This Began As A Response To A Writing Prompt, But It’s Deviated Enough From The Premise To Post Without
This began as a response to a writing prompt, but it’s deviated enough from the premise to post without it.
She was walking down the crowded street to her secret laboratory, a street with merchant stalls and strange smells from the Yggdras caravans who brought great foreign cuisine and creatures for those whose purses were heavier than their heads.
She was not such a one.
She was a Dravidii, the caste of those magical metal-smiths who could make clockwork golems; strange entities of bronze, steam and the mystic chemical of aether that granted them life. But this science was not without flaw or risk; to create a clockwork golem could take years of effort, effort which could be wasted if a single part was out of order or the incantation to bind the will of the creator to metal and aether.
And this art is expensive, so she kept moving, ignoring the temptations of the sights and sounds; to a mind such as hers it was almost torture, for inquisitiveness was her favor and her foible, her birthright and her curse. Such is the flawed nature of the Dravidii.
Closing her eyes and focusing on her destination, she took a second to gather herself and, opening her eyes anew, she struck forward.
That is, until thirty seconds later, when she heard a voice emerging from a thickly perfumed stall to her right. A Yggdras woman dressed in a thick shawl that did little to hide her figure, holding an amulet in her right hand and a dagger in her left, was speaking to her. “Come here, Ivana.”
Dumbstruck by both the woman and by the woman’s knowledge of her name, she stepped towards the stall. “For fifty dras, this master-crafted amulet could be yours.”
Ivana looked at the amulet for a few seconds, sizing it up. It was definitely of Dravidii make, a net of bronze around a core of aether. She had never seen anything like it, and it was indeed finely wrought. To own it would be to own a piece of not just beauty, but power. Who knows what secrets it could contain. What she could learn from its workings.
Wide-eyed and a little mesmerized, she broke her gaze long enough to look down at herself.
She saw her formal clothing, plain and cheap as it was – with what little flair a Dravidii could add to it. Glued-on gears on her simple cap, some red cloth wrapped around her waist as a garnish for her belt on simple brown trousers, a matching, threadbare coat – fifty dras would be enough to starve her for another week or two, and she wasn’t sure she could make it through that. Not again.
As the thoughts whirred through her head like the bronze gears of her project, she finally came to her decision. Closing her eyes, she shook her head no, and turned on her heels to return to her path.
“Wait, girl.”
She turned back to the woman, who had taken a half-step towards her and outstretched a hand. Upon Ivana looking back, she regained composure. Whispering a little under her breath in a foreign tongue, the Yggdras woman began again, “I was rude. I apologize.”
Cocking a single eyebrow, Ivana stood silently. She had some inkling of what this was about; it was rumored that some Yggdras had the second sight, the ability to perceive some wisp of the future before it occurred. Each caste had their own magic, after all – the Dravidii the ability to bend metal to their will, the Yggdras the ability to perceive the future – but each must hone their ability, and not all had it to the extent of others.
“Learning the name of another to attempt to sell them a bauble is hardly a fair tactic,” said Ivana, somewhat feigning annoyance. Who knew, maybe she could get a discount.
The Yggdras woman nodded. “Let me offer you two things then.”
This time the raised eyebrow went a little higher. An offer freely made by a Yggdras merchant was a rare thing, after all.
“I offer you this bauble,” she said, taking three steps to stand in front of Ivana, and handing it to her. “And this,” she said, leaning forward, so that their lips brushed together into a subtle kiss.
Ivana blushed at this, and began stammering a little, “I… not… my…”
Putting the bauble into her coat pocket, she looked down at her feet, managed to mumble a quick thanks, and began off on her way at double-pace, without looking back at the (now, very confused) Yggdras.
She made it to her destination, after turning down an alleyway and about hallway towards the end, opening a hidden door with the touch of a button, disguised as an outwardly-pointed brick.
Entering the facility, she looked around, taking stock of her equipment and checking for changes. Her chair at the worktable was as she had left it, and the half-built golem lay on the table there, each finely-made piece interlocking to form a frame. Sitting herself down at the table, she leaned back and let out a heavy and self-exasperated sigh. She probably could’ve handled the merchant with a bit more tact, after all. Pulling out the bauble, she was surprised to see a bit of paper wrapped around it.
Extracting the paper, she found that it had writing on it. Reading it, she found it said only two things.
My name is Yvi, if you wondered
And beneath that, somewhat hastily scrawled as if done quickly out of embarrassment.
Dinner?
Looking down at her worktable, and her half-finished project, she weighed her options. Awkward as she was, she was loathe to turn down the opportunity to repay Yvi for both the gift… and (blushing at the thought anew) the kiss.
She looked at the bauble again, and began to work. The easiest way to clear her mind, after all, she supposed. Maybe the answer would be written plain in gears and screws.
Tinkering with the bauble, she found it had no catch or secrets, it simply existed as a finely-wrought artpiece. She knew it hid secrets, but how to gain them was a mystery. So, she fixed a chain to the amulet, and put it around her neck. Where better to keep it safe, after all.
She began anew on her golem, using her abilities to work bronze into proper shape, attach metal ligaments, wire the ‘nerves’ of the thing, and test the steam capacity, all the while, reminiscing of the history of this place, and of her family.
Her father had been a Vanis, whose abilities were charm and manipulation, but who had honestly fallen for her mother, a Dravidii that she had taken after moreso than her frankly foppish father. Her mother had been a clockwork golem-maker as well, working alongside her brother, Ivana’s uncle.
Her father had wandered into her mother’s shop one day, and began asking questions about how one makes a clockwork golem. Her brother had been intent on kicking the wayfarer out of the shop, despite his pretty features, but she was honestly transfixed by the curiosity she found in his eyes. He would show up daily, listening to her for hours about how the art of golem-building was partly a magical and partly a physical craft; a body could be made to the letter from a blueprint, but without the binding of a Dravidii’s will to the metal, there was no hope of it ever coming alive.
Ivana’s father returned day after day until he finally worked up the courage to ask her mother out to dinner. From there, a romance quickly blossomed. Ivana’s mother’s parents were long-since dead, so her brother, Ivana’s uncle, stepped in at a couple points to ensure Ivana’s mother’s fair treatment. And indeed, her father treated her well, though Ivana’s uncle would oft boast over dinner about almost breaking the fop’s nose a couple times to set him straight.
A year later, he proposed. A year after that, Ivana was born. But the pregnancy was hard on her mother – she never quite recovered her full health after, and bout after bout of illness took their toll, and finally her life by the time Ivana was eleven. Her father tried to comfort her, but Ivana spent the days in her mother’s study, until her father realized what he must do. Entrusting Ivana to her uncle, Ivana learned the art her mother had so cherished – the art of making a golem.
Now it had been eight years, and Ivana was building her third golem. Among countless basic prototypes, she had made two working complex golems – not the basic toys she could sell for fifteen dras apiece to collectors and children, but those golems worth thousands upon thousands of dras, whose very worth could spare her from the poverty that had surely claimed her mother’s life, as plain as any illness.
Her uncle had left some year and a half ago, to find his own way, entrusting his secret workshop and business to Ivana. He had given her a few dras, and told her she could make her own way, and that he would return when he had finished his journey.
She had not heard from him since. She lived a lonely life, either spending her time here or at a rented room in a nearby inn. The owner charged her harshly, but fairly enough for a nearby stay to work. In truth, she had probably spent more nights sleeping in the workshop in her uncle’s old chair than at the inn, but she was close to a breakthrough.
A golem that could pass for a human. She had been in correspondence with her grandfather on her father’s side, and had gained insight into illusion and charm, those coveted abilities that those of Vanis blood possess. Though she did not have the blood – taking after her mother so she did – she managed to come up with a rudimentary formula to grant the golem a likeness of humanity, if done in conjunction with the proper aetheric mix and focals.
She spent the day working on the golem, but the breakthrough was not coming to her. It seemed she had reached an impasse, a block that hours at the table could not fix. Sighing in exasperated fashion, she got up. It was time to go back to the inn, rather than try to finish this work that seemed to be trying to evade her.
She left the workshop and looked up and down the alley. She saw nothing, save a couple boys standing at the end of the alley. Walking towards them, she began to try to ask them where their parents were, until one of the boys ran towards her. As he did, she caught a better look at him. No older than eight, he was a speedy little creature, running up, jumping up and catching her newly-gained amulet by the bauble and tearing it loose, without breaking stride, and running.
Surprised and knocked aside, Ivana began to run after the boy, who was laughing at his newly-invented game of keep-away. Running down the alleyway and into the now-empty street, he looked back and bellowed, “You’ll never catch me!”
That is, just as a heeled shoe stretched out from the shadows beyond the edge of the alley, tripping him and bowling him flat.
“Gavroche, Gavroche, Gavroche,” cooed Yvi. “I thought mum had taught you not to take things that don’t belong to you,” she said as she leaned down, grabbed the amulet, and walked back towards Ivana.
“I was just playing,” said Gavroche, reddening at Yvi’s interference, whether from embarrassment or anger one could not tell.
“Sure you were, Gav, sure,” said Yvi, handing the amulet back to Yvi. “I’d like to apologize for little Gav’s actions. Our mother tried to raise him better,” she said, glaring sharply back at the boy who had barely managed to get back up into a sitting position, rubbing a skinned knee.
Looking back at Ivana and cracking a smile, she spoke again, this time in a cheerier tone, “In light of recent discoveries of the terrors that walk the night, allow me to walk you to your home.”
Wandering down the street towards the inn, they found themselves talking about their lives, a wonderful pastime for those with as interesting lives as these two, even if they did not know it themselves.
“I’m sorry about Gav. He’s been like that ever since pa died last spring. He’s been trying to earn enough money to help mum keep the house, as have I, but he’s young. Not too much work out there for him, and little of it honest.”
Ivana rubbed her hands together, to keep the could out. “It’s okay. It’s not like I had the thing that long, or that it would cost me anything if he had taken it, I suppose.”
Yvi laughed a little. Looking at her again, Ivana saw that the woman she had seen earlier wasn’t much older than herself – maybe a couple months, but most of the show at the stall had been simple makeup and legerdemain, to make her seem older and wiser.
“So, how did you wind up in a secret workshop in the middle of an abandoned alley?” asked Yvi.
Ivana was temporarily thrown, which seemed to be happening a lot that day. “I – it’s not – ummm… please don’t tell my uncle that you know that it exists?”
Yvi laughed. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, and I’ll make sure Gav doesn’t tell anyone either. But I’m fairly certain half the town knows it exists – neither you nor your uncle are very subtle, you know.”
Ivana shrugged. It was a fair criticism.
Before either had known it, they had reached the inn, and Ivana turned to speak. “This is where we go our separate ways, I think,” she spoke softly, not really wanting to leave.
Yvi quickly grabbed Ivana’s hands in her own. They were warm, which was odd enough, given the season. “You never answered my question.”
Ivana looked at her blankly.
Yvi sighed. “Dinner, Ivana.”
Ivana remembered the note and blushed. “I… may… be…?”
Yvi turned aside a little and muttered, “Well, it’s better than a no…” before turning back to Ivana.
“You have never once in your life been asked out on a date before, have you?”
“Well… no...,” said Ivana, blushing a shade redder than crimson. Most of the local boys were scared of her uncle, with good reason, and she’d never been asked by a girl before – or been confident enough to ask another.
“Well, I guess I should go,” said Yvi suddenly, turning to return the way she had came.
“Wait! Yvi…,” Ivana shouted, and then got a little quieter. Taking a deep breath, and then letting the words stream out in a single uninterrupted stream, “Would-you-like-to-go-out-to-dinner-with-me-please?”
Out of breath and blushing redder as the conversation wore on, Ivana began to hyperventilate as subtly as she could manage (which is to say, not very subtly at all).
Yvi laughed. “Of course, silly girl. Meet me at my stall tomorrow at twilight, and don’t you dare be late.”
She then ran off into the night, and Ivana, finally, saw the family resemblance between Yvi and the little rogue, Gavroche.
More Posts from Ican-writethings and Others
Ash watched the target closely as he went into the bar. She stood on the roof of the four-story office-building across the street, hidden in the dark of the night. She was dressed practically, in simple clothing – black jeans, a dark grey t-shirt, a leather jacket – her purple hair tied back behind her head. At her feet was a black biker’s helmet. At her right ear was a Bluetooth earpiece.
She needed neither binoculars nor night-vision to see clearly in the night; she was Damphyr, the child of one afflicted with vampirism. Beings without most of their progenitors’ strengths, but the few gifts they possess by comparison makes them far greater than humans. Durability, speed and enhanced senses are their hallmark, but the gifts come at a cost. The cost of human blood. A Damphyr can survive on the blood of animals for a time, but they are required to drink the blood of a living human with disturbing and increasing frequency.
For now, she needed only once a month or so. But as her years of life wore on into centuries she would need to feed weekly or even daily. She pondered this as she watched the bar.
“Ash!” buzzed her earpiece. Focusing back in to the present, she barked an answer to the microphone on her lapel. “What, Vesh?”
Vesh responded, “I can see you from here. Stop zoning out! We need you to watch the door. If the target is meeting one of the nine, we’ll need to be able to act at a moment’s notice. You’re our surveillance.”
“If you wanted surveillance, you should have gotten a van,” Ash cracked.
“Who needs a van when you have the sharpest eyes this side of the globe?”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Ash quipped, as she noticed something off with the bar. The sounds of violence were emanating from within, which would not have troubled her unduly were it not for the scent. Her sense of smell was arguably her weakest, but there are some scents she could never miss. The scent of blood, the scent of a damphyr, and, strongest of all, the scent of a vampire.
Vampires are rare creatures; few in number and rare to reproduce. They make up for it in unholy might; a single vampire could lay waste to a small city in a single night. But they tend to occupy their time with petty power struggles between each other and attempts to control large swathes of territory. Their servants, known as Revenants, were humans vested with some of their power. Weaker still than even damphyr, Revenants were slow to age and stronger than mortals.
But the scent of a vampire was what Ash smelled now. How she had missed it for so long was beyond her, but it was clear now. The smell was difficult to define – somewhere between a rotting corpse and a rose, soaked in blood. A smell of beautiful decay.
“Vesh, we need to move. Now.”
“Got it. I’ll get the back entrance. You cover the front.”
“Got it.”
Ash jumped from her perch, flipping from headfirst to a pencil dive and landing on the pavement, cracking it. She was unharmed by the tumble, she got up and charged the door as a man was thrown bodily from the window. Or rather, a corpse. Its head was twisted and nearly torn off, a look of agony on its face. Its limbs were twisted as if it had been tortured, but knowing what lay inside, she understood that it had happened within seconds.
She took a second to spit on the corpse. A fool who had been bargaining with a vampire for extended life. But the artifact that he had found was too powerful. His contact with it made him a liability, not an ally.
She charged the door, knocking it off of its hinges. Inside, an unwelcome sight greeted her. Revenants, a dozen of them, were feasting on the corpses of the erstwhile bar-goers. A couple were holding onto the bouncer by the arms, one drinking from his carotid and another on the opposite side, who had chewed through to his aorta.
They all looked up at her, with bestial glares. Damphyr blood was poison to them, but they were bound to their master’s will, and would be more than happy to kill her.
She reached into her coat and pulled out a long dagger – something caught between shortsword and knife in size, but finely wrought all the same, of some strange, silvery metal. She whispered the invocation. “Carnwennan, feoht for mec, innan thone ciegnes Arthorius.”
The blade sheathed itself in shadow, its magic enhancing her accuracy, speed and strength.
Moving faster than the creatures could even fathom, she had already drove the dagger through three of the creatures’ chests, piercing their hearts before they could even draw breath. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”
Green flame ripped its way through the creatures anew, burning their flesh and reducing them to ash faster than should have been physically faster. Continuing, she made quick work of the others, and had destroyed the bodies of those who had died. Little evidence remained, and the magical fire did not burn the objects in the room. She breathed, for the first time since entering the place. “You alright?” asked Vesh, through the earpiece.
“…Yes.”
“Good. Nothing on my end. I’ll meet up with you at the basement doors.”
They had gone through the blueprints for the building before the strike. There was a basement, prohibition era, that led down into the sewer. They had guessed the vampire would use this route to escape after putting down the ‘livestock’.
She went over to behind the bar, went into the backroom, and took the short hallway to the back room, where she Vesh was waiting.
Vesh wasn’t damphyr, nor was she human. She was a Nephilim, the long-lost bloodline of angels. Moreover, her bloodline was the (in)direct descent from King (well, queen, but that’s another story) Arthur. She wasn’t all that much stronger than a normal human, until the bloodline was used in conjunction with an Arthurian one. Ash’s weapon was one, the bloodline only enhancing the weapon’s traits, not granting ones on their own.
But Vesh was more powerful in her own way. For she wielded two weapons – Rhongomiant, an ancient spear, and Clarent, the coward’s blade. With their power, she could take down many opponents with little effort – but at a cost. The two could only be wielded in conjunction for a short time, or she would burn up.
Vesh was breathing heavily, her sword sheathed and her spear at her back. “You okay?” asked the (suitably) concerned Ash.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“There’s no shame in turning back,” warned Ash.
“Yes, there is.”
“Okay, only a little,” conceded Ash.
“I’m not going to sit back and let you hog all the glory. Here,” said Vesh, holding out a thermos.
“I’m not thirsty,” protested Ash.
“Yeah, you are.” Said Vesh, gesturing with the thermos. “You didn’t’ have any blood at breakfast, and I’ve been keeping eye on your little freezer down in the basement. You haven’t touched it in going on a week and a half. Drink.”
Ash could smell the blood, and hunger snarled deep within her stomach. But at the same time, a foul disgust was creeping through her. “No.”
“You’ve got to drink sometime. Please. You need it.”
Vesh hold the thermos close to Ash’s face.
“I said no, damn it!” Ash shouted, batting the thermos out of Vesh’s hand and to the ground. Warmed blood spilled across the ground.
Vesh became more concerned. “Ash…”
Ash was stumbling away from the spilled blood, retching at the smell, reaching a corner and throwing up blackened bile. “We need to follow the vampire.” She coughed out, between dry heaves.
“You’re in no condition to fight a vampire. We can turn back – we can get more…”
Ash shook her head. “Don’t say it.”
“Damn it, Ash. You need to drink. You don’t think I’ve noticed you? You don’t sleep anymore. You can barely get down food, and blood… you barely touch it unless you’re desperate. This isn’t healthy. I’m here for you.”
Ash shook her head. “We have to go on. I know… I know this vampire.”
“What? You can differentiate between vampiric bloodlines now? Are… are you certain?”
“I know this one well. This one is…” she trailed off, and began to make her way down the stairs.
--- A Year and a Half Prior ---
Ash was chained to the floor of the cell, her interrogator standing above her. Throwing down a lukewarm blood transfusion bag, he kicked her in the stomach. “Drink, half-blood.”
“F… fuck you…”
He kneeled down, grabbing her by the back of the head, and held her mouth open. Kicking the bloodbag aside, causing it to leak across the ground towards the drain in the center of the room, he gestured to the door. A man stepped in, carrying with him a bound and gagged teenage boy. The boy kicked and screamed as he was dragged into the room. The man carrying him drew a wicked-looking hunting knife, and drew it across the boy’s throat in a swift, decisive motion. The boy was gurgling his last breaths as blood poured from the wound. The interrogator turned Ash’s face up as the other man put the boy’s throat to her open lips, blood pouring into her mouth, her nose, most spilling but some she felt going down her throat.
--- Present Day ---
They were making their way down the stairs in sullen silence when they heard it. The scratching, the skittering, the sound of rats, moving around them in the dark. Ash closed her eyes, her breathing becoming ragged. Vesh took the lead, and motioned for Ash to sit down for a moment. She whispered in her ear. “I’ll be back in just a few seconds. Wait.”
The sounds of blades being drawn and of the screeching of rats. Finally, Ash heard the words, “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.” A bright flash of green, and nothing else. “You can open your eyes now.”
They continued on their way.
--- A Year and a Half Prior ---
Ash was blindfolded as she was led into the room and tied to the chair. It was a cold, study thing of wood. Chained at the ankles and the wrists, weakened from blood deprivation, she struggled against the chains until she was exhausted. She heard him, chuckling and chiding. “Is the little girl tired? Poor little girl…”
“Maybe the girl needs some friends. Yes, maybe some furry friends.”
She heard the sound of blade against sheath as he drew a knife, and felt it as he drew thick lines every few inches down her wrist and thigh. Blood slicked her skin as he stepped back, and whistled.
It was then she heard them. Skittering across the rafters, across the floor. Ash felt it as they fell onto her body, and tried to throw them off, but they kept piling on. She screamed as they bit into her flesh. She screamed and the man laughed.
--- Present Day ---
The hallway was sparsely lit with dangling, electric lights as they continued on their way. The form of the hallway was made of brick and wood, with a floor of cement. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” asked Vesh.
“I’m fine,” responded Ash, a little too quickly, having been waiting for the question.
“Ash… for gods’ sakes…”
Ash drew Carnwennan, and began the invocation again. The blade sheathed itself in shadow. “I’m fine.”
They reached the end of the hallway, and they saw it.
Sitting in the center of the room was a finely-wrought silver casket, surrounded on all sides by human bodies, blood splattered against the walls. Not catching her breath in time, Ash smelled the blood, assailing from all sides. Gagging, she began the purification invocation to cleanse the room with fire. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”
The room flashed green as fire consumed the corpses, leaving ash behind.
“What is this thing?” said Vesh, looking at the coffin.
“An artifact of great power, so they say. The coffin of the progenitors. Capable of bringing a vampire to an almost godlike state.”
“And capable of purifying the blood of a damphyr, my pet,” came a voice from the shadows.
They turned. Ash gasped. “You… you’re dead. I killed you…”
The interrogator stepped forward. “Only a spear of ash and silver can kill a vampire, as you well know.”
Gesturing to a stitched-shut scar around his throat, he laughed. “All you did was offend my vanity.”
He walked forward, touching the coffin with an outstretched arm. “You hurt me, running away like you did. All I wanted was what’s best for you, after all, little cousin.”
He held out his open arms to Ash. “Come to me, pet, I will take you with me and make you my immortal lover.”
Ash held Carnwennan at the ready, taking a step back. Her stance was nearly broken by her shaking.
“Come here, girl, I will hurt you no longer.”
Vesh stepped forward. “Enough.”
Drawing spear and sword, spear at the ready stance, sword ready to guard against blows, Vesh charged, speed and strength enhanced by the magic. The man just jumped out of the way.
“You’ll have to try harder than that to kill me, child. I am a vampire, not some weak-blooded mockery or halfblood pretender.”
Vesh struck with speed and strength, with each strike gaining more momentum and hitting faster. She felt her muscles burn as she fought him, but he dodged each blow with almost nonchalant ease. Growing tired of this, he grabbed the spear by the shaft and struck quickly, knocking the sword aside and biting deeply into her forearm. Vesh let out a cry of pain, as he threw her backwards.
Ash couldn’t stand still anymore. Half frozen in fear while Vesh struck, she steeled herself and struck. The interrogator laughed. “You can’t harm me any more now than you could then, girl.”
Before she could strike his flesh he dodged under the blow and slammed into her, sending her flying across the room, landing next to Vesh.
He crossed the room to where Ash lay, and grabbed her by the throat. “Your blood will fuel my power,” he said, biting into her throat. She felt herself being drained. After a couple moments, he pulled away, lips slick with blood.
“Watch, now, as I ascend to godhood,” he stated, wiping off his lips, opening the coffin. Inside was black velvet. Ripping off his shirt, he lied back into the coffin as the lid closed automatically.
A hissing sound like hydraulic sealing could be heard as the coffin closed.
“Ash,” said Vesh, trying to get closer to her, coughing up blood from broken ribs, unable to move her legs. Ash lay unconscious. Vesh took her wounded arm and put it over Ash’s lips, letting blood drip into her mouth. Still not conscious, Ash’s mouth instinctively bit into Vesh’s arm, draining blood. Vesh grimaced against the pain, but it was not in vain.
Ash awoke, her body repairing itself faster for the blood. She felt a surge of power from her blood, from Vesh’s blood, as Vesh faded out of consciousness.
The coffin opened just as Ash arose, holding Carnwennan and Clarent at the ready. The blood of Arthur she had drunk felt like fire rising in her veins as she spoke in the old tongue. “Cier asprungennes, Vampire.”
Her enemy had changed. Like some monstrous bat, his features had twisted into a vile mockery of the living. His fangs had grown and his teeth grown sharp. He growled.
They did battle, moving faster than sound, booms echoing off the halls. She dodged blow after blow, dealing small wounds bit by bit. Eventually, he failed – mis-stepping, he was impaled on the blades.
“This cannot kill me, whelp. I will return to hunt you. I will return to end you.”
“I know,” said Ash. “But next time, I will not hesitate. In the meantime, let’s see how well you can reform from my namesake. Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”
Flames engulfed him as he screamed in agony, burning as Ash gathered the weapons, picked up Vesh, and began to return up the stairs.
Story Shard 543
You know what I want? I want a Bad Ass Female Super Hero who is afraid of something small and cliche, like bugs or mice, but whose compatriots don’t make fun of her for it. They just step up and take care of the things she can’t. And her fear does not make her any less bad ass it just makes her human.
Sorry I haven’t been all that active these last few days
I’ve been kind of busy, but I should get to posting again soon.
plot feeling a little empty in the middle? here’s some food for thought.
actions have consequences. things that your characters do inevitably can affect other people around them. what might they have done in the past that could come back and serve as an obstacle? or, maybe, what could they do now that could possibly raise the stakes just a little bit more?
subplots! be mindful of the subplots you’re adding - but sometimes it might be a good idea to include one if your plot is feeling a little bit empty. not only can it tie back into the overarching struggle, but it could also serve as a way to explore one of your characters or points further.
character exploration. get to know your characters a little bit better! let your readers find out something new. connecting and understanding the people within your story is important if you want your readers to grow attached to them.
world exploration. similar to the previous point, with the addition of creating a greater sense of familiarity of the circumstances that your story is taking place in. remember that nobody else knows the world of your wip as well as you do - illustrate it even further so everyone else can grasp it even better.
let your characters bond! maybe there’s a lull in the plot. if your characters have the chance to take a breather and get to know the people around them, let them! it might help flesh out or even realistically advance their relationships with each other.
Writing tool for your fight scenes.
A retired super villain is in the bank with his 6 year old daughter when a new crew of super villains comes in to rob the place.
Gah help I wrote shitty protest poetry
I don’t know how much longer I’ve got
Life has fucked us over a lot
It may be a minute, it may be a millennium
All we’ve got left is alcohol and bottles of valium
And the feeling we’re wasting away
Nothing left to do but decay
We’ve got something to do, something to say
Everything to lose, no reason to stay
We may speak like we know a lot
But in the end we know our wit’s all we’ve got
We fight for our future, with all that we’ve got
We fight our future, because like it or not
We haven’t got much time and we haven’t got much money
We haven’t got much food and we don’t think that’s funny
We laugh away our lives to hide the pain
We live and we die, afraid to fade
Away into the nothingness or the afterlife
We use what we have left as a way to fight
We may get some shit wrong, it’s inevitable
Since birth we’ve been told we’re inimitable
But the world we live in tells us otherwise
Rich waging war while we slowly die
Dying takes forever for those afraid to die
I don’t care enough anymore to continue to lie
Pretend I have plans for a future so bright
When all that’s ahead is fire and knives
Gunpowder, teargas and broken minds
As we watch on the news as people like us die
When people who raised us tell us not to fight
To give up is a quiet death;
To fight for our future
When it’s a hopeless mess
They say I’m a pessimist but maybe I see
Something more than apathy
I look at people my age and see something inside
Something worth living for, for something to die
Fight for that future ‘til my final breath
Because I’ll be damned if I have a quiet death.
If your plot feels flat, STUDY it! Your story might be lacking...
Stakes - What would happen if the protagonist failed? Would it really be such a bad thing if it happened?
Thematic relevance - Do the events of the story speak to a greater emotional or moral message? Is the conflict resolved in a way that befits the theme?
Urgency - How much time does the protagonist have to complete their goal? Are there multiple factors complicating the situation?
Drive - What motivates the protagonist? Are they an active player in the story, or are they repeatedly getting pushed around by external forces? Could you swap them out for a different character with no impact on the plot? On the flip side, do the other characters have sensible motivations of their own?
Yield - Is there foreshadowing? Do the protagonist's choices have unforeseen consequences down the road? Do they use knowledge or clues from the beginning, to help them in the end? Do they learn things about the other characters that weren't immediately obvious?
by Anastasia Fedorova
You’re a zoologist. When the alien bombardment begins, you decide to stay behind and spend your last moments with the animals. Your zoo, however, is miraculously unharmed. It’s not a coincidence.
It’s the year 2166, and people haven’t changed much. They still eat, they still sleep, there’s not been a robot apocalypse yet, and they dream. But above all this, they still desire the best for their children. That’s why, for the past century, humans have been genetically engineered. Heavily. Rather than trust the hand of fate to decide what your child looks like, what their features and their faults are, they’d rather entrust it to a Genotypist, an expert at gene therapy and study.
It’s common practice for those with them to have their ovaries removed entirely, frozen in stasis until a suitable time. Undesirable pregnancies have reached such a low that it dips below the margin of error for most studies.
But my parents, and their parents, and my grandparents (basically since the invention and legalization of the Genotypist’s trade) have forgone all that. In a world where most are conceived in a test tube, they decided to go the ‘natural’ way, and me and my little sister were born. I love my parents, but sometimes (especially when I put on my glasses, reliant as I am on them) I wish they had maybe at least consulted a Genotypist.
I remember elementary school. The other kids weren’t so bad; they were a little in awe of me, to be honest, as children tend to be of anything different. Their parents, however, were a different story. They were scared of me, I think – which is odd to say, having been five years old or so at the time. Maybe they were afraid of what I represented – the scary old days in which children died at young ages from illness, that children were born with diseases. The chance of me eventually being killed by one genetic factor or another made me a liability. They told their children to avoid me, to not interact – and I grew up with no one. Well, next to no one.
My sister was born when I was four, and I made it my sworn duty to be her friend, because I knew that it would seem the world was against her. And, maybe it was. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, I could spare her my heartache.
But still, I had a life of my own. The only other ‘organic’ my age was another boy, whose parents couldn’t afford the procedure – a rare thing in this day and age of ‘prosperity’, where people would go on the bare minimum for months just to pay for the procedure. He was the only one unafraid of me – a fact I continue to appreciate.
Middle school was where things got worse – the kids were old enough to understand why their parents hated me, and that I was different – and different was bad. I suppose that I took that to heart – I couldn’t deal with quite that level of hate, so I rejected them all in turn. My only connection to life was twofold – my sister and my only friend. Even my parents weren’t spared my rage.
I was kind of an edgy little shit. I got into fights. I vandalized a few things. I got a record. I have to give credit to my parents for putting up with me through that stage of my life.
Anyway, though, I got expelled. Something about picking five fights in a single semester made the principal unwilling to keep me around. Bizarre, really. But I wound up getting shipped out to another school, a few miles away from everyone I knew, and that’s kind of shit.
I was on the bus, sitting in the back with headphones on, when he sat next to me. I was surprised anyone would – not least of all because I tend to dress like leather and black cloth had an orgy. He was about my age – which was fitting, I suppose. Not like there was much variance of age here, save the fifty-something bus driver. Pulling down the headphones, he waved awkwardly. “Hi, I’m Nicholas.”
Thinking it through in my head, I internally figure I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. I offer my hand. “James.”
He shook my hand. “Charmed,” he smiled. He was kind of adorable, in a slightly dorky way. Brown hair, kind of scrawny. Dressed in a button-down shirt and dress pants. And what kind of kid wears leather dress-shoes to school?
“So, James, what brings you to our school? I’ve never seen you around here before.”
“Life,” I sighed dramatically. Gods I hate myself in hindsight.
Nicholas laughed. “I think we’ll get along just fine, James.”
“So, tell me about yourself,” I began. I was ready for a story, and the bus drive was taking what seemed like eternity. It’s not like I could just go back to my headphones and ignore him after he’d been kind enough to introduce himself.
“Well, I’m sixteen, I’ve got two older sisters and a younger brother, and I’m an Aquarius – that what you want to hear?”
“Just maybe. So, tell me – why is it you sat next to me, rather than by the other students you seem to know so well?”
“Well, I’m not exactly popular,” he said, looking around at the others on the bus. “I haven’t got any friends, really. My only friend was a kid named Will, but he transferred out last year. And,” he began to whisper conspiratorially, “They say you… that you’re…”
“That I’m what,” I ask, leaning back a little, hoping to avoid whatever little bombshell he felt inclined to drop.
“That you’re… organic?”
I sigh. How in the hell can I never escape that? I hadn’t even met anyone from the school and they already knew my birth status. “Yeah, yeah I am.”
“That’s… wow. So… like… you were…?”
I could see the question forming in his mind. “Yes, I was conceived the ‘old-fashioned’ way. Same as everyone was two centuries ago.”
“That’s weird.”
I scoffed a little under my breath. “So, you afraid of me now?”
“Not really.”
I looked at him, a little surprised. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, putting his hands up defensively, “I’m a little weirded out by your birth status, but I’m not, like, going to hold it against you. It’s not your fault.”
I rolled my eyes. Another one of these. People who thought I was some kind of sub-human creature, worthy of pity for my status. Like an ape in a zoo. People would be kind enough, I supposed, if I let them sit there and talk at me and feed me bananas, but once I open my mouth, the illusion is scattered. I’m different. I’m a threat.
“What’s not my fault? That my parents fucked and nine months later I popped out? Where do you think, your entire family came from, a few generations back? Maybe most don’t do it that way anymore, but I’m not going to put up with your goddamned, patronizing bullshit. I’m just as human as you.”
He went silent then, a little numb, and then he began. “I’m… sorry…”
He looked like someone had deflated him a little bit. I suppose I had been harsh on him. But I’d dealt with this all my life – it’s not like he asked to be born the way he was, either. “I’m sorry too.”
“So… let’s start over a little. What’s your life like?”
“Got a sister. Anya. Brilliant girl. And, I’m a Cancer. That what you looking for?”
He smiled. “Yeah.”
In about fifteen minutes, we arrived at the school and disembarked. The school was a fancy, shiny new building. My parents had paid through the nose to get me here, I guess. I looked at my schedule. “Do you have Mr. Shall too?”
I looked at my homeroom class. Sure enough, Shall. “Yeah”
“I can show you to his room. He’s the biology teacher. They say his grandfather helped found the science of Genotyping.”
“And he teaches at a high school?”
“Well, his entire family can’t be rich and famous.”
I went to the class, following behind Nicholas, finally sitting at a paired table next to him. Mr. Shall was a burly man in his early forties, dressed in a dress-shirt and tie. He began class with a simple set of words. “I understand that there’s someone new here,” he said, standing up. “I’d like to give him a chance to introduce himself. James, if you would?”
I walked up to the front of the class. “Hi, the name’s James. Nice to meet you.”
I shuffled back to my seat, and we began. He handed out sheets of paper, on which was written a simple timeline going back a couple hundred years. “As you know, Genotyping began in the mid-twenty first century. Zhou Wang Wei wrote the first book on the subject in 2041, a treatise that was translated for western audiences two years later. His western counterpart was John Van Compf, who developed some of the medical equipment used in the field. The basics were simple – but the execution took years of hard work.”
He continued like this for what seemed like hours, but was probably no longer than a few minutes. “And now, there’s next to no children born organically anymore. Why is that, do you think? Who would turn down the medical procedure that can give them ‘ideal’ children? That can make perfect humans, medically speaking. Why risk it?”
A girl near the front raised her hand. “Maybe they’re afraid of it? Of society progressing?”
Shall shook his head a little. “No, Amy. Progress isn’t some measurable thing – what’s a way forward for some is often the way backwards for others. James,” he said, gesturing to me, “Why do you think people don’t hire a Genotypist?”
I looked up at him, and he winked at me. God damn it, the man knew. I stood up. “Maybe they think it’s not right to alter people with machines. After all, didn’t Darwin himself write that diversity is in the best interest for people? Isn’t Genotyping just a way to reduce that diversity? Sure, we might still have variance in eye color, hair color, skin color, but we’re still getting rid of genetic diversity in other ways. Maybe it’s going to come back and bite us.”
Shall nodded. “As good a reason as any.”
A boy across the room shot up. “But, if that happens, won’t the Genotypists figure out a way to save us? If a gene we removed is the secret to saving us, then why don’t we just add it in on the next generation? It’s better off we make the procedure mandatory; that way organics don’t wind up infecting us all with some kind of disease.”
Shall shook his head again. “Sit down, Michael. That’s hardly the – “
Nicholas looked at me, and began to whisper, “James, you’re crying.”
I felt my face with one hand. Indeed, I was. I was also gripping my pencil with such an extraordinary grip that I was surprised it didn’t break. Then, of course, it did. The snap drew attention from the surrounding students, and I used that to my advantage. Rising to my feet again, I spoke. “That’s bullshit. Do you really think that’s progress? Forcing people you don’t like to be like you isn’t ‘progress’, it isn’t ‘safety’. You’re just afraid.” I began to whisper then, “God damn it, I just want to live. Is that so hard?”
I sat down, and was silent the rest of the class.
In the future where Babies mass produced in genetic labs are normal , you are the only “ organic ” in your high school class. It’s the first day of school and the teacher asks you to introduce yourself.
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This blog is for short stories I write based on prompts, sometimes as little as one or two words. Feel free to send prompts, I'm always looking for inspiration. No guarantee I'll update regularly. My most-used blog is @sarcasticcollegestudent. I'll reblog a couple prompts from there.
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