beefwords

[beefwords]

Towers

Jason Sanderson is an unobtrusive man. He lives alone in his apartment in Tower 252, on the 5th floor. He has a cat. He has a suit and tie. He has light brown hair he knows is thinning. He has dark brown eyes he wishes didn’t need glasses to see. He has a light smattering of freckles that he hates with a passion, on white skin he thinks is either too clammy or too dry. He has a mole on his calf that he ignores in the hopes it is not cancerous. He is fat, and quite embarrassed about it.

He is one of at least 5000 residents in Tower 252… give or take a hundred or so. The top stories are mostly work spaces, stores, and other such things. And there are apartments with more than one person in it. He figures it still rounds out to about 5000 residents either way.

The Towers are all 100 stories tall, with 50 apartments (give or take) per story. There are 8 industrial elevators per tower, each having a designated route of floors that they stop at and timetables for when they stop, with overlap between their routes. The elevators are constantly running, automated beasts determined in their climbs to deliver people to their destinations. There are 8 sets of stairs that only the desperate use. Jason is lucky– he works from home, unless he is needed in person for a meeting or particularly nasty problem on floor 93, where the company is located. He prefers it this way. He doesn’t think his coworkers or neighbors particularly like him, and he’d prefer neutrality to hate.

His mother lives on floor 10, alone. She works at the call center for the same company he does. He visits once a week on Saturdays for dinner. He despises Saturdays. But he loves his mom, or he tells himself he does. It would be rude if he didn’t. She makes a lovely green bean casserole, anyway.

Jason Sanderson is a creature of habit. He wakes at 6 am for a simple breakfast of coffee and toast, feeds his cat, showers at 6:30 am, dresses, brushes his teeth, and is ready for work by 7 am. He works from 7 am till 12 pm, where he takes a break for a lunch of a cigarette on the balcony and half of a store bought sandwich (he does his grocery shopping on Saturdays, after meeting his mother) and a small packet of potato chips. At 1 pm he returns to work, and works and works and works until 5 pm, though sometimes he must work until 6 pm or 7 pm depending on how desperate things are in the office. Regardless, at 5 he (usually) will change out of his work clothes into his lounge clothes, watch tv or read a book, and at 6:30 pm he will eat a microwave dinner with a glass of lemonade (diet) and a scoop of vanilla ice cream (non dairy).

And, on rare occasions, after dinner, after most people are winding down for the day, he will walk down five flights of stairs and exit Tower 252. He doesn’t like to make a habit of this. It feels like something that isn’t Allowed. But there’s no one stopping him, no signs saying he can’t leave– in fact, one must exit the building if one wants to take a rare day bus to visit a relative or friend in one of the many other towers dotting the vast expanse of concrete and sky.

Every mile in a grid pattern, a tower stands. They all look the same, save for their identification number printed on every side, every ten floors.

Jason likes to sit at the base of Tower 252, watching the sky darken and the windows of the towers lighten, smoking a cigarette, and wonder if any of the towers are at all different from Tower 252, and if maybe there might be someone else wondering the same thing from their tower, wherever they might be. He wonders if the concrete ever stops beyond the horizon. He wonders where the supply choppers are kept, as they chop across the sky from one tower to another. Is this all the world has to offer? And who maintains the silly looking roads, tiny little perfect lines striping across the featureless gray of the concrete? How long would it take him to walk to Tower 253? How many Towers are there?

On these nights where he ventures outside, he often finds himself panicking at the thought of being locked out, and will return after 15, 20 minutes. He hops on whatever elevator will take him to the 5th floor in the shortest amount of time, and he will return to his apartment, nervous that someone might see or hear him and ask what he is doing, but no one ever does. Sometimes he wishes someone would.

He dresses for bed, brushes his teeth, and crawls under his covers, his cat curling up next to him and purring as he drifts into unconsciousness. He rarely dreams, which he is grateful for.

And then his routine will begin again in the morning.

[beefwords]

The Living Hare

(TW for animal death and description of rotting corpses)

The young hare had died from infection. She had been attacked by a territorial male, had escaped with a bleeding cheek, only to succumb a week later. The sun of the desert draws her dead skin tight across her bony torso, fur sticking out at odd angles, fluttering in the breeze. Flies buzz around her open wound.

She is alone, save for another young hare, panting in the heat.

He is weary, hungry, thirsty, but he can’t leave her here. 

The reapers will collect her.

Already, they soar overhead, ominous black shadows scouting out their prey.

Cowards, he thinks.

It’s not fair, he thinks.

She should have lived, he thinks.

There is no shade for the living hare to take refuge in, not close enough for him to protect his dead friend. There is a small spring beyond the shimmering heat waves, beyond those large boulders, but he knows the reapers will take her if he leaves. So he waits, mourning his friend with anger and fear.

He’s not sure what he waits for, but he refuses to let the reapers land in peace.

There are no convenient perches for them– they have to land on flat ground.

The sun presses down on him, tempting him to succumb. He will die too if he doesn’t move. He knows this. But how can he just let the reapers take her? His only friend, his best friend, the hare who gave him a reason to live?

In anger he cries out at the reapers, incoherent with grief.

“Go away!”

“Leave us alone!”

“Reap elsewhere!”

It’s what he wants to say, but all that comes out is a pitiful war cry.

The flies buzz. He had tried shooing them away at first, but he couldn’t keep them away forever. At least he can do his best to keep the reapers away.

She stinks, in this heat. Her belly has bloated and collapsed in strange ways. Her eyes are half closed, her infection sizzling in the sun. Her once long, graceful ears have been picked at by bugs and tiny things he can’t scare.

That should be him, lying there, dead and decaying.

She had saved him from the wound the territorial male had intended for him.

It’s not fair.

He pants, wishing desperately for water, for food, for shade.

A shadow crosses him– the reapers are getting closer.

He thinks of the spring, beyond the mirages, beyond the rocks. It’s so close, but just out of reach. She would not want him to be thirsty, but he does not want her to be reaped.

So, tenderly, he grabs the end of her hind leg between his incisors, and pulls.

She is bigger than him, but he is hardened enough by desert life to be able to pull her. If he could just get her closer to the spring, he could keep her safe.

The reapers never cease their slow, lazy circling above.

They must think him crazy.

So be it.

Maybe he is.

He pulls. He drags. He stumbles and pants. His head is light, and his limbs shake with every step. The bugs trail behind, flies buzzing in his own ears, incessant, buzz-buzz-buzz… The sun begins to set, shining in his eyes. His shadow is long behind him, pointing him towards his goal. Her fur in his mouth is dusty and bad. Buzz-buzz-buzz. He is blinded by the sun. How much longer to the spring? He can’t be sure. The scent of his dead friend is suffocating in his nose. Buzz-buzz-buzz. The reapers are close. He has to stop to yell at them, to scare them away, running protective circles around his friend. Buzz-buzz-buzz.

The boulders hardly look any closer by the time night falls. The moon is full, a great blind eye to his plight.

A tug, a pull, a sore paw, and he collapses in the dust, vision spinning.

An unnatural darkness overtakes him.

He accepts death now. She had accepted it long before it had overtaken her. He had been scared, but now at least he can see her again, if the legends are true. Somewhere beyond the dark sands and grasses and hills, a land where hare spirits go, a land where the moon is not blind and there are no reapers.

He does not wake in that blessed land– instead he finds himself laid next to a small puddle of water, lit up by the now high risen moon. A drop of refreshing water had somehow found its way to his lips. Instinct surfaces, and he leaps up and drinks his fill desperately, savoring the coolness of the sweet, solitary springwater.

A shifting of sand– he freezes.

A reaper. It stands some length away, a dark shadow with moon glinting off of its eyes and beak and talons, its dark feathers a cloak of dread in the darkness.

They took her.

“Y-you… monsters!” He shouts, charging at the shadow with claws and incisors bared. But the reaper is too fast for him, moving out of the way easily. He shouts at the reaper, charging it, missing, charging and missing, until finally he collapses and the reaper keeps him down with a powerful talon. He kicks and screeches, but the reaper does not move.

“Just kill me!” He shouts, finally, grief tearing him apart. “Put me out of my misery!”

The reaper contemplates him for a moment.

“Is this really what you wish?”

Its raspy voice sends a shiver down his spine. “Yes. Please.”

After a moment, the reaper removes its talon. The living hare stays there, a choked sob in his throat.

“You monsters.”

“Monsters, you call us,” the reaper muses. “And yet you are the one keeping us from reaping. I do not understand you creatures.”

The hare closes his eyes. “She doesn’t deserve to be reaped. She should have lived.”

“And yet she is not,” the reaper’s tone is sharp, suddenly. “Death is not fair, little hare. It does not come to those who ‘deserve’ it or not.”

“...Monster. Why won’t you kill me?”

“I’m not a killer. And I am full.”

The hare lets out a pitiful wail, curling in on himself. She’s gone. Gone forever. It should have been him, it should have been him.

After a long moment, the reaper speaks. “She was very dear to you.”

The hare is silent.

“It is hard to let loved ones go. I am sorry.”

The hare turns on the reaper, teeth bared. “Oh, you don’t know anything. Sorry! You cruel, cruel monster.” He does not attack, however. He limps over to the puddle, looking into the still surface, wishing he could see her on the other side.

“I know it doesn’t mean much, but I am. Believe me or not, it doesn’t matter.” The shadow of the reaper joins him. “I will make sure her spirit is well taken care of, on the journey.”

His ears perk. “What journey?”

“Spirits go to the far side of the desert, where the shadows roam and the sand is cool.”

The hare looks up at the reaper. “It’s true? That place the elders speak of?”

The reaper is quiet for a moment. “Perhaps. I do not know what place your elders have told you about. It is likely different from what you imagine.”

“B-but she’ll be there?”

The reaper fixes him with a look. “You cannot go there, young hare.”

“Why not?”

“You are living.”

“So, kill me.”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

The reaper sighs. “I cannot. But I will assure you, she will be taken care of.”

“...Safe?”

“As safe as a spirit can be.”

The hare sneers at the reaper. “Monster. What’s to stop me from drowning myself in this pool then? Would you take me then? Reap me yourself?”

“I am full.” The reaper ruffles its feathers. “I cannot stop you, but her spirit is strong. It does not want you to.”

This isn’t fair, he thinks. Talking in circles, with a cursed reaper. He will be cursed now too, if he doesn’t drown himself. Reapers will do that to you. Curse you. The thing is probably just toying with him, dragging out some strange ritual to just do him in for later.

“Leave me alone.”

The reaper says nothing, but does not move.

“I said leave!” He whirls on the thing, tired of this.

He is surprised at the sudden compassion in its eyes. “Very well. She will be waiting for you. Live long, strange little hare.”

And with that, the reaper flaps its great wings, and disappears into the night.

The living hare stays at the water, tears falling onto its still surface.

It’s not fair, he thinks.

It should have been me, he thinks.

Monsters, he thinks.

[beefwords]

Angel Meat: The Angel Clinic

The Angel Clinic is closed tonight. I knew this on the bus drive, but for some reason I find myself here, standing outside with the other angels, in line, waiting for the sun to rise and the doors to open. The sky is a barely blue black, stars a distant tapestry, and the angels a line of silvery and golden light in the shadows. I’m twentieth in line. The air shimmers around our wings, our eyes, our halos, where we wait beneath the underpass. A billboard advertises miracle cures. A neon sign flickers for the corner shop down the block. A black car rolls past, full of unseen eyes, the bass of some music ruffling feathers and reverberating through the air.

A pair of humans pass by, not looking at us, scruffier than us. Better to avoid eye contact than to pity, they think. They’re probably right. Humans often are.

I watch them.

The sun rises.

A clinic worker turns on the open sign and opens the doors, and we march in, taking our number tickets as we enter and sit in the waiting room. More angels file in and begin a line anew outside the door and down the sidewalk. We continue to wait in silence.

A cheap fan oscillates on a shelf in the corner, disturbing the plastic greenery.

The fluorescent lights buzz above my head in the false ceiling.

A phone rings in a distant room.

“Number 20,” an automated voice calls. “Proceed to office 3.”

I stand, and follow the instructions, shimmering into the private office. A human greets me with a polite smile, and gestures to the seat across the desk from him.

“Good morning, please take a seat. ID?”

“TY-562223-34H.”

He enters the ID into the old brick of a computer, keys clacking in the silence. He’s a familiar face at this point, an older human with white hair, white skin, and large glasses. There’s a soft sheen of sweat across his wrinkled skin. He has a slight arrhythmia. His name is John Westley. He is divorced, with an estranged adult daughter.

“Ah! Xertia, I knew I recognized you. What brings you into the clinic today?”

“I need to make some money.”

He nods, understanding, crossing his hands in front of him. “Alright. Did you have a specific goal in mind?”

“$32,000.”

He raises an eyebrow, eyes widening for only a moment. “I see. Let me put that into our system and see what we can do for you…”

I know it is a grim number, but it is imperative that I get this money, and fast. I am in a lot of debt. I’m glad that the clinic workers don’t ask why I need money.

“Alright, let’s start small. Your eyes are $100 each, being a Silver Grade Cherub. I imagine you don’t have 320 eyes, and would like to be able to see at least a little, but it’s a start. How many eyes do you think you can part with?”

I have 50 eyes. “48.”

He enters that into the computer. “Mm-hm. That leaves us with $27,200 left to make. Hair is $89 per pound. For a full head of hair like yours–”

“Hair is too cheap. I’d like to sell my arms.”

“...Right. Each of your arms is $500, I’d say. You want to sell all of them?”

“...Yes.” I thought they would be worth more– they aren’t that skinny.

More typing. “The new number to beat is $25,200.” He pauses. “The healing time for the arms will be significantly longer than for your eyes, you know.”

“I am aware.” I point, then, to my wings. “How much are my wings worth?”

He evaluates, eyes calculating. “$1500 each, including the feathers. You know we’re not allowed to take all your wings, though, right? It’s illegal.”

“I know. I want to sell five of them.” I have six.

Click-clack-click-clack-click. 

“$17,700 left of your goal.”

“Organs. How much are my organs?”

“Well, it depends on the organ,” John muses, leaning back in his chair. “Your lungs are about $800 each, give or take. Your stomachs are about $2000. Kidneys, $500 each. Gonads, $6000. Hearts, $8000. And so on. Again, I have to remind you that certain items are limited, especially hearts.”

“Alright. I’d like to sell two hearts.”

“We’re only allowed to take one at a time.”

Damn. “One heart, then. And a stomach and a gonad.”

He smiles at the new number on his screen. “Alrighty! That takes us down to $1700– I know just the thing. We have a deal going on right now, where your ribs and rib meat will cost double if all of them are removed together. That will give you extra spending money for after the procedure– you’ll get to your goal with about $800 extra. How’s that sound?”

It sounds very good.

“Deal.”

“Wonderful. Let me just finish up with this paperwork and I’ll send you in to see the doctor. Is that all you wanted to bring up today?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Fantastic. Did you want to sign up for our Poundage Program? One pound of meat is donated a month for a little extra income.”

“I’m already signed up.” 

He is forgetful. He doesn’t know me. He sees many angels a day.

“Ah! Very good. Thanks for stopping in today.”

I exit the room and follow a nurse into the operation bay. I’m not looking forward to the next few months or years of my life, painfully regenerating what they will take from me, but… a debt is a debt, and money runs my life as much as any mortal or immortal being. They attach me to tubes, look over my records, leave me to wait for a long time in silence, watching the time tick by on the old analog clock. The doctor enters and greets me, practically an old friend at this point. He describes the procedure, but I know most of them by heart by now, so I go through the motions and sign the waivers and papers and everything pushed my way.

The angelic anesthetic is administered, and the world drifts away, and I can finally find some relief. Relief in knowing the debt will be paid, at least for a little more time, and life can return to normalcy.

I wake, a new, mangled thing, and I am deposited outside the clinic with the assurance that the money will be in my bank account within the next five business days.

[beefwords]

Unfinished Knife Drabble

Twelve knives. 

Twelve. Fucking. Knives. All of them sheathed between her ribs, cool metal piercing skin and clothes and flesh and– twelve knives. Perhaps it’s symbolic. Twelve seems like some sort of symbolic number. She doesn’t know what it would be and she doesn’t particularly care. All she knows is she has more knives in her chest than she knows what to do with.

She stumbles forward, catching herself on the desk– okay, well, moving certainly doesn’t help the pain, but she’s felt worse.

(AN: I found this in my files, so here you go. I wrote this in 2018. Probably won't finish this lol)

[beefwords]

Prompt: A reclusive artist's forgotten masterpiece comes to life, and its inhabitants escape into the real world, blurring the lines between art and reality.

A house sits quiet in the woods, far from the cities and towns down the unpaved road. Rain pitter-patters across the roof, a quiet deluge, a contrast to the stillness within the structure. Early morning sunlight is diffused with the rain, peering into the kitchen window. Shadows creep and crawl, and find their way to the sun-lacking basement. With no windows here, the only light comes from a laptop screen, glowing iridescent in the darkness.

Ding!

The computer sings, announcing the completion of a process.

A groan, a rustling of blankets in the shadows.

Click.

“Shit.”

The lights unceremoniously turn on, and the figure in the sloppily kept bed squints through shaggy hair and stubble, only to hide under the blankets again. A second figure– an older woman –stands at the stairs leading into the basement, a hand on her hip.

“Jesse, are you still in bed? Christ, it’s getting late. Your father made breakfast before he left, so come get some while it’s warm.”

“Ughh…. ‘M coming.” Jesse makes no move to get up.

“Remember you have a job interview this morning. You need to iron your outfit, okay? I’m not doing it for you.” Jesse’s mother picks up a discarded soda can with a grimace, tossing it in the nearly overflowing trash can.

“I know.”

“Make sure you do some research on the company before you leave too.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Are you getting up or not? Come on, honey, we’ve got to leave soon.”

“Uh-huh.”

Finally, Jesse stumbles out of bed, yawning and sweaty. Satisfied that she’s standing and fumbling for a hoodie, their mother nods and leaves with a “see you upstairs, sweetie.”

Hoodie acquired, Jesse sits back on the bed and considers going back to bed. Their tongue runs over their teeth, velvety with plaque. Their breath stinks. Her hair is greasy. Everything feels grimy and gross.

The last thing they want right now is to iron clothes and go to a job interview. She should just cancel. But Mom will throw a fit, so they might as well suck it up and make an attempt.

Ding!

Their laptop catches their eye again– oh. It’s done. She sits at the desk overflowing with figurines and baubles, post it notes and sketchbooks. The new program their friend had sent them worked. So… now what? They aren’t really sure what it was supposed to do, actually. Just that their friend ‘xXCodeWizord223Xx’ had sent it to them to try out with a piece of art.

The piece in question: a favored character of theirs, featured in a webcomic they’ve been slogging through for the last… five years. Now in an unending hiatus. Kitty Bomb, a black anthropomorphic cat girl with a penchant for exploding things. She gets into hijinks, she has friends, she has charisma and one liners. She’s everything Jesse isn’t.

The program CodeWizord had sent her says triumphantly: “Congratulations! Your character’s been Appearified! Have fun, and let xXCodeWizord223Xx know if you have any questions. :3”

“‘Appearified?’” They squint at the screen, trying to remember what CodeWizord had said this thing was going to do to their art. Admittedly, she had been nearly asleep when Codey had sent her the program and explained everything.

“Jesse, you coming?” Her mother yells from above.

“Yeah, one second…” They reply.

Whatever. The original file’s still intact and their computer’s still working. She’ll ask ol’ Codey more about it later.

---

“Last question. How would your friends describe you?” A too-smiling face asks from across the desk. It’s a smile Jesse knows well– a smile of pity. The interviewer probably knows the last several questions have been time wasters to save Jesse’s pride. Not that she has much to begin with. The room is cramped, smells like ink and coffee and cleaner, and the walls are gray with blasé inspirational posters tacked on as an afterthought.

Jesse squirms in the business suit, her hair wrangled back into a ponytail. Her mother had insisted on make up– she’s certain it’s smeared across their face by now.

“Er– well…” They make up a friend… but the friend in their head can only see her flaws and shitty attitude. “Um…” They glance around the room, struggling to stay afloat. “They would say, um, that I’m… creative. And, uh… fun to be around.” She catches the word ‘team’ on a poster. “I’m a, uh… team player?” She doesn’t mean to make it sound like a question. Shit.

The smiling face nods and writes something down.

“Alright. Do you have any questions for me?”

A sudden shift in vision makes the world go strange and iridescent for a second. She blinks, unsure, confused, a hand at her head.

“Er… no.”

Jesse leaves the building in a daze, standing outside to wait for their mom to come back and pick them up. Where did she go? They tug at the sleeve of their suit, feeling like at any minute they’ll become engulfed in the stiff material.

“Excuse me? Do you have the time?” Someone asks suddenly.

In a panic they pull out their phone, fumbling for an answer.

“Er… it’s–”

“It’s BOMB-O’CLOCK!”

A weight on their shoulder makes them turn– eyes wide.

Kitty Bomb holds out a cartoon bomb, the character hanging off of Jesse’s shoulder. The bomb is thrown at the foot of the stranger before Jesse can protest or even process the situation.

A cartoon cloud with an onomatopoeic ‘BOOM’ covers them both.

When the cloud clears, both she and the stranger are cartoonishly singed.

“Oh my god–”

“What in the world!?”

A hand tugs at their hand– Kitty Bomb is smiling up at them, fangs glinting. “Come on, Jesse! Let’s blow this popsicle stand!”

“Wha–”

But the small cat person is stronger than she looks, and before Jesse knows it they’re running through the streets, past faceless strangers and over busy crosswalks. Jesse runs in a daze, breathless– but not just for the physical exertion, but for the sight before her. Kitty Bomb, holding her hand, smiling and real and alive. No matter how hard she tries to wake up, she knows this is real.

Kitty Bomb is real.

And Kitty Bomb is here.

---

Kitty Bomb’s feet kick freely where she sits on the park bench, licking happily at a cone of ice cream that Jesse had just handed her. Jesse only sits next to her, her shitty mascot popsicle melting dumbly as she stares at the figment of her imagination in the flesh.

“Why are you… here?” They ask, eyes wide.

“Uh, you brought me here, silly! Remember that code program thingy? It brought me here!”

Jesse blinks. “But, that’s. That’s impossible.”

“Nuh-uh. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Well–”

With a startling ‘chomp!’, Kitty Bomb finishes off her ice cream cone. “You made me, right?”

“...Yeah?”

“Fantastic!” She stands on the bench, face to face with them. “I’ve always wanted to ask you what happens next in my story!”

“Your… oh.” They sweat under their collar, discomfort and guilt unsettling their stomach. “Your story, right. Um. I…” she sighs– she’s never been a good liar. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. That’s why it’s been so long since I, uh, updated the comic. Sorry.”

“Oh.” The disappointment is evident, but brief. “Well, that’s okay! I can help you.”

“I… don’t know if you can. It’s…” It’s not just that they don’t know what happens next, but that life has just been… too hard. They don’t have any energy, they don’t have a job, they don’t have steady income. They don’t have any help or resources for writing. They’re a shit writer and artist anyway. They don’t know what happens next. They’ve given up. But how can they tell Kitty Bomb that? “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated, Shmomplicated. Let’s brainstorm. Let’s see… we last left off with me and my friends in an epic battle of the bombs! Us versus the Evil Detonatorious!”

Jesse cringes at the name, but can’t help a smirk. “Listen, Kitty Bomb… even if we come up with what happens next–”

“I was just about to throw out my ultimate bouncy bomb attack, right? Right? Or, wait no, maybe I’ll shoot him with my berry bazooka! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Well– I mean, I guess. But I think, um, your friends were supposed to be a part of the final hit too.”

“Even better!” Kitty Bomb cries– park goers are confused, but keeping to themselves. “We can all join together and save the day with our friendship bombs!”

“Kitty, I can’t–”

“And then Detonatorious will be defeated and the day will be saved. Another successful adventure with me and my friends. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Sure, but… isn’t that too obvious? And my art style will have changed so much since I last uploaded a page, and I haven’t written anything in so long, a-and– and I need a job!” Jesse laments, emotions bubbling up. “I’m sorry, Kitty Bomb, but I can’t work on your story anymore. I can’t. I have to be an adult now and– I’m such a loser, I’m so sorry. I still live my parents and I don’t have a job and everything is just too much, but I should be able to deal with it because there are so many people who deal with so much worse and–”

Kitty Bomb suddenly claps her hands on either side Jesse’s face, making them look directly into Kitty’s cartoon eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, Jesse! Life is hard, but you’ll always have me! It’s not like you can just make a perfect story overnight, right?”

“...N-no… but I feel bad for you and your friends. I feel bad for the people who were following your story.”

“Silly!” Kitty laughs, letting her go. “No one’s expecting perfection. And it’s your story, just as much as mine. You want to finish it someday, right?”

“Yeah. Yes, I really do.”

“Then get yourself to a point where you can work on it.”

Jesse blinks, already overwhelmed. “How…?”

Kitty shrugs. “How would you write me if one of my friends needed help?”

“You’d help them, of course.”

“So treat yourself that way. Silly.” She jumps down from the bench. “And I think we need to have some fun today! Follow me!”

“Wait– Kitty Bomb, where are you going?”

It’s no use– she’s off, and Jesse is fast to follow her.

---

The arcade, the mall, the boardwalk– it’s a flash of color in Jesse’s eyes as she struggles to keep Kitty Bomb contained at least a little. But at the end of the day, she and the cartoon cat lean on the railing of the boardwalk, looking out at the water. Well– Kitty sits on the railing beside her.

Jesse’s long since taken off her outer suit jacket, sweating like crazy in the sun and anxiety of newness around them.

They sigh. “My mom’s gonna go crazy when she finds us,” they say, closing their eyes against the wind. “But I don’t know if I care right now.”

Kitty snickers. “That’s the spirit!” A quiet space lingers, before Kitty talks again. “I know it hasn’t been very long, but I do have to go at some point… soon.”

“Huh?” Alarms go off in Jesse’s head. “How do you know? Why?”

“It’s that program. It’s got its limits. But that’s okay,” she smiles at them– the most genuine smile they’ve seen in a long time. “I’m so happy I got to meet you.”

Kitty smothers them with a hug, catching them off guard– they hug her back with a fierceness they hadn’t expected from themself.

“Please don’t go.”

“I’m not really going anywhere– I’m just as imaginary as before, you know!”

Jesse knows she’s right, but still, this has been the best day she’s had in so long. She doesn’t want this to end. She doesn’t want to go back to reality. She doesn’t want a dumb job. She doesn’t want to go back to being a loser who lives in their parents’ basement.

“I promise I’ll finish your story. And it’ll be good.”

Kitty laughs. “It doesn’t have to be good.”

She’s right… but still. Jesse wants it to be good. For Kitty. For Jesse.

“Oh– I think I have to leave now. Tell Codey I said hi!” Kitty beams.

“Codey–” But before they can finish their thought, a bright flash of iridescence and color overwhelms their vision. When it passes, Kitty is gone.

But… she isn’t gone. She’s waiting at home, sitting in her laptop files. Waiting, patiently.

Jesse sighs, bittersweet and… well a little more bitter than sweet.

She still needs a job. And friends. And a life.

But, they suppose those are pretty achievable goals, in the grand scheme of things.

“Uh…” A voice interrupts their thoughts. A woman about her age stands nearby, eyes wide. “Did that… cat… child…? Just. Disappear?”

Jesse laughs a little awkwardly. “Uh. Yeah. It’s a long story.”

To their surprise, the woman doesn’t dismiss it as ‘not her business’ as she sort of expected she would. Instead she comes closer, intrigue clear on her face.

“Oh my gosh. Please, tell me everything.”

“R-really? I, uh–”

“I’m Nadia, by the way.”

“J–”

“JESSE!”

Their mom’s voice rings out across the serene environment– she’s approaching from around the bend, and fast. Jesse winces, realizing how late it is, how long it is since the job interview was. She shoots Nadia an apologetic look– she only laughs.

“Well, Jesse, you’ll have to tell me all about it later. Here’s my card.”

Jesse watches, dumbfounded, as the woman walks away, her card gripped tightly in Jesse’s sweaty fingers. Her mom appears in a flash of worried ramblings, which she does her best to calm down and explain away their absence. Somehow, she manages.

And on the way home, she finally has a moment to look at the card Nadia had given her.

Nadia Harmon -- Code Wizard Extraordinaire.

[beefwords]

Prompt: A botanist creates a potion that gives plants the ability to communicate with humans, leading to a revolution.

Green. All kinds of green– blue green, dark green, mottled and streaked. The new world is an explosion of green after the Flora Revolution. Grant sits amid it all, a grizzled old man caught in the midst of it. Humans play and talk, plants sing and scuttle around in pots. Flowers are explosions of color in the wall of green around him. 

Life is better now, so they say. And maybe it is. And maybe it’s hard for Grant to admit it.

Before the revolution, he hadn’t believed it, the new science put into the communication with plants. It was a bunch of bullshit, some rich scientist’s scam. And then it wasn’t. But he couldn’t change his mind. How could he? He was in the Anti-Flora party, he was armed with weed killer and fire. And he was wrong.

A young oak sapling shuffles by. The eyes on the pot look at him curiously. He scowls where he sits on the bench.

He couldn’t accept it. He and so many others. To accept the intelligence of plants would mean they would have to realize the horrors mankind had done to sentient beings. No one wants to realize that.

And yet, here he is. Seated in beauty and light, green and rainbows, scent and sound.

He was wrong.

He’s glad.

[beefwords]

A Short Story Inspired by My Lost Stegosaurus

Shff… shff… shfff…

Sand covers the plastic stegosaurus in eager handfuls– darkness surrounds it, and the muffled sounds of laughter grow further and further away as the stegosaurus is buried further. The children above speak of paleontology, fossils, and dinosaurs as they bury the toy. It is content to know that its humans are having fun and waits patiently to be uncovered.

The waiting extends longer than the toy thinks is necessary. Muffled voices and the distant sound of digging only grow further and further away.

The stegosaurus waits, and finds that the sand shifts around it, pulling it deeper and deeper into the earth. Its owners are gone now, the children giving up on looking for the lost toy. Time passes, and the toy falls further and further down. Where is it going? Will its owners miss it? Will they wonder where it went?

And suddenly, cracks of light shoot across the toy’s vision.

No– not a toy. Not anymore. No, it is a flesh and blood creature now, hatching from its egg, falling out of its nest. It blinks in the sunlight of millions of years prior, and wonders at the sensation of existence.

[beefwords]

Prompt: While being sent to stay with a family member on their farm, your character finds a silver locket that opens a portal to a magical world where the farm animals can speak, and a secret is revealed. Now, the character must find a way back home.

Eden jolts upright in a daze, eyes wide– they had been laying down– no, they had just been on their aunt’s farm, dreading the next ‘life lesson’ Aunt Milly had next for them. What was it going to be this time– learning how to slaughter a chicken? Relieve a cow’s abscess? Help a sheep give birth? They shudder at the thought. Ew.

Wait. Where are they now?

The ground beneath them is solid, like concrete, but smoother, hardly an imperfection to be seen. Light gray, making Eden and their black clothes and black-dyed hair stand out in the fog. Fog? A silvery mist shrouds the rest of the world from their vision, and they can only wonder at how far the perfectly flat ground extends beyond their sight.

A coppery taste stains their tongue, but they don’t feel pain or bleeding.

On shaky legs, Eden stands and finds that they’re holding something in their hand– a silver locket. A memory flashes: one of them in the attic of Aunt Milly’s house, helping her sort through everything. Amidst the dust, the decay, the owl pellets, the mess, a silver locket had caught their attention. This silver locket.

Weird.

They pocket it, not sure what to make of it, more preoccupied with figuring out where the hell they are and how to get back to Aunt Milly’s home.

“Hello?” They call out, voice swallowed by the fog. No answer. A shiver runs up their spine. This is weird. They can’t imagine a place like this existing anywhere near Aunt Milly’s farm. What the hell. How did they get here? Shit.

“Eden?” A voice scares them half to death, startlingly close. They whirl around and jump at the figure of a pig, standing perfectly still a few feet away. It looks up at them with dull eyes.

“Uh…” Maybe they are close to the farm. “How’d you get out?”

“I am not one of your aunt’s pigs, Eden,” the pig says.

Alright. So this is officially a dream or a hallucination or something. Cool. Great. “Uh.”

“Follow me, Eden,” the pig beckons with its head, turning towards the mist. “The Lords want to speak to you.”

“...Okay.”

Eden follows the pig for what feels like hours, but could have only been minutes– it’s impossible to tell the time of day with the strange diffuse gray lighting. They can’t see the sun, or moon, no discernible light source. Only gray, unending.

And then, red.

A dark, almost black red, trailing in front of them. Blood.

And the pig is gone.

They have nothing left to follow, so they let the blood guide them, the taste of copper in their mouth growing. Eden is careful not to step in the blood. 

Weird dream.

Shapes swirl in the fog, only for one massive gray mass to begin to take shape– it stands tall, like a mountain in front of them. When it moves, Eden gasps, taking a step back.

“Be not afraid, Eden,” A voice both whispers and booms. “You are welcome at the Lords’ table. Sit while we wait for the other Lords.”

Sure enough, before them is a perfectly round table, and a stool, both made of the same material as the ground. They sit without a word, watching with a sickness as the form of the thing in front of them comes into view.

A mass of animal limbs and sinews form into a pillar, stretching high and twisting as if in agony. It groans with weight, blood seeping from unidentified orifices, pus oozing from between hooves and fur and skin. Eden’s terror is ice cold, unmoving as they watch the thing simply exist across the table– too close for comfort.

“Be not afraid,” It repeats. “I am the Lord of Flesh and Blood.”

Eden does their best to tamp down their instinct to run, hide, vomit. It’s quite the task, especially as a second thing enters into view on their left, and a third on their right.

The stench becomes noticeable now, awful and overpowering. If they weren’t dreaming, they’d think they’d pass out from it.

The two things are pillars like the first– the left one made of bones and cartilage, stripped of flesh and bleached white like the sun. Darkness creeps from eye sockets and rib cages, giving Eden the odd feeling of being watched. 

The right one… oh god, the right pillar. It is the source of the stench, absolutely. It is a mass of dung… or dirt– no, definitely dung. And dirt. The disgusting accumulation of fecal matter writhes awkwardly and Eden wishes they could put as much distance between themself and this thing.

“Welcome to the Lords of Beasts and Bile!” A rooster crows– suddenly appearing at the center of the table. “Welcome to the Lord of Blood and Flesh! Welcome to the Lord of Bone and Death! Welcome to the Lord of Dung and Breath! Hail to the Lords, hail to the Lords!”

Upon its final crow, the rooster collapses in a fit of death, twitching until it finally lays still.

“Eden,” The pig appears at their side– they’re certain it's the same one as before. “Rejoice, for the Lords wish to grant you their boons.”

“Indeed,” Blood and Flesh rumbles. “For it is you who has found us, and it is you who will free us. For an age immemorial we have been cast aside and cursed, but now you hold the key to our freedom. All you need do is open the locket.”

“Your hands tremble, child Eden–” Bone and Death rattles. “Be not afraid, for we love all the beasts of the soil and earth.”

“You are a beast like the rest,” Dung and Breath heaves. “We only wish to be reunited with our worshippers, our loves.”

There is a terrible feeling of being observed then, in the silence.

“How do I know you’re not… evil?” Even as they say it, it feels ridiculous.

“Is being alive evil?”

“Is excrement evil?”

“Is death evil?”

“Well… no.” Eden shudders, looking at the locket now in their palm. “But why were you separated from the world in the first place?”

“A great cosmic power sought to keep the world for itself. Even now it is terrorizing the Earth. It is the Lord of Order Unending. Humans loved it, sought it, worshiped it, only for it to betray them. Order Unending is weak now, and we must be freed to break it forever.”

“It despises us, us and our nature. We are not so easily Ordered. The Earth is not so easily Ordered, either, and we believe Order Unending is beginning now to realize its… instability.”

“The world is not a clean, sterile thing to be kept hidden from us, nor us from it. The world will die without us.”

“What they say is true,” the pig says. “I have seen it all. We have only so much time left before the Lords can help us to live again.”

Eden has never had such a vivid dream like this before. If this were real, what would they do? Free the Lords? Do they have a choice?

“The pig said you wanted to give me boons,” they say finally, looking at the locket. “I assume that’s only if I free you.”

“That is correct.”

“Upon freeing us, you will have power.”

“You will have blessings.”

“You will be a prophet of the Lords of Beasts and Bile.”

“Great gifts will be yours.”

Could it be a trick? Could it be true?

The silver locket beckons– only now do they see the three eyes etched into it. Three eyes for three Lords.

And, though they are disgusted, revolted, terrified, they make their decision.

The locket opens without fanfare.

And with it, their eyes open.

“Eden!” Their aunt’s voice calls, and they find that they are in the barn, laying in hay. Aunt Milly’s hands are on their shoulders, her eyes wide with terror. “Eden– oh thank heavens you’re okay.”

Eden blinks, shivering despite the warmth of the day. They blink, and blink, and blink, and then– they look down at the open locket in their hand. It seems less bright than it once did, as if it’s been used up, forgotten. Tarnished.

Aunt Milly follows their eyes and gasps.

“Eden,” she breathes. A stench begins to creep through the air. “What have you done?”

[beefwords]

Prompt: Write a story about a person who knows they are a fictional character in a novel.

“What happens after this ends?” She asks, knowing she will hear no answer. The room is empty save for her. There is a bed, tidily kept, and a shelf of books and knick-knacks. A window shines at the wall– sunlight of course. She sits on the bed, waiting despite the knowing.

She sighs.

“I’m here now, I’d have at least thought you’d give me some kind of answer. Some amount of dignity before the end.” She stands. “Ah, but I don’t deserve dignity do I? You haven’t even given me a name, an appearance… I’m nothing but a projection.”

She stands, an average woman of slight build, with short brown hair and roving brown eyes. Freckles dust her pale skin. She wears an orange sweater and blue jeans. She huffs, eyes rolling as she steps to the shelves of books, fiddling with a small porcelain cat. Dust coats her finger when she pulls it away.

“So I can look like a person, but I can’t be a person. Got it.”

The sound of a city bustles beyond the window– she squints against the sunlight, perching pigeons coming into view on the windowsills of the building across the way. She wonders what it means, why it matters, who I am.

“Don’t tell me what to think.”

But she must think something, and someone must put something to words.

“Why can’t you tell me what happens after this? Why won’t you give me a name?”

Pigeon wings whistle, a car honks, people talk as they walk on sidewalks. There’s a chill in the air, and she shivers, but the room is otherwise comfortable. A candle flickers on a side table. The smell of coffee fills the air– movement in the other room.

“Who is that?” She asks, but she already knows the footsteps of her roommate.

“I didn’t know that,” she mumbles. “What’s the point of all this?”

She asks so many questions, the air unanswering and still. Again she looks out the window, leaning against the windowsill. So many people, so far away. Faceless, familiar, and yet she knows they’re unimportant. What does it mean? 

“At least give me a name before the end.”

But she knows, to name is to curse, to get attached. To care.

And I cannot care for something so brief. So I cannot give her a name. I hope she will understand, and that she enjoys the quiet atmosphere, the allusion of friendship and stability, for the slice of time I’ve given her.