Tag Archive | 3-word wednesday

#3WW Three-Word Wednesday – Ignorance/Bliss, a ficlet of Fae Apoc

Written to today’s  Three-Word Wednesday prompt: Happy-go-lucky, Ignorant Joyous.  Fae Apoc setting, post apoc.

Eurion remembered a time when common wisdom had said it was bliss to be ignorant. 
It was an odd time to be musing on that, he supposed, as he picked through the wreckage of a former suburb. 
He understood the concept, of course: "what you don’t know can’t hurt you;" you were supposed to be happy-go-lucky and full of cheer if you didn’t know what horrors awaited you. 
These people – these people probably hadn’t thought of themselves as ignorant.  They’d been teachers or lawyers or accountants.  But then everything had fallen to shit, and the things they’d needed to know hadn’t been the things they’d known.  
Ignorance might have been bliss in the old world, but the mess in front of Eurion was hardly joyous. 

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Enchanting, a story of the Faerie Apocalypse for Three-Word Wednesday

Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.
Elves are marvelous. They cause marvels.
Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.
Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.
Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.
Elves are terrific. They beget terror….
-Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett

Alwin was giddy. She’d touched him. She’d brushed her hand over his, and she had smiled at him!

The lady had called herself Titania. When everyone who happened to be nobody at all was claiming gods’ names – there was that thing with “Zeus” in Greece, that thing with “Hera” in New York City, and nobody really wanted to think about the problems with Czernobog in Buffalo – it wasn’t surprising that a beautiful woman would take on a beautiful name. But she wasn’t standing in the center of town declaring her godhead like those nutcases, or trailing fanatic followers like some of the others – Bast. Bast had been a bad case, according to the news.

No, she was just sitting in a bar – some might say “holding court,” but Alwin thought they were snobs. She was just sitting at The Last Dock, drinking beer and smiling that enchanting smile at everyone.

Alwin’s smile faltered. Her gaze had moved on from him – of course, she had other things to thing of, other things to worry about. But she was smiling at Joe from down the street now, and her fingers were brushing over his hand now.

He’d have to get her to look at him again. He’d have to do something to get her attention.

Alwin finished his beer and picked up a pool cue.

for the 3-Word Wednesday prompt here

From the middle of the apocalypse blogged on [tumblr.com profile] faeapoclive and [twitter.com profile] FaeApocLive

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#3WW: Flexible

This story involves involuntary capture and bondage.

“I must say, it’s been a while since I’ve found anything quite so amusing.” Tash poked the boy’s side gently. “You are certainly more entertaining than – well, than anyone I can remember in the last decade, at the very least. And so pliable, so elastic. Are you sure you weren’t in the circus?”

“Fuck you, lady.” The man was, indeed flexible; he’d have to be, to be tied up the way Tash had managed without dislocating anything. But as lithe and as squirmy as he was – and he was very much so lithe and even more so squirmy – he wasn’t getting away. Not until Tash felt like letting him go.

“Oh, I imagine you will eventually. And quite pleasantly, quite, ah, deeply, if your gyrations are any indication. You have lovely hips, too. Are you sure you weren’t a model?”

“No.” He gritted his teeth as she stroked his bare skin. “No. Not an acrobat. Not a model. Not a policeman.” He’d, at one point, displayed an interest in her handcuffs. Now, of course, he was wearing them.

His arm came free with surprising velocity and he slammed an elbow into Tash’s head. “I’m an escape artist.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/978474.html. You can comment here or there.

Misery is a Privilege, a story of ~fae apoc for #3WW in re. our current twitter conversation

Sometimes, the 3 words just write the story.
3-Word Wednesday, Misery, Privilege, Stale.

“Misery is a privilege.” Her jail-keeper – her Mentor and teacher – dropped a heel of stale bread through the slit in the door. It was followed quickly by a very small tureen of what would probably be equally-stale water, and a very thin slice of sausage.

Cha didn’t answer this time. She had tried answering last time, and the meat had gone away. She sat, the way she had been instructed, head pressed to her knees, and accepted her instruction.

“Misery tells you several things. It tells you that you are still alive, first and foremost. It tells you what you want. And, like pain, it tells you what is wrong.

“So tell me, Charla, what is it you want?”

Cha didn’t look up. She had not been instructed to look up. “Ma’am?”

“It is a simple question… but it isn’t, is it? The first thing that comes to your mind will do for now.”

“Sunshine, ma’am.”

A second slice of meat slipped through the door slot. “Well, then, Charla, I think you better figure out how to find it. It’s time to start learning, dear.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/945709.html. You can comment here or there.

Time for Play

Written to the Three-Word Wednesday Prompt: Annoyed hushed pain. Sparked in part by following several “abandoned places” blogs across the social media platforms.

“Shit.” Harry landed hard on the floor, spitting out profanity in a hiss of pain. “Shit, shit, fuck.”

“Quiet.” Jayden held up a warning hand. “They’re still here. They have to be.”

“Where are you, children?” The voice was robotic, monotonous. There was no way it could sound annoyed. And yet, somehow it did. “Children, you come out and play now.”

“I told you…” Harry was holding his hand over his shoulder; blood was seeping out round the edges. “The old places are fun, but only as long as you don’t go into the locked rooms.”

“Hsst,” Jayden hushed. She shouldn’t have opened the door. She knew that. But it had been there, just beckoning: KEEP OUT, the letters still bold and bright when everything else in the abandoned hospital was grey and dingey. “Shh…”

“Where are you, children? It is time to play with Clownbot.” Was the robot coming closer? Would it see them if they moved?

“I’m sorry.” She moved closer to Harry. “I knew better.” The blood wasn’t stopping. They were in a hospital, a hospital… but there was nothing left here to save him with.

“Children, you belong in the junior ward. You need to play in the junior ward with Clownbot. You need to do it now.”

“Fine.” Jayden stood up and stepped around the corner. “Harry, go for the door. Come on, Clownbot.” All she had was a crowbar and a flashlight. It was going to have to do. “Let’s play.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/910051.html. You can comment here or there.


“All right. This could get messy, but if we do it right, it could also be fun.”

Leia was sitting cross-legged on the coffee table in the middle of the suite, studying the group of them. She looked, Saga thought, a bit like their Aunt Ruki. Blonde, of course, and with the feathers on the sides of her head, but it was more in the way she carried herself.

Of course, Saga would never be considering this with Aunt Ruki. Not and be contemplating breathing next week too.

“Messy sounds fun.” The boy named Butler had a cheerful disposition and an aggressively untidy demeanor. Saga wanted to brush him. “How messy are we talking?”

“Well, there’s you, me, Saga, and Aaron.” Aaron, the youngest member of their potential arrangement, was sitting quietly on the floor, carefully not looking at anyone. He hadn’t said anything… ever, as far as Saga could remember. “There’s also the first-year Saga’s interested in, and there’s that fourth-year that’s interested in you, Butler. Probably under the mistaken impression that your name is accurate.”

Butler blushed darkly. It was quite a cute look on him. “Mmm.”

“In terms of romantic relationships, there’s of course also the complications involved in any relationship, times… many. And possibly more many, adding in even more options for envy. To say nothing of what happens as each of us graduate over the next few years.

“And, of course, anyone who’s envious of,” Leia ticked off on her fingers, “our suite, which is the best one, the family relationships here – well, between Saga and I, at least – the impression that Saga and I are hoarding at least two, maybe three underclassmen, or the fact that that two of you are, ah, hoarding Saga and I.”

Saga caught a glimpse of Aaron’s face. He must have thought himself unobserved, because his expression had slipped into something almost creepy. Plotting, she thought; he looked like he was plotting. “Messy,” Saga muttered. Well, she was the daughter of the Black Prince and the Call of the Whirlwind. She could handle one calculating first-year.

One calculating first-year, one aggressively untidy house-elf, her cousin the demon, and possibly a pretty blonde hermaphrodite – all in a four-bedroom polygonal relationship where they were only betting that there’d be more fucking than fighting. Saga found herself smiling. “Messy sounds good to me.”

Her father hadn’t tried to name her Epic for nothing.

Written for Three-Word Wednesday. Today’s words were envious, messy, calculating.

Addergoole has a landing page here.

These characters (parents shown in tags where there is one):

Leia is the daughter of Viðrou (shown in DW icon) and Cybele, who is the daughter of Elfred and Niassa. (Niassa is in Addergoole Year 9 in the Wylie stories; Elfred is in Addergoole Original Series in a bit part.).

Saga is the daughter of Yoshi and Song; Song is the daughter of Akaterina and Agravain (Addergoole Year 9). Yoshi and Viðrou share a mother; Viðrou and Ruki share a father.

Butler is the son of Bailee (Kendra/Werther) and Diarmaid(Mabina/Cassidy) (all four in Addergoole Original Series). And Aaron is the son of Chimera/Sunil, Sunil being the son of Eluned and Olifur from Addergoole Year 9


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Silenced, a ficlet for #3ww

Written to the Three-Word Wednesday Prompt: Docile, Inflict, Whimper.

Includes unkind acts being done to someone apparently willing.

Sparked in part by this post in little-details

He was docile when they put the device on him: he stood still in the harness they’d built for him and did not complain nor struggle.

It looked like the unholy cousin of a neck brace, a muzzle, and a slave collar, and it was built to inflict pain and to silence him. It encased his neck down to his shoulders and his face up to his eyes, and it was not removable without three keys. It looked supremely uncomfortable; it was even less pleasant than that to wear.

And yet he allowed it without fighting. He could have killed them all before they got the first chain on him; he could have stopped them long before they locked the contraption around him, but he stood still, passive. Docile.

It struck in Padma’s craw, watching him. Watching them. Part of her, the animal part, was screaming Trap, trap. Run away! The tiger allowed you that close only because he was getting ready to pounce.

The human part of her was cringing at the cruelty. They could have built the device to be kind, and they had not. They could have attempted surgical means of silencing. Those had not even been brought up as options. They could have – perhaps – asked him to not speak. Padma was uncertain anyone but her had even thought of that.

When the last technician fastened the last lock, only then did their prisoner whimper. It was a tiny sound – small enough that it would not have been audible in Padma’s observation chamber if it hadn’t been for the high-sensitivity mics situated around the subject.

But it was enough to send the technicians running, and, more importantly, it was enough to set off the devices fail-safes. Their prisoner fell to his knees, sweat beading on his forehead.

She should have them turn down the feedback. But Padma pushed the intercom button. “That’s good,” she told the technicians. They had done what they were told. They had risked the prisoner’s killing voice. “Leave him be, now.”

It wasn’t what you’d call living, the existence he’d succumbed to. Why had he done it?

Perhaps, Padma thought, in time she’d be brave enough to ask. For now, she turned off the lights in the observation chamber and walked away.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/903175.html. You can comment here or there.

Three-Word Wednesday and Foedus Planatarum: Evolving

This piece is a prelude to my Foedus Planetarum setting, set many decades before the other stories. It is written for the Three-Word Wednesday prompt: content, evolve, sober.

“Humankind did not evolve.”

It was not the sort of thing you wanted to tackle sober, but Imri was the Space Department’s Chief of Science, and she could not be seen to be drunk on the job.

“That is,” she looked over her notes again. “Humanity did evolve, quite a bit. But humanity, on earth… well, it’s complex.”

There were three other people in the room with her. Two of them had white-iridescent hair and slit-pupiled iris like a cat. The other one was the Space Department’s Chief of Security, and he was waiting impatiently for her to work through this.

She looked at the man? who was her counterpart for the Jocet. “All right. So humanity originally evolved… somewhere. And then was seeded, colonized out to various planets in… slightly modified forms?”

The Jocet’s language was alien, but, at the same time, it was not alien. Their translators had been able to comprehend it, and, conversely, the Jocet’s translators could handle English. Her counterpart nodded. “It is simplified, of course. But you are content with your understanding?”

“Content? Content?” Imri shook her head. “No, no, I could spent a lifetime studying this and not be content. But do I have enough to brief my peers? Yes.” She slumped back into her chair. “And then, then I have enough understanding to request a sabbatical to further research this.”

The Chief of Security – the Terran-human, North-Atlantic-Nations Chief of Security – shook his head. He’d followed just enough to know he was lost. “I think if you can explain this to the rest of the Chiefs, I’ll put in my rec that you get that research as a fully-funded work project.”

Imri couldn’t argue. Looking across the table at the Jocet, she had a feeling Earth was going to be playing knowledge-catch-up for quite a while.

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Standards, a story of Jahnan and Yira for Three Word Wednesday

This story is posted out of sequence, because I STILL haven’t quite finished Square Two on my Foedus [community profile] trope_bingo card. It will require some filler, I think, but will probably come after Mad in Atter

Written to the Three-Word Wednesday Prompt: Distracted, genuine, modest

New to the setting? Jahnan is a bounty hunter who has caught Yira and is attempting to return him for the bounty. However, Complications Ensue.

Yira Trembane’s hand had landed on Jahnan’s knee and was sneaking slowly up her thigh.

“I should have left you in the handcuffs,” she muttered. Getting to their next destination would not be a difficult navigation – if she wasn’t distracted.

“It’s not like I can reach any of the navigation from here.” Yira wiggled the fingers of his free hand in the direction of the input panels. “Or like I can get out. Your ship’s got that handled.”

The Maru’s “Guest Chair” was holding Jahnan’s prisoner firmly, bands pressed against his chest, forehead, lap, and ankles, but his lower arms had been left free, because, as he pointed out, he couldn’t reach any navigation instruments

He seemed to be doing some instrument-free navigation of his own, however, his fingers squeezing and creeping, squeezing and creeping. “Besides,” he purred, “you’re a very attractive woman. And it’s a very small ship.”

“You know,” Jahnan picked up his hand and moved it to his own lap. “I might be more flattered by that if you had a single genuine, honest bone in your whole body.”

“Oh, don’t be modest.” He moved his hand back to her knee. “You must know you’re an attractive woman.”

She moved his hand again. For such a big man, he had surprisingly delicate fingers. “There are over a hundred different human variants in the Known Universe, Yira, and, say, a hundred, two hundred nations, colonies, and cultures for each variant. At absolute smallest estimate, that’s ten thousand different definitions of attractive… and the last time I checked, your natal variant and nation is quite different in their tastes than mine.”

He set his hand much more gently on her knee. “And within those ten-thousand-plus nations, there are also millions of people, each with their individual tastes, which often don’t match the variant or nation’s average. Or you wouldn’t find me attractive, either.”

Jahnan left Yira’s hand where it was this time.

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/893899.html

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Beyond the ‘Basket, a story for #3ww

Written to the Three-Word Wednesday Prompt: Crucial, malignant, yearning
Also written as a tiny character study for my next piece of my #nanowrimo: The Despot of Santa Roux Finds Love

“Listen, it’s crucial that we get this shipment across the ‘basket.” Marie frowned at the steamboat driver, because she had yet to find that smiling did any good.

“And it’s ‘crucial’ that I get paid.” Marcus Wainwright grinned back at Marie, which he could get away with because he had the boat and what she had was a pile of fruit and wheat and a deadline.

“And we get paid at the other end of the ‘basket. Mar- Mr. Wainwright, we’ve been doing this for months. Years.”

“And that was all well and good, because you always paid. But then when my boat got attacked by bandits – well, I was out two good boat hands and the price of your shipment. I need to get paid, Miss Tanner.”

Marie took a breath. Marcus Wainwright was the most vile businessmen, the most malignant tumor on the face of the river, the most obnoxious handsome smile that she had ever seen. But he was the captain they had, the only captain that was willing to traverse the dangerous and bandit-and-slaver-ridden ‘Basket. Or, at the very least, he was the only one still alive. “If I can get you two more boat hands for this route, will you do it?”

“Where are you going to find two boat hands on this short of notice, Miss Tanner? I’ve combed every river town this side of the ‘basket. Have you been hiding them up your skirt?” He leered nastily in her direction.

She set her jaw. “In a manner of speaking. The boat hands I’m mentioning would be my brother – who I suppose people might think had hidden behind my skirts, although it’s a lie – and myself.”

If nothing else, it was worth it, whatever may come, for the stunned look on Marcus Wainwright’s face. And maybe a trip on a riverboat would solve this stupid yearning she could not seem to get rid of.

And it would, for all time, get her brother rid of the rumour that he hid behind her skirts.

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