Words are Flowing

[mirrors-knife-prompts]

They said he was a necromancer. His "mother," looked eerily like the new teacher's dead wife, and the photos he had painted a damning picture.

Half the town believed, ready to toss them out. The other simply didn't believe such a thing was possible. They didn't believe in magic, or maybe they saw the love his family had.

Maybe they didn't trust the teacher. There were rumors the teacher had been abusing his girlfriend. How had his wife died?

My brother isn't a thief. He offered a second life and we accepted what he had to do to provide it.

[deepwaterfiction]

Deep Water Prompt #3138

“They call her sword Belladonna.”

“Is it poisonous?” I asked.

“Not in the traditional sense. Cut someone once though, and the cut will spread unstoppable. One nick is death sentence.”

[wordstreamflowing]

"The cut will spread?"

They nodded, seemingly nonplussed by whatever they saw on my face. "The skin splits. Even stitched as tight as you like the wound opens on either end. I hear it gets deeper as it goes too."

I felt woozy at the image that description conjured, or maybe at the idea that I was supposed to ask her for aid. How could I tell with my head spinning? "You hear?"

"She doesn't use it often. She doesn't need to. She's a terrific swordswoman even with an average blade. Belladonna just sends a message."

It sends a message, of course that sort of thing would send a message. "And terror," I said weakly, imagining thinking I'd gotten away lucky, only for a small cut I'd dressed to grow, and the dawning horror that it would continue to do so until my death.

They shrugged, "There is that. Terror can be a useful thing. There are many fights that have been avoided with enough fear. That's why we must have her."

I swallowed, because I knew they were right. If anyone considered going against us they would think twice with the boogeyman - Boogeywoman? - in swordswoman form on our side. Except they were insistent that I had to be the one to approach her. The knowledge that she rarely used that deadly sword of hers could only provide so much comfort. Especially if she was as good as they said. "Why me? Why shouldn't the prince-"

They scoffed and shook their head as if I said something utterly ridiculous. "The prince? No, no. She hates politics and royals more than that. You however, you, she'll like."

"Lucky me."

[writing-prompt-s]

The elder stepped forward slowly. In one hand, his crooked staff, in the other, the book of wisdom. “Hunters do not harvest. Harvesters do not heal. Healers do not hunt. You have broken the great tradition. Explain yourself.”

[wordstreamflowing]

“I did not,” they said, “I am a Hunter. I did not harvest. I healed. That is not forbidden.”

The Elder’s eyes narrowed. What were they playing at? Did they want to turn the Elder against them? Unfortunately, I knew it was worse than that. They believed what they said down to their very being, which meant they would never admit fault.

“Hunters must not harvest. Harvesters must not heal. Healers must not hunt. It says nothing of Hunters healing,” their eyes were trained on the Elder as if to pin him into place, daring him to contradict whatever their point was. Except their arms tightened against the scraps they were holding, were they nervous? When the Elder was silent their eyes flicked over to me, body still rigidly facing the Elder. Not just nervous then. Terrified. I’d known them too long not to notice, though the Elder likely wouldn’t.

I suddenly wished I wasn’t the one called to ensure the integrity of the trial. There were other Hunters. Ones not so close as to be bothered. We all knew each other, of course. But the two of us were close. Once. Maybe that was why I’d been chosen. We were no longer close, but still had the benefit of knowing them. I was sure even now I’d be able to tell if they meant the Elder harm. I jolted at the thought. The realization that I thought they might be capable of harming the Elder, of even thinking of it. Had they changed so much?

I watched them as the Elder responded, “Do you have such a naïve understanding of our traditions?” he asked, voice strident, “Or do you willfully ignore their intent?” No, they hadn’t changed. Even in the face of the Elder’s accusations they barely moved, even as the rest of the room flinched. They wouldn’t. Not when they believed they were in the right.

“I am a Hunter. I have healed. I intend to keep her,” they said again, somehow standing even straighter as they stared down the Elder, as if they were daring to him to take the abomination from their arms himself. He wouldn’t of course, he would order me to. “My creation, the result of my healing, will be the first of those Hunters that heal, Harvesters who hunt, Healers who harvest. And it will be her children who do away with tradition altogether,” their declaration whipped through the room like a storm. Half of the crowd bowing against the force of their will. Half rising in preparation. “They shall be called Human.”

[deepwaterfiction]

Text: You had to teach the library something it didn’t already know to gain access. The professors said not to tell it personal secrets, that this was cheating. But we didn’t care.

[wordstreamflowing]

Professor Vale asked me to come back the next semester and talk to his new students. I wanted to say no, why should I be the scary story that keeps them in line? Except who knows what kind of secrets they'd whisper to the wall.

It spat me out eventually. My friends were less lucky. The secrets they gave up were too personal. They're a part of the collection now. I haven't been back, but I've heard you can hear them in the walls, whispering.

So I agreed to talk to the students. Standing in front of them was daunting. They'd heard rumors apparently, from the way that they straightened when Professor Vale introduced me, even the half-asleep students in the far corner. I went over Professor Vale's words again, telling them their secrets were their own and not to use them to gain entrance into the library.

One of the bolder students raised her hand, not even waiting to ask, "You're the one who got stuck, right?"

I shook my head, a wry smile tugging at my lips. "No. I'm the one who got out," I explained, "My friends got stuck. They're still there. They always will be. If the secret you tell the library is too personal or if you tell too many secrets you become part of the collection."

I looked at the class, some of them looked appropriately horrified, but most seemed indifferent. So what if they were stuck in a magic library forever? Some probably wanted that. "They aren't people anymore. They're vessels of knowledge. When I say they're part of the collection, I mean the same way a book is. It's draining them of their secrets and when the library has a lovely little book of their lives their husk will die," eyes widened at that, a few people looking at their friends like they weren't sure if they should believe me.

I probably wouldn't have believed me. "I tore myself out because I was lucky and the secrets I told weren't a big enough part of me to trap me. But it was a close thing. It did try to keep me," maybe I would've tried to rescue my friends if they weren't also long gone, whispering to walls as they sunk into them, "The library taking interest in you as a person isn't good. You research? Sure. If the library is interested in that it will help you. But if it likes who you are it will just keep you."

A man in the third row raised his hand and I nodded to him, "What are we supposed to tell it then?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, "Hasn't it been around for millenia?"

I nodded, "It has. But it doesn't know everything. Somewhere there are books about the four humors and the benefits of bleeding. So long as it isn't patently false and new the library will take it. That's why you have lab classes before this one. You can use your research there to feed the library."

Some of the students groaned, throwing up their hands. I couldn't blame them. Who kept work from three semesters ago?"And this is why we tell you to keep your research," Professor Vale said, coming up to stand next to me. Apparently Professor Vale. That didn't surprise me at all.

"It doesn't have to be big. Just something it doesn't know."

Professor Vale looked at me and smiled, mouthing a thank you before he turned to the rest of the class. "With that warning how many of you already have the textbook. It's okay if you don't, I just want to make sure I'm trying to be the best resource I can be."

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Prompt #1078

"Why do you think that you need to fix me? Who told you I was broken?"

[wordstreamflowing]

They felt the comment land, sharp and painful, in their chest, “Why do you think that you need to fix me?” they asked, voice sharper than they expected it to be, “Who told you I was broken?” Once upon a time it would’ve crushed them, even the suggestion that they were wrong. They realized, a little shocked, that the sadness wasn’t there. Instead, they were angry. The spark grew the more they watched him flounder, like he was expecting them to fall on the floor in relief at the chance to be fixed.

It was like he’d forgotten the reasons himself, “Well- You know… I thought… It’s like… you know…”

Of course that wasn’t the truth, was it? He hadn’t forgotten why he thought it would be such a great idea to fix them. He just assumed that they would be happy to be fixed, to be whole, by his definition. His way of thanking them. It made them want to laugh, to spit.

“I saved you,” they said, leaning towards them, “Me and my crutches,” they took a step back, suddenly concerned they’d swing their crutch at him and show them how useful they really were. “I don’t need whatever fix you think you have. You’ll just have to live with the fact that someone like me saved you. All the power you have,” their voice dipped lower, suddenly aware that they were in the middle of a busy park, “the magic, and someone broken is the only reason you’re still breathing.”

His mouth opened and closed, looking very much like a fish out of water, maybe he just was with them, “I didn’t say-”

“You didn’t say broken?” any attempt to be quiet, discreet, flew out the window, the fire in their chest suddenly bursting through their mouth “Do you hear yourself? You didn’t have to! You don’t fix things that aren’t broken!” that drew a few eyes, because how could their screaming not? “You didn’t have to say it! I know what you meant!” they took a breath. There was so much that they could say, but would it matter?

The fire in their chest died to a glow and they turned and walked away. They knew deep in their bones, that if they stayed to hear him apologize, they would hit him. He wasn’t worth the trouble.

[writing-prompt-s]

“Seek not earthly riches, but be frugal, for you shall have treasures in heaven.” Said the man in a palace sitting upon a golden throne.

[wordstreamflowing]

The peasant woman gaped, clutching her baby closer to her chest. She looked heartbroken. She looked down at the baby and up again at her king. Her shoulders drooped. They'd been shaking but straight when she entered the throne room.

I looked away from the mother and baby and up at the king from where I stood off to the side. "She does not ask for riches, My Lord," every eye in the room snapped to me. All except the king, whose eyes met mine slowly. He always was a deliberate man. I made sure my voice was loud enough to be heard by everyone in the large room, but no louder, with no malice in my tone, "She simply seeks enough food to eat and enough money to clothe her children."

The king looked away and toward the woman and back to me, "Were I to grant her an exception more would come, all with excuses as to why they cannot pay their taxes." The room was silent but I could see the others, nodding around me.

I dipped my chin in acknowledgement, "If there are so many who seem burdened by your taxes perhaps they need to be lowered." The silence broke with a collective inhale and murmurs broke out across the room. My words weren't harsh, but they were in distinct disagreement with the king.

The king raised a hand and the murmurs died down, stopping completely when he began to speak, "The money is needed. To maintain the kingdom. To protect her and everyone else under my protection."

"Protect?" Sharpness started to leak into my voice, "What are you protecting that woman from?" I asked, indicating the peasant woman in front of him, people began to shuffle away from me, but I paid them no heed, staring down the king.

"War," the king said, narrowing his eyes, "We're under threat in the south and I would like to take back our land in the west."

I scoffed, "'Our land,' My Lord?" I looked at the woman and she was further from me than she was before, "I don't believe this woman feels she's owed land in the west. Who do you mean when you say Our? Do you mean yourself?"

The guards were moving towards me but the king again held out a hand, keeping it up, as if he intended to let them drag me out once he said his piece. His eyes blazed, "I am the kingdom. I am their protection and their guidance. Who are you?"

My lips twisted into a smile. "So a king is his kingdom?" I asked, my voice softer than before, but still echoing off the walls, as my eyes started to glow, "I wonder then what that makes a god?" I rose from where I was standing, easily pushing away the king's guards and the nobles I stood with, those that agreed with the king.

"Is a god all of their kings, I wonder?" My voice boomed around the room with absolutely no effort as the mortal form I wore fell away and I enjoyed watching the king look away, unable to stand looking at my true form directly.

"You preach piety while worshipping your riches. You use me! You use my words to deny people food and safety! No more," I waved a hand over the entire room, watching as it twisted and rotted before my eyes, the walls crumbled, the pillars shook. I could hear the nobles screaming as they ran for cover. I could hear the peasant woman screaming as she doubled over her baby. I was lost in the horror in the king's eyes though.

"I could kill you. But I rather like the idea of letting you attempt to live the life you would condemn that woman to. I would like you to try to force food from ground that will not yield. I would like to see you beg. And one day when you cross into my realm, I want to show you your riches," I spit the word, "there. May you never feel the ease you once did."

The king was ashen, sitting on what was now a briar patch. I turned from him, he was worth so little. I took a breath and summoned my mortal disguise, slowly lowering that body to the ground as I approached the peasant woman.

She flinched but I held up my hands and stopped a few feet from her, "He matters little to me. It is you and yours I care about," and then I was close enough to take the hand that wasn't holding her baby, "I bless you with an easy life. With fruitful harvests and good friends. These are the strongest of my blessings." I let go of her hand and stepped back, "I look forward to seeing you when your life is through."

And I left.

[alternativetodiscourse]

I’ve been thinking a lot about compassion in Judaism, and being kind. In that light, I would like everyone to know that my current favorite Jewish supernatural headcanon is that, instead of driving vampires away with crosses or stakes through the heart, we say the Mourner’s Kaddish for them. I mean, that’s just so adorable. You see this threatening undead creature, and instead of yelling murder, you feel bad for them, and you mourn for them. Imagine being a vampire at the receiving end of that, having been chased away for years and years and told you’re a monster when you come across someone who sees you and your existence and accepts that you’re in a pretty bad place and offers help in the best way they can. I’m actually tearing up about this a little. If someone adds to this post I’ll love them forever.

[animatedamerican]

It doesn’t work for zombies.

This is one of the hardest things she learns, in the business.  Saying the Mourner’s Kaddish will slow a vampire, to stare at you with wide shocked eyes (and once, memorably, to weep blood-tinged tears), unable or unwilling to lift a hand against you.  It will calm a dybbuk, enough to make it stop whatever destruction it’s begun, and almost always enough to start a conversation about why it clings so desperately to the world of the living, what it’s left undone, how it can be freed to move on.  You have died, the Kaddish says, and we mourn you as we would mourn our own dead, because someone must.

But there is no soul and no mind left in a zombie, no vestige of the self it once was, nothing left for the Kaddish to speak to.

She says it anyway, with every head-shot, with every flung grenade.

Not because she still hopes one might hear her, but because they are dead, and the dead should be mourned.

[alternativetodiscourse]

Well, I love you forever now.

[tachvintlogic]

@prismatic-bell

[wordstreamflowing]

@caffeinewitchcraft reblogged something about how people coming back wrong only works if you know the person well enough to notice. And it kicked this off. It feels like a good way to start off a year of writing more.

Note: This story uses it/its as the pronouns of a being who no longer considers itself human. I know that those words are frequently used to dehumanize real people, but that is not the case here. In any case, be safe.

No ritual, no matter how powerful, is perfect. There is no hope of scrubbing away every flaw. But. But, but, but. Human nature is to try.

It had never met the woman it was supposed to be, but it imagined she'd be touched so many came forward to "help" her. Even though the ritual didn't. Not that it told them that. It wasn't her, but it didn't want to die. Could it die? Could something that wasn't born be considered alive? Better to keep quiet.

It knew enough about her to play pretend. They ensured that.

One person couldn't summon a person from the Veil. A circle of five could manage something like the person. Ten? Twenty? The results got closer to their loved one as the circle expanded. A circle with 100 people had never been attempted before. They told it there were rarely 100 people who knew someone well enough to try it. Everything it had seen since agreed with that.

She was special.

Each of them poured their memories of her into it. Her memories. Her habits. Likes. Dislikes. Any piece of her they could. That had to create a whole right? They certainly thought it was.

Maybe it would've too. If they hadn't given it her laptop. It knew her password, of course it did. It also knew she had a secret, password protected folder. For months it knew and that was enough.

It lived her life. It was her. They believed it was an exact copy of her, which made it believe the same.

And then it looked. There was no particular reason, just a whim. That was what changed things.

Videos of her. Not for anyone. Not even for herself. They were scrubbed of everything familiar it had seen in pictures and videos she'd taken with others. It was transfixed. Mesmerized. Hours upon hours of videos no one had ever seen before. Even she hadn't watched them if the metadata was to be believed.

Sometime in the second week of watching her videos it realized there were some differences between it and the woman on the screen. Its freckles were different, lighter, more uniform than some of hers. There was one just under their right eyes that looked more like two when she leaned to turn off the camera. The one on their chins more circular on its face. Then they started looking.

She looked more real. Teeth slightly crooked, hair messier, but there was a light in her eyes. One it wasn't sure it had ever seen in its own. Not in the same way at the very least.

There were terribly minute details it probably wouldn't have noticed had everyone in their half-shared life not been excited to explain which parts they had contributed. Had she ever noticed them. It wasn't sure.

It was sure she never expected to be defined by the force she bit her cheek with or how often she glanced at the camera when she was unsure, looking for approval from people who weren't there. It didn't do those things. They thought her confident so it was made to embody that confidence.

It fidgeted and twitched in the same way she did, someone's memory preserving those parts of her in it, like a bug in amber. But the more it listened to her talking to herself, for herself, the more it realized it did not think the way she thought.

It dug deeper. It would play her videos while looking at old messages, at the records of the times she was talking about. The difference was stark. Had anyone really known her? Was it the closest anyone had gotten, after her death? What would she think of it? Would she be warmed that so many cared enough to try, or horrified that they couldn't tell the difference between her and a mannequin?

It was a fourth of a person, if that. Lifelike, but still paled. False. The more it watched, the more carefully it observed its own interactions, the more it realized it was buoyed by expectations rather than genuine interactions. A well-trained computer program might make as much an impact.

It was unreal in the realest sense. An oxymoron it puzzled on long hours into the night, in its stolen bed. A cuckoo the humanity surrounding her had yet to uncover, as clever as they thought they were.

Some days it was hard, competing ideas of what she was supposed to be painting it in a tight spot. Interactions that left it could only assume left them as unsatisfied as it was.

It had tried going out without anyone. Making genuine connections with people that never knew her. A hard thing to do here, but it tried. The interactions were a mass of tangled wires that left her exhausted. Their reactions felt wrong. It wanted to shake them, tell them what they were supposed to say and move on. It didn't. What good would it do? It would just be making the interaction as false as it was. It didn't want that, even if it didn't know why.

So it continued to play pretend. Act like her. Be her. Stay in the comfortable sphere they had made for it. There had to be some kindness there, making sure it was never without someone to model its interactions on.

And in the darkest hours of the nights it thought of her, and wondered what she thought of it.

[writing-prompt-s]

You kidnapped the child of a rich family to get a big ransom, but you soon realize that his family doesn’t care about him at all. So you do your best to be a good parental figure for him.

[wordstreamflowing]

The first sign that anything was wrong was the fact that he didn't cry. He seemed more confused than anything. Where were they going? Who were they?

That was the second sign. He didn't ask what they wanted. All that was in hindsight though.

When they called to set the ransom they expected frantic parents, an army of cops, they had been so careful. Instead they got the secretary. She didn't realize he was missing, and she was appropriately alarmed. That should've been a sign too. It'd been hours. They made sure to wait until there was no way to assume the chauffeur was just stuck in traffic.

He'd grabbed their hand two hours in and asked if they were going to get food. They got him McDonald's, no kids' meal just in case the cops checked, and they would've thought he never had chicken nuggets before. When he asked for more they snapped that he could have more later. They shouldn't have snapped, but they were expecting some kind of indication that the cops knew the kid was missing, the fact that there wasn't a whisper of it put them on edge.

The secretary assured them they'd tell the boy's parents and they'd call right back. The fear in her voice made them confident things were going to go their way. Good. They needed the money. Otherwise they wouldn't have done this.

The minutes ticked by. The hands crawled along the clock. There was no TV. No books. Nothing for a six-year-old boy to do, but he didn't complain. It was starting to put them on edge. Any normal kid would be terrified. Or crawling up the walls at least.

At first he stared at the walls. He was finding pictures in the stains. Or that's what he said when they asked. Three hours in he took the laces out of his shoe and was playing cat's cradle. Still silent unless spoken to. Honestly, it was spooky.

They would've called again, but it was the middle of the night by then, they weren't going to get anyone at the office, and they didn't have another number. They debated asking the kid for his parents' numbers, but it felt wrong to ask the kid they kidnapped for help.

Eventually the kid fell asleep in the chair. They looked at him as he slept. It was amazing how stressed someone so young could look. They hadn't realized until he fell asleep.

They shook their head, of course he was stressed. He got kidnapped and his parents hadn't even bothered calling. As far as they knew they hadn't even called the cops.

They picked him up, he stirred in their arms and they told him to go back to sleep. He put his head against their chest and did exactly that. Without so much as a question.

They settled him on the futon that usually served as their bed and checked to make sure the windows were still nailed shut and locked the door, leaning against it for an extra layer of protection. It wasn't like they were sleeping tonight anyway, they plugged in their earbuds into their police radio. Maybe the kid's parents were waiting until the middle of the night to break the news. It took some fiddling until the one good earbud had enough connection to hear anything, but they held the wire there and listened to the cops talk about the thefts and domestic disputes for the rest of the night.

When the kid woke up they had already gone to McDonald's and gotten one sausage muffin. It took a lot of scrounging to get enough money to get McDonald's twice in as many days, especially with the money they spent getting this ready, but they couldn't let the kid starve. He devoured the whole thing in a minute flat and asked when he was going to school.

"You're not."

"I have to go to school."

"When your parents call me."

"Oh." Somehow that was what made them realize. The resignation in his voice. They looked at him, wondering why he sounded so resigned.

The morning passed like last night. Now that they were in a different room the kid was looking for pictures in the water stains. When he got bored of that he started playing cat's cradle, and by that point they felt so bad for him they joined in.

It was ten thirty before the number they set up for this kidnapping rang. It wasn't the parents. They hadn't really expected it to be

Instead it was the secretary, sobbing. When she hadn't heard anything she called them again and again until the boy's mother picked up the phone. Apparently one small child wasn't worth disturbing their meetings and if she heard from the secretary again about it she'd fire her.

The secretary couldn't imagine what would happen to the kid if they heard his parents wouldn't even leave their meeting for him, so she called anyway, hoping they'd be willing to negotiate.

"I don't make much," she said through quiet sobs, "but maybe..?" she didn't sound hopeful.

They took a breath and then another and continued the slow, steady pace until the red that clouded their vision cleared.

"Are- are you there?" The secretary's voice was small, and they couldn't tell if she was afraid of their reaction, or afraid of being heard.

"Kid's safe," they finally said when they were confident they weren't going to cuss his parents from here to Saturn and back, "I'll call you later."

"Wait- What-?" But they'd already ended the call.

They looked at the little boy on their raggedy futon, shoe laces dangling from his fingertips like he forgot he was playing when he started listening in. His nice clothes had dirt on them and his hair was plastered to his forehead from the heat, even this early. They looked at the tight lines of his body. The fear. He didn't look so spoiled then.

"So kiddo, you're gonna be staying with me for a while, okay?"

Instantly the tension melted, like an ice cube in a pot of soup, and the boy looked more his age, "Can we get some more nuggets?" he asked.

They smiled, "Not right now, there's some things I need to figure out. But later? I promise. By the way what do you go by?"

The boy's eyebrows knit together, confusion turning statements into questions, "My name? Matthias?"

"Well yeah, but Matthias is a mouthful. Is Matty okay?"

His warm brown eyes lit up from the inside, "Matty," he agreed with a nod.

[writing-prompt-s]

Couples receive “parent points”, which they can use to purchase their children. Most parents wait for a few thousand, but you chose to buy the cheaper, 100 point child.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Shane knows what it’s like to be a 100 point child. He knows how it feels to see potential parents–potential families–come through the facilities doors, faces bright with excitement. He knows how it feels to see them reading the little plaques on the nursery doors, scanning the lists there for the right bits of knowledge and etiquette and grace that they want their baby to have.

He knows how it feels to see their faces pinch outside the window before they hurry to the next room.

Shane grew up in a 100 point nursery. They had torn, ratty, books and no teachers, and when snack time came, the tray was pushed through a slat in the door. They were called “unruly” and “damaged” and “stupid.” A lot of the other kids threw tantrums and broke furniture (and sometimes other kids). A lot of the other kids went quiet after the first few years when they realized they’d never be adopted until they were old enough (or pretty enough) to be useful. A lot of the kids cried and didn’t stop until they got taken away or were aged out.

Shane’s grown up a lot since aging out. He put himself through school, got himself a job, shed his 100 points like the torn clothes he’d left the facility in. He’s powerful now, successful, and he’s grown out of the twisted nose, big ears, and gap-toothed smile that had made him one of the less attractive 100 point babies. Or maybe he’s grown into them. Who’s to say?

It’s taken him a long time to get enough Parent Points to do what he wants. Being a man is, for once, somewhat hindering as most of society equates “parental” with “maternal.” He’s lost count of how many social workers have politely hid expressions of surprise when he told them he wanted to adopt stag, that he’s willing to take the classes, get the grades, make the oaths to get even one Parent Point.

Keep reading

[hanginggardenstories]

A GUIDE FOR YOUNG LADIES ENTERING THE SERVICE OF THE FAIRIES, by Rosamund Hodge

I.

This is the lie they will use to break you: no one else has ever loved this way before.

II.

Choose wisely which court you serve. Light or Dark, Summer or Winter, Seelie or Unseelie: they have many names, but the pith of the choice is this: a poisoned flower or a knife in the dark?

(The difference is less and more than you might think.)

Of course, this is only if you go to them for the granting of a wish: to save your father, sister, lover, dearest friend. If you go to get someone back from them, or—most foolish of all—because you fell in love with one of them, you will have no choice at all. You must go to the ones that chose you.

III.

Be kind to the creature that guards your door. Do not mock its broken, bleeding face.

It will never help you in return. But I assure you, someday you will be glad to know that you were kind to something once.

IV.

Do not be surprised how many other mortal girls are there within the halls. The world is full of wishing and of wanting, and the fairies love to play with human hearts.

You will meet all kinds: the terrified ones, who used all their courage just getting there. The hopeful ones, who think that love or cleverness is enough to get them home. The angry ones, who see only one way out. The cold ones, who are already half-fairy.

I would tell you, Do not try to make friends with any of them, but you will anyway.

V.

Sooner or later (if you serve well, if you do not open the forbidden door and let the monster eat you), they will tell you about the game.

Summer battles Winter, Light battles Dark. This is the law of the world. And on the chessboard of the fairies, White battles Black.

In the glory of this battle, the pieces that are brave and strong may win their heart’s desire.

VI.

You already have forgotten how the mortal sun felt upon your face. You already know the bargain that brought you here was a lie.

If you came to save your sick mother, you fear she is dead already. If you came to free your captive sister, your fear she will be sent to Hell for the next tithe. If you came for love of an elf-knight, you are broken with wanting him, and yet he does not seem to know you.

Say yes.

Keep reading

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Prompt: Humans only age on their birthday. Those born on February 29 only age once every four years.

Hey anon thanks for the prompt! This took a darker turn than I was expecting lol.

TW: Pedophilia, death mention, sexual assault of someone who looks like a minor.

It is illegal to induce labor on February 29th in the United States. Complications? Doesn’t matter. There will be no artificially started labor, no drugs, no spicy foods, no whatever. If you are found guilty of inducing labor on February 29th in the US, you are looking at a decade prison sentence. At least. 

The US is more lenient than most countries.

England confiscates F-29s, whisks them away to special facilities where they are tested for potential. F-29s commonly grow up to be advisors, historians and secret-keepers in England. These three jobs tend to be the same thing.

In Japan, only those with a special permit will be allowed to keep an F-29 child. Government officials, the wealthy, those who have undergone the appropriate genetic review and found superior.

 North Korea induces labor on the 29th for its leaders, but kills any F-29 born to the people. 

China kills most F-29s. Those that survive are whisked away after twenty years, disappeared. US intelligence pegs them in work camps, tiny fingers and old minds working tirelessly in remote places.

The list of countries goes on and the consequences become more severe as it does. Kidnapping, slave labor, death. These are the fates of the F-29s in most countries.

—————————————————–

Justine is lucky to be an F-29 in the United States. It means she will never leave the US, will never have the opportunity to travel abroad, will never be able to see her sister married in Spain, but she’s alive and free.

She tries not to think about the rest.

She was four years old when her sister is born. Now, her sister is 32 and Justine is 20 years younger. She’s got the mind of a woman in her mid-thirties but her body is that of 12-year-old. Her sister has begun to treat her like a child.

(She’s not a child.)

Justine feels out of sync with the world. She watches her childhood friends shoot up around her, watches them begin to look at each other with hearts in their eyes, watches them settle down and start having kids of their own.

Soon her friends’ kids will be older than her too. She’ll be nearing 250 by the time her sister’s grandkids die and then she’ll have anywhere between 50 and a 100 years left.

Justine tries not to think about that at all.

————————————————–

Justine works for the police. She’d like to be a police officer, but her tiny body can’t pass the required tests even if her mind can. So, instead, she works on a consultant basis.

Justine catches pedophiles.

Keep reading

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hi! Firstly, I just want to say that I love your snippets and your amazing writing. I was wondering if you could write a snippet about a prince who is betrothed to a princess, but falls for her brother instead. Thank you!

“We can’t do this, it’s not fair to anyone. Least of all my sister,” Eli said. He swallowed. “Least of all to your wife.” 

“I know,” Caleb murmured. God, of course he knew that. He hadn’t planned for it to be this way. “She’s not my wife yet.”

“She’s my sister already, as if the yet matters. Don’t be crass.” 

Right. Yes. He was putting Eli in a bitterly unfair position, he knew that. He was being entirely selfish. Putting his heart above their relationship, above his family’s honour, above their kingdoms and the whole world. But with Eli so close, softened and more human outside of his crisp uniform, it was so very easy to be selfish. Selfish was all he wanted to be if it meant he got to keep him. It was, technically, still an alliance between their kingdoms. 

It couldn’t be. 

“Does she love me?” he asked, like a challenge. 

The flash of pain in Eli’s eyes told him it was a cruel question to ask, even if he’d never meant to cause hurt. 

“She cares for you,” Eli said. “Deeply. As I do.”

“But not like you do.” 

He didn’t love Princess Zara. He cared for her, or maybe he even loved her in his way, but he didn’t love her in that way. Every time he looked at her, he thought of Eli, and then his own guilt made him terse. They were so very similar in so many ways that it stung them all because it was a bloody insult to reduce them to comparison. 

Eli stared at him, his jaw clenching. He looked down, his fingers flexing on Caleb’s hip. “No,” he allowed, so quietly. “Not like I do.” 

“I love you.” 

“Stop it.” 

“It’s true. I love-”

“Say it again and I’ll cut you down,” Eli snapped. “Do you believe you’re making me happy?”

Caleb didn’t flinch back. He ghosted his fingertips along Eli’s back, stroking the nape of his neck, nudging another selfish kiss against his warm lips. “I’ll take very good care of her,” he promised, instead. “She’ll want for nothing.”

Nothing except the same things that he himself wanted. Love, freedom. It wasn’t a bad match. He should consider himself lucky, honoured. 

Eli sighed and kissed him back fiercely, fingers tightening on the front of his dress shirt. 

“I don’t think she’d care,” Caleb whispered, unable to help himself. “About me and you. She’d want us to be happy. She’d want you to be happy, surely?”

Eli frowned and pushed him back. His shoulders squared as if for battle. 

Caleb missed his mouth already, even in its current disapproving state. 

Because, well, that was true too. She wouldn’t care. Or, at least, she wouldn’t care that much.

“You’re being unfair,” Eli said, a little colder than before. “Don’t ask this of me. Don’t ask this of her.”

Caleb held his hands up in a placating gesture, his chest squeezing tight. “I’m sorry.”

“Promise me you won’t tell her about this.”

“Do you really think she doesn’t know?” 

Eli’s frown deepened. He was radiating ice now. He smoothed down his uniform, buttoning himself up more so, back to distance and princely perfection. The Grand Prince, instead of Caleb’s lover. “You should go.”

Caleb’s fists clenched at his sides. He raised his brows. “Do you want me to?” 

“Don’t make this harder than it already is. If you l-” Eli couldn’t even say it, could he? “If you care for me, go. Don’t come back. Your wedding is tomorrow. This can’t happen again.” 

There were a dozen things Caleb wanted to ask - do you really want me to go? Tell me that you actually want me to go, tell me that you don’t love me and want this as much as I do. 

“Eli…”

Eli turned and walked out.

[hgk477]

How to confirm whether or not you are a changeling

Physical appearance. Eyes are always a giveaway. They’re a little brighter, a little prettier, a little more noticeable than they should be. If you are regularly complimented on your eyes, or if you have unusual eyes, that’s the first sign.

Changelings are assigned to parents who are not ready for parenthood, whether this is due to abusive tendencies or a general inability to raise a child. If you have cruel parents or are adopted/fostered, and so on, that may be a hint.

You feel as though you don’t belong in your body. As though this human form is not yours and you’re merely a borrower or a prisoner, or perhaps its captor. You also may feel as though you share the body with other entities, although these entities are not part of the body, they are you. You have their thoughts and memories.

You have memories of things you didn’t experience. In this current life, at least. If you have memories from past lives, memories of dying or of situations you haven’t experienced, that may also be a sign.

a severe dislike of certain areas with no apparent cause or correlation. If you are physically unable to force yourself into a swimming pool, for example, despite gladly running into an ocean or lake.

an enjoyment and/or relaxation from adrenaline rushes. If you love the feeling of falling or you find high-speed roller coasters relaxing, that’s an extremely strong hint.

You barely feel the cold, or don’t feel it at all, but are very sensitive to heat and uncomfortable in hot or warm weather. Also, if you are unreasonably cold during normal weather.

You have a fascination with blood- but only your own. If you have a nosebleed and prefer to watch it drip down your face than block it with a tissue, this could be a hint. Violent daydreams and a need for pain could also be a hint, but if none of the other signals on this list are present, perhaps consult a therapist.

you’re a very fast and skilled climber, and you can hide very well in tight spaces. Especially if you enjoy tight spaces rather than feeling claustrophobic. If you would prefer to sit on top of a cabinet with the doors almost entirely shut than on the floor or a chair, this is a sign.

bad with humans, good with….well, anything else. If you love animals, plants, spirits and so on, this could be a potential hint. Changelings have been known to engage in many ritual activities and even summoning spirits or demons to keep them company. Changelings are from a different world, and therefore can see, feel and sense things that humans cannot. If you regularly notice paranormal activity and are rarely phased by it, you may be a changeling. You do not have to see them to feel that they are there.

Frequent nightmares and difficulty to sleep at night may also be a sign. Changelings sometimes develop nocturnal tendencies.

When you listen to music, you don’t just listen. You feel it. Every word is a part of your experiences. The rhythm makes you feel like your body is moving even if you are still. The melody flows through your veins. It isn’t just a song. It’s a piece you must use to build yourself. It becomes part of a handmade soul.

Note: If you have most, or all, of these symptoms, it is likely that you are a changeling.

More guides

Escaping angelic prison

How to find and become friends with the faeries in your yard

If you are a researcher or adventurer and want to share a guide, join our subreddit!

[elsewhereuniversity]

Outside of the dorms, most often then not on Friday's night, you can find Green Lips. They trade in kisses. They treasure the first ones the best. But if you are truly doomed, you can trade your last one with them. Blow a kiss in the wind and they will hear you calling. It doesn't mean they will answer.

[wordstreamflowing]

Hyacinth stood out in the cold, wrapped in a blanket. They shut their eyes and memories rushed up to meet them in the dark. They found their favorite tree, an oak with knobby, spindly fingers, and sat down underneath it. Pulling the blanket up to her chin. She reached up and blew a kiss.

There was nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Hyacinth sat. They were almost dozing by the time the wind shifted. A whiff of rose, salt off the sea. Hyacinth's eyes opened lazily. And there they were.

Green lips.

They looked different than Hyacinth expected. Skin bright blue, eyes all white, not even pupil to break up the color. The lips were the only thing that made Hyacinth sure that it was Green lips were the comically large, forest green lips.

They didn't say anything and as the seconds ticked by Hyacinth realized they weren't going to say anything, "I have a gift. Freely given."

Their head cocked at that, forehead furrowing, "A gift?"

Hyacinth's nod was jerky, "A gift. Of a first kiss."

"A gift of a first kiss? Surely you know how much that's worth."

Hyacinth's chin jutted out, "More to you than it means to me."

"You seek to give me something you consider trash," Green Lips said.

Hyacinth shook their head, "You misunderstand. I don't want to remember. It was-" Hyacinth crossed their arms, hugging themselves tight under the blanket, "I don't want to remember. So I'll give it to you. Without expectation. It's a first kiss and I know-"

Laughter interrupted them, "You know so very, very little," Green Lips said, "You cannot expect me to take what you do not want as a gift. Your trash is no gift."

"Then is there something we could discuss? I don't want to remember."

Hyacinth knew as soon as they said it that it was the wrong thing to say by the twist of Green Lips' mouth, but they wouldn't regret it. They refused to. They'd be rid of the memory one way or another. Free of that memory, free of those feelings.

"A deal."

Hyacinth nodded, straightening up underneath the blanket, "Yes. A deal. It is a first kiss even if I don't want it. I'm sure we can come up with something that will benefit the both of us."

Green Lips smiled, "I believe we may be able to do business after all."

[writing-prompt-s]

In this world, the truly dedicated can develop a mundane skill to the point of becoming a reality-breaking superpower. You have mastered procrastination to this level.

[wordstreamflowing]

It wasn’t intentional. If it took actual intent nothing would’ve happened. Or maybe that’s wrong. I would do anything to avoid school work. And actual work. Chores. Making appointments. Calling back friends. Well, you get the point. 

It’s not like I have much time.  I perfected the subtle art of waiting until three hours before a deadline to start a project. And when that was second nature I moved forward. Once I got the hang of things I started to be able to tell how long a project would take me and I would wait until I only had seconds of buffer time to complete whatever task it was. Maybe that was an early warning sign. Maybe. Anyway, moving on.

So things started to change. I met this girl. My God was she cute. I could barely believe she agreed to go out with me. She joked that had I waited any longer to ask her she would’ve asked me herself. That should’ve been an sign something wasn’t right. I only met her a week before. That time - for the first time in my life - I left early so I could make sure I was there when she got there. But it was already too late.

That was my first episode of lost time. There was no traffic, I was going to be a half hour early. When I walked in she joked I was almost late. I looked at my phone and sure enough. Just barely on time.

Did anyone ever tell you it was permanent? That once it happened it couldn’t be undone? Once you have your gift you’re stuck with it for the rest of your life.

I would plan to surprise May before she got home and walk in minutes after she arrived. I would get excited about a concert and miss the chance to buy tickets. All the while losing time. Minutes. Hours. Like my days folded in on themselves.

I started testing it. I couldn’t be early. The earlier I started the more time I would lose. My life was slowly becoming an accordion of darkness and deadlines. Even writing this. I only finished writing this with two minutes to put on my shoes on, brush my hair and teeth, and get to my car.

It may sound intriguing. Mastering procrastination. Making that your superpower, that’s the dream isn’t it? But I’m here to tell you differently. It’s a power in the same way killing with a touch is. Yes, it seems magic, but would you really want to never have the option of touching anyone again?

[wordstreamflowing]

Caffeine Challenge 22

As is appropriate for the song prompt this story contains mentions of drug use and death.

They weren’t used to being seen, much less used to being watched. You could see them lean over bowed bodies. I’d watched them encourage people to worship their creations. Creations I’d once myself worshiped.

Until I’d seen them.

Now I could see them wherever I went. Standing on street corners, high society parties, even places you would think they had no business being. Jumping across walls from one building to the next. Running behind someone as they ducked through alleyways trying to escape the sirens on their tail. In alleyways curved over the bodies of two people twined together. Sometimes they appeared twice, once for each lover, other times they were just present for the one.

I’d been arrested more than once because of them.

This time I should be safe from the cops though. It wasn’t the high society parties that I was used to, but it was a scene a was familiar enough with. I couldn’t see whoever they were stalking this time, but they looked warm, everything about them spoke of sluggish summer afternoons, even if their teeth were still sharp as knives. Needles were involved this time. Eventually as I slipped from the grace of the high society darlings I’d grown up with, as I became, “less fun,” I started to recognize their faces.

There were two main faces, the warmth and the first I’d seen. Living mercury, hair that spoke of lightning and eyes that spoke of danger, always dangerous eyes. Leaned over me, eyes crowding my vision. I was terrified.

Right up until the moment I passed out.

The softer, form accompanied people looking to escape pain. The mercury kept the company of the people who wanted energy and excitement.

But they both were dangerous, and the way I could see them swelling now, I could see the danger was reaching its peak.

I couldn’t call anyone, I’d lost my cell phone long ago. And interrupting wasn’t ideal either. But if I did nothing they’re victim would die. I knew it as deep as my bones, which might be why I moved forward.

They saw me approach, but didn’t seem to think anything of it, just leaned down to whisper in their victim’s ear. Urging them on no doubt, to finish the job, to push the plunger in and release the poison into their veins.

I sprinted and knocked the needle out of the young girl’s hands just as her thumb touched the plunger.

She screamed, but I could barely hear it, there was something far more pressing breathing on the back of my neck.

“You can see me,” it wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact, but my heart seized. A hand reached up to caress my arm and I barely contained a shiver. “We should go,” they said, their voice cooling now that the needle had broken.

The girl was screaming at me, vitriol spitting from her mouth at the loss of her poison and the way I tore at her arm. But they put their arm around me and walked to the opening of the alleyway.

“I’m not what you think,” they said when we began walking parallel with the main road, their arm still around me, as if we were old friends.

“You’re death.” I dared not look at them.

When they spoke their voice was strangely mild, “I bring death. Sometimes. But that is not the only thing I am.

I kept my eyes on the sidewalk in front of me, wet from the afternoon rains, and shining in the dim streetlights that irregularly dotted the road. I didn’t say anything.

Apparently, they weren’t finished though, “Humans and I, we go together. As you have developed, so too have I. At the beginning there was no danger, no ecstasy, just mild life and I almost wasn’t.”

“We created you when we created drugs?”

There was a smile in their voice with this answer, “Almost. When danger and ecstasy interrupted you human’s simple life that was when I gained a foothold. It did not take until you developed drugs for me to appear. People just as easily court danger and ecstasy as they seek to worship at my alter of drugs. All please me equally.”

I stopped walking, shrugging out of their grip. “What?”

“I do not hold court in just drugs. I hold it in the compounds within a human’s body as well. Endorphins and adrenaline are my original courts.”

“But-” my head swam.

“But nothing,” they said coolly, “So long as humans secrete these chemicals they court me. And I am only too happy to oblige. Just as you are courting me right now.”

My heart hammered and I tried to calm my breathing, but I couldn’t.

“In the end all humans were made for my worship, but there are others I must attend to,” they leaned in and kissed my cheek, “You’ll live to regret seeking me out my little dear, but I suspect not for long.”