Help Wanted - by Deborah

Prompts were whiskey, print, something thrown away

Help Wanted

"Robert is complete and utter asshole," Grant muttered as he sat on the park bench in the late April sunshine. He stared at the idyllic scene before him - Sheep's Meadow; a slice of heaven in the heart of Manhattan. Even the name of the place brought an angry response from him, "The entire ad agency should be down here grazing." For sheep they were; having quietly stood by and witnessed Robert The Prick stealing Grant's number one account. Robert held seniority in the agency, so no one challenged his lies.

Grant was just starting to regret quitting his job during the heated argument that took place only twenty minutes ago. Probably wasn't the best move with the current state of the economy, he thought disgustedly. At least he'd bought a newspaper this morning and could immediately begin flipping through the Help Wanted section, he reasoned, trying to find a positive note in the day.

He reached into his briefcase, removed the newspaper and opened it to the classifieds. Overshooting the jobs section, he found himself scanning the personal ads. Though Grant certainly wasn't the type to ever answer one, he enjoyed reading them as they almost always produced a laugh or two; something he sorely needed at the moment. He looked around guiltily, making sure no one could see the jobless man scanning the personals instead of looking for a job.

Five minutes of perusing desperate cries of lonliness and he felt pretty good about himself. He was jobless, but at least he had some self-respect, he thought. He was about to close the paper when an ad caught his interest.

"Are you an attractive, successful unattached man who finds himself recently unemployed? If so, I've got a great opportunity for you! I'm embarrassed to say that I need a part-time boyfriend. I'm not looking for romance, just someone who is attractive, articulate, and can accompany me on various family functions and outings. My family and friends constantly hound me about my lack of a personal life and I'd like to rent a boyfriend for a few months to give myself a break from their nagging. Predicted outings and events include dinners at the family home on Montauk, sailing on my father's yacht, and an occasional cocktail party at the country club.

About me: I am an attractive, educated, career-minded, 30-yr-old blue-eyed brunette who wishes to remain single. I am a lively conversationalist and I promise you will enjoy my company, if not my family's. I love reading and music...Nelson Demille is my favorite author. Metallica's "Whisky In The Jar" is my favorite song (so much so that I named my dog Whiskey). I am one of those rabid Yankees fans therefore Redsox fans need not apply. I'm not kidding about that one. I will pay all expenses and $20/hour for actual time spent in front of my family and well-meaning friends. Please drop me a line if you think this is something you're qualified for. Signed, Mattie"

Grant was still smiling as he finished reading the ad. That sounded exactly like an ad he would place. His own family and friends were always badgering him about not having a steady girlfriend. He wondered idly if the writer of the ad would consider reciprocating the arrangement rather than paying a salary. She certainly sounded level-headed and business-oriented. He wondered what kind of name Mattie was. The smile faltered as he tried to picture what she might look like. In all probability, she was a bespectled 60-year-old named Matilda with dozens of cats.

He folded the newspaper and dumped it into the trashcan next to the bench. He was back to being depressed and decided to spend the day feeling sorry for himself. Tomorrow would be soon enough to look for a job, he thought. He grabbed his briefcase, stood up, and headed down the paved path thinking of how nice it must be to go sailing off Montauk.

His thoughts were interrupted by woman frantically screaming, "Whiskey! Whiskey, nooooo! Whiskeyyyyyy!"

He turned in time to see a very large black dog galloping at full-speed straight toward the bench he'd just vacated. Attached to the dog by a leash was an attractive brunette on rollerblades fighting to keep her balance. Just as it looked like the dog would run them both into the metal bench, it changed direction and veered left, aiming straight for Grant. He tried desperately to get out of the way, but they were coming at an angle to him. If he moved right, the dog would crash into him. If he moved left, the small woman would hit him and most likely sustain serious damage. He contemplated jumping over the leash as they neared but suddenly there was no time. The leash struck his knees and his legs were pulled out from under him. Dog, woman, and Grant all ended up in a pile on the path.

The dog recoverd first and licked enthusiastically at Grant's chin. The woman frantically brushed at Grant's suit as they got to their feet. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Are you OK? Wow! I can't believe that happened." Now, to the dog, "Whiskey, you moron, what the hell is the matter with you?"

Grant studied her face and guessed her age to be about thirty. She had the most beautiful blue eyes he'd ever seen.

"Mattie?", he asked her.

She appeared stunned for a moment and then replied, "Do I know you?"

Austin 2012 - by Deborah

The rats had been the first to die. No one was really certain of when it started…one day the rats were there and the next they were gone, or so it seemed. Downtown areas always have rats, no matter how clean and bright a city may be. Austin was no exception. The fine restaurants that drew so many people downtown had dumpsters behind them which drew the rats into the dark alleys. Not really something you think about when enjoying an eight-course dinner at the Driscoll Hotel, but there you have it. That tiny piece of filet mignon left on your plate would taste the same to a rat as a greasy stale potato chip from the bar’s dumpster two doors down.

Becky’s mind cracked a little bit as she envisioned a rat wearing a tuxedo seated at a linen-covered table, dining on filet mignon. The temperature under the shade of the overpass had to be at least 110 degrees and her dark hair was plastered to her head with dampness. She’d never liked Texas summers but this one was worse than any she could remember. It was as if the Fates had decided to see what other misery they could inflict upon a world already destroyed.
She gazed at the stretch of freeway before her. Folks had been excited about its construction. It was more art than a means to get from point A to point B. Beautiful stone mosaic patterns decorated the walls lining the pavement. The heartbeat of Austin had been painstakingly depicted in the images created by local artists. Here was a piano and guitar done in limestone and pink granite, a tribute to Austin’s live music scene. Farther up were Texas longhorns grazing in a pasture dotted with bluebonnets, composed in shades of red sandstone and blue agate. The freeway’s only occupants were empty dust-coated cars, most of their tires flat and windows broken out. Some determined weeds had managed to break through the asphalt to grow in the shade provided by the vehicles.

The news stations had reported that the virus started in North Korea. Becky hadn’t been the type to follow world news so she didn’t know exactly why the North Koreans had created such a monster or for what political reasons they unleashed it upon the world. All she knew was that everything had ended. Her entire family, her friends and co-workers, and everyone she’d ever known had all died within the first two months. The hospitals had still been open, but there was nothing that could be done. The virus was indestructible. Radio and television broadcasts had stopped about a month later. Becky hadn’t seen another living person in six months. As far as she knew, she was the only person alive in Central Texas. Somehow she’d been immune; something cursed daily.

Some species had complete immunity to the virus; crows, horses, snakes (ugh). The ones she thought of as the “good” animals had all died…dogs, cats, rabbits and the things you could actually cuddle. Several months ago, Becky had found a sweet but skittish horse wandering along 6th Street. The mare had been a real beauty and she’d bonded with Becky quickly. She had called her Princess because the horse wasn’t the typical rangy quarter horse so often seen in the area. No, she was a beautiful Arabian and probably worth more than Becky had earned in an entire year as a secretary. Within a couple weeks, she was riding Princess bareback through the deserted city streets. The gentle mare followed her everywhere, likely for the companionship as much as the food and treats that Becky had been able to find for her.

A slight movement to her left brought Becky’s attention back down to the road. A large rattlesnake was moving along the pavement toward one of the cars. The snakes seem to prefer bedding down in the vehicles during the nights, probably because the cars held the sun’s heat long into the evening. This was precisely the reason Becky sat under the overpasses late in the afternoon every day. It gave her a shady spot to observe the snakes’ movements. This particular snake was a big one; close to the same size as the one that killed Princess.

They’d been walking along the curb on Congress Avenue, Becky seated on the horse. Neither one had spotted the rattler coiled up among the weeds. The thing didn’t even rattle; just struck like lightening at the mare’s legs. Princess reared in terror, flinging Becky from her back to land hard on the street where she’d blacked out. She’d woken hours later to find the horse lying in the street next to her, breathing heavily, her eyes rolled back in pain. Her right front leg was swollen to four times its normal size. She’d cradled the mare’s head in her lap for hours hoping the horse would survive. She didn’t.

Becky swiped at the tears as she rose to her feet. Removing the handgun from her backpack, she descended the steep incline down to the freeway, her eyes on the Mazda the snake had crawled up in to. She approached the car and lifted the door handle. The unused hinges protested with a loud squeak as she pulled open the door. The snake was coiled right in front of the driver’s seat. It stared at her with cold eyes, vibrating its tail and issuing a loud warning as it spied the threat she posed. Becky took careful aim and fired, separating the snake’s head from its body. The sound of the shot echoed along the empty streets.

“For Princess,” she whispered.

For now, killing rattlesnakes was enough reason to go on. But the anger wouldn’t last forever. She looked at the gun and caressed it gently. Every night before she went to sleep, she held it to her head, finger firm on the trigger as tears dried on her face. She hadn’t yet found the courage to pull the trigger but she was getter closer every night

Duty Calls - by Deborah

Prompts were: fish, jealousy, telephone call

Anna loved her job as a ranger in New York’s Harriman State Park. The years spent in college studying environmental science and law enforcement had been well worth it in her opinion. She didn’t earn much money, but she didn’t need to. She was able to catch trout for dinner several nights a week and the living quarters were provided for free in the immense and beautiful state park. It had been enough to support Robert as he chased his own dream of being a wildlife photographer. He was finally becoming successful at it and Anna was thrilled. Both of them not even thirty and they’d already achieved their career goals. Robert’s latest success had been as an associate photographer on a National Geographic photo shoot. Life was good indeed.

The shrill sound of the phone woke her at three in the morning. She was instantly aware of the empty space in the bed next to her. Robert had flown to Vancouver last night for a shoot in Scientific American; soon to be another feather in his cap.

“Yes?” she answered tiredly.

It was Steve, her boss. “Anna, sorry to wake you but we’ve got a situation on Crow’s Nest Mountain and you’re the closest ranger.”

She came awake instantly, grabbing the notepad and pencil on the night stand. “What is it?” she asked.

“Dispatch got a call from a guy camping up on Lorilard Trail. He’d set up camp tonight near a couple up there on their honeymoon or something, judging by the description. Said he and his family had run across them skinny dipping in the creek up there. Can you imagine doing that this time of year? That water’s got to be about 50 degrees! Anyway, this couple had been all lovey-dovey, but apparently there was a loud argument that started about an hour ago. The guy said he heard two gunshots and then no more yelling. He’s got his kids with him and didn’t want to check it out personally. They’re on their way back to the ranger station now. Can’t blame him - I wouldn’t risk it with my family around.”

“I hear you. I can be there in 15 minutes,” she told him. “How long ago did he hear the gunshots?”

“About 10 minutes ago now. I hope it’s nothing but we need to take a look. Radio me immediately if things don’t look right and I’ll call in backup.”

“On my way,” she said, hanging up the phone and reaching for the uniform she’d discarded next to the bed only hours before. Within minutes, she was out the door and in her Jeep. She headed down the drive and turned toward the road that led to Lorilard Trail.

The trail was used mostly by families and amateur campers. There was no real hiking involved; a rutted lane accessible to most cars led to campsites spread out about a half-mile from each other.

Her stomach clenched and tension settled in her shoulders. This was the least enjoyable part of her job. She could deal with the Eastern diamondback rattlesnakes, black bears, and the occasional rabid fox and lynx. But when you added people to the mix, nothing was predictable.

She found the couple’s campsite easily – they were the only ones in residence on the trail. She could see two bodies lying on the ground, unmoving. She approached slowly, drawing her service revolver as she exited her vehicle. The woman, wearing only panties, lay dead with her eyes open and a gunshot wound to her head. In her hand was a large caliber handgun. She was young and beautiful and Anna’s gut clenched at the thought of the wasted life in front of her. She turned her attention to the man lying face down next to the dead woman and realized he was still alive. His breath came in short, wet gulps. She leaned down and gently turned him over.

She looked at Robert’s face, as stunned as if someone had slapped her. He had a gaping chest wound where the bullet had entered his body.

“Anna…help me,” he whispered.

An angry, jealous haze colored her vision as the taste of bile entered her mouth. This was his trip to Vancouver? Was this also his trip to Wyoming two weeks ago? She stared into his lying eyes, her mind reeling.

Her radio crackled to life. “Anna, are you on the scene yet?” Steve asked.

Staring into Robert’s pleading eyes, she pulled the radio from her belt and answered, “I’m here and it looks like they shot each other. They’re both dead. You’d better call the State in. Take your time. These two aren’t going anywhere.”

“Ten four,” Steve answered.

Anna caressed Robert’s cheek and then turned him face down again, as she’d found him. She gently but firmly pushed his face into the soft, thick bed of pine needles and earth. He struggled feebly for less than two minutes and was silent.

Rescue Me - by Deborah

Prompts were: Fan, Fog, Fear

Tess was driving along Highway 21, heading back to Corvalis from a great weekend with her friends at the Oregon coast. She had completed a brutal round of mid-term finals at OSU last week and her reward was a relaxing weekend enjoying the sand and surf. She should have headed back hours ago, but the group had been having too much fun to call it quits until it started getting very late. Half past midnight, thick fog permeating the deep woods, Tess had begun wishing she’d driven back in daylight. She’d just passed mile marker 32 and was calculating how many more miles she had to go. She calculated and figured she’d be driving for at least two more hours.

A loud clatter startled her and she hit the brakes, thinking she’d run over something in the road. As the car stalled out she realized the clatter had come from her engine. She coasted to the side of the road, put the car in Park, and turned the key. Nothing. She tried several times more without any luck. Popping the hood release, she got out of her car and lifted the hood.


“This is stupid. Like I would know what I was looking for.”

She returned to the car’s interior and locked the doors, keeping the headlights on. At least the battery was fairly new and the lights could probably last a couple of hours.

Pulling her cell phone from her purse, she scrolled through the contacts and located the auto club’s number. Pressing “Call”, she mentally sent a thank you to her parents for enrolling her in AAA. The lady on the other end of the phone informed her they would dispatch a tow truck immediately.

A brief ten minutes after hanging up her phone, a rough-sounding truck rounded the curve and slowly passed her, pulling to the side of the road in front of her car. She couldn’t believe how quickly the tow truck had shown up. She’d thought she was in for at least an hour’s wait considering how far away the nearest town was.

Tess got out of her car and walked to the tow truck. In the glow of her headlights, she could see that most of the truck was coated in mud. The few clean spots showed rust and faded black paint.

The driver’s door opened with a groan. Apparently the rust wasn’t limited to the truck’s exterior, she thought.

The man who stepped out of the vehicle was tall and thin. He wore stained dark overalls and work boots. He seemed very pale but, then again, most residents of Oregon were. He walked toward Tess, staring intently at her face. She felt brief flash of unease which she pushed away. After all, she was the one who had called him.

“Wow, you made record time getting out here. I thought I’d be stuck half the night.”

He pushed his lank hair out of his face with thin fingers. It appeared so filthy that Tess couldn’t tell what color it was. She could see beads of sweat shining on his forehead.

“I was in the area,” he said flatly.

He walked over to her car and looked at the engine. Tess followed behind a few paces, a little surprised at his unfriendliness. Most of the people in this area were very nice. Maybe he was just irritated at having to work so late, she thought.

He scanned the engine for a moment and turned to her, “Looks like you lost your fanbelt.” He pointed to the car’s fan and then the place where the belt should’ve been. His breathing seemed unnaturally fast and heavy to Tess, considering he couldn’t be more than twenty-five.

She again felt fear begin to lick at her consciousness. She mentally chided herself, blaming the spooky setting and the fact that she was indeed alone with a stranger, miles from anywhere. However, the stranger had been dispatched to her by the auto club. It’s not like this was some creep who just happened to drive up and offer her a ride.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the driver. “I’ll hook it up and take you to Netarts. It’s about a half-hour from here.”

Tess nodded, wrapping her arms around herself to combat the wet chill of the fog. She watched as he hooked the tow-bar up to her car’s undercarriage. He worked very quickly and it was done in just a few minutes.

“Ready?” he asked and she nodded again.

He walked her to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door. As she climbed up in to the truck, she noticed him staring at her legs and self-consciously tugged her shorts down farther over her thighs, quickly getting herself situated on the seat. As the door slammed, she was unable to prevent herself from jumping a little, even though she’d been expecting the noise. She glanced at the door and saw it did not have an interior handle. Her unease returned with a vengeance. On the bench seat next to her was a long length of rope. As the driver’s door opened, the dome light illuminated the truck’s interior and Tess saw the rope was wet with what appeared to be fresh blood. Heart racing, she looked up and met the driver’s eyes.

The smile that slowly spread across his face could only be described as evil.

Forty minutes later, a big red tow truck with “Hal’s Towing” emblazoned on the side drove slowly along Highway 21. Hal had been back and forth along the road around mile marker 32 and couldn’t locate the disabled vehicle. It was bad enough that AAA had called him in the middle of a sound sleep, but now it appeared someone had screwed up the location as well. He picked up his radio to call dispatch. Someone was going to be in very big trouble.

Keeping Up Appearances - by Deborah

Prompts for this one were: Lipstick, monitor, looking through a window

Her hand was steady as she applied the lipstick, concentrating intently on the task through a veil of tears. As she capped the tube, she inhaled an unsteady breath. Rummaging through the little bag of makeup produced some fine loose powder which she painstakingly applied with a soft sable brush. Next came the perfume. She opened the little bottle of White Shoulders and dabbed some on the inside of the wrist, the bend at the elbow. She could only apply it to the right arm as the left was covered in tubes and surgical tape from multiple IVs. The nail polish was also applied only to the right hand. Picking up a comb from the bedside table, she began gently arranging sparse gray hair. The chemotherapy had taken a toll on the once thick, curly locks. There wasn’t much left, but she’d do what she could.

The room was alien without the hum and beeping of the monitors. She could hear the gentle tapping of rain on the window and rose from the side of the bed to look outside. The drops rolling slowly down the glass pane mirrored the tears on her cheeks. A robin hopped along the lawn, looking for a meal in the wet grass. She turned back to the bed.

She placed a final kiss on her mother’s powdered cheek and walked slowly from the room, wondering how she was going to face life without her best friend.

Talking To Edwin - by Deborah

Prompts for this one were: Grandmother, Birdbath, Encyclopedia. (This one was VERY hard for me - just couldn't grab a plot bunny as they went zipping by!)

My grandmother, Mildred Pearce, lost her mind in 1932 at the tender age of 20. She passed away last week after having lived 97 years, most of them spent in a state of mild but certain mental imbalance.

Born in 1912, Mildred had been a New York high-society girl; her name and picture had been a frequent sight in the gossip pages beginning with her debutante ball at the age of 17. After breaking many hearts, she'd stunned society by falling in love with, and subsequently marrying, a simple onion farmer named Edwin when she was 19. The birth of her son and my father, David, had occurred exactly nine months after the marriage, thus putting to rest the rumors of the marriage being one of necessity.

The stock market fell in 1929 but the effects weren’t fully felt by the New York farmers until a couple years later. Grandpa Edwin’s income had been suddenly cut by three quarters. He and Mildred had barely scraped by. Feeding young David had been difficult and the three of them went to sleep hungry more often than not.

Edwin disappeared in the summer of 1932. It was said that he simply couldn’t take the stress of providing for his family. No one ever heard from him again. Another rumor circulated that he’d gone off and killed himself, unable to bear the shame of not being able to properly care for his wife and child.

Edwin’s disappearance had a brutal impact on my grandmother. She tended to the farm herself, little David strapped to her back in a makeshift cradle while she went about her 18-hour days working the fields and bringing the produce to market where it fetched so much less than it had in past years. She ran herself ragged trying to keep the roof over their heads.

On top of all the hard work, she refused to accept that Grandpa Edwin was gone. Grandma had begun speaking to him as if he were still there, improvising his half of the conversations in a voice several octaves lower than her own.

My earliest memory of Grandma is a visit to her farm when I was about five years old. It went something like this:

“Well hello Tina! We’re so glad your daddy brought you to visit. Would you like to come into the kitchen? I’ve just made some oatmeal cookies. Edwin says I spoil my grandchildren but I told him that’s my privilege as a grandmother.”

We had entered the kitchen and I began getting down to business with the finest oatmeal cookies I’ve ever tasted. Halfway through my snack, Grandma had suddenly turned to the empty corner of the kitchen and yelled, “Edwin! How rude! Tina does NOT have a weight problem and the cookies are a treat! I’ll ask you to please mind your manners while we have guests present.”

And so it went with every visit to Grandma’s farm. Things would be going well and then she’d suddenly address Edwin as if he were standing right there in the room with us. At first it scared me but, as I got older, I found it rather entertaining. In every other facet of Grandma’s life, she was a strong and capable woman. But when it came to Edwin, she was a complete and utter looney.

The family sympathized with her. Whatever the truth was, whether he’d simply run off or killed himself, my grandmother had been stuck with a hard life but she made the best of it. The farm had started turning a profit again in the late 40’s. Grandma used the profits to invest wisely in the stock market as stocks were selling at bargain-basement prices then. Though she'd made a fortune, she never gave up the little farm in upstate New York.

Grandma’s will left me several acres of the farm, including the original farmhouse. The property is now valued at over a million dollars due to the nearest city’s encroachment. As soon as I discovered this, I thought about selling the place. But then I read her diaries, which she had also left to me in her will. One entry in particular stood out from the rest:

“July 7, 1932: I didn’t mean to do it. Edwin just made me so angry that I couldn’t help myself. Ninety dollars thrown out the window! It took me more than seven months to save that much. While David and I were at church this morning, Edwin happily handed over our savings to a traveling salesman pitching encyclopedias. I sacrificed so many things for myself and my baby to save that much - it was supposed to help us get through these hard times. My memory isn’t too clear on the details, but I know I was preparing our Sunday lunch in the kitchen. David was crying something terrible and wouldn’t stop. Then Edwin told me the money was gone, proudly showing me the leather-bound books. Something terrible came over me and I took the cast-iron skillet from the stove and hit him over the head with it as hard as I could.

He wasn’t breathing when he fell from the chair. Lord knows I didn’t mean to kill him but that’s what happened. I put the baby down for a nap and then went outside. I pulled the birdbath from the garden and dug a deep hole in the ground where it had stood. I put my dear Edwin in to the hole and buried him, replacing the birdbath when I was done.

I know he’s gone, but I still feel him right here next to me. I think I will always feel him here with me. After today, I will not again think about what I’ve done. I’m going to pretend none of it happened. Edwin is still here with me and will always remain so.”

I don’t think I’ll be selling right away. At least not until I have a chance to deal with the problem in the garden.

The Last Winged Horse - by Deborah

Prompts: Bright light, feathers, something overhead (actually, it was "something overHEARD", but I misread it [desperately need glasses] and this is what happened).

She soars high in the clear summer sky, white wings beating lazily in the updraft from the green valley below. The sunlight brilliantly illuminates her pale coat and feathers, creating the illusion of a second, smaller sun in the blue sky. No hoofbeats can be heard in the air, though her strong legs mime a galloping motion. She lands gracefully in the flat meadow, hoofbeats now audible on the ground. She folds her magnificent wings to her sides and trots to the clear, cold water of the stream. She drinks deeply.

Suddenly she raises her head, nostrils flaring as she breathes in a new scent. Could it be...?

A glorious elk steps from the forest’s edge into the meadow and the mare’s eyes fill with sadness. For just a moment, she had thought it was another of her kind. But she is the very last of the winged horses and will never see another one such as herself. Born of the gods and sent to grace the world with their beauty, they have become hunted by men until she is the only one left. Slowly she walks to the base of a large pine tree. Folding her front legs under her, she settles herself among the fallen pine needles. She gently lifts one wing and tucks her head beneath it to doze, dreaming of her herd now long gone.

An old crone enters the meadow, walking along the streambed with slow, unsteady steps. She was once a very powerful white witch, but her powers are beginning to fade. She is bent with arthritis and her skin is ravaged with age. She was never attractive, not even in her youth. The years have only magnified her unpleasant appearance. The witch treasures beauty above all else, perhaps for having lived so long without it, and is dumbstruck by the exquisite vision of the sleeping winged horse under the pine.

Sensing her, the horse suddenly wakes, rising to her feet. They regard each other intently. She senses the crone will not harm her and cautiously approaches. The crone reaches out a trembling, wart-covered hand and lightly strokes the horse’s soft muzzle. The horse blows air gently through her wide nostrils, signaling her content. The witch’s eyes fill with tears as she beholds the grace and beauty before her.

“I am a witch and will grant you the ability to speak for I must know what it is like to live as such a beautiful creature.”

After a blinding flash of light, the winged horse is able to speak.

The crone asks her, “Tell me, is it wonderful to be so beautiful?”

“I once thought so but now that I am alone it brings me no joy. I am instead filled with fear and hatred for man. He has taken from me all I loved.”

The old witch is surprised at the animal’s answer. She expected to hear that happiness was found in being beautiful. She had been alone all her life and did not miss the company of others. She finds it very hard to understand the mare’s point of view.

“Tell me, my beauty, if you could become another animal and be again with others of your own kind, would you?”

“Yes, I would,” the horse answers immediately.

“I feel I have a couple of good spells left in these old bones and possibly a solution to both our problems. I could turn myself into a common animal of your choosing and then switch places with you. Would you like that?”

The winged horse thinks deeply for a moment. She knows she has no future as she is. She begins to imagine a future as something else…a future with a purpose.

“Yes, I would gladly become a different animal.”

The crone cannot conceal her joy. Oh, to become this beautiful creature! It is everything she’s ever wanted. “Are you certain, my beautiful friend? For this cannot be undone.”

“I am certain.”

“What animal do you wish to become? I can only make myself into something common; nothing as beautiful as you are,” the witch warns her.

The mare answers without hesitation, “I wish to become a rat.”

Sputtering in disbelief, eyes wide, the witch asks, “A rat?!”

The horse nods her affirmation.

After waiting a moment to be sure the mare is certain, the witch begins chanting ancient words. With a blinding flash of light, the witch is gone and a small grey rat stands in her place. Its beady black eyes regard the horse solemnly. The mare dances about nervously, hoping with all her might the next spell will also work.

The rat begins squeaking wildly and, in another blinding flash of light, the winged horse finds herself with her nose in the grass. Only the grass looks very big indeed. She sniffs at it and discovers scents she never knew existed. She is aware of her little pink nose and whiskers twitching rapidly. She is a rat - the spell worked! She looks up and sees the winged horse prancing about. The witch seems very happy with the spell also.

The horse dashes over to the stream, admires her reflection and gives a happy whinny. With one last look at the rat, the horse spreads her wings and lifts into the air, leaving the little rat behind in the grass.

The Crone, who is now a winged horse, loves her new beauty and freedom. It has been only two weeks since that fateful day in the meadow. As she curls up underneath the old pine, she hears something approaching quickly. Before she can get to her feet, her sleek white side is pierced by a long, wicked arrow. Pain clouds her beautiful dark eyes. Then another arrow. And another.
The last of the winged horses is gone.

The rat searches for and finds many others of her kind. They sense she is somehow different and allow her to lead them. She urges them to go into the towns and live among men. Soon they number in the thousands. They begin to wreak havoc on mankind, slowly destroying village after village with plague.

The war between men and rats still rages today.

Some say the rats are winning.

Resurrecting Ra - by Deborah

Prompts were midnight, an old book, tattoo

The woman sits in a tent at a small table in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. It is late at night as she sifts through papyrus containing the lost chapter in the Egyptian Book of the Dead. The tent is gloomy, lit only by a single lantern.

Maggie O’Shea is an attractive, fit woman in her early 40’s, blessed with a complexion lacking any freckles despite her Irish ancestry and the copper-colored hair curling around her shoulders. She is kept company by the stray cat who had befriended her on the dig. Maggie’s become quite attached to him in these past months, providing him meals and allowing him to curl up in her cot at the end of the day. For nearly three months, she’s fallen asleep every night with her hand stroking his soft striped gray fur. He has helped combat the loneliness.

Maggie is completely alone in the world, close only to her academic pursuits. She is an only child and her parents, both respected for their archeological work, died in a tragic tomb collapse when she was less than a year old. She has come to know her parents only through newspaper accounts and their field journals. These small insights are enough to show her that her parents were good people, loving and light-hearted. She and their journals are the only physical evidence of their existence. And the tattoo. On Maggie’s back is an Egyptian hieroglyphic-styled cat which she assumes her parents gave her in a flight of fancy during the late-sixties when she was just an infant. She never minded it as it makes her feel closer to them. In fact, she acknowledges that she only became an archeologist to be closer to them in her own way. Today she continues her parents’ work based on their journals and is about to reach a level of fame they only dreamed of. Maggie has discovered what she believes to be the missing 4th Book of the Egyptian Book of the Dead written in 240 BC. She knows they would have been proud of her. The papyrus is old and fragile, but Maggie is able to translate it. Also hidden with the texts had been a fairly large sealed vessel, contents unknown, currently sitting on the floor in the corner of Maggie’s tent and awaiting her examination.

She is elbow deep in the fragile papyrus at a small camp table. She scolds the cat on the table who insists on being in the middle of things, but is glad for his company despite the careless paw prints across the delicate papers. Pondering out loud what she’s just read, she rambles, “So, according to the translation, some woman will bring Ra back from the dead after 220 deadly floods of the Nile, if that’s what they meant by ‘vengeful’.”

She pushes her glasses down her nose, revealing a keen intelligence behind the bright green eyes she inherited from her parents. She gazes at the cat without really seeing him, tapping a pencil to her temple. “Let’s see… historians agree that the Nile averaged one killing flood about every ten years… so, Ra would be resurrected any time between the years 2000 and 2040…I think.”

The woman looks at the cat, frustrated. “My degrees are in archaeology, not math.”

She glances at her watch, runs her hand through her hair and stretches her neck to ease the tension there. “It’s just about midnight and I’ve been at this for the past 16 hours. There has to be a mistake in my translation... the cat part has got to be wrong. I don’t see how this could have anything to do with cats.” She reaches out and pets the cat. “Any ideas, you?” she asks the cat. His answer is a purr.

“Let’s try it one more time from the top.” Maggie quotes from the papyrus, “‘The male Cat is Ra himself, and he was called 'Mau' because of the speech of the god, Sa, who said concerning him: 'He is like man and cat unto that which he hath made'; therefore, did the name of Ra become 'Mau.' She, red of hair and green of eye, born into the world adorned with the symbol of Mau will decree the release of Ra after 220 vengeful inundations of the Nile. If this text be recited over him, he shall triumph over death, and he shall escape from every fire, and none of the evil things which appertain to him shall ever be round about him; and his heart shall be bound to his liberator forever.’”

As she finishes reading the translated text out loud, the vessel on the floor begins to tremble. The cat slinks over to the vessel, wrapping his sinuous body around it. The sealed stopper on the bottle loosens, falls to the floor, and thick gray smoke pours forth, enveloping the cat. The smoke rises in a column and billows furiously, stinging Maggie’s eyes. The smoke takes on shape and substance; first of a cat and then of a man. A very tall, powerful man. The smoke finally clears and the man stands before her. He appears to be a glorious Egyptian warrior. She realizes the meaning of the text and the prophecy she has just fulfilled.

Maggie’s mouth opens and closes several times, emitting no sound. Finally, she finds her voice, “Well, shit.”

“I’ve waited a very long time for you,” he tells her.

Maggie is alone no more.