Tag Archive | 3-word wednesday

No Monster, No Lurking

Oct30

Let some vampires lurk in the shadows. Let some of them hide in dark alleys, creeping along for their prey. Let some of them scrabble from day to day for their blood, hoping to get enough to survive, hoping not to be noticed.

Antonius had decided many, many years ago that he would not lurk, he would not scrabble, and he would not creep. He had decided that he would not leave his prey wounded and dripping in filthy alleyways. He wouldn’t sneak into vigins’ bedrooms to steal a sweet taste. He was not going to be the one you didn’t want to go home with from a bar, nor the one that showed you why good girls and boys didn’t walk home alone at night.

Those vampires were monsters, beasts, creatures. Antonius was a gentleman, and he was blessed well going to act like it.

But, of course, he was still a vampire, and as such, he needed blood to live.

He studied human physiology for decades, practicing on volunteers and “volunteers,” learning how much he could take from any donor without killing, then how much would cripple the donor, and then how much would leave him sated and the donor still walking.

It was long work and hard, but it gained him status among scientists. He learned how to handle blood transfusions when it was still an infant technique among human doctors. He learned how to screen for blood-borne diseases, and then, because he liked having a clean food source, he learned how to cure them. He learned how to keep a sanitary environment, so that his donors did not grow sick from associated contaminants – and because he enjoyed working in a well-lit, clean environment.

Not for Antonius the back alleys, not for him the grubby lurking in the dark. No. He would take his blood with science, not violence, and he’d do so in the shining halls of the laboratory.

After all, he was a gentleman, and no monster at all.

Written for the Three Word Wednesday prompt Blood, cripple(verb), lurk.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/840861.html. You can comment here or there.

#3WW / Dungeon Call – Check-In

Oct23

“Hey! Hey! Hands off!” The man couldn’t do much except yell, but he was doing a lot of that. His hands were bound over his head, his feet shackled to the platform, and three metal belts held him solidly down. There was, however, no belt over his mouth. Anna had a feeling someone up in management liked to listen to them. “I said hands off!“

“Mmm. No need to be defensive.” Anna watched the way the blue glow off her hands highlighted the man’s privates – not that there was anything private, splayed as he is. “You’re nice. Healthy. That’s good.”

He wouldn’t have made it this far if he wasn’t, but Anna did what she was paid to do. And he did…. well, he’d do what he’d been grabbed to do. “Mm. And you’re fertile.”

“Fertile?! What?” He fought against the straps now, his whole body arching against Anna’s hand. “What the hell? What are you people?”

“Oh, you know how it can be.” Anna patted his hip. “Men can be so needy, so high-maintenance. Sometimes women just want the seed. Sometimes they just want-” She gestured towards his un-private privates. “And here… here we provide that. Now settle down. You can’t get out of the straps anyway.”


This was written to Three Word Wednesday (yesterday): Needy, Defensive, Fertile.

Probably because of My open prompt call, the words just… ah, made this story. *cough*.

Cheers!

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This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/834497.html. You can comment here or there.

The Lands of the Circled Plain, a… setting story? for #3ww

Oct2

To Three-Word-Wednesday (Today’s words are Barren, Intense, Worry).

Set in the world of the Circled Plain, the same ‘verse as my webserial Jumping Rings.

The land of the Circled Plain was barren. Everyone knew that. It had been blasted, bombed, and then stripped of everything that remained by explosions of magic that came both during and after the Great War. It was dead. Everyone knew it.

The common knowledge had its flaws, of course. First of all, there were farmers who lived outside the city walls, planting seeds and growing food in the blasted land of the Circled Plain. True, they had things to worry about that a pre-War farmer might not: seeds might die, or grow backwards in time, or, sometimes, they might sprout something not entirely vegetal and often quite hungry. But they grew food in the barren lands of the Circled Plain.

Secondly, the walled cities that gave the plain its name – New Indapala, Red Sinachi, and so on – were, if you wanted to be nit-picky, actually on the plain’s land, especially as they grew outwards, ringed wall by ringed wall. And inside those walls, animals grazed and plants grew, planted seed by tedious seed in the barren lands.

Those were logical issues, however. The problem really lay in the third flaw: the places where people neither lived nor farmed.

There were miles and miles of land between cities, long stretches that took days to travel. And in those places, plant life and animal did not struggle, it didn’t wither and die. Rather, it grew. It grew wild, intense, and poisonous. It grew thick enough to destroy buildings and drink up watering holes. It grew over rivers and into lakes – and it grew hungry and, sometimes carnivorous.

It wasn’t that the land of the Circled Plain was barren. It was that it was so much more alive than the humans who moved through it.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/818785.html. You can comment here or there.

Trek-Style Geek, a story for #3WW

Sep10

To Three-Word-Wednesday (Today’s words are Carcass, Geek, Slash).

“When you said you were really into Star Trek, this is not what I expected.” Anna stared at the refridgerator carcass which currently took up the large part of the shared living room. “Hector, what are you doing?”

“I didn’t say I was into Star Trek. I said I was a ‘Star-Trek-style Geek.'” Hector pulled another piece from the guts of the fridge. “This isn’t our fridge, don’t worry. I got it off craig’s list.”

“That aside – and good – what is it doing in the living room?” Anna picked her way closer through the debris.

“The dining room wasn’t big enough.” Hector didn’t even bother looking up at her; he was performing some sort of hack-and-slash excavation of what was left of the fridge’s internal organs. “There, that’s what I was looking for! And, besides, this is closer to the basement door.”

“Closer to the… Hector if you’ve done anything to the woodwork…”

“Relax, re…” Hector shook his head. “No, sorry. Anna, I promise I read the entire lease and haven’t done anything to hurt any part of this house. It’s just that the doorway there was exactly what I needed. And now that I have this piece…” He pulled himself to his feet with an arcane piece of circuitry. “There. That’s the last thing I needed. I’ll clean up the rest before dinner, but you have to see this, Anna, please?”

He was being so sweet. Were Star Trek nerds – Star-Trek-style geeks – supposed to be sweet? “O…kay?” Anna trailed Hector to the basement door – the precious door with its 19th-century woodwork.

Very carefully set in and around the door was some sort of – metal frame? – although to call it that did it a disservice. Anna thought she could recognize parts of the ‘fridge door and parts of a destroyed table a previous roommate had left. But what Hector had made – well, it was somehow beautiful. And, she noticed, very carefully set in the ancient wood frame, not attached to it.

“With this, I’ve got it.” Hector knelt down and screwed something to the right foot of his – um, archway? – still not quite looking at Anna. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? And I knew that this house had capital-H-History. So I figured out the last bits, and…” He flipped a switch Anna hadn’t seen before. Something whirred, something else zzapped, and in the space that should be leading down to the basement, a field of blue sparkles appeared. “See?” Now Hector looked at Anna, a wide smile crossing his face. “I told you I was a Trek-style geek.”

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This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/807238.html. You can comment here or there.

It’s not the Prom

Sep3

To Three-Word-Wednesday (Today’s words are Bribery, clobber, skeptical).

“No, no, not like that.” Anna leaned forward to grab Joachim’s shoulders. “No. You don’t want to clobber them over the head with it.”

Joachim twitched at the grab. “What am I supposed to do, sing them a love song? It’s bribery, not the prom.”

“It’s both of those things, exactly. Thank you, Aaron. I’ll take over.” Anna shooed the older man away with a flap of her hand. “This is how we do this.” She stepped into Aaron’s place. “Greetings, Mr. Todleron. How can I help you tonight?”

The boy twisted his face up. “Anna, I don’t think this is going to work.”

“No, no, who is this Anna? I am Karl Brust, and I run the store here. How can I help you this evening, Mr. Todleron?”

“Really?” The kid had gone beyond skeptical and into flat-out doubtful, but he still held out his hand and squeezed Anna’s. He got just the right amount of tension – not too tight, not too loose. If only he could do the rest of the routine that easily. “Mr. Brust, so nice to finally meet you.” He dropped into character fine. He’d always had that part down pat. “I was wondering if I could impose on you, just a little bit…”

“It’s a lovely night, wouldn’t you say? More small talk, Mr. Todleron. Remember that this is a date, not a snatch-and-grab. Caress him with your words.”

“Your eyes are beautiful, Mr. Brust.” Joachim smirked. “And the moon, too, is quite pretty.” His voice dropped in pitch, and he stepped up against Anna as he pulled her in. “But your lips are prettier still.”

And his eyes, Anna noted, were quite pretty. Why had she never…

“I’d say you’ve gone all the way out the other side to ‘clobber’ again.” Aaron’s dry voice broke the mood. “What was the line? This is bribery, kid, not your prom.”

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This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/801315.html. You can comment here or there.

Three-Word-Wednesday – Entanglement

Aug27

To Three-Word-Wednesday (Today’s words are entanglement, death, heartless).

This one wrote itself – helps I’ve been watching a lot of Supernatural.

She intended to avoid entanglements.

They were a bad idea in her line of work – they led to uncomfortable explanations, teary goodbyes, jealous shouting matches, and, on a couple regrettable occasions, death.

So she tended to stay away from emotional connections.

There were liaisons, of course – she still needed human contact, and her cousin was, while pleasant, her cousin. Not the sort where you’d spend the evening cuddling, watching TV, necking, even when the job didn’t get in the way.

But she avoided anything more… long-lasting than a bump-and-cuddle.

It had gotten her called heartless, a time or thirty. It had gotten her called a lot worse than that, too: slut was a favorite, tease – although she never really deserved that one – bitch. But in her line of work, she was used to being called bitch.

And who wanted an entanglement with someone who called you a bitch, anyway?

But sometimes, despite all that, she found herself caring. The job could wait for a day or a week, she’d say. Her cousin could handle this case on her own. She wasn’t actually heartless, after all. She needed human contact. But the problem with entanglements was, they tended to twist you up in knots.

And there you were all tied up, when the job called. Safer to just avoid emotional connections altogether.

Following/riffing off of this: Better Left Unsaid

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/792296.html. You can comment here or there.

Three-Word-Wednesday – The Easy Way & Hard

Aug13

To Three-Word-Wednesday (Today’s words are eradicate, mercenary, squeamish).

In the same world as last week’s story, The Job

There were always politicians.

Even now, even after the near-end of the world, even after the years of struggling to find a new way to survive, even now, when survival was not guaranteed for more than ten percent of the remaining population, there were politicians.

And they would stand in their safe, protected halls in their safe, cozy auditoriums, and they would pound their fist and shout. “Eradicate the Blank Plains!” they would demand. “Wipe out the Creatures! Make this world safe!”

Over and over again, the politicians would shout, because shouting was safe when you were within the walls.

There were always the mercenary ones.

If it seemed like there were more of them now, when every commodity was a rarity, when there were so many ways to gouge and so few could afford to be gouged, then it was probably a matter of perspective: there had always been those out for number one.

They would stand by the gates and offer “services,” in the marketplace and offer supplies, by the graves and console widows, and all at a low, low price.

If it could be bought, they’d sell it, because selling was easy when your audience was captive.

There were always the squeamish.

If they seemed far more delicate now, when there was no room for delicacy, when food was scarce and resources tight, if they seemed too soft to live, it was probably the comparison: most people had grown far more hard. But there were always those that could not toughen.

They would wail over their choices for meat, when even their herd animals were starving. They would wring their hands over an outlaw’s death, when outlaws threatened everyone.

They would flap their hands, because it was easy to be squeamish when someone else was getting dirty.

There were always those who wouldn’t do what was needful: the politicians, the mercenary, the squeamish.

And then there were the Rangers.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/774111.html. You can comment here or there.

Three-Word-Wednesday: The Job

Aug6

To Three-Word-Wednesday (Today’s words are Liberated, Muddy, and Vicious). It’s been so long since I’ve done one of these, I had to go digging in my tags.. April 29, 2011!

It was dirty, it was vicious, and it was illegal, even by the lax regulations that counted as law in the wastelands. But it was necessary to get the job done, and nobody had ever said of the Rangers that they did not do the job.

They slipped in at night, like raiders, like bandits. They slid through the cracks in the outpost’s defenses, like assassins, like thieves. They took what they needed and were gone without being sighted, like ghosts in the night. When they moved on, there no proof they’d been there, except the holes in the storeroom.

It was muddy, it was nasty, and it was immoral, even by the standards of the gods who would have wastelanders and rangers as subjects. But they had to do it, and so they did it. Rangers prayed for forgiveness rather than petitioning for permission.

They collected their supplies from seventeen small outposts and villages, townships, farmsteads, way-stations and junkyards. They left no payment, note, IOU, nor apology. They left three corpses behind, none of them their own, and did not miss a single piece of their equipment.

Raiders, their victims assumed, monsters and ghosts. The rangers preferred those assumptions.

It was messy, it was close to monstrous, and it was exactly what they had been recruited to do. They had a job to do, and they had not been hired to keep their hands too clean.

They built a machine out of blood-soaked gears and mud-caked pipes. They hammered it together with stolen tools and liberated rivets; they fueled it with oil seasoned with widows’ tears and their own tired prayers.

It looked like an abomination, and there were some – even among the Rangers – that would say that it was. But it would get the job done.

They were muddy, they were vicious, and they were at the border for only one reason. The laws that the wastelands pretended to honor ignored them, and the only gods that would have them as subjects were looking the other way, lest they see something they shouldn’t.

The Rangers couldn’t care. They had a job to do, and a city to take back from the monsters. Their task was bloody and violent, dirty and nasty, but it was what they had been recruited to do, and there was no-one who would say that the Rangers did not do the job.

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Drabble: Collateral Damage

Apr29

From dailyprompt: “Stunt Double.”

and

Three Word Wednesday,
foolish, mercy, relish.

Fae Apoc.

“Do you think we were unwise?” Jackie twisted to look at the unconscious man-boy in the back seat; shirtless, rain-drenched, unconscious, he looked even younger than he had cowering in the corner.

“That sort of mercy is always foolish,” Anne answered, but, seeing the expression on her sibling’s face, relented a little. “But I’m sure we can work something out for him. He’s kind of a nice little rabbit, isn’t he?”

“Mm, more of a ferret?” Jackie mused. “Or a mink.”

“He does have sharp teeth.” Anne rubbed her arm ruefully. “But I thought we weren’t going to skin him.”

“Otter, then.”

“Good, I’ll throw him in the water. So, basically, you think he’s a weasel. And yet you saved his life.”

“Well, he’s a cute weasel. Not quite a weasel. Marten. Like that pine marten we saw last week. And it wasn’t his fault, really.” She glanced back at their captive again. “Okay, the biting was his fault, and he really seemed to relish it when he kicked me in the shins, but I guess I can’t really blame him.”

“I can,” Anne muttered. She glanced in the rearview at the boy, and then further back. “Is that a tail?”

“No, they just pulled on at the last exit. Just an asshole.”

“Throw a blanket over the kid anyway, would you? I don’t want someone calling the cops.”

“I’m sure the cops are already looking for us.” She tucked the blanket around the unconscious boy anyway, trying to ignore the double twinge of maternal-like concern and assassin-like homicide. It wasn’t the kid’s fault that the target had had a stunt double. It probably wasn’t even his fault that he’d attacked them; he had a bit of a brainwashed look to him, conscious. But he did look exactly like the man they’d left dead in Detroit, down to the mole on his cheek and the way the dyed-red curl in the front hung enticingly over his forehead. Someone had to have shifted him at some point; even twins didn’t look that similar.

“We almost killed the wrong guy,” she muttered.

“We almost killed an extra guy,” her sister corrected. “Do you really think we would have failed to notice when he fell over with lead bullets and didn’t get back up?”

“If he did,” she countered. “Are you sure he’s human?”

“What makes you think he’s not?”

“The way he went catatonic when we killed his Keeper.”

“Keep… oh.” It was rare she got to see Anne taken aback; she relished it a little bit even while making sure the guy behind her was, indeed, just an asshole. “You think he’s an Owned halfbreed?”

“He certainly was acting like it. I mean, enough mind control could do it, too, so I guess we’ll have to wait until he wakes up.”

“Speaking of which, he’s not likely to do so before we get to a safe house, is he?”

“Nah.” She tapped the boy’s forehead lightly. “He’s out. Human or fae, he won’t be waking up until I want him to.”

 

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3WW/Dailyprompt – Peculiar Habits

Apr6

Three Word Wednesday is a once-weekly 3-word writing prompt.

This week’s three words were Adamant, Fabricate, Peculiar.

[community profile] dailyprompt is a once-daily writing prompt. March 16th’s prompt was coffee with too much sugar (I got started, and then got stuck).

If there was a word one could use to describe Sasha Carter, it would be “peculiar.”

She drank her coffee sludgy and thick, with too much sugar and enough cream to turn it a pale tannish hue, and she drank it by the gallon. It was her one vice, her one addiction, and her sole source of calories during the work day; she supplemented it with a handful of vitamin pills while she bent over her desk, working ten-hour days regularly and twelve-hour days on Friday.

Her superiors didn’t want to question it – she worked hard, packing more work into a fifty-two-hour work week than her colleagues did into two or three thirty-five-hour weeks – and those colleagues were a little frightened of her, so, rather than bother her with questions that might, they feared, get them stabbed with a .07 mm lead, they kept the fridge well-stocked with cream, the cupboard with sugar, and the pot hot with coffee at all times.

And she? She noticed all of this, and said nothing, unsure what to say, not really aware of the aura of leave-me-alone she gave off but grateful for its results.

The coffee, while her only vice, wasn’t her only peculiarity, any more than her jittery over-caffeinated studiousness was her only social awkwardness. She was consistently adamant in her refusal to fabricate even the most trivial data, spending hours poring over old tomes, microfiche, five-inch-floppies in legacy Commodore machines, to find data points nobody else thought were important.

And “adamant,” as much as “peculiar,” defined Sasha’s work life. She did everything at the office with the same dogged determination, from filling out her time card to creating final presentations for clients (although, more astute than they let on, her supervisors always chose someone more personable to actually present said presentations). She was the sort of woman who, excessively caffeinated or not, was the living embodiment of the phrase ‘dot every I and cross every T.”

Although her colleagues wondered about, and speculated on (when she was down in the archives, perhaps, or somewhere else far out of earshot. .07mm leads were a real threat), Sasha’s personal life, no-one really wanted to be the one to ask, or to otherwise endeavor to find out. They assumed she had one, a home, a life, something outside of the office, but since she was there when they got there in the morning, there when they left at night, they couldn’t be certain. For all they knew, she had grown like a mushroom out of a file down in archives. It would, one colleague said unkindly, explain her personality.

The “adamant” and the “peculiar” combined tidily with her long work hours to make the mushroom theory almost believable, and certainly easier to think about than the images of Sasha going home to a cold, empty apartment where everything was meticulously filed and labeled, or a trailer full of cats, or anything else their rather practical imaginations could come up with. It was easy enough, indeed, that they found themselves almost believing it: Sasha Carter existed in the office, and nowhere else.

All of that made it even stranger when they came in one Monday to find Sasha not there. Her desk had been cleaned and emptied, her latest project was tidily stacked on the supervisor’s desk, and, sitting in her chair inside her favorite coffee mug, a tiny cloth effigy of Sasha sat staring at the world, as if demanding to know where her caffeine was.

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