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15_minute_fic // Prompt word: pawn // “One Second”
Aug. 11th, 2007 11:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katiefooleryWow, 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]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
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.
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
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.