#treadmillwriting

[floating-khoshek-floats]

Thanks to youreallwrite​ for the prompt for today’s treadmill writing: I tried to sell my soul. Satan wouldn’t take it.

It also occurred to me that it would be polite to reblog the prompts I’ve used as well, so along with following those blogs, I’ll be reblogging the prompts.

Characters come from an unfinished short story of mine that I’d actually forgotten about until now.

“I tried to sell my soul, of course. Satan wouldn’t take it. Well, more accurately, the Grim Reaper wouldn’t. It all worked out rather well as through a little bit of cheating, I managed to buy the Grim Reaper’s soul instead. And I didn’t die. All in all, a good day.

“Of course, it did raise the question of why the Reaper had refused it. He won’t speak on the matter and some days I think he might have lost on purpose. Absurd, of course. He was just too stupid to win. And he makes an excellent servant. Oddly good cook.

“The problem remaining was how to get the Reaper out of his agreement with the devil so that he could be free to properly serve me instead of dragging me along with him collecting souls. I don’t actually mind that much.

“But to business. You’re not here to listen to how I’m alive. You’re here to know how I can help you. I think I’ve convinced you I have the capabilities at my disposal. Just say what you need and we’ll see if we can’t come to some arrangement.”

When Lewis had dismissed the client, he found Grim leaning against the doorway, half in-half out of a portal to Hell. 

“Did mine ears deceive me?” he said. “Or did you just try to pull a devil’s advocate in a very literal sense?”

“I suppose you could argue that in a technical sense.”

Grim stepped fully into the room, the portal closing with a snap. “You cannot sell the powers of death to normal people! What is wrong with you?”

The young teenager smiled thinly from behind his desk, fingers steepled. In his black suit, he looked terrifying like his recently deceased father. 

“Nothing, as it turns out, dear Grim. Now go run along and take care of your other duties. I’ll call you when I need you.”

[floating-khoshek-floats]

treadmill writing of the day comes from awritersnook with the first sentence prompt of “Well, that’s not in the manual.”

Digging up my old, old, old, old, old friend Cornelius Napoleon Arnold Rutherford (aka James Faulkwing) who is arguably my oldest character if we discount the cloud story. Sadly, his story has never been more than a short story I wrote in high school.

“Well...that’s not in the manual,” I said, eyeing the queue of apparently  heroes lined up outside my door. 

Just to double-check I got out the Villain’s Guidebook and nothing in the index, the table of contents, or random flicking through the pages said anything about heroes literally lining up to have a go at you. 

I swear. You train one hero and suddenly they all think they can just show up anytime they like. I’ll have you know, I only trained Calvalko in heroing because I felt really bad for him. He was absolutely hopeless and look how that turned out! He became a worse villain than me. And then my flatmate. But that--nevermind. It’s complicated. It’s a long story and it’s complicated. 

I peered out past my lace curtains at the hero train again and wrinkled up my lip in distaste. I wasn’t about to fight them all. I can do exactly three spells at best and am decent in a duel, but not against, blueberry crepes, thirty? Forty heroes? Sweet pumpkin spice. Where did they all come from, though? Surely not a new hero academy. I thought I’d convinced Hector not to start those things; they were a very bad idea and unbalanced the hero-to-villain ratio. And that, as anyone who has a spec of brain knows, is very important to maintain or else we get tyrants and anarchists!

Not at the same. Well, maybe at the same time. I mean, I suppose it would be possible--

The point is, I had a...a...what would you call a group of heroes? A flock? A band? No, that’s brothers. A herd? A herd of heroes? Nice alliteration at any rate. 

I had a herd of heroes and no way to get rid of them. This called for Drastic Measures. 

I cracked open the window and leaned in close.

“Oy!” I shouted out the window. “Whoever’s the best hero in the land gets to go first! No exceptions!”

To my delight, after a moment of dumbfounded amazement at the announcement, one dork started for the front of the line. He was immediately shoved back to the pronouncement that he was not the best. Within two minutes, there were six fist fights, two duels, nineteen shouting matches, an arm-wrestling contest, and a pair of heroes flexing and staring at each other...which might have been a mating ritual now that I think of it. 

I just put on the tea and moved to the living room window with the better view. 

[floating-khoshek-floats]

The writing treadmill entry for today comes from daily-prompts and also Fall Out Boy.  “May the bridges I have burned light my way back home.”

I do follow everyone I get prompts from and you are welcome to suggest prompts or blogs that might lead to prompts. :) 

Digging into my novella today because the prompt fits them so well.

I see her on the bus, sitting morosely by the window, staring straight ahead. I’m not on the bus, but the moment I see her, I want to board. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Flick. She came when I was released from rehab, but that was three weeks ago. And of course, we’d been broken up already by then. “Taking a break,” was how Flick categorized it. She hadn’t said the “if” that accompanied the phrase. Getting back together was an “if” that completely depended on me. Me becoming trustworthy again.

Flick raises an amber hand to the tiny scar on her bottom lip, but her fingernail doesn’t rest in the groove like it was wont to in the past. She closes her eyes, drops her head, then hand. 

I swallow, wishing she’d look out the window. I’m right here. But then, I don’t want her to look. What if she does and it’s not the loving look I love, but the disappointed, hurt look I’ve come to know?

The bus hisses and huffs, then jolts forward. I gasp and dash a few steps after it, before stopping and letting it rumble around the corner, taking Flick with it. I sniffle and wipe my eyes, then turn away. 

I meet up with Tsia at the coffee shop down the block as planned. She spots me and goes to hug me, but stops when she sees my expression. 

“Hey, chickie, what’s that face for? You sick?” Her face turns stern. “You slip?”

“No,” I assure her. “I just...saw Flick.”

Sympathy warms Tsia’s face. “Your girl, right?”

“Was,” I said. 

“Yeah, but it’s just a break, right? Like ‘til you’re trustworthy or whatnot again, yeah? And it’s not like she’s seeing other people.”

My eyes widen. Would Flick do that? We weren’t together now. Would she find some other girl, someone who actually appreciated her and liked to sit with her amongst her plants and books instead of dragging her out among people and glitz and crowds like she hated? Had she already found someone with a pretty smile and pale skin who disliked kissing as much as she did? Maybe she hadn’t believed me when I swore Coby--he had been a friend, someone to dream Malfesamine with, not a lover. Maybe she wanted someone less complicated. Or someone prettier or more patient or more sensitive. I never wanted anyone but Flick. Why did I have to mess it all up? Why couldn’t I have been satisfied with my life? 

Tsia puts her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, no, hun, don’t do that. Don’t start that crying. She’s gonna take you back. She will. She seems like decent folk, you know? She’s not gonna leave you over a mistake. You just gotta keep swearing over and over you won’t do it again. This whole break thing, it’s just for you both to get your heads back on, right?”

I nod. I’m never going to risk Flick again, never, but I have to get her back first.

And I will. Whatever it takes. Flick’s face gleams in my mind like a fire, smiling, giddy even. I focus on her. She’ll lead me home. 

[floating-khoshek-floats]

Today’s treadmill writing comes from a prompt courtesy of putthepromptsonpaper in the form of this sentence  “I’ve lost count of the promises I’ve broken for you.”

This one looks fun. Also, I should add, any blog that I take a prompt from, I will follow if I’m not already following them. Fyi. So feel free to suggest blogs and prompts. No promise that I’ll use that prompt or blog, but I’m always looking for suggestions. :) (and let’s be honest, I have a weird habit of almost blindly following blog recs if they’re either interesting or loosely involved in my interests).

These intros keep getting longer. I should work on that. Dipping into the world of one of my short stories, a historical piece about theatre in Shakespeare’s day, and more excitingly, the spies. (Because Christopher Marlowe was a spy, you know. How cool is that?) 

“Calm down and be silent,” Cuthert hissed at the young girl masquerading as a boy, shooting a dark look toward the closed, but hardly soundproof door. The sounds of the show well underway slithered under the crack. The company had no idea their manager was dead. Worse, the spies among the company had no idea.

Thomasine seethed. “’Be silent!’” she echoed. “Always that is what you are wanting from me. Unbroken stillness. ‘Be silent, boy.’ ‘Be quiet, boy.’ ‘Mind your tongue, boy.’ Well, dearly have I kept locked tongued under your instructions. And well have I kept your buzzing little secrets, from all, even Master Gittens--Gittens now trapped behind Thanos’ door. And where does the blame lie for that? Upon you, settled firmly between your grasping fingers.” At this she too, shot a furtive glance to the door before rounding on the older man, her voice dropping to the sharpest of whispers. “While your beady eyes alike to a hawk may not miss the smallest mouse creeping past your door, you have failed to observe the changes among your own agents.”

“What, has loyalty shifted while I searched for the Queen’s own enemies?” Cuthbert demanded.

“Loyalty? Nay. Just the ambitions and desires. You have less sight than sallow-eyed Gittens. And pray, tell me your crafty designs to obfuscate his death from the others. Surely not another ghost writing on his behalf.” She spat the last phrase out with rancid bitterness that Cuthbert could not ignore. 

“That would be nothing short of foolish seeing as he was not a playwright,” Cuthbert drawled. “I will press upon my thoughts, fear not.”

Thomasine nodded stiffly, crossing her arms. “I doubt not that you will wave this away with cleverness and guile. My concerns are of another nature, that through your own faults, it happened. If only you had let me spy what could be--”

“Have you gone addled-minded, Thom?” Cuthbert interrupted, drawing her farther away from the door, though neither was speaking louder then a whisper. He gripped her shoulders in claw-like fingers. “You are no web-spinner, but a wordsmith. Clever, yes, but not for the likes of espionage. I bid my oaths to Gittens, that I would keep you from the most dangers.”

“Break them then. I owe him nothing. I am capable and you are short on capable persons now.”

“You owe him everything,” Cuthbert snarled. “As do I.”

Thomasine’s expression turned to ice. “These oaths never before did cause you such dilemma when you asked me to break mine own. I have lost the count of my promises broken for your asking.”

She stepped out of his grip and backed toward the door. 

“Mayhap I shall break but one more,” she said. “Shatter to pieces my silence about your true role in this company.”

Cuthbert’s sallow skin turned almost grey in the candle light, his eyes widening. Then he clenched his jaw and bared his teeth. 

“Then go. Speak. We have no use for a loose-tongued agent so easily swayed.”

[floating-khoshek-floats]

Treadmill time! 

Treadmill writing. I don’t want any of you to get the idea that I’m actually on a treadmill. That’d...be a horrible thing to think. No. My exercise comes from walking and occasional hula hooping. 

Anyway today’s prompt comes courtesy of thewritingrealm. Again I believe. It is as follows:  What, if anything, would your character do to or for their mother on Mother’s Day? Keep in mind it doesn’t have to be positive.

Dipping back into my steampunk realm because heaven knows I have plenty of characters there with interesting mother situations. 

The Strip District was awash in flowers. To be fair, the Strip District was always awash in flowers and fresh produce, but the sellers had somehow found a way to increase “awash.” More like “a bath,” Att thought, weaving through the heavily-scented blooms. He snickered at his own pun, then moseyed to one of the busier stalls. As amusing as he was and nice as it was to see so many flowers in the dingy, smog-stained city, it did raise the question of why?

Att sidled up alongside a pudgy, red-haired young man he recognized as the mayor’s stepson and Att’s own person, albeit unknowing, rival. 

“Whatcha doing, Bore?” Att asked, his head popped up over the young man’s shoulder.

Bore, more correctly Boris, jumped, dropping the bundle of irises in his hands.

“Att. Wh-what are y...you doing-doing-doing here?” Boris asked. He stooped for the flowers, trying to keep his eyes on Att the entire time. 

Unsurprisingly. Boris didn’t exactly trust Att and Att didn’t exactly make himself easy to be trusted. Specially not by some rich spec whatever that they shared a mutual friend now deceased or that Boris had saved Att’s life last year.

“Snooping. What are you doing?”

“It’s--I, well...”

Att waited patiently for Boris to get through his stutter. A year ago, he’d not have been so patient. A year ago, he’d have made fun of it and Boris’ overly plump figure. But things had changed. Now, whatever their level of trust, the two were shared witnesses to a horror that had almost encompassed the city and had encompassed their friend.

“Mmmmother’s Day,” Boris said. “I-I-I was going to the--to the--to the...cemetery.”

A jolt ran through Att at the phrase. Mother’s Day. Was it really?

“Today?” he asked.

Boris nodded.

Att stepped back, eyebrows gathered together like storm clouds, then without a word to Boris, pushed into the crowd and disappeared from view. He quickly picked up a run and didn’t stop until he was safely on a rooftop far away from the crowds and flowers. 

He wasn’t sure why Mother’s Day hit him so hard this year when it never had in the past. He didn’t have a mother. Or at least not one he remembered or cared to remember. She’d kicked him out onto the street when he was four years old. What did he care about her? And yet...

Maybe it was last year’s losses catching up to him. His whole gang practically disintegrated, the punk-spec relationship at its weirdest and most codependent, the betrayal by his supposed friend, not to mention the beasts still roaming the streets. Or perhaps it was learning that his punk brother was his real brother just in time for that brother to die. For one reason or another, Att thought about his mother today, in the aching way that comes when you miss someone. 

In the end, he didn’t get flowers to set somewhere in her name--he didn’t even know if she was dead or alive. He did collect bottles and rocks and chuck them into the river, hard as he could, over and over until he ran out of ammunition. By that time, he was screaming wordless curses and maybe--though he wouldn’t have admitted it--crying.

When his collection had expired, more trash in the polluted, black river, Att turned away and walked back into the depths of the city, shoulders set, head raised. The sun dipped into the river and turned the city as sepia as a photograph. 

Remind me that these aren’t supposed to be this long, haha. My bad. Blame Boris. he wasn’t supposed to be there. 

[floating-khoshek-floats]

Treadmill writing time! woooo.....anyway. This one comes courtesy of thewritingrealm​ and is as follows: Your character sees someone they thought they’d never see again. You decide if this is good or bad. How does your character react?

Characters come from my steampunk series in progress set in an alternative Pittsburgh.

The patchwork beast opened its terrible mouth filled with needle-sharp fangs, snarling. Before the jaws could snap close, Zyb kicked it away with his good leg, then rolled aside, snatched up his cane and slammed it against the mis-matched creature. This one seemed seemed mostly canine except for the diamond head and snake fangs. He’d seen uglier ones. 

The blow knocked the creature back, but not enough for Zyb to get to his feet--not that running was much of an option when his prosthetic wasn’t intended for that. He knew he should have built a new one after the “adventure” in the submersive sister-city. But really, he hadn’t expected to return to Steelsburgh and find it overgrown by forest and amok with patchwork beasts. He’d have thought his brother would have taken care of them all...unless of course his brother was dead along with the rest of his makeshift family. And Helena. 

The beast plunged its fangs into Zyb’s leg and he flinched, smacking it with his cane. Stupid beastie didn’t know which one was flesh and which steel and pistons. Stupid Zyb didn’t know when to keep his mind off people it was better not to think of. 

A gunshot silenced the patchwork beasts snarls. It squealed once, then shuddered and went still, mouth still locked around Zyb’s leg. Zyb didn’t notice that though. He sat stock-still, back straight as his cane, staring at the figure who’d fired the shot.

She wore a gasmask over her face, shiny black hair cropped short around her chin. The gun dropped from her hand and she barely caught it, before lifting up the mask and gaping at him.

“Zyb?” she whispered.

He was equally shocked. Helena. The last time he had seen her they had both been prisoners waiting to be turned into patchwork beasts. She thought he’d been dead then too. He couldn’t believe she was still here. 

All at once, Helena holstered her gun and sprinted down the street intersection toward him. She slid to her knees, flinging her arms around him and hauling him close. 

“I thought you were dead!” she cried.

Zyb couldn’t answer. He slowly, slowly wrapped an arm around her and then rested his head on her shoulder. Steelsburgh had stolen all of his best things, his cat, his music, his leg, his family--both families--but until this moment, it had never once given something back. 

“It’s about damn time,” he said, cracking a half-smile that had been absent for a long time.

Mm, sorry about the length. I forgot how much I love Zyb. My bad. he’s my most favorite character ever. 

[floating-khoshek-floats]

I’m gonna try a thing here. Which is to say I’m going to complete a short writing exercise everyday using my existing characters. Everyday. For a month. It’ll be tagged #treadmillwriting if you’d like to not notice it. If you you see me skip a day, feel free to call me out. If I use prompts from blogs here, I’ll tag them. Wish me luck. 

So today’s has to use these three words: spar, string, square.

The guardsfolk sparred down in the stone-walled courtyard, their shouts sending up clouds of breath, shuffling feet stirring up the snow dust. Spears clacked together, the noise sharper in the cold. 

The little girl Wynne watched from a shadowed alcove, her large, black coat, helping her disappear into the shadows. Her fingers moved anxiously, twining a knotted piece of string between her knuckles in increasingly complex patterns. In the courtyard, the captain called a halt to the sparring, and had his lieutenant move the ranks through formations. The lieutenant snapped to it, shouting out orders. The guardsfolk adjusted seamlessly from squares into diamonds into solid walls. Satisfied with it, the captain stepped away, finding Wynne in her hiding place. 

“Something I can help you with, Highness?” he asked.

Wynne pressed her lips together and shook her head. The string snapped.

“You ought not torture yourself this way,” the captain murmured, bending down to her level. “What happened to Costin was not your fault.”

“He was trying to protect me,” Wynne said. “It is my fault. And all of you. You’d all die for me. I don’t want that.” She raised her eyes to his. “I don’t want that at all.”