He whipped the swatter with all his might, missing the memory fly completely. The damned candles from the witch were no protection at all. The thing had come in just on dusk and he’d been trying to squish it ever since.
He had no intention of stopping. One bite was all it took. He valued his memories. If the government issued spray and the woo woo from the weirdo at the market weren’t enough, then it was time to get physical.
The little pest was quick. He’d chased it around the entire cottage, the pair of them determined to keep going. The memory fly might have won, had it’s path not taken it into the wax of the candles. As it wriggled it’s last the smoke of the flame adopted a purple tinge.
Quickly he put out the candle, but for the life of him couldn’t remember why. As he did his usual routine closing windows and doors before bed, he wondered whose house he was in.
Garble stumbled into the next room, leaving his brothers in the cold box. He had never taken a liking to human food, but Mangle loved the sweet breads so much he would eat till he couldn’t move. He sighed at the thought of having to carry Mangle’s share.
Not that the load was very big mind you. This human must be what Hack called a minimalist. While Garble had to admit they were getting better hauls since Hack started labeling the humans, these “minimalists” were not worth the effort. Very few shines, never any pets and almost nothing to hide behind if the human wakes up.
He was putting the coasters in his bag (probably fake metal, but one never knows) when Garble’s eyes spotted the smooth black square on the coffee table. He had never seen a coffee, but Hack assured him that’s what the table was for. Excited that he would be the first to try it, he took a bite.
The square coffee wouldn’t break apart and tasted like metal. Garble shook his head at the thought that humans made whole tables for this.
“Me too!” Mangle had appeared over his shoulder. He tried to grab it out of Garbles hand.
“I want the lounge food!”
“That’s not food.” stated Hack as he joined them. Finishing off the contents of a jar of tomato paste – his favorite – he took the thing from Garble.
“How do you know?” Garble was a little put out it wasn’t coffee.
“It’s metal. Humans don’t eat metal.” Hack turned it over and back.
“Give it back! I found it first” Garble growled.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“YOU don’t even know what it is!” Garble tried to grab it. The two gremlins scuffled a moment, pulling and pushing until the thing suddenly lit up.
The pair dropped the metal not coffee and all three gremlins stared at it. Just when they were getting brave enough to approach, the light went out.
“Now you’ve broken it! And I didn’t even get a taste!” Mangle began to cry.
“Stop it. Let me work out what it is and then you may lick it!” Hack picked the shiny thing up and began touching every inch of the surface. He had seen humans do this with what they called “mobiles”. He assumed if it felt comfortable enough, it would light up again. He stroked it from end to end.
Garble had seen enough. Mangle was wailing, he himself was hungry and the only interesting thing was now Hack’s new pet.
“I’m leaving.” Garble said, or rather started to say. Hack had managed to make it light up again. THey took a better look at it. There was a series of numbers on it. Hack ran his finger down the middle of the numbers, making them disappear.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
“Many humans use that as their password.” Garble tried very hard to look like he knew what a password was.
There were lots of little squares on it now. Garble smirked. Squares within squares, humans were weird. Mangle, running out of patience, tried to grab it. In his haste he pressed on one of the boxes.
Suddenly he was in the square. He yelped and began frantically slapping it.
“Stop! You’ll break it!” shouted Hack
“I’m trapped inside! Let me out!
“No you’re not, you’re right here.” to prove it, Garble slapped Mangle. As the two started bickering, Hack took the thing in hand.
“I’m in it too.” he announced. The others peered over to find they were both in there too. Hack tried a wave, and they saw the second Hack raise the opposite hand.
“He’s not me! He’s trying to copy me!”
“Who is he, and why do they look like us?” Mangle asked, more than a little fearful.
“None who will get away with it!” said Garble sternly.
Hack put the metal down on the table and the three of them hovered over it. The imposters looked as confused as they were.
“Ok. Tell us who you are and why you’ve stolen our appearance.” Hack spoke very calmly, hoping to seem friendly. The Hack in the metal not only refused to answer, but copied what he said.
“Do you think they can hear us?” asked Garble. The gremlins asked many questions but got nothing other than silent mimicry in exchange.
Garble had had enough. He picked up a large black sphere from the bookshelf and hovered over the metal again. The fake Garble had one too.
“If you don’t start talking, I’m going to hit you.” He said it in as menacing a voice as he could muster. The fake Garble stared straight into him. His patience ran out.
Before Hack could stop him, he slammed the sphere down on the gremlins in the metal. The thing broke into pieces, the light was gone and the fakes were nowhere to be seen. The three real gremlins stared at the pieces a moment.
Heavy thuds were heard from upstairs. The humans were waking up. Garble, Mangle and Hack grabbed what they could, slung their bags over their shoulders and dove for cover. The human entered the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He winced as he stepped on a piece of glass.
“My tablet!” The human forgot all about his foot and picked up the broken thing as though it was something precious.
“Come, before he fixes the gremlin catcher!” said Hack. The three gremlins fled, vowing never to return to the home of the wizard with the gremlin trapping tablet.
She froze as she heard the sound she feared most. Her companions stopped as well, Koza drawing his wand. Idiot. The elves were almost out of the woods. Any magic let off now would reveal them.
The buzzing increased. She motioned them forward and the elves carried on. Her eyes scanned all patches of ground, but she could not pinpoint its location. She prayed for luck.
As they topped a ridge an incessant clicking assaulted their ears and they abandoned stealth for survival. The entire group raced for the river. All they had to do was reach the boat.
The clicking surrounded them and the ground began to shake as the beetle-like creatures emerged from below. A thin clawed hand snatched at her as she ran past. The elves ran faster as the scent of the riverbed came closer.
She heard a scream, quickly drowned out by the damned sound of the Coliika. While small the sheer number of them threatened to engulf them. She kept her eyes forward and focused. The boat, it was their only hope.
One of the others let out a hysterical laugh ahead. When she caught up she saw the boat was in pieces. Her stomach dropped as the Coliika sprung up around her. Before she could scream, the things set off at speed towards a series of bangs. She raised her gaze to Koza, atop the hill, firing off the wand. The Coliika followed his spectacle. He yelled at them to leave before disappearing into the woods, bursts of magic trailing behind him.
She was unsure how they made it out. She watched the spot Koza had stood on before the others led her away. They were told they were lucky, the Koza was a hero. Koza was her friend, and now he’s gone.
It was failing to fit in, but then it usually did. He watched as the world’s most awkward woman attempted to sneak along a wall. Her stealth was only matched by her humility. Why his mother insisted on keeping her was beyond him.
“The Octopus People are oracles. She can reveal secrets when we earn her trust.” His mother had indulged in a great many fantasies over the years. However, even he was amazed to see the giant octopus crawl out of the sea and then out of its skin. It appeared to shrink as it shed its gelatinous hide, until a statuesque beauty emerged. Dark eyes and sharp features, she glanced around briefly before walking away up the beach.
His mother had moved faster than he thought possible, snatching up the skin and stuffing it into a bag. Then she shouted after the thing.
“It’s mine! You will return with me, my guest, until such time as I have learned the secrets of the sea. Then you will have your skin back.” To his further amazement, the creature nodded and followed his mother.
That was the last command it obeyed. All the creature had revealed so far was how toweringly high it thought of itself. When it did deign to speak to us, it was guaranteed to use as many insults as it possibly could while answering. It searched relentlessly for its skin. He was impressed with his mother’s cunning in choosing a hiding spot, though from her ongoing irritation she was still none the wiser on the “ocean Lore”. At least octo-lady was easy to look at.
Though a vision of loveliness, the moment she spoke all the beauty faded. Her voice sounded like a person drowning. She reacted to her two legs as though they were at fault she couldn’t climb a wall. He chuckled thinking of her last attempt. If he knew where the damn skin was he’d give it just to be rid of her.
No one believes me. I can hardly blame them. My mind barely holds the memory, it feels so fantastical. And yet I have the scars. I’m the only one who made it back.
We’d been six days in the lifeboat, our ship and the rest of our crew sunk below. Nothing but endless blue, no idea where we were, when I saw it for the first time.
I thought I was hallucinating at first, so I kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t long before the others saw it too. It rose up just high enough to see the spines along its back. If it was a fish, it was bigger than any I’d seen before.
We floated a bit longer before we felt it nudge the boat. Derrick stuck his head over to look. Gav and I stared in horror as a huge tentacle shot up to wrap around him, taking him overboard. The water calmed too quickly, and we sat there in silence. In the bright sun we listened to the sound of the boat creaking underneath us. Gav was still praying when it burst.
Timber splintered in all directions as we dove away, narrowly escaping the tentacle’s squeeze. Each of the monster’s limbs took hold of a piece of our boat. I lost sight of Gav as the monster reared its head.
It was a serpent, but unlike any other I’d seen. The limbs of an octopus lined its body, while the head resembled the fish of the deep sea. I floated, frozen on the piece of boat I’d managed to cling to. The creature focused on Gav, whose face will be forever etched in my mind. The thing swallowed him whole.
The nurses tell me it never happened, as if they were there. Such a creature doesn’t exist. The giant ring-shaped scar on my chest says otherwise.
For June, we’re going to be looking at the world of insects for Junebug. This challenge, as an art challenge, has a hazy start but seems to have begun in 2017. A list of other places you can find artist prompts can be found on the Brush Warriors website.
Most of these art challenge themes are focused or intended for visual artists. My intention is to turn them into exercises and challenges for writers as well.
Bugs are something few of us tend to focus on in our writing, unless we need something to make the character squeamish. For this month, let’s give them a little more prevalence in our work. As a plot device they can be used as a merely gross annoyance or a reluctant ally in a cozy fantasy. In a dark fantasy they could be a swarm that overtakes the character or gets under the skin. In a high fantasy setting the sky really has no limit. They could be anything from disease carriers to the main form of transport.
Week One: Native Fauna. Is it a rogue pest laden with eggs? Are they aggressive? Venomous? Do they perform a vital function? What species could upset your world’s whole ecosystem if it disappeared?
Swarms, hosts, nests…think of bugs living in close quarters. How do they share food? What does the nest look like? Do they nest in people’s houses? Or are they only encountered in the wild?
Week Two: Weather Matters. In colder climes, bugs tend to be smaller than their subtropical counterparts. Give us a species profile for any habitat, with how the bugs survive. Does the climate impact their breeding cycle? What happens during unseasonal weather?
Write a set of instructions for an apprentice or tradesmen on how to deal with the local area while completing their job. Perhaps a fact sheet of the dangerous bugs in your fantasy land, with what they can do and more importantly, how to fend them off.
Week Three: Examination. What bug is your character obsessed with? Tracking? Absolutely sick of it? In what way does this bug impact their life? And why can’t they get rid of it?
Or, if someone had the super power or controlling bugs, what would they do with it? Could they be responsible and use the power for good? Or is it finally time to get some revenge?
Week Four: Extermination. Time to get rid of them! What kinds of magical methods are employed for dealing with vermin and other pests?
Tell us a tale by a local who lived through the great invasion. Was the whole town reduced to tears and fear? Or was it an invasion that impacted that character only. This is a great place to practice anecdotal stories that still include a fast paced element.
I would love to see what you do with these prompts! If you publish them please tag me on social media so I know where to look. You can find me on X/Twitter or email me at cmwellsmore@gmail.com
The chosen has come. She who will lead us out from the dark. For too long, the good folk of the midnight zone have craved the light, with no more than imagination to sustain them. The denizens of the upper ocean stop us from reaching too high, keeping us so low that we meek out miserable lives on the ocean floor.
But no more. The sea witch claimed many currents ago that the one who made their own light would lead us up. Their shine would be so bright that all would see and gather. In their brilliance, we are freed. The light has arrived.
She is by far the largest Angler I have ever seen. Her luminescence can be seen for miles. Creatures I lived next to my whole life, never knowing they existed, are clear to me now. All of us are drawn to her.
She has never spoken, not a word, but her eyes see us clean, her will resounds in our heads.
A Petition to Stop the Destruction of the Ancestral Homeland of Merfolk
309 Words
To Whom It May Concern;
I write to you today in the hopes of addressing the proposal to mine near the Northern Shoreline. Not only will this bring no real benefit in terms of revenue to the state, but it will also be detrimental to the merfolk living in the area.
The discovery of the aquatic races of homosapien came as a shock to all. However, now armed with this knowledge we cannot allow projects with such dire impacts to go ahead.
I will highlight what we know of our aquatic brethren, along with how the proposed mining project would cause undue harm to them.
Firstly, the obvious run off of wastewater will contaminate the pristine home of the merfolk. From early observation they were not the only new species discovered, and we as yet don’t know how the wastewater will impact them. From previous ecological events we can assume the effect will not be positive.
The additional people present in the area are the second problem. The merfolk lead a very quiet life when they shoal along the coast. The additional noise pollution would, we believe, be detrimental in securing their continual communication. The merfolk have the potential to change what we know of the ocean and add to our knowledge of the world.
Lastly, any increase in the movement of supply barges and commerce vessels will create a hazardous zone, restricting the merfolk from reaching the shoreline. These activities can only be seen as a blockade from their side, giving rise to a potentially hostile reaction.
We, the undersigned, implore you not to proceed with approval for the new mine site. Please listen to and engage with the ambassador sent by their people and abandon this pursuit of profit at the expense of a nation.
Gunter examined the horizon from his current spot. He was traveling to the city on a mission from his father. The merchant wished to expand his business and had decided to send one of his sons to establish a shop in a city on the far side of the mountains. It was to be an arduous journey, and Gunter was the only son who volunteered.
Gunter was eager to set out on his own. The young man was in need of an adventure. He felt stifled beneath his older brothers, both successful in their own industries. He wanted to make his father proud and set out at once. Though familiar with the forest he crossed through, he had not been as far as the mountains, and was excited for the journey. His father had been dubious, as Gunter had never really shown himself responsible. However, with no other options, he allowed his son the chance at independence.
When he arrived at the base of the mountain, the locals tried their best to turn him away. They told him that the mountains were cursed, and any who went up were not heard from again. Strange music could be heard from time to time, floating on the wind from those peaks, and there were several occasions the weather over the pass was completely different to the weather over town.
Gunter thanked them for their concern, but fearing further delay, he continued on. A few of the locals accompanied him to the base of the mountain before leaving him to his journey. He traveled along a small road for many hours, which gave way to a dirt track before turning to rock entirely. He was unused to the physical exertion, having led a very comfortable life as the son of a wealthy merchant. He did not regret his choice and was confident of reaching the next town with ease.
As night fell, Gunter decided to make camp on a large shelf jutting out from the mountain. He was still low on the rise, and the wind was barely noticeable. After a small meal he retired for the night, sleeping soundly with the sounds of the woods to soothe him
When he awoke, his eyes landed on a figure seated across the now cold fire from him. Gunter jumped up in shock. The ridge he lay on, while low, was simply too high for a man of his advanced years, as the stranger was quite clearly elderly. His visage was not welcoming. His back was bent, and all of his skin sagged. His grey mane stuck out in all directions. His beard was just as unruly and hid a smile that was far from comforting.
His tattered, oversized robe matched his hair and seemed to billow with a wind that was not present. His eyes, however, were his most striking feature. Deep blue and impossible to read, they stood out vividly against the grey visage. When he was able to tear his gaze away from those eyes, Gunter noticed the harp, half as tall as the stranger’s torso, which the man kept close to him. Made from silver and tinged with a blue sheen, the strings appeared to glow in the morning light.
As his eyes came to rest on the harp, the elderly man began to speak. A low rumble in the air met his words, as he introduced himself as The Lord of the Mountain. His voice, he said, commanded the winds, his moods shaped the clouds, and his temper could flare the wildest storms. He had guarded the mountain for centuries. Gunter backed toward the mountain, unsure if he believed the man, but wary all the same. He told Gunter not to fear, it had been many years since the last visitor, and he was eager to hear Gunter’s tale.
Gunter explained his father’s mission to found a new shop in a city over the ridge. The Mountain Lord seemed amused by the young man’s loyalty to his family. He told Gunter that though he can cover the mountains in a fog so dense none can see through, and storms so violent the very ground is torn, he had a longing for companionship. He had met many travelers over the years, though few he could say he was fond of. To amuse himself, he began to invent games to play with them.
As the old man spoke, the day brightened, and the land took on a vivid hue. Gunter was very afraid. The Mountain Lord stated that he is a fair man, and so each game, while different from the last, can be won by travelers if they are determined enough. He invited Gunter to play such a game with him. If Gunter won, he would give him his storm harp. Gunter’s eyes fell on the instrument again, and he thought of the price it would fetch in town.
‘This is no ordinary harp.” The Mountain Lord explained, “with it I control all weather on the mountain, it will bring gales wherever you summon. This power I would give you freely…if you win.” Here the old man smiled. “But, if you lose, you will remain on this mountain forever.”
Gunter hesitated, as he did not trust this elderly man at all. He also feared this game would delay him longer than his father had patience for. He went to speak his mind, but the elder man interrupted him
“Or, you could leave, though I would be very upset if you did”. The air crackled as the old man spoke the last sentence. The air grew cooler, and Gunter’s fear rose. He accepted the old man’s invitation as thunder began to rumble along the ridge when he clapped his hands.
“Excellent! The game is simple. All you must do to win, is to make it from one side of the mountain pass to the other, a journey you were already making anyway. However,…” the old man leaned forward and his smile deepened, “the mountain very much wants you here, I imagine it will try to confuse you.” The laugh the old man gave was so sinister Gunter was left feeling cold despite the heat of the sun. The Lord of the Mountain disappeared.
Gunter sat immovable for a time. He heard the words of the locals returning to him. Why had no one mentioned this mountain spirit? Perhaps none of them knew, and he wondered if any of them had ever been up the pass. As the sun reached its noon point, he realized he had not yet broken camp. Whether for this odd game or his father, he needed to continue. He packed up what belongings he had and started up the rise.
As the afternoon wore on, Gunter spotted a small goat looking at him from a boulder at the mouth of the pass. The grey shaggy thing watched him intently as he passed beneath the ledge it sat on. Gunter felt unnerved by the beast, though he could not have explained why. The terrain grew rougher as he walked, and he paused as the road before him split, one path becoming quite narrow as it rose higher towards the peak, the other continuing level as far as the eye could see.
Gunter had not been advised of a split and was debating between the two when the earth began to vibrate. Small rocks began to bounce and dance around his feet. Fear caught him and when several larger rocks came crashing down, he realized he was experiencing a landslide. He had heard of such things, but it had not prepared him. He watched helplessly as the land itself made ripping noises, though one sound could be heard over it all.
The shaggy goat began to bray, and Gunter watched as it took off along the rising path. In his shock, he followed it up, and the goat seemed to slow down for him. Gunter dodged boulders as big as his torso that crashed around him. He ran as best he could in the small beast’s wake.
The goat led him to a cave high up the mountainside. Gunter huddled in the cave, tense and fearful. He was terrified the cave mouth would be covered, or the ceiling collapse, but going back outside was simply not an option. The fierce wind howled, but he could now hear the ground as it removed its top layer, shedding rock as though it were a blanket. It seemed as though the mountain would crush him and continued for what felt like an eternity. Gunter closed his eyes and thought of home.
All of a sudden, the noise stopped. Gunter opened his eyes and saw that the goat had disappeared during the slide. He also noted he could see light again. The land looked far too bright in the afternoon sun. He gathered what had not been lost in his mad run and took in his surroundings. The landscape had been badly torn up. He looked for a way down, failed and resigned himself to the steeper path.
The path did level out after a few hours, and Gunter carried along at a brisk pace. As the afternoon rolled on, the path grew less clear, and a mist rolled in. It started as a light haze, but by late afternoon the mist was so thick the path was obscured. His progress slowed considerably, as he crept along unable to see more than a meter in front of himself.
Straining to see, Gunter spotted a light in the distance. He watched as it appeared to float towards him, before stopping to hover before his face. Bewildered, he followed the light when it took off in the direction it had come from. He was thinking of the goat, hoping this was similar help. When he began to stub his boots on tree roots and walked directly into a tree, he knew the light had led him off the path. He also knew he could not find the path again on his own, so he helplessly continued to follow the little bobbing spark. He feared the light a trick, as the light increased pace the rougher the terrain became. Gunter knew if he lost it, he was lost, as tried his best to keep up.
As night fell, another light appeared through the fog. The bobbing light stopped in front of a parting in the trees, and Gunter realized the fog was dispersing. The light, he saw was the moon. He had not realized how much time had passed as he wandered through the mist, and he was excited when he realized where he was.
Looking through the trees, he could see he had reached the other side of the mountain. The pass lay below him, and if he went carefully down, he would be able to reach it by morning. Gunter almost yelped in excitement, as he saw how close he was to his goal now. He made the decision not to make camp, but to ease his way downwards, the moonlight making the landscape easy to navigate.
As he descended, he thought he could hear the faint sounds of music. He could not place the tune, nor see where it came from. The music reminded him of something. As it rose in volume, he began to think of home. He thought of the woods he grew up in, and the smell of the kitchens at home. The music’s sweet melody took his memory back to hauling a yule tree home, and the happy faces of his family. Gunter began to weep softly, as he thought of the pride his father was sure to feel for him, and a vision of himself in charge of a shop made of a state of bliss he had not felt in many months.
Just as his vision saw him head of his own estate, Gunter heard a sharp crack, and watched as a fork of lightning landed beside him. In an instant the vision disappeared, just in time for Gunter to see he was about to walk off an overhand of rock. The music roared into a wild thrumming of strings and cascades of rain as the thunder and storm winds gave off a racked as though at war with one another. Gunter lunged for a nearby tree, clinging for all his strength as gale winds threatened to rip it from the ground.
The storm rose around Gunter, howling and buffeting him against the trees. His fingers were white and cramped, his muscles screaming with the strain of hanging on. His last vision was of the old man, The Mountain Lord. He appeared as a giant astride the huge thundercloud he rode. His hair flailed in the wind and his eyes shone with the fury of the tempest. The man began to laugh, a vicious sound of grating rock echoing in all directions. Gunter’s hands lost their grip, allowing the wind to hurl him into the rockface. Then all he knew was darkness.
Upon waking, Gunter was seized by the light. The sun shone so bright the landscape appeared pure white for a moment. He was startled by how quiet everything was after the chaos of the night before. Looking around, he realized he was still on the ledge, the tree broken in half on the ground beside him. He felt stiff and cold, but euphoria flowed through him as he sat up slowly, which mingled with triumph when he saw how close to the edge of the pass he was. Not even the sight of the Mountain Lord watching him could dampen his spirits. He got up slowly and began to laugh.
“I won!” Gunter exclaimed, “I made it to the other side! Now for my prize!” and he held out a hand to the old man, with his eyes on the harp. The Mountain Lord only laughed in response and pointed over the ledge to a dark spot on the ground
Gunter felt his heart sink into his chest. He hesitated but looked to where he was pointing and saw what appeared to be a person on the ground below. He followed the old man down to the figure, not fearing a fall, as he feared what he would see when he arrived far more.
Gunter looked down at his mangled body in horror. His body was bent in strange angles, and the ground was dark beneath it. He could not take in what he was seeing. He did not feel dead, and yet there he was.
“Some people,” said the Mountain Lord, “cling to life so much, they miss the moment of their own death.” and then he laughed. The old man disappeared still laughing, as Gunter looked at his body with dread, realizing he would never leave the mountain.
She resisted the urge to smack the silly thing. This was made difficult by the rueful grin, the little imp gabe and explanation for the rain cascading down inside the library. Not one surface was dry, not one patron remained and not one book in this part of the library was salvageable. She was grateful the weather spell seemed to have a small range.
She picked up the book the imp had been reading from. Agricultural Arcana, Beginners Level 1. Not the oddest title in the library, the chapter on weather thankfully had an answer sheet.
“If the rain doesn’t land in the desired location, simply sing the reversal spell listed here.” The spell itself was in a language she didn’t recognise. She pointed at the spell for the imp, who began jumping on the spot. It grabbed the book and took off across the room to the stage set out for story time.
Realizing her mistake, she dove for her desk. She rummaged through the clutter as the imp settled himself before the microphone. She was barely able to ram the ear plugs in before the imp unloaded his voice on the room.
The rain stopped. She surveyed the sodden room, silently cursing the little imp as it fled the mess. Of course it did. Grabbing the mop, she set to work wondering if this job was worth it.
C.M. Wellsmore 