Tag Archive | verse: misc: urban

Thimbleful Thursday: Parts and Points

“You, uh, really take trying out your product seriously, don’t you?”

The man was nervous. Sheen’s workshop did that, got people thinking about all the pieces coming to life, or about all the meat parts they still had.

That was, however, no excuse for rudeness.

“Mmm?” Sheen made like he didn’t know what the guy was talking about.  

“Your, uh, your arm?”

He’d actually said it.  Sheen marked a point in his favor.  

“This?” Sheen sent a thought through the wiring and detached his metal arm — mostly composites and ceramic, but “metal arm, meat arm” sounded cooler.  “Does this—” he waved the stump “—  look like something I did to myself?” Continue reading

Two Microfics/Tootfics From Last Night

I was feeling a bit meh last night, but I wanted to write *something*, so I took a couple prompts for toot fic – fic that fits in a 500-character toot on Mastodon. 

This is what I got.

👶

The thing about a baby was, it was literally made of connections. Polly finished spinning wool from her friend’s sheep, twisting into it a strand of the feelings she had for her friend.

She wound the yarn into a ball with sororal affection and the big-sister feeling that never went away, then reached for the line that connected the mother & father to the baby.

Babies were born of connections. She knit the echo of those connections into a tiny sweater of protection & love.

🐑

To @DialMforMara‘s prompt: Knitting with Strands. 

🖋️🖋️🖋️

“Damn.” The book hit the tile. “Fuck. Shit.” Amy’s arms went up. “This… fuck.”

“Fuck,” Tod and Amy saw eye to eye for once. “We can – can not…” The word he had need for was too long. Every word was too long.

“Draw!” Amy went to work with a pen on the tile. “Pic-”

“Icon.” Tod did the same. “Icon.”

The 👿 was the 1st of its kind to be sent to hell with a 😀.

👹

To @tomasino’s prompt

A grammatical demon has been summoned at Oxford and was let free accidentally by the lack of a third comma. It has already devoured all words longer than four letters.

January By the Numbers Ten: Busy bees buzzing brightly (fiction Piece)

January by the numbers continues (still a day off~)!
From [personal profile] clare_dragonfly‘s prompt “Busy bees buzzing brightly, bearing beauteous bouquets.;” a ficlet
.
🐝
“The hive’s alight tonight.” Oshen stared at the office building, bright with lights in the middle of the night. From their vantage point, three buildings over, the people moving around looked like ants — or maybe bees — insects anyway, buzzing around, bopping here and there in what looked like a random pattern. “Who do you think kicked it?”

“It doesn’t look that much like a hive,” Nensho complained. “I mean, okay, it’s sort of got that shape, but—”

“But it’s full of worker bees, moving here and there, doing whatever their little Queen Bee tells them. Except for Eidercorp, it’s not a Queen Bee, is it? It’s a King Bee. Unnatural.” Oshen grinned, liking the taste of the word. “Unnatural. Against the natural order of things. Counter to the way things are supposed to be.”

“Easy now,” Nensho chided. “You’re doing that thing where you get carried away again and then you start believing your own propaganda. Don’t forget that thing last year with Tenor, Inc. It ended up being a big mess, and all because you got caught up in your alliteration and allegory.”

“There was some onomatopoeia, too,” Oshen complained. “And maybe some rhyme.”

“Either way, every way, anyway, just don’t. We have a goal, no?”

“We have a goal, now.”

“Good. So, let’s get to the goal.” Nensho stared at Eidercorp through high-powered binoculars. “All right, they’re clearly up to something. I can’t tell quite what from here but it looks a little bit like a dance, doesn’t it?”

“What, they’re telling the King Bee where the honey is? That seems a little too literal when they’re working off of my metaphor,” Oshen complained.

“No.” Nensho frowned. “It looks like they’re taking bouquets to the CFO. All of them. Everyone in the company.”

“…And you say I get carried away.”
🐝

Want More?

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The Magical Disaster, a story beginning written off of a 7th Sanctum prompt

From this prompt generator: http://www.seventhsanctum.com/generate.php?Genname=writeprompt


We survived the magical disaster by hiding in her bank, or that’s what they thought.

We used the same trick we always did: play off of people’s assumptions. We crawled out from under a table and staggered out of the building with the two dozen people who’d been hiding in there. We looked woozy – I really was woozy, and Sharna’s expertise was in faking any number of illnesses and weakness. And we were genuinely surprised by the chaos outside.

We looked a little strange, but even the people hiding in strong stone buildings like the bank had been affected by the backlash. We looked a little lost, but that was easily explained by the wooziness. The hardest part to explain would have been our ID’s, and there was such a mess outside that nobody cared, not even the police.

The sweetest part of the mess? One of those police looked Sharna straight in the face and didn’t recognize her. Her face had been on wanted posters all over town…

…but that had been back home. I wondered how long it would be before they realized that the magical catastrophe had opened doors into other worlds? By then, I was sure, we’d already have vanished into this world and be working on another con.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/1062784.html. You can comment here or there.

If a Tree Grows in the Forest… a drabble

Written to [profile] kiarrith‘s prompt here

The thing was, the industrial areas of the city hadn’t been abandoned that long. 15 years since the last manufacturing business folded in the area, sure, seven since the last start-up trying to use the old spaces fizzled out. But there were hobos and drifters, skaters and hippies. There was always someone wandering through the space. Leticia walked through herself, Tuesdays and Thursdays when she didn’t have much time between work and classes.

Which is how she knew something was up when she encountered the oak grove. It was Tuesday, which meant she’d last been through this cut-through – between the old Gleason Works building and the even older Lomb plant, where the workers of both had once shared bag lunches and a brief bit of unfiltered sunlight – it had last been only 5 days ago.

Last week, the courtyard had been full of weeds, a little bit of trash, with a beaten path straight through the middle.

Today, there were five oak trees in a circle where a picnic table had once stood. They weren’t small trees, either; the smallest one was too big for Letitia to encircle with her arms.

She walked around the trees cautiously. This had to be some sort of trick, some sort of urban graffiti gone supremely weird. Trees just didn’t grow overnight. Not in a vacant lot, not anywhere.

Her foot hit something hard. Letita knelt down to look, perplexed beyond caution.

A piece of metal twisted out of the weeds, so rusted it fell apart in her hands. Another piece of metal caught her eye, white and pitted. In the flat metal, a heart was etched, dirt rubbed deep into the lines.

Letita felt chill. She knew this heart. If she pulled the rest of the metal out of the weeds, it would say QW + ZX. She’d puzzled over those initials and the heart’s wobbly arrow for months. They’d been carved into the picnic table, the table that had stood where the oak trees now grew.

Slowly, her heart in her throat, Letita turned around to look at the city skyline.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/987764.html. You can comment here or there.

Passing Dreams, written for last week’s @MicroBookends

(I didn’t win, so here’s last week’s microfic at 110 words. Check out the MicroBookEnd page for the photo and prompt.)

“Big freaking deal.” Jenny and the rest of the mean kids kicked at the chalk letters. “So you have a list. Ooh, I see, it’s a ‘wish list.’” Jenny snorted. “Cute.”

Trying to get them to help had been dumb.

“Here, let me see.” Jenny snatched the chalk out of Maris’ hand. “You wished for a new dog? Right.” She scribbled at the bottom of the list. “Twenty dollars. Uh. What?” She jumped, but the list was already pulling her in, replacing her with a twenty, the way it had given a dog when it had taken Maris’ brother.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/954938.html. You can comment here or there.

Quick, Click, written for last week’s @MicroBookends

(I didn’t win, so here’s last week’s microfic at 110 words. Check out the MicroBookEnd page for the photo and prompt.)

Urban vampires live among us.

The rural breed is nearly extinct; vampires like hectic fear and the country is slower, tireder. The last rural vampire retired to a farm college where he feeds quietly off of grad students.

Urban vampires, however, live on. They dwell in the places between mirrors, in the arching walls of glass, in streetlight reflectors: not in the shadows, but in the excess of light.

It’s said that they love elevators. They can be seen there sometimes, hiding behind your stacked reflections. A camera might capture them – or release them.

But perhaps there is no need to fear, and it is all just a legend.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/951980.html. You can comment here or there.

The Haircut – Patreon

“Are you sure?” Cyan ran shaking hands through the new hair-cut. It was short, shorter than Cy had ever dared before, but just long enough, or so Mary assured, that it could be made girly when the urge or the need arose.

“Cy, with your folks, nobody can ever be sure of anything. But, in a normal world, yes. If they’re being stupid, you can show them how it curls up so cutely when you want it to. And if they’re not, you can slick it back and do the manly thing when you want to. Days you’re feeling middle-of-the-road, the curls are easy to tame down once you get out of the house.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Look, everything will be easier when you can get out of the house – but this, this is hair. It doesn’t have to be hard or anything.” Mary fluffed the back of Cy’s hair. “This should be fine.”

“Psst.”

Cyan and Mary both ignored the voice coming from the alley. It didn’t do to talk to strangers, not in this neighborhood.

“And besides,” Mary continued, “your mom when through her pixie cut stage, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, but my dad-”

“You want easy?” The voice in the alley was not to be ignored. “I can make you look the way you want to, kid.”

“-my dad hated it. My dad hates everything.”

“Come on, someone transitional like you, wanna be red one day, green another.” Now the alley-way voice had resolved itself into a shadowy figure. “I got what you need.”

It wasn’t going to shut up and it wasn’t going to go away. Cyan looked directly at the shadow. “I know better than to make deals with fairies.” The haircut would have to be enough, for now.

K for kleptēs, a continuation of the Giraffe Call (@rix_scaedu)

For Rix_Scaedu‘s commissioned continuation of K for Stolen Karma.

Kyrie was in a panic. A true, honest-to-goodness freak-out panic. He pulled against the ropes, even though they were cutting into his wrists, tugged and yanked and just gave in to the hysteria. He shouted at the woman, incoherent nonsense that really boiled down to “let me go, let me go, I’ll do anything, just let me go.”

She stopped his screams with a kiss that left him almost choking on her tongue. “If you are not quiet, I will make you be quiet.”

It took a moment for that to get through the panic, and then Kyrie shut his mouth and nodded. When she seemed unlikely to rip any part of him out (She had claws. And when she had kissed him, her teeth had been far too sharp), he swallowed, and tried words. “You stole me?”

“I did.” She rested her hand possessively on his stomach, the tips of her claws just beginning to pierce his skin. Kyrie fought to hold still. “As I said, Karma is a bitch.”

“So… when I steal things.” He swallowed, and tried again. “If I stole things, I would sell them. Fence them, I guess.”

“There are people I know who move stolen goods – and stolen people. I could, indeed, fence you.”

Kyrie had gone still, and not just because of the claws breaking his skin. “You don’t sound like that’s what you want to do.” Please, don’t let it be what she wanted to do.

“No. You’re correct. But I’m not sure you wouldn’t prefer being fenced.”

Kyrie swallowed. This was not going well. “I’m sure we can work out some sort of deal…” When in doubt, bargain. “Did I steal something from you in the past? Something you want back?”

“Honey, if you’d manage to steal from me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d be trying to negotiate with worms, if anything.”

He couldn’t help but shudder, driving her claws deeper into his stomach. He’d had marks get angry before, but that was nothing like this. They’d yell, they’d swear, they’d threaten to call the police. Nobody had ever told him, cold-blooded and entirely serious, that he could be dead.

Then again, he’d never been stupid enough to steal from a Kin before, as far as he knew.

She was watching him, licking her lips. He had to say something. He had to keep her talking. If she was talking, she wasn’t eating him. “What are you going to do with me?” That, he considered, might not have been the best choice of conversational topics. On the other hand, it was near and dear to his heart – and the intestines her claws were getting closer to.

“You’re a very good thief, are you not? And, from what I’ve heard, an even better blackmailer.”

“I do those things.” No use in denying it.

“It’s a rush for you? Like the kill?” Her tongue kept darting out, brushing against her lips.

“You could call it that.” He shrugged, barely a twitch of his shoulders – he couldn’t do much else, but he wanted her thinking of anything but the blood on his stomach. “I think of it like base jumping, or any other extreme sport. It is a rush, yeah.”

“Very good.” She leaned down until her lips brushed against his throat. “Then, little thief, you are going to work for me now. And I’ve got the adrenaline rush of a lifetime for you.”

Watching her, feeling her sharp teeth against his throat, Kyrie was pretty sure he’d have preferred being fenced.

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