#jotober day 25

[chanteraelle]

Jotober - Day 25: Prickly

A prickly sensation arose on the etched surface of Yennel’s skin, like a butterfly’s breath on a stifling summer’s day. The wind swirled across the unrippled surface of the lake, and it bore with it the distant murmuring sounds of coming Disciples. Lissante cina. He’d only managed to go undetected in the previous inspections by pure luck - this time, he didn’t know if his fortune would hold out. Yennel composed himself, so that his face was a mask of placidity, and closed his eyes. The other Disciples had merely taken him to be a hermit who chose not to speak. But he could tell with these ones that were coming along the edge of the water that they had far less reverence for such supposed sacredness. They bore an edge in their tone that verged on abrasive - a piece of ceda cloth, rubbed against hollowed cheeks. 

If they found out he was one of the Brisen, he’d almost certainly face exile. At least, exile was preferable to whatever punishment they inflicted on those that they imprisoned. Yennel had heard whispered rumours, borne on the wooden winds, of Brisen who went into their dungeons and were never heard of again, save in the middle of the night when sharp, animalistic screams would pierce the walls of every house. He rarely felt bitter, but in that moment of waiting, he certainly resented the Disciples. It was hardly his fault he had been born as one of the Brisen - he’d never made the active choice to do so, or at least not in this life. The stories the Disciples told said that to be one of the Brisen was a certain mark of an allegiance with the devil - but Yennel had only ever felt lonely, and never really evil. 

The knock on the door came even before he was ready. His hand rested for a second on the scratched wooden knob, before he twisted it open and inclined his head in greeting. Even though he moved around with a practiced calm, his heart was deceptively loud, and his tongue was even heavier than it normally was in the emptiness of his mouth.

Jotober Tag List: @writer-grandma, @ashesconstellation and @omgbrekkerkaz

[kevin--of-desert-bluffs]

Day 25 - Prickly

Although the cactus are prickly,

We keep them in our home,

Where pets and children find out quickly,

To leave them well alone.

[paladin-andric]

Jotober, Day 25: Tasty

Things aren’t going too well today, so just a tiny passage. This totally isn’t a MH reference or anything.

A hunter rolled a slab of meat over an open fire, the food sizzling as it was cooked thoroughly. The man wore a simple coat with scaled armor underneath.

The entire earth quaked causing the spit to shake a little. The hunter ignored this and continued spinning the steak, which was now a deep brown. Just a few more moments...

“JACK!” a man screamed from behind him, “JACK!”

In the clearing he was in, a hunting party was currently battling a fearsome dragon, which shook the earth with every step, and pierced the ears with each roar. The dragon picked up one of the hunters and flung him, sending the man careening off into the forest.

One of his other friends turned around, armor beaten and battered. “FOR GOD’S SAKE, DO SOMETHING!”

The other man was sent crashing into a tree with a swipe the dragon’s tail, who now closed in on the bowman, who began backpedaling into the treeline.

Eh, whatever. They’d be fine once his vigor was reignited.

Jack carefully took the steak off of the spit and took a bite, savoring the juicy flavor, having been cooked just right. He hummed to himself as he enjoyed his meal.

“So tasty!”

Tag list: @thereisnothingwrongwithbeingmad, @lady-redshield-writes, @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword, @sheralynnramsey, @tawnywrites, @writer-on-time, @oceanwriter, @zwergis-spilledink, @fluffpiggy, @elliewritesfantasy, @homesteadchronicles, @laurenwastestimewriting, @elaynab-writing, @the-ichor-of-ruination, @candy687, @fierywords, @shewrites-sometimes, @nerds-and-nebulae, @purpleshadows1989

[writeanapocalae]

Jotober Day 25: Carrying On With That in the Soul

WARNING for a character who suffers major PTSD and was tortured but none of that is described in detail here. 

This city, he knew it too well, was his Hell. He knew all of the streets, all of the vendors, and he smiled as he walked down the street, he helped the people, he wore a mask to hide the demon and he made people feels safe. The city may have been Hell and he may have been tortured by it, but he wasn’t the lowest of its caste. He had power over others, had been given the pitchfork by the devil himself and as long as he punished those that threatened the bosses happiness, he wouldn’t be taken down to the rack once more.

He opened his eye, went into an arcade, and played some games, won some plush animal that he didn’t need. He already had enough of them and had gained himself a reputation with the local children fro giving them out. It took his mind off of the thoughts of the rack, for a while.

His collar itched. He wanted it off. He wanted to punish people, make them pay for their sins of breathing near him. He wanted to fight and he wanted to bleed and he wanted to have one of his lungs punctured so that he couldn’t breathe, so he could slowly feel the organ fill up with blood until he was drowning and drinking it at the same time, so that he could die in the gutter like so many of the stray dogs that went to those who held rat poison instead of food.

Still, Hell had its charm. People smiled at him, clapped him on the back and ignored how he flinched, complimented him while they insulted him. At night, just before his cage opened its door to let the lustful enter the streets were full of people, young and old, some as young as his body some as old as his bones. He could walk through them and not fear being recognized but, more importantly, there was noise. Blessed noise. They sounded like wild animals, shouting over one another, trying to be heard, and it filled his ears better than the trumpets of the Grand.

The warehouse had been quiet. It had bee so terribly quiet, while he’d hung there, by his wrists, blood pouring from his socket and any of the other holes and gouges they’d given him. Too quiet. Too quiet.

He tightened his bow tie. He pulled his hair away from his face. He grounded himself. He didn’t have long hair when it started. He didn’t want to have his hair cut now. It helped him remember where he was. Still in a cage but a different cage, one that he wasn’t bound to physically.

Sagawa was there that night. It made his stomach churn, when he saw the old man sitting between two of his best girls, being pampered and spoiled like he was a human being, paying for a service. The devil paid for nothing. He was drinking the best stuff and he wouldn’t pay a dime and when he left, Majima would be lighter, both of cash and of blood. Maybe not of blood, hopefully not of blood. Unless it would kill him. Then he’d like nothing more.

He pretended not to notice. He was the Lord of Night. He did his work with a smile. He gave the best customer service possible to the disgusting refuse of society who thought they could get away with touching the girls. He nodded and bowed and acted weak and demure and gave himself, piece by piece to strangers who didn’t care about him in the least. And all the while he feel the eyes of the devil looking down on him, making sure that he was turning a profit, see if he was giving a good show, be assured that he was being a good boy.

He wanted to down every bottle on every table and die right there, the most beautiful piece of entertainment in The Grand. He wanted to fight every man who spat at him while brushing against a young woman’s thigh under the table. He wanted to claw his way through them all, prove that he wasn’t one of these lesser devils, show Satan himself that he was worthy to be one of his ranks, to have a purpose, to do more than suffer every day and night, to let the flies feast on him while he poured honey down his skin.

He met with the man, he bowed, he poured him the finest vintage. He simpered, he kept his eye down. He did everything that he wanted. He was told that maybe, he could make his quota, he’d have a chance, and every week, that quota rose. He didn’t argue. He just wanted out. He needed out of this cage.

He didn’t ask about his brother. He wanted to ask about his brother. He’d asked every day when he was in the warehouse and now, every time he moved his mouth, to form those words, there was a chain in the hands before him and a baseball bat against his ribs and blood dribbling down his wrists. He wanted to ask. He didn’t ask anymore.

And when there was a taste a bile in his mouth and his jaw ached from smiling and clenching and exhaustion ran through his bones the night was quiet and the sound of his thoughts were loud. There were still people out, there were always people out, and he could stay at work where the people were disgusting or he could go outside where the people were willing to beat him the way he wanted or he could go home.

So he walked the street and he bumped into the petty thieves who thought themselves tough and he dodged and he punched and he fought and he won more than he lost but he was still bruised from the chest down. Some of the punched felt like his brother’s playful and rough and other’s felt like the devil’s brother, hard and quick and relentless. He knew it was bad for his head. He knew it was doing nothing but bringing up the memories he had to forget.

He wanted someone to beat him until he couldn’t stand. Someone who could beat him like his brother did, where it was fun and violent and the bruises lasted more than a night but less than a decade.

Home again, at the end of it all, at dawn, when there was no more work to be done and the fools were off of the street. No bed, no couch, no chairs. He slept on the floor and that was better than sleeping standing up, with his arms over his head. He still didn’t sleep well. He still didn’t sleep without the memories of the warehouse, of the hole.

He wondered if he’d ever gotten out. He wondered if he would die down there.

If he died, he wouldn’t have to remember anymore.

@anhathaway @ill-write-when-im-dead@stargeek727@crazybunchwriter@detectivesebcas  

[sorin-sunchild]

Day 24 & 25 - Dizzy and Tasty

Timothy had felt tingling after his dip in the water. His skin prickled and the tender hairs at the back of his neck stood up. He was gasping and the world was bright. Too bright. Too sharp. He was falling, twirling, spinning...adult hands grabbed him as he went into a dizzy swoon...

Timothy woke to Abraham gently shaking him. There was a delicious smell in the air. “I’ve been watching you eat.” Abraham admitted. Timothy had gotten used to him saying strange things like that. Now they shared energy, he felt he understood Abraham even more. “I made you something. As a thank you. For everything.” Timothy followed Abraham to the dining room (which was really just a table and two chairs in a space on the kitchen floor) and was surprised at how professional the pie that he’d cooked looked for a first timer. At least, he assumed it was Abraham’s first time, assuming his creator had always made his own food. He smiled as Abraham cut him a slice and then sat to watch him. Timothy wondered if Abraham could eat, but since he never had, doubted it. He took a small taste.  “It’s good.” Abraham gave Timothy a rare smile.

[writegeist-muse]

#25 PRICKLY

Angel trotted quickly behind Lady Marsuess, the pirate girl’s footfalls making no noise in the soft, heavily plush carpeting lining the hallway. Lady Marsuess, too, made no noise save for the swish-swish of her silken robe trailing along behind her. Angel was careful to keep back from that train, canted towards the woman’s left shoulder. This allowed Angel to take in her ornate surroundings as well as see if someone was approaching them from the oncoming direction. More than once or twice Lady Marsuess had paused to discuss something quickly with a servant or butler, even a client once, and after desperately trying to pull up before bowling her over, Angel had adopted her current position. Now it was just a matter of keeping up with the madam’s long, gliding pace.

The changes in scenery were so opulent and sudden it made Angel’s head whirl a bit in trying to catch up. They had marched through several of the dim, stately hallways lined with doors and hanging room numbers above them, until they passed suddenly through a stained glass archway to emerge in what Angel had initially thought was a portion of jungle landscape. She whipped her head around to see what portal they might have passed through, but there was only the archway and the long hallways beyond.

Feeling her feet step from quaint floor tile to something squishy, Angel jumped a touch, the clatter of her wings swallowed by the rich greenery she was now following Lady Marsuess through. The woman was at least a foot taller than Angel but she swept through the foliage without slowing, her ducks around and under hanging plants as fluid as Angel’s flight.

A singular beam of pale, bright light brought Angel’s head up and she blinked into the moonshine winking through the glass ceiling far above the treetops. She would have gazed at it for hours if the Lady hadn’t swished a branch particularly noisily as she vanished into the green ahead. Angel exclaimed softly and ran to catch up.

“I’ve never seen a greenhouse jungle before.”

Silence.

“It must take particular care to keep these types of plants well and growing outside their native habitat, I commend the effort.”

The madam’s head didn’t even twitch. All Angel could see was the black twinkling eyes of the red panda curled around the woman’s neck.

###

Angel had no idea how far they had traveled. She guessed at least three buildings, if not whole city blocks if the decor was any gauge. She’d been told of the far-reaching sway of the Jewel of Juno’s Court but even with her exposure, she didn’t think she could really have comprehended quite this. From the jungle to what Angel had instantly known was a mansion was the next change, but it wasn’t just location this time, it was direction.

Angel was more familiar with stairs and she bounced up each step, balancing on the balls of her feet with practiced ease. After two grand staircases, Lady Marsuess was moving slightly slower than Angel, and the girl adjusted her pace to compensate. Despite this, she still had to quell the instantaneous urge to fling herself over the balcony and let her wings do the work when a man, she guessed might be the house steward, halted on the stairs above them and bowed deeply.

“My lady?”

The madame took two more steps and paused. “What is it, Merivale?”

“One of the gentlemen is asking to see you.”

“On what matters?”

Merivale blinked a few times - Angel wasn’t sure if the Lady had noticed. “He wishes to … discuss the performance of one of the misses.”

Angel almost imagined she saw Lady Marsuess’s shoulders stiffen ever so slightly. “Where is this gentleman?”

Merivale ushered towards the landing a few steps above. “I’ve asked him to wait in the Southern Atrium. I did warn him you were quite busy.”

A brief pause before Lady Marsuess began to ascend again. “Tell him I will be with him shortly.”

Merivale bowed and darted up around the left side of the landing, vanishing into a discrete doorway Angel had not noticed accented with a demure, beautiful curtain tapestry. She once again trotted after the madam, eyeing the servants’ door.

“Miss Archer.”

Angel stiffened and she fought to keep her face neutral. “Yes, Madam Marsuess?”

“I have some business to attend. If you would please pause when I request and wait for my return, we can get back to the matter at hand quickly.”

Angel nodded. “Of course, Madam.”

###

Her wings pressed harshly into Angel’s back as she stood flattened against the wall. A thickly dripped curtain shielded her from the occupants of the Southern Atrium, but what it did for sight it did not for sound. The madam wasn’t yelling, but Angel had never heard a voice sound so venomous and deadly while staying as soft and smooth as silk.

She had done as the lady requested, waiting patiently while the madam dealt with what Angel assumed was an unsatisfied or inexperienced client. Hearing the tone of Vivianna Marsuess’s voice transform mid-word had frozen the blood in Angel’s veins. Her wings had started to clink she began to tremble so hard, forcing her to press against the wall to stifle the noise.

Angel’s wide eyes darted to the curtain when it twitched. It swung back to reveal Merivale walking briskly out of the atrium, a formal letter in his hand. He noticed Angel watching him and the subtle smile showed a hint of teeth as he leaned over to speak conspiratorially, “If he’d known what was good for him, he would have kept his mouth shut and accepted the honor.”

Merivale walked around Angel to a metal detail on the wall. She realized it was an internal mail slot when he pulled it open and dropped the letter inside. He met her eye again. “Don’t worry, Miss Archer. The Lady only seems prickly for the sake of business. She’ll show you her true side soon enough. Excuse me.”

Angel was still staring after the long-gone steward when Lady Marsuess emerged from the Atrium. “Apologies. Shall we?”

The rest of the travel was short and soon the madam was ushering Angel into a grand office behind a black and bronze door at the end of a short, singular hallway. Angel ran her eyes over the ornature of the room as the Lady closed the door and went to a large table set with a piping tea service and two tall chairs already pulled out. She gestured Angel to sit, doing so herself and beginning the act of serving tea.

“Madam Marsuess, if I may …”

The pirate girl was sorely unprepared when the woman’s masked expression melted into a gentle smile and kind eyes that tipped teasingly up at Angel.

“Please. My name is Vivianna. But you may know me better by my old stage name ‘Burlesque’.”