Tag Archive | prompt: thimbleful

A proof, of sorts, a story for Thimbleful Thursday

Oct8

Thimbleful Thursday is a new microfic prompt site (mine!). This week’s prompt was “Cut the Mustard” and the word limit was 500 (450-550).

This piece is 547 words, and it might soon become obvious what prompted it.

“You’re never going to be able to do it, you know.”

Shut up.

“You’re never going to make it. You’re just not good enough.”

Shut up!

“You might as well face it. There’s people who can do this sort of thing – and then there’s you.”

Shut Shut Shut UP!

“Why don’t you just give up?”

“Shut UP!”

There was some merit to the nay-sayers points, of course.

If there had been no merit, there would have been no sting – no bite, as it were. If they had simply been spitting into the wind, then they’d have been easy to ignore. But they weren’t, and thus they weren’t.

The truth was, Esharina had picked a challenge that was over her head. She’d done it on purpose, with her eyes open – although she might have gone a little further over her head than she’d planned.

(There were some that would say that everything was over her head. They weren’t worth mentioning, certainly not more than once.)

It was the sort of thing that you did when you were angry, when you had something to prove, when you were so far past winning that you had to carry your whole damn life on your shoulders, make up every failure twice over, just to not come out too far behind.

But none of that, not her failures, extensive as they had been, not her choice of a target, not her need to prove herself – not one of those things meant she couldn’t cut the mustard this time, and not one of those things meant that the nay-sayers’ commentary cut any less deeply.

“Shut UP! Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Esharina glared around the barracks. “One, it’s stupid. Two, I know that Connron and Torg and Ellory failed. I know Marchiella and Red Dav never game back. I’ve seen Caslior’s skull, thank you very much. I drank at the funerals. I pitched in, when appropriate, for the widows, the orphans, and so on. I know that better mercs than me have failed. But that is, as they say, wheat from a different bag.” She looked around the room, glaring at each merc in turn. Mercs did not, per se, have friends. But they had working relationships, and she had fought at the side of every single one of these fighters.

“I know I can do this. Not because I’m better than them, but because I’m different. I’m not as strong as Connron. I’m not as tough as Red Dav. I’m probably not as clever as Torg or Caslior. But I can do this.” She let her eyes drop back to the slim pack in front of her. “I know I can do this, and if I’m wrong, nobody but me is gonna pay the price.” When she looked up, it was directly at Senner, who served as the captain of their unit. “And I’d appreciate a little bit of cheering, and less grousing.”

Senner cleared her throat. “We hear you, Esha. And… we’ve got your back. We’ll ride you to the line.”

Esha didn’t miss the glare that Senner shot around the room, daring anyone to argue with her. She didn’t mind it, either. “Thanks. Thanks… I just know I can do it, this time.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/826241.html. You can comment here or there.

Insult atop Injury

Sep18

Thimbleful Thursday is a new microfic prompt site (mine!). This week’s prompt was “Add Insult to Injury” and the word limit was 300 (270-300).

This piece is 303 words, and comes after Other Soldiers, Other Fates.

Reiassan has a landing page here.

“And there we go.” The chains between his shackles locked securely to the back of the goat’s saddle. “Ready to travel.”

Hiron had, he supposed, been in worse situations. He had been a thief before he was a soldier, after all, and a beggar before he was a thief – in far-South Bithrain, what was more, where beggars who did not have the excuse of an injury or a disfigurement were looked at as something lower than the shit the goats left in the gutters.

And yet there was something absolutely humiliating about being taken as a captive by a Calenni woman. Okay, the Calenni had won the war. Okay, long before that he’d gotten slashed in the calf and ended up in their stinking prisoners’ tent. Okay, long before that he’d found himself conscripted into the army, because the good lords weren’t wasting meals nor space on thieves when they could shove a sword in their hand and send them to the front lines.

All of that put nicks in what had once been a mighty pride. But now, now – still healing from the injury to his calf – Hiron found himself in the hands of a goat-faced Calleni woman.

“You’re pretty.” She patted his shoulder. “You’ll do just fine.”

Hiron found what was left of his heart sinking. He wasn’t being picked up as some sort of field-hand, was he? He had to have misunderstood. Her field-Bitrani was awful.

“I’m sorry.” He tried Calleni – nearly as bad as her Bitrani – in hopes that something would make sense. “I’m not-”

She grinned – like a goat, argh – and patted him again. “I know what you are. Mine, now.”

Hiron slumped against his chains. As if every blow he’d suffered wasn’t enough, he was being taken as a war-bride.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/812544.html. You can comment here or there.

Beating Around the Idiom Bush, a story for Thimbleful Thursday

Sep8

Thimbleful Thursday is a new microfic prompt site (mine!). This week’s prompt was “Beat Around the Bush” and the word limit was 200 (180-200).

I barely made it in at 467.

“Look, I know you guys like the social padding and all, but I don’t have time to beat around the bush…”

Reyn knew the phrase was a mistake the moment it was uttered, but the “don’t have time” part was true, and hurry tended to make Reyn slip into old habits, childhood habits.

The Jesharian clicked a blue tongue-equivalent and tilted her head in the manner that had originally made human explorers call the Jesharian
“Cat-people.”

“What is this ‘bush’ you speak of? Is it the vestigial fur-remnant some humans have between their legs?” The Jesharian – Koyl, her name was Koyl – shifted the head-tilt to the other side. “Bush can also mean tired, exhausted, but I do not know why you would beat either of these things. A strange sexual ritual, perhaps?”

Reyn choked back a laugh. “No, no.” Koyl’s eyes narrowed, and Reyn dropped quickly into a bow of apology, with three hand gestures that suggested – as much as a human(esque) body could approximate a Jesharian female’s gestures – that the humble personage of Reyn had meant no offense, none at all, from the involuntary spasm that the humans used in place of a proper laugh. “No.” This time, Reyn’s tone was suitably sedate. “No. I don’t know why we use the same word for so many different idioms, but what this one means is to move around a subject instead of tackling it directly, or to avoid the main point of a subject.” Reyn had a lot of experience translating idiom for the Jesharian, especially for Koyl and her sister-clones.

“So you wish to get directly to the point, instead of properly doing the social dance? Why did you not say so?”

“I – I thought I had.” Reyn facepalmed with both hands, a gesture that was helpfully very similar in Jesharian body language. “Sorry. This one apologizes for the miscommunication. When I am stressed – experiencing unpleasant levels of stress, that is – I start talking like my parents. And my parents used a lot of figures of speech, that is, idioms.”

“I do not mind idioms. They are lovely and color your language, much as the social dance does for ours.” Koyl bowed, a similar gesture to Reyn’s earlier apology-bow. “If you are rushed, the gesture-of-Jeshar we would use is like this.” She planted her feet very close together and clasped her hands at her upper hips. “In our land, this suggests ‘I do not have time for the dance; please forgive me but may we be hasty?'” Koyl winked, closing three of her eyes. “And, since that is what you meant to imply, perhaps we should save the rest of the conversation on idiom for another day?”

“Yes.” Reyn adopted the body posture Koyla was demonstrating. “Yes, yes please.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/805428.html. You can comment here or there.

Oil & Water

Sep1

Thimbleful Thursday is a new microfic prompt site (mine!). This week’s prompt was “Oil & Water” and the word limit was 200 (180-200).

I barely made it in at 220.

“You have to understand.” The cultural attaché was using the high-pitched voice that meant that not only did Tyre have to understand, but that she was failing at this simple task.

Tyre was used to this from cultural-attaché-sorts, and did not take it personally. “I am trying, I promise you. Please continue.”

As always, the slightly baffled look served to soothe. “The Sureare and the Unbling, they are like – like oil and water. They do not work together, they do not talk together, they do not sit together for a fancy dinner, no matter who we are ‘honoring.'” The attaché managed to making “honoring” sound like a perversion.

Perhaps in their culture, it was. But Tyre had a job to do, and she was going to do it. “Oil and water, hrrm?”

“That is what I said, Ambassador.”

“Let us see, then. Oil and water need mustard. Somebody tangy and a little astringent who can rub up against the ‘oil.’ Would you say the ‘oil’ is the Sureare?” Tyre didn’t wait for a response. “So, that would be… the Adlyma. Invite a group of five Adlyma, say, their chiefs. And we’ll need an agitator. Pavlin Ajanae should do well. Don’t forget to limit the entourage to four.” Tyre smiled brightly at the attaché. “Or do I still not understand?”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/798038.html. You can comment here or there.

New Writing Prompt Site: Thimbleful Thursdays

Aug29

Thimbleful Thursday will post a writing prompt (usually an idiom) each Thursday, along with a wordcount goal between 100 & 500 words.

The goal is to write a fic within the next week featuring the prompt in some way – inspired by, taking the idiom literally, twisting it on its head, your choice – and staying within 10% of the wordcount goal (for example, between 180 & 220 for the 200-word weeks, between 450 & 550 for the 500-word weeks, and so on).

I’m pretty excited about it, but, then again, it’s my site. 😉

Check it out!

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/795325.html. You can comment here or there.