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Title: Home is Where You Hold Me (26,473 words)
Chapters: 8/8
Fandom: Original Work
Rating/Warnings: Explicit / Explicit Sexual Content (SFW version available; link in notes)
Characters: Widowed Lighthouse Keeper (OC), Shipwrecked Sailor (OC)
Relationships: Widowed Lighthouse Keeper/Shipwrecked Sailor
Summary:
Notes: Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
highadrenalineexchange. T-rated (SFW) version available here
( Excerpt below the cut )
Chapters: 8/8
Fandom: Original Work
Rating/Warnings: Explicit / Explicit Sexual Content (SFW version available; link in notes)
Characters: Widowed Lighthouse Keeper (OC), Shipwrecked Sailor (OC)
Relationships: Widowed Lighthouse Keeper/Shipwrecked Sailor
Summary:
Eight years after being widowed, Esma continues to keep her family's lighthouse on her own, resigning herself to the assumption that this is all life has left in store for her. But when she rescues an injured sailor and agrees to care for him while he heals, she finds her assumption, and her outlook, challenged at every turn.
In an effort to repay her kindness, Argider offers to repair Esma's cabin, which has fallen into disrepair. Hesitant to allow anyone to work on it at first, Esma relents, and finds herself confronting her memories and being drawn back into life itself as the repairs progress and Argider's presence becomes a source of comfort.
Notes: Written for
highadrenalineexchange. T-rated (SFW) version available here( Excerpt below the cut )
(Originally posted on October 22, 2019)
What a Nuisance, What a Waste | 2,717 words | Fantasy
The scorpion was already dead when Carmen found it, a tiny gray-green corpse on the linoleum, its tail stretched out behind it, its deadly instrument laid down like a weapon in surrender.
Still, the sight of it frightened Carmen, not because of the power and danger inherent in its form, but simply because it had gotten in. It had breached the barrier between her and the wild, come into the space where she was the most vulnerable, the space where she thought she was safe.
And if the scorpion had come in, what else might?
She called the exterminator, keeping a wary eye on the scorpion the whole time she was on the phone, seized by the irrational fear that it might spontaneously reanimate and come directly for her. The exterminator was nonchalant about the entire matter, removing the dead scorpion, checking the area for more, then treating the outside of the house. He was leaving as Carmen’s husband returned from work, and stopped to fill him in on the situation.
“So,” Carmen’s husband said, shutting the front door behind him, “I heard you had an interesting visitor today. Where was it?”
“Kitchen,” Carmen answered, a shiver running through her at the memory.
“Already dead?”
“Yes, but —”
“Huh. The last treatment was still working, then. But I guess it was about time for another.”
“Still working? Jim, the scorpion was inside. The treatment isn’t working if it doesn’t keep things out.”
“But it was dead. It must’ve picked up some of the residue on the way in.”
“How can you be so calm about the whole thing?”
“Because it comes with the territory, literally. Once you get out of the city, things like this happen.” Jim sighed. "You know that. And it never used to bother you before."
"That was when things stayed where they belonged. Us inside, them outside.”
“And that’s the case, most of the time. That little guy you found just got lucky — well, maybe not so much, considering the poison got him, anyway. It was a fluke, nothing more.” Jim reached out and pulled Carmen close. "But I know it can be unnerving. What do you say we just avoid the scene of the incident for tonight and go out to eat, instead?"
Despite her uneasiness, Carmen smiled. "That sounds like a very sensible plan.”
She couldn’t help glancing into the kitchen, however, in search of another intruder. There was rarely only one.
( Read more... )
The scorpion was already dead when Carmen found it, a tiny gray-green corpse on the linoleum, its tail stretched out behind it, its deadly instrument laid down like a weapon in surrender.
Still, the sight of it frightened Carmen, not because of the power and danger inherent in its form, but simply because it had gotten in. It had breached the barrier between her and the wild, come into the space where she was the most vulnerable, the space where she thought she was safe.
And if the scorpion had come in, what else might?
She called the exterminator, keeping a wary eye on the scorpion the whole time she was on the phone, seized by the irrational fear that it might spontaneously reanimate and come directly for her. The exterminator was nonchalant about the entire matter, removing the dead scorpion, checking the area for more, then treating the outside of the house. He was leaving as Carmen’s husband returned from work, and stopped to fill him in on the situation.
“So,” Carmen’s husband said, shutting the front door behind him, “I heard you had an interesting visitor today. Where was it?”
“Kitchen,” Carmen answered, a shiver running through her at the memory.
“Already dead?”
“Yes, but —”
“Huh. The last treatment was still working, then. But I guess it was about time for another.”
“Still working? Jim, the scorpion was inside. The treatment isn’t working if it doesn’t keep things out.”
“But it was dead. It must’ve picked up some of the residue on the way in.”
“How can you be so calm about the whole thing?”
“Because it comes with the territory, literally. Once you get out of the city, things like this happen.” Jim sighed. "You know that. And it never used to bother you before."
"That was when things stayed where they belonged. Us inside, them outside.”
“And that’s the case, most of the time. That little guy you found just got lucky — well, maybe not so much, considering the poison got him, anyway. It was a fluke, nothing more.” Jim reached out and pulled Carmen close. "But I know it can be unnerving. What do you say we just avoid the scene of the incident for tonight and go out to eat, instead?"
Despite her uneasiness, Carmen smiled. "That sounds like a very sensible plan.”
She couldn’t help glancing into the kitchen, however, in search of another intruder. There was rarely only one.
( Read more... )
Short Story: "Hero" (Original Fiction)
Nov. 5th, 2021 11:20 pm(Originally posted October 15, 2019)
Hero | 289 words | Fantasy
When I slew the beast besieging my hometown, I found you huddled at its feet, sword chipped and stained, armor streaked with blood and soot. I lifted you gently and carried you home, tended your wounds and bid you to rest. As I turned to leave, you grasped my wrist, and, in a voice as frail as your body, asked of me the impossible.
“Can you stay?”
Stay. You know not the temptation you’ve offered! I would gladly tear out my own divine heart and bleed away the power coursing through my veins just for a chance to stay. To take your hand and lie beside you, to let the world — with all its armies and beasts and fires and floods — carry on outside, to slow down and truly live.
But your words are soon drowned out by other pleas, urgent cries that reach my mind from far-flung regions of the world. I free my wrist from your fingers, and shake my head slowly, sadly, for I am duty-bound, sworn from birth to save those who cannot save themselves, at the expense of my own heart and soul.
My footsteps are heavy as I leave my hometown, my heart weighed down further by the townsfolk’s adulation. For everyone wants a hero, needs a hero, loves a hero, but the hero has no freedom to want and need and love in return.
I am but a force, a vessel of strength, on loan to those most vulnerable, belonging to no one. Not even myself.
Not even you.
As I slay the army besieging the hinterlands, my wrist still burns from your touch.
No, I could not stay with you.
But it seems you have a way of staying with me.
When I slew the beast besieging my hometown, I found you huddled at its feet, sword chipped and stained, armor streaked with blood and soot. I lifted you gently and carried you home, tended your wounds and bid you to rest. As I turned to leave, you grasped my wrist, and, in a voice as frail as your body, asked of me the impossible.
“Can you stay?”
Stay. You know not the temptation you’ve offered! I would gladly tear out my own divine heart and bleed away the power coursing through my veins just for a chance to stay. To take your hand and lie beside you, to let the world — with all its armies and beasts and fires and floods — carry on outside, to slow down and truly live.
But your words are soon drowned out by other pleas, urgent cries that reach my mind from far-flung regions of the world. I free my wrist from your fingers, and shake my head slowly, sadly, for I am duty-bound, sworn from birth to save those who cannot save themselves, at the expense of my own heart and soul.
My footsteps are heavy as I leave my hometown, my heart weighed down further by the townsfolk’s adulation. For everyone wants a hero, needs a hero, loves a hero, but the hero has no freedom to want and need and love in return.
I am but a force, a vessel of strength, on loan to those most vulnerable, belonging to no one. Not even myself.
Not even you.
As I slay the army besieging the hinterlands, my wrist still burns from your touch.
No, I could not stay with you.
But it seems you have a way of staying with me.
(Originally posted October 5, 2018)
The Spellcaster's Wife | 838 words | Fantasy
Her approach is heralded by an uneven gait, one foot dragging slightly in the gravel of the roadbed, and by the clinking of the multitude of little bottles she carries. Not long afterward, she crests the horizon, a woman who is not really old but whose body has been broken down before its time, carrying a large box made of varnished wood with gold latches, an ill-tempered dog with a mangy black coat at her heels.
She had a name, once, but it has long fallen into disuse, even by her, and thus been forgotten. Instead, those who recognize her – and they are few, for she is prudent about keeping always on the move – call her only the Spellcaster’s Wife. In so doing, they refer to the great magician of the age, Horatio Cain.
Talented and handsome, with hair so dark it shone blue, Horatio had as strong a draw toward the company of women as he did toward his magic. He met his wife while she mixed potions for a traveling medicine man, and, seeing she was docile and plain and not likely to make a fuss while she made his dinner and washed his clothes and while he spent evening after evening with a bevy of willing beauties, he married her. But, one day, while practicing for a show, something went horribly wrong, and Horatio magicked himself out of existence.
Her source of income gone, his wife was run from their home by the landlord, and learned to survive on the road, selling her potions in the towns she passed through.
And so it was today, when she settled near a stump beneath an old tree and set her box atop the stump, opening it to reveal row after row of tiny bottles filled with colorful liquids and labeled such wondrous things as "Love," "Confidence," "Power," and "Wealth." In front of the box, she propped a hand-painted sign, faded by the sun and warped by the rain, that read simply, "Take what you need."
( Read more... )
Her approach is heralded by an uneven gait, one foot dragging slightly in the gravel of the roadbed, and by the clinking of the multitude of little bottles she carries. Not long afterward, she crests the horizon, a woman who is not really old but whose body has been broken down before its time, carrying a large box made of varnished wood with gold latches, an ill-tempered dog with a mangy black coat at her heels.
She had a name, once, but it has long fallen into disuse, even by her, and thus been forgotten. Instead, those who recognize her – and they are few, for she is prudent about keeping always on the move – call her only the Spellcaster’s Wife. In so doing, they refer to the great magician of the age, Horatio Cain.
Talented and handsome, with hair so dark it shone blue, Horatio had as strong a draw toward the company of women as he did toward his magic. He met his wife while she mixed potions for a traveling medicine man, and, seeing she was docile and plain and not likely to make a fuss while she made his dinner and washed his clothes and while he spent evening after evening with a bevy of willing beauties, he married her. But, one day, while practicing for a show, something went horribly wrong, and Horatio magicked himself out of existence.
Her source of income gone, his wife was run from their home by the landlord, and learned to survive on the road, selling her potions in the towns she passed through.
And so it was today, when she settled near a stump beneath an old tree and set her box atop the stump, opening it to reveal row after row of tiny bottles filled with colorful liquids and labeled such wondrous things as "Love," "Confidence," "Power," and "Wealth." In front of the box, she propped a hand-painted sign, faded by the sun and warped by the rain, that read simply, "Take what you need."
( Read more... )
(Originally posted on October 15, 2019)
The Visitor | 787 words | Fantasy
"It’s not always like this,” I assured the visitor, stomping the snow off my boots at the entrance to the library. "In fact, it’s never been like this in my lifetime. It’s been nearly two centuries since this region’s seen snow."
The visitor simply stretched their thin lips into a mirthless smile and shook the snow from their own shoes. The walked into the library ahead of me, silent as they’d been since their arrival.
This visitor really was a mystery. They had come into town the morning following the first snowstorm, as if they’d been blown in on the cold winds. Clothed in gray robes fraying at the edges and wearing an enormous dark hat, all but their mouth and chin were hidden from my view. They communicated through writing and gestures, and, immediately upon their arrival at our inn, asked to be brought to the town library.
Now, in the relative warmth of the library, the visitor shed no layers, but walked directly to the shelf of books pertaining to local geology. They picked three books from the shelf with unexpected delicacy, and settled at a table in the far corner to read.
( Read more... )
"It’s not always like this,” I assured the visitor, stomping the snow off my boots at the entrance to the library. "In fact, it’s never been like this in my lifetime. It’s been nearly two centuries since this region’s seen snow."
The visitor simply stretched their thin lips into a mirthless smile and shook the snow from their own shoes. The walked into the library ahead of me, silent as they’d been since their arrival.
This visitor really was a mystery. They had come into town the morning following the first snowstorm, as if they’d been blown in on the cold winds. Clothed in gray robes fraying at the edges and wearing an enormous dark hat, all but their mouth and chin were hidden from my view. They communicated through writing and gestures, and, immediately upon their arrival at our inn, asked to be brought to the town library.
Now, in the relative warmth of the library, the visitor shed no layers, but walked directly to the shelf of books pertaining to local geology. They picked three books from the shelf with unexpected delicacy, and settled at a table in the far corner to read.
( Read more... )
(Originally posted on October 26, 2019)
You Keep Me Warm | 1,899 words | Fantasy/Horror | WARNING for blood, animal death, and animal predation
In summer, she was shorn, and in winter, her wool was worn, and Lady would come to say, “Thank you; you keep me warm.”
It had been that way for years now. How many, though, the sheep could not tell, for she was not a bright creature — nor did she ever claim to be — and had never learned to count. But she knew that when the sun got too warm, Farmer and Lady would corral her and the other sheep, and, one by one, strip them of their old wool.
She’d been frightened the first time, staring at those metal shears, but once she was let back into the field and felt the warm breeze against her skin, she knew Farmer and Lady had done her no harm.
She always felt a swell of pride, too, whenever Lady thanked her, having spun her wool into a peculiarly colored coat of her own.
And so, the sheep lived, her life marked by the seasons, punctuated by the birth of lambs and the loss of her wool. It was a peaceful life, and, knowing no other, she was content.
( Read more... )
In summer, she was shorn, and in winter, her wool was worn, and Lady would come to say, “Thank you; you keep me warm.”
It had been that way for years now. How many, though, the sheep could not tell, for she was not a bright creature — nor did she ever claim to be — and had never learned to count. But she knew that when the sun got too warm, Farmer and Lady would corral her and the other sheep, and, one by one, strip them of their old wool.
She’d been frightened the first time, staring at those metal shears, but once she was let back into the field and felt the warm breeze against her skin, she knew Farmer and Lady had done her no harm.
She always felt a swell of pride, too, whenever Lady thanked her, having spun her wool into a peculiarly colored coat of her own.
And so, the sheep lived, her life marked by the seasons, punctuated by the birth of lambs and the loss of her wool. It was a peaceful life, and, knowing no other, she was content.
( Read more... )
(Originally posted on October 30, 2019)
Mockingbird | 1,820 words | Fantasy
It is long-forgotten knowledge that mockingbirds could once mimic more than other birds. They were skilled shapeshifters back then, blending in with herds of wild animals, and even, sometimes, with humans. They would laugh and roam and enjoy the feeling of a different body, a different way of moving, a different way of communicating.
But they had among them one fast rule: when it came time to eat, they ate as birds. For, ultimately, that is what they were, and the shape they must always return to, and they knew that if they tasted the foods other animals – especially humans – consumed, the insects and berries they feasted upon now would never again satisfy.
And so they lived and played, vibrantly, mischievously, learning to form human words on their tongues, nosing the pastures with the livestock. At night, they’d shift back to roost, and fall asleep to the sounds of crickets and frogs, and the occasional lovelorn male serenading the stars, hoping some unpaired female might be moved to pity.
All was fine until one remained out too long, in the form of a human man, singing and cavorting with other humans at a village festival, unable – or unwilling – to find a bit of privacy in which to change back. His feet ached and his stomach felt hollow, but still, he danced. He enjoyed the movement of his limbs, seemingly pulled along by the rhythm of the music; he enjoyed the laughter and cheer around him; and he especially enjoyed the warmth of the women he pulled close when the music slowed, so that they might sway to the rhythm together.
As the sun set and the stars faded into view, the mockingbird grew more reluctant to leave. What he had here was a life – light and company and attention. And all he had to return to was a lonely branch and a nightly song that had already worn his throat raw. The choice was a simple one: he would stay a man, just for a few days more, and he would eat and drink with the other people, and prove to the rest of his kind that there was nothing to fear in that.
( Read more... )
It is long-forgotten knowledge that mockingbirds could once mimic more than other birds. They were skilled shapeshifters back then, blending in with herds of wild animals, and even, sometimes, with humans. They would laugh and roam and enjoy the feeling of a different body, a different way of moving, a different way of communicating.
But they had among them one fast rule: when it came time to eat, they ate as birds. For, ultimately, that is what they were, and the shape they must always return to, and they knew that if they tasted the foods other animals – especially humans – consumed, the insects and berries they feasted upon now would never again satisfy.
And so they lived and played, vibrantly, mischievously, learning to form human words on their tongues, nosing the pastures with the livestock. At night, they’d shift back to roost, and fall asleep to the sounds of crickets and frogs, and the occasional lovelorn male serenading the stars, hoping some unpaired female might be moved to pity.
All was fine until one remained out too long, in the form of a human man, singing and cavorting with other humans at a village festival, unable – or unwilling – to find a bit of privacy in which to change back. His feet ached and his stomach felt hollow, but still, he danced. He enjoyed the movement of his limbs, seemingly pulled along by the rhythm of the music; he enjoyed the laughter and cheer around him; and he especially enjoyed the warmth of the women he pulled close when the music slowed, so that they might sway to the rhythm together.
As the sun set and the stars faded into view, the mockingbird grew more reluctant to leave. What he had here was a life – light and company and attention. And all he had to return to was a lonely branch and a nightly song that had already worn his throat raw. The choice was a simple one: he would stay a man, just for a few days more, and he would eat and drink with the other people, and prove to the rest of his kind that there was nothing to fear in that.
( Read more... )
(Originally posted on October 8, 2018)
The Stranger | 1,416 words| Fantasy/Weird West
Mrs. Baker did not appreciate the knowledge that a stranger was buried on her property. Don and Cuddy had come across the body that afternoon while they were repairing the fence. The stranger, they say, seems to have wandered off the road to the mine and died beneath an old mesquite. They rode into town to fetch the sheriff and the three of them agreed the body was too far gone to move, so they dug a hole and buried him on the spot.
“Far as we could tell, his name was Robert Talbott,” the sheriff told Mrs. Baker. “He had an envelope in his pocket – no letter, just the envelope – addressed to this name, postmark Indianapolis.”
Don and Cuddy insisted there was more, but Mrs. Baker feigned delicacy and begged them to stop. Don had already grown too excited. A sturdy boy of seventeen, Don was a diligent worker, but he was also, as the late Mr. Baker had put it, “none too swift,” apt to follow the slightest distraction into wild flights of fancy. Right now he was waving his arms in demonstrative gestures and speaking quickly, unintelligibly, spittle flying from his lips.
As she watched Cuddy calm her son, Mrs. Baker looked in the direction where they’d found the corpse and frowned. She wished they hadn’t buried the body so soon, before telling her; Cuddy knew better than that. She could already feel faint tremors beneath her feet, but there was nothing she could do until she was free of both Don and the sheriff. She made a vague remark about supper, and taking Don by the arm, bid farewell to the sheriff and headed home.
( Read more... )
Mrs. Baker did not appreciate the knowledge that a stranger was buried on her property. Don and Cuddy had come across the body that afternoon while they were repairing the fence. The stranger, they say, seems to have wandered off the road to the mine and died beneath an old mesquite. They rode into town to fetch the sheriff and the three of them agreed the body was too far gone to move, so they dug a hole and buried him on the spot.
“Far as we could tell, his name was Robert Talbott,” the sheriff told Mrs. Baker. “He had an envelope in his pocket – no letter, just the envelope – addressed to this name, postmark Indianapolis.”
Don and Cuddy insisted there was more, but Mrs. Baker feigned delicacy and begged them to stop. Don had already grown too excited. A sturdy boy of seventeen, Don was a diligent worker, but he was also, as the late Mr. Baker had put it, “none too swift,” apt to follow the slightest distraction into wild flights of fancy. Right now he was waving his arms in demonstrative gestures and speaking quickly, unintelligibly, spittle flying from his lips.
As she watched Cuddy calm her son, Mrs. Baker looked in the direction where they’d found the corpse and frowned. She wished they hadn’t buried the body so soon, before telling her; Cuddy knew better than that. She could already feel faint tremors beneath her feet, but there was nothing she could do until she was free of both Don and the sheriff. She made a vague remark about supper, and taking Don by the arm, bid farewell to the sheriff and headed home.
( Read more... )
Drabble: "Nymph"
Dec. 7th, 2020 01:29 pmOriginally written April 3, 2018
Standing waist-deep in the river, beneath the summer stars, she offers him water to drink, and is not surprised when he returns that fall, suitcase and ring in hand.
Had she known that the silt would choke him, that he’d seek to kill the taste with cheap whiskey, and burn a hole in himself to bleed out their love, she might not have made him drink. But tonight she knows only a delicious shiver as her fingertips push past his lips, her hands tilting to pour a devastating future into him. “You’ll be back,” she purrs. “You’ve drunk the water.”
Standing waist-deep in the river, beneath the summer stars, she offers him water to drink, and is not surprised when he returns that fall, suitcase and ring in hand.
Had she known that the silt would choke him, that he’d seek to kill the taste with cheap whiskey, and burn a hole in himself to bleed out their love, she might not have made him drink. But tonight she knows only a delicious shiver as her fingertips push past his lips, her hands tilting to pour a devastating future into him. “You’ll be back,” she purrs. “You’ve drunk the water.”
Short Story: "The Eulogist"
Dec. 6th, 2020 11:55 am(Originally written June 21, 2018)
When Charlotte Bixby was twenty-three years old, her grandfather passed away. Finding no solace in the company of her family and friends, she took pen to paper and composed a touching eulogy to the family patriarch.
She again dipped into the inkwell for her mother and her father, who passed only months apart, one to illness, the other to an unfortunate accident. And both times, as had happened after her grandfather’s funeral, townspeople would approach her and tell her how moved they were by her eulogy, what a talent she had in that mind of hers, and how proud the town was to count someone like her among their own. They told her many pleasant things, but never did a note of sympathy or a simple condolence pass their lips, never did a pair of arms collect her in a tender embrace.
But they sought her out, time and again, to lay their loved ones to rest with beautiful words, no matter how true those words were. And while she genuinely wept for children gone too soon, and spoke with admiration for devout and hardworking men and women, she also spoke well of Sadie Rockford’s cheating husband—who had died under most unusual circumstances—and helped Sadie to bury a saint.
When death came for her, hovering in the corners of her room, the ladies of the town requested she eulogize herself. "No one knows you better,“ they said. They were so insistent that Charlotte, drawing ragged breaths, grasped a pen in her quaking hands and scrawled out a short note. She folded the paper and sealed it with a dab of wax, instructing those present not to open it, but to deliver it to Reverend Adler, so that he may read it at her funeral.
( Continued below the cut )
When Charlotte Bixby was twenty-three years old, her grandfather passed away. Finding no solace in the company of her family and friends, she took pen to paper and composed a touching eulogy to the family patriarch.
She again dipped into the inkwell for her mother and her father, who passed only months apart, one to illness, the other to an unfortunate accident. And both times, as had happened after her grandfather’s funeral, townspeople would approach her and tell her how moved they were by her eulogy, what a talent she had in that mind of hers, and how proud the town was to count someone like her among their own. They told her many pleasant things, but never did a note of sympathy or a simple condolence pass their lips, never did a pair of arms collect her in a tender embrace.
But they sought her out, time and again, to lay their loved ones to rest with beautiful words, no matter how true those words were. And while she genuinely wept for children gone too soon, and spoke with admiration for devout and hardworking men and women, she also spoke well of Sadie Rockford’s cheating husband—who had died under most unusual circumstances—and helped Sadie to bury a saint.
When death came for her, hovering in the corners of her room, the ladies of the town requested she eulogize herself. "No one knows you better,“ they said. They were so insistent that Charlotte, drawing ragged breaths, grasped a pen in her quaking hands and scrawled out a short note. She folded the paper and sealed it with a dab of wax, instructing those present not to open it, but to deliver it to Reverend Adler, so that he may read it at her funeral.
( Continued below the cut )
Drabble: "Epistolary Killer"
Nov. 18th, 2020 04:50 pm(Cross-posted to 100words)
She sat at her desk and pricked her finger with a pin, then squeezed a drop of blood into the inkwell, smiling as the ink steamed and bubbled in response. She took her time with the words, crafting her letter to her client's specifications, composing it to keep her mark reading and blissfully unaware of the letters detaching themselves from the paper, until each line wrapped around his body, smothering him in sweet nothings.
When the police investigated later, they'd find no weapon, no forced entry. Just pools of ink and half-swallowed words spilling from his mouth, saccharine and insincere.
100words)She sat at her desk and pricked her finger with a pin, then squeezed a drop of blood into the inkwell, smiling as the ink steamed and bubbled in response. She took her time with the words, crafting her letter to her client's specifications, composing it to keep her mark reading and blissfully unaware of the letters detaching themselves from the paper, until each line wrapped around his body, smothering him in sweet nothings.
When the police investigated later, they'd find no weapon, no forced entry. Just pools of ink and half-swallowed words spilling from his mouth, saccharine and insincere.
Drabble: "Víbora"
Nov. 1st, 2020 05:03 pmTitle: Víbora
Fandom: Original Fiction
Characters/Pairings: Original Characters
Word Count: 100
Rating: G
Summary: Even when her blood runs warm, she won't belong with him.
Notes: Cross-posted fromanythingdrabble
She left her ring in the ashtray, where she was sure he would look, if not right away, then when his latest pack ran out and he began fishing for old butts. It wasn't that she didn't love him; harsh breath and stained teeth aside, he was kind, if quixotic. But she'd told him from the start, she belonged to the desert, and when the autumn rains arrived, an ancient memory pulled her back there and into her cast-off skin, and she slunk beneath the sand to slumber until the spring bloom, trading for this renewal all memory of him.
Fandom: Original Fiction
Characters/Pairings: Original Characters
Word Count: 100
Rating: G
Summary: Even when her blood runs warm, she won't belong with him.
Notes: Cross-posted from
anythingdrabbleShe left her ring in the ashtray, where she was sure he would look, if not right away, then when his latest pack ran out and he began fishing for old butts. It wasn't that she didn't love him; harsh breath and stained teeth aside, he was kind, if quixotic. But she'd told him from the start, she belonged to the desert, and when the autumn rains arrived, an ancient memory pulled her back there and into her cast-off skin, and she slunk beneath the sand to slumber until the spring bloom, trading for this renewal all memory of him.
Drabble: "Solar Flamingo"
Jan. 8th, 2020 02:42 pmHe sits on the windowsill, half-hidden by the blinds, his plastic plumage fading, but his posture still as proud. Not quite forgotten, but not oft-remembered, he nevertheless continues his work, diligently, tirelessly, from the first rays of the sun to the last. His tiny wings flap in a steady rhythm, laying the cadence for the march of time.
Click, click, click, the day is fading.
Click, click, click, the future is now.
Click, click, click, savor the moment, for it passes in the flap of a wing.
Click, click, click, remember I'm here, watching the sun, driven by its glow.
Click, click, click, the day is fading.
Click, click, click, the future is now.
Click, click, click, savor the moment, for it passes in the flap of a wing.
Click, click, click, remember I'm here, watching the sun, driven by its glow.
Short Story: "Fanfiction"
Dec. 23rd, 2019 02:31 pmWhen the end arrives, it does so far too soon for her. There is too much left to be said and done, too many lives left unexamined, too much of the world left unexplored, beyond the small window that was offered her. When the end arrives, accented with flourishes befitting the conclusion of an epic, it gives her no sense of closure. Only restlessness.
Like having a taste of a banquet, before being barred from the hall.
She carries the end with her for days, for months, for years – turning it over in her mind all the while, wishing she could go back to the beginning, wishing she could tear it down and go further. It is very much like grief, she realizes; grief on a small, trivial scale, but grief nonetheless.
Her heart aches for those she left behind. Her soul longs for stories left untold. Her mind races with possibilities, with words left unspoken, unwritten; with lore and conflicts gone unrecorded; with confessions not whispered, warm touches not shared.
Pasts and futures and what-ifs. Legends and relationships and a whole wide world to contain them all.
A world larger than her mind, she hopes, for her mind has grown so full of ideas, of characters and concepts and circumstances, that she feels she will not be able to hold them in much longer.
And she can't. They dribble out, bit by bit, onto the margins of notebooks, onto computer screens, onto the backs of old receipts. Funny, naughty, introspective, tragic – all cathartic. Little reunions with people who never were, but who feel as familiar as friends. Little discoveries in a world that can never be, but is no less real for it.
She takes these driblets, these sketches, these drops of new life, and she lays them over the flourishes of the end, building onto the frame of the story, building upon the bones of the world, sculpting, forming, finding satisfaction in the task.
Finding herself.
A fresh sheet of paper, a blank computer document, a battered notepad. A sharpened pencil, a chewed-up pen, a blinking cursor. An end that came too soon for her.
My end. Your end. Their end.
Her beginning.
Like having a taste of a banquet, before being barred from the hall.
She carries the end with her for days, for months, for years – turning it over in her mind all the while, wishing she could go back to the beginning, wishing she could tear it down and go further. It is very much like grief, she realizes; grief on a small, trivial scale, but grief nonetheless.
Her heart aches for those she left behind. Her soul longs for stories left untold. Her mind races with possibilities, with words left unspoken, unwritten; with lore and conflicts gone unrecorded; with confessions not whispered, warm touches not shared.
Pasts and futures and what-ifs. Legends and relationships and a whole wide world to contain them all.
A world larger than her mind, she hopes, for her mind has grown so full of ideas, of characters and concepts and circumstances, that she feels she will not be able to hold them in much longer.
And she can't. They dribble out, bit by bit, onto the margins of notebooks, onto computer screens, onto the backs of old receipts. Funny, naughty, introspective, tragic – all cathartic. Little reunions with people who never were, but who feel as familiar as friends. Little discoveries in a world that can never be, but is no less real for it.
She takes these driblets, these sketches, these drops of new life, and she lays them over the flourishes of the end, building onto the frame of the story, building upon the bones of the world, sculpting, forming, finding satisfaction in the task.
Finding herself.
A fresh sheet of paper, a blank computer document, a battered notepad. A sharpened pencil, a chewed-up pen, a blinking cursor. An end that came too soon for her.
My end. Your end. Their end.
Her beginning.
Short Story: "The Door"
Dec. 4th, 2019 03:05 pmThe door appeared once every five hundred years, high on the wall of an icy cavern. And it remained for only one night, when the moon rose in just the right trajectory, and revealed a path to it.
No one knew exactly what lay behind the door, for many who sought to pass through it never returned, bested by the cold, or cut down by other men with the same goal in mind. It was rumored to lead to the thrones of the gods, who would grant the wish of the first person to cross the threshold.
And a rumor was more than worth fighting for.
It was to die for.
Gidren pulled the sword out of the man’s stomach, drawing the blade against his frail, grasping hands, coaxing out crimson blooms in its wake. When at last the man ceased to flail and moan in the pool of his own blood, Gidren turned toward the door.
He was here.
He was first.
( Keep reading )
No one knew exactly what lay behind the door, for many who sought to pass through it never returned, bested by the cold, or cut down by other men with the same goal in mind. It was rumored to lead to the thrones of the gods, who would grant the wish of the first person to cross the threshold.
And a rumor was more than worth fighting for.
It was to die for.
Gidren pulled the sword out of the man’s stomach, drawing the blade against his frail, grasping hands, coaxing out crimson blooms in its wake. When at last the man ceased to flail and moan in the pool of his own blood, Gidren turned toward the door.
He was here.
He was first.
( Keep reading )
Cottonwood Bride | 2,358 words | Fantasy
Trees in the desert are cunning. They guide the weary traveler to water, but they may very well demand a price for doing so. Paying that price is up to you, if you are wise. So, go, drink and rest and refresh yourself, but be wary when the trees begin to speak. They will welcome you, comfort you, lull you into trust, and then, they will begin to question. Think carefully about your answers, and remember, it is no sin to leave.
Whatever you do, don’t say yes to the trees.
It is a tale as old as the valley itself, a warning passed down through generations. Manuela had heard it all her life, from her mother, aunts, and grandmothers, but with the sun on her back and a dying child in her arms, the legend was the furthest thing from her mind.
She had been traveling, as part of a disparate group, to meet her husband in a mining town along the river, some seventy miles from her home. All had been going well until her child had taken ill, and required more than her allotted rations of food and water to recover. Angered that Manuela had brought such a delicate, needy child on such a harsh journey, some members of the group seized upon this temporary inequality as an excuse to deny Manuela and her daughter their proper shares later, reminding Manuela that she was welcome to leave the group, should she believe she could find help elsewhere.
Manuela tried to withstand their treatment, and their jeers, for the sake of her daughter, but, ultimately decided that she stood a better chance of surviving at the mercy of the desert than at the hands of this group. Gaunt from hunger, lips cracked and tongue swollen from thirst, Manuela slipped away from camp one dawn, praying for a miracle.
( Read more... )Bet My Life | 1,137 words | Fantasy
(In response to this prompt.)
----
The door looked like an ordinary office door. Stained wood, polished brass handle, a frosted-glass window with a decal announcing who worked beyond. But the words on the decal made it very clear where I was:
MANAGER
DEPARTMENT OF DEATH
I blinked and shook my head, but the decal remained the same. Bracing myself for what I might find, I pressed down on the handle and opened the door.
The office was surprisingly bright, considering who it belonged to. The lights were turned all the way up, and assisted by a tall lamp in one corner. The manager’s desk was long, made of a dark, polished wood, and scattered with a number of surprising conveniences. A row of books and binders ran along one end, held in place by a pair of abstract bookends. At the other end sat a printer and a tray filled with papers and file folders. A laptop lay in the middle of the desk, still closed, and, behind the desk, the manager was scrolling through something on her phone, the blue glow of its screen reflected in her glasses.
She acknowledged my entrance with a nod and motioned me forward, still scrolling as I sat down across from her.
“The dead don’t get second chances,” she said finally, then set aside her phone and crossed her arms on her desk. "What makes you think you deserve one?”
“I don’t belong here,” I said, simply.
“Everyone says that.”
( Read more... )
(In response to this prompt.)
----
The door looked like an ordinary office door. Stained wood, polished brass handle, a frosted-glass window with a decal announcing who worked beyond. But the words on the decal made it very clear where I was:
DEPARTMENT OF DEATH
I blinked and shook my head, but the decal remained the same. Bracing myself for what I might find, I pressed down on the handle and opened the door.
The office was surprisingly bright, considering who it belonged to. The lights were turned all the way up, and assisted by a tall lamp in one corner. The manager’s desk was long, made of a dark, polished wood, and scattered with a number of surprising conveniences. A row of books and binders ran along one end, held in place by a pair of abstract bookends. At the other end sat a printer and a tray filled with papers and file folders. A laptop lay in the middle of the desk, still closed, and, behind the desk, the manager was scrolling through something on her phone, the blue glow of its screen reflected in her glasses.
She acknowledged my entrance with a nod and motioned me forward, still scrolling as I sat down across from her.
“The dead don’t get second chances,” she said finally, then set aside her phone and crossed her arms on her desk. "What makes you think you deserve one?”
“I don’t belong here,” I said, simply.
“Everyone says that.”
( Read more... )
Short Story: "Siren" (Original Fiction)
Sep. 7th, 2019 07:31 pmSiren | 865 words | Fantasy/Horror
(Inspired by this prompt.)
The years weighed heavy on her, their frustrations and tragedies accumulating like weights around her heart, darkening her vision until all she could see were ulterior motives and impending disaster, dampening her spirit with sharp and bitter homesickness.
She'd been up here for twenty-two years, but walking in the city never got easier. Legs and feet were unreliable things, muscles and tendons crying out in pain over the slightest injury. In her younger days, she'd swum for miles on the open ocean, never tiring; why, then, was walking so hard for her?
Especially when it came so easily to the lesser beings around her?
But she'd made her choice, all those years ago, and she was determined to abide by it. To return home, especially as she was now, was to admit defeat.
And wouldn't her sisters love that?
( Read more... )
(Inspired by this prompt.)
The years weighed heavy on her, their frustrations and tragedies accumulating like weights around her heart, darkening her vision until all she could see were ulterior motives and impending disaster, dampening her spirit with sharp and bitter homesickness.
She'd been up here for twenty-two years, but walking in the city never got easier. Legs and feet were unreliable things, muscles and tendons crying out in pain over the slightest injury. In her younger days, she'd swum for miles on the open ocean, never tiring; why, then, was walking so hard for her?
Especially when it came so easily to the lesser beings around her?
But she'd made her choice, all those years ago, and she was determined to abide by it. To return home, especially as she was now, was to admit defeat.
And wouldn't her sisters love that?
( Read more... )
