If the prompt had been "the broody" then I'd think your pickle-ball players were nesting in the courts at the community centre :) And... sorry for the double-post, especially since it's a digression away from Lord Derby. But the title suggested you wanted a horror story :)
The brood It was late afternoon and the sun was sending rays slanting through the trees in the orchard. Autumn was hovering on the fringes of summer and though the air was cooling at last the frosts hadn't yet start arriving in the early morning to crisp up the mornings and add a delicate lace tracery to the windows. The wasps buzzed in their sullen, disaffected way, while the bees zipped industriously around; cousins fighting over windfalls in black and yellow striped jerseys. Kaitlin leaned on the windowsill enjoying the view for a few minutes. Behind her, in the oven, a blackberry cobbler was cooking, giving out a soul-healing aroma of baked pastry and the tart-but-sweet scent of blackberry disintegrating into juice. A clock ticked somewhere else in the house, and for a moment she put aside thoughts of clients with requests, demands, and never-ending problems -- no matter how many times she reiterated that she wasn't an agony aunt -- and appreciated the summer. Squeals of joy and peals of laughter dopplered away round the corner of the house: the boys were back from school and, obviously having sat attentively in their seats for too long, were now racing around the garden. A dark shape darted sinuously through the long grass at the edges ahead of them, and she smiled: Martin, their Staffie, was enjoying the games as much as the boys. She turned, checking her wristwatch: the pie needed at least ten more minutes for the crust to be cooked through, the potatoes were all peeled, as were the carrots, and the broccoli had been split into florets. She could... season the pork, she decided. That would take ten minutes. "Good boy," she said to Martin, who was lying in his bed. He lifted his head and wagged his tail, it thumped against the cushions a couple of times, and his ears pricked up. He liked being in the kitchen when she was cooking, for all she refused to give him any food until they all ate.
She dropped the pork joint on the table and stared in horror at the dog, who lifted his head again and looked puzzled. If Martin was here, then what had been the shape outside with the boys? From the window the garden was still and quiet; only the bees and wasps still buzzed. The sun was lower, and a breeze was stirring the branches of the trees in the orchard. She looked around, her breath catching in her chest. A football, abandoned... there. A bike, lying on the ground, over there. The gate to the orchard -- oh shit. She left her apron over a chair and ran from the kitchen, across the deck, and to the orchard gate. It was open, unchained and open, impossibly so. The padlock was... broken. How the hell could it be broken? She stopped, picking it up, feeling its cold, heavy heft, and then looked into the orchard. Trees, rows upon rows of trees, fading into the distance. The sun was still above the horizon, but she knew it was getting perilously close to dusk. "Four acres," said a voice in her ear. She didn't turn, didn't look. She knew that the brood would have gathered on their side of the orchard gate. "Your voice won't carry that far." "Give them back," she said, her words tight and hot in her throat. The sting of tears forced her to wipe her eyes. "Give them back right now." "They came in of their own accord," said the voice. "They may leave as they choose, before sundown. After that the rules change. As you well know." "But they don't!" "Ignorance is a defense now?" Something ran lightly over her arm, disturbing the hairs there and making them stand on end. "Didn't you tell them? Didn't you warn them? Weren't you a good mother to them?" "Stop it!" She wanted to shout, wanted to scream, to turn and tear at the brood, but her voice was trapped in her chest, suffocating along with the rest of her. Now she did turn, desperately, and stared at the tall, willowy woman with skin like the bark of the silver birch and hair that drifted around her head ignoring the breeze. Bright eyes, unnaturally green, stared right at her, and a feeling of age fell on her like exhaustion at the end of the day. "If you can't look after them yourself, then we will." The brood vanished.
I admit, horror is the first place we think of with a prompt like that, but it doesn't have to be that way. =============== Baby duck goes quack, quack Roaming with its siblings Orbiting around their Only love in the Duck pond.
I glanced down at the wiggling forms below. I felt a flutter deep within my stomach, and a warmth spreading through every part of me. Who knew the terrifying creatures we were warned all throughout childhood would have beginnings much like our own. The griffin hatchlings crawled over one another, their slick wings glued behind them. Those wings were smaller than they should; I guess even fierce creatures needed time to grow. One of the hatchlings noticed my presence and stuck its head in my direction, tiny mouth opening and closing while the faintest of chirps echoed my way. Soon, all of its brothers and sisters joined, mewing at me as if I was their mother. To them, I might as well have been; it didn’t look like they had been hatched very long. I could still see the birth fluid all over their small bodies and bits of shell still clung to some of them. But that lead to even bigger questions. Where was the mother? Why did she leave her nest? What would she do when came back and found me here?
Greg - is that what the prompt suggested? Oh dear...
Welp, that was... slightly less horrific than I was expecting? Perhaps only because you left it open ended, but I will take what I can from your writing at this hour of my day...
Morganna - well, that was a pleasant respite! Thank you :)
Am - quite enjoyed this and would happily read more of this scene. Pretty please? :)
5 comments:
If the prompt had been "the broody" then I'd think your pickle-ball players were nesting in the courts at the community centre :)
And... sorry for the double-post, especially since it's a digression away from Lord Derby. But the title suggested you wanted a horror story :)
The brood
It was late afternoon and the sun was sending rays slanting through the trees in the orchard. Autumn was hovering on the fringes of summer and though the air was cooling at last the frosts hadn't yet start arriving in the early morning to crisp up the mornings and add a delicate lace tracery to the windows. The wasps buzzed in their sullen, disaffected way, while the bees zipped industriously around; cousins fighting over windfalls in black and yellow striped jerseys.
Kaitlin leaned on the windowsill enjoying the view for a few minutes. Behind her, in the oven, a blackberry cobbler was cooking, giving out a soul-healing aroma of baked pastry and the tart-but-sweet scent of blackberry disintegrating into juice. A clock ticked somewhere else in the house, and for a moment she put aside thoughts of clients with requests, demands, and never-ending problems -- no matter how many times she reiterated that she wasn't an agony aunt -- and appreciated the summer.
Squeals of joy and peals of laughter dopplered away round the corner of the house: the boys were back from school and, obviously having sat attentively in their seats for too long, were now racing around the garden. A dark shape darted sinuously through the long grass at the edges ahead of them, and she smiled: Martin, their Staffie, was enjoying the games as much as the boys.
She turned, checking her wristwatch: the pie needed at least ten more minutes for the crust to be cooked through, the potatoes were all peeled, as were the carrots, and the broccoli had been split into florets. She could... season the pork, she decided. That would take ten minutes.
"Good boy," she said to Martin, who was lying in his bed. He lifted his head and wagged his tail, it thumped against the cushions a couple of times, and his ears pricked up. He liked being in the kitchen when she was cooking, for all she refused to give him any food until they all ate.
She dropped the pork joint on the table and stared in horror at the dog, who lifted his head again and looked puzzled. If Martin was here, then what had been the shape outside with the boys?
From the window the garden was still and quiet; only the bees and wasps still buzzed. The sun was lower, and a breeze was stirring the branches of the trees in the orchard. She looked around, her breath catching in her chest. A football, abandoned... there. A bike, lying on the ground, over there. The gate to the orchard -- oh shit.
She left her apron over a chair and ran from the kitchen, across the deck, and to the orchard gate. It was open, unchained and open, impossibly so. The padlock was... broken. How the hell could it be broken? She stopped, picking it up, feeling its cold, heavy heft, and then looked into the orchard. Trees, rows upon rows of trees, fading into the distance. The sun was still above the horizon, but she knew it was getting perilously close to dusk.
"Four acres," said a voice in her ear. She didn't turn, didn't look. She knew that the brood would have gathered on their side of the orchard gate. "Your voice won't carry that far."
"Give them back," she said, her words tight and hot in her throat. The sting of tears forced her to wipe her eyes. "Give them back right now."
"They came in of their own accord," said the voice. "They may leave as they choose, before sundown. After that the rules change. As you well know."
"But they don't!"
"Ignorance is a defense now?" Something ran lightly over her arm, disturbing the hairs there and making them stand on end. "Didn't you tell them? Didn't you warn them? Weren't you a good mother to them?"
"Stop it!" She wanted to shout, wanted to scream, to turn and tear at the brood, but her voice was trapped in her chest, suffocating along with the rest of her. Now she did turn, desperately, and stared at the tall, willowy woman with skin like the bark of the silver birch and hair that drifted around her head ignoring the breeze. Bright eyes, unnaturally green, stared right at her, and a feeling of age fell on her like exhaustion at the end of the day.
"If you can't look after them yourself, then we will."
The brood vanished.
I admit, horror is the first place we think of with a prompt like that, but it doesn't have to be that way.
===============
Baby duck goes quack, quack
Roaming with its siblings
Orbiting around their
Only love in the
Duck pond.
I glanced down at the wiggling forms below. I felt a flutter deep within my stomach, and a warmth spreading through every part of me.
Who knew the terrifying creatures we were warned all throughout childhood would have beginnings much like our own.
The griffin hatchlings crawled over one another, their slick wings glued behind them. Those wings were smaller than they should; I guess even fierce creatures needed time to grow.
One of the hatchlings noticed my presence and stuck its head in my direction, tiny mouth opening and closing while the faintest of chirps echoed my way. Soon, all of its brothers and sisters joined, mewing at me as if I was their mother.
To them, I might as well have been; it didn’t look like they had been hatched very long. I could still see the birth fluid all over their small bodies and bits of shell still clung to some of them.
But that lead to even bigger questions. Where was the mother? Why did she leave her nest?
What would she do when came back and found me here?
Greg - is that what the prompt suggested? Oh dear...
Welp, that was... slightly less horrific than I was expecting? Perhaps only because you left it open ended, but I will take what I can from your writing at this hour of my day...
Morganna - well, that was a pleasant respite! Thank you :)
Am - quite enjoyed this and would happily read more of this scene. Pretty please? :)
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