When I write to a prompt, I don’t always know what direction a short story will take. This is especially true when writing a character’s backstory. I sit back and record what’s going on most of the time. That’s what happened in this next story. I looked at a prompt before taking the dog for a walk and came up with this offering. The bolded words were the prompts.
The path wound around the rock formations. Judging it was late afternoon, Lyryk searched for a suitable place to spend the night, ruing the loss of her four-legged companion, Biscuit. The bard hadn’t seen the hound in weeks, the dog having wandered off one day.
Lyryk swore she felt and heard his presence, though. When he’d traveled with the young half-elf, her “head-music,” as she’d come to call her talent, carried harmony that hadn’t existed before. When Biscuit left, so did the tune—mostly. She learned to listen for the subtle tones that told her the hound was near.
Harmonious undertones wafted through her consciousness as she rounded the rocks. Gasping at the glorious golden glow of the sun setting over the verdant valley, the bard sat, pulling her wooden flute from her pack. As Lyryk contemplated the majesty invoked by the scene before her, the rhythm she thought of as “Biscuit” enveloped hers.
Safe here, came a thought not her own.
Smiling, the bard set the instrument to her lips, closed her eyes, and began playing an accompaniment to “Biscuit.” The world melted away, and she found herself … elsewhere.
The hound sat before her, eyes closed, tongue lolling, a canine smile on his upturned face.
“I miss you, too, Buddy,” said the half-elf, reaching over and scratching his ears. “Where are we?” she asked, looking around. Lyryk still heard the music, though she was no longer blowing into her flute.
My home, came the reply.
You safe, sleep.
With that, Lyryk fell into a deep, restful slumber, wrapped in the warmth of his presence.