"Cousin" - Prompted Free Write

Prompt: A visit from a strange cousin
Word Count: ~550
Written Today

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He arrives on the third of May.

What, who?

A strange knocking on door, a certain rhythm, a tune – sounding as if someone were thumping away on your front door with a spoon. In fact he is doing just that, a long spoon made of wood firmly in his grasp and raised for another round when you finally drag yourself across the apartment to respond to the noise. The sun isn’t up yet. He hadn’t called or written, of course.

He never does, this cousin of yours. When you were twelve he showed up for the first time on the front porch of your house, with a small blue suitcase and a toothy grin. He said something to your mother you couldn’t quite hear. You watched her grow pale and nod. “This is your cousin,” she told you, hustling the boy into the house. After that there were no more questions about his origins. Your mother said “It’s none of your concern” when you tried to ask. He simply laughed at you.

He stayed for three months. You would spent long, lazy summer afternoons playing in the shade among the trees, venturing far into the forest that surrounded your house, playing the most fantastic games. He could make the leaves on the forest floor spin around in awesome spirals, or chase after you, taking on all kinds of menacing forms as you ran screaming. You would burst out into the sun, your yard, tumbling in the grass.

He broke almost all of your favorite toys, eventually. There was no point in yelling at him for it; he never bothered to apologize and you always grew bored enough alone to forgive him anyway.

And now he is here again, standing in the hallway of your apartment building a good hour before dawn. This time it is his hair, otherwise neatly cropped and quite unremarkable, that is bright blue. If you didn’t know better you could swear there was glitter it it.

“Andy!” he exclaims, and tackle-hugs you before you can respond. You fumble for words. He invites himself inside in the meantime.

Who is he, really? Where did he come from? You never really did find out. How exactly are you related? You’ve never seen so much as a picture of any of your relatives, when you pause to think.

Why exactly do you believe him? Is it the way he conjures shortcuts in the metro after a night out, musty passages beneath the earth that you could have sworn never existed until he exclaimed, “look here!”? Is that enough? He never really speaks with any kind of consistency. There is no root, no pattern to his actions or words.

Perhaps you are inclined to believe in anything. Perhaps when you were seventeen you saw your mother simply glimmer out of existence. Did that really happen? You never spoke of it to anyone, never translated mind-images to words. There are things you do not speak of. You do not introduce this cousin of yours to your neighbors, colleagues, friends. He is nameless.

The space between sound and silence. An echo. The pile of laundry in the bathroom, a pasta stain on the kitchen floor, the vague scent of cigarette smoke and earth that lingers long after a departure, sudden and unannounced as always.

'paranoia' - short prompted free-write

trying to get into the habit of actually doing a bit of creative writing again, now that i have some time; this is me dipping a toe into the water, I guess.


Prompt: A loud knock on the door
Wordcount: 312
Written Today


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You always jump, when you hear a loud knock on the door. Always the moment of muscles tensed, pulse suddenly shot up - the expectation of disaster, surely present, surely waiting for you behind a single slab of wood and a half-rusted doorknob.

Always you wait with dread for the thumping of boots up the stairs, the particular sound of a certain type of tire and engine pulling up to the curb. Cause and effect: you hear the knock at the door and you gasp. Your hands shake when you go to undo the locks. You fumble it, stretch out the time before the door must, inevitably, open up.

When it does you sigh. It's the post man, with a package and a clipboard for you to sign. Or the neighbor from down the hall, housedress a mess, asking to borrow a cup or two of salt. Or a newspaper salesmen, looking to talk you into a subscription. Or a Jehovah's Witness, with literature for you to read. And so on.

You answer them quickly, eyes darting behind them, down the hall, relieved and yet unwilling to believe your luck, quite. Yes, no, please, okay I will look, go now, you have to go. Sometimes they give you strange looks, when you shut the door so quickly, do up the lucks again. But you must - do up the locks and then sink down on the floor, back against that old door, knowing you can finally breath.

Then you wait again, anxiously, for the next knock on the door, the loud start of a car in the night, the sound of footsteps in the distance. Disaster lurks everywhere, waiting to grab you, to swallow you up the way it did your father when you were four, in a country that no longer exists, decades ago. You wait for it and watch, trembling.

character study - a murderer

Gibrant kills for money because he knows it is what he is good at doing - better than most men could be. He knows how to kill with a sharpened axe, with well polished knives, with a rope. He knows how to snap a man's neck with his bare hands, the kind of instinctive knowledge that comes only from having done something many times before.

He knows how to kill quickly, and silently. He doesn't do it with any particular bloodlust or frenzy or need, the way some men - the really dangerous ones - do. He doesn't do it with revulsion, disgust. In fact, he doesn't do it with any particular feeling at all. There's always a curious disconnect between him and his target, a certain absence of emotion so that, in snapping that neck or slicing that throat, it feels no different than it would to slice open a sack of good, fresh grain - the slightest twinge of pity at the loss, and then nothing.

This makes him a very efficient - and expensive - killer indeed.

Gibrant only kills for money because, while he never feels very much at all for those whose lives he is ending he does, in fact, still have the ability to feel. He doesn't like the looks people give him when he kills, or when he enters a tavern or shop where his reputation precedes him: disgust, nervousness, anger, a certain fear-tinged awe. The witnesses are, of course, the worst. He still remembers the look a certain girl gave him: she was maybe fourteen, pretty though very small, and it was her father's throat Gibrant had been very entusiastically paid to slice open. He had done so, not bothering to pause at the man's desperate, furious begging, offers of bribes and pleas, no. But afterwards, when she'd stumbled in....the girl hadn't screamed. She hadn't cried or cursed or gone into hysterics or any of that. Instead she had stood there, backed up into a wall, shaking. Shaking and staring at him with a look of pure horror, a haunting look, a look that made it perfectly clear that in her eyes he was a monster, totally inhuman, despicable. It was all he could do, in that moment, to leave, and quickly.

No, he didn't like it, the way people that knew who he was looked at him. Neither fear from good men nor admiration from despicable ones was desireable. He didn't like being seen as something apart, something instead of someone, a force of nature rather than simply a man who was good at what he had been trained to do.

He didn't want to be a monster. In doing it for money - only ever for money - he drew a line. He was not a monster but a mercenary, a professional. If someone attacked him, even viciously, sneakily in an alley or pub, he would only disable them, knock them out, perhaps break a few bones. But never the killing blow, no.

It haunted him, the idea that one day, if he wasn't very, very careful, he'd stop feeling anything at all, stop being a man entirely and become the thing so many people already thought him to be.

HP-World Inspired Short

... They scramble after that, the woman pulling on tights, deftly doing up the laces of her boots. The man fumbles a bit with the buttons of his new robe, glancing over in her direction every so often in spite of himself. He wishes there was a way to make these last moments last, to somehow slow time so that he could enjoy the way her hair falls into her face, wild-like and amazing, the way sun filters into the room through the blinds, illuminating them - the last moments of this private reality before...

But there isn't, and she is running about as efficiently as if the place was her own, tying the hair back, cursing as she almost stumbles over some book haphazardly strewn on the floor, cursing some more as she gathers the last of her things, wand in wand pocket, eyes meeting his, glance at the clock, throat cleared meaningfully. The little blue man with the balloon in the hallway painting chuckles behind her.

He's locking the door when she mentions it.

"This won't work, you know."

"What?"

"This. Us. It will be awkward. One look at you and the others will bloody well know."

"What do you mean? I.."

"Your face is an open book. Everyone knows it, and even if they somehow didn't see, we're a team. This changes things. It could be dangerous for everyone."

"Well, what do you... I mean..."

"We could obliviate each other. Just this last night. It really wouldn't be much, you know, just a few hours..." His face registers shock.

"I really don't think that's a good idea.." he begins, but she cuts him off, insists, knowing that she shouldn't bully him so, with that puppy-eyed look he gives her, but then that look is the whole damned reason they are in this situation, the reason she should of known better than to agree to go for another drink with him in the first place.

He agrees in the end, with utter reluctance, a look that says he might change his mind at any moment. On three, then, they agree, wands pointed at each other. Just the last few hours. We had a drink and went home, agreed?

"One. Two..." And then a crack, a stunned look as the spell hits him. The woman knows she is even more unfair for this, for not waiting to the third number, for the lie . The deja vu feeling she's had since waking up,  her knowledge of her own nature - she is near-certain that this isn't the first or even the second time they've done this. Clearly, erasing her own memory doesn't stop her from making the same mistake again and again. This is only necessary. This time she will know better. Really, there's no reason at all she shouldn't be able to stay away; he's only a colleague, after all.

"See you in the office, then." she whispers, swallows hard, and dissaparates.

The man's eyes slowly travel up the white-flecked ceiling above him.

How in Merlin's name did I get into the corridor?

untitled short bit

They name their ships after the disasters they wish to avoid: Shipreck, Catastrophe, Mutiny, Arson, Infidelity and Scurvy can all be found docked in the ports of the larger cities of the world. If you name your ship after something, they say, that's almost like asking for it to happen, and everyone knows that the things you most want, the things you long for, are the things that will be lost, the things that will perversly wriggle out of your grasp right when you think you finally have them, the things you will always glimpse but never own. To them, a ship is a most sacred thing, home in a way other nations can't will never grasp. Such a name is the greatest protection a man can give it, they will insist, laughing. They usually laugh at the stories behind the names too.


They laugh a lot, the Sea-Riders, as they are usually called by men who go out to sea once or twice in a lifetime at most. When one of them dies they share out his things according to his wishes and throw his body into the waves with the most minimal of ceremony. Then they dance, and bring out the funeral-minstrels and jokers and mimes. Up to a third of a crew has a minstrel or joker suit for such occasions. They drink and dance and fool, laughing until their bellies hurt from the strain. To them, the somber mood and tears of the landed nations' funerals are incomprehensible: of course you are sad at the death of your relation, your friend, your shipmate. Must you show it off then, get together to compare who can show their pain most clearly, who can sob loudest and longest of all? That pain is yours, for yourself and those closest to you. In the open, with others, it is best to remember what is lost and what you still have, to live in the moment and laugh deeply as you breath in a salty night breeze.


They laugh, too, when they tell their history to their children, each generation passing the words on to the next. More bitterly, perhaps, but they do, when they tell of the island they once called their own, with the lush trees full of fruit whose nectar they could trade for a fortune, the villages and long, narrow homes. They laugh when they tell of the mountain that suddenly exploded into ash and flame, that poured smoke so thick it choked whoever was caught in its cloud, the liquid fire that smothered everything, everyone but those few skilled or lucky enough to pile onto the small fleet of trading boats. And too, about their journey half across the world, from one capital to the next begging for refuge and shelter and being denied until they finally decided to make those boats themselves their land, their shelter, the only place in the world they belonged. The dark waves and his final snort, giggle, or weak grin, is all, each Sea-Rider knows, that will be his in eternity.

"A Stare" - Short Prompted Free-write

Prompt: "A crumpled one dollar bill"
Wordcount: 642
written today
  
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She pays you in crumpled one dollar bills so often you wonder if she is some kind of stripper or whore, though you’d never be so bold as to ask, of course. She doesn’t really dress or act like it though: when she comes into your store, her ash blond hair is almost always tied back in a ponytail or a loose bun with a few strands floating freely here and there, and she wears loose jeans and long cardigans that almost reach down to her knees and always cover her arms. She doesn’t wear make-up or high-heeled shoes or anything of the like, so you have no evidence for your theory, such that it is, except for those dollar bills, and the fact that she always comes in during the day, mid-morning often as not, so who knows what she is doing or dressed like at night.

She always smiles at you, in a vague, distracted way, but rarely speaks more than a word or two as you go through the motions of your transaction. Sometimes the smile reaches her eyes, but usually not. Usually, you think she looks rather sad. You tried to tell her a joke once or twice, to see if you could make her smile, but she didn’t seem to find it funny or really even understand it was a joke you’d just told – most people are like that though, don’t get your jokes, never have. Sometimes you think back on her visit hours after she’s left, trying to imagine what you could have said or done differently, something that would have gotten her to talk or laugh. It’s been months since you’ve first seen her and you still don’t know her name.

You could try talking to her straightforwardly of course, but that never seems to work out very well for you, with anyone. You never know what to say, can’t be bothered with the little things that mean nothing that people are always saying to each other; the things that really interest you, the things you really know, are things that no one wants to hear about. You used to talk about them anyway as a kid, talk and talk to anyone who’d stay still long enough to listen because they were just so exciting and you wanted to share. You lost quite a few friends that way, annoyed quite a few rather larger kids who hadn’t been friends in the first place… These days you know better, stay quiet mostly, and that works out well enough with most people.

With her though, you wish you could speak. You wish you could ask about semi-circular the bruises you saw on her neck once, about why she comes in so often when almost everyone else only comes in once a week or maybe twice at most (you count their visits, keep track compulsively the way you keep track of the number of steps between your counter and the break room, the way you sort your food on your plate or tray by color before you eat, the way you check three times that everything is off before you leave your house in the morning), about the money and the far off look in her eyes and about how pretty she is and whether she would like to…

You ask her in dreams, in lazy flights of fancy born of mid-day ennui, in the little blue ink doodles you scribble on the edges of the paper notebook you keep on the counter at all times. You ask in words that float away, that dissipate before they are ever formed, in jumbled thoughts, in the little cracks and sarcastic remarks that you recite for yourself every day. You ask when you stare so intensly at her back as she walks in and out, at her eyes, her hair.

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An Older Short Free-writing Prompted Exercise

This isn't really complete, but I do like the atmosphere of it, something to potentially expand on later on...

Prompt: “The golden harp...”
Wordcount: 530

written 07/2010

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The golden harp loomed over the left half of the castle’s antechamber, polished, shining, and as always untouched. It was said that the thing was a relic from another age, from when giants ruled the earth or, alternatively, when the kingdoms of man were still so great that a man’s fingers were large and strong enough to pull at its taut strings. These days, there were few brave enough to touch the thing, never mind actually using it for its intended purpose. These days, it stood only to awe and intimidate, kept in near-pristine condition by a good half-dozen overworked servants.

         

In that it was mostly successful, drawing stares from many of the less familiar faces among those milling around below it on some official business or other. It even affected Fiddle, who was perched atop it, though in his case it was excitement, rather than fear or awe, that raised his pulse above its usual steady rhythm. Fiddle was, among other things, a rather musical creature, and even now the young man’s fingers itched with the urge to try to make the old instrument sing. He could almost imagine the shocked, then appreciative looks of his audience – gratifying, yes, but sadly impossible. Fiddle, you see, happened to be invisible at the current moment, a state that granted him the freedom necessary to go about his business unharassed. The enchantment he was wearing cost quite a bit of coin to have cast, and would be quite ruined by an explosion of music in one of the castle’s most frequented chambers.

         

So the young man sighed, gave the golden harp one last forlorn glance, and scurried onwards, silently making his way to the core of the castle, where the most serious of city matters were being conducted. Among the many talents that the young man possessed, by far the most lucrative was his skill as a spy: Fiddle, the boss liked to brag, could not only get you any and all of the information you required, but also do it so the target would never suspect a thing. Spying wasn’t the funnest of activities – not nearly as nice as playing his lute on a street corner or even a good if not-so-honest game of cards, but as far as coin was concerned, nothing else came close. These days Fiddle could easily afford all kinds of nice little luxuries, chief among them these solid invisibility chants that stayed on for hours and didn’t wear off at the slightest hint of stress or moisture. Of course, Fiddle still tried to stay dry and calm, out of prudent habit if nothing else, but it was nice to have some leeway, a bit of just-in-case wiggle room and the like.

          

All that success did have its downsides – these days he had much more to lose if he failed, and the subsequent high-stress background to the missions was almost enough to make the man go back to selling his music for pennies in the street. Almost. “Well, I suppose everything in this world has to cost you something,” he told himself whenever thinking too much about the state of things started to give him a headache.

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