Hey-ho Webbies,

Okay I think we have established that I post once every year or two.  I’m not going to apologize. I have a happy and healthy eight and five year old, and write more on my long format stories.

So I’m busy.

And not sorry.

Okay maybe a little sorry.

Now that that is out of the way. The short story today is based on a character I made up for a D&D game. Just a little bit of her back story. To be clear this is not for profit. I do not own the Zhentarim, or any Dungeons and Dragons rights. Those are Wizards of the Coast and yadda-yadda more boiler plate. Please don’t sue me!

Without further ado…

It wasn’t like the other healings she had done.  Filling up with the golden light of the Sparkling Wit was something that had always felt safe. Her skin would pop and fizz with his amusement, with his pleasure that she was helping her community. Sure BB’s community in the outer city of Baldur’s Gate was human whores and half-elf urchins. But they were good people just trying to get by in a world run by bigger folk.

This healing wasn’t like that. Hours before dawn in her little rented room came the tell tale ratta-tat-tat of someone who worked in the night. Someone who needed her help.  Leaving Vex asleep on her pillow, dreaming of cheese, BB peered through a slit in her door. Outside she saw two human men holding a third bleeding figure between them. She only recognized one.

“Wort?” She whispered through the door. The “boy” she had known a mere half dozen years before had grown into a bony, hirsute man. Wort’s eyes darted to his larger companion. The beast of a human only grunted, and looked pointedly at the being slung between them.

“BB? Look, I know it’s been a long time, but please open up! I got a friend who needs your help! Please?” Shrill notes in his voice mingled with the smell of blood.

“Of course, Wort.” She immediately agreed, keeping her dagger in her fist as she opened the door.

“Don’t mind the knife. I always keep one in my hand for night clients, you’ll remember that Wort. You were one of the best window boys we had around here. And it wasn’t that long ago. Six or seven years at tops. But I suppose that you were only fifteen or so when you left to try your hand in the lower city. Old Helm said you were getting ahead of yourself I remember. Just lay him over here on the table lads. Yes sir, old Helm was sure you were going to fail as you hadn’t gone through your growth spurt yet and young boys are always better at window jobs. Were you on a job when this happened? No, no, don’t tell me. I know not to ask, and I don’t want to know…” And in such a manner did the tiny gnomish cleric let the three men into her small room. Directing them to the long low table she kept for just such occasions.

Prattling on as she was wont to do, she checked over the injuries of her patient, barely pausing to take a breath. A large animal had torn his arm part way off. The flesh between his neck and shoulder had a few good bites in it too.

“Hand me that clean cloth there Wort. I need to see how deep this neck wound goes and if there is anything stuck in it. There is a good boy. There’s one time Shandri Greywood’s second youngest stepped on a horse shoe nail. Nasty things. Went straight into her foot. I pulled it out of course before healing, but I guess that terrible pick pocket distracted me unb9rg9. No style whatsoever. Anyway the tip had stayed in and I healed it up with the thing still inside. Stupid rookie move on my part. Gave them back all the money they had ‘donated’ to me, and rehealed the foot after cutting it out. I’ll still shout nail behind her every now and then. Makes her jump and giggle every time. Your friend here looks good though. Nothing inside. You do remember about the donations. Right, Wort? Got to put food in my mouse’s belly you know. May not be able to save the arm, by the way. I should be able to heal him so he’ll live though. It’s just like that one time with the Half orc brute that…” A heavy thud of a fist on the table next to BB’s patient startled her to the point of silence.

“You will save the arm.” Wort’s companion commanded. “He has need of both of his hands for his… talents.”

A familiar old fear from her time on the streets as the smallest and tiniest of the urchins crept in to settle in BB’s chest. Her head automatically nodded to stop the big man from hitting her.

“Talents. Right. Well, can’t waste those. I bet he’s a forger. Looks really bookish. Someone like that would need both hands right? Well, let’s just go and do that then.”

Kissing the resin pommel stone flecked with gold leaf on her dagger, she whispered her pray in gnomish to the Watchful Protector. Instead the fizzy feeling across her skin there was a deep sinking in her chest. A prickle at the back of her neck that told her to run, that this man had no time or temperament for her pranks. Still the healing light filled her hand. The divine power moved down to encase the man on the table before floating off into tiny bubbles of light leaving him whole and BB exhausted.

She watched in the quiet as the man’s eyes fluttered open, and he started, barking in a stern voice, “What happened?”

“Guard dogs Sir. Made of spirits they were. I tried to warn you, but I got you to a healer. The best! BB’s worked with a whole bunch of crews before Sir. Knows how to keep her mouth shut about important stuff.” Wort assured the man almost as fast as BB herself would have done.

The man in blood stained robes sat up from the table with a grim scowl on his face. Lifting a hand to Wort as he glared at the bruiser with them. “She’s chatty,” The bruiser answered the unspoken question. “But stopped herself from asking us what we were doing. She healed you better than Igan ever could. Your arm was damn well half off.”

“A problem?” BB’s patient asked. The prickles on the back of BB’s neck got steadily worse.

The big stranger peered at her with dead eyes for a long moment. “No sir. An untapped talent perhaps.”

“Ah! Now that is something I can appreciate.” Finally the blood-soaked man turned his eyes on BB. Inside their amber depths she could swear she caught a hint of dragon’s flame. “May I know the name of my savior then? I believe Wort said your name is BB?” His commanding voice had turned to smooth honey.

“Carawick Brightbubble Garogel. But everyone around here just calls me BB.” She gave him a tentative smile. “Sir.” She added belatedly.

A cool breeze blew in from the open window, causing everyone’s hair to flutter except the man staring at BB. His hair stayed as still as the grave.

“I’m afraid Carawick, that I have left my purse with the dogs. I will pay you in something far greater however. Go to any open business under the Zhentarim banner and tell them Lord Charilyn owes you a favor. They will get you anything you desire. Does that sound agreeable?”

BB almost swallowed her own tongue. The Zhentarim? The bosses who beat out protection money, and were now a “upright” organization. The tiny cleric quickly agreed.

“Of course. Most generous of you, but are you sure you want me to use your name? I don’t talk about my night clients. It’s just not right.”

The man’s smile widened even further. “Tell the whole city if you wish my dear. Let everyone know I survived the little trap set for me. Now I believe we should take our leave and let rest my dear Carawick.”

With that he stood with astonishing grace, leaving his blood pooled on BB’s table, and swept out followed by the large guard.

“Wort?” BB asked in a trembling quiet voice.

“He’ll keep his word BB. Anything you want. But trust me, think hard before you collect. When they know what you want then they have you. I’m so sorry.” And with that the wiry man she had once known as a boy left.

It was only three days of fitful amber-eyed nightmares later that the harper agent had found her. Did she want to do something positive? Something to make up for healing one of the most underhanded sorcerer’s in the Zhentarim?

BB answer’s filled her skin with pops and fizzes once again. “Yes.”

Keep surfing Webbies, and may all your imaginings be fertile!

–Zenbry

Hi-Ho Webbies!

So another year with basically no post. I’m sorry! But hey at least I got in one, right?

Over the past year Kitlet #1 has started kindergarten, which is a mixed bag. He’s doing just fine, better then fine at his reading, but is having a harder time maturity-wise. Sitting still and keeping quiet are poison evidently. We’re working on it though.

A big thing for the whole family was a Christmas trip to Disneyland. It was crowded, but wonderful. Kitlet #2 loved the fireworks and snow, and ‘Da Fox loved the turkey legs. 🙂 The trip was made even more wonderful by our rental condo owned by the fabulous Britta Wagner. It is highly recommended!

I’ve started to go more by Zenbry, and less by Stara over the last year. Just an FYI for everyone. The other handle is just taken too often.

So the writing prompt I pulled this week was “Every Sunday”. I liked this one. It’s short (295 words), but I made myself smile.

Every Sunday I end up covered in sweat.

I mean I try, I really do to listen to those long, long, loooooooong sermons telling me what I need to do. Who I need to be. The tenants I need to hold fast to. But I’m fifteen. I’m a young man filled with life, and energy, and passion. Not some dried up, centuries old creature. I’ve read that “Good Book”. I know this stuff down pat at this point. So I start to fidget.

It generally starts out with my foot tapping. Because the soles of my feet really want to be out dancing, so instead I tap them. A simple beat. Basic and regular. Nothing to attract my mama’s ire. This leads to tapping my fingers on my thigh in a counterpoint rhythm.

You have to understand… The simple rhythm of one foot is almost as boring as the sermon. I need to add in the counterpoint to make things interesting. To make things flow. It’s really hard to do this though. At least it is for me. My foot starts wanting to follow the more complex patterns of my one, quiet little finger. In order to stop that from happening, I have to close my eyes and bob my head in time to the tapping foot.

This let’s me concentrate you see.

Except I get too into the beating, pulsing bass line in my head. The percussive music coming from my soul overwhelms me. I start slapping my hand on my thigh, pounding my feet in the ground, living my dance.

Then my mama slaps my arm and tells me to stop embarrassing her. To go run laps until they get out of church.

And so every Sunday I end up covered in sweat.

So that’s it my darlings. I’ll try to update a little more frequently.

Keep surfing Webbies, and may all your imaginings be fertile!

— Zenbry

Hey-Ho Webbies!

Been forever, right? Let’s just say that I was unprepared for what a second child would do to my writing. While I did get a fair bit done last year, the blog got left behind. I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but I am going to try to update a bit more often this year. Zero times in 2011 is not something I’m proud of.

Anywho! Writing prompts have started again. This weeks was a quote from the good doctor. Dr. Seuss! “I meant what I said and I said what I meant, an elephant’s faithful one-hundred percent!” I took it literally, but it was fun, if a bit surreal. Enjoy!

“Edger, I don’t understand!” Tears ran down Meme’s nose as she followed her husband’s quick trips from dresser to suitcase with short halting steps.

“I was foolish to think this would last. I deserve better then you. To think I believed the hype!” Edger’s pacing had become a streak of orange and black.

Meme fell heavily back on her haunches, her grey legs sticking out in front of her. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! You’re leaving me?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? I should have listened to my mother.” The last Meme heard as a mutter as the man she had pledged faithfulness to padded into the bathroom. Well, Meme didn’t have to listen to that! She stood up and raised her nose to the sky.

“What? What did that old mange-riddled killer have say about me?”

Edger growled and stalked back into the bedroom, his eyes, an amber fire. “Don’t blame my mother! She told me your kind couldn’t be trusted. That you wouldn’t stay loyal, but I didn’t listen. An elephant’s faithful 100%. Isn’t that the saying? Faithful to yourself maybe, but not to me.” The last was almost spat out.

Meme took a step back, then another until she felt her back hit the wall. “What are you accusing me of?”

Edger looked down and for the first time, Meme noticed tear streaks going down his face as well. “I saw you with that oxpecker Meme. There is no need to deny it.”

Meme’s whole body went numb. Then he knew.

Edger grabbed his bag and left. The click of the door was a sound she would never forget.

Keep surfing Webbies, and may all your imaginings be fertile!

— Stara

Hey-ho Webbies,

Haven’t posted recently, whether it is writing prompt or personal. Some of that has to do with editing the novel; a lot has to do with laziness, and some just the state of affairs for your humble host.

I’m currently 32 weeks pregnant with kitling 2.0, and am amazed, awed, excited and terrified to find myself thus. It only took us seven months this time as opposed to the thirteen of kitling 1.0, who is doing great by the by. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to look forward to this birth with as much joy as the last. At around the 5th month mark of this pregnancy Da Fox lost his job and we’ve been dealing with the normal repercussions of that since then. I hate being poor.

Da Fox finally managed to snag a job with Google. YAY! But is away this week for orientation for said job. BOO! I miss his desperately, probably because of hormones or something. I feel almost oppressively lonely with him gone. Which, you know, is pretty sad when you sit and think about it.

The fun part is having the kitling all to myself and all the play we get to do. He is fascinating to watch. Today at the park I told him we needed to stay on the playground, because an impromptu meeting was taking place over on the park’s picnic tables. My boy is not shy and would have gone over and joined said meeting without Mommy’s new rule. In protest he sat down and started breathing really heavy. When I asked him what he was doing, he informed me in no uncertain terms he was having a contraction. I had to laugh. The last couple of weeks I’ve been having some doozies of Braxton Hicks, and I guess he has picked up on it.

The title of this post is because I just needed to get this all out of my head, and writing is the best way I know how to do that. So there you all go my brain dump. Hope it is as incomprehensible to you as my brain space has been for me.

Keep Surfin’ Webbies, and may all you imaginings be Fertile!

–Stara

Hey-ho Webbies,

Another writing prompt. Sorry I haven’t put one up in a while, but I’ve been working on the novel. This one needs serious work, as I just kind of plunked it out. But I thought it was cute. Enjoy!

I would bet that you have no idea about rock trolls, or living trees, desert elves, or rain gnomes. And why would that be? I mean every child knows about elves and fairies, right? Of course they do. They could tell about the creatures above, but you would take it as a fantasy. I’m here to tell you to listen to your children. They know more then you would dare to dream. Of course adults don’t dare to dream much, but I’m letting myself get side-tracked.

Let’s take one that everyone has heard of, but so few adults actually believe in. The tooth fairy.

A small creature, under the classification of tiny folk in fact, A little over a foot in height with a complete disregard for any type of clothing. They come in various shades of pastels; pink, lavender, butter yellow. With hair of a slightly dark hue then their skin. Their wings are of a dragonfly variety, with the occasional fairy kit being born with butterfly wings, although this usually denotes a less then pure bloodline.

Often found around the backs of dentist offices and the homes of small children. The tooth fairy’s primary food source is predictably, teeth. When procuring teeth from small children they will usually leave coins that are found in couch cushions or left on sidewalks. When procured from dentists trash they leave various dandelions and small rocks.
On occasion you do get a rouge tooth fairy who goes out of their way to push small children off the top bunks of beds, or provoke school yard fights with magics in order to obtain their calcium rich morsels. But these are usually handled by my agency with quick efficiency.

What is my agency you ask? Well I would have thought this obvious by now. I’m a member of the Magical Services Agency, policing division. And trust me the last thing you want is a rouge tooth fairy with a be-spelled canine spear. The hives don’t go down for a month.

Keep Surfing Webbies, and may all your Imaginings be Fertile!

–Stara

“It looks more yellow then green.” Kyle said dubiously, poking all the while at my homework. “Does it taste any different?” He eyed what had once been a shiny red apple and was now a sickly looking yellowish green.

“Mom!” I singsong shouted from the kitchen table. “If Kyle keeps bugging me your going to have a daughter who completely fails magic’s class! Tell him to leave me alone.”

Mom’s tired and uncaring voice came in from the kitchen. “Kyle, let your sister finish her homework in peace.”

The eleven year olds humph and stomping exit from the premises did little to ease my frustration. Magic was by far my worst subject and this homework assignment only cemented that fact in my head. Changing the color of an apple to reflect my personality, hadn’t sounded so bad in class, but my third attempt was almost as far from the nice rich green I was try for as my first attempt.

The white apple polka doted with green poked accusingly out of the top of the trashcan next to me. At least the latest was a solid color and not smoking like my second attempt.

Maybe I could call it spring green. One good look over in it’s direction though told me that snot green came more to mind. Besides Heather Kline knew I wanted forest green. The goody two shoes, homecoming queen’s apple was probably already platinum like she had announced it would be. She had probably gotten it on the first try.

I dumped the snot green apple in the trash and pulled out my forth attempt, wishing just as hard as usual that two years of magic hell was not required to get into college. Multiculturalism my ass. Not everyone is cut out for the arcane arts you know!

I flipped through my textbook one last time and finally figured out where I had made my mistake. Of course the diagram had to face east instead of a standard north. Redrawing my entire diagram took forever, but I was going to show up Heather Kline if I had to stay up all night to do it.

Finally ready I began to chant the incantation, being mindful to keep the deep forest green of life and new possibilities forefront in my mind. I was concentrating so hard I didn’t even notice when Lin, our calico, jumped up on the table to see what I was up to. The first I noticed of her was the swish of her tail going through my diagram just as I finished up.

Her yowl and tear out of the room were kind of hard to miss too. Especially since they were so quickly followed by Dad’s bellow from the living room about how the damn cat was painting a green streak on his slacks and nice leather recliner.

I ended up grounded for a week. On the bright side though the emerald green apple Mom left on my backpack the next morning without a word, totally showed up Heather Kline’s grey one.

It was the creaking in the hall that woke me. The fan would have drowned a sound like that out. When I rolled over to look at the clock I found that it’s comforting red glow was absent. The house was filled with no light and no sound save for the footsteps retreating down the hall.

“A power outage.” I told myself, but the silence felt heavy and unnatural. The oppressive stillness made my mind go to a place I try to keep my life too busy to examine.

Another sound came then, one I had grown far to familiar with the past few months. The sound of weeping. My body climbed out of the toasty warm covers before my mind could object, and I reached for my robe. Sleep was out of the question now. I had to see. I had to know.

Unlike that one who had caused all the creaking, my slippered feet made no sound on the carpet as I padded down the hall. With each step I heard more clearly the racking sobs coming from the last door on the left. With each step I felt more dread to enter there, to disturb the weeping.

“This can’t go on.” I wanted to scream. “It has to end.” I wanted that to be true, prayed for it to be true.

The door was closed, the one inside wanting to be left alone. It was like an impenetrable wall instead of a door. Some force beyond myself sung in my ears to let the soul beyond continue to weep, to be left to it tumult of emotions, to let the suffering continue, but I couldn’t. The time had come to face the ghost.

I was gentle as I opened the portal to this grief struck place. As if my caution would make the intrusion less. In the rocking chair in the corner my husband sat clutching the puppy doll that Aaron had loved so much. The empty crib sat where it had since he left us, tearing my heart to pieces. I hadn’t been able to come in here since. Nick didn’t even look up when I entered.

I realized looking at the big man who I loved that I had left him alone with this; alone with the ghosts of our son, the ghosts of our memories, the ghosts of our hopes and dreams for the future. I had filled my days with trivia to keep the pain away. I worked and went out at night so I would not have to face our loss.

I rushed forward and fell on my knees at Nick’s feet, burying my face in his lap. The two of us crying out for our lost baby in our haunted house.

A writing prompt with 460 words.

So I jump up, spin around with darkness and the cats questioning meow as a backdrop. When I stop and open my eyes I see tools. Tools of creation and destruction, but then I guess you can say that about most things. Because of my own eccentricities the block that houses the cutting inspiration is also showing to those who would look, little buttons of color.

The knife block holds not only those implements for cutting pears, bread, and the occasional chef; it holds the wonderful instrument, the fondue fork. Eight round little circles in sunny colors stare back across the room at me. Each different so that you can always tell which tiny fork is holding your bready cheesy goodness.

The last time the Fox and I made fondue it was a marvelous blend of sharp cheddar and blue. It strove for and succeeded to be the perfect accompaniment to crusty bread and broccoli alike. My mind is suddenly realizing that with all of this talk of food, I should probably go get my lunch. No gooey melted cheese to make my eyes roll back in their sockets though. Sadly it’s just a chicken sandwich and some salad. But maybe tomorrow will be fondue.

A 200 word writing exercise.