Are You Ready? Choose | February Writing Prompt

Tags

coming of age, gory read, horror, individual vs society, monsters, writing, writing challenge, writing prompt, YA Fantasy

Challenges Met:

-Writing Prompt: He pointed me toward the opening in the tree. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased. It’s surprisingly large on the inside.”

-YA Fantasy

-Mini Game: Gory read & Scene about individual vs society

He pointed me toward the opening in the tree. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased. It’s surprisingly large on the inside.”

I suppressed the shakes starting in my fingers and the backs of my knees. Our village leader wore his ceremonial cloak with the hood pulled down over his eyes. Only his mouth remained, and it hinted at a smile.

It didn’t matter how worried I was about this. I had to do it. This was my chance to enter society as a full member.

Or I could fail and leave. Even if I didn’t want to.

“You’ll be fine.”

The air around me pushed me toward the dark opening, and I took a few uneven steps. My hands gripped the rough bark around the entrance and my feet moved me past it. Closing my eyes insintcively, I embraced the blackness with my heart beating in my throat.

As I walked further, a light braced my closed lids, cracking them open.

The inside of the tree spread wide, shadowed around the edges so that I found no walls.

“Holly,” a soft voice wafted into the space, but it wasn’t the village leader.

“Y-Yes?”

“Are you ready, Holly?”

“I—I don’t know. Ready for what?” I turned in a small circle, searching for the voice.

“To choose.”

I sucked in a hard breath and let it out slowly. “No.”

Musical laughter filled the cavernous space.

“I don’t know what I’m choosing.” I knew it wasn’t as simple as wanting to stay or wanting to go, but I’d not been allowed to ask my friends after they went through the ceremony. Each full member was moved into their own space and their new lives, and I was left behind to wait and wonder.

“It’s different for everyone, Holly. As soon as you say that you are ready, your test will begin, and you will have to choose.”

This was not helpful.

“You will not be able to choose anything that is not true to who you are. Do not worry.”

I hated it when people told me not to worry. I always did. I couldn’t stop it, and them telling me not to only made the anxiety spike hard in my chest.

“Are you ready?”

No.

“Yes.”

The lights flared outward and revealed the walls all around me. Jagged sharp things lined them. Weapons. Every tool on those hooks were used as weapons. The dank smell of old blood choked my windpipes, and I coughed hard.

A small figure stepped out from the shadows, then another, and another.

They were the size of eight-year-olds, but they weren’t children. Each of them had a different complexion, features, and shape, but their eyes were all the same black orbs. The lack of whites in their eyes disturbed me enough to take a step back.

“I don’t understand.”

“We are a threat to your village. We will burn your homes down, kill your family and friends, and steal their souls. Could you end us if you had to? No matter what we look like?”

That tightness in my chest twisted and contrasined my lungs.

No. Not this.

“If you’re not willing to fight for your community, are you willing to fight for yourself?”

The voice seemed disembodied, even with the three children hovering out of reach. Their mouths didn’t move, but they watches as my hand fluttered to my chest to coax new air in and out.

“Choose.”

All three moved forward at once, and I backed away until my shoulders clattered into the weapons behind me. I took a long stick with pointy ends and held it like a bat. When they got too close, I swung it, missing them by feet.

I didn’t want to do this. I’d never hurt another creature, not even a bug! I couldn’t slay three strangers. Especially not children.

But they kept advancing.

My fear froze my muscles. I couldn’t even swing again as they neared.

“No. Please don’t make me do this.”

Finally, the children’s faces changed, cracking smiles with sharp, sharp teeth.

Still just out of reach, they paused before they sprang. I swung again. Missed again. And those teeth tore into arms and right leg.

Hot blood poured with the pain, and I screamed.

In motion, I tried to throw them off, pushing with my stick without wanting to slice or stab.

Their teeth sank deeper, their fingers turning into claws that opened my flesh.

I screamed.

Sharp pain pierced my gut, cutting my screams to a gurgle.

Help.

“Help.” My voice quavered into nothing.

“Choose, Holly.”

How could I? The decision was already made.

I dropped to my knees into the puddle of my blood that was quickly cooling and congealing.

Breathing was hard, and I couldn’t swallow. Something slithered from my middle and plopped into the mess.

Lights flashed, and my vision dimmed.

Choose.

Watch the companion vlog where I play several rounds of my new mini game!

Pick ’em Clean. Pick ’em Dead | January Writing Prompt

Tags

animals talk, death sentence, fantasy, forbidden, magic, revenge, writing, writing challenge, writing prompt

Challenges Met:

-Writing Prompt: Magic is forbidden by order of her father, the king, and punishable by death. How will she hide the fact that she can suddenly talk to animals?

-Scene about Revenge

Melanie’s hands shook so hard that she couldn’t open the door to her bedroom.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no.

This wasn’t happening.

She struggled with the doorknob again, putting her entire body into it. The door squeaked open, and she nearly fell into her room.

With her heartbeat pounding in her ear, Melanie couldn’t tell if she closed the door quietly or not, but she managed to open the window on her first try.

A rush of cool, morning air bathed her hot face.

This was not happening.

“My lady, what has you so flustered this beautiful morning?” The voice came from above her.

She shut down, nearly falling to her knees. “What do you want from me?”

“Me? Nothing. You seem to be in want of something, however.”

Melanie finally peered up into the tree’s limbs outside of her window. A blue robin tilted its head and blinked a black eye at her.

“How are you talking to me?”

“I’ve always been able to talk. You’ve never talked back before.”

Melanie fell into hysterical laughter, tumbling into hyperventilation.

How did this start? Animals were talking to her. And she understood them.

Shaking herself, Melanie stumbled to her feet and reeled toward the bathroom and the promise of a warm bath. No animals in there to talk to her while she wrangled back her sanity.

Hot water splashed into the bottom of the tub with full force. 

She knocked bath bombs and salts and oils inside, anything that would help soothe her. Stripping out of her day dress, the scents brewing in the room sent her through another dizzy fit.

Slipping into the tub numbed the magic that threatened to overtake her several times that day.

Everything settled, sending Melanie off into a light sleep.

When she woke, her peace lasted only so long.

The cold water seeped into her skin. Thankfully, the day had been warm, so she didn’t freeze. 

Dark skies greeted her by the open window, and the songs of the birds carried eerie words to her through the archway.

Pick ‘em clean. Pick ‘em dead. Pack their bones in for our beds.

Grab the grubs. Grab the worms. Isn’t it lovely when they squirm.

Melanie shook it off, closing the panes.

Even the gross imagery of the song couldn’t deter the low grumbling in her belly. Dinner was far over, so Melanie snuck down to the kitchen to eat the leftovers and scraps. The cold meats and roasted vegetables made for an easy meal, but the full slice of blueberry pie was a genuine treat. She couldn’t find any fresh cream. It in no way diminished the bliss the sweets caused.

A glossy cat jumped to the table across from her, and Melanie stiffened before taking another slow bite of pie.

“Give me a piece of that crust, girl. No berries.” A purr underlay her voice, and the feline blinked her round yellow eyes at Melanie.

“I have a mouse in my room. Find it, and kill it for me.” If the cat wanted a treat, she could earn it.

A few slow blinks turned her head. “Deal. Crust now.”

Melanie broke a chunk off and set it on the table for her.

After a couple of breaths, the cat took the crust in its fangs and hopped off to disappear out of the room.

“You’re welcome.” 

Peering around, she finished the last of her pie and abandoned her dishes in the sink.

Mice squeaked across the hall as she exited, squealing about cheese and crumbs and dust.

Melanie ignored them. If she simply let their chatter fall into the background, no one would be the wiser.

She could manage this. A full belly helped the stress. Made this mess seem more manageable.

Once she shut herself in her room again, sleep was the only other salve. Maybe when she woke up, this will all have been a nightmare.

But at the end of the bed, on the foot of the coverlet, sat a dead mouse. The one that had been surprising and making her squeal for days.

Perhaps, talking to animals could have its perks.

So long as it didn’t get her killed.

Check out my companion video:

Save the Monster Under the Bed | July Writing Prompt

Tags

allegory, coming of age, ezra, fan fiction, fantasy, monster under the bed, must read, the year of the witching, writing challenge, writing prompt

Challenges met:

Prompt: “Every child has a monster that lives under their bed. Society’s coming-of-age ceremony is to kill that monster. The time has come for you to be an adult.”

Toolbox: Allegory

Fan Fiction: Ezra from The Year of the Witching

I wrung my hands, spreading sweat and fear across my palms. Fifteen was old for the ceremony, but I’d put it off for so long. My excuses were growing thin, but I did not want to do this.

It had nothing to do with becoming an adult. That was long overdue. Yeah, I get the irony.

But the ceremony was to kill the monster under my bed. I couldn’t do it.

I knew my monster─Ezra─and I liked him. A lot.

Tomorrow, I had to venture under my bed or lure him out and slaughter him. Murder him.

Tonight, though, I could still find a way to save his life.

Strapping the sword on my back and packed on my supplies before I pulled up the bed skirt and slid under the frame into the darkness.

Musty, wet rock hit me immediately, but slowly, a warm, sweet scent bloomed in the space as I stepped forward. I cracked the pink glow stick, the color Ezra preferred, and I waited. Although I’d been down here more times than I could count, I never ventured too deeply into the darkness alone.

Warm wind brushed my skin, and Ezra’s brilliant blue eyes appeared in the soft pink haze.

I smiled up at him.

“You’ve returned.” He took the pink glow stick and my hand and led me through the dark. 

I followed because I trusted him. And he led because he trusted me.

The soft quiet of home disintegrated into an absence of sound that made my skin crawl. My grip squeezed him, and Ezra squeezed back.

You’re okay. This is my place, and you’re with me.

It was the magic that kept others from finding him. Others like me who hunted and killed him and his kind because of what they were and where they lived.

We slowly made it to his home, which was homemade furniture and soft places to sit or lie down. Ezra collected books, but I couldn’t see much else. His soft lamps provided a circle of light, and the rest bled to black.

He offered me the chair by the table with a smile. “I’ve got your favorite.”

I sat, grinning in a knowing way.

Pulling a bowl from the dark, Ezra presented the gleaming treat to me. “An ice cream sundae with walnuts and marshmallow sauce.”

It was my favorite when I was six. “How did you get that?”

He shrugged and set it on the table before me. A spoon appeared for me, and I dug in.

Mom didn’t make me many of these treats anymore.

Ezra sat beside me. His attention tightened the fear in my chest.

My spoon faltered, and I looked him in the eyes. “They want me to kill you tomorrow.”

“I know.” He urged me to finish eating.

With a huff, I took another bite. It wasn’t the first time I’d told him. Wasn’t the first time he’d brushed me off about it. “Why won’t you let me save you?”

“You’re not supposed to.” His even tones belied the sadness in his blue eyes.

“Why does that matter?” I threw the spoon, but he caught it. Anger billowed out of me. “Why must I do everything I’m supposed to? Everything I’m told? Everything everyone else has ever done and decided that everyone must do? Why can’t I make my own decisions?”

“Because you are not an adult yet.” Ezra placed the spoon by my bowl again.

“And that means what I want doesn’t matter?” I stood abruptly, unable to soothe the injustice of it. To reconcile myself with Ezra’s acceptance of it. “That means your life doesn’t matter?”

He took my hands, his warmth smothering the fire threatening to burn me alive. “Becoming an adult means doing things that you do not wish to because you need to. It is an obstacle you must conquer, or you will forever be a child.”

“But why does it have to be this?” Why couldn’t it be something else?

“Because you don’t want it to be.”

Internal thunderstorms threatened me with tears.

“Everyone knows their monster before they must slay us. In some way. None wants to complete the ceremony. Out of fear. Out of pride. Out of rebellion.” A tug made me acknowledge the pointed look he gave me.

“I am afraid. I don’t want me to be the reason you’re gone.”

With a sad smile, he sat me down. The ice cream hadn’t melted. It never melted down here. Why was that?

“I won’t be gone,” he whispered in my hair before he planted a kiss atop my head.

“Slay means kill. Dead. No longer living. How can you not be gone after that?”

Ezra patted my hand.

“How old are you?” Something beyond the fear of his death knocked my heart around.

“Old.”

“And how many times have you been slain?” My hand squeezed around the spoon.

“Many times.”

A renegade tear plopped down my cheek.

Ezra wiped it away.  “Few get to see me as you do.”

I sniffed back the rest of my grief. “But I won’t get to see you anymore, will I?”

“No.” He sat again beside me to watch me eat my sundae. “But at least you can know that I’m not gone. Not really.”

My spoon found the half-eaten mound of ice cream, and I did my best to eat it slowly. To savor every bite and every moment in between. This was the last of my childhood.

Check out the companion video:

Writing Five Haikus | Poetry Series Episode Two

Tags

Basho, elements of haiku, examples of haiku, haiku, history of haiku, poetry series, spontaneous prose, writing challenge, writing haiku

The haiku originated in Japanese during the Heian period (700-1100) since society required one to be able to recognize, appreciate, and recite Japanese poetry. Short forms (tanka) became popular over long forms (choka), yet rigid lifestyles required every poem to have a specific form, so they approved the 5-7-5 triplet followed by a seven-syllable couplet—this was the Japanese equivalent to Shakespeare’s iambic petameter in England.

Linked verse poems (regna) and chains of linked verse (kusari-no-renga) were popular amongst the elite; however, the mid-sixteenth century brought the rise of “peasant” poetry and a rebirth of a lighter and airier tone, called haikai but later renamed renku. The haikai began with a triplet called a hokku, which was considered the most important part of the poem, and it had two primary requirements: a seasonal word (kierji) and a “cutting word” or exclamation.

In the late seventeenth century, poet Basho transformed the hokku into the independent poem that became known as a haiku. He was a fan of spontaneous prose that became so popular throughout Japan that Tenro, a contemporary school of haiku, included two thousand members from all over the country that met in designated temples to write a hundred haiku a day out of dedication. Since Basho, these poems have mirrored the Zen ideal and gone through many transformations, but a good haiku today is similar to when Basho developed the form.

Haiku should be an observation of a natural, commonplace event in the simplest of words without verbal trickery—or is best known to be effective because of its sparseness. It’s a simple snatch of memory and non-fiction observations as a shorthand used to help remember events.

Most are written in present tense, in ordinary language, and work best when two images spark off each other. They should include one or more of the senses beyond sight since they don’t tell, or simply describe, instead, they allow the reader to enter the poem in their own way.

Here are some notable examples:

Hokushi was another famous Edo Period (1603-1868) Japanese haiku poet.

I write, erase, rewrite,

Erase again, and then

A poppy blooms.

Zen monks traditionally write one last haiku before they die. Gozan wrote this in 1789 when he was 71.

The snow of yesterday

That fell like cherry blossoms

Is water once again.

“A World of Dew” by Kobayashi Issa

A world of dew,

And within every dewdrop

A world of struggle.

“Over the Wintry” by Natsume Sōseki

Over the wintry

Forest, winds howl in rage

With no leaves to blow.

Since I was challenged to write five this month, let’s practice with some of our own.

 

Long shoots of green

Sway under the violet sky

Mushroom clouds bloom.

 

Sprattle. Tonk. Bonk.

Foam gathers against metal.

Sweetened paper drinks.

 

Metal swooshes through

Sweet air and strong knotted wood

Burning off anger.

 

Wind gusts hard threats

Against warped plastic siding with

Nightmarish rattling.

 

Gold foiling reflects

Calling for the scratching pen

On fresh white paper.

Are they great, like the notable ones? No, but that was fun.

Do you write haiku? Share some with me in the comments below!

Sources:

https://www.litkicks.com/HistoryOfHaiku

What is a haiku and where did it come from?

https://www.readpoetry.com/10-vivid-haikus-to-leave-you-breathless/

Best 10 famous Matsuo Basho’s haiku poems in English and Japanese

12 Haiku That Reflect on Zen Buddhism

12 Haiku That Reflect on Zen Buddhism

Let’s talk Dystopia

Tags

common trails of dystopian societies, dystopia, free write, satire, the state, tropes, world building, writing challenge, writing expiriment, writing game

I rolled a trope prompt for my writing game, and I spun my wheel to Dystopia. So we’re going to explore characteristics and examples and try creating a few of them in a brief free write.

First: The Definition

A negative or undesirable futuristic society that is seen as dangerous and alienating.

Second: Common Traits in Dystopian Societies

1. Society—most impose severe social restrictions on community members.
   • Social stratification strictly defines and enforces social class.
   • Ruthless egalitarianism (believing in the principle that all people are equal and deserve equal rights and opportunities to the extreme).
   • Repression of the intellectual.
2. Social Groups—total absence of social groups other than the “state.”
   • Independent religion is omitted.
   • The family unit is broken and creates a hostility to motherhood. 
3. Nature—characters are isolated from the natural world.
   • Citizens are conditioned to fear nature.
4. Political—the government asserts power over citizens.
   • Flawed in some way. Often portrayed as oppressive.
   • Filled with pessimistic views of the ruling class: rules with an “iron fist.”
5. Economic—the state is in control of the economy.
   • Black markets sell items that are banned or seen as contraband.
   • Many businesses are privatized.
6. The Hero—protagonist questions society and has strong intuition.
   • They will escape or rebel.
7. Conflict—a societal group somewhere not under control of the state.
8. Climax—may be unresolved.
   • The protagonist either dies or is reeducated/conforms.

Within these main elements, we have some fun and awful tropes, like heavy propaganda, the use of secret police, implemented curfews and violent punishments, humans losing the top spot on the food chain, unflattering and dully colored uniforms, neutrals and metals everywhere, individuality is the enemy, forced happiness, love is bad, the food is gross, resources are scarce, education is lacking, the children are sacrificed or revered, everything is filthy or sterile, someone will triumphantly rebel, and many, many more.

For my experiment, let’s build a world rather than a scene because this would be where I start with my process. Although as I say this, the spark is usually a scene or character or situation, but when I really start working, I start with the world and understanding my limitations.

1. Society—people’s worth is based off of likes, views, and comments. Teehee. Citizens’ online presence determines their social standing, their education and job options, the stores they can shop at, their curfews, and their available mating pool.
2. Social Groups—Citizens are separated by their niche and have to worry over losing followers and social status if they change niches. They also lose all of their friends/connections in their previous niche. This is highly enforced. Individuality is nearly nonexistent, and their happiness is forced. Children are used for content, their childhoods sacrificed to be paraded out on the screen and behave certain ways for content creation.
3. Nature—most citizens fear nature or merely use it as a prop. Those in the wilderness niche may primarily live in nature due to their content. 
4. Political—content platforms are run by the government; they control the algorithms and means of reaching followers/consumers. This means that propaganda or content that reinforces the “right” message are the ones that gain the most viewership and others are suppressed.
5. Economic—most available resources are cheaply made and need replaced often, which means a black market is built of handmade products that last and services that fix machines or equipment. Because education doesn’t focus on conservation of materials or fixing household items, this, too, is handed down through families in secret. All products are trademarked and hold copyrights that can put someone caught fixing or creating similar items into workcamps/factories.
6. The Hero—A low-level computer programmer that finds the hidden code that keeps individual content suppressed. They rebel, searching through the hidden content to “magically” make a video/channel/page/profile/post go viral that doesn’t fit the norm.
7. Conflict—the biggest small niche are the independent thinkers, those who push education or teach viewers how to circumvent the government’s laws against DIY projects or how to keep things working for longer. 
8. Climax—uses a few leaders of the underground to infiltrate the top government CEOs and programmers while keeping the rest hidden on black market channels for the people to get free access to. This also opens up the ability to find mates outside of their niche—for love. Leaders on both sides die in mutually guaranteed destruction, but the hero leaves his own operation going perpetually, undoing the government’s complete control.

So, there we have it, my dystopian world packed full of tropes. Obviously, I’m satirizing social media and its effects on society, which is what a dystopia does. This was fun!

What kind of dystopia would you make? Which tropes are your favorite? Let me know in the comments below.

Writing Prompt: “The Sparrow’s Leg”

Tags

flash fiction, mechanical tenacles, steampunk, the sparrow's leg, thief, Werewolf, writer-opoly, writing challenge, writing prompt

This month for Writer-opoly, I got this for a writing prompt:

Genre: Steampunk

Hero: Werewolf

Heroine: Thief

How do they meet?

And this is what I came up with, accompanied by an inspirational photo and a vlog of me completing all of my challenges this month:

“The Sparrow’s Leg”

The other guests had a normal mixture of reactions to her steam-powered tentacles. They were the perfect guise for her limp, the perfect distraction for her sleight of hand, the perfect ploy to get close to the baron and his master set of keys. 

Jasmine adjusted her bodice, the thin boning not as flexible as she liked, but it did wonderful things to her cleavage, accentuated by the copper chains dangling between her breasts. It was stop two on the way to her face, where her charcoal-lined eyes with enhanced lashes and red-painted lips could be used as tools for persuasion.

And tonight, her satin gloves reached past her elbow to cover the mechanics of her fake arm.

No one here needed to know that Jury-Rig Jasmine crashed the exclusive party meant to charm foreign powers and businessmen, all of which held prized purses and trinkets to take. Many that have come close have lost them already, thanks to her third tentacle on the right.

Baron Brodsky, however, was her way to the private rooms in the back of the giant house and the sparrow’s leg that she meant to retrieve. Sure, while she was there, Jasmine would nab a few other objects that had high demand on the black market—the hog’s knuckle, the camel’s tail, and the rhino’s horn topping that list. All of which Brodsky had in house.

A tall, black gentleman in stark white took hold of her elbow, her left one, and smiled politely down at the copper ropes disappearing into her bodice. “Miss, the baron would like an audience with you.”

“Would he? Right this second?” Those enhanced lashes batted, and she let heat fill her cheeks.

“Yes. Right this second.” The man’s grip tightened but didn’t hurt as he ushered her forward, past the dancing couples and the tables of appetizers and spirits to a room shrouded in flowing cloth, hard woods, and copper accents. Sandalwood and patchouli transported her to a faraway place, mixed with magic and promises.

Jasmine blinked away the darkness and the expectation of seeing guards and women and others milling around the room, but Brodsky sat alone on a sleek white couch. It made the silky black of his suit pop against it. His dark hair and eyes catching the light enough to show their shine as she stopped before him, the steam from her tentacles lifting her skirts enough to be tantalizing. Her boots kept anyone from seeing her skin, but most didn’t peer beyond the steam-powered appendages.

Brodsky’s gaze moved like a physical touch, catching on every little distraction she’d employed before he waved away the tall man.

“Miss Gusev, you’ve created quite an uproar in my little circle of friends.”

Jasmine smoothed the boning of her bodice with both palms, glad when his gaze dipped to enjoy her deep breath. How did he know her real last name? “Have I? I suppose my little darlings disturbed more than a few of them.”

“Indeed.” Brodsky stood, showing her how imposing of a man he could be, bigger than the man who’d escorted her to him. “Do they part for dancing?”

She smiled at him, looking up through those lashes instead of tilting her head back. Fingers traced the copper chain to straighten a phantom kink, and pheromones dropped a more earthy scent between them. “I’m afraid they don’t. Sorry to disappoint.”

Her tentacles lifted in their own dance, showing him the way they moved and lacked accommodation for an intimate affair, but they did touch him enough to extract what she’d come for.

“That is disappointing.” Somehow, his long arms reached beyond her mechanical barriers and drew her closer to him than Jasmine expected possible.

Her gloved hands pressed against his chest as if she could force more distance between them, but his touch sashayed up the laces along her spine, finding flesh beneath her ironed curls. The room seemed to shrink from the heat of it, and Jasmine struggled to catch her breath.

“You, however, are not.” The darkness in his eyes parted as she finally craned her neck to examine them. The copper flashed behind them, and she realized her mistake.

Baron Brodsky was not a normal spoiled elite. He lived by the moon. The one full in the sky tonight. And she’d put herself on his alter for sacrifice.

“Now, tell me you cannot make those things dance.” He lifted the keys from her tentacles slippery grip and held her fast by the back of the neck.

“Can you blame a girl for trying?” 

The Cursed Ones: a writing challenge

Tags

Christopher Pike, Death, emulation, grim reaper, tried writing like, writer-opoly, writing prompt, writing style

I’ve finally completed another writeropoly challenge. Well, three of them. The ones I didn’t get to in July.

Here, I was meant to fit a writing prompt about the cursed ones, quoted as the first line, to write a scene about courage and perseverance, and to emulate Christopher Pike’s writing style.

This is me working my way through it and reading it aloud.

Without further ado, here’s the story in all of its rough glory. I never did give the characters any proper names, so there’s that.

The Cursed Ones

“You have to watch out for the cursed ones…they have nothing left to lose.”

Whoever wrote this along the entrance to my cavern was correct. Whatever they were doing down here had likely gotten them killed. It truly wasn’t safe to cross a cursed one. To cross me.

I passed porthole to the wide pipe. I had to duck as I walked, taller than most of the others but still stooped as our kind become. Water trickled under my boots, echoing with the beat of my footsteps. Let the others know I am coming, although I liked to see them scramble when I arrived.

The cursed. Demons. Goblins. Vampires. Monsters. Many have different names for us. Some believe we work for Satan. Most don’t believe in us at all.

What we truly are, however, are lost beings that suffer between life and death. We have lost everything but our awareness and pain. And we work under Death’s unrelenting rule. We capture difficult souls who evade change and renewal—the very thing we are continuously denied.

It made us bitter.

The pipe opened up to a cavern in an unused but damp section of the sewers. Twelve of us span the circular space, like the hours of a clock. Time stops when we meet in the center.

I put my weapons on the wrack under Number 12. The last but strongest of us all.

Other than Death.

Sometimes, I wonder.

We see him less often. He hasn’t shown in the last six years. Not four years before that. Three before that. Souls on our list have become more regular and harder to capture. But they all fell in the end.

I hung my armor, cobbled together with broken pieces of my own dead soul. That’s right. We truly had nothing left to lose. Each time we were slayed in a capture, we were rearticulated, but that shard remained behind. I’d learned from the others to keep it and hammer it out to protect me. I also learned that I felt less with each piece I added to my armor. I learned not to lose them.

A brush flaked the blood from my hair and skin. The soft bristles kept the need for a shower down. I didn’t sweat. I rarely bled. I incinerated troublesome souls. Some of them in creative ways.

Energy crackled in our cavern, and a name vibrated between the stone walls.

III

Death’s newest name.

Who had more power than Death? Enough power to call for his end?

Each of us turned to note the name, and I took off the rest of my hardware. The others rustled around the room. Let them try. I’d sit and watch them scramble. Learn from their mistakes. Save my own soul.

I slept through their arguments. Dreamed of my old life, my woman and babe before they were taken from me.

By the time I woke, six of the cursed ones had lost major portions of their souls. Two of them expelled their last shards. I sharpened my weapons, polished my blades and shield, cleansed my armor. Each move honed my focus until the world’s extra energy swirled around the thought of III. 

I could feel him, but something new fractured my focus in half. Another reaper? More than one death?

No wonder the success rate has been so low. No one has gotten close.

What was this whole thing?

Loading on my gear and strapping in my weapons, I recited my chants, activated my charms, and left to collect III. Well, I followed Number 8 and Number 11. After hours of tracking, they jumped in and were slaughtered in minutes.

Death was no easy mark.

I waited. Watched.

His new skin was dark and lovely—graceful and full of charm. Then, the second was petite and bright and beautiful. This struck me oddly. The yin-yang and OCD of Death personified in a pair. Lore and fairy tales liked to implant the idea of redemption in love, in a soul mate.

The more I watched them, the more I was resigned to inaction.

Could a reaper earn redemption? 

And if so, how did I get it?

III caught me trailing, the petite one tilting her head to the side and blowing her kiss.

Number 2 and Number 5 came and were slayed. Number 2 didn’t come back.

Then, Number 8 and Number 10. 

Number 3 next.

Until it was just me and III.

He passed me on the street as I sipped a lavender latte before she sat in front of me with her own cup. My weapons couldn’t be seen by humans, but her eyes followed the lines of my blades. I could pull one out before anyone blinked, but so could she.

“Number 12.”

“III.”

“You’ve been watching us a long time.”

“I have.”

“And what have you seen?”

Her other half waits at the corner by a magazine stand. “You two seem to share a soul.”

Her smile should have sent warmth through my chest, but it didn’t. “We do, but we had to be ready for the change.”

“Were you the one he thought he lost?”

“I don’t get to know that.”

“How?” I couldn’t put my actual question into words. He’d lost more of his soul than anyone else had. How did he reap this reward?

“Time allows the universe to realign. You have to pay attention to grab your opportunities.”

“Who wants you reaped?”

She sighed, colorful eyes swirling behind slow blinks. Her hands spread as if to indicate everything. “Well, Life, of course.”

A muscle started twitching between my shoulder blades, driven by the duty to cut out her soul. “And why shouldn’t I obey?”

“Because when you are the only one left, you will take his place.”

And choose who the cursed ones seek.

Would Jacqueline return?

“Only three of us remain.”

“Only one of you has not attacked.”

“I do not put pieces of my soul on the line needlessly.” My armor clinked when I moved, and the cool milk and lavender of my latte spread film over my tongue.

“That’s smart.”

I nodded. “You should go.”

Her slow blink made duty itch along his spine.

“Before I change my mind.”

“May your opportunity arise.”

“Good luck to you both.” I signaled the waitress for a fresh cup, and Death’s mistress disappeared from her seat. 

At the end of the street, she popped into his dark arms.

A fiery mane of curls bobbed into view, and a frothing cup settled before me. “You’re not the only one who knows, but now, you are the only one capable. Just keep that in mind.”

Bright green eyes twinkled at him before the waitress turned back to her job.

Death dipped his head my way, and the matching pieces of his soul embraced him before they disappeared from my sight.

Making a slow decision wasn’t the same as making the wrong one. I still had time to change my mind.

A Warrior Survives Her Legend

Tags

fantastic battle, legendary, mortality, paranormal, poem, poetry, vampire, Werewolf, Wooing the Alpha, writing challenge

Another writing challenge this month, and another poem has been written. It’s not my best, but my inspiration has been singularly focused.

 

A Warrior Survives Her Legend

 

The world turned from technicolor

To a strained black and white.

Swords swung and sliced

And clanged and clashed.

 

Blood sprayed her face.

The front of her armor.

Her fingers grew slick, but she dodged

And parried and cut through meat.

 

Bodies fell, the battle ending

As Winter chased down the stragglers.

One lingered, hitting hard and fast.

One who didn’t fall for her tricks.

 

Cold steel pierced iron with a screech.

Tip burns a line across her throat,

A scratch spreads poison,

Working to take her down.

 

She fought, bleary and discombobulated.

Throbbing spreads through her

Flesh, eating her vocal cords

Ready to take off her head.

 

Her speed failed, and a blow fell.

Winter dropped to her knees,

Writhing against her own death.

She would die here.

 

But death did not come.

Not quickly.

A battle moved away from her,

Leaving her to gargle her own blood.

 

Floating in nothing, she

Met her mother.

Woke to Newt pressing

A clean cloth to her wound.

 

His mother mended her wounds

After Newt saved her life,

And struggled with her own mortality:

A weakness for her kind.

 

The great warrior, Winter,

Taken down by a single sword’s swipe.

Surviving made her a legend.

No one knew the truth.

Writer-opoly Writing Prompt

Tags

disney songs, grim reaper, homicide detective, john doe, soul collect, speculative fiction, writer-opoly, writing challenge, writing prompt

This month, one of my writing challenges was to complete a writing prompt. Here’s what I got:

 

“As a homicide detective in a large city, you’ve come across some odd cases. This, however, takes the cake: you have the Grim Reaper, death itself, in custody.

 

And here’s what I wrote:

 

The gray t-shirt fit the young man—if man could be applied yet, those things varied beyond age—and other than his oversized blue irises, he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Average, fair skinned with a tan, blonde, medium build, although his arms might have been longer than his height required.

I’d caught him in my theater room, aka, the basement where my wife hasn’t taken over due to the damp walls. He’d propped himself on the old and worn recliner I’d stowed down there and had the projector streaming Moana from my movie laptop.

He didn’t seem fazed by my appearance, nor my gun and badge. He wouldn’t stand until the demi-god was done singing his welcome song, then he hopped up and put his hands behind his back for my cuffs.

“What are you doing in my house?” I jerked him toward the stairs.

“Your wife invited me in, told me to wait for you down here. She seems nice.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Why are you in my house?”

A lopsided grin turned his mouth. “I did answer your first questions, which was what I was doing, not why I was doing it, but I’m here to collect a soul.”

He’d made his way up the stairs before I could process what he meant, and he’d smiled at my wife.

I shoved him out the door and into the back of my police-issued wagon.

He sang the entire way to the station and the entire time he sat in his holding cell. The young man had a penchant for Disney songs.

After filing the paperwork and running his prints, I pulled a chair to sit outside of his cell, sure this conversation would go as any did. His avoiding my questions, me repeating them ad nauseum until he tripped over himself.

“Why were you in my house?” I asked.

“I told you already. I’m here to collect a soul.”

“You mean, you’re here to kill someone. A hitman.”

That playful smile, like I wasn’t the smarter of us two, but sympathy lined those oversized eyes. “I don’t kill. I collect. Y’all kill yourselves just fine on your own.”

“Who are you collecting?”

“No one you know.”

“Give me a name.”

“They don’t have one yet.”

“Who are you collecting for?”

His big blue eyes closed as he shook his head, pity replacing that mixture of cheekiness and sympathy. “Depends on what you believe. The universe. Fate. God.”

How had some wacko made his way into my house? Past my wife?

“Who are you?”

“John Doe 357.” He sprang into “Friend Like Me” from Aladdin.

I left him to it and checked on the computer processing his prints. No matches on the general database. I ran it through the next series, but I felt myself scowling at the likelihood I’d get nothing from it.

He would be John Doe 357. How did he come up with that number?

I pushed him through my questions again, but his answers were the same.

No matches on his prints.

He didn’t seem stressed about the time he wasted.

I made a few phone calls, contacted some old PI friends and techs from other agencies to put out feelers on this scam.

When I returned, the young man stood on the bench, peering out the small rectangular window at nothing—the glass frosted over. There was no way to escape through it.

“Why were you in my house?”

Grief lowered the lines around the young man’s large eyes as he turned toward me. “It’s happening now. I’m sorry.”

Rage pushed me against the bars to his cell, but I refrained from lashing out. He wouldn’t get to me this way. “What’s happening? Is someone killing for you?”

He shook his head, dropping back to the bench and singing “Circle of Life” in a slow, eerie cadence that sent a chill over my skin.

The phone rang at my desk, and I went to answer it, tension and terror mounting as my hand cut off the last jangling note. “Detective Duntley.”

A sob echoed across the line, “Billy.”

My chest tightened. “Marianne. What’s wrong?”

“I—” Another sob cut her off. “I need you to come home.”

“Marianne, what happened?”

“I lost it. There’s so much blood. So much blood.” Heartbreak laced her voice.

“Lost what?”

A sob and her voice cracked—the baby.

My mind went blank for too many breaths.

“I wanted to surprise you tonight.” A hiccup and warble. “I went to the doctor today.”

My baby?

The office was too quiet. The cell too quiet.

“I’m on my way, sweetheart.”

The phone slammed back into its cradle, and I stomped back to John Doe 357.

Silence settled across my shoulders as the empty cell dumfounded me. Metal cuffs sat on the bench.

A soul to collect with no name.

A baby I hadn’t known about.

Fate. The Universe. God.

I grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair and drove home to console my wife.