katiefoolery: (15_minute_fic - creativity in a hurry)
Right.  So, if I'm planning on writing 200,000 words next year, I should really get some practice in now, shouldn't I?  And what better way to do that than by writing a ficlet based on a prompt word from my [livejournal.com profile] 15_minute_fic comm?

It's strange the way some of my ficlets seem to gravitate towards each other, almost as though they're little snippets of the same world.  This one would definitely fit with at least a couple of my earlier ones.  I hope you all enjoy reading it.

Lie if you don't. :D




Title: Untitled
Fandom: Original
Rating: G
Word count: 561 words
Prompt word: (withheld)

Written for prompt word #90 at [livejournal.com profile] 15_minute_fic.


“Go on then.”

Go on then.  Right.  Because it’s that easy.

“Use your influence.”

Nanny Edwards expects me to use my influence.  Nanny Edwards expects me to make scones fly out of their tray.  Nanny Edwards expects me to be a credit to my family.

Nanny Edwards expects the impossible.

Or miracles.  But let’s face it – this is a woman who manages on a daily basis to get my brother to wash his face and scrub his nails.  With that sort of thing happening in her life, she probably has a right to expect miracles.

“I can’t.”

Besides, what’s the point of making scones fly out of their tray?  I’d much rather tip them out gently and then spread them with cream and jam.  And not just because I’m hungry right now.  Flying scones are a waste of the cook’s good time.  Scones on the floor are a waste of the cleaning girl’s time.

I can’t always results in a tsking sound from Nanny Edwards.  Mostly because she thinks I shouldn’t be using horrible, lower-class contractions like that.  Well brought up girls declaim I cannot!  They don’t mutter I can’t like some slattern from the slums.  And while that was irritating enough, it wasn’t as bad as other people who liked to respond with ridiculous statements, my most hated of which was “Can’t means won’t try.”

“You cannot,” Nanny Edwards corrects, “because you are lazy.”

And hungry.

Without even thinking, without even appearing to blink, she makes a scone rise from the tray with a floury, floaty little puff.  And then another.  And another.

Four seems to be her limit though, because they all drop to the floor with sad little pattering sounds the minute she raises a fourth.

“What’s the point of this?”  I can’t help but ask, although my words are distracted.  Four miserable little broken scones on the floor.  They could have been adorned with jam and cream and in my stomach by now…

Nanny Edwards is silent for a second and it’s an educational silence.  It’s the sort of silence that always precedes a lesson.  She’s going to say something now; something of great import.

“What do you think is the point of this?”

To prove we’re rich enough to waste food?

Why, why don’t I dare to say it?  I shrug instead and the silence endures much longer this time – far too long for comfort before it’s broken by the sound of the scone tray banging as it flexes unnaturally.

“Answer me.”

“I don’t know.”  A deliberate, sullen don’t in the place of a do not.  “That’s why I asked.”

There’s a tiny smirk in the corner of her mouth.  I only catch it by chance and it feels like a rare gift.  No-one dares to answer back to Nanny Edwards.  No-one dares give her lip.  No-one speaks unless they’re spoken to and they always, always, give the right answer.

No-one but me.

“Influence is power.”  The smirk’s gone.  Completely gone.  Nothing but cold anger and bland authority.  “Power is strength.  The weak deserve none of those and you are weak, my girl.”

I.  Am.  Not.  Weak.

Nanny Edwards smiles.

One of the fallen scones flutters and drops.  Tiny crumbs move out of its path as it falls again.

The smile becomes a smirk.

And I know I will never be free of Nanny Edwards’ influence.




Tomorrow, I venture forth to finish my Christmas shopping.  Wish me luck.  Or, if not luck, then wish me a very big stick and an air-tight alibi.
katiefoolery: (15_minute_fic - creativity in a hurry)
Hey, look at this shiny, pretteh lovely banner-type thing:

15 Minute Fic - creativity in a hurry

That links directly to the comm I run with [livejournal.com profile] crazedturkey, working tirelessly to provide writers (and sometimes each other) with a prompt word a week.  Oh, how we labour deep into the night, always seeking the perfect word for the upcoming week...

Anyway, moving right along.  Fallen into a writing rut?  Have a spare fifteen minutes?  Then this is the place for you!  We've been running it for over a year now and we have close to three hundred members... but there's plenty of room for more.

And this week, after months of foregoing my writing for beta-ing, I decided to write a ficlet.  I noticed a while back that one of [livejournal.com profile] crazedturkey's words had been incredibly popular, so I made a note to go back and use it for ficletting purposes when I had a chance.  That chance came last night and this ficlet followed shortly after.  Please read and enjoy.

Oh, and feel free to try and guess the prompt word, as always.  (I think it's pretty obvious in this one.)




Title: Untitled
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG (language)
Word count: 397 words
Prompt word: spell

Written for prompt word #37 at [livejournal.com profile] 15_minute_fic.


It wasn’t a spell, it was more of an…

“Irritation.”

No, that word was pointless.  Useless.  As empty and faded as it sounded in the dark air around her.  So she reconsidered.

“A fucking irritation.”

Yeah.  That sounded much better.  Swearing always made things seem more real and less like that cultured, sugar-sweet world in which she’d grown up.  The same one she’d run away from just a month ago.  Just a month, and she was already swearing in the darkness and loving the sound of it.

Give up.

The walls whispered the words to her.  The ground.  The dank roof above her.

Hell, even the air taunted her to give in.

Come to me.

“No,” she whispered back.

You’ll die.

But she knew it already.  That sort of thing was inevitable.  In her old life, people died in giant beds, resting on the softest of mattresses and shrouded by the finest of eiderdowns.  Surrounded by their loving families.  Sometimes they died tragically in the arms of a lover, usually in some kind of faultless sacrifice that lived through the ages.

As though that somehow made up for it.

She knew she was going to die; it just wasn’t going to be here and now.  Any second now, she’d work out how to move again.  She’d remember how to breathe.  How to see.  How to live.  She’d dismiss that feeling of cold creeping over her as though it were nothing.

Give up.

The mantra again.

Come to me.

How many times had she heard it now?

You’ll die.

Give up and live – that was the deal and she knew it.  She wanted to.  Every fibre of her being screamed out to give in.  Surrender.

Live.

Her lungs were burning, and yet the rasping heat only made her feel more alive.  She couldn’t breathe and she was blind in this darkness, yet she was living more and seeing more than she’d ever seen in her entire sheltered life.  If this was death then it bore more meaning than life itself.

The mantra came again – words that had long since lost meaning to her.  Nothing meant more than the burning in her chest and the tingling chill in her fingertips.  So alive.  No orderly dance or choreographed banquet had ever held as much appeal as this moment of hopelessness.

Give up.

No…

Come to me.

Make me…

You’ll die.

katiefoolery: (15_minute_fic - creativity in a hurry)
Wow, I haven't done one of these for ages.  Or even written anything at all.  I'm relieved that I still know how to do this whole writing thing.  At least, I think I do.

Read and enjoy!

Oh, and feel free to try and guess the prompt word, as always.




Title: “One Second”
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG (language)
Word count: 438 words
Prompt word: pawn

Written for prompt word #22 at [livejournal.com profile] 15_minute_fic.


Shit, it’s happened again, hasn’t it?  And he’s just looking at me as though there’s nothing wrong here at all.  Nothing strange.  Nothing out of the ordinary.

Which is true enough, but I still don’t like it.

I want to say no.  I should say no, shouldn’t I?

Problem is, I’ve always said yes in the past.  Always agreed.  Always followed along quietly.  Always been good.

So when did I decide I didn’t want to be good any more?

“Um... I’m waiting,” he says.  He’s looking at the clock now.  No, glaring.  As though the clock’s somehow responsible for my lack of response.

The clock’s pretty impassive about this, of course.  And it’s been stuck at quarter to seven for the past week or so, despite repeated requests for someone to clamber up on a chair and change the battery.  It puts in a token effort now and then – a sort of tired sounding tick that gets it nowhere.

“The clock’s stopped,” he says.

I suppose...  I suppose you could say that’s the last straw.  Or maybe the second last.  I feel as though I still have some remnants of endurance left to my name.

“It stopped a week ago,” I say, although it feels as though my words are swallowed up by the plump couch and the ludicrously floral wallpaper of our front room.

He turns the glare onto me now.  “Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

Silly me.  I thought asking him to replace the battery was ‘doing something about it’.

“I asked you to fix it.”  My voice is still sounding muffled, as though I’m in one of those dreams where I need to scream but can barely even manage a whisper.  I’m trapped in the front room of an ordinary house with a miserably broken clock and a completely oblivious man.  I do need to scream.  “I asked you dozens of times.”

“I don’t remember.”

You never do.

“You ignored me.”  Why is my voice even quieter now?

“It’s not important, anyway,” he says, dismissing me and the clock as one.  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

I haven’t, have I?  And he’s standing there, as though it’s a mere formality.  I’m going to say yes.  I’m going to go along with it.  I’m going to be good.

The clock gives one of its pathetic intermittent ticks, doing its best to move the fragile second hand along just one second…

“No,” I whisper.  No I won’t.  No, I’m not going to be good any more.

What did you say?”

“I said no,” I tell him.

And the clock ticks over one final second.


katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
The teacher from my previous post came into the library last week and apologised once more for mistaking me for a student.  I feel a tiny bit bad for running off and laughing now, even though there’s no way she could have heard me.  She seems so genuinely embarrassed about it.  Apparently, it turns out I could “easily pass for a year twelve student” but I'm not going to try to test that theory any time soon.

I go back to school enough in my dreams, thanks very much.

Last week marked the last official word posted by [livejournal.com profile] 15minuteficlets.  It’s officially all over now, which is more than sad.  I just hope that Gill and I can carry on the tradition with [livejournal.com profile] 15_minute_fic and inspire many more people to write.

And even though I’ve felt more like editing than writing in the past few weeks, I couldn’t pass up the chance to write a ficlet for the very last word.  So I did.




Title: Untitled
Fandom: Original
Rating: G
Word count: 302 words
Prompt word: farewell

It’s not forever – I have to keep remembering that.  Not forever.  Not like I’ll never see them again.  Not like I won’t be coming back.

Not forever.

So why does it feel like forever?  Why does it feel like this is the last time ever?  Why does it feel like this is going to be the last time I cry like this because I’m going to have no tears left once this is done?

I don’t have enough time.  I can’t look at them long enough, can’t hold them close enough.  It’s not enough, not even close.  I want my lifetime with them.  I don’t want to have to make do with mere memories of them.  I need this warmth and this love and this closeness.

It’s not forever.

But I want this moment to last forever, even with the ache in my heart.  Even with the tears on my face and the choked sobs in my throat.  Do I look awful enough yet, with my blotchy cheeks and reddened eyes?

Don’t care.

“Don’t go.”  I murmur it into a shoulder; not sure whose it is.

“Idiot,” is the response I get.  “You’re the one who’s going.”

And I just sob harder, because I’m going to miss that voice.  This is the stupidest idea ever.  And it’s too late to change my mind.

This is about the time people start saying stupid things, isn’t it?  You’ll be back before you know it and You’ll be having so much fun you’ll forget all about us after five minutes.  But I won’t and I won’t.

I won’t.

It is forever.  Not matter what anyone says, it’s forever.  I know it somewhere, deep in my heart.  When I can bring myself to say goodbye, it’ll be for the last time.

I’ll never see them again.


katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
Need... more... sleep...  And I need to spend much more time glaring at cats for being partially responsible for said sleepiness.  Huzzah for them causing crashes that wake me up at quarter to six!  And huzzah for the fact that I probably only managed another ten minutes of sleep before the alarm so kindly woke me up at six thirty!  Heh - I say “woke me up” out of habit, because I was already wide awake.

Anyway, ’tis ficlet time again.  If you have a spare fifteen minutes and an urge to write, why not head over to [livejournal.com profile] 15_minute_fic and pick up your prompt word?

Before I stand aside for the ficlet, I think this is worth saying: I’m after all kinds of feedback.  If you read and like my ficlet, then of course I’m delighted to know.  If you read it and think it’s awful or that there’s something I really need to address in my writing, then I’m just as eager to know that.  So don’t be afraid to send concrit my way - if I can give it, I can take it too. :)




Title: Close to Insanity
Fandom: Original
Rating: G
Word count: 427 words
Prompt word: solitude


I absolutely hate it.  I’m serious.  For a while there, I thought that maybe I’d get used to it and it wouldn’t seem so bad after all.

I was so very wrong.

Now, the best I can hope for is that I’ll go completely insane and start talking to those pretty, shiny rocks in the stream over there.  At least if I’m talking to rocks, I wouldn’t be thinking about where I am or what I’m doing.

Or the fact that I’m completely alone.  Take a look around - there’s no-one to be seen for miles.  Yesterday… well, I think it was yesterday.  It’s hard to keep track of days sometimes.  So, possibly yesterday, I spent an afternoon on top of that peak there, watching some hikers travelling across the plains.  I literally watched them for hours, until they turned into black specks on the horizon.  And then I watched those black specks until they vanished.

So maybe I’m pretty close to insanity already.

I hate it all.  I hate the stupid hut.  I hate the view.  I hate the fresh air.  I hate the way the clouds look so beautiful against the deep blue sky.  I hate the soothing sound the stupid stream makes in the night.

And I hate the way I have to go and pick up my basket of food every two days, because I also hate the way I can’t bring myself to break her rules and get there early enough to “accidentally” meet her.

I’ve imagined it a hundred times.  Maybe a thousand.

Oh, I’m so sorry, I’d say.  I didn’t meant to get here so early - I still can’t get the hang of telling the TIME WITHOUT A WATCH.  Sometimes I swear there, but usually not because if there’s one thing I know I wouldn’t do (even by accident), it’s swear in front of my grandmother.

And the reason I’ll never actually go there early and say those things?  Because I can picture that look of disappointment I’d receive all too clearly.  I saw it once just a few months ago and it still hurts to think of it.

So I’m just going to stay here and either go steadily insane and begin to understand the quiet and most likely non-existent language of river-rocks… or learn whatever it is I’m supposed to be learning.  No-one said I had to be happy about the whole situation.

I’ll tell you one thing, though: if I ever start thinking, Oh, this isn’t so bad after all, then I’m heading straight home.




Comments and criticisms are most appreciated. :D
katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
Ooh, look - two entries in two days!  Does it count if one’s a ficlet?  In the absence of anyone to say otherwise, I shall say that it does.  :D

In other news, Pickle tried to pack herself in my suitcase.  I was half-tempted to leave her there, but I kind of needed the space for my clothes...

I’m not sure where this story came from and I have no idea where it’s going. 





Title: Not Your Fool
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG (slight language)
Word Count: 421 words
Prompt Word: fool


I should have known better.  Should have stopped and thought before I got so carried away.  Should have known you’d all misjudge my every action.  So I only have myself to blame, I guess.

Yay - I’m the idiot again.  I get to stand here and stare at the floor and pretend that all those words aren’t hurting me.  I get to put on that shamefaced smile and look all sheepish and pretend that I’m not stung to the heart.

“Absolutely moronic... and so on.”

“Can’t believe you’d be so stupid... et cetera.”

“What were you thinking?  Oh I forgot... you weren’t... and such.”

What am I supposed to say to that?  You just want me to continue the act, don’t you?  Because if I don’t, you might stop and think that what you’re saying could actually hurt.

But it wasn’t absolutely moronic.  If you’d been there when the message came through, you’d have done exactly the same thing.  You wouldn’t have thought twice and you know why?  Because thinking twice could get you killed.  I barely even had time to think once.

Couldn’t believe I’d be so stupid, huh?  Sounds like you think the exact opposite.  Sounds like you’re almost happy I was so stupid, because then I’d have destroyed your view of the world.  Then I might have made you think well of me.

Oh yeah - ha ha, I wasn’t thinking.  Because I don’t, apparently.  The fact that I’m still alive and everyone who was looking to me for orders is still alive means nothing.  Have you ever been in that situation?  Yeah, I doubt it.  ’Cause then you’d know there’s no time for thinking.  All that matters is the moment and your instinct.

Your blood thinks for you and your muscles just follow along.

Damn right I wasn’t thinking.  That sort of thinking would have got me killed.  Me and about a hundred others.

So I have to ask...  “Are you done?”

And I have to hide my laugh at the shocked look on your faces.

“Are we... done?”

“Who gave you leave to speak”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Nah, I’ve had enough of answering questions.  I’ve had enough of standing here, pretending to be your fool.

“Sick of this shit.”  And I am, well and truly.  I’m sorry I won the day in the wrong way.  Sorry I kept so many people alive like a moron.  Sorry I gave you such a stupid victory.  “I’m not going to be your fool any more.”




Comments and criticisms are most appreciated. :D  And have a lovely Easter while I’m away.
katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
This is based on last week’s word from the [livejournal.com profile] 15_minute_fic comm.  I meant to do it last week, but my brain was stolen by a summary of doom.  There should be a lot more “o”s in that doom but I’ll leave them out for now.

It’s a week late, but here’s the ficlet.  Feel free to have a guess at the word - it might just be possible to work out what it is. :D




Title: Untitled
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
Word count: 464 words
Prompt word: power


I’ve never felt like this before.  Never.  Never even knew I could.

Lost.  Alone.  Cold.

Hunted.

Never knew the night could be this dark.  Never knew I could run this hard and fast.

My breathing’s loud in the night now.  Loud and harsh and desperate and I can’t stop it, no matter how hard I try.  I know he can hear it, just as I know he’s waiting beyond my sight, such as it is in the darkness.

He’s out there, slinking behind the trees with a graceful silence I can only dream of.  Waiting, watching, wanting.

Hunting.

Hunting me.

On my knees now.  The grass is damp; my knees are caked with mud.  My hands, too.  What an image I must present: kneeling on the forest floor, head hanging down in despair.  My clothes stick to me with my own sweat.  It’s disgusting.  And when will I see a shower again?

Was that a sound in the darkness?  Amazing how I can suddenly go from desperation to panicked awareness.  I’m sitting here, peering into a darkness I can never hope to penetrate, trying to work out if that’s just the trees rustling... or if it’s him, playing with me.

My heart shouldn’t beat that fast.

Do I dare move?  Do I dare run into the darkness and hope it’s just that?  Blissful, empty darkness.  Or do I stay here?  Knowing he’s watching.  Knowing he’s out there.  Knowing it’s just a matter of time.

Run!

That’s what my body screams.  My mind, my heart... every instinct I have.  It’s just one great big shout of RUN.  And who am I to ignore that?

I run.  Again.  And he follows.

He doesn’t run.  I can run as far and fast as I can and he will always find me.  We both know this and yet I still run.  Despite the darkness, despite the times I fall, despite the branches that snatch at my face and leave brands of blood on my skin.

I can’t just give in.  I have to run.

I have to.

“Stop running,” he whispers, catching me so suddenly I don’t even have time to be shocked.

“No.”

“I am not giving you an option,” he says, smiling as I claw my way free of his grip.

I trip and fall.  I always lose my grace around him.  Scrambling backwards, hands scratching at the dirt.  I can’t bring myself to stand up somehow.

He is persistent in his smile and I can’t look away.  He looks so gentle and so dangerous all at once.  I have to get away.  I have to run.

And he reaches a hand down to me.  Like a choice.  As though I’m drowning and only he can save me.

I’ve never felt so powerless.





Comments and criticisms are most appreciated. :D
katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
Ficlet time again!  I don’t have any complaints about this week’s word - it did its job nicely this time around.  Bonus points if you can guess it, though.




Title: Shards
Fandom: Original
Rating: G
Word count: 431 words
Prompt word: thunderous


It shakes the walls, I swear it does.  Floorboards quiver.  Windows rattle in their frames.  And that really tacky vase my grandmother gave me last year (but which I love dearly) falls to the floor in the aftermath, shattering into tacky little pieces of tackiness.

I mourn its passing with a little salute and a quick bar or two of something that sounds vaguely like Amazing Grace... but probably more like that really annoying song that was just on the radio.  I never was very musical.

Oh, she’s storming back.

“What,” she begins, staring at me in disbelief, “are you doing just standing there?”

I look back at the shards of my vase and her eyes follow my gaze.

“What is that?”

“It was my vase,” I say.  Maybe I should start picking the pieces up?  Otherwise someone might stand on them.  And by ‘someone’ I mean ‘me’, because no‑one else in this house is as clumsy or absent-minded as me.

She frowns in puzzlement at the shards of tackiness.  “Vase?”  Then her frown clears... and turns into a scowl.  “You mean the thing that looked like a plastic clown had been shoved in a microwave and then covered in sequins?”

I smile.  That describes it exactly.  Well, described it.  It’s dead now.

“Thank god,” she says.  “That thing used to give me the worst nightmares.  Now stop moping over it and get ready.”

“But...”

She grinds her teeth, actually grinds her teeth at me.  “Look, I’m sorry it’s broken, OK?  But it was... an abomination, alright?  Now get over it and Get Ready.”

She storms off again and this time it sounds as though she’s leading an entire army through the house.

I shouldn’t be moping over this thing, really.  It’s just a really tacky thing my grandmother gave me.  It probably only cost her a dollar from an op shop or something.  But it’s always been there (well, since last year), sitting on my dresser and looking really hideous.  I never minded it.  It always reminded me of my grandmother.  Not that she looks hideous...  She just has this strange habit of buying ugly things out of pity.

Poor ugly deformed‑clown vase.

I walk off before she can storm back and yell at me some more.  We still have at least ten minutes before we have to go.  I can get out of my pyjamas before then.

“Ow!  Shiii‑‑‑!”

Yeah, I really should have swept that up before walking off, because I just stepped on one of the shards in my bare feet.

Stupid vase.  I’m glad it’s dead.




Comments and criticisms are most welcome.
katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
So I sat down to write my ficlet today and discovered I was in a very difficult mood.  I looked at the prompt word.  Shortly after this, I glared at the word.  Soon to follow was a rather disparaging remark, shot in the prompt word’s direction.

To conclude: did not like this week’s word.

But that’s neither here nor there, really.  All that matters is that it inspires a ficlet.  Alas, all it inspired was a five word phrase that irritated me more than anything.

So I decided to write about that irritation.  I also wanted to try out something I’ve been thinking of lately, as far as structure goes.  The sentences all seem to have a strange sort of rhythm... to me, at least.  When I read over the ficlet, I felt as though I should be reading it aloud to get the full effect.

At any rate, I hope you all enjoy reading it.




Title: Reluctance
Fandom: Original
Rating: G
Word count: 232 words
Prompt word: mystic


I don’t want to do it.

Don’t want to waste my time - I don’t want to do it.

Got better things to do.  Don’t want to waste my time.  I don’t want to do it.

I could write the words down but they’d mean nothing at all.  Or I could just ignore them and leave them to the wind.

“Not a man - a mystic.”

What’s it mean anyway?  Where does it go?  Where’s the story and the plot and the motivation?

No, I don’t want to do it.

Don’t want to waste my time.

Got better things to do.

I could dream instead.  I could stare out of the window and watch the clouds go by.  I could imagine another life; another way; another set of rules.

I could revel in my laziness.

Because I don’t want to do it.

Then why does the phrase haunt my mind?  Why won’t it leave me alone?  Why can’t it accept its banishment and die quietly?

“Not a man - a mystic.”

Maybe it does go somewhere.  Maybe there is a plot.  Maybe I could even find some motivation.

Or maybe I just need to teach my imagination who's in charge here.  Because I have better things to do than to interrogate a meaningless phrase and ask why it wants to be a story.

I’d rather not waste my time.

I don’t want to do it.




Comments and criticisms are most appreciated. :D
katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
Another week, another word... and another ficlet.

I’d tell you all the story about the Incredible Annoying Toaster and its Passionate Affair with Trying to Electrocute Me but it’s rather short and it’s pretty much a duplicate of a previous story on the same topic I told several months ago.  In essence: me plus toaster equals trouble.

Mind you, our new toaster does toast a nice fruit muffin.

And here’s this week’s ficlet.  It’s more of a chararacter study than anything and it decided to be quite short.




Title: Untitled (character study)
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG13
Word count: 234 words
Prompt word: lovely

She’s not lovely.  She tells people this.

“I’m not lovely, I’m mean.  I’m a bitch.  I don’t care.”

They don’t listen.

She glares at herself in the mirror sometimes, wondering what it is that other people see.  Where is the loveliness?  All she sees is green eyes or brown hair with an annoying curly kink to it.

Lovely doesn’t buy you food.  Lovely doesn’t keep a roof over your head.

She doesn’t go out of her way to be kind; to care for others; to be considerate.  But she speaks softly and rarely.  The words that would destroy the image are kept back in the safety of her head.  Why waste words on people who don’t listen to them?

“I’m not lovely, I’m just quiet.”

Because I don’t care enough about you to waste words on you.

They don’t listen anyway, so why speak words that will only be ignored?

They can think what they want.

They can think that she’s sweet and delicate and never had an impure thought in her head.  They can think that she’d blush or stammer shyly or quickly turn the talk to safer topics.  They can imagine that she hasn’t been kissed; is still a virgin; has never spent a night (or day) in twisted sheets, exploring a body that is not hers.

She has given up on caring.  She knows what lovely is.

“And it’s not me.”




Comments and criticisms are most appreciated. :D
katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
I was supposed to hang around at work for PD today, but it turns out I don’t have to go after all.  Splendid!  Instead, I may sit here on my own in the afternoon, listening to my music and maybe catching up on my beta‑ing.  And I can go home at a normal time, instead of staying forty‑five minutes late.  I cannot find anything to complain about in that.

In further good news, the [livejournal.com profile] 15minuteficlets community posted a prompt word this week.  And because I can rarely resist the lure of writing another ficlet... I wrote another ficlet.  I’m not sure about this one, although the voice was very strong in my head.  At first, I wasn’t going to write it, because the prompt word reminded me of a drabble that’s giving me a lot of trouble and made me very sulky indeed.  And then the three words that start this ficlet popped into my head, so I just went with it, dodgy sentences and all.

As per usual, I welcome any guesses at the prompt word.  I actually used it in the story this time, so you’ll see it if you look carfully.  The standard bonus points and icon offers apply of course. :D




Title: Untitled
Fandom: Original (sort of AU/historical)
Rating: PG
Word count: 479 words
Prompt word: moon


Quiet.  Peaceful.  Dark.  All good words, but only one of them applies to me.

I am not peaceful.  I am more angry than I can possibly say.  If I were not clutching at the ground like this, you would see how my hands are shaking.  Perhaps you can see how I’m gritting my teeth, or how my eyes are narrowed with pain.  I am most definitely not peaceful.

It is night‑time, but I am not surrounded by darkness I am burning with my anger.  Every moment I recall is bathed in furious light.  The sun does not burn as brightly as my outrage and humiliation.  The moon certainly comes nowhere close.

But I am quiet.  I am just sitting here, digging my hands into the ground and being quiet.  I tried words earlier but they didn’t work.  In my anger, I could not touch the eloquence I so desired.  And I will not swear.  I cannot win this fight with vulgar words.

I will ignore those tears as they slide down my cheeks.  They are not there.  I will not cry over this.

If there are tears, then that means I am hurt and I am not going to give her the power to hurt me.

I am not wiping the tears away.  I am not feeling the evening breeze cooling against the moisture on my hand.

I am not gulping for breath as grief overwhelms me.

The images in my head will not go away, no matter how insistently I petition them.  It is not necessary to see it so many times.  Yet my memory insists, as though it is so shocked by what it saw that it must repeat the scene until it is certain there can be no mistake.

There is no mistake.  I can still feel the heat of the ball‑room, the stiff prickles of my dress.  I can hear the roar of conversation around me; I can taste the perfume on the air.  And I can remember the heat of anticipation that was almost strong enough to shake my entire body.

I can feel it all as though I am still there, not here in the cold evening air.  For a moment, I can remember the thrill of life that hummed in my veins and I can forget for just a moment that I am going to see again the scene that brought everything to a stop.

She is there with him.  With him holding her close as they dance.  Dancing through the other couples as though they are alone on the floor.  Alone.

And then she will lean in to kiss him, pulling back and laughing as she meets my eyes.  As though I and my words and my heart and my love are nothing, merely a joke at which she may laugh.

Joyful.  Heartless.  Lover.  All good words, but only one applies to her.




(My inner beta wants to change much of that.)

Comments and feedback are most appreciated. :D
katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
My first ficlet in a very long time!  And my first ficlet for the new comm, too.  The good Gill ([livejournal.com profile] crazedturkey) kindly volunteered to post the first word so I could write a ficlet.  And she even more kindly emailed the word to me, as I can’t get to LJ while at work.  Thank-you muchly!

Extra bonus points (or an icon, whichever you prefer) for anyone who can guess the word here.  I honestly believe it’s impossible to guess.  I know I’ve said that twice before and been proven wrong... but I mean it this time.  In fact, I can’t even work out how this story came from the prompt word in question.




Title: Strange
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG (language)
Word count: 424 words
Prompt word: garble


Strange, how my mind stops working properly when he touches me like this.  How the world seems to vanish and everything contracts to here and now and him.  How can a simple touch be responsible for losing the ability to think clearly?

Or to remember that there’s still a pot on the stove?

“Oh, shit!” I yell, leaping up from the couch and my comfortable seat on his lap.

Strange, how I can go from shyly wondering if I should kiss him to just desperately wanting to switch the smoke alarm off.

Wasn’t there a broom in this cupboard?  I’m sure there was a broom in this cupboard.  It was just the right length for jabbing at the stupid smoke alarm and I know I always kept it here.  All I can find now are towels.  Who the hell switched the broom cupboard for a towel cupboard without telling me?

I can hear him laughing, still on the couch.  It’s that low laugh I love; the one that usually fills me with warmth and sometimes makes my skin shiver with delight.

Strange, how I can go from thinking of something so pleasant to simply wondering why the hell he isn’t helping.

“The kitchen’s that way,” I snap.  You want to turn the stove off before the house burns down?  Or is that too much to ask?

I hear him moving towards the kitchen, stifled laughter following him as he goes.  It’s not funny.  It’s not funny at all.  Dinner’s ruined; I’m going insane from having to listen to this stupid smoke alarm; and now my perfect-length broom has vanished from the face of the earth.

“Relax.”  He’s right behind me, his breath on the back on my neck, followed quickly by a kiss.

“I'll relax when this is sorted out.”

Strange, how I tried to sound really stern and serious there but my words came out as breathy and distracted instead.

“Found a broom in the kitchen,” he says, holding it in front of me like it’s some sort of trophy.  He jabs it upwards and finally silences the smoke alarm.

I mutter my thanks, feeling foolish.  Why do I turn into a jerk over the smallest things?

“Is... is dinner OK?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

He places his right hand on his left shoulder with a solemn look to his face.  “Rest in peace, little dinner,” he says.  “We will honour your sacrifice by ordering pizza.”

Strange, how I can go from the depths of despair to smiling helplessly.





Comments and feedback are most appreciated. :D
katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
Dear 15 minute ficlets,

I only just got to know you and now you’re leaving me forever!  Before you go, let me just say a few words.

A few months ago, I was in a pretty dull place with my writing. Sure, I still did it - but where was the love?  Where was the obsession?  Where was the driving urge to find the perfect-sized paragraph or to see if I could make a shape out of a story by varying the length of sentences?

Missing in action, that’s where.  I went to uni to study writing and before I knew it, my love of words had vanished in a skirmish with writing-out-of-obligation somewhere in my second year.

I really hoped that love of writing would turn up again some day.  In the meantime, I got by somehow.  I even managed to write an entire first draft of Black Fiddle without it.  Sometimes, I thought it had come back, but it turns out I was wrong.

It didn’t truly come back until I wrote that first ficlet just a few short months ago.  You took all the obligation and expectations away and just let me write for fifteen minutes.  You let me write in whatever genre I wanted.  You told me it didn’t have to be perfect.  You didn’t mark it afterwards and make subtly derogatory comments about how you wished I’d write a proper story, instead of lowering myself to “genre”.

You let me dance about with words and get to know them in a more casual setting... and I can’t thank you enough for that.  Even though I’ll be bidding you a sad farewell in May, I’ll always cherish our time spent together.  After all, I suspect it’s already going to have a pretty major impact on my writing life from here on in.

Thank-you.  You might be “just another LJ community” but you’ve managed to point my writing life in a much brighter and happier direction.

My eternal gratitude,
Katie(foolery).
katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
I’m in a very cranky-pants mood today and for no good reason.  I think that might show a bit in this week’s ficlet.  It was a lot of fun to write, although I do worry about what the main character in this might end up doing in her future.  Her bad temper is based on mine, but mine never got quite as out of hand as hers does.

Since I managed to write about the reaction to the prompt word and haven’t actually included it in the ficlet, I will give triple bonus points to anyone who can guess it.  And maybe a reward in icon form, if you’d like.
Guessed by [livejournal.com profile] rilla06 here.




Title: The Taste of Victory
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG13 (language)
Word count: 879  -  O.o  879 words??  I had to triple check that but it turns out WordPerfect wasn't lying to me.
Prompt word: mediocre


My head’s on the desk, but don’t let that fool you.  I’m not giving in.  I’m not submitting.  I’m not weak, upset, defenceless or defensive.

I’m angry.  So angry that I can’t even find the words to properly express myself.  So angry that I’ve almost stopped being angry at all.

I’ve become anger.

How dare she say that to me?  How dare she even open her mouth to me?  What does she think she is?

I’ll tell her what she is in words she’ll understand.  And my fists will be my punctuation.  And the story of herself will end when she’s too blinded by pain to comprehend anything more.

Don’t worry about me, seriously.  I’ve been this way before.  I have a short temper but my leash on it is strong.  I just need to sit here for a while, with my head on my desk, contemplating everything that’s wrong with everyone else.  Grinding my teeth.  Panting with rage.

I’ve been here before.  Many times.  You should have seen me as a kid.  Gods!  Something... no, that’s wrong.  Usually it’s someone who sets me off.  Someone who says the wrong thing.  Someone who just can’t keep their mouth shut, especially when they know exactly what will set me off.

Now, I just sit here with my head on the desk, quietly fantasising about beating someone to a bloody pulp.  When I was a kid, I screamed.  Screamed things I’d never dare say otherwise and screamed them so loudly that people in the next neighbourhood must have wondered who was being killed and when they’d shut-up about it.  And once the screaming was done, I’d sit in a corner somewhere and I’d fume.

Sometimes I’d break things too, although I stopped that when I broke my wrist in the process of punching my door.

I’m clenching my hands against the desk now, mostly because I think I’m remembered how good it felt to take my anger out on things that couldn’t feel it.  Yeah, it hurt me a lot sometimes.  And I think I liked that pain.  It went so well with my anger; fury surging through my blood and pain singing through my nerves - a perfect harmony.  I haven’t felt this need to break things for a long time.

But she shouldn’t have said it.  She really shouldn’t have said it.  And she shouldn’t have looked at me like that as she did, as though she knew exactly what her words were doing to me.  But of course she knew.

Damn.  Just broke a pen.  I think it was one I really liked, too.  I’m not going to look now but I can feel the sticky tepid moisture of ink all over my right hand.  A bit like blood, really.

“Christa?”

Oh, wonderful.  She’s here.  I’m not surprised, don’t get me wrong.  I knew she’d come in eventually.  She likes to gloat because she can do it so well when she hides it under the mask of honest concern.

“Are you OK, Christa?”

No.  You’re too close to me to be OK.

“I’m sorry if what I said upset you.”

The ink’s dripping to the floor now, making a dark patch on the worn-out corporate carpet.  Like when I broke my wrist and mum yelled at me for getting blood all over the nice new carpet.  (Don’t judge her by that, though.  She was hugging me fiercely at the time and yelling at dad to ring for an ambulance.  She just needed to distract herself from her panic.)

“Can I get you anything?”

Does she really expect me to say anything to her?  To respond?  I know what you’re like, you bitch.  I don’t play your stupid game.

“Christa?”  I can hear her moving a bit and then the sounds of some tissues being ripped out of a box.  “Do you want a tissue?”

No, because I’m not fucking crying.  Bitch!

I bet she’s looking concerned, too.  Biting her lower lip in worry.  Shading her eyes with gentle consideration when she’s secretly crowing her victory inside.

She thinks she’s consolidating her victory, but really she’s just stoking the fires of my anger.  And she seals her fate when she stands up quietly and goes to the door.  “I’m just going to shut the door on us, OK?  Give you a little privacy.”

I move quicker than I could have dreamed.  My mug of coffee is airborne before she even turns from pushing the door shut and it hits her right in the chest, shatteirng in shards of ceramics and showering her flimsy dress with steaming hot coffee.

Because I always need coffee when I’m fuming in anger.

She utters a short, sharp sort of noise before falling to the floor, whimpering in pain.  I look at the stain of coffee on her chest and almost wish it was blood.  I walk over to her, smiling at the way her emotions are now revealed plainly in her eyes.  Pain.  Disbelief.  Fear.

“Never,” I hiss at her, “never call me that again.”

She whimpers and manages to nod as her hands tear uselessly at her dress, trying to get the steaming hot spill of coffee off her skin.

“And stop dripping coffee on my carpet,” I say as I step over her.




Comments and feedback are most appreciated. :D
katiefoolery: (15 minute ficlets)
First entry for the new year and I am sickly but quite satisfied with life.  New Years was absolutely splendid, despite the absolutely rubbish weather and being shot in the head with a party popper gun.  Actually, the last just added to the amusement more than anything.  There shall be a more comprehensive report on that later, most likely with accompanying photographic evidence of enjoyment.

I hope everyone else had equally splendid new years eves or at least will have a splendid 2007.

For now, I present the first fifteen minute ficlet I have written by hand.  I got Bindi to write the prompt word down on a piece of paper and fold it up so I could do the ficlet while I was away.  I couldn’t even take my laptop with me, due to its deciding to break down a week before.  (And of course, it chose to destroy the battery - the only thing not covered by my extended warranty...)

Anyway, here is the ficlet.  Original fic this time.  Bonus points for guessing the prompt word (and I promise not to sneeze on them).
This week’s prompt word of "open" was guessed by [livejournal.com profile] naelany.



Title: Distraction
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG13 (some slightly graphic imagery towards the end)
Word count: 412
Prompt word: open

“I love you all,” she said.

I rolled my eyes.  Please tell me we’re not at the stage where she starts declaring undying love for us all.  Because that’s only one step away from the stage where she attempts to make a pyramid out of beer glasses.  And that’s only one step away from the stage where she decides that indoors is a good place to practise her sharp-shooting.

And she can’t even hit things much smaller than an elephant at point-blank range even when she’s completely sober.

I pat her arm, trying to avoid the residue of the chocolate body paint as best I can.  “That’s great.  We love you too.”

Yeah, just don’t look at the guys right now.  Two hours ago, I could have glared them into removing those shocked looks from their faces.

Not now.

Not now she’s mostly wearing only body paint and reeking of almost every drink in the place.

“No, I mean it,” she says, lowering her voice and giving me her patented puppy-dog eyes.  “I really, really mean it.  You think I’m just thinging this because I’m...”  She pauses, looking distantly puzzled.  “Oh yeah.  Because I’m a bitch.”

I close my eyes in frustration.  Maybe I should have stopped this a while back... such as when she said: hey, let’s go for a drink!

But I can’t say no to her right now.  Not after what she’s just been through.

“You’re not a bitch,” I tell her.

Her face crumples into tears.  Well, tears and body paint.  “That’s so sweet,” she sobs at me.  “I love you, Kara.”

Oh, are we back there?  Fantastic.  But I don’t have much time to lament this fact, because the next thing she says is:

“Can you guys pass me the thing glasses?  I want to make a myrapid!”

And it’s only a short step from there to the shooting practice.  Half an hour ago, I didn’t think I’d be happy about the fact that she’s not wearing any actual clothing but I am now.  Because it means she can’t possibly be hiding any weaponry on her.

But I’m going to hand her those glasses and I’m going to watch her build that pyramid because right before she suggested going for a drink, she told me all about seeing her best friend’s head being shot open.

And if I can help her forget about that for just a few hours, then I’ll do whatever it takes.




Wow - could I have possibly started any more sentences with conjunctions?  I think I’ll have to work on cutting that back in my next ficlet.

Comments and feedback are most appreciated. :D
katiefoolery: (Girl writing in cap)
Rena decided to come back for this ficlet.  This one takes place some time before the first ficlet I wrote, which gave me a chance to have fun and try and fore-shadow things.  I’d just like to take this chance to a) thank Nevin for deciding to exist, and, b) explain that I have no knowledge of reading fortunes from cards whatsoever.  In fact, I’m not even sure what Nevin thinks he’s doing, as he seems to be using a normal pack of playing cards.

I have also observed that you know you’re involved in what you’re writing when you look up to discover that you completely forgot to eat your double-coat chocolate tim-tam.

Oh, and before I leave you to the story, I’d love to see if anyone can guess what the prompt word was. [livejournal.com profile] naelany and [livejournal.com profile] flamehail got it.




Title: The Knave in Disguise
Fandom: Original (related to this ficlet)
Rating: PG
Word count: 596
Prompt word: knave


Nevin holds up a card and it’s the knave.  We both stare at it: me, in surprise, he, with intense concentration.

“What does it mean?” I ask, when Nevin doesn’t speak.

“What do you want it to mean?” he murmurs.

I frown at him.  “Are you just going to ask me questions?”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

For a moment, we glare at each other, each seeking an answer in the other’s eyes.  Then we laugh and I’m glad of the sudden release of tension.

“You’re an idiot,” I say.

“On the contrary, I am a genius,” he objects, flicking the card between his fingers until it becomes a blur.  “I-” he suddenly flips the card into the air, catching it between his fingers again “-am a master of the cards.  They hide no secrets from me.”  He lowers his voice and gives me an absurdly smouldering look.  “I know everything about you, Rena.”

“You’ve known me since I was five.”

“Ah yes, this is true,” he says, taking the smouldering look away and replacing it with a slightly injured one.  “I do indeed know your favourite foods and how you hate the colour green.  I know that your mother can’t spell and your father is most likely a dark anti-hero, carousing about the universe in search of wrongs to accidentally right and innocent young virgins to educate in the way of things.”  He stops to look at me.  “You should probably slap me here.”

I shrug.  “I’d only hurt myself,” I say.

“But I just insulted the honour of your father,” he says.

“No, you insulted the honour of a figment of your imagination,” I tell him.  It’s hard to feel hurt when he doesn’t mean it, anyway.  And it’s not as though I actually know who my father is, although my mother probably has her reasons for not telling me.

“Don’t you want to know, Rena?” Nevin asks.  “Doesn’t it claw at your mind in the middle of the night?  Doesn’t it leave an empty spot in your life?”

“No,” I lie.

Nevin gives me an all-too-knowing grin.  “The cards could tell you,” he says.  “Don’t you want to hear what they have to say?”

“No I don’t,” I say.  “I want you to tell me what that stupid knave means before I…  Before I…”

“Before you think of a threat?”

I glare at him, but it’s half-hearted.  I’ve never actually been able to glare at my oldest friend, even if he is annoying and so sure of his own absolute intelligence.  You might as well try to kick a puppy, really.

“Nevin.”

He sighs.  “Fine.”  He places the card between us with casual care.  “The knave is a warning for the future, Rena.  A hero in disguise; a villain with a halo.”

I snort at him.  “Are you talking about my ‘father’ again?”

But I hold back my mirth at his sudden look of seriousness.  “The knave means you can’t trust yourself, Rena.”

“What does that nonsense mean?”

Nevin whips the card away and places it back in the deck.  “If you’re not going to take this seriously…”

“Oh, don’t give me that.  Just five minutes ago you were telling me to watch out if I went for a walk in the woods in case a squirrel fell on me.”

“That was five minutes ago,” he says, trying to look hurt and failing completely.  “Now I’m telling you to be careful.  You can’t always tell the knave straight away.”  There’s genuine concern in his eyes now.  “Look out for yourself, Rena.”




Comments and feedback are most appreciated. :D
katiefoolery: (Girl writing in cap)
Here is my third ficlet for the [livejournal.com profile] 15minuteficlets community.  I do love writing these!  This one was inspired by a certain character of mine who decided to die on me recently...

It was a bit tricky to write this at times, as it refers to a place with a complicated history, not to mention the convoluted connection between the narrator (Katarrin) and Mack.  The country they live in is divided into many, many counties, although most people either refer to themselves as Northerners or Southerners.  The Northerners have always been both aggressive and protective, proud of their strength and their heritage.  The Southerners tend to resent this... then they started a war.




Title: The Tree on the Battlefield
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
Word count: 612
Prompt word: electric

I didn’t hate the Southerners.  Let’s get that straight - they’re not worth it.  They can start a war; they can destroy my family, my life and my country, but they’ll never earn my hate.

Cowards aren’t worth hating.

Mack wanted to stop me from going to war.  Yeah, I know what that look’s for and believe me, the element of surprise definitely worked in my favour.  Often.  I mean, what am I?  Short, female, un-threatening...  But believe me when I say I can hurt people if I need to.  And no self-respecting Northerner could stay safely at home, away from a fight for our own country and still be able to live with themselves.

So I had no choice and he knew it.  He knew he couldn’t stop me, but it didn’t stop him trying.  And when he decided he was coming with me, nothing I said would change his mind.  If I was so determined to do this foolish human thing, he said, then at least he could make sure I stayed alive throughout it.

He might have been fey, but he was the closest thing I had to family.  Not a friend, not a lover, not a brother... just Mack.  Just my shadow.  I used to feel funny if he wasn’t beside me.  People would look at me strangely if I walked into a room without him, as though I wasn’t really Katarrin if Mack wasn’t right there behind me.

I really don’t hate the Southerners, but I do wish they hadn’t started their stupid war. The wounded pride of five hundred years past is no reason to begin a battle like that.  I should laugh at myself here, because we never thought the Southerners had any pride.  What a way to discover that they did.

There are a lot of things I’d rather forget about the war.  The dirt, the blood, the smell of death.  The way these things stopped bothering me after a while.  But I do remember there was a tree there - a beautiful tree in the middle of a battlefield - because I sat against it as he killed himself for me.

Well, I say “sat” but I suppose I really mean “leant hopelessly against it”.  The idea that I was actually capable of sitting is laughable.  I was surprised my body still remembered how to breathe; my heart, how to beat.

And Mack...  Well, Mack thought my life was worth more than his.

Idiot.

I would have died otherwise.  I don’t doubt that.  We were more than surrounded and it was just the two of us.  And at that point, Mack was the only one capable of standing.  I was the one tilted against a tree trunk, fighting desperately for each breath and wishing pathetically that I could do something.  Anything.

There wasn’t even enough energy to raise a circle.  My hands were resting against the earth but no energy flowed into them.  I couldn’t have coped with it even if I had managed to draw anything in.  I couldn’t have summoned us up a miraculous escape.

I couldn’t even find the strength to tell him not to do it.

Oh, his death... his death was electric.  He broke my heart and soul into little pieces, standing in the middle of the battlefield in all his fey beauty.  He never was so magnificent as when he glowed with life and smiled at me, before shattering into a cloud of splintered light.

And all I could do was sit there against that stupid, beautiful tree, watching him destroy himself and hating him with every fibre of my being.  Because he was so worth hating.




Comments and feedback are most appreciated. :D
katiefoolery: (Girl writing in cap)
My second ficlet for the [livejournal.com profile] 15minuteficlets community.



Title: Stuck
Fandom: Original
Rating: G/PG
Word count: 566
Word prompt: Congratulations

“Congratulations!  You're an idiot,” she sneers.  “Why not take a minute or two to revel in how truly stupid you are?”

I say nothing.  What can you say in the face of such polished sarcasm?  She looks back at me with a strange mixture of derision and expectation in her expression.

“Well?” she says.  “Cat got your tongue?”  She paces to the wall and back, arms still crossed.  “It’s amazing how you can be perfectly quiet now yet when I wanted you to stay silent, you wouldn’t shut up.”

There’s obviously no point in talking.  I know she doesn’t want to hear what I have to say; she’s quite happy to rant on and on like this.  It’s as though telling me how stupid I am is somehow making her feel better about the whole situation.

Hah!  What do I mean, ‘somehow’?  Pointing out other people’s flaws always makes her feel better.

Especially when that flaw has left us stuck here in this cell with nothing in the way of furnishing except ourselves.

She turns and stares at the wall and I can see her shoulders shaking slightly.  That’s never a good sign.  On the other hand, I’m left with a few minutes of silence and I use them to wish that I was stuck in here with someone else.  Anyone else.  Even Rocco, who likes to try and crack your shoulder as a friendly greeting.

Even that nameless guy who always looks creepily excited whenever you mention death.

Anyone.

Anyone but her and her stupid meaningless words that manage to hurt more than one of Rocco’s friendly greetings.

Someone once said that maybe a kiss would shut her up.  But who’d want to kiss something that was capable of such malice and hurt?  I’m not even remotely tempted and I never have been.  She’s heartless and cold-blooded and way too good at blaming everyone else for everything that goes wrong.

It’s never her fault.

“Idiot,” she whispers, still facing the wall.  “We are going to die.  Thanks so much for that.”

“We’ll get out of this,” I say, immediately regretting that I opened my mouth at all.  She’ll pounce on those words and find something else to ridicule me for.

“Out of a solid cell with two-foot thick steel walls?” she says.

See?

“And how do you propose that, exactly”

Well, what am I supposed to say?  That the rest of our team will rescue us?  That I’m hiding a blowtorch somewhere on my body?  That if I whistle just right, I can break down the molecular structure of the walls?

...maybe a kiss would shut her up...

No way.  I’m not thinking about that.  No.

No.

If five simple words can result in a storm of scorn, then imagine what a kiss would do.

No way.

She turns around to face me again and slides down until she’s sitting on the floor.  I won’t look at the way her hair’s curling around her face.  I won’t look at the sudden emptiness in her eyes.

Eyes front, soldier.  Be strong.

The walls shake and there’s a sudden muted boom in the distance, then a much closer yell.  Sounds like Rocco’s saying hello to someone out there.

Her eyes widen in surprise.  “They came for us?”

I grin at the wall above her head.  “Congratulations,” I say.  “You really suck at having faith in your team.”



Comments and feedback are most appreciated!
katiefoolery: (Girl writing in cap)
My first writing challenge piece!  Thanks to the wonderful suggestions of my friends list, I was able to spend a great deal of time trawling about some challenge communities and choose at least one to start with.  I'm sure more will follow soon enough.

This piece is for the [livejournal.com profile] 15minuteficlets comm.  Once a week, you spend fifteen minutes writing a response to a prompt word, which you then post to the community.  I had so much fun writing this piece, heading vaguely off into the unknown with not the faintest idea of where I was going.  And I learnt that five minutes can seem like fifteen sometimes.

I shall now step aside so the writing can be seen.




Title: He Smiles
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG (PG-13?)
Word Count: 437
Prompt Word: Misled

“You misled me.”

He smiles; a slow gesture of amusement.  “Truly?” he asks.  “Think about it, Rena.  If you didn’t want to be here, would I have been able to tempt you so?”

I open my mouth to respond, but my subconscious is upon me before a word can come out.  Is it true? it asks me, in the annoying way of such inner voices.  Are you lying to yourself?

He waits, smugness in his eyes.

“You said...”

“I said what?  Everything you wanted to hear?  All those things that no-one else tells you but that you secretly know are true?”  He steps closer and I am backed into a wall.  The light of the setting sun blinds my eyes.  “How beautiful you are; how your eyes are a glimpse into your amazing soul.  How strong!  How irresistable.  How I cannot stop from touching you.”

Every word is a blade through my heart.

“How I didn’t want to love you,” he murmurs.  “Yet how powerless I was to resist your allure.”  He runs curled fingers by my face, a hair’s breadth from touching.  “Are those the things I said, Rena?  Is that how I misled you?”

I can’t answer.  My body seethes with hate and yet I still long for him to touch me.  Those hands have caused such horror and pain and a part of me can’t help but wonder how they would feel on my skin.  Would his fingers be rough as they caressed my face?  Or strangely gentle as they pushed the straps of my dress off my shoulders?

Yes, he spoke to all the secret desires in me.  He didn’t mislead me: I misled myself.  And that doesn’t make me feel any better.

“Then leave me alone,” I say, trying to ignore his breath on my face and the warmth of his body in front of me.  “Go away.”

He shakes his head and grants me another languid smile full of cruelty.  “No.”

“Yes.”  Fear is suddenly in my veins and I push against the wall as though it will miraculously open up and provide me with an escape.  “You’ve had your fun.  You’ve played your little game.  Now go.”

And stop smiling like that.  Please.

He laughs.  “My game, you say?”  He is even closer than before, inclining his head towards the crook of my neck.  His lips taste the skin of my throat.  “My game is far from over, Rena,” he promises, whispering into my ear.  His hand runs up the curves of my body, sending confused messages of delight and fear to my brain.  “My game is only just beginning.”



Comments and feedback are welcome.  :D

April 2011

S M T W T F S
     12
34567 89
10111213141516
17181920212223
24252627282930

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Aug. 22nd, 2017 09:22 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios