire medical history was tied into this hospital, so they already had this information.

The waits for imaging weren’t like waiting for the doctor. They got me in right at three, had me out of my clothes and in a gown, lying in the machine by fifteen after.

While I was in the machine watching the images they showed on the screen above me, it happened again. The difference was, this wasn’t split-second. While I saw the machine around me, through it I saw the ceiling high above, crumbling. It was like seeing two films at the same time, one bleeding through the other.

There was a button under my thumb that I was to push if I noticed anything odd. I pushed it, I think. At least, I told myself to. Just as details in the ceiling were becoming clear, including the steady drip of black water from the edges of the tiles, the image disappeared and the machine and screen above were once again solid.

The fact that it happened during the fMRI might provide some insight into what was happening. My doctor already told me that I’m too old for the initial onset of something like schizophrenia, so she wanted to rule out a physical cause before doing anything that might exacerbate the situation.

I spent most of the ride home — and most every empty minute after — trying to decide which would be worse; something physical that may kill me any moment or something entirely psychological that would eventually see me sectioned.

Feeling sorry for myself, I stopped at the grocery on the way home for some nibbles. I picked up a large bag of crisps and box of herbal tea with chamomile and valerian. On the spur of the moment, I picked up a fizzy drink and an ice lolly.

The ice lolly and fizzy drink were gone by the time I’d got home. I sat in front of the telly, not paying attention to what was showing. At some point, I roused myself to put on a kettle and open the crisps.

It was between sips of the herbal tea that it happened again. The newsreader was going on about a pile-up on the M1, complete with live coverage of the traffic jam. I saw, behind the image or through it, the same stretch of the M1 broken, part of it jutting up as though the land had been lifted. A lorry lay across the change in elevation, burning.

The image faded after a few seconds and the story changed to one about some MP caught up in some ethics scandal…as if that was a news-worthy occurrence.

I continued to munch on the crisps, letting the sound from the telly fade to background noise. After a second cup of the herbal tea, I was tired enough to sleep.

Over the next few days, the episodes became more common and far more vivid. The scenes that showed beneath the everyday were all of destruction. Why that should be, I don’t know.

I walked to the corner shop, and it happened again. The shop entrance was elevated from the pavement, as though it was built on a kerb. I nearly tripped as I tried to step up into the shop. Then I realized that in addition to being lifted twenty centimeters or so, the shop I was seeing was in a state of total disarray.

To avoid the stare of the man behind the counter, I turned down one of the aisles and waited for the episode to end. When it ended, I still had after-impressions. It was as though some traumatic event had burned it into my brain.

I shook it off and picked up a fizzy drink and ice lolly. It was as I was paying for my purchases that I realized I didn’t know why I’d gone to the shop in the first place. Probably boredom combined with the stress of waiting for my doctor to call me in about the scan.

The call from my doctor came as I was heading home. She wanted to see me in her office first thing in the morning. She talked as if it wasn’t anything to be concerned about, but I wasn’t certain I believed her tone.

I sat in her office after a sleepless night. I was still undecided whether a physical or psychological cause was worse. She caught my wandering attention.

“Sorry, Doctor Mathis.”

“Celia, you can relax,” she said, “and please, just call me Sharon. We haven’t found a physical cause for your hallucinations. To start with, I’m going to put you on an anti-psychotic to see if we can get it under control.”

I nodded, realizing now that it was the worse outcome of the two. At least if it had been physical, it would be something I could point to and blame.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been seeing. We can decide from there if we should involve the psychiatry department.”

I explained how the brief, vague flashes had morphed into views of destruction. I made sure to provide the vivid details of the latest episodes. It was then that another hit me. The doctor was both in front of me, and huddled beneath the desk, upon which the ceiling had collapsed, trapping her there.

Looking up, I could see the floor above on fire. Water sprayed from unseen fire hoses outside, washing ash down with it, turning it black. It took over, more real seeming than reality, as if reality was the bit bleeding through. As suddenly as it started, it stopped.

“Celia, are you well?” she asked. “Did you just have another episode?”

“I…did. It looked so real. You were trapped beneath your desk with the ceiling collapsed all around. The floor above was on fire, and water was spraying on it from outside.”

She just nodded and jotted it down in her notes. “You’re not having any thoughts of harming yourself or others, are you?”

“No, it just…it’s like I’m seeing another reality behind this one, or maybe another time.” I laughed at myself. “Sorry, Doctor M—Sharon…now I sound daft.”

“It’s fine, Celia. Promise you’ll pop by the chemist on the way home and get this filled. One tablet every night before bedtime. Don’t expect it to work right away, it needs to build up. And don’t skip any doses. I’ll set a follow-up appointment for two weeks from today.”

I nodded at her, took the prescription she’d written, and walked out. Anti-psychotics. I’ve gone ’round the bend, I thought, and I’ll be sectioned before year’s end.

As I’d promised, I took a detour to the chemist on the way home. It was only one stop earlier than my usual, so it wasn’t much of a detour.

Medicine in hand, I walked toward home. I had finished the big bag of crisps the day prior, so I decided to pop into the corner shop to get some more. Fried potato therapy.

A low, rumbling noise, like a train, came barreling toward me. The light poles began to sway, and the ground started to shake. Unable to stand, I dropped to my knees. The ground next to me, where the buildings abutted the pavement, rose with a deafening roar.

A few seconds after it started, it was over. Sirens called out from all over the city, and the streets were littered with collapsed brickwork from many of the older buildings.

I went into the shop. I had to step up to get in, and the scene was exactly as I had seen the last time I was there.

The clerk shooed me out and followed. “I’m not sure the roof will hold,” he said, “but I grabbed you an ice lolly on the way out. No charge.”

“You’re very kind.” I opened the lolly and looked down the street to my building. The entire facade was laid out in front of it, and my front room was open to the world. I pointed to it with a bitter laugh. “How do you like my interior-exterior design?”

That night, as I lay on a cot in a Red Cross shelter, I wondered whether to take the pills or not. The scenes from the news, including the upthrust that cut across the M1, the partial collapse and fire at the hospital — all of it — was just as I’d seen.

I tried to call Dr. Mathis, but most of the cell towers were down, and the ones that weren’t were overloaded. I told one of the aid workers to contact the firemen at the hospital and let them know she was trapped beneath her desk, but he just looked at me like I was barmy.

I decided that, for now, the pills could wait until it happened again…if it happened again. With the full realization that I had, somehow, seen into the future, I left the shelter for the hospital. I hoped it wasn’t too late for Dr. Mathis.

prompt: Write about someone whose luck is running out.

available at Reedsy

She clapped her leathery wings in rage, her eyes glowing like hot coals. Her champion had not only let her down, he’d flat-out betrayed her. As usual, only her favorite brother was here to comfort her.

“Relax, sister.” Pride placed his arm and one wing around her. “You knew there was a chance to lose, and you took it.”

“Yeah, sure. You can puff yourself up with ‘at least I tried’ but that doesn’t cut it for me; I have to win.”

Pride stood, holding his sister close. “There will be others,” he said.

“He was to be my champion. I thought he was steadfast in his devotion to me.”

“You’re my favorite sister, but I never understood why you chose him in the first place. Born to an addicted mother living in a hovel, with an alcoholic father serving a life sentence.”

“Exactly. And on his first birthday?” She looked at her brother and saw no response. “Do you remember what happened on his first birthday?”

“His mother ODed in her car in the convenience store parking lot, he was in the back seat.”

“Right, but an off-duty police officer happened to be there. One whose brother and sister-in-law were in a uniquely perfect position to take in a child.”

“Because they’d just found out she was barren, right?” Pride raised an eyebrow and pulled her close. “I try to tell people, of all my siblings, Luck is the coldest, but they never believe me. Anyhow, carry on.”

“Right. Well, they were ready to take in and care for a special-needs child; child of a junkie mother and father in jail and all. He was undersize and underweight, but that’s because I was slowing his brain development.”

“What? Why?” Pride released his sister and stepped back.

“He was genetically gifted, but without the proper environment, he’d never reach his full potential. I held him back until he had that environment.”

Luck took a deep breath and let the fire in her eyes calm. “I made sure he had everything he needed: good schools, healthy food, loving parents. I even helped his adoptive father get elected to congress in order to get him to an even better school and ensure his acceptance to MIT at fifteen.”

“And all that time he remained your champion?”

“Always. He attributed his situation and success to me. ‘Luck has been kind to me,’ he’d say.”

“What changed?”

“Dear brother, I don’t know how, but your influence found him. I know you kept your part of the deal and never touched him directly, but….” She let out a heavy sigh and settled into a squat position, elbows on her knees, face on her hands, wings behind her like a gargoyle on a parapet.

“What is it?” Pride asked.

“Why is it easier for the brothers than the sisters? You, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Lust, all of you. You influence someone a certain way and you gain power. It’s not the same for me and my sisters.”

“Except Love,” he said.

“It seems that way, but she is outright worshipped by millions. No, we need belief…not just influence. Me, Chaos, Order, Fate, Wisdom…well, she does a little better than the rest of us, but of the sisters, only Love truly prospers.”

“Tell me what happened with your champion?” Pride asked. “The one you bet Sloth a hundred years servitude would acknowledge you in an influential speech.”

“He finished out his PhD in Neuroscience, with his thesis, The Role of Ventromedial Pre-Frontal Cortex Excitation in Unconscious Bias and Apophenia. The more he researched, the more he became convinced that his luck was a story he told himself to make sense of accomplishments he didn’t feel deserving of.

“After everything I did for him, everything for which he thanked me and praised me for years, he had the gall to denounce me in the footnotes of his paper. ‘Despite the lies I told myself, there is no such thing as luck. Every accomplishment I’ve made is a combination of my own efforts and my environment. There is no luck, just random, sometimes cruel, chance, as seen through the lens of our own biases. Our own actions determine our luck.’”

Pride crouched down next to his sister. “Oof. He gave the credit to himself and Chaos.”

Hot tears streamed down her face. “He did, but he’s about to find out that I’m a lot crueler than my sister. She plays fair; everyone is treated the same and the outcome is equally unsure. Not me.” Luck took a deep breath and rose to her feet, spreading her wings, electricity building in arcs around her.

Pride stood and stepped away from her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m giving every bit of energy he gave me back.” Her eyes were black pits and lightning arced between her teeth as she let out a pained scream.

The mass expulsion of power brought all the siblings to her side. The lives of individual mortals were rarely of any consideration, but this one had to be special to elicit such a response from their usually cold sister.

“What now?” Pride asked.

“We watch and wait…see if he ever comes back to my side.” Luck smiled but it was a mirthless, icy thing. “Even believing in bad luck is believing in me.”

The siblings watched as the man who had lived a charmed life faced a change in circumstance. His fiancé left him stranded at the altar, leading him to drinks with his closest friend.

It was the first time he’d ever gotten drunk, and as gifted as he was genetically, he was just as cursed with a proclivity to addiction. It took months, but he entered a downward spiral. Alcohol took his job, then his possessions, then his home.

Even as he ended up sleeping under a bridge because he couldn’t be bothered to stay sober long enough to sleep in the shelter, he continued to attribute everything to himself. He knew that he had a high likelihood of addictive tendencies, yet he allowed himself to repeatedly drink until he was drunk to dull the pain of rejection.

His clothes wore thin, and he warmed himself by a barrel of burning garbage. An early winter storm had come in mid-autumn and marked the beginning of a brutal winter. There were no warm places left to sleep.

The people he considered his “friends,” the ones that helped keep him drunk, had sobered enough to get into the shelter, filling it to capacity. There were a few people still sleeping in tents with warm sleeping bags, but they wouldn’t allow him anywhere near them. He didn’t blame them. He clung to the belief that everything that happened to him, good and bad, was a direct result of his own choices.

The winter remained harsh, and his body began to show signs of failing. Thanks to not having anywhere left to panhandle, he had been sober for nearly a week when he built himself a nest under a bridge.

As he lay there shivering, he came to the realization that he had wasted his life. He hadn’t published anything since his doctoral thesis. He’d barely begun working in his field when he let himself be taken down by one negative event.

“It’s not all my fault,” he said to the bridge above him. “Sure, the drinking, or at least the starting drinking. I need to get help. But what started it all?”

He curled into a ball, still shivering. “She got cold feet at the worst possible time, but I didn’t do that. Now I’m shivering, probably hypothermia, I’ll be dead by morning. I used to have such good luck, right up until I decided there was no such thing. I guess my luck now is to freeze to death. You’re a bitch, Lady Luck, even if I deserve it.”

She folded her wings, the electrical crackling around her fading to nothing. Her eyes brightened and her stance relaxed. She looked around to see that only Pride remained by her side, her other siblings having grown weary of her tantrum. “He’s back,” she said.

“Not for long,” Pride said.

Luck twitched a finger, and a patrol officer turned on her search light and pointed it under the bridge on a whim, illuminating his huddled form. “Fate says as long as I intervene, he’s got years,” she said, “but he has no more chances with me. Any day he doesn’t acknowledge my presence, I won’t be there. If he ever betrays me again, I’ll end him then and there.”

“You’re my favorite sibling,” Pride said, “I just hope that I remain yours.”

prompt: Write a story about someone coming to terms with how different they are from their younger self.

available at Reedsy

As a child, I knew the world was the way it was, and that was that. Changes, even small ones, were difficult to accept. I knew that the world was and would remain static. Our enclave of skin tents in the forest was where I would live, hunting and raising a family, for my entire life.

I should’ve paid more attention when the elders talked about how fast the humans advanced. The elders understood that human advancement was exponential, even if they didn’t have the language or math to describe it.

Still, I began training as a far-speaker before I took my first step or said my first word. By the time I was nearing adulthood, humans were putting down metal rails and wires in the east. Humans had no far-speakers, but could send messages along the wires, the elders said.

These humans were different, the elders had said. They said that the light-skinned humans in odd clothes were “English” and carried a curse in their touch. I don’t know how much I believed them, but enough that I feared the “English” and wouldn’t go near them.

The other humans, the ones that had come long before, wore clothes like our own. We spoke enough of the other’s language that we traded with them and shared knowledge of game movements, weather warnings from our seer, and anything relating to the “English.”

I took my first wandering when I reached the age of adulthood, at sixty. Traveling with only my bow, a spear, and what I could carry on my back, I left the forest and wandered the plains. It was there that I fell in love with a human woman, Stands In Grass.

She was far younger than I in years, but in terms of a human lifespan, my peer. I stayed with her tribe for an entire year, becoming fluent in their language and teaching her mine.

I took part in one of their horse raids on a neighboring tribe and was accepted as a brave after. For the next forty years, the only contact I had with my own people was by far-speaking. My name in the tribe became Sharp-Ears Holds Spear.

The time I lived with the tribe was my first real introduction to the rapid pace of human change. We had no children, sadly. Of course, I know now how rare non-assisted human-elf pregnancies are. Still, I never wavered in my love for Stands, nor she for me.

In no time at all, she grew old before my eyes. It was forty years and six days after I moved into her family’s tipi that I held her head in my lap as she took her last breath. Far too short a time.

Still, I looked at my belongings in the tipi. My headdress, my winter rabbit-fur pants and jacket, a bison shawl, my summer breechcloth, the buckskins I was wearing, and — beside my spears and bow — a rifle I’d taken from a Blackfeet brave.

I dressed Stands in her two-skin dress, best moccasins, and all her jewelry and regalia. Since we were the only ones living in the tipi, I moved everything out of it and used it for the viewing. For two days I sat beside her as the tribe came to pay their respects.

She had no surviving kin, so it was up to me alone to bury her. The chief, who was just a child when I first arrived, offered his family’s help. I was glad of it, as the ground was beginning to freeze.

I returned home to the forest after that, no longer feeling at home among the Newe. I gave away all but my best horse, my bow, my favorite spear, my rifle, and the buckskins I wore.

When I rode in on my horse, I expected surprise from my kin at the horse and rifle. Instead, I found a number of horses, rifles, pistols, and even a few pieces of Cavalry clothing that had been “cleansed” by the healers.

The rate of change started to become clear. The elders were correct; every human innovation was built on top of earlier innovations. The more that humans invented, the more — and faster — they would come up with new miracles. Their towns spread across the land and grew into cities.

Still, I felt there was a certain permanence to the world itself. The sun rose and set, the seasons changed, and the world was immune to the short lives of the creatures on her skin…including us. I still clung to the illusion of permanence.

When I look back on it now, I realize that at just over a hundred years old, I was still young and naïve. The more the humans spread, bringing with them orcs, halflings, gnomes, and others, the less we saw them as cursed.

We were, by small, gradual steps, assimilated into the United States of America. At some point, we dispersed. Not all at once, of course, but one by one we moved to the towns and cities.

I moved to San Francisco when the railroad was completed across the former hunting grounds of the tribes. The nearest city, Cheyenne, had a telegraph office, and no use for a far-speaker like me.

In California I met humans who spoke languages that had no relation to that of the tribes and little or no relation to English. I learned the languages of those around me — Spanish, Mandarin, German — and took employment wherever I could find it.

At the start of the Great War, I enlisted. The presence of far-speakers was a boon for the Army. They had the new “wireless” devices that had about a two-thousand-yard range, weather permitting. Far-speakers, however, could communicate over tens of miles.

There were few of us, but it made a difference. During the war, I realized how outdated and useless was my Henry repeater rifle compared to the new firearms. At the war’s close, I returned to San Francisco and sold my repeater to a collector for four dollars.

Horses and carriages disappeared from the streets. Streetcars and automobiles took their place. Steam and diesel ships plied the oceans, and the air over the south of the city was often black with coal smoke. Meanwhile, I got a formal education, all the way up to a bachelor’s degree.

When the Second World War rolled around, there was no more need of far-speakers. The new radios could communicate over hundreds of miles and didn’t require years of training or any magical ability.

I re-enlisted and found myself trained as a B-29 radio operator and gunner in the Army Air Forces. I spent two combat tours in Europe, — forty-eight combat missions flown — often limping home in a bomber that resembled Swiss cheese.

After the war, I decided I needed to slow down, go somewhere that didn’t grow and change as rapidly as San Francisco. The crew training I’d received had been at a military airfield outside the small city of Phoenix, Arizona.

At one tenth the population of San Francisco, it seemed perfect. Sure, the city had ramped up some for war production and distribution, but with the war over that was certain to come to a halt, especially given the nature of the place.

Faster than I could have imagined, Phoenix grew from an agricultural center to a major industrial area. From the city itself, the suburbs sprawled across the inhospitable desert like a spreading infection.

In recent years, I’ve looked at the housing development that has taken over what used to be the fields where I labored, and sometimes wondered why I haven’t moved. My house was still newish when I bought it after the war. Now it sits as an anachronistic piece of architecture amidst carbon-copy homes.

If life has taught me anything, it’s that the only constant thing is change. Not just tools and weapons, but politics, morals, social ethics, utopian ideals, and the very earth itself. Like everyone else, I’ve been pulled along by those changes.

After the fields got paved over, I finished out a doctorate in the history of indigenous Americans, with a focus on how the indigenous elves and humans interacted. There’s an old joke about elves being history teachers because they all lived it. In my case, it’s true.

Every year since I began teaching this course in 1962, I have my freshmen students make a list of every technical and social advancement that has been made since their birth. I do this exercise as an eye opener of sorts; get the students thinking about the rate of change in the world. They all know the adage, “Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it,” but they don’t really grasp its importance.

As the students see the ever-lengthening list over the years, it becomes clear just how easy it is to be blind to recent history. “The noise and clamor of change drowns out the lessons of the past,” I tell them, “unless you are careful to pay attention.”

This was typed on a computer in an air-conditioned room, under LED lighting, while trying to avoid the messages on my cell — the most recent iteration of the far-speakers, telegraph, phones, wireless, and so on. What will replace that, I don’t know, but I’ll be here to see it, probably sooner than anyone expects.

That is both the blessing and curse of being an elf in a world where humans have almost completely taken over. Not through conquest, but through their ever-increasing rate of invention. In a world where change occurs at an exponential rate, nothing is static, there is no permanence, tomorrow is not predictable…and I can finally say, I’m okay with that.

prompt: Set your story in a world where the currency isn’t money — or at least not money as we understand it.

available at Reedsy

Willard fiddled with the last purple bead on the band around his right wrist. The band around his left was devoid of beads. He’d traded the yellow and orange striped miller’s bead to the blacksmith for one of her black beads, which he then traded to the hunter for a fowl for dinner.

The hunter had been too kind. It was usually two for a fowl, three for a hare or a joint of boar or venison. Taking care of the hunter’s lodgings and gardens took time that would have reduced the time he’d have to hunt.

When he’d been more in demand, Willard had several bracelets of others’ beads on his left wrist. “Give with the right, collect with the left,” the saying went, but he’d long since passed the point where he could collect anything.

He’d had powers, once…magics that he could perform on behalf of others. One of his conjurations had gone wrong, and the daemon he sought an answer from took his power away. Now, all he had to offer was teaching.

Reading and writing were of little value to most of the village, and of those who did value it, all were already versed. Basic mathematics were more valued, but again, with no children to teach, Willard had nothing to offer.

He knew nothing of farming, smithing, milling, baking, building or any of the myriad other chores that people traded with. Perhaps, if there was a legal dispute, as the most learned in the village, Willard could act as solicitor. That was an unlikely scenario, though.

It was good that his dwelling had been built years ago, in a part of the wood that had no value to the farmers, hunters, or others. The ground was damp and soft, the game rare. In high summer it was swarmed with mosquitos, and in winter thick fogs nestled in and settled for days at a time.

His stone cottage stayed warm and dry, and he was thankful that even when his powers had been taken, the enchantment against insects held. As the fowl stewed in the pot hung over the fire, Willard contemplated how he had fallen so far.

He still had firewood, that he had collected himself. It took him three times longer, if not more, than the woodsman, but he had no time left to barter away; save the lone, remaining bead on his right wrist. The small garden plot behind the cottage still grew cabbage and beans in season, though it was far too hot for them now.

Willard retired early, settling into an uneasy sleep. The daemon that had taken his power returned to his dreams as it had most nights.

He woke to the first songbirds, the skies clear and the day promising to be hot and muggy. He had half a fowl left to get him through the day, but nothing else to eat.

Refusing to show defeat, Willard held his head high as he walked to the village and entered the bakery. He placed his last bead on the counter. “Horse bread please.”

The baker scowled and placed a single loaf of the low-quality bread on the counter. “There ya’ go, magus.” The emphasis on the last word was dismissive.

“Horse bread is three loaves an hour, not one,” he said.

“For you, it’s one.” She pointed at the loaf. “Take it or leave it.”

“It’s three loaves an hour, for everyone. That’s the whole point. No one’s time is worth more than anyone else’s.”

“Tell that to the rest of the village. In fact, if you can trade your one hour for anyone else’s, I’ll trade the three loaves and throw in a loaf of white bread.”

Willard took his bead and left. He wandered around the village, asking for anyone willing to trade an hour of their time for an hour of his. He was met with outright hostility by some, derision by others, and an apologetic “I have no need of a teacher” by others.

By the third hour, he had grown tired of trying to remind the villagers of the system they all claimed to abide by.

Value is something woven in time,
Hours the warp and labor the weft.
No difference in worth between thine and mine;
Give with the right, collect with the left.

There remained only one person left to ask, and he dreaded it. The tinker, for whom Willard had summoned the daemon. Not only had it cost him his power and begun his downfall, he had failed to get the answer the tinker sought, though she paid him for it anyway.

Willard heaved a deep sigh and entered the tinker’s shop. She was busy rounding out a pot with a small hammer and didn’t hear him enter.

“Madam, I wonder if I could trade an hour for an hour,” he said.

She turned with a broad smile. “Magus! How good to see you!” She had several bracelets around her left wrist. Most notable was one that held all but the last of his purple beads. Her own bracelet, on her right wrist, was full. Seventy beads, the total number every villager had to trade when they reached the age of maturity.

It equated to one week of steady work. There, on her left wrist, was sixty-nine hours of his own labor, frozen in waiting for her to collect.

“I see you have only one hour left to trade in advance,” she said.

“Well you should know, since you hold all my hours hostage, it seems.”

“I just haven’t found a use for you yet, and I’ve not stopped others from trading your hours for their own.”

“I implore you, madam, please, may I trade my last hour for another’s…anyone’s.” He tried to smile, though it didn’t feel like he succeeded. “The baker is refusing a fair trade for my hour, though she said she would for any other.”

Her smile grew. “Of course, magus. In fact, I’ll trade you one of the baker’s.” She removed one of the brown and gold beads from her left wrist and added one of her own silver beads. “I’m giving you one of mine, as a way to say to thanks, and I hope there are no hard feelings between us.”

“O—of course. Thank you. You are far too kind.”

She added the purple bead to the bracelet on her left wrist as he added the other two to his. A swirl of black smoke rose from the center of the room and a figure stepped out: the daemon that had taken his power.

“Well done, child. His power is now yours.” A glow spread from the daemon’s hand and surrounded the tinker, settling into her.

“You—you tricked me! You knew the daemon would take my power and made a deal to take it for yourself!” Willard calmed himself. “And what, pray tell, is the price you have to pay?”

“What are you talking about old man? I got you to summon him and collected all your hours as he required.”

Willard felt his joints loosening, his skin tightening, vision and breath becoming clearer. He looked around the tinker shop and realized that he knew how to fix every item there. Even though he no longer had his power, he could still sense what the magic was doing throughout the village.

The tinker, now the magus, grew old before his eyes. Her back stooped, her fingers gnarled, her hair turning white and her skin wrinkling. She dropped the hammer in surprise. “What?! What is happening?”

“You got what you bargained for,” he said. His left wrist filled with the beads she’d previously held, his right wrist held all but one of her, now his, silver beads. In place of his robe, he wore the outfit of a tinker. Her left wrist now held the two beads she’d given him, showing just beyond the frayed sleeves of her robe.

“This—this is not how it’s supposed to happen! You had hours from everyone!”

“Yes, when I had power. You saw to it that it was taken away. Perhaps you can do some spells and convince the village your power is back, perhaps not.” He walked around behind the bench where she’d been working and picked up the hammer. Being able to bend over so easily was something he’d long since forgotten.

“But…what am I to do?”

“For starters, take the baker’s bead to her. I suspect she’ll give you three loaves of horse bread and a loaf of white. You will find half a game fowl in the pot, and enough wood for a few days in your cottage. You can bring the kettle in with my silver bead, and I’ll repair it for you.”

“It’s not—”

“What? Fair? Time is time, and you are using mine up. I would suggest you not mention this to anyone else, lest they think the magus has lost her mind and is no longer trustworthy.”

“I—I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“I’m sure you will. Your library in the cottage is quite extensive, including a book on demonology. Oh, I do have a task for you, though.” He held up a samovar he knew was his, now. Enchant this with the ‘Blessing of Auriculus.’ You’ll find it in the book labeled, ‘Household items,’ third shelf from the top, right-hand side. It should take about an hour. I’ll pay you back one of your hours when you’ve completed it.”

Willard went back to work on the pot, rounding it out where it had been crushed. As she paused in the doorway, he called after her. “Magus, I hope there are no hard feelings between us.”

prompt: Set your story in a nameless world.

available at Reedsy

The problem with nightmares is that they are processed the same way, by the same equipment, as the real world. To the brain, there is no difference between the sensory input from the waking world and the imagination of dreams.

“This has to be a dream, right?” Clint asked of no one. “This can’t be real…but if I know it’s a dream….” He tried to rise in flight, but nothing happened. He tried a running take-off, only to fall face-first to the very real feeling ground.

Clint stood, brushing himself off, the dark ash of the soil staining his jeans. His clothes were familiar, at least. After all, it’s what he was wearing when he lay down in the soft grass and warm sun. Let everyone else crowd the parks, he was happy with the cemetery near his house; better maintained and quiet.

“I’m asleep on the grass under the big oak,” he said to the entirety of the world around him. “None of this is real, and I’m going to wake up…as soon as I figure out how.”

He turned in a full circle, looking for any kind of landmark. No trees, no buildings, no signs of life marred the rolling hills of ash-covered ground. A faint peak, far off, caught his eye.

With the peak as his target, he began to walk. Faint puffs of fine ash rose from his every footfall. The only sound was his own breath and the soft sound of his steps. He checked behind himself often, ensuring that his footprints were still there.

The silence dragged on him, distorting his sense of time. He began to whistle a tune; whether to fight the silence or prop his falling mood he couldn’t say.

What started as a random tune began to coalesce into a song with structure. Verse, chorus, and bridge made themselves known. Too bad I won’t remember this when I wake up, he thought.

As he walked and whistled, his brain filled in the harmonies. The song went from a jaunty walking tune to a military march, to something slightly dark in a minor key, to a dirge, and then back again.

Clint wasn’t tired, but he was sure he should have been. He stopped to look behind himself again. His steps disappeared into the distance. Far beyond that, a cloud of ash was building on the horizon. He turned to face the peak again and went back to walking.

The song still rattled in his head, even though he’d stopped whistling. He was certain that he should be thirsty by now, but he felt no discomfort of any sort. As nightmares go, he thought, this one isn’t too awful.

Hours on, and still the peak seemed no closer; neither did the roiling cloud of ashen dust behind him. Clint slapped his face as hard as he could. “Wake up!”

All he had accomplished was the pain of the slap, a dance of spots before his eyes, and the dread that he would never wake from this. Now it’s a nightmare, he thought. He pinched his arm, digging his nails in. It was pain, but at least he was feeling something.

Clint wasn’t sure how long he spent like that but at some point, he’d broken the skin. A trickle of blood slowly trailed from his arm down his thumb and gathered at the knuckle. The pinching forgotten for the moment, he watched as the blood slowly formed a drop and then fell to the ground.

He watched it fall, as if in slow motion, making a splash of fine ash dust when it hit, then disappearing into the ash as though it was never there. Another followed and then a third before he moved to find something to put over the shallow cut.

“You have laid your claim and it has been accepted,” a soft voice said behind him.

He spun around and saw no one there. “Who said that?”

“Your domain.”

“What do you mean?” Clint moved to press the hem of his t-shirt to his arm, but it had already stopped bleeding. He turned in slow circles trying to find who might be speaking.

“Where we are,” the voice said. “I am the voice of your domain.”

“Where are we?”

“We are here. Is that not apparent?”

“I mean…what is this place called?” he asked.

“It has no name…yet. That is for you to decide.”

Clint took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m asleep on the lawn of the Oak Rest cemetery. None of this is real.”

“I am real, you are real. What is not real,” the voice said, “is the thought that there is somewhere else you are. You were dreaming but have finally awakened.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

“Look around you,” the voice said, “I am everything that you see. If you would prefer an avatar, perhaps I can oblige.”

The sound of soft footsteps behind him brought him about. He faced a nude woman, his own height, thin, collarbones and ribs visible, ash-grey skin and hair, pale eyes set wide above broad cheekbones.

“That’s better, I guess. What’s your name?”

“I’ve already told you; you haven’t named me yet. This form is just an avatar to make it easier for you to communicate to your domain.”

“Does everyone have a domain?” he asked.

“They do, but most don’t wake to it, despite thousands of dreams.”

“You’re saying my life…my entire life, has been a dream, and this is my reality?”

“I am saying all your lives have been dreams. This reality,” she gestured with a sweeping arm, “is waiting for you to shape it.”

“But I don’t have any control,” he said. “I couldn’t even fly.”

“Should you be able to fly? Nothing is fixed here, yet. Once you make your desires known, physics will be defined for your realm. But you can do no such thing until you’ve decided what I…your domain…should be…and give me a name.”

“But why is it covered in ash? Why does it look like a wasteland?”

“It’s not ash as you know it,” the avatar said, “it’s raw materials.” She picked up handful and let it flow through her fingers.

Clint sat cross-legged in the ashes…raw materials, he corrected himself, and thought. If this world is messed up, it’s my fault this time. What are all the things I wished I could’ve changed about Earth?

Time didn’t seem to move, but Clint felt that he’d been thinking for hours…days even…with the avatar of his domain silently watching. He didn’t know much about physics or biology or any of that, but he thought that overall, Earth was as good a place to start as he could imagine; parts of it, at least.

He thought of forests and mountains, wide plains and rich grasslands. Pictures of vibrant wetlands and oceans full of life flashed through his mind. All the things that made Earth beautiful and livable, minus the factories, mini-malls, urban sprawl, and suburban blight.

He had a clear picture in his mind; a rich, lively planet with seasons and diverse climates and habitats. But what to call it?

“I think I have a name,” he said, his eyes still closed. “Utopia. It will be my utopia, so I think it fits.”

The sound of crashing waves and the smell of moisture, slowly gaining a salt tang, brought him out of his reverie. He found himself on the shore of a vast ocean, the sun rising above it. The sky turned blue as a green sheen bloomed over the water. In places where the waves lapped high, leaving behind some of the green, it spread across the land.

He turned to Utopia’s avatar. Her flesh filled out, hips growing wide, breasts filling. Her skin began to change, turning a rich green beginning with her feet, moving up. By the time her eyes shone emerald, the hills beyond were full of trees.

Clint knew without looking that the seas teemed with life that changed and advanced faster than he could process. Soon, the land began to fill with animals. There were pressures that forced change on the plants and animals; volcanoes, floods, earthquakes, but they were minor, over in a flash, and necessary to make Utopia work.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, as much to the world as to her avatar that stood before him.

Utopia turned her gaze to him. “I can be nothing but,” she said, “as I am how you have made me.”

“What happens now?” he asked.

“If you wish to let the sleepers dream in your world, you can. You don’t need to, but it is allowed.”

“Will they be humans?”

“They will be as my environments shape them, but I, or even you, cannot force their form.”

“I worry about war and the destruction of the environment,” he said.

“Look around you,” Utopia said with a sweep of her arm. “I have already weathered ice ages, the splitting and rejoining of continents, and millennia of change. I am still here and still healthy.”

Clint thought for a moment, or was it a millennium? “Let the dreamers in.”

prompt: Your character runs an inn for resting mountaineers. It’s a calm life, until they encounter a twist of fate.

available at Reedsy

Galen had always had a warm welcome for visitors to his inn, until this one. It was his nature to be warm and open with his guests. She didn’t feel like a guest, though, more an invader.

She had crashed through the door with a wordless cry like a soldier storming an objective, disturbing the quiet calm of the lobby. The fire still burned cheerily in large stone fireplace, the morning sun still shed its beams of warm light through the windows, yet the atmosphere was shattered by her arrival.

Under her large pack and bulky layers of outerwear, Galen could not make out any details. The only clue he had that she was, in fact, a she, was the slight stature combined with the pitch of her voice as she cried out with a, “Raaahhh,” as she barreled in.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to keep it down, ma’am,” he said as politely as he could. “We have guests still asleep, after all.”

She let out a grunt as crouched down until the base of the pack was on the floor, then released the waist strap and wriggled out of the shoulder straps. The gloves came next, placed on the pack neatly. She removed the heavy parka to reveal a figure that seemed too small for the size of the pack.

After folding the parka and placing it atop the gloves, she unwound the scarf that covered her pale, freckled face and removed the thick stocking cap, releasing a cascade of frizzy flame-colored hair. Her eyes darted side to side, a wildness…possibly panic…driving them.

“I’m Galen,” the stocky innkeeper said, offering a large, work-hardened and sun-darkened hand to the woman. “Welcome to Mountain Springs Inn.” His usual friendly expression was absent; the smile line around his eyes in contrast to the concern his face wore.

She looked at him, starting with straight, black hair cut short, down his bulky frame to his pale, sandal-clad feet, then back to his deep brown eyes. “I—I’m sorry. It’s been a long trip. Are there any…official types staying here?”

Galen cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean by ‘official’?” he asked.

“Government types?”

“Nope. Nobody like that around here unless there’s an avalanche or lost climber or something.”

She relaxed visibly, letting out a heavy sigh. “Okay. Can I get a room for a week? And I may need to extend it later or leave early. I’ll prepay for the whole week, though.”

“Sure,” Galen said, his normal smile returning as he walked behind the registration desk. “Your name?”

“Oh, sorry. Celeste Davies.” She pulled a wad of cash from an oversized pocket on her bulky snow pants. “Does the room come with meals?”

“It can. A room and three meals a day would be—”

She cut him off by dropping the wad of bills on the desk. “Will this cover it for a week? Room service for meals, don’t worry about cleaning the room until I’m gone. Privacy is a must. As such I won’t be leaving the room until it’s time to extend my stay or leave.”

Galen picked up the bills and began counting them. “This is enough for a month in the master suite, would you like—”

“A plain room…just the most basic you have. And keep the change. If I need to extend, I’ll be paying the same again.”

“Well, Ms. Davies, allow me to carry your bag up to your room.”

“You can call me Celeste, and I can carry my own bag. Could you, uh…”

“Yes?”

“Could you not put my real name in the register? I didn’t think about it until just now.”

“Are you in some sort of trouble? Running from the law? I won’t…”

“Nothing like that. Trouble, yes, but it’s not what you think.” She sighed. “I haven’t broken any laws, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Galen handed her a key and put a false name in the ledger. “Second floor, third door on the left. Room 2-H.”

Celeste took the key. “Thank you.”

Galen watched her as she threw her parka back on and sat to strap the pack on again. She rose with some effort, holding her gloves, hat, scarf, and key. “I assume lunch is at noon?” she asked.

“Yes. If you would like, breakfast is in an hour.”

“Not today. Tomorrow, for sure.”

Galen watched her make her way up the stairs. He wondered what was so precious in the pack. Packs were usually dropped to the floor, especially when they were so bulky and heavy as hers seemed.

He counted the bills again and put them in the strongbox beneath the desk. A glance at the tower clock in the corner of the lobby reminded him of what he should be doing. Breakfast would be starting soon, and the lobby would be filled with the quiet murmur of those eating, enjoying a hot drink by the fire before checking out to go up the mountain or return to civilization.

True to her word, Celeste remained in her room, never showing her face. Her meals were left outside her door, and the empty dishes were left in their place an hour later.

The morning of the third day, two men entered shortly after breakfast. They bore no packs and carried no bags. Their parkas were too light for the weather and their shoes were not the sort that the adventurous mountaineers wore.

“How can I help you gentlemen?” he asked.

“We’re looking for Celeste Davies,” one of them said. “She may be using an assumed name. Short, pale skin, red hair, green eyes. Possibly traveling with a tall man with a blonde beard.”

“She was alo—,” he began, realizing too late that he’d let it slip. “Who are you?”

“We’re just looking for Celeste. You were saying?”

“She was alone. Stopped in for breakfast the other day and left. Didn’t say whether she was going up or down, but since I didn’t see her before then I would guess up.” Galen hoped that was good enough for them.

“The other day,” one said. “Which day would that be?”

“Day before yesterday,” he said. As much as he hated lies, the behavior of the two men raised his hackles. If they were officials, they would have identified themselves and shown proof of their identity. Instead, they’d deflected the question.

“Can we see your ledger?” the other asked.

“Can I see your warrant?”

The first man shook his head and whispered to the other. They moved away from the desk and spoke in low tones for a moment.

“We’ll be on our way now, but we’ll be back. If you see her again tell her to stay put.”

Galen leaned on the desk. “I’m not a message service.” The first man began to reach into his parka before the other stopped him. “But,” he said, “I’ll make an exception for you gentlemen.”

They left and Galen watched the door for a long moment before letting out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It only felt right that he should warn Celeste, but he worried that they may be watching him.

He went into the kitchen and put together a snack for her room with a note under the plate explaining what had happened. Galen carried it up to her room himself and set it down outside the door. He gave a quiet knock and began to walk away.

He heard the door open, then a quiet hiss. “Galen! Come quick!”

He rushed to the room and Celeste whisked him inside before grabbing the tray and pulling it in as well. She closed and locked the door behind her. Her hair was disheveled, her clothes rumpled. On the center of the bed the blankets were in a pile.

He told her about the men, and she nodded. “They’ll probably be back. Don’t change your story or add anything to it.”

She opened the pile on the bed and there, in a nest made of blankets, sat the largest egg he’d ever seen.

“What is that?” he asked.

“What I’m protecting,” she said.

Galen moved closer and heard a faint scratching noise from the egg. It rocked on its own. “Hatching?”

Celeste nodded and lay down next to the egg, warming it with her body.

Galen wasn’t sure how long he stood there, transfixed, before the egg began to open at the top. A small egg tooth appeared first, followed by a dark green snout. After the unmistakable head emerged, the hatchling struggled to drag its leathery wings, clawed feet, and serpentine body free before collapsing next to Celeste. It breathed in short, quick breaths. As it warmed and dried out, it opened its eyes and began to chirp at the woman that petted its head.

He watched as she chewed up a small piece of meat and dropped it into the waiting mouth of the hatchling. She made a cooing noise as she chewed the next piece and fed it. She kept this up until the hatchling slept again.

“That’s a…”

“Yes,” she said. She pulled out another wad of bills like the first one. “One more week before it’ll be strong enough to travel. Then we’ll get out of your hair.”

“No hurry,” he said.

“We’ve got to get out to the wild where he can hunt and be free,” she said, stroking its head. “Isn’t that right, little Galen?”

“Little…oh, you—you didn’t have to name him after me.”

“He needed a name, yours was close to hand.” She rose, careful not to disturb its sleep. “Now, if you don’t mind, I should return to my privacy.”

“Certainly.” Galen returned to the desk and checked the ledger. He looked at the false name he’d signed into the room, and scribbled in, “and child.”

prompt: Start your story with a character who is always running late arriving somewhere just as it closes.

available at Reedsy

Liv hadn’t been on time for anything, ever, and this was no different. She knew it would still be there later, after all, and she’d had things she had to do.

The doors were massive, imposing. She took a deep breath and started toward them before stopping. Liv looked at the summons again. She was more than just a little late.

Liv shrugged. What are they going to do, sue me? she thought. As she began to climb the stairs toward the doors, they began to swing close.

The stairs were interminable. She wondered how they accommodated the handicapped. There were no ramps in sight, and no signage for accessible entry.

Liv continued to trudge up the stairs while the doors continued their slow, stately arches, moving inexorably closed. She was surprised that she hadn’t gotten short of breath on such a massive staircase, but she wasn’t going to run and risk tumbling back down them.

Even if the doors closed before she got there, she could truthfully claim she’d been here, but slowed down by the stairs. She noticed, now that she was closer to the massive doors, that there seemed to be person-sized doors set within the main doors.

She wondered why a place like this insisted on such grandiose, over-the-top displays of power and authority. We get it, already, she thought, we’re peons and you’re all the overlords of everything. Sheesh.

Liv climbed the last dozen steps as the massive doors closed with an almost imperceptible click. Not the massive thump she’d expected. That quiet click held the uncomfortable feeling of finality.

She stepped to one of the person-sized doors set in the bottom of the main doors that stood at least four stories tall. With a deep breath and final resignation, she knocked on the door.

No sooner had she knocked than the small door slid open. The man who stood before her in a grey suit made her uneasy. He was nondescript, bland-faced and forgettable.

“Olivia Marcos-Gonzales, you are late,” he said.

“I had things to do,” she said, “and it’s not like you’re going anywhere.”

“From the moment of your birth, two weeks late, you have never been on time for anything.” He looked at a tablet in his hand that she hadn’t seen before.

“Yeah, everyone knows that about me,” she said with a shrug. “My friends don’t mind, and my family’s used to it. My boss understands, and I get paid piece work rather than hourly. At least my work is always impeccable.”

“Your friends tolerated you, your family reached the end of their tolerance long ago, and your boss only assigned you work that had no deadline.” He swiped the tablet to a new page. “The closest you have been to appearing at an appointment on time was during your second year of school, when you were seven minutes late for your school photo.”

“Oh, come on,” Liv said. “You can’t blame me for being late in grade school! My mother never got me to anything on time.”

“It was always you that slowed her down,” he said. “Any time you were not a factor, your mother arrived on time or early. You acted as an anchor, slowing her down, and causing her no end of stress.”

Liv bit her lip. She felt the truth in his words. As much as she didn’t like to admit it herself, she was a burden to everyone around her. “I…I’m sorry.” Her voice was as small as she felt at that moment.

The man turned off the tablet and it disappeared from his hand. “It seems only fitting,” he said, “that you are subjected to this.” He pointed to the stairs behind her.

She turned to look, and the stairs seemed to descend forever into darkness. “What? What’s going on?”

“As unlikely as it sounds, you arrived at hell as we closed the gates for eternity.” He raised a hand. “Before you ask, heaven closed thousands of years ago.”

“Thousands of years? What are you talking about?”

“You are the last human soul. We’ve waited for you as long as we could, but we must move to a new universe now, so that all the other human souls can be reborn into new forms.” A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Olivia Marcos-Gonzales, you will remain in this universe until its eventual heat death, after which you will be forever in an eternal void…alone.”

“Come on,” she said, “you’re here, I’m here, the door’s open, let’s just move on.”

The smile dropped from the man’s face. “That’s where you are wrong. You are here, I am not. The door is not open, just a facsimile in order to pass your judgement. We have already gone.”

“Bu—but…I had things to take care of! It’s not like I was just wandering around doing nothing!” she cried.

“Olivia Marcos-Gonzales, that’s exactly what you’ve been doing. For three thousand years you wandered the Earth as a ghost, never moving on, never accomplishing anything. Then you spent a billion more making your way here. You have always been and will always be nothing but a faceless wanderer.”

“Th—three…thousand…years? Then a billion more?” she asked. “How?”

“Time moves differently for the dead, but then, time has always moved differently for you, hasn’t it?” A frown darkened his face. “Had you made this one appointment on time, you’d find yourself being birthed on a new world, in a new universe, right now.”

“But I’m stuck here forever?”

“Indeed.” He smirked with a perverse joy. “Perhaps now,” he said, “you’ll have enough time to do all your very important things. No one will ever bother you or ask you to hurry up, ever again.”

The man took a step backwards and the small door slid closed. The massive doors in front of her shimmered and disappeared. Liv looked around. With the building gone, she found herself floating in the void of space, watching the stars wink out, one by one.

prompt: Write a story about someone who’s extremely impulsive — or extremely indecisive.

available at Reedsy

You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice,

If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice

– Freewill, Rush (1980)

Her naming day was coming, and she still hadn’t decided which name she would choose. Her peers had picked their name as much as years in advance. For the next two days she would still be known by her nickname, “Sprout,” the name of a child.

She looked through the list of five names, selected by the priests and priestesses at her birth, again. Each one was pledged to a different god, although which name belonged to which god, she had no clue.

Heinrik, her father, was pledged to Indra, the goddess of life, and tended the farm. Her mother, Shara, was pledged to Malcot, the god of matter, and worked as a stone mason. While they both claimed they were doing what they had always wanted to do, Sprout had her doubts. Did their desired career choice guide them in choosing the “correct” name, or did their assigned god shape their desire after the fact?

Two more days, and she would need to decide. She would be pledged to Indra, like her father, Malcot, like her mother, or one of the others; Ilara, the goddess of energy, Mediek, the god of mind, or Kerar, the hermaphroditic god/dess of spirit. All the priests and priestesses were pledged to Kerar, tending to the spiritual needs of the people of all the gods. This included almost every ritual and rite, including the naming ceremony.

Shara called out from the kitchen, “Sprout, I need you to run to the market and pick up a joint of mutton. We’re having guests.”

“Okay, mom. Let me get dressed first.”

“Don’t spend all morning deciding what to wear. I need to get that joint in the pot soon.”

She knows me too well. “Just a minute!” Sprout dressed in her green trousers and tunic. No sooner had she put them on than she thought maybe the yellow would be a better choice for the day. The morning was cool, and the green was a little warmer, but the afternoon would probably turn hot…. No! No time for this today.

Sprout ran to the butcher’s. Doing errands like this was easy, no decisions to make, just do what mother or father asked. If only everything could be so easy.

On her way there, she spotted six figures in grey, hooded robes, carrying a corpse on a litter. The untouchables. The one rite that was deemed too holy even for the high priests and priestesses: the funerary rite. The untouchables lived on the holy grounds in the forests and showed up only when needed. How they knew someone had died was a mystery to her. After performing the rite, the untouchables would visit the market and be given gifts by all the merchants. To do otherwise would be to invite ill fortune for the entire town.

“Good morning, child,” the butcher said, “what can I do for you today?”

“Good morning, Mister Warrik. Mother needs a joint of mutton. We’re having guests.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” he said. He reached into the case and picked out a joint and wrapped it up for her. “Two more days and you won’t have to call me ‘mister’ anymore.”

She nodded and did her best to give a convincing smile. “That’s right. Thanks. Oh, I just saw the untouchables out there.”

“Poor old Witti, gods rest her soul. I’ll get a roast and some smoked meats together for them.”

Shara was still in the kitchen when Sprout returned. “That was fast.”

“Mister Warrik picked one out right away, and there was no one else there.”

“Help me grind these spices.”

They worked in silence, preparing the spicy broth in which the mutton would be simmered for hours until it fell off the bone. It was something every child her age knew how to make. If it weren’t close to harvest, her father would likely be the one making the meal, while her mother cut stone at the quarry.

“Mom, what happens if I can’t decide on a name?”

Shara stopped her hands and looked at her daughter. “Honey, I know it’s hard for you to make decisions, but you have to choose. Just pick the one that you like the most, or the one you hate the least.”

“That’s just it,” she said, “they’re all bad choices.”

“They say our gods choose us. If you can’t feel the gods’ will, write them all down on slips of paper and pick one out of a bag. The gods will guide your hand.” Shara kissed her on the head. “The broth is ready for the joint, as soon as you mix those spices in.”

“Which one do you like best?”

“I can’t influence your choice, Sprout. I’ll tell you after the ceremony.”

“Where do the untouchables come from?”

“They live in the forest, somewhere beyond the sign marking the boundary of the holy grounds.”

“I know that. I mean, where do new ones come from?”

“Same place as everyone else, dear. Except their parents are untouchables too.”

“But if they have no name, and you can’t marry without one….”

“Don’t think too hard about it dear. Get that joint in the pot and clean yourself up.”

After dinner, while her parents spoke with their guests, Sprout washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. Since the discussions of adults were still no place for her as a “child,” she retired to her room and lay awake until the wee hours.

Morning came too soon. One more day to decide. Rather than trying to decide what to wear, Sprout looked over the names again. She had written them out on slips of paper and tried to choose at random among them, but every time she drew it still felt wrong.

Shara opened her door. “Are you still trying to decide what to wear?”

“No.”

“You’re not dressed.”

Sprout pointed at the names, laid out before her.

“Still trying to pick a name, huh?” Shara crossed the room and kissed her on the head. “I’d help you if it were allowed, but you have to choose yourself.”

“I know. Thanks, Mom.” She looked at her mother in the mirror, outfitted in her work clothes. “You going to the quarry today?”

“No, doing some repairs on the temple. Need to get it perfect for your naming day.”

“If I even have one,” she said.

“You will. You’ll see. The choice will be clear when you enter the temple for the first time.” Shara chuckled. “I had a name picked, but when I walked into the temple, I immediately switched to my second choice.”

“You had two names picked?”

“I had them all ordered by preference.”

“And if you’d gone with your first?”

“Bretti.”

“Ick. I’m glad you chose Shara.”

“Hush you. You’ve got five very fine choices there. No matter what you pick, it’ll be perfect.” She kissed her daughter on the cheek before leaving.

Having exhausted herself trying to choose based on the names, she decided instead to try to pick a god. Kerar seemed the logical choice for her, as she could serve the needs of any of the gods as her whims moved her. The idea of being a priestess, however, was unappealing. What if she wanted to become a scholar, or artist, or shipbuilder? Maybe she wanted to be a trader. Then Malcot; she could be a shipbuilder, trader, merchant, mason. But maybe Mediek; then she could be a teacher, researcher, explorer, artist.

No matter how she looked at it, they were all equally limiting. Each choice came with its own pros and cons, all weighing the same in the end. Even if she chose a god, she had no way of being sure that the name she chose belonged to that god. What if she chose Malcot and picked the name that belonged to Ilara?

The smell of dinner roused her from her deliberations. She went to the kitchen to eat with her parents.

“Have you decided yet?” Heinrik asked.

Sprout shook her head and stared at her stew made from the previous night’s leftovers.

“Don’t push, dear.” Shara smiled at her. “She’ll pick the right name in the temple in the morning.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll leave your robe for the ceremony hanging in the front room. Don’t be late to the temple, my little sprout.”

“I know, mom.”

“It’s bad luck for any named adults to see you outside the temple before the ceremony, so we’ll let you know when we leave.”

As she washed the dishes, her mother wrapped her in a hug from behind. “This is the last time I can call you Sprout. No matter what you choose, I’m proud of you.”

Aside from the ringing of the temple bells, the town was quiet as she made her way to the temple. She was one of seven with a naming ceremony this month. The other candidates approached the temple, their robes resplendent with embroidery. Sprout’s was every bit as ornate. Their parents began working on them at their birth, spending sixteen years creating panels of needlework to be attached to a naming vestment when the date was near and the sizing certain.

The seven of them lined up at the temple doors, Sprout falling to the rear. The bells stopped and the giddiness of the other candidates was palpable. Something pulled at her attention, and she turned to see four untouchables walking toward the temple. Their simple, hooded, grey robes hid their faces.

“Who died?” she asked.

“Oh no, they saw us! Bad luck,” the boy in front of her said.

“Doesn’t count. The untouchables have no names.”

“Oh, right.”

The doors opened and the high priestess called the first in. Minutes later the next, and so on, until it was Sprout’s turn.

She took a deep breath and stepped through the doors, expecting some sort of sign as to which name she should pick. The dark interior of the temple was silent, the air cool with a slight dampness. There was no spark of inspiration, no clear decision. She knelt at the altar in a panic.

“Choose your name, and be no longer a child,” the high priestess said.

Sprout opened her mouth and closed it again.

“Come child, just say your name.”

She shook her head. “I—I can’t. None of them are right. I can’t decide.”

A commotion from the back of the temple caught her attention. The four untouchables had entered.

“What business have you here?” the priestess asked.

They stood silent. Sprout felt her heart race. Maybe she was about to die before she chose a name, and they knew? No, that was ridiculous. They only came after someone died.

“Choose a name, child.” The high priestess snapped her fingers to pull Sprout’s attention back to her. She was not allowed to touch a child, so that was the best she could do at the moment.

“I—I can’t decide. I don’t like any of them!” Sprout stood. “Either pick one for me, or I won’t have one.”

One of the untouchables stepped forward and placed her hands on Sprout’s face to the gasps of the assembly. “She has chosen the unnamed god, the one who sired and bore the quintuplet named gods. You are pledged to the Nameless One.”

The priests and priestesses turned their backs on her, as did the congregation. “She is untouchable.”

The congregation replied with, “Holy above all.”

“Gaze not upon her face, lest the gods be jealous.”

The clergy and congregation began chanting, “Holy above all. Holy above all.”

The woman tugged at Sprout’s robe and whispered in her ear. “Remove your vestment and leave it here. We have a robe for you.”

Sprout did as she was told, and quickly dressed in the hooded robe which hid her face. The woman folded her naming vestment and laid it on the altar. As they walked out the door, she said, “The Nameless One blesses this place.”

The congregation replied with a final, “Holy above all.”

She followed the untouchables out of the town in a numb fog. They passed a sign that marked a small track into the woods as holy ground, and she stopped.

The woman in front of her turned towards her. “Follow, sister.”

Sprout followed on as the track grew wider until they reached a gate across what was now a road. Beyond it, the road led some yards ahead to where it made a sharp turn into dense trees.

One of the untouchable men stood before the gate, his arms wide. “Before you may enter the hold of the nameless, you must be named. All who have come before you have rejected choosing a name. Although the reasons are as numerous as the nameless, none are more valid than any other.”

“Brother, what name has been chosen for our new sister?” asked one of the women.

“The Nameless One has chosen Kirini for her name.”

“Uh, wait… if I’m an untouchable, how can I have a name?” Sprout asked.

“We are the nameless. Untouchable is what the others call us. Your name is a secret of the nameless and must never be used again outside any nameless hold gate.” He swung the gate open and motioned her in. “Enter, sister, and speak your name.”

She walked in and the four followed her. After the gate was closed, she looked at them, their faces expectant. Unsure exactly how the naming ceremony for untouchables was performed, she used the line from the naming ceremony she’d just left. “I am henceforth known as Kirini.” The high priestess would now utter the name of her pledged god, but there was no high priestess here.

As one they responded, “Hail Kirini, nameless and holy, pledged to the Nameless One. Welcome, sister.”

They led her into the village, past the blind corner in the road, where they all pulled their hoods back. It was at least as large as the town she’d just come from but surrounded on all sides by deep woods. Children played in the school yard and the market buzzed with activity. Her eyes were assaulted by the bright colored clothing they wore.

“I thought…,” she began.

The woman nearest her, old enough to be her mother, put an arm around her shoulders. “You thought we lived in the trees? Or maybe caves? And only wore grey robes?”

“I don’t know what I thought.” She felt as though she had said something foolish in front of her mother. “Sorry, uh, I don’t know what to call you.”

“Among the nameless, I am called Mara,” the woman said. “Look around you at the people working. A few of us can hear the call the call of the Nameless One. They let us know when we must travel to perform a burial rite or collect a new nameless like you. Apart from that, we take turns doing all the jobs.”

“How do you decide which job to do?”

“The elders, those too old to do labor, keep a list of everyone and assign them each week to a new job. You will start by working in the tailor’s shop, until you have made two suitable sets of clothing for yourself. Then, wherever the elders send you to train next.”

“I don’t know how to do any of these things, except farming,” she said.

“You will learn the same way we all did, by doing.” Mara led her away from the main square. “Until you have learned all the jobs and taken part in at least one burial rite, I will be your sponsor. You will live with me for that time.”

“And after?”

“You will be assigned your own home. Or maybe sent to another nameless hold elsewhere to live and work. It is up to the elders. It is on you to simply do as you are told. If you are not accustomed to taking orders it can be difficult to adjust, but I will help you.”

Kirini smiled. “I think I’ll do fine here.”