Word Prompts (R2): Rage

There are two types of anger.

Or, perhaps, there are more. But you are not really one for anger, usually, so for now you have only experienced two.

Maybe types is not the right word.

Maybe stages is better.

That first flare of heat and action. Muscles tensing, blood pumping. You can feel adrenaline coursing through your veins, fingers curled tight into fists.

If someone gave you a baseball bat you would not hesitate to swing.

You shout at everything, every little irritation, cursing the way you’ve only ever seen others do before. You punch at inanimate objects and scrape your knuckles, another flare of rage pushing you to greater heights.

The second is when you don’t come down.

This has never happened to you.


Usually, after an outburst, you’ve expelled your anger. Nothing left but shredded skin and tiny bleeds already beginning to scab over. Usually a scream or two is all it takes, a walk where the air can cool down your flush and your temper as well.

This time there is no catharsis.

This time your anger coils in on itself, impotent, unable to be released. Your anger ferments and steeps like the worst cocktail, like poison now, the adrenaline twisting your nerves, the tension in your head ratcheting more and more.

You’ve been angry for so long you’re sick of it. Exhausted. And yet you can’t seem to stop.

Welcome to stage two.


A/N: surprisingly on the nose for the word prompt, considering my track record with them… sorry this is unrelated to yesterday’s posts, but I’m glad to see so many people enjoyed that one

Word Prompts (B27): Blood

“We don’t get to choose,” she says, thousand yard stare, fingers curled into tight, pale fists.

With the cloudy sky and gray, frothing ocean she is the image of every suffering heroine. Enduring, longing, betrayed.

No, it’s never a choice.

You hear the screeching of seagulls, sharp and high and punctuating ever roaring wave crashing against the rocks. The coastal winds whip her hair back, streaming banner proud. Even the faded red of her old sweater seems deliberate.

How picturesque her fury, how cinematic her grief.

Maybe, if she were a stranger, this would be art. Instead, you leave your camera untouched around your neck.

Some wounds should not be shared.

In a forest,
green and growing.
In a meadow,
bright and blooming.
Is a lake,
still and waiting.
For a girl,
young and shining.

One night to fall in love.

The monitors beep, a shaky metronome for a song that does not yet exist.

Such unsteady ground to build a future.

But maybe you can do it.

He breathes, rasping and shallow, lungs so weak and tired. The energy that you saw before dimming with every second. His hand is so cold in yours.

You can save him, if you try. You might fail, even if you do. But at least you’ll have tried.

One night to fall in love.

He coughs. Harsh and pained and wet. Flower petals red against the bleached hospital sheets.

It’s not your fault, not your responsibility. There’s nothing tying you to this boy slowly dying.

You only met him today.

But he doesn’t deserve to die, for something so foolish as loving you. And maybe, if you try, you can save him before the night takes him away.

Maybe you can fall in love.

Word Prompts (V4): Velvet

I’d be so good to you, you think, watching the flush spread over his skin. Heat beneath your fingertips.

You have loved him for a long time. An eternity, it feels like.

He met you for the first time today.

You would be so good to him, maybe. But that is not the same as being good for him.

Today is all you will take from him. Today is all you will give yourself.

I’d be so good to you, you think once more, cupping his cheek in your hand, bringing your face close to his.

When he kisses you, soft and sweet, you try to memorize everything about this moment:

The texture of his lips, and the puffs of his breathing. The way his hand comes up to cradle at the back of your neck. At one point, you both open your eyes at the same time and chuckle into each other’s mouths.

You love him so goddamn much.

… But I have to let you go.

There’s treasure hidden in this room.

Or that’s what she’d like you to think.

It’s crammed full with boxes and drawers and shelves, piled high against the walls. But they’ve encroached inward, invaded the clear, undefended flat lands–there is only enough space for the narrowest of pathways from the door to the center of the room.

Oh there’s treasure, perhaps, but only if you’re willing to mine for it.

It’s all you can do to focus on the sensations around you. The lining smooth against your skin, the smell of flowers cloying. Sunlight slants into the room, painted by stained glass windows.

It’s all you can do not to scream.

You blink, eyelids heavy, moisture collecting, accumulating, falling. You can’t look at him.

What’s left of him.

The two of you were going to break destiny.

And, in a way, you did.

The sky is bright and cloudless the day they bury his body in the ground.

You have your whole life in front of you now.

That should have been you in that coffin.

Word Prompts (R27): Reunion

This isn’t her story, this is her brother’s, but when the PokeCenter’s alarms blare–intruders, warning, the Center has been breached–she can’t just sit by and let him fight alone.

Especially since Pikachu is still injured.

They’re not heroes yet, it’s just their first day, she’s not interfering she’s helping.

And plus, she thinks, as Gary steps forward, gesturing his Squirtle who looks equally eager for a fight, it’s not her that will be the problem.

“Squirtle, water gun!”

Ember looks at Team Rocket, live and in the flesh, real–or, at least, as real as this world may or may not be. If they weren’t actively attacking a PokeCenter and trying to steal injured Pokemon, she’d smile.

Team Rocket was iconic–almost as much as Ash and Pikachu–they were misfits who were still good people despite their crimes. Outcasts from society who had made a mishmash family of their own and she can’t say that hadn’t appealed to her before.

But she already had a family and, for now, they needed her.

“Sandshrew, scratch!”

Gary has grown up with Pokemon his entire life–his grandpa’s lab as much a home as their actual house and the Ketchum’s house–but he’s never seen a Pokemon that can talk like a human.

Even while battling, he can be bewildered and impressed.

It’s not that Pokemon can’t understand human language–even the least intelligent of species can understand what humans are saying in intent if not quite exact definitions, and psychic types with telepathy can communicate directly to humans–but physically they can’t articulate enough to say words.

Or, well, they shouldn’t be able to.

Or, at least, Gary’s never heard of one doing so and he’s pretty sure his grandpa wouldn’t keep something like that secret.

“Hey, me-ouch, that hurt!” the Meowth says, paw to his face. Gary isn’t sure if that pun was intended or not. If the Meowth knows it even was a pun.

Arceus, Gary might be having some kind of existential crisis right now.


A/N: … argh, sorry, okay, i just… this is all i have for now… 

Post Word Count: 330, Running Word Count: 9978

Word Prompts (S32): Shame

Eyes closed. Try to remember. Fail. Breathe.

Open your eyes, something is wrong. No aches, no pain. Lungs fine. Full range of sight in both eyes.

Your hands aren’t tied, but the room is locked, empty, concrete and metal.

The door has reinforced glass.

There are other rooms like the one you’re in. An entire hallway of them. All empty.

Hallway half lit, light slanting into your cell.

What happened?

You’ve lost a lot. Family, friends, hope.

You had dreams once, opportunities gleaming before you.

Your younger self wouldn’t recognize you. Wouldn’t want to be you.

You honed yourself, changed yourself, sanded down and shaped yourself, whittled down to one thing.

And then that was taken from you.

What happened?

Except for your complete lack of context, you seem to be perfectly fine.

The twinge that used to plague your right pinky is gone. Your hair is shorter. You’re missing some scars.

There’s nothing in this room but you.

You’re clothed, thankfully, but even without the bland shirt and sweatpants you don’t think you’d be cold.

It’s been hours, but you’re not hungry or thirsty or tired.

What happened?

They took your inheritance, took your name, took your life.

You thought you were giving–presents to be appreciated, to be treasured–instead they took and took and took.

You just wanted to help. Maybe that’s the problem. You didn’t ask for more.

You helped them, they helped themselves, your mind and heart and body ravaged and drained.

You were empty before, but you’re broken now.

What happened?

You sleep because there’s nothing else to do.

You tried screaming and breaking out, but eventually you got bored of that.

You sleep and you dream and you remember.

Surrounded, but alone, cloudy night sky and bright red lights zooming toward you. Tinny voices in your ear, last confessions and ignored orders.

You love them so much. You’ve lost so much. You can’t survive this, but you can’t survive losing anyone else either.

Breathe. Fail. Try to remember. Eyes closed.

What happened?


A/N: Mrgh… gonna be honest, I’m having Tim feels as per usual, because I checked out some DCU Rebirth and I’m just like… well. On the one hand, they understand he’s a vital part of the Bat family. On the other hand they literally “took him off the field”


Post Word Count: 337, Running Word Count: 3451

Word Prompts (R21): Religious

“Will you take them?” A small, quiet question. Pleading, but prideful, more demand than request.

You let your fingers fall to the desk, to the photo of the twins, young and solemn and scared. How long has it been since you had partners? Years? Decades? Human lifespans are so short.

Your last partner is long passed, now, and her descendants unable to carry the burden–the gift! (the curse)–of being your new partner. But these girls, these twins, these witches to be.

Alone, maybe not. Your power has only gotten stronger, and magic has declined amongst humans, replaced by their own unique abilities. But together?

Together it might work.

“Perhaps,” you say, identical faces looking blindly up at you. To you.

“If you do,” Mackenzie says, stubborn, voice thready with worn down age, “Keep them safe,” no need for a threat, or promise.

You don’t respond, no promises on your end either, but you’ll try your best.

After all, what creature wouldn’t do their best for their child?

Time and space and matter and energy. The foundation of existence, the code of the universe. If you can crack them, control them, change them–even just one–you can create miracles.

You can be a god. Even, apparently, by accident.

An old argument, meant to prove the existence of God: the watchmaker analogy, meant to liken the complex workings of the universe to a watch, and posit that such complexity must be a result of intelligent design. And for something to be intelligently designed, there must be a designer–a watchmaker–behind it.

Philosophers probably never thought it would be about a literal watch.

And they probably had higher expectations for the watchmaker.

There is something ritualistic in the gathering. The circle and the telling and the creation. Worlds and conflicts and characters springing to life from paper and pencil and plastic.

We can be anything during these times. We can do anything.

Stories, small, but moving. And isn’t that what stories are for?


A/N: Lalala, raining where I live which is fantastic, I love the rain, but it makes work VERY DIFFICULT.

Also, the company is implementing a new invoicing system–by which I mean, as the resident geek I am in charge of implementing a new invoicing system for the company. It’s not difficult, necessarily, just tedious. 😛

Word Prompts (S68): Spade

Shadows and concrete and metal and beams of light spilling diagonally across the ground. Dark stains and rusting pipes and crumbling plaster dusting everything with pale sugar coatings.

“You got it?” he asks, storm coming in, soft and treacherous as the cloudy gray sky.

“Yeah, I got it,” you say, pocketing the card, careful not to put fingerprints on anything.

Gloves and blades and red red ink that scrawls so smoothly on the sealed boxes.

A motorcycle sits in the corner of the warehouse, unused but not forgotten.

Buzzing–electricity in the wires–and the sound of machinery powering up. Next door gears turn, loud and rhythmic, barely muffled by the shared wall. Four o’clock.

No one is expecting you until noon.

“I’ll see you in two weeks,” he says.

You scoff, “Maybe.”

Three years ago, you were approached on the train. Heading between work and home, just one of many mindless commuters.

But you were approached, out of the dozens on that train, and to this day you still don’t know why.

The new job is better–better pay, better hours–and you no longer have to join the herds of commuters.

Your wardrobe is entirely dark colors now, though.

“Shit,” you mutter, not too loud, but your friends pause and look over at you in concern anyway. You’re not much one for swearing–as far as they know.

“You okay?” Jenny asks, a soft fluttering hand on your sleeve. As gentle and fickle as a butterfly.

“Yeah, fine, sorry,” you say, each word a bullet punching through paper, “I just forgot something at work,” sheepish smile now, there we go, see how everyone dismisses the interruption.

Lisa rolls her eyes, clears her throat, all attention back on her, “Now that that’s settled,” she says, exaggerated impatience making everyone giggle, “Let’s start playing!”

The game is five card stud.

You left your favorite pair of shoes at the last location.

You’re never getting those back again.

Once, your family asked you what exactly you did for work.

“Operations,” you say, instead of draining your glass of wine, “Inventory and deliveries. My degree’s helpful,” you say with a shrug, which redirects the conversation towards your cousin Nathan who will not be budged away from his major in English literature.

It’s only when the topic has leaped another two more times–Nathan’s pothead girlfriend to Melissa’s impending wedding–do you take that drink.

Your family still thinks you work for a toy company.

Old, beaten up leather but still thick, still solid. Brown and mottled and the dimensions are off, but the jacket fits, even if not how intended–sleeves scrunched up and shoulders falling low.

Your new boots nearly match, but they creak, they’re stiff. You haven’t broken them in completely, but you find the added weight makes your steps feel more secure.

New gloves, too, only because your last ones had holes in them. A bit counterproductive, that. These ones have neon yellow stripes between the fingers, and you would be mad, except they don’t give you away as much as you thought they would, and it helps in low light situations.

Tomorrow morning you and a stranger are driving three hours east to a town you’ve never been to. Maybe, if you’re lucky, both of you will make the drive back in the evening.

You scuff your toe against the floor, the sound echoes in the warehouse. The light at the door flickers, struggles, on and off–you can see the green of grass growing through the cracks in the pavement outside.

You wonder what’s inside the boxes lining the walls.


A/N: ¯_(ツ)_/¯

Word Prompts (L25): Lost and Found

Lark takes a deep breath, eyes falling closed and shoulders straightening back. The weight of her armor has never felt heavier–a part of her wishes she could just take it off, dig into her own skin and muscles and nerves and be free of it–but this is something that will always be a part of her.

She shakily exhales, can feel the burn of tears behind her eyelids but wills them not to fall. Elm trots over to her–his own armor clanking with every step.

‘Time to leave now,’ Elm says to her through the new bond that has flared to life only hours ago.

“I can’t, Elm, I can’t,” Lark says, every word keeping her feet rooted to the ground. She doesn’t know why this is so much more difficult than pulling her master’s body off of Elm’s back and burying him in the ground, but actually leaving him behind?

It feels like a betrayal.

‘Yes,’ Elm says, stepping in front of her to bodily block her view of the newly dug grave. ‘Yes, you can.’

He nudges her. And maybe for anyone else, a nudge from a two ton mass of magical horse and armor would knock them on their ass, but for all that her training is incomplete, she’s a magical knight with armor of her own, too. This is as gentle as Elm gets.

“What do I do now, Elm?” she asks, hauling herself onto his back when his nudging becomes pointed and accompanied by the thought-feeling of impatience.

He turns them around, away, but doesn’t begrudge her one last look back.

‘We do what we’ve always done,“ Elm says to her, flashes of images from missions she’s been on and those she hasn’t, the ones Elm had with her master before she became his squire. ‘We rid the world of evil and tyranny…’

”… and bring peace to those in need and honor to the Order.“ she finishes by rote.

She pauses, runs her hand down his neck. "I think I’m going to need help with this, Elm.”

Night falls, they set up camp. Well, they try to set up camp, but they can’t agree on a good spot–Elm’s criteria mainly consists of the quantity of grass he can graze on, while Lark tries to fall back on her training and find a defensible spot.

They’re interrupted.

Howls, multiple, coming in fast.

“Oh shit,” Lark spits out, leaping onto Elm’s back once more.

‘Language,’ Elm chides, for all that he’s already begun galloping away.

Elm is fast–all mounts chosen the Order have to meet basic requirements and are trained to be even more impressive–but he’s mostly built for battle, not racing, and the wolves do not have panicking riders slowing them down.

Lark risks a glance backwards, sees the wolves gaining. Correction, they’re not wolves–they’re hellhounds.

Three flanking Elm’s left, two on his right.

“I don’t think we can outrun them!”

‘Well, you’re a knight, aren’t you?’ Elm snipes back, and he doesn’t need to sound so pissy about it.

Lark summons her swords–she’s not very good with her shield yet, but swords are easy enough. They appear: glowing and lavender and the last things these hellhounds will ever see.

Which is true enough; but she only kills two of them.

The other three fall at someone else’s hand.


A/N: Don’t want to burnout on DoS stuff so here’s some original fic so I don’t end up with a missed post!

Word Prompts (G7): Gift

On Tuesday, Aaron meets the love of his life.

By Friday, they have gotten into four fights–the last one escalating into physical blows and ending with two months of detention each.

Just enough time for Aaron to ask Jericho to prom.

“Have you found her?” Benny asks, hands gripped together tightly with concern, skin along his knuckles gone pale and taut.

Hopper doesn’t answer, but his silence is enough.

Benny sighs and looks out the window of his hospital room; snow falls softly in the woods.

You’re tossed into the wall, body smacking painfully against the brick and dislodging a shower of red dust.

Your energy shield managed to cushion the blow, though it’s still hard enough that you black out for a brief moment; you’ll have the worst bruises come tomorrow.

The creature roars, windows reverberating dangerously with the sound–if you see tomorrow, that is.


A/N: Properly moved in today (fucking finally) so had to put together this quick little set of three sentence fic.

The second one is a Stranger Things AU in which Benny Hammond doesn’t die which I may come back to because I have a lot of Eleven-as-Benny’s-adopted-kid feels.

Word Prompts (F45): Found (2016-08-28)

“I guess I just miss you, is the problem.” A brush of fingertips against smooth stone, as gentle and affectionate as a kiss.

“It’s not the same without you,” he confides, before crouching down and placing the small bouquet by the plaque. Straightening again, he can’t help but read over the engraving–years and a name, so simple, a poor substitute.

“Goodbye, love, I’ll see you again next weekend.”

A migraine is building behind your eyes, pressure and heat and sludgy solid sickness. It’s been a while since you’ve had one–not since you were a teenager–and you thought your were done with them for good.

Then again, you did take a tire iron to the back of the head, so it’s not like it’s your fault.

A wet trickle makes it’s way down your neck–blood, most likely–and you’d like to wipe it away except that your hands are tied behind your back and you’ve never been particularly flexible.

“This is the last time I do a favor for Jenny.”

Just as well, considering this one’s posthumous anyway.

Raoul had always loved her, from the first moment he laid eyes on her. Bright smile and crinkled eyes and a smear of dirt across one cheek. He had admired the way her legs looked in that floral skirt, the curve of her back easily accommodating of the sledge hammer across her shoulders.

Just some renovation, she had said, and Raoul–the naive, lovestruck idiot that he was, newly moved into the apartment across the hall–had nodded and tried not to make too much a fool of himself.

Too late.

But Jenny had always had a fondness for fools.

“Oh, sure, watch over your boyfriend. No big, he’s an accountant, what’s the worst he could get into?” You growl, shifting your arms, your wrists, your hands futilely–desperate to escape. “Getting into business with corrupt cops, that’s what! Fucking hell, Jenny, you have shitty taste in guys.”

You might have a concussion, what with the irritability and talking to a dead person, but then again, anyone would be irritable in this situation. And you wouldn’t put it past her to somehow be able to listen in after her death.

A rattle of chains grabs your attention, makes you quiet and cautious. You don’t actually know who hit you over the head and tied you up.

“Hello?” A voice calls, one irritatingly familiar to you for all that you’ve never actually had a conversation with the idiot. “I’m here to settle my girlfriend’s debt.”

Now both of you are going to end up dead. Goddamnit, Jenny.