Author Archives: P.S. Broaddus

A Drift of Quills – Gogs

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Short stories, fantastic tales, spun from a single picture. It’s flash fiction month! Our picture was chosen by the lovely Robin Lythgoe, and this storyline bubbled up, close to home…

And down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

 

Gogs

People don’t talk about it, probably because they don’t remember, but being eight is the hardest age. Even harder than being a junker. Or an evaporative farmer, or whatever we are now.

I guess it didn’t start right when I turned eight. So maybe it’s eight and a half. (Turning seven was even awesomer, ’cause that’s when I got my goggles, and my nickname, “Gogs.”) Even so, turning eight was pretty good. Jesse came over, along with all of her brothers and sisters and there were a bunch of other kids and we were all covered in rust running in and out of our rambling old house and around the junk yard carrying as much food as we could sneak out of the kitchen laughing like sky pirates with the moms and dads all standing around talking easy and we could even hear Mr. McNeely from across the rusted steel drain pipe hollering at his dogs or us or something. So all was good.

Somewhere eight started to go south. Then the whole world started to go south. Mom and Dad didn’t know it at first, even though I tried to tell them. They just rolled their collective eyes and said something along the lines of, “Zoe – I mean Gogs – you’re going to love evaporative farming – stop complaining! It’s a bigger house! That’ll be nice, with number five coming right?” Mom would run her hands over her belly and smile. “And it’s just up the street, and has a machine shop we can fix up and plenty of room for you kids to run around and maybe we can even get some real animals.”

I just mumbled back that I liked our robo dog, Naps, (’cause he’s a second hand dog and has to recharge all the time), and who needed real animals anyway. And even though it was a bigger house they weren’t going to give me my own room. I still had to share with my other two sisters. So it didn’t really count as bigger to me. Besides, I wasn’t complaining. I was just questioning why we had to move. I liked the junk yard and the junkers who lived there. And Dad liked his job as a junker – lots of people came to him, looking for scrap, or for trades, or a new build. He negotiated for the other junkers when there were big trades, or section swaps and everybody liked him. So why would we want to do something else?

They couldn’t give me a good answer. Just that we were going to be “farmers.” Like that was the best thing anybody could hope to be. I didn’t know any farmers, but I was skeptical.

I started gathering my weapons and treasures from around our yard so they wouldn’t get left during the move. Then the move itself started. As I expected, I hated it. Everybody handling my stuff, and it getting all disorganized and shoved in boxes. Sure, it looked like it was pretty messy before, but I knew where it was. Kinda. And Mom got tired and snappy and Dad got impatient and focused and worked long hours at his job and then more around the house and with moving everything.

Even though he was tired Dad was excited because he was getting some kind of good deal on the moisture farm, and our junker house had already sold. His eyes would sparkle and he’d grin and say he couldn’t believe how lucky we’d gotten.

The day it was supposed to happen Mom and Dad went into the city. We stayed at the house, with some other junkers watching all four of us – we were playing around, trying not to mess anything up, since the house was sold. Mom and Dad came back pretty fast. Too fast. They couldn’t talk about what happened, but over the next few days and weeks us kids squeezed enough out to understand some big city member of the law guild – the one that was supposed to help them buy the new moisture farm – he did something to make it where Mom and Dad couldn’t get the farm, and then he turned around and called Dad a thief and filed a complaint with the junker’s guild.

Dad couldn’t believe it. Looking back I guess things were still going downhill, even though I didn’t know it. I thought everything was finally back where it needed to be, because we got our house again and moved everything back in and I got my space and nothing was lost or broken. Much. But Dad kept shaking his head and mumbling about how he couldn’t believe it and he kept having the same conversations with Mom over and over. And Mom kept running her hands over her belly, but now it was kind of a defensive, protective thing and she seemed distracted a lot. There were probably more signs, but honestly I didn’t see them because I thought things were back to normal and they were grownups and they’re often distracted and worried and work long hours or are just plain boring. So I didn’t see it coming.

It was at supper just a couple of months later that they made the announcement. No discussion. Just, “boom.” Mom and Dad looked at us. Mom had a smile. Dad had kind of a grin, but there was some worry there too. Us kids just looked back. They had picked a farm. But it wasn’t in our area. Not even our district. It would take hours to get there, by rumbler. I guess our reaction was a little subdued, because they felt like they had to talk it up.

“It’s a lot of land,” Dad gushed.

“And it has a real creek – not a runoff or drain,” Mom pointed out.

The rest is kinda hazy. The whole next while was that way. There were hurried goodbyes and the next thing we were on an evaporator farm that hadn’t actually evaporated anything in a long time. Naps loved it when he wasn’t recharging. he could chase real squirrels and stuff. Then he got hit by a moisture tanker on the fourth day we were here. Dad buried him like he would have a real dog.

The house wasn’t bigger. It was smaller. A lot smaller. Then the baby came, all in a rush, like he’d been missing out. Except he wasn’t missing out. Not yet anyway. The weather kept us all inside – the acid rains weren’t as bad as in the junkyard, but they came a lot more frequently, along with winds that would blow you right off your feet. Us kids stared out the window and fought.

I started noticing things about Dad. He didn’t get back into another junker guild, even though he said he would eventually. Instead he kept talking about what was happening in the world, and “conspiracy theories,” and then laughing about it and then saying it was probably all rubbish and nobody would believe any of that stuff. But then he would read some more.

He talked to Mom about getting the farm running and how soon he could expect a profit, but the first guy he tried to hire to look at the evaporator took a bunch of his money and disappeared. That never used to happen to Dad, and he used to hire a bunch of people in the junkers guild. Mom was sweet and said Dad was an “excellent judge of character.” But I wondered. Maybe before.

Then I would hear Dad talking to Mom about other business stuff – deals and “opportunities.” Mom didn’t like that there were “bigger and bigger risks,” and then Dad would start to say something but they would see me standing there and they would both go quiet. I don’t know what that was about, but I saw the look in his eyes – the look that tried to pretend that everything was okay, but deep down there was a haunted look.

Winter seemed to drag on forever. Of course, winters were longer now than they used to be Dad said, like that information made it better.

Then, one day, there was a break in the rain. A ray of soft yellow pushed through the sullen gray. It was subtle. We almost didn’t see it, because we were fighting over who’s turn it was on junkopoly. I had three scrap heaps and a lean-to on all of the plastic and recyclable plots. The house turned a little brighter. I looked up to see if Mom turned on an extra light. It was coming from outside.

Later that week I peered at a new shoot of something green poking up next to the real tree in our back yard. Cat, (one) of my younger sisters, squatted on her heels next to me. “Think it’s poisonous?” She grinned.

I scowled at her and grabbed a piece of gravel and stuck it in my sling shot. “Bet you can’t hit the barn.”

We spent a couple of hours plinking the barn’s good side before we started the fort. We came in that night covered in mud from head to foot. I knew we were going to catch it, but Mom just smiled as Cat told her about our secret fort, (I tried stepping on her foot to keep her from talking but I missed). Dad came down the hall and raised his eyebrows at the mud but didn’t say anything. He looked like he had tried to clean up, but a few minutes ago he must have had even more mud on himself than we did. He took a machine rag out of his back pocket and held out his hand for my goggles. I handed them over. He smelled like something that made me wrinkle my nose. Wet fur maybe? And something less…good. He carefully rubbed the lenses clean and polished the brass buckles. I glanced at his eyes. They were calm. Blue. They twinkled when he saw me staring at him. “You alright Gogs?”

I nodded, slow at first. Yep. I guess I am.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

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Coming soon…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

It is Truly Magic

by Patricia Reding

Copyright Patricia Reding 2021

Some say it doesn’t exist.

But they are wrong.

It does. It does.

“It does!” Nellie cried, as though repeating her mantra, whether in her mind, or verbally, would make it so.

She pulled her boots on, then wriggled her toes, testing the fit. “And now . . .

There it is! Up top you read a flash fiction that is close to home for me, but what about you? What tale would you have spun from the picture above? Drop me an email or comment below!

 

 

A Drift of Quills – Christmas Time Is Here

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It’s Christmas time again. And after the year we’ve had, I feel like we need a holy and silent night.

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

Christmassy Time

So what about the Christmas holidays capture us in a way the rest of the year misses? We laugh and joke about it, but for me a part of it is the repetitive, kitschy music. Aunty Maude’s fruitcake. (Blech). The cold. Christmas shopping. *groan* B-level holiday movies. (“You’ll shoot your eye out!”)

Of course it’s also “family,” and “Jesus,” but what in the world have we been doing if we push those two into a storage box in the attic only to brush them off one day a year. Talk about absentee parenting and cold religion. Hopefully family and faith are daily encounters, not once-a-year reminders.

And yet, even if faith is a daily encounter, Christmas re-centers me. It brings me back to the beginning.

The season starts with Advent. Advent is a season of waiting. (It feels like much of this year has been waiting – waiting for things to get back to normal, waiting for an end to a pandemic, waiting for election results, waiting for a vaccine, waiting for school to open back up…)

But Advent reminds me what I’m waiting for. Because ultimately, I’m not waiting for the things mentioned above. Ultimately, I’m waiting for Christ’s Incarnation. I’m waiting for the renewing of all things. Light that comes into darkness, and the feasting and celebration that comes with that event.

It can be hard to wait. But perhaps in the waiting, we learn something about God’s presence we couldn’t have known otherwise. Perhaps we find that in the waiting, we are invited to experience more of God’s presence. One of my favorite college professors, Dr. Veith, wrote on the subject today, and quoted Daniella Royer:

Advent means “coming.” The two comings of Jesus that the Church anchors herself in during this season are Christ’s Incarnation and his second coming. When we beseech Emmanuel to come, we are not just reliving the ancient Israelites’ longing for the awaited Messiah. We are also awaiting his victorious return and renewing of the universe. But to be completely honest, waiting for Christ in a year where we are currently waiting out death, disease, despair, and so much darkness seems impossible and pointless. Why can’t we just move on to the feasting and festivities? I desperately need the joy of Christmas, the blessed assurance that God has become man. I need to marvel in the innocence of a baby, the tender purity of salvation. But as I’ve frustratedly questioned why church history and my faith tradition force me to wait, I’ve realized that perhaps waiting is an invitation to more of God’s presence.

I hope this season you find your way into more of God’s presence. I hope His presence is a light and a comfort in the darkness, and I hope it colors the whole of next few weeks–the glittering tree, the laden table, the gaily wrapped gifts–with its radiant light.

 

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

It’s time for another (short!) article with my friendly neighborhood Quills. The subject? Christmas. Wonderful, right? Five minutes into it and I found myself in an unusually grumpy, Grinch-like mood. Half an hour later, still stewing, I thought about backing out. Reluctantly, I sat down to apply myself to a little “free-writing.” One of the wonderful things about free-writing is how it sparks ideas and memories…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

Christmas always brings clearly to mind, how very different life is today than it was when I was a child. Certainly, we had what we needed. But as to extras—even the smallest of treats—they were few and very far between, indeed, and that was true at any time of year. (Perhaps this explains why I have a vivid memory of a time I was given a simple Tootsie Roll Pop sucker. The event stands out in my memory as something most extraordinary.)

I remember that each Christmas, the local theater put on a free movie for all the kids to see …

 

A Drift of Quills – Light Out of Darkness

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Today we are writing short stories – original pieces, based on a shared bit of art. This one by Laura Diehl is enchanting. I wonder what you think?

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

Light Out of Darkness

Akari knew Grandfather’s stories. The stories of creation–of the sun and moon and wind. Of Amaterasu, the sun goddess, of how she put her light into the darkness of the sea and brought forth life. Or Akari’s favorite, of how the goddess hid from her brother in a cave. Akari knew how the sun goddess felt. Sometimes she wanted to hide from her brothers too.

Grandfather’s face would grow serious, and his white eyebrows seemed to grow even bushier and more wild than usual when he told of Yomi, the land of the dead—but then his eyes would crinkle with laughter as he told of how the gods tried to get Amaterasu to leave her cave and give light to the world once again. “It is light that gives life.”

“Light, and love,” Grandmother interjected.

Grandfather harrumphed at being interrupted, but he nodded all the same. “It’s true. And your name means ‘light,’ little one,” he would tell Akari. “Maybe you are related to Amaterasu.”

Akari liked that. She liked the sun, warm on her face, and the way it brought life to the world, tempting new pink buds to peek out of hiding on the hill cherry trees, or teasing the sea otter into playing on the warm rocks at the edge of the sea.

“Yes, you are light and sunshine,” Grandmother grinned, “but even the sun must go to bed!” And she would send Akari scampering across the yard to her own home.

And usually Akari would trundle off to bed, complaining and dragging her feet all the way.

But this night was different.

For one the moon was low and round and full. It cast its light through Akari’s bedroom window and she could not sleep. It lit the room and her books and the niche where her ancestral guardian stood in shadow, and the empty crib across the room. Akari’s mother came in to check on her before turning down the last lamp. Akari was very still. Her mother kissed her gently on the cheek and moved away. Akari peeked. Her mother had stopped at the empty crib. She ran her fingers across the beautifully engraved rail and sighed a deep sigh before slipping out of the room.

Akari sat bold upright. Life. Light. That was it!! She slid out of bed and tiptoed to the niche in the wall. She ignored the guardian. It couldn’t help. She had already asked–hundreds of times, but it was just stone. The real guardian’s spirit was somewhere else, feasting. It only checked in once a year or so, when the family left an offering. Everyone knew that.

Her fingers found the small box of beads. She opened the finely carved lid. They were dull and almost black in the pale glow of the moon. During the day they were brilliant blue, like the sea. Supposedly sacred, but Akari didn’t believe it. She put them back. The little man who had sold them said that they came from one of the northern temples, but she suspected they probably just came from a cheap shop in town. There, behind the little box was a small pouch. She pulled it out and opened the mouth of the leather satchel. Perhaps it was a trick of the moon–perhaps it was something else–but the white sandy dust seemed to shimmer and sparkle like diamonds.

Akari smiled. Yes. This was something. It hadn’t been sold out of the same wagon as tin pots and copper kettles. This had been handed down from one set of grandparents to another and was even older than the guardian. Grandfather didn’t know when it had first come to the family, but the stories said that it might have come from the temple of Amaterasu. Dust from the floor of the temple, trod upon by the gods.

Akari didn’t think so. There was something more here. She could feel it. See it. Related to Amaterasu, most definitely. But more than dust from the floor. Of that she was certain. Akari balled the treasure in her fist and moved toward the door like another moon shadow. She paused at the crib. “I’m coming for you little sister,” she whispered.

She knew where she must go. The light must meet darkness. Akari broke into a trot, past her grandparents home, down the slope and across the tiny red bridge to where the boats were tied. She gulped when she saw the water. The moon’s reflection bounced off the top of the water, but could not pierce the black depths. Akari untied the little boat her father had made for her and hopped in, clutching the sand close. With one hand she unfurled the miniature sail and let the moon breeze push her out into the deeper water. Water lilies bumped happily against the boat, pleased to see a visitor.

Akari opened the purse a fraction, just to check. Sure enough, the full light of the moon seemed to give the sand an unearthly glow. Akari looked back guiltily at shore, and the two dark smudges that were her home and her grandparent’s house.

“Just a little,” she said aloud. “She was such a small person…”

Akari leaned over the side and said a quick prayer before sprinkling a handful of the precious dust into the black depths.

Her eyes went wide. She believed the sand had come from Amaterasu, but seeing and believing are two different things. Now she saw. The sand floated away from her, as if on an invisible breeze, and seemed to glow even brighter upon meeting the dark sea. Something quick and wet darted up and swallowed her offering.

“No!” Akari hissed. “You stupid fish! That isn’t yours to take!” She waited a moment before sprinkling another trickle of dust on the surface of the water. This time she saw them coming. Several fish. They were easy to see because one of them was glowing with a light from within. Soon several fish were glowing. They swam under the boat, and in great gliding circles, playing in the light they cast.

Akari’s mouth was open. She sprinkled some more sand in the water. Soon she could see clear to the bottom of the depths. She could see the lily pads long stems, and their gently waving arms.

But then she was out of sand. She almost cried then, for while the fish were pretty, they were no substitute for a sister.

Akari steered her little boat home. On shore she quickly filled the little purse with sand from the beach and then retraced her steps home. She tucked the pouch back in its place and crawled into bed, full of wonder and disappointment, unaware that something new had been born that night.

It was not until many years later that Akari thought of her light and that it could be related to the sightings of the ningyo, or half fish, half human, along the coast where she lived. But to this day, if you see a ningyo, and you mention that you know Akari, they will grant you a wish, as a thank you to the girl who gave them light and life.

 

 

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

Golden Girl

The third plank in from the window was the one that squeaked, and Mashika avoided it as she climbed carefully through the window, shrouded in summer’s warm shadows. Getting caught sneaking back into the house after hours was not a good idea. Light came from downstairs in the kitchen. Someone was still up. She held her breath, and after a moment she heard voices speaking. Mama and Papa were still awake.

“There’s no choice,” Papa was saying. “We’ll start tomorrow night.”

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

He Needed Her
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

Crimson waxy leaves glistened in the waning sunlight, chattering amongst themselves as a cool breeze moved through. In the distance, the cat-like cries of black-tailed gulls sounded out.

Kaida flitted down the garden path toward the sea. On reaching the water’s edge, she came to a sudden halt. Before her and a short distance from shore, tiptoeing from one semi-submerged rock to another, an egret meandered. On sight of her, he spread his snowy white wings, then took to flight, joining the mewing gulls in their happy airborne ballet. Kaida grinned at the bird’s gangly legs that seemingly dragged behind, but then quickly turned serious once more. She had to get back to KanaRyu as quickly as possible. He needed her.

Spotting her boat hidden in the nearby rushes …

A Drift of Quills – Supporting Cast

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Due to a (crazy, wild, bludgeoning) hectic, season of life I like to call, “last month,” I didn’t get to share something about taking risks, and the success or failure as a result of those risks when our group of writers pontificated on the subject in September. Too bad. I’m a risk taker, and it would have been a fun and contemplative exercise to review how that characteristic is panning out.

Interestingly, most of what made it such an insane time was the colossal implosion of a particular risk taking venture. We were buying a farm. We were selling our house. And it all went sideways at the closing table. It doesn’t always turn out that way—more often than not our risk taking as a family has paid off. Now we’re making a comeback, dusting off our breeches, and leaning on good old Winston Churchill, who once said, “Pass the biscuits,” (meaning what we Americans would call “cookies”), but he also said, and this is perhaps more applicable, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”

Although, a biscuit does sound nice.

So, I missed out on talking about risk taking.

Now it’s October and our tiny band of merry writers is going to take what could be verbose, and make it concise. Simply for your pleasure. We actually love being verbose. I mean, just look at this introduction. But we especially love yarning on when it comes to our supporting characters. And that’s what we’re diving into today…

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

Braxton

The supporting character I’d like to throw a spotlight on today is from my upcoming novel and work-in-progress, “The McGalliard Street Gate.” It’s a fast-paced, action-adventure novel about two brothers, Mikey and Lucas, aimed at 2nd, 3rd, & 4th graders that’s a fabulous explosionary mashup of Jurassic Park and The Hardy Boys. (You might recall I did a character sketch of “Doc” from the same story a couple of months ago. Yeah, I’m excited about this story.)

Today, I want to introduce you to Jim Braxton, a retired Orlando chief-of-police, and the “Braxton” of “Braxton and Houk Private Investigators.” He’s the perfect supporting character to Lucas Grayson, the headstrong and detail oriented younger brother to Mikey Grayson—who has disappeared.

Braxton teams up with Lucas as they follow clues and hunt for older brother Mikey—along with several other missing persons.

I like Braxton a lot. He’s gruff and a bit cynical due to years of police work that ended in injury and a premature retirement, but he cares about his work and is good at it. Despite what he says, he even cares about Lucas and the Grayson family. He offers a check to Lucas’ immaturity and impulsiveness, but he also comes to respect Lucas’ ability to contribute to the case in a way that we might have missed as readers if Braxton hadn’t been there to point it out.

I don’t know that I had a particular character or inspiration in mind when I created Braxton, but I feel like I saw an echo of my character in Jim Hopper, (portrayed by David Harbour), a fictional character from the Netflix science fiction horror series Stranger Things. Hopper is the chief of police in Hawkins, Indiana, who, throughout the first three seasons, investigates the strange occurrences in the town.

Hopper’s cool. But Braxton is, as they’d say in Hawkins, Indiana in 1983, “Totally tubular.”

 

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

“Girl”

I am neck deep in the writing of Crow’s Nest, another novel about the best thief in all the glittering empire. (According to himself.) Crow is a little bit of an attention hog, so today I want to cast some light on one of his supporting characters: Girl.

First, I promise you that “Girl” is not her real name. Second, I promise that you’ll find out what that is in the new book. And that’s it for spoilers today! But how did she come by such an awful moniker?

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

Velia
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

Velia is an Oathtaker who I first introduced in Book One of The Oathtaker Series. Her unique magical powers include the power to discern truths from falsehoods, and the power to take on the pain of another. She also has limited ability to communicate with …

 

 

A Drift of Quills – Stoppering Death

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This August, it’s a short story spun from a single image month – we share a group picture, and everyone writes a bit of flash fiction. Enjoy!!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

Stoppering Death

You would be forgiven for thinking you had stumbled into an apothecary. Or an herbalist’s shop. It was actually a dead man’s home. If you could call it a home.Flash Fiction Prompt for August 2020

A single room occupied the back of the junk and trinket shop, Treasures and Troves, where the proprietor, Janey Muld, allowed, (or had allowed until very recently), Thadeous “Gutrot” Flynnder to live, in exchange for some small rent payment, (more often forgotten by both than not).

“Gutrot” Flynnder made a meager living doling out herbs, medicines and cures for everything from warts to the more severe and deadly cases of “blueface.” He never set a price. Whatever the widow, or tramp, or jobless father from the Wayfair could afford. Which was often nothing. His remedies, unlike his finances, often hit the mark. This might have surprised anyone who cared to take notice, but hardly anyone except the hopeless even knew “Gutrot” Flynnder’s name, much less where he could be found.

Hardly anyone.

Which means, almost no-one.

Which really means, someone.

***

Jergin Haps was not well loved. Even his own mother blew out her lips and narrowed her eyes when she saw his shock of straw poke in through the front door if he happened to be in the neighborhood around dinnertime. But she fed him all the same, although now she mostly shipped him off with a chunk of bread, or sometimes some bit of meat, if the washing she took in had paid nicely that week.

She couldn’t stand the pitiful stories he put on her with his red rimmed eyes, when she knew good and well that he could be working a nice job if he wanted it. There were plenty who couldn’t make it in the capitol city of Plen. Feeble of body or mind. Jergin wasn’t one of them. He mightn’t be the brightest candle out of the set, but he could accomplish a task if he wanted. But he tried, he said. They didn’t like him at the stables. The floor manager at the palace threw him out, after just half a day on staff. The security sergeant on the river patrol was against him.

She had heard it all. Her lips pressed into a thin line. The fact was, she knew why they didn’t like him at the stables. Henry had told her that one. “Yer boys lazy, shiftless, an’ hankerin’ fer a fight.” He shrugged. “We tried, Marta. Mean streak to ‘im too. In a sneaky sort o’ way.” He didn’t explain any more, but she knew. A mother knows. So she wouldn’t turn him away when his tangled mess of hair sauntered in, but she didn’t let him linger either. She would give him a decent lashing with her eyes, and scold him with silence. Once that was done she turned her back on him. His invitation to leave.

***

Jergin browsed through the junk in Treasures and Troves, doing his best to look interested. He picked up an object that momentarily caught his eye, but instead of a fun bauble, he realized it was nothing more than the base to a candlestick holder. With the handle broken off. He flicked it back into the bin of assorted junk impatiently. Janey Muld, the proud, wrinkled, owner of Treasures and Troves, as well as every relic on display, clicked her tongue disapprovingly. Jergin scowled before sloping off to another display. The front bell rang and one of Muld’s favorites came through the front door. As wide as she was tall the little woman greeted Muld expansively and the two dove into a fast exchange of gossip. Just the distraction Jergin wanted.

He slipped behind the curtain that separated the store from the hall that led to the tiny room in back. Like a shadow he darted through the hall. The door at the end leaned open a fraction, sagging on mismatched hinges. He oozed through the crack and took it in.

Just as his contact had described. Rows of tiny bottles lined the walls, along with dusty old books and a few scraps of notes. A small cot took up half the space. There was no lamp. A dirty window let in yellow sunshine. He snorted quietly. There was nothing here worth what his contact had paid him. Up front. And twice that much later. He shook his head. Whoever lived in this cramped space didn’t have that kind of shiny. But he ran his eyes along the rows of ingredients and stoppered glass as instructed. The long spidery handwriting was difficult to decipher. But it didn’t matter. He would have known the one even without the name. His eyes danced past it, but were pulled back again, as if it was magnetized. It had been pushed back, a little behind the others. The contents weren’t just dark – many of the bottles boasted some unappealing mixture of dark looking ingredients – this one was more like shadow. Or darkness itself. His fingers trembled a little as he plucked it from its spot. The contents moved, but not in the way they should. Almost like a living thing. He pushed the label up with his thumb. His mouth was dry. He wrapped it in a silver cloth, given for the purpose, and pushed it into his pocket. Then he shivered, like a dog shaking water out of its coat. A deep breath and he was gone. He shimmied out, through the hall, across the shop, and out the door without even catching Muld’s milky eye.

***

Long spider-like fingers closed over the silver cloth and the whole disappeared into the rich, elaborate robes reserved for the Arcane Academy’s top advisors. Advisor, really, as there was currently only one. Jergin felt better immediately. He’d felt like he had been carrying an anvil around. His smarmy smile came back and his chest puffed up a couple of notches. He was about to get paid more than he’d ever been paid in his life. About time.

And yet, the long fingers weren’t plying him with coins. Jergin coughed, politely. He could afford to be magnanimous. “My fee?”

“Ahhh.” Eyes like needles twinkled at him from deep in a shadowy hood. “The money.”

“Of course, if it’s too much, we could do payments,” Jergin smiled even wider. “There may be some small interest.”

“Oh, the money is no object.”

Yet there was no move toward pockets, or a scrambling for a purse.

No apologies for the delay, or an attempt to rebargain the price.

Jergin’s neck tingled. He rubbed it impatiently. They were all against him. They were jealous. That was it. That he could get things, do things, that they couldn’t. That he could –

***

The long robe whispered down the night-wrapped streets of Plen, turning just before entering the dull splash of light thrown by a stuttering street lantern. The robe melded into the shadows of an alley, found a door, unlocked it and disappeared down a flight of steps, slithering underneath Plen like a so many other unpleasant things. In the darkness beneath the city a match was struck. Eager hands opened the silver cloth and dancing eyes peered at the tiny bottle. Old Gutrot had scrawled a label with shaky hands.

Dusk ?

The robe giggled, white teeth appearing in the hood. The fingers lovingly tore the offending question mark off the label, where it fluttered to the floor.

 

(Want to read more about Plen? Check out this introduction, or catch the full story here!)

 

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

We Are Not Friends

Smoke and the stink of rotten eggs shrouded the Issves te Ergint encampment. Thin, powdery ash drifted in eddies, settling over buildings, camp tents, wagons, hitching posts. Men… Despite the season, soldiers wore scarves over their faces, wet to stifle the fumes and poison. Ergint jidoma, the natives called it. Live silver. Invaluable to the rich and powerful; death to those forced to extract the stuff from the bowels of the earth.

Heat challenged winter’s bitter cold as the nearby mining town died in fierce shades of red, orange, bronze. Mostly red. It was foolish to set fire to wood permeated with poisonous dust. Or so the Dog thought as he strode between rows of gray- and vermilion-streaked canvas…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

Calico Dew and the Vial of Duplicate Sin
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

Calico held back a chuckle as a memory bubbled up of her younger brother, River, calling the local cemetery a “skeleton park,” but then she quickly grew serious again as she continued, tiptoeing her way through the Graveyard of the Devout.

Stopping occasionally to hide behind a marble statue or concrete monument …

A Drift of Quills – “Doc”

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This July, our group is sharing a character sketch with you from an upcoming work-in-progress! I’m excited, as I haven’t shared anything publicly about this particular story…

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

At first blush, you would think the beard is his defining feature. He growls any introduction through a tangle of grizzled brush that looks like it would have taken high marks at a ZZ Top concert. The little bit of skin that can be seen behind his face wig is a cross between bark and old leather. He only introduces himself as “Doc.” Combined with the gray streaked beard you get the hint that he might have already come home from Vietnam when Pink Floyd formed in 65′. A faded bandanna that could have been blue with stars on it at one time holds back a mop of hair. An old hippie. Except then you see a flash in his eyes. Almost black in the shadows, but with an unsettling spark. Cunning. Intelligent. Watchful. This is no peace and love and weed hippie. A live-and-let-live Big Lebowski.

This is a fighter. A hunter.

He whistles and a black-and-white collie romps through the underbrush and dances impatiently at his feet, grinning up at the leather and brush and shadows that is Doc’s face. He scratches her behind the ears, and you catch a flicker of tenderness and affection.

Something snaps in the shadowed trees. Immediately they are both still. Every muscle tight. Doc’s eyes seem to bore into the rainforest around them, seeing what can’t be seen, measuring, analyzing. That’s when you understand something new. You see he’s not just a hippie, or a fighter, or a hunter. He’s all of these things, and something more – some complex past that you can’t know has formed him into the only thing that can live in this alternate dimension jungle teeming with teeth.

A survivor.

____________________________________

I love Doc. He’s a principal character in my upcoming work-in-progress, “The McGalliard Street Gate.” It’s a fast-paced, action-adventure novel about two brothers, Mikey and Lucas, aimed at 2nd, 3rd, & 4th graders that’s a fabulous explosionary mashup of Jurassic Park and The Hardy Boys.

Introduced in Chapter 3, Doc explains that he had been living as one of the homeless on the streets of Orlando with his dog Jackie when, through strange circumstance, he found himself pulled through a time-dimension portal on what had previously been the quiet, unassuming, road named McGalliard Street. Now he shepherds the other refugees who have found themselves jerked into the dense jungles and sharp claws of the alternate dimension. However, there may be more to this homeless hippie and his mysterious background than meets the eye!

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

KipKap… What would you like me to tell you about him? We are friends, I think. Some people find that distinction uncomfortable, for he is also a foreigner to our world. The term “demon” is insulting, for he is no such thing, though that is what he is labeled by most. He possesses a sublime sense of subtle humor, a keen mind, and a remarkable tolerance for idiots. This is, perhaps, what makes us so compatible.

’KipKap’ is not his proper name. When he says it, it’s longer. He makes the K’s more guttural and the P’s more spitty, which I find altogether too messy for my mouth.

“Did you name him?” Tanris asked…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

We are pleased to be with you again, and just in time to wish America a very Happy Birthday, indeed!

The topic we chose this month was to put together a character sketch. I am currently in the process of introducing someone new, Athan Eamon, in Volume 4 of The Oathtaker Series, (for now, entitled, Blue Gloom), so I thought I would use Athan as a subject. I’ve known about Athan for a long time, although I was uncertain as to when he would actually show up. Then, wouldn’t you know it, a door opened and … there he was …

What follows is the beginning of a rough character sketch for Athan, and beyond that, an excerpt from my current work-in-progress. I do hope that you enjoy it.

A Drift of Quills – Fairy Chaser

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Short stories, fantastic tales, spun from a single picture. It’s flash fiction month! Our picture was chosen by the lovely Robin Lythgoe, and I’ve been thinking of a single storyline ever since. This may very well be the shortest short I’ve ever written…

And down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

 

Fairy Chaser

 

 

 

 

 

 

As it turns out, fairies were real.

 

 

They just weren’t safe.

 

 

 

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

Dusted

Darcy Channing heard the scratch of a fingernail on the door before she heard her name whispered. She opened one eye to look at the cellphone on the nightstand.

3:22 AM. Ugh. Nothing good ever happened at this time of the night…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

The Contest

by Patricia Reding

Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

“It’ll be fun!” they said.

“You’ll have the time of your life!” they said.

“The amazing things you will learn about yourself! Why you’ll carry those lessons with you forever afterward!” they said.

Then there were the naysayers …

There it is! Up top you read my shortest flash fiction in some time. What about you? What tale would you have spun from the picture above? Drop me an email or comment below!

A Drift of Quills – April Showers

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This April, we’re taking a break from our regularly scheduled programming to encourage, as Bati Boatmin once said, right before he went over the Ohmawordatsabigdrop Falls, “Chin up.”

At least, that’s what we think he said.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

I’ll bet your email box and social media feeds look a lot like mine: they’re full of news and information about COVID-19. It’s easy to get lost in all the noise! But as the weeks have gone by, I’ve seen a subtle change. A beautiful change…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

There is nothing like a pandemic to bring out the best in some people and things. Here is a list of ten things that over the past weeks, have encouraged me and/or for which I have found myself most grateful. With the exception of No. 1, they are not in any particular order of importance …

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

I’m thankful. Thankful it’s Spring. Thankful it’s April. Every day brings new life. We dig in the dirt. The boys collect bugs and worms. We tend to a garden that has slept well all Winter, and is ready to wake as Spring sings it awake. I have more time at home, as many do, and I find opportunity to catch up on projects and chores that have waited patiently.

Painting my garden barn has taken up many of the hours. It is a quiet, contemplative activity. Maintenancing tools, carefully tending the borders of our tiny kingdom, picking up sticks and leaves and deadfall from the colder months – these afford time and space for contentment.

It is not an easy thing, practicing contentment. But pursuing peace is definitely worth the effort.

“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.” ~  J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

I’d love to hear how you are weathering this storm.

Blessings and peace to you.

A Drift of Quills – Foodie Favorites

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“Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the ‘Titanic’ who waved off the dessert cart.” ~ Erma Bombeck

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” ~ J.R.R. Tolkien

“Popcorn for breakfast! Why not? It’s a grain. It’s like, like, grits, but with high self-esteem.” ~ James Patterson, The Angel Experiment

“What I say is that, if a man really likes potatoes, he must be a pretty decent sort of fellow.” ~ A.A. Milne

“He was a bold man who first ate an oyster” ~ Jonathan Swift

You’ve probably figured it out by now…this month, we’re talking about food.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

A bite of something delicious and familiar can transport us in time, reviving feelings and memories from times gone by. Mama’s chicken soup isn’t just for curing colds. Cookies fresh out of the oven can remind you of holiday baking parties with the family. A dish of chocolate Knox Blox immediately brings to mind a summer evening spent on the front step, talking about anything and everything with our kids.

The foods we especially like—the foods that come with rich, warm memories—are different and unique to each of us. I will never forget the humid “green” smell…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

Oh, food! It is as critical a part of a well-spun story as it is of a well-enjoyed life.

Some years ago—let’s say 25 or so—there was a person in my life who had moved from the “acquaintance” column into the “among two best friends” column, where she has remained ever since. But even then, our relationship changed in a crazy and meaningful way, beginning with an exchange one Friday evening that went something like this …

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

I’m surprised. I found (yet another) topic that is frustratingly difficult for me to write about.

Food. Turns out I can spin tales in fantastical worlds, make horses fly, cats talk, or craft a raging daemon – but the everyday sustenance that I depend on, that I look forward to – I come up vague and boring, like a bowl of tepid, gluey oatmeal. It’s not necessarily bad, but it’s certainly uninspiring.

But that is my failure, because food and drink actually weave a deep magic that not only bring hope, joy and happiness to our daily lives, but can even warp time and space, tying the fabric of our existence together in a way nothing else can.

Green chili casserole with a pot of cowboy beans, rolls or cornbread, and an apricot cobbler for dessert, takes me back to some of my earliest memories on a ranch in New Mexico. The meal was a favorite after a long day of gathering cattle, branding, or shipping. It was a large spread, with plenty for our family and any of the neighbors who were there to help. It didn’t just satisfy a momentary hunger – it brought us together as family and friends. It created community.

I think J.K. Rowling demonstrated this well in the Harry Potter series in an easy, natural, way. So many of the interactions in the books happen in the Great Hall, around the long dining tables where the students eat three times a day. The Great Hall captured the lifeblood of the story. It was here that relationships were formed, friendships founded, and wizards sorted. It even hosted the climactic final battle.

There is an intimacy around food that is impossible to replicate. I’ll mention one more dish that ties the present to the past. Rice pudding. It is a favorite of our four kiddos, and was a favorite of mine when I was their age. I recall running away from home one late afternoon with my brother, our most precious belongings stuffed in a heavy metal toolbox that we carried, trading the load back and forth as the journey unfolded. It’s a great story. We trekked four miles before it started to get dark. We made camp, and as the high mountain desert cold rolled in, our tummies started rumbling. At dark we saw the searchlights from our folks, two or three miles away. We hoofed it. We ran toward the lights, toward home, handing the toolbox back and forth as we tripped and scrambled and raced through the night. Papa was in the pickup, headlights scanning the hills, when we came skittering across the prairie. Mom and our hired hand, Jose, had saddled up and were looking for us horseback. I’m sure there were consequences. A telling off at the least. I don’t remember any of that. But I do remember that when we got home, it was rice pudding for supper, and it was still hot. As I dug in, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why I had ever considered running away.

There’s a magic in food and drink that is easily underestimated, and ignored at our peril. I don’t want to be Odysseus’s crew, turned into pigs by the witch Circe as they feasted, or Chihiro’s parents in Spirited Away (2001), turned into pigs for gorging themselves on the food left for spirits. But neither do I want to be an ascetic monk, rejecting the good gifts given me. It seems these extremes are avoided around the hearth, at home.

And so, I’m off, leaving the office and heading home, to a kind and thoughtful wife, three loud boys, one wide-eyed, wispy haired girl, and rice pudding.

 

 

A Drift of Quills – Welcome to Sky

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Short stories, fantastic tales, spun from a single picture. It’s flash fiction month! This month it’s rainy, cold, dreary February…so we needed a light-hearted story to keep us going. This one was fun ~ see what you think!

But first, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

 

Learning to Fly

Striped Chasca, Seventeenth of the beloved and revered Fluffy, picked her way delicately down the garden path. She held her ears up, chin at a haughty angle, and let only the very tip of her tail twitch—just the way she’d seen the senior members of the clan do. Every dozen steps or so, she paused to preen, using the opportunity to sneak backward glances at her magnificent wings.

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

 

Huckleberry’s Whimsey Day

by Patricia Reding

Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

His muscles aching and his wings tattered, Huckleberry tumbled through the air, his four legs akimbo, before finally righting himself. Looking down, he spotted a branch below, largely clear of brush. He aimed for it, confident that like all kittens, he would indeed land on his feet.

Keeping his knees loose, his paws touched. He bounced up, and then aimed yet again for another, even clearer branch, just below. On arrival, he teetered. Regaining his balance, he heaved in a deep breath in an effort to still his wildly beating heart. All the while, he contemplated on how his panic …

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

 

“My dad could eat your dad.”

“Not if he can’t catch him first.”

“He’s one of the best fliers we have!”

“He still can’t outfly my dad. No cat can outfly a bird.”

“Bet I could outfly you.”

“Not a chance.”

The nestling and the kitten eyed each other warily. The kitten broke the terse silence. “I’m Starbucks. I was named after-”

“I’m Boeing!” The nestling interrupted. “I was named after the fastest flying machines of the old gods.”

Starbucks huffed. “As I was saying before you interrupted me, I was named after the elite fuel of the old gods.”

“My parents told me the old gods used joe for fuel. Everything ran on joe.”

The kitten tutted. “Starbucks was the name of the best joe. The fastest. Those old Boeing flying machines couldn’t even get off the ground without me.” Starbucks stuck out his scrawny chest.

Boeing fluffed her feathers and hopped in place. “If the Federation of Fliers hadn’t give you cats the gift of flight after the Sky War you wouldn’t be in the air at all. Joe or no joe.”

“We’d have figured it out eventually.” Starbucks licked a paw and prepared to ignore the nestling, but just then a shadow blotted out the morning sun over the kitten and the nestling. A beak, large enough to swallow either of them and strong enough to break bones snapped ominously. The little ones shrank together, trembling. Black, round eyes gleamed.

A chuckle rumbled in an enormous chest. “Did I hear the Federation of Fliers? The Sky War?” The giant head swooped down next to the younglings. The eye narrowed. “I would have snatched you both from the sky.” The beak clicked. The eye glared at the nestling. “Who’s our young historian?”

“Boeing, s-s-sir.”

“And you?” The head swiveled toward the kitten.

“St-st-st-Starbucks, sir.”

Both eyes blinked once. “Well, St-st-st-Starbucks and Boeing,” and here he chuckled again, “I am Professor Screech.” They noticed then the dapple of grey and white around the eyes, and dusting the tips of his horned feathers. The old owl pulled his head away from the youngsters. “I look forward to seeing you both in class. Don’t be late.” With that he spread wings that looked like they could have held the whole forest and swept off the branch with a quiet rustle.

“Wow,” Starbucks breathed.

“Yeah,” Boeing squeaked. She ruffled her downy feathers. “I heard he’s our first year headmaster.”

“Right!” Starbucks gushed, “He’s from the old days, from before the Great Peace.”

They both paused, reminded suddenly of the treaty that had defined their entire lives.  Awkward shuffling ensued. “So we’ll be studying together I guess?” Boeing asked.

“I ‘spose so,” Starbucks shrugged his tiny wooden wing frame. Then, in a rush it all came out. “The truth is, I can’t fly at all.”

Boeing twittered a nervous laugh and then scratched at the branch with a foot. “I’m afraid of heights.”

At that, they both chuckled, which turned into a long laugh that had them both wheezing and holding their sides. Finally Starbucks hiccuped twice. “Do you think you could give me some tips on flying? I always flip upside down, even on a glide.”

“I will if I can,” Boeing replied, suddenly shy.

“Thanks!” Starbucks ducked his head. “Actually, my parents never went to flight school. I’m the first in the family.”

Boeing stretched out her wing, waving it at the airy blue expanse, just beyond the protection of the ancient oak. “Welcome to Sky, Starbucks.”