#155 words

[aloysiavirgata]

155 words: spinach, harpsichord, lemur

“Alice Roosevelt had a snake named Emily Spinach.”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

“You feminists,” he huffs, merging left. “Your turn.”

She laughs. “Lemurs are the only other primates to have blue eyes.”

Mulder looks surprised. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Shit. Okay.”

Scully watches him, the disparate beauty of his face. Wants to hear more from that mad, bad, dangerous brain. Could listen to him forever.

Lobs a softball, but not too obvious. “Adrian IV was the only British Pope,” says Bill Scully’s Catholic daughter.

He beams, smug and happy. “Went to Oxford; obviously I know that.”

She frowns. “Dammit. Yours.”

Mulder nibbles at a lush persimmon lip and she doesn’t gaze - she doesn’t.

“Harpsichords are struck with plectra like a guitar while piano strings are hammered.”

Scully went to Williamsburg as a kid, knows this the way she can differentiate between Amharic and Aramaic. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Your turn,” she grouses, delighted.

He drives on, alight.

[aloysiavirgata]

155 words, shy

DC dense with silk-tree blossoms and exhaust. Conspiracies, mosquitoes.

Mulder wears a shirt from some Brit in Georgetown. Fever-dream tie by Jerry Garcia. He’d pulled her forth bare as a newborn, cold as the dead, carried her up to the pallid sun. His mouth on hers, flattening her breasts and it wasn’t sexual but-

“Share some appetizers?”

Hollow from cancer and Emily and whatever her purpose at the bottom of the world. From hunger.

Hungry, but for what? She suspects, scrunches her shoulders, ducks her chin, as though it isn’t Mulder chewing a straw with fading frostbite on his cinnamon cheek.

Didn’t kiss in his hall, but they would have and does that count? It must, they both know, both tasted the hot, verging air.

Bites her lip, looks up. His mossy eyes on her own, Mulder Byronic and autumnal in August.

“Yes,” she says, watchful. Blushing lightly. “Let’s get some.”

Reaches for his hand.

[aloysiavirgata]

155 Words - cheesesteak, moon, fox with a lower case f

Barnes Fountain, midnight. The City of Brotherly Love disgorged another strangely dead.

Moon nearly full, nibbles from the edge, a fresh sugar cookie.

Greasy bag of taquitos, Diet Cokes, box of Raisinets.

Scully’s elbows on her knees, lips pursed. Mulder tosses candy into his mouth.

“I’d kill someone for a cheesesteak right now,” she sighs.

“Whiz or Provolone?” He chews a Raisinet.

“Whiz,” she confesses. “When in Rome.”

He wants to say, “Did Jerse teach you that,” but he doesn’t. She is, after all, dying.

Cover her face.

Shadow at the edge of his vision; it’s a raccoon - a feral cat -

“Fox,” Scully breathes.

The fox is lush and glossy, tail a bold flag.

Scully tosses it a taquito and the animal shies, then sniffs the air. He snatches the food. Retreats.

She tosses more. The fox, chirping, grabs and devours them.

“Mulder look.” She smiles. Wide, joyous. Alive.

Mine eyes dazzle; she died young.

[asheewrites]

02 - Squeak - KitsuCub

At least the house had gotten… bearable.

There was proper food serving every day and the big human had not touched me anymore. Awful creature.

There were a few properly scenic views with a nice, sunny space to enjoy them.

Attention was properly dispersed and Mazin actually gave me the lessons he owed me.

All in all, it was not terrible anymore.

The company I’d found in the city was… almost pleasant. Versed in the ways of clothing and trends and tailoring… it was not… terrible…

Complaints… could be kept to a minimum.

It really was not the worst place to st-

“SQUEAK!”

I scrambled to my feet, trying to run from the pressure on my tail. It gabbed and pulled and-

I growled at the tiny human, hair raised and hackles raised.

It let go then, trying to shush me with cooing noises.

… sometimes it was… not the best place to stay.

[gelana78]

A wee thing...

"From lynnsaundersfanfic: I would like to submit a prompt. 155 word fic challenge. Anna x Bates (obviously). Using some version of the word “arc.” Must be 155 words exactly. ;)”

gelana78’s contribution

Fingers trace a soft arc over her thigh. Spent muscles spasm and twitch. The path of his touch is as long as the shadows cast against the wall.

He makes love to her differently in the daylight. No more or less intimately, just differently. Maybe it is she who is different - burning from the trail of his gaze, their passions laid bare in the milky light of the sun, freeing her in some ways, holding her thrall to her inhibitions in others.

In the dark she feels the expanse of him, lives in awe of the hidden reality they create between each other; a realm of raw, wet sensation, of salt and sweat, trust and whispered cries. In the dark she closes her eyes.

In the daylight she is greedy; endlessly drinking in the turns and corners of his body, the dark, private hair that washes down his torso. By day her eyes are open.

[the3williams]

My footsteps echoed on the bare wood floor. Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter.