#PromptResponse

[seaglobaluae]

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[letsdial]

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[wolven91]

Creepy, Loving, Universe

Charles lost traction as he attempted to turn the corner at full sprint. His trainers should have been replaced long ago, but whilst he had loathed to let them go before now, in that split second of him flailing, he wished with every fibre of his body that he’d gotten space faring boots.

Skidding and tumbling he slammed into the wall before dropping into a crumpled heap. The man was dazed but unhurt, opening his eyes and risking a glance back the way he came, he saw the abomination of chitin, legs and pincers scuttling over the ceiling, down the wall and low along the floor he had ran over not seconds before. It moved far too fast for something that big.

Pushing off into a full sprint again he found new energy in the terror that was gripping his chest. His legs pumped like pistons whilst his heart thundered against his chest as he willed himself onwards.

His panicked mind despaired; he was on a preservation station, they were small and designed to protect and host any space faring sentient who found themselves in distress, there was nowhere for Charles to run or escape to! The escape pod had no controls! It would just come straight back here!

He could hear the creature behind him as it scuttled. It had unfurled itself from one of the beds in the living area of the station as he had entered, unaware of the apparent danger. It was massive; longer than four or five of him laying head to toe, its shiny black carapace and bright red legs had set off every alarm in the poor Human's already frazzled mind, never mind the pair of leg sized pincers that looked like it could dissect him with ease. He could practically feel them connecting either side of his neck and snipping it straight off!

A thought occurred to Charles; the SOS signal was already broadcasting, perhaps he could hide from the giant-space-centipede until help arrived? Oh god he just needed to get away from it first.

Unfortunately he tripped. 

A loose shoelace had tangled around his other foot and the resulting failure to keep up with his torso sent the young pilot skidding to an abrupt halt, rolling over himself as he stop. The giant-space-centipede was upon him in moments, he was bodily lifted immediately and entangled in a long body, surrounded by legs. The human immediately assumed death would be next.

Charles expected screeching, blurbling or outright roars, but the cooing, motherly voice that erupted from it, kind of left his mind in the lurch however. It was a complete disconnect of what he had expected. 

"Oh! Oh no, you poor baby! Mama's here! Did you have a nasty fall? Let me see, did you hurt yourself? Oh dear! Magic pincers! Magic pincers will make it all better!"

He felt uncountable legs all over him, light pinches on what he assumed was a scraped knee as he was carried straight back to the room that served as living quarters whilst occupants waited for rescue. It didn’t bother to take the floor, it traversed the walls and ceiling whilst carrying the confused human without any hint of difficulty, all the while it whittered and worried over him. 

"Why were you running about? You could have hurt yourself-" "If I could just-" He tried to interject, "Your plates haven't even started to grow in! Honestly, your broodmother... Oh you poor thing, you're filthy, let's get you all sorted..."

"Will you get off!?” the struggling human started to demand, but the wiggling mass of chitin and legs corralled Charles towards the (to him) oversized cushioned bowl that counted as a bed according to the wider community amongst the stars.

The Broodmother happily poured herself into the depression encircling the wriggling youngster.

The poor dear was obviously young, possibly only hours old; his pink flesh showed no signs of hardening yet, covered only by thin cloth material. Someone had obviously cared for the little one by providing these rudimentary bandages that covered his four limbs, maybe the dear was a runt? Was that why he was alone? Oh her hearts, each broke in turn for the poor thing, she'd never abandoned such a vulnerable cutie.

The Broodmother, as she was known by her children, had successfully raised millions of offspring at this point. Countless eggs and the delightful youth that came soon after, she was made and born to be a mother through and through.

Those days were behind her now to her dismay. In her old age she missed the feeling of being needed, of giving care and support. To see a child grow from a beautiful egg to a regal centipede with the knowledge that if they were knocked back, she would be there to catch them without fail and without judgement.

But now this, admittedly, odd creature, needed her. He smelt of smoke and fear, her mandibles clicked in worry.

Charles on the other hand was easily manhandled into position at the centre of the bowl and the Broodmother’s body. Her many legs manipulated his far smaller and lighter body so it was also curled up, his back against the softer, warmer underbelly of the Broodmother and her legs curled protectively around his body.

"Sssh, it's okay baby. It's okay. You're safe now..." the motherly voice from above and around him crooned.

Squeezing his eyes closed for a moment, Charles took the opportunity to actually take a breath.  The running had left him panting and the ensuing struggle hadn't allowed him to recover.

"There we go.. Good boy... ssh shh shh..." Her soothing tones continued, feeling him settle.

Some of her legs began to tap gently at this skin in lazy waves, travelling from the back of his neck, down his arms and sides, before following down his legs. His flesh pimpled as a wave of goosebumps rolled across him.

"What happened darling? Can you remember?" Her voice enquired gently, as if she were talking to a vulnerable child that had hurt itself.

"I... it was a micro-meteor shower. There was nothing on the maps, took out my engine in one fell swoop..." Charles explained, hoping to regain some lost authority. He may not have been military, but he was a freighter pilot, he was self reliant, he'd always had to be.

"Oh I bet that was scary, it's over now baby, it's over.." yet more claws dragged themselves across his hair.

"Where's your carers dearie?"

"I don't have any, I have no ne-"

A gasp and a tight squeeze silenced him mid sentence as lights from the room were blocked out by the giant-space-centipede ball growing tighter.

"You do now. I'm here.. I'm here little one... you're safe now. Mama's here..."

"It's fine, I'm fine, there's no need for this, you can let me go." He tried to reassure her, but he wasn't released, only caressed lovingly again and again. The sensations, weirdly feeling quite pleasant.

"You're so brave, but there's no need now. We'll rest here, mama will look out for you and when we're feeling better we'll see about getting you under my care permanently."

 "I don't think you'll be able to do that, I'll need to get back to work before long." charles chuckled as he tried to explain again on to deaf ears. Wherever they were on her body. The rippling laugh that came from The Broodmother felt strange. 

"Oh no, it won't be an issue. My children either own or run this system and the surrounding ones too. They likely own the company you work for or are at least contracting for, they'll let mommy worry about their employee if I ask, you'll be mine to look after from now on..." She said with finality.

Charles blinked as he worked over the ramifications of this rather alarming bit of information.

“err..”

The Broodmother enclosed around him again keeping him within the safe confines of her body and love.

After roughly a day had passed, the The Galactic Community rescue crew arrived at the station to retrieve the occupants. They found a healthy, but elderly crit'yun broodmother and an exhausted young male human within. Both were in good health although the human was difficult to extract from the centre of what was a protective centipede ball. It took almost as long as the rescue itself to explain that she didn't have to wait for his skin to harden, they were ‘just like that’.

The broodmother made a solemn vow in that moment to head to the human home planet as the young, soft creatures obviously needed protecting in such a dangerous universe. No one had the heart to explain to her that it was quite the impossible task.

Some time had passed since Charles had the pleasure of meeting the crit'yun known as The Broodmother. Oddly enough, whenever he mentioned her title, everyone had at least heard of her.

In the month that had flown by, he'd found out that his contract with his company had been bought by another company, quoting something about the lost commercial ship as the catalyst. He'd also found out the fine print of said contract left him with little choice but to accept the new company or be forced to not work for a whole year which he absolutely couldn't afford to do.

Upon getting home on board a sluggat station bordering The Edge, his entire hab-block, a building that housed over a million people, had been bought and all tenants had to vacate immediately. He sat on the edge of his bed looking around the cupboard sized home that he lived in.

It was tiny, sad and in desperate need of refurbishment, but Charles was at a loss as to what he was supposed to do. He rubbed a hand across his face as he leant forward, holding his head as the quiet hum of the apartment soothed him. 

When his door buzzer shook him from his meditation, he shouted that he still had 4 days to vacate, they couldn't force him out before then. But the buzzer buzzed again.

He sighed and pushed up off the bed and keyed open the door. His heart jumped at the sight of familiar black chitin and red legs.

"Oh darling there you are! Mommy's been looking everywhere for you!"

She surged into his one room home, her massive bulk instantly filling the place and causing Charles to stumble backwards and fall onto his bed as it hit the back of his knees. Her head and long antennas swung round to check him over. The long undulating appendages gently stroking his arms, shoulders, neck and finally settling on resting against the underside of his jaw.

"Baby, I know you're a big boy now, but I've been listening to the news and I heard about your troubles."

"I have a feeling you might be behind some of this 'Broodmother'." Charles replied, a wary look on his face, unsure just how much control she had over his life.

Her upper body rose up and he was once again grabbed, pulled off the bed, and pressed into the softer scales of her underside.

"I would only ever work for what's best for you baby! Mommy only wants what's best for her baby. Wouldn't she? Yes she would!"

He was bodily swung from one side to the other as he was held captive against her. He tried to struggle, but the fluid hydraulics that powered her biology rendered her incredibly strong and him woefully incapable of escaping her clutches.

"So! Mommy has a surprise. She's going to take you back to hers, where she will pamper you, and feed you and make sure you never have to work again!"

"That's not- I mean.. shouldn't I work? Earn my way... er... mother?" Charles asked, trying to play around her game.

"Mommy." She corrected him firmly. "And no! Look at you, your plates still haven't grown in! Ah ah! You can't expect me to believe those idiots about you not supposed to have plates. I promise not to let you out of my sight,-" She tapped his nose once to emphasise her point. " until they all grow in."

"And what am I to do while I'm there?"

"Why, be my child of course! If we're to encourage your plates to grow in, we'll need to start all over and make sure that we undo the damage your last caretaker did. I'll sing you to sleep, bath you, entertain you- we'll have a marvellous time together." She promised.

“H-hey! Wait!”Charles struggled again as she scuttled out of his apartment and into the hallway, also occupied by more crit'yun.

"Pack up his belongings, we'll decorate the new crèche with his things." She commanded them. The last he saw of his original home was several smaller crit'yun entering it to retrieve all his worldly possessions.

[cordialtiger]

make believe

I was a dog for seven months you'd think it'd get old that old collar-that old chain-the ball attached to the ball of my foot eating from hard plastic bowls scraps-not scrapple peeled banana peels cores of apples

I should remember walks all fours or two knees scraped kitchen sink hands as feed-I don't remember cold grass-burnt orange dead trees crunching under bends in my arms

When I was good I lay at the feet of my Master-curled into concentric circles collar bright under dim crawling light

Bad meant out-out bad dog out-shiver silver bars-iron water concrete leaching heat from flesh-fur gone-shrunk into flesh

Hard to go back-remember how to walk-stop touching collar-stop reaching for-end of leash eat with fork speak when speakers speak thumbs-remember how great those are

Lie down on hard floors-bed too soft-smells too clean brand new-lemon vinegar stings your eyes-those are not tears-they are memories leaking should have spent that eight months as a sink

[asomewhatambiguous]

Prompt: Bedtime Stories

(Rules: -750 words; LGBT+ Centric)

 Clarice opened the door quietly. The room she stepped into was dark and small, containing little more than a bed, a desk, and a dresser. All available wallspace was taken up by DIY shelving. If she could see, Clarice would have been greeted by the familiar sight of stacks upon stacks of books and keepsakes. By memory, she found the standing lamp that does not glow as brightly and turned on the light.

“No,” a scratchy, tired voice mumbled.

“It’s time for your meds, Lily.”

“No,” Lily said, slightly louder. Clarice tamped down a sigh as she set the pills and the water bottle (no open-top cups this time. Not after the second spill) on the bedside table. Lily was a stubborn bastard on her best days. Sickness had only made that worse.

“How about a bedtime story instead?” Clarice asked, as though she were going to be persuaded. She could already hear the denial. For a moment, Clarice spared a thought to mourn the days when Lily was just stubborn about finding the exact right position on Clarice’s plump thighs, and was sure that one existed that had not already been tried.

“Go ‘way,” Lily mumbled. The bedding shifted when she turned over to see Clarice more clearly. It was as close to a green light as she would get.

“There was a little girl who had a little curl,” Clarice began. She moved the hem of a thick comforter off of Lily’s head to rub her fingers into the hair in question. “Right in the middle of her forehead.”

Lily shuffled forwards a little more to lay her cheek against Clarice’s bare knee. The soft huffs of air from her open mouth ghosted across Clarice’s thigh until they met her boxer briefs.

“And when she was good, she got better in no time at all,” Clarice continued. She played at the (thankfully) short ringlets on Lily’s head, currently tamped down and gross with sweat and a lack of washing.

“And when she was bad,” Clarice dropped her voice to a murmur before leaning down and pressing the softest kiss to Lily’s cheek. Her girlfriend arched into the touch as much as she could muster the strength to.

“She got no sex, because she was sick, and gross, and couldn’t breathe through her nose.”

“Uuungh,” Lily whines. She pushed herself up on her hands. The blankets fell away to reveal her undershirt. She shivered, despite the room being warm.

“Uh,” she reiterated, glaring balefully.

“Ah, the dragon has emerged,” Clarice said with a smile. She handed over the water bottle and the two prescription pills. Lily took both with one last, mournful glare, then handed the water bottle back.

“Thank you,” Clarice said with a saccharine smile. Lily flipped her off and abruptly gave Clarice her back. Taking her cue, Clarice switched the lamp off and departed for the kitchen. Even the short amount of time in the room had caused her to start sweating, and it was a relief to be cool again.

With any luck, Lily would be over all of this in a day or two, and Clarice could make good on her promise of sex. That, and they would sleep in the same bed again. And Lily would not feel like death warmed over. And then Lily would want to lay on Clarice and steal her much larger clothes and- well. All the little things that Clarice missed about living with her girlfriend will come back. Lily just had to rest. And take her damn meds.

Until then, though, Clarice was stuck in her red underwear and purple tank top, bemoaning the foul mood and illness of her girlfriend, and waiting for all that to pass. She sat down on their old, borderline decrepit couch and wondered if another bedtime story would work for next time, too.

- Grace Augustine

[creaturesinthebasement]

Frenemies By Blood

Just a little short story I did a while ago. It was actually based on a tumblr prompt my friend sent me, but I didn’t have a tumblr then and I’m not entirely sure where the prompt was from. It was something about two magicians who made a pact as kids and can’t hurt each other, but now they’re enemies.

    “There!” Exclaimed a small boy, pushing his sandy hair out of his eyes. He gave a gap toothed grin and wiped his bloody hand on the oversized cloak he wore. The dark haired boy across from him nodded, doing the same.

    “Now we have to stay friends,” he said. “No matter what.”

                                                🍍    🍍    🍍

    ‘No matter what’ eventually turned out to be ‘until our differences cause global war.’ It was subtle, at first. Halving their pizzas no longer worked because a certain blonde magician started insisting he put pineapples on every goddamn thing he ate, and Daire had a serious allergy to them. They got around it though, and even though the price of pizza night boosted since they got two whole separate pizzas, it was fine. They still hung out, they were still friends. No big deal.

    Next came the ferret. After the pineapple incident, more than just pizza night became problematic. Daire eventually decided it would be best if they just ate separately. Since spending so much time in his room was lonely, and the pet fee for their apartment was low, he decided to get a little furry friend.

    Merlin the ferret was just a baby when Daire brought him home, no more than a palm sized white fluff ball. He stayed in Daire’s room for his first few weeks there, but soon made a habit of riding on Daire’s shoulders as he did various things around the apartment. Ivan quickly grew sick of it. Frankly, the little white ferret freaked him out. It was hard to miss, too. The pointed white face sticking out of Daire’s unkempt black hair was obvious, and it was soon impossible for Ivan to look at his friend without seeing the creature.

    Things slowly escalated from there. To combat the ferret, Ivan introduced Morgana. She was a ball python and he was hoping she would scare Merlin, but unfortunately Morgana was about as scary as a mouse. She spent most of her days cuddling with Ivan and while he loved the snake, he was very disappointed that his plan had failed. Daire thought it was hilarious, and made sure to take plenty of pictures when Ivan fell asleep with her. Soon tension in the apartment rose too high even for jokes like that, until Daire and Ivan were practically strangers.

    This continued until graduation. Their college was one of the rare few with magic folk and normal humans in attendance, and both magicians were proud to be graduating. Unfortunately, graduation was the final straw.

    Daire was enthralled with all magics, and wanted not only to learn more, but to do more. There were many restrictions in place against magicians and while some thought they were there for protection, Daire believed they were there to hinder magicians from their full potential. He frequently spoke out against them and led protests for this cause. Ivan, however, was the opposite. He was among those who believed the restrictions were there to keep both humans and magic folk safe. He thought that without the restrictions both humans and magic folk would get hurt too often, and he didn’t want that to happen. While Daire led protests against the restrictions, Ivan fought for them.

    Had that been all, they simply would’ve parted ways, albeit bitterly. Unfortunately, the world was soon thrown into turmoil over these restrictions, with several powerful magicians heading the fights. Daire and Ivan were each ranked high on their own side, and each fought hard in every battle. But never once had anyone seen the two magicians with the biggest grudges go head to head.

[s-d-luna]

The seamstress had wondered into a shop she'd always passed by, for reasons unbeknownst to her, today it called to her. The shop had knick knacks here and weird art over there. The back wall was lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves over stuffed with leather bound books. Gianna was glancing over the display shelf near the register when a spool of pearl color thread caught her eye. She wasn't sure why she needed it but she had to have it. "How much is that spool of thread," she asked. "10 dollars," replied the strangely looking man behind the counter. "10 dollars," she exclaimed, "why on earth so much?" "It was woven many years ago from a plant that no longer lives, it's one of a kind," he said with a subtle eerie tone. You could tell she was debating on the matter, her brow creased and she had mindlessly started fidgeting with the seem of her sleeve. "I suppose I'll take it, after all it is my birthday, I deserve to treat myself," she told the odd man. "You're birthday you say, and how old would that make you," he asked, genuinely curious. "The big 1-8," she said proudly. The man's face went weird for a moment, she couldn't quite place what it was specifically but it was almost inhuman. They stared at each other awkwardly in silence for a moment before exchanging money for the spool and with the exception of the register sounds and foot steps the silence continued until Gianna was pushing the door out. As the bells on the handle let out a sad little jiggle the man yelled, "Happy Birthday!" The door swung shut and Gianna went about her day as normal.

_______________________________________

Gianna was at home that night when she pulled the spool of thread from the little paper bag it had rested in all day. It wasn't enough to make any sort of garment but it was enough to stitch a pretty embroidery onto the neckline of a dress and she had just the one. It was the palest of blues with a tight waist, flared bottom and a sweetheart neckline. She set to work mapping out her design, she really only had one chance to get it right. She often would hum or whistle a tune while stitching, it helped her concentrate. It was always the same tune, unsure of where she heard it but just a tune she's always seemed to have known. She worked for hours into the night, she was tired but couldn't seem to stop stitching. She had an overwhelming feeling that she needed to finish.

______________________________________

Finally, she was finished. The pattern was intricate swirls and what looked like old runes. Those weren't apart of her original design and she wasn't really sure when she had added them but they seemed to belong. She was pleased with her work and as eager as she was to try it on she was more eager to sleep.

____________________________________

When the light seeped in through the window Gianna woke, reluctantly of course. She stretched and yawned inching her way out of bed until she saw the dress draped over her sewing chair and her excitement sprung her to life. She ran across the room, simultaneously slipping off her night shirt. She unzipped the dress, stepped into it and pulled it up, zipping herself into it. She glanced in the mirror and did a small twirl, happy with how it fit. The embroidery really did look amazing and as she ran her fingers across it she felt this surge of power flow through her body. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt and that's when she saw it, in the mirror, her eyes were purple! She stepped closer thinking it her imagination but they were still purple, and not just purple but almost luminescent. That is until she blinked. Her eyes were back to their normal hazel color. "Am I losing my mind," she wandered. She stood lost in thought when a loud buzzing creeped into her mind. Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! "Ah I'm going to be late," she shouted to herself. She usually had two alarms set, one she could snooze once of twice and the second was an old fashion alarm clock deliberately plugged in across the room. She had no time to change out of the dress. She ran around the round the room looking for her shoes whilst pulling her hair back into a bun. Once her shoes were on, she was out the door for the day. And it only got stranger from there.

- @s-d-luna

A seamstress unknowingly buys a spool of thread from a witch’s shop. 

Diverse and interesting characters are key to a memorable story. Use these points as a base for your character and throw them into any plot you want.

[boilers4essex]

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[whosefandomisitanyways]

I answer prompts when I get bored. http://archiveofourown.org/works/5510471

[wolven91]

A Friend for Life

Garf’troyus had been having a rough go of it recently. A draconian, hardy people from an arid world; his people were hard to kill. Perfect for piracy within the depths of space. That didn’t do much to lessen the fact that his crew had been scattered thanks to a devastating counterattack to his latest raid and his ship was barely limping back to his concealed base within the Ying Asteroid Belt.

Running a taloned hand over his face before massaging his temples below the wicked horns either side helped to a degree as he decided the best course of action from here. With a snort he decided how to crack this.

Garf’troyus the pirate needed a win.

Big or small didn’t matter, just something to break the stroke of bad luck and the militaristic funk he was currently in. He wasn’t defeated, he just needed to pivot to another avenue of attack on the wider galaxy.

Once he got back to base, he’d drink everything left over from previous raids and start fresh with a little genocide on some backwater planet. He’d skirt The Edge first, picking off any lone freighters or under-prepared sluggat stations he came across before attacking the first inhabited planet. Sluggats were a soft race, get into one of their stations and it was easy pickings. It was just a matter of getting past the defences first.

He leaned back in his chair with a smirk across his snout as his radar ‘pinged!’ with a new contact. Turning his head a rapturous grin broke over his features.

A single ship, a goods freighter most likely. His grin broadened as the scan confirmed no weapons at all, aside from point defence for meteors. Child's play and proof that his rampant bloodshed in the past would be rewarded by the Gods. Depending on the crew he could personally slaughter them all or just make his way to the bridge and vent them if they didn’t join his new raiding band. He needed to replenish his forces after all.

He didn’t bother opening a comms link to offer terms or even a chance to surrender, he needed this.

With a bone jarring slam into the docking port, his ship tore its way in and sealed itself around the ragged edges of his piercing entrance that had been the side of the freighter’s hull. Once he left, the resulting hole would either kill or cripple the ship, their corpses would merely add to his infamy.

It was a scant few seconds later, whilst he still had the element of surprise that he burst into the foreign ship. Right  into an empty corridor with flickering lighting. The ship was in a poor state, less from intentional damage and more from neglect. It explained why they were out toward The Edge to begin with. Only those with no options or money would come all the way out here.

Once he got to the bridge, whilst the door was locked he was Garf’troyus the pirate! No locked door would stop him as he simply grabbed the edges and pulled them apart. They resisted, but helped by the aged unmaintained mechanics it tore open and let him through with a squeal.

A human launched themselves at him and gave a swift downwards slam with a heavy wrench across Garf’troyus’s forehead. Thankfully they had gone for the thickest part of his skull or that may have defeated him then and there. He merely straightened up and looked down disdainfully at the creature. He snorted once.

What followed was a series of brutal blows thrown by both Garf’troyus and the smaller human. Her hair was long and greasy as if she hadn’t been able to wash it in an extended amount of time. She fought like a wild creature that had been cornered and with no further options but to fight to the death.

Garf’troyus was triumphant in the end, but it was not the landslide victory he had come to expect from his past scores of wins. He had lost several teeth and was fairly certain had several cracked ribs. But the Human was slumped against a far wall and breathing heavily. She was mortally wounded, there would be no further danger from her. His claws dripped with her essence.

He began to check the main console for any other life signs and found none aboard. A dark hacking chuckle came from the Human.

“Are you finding humour in your perishing human?” He asked, keeping an eye on her crumpled form. She didn’t rise.

“No.. But it’s over.. Finally..” She wheezed.

“You disliked your life so much? Then you are welcome.” He grunted, wincing from the pain lancing through his side. She had done a worse number on him than any other in living memory.

“Look.. hah.. no-one deserves what’s about to happen without a heads up… What’s your name?”

“I am Garf’troyus the pirate! Rejoice, for you are rewarded with death to be in my presence.”

“Your name is Garth?! Hah! Oh, oh don’t make me laugh.. oh ho ho.. ooh ow…”

He snorted in frustration, humans never knew when to show respect.

“They’re going to be loose already… That explosion or whatever it was will have woke them up…”

He glared at her out of the side of his eye. “..Woke what?”

“They started as toys… Then people felt more deeply for them than any basic toy.”

She pulled a hand away from her side where it was soaked with her disgustingly red blood.

“They became cherished pets. They modified them… Made them better…Your technology…”

A sigh.

“Technology got better and so did they. First it was just their appearance, before long they could move on their own.”

Her eyes got heavy, her words slurred.

“But they were ageless. Their owners passed away and they became beholden to no-one.”

Her voice got quiet.

“… I got most of them… but.. now? ...B...Best of luck Garth…”

She was still.

The lights flickered overhead and the shadows of the room seemed to lengthen.

The huge alien heard something long and slithery outside the only door in or out of the room.

"Kah hungry, aaa aaa aaa!" came something sinister and synthetic.

"Whoa! Big sound, wah!" another, different voice answered, it was in the room.

Garf’Troyus grabbed the Human’s dropped wrench as he saw two blinking eyes illuminated in the pure darkness outside the room.

"Food! Please! Hungry." came from above.

[asomewhatambiguous]

Prompt No.1

Reddit Prompt: Due to the growth of many new superheroes, you annoyingly quit being a hero and get an office job. Turns out, the nice IT guy is actually your nemesis who also quit because of many new supervillains.

My response:

"Dude," I say as I lift my coffee cup to my lips for the last drink, "the damn thing keeps getting slower. I've tried everything; cleaning it, wiping all my cookies- nothing's working."

"Like our night job," Jamie says. He reaches up and adjusts his tie. I remember when those thick, calloused fingers used to do damage. It wasn't that long ago; not really.

"Like our night job," I say by way of agreement.

"Jose! Jamie!" Susan calls out from across the room, by the doorway. Jamie stiffens for a moment, then forces himself to relax.

"Susan," he says, face and tone both cool.

"Hey, Susan," I respond. I try not to engage too much. I've been here for eight months, and the only thing I've learned for certain is that Jamie is always in a bad mood around Susan, and Susan never seem to notice. Between her and Jamie, though, I'll pick my old nemesis every time.

"I just wanted to stop by and say hi!" she says, excited for some reason. there must be a cute widdle puppy within ten miles of here.

"Mission accomplished," I reply. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jamie try not to smile at our inside joke.

"Welp! I gotta get back to work. Just came down here to steal some coffee," she says. Her voice drops, and her shoulders do that weird rocking thing people do where it seems like she's physically trying to impress the deeper meaning of her words into my soul.

"See ya," I say. Jamie nods in my peripheral vision. Susan whirls on one beige heel and flounces away, no coffee in her hand.

"If I had one reason to go back into the Game," Jamie says, trailing off. I nod.

"She is annoying," I murmur. I turn to look Jamie full int he face.

"Why did you quit? You were one of the most powerful guys I knew."

"They don't tell you just how much being a supervillain costs. I mean, your big fishes are running around so rich it isn't even funny. One job for them sets them up for a decade. They got time and space to plan another one. And another one. Us small fish? It ain't the same thing, ya know? Our jobs last us the week. We don't have that kind of transportation. We odn't have that kind of know-how. Getting booked as a supervillain is one of the worst sentences you can get, man. I got out before I could get taken out. You?" I shrug.

"the mortality rate was way too high. Kids get their shit when they're, what? 15? They're dead by twenty. Without some rich-ass guy who has the luxury of constant aide and protection to watch my back, I'm a dead fish. They don't tell you about the hospital bills, you know? They don't tell you anything but what an honor it is to fight to keep a day job when you're out all night, fighting the 'good fight'. At this point, a lack of healing factor is an automatic tick against the Game."

"If you did have it good? Like the mentor and the healing factor?" I shrug.

"Prolly still wouldn't go back. I've got aches from three years ago that I still feel today. I'm twenty five. That's a fuckin' travesty," I say, working to keep my voice down. Jamie nods and tilts his empty mug in my direction.

"I guess there's just too many of us, now. People are falling through the cracks. A lot of these villains and heroes already have," Jamie says, thoughtfully.

"You ever miss the game?" I ask as we fill up our mugs from the pot.

"Yeah," Jamie says, "but there's more to life than chump change and police chases." I nod and go to get the door.

"Ain't that the truth."

[ohlawsons]

I just lost nearly 600 words bc I thought it would be smart to write a promptresponse in the tumblr app and it closed on me so that’s nice

@iarinthel thanks for the great prompt but ill have to rewrite it later

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[eggbubble]

The Business

          I have been an imaginary friend for a long, long time.  The funny thing is, when you’re a kid, you think your imaginary friend comes straight from the nooks and crannies of your brain.  What you don’t know is that we were people too, once.  I had a family: a mother and father who loved me, a little brother who was mostly annoying, except for those moments when he was absolutely adorable. 

          And then I died.

          It was unexpected and it happened fast.  There was no pain.  Just, one moment I was there, the next I wasn’t.  Twenty years old and I found myself at the start of the line – or finish, depending on how you look at things – waiting for judgment.  I certainly wasn’t happy to have so unceremoniously kicked the bucket, but at least I hadn’t been around long enough to get into any serious trouble.  I was welcomed into Heaven with open arms. 

          People like me are looked after carefully, in Heaven, those first few weeks.  There’s a fear that the shock of our untimely passing might be too much for us to handle.  If we’d still been alive I’d think they were afraid we might off ourselves.  But we had already reached the end.  There was nowhere left to go.  There are support groups and hotlines, daily check-ins and reports.  And then there’s The Business.

          In Heaven, everyone has to work.  It’s not so different from the World in that respect.  One job, available specifically to people like me, is that of Imaginary Friend, what we like to call The Business.  It’s a lucrative gig, and quite well respected.  I’m sure you remember your imaginary friend.  How they kept you company in the darkest of hours, held your hand when you needed a friend, urged you on when you needed a push.  They were there for you; they would do anything for you.  You loved them, as they you.  So you can imagine how someone might jump at the chance to fill this particular role in a child’s life.  I certainly did.  And it was great, at first: the games, the smiles, the feeling of accomplishment when you do something right.

          What they don’t tell you is the loneliness.  Because as much as the child looks to you, you come to depend on them as your sole connection to the World.  You crave the latest celebrity gossip, political entanglements – things you might never have given a second thought to, alive – to feel in the moment, to exist.  You look forward to their tantrums and bad days; it keeps you in touch with your emotions.  You even enjoy the non-moments, when you just are, together.

          But one day you wake up, and everything’s changed.  Your child is no longer young.  They’re twelve years old going on forty, full of the angsty-self importance to prove it.  They’re fighting to grow up, they’re fighting to stay young, they’re fighting to figure out what the hell it is they want.  They rage and cry and need –

          But they don’t need you. 

          And so your time with them becomes less and less, and your space in their life – in their hearts – becomes smaller and smaller, until that fateful day when you cease to exist.  And you’re still there, out in the ether.  Brushing back a loose strand of their hair, kissing their booboos when they get hurt.  But they can no longer see you.  They can no longer hear you.  You float in and around them unable to move on, tethered to them for a lifetime.  Because days, weeks, months, years later, when a thought of you flits across their mind, there you are, in the corner of their eye, waiting to welcome them back with open arms.

[goldwordsonpage]

Stillness

 by J. Golden (This is a work of fiction, and any similarity to persons and events real or imagined is purely coincidental.) The hardest thing to get used to is the smell. The first assault in a hot zone is on the nose: the scent of hot metal, primer, ozone, smoke, garbage, burning tires, spices, sand, sewage, and animal blood all swirl into your nostrils, riding the invading inrush of air as the rear door of the APC drops. They are wild smells, raw and human, fast replacing the sterile civilized smells of gun grease, metal, deodorant, starch, and plastic. The scent of civilization carried by soldiers rolling from the green zone into combat that fall quickly to the savage odors of a more primal world. Then the second wave hits hard on the ears: the shouting in English and Arabic, the thunder of boots on the metal ramp, the whine of turret motors swiveling into cover fire arcs. The thump of gloved fists on front doors echoing in the hot, noisome air of nameless back streets.  The smells fade in perception quickly, giving way to the onslaught of noise from the idling diesel engines and the distant thumping of helicopter rotors. The assault on the eyes is almost an afterthought in this corridor of dun colored walls and whitewashed bricks under an unforgiving sun. The sensation of touch is nearly forgotten as bodies press against walls, fingers curl around the pistol grips of rifles and shotguns, feet in the anesthetic sand that permeates everything. A gloved fist pounds on the door again, shouting in English and being echoed in Arabic. A balding man with a grizzled face appears at the door, a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He speaks to the officer knocking on the door, complaining through his translator that he was sleeping. They ask him the usual questions about trouble, strangers, activity at night. He shakes his head, and points down the side street to the main road. The officer nods, and offers his hand to the man, who shakes it. The tension hanging in the air eases a bit, fingers slack and everyone breathes a little deeper.  The old man closes the door, and the officer and his interpreter start their walk back to the APC (Armored Personnel Carrier). There is a stillness to the air again, a near silence broken only by the low murmurings between soldiers. Men begin to fall back one at a time, covering each other as they make their way towards their transport and home. Relief begins to wash over every soldier there. All it took to destroy this moment was one rock clanging off the armor of the APC. A stone the size of a child’s fist bounced off a turret and into the street. The soldiers sweep into cover positions as they scan the roof tops for a young David daring to hurl rocks at Goliath. The interpreter shouts up to the rooftops, his harsh words stained by fear and made harsher in the echoes. The words echo in the narrow street as they are rejected by silence. Then another stone strikes the APC, then another. Soldiers hunker down in the meager cover of the street and train their guns on the houses and buildings around them. The officer barks an order, and they file quickly from cover into the APC, with the officer and his interpreter boarding last. The rear door comes up as another stone strikes a final note before they are sealed inside.  The diesel engine idles up, and they roll quickly out of the neighborhood, heading towards the main road.  As they swing out onto the asphalt thruway, the drivers radio is  suddenly alive with urgent voices, the static-blurred pops and thumps of combat radiating over the airways. The officer shouts an order at the driver, and the APC accelerates rapidly. They cover several miles in blur before stopping at another side street. The ramp bangs down and soldiers thunder out onto the pavement. The air is full of the sounds, smells, and sights of war: burning cars, charred bodies, and torn metal mingle with the crack of gunfire and screams of the wounded. Smoke divides these nightmare visions into intermittent photo frames, like a mother urgently and unsuccessfully trying to shield a child’s eyes from horror. Sensations are forgotten in the near-panicked rush of preservation and destruction that inevitably follows.  Here there are no politics, no opinions, no debates about moral superiority. Here there are only the quick and the dead. Gunfire washes all noise from perception as automated machine-gun turrets spray hot death at the rooftops and alleyways. The soldiers advance to their comrades, straining for the sight of masked men  and the muzzle-flash of rifles. Fire spits from windows and doorways, punctuated only by screams of anger and hatred. All too soon, these voices are cut short as bullets pierce flesh and bone, and fighters fall lifeless to the street on both sides. The gunfire subsides only to be replaced by the cries of the wounded.  The officer of the defending patrol makes his way carefully to the commander from the motorized platoon. They embrace more than they shake hands, giving each other their ear and words of encouragement and condolences. Together, the do their butcher’s arithmetic, and pray that the sum falls in their favor. The bodies of the dead men in masks are dragged into one place and checked for IDs and intelligence. Nothing useful is found. Two soldiers go to move a body lying on a cellar door, and it screams in agony. The APC officer and his interpreter hurry over to speak to the unmasked young man, a medic close behind them. The officer holds the boy’s hand, speaking gently to him. The boy weeps and cries out in pain as the interpreter asks him questions slowly and gently, and the boy responds only that he wants to see his mother and father.  The medic examines the boy carefully, but the look on his face says everything about the boy’s injuries. The boy starts to become incoherent, his eyes rolling back in his head. The medic continues to try to stop the bleeding, but the boy cannot be saved, and he slips away as the three men speak to him softly. The office closes the boy’s eyes, and the three soldiers sit silently for a moment. In the absence of the chaos of war, the only sound that can be heard is the wind stirring the sand around them. Then they hear the soft sound of someone crying, and none of them has the courage to look at each other. They move the body from the cellar door gently, and lay it separately from the others. The boy has no mask, and was found with no weapon. To them, he was not an enemy, just very unlucky. In the stillness, the sound of crying continues, and the officer and interpreter look sideways at the medic, who is sorting his kit back into a bag. He is dry eyed and serious, deliberately not looking at the bodies laid out like so many paving stones on the other side of the street. The officer nudges the interpreter, who calls out in Arabic. The crying stops,and a small voice can be heard calling out. The sound is sharp and sudden as breaking glass. The soldiers scan the street, listening for the voice. They come to a halt at the blood-soaked cellar door. Urgent hands frantically pry the door open. The interpreter and the medic peer inside the cellar, shining a flashlight into the dark. A small pair of eyes peers out from under a pile of carpet remnants and trash bags. The interpreter calls out again, and opens his arms, repeating the phrase encouragingly. A little girl, no more than six years old, crawls out and runs to him. He gathers her up,and carries her out to the street. She sees the bodies and buries her face in his body armor. The soldiers huddle around her, one of them offering her a piece of candy which she clutches but does not eat. The low murmuring of the soldiers cannot shake the stillness of the alleyway, or the peaceful quiet that has enveloped them all. The only sound that can be heard is the broken-crystal voice of the little girl speaking with the interpreter and the officers.  The enlisted men smoke nervously and keep watch. The little girl tells the soldiers that she had been out with her brother running errands, when they turned down the side street to see the men in masks hiding in the doorways. Her brother had opened the cellar door and shoved her inside, letting it close with a bang. She said she heard a popping sound after that, then more, louder and louder. The little girl pauses, then says she tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t move, and she started to cry. She begins to say she needs to find her brother, and the interpreter holds her close again as she cries. He asks where she lives, and she tells him.  The officer in charge nods to the soldiers, and they form up on the interpreter. As the little girl is carried home, the medic and two other soldiers put her brother on the stretcher, covering him with an old sheet from the cellar. Silently, they all walk the little girl home, thinking of all the things they cannot change or repair. At least today, in the stillness that follows after hell, they can make just one thing right.