Neuf: Not a Warrioress

Prompt: "The first rule of magic is simple. Don't waste your time waving your hands and hoping when a rock or a club will do." -- McCloctnik the Lucid
From: Random Quote Generator
Word Count: 316
Notes: Eh. I'm so-so about this one.

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Eraldine was a poet's dream. She was armed to the teeth, her petite form covered in various weapons in their holders, and if her face was any indicator, the body that was covered by tools of destruction was what dreams were made of. Any respectable writer that set eyes on her could hardly quell their itching fingers, they could see epic ballads springing onto paper, and in a more secret part of their minds they saw her as a ticket to fame. Women warriors were in.

Not that any of the artists who claimed her as their muse spoke to her about it. She was blissfully unaware of the creative licenses they were taking with her life and person. Paintings of her form were found in almost all noble homes, and stories of her countless adventures were on everyone's lips.

In reality, Eraldine was not a warrior. She was a wizard, and a bad one at that. More often than not her spells failed without a single magical indication. No explosions or opposite reactions, just Eraldine with a puzzled expression looking hopefully around. There was only one type of magic she was good at, and that was making weapons. She could conjure the most dangerous of swords from out of the air. Her specialty was swords, but her repertoire had grown to include battle axes, arrows, pikes, daggers, and other such unmentionables.

Eraldine had tried to sell them, but people seemed to be frightened of her and refused to come closer, or they politely refused, saying they would never buy one of "her brood". She was slightly confused by this, unaware that writers had publicized the idea that she thought of her weapons as her children.

It wasn't until she had grown to be the name on every common and noble person's lips that she actually found out about the situation.

"Well, look here, this book has a character named Eraldine..."

Huit: Born of Elsewhere

The world hates me, and high school is my world. Crowded hallways buzz with talk and soft-feather touches happen all around in the crush of bodies. They shy away from my skin. There is a bubble around me, that no one dares to pop. Words fly over and around, but never land. My speech is lost in the terrible silence of being unheard.

I think I am beautiful. Eyes as big as crystalline salad bowls, the color of endless night. Skin that is opalescent and not white, but the lightest shade of blue. Bones that can be counted. Teeth that catch on my lips and make me taste the sweet, metallic flavor of myself. Legs that stretch for years; like longl twigs in autumn. Fingers that are long, like the spider's legs in my father's attic.

No mother holds me in her arms. I have a father a father who is like rock at the table, his eyes glazed with living through another day. We eat cold soup from cans. I do not like to eat. The food does not stay, and it throttles me until it is up, then out. I am hungry, and I eat, but I cannot keep it.

The town is by the sea. Teenagers voices drift over sand and sea. Surfboards line the coast like little tin soldiers against a hurricane. I like the water and the salt. I sit and watch the waves. They are purposeful waves; I smile at them. Blood trickles into my mouth, and I lick my lips.

The tide rises, the time goes, and water touches me like no other. My clothes are my prison. They're gone, and moonlight falls onto my skin. It glows blue. A voice calls out from behind me on the sand. It is harsh and threatening. My feet slide closer towards the ocean. The voice moves closer, closer. Sharp edged and dangerous.

The sea is my home. I walk farther into its embrace. Waves buffet against me, knocking me down. I can't breath. The moon seems so far away. I am swept farther from the sand. My eyes blur and something in my chest hurts. My head feels smaller and smaller.

I feel a touch to my cheek. My eyes strain. My body limp. Lips are on my own. Dry air pours in. I breathe, and see a woman. Her hair streams all around us, it is long and glows green. Her skin is a deep blue, and she has a tail of milky white scales. I know she is my mother. She looks at me. Her eyes as big as my own. I feel a stirring in my legs, a throbbing in my chest. The water is my air. The tail is my legs.

The world loves me, and the sea is my world.

Sept: I've only ever loved cats and the wrong men.

Prompt: I've only ever loved cats and the wrong men.
From: NaNoWriMo's Adopt an Opening Line Thread
Word Count: 428
Notes: I love this one.

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I've only ever loved cats and the wrong men. Which was why I didn't quite trust Tristan and his kind advances. I felt the stirrings of love begin when he first knocked on my door, his car had broken and couldn't he please use the phone? His shirt stuck to him like a second skin, and his wet jeans hung off of him, and I caught myself thinking, what if they were to fall?

I let him in, and gave him a towel. I knew that he was a stranger, and that no sane person lets a stranger into their home. I have only ever loved the wrong men, and I have never been able to say no to one the moment my heart begins to stir. I remember he smiled brightly. His teeth were almost perfect except for a few crooked interlopers. As I lead him into the kitchen he told me that he had been driving to his new home and was lost. I asked where, thinking I could give him directions. He told me. It was the house next door.

Tristan was a good neighbor. Perhaps too good, since the stirrings that I felt whenever I saw him seemed to increase. He took my breath away, and brought color to my cheeks. He liked to do things for me. To fix my creaky doors, to leave bouquets of flowers on my porch, to help me paint my kitchen. I could barely stand it when he brought catnip plants for my little darlings. We planted them in my little garden together, while Moshi, Heidi, and Tilda watched. There sweet eyes wide with happiness.

When the exes stopped by, knocking angrily on my door, yelling words no one ever wants to hear, Tristan was there. He held me in his arms while I cried, while my special three rubbed against our legs. Sometimes, when the wrong men I had loved where very persistent he made them go away. Small tears fell from my eyes as I tenderly bandaged his scrapes from the scuffles and held ice against bruises. He would lightly touch the side of my face, telling me that he was fine, I didn't need to cry, everything would be alright.

It was raining outside when our lips finally touched. I was hesitant and scared, all the men I had loved had been wrong. Tristan was slow and gentle, his hands running through my hair and caressing my face. Our lips met, and I knew that if Tristan was wrong, I didn't want to be right.

Six: It was nine in the morning. It was way too early for man-slaughter.

Prompt: It was nine in the morning. It was way too early for man-slaughter.
From: NaNoWriMo's Adopt a Line Thread
Word Count: 508
Notes: I've been cursing a lot lately, and the following is no exception. I love the main character in this one, and the fact that I got to use her attitudalicious voice was completely awesome

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It was nine in the morning. It was way too early for man-slaughter. Not that Roscoe gave a rat's ass about it. He was shooting everybody, the bastard. Hadn't I specifically told him not to shoot anybody? The whole criminal thing is an act, Roscoe, just scare them and get the money. If they wanna act brave throw in a punch or something, the guns are all an act. Didn't I tell him that?!? Yeah, maybe the fact that the guns had bullets could be a little misleading, but they were only there if some bat shit insane cashier pulls a hand grenade or something. Then again, if that actually happened I'd be running out of that gas station like all of the demons in hell were flying after me.

Back to Roscoe, the homicidal maniac. It was a normal bust, one of the gas stations we try to hit every now and then, and I think something just kind of cracked in him. He started waving his gun, yelling all this stupid shit, and suddenly, BANG! There's a not-so-nice red stain on some poor dude's shirt. Damn unlucky cashier, shoulda been wearing a bullet proof vest with his profession. If they actually did, then I'd be way outta luck, so I guess it's kinda lucky they haven't learned yet.

So, anyway, here I am hiding behind the Cheetos, Dorritos, and Freetos, stuffing my face like some nervous gerbil thing. Let me tell you, salty goodness only goes so far when you are having the stress breakdown of your life. Roscoe's shooting up something, probably some poor, innocent customer who walked in like a total idiot.

"Hey, Simone." Roscoe says. I stop cramming chips into my mouth, and freeze. His voice sounds like one of those one's from the movies, the ones that are from crazy houses or are the slasher killers. "I wanna give you something, babe."

Probably something small and lead, I think, and I start crawling towards the refridgerators. Lord knows I need some Ben and Jerry's with these chips. A bullet ricochets off the tile next to me, and I turn around real fast.

"I found you." He says. His pupils are giant, and I'm thinking that Roscoe didn't crack, he just went a little overboard with the crack or something. I'm not much of a druggy, so I didn't know what he was on, but it sure wasn't my vices of choice: Alcohol and ice cream. "I'm gonna give you something real nice."

His fingers move to the trigger. I sigh and reach into my jacket.

BANG.

I put my gun back into my jacket, and reach into the fridge. I pull out some Cherry Garcia, and head towards the counter. I step over Roscoe's body, careful not to step into the blood that's pooling around his face from the shot that went straight through his forehead. I snatch the money out of the cash register, and flick off the security cameras.

Once outside, I walk off into the nearest alleyway. "Fucking Roscoe..."

Cinq: “That’s not a goldfish.”

Prompt: “That’s not a goldfish.”
From: NaNoWriMo's Give and Take a Prompt Thread
Word Count: 213
Notes: The following has britspeak! Yay! However, if you don't like the good ol' British b-words then read no further because dear Ms. McFarland felt like using them.

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The sun was bright in a cloudless, cerulean sky. Its rays pounced down to the ocean below, and reflected playfully in the waves. A single lifeboat bobbed on the open water with two people sitting inside of it. A man and a woman.

"That's not a goldfish." The man was looking out at the water, and at the shadowy form that seemed to be swimming closer and closer.

"Of course it's not a bloody goldfish, Mr. Abbington! We're in the middle of the ocean. Why in God's name would there be a bloody goldfish in the middle of the ocean?" The woman gestured wildly, the flamboyant and expensive, feathered hat on her head bobbing along with her actions.

"Ms. McFarland! I hardly think that foul language will help a thing. We should remain calm at a time like this." Mr. Abbington said. He was surprised that the poor woman's dainty shell had already cracked wide open, and thought that the poor dear would probably be fainting soon.

Ms. McFarland narrowed her eyes, and the feather wavered dangerously. "If you think I'm going to remain calm when we are stranded in the middle of the bloody ocean, then you've gone barmy!" An emerging shark fin from the water made her eyes widen. "Oh, bugger."

Education at its Finest

Let me clue you into a little secret that just about everyone knows. School is hard. High school is hard. Life is hard. Though I'm willing to bet that high school is one of the hardest bits of life, and college will be another one.

I thought I would be able to continue this writing blog throughout school, which I admit is completely foolish of me. However, I'm still going to try. I'm home sick today, so I thought I would pop into my lovely little blog and post. A prompt will be appearing sometime in the next hour.

Thanks and Toodles!
Kira

Quatre: Thunderous, mystic, lovely, moon, mediocre, open, peppermint, anxiety

Prompt: Thunderous, mystic, lovely, moon, mediocre, open, peppermint, anxiety
From: Dragon Writing Prompts: Sparklers
Word Count: 238
Notes: Just something calm. Most of the words are directly in there, but a few are more implied.

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I opened the door to my house and walked out onto the porch. The swing was still damp with rain droplets, but I sat down on it anyway. The quiet creaking began as I began to swing slowly. My feet rolled on and off the ground in a steady pattern.

I have always liked to sit outside after thunderstorms. There's something awfully mystic about that time, especially if the sun is down and all the stars are just starting to pop into existence for another night. The luminous light of the moon is everywhere, like a persistent morning fog. The air is sharp and clean, almost like a peppermint after eating nothing but lettuce. Yet, the most striking thing is that all the anxiety of the world has melted away. Into nothing but a lovely night, it seems.

Glory, my fluffy excuse for a cat, meows at me. Her voice is mediocre compared to Hallelujah, her brother. He soon joins her, his melodious mews somehow managing to turn Glory's pathetic attempts into perfect harmony. The two of them jump up onto the swing, hissing at the wetness. They squeeze onto my lap and curl up into tiny circles. Purring now, Glory far outshines her counterpart. Her purr is deep and rumbling, strong and soothing. I immerse my fingers in their fur, scratching their backs.

Purrs increase, and somehow they remind me of the thunder that just passed on.

Trois: "Those clouds are so poorly photoshopped."

Prompt: "Those clouds are so poorly photoshopped."
From: NaNoWriMo's Give and Take a Prompt Thread
Word Count: 207
Notes: Be forewarned, one of the characters below has a potty mouth. This turned out a bit more serious than I had intended, and the ending is a tad abrupt, but I like the simplicity of it all. Duncan is completely awesome as well, wonder where he came from?

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"Those clouds are so poorly photoshopped."

"Shit, Ari. Those are real clouds. How the hell can real clouds be poorly photoshopped?" Duncan said, his tongue piercing clicking against his teeth.

"The colors are too blah, not enough saturation or brightness." She sat up and pointed at the western half of the sky. "And, look there, those clouds look like they've gone through the cloning tool. Completely unoriginal and fake. What a crock."

Duncan pushed himself upright. He rolled his eyes at Ari, "You know, I brought you here so you would relax, you adorable, little idiot." He scanned the skies before his eyes fell onto a large cloud. "For instance, I was thinking you would make pictures out of the clouds. Not accuse God of being bad at photoshop. Isn't that sacrilegious, or something?"

"I don't know." Ari shrugged. "It doesn't really matter I guess." She rummaged around in her purse for a moment before coming up with a pack of nicotine gum.

"Still trying to quit?"

Ari nodded. She popped a piece in her mouth and grimaced. "This crap is horrible, I don't care how much they advertise otherwise."

Laughing, Duncan reached over and ruffled his hair. "Those fuckers. I bet they're bad at photoshop too."

Deux: He found her body at midnight.

Prompt: He found her body at midnight.
From: NaNoWriMo's Give and Take a Prompt Thread
Word Count: 80
Notes: At first I was going to go in a totally different direction with this, but suddenly Cinderella popped into my mind, and the following poem was created. It's a little sad, a little morbid, but the language makes me happy.

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Moonlight ticking up the clock,
Nine, Ten, Eleven
Almost Twelve.
Close, near, not far at all.

A luminous ball,
Gonna dance all night?
Only a wish, but the spell
Won't last forever.

Twirl, spin, waltz.
Sparkle, laugh, live.
Two shiny shoes,
One prince to love.

Ticking, Tocking.
Moonlight creeping up
A clock.
Midnight, Midnight!

Run, dash, flee.
Dress dissolving,
Pumpkins crumbling,
Magic Ending.

Pretty lil' shoes,
Not so great for speed.
Trip, Crash, Fall.
He found her body at midnight.