I started attending a creative writing workshop last week and at each meeting we get a prompt to write on for the following week, so if all goes well I should have more stuff to share.

Prompt: There’s a knock on your door an you open it to a worn and beaten man wearing nothing but a toga with a large tattoo on his arm. He claims to be a long lost relative and that he can prove it based on a code in his tattoo. What is his story and what does he want.

This was last week’s prompt and the other people in the workshop had great ideas ranging from comedic to serious to taking it from the toga guy’s perspective. Mine borders between humorous sci-fi and just plain silly. I wrote the second half before the workshop and haven’t edited it yet other than basic grammar and such.

It was 2 AM when Rachel was awoken by a furious knocking from her front room. She clambered wearily out of bed, grumbling something about solicitors and the purifying powers of fire as she made her way to the front door, and by the time she’d reached it had riled herself into a good bad mood. The door opened, and she peered out through the small space allowed by the chain to give whoever was on the other side a solid piece of her mind. What she saw, however, left her at a momentary loss of words.

There was a man on her front doorstep, early to mid-twenties, wearing a toga and looking like he’d been attacked by several puddles, a hedge, and possibly something made out of gravel. He seemed to be rather out of breath and was leaning on her doorframe for support.

“Are you aware,” he interjected before she could say anything (not that she was yet sure what to say), “that mutant wolves are running loose among the populace?”

“Pardon?” she asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically. To be honest, her sleep-addled mind was still trying to catch up with the situation, but she was fairly certain this was the correct response. The man, however, simply waved a hand vaguely.

“It matters not. I have come here for a most singular purpose. Namely,” he struck a pose, “my heritage.”

“Your heritage,” Rachel repeated.

“Yes, I believe I said that. Anyways, I have come here, to 230 Montgomery Lane, to find you, Miss…?” he looked at her expectantly, as if she should fill in this blank. The woman sighed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me….”

“Miss Yuvegatubi-Kidingmi. Hm. Strange.” He gave her a scrutinizing look. “Are you sure you’re not the help?” The reply to this suggestion was a glare and a movement to close the door. “Wait, wait! My apologies, I really do have something important to tell you,” he insisted, barely managing to catch the door before it was closed. Rachel weighed her options and grudgingly realized that patience may get her back to peace and quiet quicker than unnecessary violence. She came back to the opening.

“Make it quick.”

“Yes, yes, of course. You see, we are actually related, and- and,” he continued, seeming to sense her growing disbelief, “I can prove it. With this.” He lifted some of the fabric over his right shoulder, revealing a large tattoo.

“… It’s a triangle,” Rachel remarked, not nearly as impressed as he’d seemed to think she’d be. The man, however, was not deterred.

“There is a code in the triangle,” he said conspiratorially. “A secret code.”

Rachel found this very hard to believe. Not because she doubted someone would put a secret code in a tattoo on their arm, or even that someone would put that code in a triangle, but because she really didn’t think anyone could fit a code into what was on his arm. The shape was a triangle in it’s most basic form, three straight black lines. Nothing more. She wasn’t even sure it was a real tattoo.

“So, this code…” she said, deciding to play along. “How am I supposed to know it really says we’re relatives?” The man looked to be at a loss for words.

“Er…”

“Can you tell me this code?”

“Well, no-“

“Do you have any proof other than the code that we’re related?”

“No, but-“

“But…?” Rachel crossed her arms. “If you can’t prove what you say is true then there’s no reason for me to believe you and I may as well go back to bed right now. In fact, I bet you drew that thing on with magic marker.”

This seemed to bring the man to his senses, if he had any, and a very serious look came to his face. “You have every right to be skeptical of my news, miss, but I am insulted by your suggestion that I use the dark arts.” He ignored her confused look as he went on. “If you desire proof, then simply show me to the city’s scrollery and I shall-“

“The what?”

“The scrollery,” the man repeated. Then, seeing she still didn’t understand, “The place where you store important information regarding the general populace.”

“You mean City Hall?” she asked. He looked confused.

“Why would you keep information in a hall? Aren’t they normally reserved for paintings?” There was a pause as both of them looked at each other, and then something seemed to click. “Hold on,” he said, and then pulled something out of the folds of his toga that, to Rachel’s amazement, looked like a sundial with multiple built-in light sources. “Oh, how embarrassing!” the man said suddenly, evidently making more sense of the contraption than she did. “This isn’t the right parallel. My deepest apologies, miss. I have made a slight miscalculation in my travels. How embarrassing…” he muttered to himself again. “Well, I shall leave you to your rest. Farewell.”

Rachel wasn’t quite sure if it was shock or sleep deprivation that made calmly accept this explanation. Her last thought before drifting back to sleep ten minutes later, however, was that she had either just experienced something amazing or one of the most ingenious pranks in the world.

Me: oh! oh! give me something to write about!
Dylan: umm…we’ve covered zombies and dragons, right?
Me: yep
Dylan: ummm pirates? in space? SPACE PIRATES IN SPAAAACE
Me: I like the sound of that

“Doo, doo doo… doo doo, doo doo… doo doo… doo…” A pause. “Great…” Gregory sighed. It was official. The cabin fever was making him sound like an idiot. He stood up from his bunk and climbed the stairs up to the deck two at a time. The stars shone overhead, like an array of diamonds on a black satin blanket. He didn’t care. He’d seen the same stupid stars for the past three weeks, and he was starting to hate them. Sure, they were beautiful and glorious and mesmerizing when you only got to see them at night, but it sucked when you couldn’t get rid of them. It was like if you told someone from Eis how cool the snow was. They’d look at you like you were crazy. Ah well, that was just the life of a spacer…

The lanky young man scanned the deck, automatically picking out his friend Ivan through those on shift. The burly man was hauling containers of… something. Hopefully not something explosive. Well, not explosive enough to get out of the container at least.

“Ivan!” he called, walking over as the older man noticed his presence, making a small semi-circle away from the containers as they were set down before deeming the situation safe and coming closer. “What’s up?” Ivan shrugged.

“Hauling.”

“Right… Hauling. Great.” Gregory nodded approvingly. Sometimes he was glad he wasn’t one of the strong guys. …Usually when they weren’t in the middle of a raid. Ivan had commented multiple times on how he could break him like a twig. “So. Got any gum?” he asked hopefully. Ivan shook his head.

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Well damn,” he sighed again. “I’m bored outta my skull.”

“Why don’t you pop some cane toads?” the man suggested, picking up the canisters again as Gregory skittered out of range. “Always fun popping cane toads.”

“There aren’t any left,” he said. Ivan stopped.

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously. I checked the whole ship. None.” They started walking again. Gregory gathered enough courage to follow closer. “So… uh, what you got there?”

“Tomatoes.”

“Ah.”

They walked over to the lift, taking it down to the storage level and turning toward the rooms that held food. The hallway was metallic, with each of the rooms having an air seal to preserve the items inside. The only room that didn’t have one was the scullery, which, since it needed someone on hand at all times, was kept open. As they went by, Gregory stopped and poked his head in, flagging down Murray as he passed.

“Hey,” he said cheerfully, the scullery hand giving him a stoic look.

“Yes… what is it you want?”

“Got any potatoes that need peeling?”

“No…” the man sighed. “That’s what we have the machines for.”

“Oh. Right. Machines.” They stood there in silence for a moment. “Could you… turn the machines off?” Murray gave him a look like he was crazy. The ‘isn’t snow cool’ on Eis kind of look. “Right. I’ll just be going then.”

The young man scampered off, catching up with Ivan as he was leaving the storage room.

“What was that about?” his friend asked.

“Oh, you know… Murray and… potatoes…” he gave a pathetic groan. “Gods, I’m bored!” Ivan looked at him for a moment, then rolled his eyes.

“I have some soda and pop rocks. You know. If you want to end it.” Now it was Gregory’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Thanks. You know they don’t actually do that. I’d just get really sick.” He paused thoughtfully. Well, it would be something to occupy his time… “Ugh. What am I thinking?” he asked himself, Ivan not about to offer any opinions. “That would be stupid. I’d have to be an idiot to…”

Twenty minutes later.

Okay, Gregory thought to himself as he regurgitated carbon dioxide and sugar water into the toilet, I’m officially an idiot. He fell into a sitting position, the worst of it seeming to be over. He felt miserable… and stupid. And he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to enjoy a soda for a long time. Great.

He jumped as an alarm sounded, the captain calling all hands to the deck over the com system. Gregory groaned. Looked like he wouldn’t have to worry about being bored. Shaking legs managed to lift him to his feet, and he started the walk to the deck. Maybe if he got there fast enough he could find Ivan before any of the fighting started. It was always good to have a big guy to fight alongside. Especially if you were breakable like he was. And hey, maybe they’d get some good treasure out of this. Yeah…

The man’s step was already lighter as he walked into the lift. Sure there were downsides, but when you got to the heart of the matter, being a pirate was just cool.

Occasionally I’ll ask my friend Dylan to give me a topic to write on. It keeps me from getting into a rut, feeds me new ideas and perspectives, and makes me write on subjects or genres I may not normally choose to otherwise. She’s a big fan of zombies, so of course a zombie story was the first suggestion she made. This was what resulted.

Stay alert. Keep breathing. Don’t die.

These were the thoughts that repeated over and over in the ex-librarian’s head as she held twin hand scythes at ready, taking deep, ragged, silent breaths while her heart attempted to pound its way out of her chest. She was being run on pure adrenaline. Nothing else. Simple fight or flight response. It was a wonder she could think at all, really…

A sound to her left made the woman tense, and as she listened she could hear a rattling breath and the sound of something dragging across the snow. Then… silence. An involuntary shudder ran through her body, and her stomach twisted in a way that suggested she would have quickly lost its contents if there had been anything left to lose. The silence was one of the things she hated most about them – the idea that something so horrifically unnatural could move without making a sound. Her breath caught in her throat, and her ears fixed on to a low, guttural whine coming from directly behind her hiding spot. Hands gripping the scythes’ wooden handles, she spun around and away from the rock cover, boot treads digging into the frozen soil as her eyes swept dangerously over the scene. Her heart skipped a beat, and it felt like ice water had been injected into her veins as she looked with widened eyes over the landscape, empty save the trees and the barn she’d left behind her.

“Oh God…” she breathed. “Where-”

Ssssssssssss….

Slowly, barely moving her head, the woman looked up.

They peered down at her with dull, lifeless eyes from the branches, skin the grisly hue of death, clothes ripped and stained, and mouths dripping blood. For a moment she just stared at them, transfixed as they did the same. Neither moving, neither breathing. Then, she bolted.

Rrrriiiiiiiiiieeeeeehhhh!

They dropped so fast, faster than she could move, faster than she could even think the mantra that had echoed in her mind since the first had wandered into their town. They charged, reaching for her with their blood-stained hands, and she lashed out, screaming as she slashed through flesh, bone, and cartilage in a desperate attempt to incapacitate her attackers. Her scythe punctured the skull of one and stuck, the creature falling to the ground as she ran from the few still standing, their primal shrieks calling after her as they gave chase. She was only a few yards from the house. If the car still worked, she could escape, get to the city… hopefully they hadn’t reached the city. Her boots crunched the snow underfoot, puffs of mist escaping into the chill air as she put everything she had into running. She couldn’t hear anything anymore except the blood rushing in her ears. She’d reached the house, she just needed to get to the other side. The car was so close.

“Aaaaaggh!” she screamed as pain exploded through her shoulder, the thing that had been on the roof tearing into her with its teeth. In a final burst of adrenaline the woman decapitated it, blood streaming from the wound as she turned to see the others quickly closing in on her. As her mind began to cloud over, the woman, a librarian before it had started, brought the curved blade of the scythe to her neck.

She would never become one of them.