May. 28th, 2008

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 [ 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 [ 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 [ profile] 15_minute_fic.

It wasn’t a spell, it was more of an…


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.


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.


Come to me.

Make me…

You’ll die.

April 2011

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