Drabble: Time to Work

timetowork

For the song prompt “You Know My Name”; exact drabble. Thank you for reading, likes/shares and comments are always gratefully received.

There’d been other career options, post-military service but this one had unexpectedly presented itself and he was good at it. Also it paid exceptionally well.

It was a job with certain risks and inconveniences but he had the skills and connections. He’d perfected choosing the right clients; those who were genuine, could pay, and could be trusted to keep their mouths shut.

There were better, safer, jobs, ones in offices instead of on damp rooftops, but on the whole there were far worse jobs.

A car door opened on the street below. Time to work.

He lifted his sniper rifle.

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Micro Fic #4

microfic

Written for various challenge prompts:

Six word prompts

Dream:
Sun, sand, lapping waves; total contentment.

Nightmare:
She smiled, revealing sharp, deadly, fangs.

One sentence prompts

Start
Later, he’d look back and see that this, this single seemingly inconsequential action, was where it all began.

Fool
He fiddled with the bowtie, feeling like a fool; he’d honestly rather defuse a bomb than try to make small talk at some obnoxious gathering of the rich and privileged.

Exact drabbles (100 words)

You Can’t Be Serious
“Vampires.”

“I know what I saw.” Her face was serious, no hint of her usual sunny disposition in her tight lips and narrowed eyes. It seemed less and less likely that she was playing a trick on him and more and more likely that she was delusional.

“You can’t be serious.”

She nodded fervently. “I am. He is a vampire.”

“Vampires do not exist,” he protested, trying to reason with her. “They’re mythological creatures, fictions of our subconscious, symbols of our deepest desires and fears; sex, death, blood.”

“They don’t exist?”

“No.”

She pointed behind him. “Tell that to him.”

An awful dream

She climbs into his bed, her feet and hands freezing as she cuddles up against him. He turns, pulls her close. She’s shaking, and not just from the cold.

“You’re freezing.” He kisses her hair, wraps as much of his own body around her as he can. She shivers violently against him and he says nothing more, just whispering comforting noises.

When she’s warmer and calmer, he asks what’s wrong.

“I had the most awful dream.”

“What about?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t say. Not while it’s dark.”

So he simply holds her, and they both sleep until morning.

 

Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and shares are all welcome.

I am a writer

close up of human hand
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I am a writer and I am not sorry for that.
I write what I want to write.
I write what brings me joy.
I write what lets me express and explore my pain.
I write the things I want to read.
I write, inspired by others.
I write to challenge myself.
I write for others on occasion.
I write for myself.
I write also what I need to write.
I am a writer and I am not sorry.

My writing statement, September 2018.

What and why do you write? Scott Russell Saunders, author of The Most Human of Arts, gives a list of reasons we need stories. These include teaching us to be human, to educate our desires, to show us consequences, to teach us empathy by looking through the eyes of other people, to delight in language, and to create community.

Are you apologetic about your writing? Do you feel uncomfortable using that label? If not, did you ever? Has anyone made you feel uncomfortable about what you write by criticising you for writing “dark” or “problematic” fiction? How do you get past negative reviews or rejections?

Think about your writing and maybe write your own statement that says “I am a writer…” and see what comes up for you, what is most important or relevant to you right now. Are there are any surprises? Or are you secure in your approach to writing?

I’d love to see what you come up with.

Fic: Storm in a Coffee Cup

stormcoffeecup

This was for the Reddit Writing Prompts suggestion: “A Starbucks Batista has given you Double Chocolaty Chip Crème Frappuccino with soy instead of a Caffè Vanilla Light Frappuccino with no fat milk. Make this as tragic, heart-wrenching and miserable as possible.”
I took this to mean make it hilarious or, if I were tagging on AO3, “crack treated seriously” (definition here)

Storm in a Coffee Cup

Do you ever have days where nothing goes right? When the hot water has run out and the bus is late and it starts raining the moment you realise you didn’t bring an umbrella? It was one of those days but for a brief moment there was hope.

The delicious smell of coffee, the ringing of the registers, the bright chatter of the people waiting for their caffeine fix, the warmth of the Starbucks store drying out my clothes made me feel calm and relaxed. Everything would be fine once I got my favourite drink. Caffe Vanilla Light Frappuccino with no fat milk. This simple pleasure would put my day, my life, back on track.

I reached the counter. I placed my order. I took my drink with a smile. I walked to the door. I took a sip of the drink –

What in in holy hell was this? This….this….monstrosity! I nearly choked.

It was a frappuccino, cool and refreshing, and that was all that was right with it. Instead of the smooth, comforting, vanilla, its warm taste evoking both cookies eaten by roaring firesides and soft ice cream under a blazing summer sun, there was chocolate. The complete opposite of vanilla. Double chocolate, sticky and thick.

That was bad enough but my woes were not yet at an end. There was denying it. The milk was not no fat milk. To my despair it was soy, a pseudo milk, an affront to true milk lovers!

Worse, there were bits in it. Small hard beetle like pieces. On closer inspection these proved to be more chocolate but the damage was done to my psyche as well as my tastebuds.

The muddy looking drink seemed to taunt me as I beheld it in all of its erroneousness. What had I done to deserve this outrage? This disgusting concoction was surely some sort of divine punishment.

I took another sip to be certain. Was there even caffeine in this thing? How could I go about my day without caffeine? It was impossible! I wanted to weep.

I shoved my way back to the counter and brandished the offending cup at the barista. “This,” I declared, “is not what I ordered. At all!”

He looked unconcerned. “Right. Sorry. What was it you wanted?”

It didn’t matter any longer. The moment had passed. I shook my head sadly and forced down another gulp of the mixture. Who am I to question the will of the coffee shop gods?

_ _ _

I hope you enjoyed the fic! Comments, concrit, likes/reblogs are all welcomed.
For the record I’m a basic “just give me a coffee with milk”, or sometimes a cappuccino and I had to google the hell out of the various coffee options!

 

 

Fic: Blood is Thicker

ficbloodisthicker

Summary: An abusive husband has gone missing.
For the prompts “This is your fault”, “Blood is thicker than water”, and genre: horror
Warnings: offscreen character death, references to domestic violence

“It’s nice your sister has come to stay with you,” the police officer said, after apologising that the latest lead, a sighting of her husband in a casino, had not panned out.

When she first reported him missing the police weren’t that interested in looking for him. He was an adult male prone to disappearing off for long weekends and coming home with other women’s lipstick on his shirt or a black eye for getting into a bar fight.

Oddly he never beat up other women. Perhaps he was afraid they’d fight back or report him. She never did. “This is your fault,” he always said, and he had a hundred reasons why (she didn’t have sex with him enough, she made him angry, she deserved to be kept in line). Nor could she leave him (he swore he would hunt her down and kill her slowly).

When her sister visited and saw her black eye, though, she knew things were going to change. Two weeks later, once her injuries were – for a time – healed, her sister had returned with a suitcase and a toolbox. Like a dutiful wife, she had cooked and when he’d come home, the two women sat him for a nice long chat.

She’d let him isolate her from her family and friends, and it was only her sister’s sudden determination to build bridges that had saved her. Blood, they said, was thicker than water. Perhaps it was true. But enough water and bleach had finally gotten the kitchen floor clean.

The lilac bushes should do well this year.

Ficlet: Naivety

She’d known that he’d disagree with her, but this tirade had been unexpected. For the 30 days of fiction meme  Prompt # 6 write a scene with people talking, but without any actual dialogue

naviety

 

She’d known that he’d disagree with her, but this tirade had been unexpected. He hadn’t stopped yelling as he paced the room – now he leaned over the table and told her, in no uncertain terms, how disappointed he was in her.

She’d stayed seated this whole time, arms crossed defensively, but now her anger caught flame and she was on her feet, cursing at him in English and French alike – that got his attention, he looked stunned, actually stepped back to regard her with surprise.

She laid out the reasons she’d done it, she explained, point by point, ticking them off on her fingers, why it was the only logical choice. Finally, with contempt in her tone, she described some of the worst case scenarios had she done otherwise.

He sat, defeated, while she remained standing. He smoothed at his hair, straightened his tie. He wouldn’t apologise, that was a given, but she hid a smile as, in a cool, measured tone, he conceded that there was no going back on it now. He began making suggestions, most of which she would ultimately disregard.

Still, she retook her seat and nodded, pretending she cared about his opinion, occasionally interrupting with a clarification when he – inevitably – got the facts wrong.

Five minutes later he seemed to have talked himself out – not to mention talked himself into believing he was in charge, more important than he really was – and dismissed her.

She missed his predecessor and hoped he might return soon and oust this jackass, before his naivety got someone killed.

Thank you for reading! Concrit is appreciated.

Prompt: Holiday

 

close up of human hand
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Hi everyone! For the fifth Writing Wednesday of August here’s a prompt:
HOLIDAY (vacation)
After a few days visiting family this seemed like a nice prompt! If you’d like to write a short fiction about going to the beach, a blog post about your favourite place to visit, or to share a few photos then please do so!
Reblogs of this post are welcome and encouraged. I hope you have fun with this one 🙂

 

 

Fic: Eye of the Beholder

eyebehold

Summary: One person’s art is another person’s rubbish.
Previously posted to a personal journal for the 30 days of fiction meme prompt #5 write a scene entirely in dialogue

“It’s a very interesting piece.”

“Interesting? How?”

“Well…it’s symbolic. Probably.”

“Of?”

“I don’t know. Stuff. Things that other things are symbolic of.”

“Oh, that’s deep. Unlike the colours.”

“It’s a watercolour. That’s actually a more difficult medium than oils, you know.”

“Incredibly difficult by the look of this.”

“It’s…abstract.”

“Putting it mildly.”

“I mean that it has few connotations beyond what you, as the viewer, bring to it. It allows you to form your own opinion on the piece and any themes within it.”

“I see. I have an opinion.”

“Yes?”

“It looks like a four year old painted it and then the cat piddled on it.”

Fic: Friendship

Ficlet from the WRE WiP. On duty at the call centre, Romaine and El talk about friendship, giving insight into their dynamic – and El’s relationships.

After the caller hung up, Romaine watched El for a while. At last she leaned back in her chair, rolling her head around her shoulders.

“You okay, Rommie?” she asked, catching his eye.

“Just thinking. We get a lot of calls about broken relationships, broken friendships, and issues that wouldn’t be so bad if someone had a close confidant to talk to. I’m used to being mostly alone but calls like that one make me wonder if I need more friends, or if the chances of finding someone who won’t stab me in the heart – metaphorically – are so low that it’s not worth the risk.”

Woods. He didn’t speak the name aloud; his ex-partner, whose inaction at best had led to Romaine getting shot.

El spun her chair around. “This job makes you think about things,” she said. “About your own life. And it’s good to reflect. But don’t let it change who you are. If you like being alone, so be it. And if you want friends then hey; I can’t promise never to piss you off, but I’m generally loyal and aren’t we already friends?”

Romaine blinked a few times. “Sure.”

“Sure?” El repeated, mock horror in her tone. “One word answers like that can be a sign of insincerity you know.”

“You took me by surprise.” Romaine shook his head. “How do you know when you’re friends? How do you know when you’re in love even? Or if you meet someone as a friend and then suddenly you’re dating?”

El shrugged. “I guess you just know? Things can develop gradually and no-one has to say ‘Hey, want to be friends’ because you just are. There’s no proposal, like when you get engaged, not for friendships. As for love, well, I distrust the idea of love at first sight. You have to get to know someone whether you’re dating or befriending them. There is the ‘I love you’ moment in a romantic relationship but love…that’s a big and complicated word. I love my parents, my sister, my nieces, and pizza, but all in different ways.”

The phone rang and she answered. Romaine got an email and as he opened it, he couldn’t help noting that El’s boyfriend hadn’t got a mention in the list of her loves.

 

—comments, shares, likes, are all much appreciated—-