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written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #365, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Rating: Teen and up
tw: reference to execution
Word count: 909
Purifying The Land
Syden stretched his feet under the table, a motion aligned with the stretching of his arms, in his attempt to wake himself up from a mildly drowsy state. It was early morning, and he was still in his night clothes.
The morning sunlight poured into the room and accented them all in a soft yellow glow as they sat around the breakfast table.
There were seven of them altogether, with the absence of his parents.
The others were engaged in their own occupations, whether it was his brother lost in his tree-shaped silver dais, or his sister talking to their cousin in a hushed voice about a personal matter. He wondered if he was the only one who was still too sleepy to do much talking. Despite appearing more alert than him, the others seemed mostly quiet in their murmuring talk.
Not so with Leighanna.
She talked loud enough for the kitchen maids to hear in the other room, had they been listening.
“Do you ever wonder what foreigners eat?” she asked no one in particular. “I do sometimes… but it’s probably a stupid question. It’s difficult to imagine what goes through the minds of those savages, if they have the ability to think.”
Syden took a sip of his soup from a silver spoon. “Maybe they eat human flesh,” he ventured, looking at her evenly.
Leighanna made a face like she was disgusted.
“I am so glad we live here,” she said. “There are finer pursuits in life for sophisticated people than dirtying their hands with other people’s blood, all in the name of… what, exactly? I see no reason to stoop so low unless you are lowborn to begin with.”
Syden looked into his soup bowl, stirring its contents silently.
“I understand killing beasts,” she went on. “But for a man to kill another man, it’s a deplorable act. Yet, if they were to punish the killers properly, they’d have to hang half the land…” She sighed. “They really are hopeless.”
“Not as hopeless as we are,” said Syden, finding his voice at last. Though he uttered it quietly, he could see that his sister was affected, by her disapproving and indignant glare.
“You talk like one who has blood on their hands,” she said, staring piercingly into his eyes, arctic blue against witching green.
“Maybe I do,” he said, taking a sip of his fruit juice from its tall glass.
Leighanna laughed.
“And I am secretly a Princess of the realm,” she said, finally finding some humour in the room.
_
[Several years before, about a decade ago]
The King sat back in his throne, restless in his seat, feeling a discomfort he hadn’t felt before.
The longer he sat, the more he felt the aches and pains in his body growing.
He dismissed it as merely a problem of needing to replace the worn cushions, and tried to focus his wandering attention back on the task before him.
There was the boy, in the center of the judgement hall, with a guard standing next to him, awaiting his decision. The boy was perhaps about fifteen, though from here, he looked rather small.
The King found himself staring long at his features. Pale skin, and raven-black hair that swept past his chin in wild streams. At first glance, the boy appeared to bear an uncanny resemblance to his lost son.
He had to stare hard to confirm that it was not, could not, be possible.
No. This boy’s eyes were a soft, chestnut brown.
“Is he one of the Order?” the King asked, addressing the guard, who held the boy up by the neck of his robe.
“No, Your Grace,” the man said in a rough-hewn tone devoid of feeling.
“Please…” he heard from a far corner of the hall. It was the quavering voice of a woman, who stood shrouded in a dark robe, held back by another guard. “Have mercy on my son.”
The King took some time pouring over a scroll, reading the detailed written accounts of the conduct in question.
“I am sorry,” he said, at length, having made up his mind following his scrutiny. “But the law is the law. As he is not an ordained Knight of the Order, his actions must be treated the same as any others of his kind…”
“No!” shouted the woman from the shadows.
“The sentence for practicing witchcraft is death.”
At those words, the boy’s legs seemed to become weaker, and the guard had to pull him roughly back up to stand straight. There was a strangled shriek from the end of the hall.
“Is this how you intend to keep the realm clean? By washing it with the blood of the innocent??!” screamed the woman.
He did not make reply, as he had no answer to give. The day’s work was long, and he had other matters to attend to, a large stack of complaints to go through. He could not sit here all day making idle conversation with those who could not accept their fate. Nor did he want to be reminded…
He gestured for the guard to take her away, as the other guard left with the boy through another door.
There were some creatures in this world that were far more dangerous in a herd than they might be alone. That was why it was important to keep them from congregating, from forming a Coven—or worse yet…an army.
Still editing my piece for FFF. It's gonna be my 9th piece for Flash Fiction Friday ^_^ this has been really helping me do world building slowly, and explore characters a bit.
written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #364, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 1,064
One of the Order
When one’s life’s work was done in the middle of nowhere, one cannot expect anyone to know one’s name.
That was one of the traits of his livelihood that he had accepted long ago, without knowing it.
His sword was still hot, having only just been used to impale an otherworldly beast. The mission had come to an end, and Hallon had withdrawn to a hill on which to rest. He sat by himself, awaiting his comrades to join him. They were still down in the lowlands, attending the carcass, perhaps collecting pieces of it to study or keep as tokens.
When he was a child, he had harboured the same wish as most other boys in the realm. He wanted to be a knight of the Kingdom, to gain glory and honor through victories in war. He had dreamt of coming to court after a long series of gruelling battles, helping to keep order in the realm, and being greeted with the cheers of multitudes, flower petals floating through the air.
This day’s enemy had been a single entity, yet with the ability to destroy whole villages if it pleased. Swathed in layers of mist like a silk dress, it had been difficult to mark its features, but every once in a while, as he dodged its attacks and was brought up close during the battle, he glimpsed narrow, milky eyes and spidery black legs with shining talons at the ends. It resembled a giant, ghostly insect, its bluish-grey aura ever draping it in a nearly-impenetrable, smoky cloak. These were the most dangerous of foes, as you could not see clearly its body, nor its weapons, until it was upon you.
This one creature was capable of spreading its mist through villages, to do the job of a small army, killing most anything it touched before dawn.
From what he had been told by his Captain, the creature survived in the deep forests by spreading threads of mist like a poisoned “net” to incapacitate its prey so that they dropped dead or lay dying. It would then come and feed on the immobilized victim. The theory was it had once killed some humans that were camping near the woods by chance, and liked the taste, which eventually brought it into the villages in search of more of the same stock.
Its mist could creep through any crevice and crack, between the windows, and under the doors, so no amount of shuttering and barricading could stop it from affecting its victims. It had also been known for using its talons to pick locks, and its ability to effectively bore through wood…
And now it was dead, thanks to them, and lay a lifeless mass under the moonlight, the blue-grey mist still clinging to its body.
Those of the Order had resistance to certain kinds of magic, but they were still mortal, and while there had been no casualties in this battle, it was not without injuries. Looking down into the valley, he could see one of his comrades wrapping another’s leg in bandages, and offering them a potion as they sat on the wet ground.
This was not a task that knights of the King’s realm would have been capable of performing, however brave they may be. It took a carefully coordinated effort of a team using both physical and magical powers to accomplish such a feat.
Those of the Order did not kill men. Perhaps that was what it took for them to know your name.
Killing monsters did not lead to glory or honors, did not grant lands or titles. Who in the wider realm would look to the trials of those at the edges of the world, when they had their own battles to fight at home?
What little recognition he had was limited to those within his military circle.
And yet, for all the blood he had on his hands, he was proud to say that none of it was human.
_
They arrived at the village late in the night.
There were no garlands, no rain of gold, no cheers pouring from balconies as they rode their horses through the dusky streets. The people were not even awake.
He looked around him, at the houses with their thatched roofs, separated by narrow alleys of dark, cobbled stones. Such a simple life these people lived, open to the elements, with not even a wall around their little civilization to separate them from the darkness that lay beyond.
An army of men would be able to cut right through it, with barely an effort. How much easier for a monster to cause devastation? To leave it all in tatters, bones littering the streets, and blood running down the cracks as on a rainy day…
Tired as they all were, he and his comrades kept erect on their horses, as their Captain led them through the winding paths towards their lodgings.
When Hallon was a child, he had heard the knight’s code. To protect the weak, to fight evil, to act with honor and courage.
He had heard of whole villages destroyed due to the quarrels of men. From the safety of his own home in the realm, he had watched the smoke go up in distant villages, flames swirling to the heavens from mountain-sized bonfires.
He thought back then that he wanted to use his powers to protect people. And that was what he had done every day since he had entered the field.
No one outside their circle might ever know his name, and he would get no favors from the King. What mattered was that these people would be waking up the next morning, and it would be because of him.
_
But he was wrong about them being asleep.
On the contrary, the villagers had been quite restless. They had heard of the deaths that had happened in neighbouring villages, and several of them were out on the streets, gathered in the village square, with torches and simple weapons. The men had been waiting for the creature in case it came there, while the women and children and the elderly stayed inside.
The village chief came forward to meet the Captain, who conveyed the news.
“Take heart, for it is dead.”
And the people’s collective countenances changed from one of tense watchfulness to breathless relief as they rejoiced.
for this week's @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt!
word count: 789
for context, this is all the way back when this pair of characters first met, at 7/8 years old (they're now 303/304 as of A Healing for the Birds, lmao!)
ao3 link
—
Rooks and ravens weren’t known to mix.
Should they do, as they did on this fateful day, their flight paths may cross but never pass, bound for disparate destinations.
Upon the next sunrise, a raven perched on a branch overlooking a hole into the undergrowth. Gnarly roots masked the entrance to the local crow court, the rumoured home of the jackdaws’ Duke.
He watched as all manner of crows emerged from the hole. Rooks, jackdaws, magpies, a handful of hooded crows for good measure. Some cawed at him, others flying out without a word.
Another rook landed at the top of the gap, shifting into the maroon-haired girl he saw yesterday.
“Who are you?” She asked, just as he went into human form and fell backwards, raising his head to see her.
“Hello!” The branch cracked, and fell, sending him to the ground with an “oof!”.
He heard her laughter as he stood up and rubbed the dirt off his legs, offering a dusty hand to her. “I’m Petrius.”
“Oh, you’re the raven I saw yesterday!” She blinked in surprise, beaming. “You may call me Claudia. Do you have time?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” He shrugged. Most days he would be under one of his brothers’ wings, off hunting with the wolves or making fabrics out of deerskin. Other times had them stealing other birds’ eggs, despite their parents’ orders not to do it for fear of the victim being a swan or one of those crows.
“Come along, then.” Claudia smiled, going into bird form as he did the same.
The pair flew over a litany of conifers. Mist from the morning faded upwards, settling as clouds blotting out the sky’s hues.
He wondered where they were going, as a ruin came into view. It lacked two of its four walls, the remainder forming a corner with a single slit window, an arch and a decent chunk of its middle floor hanging on.
A small stream flowed in front of it.
Claudia landed and shifted first, drifting her hand over the archway. “This is my little alcove, I come here if I think it might rain.”
“So you think it’s going to?” Petrius sat upon the grass, looking up at the sky and thinking it would be fine. The grass held no such droplets either.
“I don’t think so.” She sat down near him. “It’s just a nice spot.”
“Then don’t jinx it!” Laughter followed from the both of them, hers fading first, akin to a rook’s caws.
“So what do ravens do?” He watched her trace her fingers into the water. Fish hopped and bounced upwards, one bouncing near enough she pulled her hand anyway.
“Uh, we hunt I guess. Wander the woods, hope not to find any bad eyes.”
“Bad eyes? What’s that about?”
“No one’s ever told you?” He tilted his head a slight, Claudia doing the same. She drooped the other way, and he followed, before telling her the story as his brothers told him.
“Oh, how interesting, my dad never tells me such stories. He always speaks in lessons.”
“Would you like another one?” Petrius gave her a pearly white smile, as he reached his hand into the water and splashed it at her, a fish flopping onto the ground along the way.
She gasped for all the birds to hear, her arms raised out from her cloak, drenched with her hair. “I had my quills in here!”
Petrius descended into laughter, broken for a moment when he got soaked too.
Favours got exchanged and returned upon the stream, the pair splashing their afternoon away.
“Hah, you missed!” He stuck his tongue out, going into raven form as to avoid another splash.
She kicked more water at him, and sat upon the grass to squeeze her hair out.
He shuddered at the clothes stuck to him. Drenched, soggy, the cold water weighing him down. Almost like the rain in a way.
“How do we get back?” He asked, watching a mischievous grin appear on her face, tutting him.
“Like this.” She turned into a rook and shook water everywhere, spreading her wings out.
When she didn’t revert just yet, he did the same, his feathers all the more lighter for it.
The flight back to the crow court’s entrance went without remark. His heart spiked in dread and relief when they landed, though he went into human form to find he was still drenched.
“Will I get to see you again?” Petrius asked, wondering if it was a silly question.
A jackdaw’s caw cut him from his thoughts.
Claudia glanced up at it too, her face alighted in alarm as she looked back to him and shrugged as if nothing happened. “See you later.”
—
Tagging the General taglist for this: (ask/comment/reblog, etc if you'd like to be added or subtracted): @mr-orion @the-ellia-west @thereadingfoz @glassstardust22124 @honeybewrites @ashirisu @drowsy-quill @seastarblue @gioia-writes-and-others @rae-butter @corinneglass @rainbowsnowflake @fourwingedwriter @oddcryptidwrites @ark-inkweaving @bardic-tales @agirlandherquill @wyked-rebellion @oc-writing-corner @kingragnarok-writes @darkluminosity @the-narrator-plague @traderotales @lizardperson
It’s time for extra flash fiction! We cherish these beautiful works you have written and shared with us over the past months. Please check out these amazing flash fiction pieces and show them some love! <3
If you have written an old prompt outside of its deadline and are missing from this list, please let us know and we’ll add you!
The next masterlist will come October 1st!
philosophy of science by @lizardperson
Just sit and heal… by @1nconcievable
Send In Your Skeletons by @jack-of-crowns
The Brilliant Ones by @ark-inkweaving
Bring Her Home by @nyamadermont
Behind the Lights by @holmesianlove
how to win friends and influence people by @lizardperson
Connection by @starkraivennemad
First Battle/Mirror of Youth by @rainbowamory
early morning adoration by @lizardperson
The Best Grandma Could Give Her by @starlightswitch
fandom: original work (ocverse - sugarmommy au)
rating: m
cw: jealousy & a fight resulting from that, self-worth issues
wc: 1,017
prompt: #fff363 on thin ice for @flashfictionfridayofficial
note: the sugarmommy au continues, last seen at #fff360
---
Amir: Right, thanks. Whose terrible idea was that ungodly hour?
Fia: Yours, actually. Sorry 😉
Amir: 😩
"Who are you texting?"
I chuckle and look up from the couch, putting my phone aside. Addie leans in the door, arms crossed in front of her chest. "Amir. Just wanted to remind him of a very early appointment he has tomorrow," I answer. He's not much of a morning person.
She raises an eyebrow. "What, he has you working off the clock now?"
"Nah, it's no big deal."
Addie studies me for a moment. "You two get along well."
"Yeah," I shrug. "Definitely the best boss I ever had." Which isn't exactly a high bar, but still. I really like him as a person; we're on the same wavelength. I wouldn't call us friends, because he is my boss after all - but the lines are getting blurry, considering I'm dating his ex-wife, and they are still friends. So I guess work and private life are blending together a little by now.
She looks at me silently for another long moment, then she calmly asks, "Are you sleeping with him?"
I blink at her. "What?" That came so out of nowhere, she might as well have asked me if I can fly. That would be an equally random, ridiculous question.
"Are you?"
I stare at her, open-mouthed, still processing her words. "Am I sleeping with Amir?"
"Yes."
I'm attempting to make sense of what is happening here, and try to read her face. She doesn't look mad or anything; Addie never gets mad. It's a completely neutral facial expression - but there's this tiny line between her eyebrows she always gets when she's displeased.
I can feel the panic rise inside me, overwhelmed by this sudden mood shift. We were supposed to have a relaxed evening on the couch.
"Addie, what the hell?"
"Are you?" she repeats.
"No?! Of course not?! That's- how-," I stutter, at a loss for words. "What makes you even think that?"
She shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, you're apparently quite close, if you're texting after hours. And he is very handsome, so I can totally understand if you're attracted to him." She says this so casually, as if it wouldn't be a big deal if it were the case - which it isn't - but there's this subtle coldness swinging along in her voice that I've never heard from her before. It scares the hell out of me, and I swallow the lump in my throat. This is bad. I feel like I'm on thin ice, about to break, with no idea how to get off.
I take a deep breath, because I know freaking out will not help. "There's nothing going on between us."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because you're definitely his type, too," she continues, and by now, she sounds accusatory. "And maybe he fits better into your overall life plan. He'd be a great catch if you wanted to start a family."
Addie turns around, walking off toward the kitchen, and I scramble off the couch to follow. "Addie, what are you talking about, I don't-"
"And he's great in bed, too," she interrupts me. "Which you probably already know."
"I'm not sleeping with him!" I feel like I'm about to cry. This is so completely out of nowhere. I didn't even know she could be so jealous.
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, please."
"I'm not! Never have, never will!"
"Why not?" Addie snorts.
"Because I love you!" I blurt out, louder than I intended. We stare at each other in shock for a second, then I repeat, almost whispering, "I love you."
I didn't plan to say it, and certainly not like this. I never told her that before - I said how much I adore her, and how I'm falling for her, and how crazy I am about her. But not those words, because it seemed too early for it.
I mean it, though.
At least I managed to stop Addie's weird outburst with that, because she looks at me, equally baffled. Before I can stop myself, I quietly, desperately babble away. "I love you. I am already so madly, deeply, head-over-heels for you, and you're on my mind literally all the time, and I keep thinking how obvious and pathetic it must be, and that surely, you're going to get sick of this - of me - soon, because I basically sit there like a lovesick little puppy wagging my tail whenever I see you, and-" I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair, trying not to cry. "I love you."
We look at each other silently for a long moment, then Addie takes a step toward me. "Fia…" Her voice is so much gentler all of a sudden.
"I'm not sleeping with him," I state. How can she even think that?
She pulls me into a soft kiss, and we lean our foreheads together, eyes closed. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I don't know what has gotten into me." Another gentle kiss. "I'm sorry."
The tension inside me dissolves, and I doubt I've ever felt so relieved in my life. This sudden, out-of-nowhere fight really spooked me. I nuzzle my face into hers, inhaling her familiar scent for a second to ground myself.
"I love you too, by the way," Addie adds, stroking my cheek.
Stumped, I blink at her. "What?"
"Why do you think I'm so scared of you leaving me?"
I get lost in her eyes for a moment, trying to process her words, because it feels so unreal. It's ridiculous. She's this beautiful, charming, smart, funny, successful, amazing woman, and I am… me. Painfully average, never amounting to much, always drifting along. A failure.
She deserves the world. She deserves someone by her side who is just as marvelous and breathtaking and exceptional.
I have no idea how I could ever be enough for her, not even remotely. How I could ever truly be worthy of that affection she gives me.
But I sure as hell intend to try. If it kills me.
---
lizardwriting pinglist [ask/comment/dm to get on it]: @voidthing @ark-inkweaving @aalinaaaaaa @tales-from-nocturnaliss
Martian steel, I hear, is worth a fortune on Earth. Not so on Mars, where I can scale a fence made of the stuff in half a minute and not even blink as my bolt cutters snap barbed wire. Little shards flake off, and I brush them away, to let them flutter down to the regolith below— dust they are, and to dust they shall return.
I hop down. My canvas shoes kick up a cloud of rusty silica, and I cough— my breather’s cheaper than I am, and even good-quality ones are only supposed to last half a Martian year. This was the first one I bought at the spaceport, an hour after I touched down, four years ago.
Still, silicosis and perchlorate poisoning are long-term problems for people with cash in their pockets. I swallow another cough and trudge through the dust to the foundry door. Steel again. I yank it open.
This place is a crime. Shouldn’t have been built, when I get potato-and-algae slop for every meal and I have to buy my own oxygen masks— but the only thing more expensive than forging Martian steel is getting it down to Earth. And since launches are a once-a-year splurge, it just piles up here. Our dirt is rust, but our factories and warehouses are pure steel. It’s not like it’ll corrode in our carbon dioxide air.
But building barbed-wire fences and industrial facilities out of the most expensive substance known to humanity isn’t a crime. You know what is a crime? Breaking and entering. My indenture has a clause about that. Oh, they can’t kill me, but they “reserve the right to bar company employees from company housing for any reason, including but not limited to failure to follow company, local, or planetary laws and restrictions.” But “homelessness” isn’t really a thing when your atmosphere is a light dusting of CO2. You either have housing or you’re dead.
The forge went out a while ago. I start up the bellows with a touch of a button, and the pure oxygen ignites. I turn it up until I can feel the heat even through my pressure suit. Then I get to work.
My gloves are scorched and sweaty by the time I’m through, and even in my suit, I’m flush with the thrill of these eighteen illegal, tiny, sharpened pen nibs. I shouldn’t have done it. But, for the first time in four Martian years, I feel like I did something right.
My steelworking training, the scraps in the bin— I was just putting them to good use.
Leaving the foundry is trickier than getting in. There’s a guard who does his rounds, and I have to be smart about waiting for his buggy to get out of sight. Hoping he doesn’t catch my IR signature with his goggles, I scale the fence the way I came in and hop down.
In the centre of town, there’s a church, attached to a canteen and a mission school. Nice place. Good if your job kicks you out on your ass and you want a last meal before your O2 runs out. The missionary who runs it, Deneb, isn’t an indenture; he came here of his own accord, on his church’s dime. Nevertheless, he’s not sanctimonious about it. He understands the urges and ugliness of humanity.
I meet him in the alley behind the church, under the window of his little bedroom. From down here, I can see the lamp’s still on. He hurried downstairs to meet me. I can’t help but grin.
“Here,” I say, and before he can respond, I shove the box of pen nibs into his hands. His smile is dark and gleaming in the shadows under his visor.
“Thank you,” he says in amazement, running his gloved hands over the box before opening it up. “The kids will love these. They’ve been begging me for more art supplies for weeks. How did you get them?”
“Made them myself,” I boast. “They’re Martian steel.”
“That’s expensive,” Deneb marvels. “You really bought the ore and everything? For this?”
“Didn’t have to. The shop has piles of scrap.”
Deneb’s adorable smile disappears. “So you stole it.”
I scowl. “It’s not stealing if I’m donating these to charity. Isn’t it you who’s always telling me to do what’s right?”
“I can’t accept them if they’re stolen. You know that.”
This is where he draws the line? “Look,” I say, “Mars has stolen my money and my lungs, and pretty soon it’ll probably take my life too. I’ll take what I want from the foundry, damn it.”
Deneb flinches. “You shouldn’t have done it,” he says coldly, and he holds the box out to me.
“Yeah,” I say, and it’s a hoarse, betrayed growl. “I shouldn’t have. But I did.” I turn on my heel, leaving the box in his outstretched hands. “Don’t bother telling the kids hello for me.”
written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #363, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 728
Reserve Spawn
The girl held the bowl of water in her hands as carefully as cradling a pet. She knew she mustn’t spill any of it, or her step mother would be upset. The lady of the house was never one to exhibit the nicest temperament, despite her well-bred manners which she generously displayed to all the minor lords and their ladies during gatherings.
There had not been many gatherings since the death of her Lord father. The Falcon family had barely cast off the black when another dark cloud descended on their household.
Recently, all life in the house had become concentrated around one wing of their spacious manor. It was the location of the room where her older brother lay in his sickbed.
“What are you lingering for? Bring the water,” said the woman sitting at the edge of the bed, spitting the order out like venom. She looked bedraggled and ill herself. She was dressed in a fine green dress that hugged her tall frame, which still held itself up with tree-like strength, though her bloodshot eyes and wrinkled forehead told a different story.
Mierra stepped out from the corner where she had been standing in the dim recess, lingering at the top of the steps to the bed chamber.
She walked over silently, and placed the wooden bowl of warm water on the bedside table, noticing the odd instruments laid out on top of it on a white cloth, including some blood-stained rags which she couldn’t bear to look at.
Her brother’s face was barely visible in the low lighting of the room, head sunken into the pillow in a deathlike slumber. Still, she could see he looked a clammy white beneath the curly, dark locks that partially obscured his face.
A physician had been called. He was sitting on the other side of the room, keeping his tone low, and talking to her aunt, who sat on a seat beside him. It seemed he was preparing some leeches for an impending treatment. Her aunt looked to be better groomed than her step-mother. Yet there was nothing hopeful about their countenances.
“How is Dane today?” Mierra ventured to ask, timidly.
Lady Falcon appeared not to acknowledge her at first. She was looking at her hands, caressing the jeweled rings on her long, elegant fingers, freckled lightly with age.
“He’ll live another day,” said the older woman, in a bitter but pensive tone. “You can save your black for another occasion.”
Mierra did not like the way she spoke to her, as though she would be disappointed if her brother lived. He was her brother, her last living blood-family. She cared for him as much as she had cared for all of her other half brothers and sisters who had passed away.
She was only 13 years old, but she had heard the talk in the Great Hall when the lords of the minor houses came to pay homage to their liege. They had held a council, and examined Lord Falcon’s will, which stated that his estate is to go to his son, and in the event of his son’s demise, Mierra was to become the heir.
She had stood before the mirror in her small room many a day since childhood, combing her soft brown curls and wondering what it would be like to be a Lady. What good was there in being a bastard, if it meant being only a few steps above a scullery maid?
But she loved her brothers and sisters, and wished them no harm. It hurt her more than she could express to see the last of them fading away like a strangled rose.
They were a sickly lot from the start. Watching them die was like watching rotten fruits drop from a tree one by one, leaving only a single (and barely ripe one at that) whole.
Her stepmother never loved her. There was no telling what she might do if her son lived to become the new Lord, now that her father was no longer there to defend her rights.
The lords wanted a male heir, to lead them as their ancestors had.
It seemed everyone was waiting on a verdict, which only the gods could bestow. If she had only one certainty, it was as she always believed—that her fate would be decided in the sick chamber.
this is from the world of the infrequently-mentioned Ambition is a Lonely Tower. Q is one of those characters whose pronouns and identity i have struggled with for a while. i just found out that Q does not use pronouns, which makes a lot of sense in hindsight
cw: reference to animal carcasses/bones/teeth
The caret blinks, a violet eye peering through a slit in the black. Impatient. Expectant. Q blinks back. This was supposed to be normal by now. Instinctual. A thousand excuses at Q's disposal. No transportation; nothing to wear. Prior plans; out of budget. Q's seen them all, read them all. Sitcoms and harlequins, threads and blogs. Saying 'no' without having to actually say it. Telling her that Q can't give her what she wants, without accidentally telling her to leave. It's like she sees right through it, right through Q. Every excuse has a response, every problem a solution. She has a car; she can pick Q up, or they can meet halfway. She needs new clothes, too; they could go thrifting. She can be flexible; when is Q next free? They don't have to spend money; they could have a picnic, or go back to her apartment and have coffee and talk like people, like friends and Q wants it, wants it so badly it hurts, so badly that Q would fly screaming into the blazing heart of her horrid yellow sun just to make it stop. No. This shouldn't be wanted, shouldn't be done. What she's offering—interaction, association, connection—can only end badly. For Q. For her. The caret blinks. Q taps the edge of the keyboard with one fingertip, the tikka-tik-tak as thin and sharp as bone, as teeth. The ones with teeth are her favorites. The first piece of Q’s pieces that she’d seen wasn’t on Q’s blog, but on a stranger’s Substack. It was one of the early ones—before Q had learned to clean them up, before Q had learned that humans sometimes walk around in the woods for fun. It’d featured a full set of opossum teeth, complete in number if not in type. The scene Q had made in the leaves and stones and twigs had not, of course, been an opossum. But the teeth—the way they studded the muddy sky and fell upon the thin-stretched body Q had patched together from leaves and broken glass—had struck her. She’d never seen a piece of art like that before. She’d never seen art that felt lonely. These things don't end well, no. But she's different. She doesn't know that Q's throat and tongue refuse to form English phonemes, no matter how hard they try, but she does know that Q uses a tablet to speak. She knows about Q’s aversion to crowded places, to socialization. Maybe they could go straight to her place, like she suggested. Maybe Q could wear the long, baggy coat Q found in the clothing donation box by the gas station, find a way to cover Q's feet, obscure the shape of Q's legs. Beanies are normal, even if they mash Q's ears flat; masks are normal, even if they don't stay up on Q's nose. Maybe no one would notice. If Q could just move quickly, keep Q's arms tucked in, patagium folded, be small— But she would notice. Even if the rest of the world couldn't be bothered to notice Q, she would. She did. And if she sees Q—actually sees? No one's that different. The caret blinks. That familiar electricity—terror, frigid and raw—rips down Q's spine. Q could lose her. Lose everything. Or. Or Q could see her—without the automatic touch-ups and the cat-ear filters. The woman who feels alone in a crowded room, who always seems to miss the cues everyone else knows by heart. Maybe they could learn the steps together—or at least be there to catch the other when they fall. As though Q's ever been able to catch someone. As though Q's ever been the one to protect something, rather than break it. The caret blinks. Q draws in a deep, slow breath, folds Q's wings, angles Q's wrists to the keyboard. This is selfish. Futile. Long overdue. Q begins to type.
written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #362, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Content warning: Reference to gore
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 961
Just Talk
We’re just performers, thought Crow. Why do we need military training? Weapons to them were only meant to be stage props, were they not?What was Isen thinking?
The young man was seated at the center of the stage, on a makeshift throne decorated with snakeskin cloth and animal skulls. There was also a human skull on the floor beside his dark boots. How he came by it, Crow wasn’t quite sure. Like himself, the young man was dressed all in black. His coat front was sparsely covered with decorative badges. His long sleeves were shredded at the cuffs, and his pants ripped in some places, not due to wear, but in a manner of style. He wore a leather belt set with jagged spikes, and a necklace with a little silver skull hanging from it. His hair was long, sweeping past his slim shoulders; it kept falling forward in front of his eyes, obscuring his pale face, which made it difficult to tell his mood by his countenance, as any expression he made was largely hidden behind the black curtain.
As he looked around the theatre, Crow could see the lineup of people stretching to the back of the room. There weren’t that many, but it was nonetheless a sizeable group.
Earlier that month, he had been out on the town putting out notices and posters, which Isen had filled with words and phrases targeted at attracting a certain kind of individual. They were largely designed by hand, with the help of a few friends, and were decorated with ghoulish images of ghosts and skeletons, dismembered limbs, and other dreary things which were sure to offend the delicate sensibilities of their wider community. Crow had even gone so far as to put some of them up on the outer walls of some temples, uncomfortably aware that this was a thing many people would consider to be crossing a line.
Glancing around at the people assembled there that day, he could see that their campaigning had succeeded in bringing together misfits and rebels of all kinds. The question was, which of them were suitable to join their band?
He glanced over at Isen, watching him assessing them, with his elbows propped on the arm rests, hands on his chin, head in an alert position, and eyes likely staring intensely at each applicant in turn, sizing them up, assessing their worthiness.
One man had come forward, dressed in a mossy-green cloak clasped by a crimson flower brooch, his gristly brown hair flowing down over his wide shoulders. He stood confidently before the macabre throne, looking upwards as his host examined him.
“You’ve told me what you can bring to the stage,” said Isen, “Now tell me, how would you define the traits of knighthood? What kind of knight would you be?”
The others stood far enough away that they were not able to eavesdrop. Only Crow was close enough in proximity to hear the conversation.
The man in the green coat cleared his throat and spoke, in a smooth, confident tone.
“The traits of knighthood are high valor, and the desire to do good for the people. As a knight, I would provide a light in the darkness, and be a savior to those who are powerless. I would fight against evil, and live my life in accordance with the will of the gods… I would—”
“That enough,” Isen interrupted. He tossed his hair out of the way, and Crow could see one side of his smiling face, as he shook his head. “I believe you misunderstood our appeal. Did you think we were recruiting for the king’s guard? Over here, we’re more likely to serve the devil than to serve god. Actually, we don’t serve anyone, but we do the devil’s work nonetheless. In our band, the mask you wear on stage cannot be vastly different from who you are at heart.”
He scoffed, ignoring the other man’s incredulous face drop, and waved his hand before him. “Dismissed.”
Crow couldn’t help but wonder too, as the man finally got the message and walked off towards an exit, his gait dazed and bewildered.
Why was he asking about knighthood, and weapons? Crow himself loved to collect them as much as any of the other boys, but they were performers, not warriors. The weapons they kept were more for show and decoration, and were sometimes used as stage props, not meant for actual combat.
This was not what Crow had expected when he helped him set up an audience chamber. They were looking for a new lineup for a theatre act. Since when did it begin proceeding like a call to arms?
It was one thing to boast of breaking boundaries. It helped the image, gave them character, and that was vital to stand out among other, similar acts. But there were times such as this that Crow wasn’t sure if it was all just talk.
If his friend wanted to make it real, it meant crossing a line, using their magic in a way that would go far beyond enticing and repelling the sheep of the world through an infernal illusion.
One time, another friend had asked Isen if he was looking to make an army, or a troupe of traveling entertainers. And Isen had replied, with a curious smile, “Why not a little bit of both?”
Watching him and listening to him make one rejection after another with casual confidence, one could not help but wonder whether one was worthy enough to be accepted, and if so, how on earth had he, Crow, passed that assessment which others could not seem to comprehend? Had standards remained unchanged since their beginning, or was Isen looking for something even darker this time?
written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #361, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Tags: LGBT, Transgender, Trans Male Character, Queer Themes
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 998
Flowers in the Countryside
Trigg stood before the mirror altogether longer than he was ever in the habit of doing. He had taken extra care in his grooming on that day, having scrubbed his body of any dirt and grime from the morning’s fieldwork, and washed his hair until the dense, black curls were soft as a lamb’s coat.
His outfit was a simple shirt with brown vest, and matching pants and belt. The shirt was a little off-white, but it was the best he had, and as spotless as he could make it on that day.
In their recent meeting, Sherice had expressed such enthusiasm for the countryside that he was persuaded to offer her a tour. As he didn’t have many other entertainments available, this was one way to repay her for her kindness in providing him wood at an affordable cost, as well as a brand-new axe free of charge.
He didn’t know why he felt so flustered at the thought of spending an afternoon with a girl who was little more than an acquaintance. He did not often have guests over.
The barking of the dog in the yard let him know that she was here, and Trigg tore himself away from his wandering thoughts, rushing to put on his boots so he could meet her outside.
His mother was asleep in one of the rooms. He didn’t think it was necessary to bother her, so he stepped out quietly.
_
Sherice looked lovely in her canary-colored dress and wavy blond locks. Yellow seemed to be her color.
He met her at the wooden gate, where they began their walk on foot.
They passed pastures where sheep and cows could be seen grazing, heads bowed to their task, and taking no notice of them as they passed by, eventually making it to some rolling grasslands, dotted by clumps of trees. The air was filled with the smells of damp earth, late-blooming flowers, and autumn.
It had been raining all the week before, and the ground was still full of mud puddles. Trigg offered his hand to help Sherice navigate the wet spots, so that she would not get the hem of her dress dirty, or strike her delicate shoes on a hard stone.
As he touched her hand, Trigg paused to observe how their different skin colors contrasted: rich brown on creamy, lily-white.
When Sherice asked about his family, he was compelled to break his silence. He told her that his father and older brother had both died in battle, and it was just him and his mother now, who he was taking care of as she was ill. He talked briefly about their bad-tempered neighbour, who had plans to make an alliance through offer of marriage which Trigg had rejected years ago, and which the old man still held a grudge about.
Sherice listened with gentle sympathy, and shared about her own life, in such a carefree manner that it surprised Trigg.
It turned out that she was an orphan in her own way. Her mother had passed long ago, and her father more recently, after an illness, leaving only her and her older brother to manage their estate. They weren’t poor, but they were not so wealthy as to afford not to work. She mentioned that the woodblocks were actually prepared by her older brother, while the design and craft of the “special” wooden appendages were credited to herself, in addition to managing the shop and making it a pleasant place for people to come.
She spoke of the types of customers they served, and how her brother was supportive of her preferences. She had been engaged to a young man who had perished in a sailing accident, the engagement being an arrangement made by her father. Following their father’s death, her brother never forced her to accept any other suitor that came her way.
Then her expression changed to something of gloom, if it were possible on such an angelic face.
On hinting of the types of people that had frequented her shop in the past, she mentioned the King’s court, and rumours she had heard of people being put in dungeons and tortured for loving others of the same sex out in the open. Trigg wasn’t sure how to respond, so he continued listening in silence.
All this talk of dark things could not tarnish the girl’s spirit. She carried on with the same spring in her step, then stopped suddenly and pointed at a cluster of light-purple flowers growing between some trees at the edges of the field. As they approached close, she explained how those were usually torn from the ground, being a different color from the usual rose shade that was typical for that flower, and therefore interpreted as bringing bad luck. She said she prefers that color, and seemed to stare at it in a lingering way as they passed it by.
_
They worked their way through the craggy fields, to an area that was muddier than usual. Trigg was about to turn around from here, when he noticed something in the ground.
“Watch your step,” he told Sherice, stopping her just in time as she was about to step over some stones. He bent down in front of her feet and scooped up what looked like a rock covered in mud.
They found a nearby stream, where Trigg washed it clean, revealing it to be a little turtle.
Sherice was delighted to see the creature wigging around in its speckled shell. Trigg offered it to her as a present, which she accepted happily.
The event marked the end of their journey, as Trigg felt it was a good time to head back.
As they parted ways by the wooden gate, Sherice holding the turtle wrapped in her handkerchief, expressing gratitude for the walk, her face slightly flushed with an emotion Trigg couldn’t quite place, he just knew this wouldn’t be the last time he would be seeing her.
written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #360, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Content Warnings: Context is a larger original story that contains consensual incest between cousins. The below piece is a SFW character study of one of them.
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 815
Not of This World
Syden set aside the charcoal piece he had been drawing with, and took a moment to shake out his parchment paper, watching the loose, ashen flakes fall to the ground, before setting it back on the desk and continuing. He was sitting at his desk facing the windows, the dark curtains open to the storm. Despite the raging weather outside, inside his room it was strangely calm.
Charcoal sticks and ink pens were his two favourite tools to work with.
Making sketches was his regular hobby, and, on a rainy, downcast day such as this, it was often his activity of choice to pass the time.
Back at the art shop, where he worked a few days a week, he had been advised to watch what he drew in order to avoid offending the refined sensibilities of ‘normal’ people. Sometimes he wondered why he tolerated the censorship (it was not as if he needed the money that badly).
Perhaps it was because it gave him a break between other, more physically strenuous activities. He needed something to do in the lazy evenings between school days, lest he die of boredom in their quiet woodland home, and their suffocatingly decorous small town.
Whatever was the reason, it was when he was alone that he created his best work. It was when he was alone that he could truly express his ideas without restraint, really let go, and take a deep dive into his true heart and soul.
Evil winged spirits, horned black wolves, skulls and black demons were some of the beings that emerged from his pen as through the gates of hell. He loved the dark things. He was every bit as guilty of drawing violence, and gore, as the concerned mothers at the art shop accused him of. He liked to tell little stories sometimes, through drawings, and write dark lyrics to accompany the visuals.
_
He had always been different. But somewhere along the way, it so happened that he had experienced something that changed the way he saw himself and the world.
He didn’t know what else to call it but a kind of… ‘awakening’.
It didn’t come all at once. It snuck up on him in little ways.
First it was the visions that he saw through the glass, that no one else could see. Then it happened on its own, without contact with external objects.
And when the powers were unlocked, other veils opened too. He saw glimpses of visions, indistinguishable in their vividness from real memories. And he knew, as instinctively as one knew how to breathe, that these weren’t just dreams.
It opened his mind to the idea that their world was not the only one, that there existed other dimensions beyond what the eye could see, and with them, other ways of being.
_
The few people he had told had listened like as to any other person recounting strange dreams. Most did not believe they could be more than that.
He heard thunder outside his window, and looked up to see a rain-splattered pane. The color of the outer world reflected the gloomy mood of his inky outlines. In the near distance, the wind tossed the dark masses of the tall forest trees like it was shaking whole masses of people.
He began lightly shading his sketch. He didn’t like to overdo it. Though he was capable of producing more refined lines, when he drew for himself, the rough look was his preference. The black lines were of an elegant and simple beauty, made up of flourishes of jagged vines, or strokes of serrated shadows.
These drawings had sharp teeth and claws, that would sink into the souls that beheld them, leaving marks on their minds. Just how he would have it.
_
He always thought, that if he could find others like him, he wouldn’t feel so alone.
But of all those he associated with thus far in life, he did not yet feel he had found that level of understanding. They just couldn’t see what he saw. It was beyond their grasp, and existed outside their range of sight entirely.
He had no choice but to accept his isolation in this matter. And that meant he spent a lot of time in his head, thinking, and dreaming.
He used to believe he was human, like anyone else, but after all that, when once he’d had that glimpse beyond the veil, he saw that was an illusion. He felt he was a spirit from another place, a being not of this world, believed it wholeheartedly, despite any argument imposed by skeptics.
Yes, he needed his private time, for he wasn’t always present in spirit, though he was physically present for all to see. Yes, he spent a lot of time in his head. How else could one reconcile the reality of living in two worlds?
Fandom: Original Work
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
CW: Cousin Incest (Consensual), (this piece does not contain sexual content), Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comship
Word count: 6,259
Summary:
This piece was written for SpringCest 2026 event by @macrocest. I chose the Blue horror Bingo Card, Middle Row: It’s all in your head | Haunted by their victims | Holy water.
This piece is heavily inspired by the music video and song – “Under the Graveyard” by Ozzy Osbourne. I was deeply moved by it when I first saw it because it had a ‘good girl/evil guy’ vibe and showed unconditional love, which is what I’m into. I always wanted to write a scene that followed the structure of that music video but adapted to an event that may happen in my story.
The winter sun shone coldly in a steel-blue sky. Trigg stood up to wipe the sweat off a dusky forehead. It was not there because of the sun, which barely warmed, but because of the exertion. Working the farm and land by oneself can be a draining job, with little reward.
The chickens had been fed, the last of the summer crops harvested, and the field newly plowed in preparation for the winter crops. Trigg had only just begun to chop up some wood to stock the hearth. Things were going fine the first few blows, the split pieces falling onto the ground with a satisfying thump. It was when the axe came down the third time that the problem happened. The axe blade did not go through the log, but cracked upon impact, causing Trigg to lose balance momentarily.
This is no good, Trigg thought, examining the chipped blade in the bleak light. A blunt axe was a useless axe.
There was already a lingering chill in the days, along with wilting trees, and sickly suns—all signs that winter was just over the horizon.
They needed the wood for warmth, and to boil water and food.
Trigg did not like spending what little money they had on what could be gotten from the land, but a ride to the blacksmith would be far and would take all day. Why go there, when another place existed which was much closer? A little shop that a friend had mentioned once, which sold logs for burning.
Trigg decided there was nothing else for it but to purchase some wood from that shop to last the day.
After storing the day’s work in a dry place, the horse was brought out, with some oats to entice him, and hitched to a little wagon. Then they were headed south.
_
It was a small shop, and the sign above it read: Woodheaven.
Trigg dismounted and began walking up the steps.
The inside of the shop was filled with the smells of fresh bark. There were several short, metal racks on which were stacked piles of firewood, all lined up on either side of the walls.
The light inside was a warm yellow that poured out of more than one oil lamp that hung in the rafters.
Two of these lamps sat on the counter, illuminating a figure which almost went without notice.
She was so still, until Trigg’s eyes followed the movement of a shadow, and she came into focus.
“Hello,” said the girl in the sweetest tone for miles round. Trigg merely nodded acknowledgement.
She was a young woman, in a long, mustard-color corset dress pleasantly draped over a curvy body. Her hair was a warm blond in the lamplight, and her eyes a pale amber against her glowing white skin.
Compared to her, Trigg felt so plain, still in the farmer’s clothing, stained from the morning’s work and likely not smelling like any flowers.
But the girl didn’t seem to mind, as she stepped out from behind the counter and approached closer.
“Would you like some help choosing?” she asked in a tone that, were they at a tavern, Trigg would have thought of as bordering on teasing. She looked close at the farm clothing, that Trigg had often been told gave a distinctly masculine image. The difference, unlike the others who had made comments, was that she seemed as though she understood something about it, without a word passing her lips.
The girl stepped closer to the wall, and motioned to what looked like a wardrobe covered by a thick blanket. She took up one end and pulled it down smoothly to reveal what was inside.
Trigg was shocked, for on those racks were some strange objects, and not the type of thing one would burn in a fireplace, though they too were made of wood.
They came in all the colors of the trees they were carved from, in different sizes, with a polished surface to give each of them a smooth feel.
“I… I do not use these,” said Trigg, feeling an uncomfortable burning of the cheeks.
The girl put on a curious expression, like a little confused pout, then something lit up her eyes.
“Ahh. I know,” she said. She turned and scampered off into another room at the very back of the store. Trigg stood there feeling out of place for some minutes. Then she was back.
“Here,” she said, motioning for Trigg to move so that she could slip on what looked like a harness around Trigg’s narrow hips and waist. She kept it unbuckled so that she could try out putting different wooden parts into the metal ring in the strap, holding it up against Trigg’s crotch to see how it looked.
“Which color would you like? Something matching your skin tone, or something entirely different?”
Trigg was at a loss for words, simply trying to remain still while the young woman carried on in her fittings. In the end, she seemed to choose a dark cherrywood phallus. It was large, but not so much that it felt entirely out of place…
After tightening the strap, the girl led Trigg to a mirror, to show it off from different angles. The mirror combined the new look with the old—boyish hair cut, bound chest and all.
Trigg felt a strange feeling that had never occurred before in all the years of being on this earth—a feeling of completeness.
“Will you buy it?” asked the girl.
“Yes,” said Trigg without a second thought. “Thank you… um…”
“I’m Sherrie,” said the girl, and Trigg thought that was the prettiest-sounding name that ever fell on the ear.
Content Warnings: Context is a larger original story that contains consensual incest between cousins. This piece only has SFW interactions.
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 1004
Syden held the bow straight and steady, pointing towards the target, the center of a circular wooden slab painted in a red-and-white swirling pattern.
They were at one of the many stands at the carnival. The day was summerlike with a gentle breeze, like most days in his state. Living in a place like this had its advantages, one of them being the multiple festivals that occurred year-round.
It truly was the Land of Dreams, at least in the eyes of those who did not aspire to anything beyond play and work and study. And yet, in spite of all the dissent he had towards the laws of the land and its rulers, on this day he was feeling as one with the world—as if he was willing to smile at strangers and be conscious of his manners.
Her presence might have had something to do with it.
Cela stood beside him, looking tranquil and lovely in her white summer dress, her fine, dark hair flowing free over her slim shoulders, with a few strands pinned up by pearl-studded silver hairpins. He himself had on a black coat, handsome black pants, and a pair of matching boots.
Her eyes reflected the evening like sunlight on water. It wasn’t easy to keep his eyes off her long enough to focus on much else.
But he kept his gaze fixed on his target, as their host, the owner of the stand, stood off to the side, in his brown tweed waistcoat, watching patiently.
Syden pulled back the bowstring, fixed his aim, and released.
The arrow went hissing through the air, then hit the mark with a thud.
Cela clapped for him and Syden turned to see her smiling face. Few things gave him as much of a thrill as making her proud.
A few yards away stood the bodyguard, thick arms crossed over a broad chest, with a stubbly beard and set jaws, blending somewhat into the surroundings by merely standing still as a scarecrow. Ever since the incident at the summer festival the year before, his father had insisted that he accompany them (specifically Cela) everywhere they went. After some initial resistance, Syden had come to feel that he really didn’t have a problem with the man, as long as he remained at a comfortable distance. He had weapons of his own he could use in her protection as well as his own self-defence if he ever needed to, strapped to his calves and safely out of sight. If nothing else, the bodyguard made for passable backup.
After taking some more shots, all with equally satisfying results, Syden and Cela walked around the carnival grounds, exploring the lively and decorated terrain.
There were several stalls dedicated to serving fresh food and drink, along with costumed entertainers and animals, gambling games, and other fun contests. Syden thought he would try knife-throwing at the end of the day.
Despite the country-wide weapons’ ban, they did make exceptions for some events such as archery, and knife or axe-throwing competitions, but this was done in a strictly controlled environment, whereas a festival overseas might involve actual violence and bloodshed.
As they strolled side by side, the ground dusty and dry beneath their shoes, in search of their next entertainment, they heard music floating through the air: the melodic whistles of flutes and the divine, gentle stirrings of harps.
“Do you want to get some spun sugar?” he asked her.
Cela nodded, and he led her to a stand selling candied items. The woman behind the counter, with long blond hair and hazel eyes, who looked to be about five or six years older than them, went to the back of her stall where the candy was being made by two or three helpers, returning with two sticks topped with blushing, edible clouds. These she presented to them with a charming smile.
They thanked her, and continued in their meandering.
Cela seemed to be enjoying her treat, as she took little bites, savoring the sweetness on her tongue.
“What?” she asked him, as he stared at her. They had stopped near another stall, leaning against the counter of an outdoor wine vendor.
“You look really nice,” he said, taking a bite out of his own rose-colored sugar cloud.
Cela smiled bashfully, her delicate chin dipping down a bit, the way it did when she was feeling charmed or shy.
Syden gave her a little half smile. He wasn’t timid, just captivated.
As they stood there, eating their candy, immersed in their own little cocoon, with few words passing between them, Syden noticed a familiar face across from them, a boy with wispy, brown hair, wearing a simple vest and pants, whose face conveyed the light-hearted ease that came with being on holiday. He recognized him as one of their schoolmates. The boy waved at them. Syden waved back. Both were friendly enough on the surface.
But Syden did not like the way he looked at Cela. He did not like the way most boys looked at Cela. It was hard to imagine they didn’t feel anything special when their gaze lingered a little longer than usual on her figure or face.
She’s mine, he thought to himself. If you even try to come close to her, I will end you.
This was the difficult part of being in love. It made him feel all kinds of intense passions—one of them being insatiable lust, and another, a readiness for violence. Oddly, he hadn’t felt this way about his first lover.
There was only one cure for this.
Syden turned towards Cela, and moved closer to her, pulling her face gently towards him with his hand on her soft cheek. He kissed her, in full view of anyone who was watching them. As Cela gave into the kiss, and he tasted the tip of her tongue, he felt he was feeding all of his hungers in the one act.
And anyway, the spun sugar tasted even better on her lips.
written for Flash Fiction Friday Prompt #357, event hosted by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Story: Original Work (Ao3 Link)
Content Warnings: Context is a larger original story that contains consensual incest between cousins. This piece only has SFW interactions.
Rating: Teen and up
Word count: 1006
Villain/Heroine
“Do you know what they call it when opposites attract?” asked her father one day. She was standing near the railing of the balcony in their tower house. He was sitting behind her, in a cushionless dark-wood armchair, looking thoughtful but stern.
“What do they call it?” asked Cela, curious.
“Controlled Chaos,” was her father’s reply.
“I see,” she had said, turning to look him in the eye, trying to read his mood, which was difficult to do with a man such as him. She didn’t make any further comment, leaving the words to hover in the air between them like a pair of dice frozen in mid-throw.
That was only a few years before the incidents that brought her to live with her cousins.
Back then she hadn’t fully understood what her father was talking about. Now that she reflected on it, she presumed it must have been about the clashes of ideals between those inside the Order and their enemies.
Her father believed that it was a dangerous thing for opposites to attract, that Chaos could only be controlled until it breaks out of its shackles. “Chaos, when caused by a clash of darkness and light, could be deadly to those nearby.”
It’s not so black and white, she would say now. But she kept her lips sealed. Now was too early for that revelation.
She turned another page of the book she was reading, then took a moment to glance at Syden, who was asleep beside her on the bed. They were in his room, enshrouded by the dark curtains of the canopy bed.
The obsidian bed covers made his light blond hair stand out in contrast. It swept over his pale, peaceful face, obscuring his eyes somewhat. She watched his chest rise and fall gently with his breath.
Why couldn’t they see what she saw so clearly?
Those who her father called the “enemy” were not all the same, not all full of malicious intent. Some of them just wanted to survive, and were only fighting to defend their kind, the same way humans fight over land or to protect their families. What was especially dark about that?
Was it her who was blind? She did not think so.
The “enemy” had some of the same powers as those in the Order, but were treated differently by the realm because of their line of descent, among other things. What choice did they have but to fight back?
They were not the same thing as non-human monsters.
She thought about Syden, all that she knew of him in the past, all that she had learned over the last two years in which they were together.
He was good to his siblings, to his parents, even to his strange pets. Of course, there were fights, but what family didn’t have them? Nobody’s perfect.
She had seen his drawings. Yes, they were dark, sometimes so dark that one had to wonder what was going on in his head… But there was also a lot of light in them, and even love.
She knew what her father would ask. “Why does he need to be involved? Why doesn’t he just stay put where he is, with his family, and his inheritance?”
She didn’t know the answer to that, but she did not think the reason was to spread evil. She was sure of that.
Cela looked at Syden’s sleeping face again, and could not bring herself to call it anything other than the picture of innocence. She knew what evil really looked like. And she sensed the difference intuitively.
She got up off the bed, taking care not to wake him, and walked over to the balcony attached to the bedroom.
She had had a dream, in which her father had come to her as a looming figure in his military uniform, and said, “I fear for you, that when the darkness takes over, there will be no one around to help you.”
And she had replied, “Only if you abandon me, father. Will you make me choose between family?”
She looked over the balcony. Unlike at her own home in her own land, the view here was not one of a clear blue sky. It was an expanse of trees, as her aunt and uncle’s mansion was located next to a forest. As it was still day, she could see in the spaces between the trunks, where occasionally a little animal would scurry around, or a bird would flit between branches, making leaves flutter.
She loved Syden more than anything. She could not see him as an enemy.
Yes, there was a pact between them that bound her not to pry into his business in the foreign lands. As long as he was loyal to her, he was allowed to have that space to himself, for now.
She knew him. If her father knew him better, he too would see what she saw: that those who were seemingly opposites were not all black or white.
But somewhere deep inside, she had to wonder if there would ever come a time where she would find herself at a crossroads, and would have to choose.
If so, she determined, she would face that choice bravely.
There are times in life where we all end up friendless and alone, she reflected as she stood, feeling both delicate and strong. It was getting a bit chilly for just a light summer gown.
“Hey,” said someone from behind her.
She had been so deep in thought that she hadn’t heard him getting up.
He stood behind her, in his cozy, long-sleeve white shirt, with a hand over his mouth to stifle a sleepy yawn.
“When did you wake up?” she asked.
“It got cold in the bed, and I noticed you were gone... Are you alright?”
The sky was darkening. The reds and russets were beginning to leak into the sky above the treeline.
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Just had a bad dream. Come watch the sunset with me.”
