Arovolutionary's writing blog. Been getting back into writing, and challenging myself, so it's a place to share it, and stuff I like. I love constructive criticism for my writing, so don't hold back.Won't be writing any romance.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial’s prompt ‘cold body’.
Fingers sickly to a touch.
Was the fabric always rough?
The scrape of a glove pulled tight
fingers curled to icy claws.
White, the world in fading light
Legs no longer feel like yours
A body frozen, ploughing on
Skin that’s burning for the sun.
At last, the orange glow ahead
A desperate gasp for waning eyes
Heavy now, your feet do tread
Like a moth that for the candle flies
Blinded, the door open wide
It burns but still you step inside
The colours of the world within!
Shades of yellow, red and green
The pigments swarm your aching skin
No barren white there to be seen
Cheeks and fingers burn and itch;
the sharpest pleasure of a scratch
It’s nothing to delightful pain
The burning mug between your palms
The precious liquid that you drain
A blissful rich and soothing calm
In sips of chocolate, dark and sweet
with burning fire at your feet
At last the ice begins to fade
First your stomach, then your skin
Quietly, in comfort laid
And now the sleep
it enters
in
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial‘s prompt ‘yonder hills’.
To sleep on a hill beneath the stars
Brings blessings plenty
To joyful hearts
Okrel began his laborious journey in high spirits. What had always been an insurmountable distance between him and the hills finally began to close. They still lay out yonder, but they would soon be yonder no more.
Mist rolled out over the fields ahead of him, trapping light above the grass. It swirled and parted as he walked, soaking his trousers in the cold dew and forcing them tight to his legs. Despite the damp, he continued with a smile on his face. His thoughts turned from his home as it was, to his home as it could be.
Yet those who lay in misery deep
Brings shadows forth
That watch and creep
He smiled still when he reached the foot of the hills. All three of them that had stood tantalisingly distant his whole life, now before him.
It didn’t matter which hill he chose, for each were the same, and he started up one. As he rose, he began to consider. What would he do when he reached the top? When he returned? This was the singular moment he had prepared for. Even if he restored his home, what then?
His smile faltered as he reached the half way point. Does he turn back and say he failed? He couldn’t. In failure there would still be tomorrow.
Every step was one step closer to the rest of his life, and he could not shake it. Each step, too, brought him closer to the sky; closer in a way he’d never felt, even in buildings far taller. The sky seemed to surround him, sweeping through him and into every part of him.
He forced a smile as he neared the top. He thought on cakes and friends; family and games; flowers and smiles. Just as he’d practiced. He smiled and laid down.
The stars appeared: first one, shining brightly, and then the rest as the sun slipped below the earth.
Don’t meet the lights
That pass for eyes
For what you see
Is nought but lies
The pounding in his chest would not still, beating out the seconds until tomorrow. The stars pulsed and twisted, coming together in shapes that made the hills feel smaller than pebbles and him no more than an ant. Each shape knew its boundaries, but he did not know them. He felt he should, as each one appeared and faded. As though they belonged to a long distant memory.
More and more shapes came, until the sky itself seemed to bend and reach out for him with tendrils of blackness that covered the stars.
Then the sky was empty.
In the depth of shadow that stretched out on either side, solemn lights glinted in the dark. He watched them, trying to separate the shades of black.
For the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt ‘Barbed Wire
Word count: 645
CW: animal experimentation (no detail), rats
The huge-strange-paw came again; the blue one that visited sometimes. There were others, but she knew this one by smell. It interrupted 718’s meal, fastening tight around her stomach and causing her to drop the grey-dry-food in order to fight it off. She pushed at the strange-blue. Couldn’t bite - never bite; knew what happens if you bite. So push, and twist. It didn’t loosen.
She awoke back in her nest behind the cold-shiny-toothbreak. 720 cleaned her side, soothing the bare skin with black-painscratch-bumps. She touched it wrong, and 718 squirmed to her feet with an loud yell-shout. She pressed her nose between the bars of toothbreak, enjoying the cool, smelling the air and listening to the talk-chatter of the other rats. She nibbled the toothbreak, feeling the ringing in her jaw that eased the painscratch, careful not to bite too hard.
Everyone accounted for - except… she could smell dark-bad-smell across from her. 831 was silent. She called out and got no reply. 832 question-chattered and insisted and scratched, but nothing.
The paw took 831 soon after. It dropped her into an abyss with a deep, sharp, not-rat squeak.
She watched when the paw came next. Watched it lift the toothbreak. Others watched too, and they tried together to lift it themselves. It wouldn’t move.
The next time the huge paw came, it prodded at her ears and neck gently. It almost felt nice, like warm-cleantouch. Then it took 720 as she ate. She did not come back.
When it came again, she was ready. She lifted the grey-food, and deposited it in front of the strange-blue. It didn’t take it, so she ran back for another. A strange muzzle appeared behind the paw, large eyes looking at the grey-food. She ran back and gave it another: it wasn’t taking her, perhaps food it all it wanted. Maybe it only wanted rats. It drew closer, lifted the food to its muzzle, then returned it to her food place.
She pressed herself into the corner, and it plucked her out, dark-trapped between two paws. It dropped her in a new empty nest, identical to her other, but smelling of different rats. There was a sweet-food in front of her.
It took the others one by one, each time opening the toothbreak and with a cleantouch to her head and the same deep not-rat sound, until they were half the number. She ached to pile together, to not be separated by the cold-toothbreak and space beyond. She chattered with them, and they chattered back their loss.
The next time, it came at night. Same one - same sound, same smell - but its paw was not blue and its muzzle was covered in black. It rumbled something different at her - the sound was quieter, more rat-like - and its paw, pink like her own, scooped her up.
She hit the bottom of a soft dark thing. Nest. It felt like nest. She wanted something to line it - fur, leaves - then there was another rat - 697, and another, and another. Better than lining. Warm bodies. Familiar smells and sounds. They pressed together, felt like one being. A breathing mess of rat and tangled tails, as they should be. Happy talk-chatter-asking between them. The nest shook and bumped, until it lurched and stopped.
Many spilled into the new coolfresh-air, but she held on. Outside the rope was toothbreak too, twisted with toothbreak claws that scratched as she passed. She leapt to the ground to join the others in the fresh-green-alive.
They pushed on together into the big-space. The clean-dark air, full of new sounds and smells. She could smell more rats. New rats. Strange rats. She could smell the creature behind her too; saw it stretch an open paw out toward them and shake it as though searching, but they were faster. Then they were hidden in the fresh-green, out in the big-space.
A song I wrote both for AroWriMo and my folk club’s ‘Love, Romance and Friendship’ theme (ignoring the ‘romance’ part).
For the prompt of ‘Self-reliance’ and ‘Non-romantic Relationships’ as they both relate to my thoughts on love. (I also made up a word because it needed to fit the tune)
Lyrics under the cut.
In the light of the day, the cool light of morning
There's a chill in the air, and birds in the sky
And though the fog may roll in and wrap up my senses
I know I’ll be home when the evening arrives
The sight of a good friend, a sweet summer breeze
Contagious enthusement, words branching with ease
Love is in the small things, the embers that glow
What’s left of the campfire when our friends have to go
Love is in the ashes, that keep out the chill
And those who, when gone, remain with us still
I offer my hand to those who would take it
Come together in sadness, or wonder or joy
And though people don't last, this life's what you make it
And happiness shared, well it grows twice as high
The sight of a good friend, a sweet summer breeze
Contagious enthusement, words branching with ease
Love is in the small things, the embers that glow
What’s left of the campfire when our friends have to go
Love is in the ashes, that keep out the chill
And those who, when gone, remain with us still
In a building that's warm, we all come together
We raise up our voices and fill it with song
And though the night has to end, we take it for ourselves
We light up this moment, for we know it's not long
The sight of a good friend, a sweet summer breeze
Contagious enthusement, words branching with ease
Love is in the small things, the embers that glow
What’s left of the campfire when our friends have to go
Love is in the ashes, that keep out the chill
And those who, when gone, remain with us still
Your beauty it shines, through the cracks in your laughter
The tangle of words that spill into the air
And I hope that you find whatever you're after
For to witness you happy, no joy can compare
The sight of a good friend, a sweet summer breeze
Contagious enthusement, words branching with ease
Love is in the small things, the embers that glow
What’s left of the campfire when our friends have to go
Love is in the ashes, that keep out the chill
And those who, when gone, remain with us still
Alone in my work, I'm alone but not lonely
What once were just thoughts, I bring them to life
I add to the world , it's an act of creation
And love for the labor allows me to thrive
The sight of a good friend, a sweet summer breeze
Contagious enthusement, words branching with ease
Love is in the small things, the embers that glow
What’s left of the campfire when our friends have to go
Love is in the ashes, that keep out the chill
And those who, when gone, remain with us still
Cora had never had much interest in people, and had chosen to live alone on the shore for years by this point. When a ship sails close, she has to deal with both her interest in it and the Captain’s interest in her.
Written for AroWriMo week 1
Word Count: 2129
Category: Short story
Prompt: Freedom and Romo/loveless
Theme: Choosing to be yourself
Genre: Fiction, ambiguous historical fiction
CW: Alcohol, Romance reference, guns
It’s a sad life alone on the shore. That was what other people had told Cora before she left; it’s what people still insisted on the odd times they came to visit. She never asked for visitors, but still they came.
She buried her feet in the warm sand, relishing in the way the grains slipped through her toes and blanketed her legs when she shifted. Even the discomfort of the odd shell couldn’t dull the pleasures of the beach, and she lay back to feel the salty air brush past her from head to toe. In the years she’d spent there, there was never silence alone on the beach. There was only quiet.
As she lay there, half buried in the sun-baked sand, a young sailor caught sight of the shore. He had no interest in making land there - he had many miles ahead of him and this was a mere annoyance - and yet his eyes lingered on the place the ocean greeted the land for just a moment. Long enough to see Cora stand and stretch. When he lifted his spyglass to see, her beauty was radiant: if he’d seen a fairer face or more inviting body, he couldn’t recall it. All of the possessions he could own in the world would mean nothing compared to her, he decided.
“Listen up! We’ll weigh anchor here for the night,” he called to his crew, and blew down all who protested that night was far off yet, with their destination still further.
Cora, for her part, had noticed the ship as son as she stood. Its sails billowed like the strangest clouds, listening to the breeze and bending to its will. Despite the uncanny faced and bare breasted mermaid that decorated the prow, the ship was a thing of beauty. Something about it stirred her, awakening a longing to roam further than the bounds of her own shore. When it began to steer for land, it thrilled her more; and when it stopped, she was nearly ecstatic.
Then came the sailors. She had, somehow, managed to forget that such a ship didn’t simply pilot itself. They crossed the waves on a significantly smaller vessel: nothing more than a bowl of finely carved wood, powered by oars and the rowers’ own strength. She watched them pull closer, and made up her mind.
Jack, one of the sailors, rowed with quiet and stubborn determination. He had wished to be home sooner than later, but he would return a much richer man if he could convince her aboard. So said the captain at least, and as much as he was happy to strike the crew down, he never lied.
When the keel of the boat hit sand and she had not moved, he blessed his luck. It was Jack who was first to step ashore, leaping clear of the boat and water before the others had laid down their oars.
“Hello,” he said quickly, realising just as quickly he had no idea what to say.
The man was entirely unimpressive. His face and back had been burnt through many days labouring without shade, and his posture looked somewhere between intimidating and pained. Not to mention that his ‘hello’ came out more like a command than a greeting. Cora bit back her distaste, looked once more at the ship, and returned the greeting.
According to the sailor - who was quickly backed up by his crewmates - the captain had some interest in her. The same captain, she noted, who hadn’t dared to come ashore and speak to her himself. She thanked him silently.
To Jack’s mind she was stubborn and hard to convince; holding out for offers of fine food - not that they had much - and freedom to choose from their stores of alcohol. At the last request more than one of the men had grumbled disapprovingly. To the sailors, gold and silver in the future didn’t stand far above alcohol in the present.
She smiled. It was the kind of smile that was made, not grown, but she didn’t expect the men would know the difference. She made it warm and sweet, convincing, and pretended not to notice how their hands reached for their guns, hanging by their waists.
When an agreement was reached she stepped into the boat, tracing her hands lightly over the well worn grain of it.
“Can I row?” she asked, watching the water part for them.
The niceties were gone now, and she was merely met with the shove of their shoulders as they pulled the boat further from the shore. The ship loomed larger and larger until it left the smaller vessel dwarfed in its shade. Up close she could see the intricate workmanship of the hull: the way it gracefully curved up to the prow, perfect to carve the water ahead of it; the dark timber that slotted together tight and beautiful enough to keep out the raging seas. None of her own joinery had come together as well, as much as she’d worked it, and she desired to study each plank.
When they marched her across the deck, she appeared, to them, to be nervous and distracted. Jack prompted her forwards with the light shove of a boot. The captain stood at the helm, back straight and shoulders squared as he leaned against the wheel. He cut a dashing figure, one appreciated by his men more than Cora herself, and he’d only managed to bolster that in the time since his crew left for shore.
The captain pushed away from the wheel, feigning only partial interest in the woman they’d dragged there for him.
“Captain Rodgers,” he said, reaching out a hand which she took, “Billy to you.” He took her hand and flipped it over, kissing the back of it and giving her his most inviting grin. His men had done well for him, but he noted the way she scanned the ship more than him. “Come, it must be strange to stand aboard my ship. We should retreat to the cabin, it’s much more cosy down there.”
When he moved to dismiss his men, she caught his hand. “Don’t be rude to the men who so kindly brought me to your impressive ship.” She formed a smile again, dragging her hand slowly from his and indicating towards the sailors. “They should join us below. I did let them know that I expect the finest foods. I have come out of my way to meet you after all.”
“Anything you wish.”
He led the way down to the cabin. It was poorly lit, just a few candles - certainly not enough to continue admiring the workmanship of the vessel. It was cosy however, dressed in fine linens and tapestries.
“This is a merchant vessel?” she asked, looking at the silks and coloured fabric.
“We do pretty well for ourselves.” The Captain smiled and sat himself down in a comfortable chair, indicating another for her use. The crew seated themselves on stools and the floor. “I had our cook make you a small meal, a sample of what we have to offer.”
A tough looking man came through the adjoining door with plates of meats and bread, and fine alcohol. He set the meal down in front of her, and waited. When she nodded her thanks, he retreated from the room entirely.
“I shan’t eat alone - nor see your hard working crew starve while we feast. I am sure you have enough for everyone?” She conjured that smile once more, watching the surprise on the crew members’ faces. “The cook too! We should celebrate this fated meeting after all!” she insisted, “and how better than a feast for all involved?”
After a moment’s hard consideration, he decided that she would be worth the loss of respect by the crew. He could eat hard tack for the last leg of the journey if he must.
A greater feast was quickly prepared and served. Bodies grew loose and spirits looser as they dined, laughed and talked. The sailors made merrier than they had in a long stretch, and soon felt sated and heavy.
Before they started on the next round of alcohol, Cora took her moment. “Perhaps you would like to hear a song?” she asked, flutter in her heart and a song ready to leap from her lips.
The Captain leaned in close. He mused on the beautiful voice she must possess, and brushed a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Regail us,” he commanded in a whisper, sitting back to watch her rise before him and the crew.
No one offered instruments to accompany her, and the cabin grew not quiet, but silent; even the lapping of the waves against the boat couldn’t break it. Into that silence, she stretched her voice. She allowed it to fill every inch of the space the sailors had vacated, reaching for the songs that she had long since not needed to use. A smile grew naturally on her as she sang, and when she opened her eyes she found every eye in the place closed, and every chest rising and falling softly in the embrace of sleep.
The Captain slept too, face frozen with the appearance of a drunken stupor and lost in dreams of a pretty face and gentle voice.
Cora crept quickly past them, paying attention to nothing but the door the Captain had indicated as his private quarters. True to his claims, she found leather purses bulging with enough gold and silver to keep someone in comfort for a long time. She fixed them to her waist with a belt. Beside the door sat the Captain’s gilded sword, ornate but still ready for action. It appealed to her for some reason, and she took that and the brace of guns beside it.
It was hard to walk quietly as encumbered as she was, but she took each step back past the sleeping men with caution. When she finally found herself on the open deck, she stood at ease. In the bright moonlight she could see every corner of the ship. Finally they were alone, and she spent some time exploring it with her hands, revelling in the tongue and groove joints and perfect varnished coating - though worn by use as it was. A shame, it seemed, that such a craft couldn’t be piloted alone. She would’ve taken the ship too if she could’ve. Instead, the small boat that had brought her aboard would have to do.
She tied the three small crafts together, quietly apologising as she pried a small plank from the base of two of them before easing herself into the last. Though she’d have liked to winch down slowly, making use of the opportunity to examine the outer hull of the ship, the creaking complaint of the winch when she’d come aboard would likely wake the crew.
Carefully she cut the ropes holding the other two boats until they were barely supported, then swiftly sliced through the rope holding her own. She had to cling to the sides as she and the boat tumbled, and she lurched to the side when the other boats dropped. It was probably sheer luck by which hers landed upright in the water, with a crash that could’ve woken the dead - let alone the sailors. She had to work fast. Cora cut away and pushed the other boats towards the sea - watching hopefully as they moved away and began to sink - before taking her sword and beginning to row.
The Captain awoke with a start at the sound of something crashing into the water. He searched the room quickly for the maiden. Only to find nothing there but his groggy crew, awaking and stretching.
“Get up there and find her!” he commanded, booting one man through the door and racing to the deck. When he got there and looked over the side, he saw two of his yawls making their way very slowly beneath the waves, while the other was partway towards land. Not only that but it was being rowed, by the maiden he’d brought aboard, with his own finest sword.
Cora could hear the Captain’s cries of rage and accusation towards his crew over the calm waters and mild wind. She had half a mind to call back, if she could see herself being heard over his outrage. Instead, she kept rowing and left him to his madness.
The next morning the sun reached, long and golden, across the shore. At the edge of the shore, where pleasant sands turned to tufts of hard grass, Cora’s shadow stretched across to the edge of the water. She stepped back from the small boat, and smiled at the way her name looked on the side of it.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial ‘s prompt ‘Turn Back Time’. Also an exercise in visual description, since i need to improve at that.
Words: 589
The old clock tower chimed in the distance. It had not chimed in many years, and would not chime again.
Though many trees stood between the clearing and the tower, it was as though they had grown in deference to it: if you stood in the centre of the clearing you could see its face easily between the branches and leaves. Many crows, alarmed by the sound, had taken into the air and hovered behind it like a shadow. When the bell struck its last blow, a person, who had been laying in the centre of the clearing, sat up.
The boy was tired. He stood, leaving a perfect silhouette of charred grass behind him, and watched the crows settle.
It wasn’t as though he knew the tower, he was sure of that, but something about it compelled him. When the final crow had returned to their roost, he started his walk towards it. Small creatures skittered quickly away with each footstep, disappearing back into the shadows, and the boy tried to recall his name. He was certain he’d had one - everything had to have a name - but it evaded him. As that proved fruitless, he looked at the things around him; he decided on a strange creature sitting on a stone nearby.
The creature’s body was soft, covered in short grey hairs, while their face - just as soft - was covered in brown. Rather than a nose like the boy’s, which protruded strangely from his face, their face smoothly transitioned to an equally soft point. The most distinctive thing about them was a long appendage from their back. It was covered in much longer hairs - mostly grey but some black and brown too - which bristled slightly to make it seem broad. The creature watched him through beady black eyes, and the boy remembered: squirrel. That seemed like a strange name for a creature, but he was sure of it. It didn’t seem to hold any clues for his own name, however.
As the boy continued ahead, keeping the clock’s face always in sight, he considered the letter ‘R’. It was R-something, he was sure… he gave up, opting instead to name the creatures that crossed his path. He had named beetles, mice, shrews, flies, rabbits and snakes before long, and the clock face seemed closer than ever. But still he could not recall his name.
When he grew close enough to touch the base of the tower, he froze. Something cautioned him away; said that he should not move closer. Yet, when he attempted to turn away, he found that he could not - perhaps his name would be inside, or some such clue.
The tower itself looked old. It was round and twisted up out of the ground. Moss grew in tall lines up its brick sides, breaking up the red-brown and giving weight to the idea it had perhaps been grown and not made. The boy touched the brick, feeling it crumble slightly beneath his fingertips, before circling to find an entrance. Tucked behind a bush, around the other side of the tower, he found a small window.
He put one foot through, and then the other. The tower was dark inside and, with no light source to guide him, he dropped down. He seemed to drop for a long time before he finally landed.
When he opened his eyes, he was in the middle of a clearing.
The old clock tower chimed in the distance. It had not chimed in many years, and would not chime again.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial ‘s prompt ‘Comfort in The Cold’. 640 words.
Out beyond the land, nested amongst the waves, a jagged island of black rock stood proud against the embittered winds. It was a place that most people didn’t know, and very few had visited - not even such seafaring creatures as might scurry or fly to some secluded pool to feed or recover would call it home. Every now and then a seed might find its way ashore: the pod would crack, life rearing its hopeful head, only for it to find nothing of value and die before it had a chance to live. Even seaweeds and filmy algae struggled for grip on those rocks.
The air was ripe with energy the day Morgan’s ship found it. Any good sailor could’ve tasted the storm on the way and, with nothing but the stubborn rock for miles around, ey brought eir ship to shore. The place stretched out, unmarked but for where the black stone, wet from the spray, showed the sky its own reflection. Moody, Morgan would call it, ready to throw a tantrum that could drive em and eir ship from the rock if it saw fit. Yet, for some reason, ey decided to stay and wait.
It wasn’t long before ey had explored the full breadth of the rock, finding nothing, and the wind picked up to leech the warmth from eir bones. The wind cut deep, and yet ey remained, watching eir ship toss to and fro in the jaws of the sea. Ey sat and watched for long enough that eir clothes clung tighter to em than a nursing infant. Groans and creaks of dissatisfaction came from the wood, which sounded close to giving up until, suddenly, it stilled. The wind itself roared on, and lashings of rain had joined its fury, but the vessel swayed gently as if on the calm moorings of a lake.
Morgan stood, perplexed and yet somehow not surprised. When ey ventured close enough to see through the building torrents, ey found the ship blocked in by a pillar of stone. Ey turned back to see the rest of the island. A flash of lightning struck fast from sky to ground and cast a dark silhouette through the curtains of rain. When the light disappeared, it vanished into the storm once more.
Despite the promise of supplies it held, Morgan did not consider returning to eir ship. Ey chased the shape - moving with renewed vigour at every flash that showed it again - until ey stood at the door. The door. A door within the solid stone, black as the ground, which seemed to have grown from the hard ground as any tree might from the earth. Yet in the sheer surface, the door was unmistakable. Ey reached out and pressed on the stone gently, as if to simply confirm its presence. It opened inwards. When ey stepped within, the cold seized eir limbs.
A sigh of contentment rippled through the stone and, back on the shore, the pillar sank into the waves.
There was nothing remarkable inside; an empty room but for a small campfire in the centre. Morgan scrambled up, pulling frozen foot before frozen foot, until ey saw a small pile of wood in the corner. A match box sat invitingly beside it.
The wind met the ship with sudden fury at having been denied: it tore through the mast; the hull; the cabins. It dashed it all against the rocks, then dragged the ruins out to sea.
The fire lit as quick as any Morgan had seen and, once eir body was warmed enough, ey fell back into a chair. Clothes drying, limbs warming, and safe from the roaring storm outside, Morgan felt more comfortable than ey had imagined in a long time. Ey slipped into a deep sleep, dreaming of easy winds and a home of black stone.
A (very) short thing for @flashfictionfridayofficial ‘s prompt ‘On My Way Home’. cw: grief
He gripped the steering wheel. Beyond the windows, the night closed in on all sides. Pressing on was the only option, but he watched the edge of the road regardless: plants, illuminated on one side as he passed, faded gently into the black non-space beyond them.
The promise of home lay ahead.
Usually this promise would justify the tension in his neck; the white grip of his knuckles; the oppressive blackness that swallowed everything.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial‘s prompt ‘Child of The Wild’. Tried to turn it on its head a little.
Words: 604
With every step Imran left the warmth of the trees further behind. The rich earth gave way to lifeless grey, his footsteps became harsher, and the light bore down on him unobstructed but for shadowy blocks. Tree roots had cracked the grey in places, and in yet others moss had begun to find a foothold. The forest was, slowly, bringing order back; for now, it was in a strange limbo.
The silence seemed to draw in close around him. He recalled stories of creatures that bit but did not bleed, or who could roar and rip you apart without a touch.
All around, the grey grew into imposing pillars. They revealed nothing of their growth, and channeled wind through the valleys between them. They were hollow and held yet more things that bore no history: tables, chairs and boxes, and others that were less familiar. These had been homes, but who could trust their life to something so chaotic? It displayed no marks of change or growth; it was without history or pattern.
“Syeda!” he called, and was surprised by the hollowness of his echo. A little way back, birds took into the air and he wanted to join them. Where could she have got to? “Syeda! You shouldn’t be here, you should-” A shape darted from one pillar to the next, too quick to see, and he gripped his spear tighter. “-come back.” He wasn’t a fighter.
Hearing no response, he moved onward. And the safety of the forest retreated further behind him. Eventually he could hear more than his own feet on the strange ground: mutterings, almost like laughter, that hid behind the wind. “Syeda, if that’s you you should come out now!”
Something hit him on the back. He spun suddenly, holding his spear ready. A small stone came to a stop in front of his feet. As he bent to pick it up, something bowled him over. It pressed him down and pinned his spear hand against the hard ground. The ground that had no give, pressing into his ribs and cheek.
“He really does look funny!” a voice said above him, and then he found himself flipped onto his back. The figure on top of him was a child, similar in age to Syeda but so very different.
When he looked to its right, Syeda was wearing a huge grin.
“Got youuuu!” she called in a sing-song fashion. “I told you he was real- dad, this is Rafe.” She gestured proudly to the odd boy sitting on his chest. “Oh, you should get off him now.” She pulled his shoulder and the boy stood up and brushed himself down.
As soon as he was free to, he stood up and armed himself. Rafe, huh? He looked at the kid again. Not as invisible as he’d expected. The child was dressed in strange materials, uniform and consistent in colour and texture - on his top, a garment bright and unnaturally white; on his legs, something less densely woven but coloured like a blue sky on a winter evening.
“He lives here - tell him!” She shoved the kid, who looked less confident now Imran had regained his feet.
“Oh, well, not here exactly. Further in, we-” Rafe shook his head suddenly. “I’m not supposed to say.”
“You really live out here? In the wild?” he asked.
The boy frowned. “This isn’t the wild though. That-” He pointed towards the forest. “-is the wild.”
He looked again at the uncontrollable pillars and inhospitable ground that would give to nothing. No one could live in such a place - certainly not a child. Could they?
The Angels have fallen, and Castiel is human. What does that mean for him?
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial‘s prompt ‘An Angel’s Wrath’. It fit with an idea I’ve had in my head for a while, so here you go.
Castiel should be angry. He should be filled with righteous fury at Metatron, at himself. Angelic wrath should’ve twisted his Grace into a storm, ready to draw anyone into its frenzy.
His Grace should be burning and turbulent. His Grace is gone. The hollow space it left is instead full of screams.
He should be angry, but instead there’s a sweet thickness in the back of his vessel’s throat, and a weakness in his vessel’s stomach.
It’s hard to tell how long he’s been walking. The Earth feels strange beneath his feet, too much resistance where it should give easily. The wind pushes at him too, moving his clothes and hair, and carrying scents in an arrangement he can’t pick apart: generic smells of earth, damp and leaves. And his people just keep screaming. Another odour - something unpleasant this time, and beneath the screaming a roar. He turns - a car, fast. Wings open - no wings. No wings. He jumps.
His vessel’s hands push him from the ground; one burning like singed grace, the palm cut and bleeding. Fragile skin torn open by stones, not honed to weapon sharpness or wielded against him. They should have yielded to him. The skin will not grow and heal.
“It hurts.” This is the pain that humans feel, perhaps. How weak God made these creatures; it’s a wonder they manage to survive at all. He must call Sam and Dean. Tell them the Angels have fallen.
A man, evidently the driver, is first angry and confused, and then kind but still confused by his answers. He offers water and transport, and Castiel takes him up on the latter. Sitting in the confines of the vehicle, the screams recede, quieter than the burning of his hand. The greenery speeds past, separate from himself and his Grace.
The man drives the whole way in silence, before pulling up at a gas station. When Castiel is finally free of the metal box, the man offers him money through the window, for food and calls. The thought of eating unsettles him. He would not be so weak.
He is weak, however. The man using the phone will not put it down when he asks, and he hasn’t the power to make him: though his intent is there, his Grace is not.
“I’m gonna finish this call,” the man says, muffling the mouthpiece of the phone, “then I’m gonna stab you.”
He contemplates his palm and the damage of a few stones, and turns away. Castiel, Angel of The Lord, is at the mercy of men.
“I know you,” someone says behind him.
“I don’t think so.”
“Castiel.”
He searches her face, seeing nothing but human features. No shadow of her wings, or thrumming of Grace beneath her skin, or true face beneath the mask. And yet-
“We met in heaven,” she says. “My name is Hael.”
She must be an Angel then. He knows the name - knew her - but he could not see her. “You’re an Angel,” he says, the words falling dully as he makes himself an outsider. To be an Angel is to recognise your kin. He did not recognise her.
“Am I? What’s an Angel without its wings?”
That cloying thickness appears in his throat again. That’s a good question.
For @flashfictionfridayofficial‘s prompt, ‘Give Up’. I did it again and accidentally got myself invested in a story that was meant to be one off. Oops.
As quickly as she'd awoken, Alysia found herself no longer alone in her room. The bulk of it was bigger than any door or window in the house; it seemed to fill the space entirely. Coarse fur stood on end above its neck and spine, laying damply on its flanks and legs while the bristles followed the length of its winding tail. The tail dragged around her legs and snaked up her side to pass through her hair. It prickled menacingly against her bare neck and shoulders. The door and window had disappeared behind it.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
The beast smiled, lips pulling apart to reveal white teeth. Not fangs, she noted, but flat teeth with canines only slightly pointed where they overlapped the lower row. "Give up," it said. Its mouth didn't move to shape the words, but they appeared fully formed inside Alysia's mind as though they could be her own.
"No."
The grin grew broader: more of a grimace than a smile, as withdrawing lips revealed blood red gums torn at the roots to reveal yellow enamel. It growled from somewhere far behind them, rancid air flooding the room, and the rumble spreading outwards and growing. She felt it first in her feet, then it shook through her legs and stomach to lodge itself in her chest. Her heart's rhythm seemed thrown off, as though it would stop.
"No," she said again, reaching out with her hands and burying them in the dense bristles. They scratched her palms, and she tilted her head. She allowed herself to look.
Its eyes had no shine to them. Black and empty, they seemed to swallow the light whole.
It was at this point that Alysia would usually wake up.
She felt the tail scrape down her shoulder, slowly at first before lashing out to grip her waist. It squeezed and pulled, and the beast's mouth began to open, revealing a deep flickering glow; orange and faint far beyond the teeth. Her face grew warm and damp from its humid breath, and she realised with complete certainty: she was awake.
"Give up." The words roared in her head again. "Gi-"
A faint thudding began, just perceptible beneath the growl until a flash of light cut through the air above the creature. The orange glow flickered, roared, then faded, and the pressure around her waist let up.
The tail fell to the ground limply, followed by the beast itself; thunderous drone silencing and leaving the air empty in the moment it hit the floor.
A figure, human this time, stood up behind it. Before the light, she was little more than a silhouette, bending to pull a sharpened branch from the creature's back.
"You did good," the woman said. The branch dripped a blood as black in the light as the creature's eyes had been. She took a step forwards, paused as though uncertain, and turned on her heels. "This will be gone in the morning. Sleep now, Alysia."
Alysia barely had a moment to find her bed, before she was dead to the world.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial‘s prompt ‘Dreams of Tomorrow’. Just a short one, a character study for the protagonist of my current WIP (which my stuff lately has all been to do with, and I still don’t have a name for).
Alex twisted the string into a knot and pulled it tight.
He liked knowing what would happen tomorrow; that was why he’d left in the first place. Back then nightmares of monstrous shadows, danger and death might as well have been dreams foretelling the next day - he wouldn’t have known the difference.
He scratched at the knot, attempting to pull it loose.
What would he be letting in if he decided to step back into uncertainty? Money for sure, but what else?
It didn’t loosen, and his thumbnail split on the string. He switched to his index finger, eventually managing to pinch the thread he’d been aiming for.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would wake up, eat breakfast, attend his lecture, study, and return home. Then-
The thread came free of the knot, and it slipped apart easily.
Then he would pick up the phone and call him.
He wove the string over and under itself and pulled the new knot tight, before locating the needle and lifting the jeans onto his lap. The hole was only small now, but it would be better to repair it before it got worse. He pushed the needle down through one side of the tough fabric, and up through the next.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial ‘s prompt ‘Drifting in the Wind’. More from my supernatural horror/kinda fantasy horror story/world-building. Whenever I write something from this world it feels like discovering it, so that’s fun. Aside from names. Most of them are changing (and one has already).
Firell watched the world quake and shift. This wasn’t the first place this had happened - they’d heard about Rivo and Graelas just within their lifetime - but it was the first time they saw it. First Yawnar shook and cracked from root to leaf, then the tree disappeared. Centuries of life now no more than a memory. The houses too. And the lake. Gone. It wasn’t a game anymore.
They watched spectral boots rip through the flowers and grasses like nothing. Then, with eyes closed, they reached out for the breeze and time stretched open. Lighter, lighter, until they drifted out on a flurry of wind. Then dropped and hit the earth.
The soil always smelled different on the other side, harder and less giving. Yawnar lay burned and broken on the ground, acrid smoke pouring off it in droves. Behind the tree’s corpse, the boots were not so spectral; filled by two humans as solid as Firell themself. The humans fought and wrested with a third, who seemed weak enough that the slightest breeze would blow them over. The strange figure attacked with an incredible tenacity.
Firell knew that those two were responsible for Yawnar - knew that it was their hands and their boots that tore and burned it. They called on a tree, reaching out with its branch to first one man, and then the other. Then, reluctantly, the thin figure that still shook and clawed at them.
“What the fuck are you?” asked one, jutting his chin and nearly spitting the words as he writhed and pushed against the wood.
Their previous fascination with the species had been replaced with anger. With a flick of their wrist, the branch snaked upwards and blocked the noisy one’s mouth. The other seemed quiet, scared perhaps, but he did not tremble or shout. when he did open his mouth, it was to speak.
“The hawthorn, that-”
“Yawnar. That was Yawnar.”
“I’m sorry- we’re sorry.” He shot a glare to the other, who still struggled against the solid grip.
Been planning to share this song I wrote (and sang). Then with AggressivelyArospectacular happening I decided to do so sooner (the protagonist is, as in a lot of my writing, aro). Nicked the tune in the proper folk tradition from Nic Jones (the song Miles Weatherhill).
Hopefully didn’t miss the event thanks to time zones. Lyrics under the cut:
Come all you who hope for justice
That after the grave it may be dealt
I’ll tell you the tale of young James Mellow
A spirit who on Earth does dwell
His only love it was of music
With subtle strokes his strings would ring
Could bring the lords to their knees in mourning
Or make a mourner to dance and sing
Then in the dark light of the evening
With many drunk on wine and song
There came at last a rival fiddler
Who vowed to do young Mellow wrong
For when they finally slept so soundly
He moved his hands from his fiddle strings
To James’ lips he brought a bottle
And from the night death entered in
When all awoke with the sun that morning
The fiddler cried for all to hear
Lamenting for James Mellow’s passing
As from his eyes fell many a tear
That night they laid him in his coffin
Mourners gathered all around
And as the tears did stain the grasses
The fiddler played a merry sound
The clouds darkened and opened on them
Hearts untouched by the fiddler’s song
The sound it reached James Mellow’s casket
Who awoke to do the fiddler wrong
From his grave his ghost came quickly
A flash of shadow in the light
He wrapped about the jovial fiddler
And turned his daytime into night
Then the song came grim and sickly
With bitter notes of rage and fear
A tempest whipped up, dark and icy
In the hearts of all who’d hear
Mourners awoken from their weeping
Played to the tune of the vicious song
With teeth and nails both blunt and tearing
Ended the man did Mellow wrong
With his body broken, torn and bleeding
He heard the hounds come to carry him on
And with the howls of death impending
He wished to hear James Mellow’s song
So if you find you’re green with envy
And you seek to end another’s song
Think again on young James Mellow
And the sorry fiddler who did him wrong
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial‘s prompt “All I Need”. Set in the same world as Bantan, Better and Fed.
401 words
Need. You desire what you need, and you do what you can to get it. Alex did not want what he needed, and did not need what he wanted; that had been a recurring pattern over his life.
He pulled his sleeve up, watching his washed out skin twist and crack with his movements. All he wanted was to ignore it, but what he needed was - well, that didn't bear thinking about really. He passed the coins between his hands, brushing the pads of his thumbs over the embossing and imagining the copper taste on the tip of his tongue. The air was stagnant in the dark alley, barely there but for the grime that seemed to cling to his skin. He'd been to places like this one many times before, but never like this.
Footsteps approached from the corner - someone small but strong. They carried themselves easily and quickly over the concrete such that their footsteps could be that of a bird or small animal. It was the purposeful way of them that revealed the human behind - well, presumably human. The cloaked figure walked through the red street light and into the dark.
"A?" they asked, stopping at a distance.
Alex nodded, and felt embarrassed that he hadn't made much of an effort to hide himself. He stepped forwards, tipping his face away and holding the money loosely in his fist. "Here."
"I wouldn't make so quick with that much money," the figure cautioned.
Alex stuffed his fist back into his pocket. "You got what I wan- need?"
"Of course." They pulled an average looking bag from their back, unzipping it to retrieve a plastic bag inside. Black and impossible to see through. "New to this?"
Alex nodded again, stomach churning.
"Raw is better. And fresh." They reached into their pocket and withdrew a small card. "If you haven't tried to find others... well, this is a good place to start." He held it out with the bag, such that Alex couldn't take one without the other, alongside his other empty hand.
When he'd given the money and taken the bag, he looked at the small card.
The Lonely Giant
It was like the name of a children's book, but the image below was of a strange horned person in red seemingly roasting someone over the fire. He frowned in puzzlement, and when he looked up the figure was gone.
For the prompt ‘Hidden in The Shadows’ from @flashfictionfridayofficial.
Ended up kinda dark, not sure where the thought came from.
CW for death, suicide, grief
She sinks back and allows the shadows to seep into every empty space of her.
What option did she have?
The last breath escapes his lips, a ghastly hiss over an ominous rattle, and her own pales the air in front of her. Sometimes it takes hours for someone to find them, sometimes minutes, sometimes weeks. Sometimes she’s sure they never will.
It’s a strange curse to be drawn to the places where people spend there last moments. Decades ago she used to call ambulances, police, anyone who would listen. It didn’t change fate. She is brought not to moments of pain or injury, but the moment when the battle is lost. However many troops she may send in assistance.
His dog licks at his cooling fingertips, whining intermittently at his closed eyes and frozen chest.
Lea had spoken to him, of course. While help may be futile, she offered it to those who could still speak. He’d looked at her with surprise and confusion, then a bright smile as his life seeped into the ground. “Finally,” he’d said. No to saving, helping, notifying or mourning. No to friends and family, paramedics or police. She’d not been left with a smile before.
Alone now, she considers waiting to see who’d find him. Something tells her that she could be waiting a long time, and she slips away still hidden in the shadows, heavier than before.
