From 9360e7c511b08b109608ec9c2a70bd18f1d02352 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: "Adam T. Carpenter" Date: Sun, 5 Apr 2026 08:17:50 -0400 Subject: feat: winter court --- posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php | 417 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ posts/2026-01-11-the-rust.php | 362 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ posts/2026-01-25-tower-on-the-moor.php | 129 ++++++++++ 3 files changed, 908 insertions(+) create mode 100644 posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php create mode 100644 posts/2026-01-11-the-rust.php create mode 100644 posts/2026-01-25-tower-on-the-moor.php diff --git a/posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php b/posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php new file mode 100644 index 0000000..418ffa0 --- /dev/null +++ b/posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php @@ -0,0 +1,417 @@ +

The Convertible

+
+ +

+Nat1's Winter Court is a prompt-driven writing challenge! The goal is to write a short story with specific parameters once a week throughout January. This is my first submission. Get your copy of Winter Court: Year One, 2026 here. +

+ +

+Prompt +
+ +A protagonist walks the same route every day; one day, they see a door that hadn’t been there before. +

+ +

+Required components + +

+

+ +
+ +

Brock trudged along the alley, paying little mind to the worn, faded +red bricks except on the frequent occasion that he stumbled over one on +his oversized feet. Pink, black, and yellow graffiti was splattered +across sooty, cracked concrete and fogged windows. Iron door frames and +braces added trails of rust, which leached out of the tired warehouses +like tears.

+

If he could help it, Brock ignored the bleak surroundings of the +vacant lots and dilapidated buildings between his high school and his +foster parents’ apartment. The first day of school was bleak enough +without remembering where he lived, where he ate, or how he existed. +Instead, he plunged all of his meager attention and mental effort into +his phone. He scrolled through reel after reel on every social media he +had an account on. Often, he let out a small exhalation of breath +through his nose in place of a laugh if he saw something funny enough. +Rarely did he invest the muscle capacity to upvote or downvote whatever +he deemed worthy of the additional effort.

+

His stomach lurched as his right foot caught thin air, his left toes +curling under him as he tripped. His whole body was flung forward with +momentum, aided by the jerk in his knees when he realized he was no +longer on level ground. Before he could catch himself, he tumbled into +the driveway, just barely putting his hands out in front of his face +before he planted them roughly onto the pavement of the alley with a +smack.

+

Thin, red lines broke out across Brock’s fingers and knuckles on his +left hand. His right hand clutched his phone, now with a seriously +decimated screen. It resembled a haphazardly arranged spider web, and +the facets that remained each showed small slivers of popular videos and +curated ads.

+

“Aw, man,” he hissed as he looked over his other hand. Brock huffed +and stood up, bewildered. Where’d this even come from?

+

It was a freshly paved driveway, not gum-spotted like the rest of the +street. It must have been laid down over summer break. His eyes followed +it up into the old wall of the warehouse, one he’d passed by twice every +single day throughout high school. Where there had been cracked brick +and acrylic tags, there was now a freshly fabricated garage bay door. +The rolling chain-link barrier was down, but the gaps were wide enough +to see through and allowed air to circulate.

+

Brock got up and, despite his aching knees and palms, half-stumbled +up to the door to peer inside.

+

“Whoa, dude!”

+

The speckled gray concrete floor was swept clean and supported a herd +of whitewall tires. Each set, in turn, supported a colorful antique +automobile, each different from the last. There were reds, yellows, and +blues, all the old-world subtle colors that nobody painted anything +anymore because it wasn’t silver. Each car was curvy and heavily laden +with thick chrome emblems, bumpers, and visors. Some had skirts on the +rear, and a couple had their hoods up, exposing engine compartments that +looked more like jewelry boxes full of silver and gold than dirty, +mechanical necessities.

+

Brock continued gawking at the shimmering display of rolling +Americana. The sound of a toilet flushing preceded the opening of a door +in the back corner. A short, hunched man stepped out, wiping his hands +on his denim coveralls. His dark skin was dotted with shiny grease spots +and patches of dirt. His palms looked leathery and well-used. His face +was serious, the wrinkles and dull eyes unforgiving yet determined. His +block-shaped, graying mustache flared and twitched as he nervously +puckered his lips, thinking. Above his peppered-gray eyebrows sat a thin +straw hat boasting an even thinner brown feather sticking out of the +ribbon.

+

He looked up, locking eyes with Brock for a brief moment before +resuming his work. Brock pointed through the rails of the door at the +nearest car and called out, “Yo, old man, what year’s that Chevy?”

+

The man spun his head around from under the teal-green hood of the +furthest car, screwing his eyes into a mean and penetrating gaze.

+

“You git your finger out of that door befo’ I pull it off. Dat’s a +Stude ya dumb-bass. Daym kids and dey big empty heads,” he trailed off +into a string of discontented mutterings that filled only the cavernous +engine bay.

+

Brock quietly retracted his hand but didn’t move from his vantage +point. Instead, he shuffled to the side and stood on tiptoes for a +better look at what the old man was doing.

+

His hands were busy fussing under the hood of that verdigris +convertible. From his distant vantage point, Brock saw it was adorned +with a regalia of fog lights, wire wheels, and a boatload of bright work +trim. The white interior reflected the dim overhead lamps, giving off a +soft glow that bounced back up onto the ceiling and provided more +usable, soft light in the room. It gave the whole car a glowing, angelic +effect. Between the wide white walls a small puddle of oil leeched +across the concrete in search of new patches to set stains in.

+

“What’s that one you got there? Whachu doin’ to it?”

+

The engine bay emitted a grunt, and the man’s head emerged briefly to +snap, “I’m fixin’ it what de hell does it look like I’m doin’ in here +wid all dese tools ‘n’ shit?”

+

“Yeah, but what is it?”

+

The mechanic’s gaze softened, but only briefly, before he screwed his +wrinkled face back up again.

+

“A Packard, dat’s an orphan car. Now you git before I call da po-lice +to come grab ya and send ya back to your parents,” he said while +gesticulating with a tightly-gripped monkey wrench.

+

Brock snickered at the hollow threat, but backed away from the door +all the same. He had no interest in dealing with his foster parents +tonight any more than he had to. Instead, he shouldered his backpack and +finished the walk home from school, paying attention to the dotted +bricks and uneven curbs as he did.

+

His mind whirred all night with still images: vignettes of hood +scoops and split windshields. His thoughts always returned to the +teal-green Packard.

+
+

As the school year progressed deeper into fall, Brock struggled +harder and harder to concentrate in final period. He’d watch the +electric clock up high at the front of the room in between long gazes +out the leaky windows. Instead of focusing on lectures, he fantasized +about the swoops and spokes of the old cars in that warehouse +garage.

+

Each day when the bell rang, he hustled out of class and half-walked, +half-ran his route home. He always passed by the garage to see what the +old geezer was working on. Brock’s foggy breath would puff out while he +warmed his hands by the exhaust hoses pumping sweet-smelling fumes out +from the engine of the convertible.

+

Invariably, he’d get chased away by the old man after spending too +much time lingering by the chain-link door. At the very least, they were +now able to exchange a few phrases before the gentleman’s temper rose +high enough to shoo Brock away.

+

Brock knew enough now to know the Packard convertible had a flathead +that needed quite a bit of work (he also now knew that flathead +meant the valves were in the cylinder block). It no longer leaked oil, +but it didn’t run or drive either. Occasionally, Brock felt brave enough +to shout out ideas or diagnoses, only to be shooed away even more +fervently than the previous night for tempting involvement.

+

One particular fall afternoon, Brock swung by the shop, and the old +convertible was up on jack stands. The old man lay beneath it, straining +and swearing away. Brock sat down on his backpack as he watched. The +sound of heavy breathing was truncated by the interjection of banging +metal reverberating off the walls. Sockets clattered out from under the +car, rolling away across the floor of the garage. One of them popped +over the threshold and right up to Brock’s shoe. He surveyed it, noting +the “1/2” markings and the patent stamp proudly declaring the tool was +made in Toledo.

+

A slam and a clunking sound jolted his eyes back up to the mustached +mechanic’s plight.

+

“You dumb-bass!” he cried out from under the car.

+

What looked like the transmission had slumped off the wood blocks +supporting it and tumbled onto the floor. It made a nice chip in the +concrete when it landed.

+

Brock was on his feet in an instant and shouted across the garage, +“Dude! Watch out for that there.”

+

The mechanic shot out from under the Packard, clutching his wrist and +wincing. He flexed his arm, testing his muscles. All fingers appeared to +work.

+

With much effort, he got to his feet and forced his backbone to +straighten out. Still rubbing his wrist, he noticed Brock, almost with a +start as if he’d forgotten he’d been standing there. He eyed the socket +Brock absent-mindedly turned over with his thumb and forefinger.

+

“You give me dat back,” he growled through gritted teeth.

+

He fixed his straw, feathered hat with one hand and reached for the +socket through the steel links of the bay door with the other. Brock +snatched it closer to his chest and took a step back.

+

“No way, dude, you’re gonna get killed like that. You want it back, +then you let me in, and I help you. You open the door and let me bench +that up into the car with you so you don’t smash your dome in.”

+

The old mechanic’s eyes lost that sheen of rage. For just a moment, +Brock was sure he could see through them rather than right up against +them.

+

He continued, “Look old creep, I can help. You can’t lift that up +there by yourself. And besides, if it crushes me, then I won’t be +bothering you anymore, will I? Now let’s get to work and get it done +already.”

+

The mustached man turned up his sour lips again, curling his facial +hair into his characteristic disappointed twist. He pointed his finger +right at Brock’s chest through the door.

+

“Don’ touch the paint, don’ touch the chrome, don’ touch a daym thang +’cept what I tell you!”

+

He reached down to his cracked leather belt and jangled loose a +massive keyring, cursing as he did. Brass, nickel, and other assorted +keys all shook and shimmered as he flitted through them for the door. +Brock’s heart leapt. He scrambled to shoulder his bag as the man heaved +the door up, clanging away as it rolled toward the ceiling.

+

For the first time, Brock stepped over the threshold of the door that +hadn’t existed last year. Just a few feet in it was already warmer than +the curb. He had a better view of the cars now, too. He could see +scalloped leather upholstery and massive steering wheels in black or +white plastic. Shields and emblems adorned door cards, radios, and gauge +clusters. He could smell them too: old lacquer paint, small drops of hot +oil, and the kind of warm musty smell of aged rubber.

+

The old man stomped straight back toward the verdigris convertible. +He turned his back to Brock and started slamming open drawers on a tall, +fire engine red toolbox. The clicking of ratcheting wrenches trickled +back to Brock’s ears before the drawers were slammed shut again with +even more ferocity.

+

“Don’ just stand there gawkin’, come gimme a hand,” the mechanic +admonished, his back still turned to the boy.

+

Dropping his bag, Brock hustled over to the driver’s side of the +convertible. His eyes slipped over its interior. The two-tone +teal-and-black upholstery was broken up by polished stainless steel +stripes. Packard was scrawled across the glove box in +flourishing, underlined script.

+

Outside, beneath the driver-side door was a jack handle and the bulky +head of the transmission, which appeared at first to Brock to be +bleeding sticky maroon blood out onto the concrete floor.

+

The old man whipped around from the toolbox and set his sights on the +teen. He stretched out his hand, his leathery palm opened up. It was +hardened with calluses and wrinkles. Brock placed the socket into it, +and the mechanic quickly snapped it onto an extension.

+

He squinted his beady eyes at Brock, but his mustache relaxed +slightly. “You ever worked on a car befo’?”

+

Brock shook his head but kept his lips shut tight.

+

“Alrigh’, then here’s what we gon’ do. You’re gon’ listen’ good and +do everythin’ I tell you and nothin’ I don’. We’re gonna git dat tranny +back up in there an’ bolt up the cross-member.”

+

“Cross-what?” Brock interrupted.

+

“Don’ interrupt me. Don’ interrupt me, daym didn’t your daddy ever +teach you manners?”

+

Brock’s eyes trailed the red pool and then held fast to a black paint +stain.

+

“I don’t know my dad. And my foster dad ain’t around much.”

+

The old man just blinked and pocketed the wrench. “Lie down there on +the flo’.”

+

He did as instructed and stretched out under the convertible while +the mechanic knelt and gave him a lesson. He pointed out all the braces, +frame rails, and cross-member bolts. He walked Brock through hooking up +the transmission to the flywheel and explained that they would need to +stabilize the trans and move the jack into place. Then they set to +work.

+

Brock helped the old man lower the jack and roll the transmission +back onto the block of wood it had been precariously perched on. He kept +it from rolling as his aging companion jacked it back up again, roughly +into position. Then, with two hands, Brock helped jostle and jimmy it +forward. Up a little, forward a little. Up a little, forward a +little.

+

Once it was in place, he held it there while the old-timer rolled out +from under the car and grabbed a squarish metal tube with boltholes in +it. He quickly cinched down two bolts and slid the wrench over to Brock +while he took a hold of the jack and transmission himself.

+

Brock fumbled with the socket, which slipped off twice and even +reversed direction on him once. Eventually, he was able to confidently +snug up the bolts. The old man lowered the jack and rolled it out from +under the car with a rattle.

+

“Ah-hah, dat’s how you do it! Dat’s how you git dat dumb-bass in +there!” His whiskers were turned up into a grin, old off-white teeth +beaming out from under it. Brock met his grin, wiping his hands off on +his shirt.

+

“You got a name boy?”

+

“Brock, sir.”

+

“You can call me Ray.”

+
+

Work on the Packard continued. For the first few weeks, Ray seemed to +forget all about the transmission and Brock’s help. He would just stand +outside and talk through the door until Ray ran into a job that was too +frustrating to do alone. Then the old man would gripe and cuss and roll +up the big door again.

+

After a month, the door was already rolled up when Brock arrived +after school let out. Every night was a lesson in how the parts of the +car went together, which tools did what, and how they were supposed to +be used.

+

The hood stayed open on the Packard while Ray showed Brock how to +tune up the old flathead, the sweet burning smell of the exhaust +tingling their noses and eyes. The carb sucked in air, and the tailpipe +burbled like nothing the teen had ever experienced. It had the soul of a +boat in the skin of a car, the promise of crossing a sea of asphalt to +fantastic, unexplored places.

+

For his part, Brock grew to enjoy the old mechanic’s company. He was +still grumpy and stern-looking most of the time, but there was a clear +wisdom. Years of knowledge had been carefully curated by experience and +distilled into simple lessons that he couldn’t forget if he wanted to. +What Ray thought of Brock never came up.

+

As winter waned and the first spots of spring began to warm up the +city, Brock had to hustle through still-cold rain to get to the garage. +Today was particularly stormy and, although the hours grew longer, the +promise of later daylight was dashed by thunderheads and downpour. Every +plod, plod of his footsteps dumped yet more water into his +sneakers. Using his hoodie as an umbrella, he tried to keep at least his +shirt dry. Ray would never let him near the car if he was soaking +wet.

+

He rounded the last corner and skipped up the curb to the garage. The +chain-link door was already rolled up, and the warm incandescent glow of +the lamps kept the dim gray at bay. He ducked in and threw down his +backpack and hoodie against the wall.

+

“Yo, Ray,” he called out, but got no answer.

+

The shop was quiet, and the old man was nowhere to be seen. Must +be in the bathroom again, Brock figured. He strode over to the tall +red toolbox to see what he could get started on.

+

Curiously, more than half of the drawers were cracked open or piled +with a random assortment of tools such that they wouldn’t shut. Brock +never knew a day when the meticulous and ornery Ray failed to slam shut +every drawer or cabinet door with all the strength left in his arms.

+

Upon closer inspection, some key tools were missing completely. Ray’s +good Snap-On set, which Brock was seldom allowed to use, was gone, along +with torque wrenches, tachometers, and a battery tender.

+

“Ray, man where you at?” Brock called again.

+

No answer came, not even a crotchety admonishment from the bathroom +stall. The hood was still open on the Packard. He stepped quietly over +to the convertible, the glossy verdigris paint shimmering under the +overhead lights.

+

Something crumpled under Brock’s sneaker. He stepped back and peered +cautiously at the crushed straw hat, and what was left of its ruddy +feather, the plumes mussed and destroyed.

+

Brock knelt to examine the straw shrapnel. On the other side of the +car, past the white walls he saw a slumped pile of coveralls and a dark, +leathery hand.

+

His throat went dry as he shrieked, “Ray! Dude!”

+

He wheeled around the bumper to find the mechanic collapsed, his face +down on the hard floor and his fingers balled into fists. Brock rolled +him over and saw a huge gash in his forehead.

+

“Oh, no. Oh, crap man.”

+

Brock reached into his back pocket, yanking out his phone. His face +burned as his heart pounded out of control. His fingers swiped furiously +across the cracked screen, catching on the spider-glassed edges. He +punched in 9-1-1, tapping on Ray’s chest with his other hand. Ray’s +chest rose and fell, but otherwise he didn’t move.

+

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” the operator coolly answered.

+

“Yo, hey, you gotta get an ambulance here right now, I’m at the auto +shop by Pier 14, 301 West Brooke. Please you gotta hurry Mr. Ray got hit +or something, he won’t wake up!”

+
+

The responder stayed on with Brock while he tried to bring Ray +around. The old man was still breathing but unconscious when the +ambulance rolled over the driveway, and the EMTs unloaded their +stretcher.

+

At the hospital, the teen sat alone in the waiting room, shivering. +The place felt air-conditioned despite the weather outside, and he was +still mostly soaked through. After waiting around for almost an hour, a +couple of cops walked in and asked him to make a statement. Wanted to +know how Brock found Ray, how he knew him, and all that.

+

Over and over he repeated, “Someone hit him, I just know it, there’s +tools missing, and he usually locks the place up. You gotta find +em!”

+

“Son, settle down. We got em, we just wanna know how you found him so +he can press charges,” the taller deputy said, scanning his notebook in +between glances at the worried teen.

+

“You mean you got em?”

+

“Yeah, pawn shop two blocks down got a big drop of tools, battery +charging kit, couple of gauges. Owner said he recognized the Snap-Ons +and called it in. Sounds like the guy went in there a lot looking for +old tools.”

+

“Is he gonna be okay though? The old man, uh, Ray I mean.”

+

“He was out when we saw him, but you’ll have to wait to talk to the +doctor, son.”

+

The electric clock up high at the front of the room seemed frozen, +just ticking back and forth without making any progress. Another hour +could have passed, maybe two, maybe none, before a woman with dark hair +and tan skin approached Brock. She was wearing a white coat and blue +scrubs and held a gray plastic clipboard in both hands.

+

“Are you Brock?” she asked softly.

+

Brock lifted his head up off his palm. He straightened up from his +restless slouch.

+

“Yes’m I’m Brock. Is it Ray, is he gonna be okay?” Brock coughed to +settle his voice.

+

“Yes, Mr. Perry is going to be just fine. And he’ll see you now if +you’d like to visit.”

+

She led Brock back through the hall of clean white exam rooms and +gave a soft knock on the last door. The stainless steel panel gave way +to a pinkish room with a large electric hospital bed. The curtain was +drawn open, and under a blanket sat the grumpy old mechanic, his back +and head resting elevated on a pillow. The doctor gave a small wave and +stepped back out of the room.

+

Ray rotated his head to look at the door and Brock. He had a large +wad of clean cotton gauze taped across his forehead. A few wires ran +from a finger clamp on his left hand. His eyes were as stern as ever, +his mustache turned up in another one of his sour grimaces. Brock would +have chuckled at the familiarity of the sight had the circumstances been +less serious.

+

“Take a seat, boy.”

+

Brock did as he was instructed, drawing up a short rolling stool.

+

“You find me lyin’ there? You call dat amblance?”

+

His eyes were penetrating, and beady though they were, behind their +usual intent and purpose, there was a gentle twinkle.

+

Brock shifted in his seat, and words started tumbling out unfiltered, +“Yessir, I came by after school and found you lying there. Cops said +they jumped you and got away with your tools, but they got ’em–”

+

“Don’t you hear good boy, I asked you one question and now you +startin’ jabbin’ away like a daym fool again. Daym right they got dem +dumb-basses, nobody stealin’ from me.”

+

He heaved himself up higher in the reclined bed, as if he couldn’t +contain himself from leaping out of it and whooping the first person he +got his hands on. Instead, he cleared his throat and dropped his sour +look.

+

“Actually, you did good. You did real good, kid.”

+

Ray rustled his right hand under the cover and, with a jangle, +produced his large keyring. He sifted through it, flipping old tarnished +keys over and over until he found the one he was looking for. He held +the ring up by it and outstretched his arm toward Brock.

+

“Now you take ‘em. And don’ go losin’ em or I’ll bust you up, you got +dat?”

+

Puzzled, the teen took the key ring and studied it. The one brass key +stood apart from the rest, tarnished as it was, there was a shiny wear +mark where a thumb regularly polished it. The teeth gleamed like they +were brand new. He looked back up at Ray, whose face was calmer and +older somehow. Without their usual ferocity, the wrinkles didn’t make +him look scrunched up, just wrinkly.

+

“Dat choke is stuck on da Packard. You go git dat fixed. And do a +lube job on the Stude, den pick up parts at Waller’s. I’m gonna be in +here ’nother day, so you git to work.”

+

Brock grinned and wiped the nearly-dry hair from his eyes while he +stood up.

+

“Yessir, I will,” he nodded as he pocketed the key ring and made for +the door.

+

“And Brock! Dem keys is borrowed, you got dat? You go make a copy o’ +dat one cuz I ain’t leavin’ the door unlocked no mo’ like a daym +fool.”

+

Brock could have sworn he saw a smile under the old man’s +mustache.

diff --git a/posts/2026-01-11-the-rust.php b/posts/2026-01-11-the-rust.php new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5941b1b --- /dev/null +++ b/posts/2026-01-11-the-rust.php @@ -0,0 +1,362 @@ +

The Rust

+
+ +

+Nat1's Winter Court is a prompt-driven writing challenge! The goal is to write a short story with specific parameters once a week throughout January. This is my second submission. Get your copy of Winter Court: Year One, 2026 here. +

+ +

+Prompt +
+ +As it turns out, the monster beneath the bridge is not the threat—what it’s protecting is. +

+ +

+Required components + +

+

+ +
+

Jethro surveyed the dead whiteness: an empty, desolate plain devoid +of life and shelter. He rotated his head almost mechanically, his +hardened features scanning the land ahead. Below his eyes, his grizzled +jawline was set in a permanent grimace, as if everything he had seen, +saw now, and would see was grim at best.

+

He didn’t feel the cold, at least that’s what he and his men kept +telling themselves. What kept the boys marching on was Jethro. What kept +Jethro going was duty. Duty kept that spark, that fiery resolve burning +in him just enough to melt away the cold.

+

From atop the Jeep, he could just barely make out the treeline. +Beyond that was the wood. The wood was the mission. What lay beyond was +just rumor. Or was it a promise? He grunted. It didn’t matter. +It was the mission. Push on, as always, for the mission.

+

Hobbs interrupted his thoughts as he marched up and saluted. “Sarge! +Batteries are charged, and we’re ready to roll out, sir!”

+

Jethro cocked his head down and saluted back. “Good work, Corporal. +Wheels up, on my command.”

+

“Sir, yes, sir!” Hobbs stiffly marched off, barking orders to the +troops as he went. His arms and legs looked awkward and weary as he +swung them.

+

Won’t last much longer out here. They had to push on.

+

The men decoupled the charging cables from the second Jeep and +secured the heavy solar panels to the back of the six-wheel HET. The +cables were coiled and lashed down to the HET atop the panels. They +could only charge one vehicle at a time, so they had to do it on a +rotation.

+

Hobbs and two privates piled into the command Jeep. The other Jeep +and the HET were fully loaded, the last men jumping aboard just as +Sergeant Jethro gave the order to move out. The three electric motors +whined in unison as snow flicked off the treads of the oversized tires. +Jethro clutched the roll bar, still standing, as the platoon bumped +along the plane.

+

The conditions worsened, the sky graying and darkening as large +frozen chunks of slush fell from it. The headlights were obscured enough +to be nearly useless, and the men took turns wiping the windshield off +with their sleeves. Still, they pushed on.

+
+

Just before dawn, the platoon met the edge of the wood, the plain +giving way to monstrous pine trunks. Each one towered over the Jeep by +an immeasurable distance, disappearing into the gray-black heavens. Ice +and snow clung to them, sticking to the evergreen needles until they +sagged enough for some of it to drip off. The storm raged even more +violently now, each man’s green uniform plastered with white.

+

Jethro scanned the trees and the darkness ahead. Not a sign of +life, but the trunks offer some protection on the leeward side. The +HET would be mostly covered, but more importantly, his men needed +rest.

+

“Corporal,” he hollered over the whine of the motor. “Status +report!”

+

Hobbs called back, “Sir, battery levels at 21 percent, sir!”

+

“We’ll make camp behind that trunk up there, bring us around, and +shut it down.”

+

Corporal Hobbs echoed the command and signaled to the other vehicles. +The troops dismounted and helped their Sergeant down from his chariot, +his pelvis creaking and popping as he did. He hissed as his brittle +joints seared with pain. Try as he might to hide it, he was old and worn +out, and just as afflicted as the next man. Moving helped some, but he +refused to sit. Partly because he refused to show weakness in front of +the men, and more importantly, if he was going to freeze, he was going +to do it standing.

+

He was infected. They all were, and each and every one of them knew +their days were numbered. That’s what the disease did to you: froze your +joints up. Back at base camp, two men had already succumbed, their +bodies locked like a skeletal prison for their minds to wither away in. +Unable to move. Unable to die. Unable to do anything but gaze ahead, +panicking at immobility until you slipped into madness with the new hell +you were stuck in.

+

Not to me. And not to them either. Their salvation lay +ahead; they just had to reach it.

+

The strongest men unloaded and set up the solar panels, coupling the +heavy cables to the HET’s batteries so that at sunup it would get a head +start at charging. The healthy ones were busy arranging the Jeeps, +setting up tents, and creating as much shelter and protection as they +could. A few stood guard. The weak ones huddled together in tents, +massaging their aching limbs, which slipped, popped, or crunched when +they moved them too far.

+

Jethro didn’t sleep that night. He stood guard, observing the path +ahead while he thought and calculated. He surveyed his men, too, +ensuring they got the shifts and rest that they needed. The next leg of +their trip would take them to the bridge. No doubt Caecelav would be +skulking nearby, and they needed to be ready. Today was the journey, but +tomorrow would come the battle.

+
+

The next morning, the men got a late start. Even less sunlight +penetrated the piney canopies far above them, providing only a trickle +of power to the solar panels. Sarge gave the order to move out at +exactly 60% charge, not a lick more. They would reach their goal before +nightfall and have plenty of time to juice up tomorrow.

+

Corporal Hobbs wheeled the command Jeep along the muddy path, black +clumps of sopping dirt kicking up and splashing the plastic fenders +where it mixed with the snow. Occasional stony outcroppings in the trail +staved off their progress, but they managed to crawl over them with some +confidence.

+

It was after the eighth rock crawl that Jethro heard the river down +the trail, and around a couple more trunks, the platoon sighted the +bridge. He gave the signal to slow up and look sharp.

+

The bridge was a rickety old arched crossing, the rotting green +boards lightly dusted with fresh snow. There were no tracks or prints, +but Jethro steeled his men regardless. Ambush. Has to be.

+

They stopped short of the bridge as he dismounted from the Jeep and +picked up a machete. Hobbs armed himself with a shovel while his private +wielded a pickaxe. Brass left them unarmed and under-equipped for years, +so it was the best they had. Not nearly enough, but it would have to do. +Jethro didn’t think about the odds. This was their last chance.

+

Nobody made a sound, padding softly as they could along the white +earth. Every move they made, they checked around the next tree trunk, +using hand signals to indicate they were clear. The vehicles inched +forward, barely humming as the snow crunched underfoot. The private +feathered the accelerator with his foot, nudging the bumper closer to +the bridge.

+

It was close enough now that they could make out the rotten spots +where entire pieces had fallen away, exposing the grainy, splintered +holes that remained. Jethro continued to tread carefully, twisting his +head left and right as he listened. The frigid water rushed below them, +and chunks of ice bumped up against dead branches as they danced along +the seething torrent.

+

The private’s foot slipped. All four tires broke loose, kicking up +chunks of muddy snow. His ankle froze up! The Jeep lurched +forward and slammed into the base of the bridge, sending splintered +woodchips flying as it did.

+

“Halt, private, halt! Shut it down!” Jethro shouted as the Jeep +bounced up and slid up the ramp.

+

An unearthly roar rumbled up from the holes in the bridge. A large, +purplish shadow swayed and loomed beneath. Long, violet, clawed fingers +scraped at the border of the railing, digging into the green wood.

+

The Jeep stalled out, and the private yelled, “I got it, it’s +off!”

+

Then he screamed, any bravery and sense of might shattering before +the amorphous, wretched figure of Caecelav. The beast heaved itself up +onto the deck, its purplish skin rippling and glistening against the +white-brown backdrop. Its rubber-like muscles flexed to hold itself +upright as it caught the whole platoon in its eyeless gaze.

+

Caecelav’s toothless maw hung open for its gurgling, abyssal voice to +utter, “No. Go. Further.”

+

The private continued to shriek with fear. He feebly tried to lift +his torso out of the seat with his arms, his legs fixed in place. +Caecelav grabbed the bumper and strained, bellowing as it did. It heaved +and lifted the Jeep up onto two wheels with its long, tendril-like +fingers.

+

Jethro exploded, “Strike! Strike! Strike!” He dashed across the path +toward the driver's side of the Jeep.

+

Hobbs and the other private took the right. They let out a battle cry +and furiously hacked away at the monstrous purple blubber with shovels, +axes, wrenches—anything they had. It recoiled but only briefly, and let +go of the Jeep long enough to swipe at them with its clawed +tendrils.

+

The sergeant grabbed his driver by the bandoleer, straining to yank +him out of his seat. The man’s leg was trapped, his toes jammed under +the dash. Caecelav regained its grip on the bumper and tipped the Jeep +on its side. The private dangled upside down, his head hovering inches +from the edge of the bridge. He yelped and clambered back into the Jeep, +grasping and clutching at Jethro.

+

“Take it down!” he shouted, pointing one finger at Hobbs while he +fumbled with the man’s boot.

+

By now, the HET had unloaded, and the whole platoon rushed the beast +with their weapons. They hacked away at the rubbery purple skin of the +monster, opening gash after gash. It didn’t bleed, although it roared in +pain.

+

It lifted the Jeep even further. Two more troops grabbed onto the +running board, trying to keep it pinned to the deck of the bridge. The +whole Jeep skidded and hit the railing. Hobbs leapt up and grabbed hold +of the beast’s neck, digging in his axe.

+

With a sudden buck, the monster shunted the Jeep over the railing. +Jethro’s hands slipped, his man and the vehicle turning completely over +as the railing snapped and shattered beneath the weight. The overturned +Jeep slammed into the riverbed below with a splash and a sickening +crunch of the doomed private.

+

“Man down!” Jethro bellowed as he bolted across the bridge to reach +the opposite bank.

+

Two privates, along with their sergeant, slid down the bank to the +overturned Jeep. They grabbed hold of the bumper in an effort to lift it +out of the water.

+

Hobbs widened the gash he had started and then renewed his digging, +slicing deeper still. The monster slashed and swept its arms at the +troops. Each in turn dodged and jabbed at tendrils, torso, anything that +looked open. Finally, Caecelav slumped to the deck. It gargled and +wailed, clutching its neck. Hobbs lost his grip and jumped off, +scrambling to his feet. He took a step back and admired his handiwork, +resuming his stance as he did. The wound was enough.

+

“Guess you shouldda stayed back in the bath, punk. So much for +freedom fighting, huh?” he jeered.

+

The eyeless purple face twisted up at him, the crooked grin widening. +“I die free, I stay free. You survive. Not so lucky.” It +coughed and continued massaging its neck with its tendrils.

+

Corporal Hobbs sobered. “The hell do you mean? We’re free now, we’re +never going back! We find a cure, and we’re gone, that’s the +mission!”

+

Caecelav chuckled, the ragged rubbery flesh of its neck undulating as +it did. It coughed again and croaked, “Hell? Devil take you back to +Hell—”

+

Jethro’s machete cleanly took the monster’s head off in one sweep. +The lifeless husk made a wet slap on the bridge planks as it flopped +over. The corporal eyed his sergeant warily over the body as the purple +head rolled down the other end of the bridge.

+

He was panting and trembling with exertion. After a pause, he took a +deep breath and sheathed the machete. He straightened up as best he +could with his joints.

+

“Private Anderson is dead. Get down there and pay your respects.”

+

Jethro’s men obeyed the command and marched down the bank.

+
+

The service was rushed and messy. The Jeep sank ever lower into the +muddy bottom of the river. The platoon extracted as much of Anderson as +they could. Parts of him had been carried downstream already, and what +was left was badly crushed. The men doffed their helmets long enough to +say a few words, toss some soil into the makeshift grave, and then +trudge back up the bank, some slipping or tripping as they did.

+

The Jeep was out of commission. The battery and motor were both +waterlogged. There was no chance of salvaging them quickly, and they +were losing light, so they abandoned the wreck where it sank.

+

Jethro loaded more men onto the HET and packed as many as he could +into the new command Jeep. They pushed on over and beyond the bridge. +They had to. Can’t lose any more men to this mission. Not now. +If they doubled their efforts, they could be there before sunup.

+

The headlamps cut through the black night. Snowfall had let up, and +an eerie hush fell over the wood, aside from the motors’ humming. The +men were silent. Not that they were chatterboxes on a good day, but now +they were determinedly silent. They exchanged glances, and once Jethro +caught one eyeing him from the other vehicle. He forced himself to look +ahead; there wasn’t time to reprimand. Once they reached their target, +there would be no need to.

+

The shed, their target, at last loomed into view ahead. Its peeling +beige paint and ruddy shingles gave it away. It was exactly as the +scouts described back in camp. The sergeant only dreamed of seeing it +himself one day, and now he hungrily laid eyes on it. The orange glow of +a new dawn crept up behind it, projecting yellow beams over the +roofline.

+

The men whooped and hollered, some clapped each other’s backs, and +others banged on the dashboard. Mission accomplished. Only Corporal +Hobbs was quiet, although his covetous eyes and grin betrayed his +satisfaction and deep relief at the sight of the shed.

+

The vehicles wheeled all the way up to the doors. The shed’s bulk +projected hundreds of feet above the platoon like some great cathedral +promising heavenly gifts. Two privates who could still stand hooked the +HET’s winch onto the first massive door. It yanked open without +resistance, bearing the interior to the weary, haggard faces of the +men.

+

Jethro stood gallantly, fixing his eyes on the shelves above. +About damn time. The dim light illuminated labels on boxes, +cans, and sacks. He scanned them rapidly, the earthy smell of potting +soil and chemicals tingling his nostrils. Up high in the northwest +corner, he found it.

+

With one hand on his belt, he outstretched the other and pointed +right at the blue-and-yellow label, ordering, “There, bring it +down.”

+

A few minutes later, the can clanged down onto the dusty floor of the +shed. It rolled over yard trimmings until it was right up against the +sarge’s face, and the men brought it to a halt. The clear, bold, +unmistakable letters shone out in the gloom: WD-40.

+

“Alright, gents, take a bath.”

+

Jethro torqued on the spray nozzle, and the gargantuan can hissed out +a mist of oily, sweet-smelling spray. Every man got his turn in the fog, +rubbing the fluid into his joints. Immediately, they limbered up, +working their arms and legs until they no longer squeaked, crunched, or +seized. The men felt younger and stronger by the second, emboldened by +the promise of new life. The sarge and his corporal took their turn too. +Jethro felt the years flaking off as he massaged his sockets and +stretched out.

+
+

When every soldier had his fill, they stepped one by one back out +into the light. They saluted the sergeant as he stepped out, rigid only +with pride and uniformity, to bask in their revelry. He returned their +salutes and at last wheeled around, clicking the heels of his boots as +he did.

+

The much younger-looking veteran regarded his platoon with a high +chin as he dove into his debrief.

+

He boomed with a congratulatory voice, “Gentlemen, our hope is +restored!”

+

The platoon applauded, letting out whistles and shouts.

+

“Your dedication to this mission has assured not only your own +survival, but that of your brothers in arms!”

+

More applause followed, and rhythmic stomping as heads turned, some +of the men elbowing Corporal Hobbs for his lackluster celebration.

+

“Now we rest, rejuvenate, and plan our next mission carefully. The +return voyage will not be easy, but time is on our side again. The +recovery of the command Jeep–”

+

Hobbs stepped out of the line of silent privates, his face mustering +enough courage to mask its graveness compared to the men beside him as +he interjected, “Pardon me, sir, but I feel obliged to remind my +sergeant that our final destination is to escape beyond the wood, per +our mission briefing at base.”

+

Jethro scrutinized his corporal, his painted features scratched into +a stony scowl.

+

“The mission,” he replied icily, “is and always has been to return to +base.”

+

“Then the briefing at base camp was inaccurate, sir,” Hobbs retorted +with a slight edge to his rising voice.

+

Out of line, Hobbs.

+

“Hold your tongue, Corporal. I will court-martial you, make no +mistake,” he reprimanded before turning to the line of privates. +“Gentlemen, in case I did not make myself crystal clear, our mission has +always been to save our platoon. Whether by the contents of this shed or +other ones beyond in the deep unknown. But under no circumstances are we +to venture further from the borders of our yard.”

+

The platoon began murmuring, some men leaning over to whisper to one +another. Out of line!

+

“Did I order you at ease?” Jethro roared. “I most certainly did not, +and you maggots will stand at attention until I order you to do +otherwise!”

+

Hobbs stepped completely out of the rank and file. “Sir, we can’t go +back there, not for another winter like this one. Not to be handled like +a plaything and then discarded by that child! We should push on, find +our way out of this yard, build a settlement, something! For +the good of the platoon, we must push on.”

+

Sarge gripped the pommel of his machete, “You get back in line! If +that ‘child’ wants to treat us like ‘play-things,’ then he may do so for +as long as he damn well pleases. And you will respect him as your +General so long as he holds command, he has earned that rank!”

+

Hobbs ignored Jethro and wheeled around to plead with the other men. +“We don’t need to do this. You men don’t need to do this. We don’t have +to take orders from that psychotic kid, praying to God we don’t get +buried in sand or mud or blasted with fireworks. We were built for more +than that. Caecelav was right when he left the tub for good! He was +right when he said we don’t have to go back to that hell, not with this +dev—”

+

The words stopped short, and the new silence was punctuated by a +thump as Hobbs’ head rolled back off the plastic stem of his neck. His +tin joints buckled as he collapsed into a heap in the snow. Jethro’s +machete hovered over the corpse midair, his hand shaking and his face +uncontrollably wild.

+

“There’ll be no mutineers here,” he sheathed the sword and clicked +his heels together. “Atten-tion!“

+

The troops snapped their legs together and saluted. “I want wheels up +in five. Dismissed.”

+
+

The wheels of the command Jeep carved out a path through the snow, +the piney edge of the wood shrinking behind. The sun was shining bright +high above, the good weather aiding their progress. The hum of the +electric motors was the only noise in earshot. Beside the Jeep, the HET +lumbered along, towing the crumpled remains of the waterlogged Jeep. +Brass’ll want it back. We’ll fix what we can at base camp.

+

It didn’t matter; duty pushed the sergeant on. The Jeep and the HET +were just accessories. Jethro was the real deal, limited edition. Now +that they functioned again, it was only a matter of time. The boy would +finally play with him again. He just needed to loosen up a bit. Now he +was as good as new, just like the other new toys. He and his troops +would be fun to play with again. The privates would understand once they +got back to base. After all, that was the mission.

diff --git a/posts/2026-01-25-tower-on-the-moor.php b/posts/2026-01-25-tower-on-the-moor.php new file mode 100644 index 0000000..003ed5a --- /dev/null +++ b/posts/2026-01-25-tower-on-the-moor.php @@ -0,0 +1,129 @@ +

Tower on the Moor

+
+ +

+Nat1's Winter Court is a prompt-driven writing challenge! The goal is to write a short story with specific parameters once a week throughout January. This is my third submission for the fourth week. Get your copy of Winter Court: Year One, 2026 here. +

+ +

+Prompt +
+ +The cat in the library is essential for everybody’s safety. +

+ +

+Required components + +

+

+ +
+

In far off place and distant time

+

Did warming rays of gold light shine

+

On earth and leaf of grassy moor

+

Where old rain called up petrichor

+

’Tween river and deep sea’s embrace

+

Great arching tower of wood face

+

And torches bright with orange flame

+

A library’s figure proclaimed

+

Where weary minds and feet found rest

+

And hungry readers’ eyes were blessed

+

With stacks of shelves and quiet nooks

+

That teemed with mountains of old books

+

For these they quested far from home

+

Some to consult a magic tome

+

Or maybe ancient tales of dead

+

Perhaps the secret to good bread

+

Among the rafter’s bird’s eye view

+

One could perched see the tall corkscrew

+

And watch the bustling visitors

+

Close, open and pass through oak doors

+

To access volumes leather bound

+

Did that great staircase spiral round

+

It twisted up and down again

+

To airy spire and deep dark den

+

One not secured by lock or key

+

For every title there was free

+

All written truths were on display

+

To be enjoyed through night and day

+

Old myth and fact on heaven’s grace

+

Deep secrets hid in that grand place

+

‘Mong reams of childrens’ painted scribbles

+

All these belonged to old wise Nibbles

+

This Nibbles, guests would speculate

+

Kept to himself to concentrate

+

They did not know or failed to see

+

The true form of this addressee

+

Since teacher, bookworm, study too

+

Could truly not be sure just who

+

He was he came and went as pleased

+

To rub his chin upon their knees

+

Mentees ignored his trotting round

+

The tower’s dorms and maintained grounds

+

His spritely hunting of white rabbits

+

And lengthy, lazy sleeping habits

+

In fact they paid no mind at all

+

To that cat’s slumber in the hall

+

Yes, whiskers white and coat of gray

+

Adorned the master of their stay

+

Curled up in lap he sometimes read

+

Whilst getting pet upon his head

+

Rare times at their fingers he nipped

+

One man’s notes were freshly ripped

+

But for their respite so secure

+

In his great tower on the moor

+

Did Nibbles have but one lone rule

+

Books mustn’t cross the vestibule

+

These writings he would share with all

+

Should never leave his reading hall

+

To take a book twas leant not sold

+

Was certainly a crime of old

+

In the dark nightfall wreathed in black

+

Dared bands of bandits to attack

+

With quiet, skulking thieves to take

+

His tomes but not for learning’s sake

+

Whilst raiders leered and lurked about

+

The cat’s sharp claws did protrude out

+

Those not asleep up high in dorm

+

Saw Nibbles in his lion form

+

Great razors grew from small cat claws

+

To befit shaggy mane and paws

+

So massive, gray, and outraged he

+

Defended his vast library

+

He crept and stalked the thieves of night

+

Who wished that they had died of fright

+

Instead he rent them flesh from bone

+

And purged their bodies from his home

+

When twilight waned and dawn arose

+

Would Nibbles yawn and twitch his nose

+

Exhausted from his dim campaign

+

And he became tomcat again

+

So beast of claw and sharpened tooth

+

Curled up again on window booth

+

No reader ever was the wiser

+

They just presumed him a late riser

+

And thus the tomcat of the halls

+

Did keep his books to share with all

+

For questers coming to and fro

+

To seek the orange torchlight glow

+

Not once would they raise the alarm

+

While on his watch they saw no harm

+

Don’t try to ask to them; they won’t say

+

They minded not the cat of gray

+

Birds and rats and rabbits too

+

Know Nibbles more than humans do

+

And keep his secret without doubt

+

They do not dare to rat him out

+

Should journey you in place and time

+

Heed this bird’s warning of short rhyme

+

Ye burglars had just best beware

+

The fat old cat with the gray hair

+

Who slinks among his books and purrs

+

But after dark he grows and stirs

+

There’s no place for wayward crooks

+

Among the stacks of Nibbles’ books

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