Uwchmynydd, Wales,  ©  Dan Boyington, Google Maps

She was doing it again. My wife stood at the kitchen window, elbow deep in sink water, even though the frothy suds had long since flattened to a greasy film.

I cleared my throat so as not to startle her. Mary turned. “You’ve got to believe me,” she said.

Ever since the trip to Gwynedd she’d been this way. I nodded at the window where our daughter played outside. She was weaving a crown from a handful of daisies she’d plucked from the garden. “She’s fine, love. She’s the same as ever.”

Mary glared distrustfully at the girl and walked toward me. “I’ve been doing some research. They’re called the Twylwyth Teg. They take a human child, and in its place—”

“Darling, stop.”

I hardly knew what to say to her anymore. Our daughter was the same bright child she’d always been.

Mary was the one who had changed.

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150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

Sorry for the delayed post! This week and last week have been deadline-o-rama, what with one short story, two articles, and a submission package (for an anthology) due. Plus the daily 1000-word slog on my WIP. And in bouts of insomnia and you get one tired writer. By the time I got to Pegman, my creative juices ran dry.

Dos Ojos Cenote © Jason Covert Google Maps

Shaman said it was the only way to drive them out.

Every child knows from mothers’ milk that Tribute is the only way to correct the course of man. That days spin out from a spiral, and when the course has wronged, Tribute is the only way to correct it.

Sixty children, Shaman asked. One for each finger and toe of every warrior lost to the sickness. Sixty children sacrificed to the cenotes.

Tribute brought rain to parched fields, tribute sent clouds of hoppers on to other crops far away.

But sixty children meant no family went without sacrifice.

Babajide thought of his son, nearly eleven. Of his two girls, now seven and four. How could he choose?

He wouldn’t, he decided. They would flee. Go as far as Chichen Itza if that’s what it took. Even if it meant the White Face peopled Zama like a swarm of hoppers.

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150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

Great Wall of China, © Sébastien Laading, Google Maps

Zhu kept her tiny hands hidden in the sleeves of her Zhiduo. It was the price she’d agreed to pay in order to gain an education denied her gender. For three years, she’d worn her hair bound in the traditional masculine topknot. For three years she’d kept her face buried in her books, so that no one could glimpse her snow-blossom cheek and guess her secret. But when Liang came by, it grew more difficult to hide her affections.

They’d met on the journey out, forming an instant attachment that went beyond friendship or even brotherhood. And what it was now, Zhu could no longer deny. At the risk of losing her friendship, she had to let him know.

A mated pair of mandarins floated by, paddling in unison. Zhu slipped her tiny hand from her sleeve and gestured at the pair. “Let us be as they are,” she said.

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150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, or to submit your own, click here.

I confess this story doesn’t have much to do with the Great Wall. I was hoping to find a Romeo & Juliet type-tale where the wall got in the middle. I never found one, but I did come across the story of the Butterfly Lovers, a Chinese legend that has a slightly happier ending than Romeo & Juliet.

Belmond Savute Elephant Lodge, © Heiko von Fintel Google Maps

Dearest Father,

By now you must be wondering whether I’ve been taken hostage by savages or eaten alive by hungry lions. End your worrying now, dear Papa, and know that I am well.

Know also I was not blind to your intentions when I left. You expected this safari would tame my wild heart. You thought upon return, I would marry William Vanadel with no further argument. But Papa, I will not be returning.

From the dawn that gilds each blade of grass, to the jewel box of stars that spill across the night sky, Rodesia is mine. It took but a fortnight among the kindness of these people to know that I should live my life among the Tswana–both as a teacher and a student, both as a sister and a wife. Send no envoy to retrieve me, for I am not your Margaret.

They call me Keneilwe.

Copyright/source unknown

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150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.

This week’s story was all about trying to wrap a meaningful story around the stunning spot I happened to stumble across when I plopped my Pegman down. There might be prettier sights captured by Pegman, but right now I can’t think of any.

Mdna, Malta, Google Maps

“Papa, I had an idea about letters,” Elanua said. “Instead of copying the same letters over and over again, what if you carved the letters on a tile and them painted them with ink? Then you could press your words to paper over and over again.”

The old man laughed. That one was full of ideas. Last week she had a notion about the moldy bread. The week before that she talked of lancing the pox from a child with fever in order to make a potion to keep the others well.

His wife shook her head and clucked; she was less forgiving of the girl. “Go fetch water Elanua,” she said. As the girl danced through the doorway and down the cobbled path, she turned to him. “Enough indulging her. It’s time to get that one married so she can put her mind to good use—bringing us grandsons.”

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150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.