Flash Fiction Friday Prompt 78: Child of the Wild.
@flashfictionfridayofficial
Child of the Wild: Flash fiction Friday prompt
She stood there in the epicenter of an indoor hurricane. Or, that was what anyone would think if they saw her. Thankfully, everyone had already gone.
She liked to imagine this ‘child of the wild’ as the only sane person in the building. People pay for impersonal violence. Rage Rooms, axe throwing, or even stacking dominoes in a painstaking pattern just for the satisfaction of destroying it yourself. It was primal, a coping mechanism coded into our DNA, where destroying something tangible for momentary bliss to satiate the ineffectiveness and despair of being alive and lacking control of anything.
A pair of eyes peered at her from under a table.
Silent tears smeared the paint and mysterious grime on the girl’s face. It was almost artistic, the teacher mused, this could be an instillation piece people paid too much money to attend. This was a missed opportunity. What was she doing with her life? She plastered tattered fragments of herself with caffeine, graded papers, and stubbornness to stave away bill collectors.
She shared this feeling with the girl.
They peered at each other across the grave of papers, and an understanding passed between them. She picked up her empty coffee mug and flicked a smile towards the girl. Impish, derelict, a secret pact between them never to be spoken of again. She raised the cup with the tenderness of handling a live grenade and smashed it on the ground.
The girl laughed, but didn’t stir.
The teacher picked up a scrap of paper and ripped it, a triumphant smile breaching across her face, and it began. They charged towards the debris, shredding and ripping the paper deviants on the battlefield, laughing until their cheeks hurt. The girl had fresh tear smears on her face, but this time paired with a smile. She hugged the woman, and their pact concluded.
The teacher was glad everyone had left early.
She remembered why she liked this job in the first place.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I wrote and posted this to AO3, and then never ever posted a link to tumblr or anywhere else, and to this day I still get the occasional kudos on it??? It’s almost three years old at this point, god
Long story short, I was feeling really insecure about how some of my friends also liked Grillby and in sexual ways, while sex-repulsed ace me who is uncomfortable with sharing tried to tough it out. I wrote this to try and make myself feel better about being ace and wanting nothing to do with sex in a world where it’s seen as an expected part of relationships, and something everyone should enjoy, and feeling like none of my fictional crushes would put up with the likes of me for being uncomfortable with it.
They kissed. They kissed until time went still and the air tasted of wine and he was still divine and he loved her. He allowed himself to yield to this moment, for this feeling that poets wrote about and gods warred about and it consumed him. Until the seas ran dry and the mountains shrank beneath the ground he would remember. So he held her desperately, clawing at the muscle and bones that caged her spirit and made her blood quicken for he wanted more. He wanted them to transcend time and stay in this perfect moment, filling himself on this feeling until he burst. He wanted all of it.
But this was not for him. He knew it in his bones. That was why he wandered alone. Her life is fleeting and it was his undoing that made him undone; made her undone until all that remained were her ears and broken years of pleading to gods that would't hear. So he drank her in until his lungs were filled and he was treading water. His resolve faltered. He was drowning in her, and he could not stop it. So he yielded, just for a moment longer.
My first crack at flash fiction Friday 😅 @flashfictionfridayofficial
Her back hurt. Years of slouching with burdens of existence did that, she supposed. Perhaps she should have listened to her mother all those years ago. Then again, maybe it was something akin to buzzing of an old appliance: a slow, auditory warning of imminent death that you learn to ignore with time. Motherly grousing and faulty appliances: what a legacy.
She stood on the subway that smelled of cheese and broken promises, doing the usual dance of averting eye contact and getting jostled by bodies and inertia as she stumbled deeper into the cavernous maw of the metroplex.
An orchestra of sniffles and coughs surrounded her. A miasma of germs always lingered in the subway on a normal day, anyway. She couldn’t afford to get medicine then, and now… well. Maybe she’d go quickly. At least now the smell of Christmas masks the scent of the pandemic panic that usually lingers on her commute.
“Next stop: Mall of America,” a pleasant disembodied voice echoed around the subway car.
A sneeze drowned out the remaining message. He wasn’t wearing a mask. She sighed and put on her name tag. Her breath fogged up her glasses, but she didn’t mind it anymore.
“Temporary temperance,” she whispered to herself as she exited the subway car. She couldn’t be late for her shift again.
The boarding house hunched on the edge of the pier as if trying not to be noticed. Doors upon doors creaked and sighed with weariness as people came and went. It was an excitable green once; granny smith apple with a fresh veneer of wax. Now it was the cloying green found on the backs of bread long forgotten in a cupboard. The doors, however, remained a rusty smear upon its face. Its owner had decreed it be painted regularly, for appearances, she had said. Never mind the sagging roof and crumbling foundation that was slowly losing its battle of stubbornness with the tide after every year. The house, as its owner, endured.
She’d have it no other way.
The verandah door creaked with indignation as she entered. The house was frozen in time. Pots and pans stood at attention above the stove. Jars of spices and dried goods lined the shelves as the idle thoughts of a writer, recipe cards tucked here, a measuring cup there, stirring spoon over there. Gran was stationed at the stove, day duster billowing behind her as regal as any queen’s cape had a right to be. Through all the revisions and emissions of her life this one figure alone in the kitchen tethered her back to herself. She was home.
“Check-in at the desk. I’ll be there in a moment,” Gran said through a billow of steam from a pot.
Her bags plonked to the ground. “Hi Gran,” she said, finally feeling like herself again, and time stood still as it always seems to do at her Grandmother’s house.
The boarding house hunched on the edge of the pier as if trying not to be noticed. Doors upon doors creaked and sighed with weariness as people came and went. It was an excitable green once; granny smith apple with a fresh veneer of wax. Now it was the cloying green found on the backs of bread long forgotten in a cupboard. The doors, however, remained a rusty smear upon its face. Its owner had decreed it be painted regularly, for appearances, she had said. Never mind the sagging roof and crumbling foundation that was slowly losing its battle of stubbornness with the tide after every year. The house, as its owner, endured.
Despite its appearance, it was infamous among locals. Not because of the décor, or seaside view, but because of her. The owner. She sat there in a plastic chair in her day duster with a bowl of dried beans on her lap. Her withered fingers sifted through them quickly with the steady hand of experience, as one would spot a lie in a face. The inferior beans and any grit were tossed to the side.
She was content in her task, menial as it was. The clacking of beans and crackle of seafoam against the shore lulled her into complacency. Every now and again it was peppered with varying degrees of ‘good morning!’ and ‘hello!’ from neighbors and boarders. She simply smiled as they passed or returned a passing phrase. She’s seen faces upon faces throughout the years; too many.
Cleaning out my desktop. Here’s another snippet from another WIP that turned out ok, I think.
Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition
POV: Varric Tethras
Varric: Baseless Accusation
Scratches from a quill and smoke from his pipe wafted into the air in a thick miasma of frustration. Bits of parchment and letters spilled from the bookshelves like scattered thoughts and in the middle was a great stone table littered with half-finished scraps of his latest novel. Seated at the head was the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild Prince, hacking away at his writer’s block with nothing but a quill and his stubbornness. A thump on the balcony distracted him from his thoughts. It sounded like a sack of potatoes being tossed in a heap. Or, Varric mused, it could be a person. Though, not Cole. He was always silent. This had to be her. He looked up at an owlish pair of eyes that stared straight into him. Bless the elves, really, but their eyes were something unsavory; especially in the dark. Varric felt a wry smile quirk his lip, and he crossed his arms and waited.
He heard scuffling and a few grunts of effort followed by a sweet, “Hello, Varric.” He dug around in a drawer for his extra pipe and a bit of tobacco. His smile spread as he saw her copper tuft of curls in disarray.
“Eggs. Lovely to see you, as always. So, what can I do for… “ his voice halted as he took in her blood-soaked shirt. Her left eye was slightly bruised and swollen, but she still wore an amiable smile and sauntered into his room like she owned it. Well, she did, but she didn’t care about things like that. Still, Varric was very fond of his little home-invading Herald.
He let out a low whistle and handed her the pipe. He got up, shuffled around his armoire in the corner and pulled out a fresh tunic and grabbed two sets of glasses of a nearby table. She plucked a dusty bottle from the top shelf and slumped into a chair.
She amused Varric. She was just like Hawke. They both reminded him of a stray cat adopted by the neighborhood. They belonged to no one, and everyone at once. She had that “Hero” quality about her. Though, just like the Champion, there was something feral and dark lurking under a veneer of humor and softness. Enemies saw that side well, and they carefully hid it in public. Varric set the glasses down and tossed the fresh tunic at her. She caught it mid-air and flashed a grateful smile at him before she poured for them both.
“I know.” She cleared her throat and pitched it as low and gravelly as she could, “don’t bleed on my good chair, Eggs.” She beamed at him, and he had to admit that her impression of him was improving. She let out a small huff and pouted at him. “But it’s so comfortable, Varric.” She gave him her puppy eyes, even though she knew that shit doesn’t work on him. A chuckle rumbled in his chest before he answered her.
“Yeah, tell that to Ruffles the next time I put a request in.” He rolled his eyes at her and turned around with a flourish. He heard a shuffling and a little grunt of effort before a defeated “alright, I’m presentable,” came from her side of the table.
“So, that was not your blood, I take it?” He hedged and took a sip of brandy. He peered over the glass at her. She always said more in her face than with her words.
She shrugged and mumbled something about a wyvern being a gusher. Varric was not convinced. She was too cavalier about the damn thing. He handed her a light for her pipe and waited. She’d crack eventually.
Dhea nodded to the pile of paper leaning dangerously on the table. “Is that the one about Vivienne?” Her eyes lit up, forcing harrumph from Varric.
“Yeah, such as it is. At this rate it’ll be kindling –“
“Or privy paper.” She tacked on. They both chuckled, raised their glass and drained it. She poured another for them. Varric grabbed his deck of cards from under a pile of unopened letters.
There was a thud outside his door, followed by Sparkler’s baritone bravado.
“Darling Dhea, my sweet little crumpet of destruction, I know you’re in there. You can’t hide from me!”
She smiled sheepishly at Varric and shrunk in her chair. He sighed and went to grab another glass.
“I brought the cask! You got the door opened yet?” Tiny’s voice boomed from the stairwell. Varric huffed out a laugh and grabbed his largest tankard. Lavellan went to open the door.
She flashed a crooked smile at Dorian and welcomed him inside with a dramatic flourish. He flicked a little spark at her and entered. Bull rushed through the door and threw her into the air. He kissed her on the cheek and placed her back on wobbly feet. “Hey boss!” He boomed, and went over to slap Dorian’s ass. Dorian just sighed dramatically and collapsed into a chair next to Lavellan. Varric smiled at the little invasion. He wasn’t getting any writing done, anyway. And getting Eggs to crack was quite enjoyable. She couldn’t resist all three interrogations, surely.
Dorian clicked his tongue at her and grabbed the drink out of her hand. “You’re not the first person to escape through a window at my behest, you know. But you are the cutest.” Dorian smiled wryly at her before taking a sip. “I do think Solas would agree.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, laughing as she turned crimson.
“I’ve no idea what you are on about. And we all had to flee. Cabot’s aim with that hatchet is too good, and it’s not the first time we stole a cask from the cellar.” She grabbed her drink back and winked at Dorian.
“Ah! It’s dulled. It won’t even break the skin!” Bull roared as he tapped the cask. “Well, I can’t speak for Tevinter over there.” Bull poured a glass for Varric and set it on the table. Varric sighed as he noticed the gore crusted onto Bull’s trousers. Ah, well. It’ll add some personality to his furniture.
“You can, and you do. Quite often, I might add.” Dorian tucked a curl behind Dhea’s ear and resumed waggling his eyebrows.
“Stop that before they fall off. And again, I don’t know why you have this idea that Solas and I are anything more than friends, but we aren’t and you can ask him. He’ll tell you the same.” Lavellan leveled a glare at him. Varric shook his head and chuckled. It was the same face she used in wicked grace, and she was terrible at it.
“Oh, kaffas, he isn’t nearly as fun. And he’d give me that look. Maker knows I only suffer through that after my hand slips while returning a book to him.” Dorian sipped Lavellan’s drink sheepishly. She bellowed out a laugh.
“You throw them at him, and everyone knows it.” She said.
“I won’t comment on that egregious claim. Now hold still.” He hovered an index finger over her bruised eye. It flashed a blue light as the healing magic knitted the skin together. She blinked at him and pecked him on the cheek in thanks.
“You and Chuckles, huh? Can’t say I didn’t see that one coming.” Varric sat down in his chair and resumed smoking. Lavellan picked up her pipe and did her best nonchalant impression. Bull peered at her with his one eye that saw too much. He grinned salaciously.
“No, but you want a bit of that Elven Glory.” Bull guffawed at her reaction and grabbed the cards from Varric’s pile. He started dealing.
“Don’t get all flustered, Boss. We’re only looking out for you.” Bull winked at her and ruffled her hair.
She let out a plume of smoke and shrunk in her chair like some disgruntled baby dragon of denial. She grabbed her cards. “Baseless accusation.” She said and hid behind her hand. Laughter erupted at the table and they started their game.
