Calling all writers, readers, and other malefactors!
In a recent conversation with Autumn A. Gonzalez on Substack, she and I decided to host a challenge: choose a font and write a story inspired by it.
Anyone is welcome to participate - just keep it clean and friendly!
There is no limit on how many people use the same font. If you have a favorite, go for it!
You can link your story to: https://thiobel.substack.com/p/the-great-font-prompt
Please include your title, font, and a link to your story in the comments.
I believe Autumn intends to demonstrate how Garamond is mean, and I’m eager to read it!
I went for Berlin Sans FB. Here is the result:
Money Trouble
By Thio Isobel Moss
Money walked through the door in a custom Sevregnan suit and smoking a thin Xylva Red. The glowing tip of the gasper left a sweet-smelling swirl of vermilion smoke behind it, pretty against the dark walls.
In a few hours, the room would be filled with smoke from any number of illicit substances. We weren’t open; chairs were still flipped over the tabletops and our jazz trio was warming up onstage. My establishment also wasn’t strictly legal, but this customer was always welcome.
“Your Grace,” I genuflected, “Welcome back to Skye Sorjien. How may we serve you this evening?”
Money, who occasionally went by Sitroen Plieids, Duke of Roan and Vere-Kehrid, fourth in line to the throne of Kehrid, was one of those terribly earnest royals—good works, excellent military record, servant of the people—until it came to his own drinking habits. He enjoyed two fingers of Grvienen whiskey, a mauve-skinned waitress from the Albintreid Mountains who was easily impressed by a title and eager to light his cubeb, and access to the back rooms—not for a dalliance; I didn’t deal in that kind of thing. A few like-minded gentlemen often found the handsome, soundproofed rooms a conducive environment for a round of cards and empire-building.
“Saint,” he nodded, settling in against the bar.
I was anything but, though I did occasionally help a friend or two out of a jam, and it was convenient for the name Orbren Baudelaire to be forgotten.
“Corspret and I will be wanting a room tonight. Could that be arranged?”
Usually His Grace called ahead. Arranging it himself, particularly with such a companion, had intrigue and opportunity written all over it. Business was good, but I was always on the lookout for new revenue streams. Plieids had unwittingly provided several over the years.
“Certainly, Your Grace. I’ll see that the bar in the blue room is freshly stocked so that you won’t be disturbed.”
“Good man! One other little matter: a young lady of my recent acquaintance—a refugee from the fires in Molgra—is looking for work. She’ll be coming in tonight; let her know if you know of anything that might suit her, will you?”
The nickname did occasionally encourage the clientele to involve me in their good works, but if it kept the constables out of Skye Sorjien, so be it.
“It will be a pleasure, Your Grace.”
“It will be quick, then? They won’t suffer overmuch?”
I bit the inside of my lip to keep from laughing. Only Plieid’s would concern himself with whether a murder—several, in fact—was carried out gently enough.
Another glittering party slithered through the speakeasy’s doors.
Chitri, the bald four-hundred-pound block of muscle that acted as my bouncer, glowered as one of four women simpered and put her hand on his chest. The off one out, no doubt. The three men accompanying them wore naval emblems and the kind of smiles that generally led to a tussle at closing time. Still, they must have had the password.
“Certainly not, Your Grace,” Corspret’s attempt at an oily purr tickled in my ear. It had been a cunning bit of engineering that allowed me, and only me, to hear every word said in the blue room from my usual table. Expensive, but the kind of investment that would always pay dividends. “It will be quick and clean. We’ll move as soon as the ink dries on your marriage certificate.”
I smiled a little smugly, although regicide was a step or two outside of my comfort zone. There were myriad ways that I could use this, depending on what outcome suited me best. I would never have guessed that Plieid had the guts. He was Corspret’s pawn, no doubt about it, but it seemed he was a willing pawn.
The marriage bothered me. They’d never said who Plieid’s blushing bride was to be, but I suspected that I’d be meeting her shortly—in the form of a refugee from the fires of Molgra. She must be descended from a popular royal family, someone who would get the nation on Plieid’s side. The Ashims, perhaps, or…or perhaps a princess of Ergriev. Yes. That fit rather well. The country had been sundered through civil war. The remnants of the monarchy would be looking for friends, even if it came at a fiscal loss.
Corspret’s role in this was less surprising. Though the man was thoroughly corrupt, he had the face of an honorable old soldier. Well, two out of three wasn’t bad. As captain of the king’s guard, he had ample opportunity. As the youngest son of an Ergriev transplant, he seemingly had little motive.
The bouncer slid the speculatorium on the door open, exchanged a few words with a potential customer, and slid it shut. The metal door swung open, and an unexpected little mouse in a faded violet scurried in. I’d have to keep an eye on her; between her meek demeanor and raven waves, the barstool vultures had already noticed her.
If I sold Plieid’s secret back to the crown, they’d be most grateful. Gratitude, although an unreliable currency, did have a way of coming in handy. On the other hand, there were several families willing to pay handsomely for an opportunity to flatter and befriend the next king. The early bird catches the worm, or so they say.
It was something of a shock when the mouse came to a halt in front of my table. The sleek hair had concealed a gaunt but arresting face—the face of a woman who’d missed more than a few meals but was too proud to beg for help. The kingdom had seen thousands just like her—displaced and desperate.
This woman was different, though. It was there in the line of her nose—a patrician’s nose softened into a feminine form; it was in the stubbornness of her chin and the depths of her midnight-blue eyes, overflowing with recognition and calculations.
The whiskey sloshed in my glass, splattering the table, as my hand shook. I set it down before I wasted seventy kerns worth of liquor.
This wouldn’t do; I had more control than this.
I motioned for her to sit and signaled for someone to bring her a drink.
Plieid’s refugee was no Ashim or Egriev royal, but she was a princess.
How had this happened? What was I going to do about it?
I studied my new companion, and she returned the compliment, eating me up with those haunted eyes.
It was like staring into a mirror.
And I arrived at a decision.
“I’m not going back to that life. Surviving one revolution was plenty,” I whispered harshly, remembering what it had been like, being smuggled from my home in the dead of night; being someone’s bargaining chip—kept in a cage for easy display.
“If you're of the same mind, I’ll make this problem go away.”
The corners of her mouth lifted, her lips curving in cold amusement. Her head dipped, the coils of her jet hair kissing the edge of the table.
Princess Ideria Baudelaire.
I’d never thought I’d see my family again; never hear my father’s chuckle or my mother singing…or see my sister’s smile.
