screening and selection | second verse
Dec. 16th, 2015 08:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysTitle: Screening and Selection
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 100
Genre: Ambiguous fantasy
Remarks: fiction_drabbles prompt - help
The madam frets and the sir frowns, but it’s the guard who suggests taking his thumbs.
“Can’t hold no blade nor staff nor strangling wire that way,” he says, hooking his own into his belt in placid mockery.
(In eight years’ time he will lean upon the guard’s chest and gently, so gently, press the heels of his palms against the bulge of his throat. The eyelids will twitch, sluggish with the numbing poison swept under the taste of wine, and open just wide enough to see curled lips over yellow teeth.)
His fingers clench.
“Safest bet,” the guard says.
◘◘◘
Title: Second Verse
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 100
Genre: Apocalyptic
Remarks: fiction_drabbles prompt - melancholy
The baby cries. Your eyes open.
The outflung arm is sheer reflex; there’s nothing there but your gun, and you don’t need that just now. (Insert tasteless joke, uncertain chuckle, dry mouth.) There haven’t been lights for three months, but you still reach. Reflex. Repetition. You’re a quick learner, but you get locked in the same motions so easily.
Dark hallway waits. Narrow enough to catch you if you stagger, though you don’t like to touch.
(Insert dank mold, peeling paint, sealed windows.)
A familiar pathway. Reflex. Repetition.
(Insert cold fever, black bile, dark city.)
Eyes open. The baby cries.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 100
Genre: Ambiguous fantasy
Remarks: fiction_drabbles prompt - help
The madam frets and the sir frowns, but it’s the guard who suggests taking his thumbs.
“Can’t hold no blade nor staff nor strangling wire that way,” he says, hooking his own into his belt in placid mockery.
(In eight years’ time he will lean upon the guard’s chest and gently, so gently, press the heels of his palms against the bulge of his throat. The eyelids will twitch, sluggish with the numbing poison swept under the taste of wine, and open just wide enough to see curled lips over yellow teeth.)
His fingers clench.
“Safest bet,” the guard says.
◘◘◘
Title: Second Verse
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 100
Genre: Apocalyptic
Remarks: fiction_drabbles prompt - melancholy
The baby cries. Your eyes open.
The outflung arm is sheer reflex; there’s nothing there but your gun, and you don’t need that just now. (Insert tasteless joke, uncertain chuckle, dry mouth.) There haven’t been lights for three months, but you still reach. Reflex. Repetition. You’re a quick learner, but you get locked in the same motions so easily.
Dark hallway waits. Narrow enough to catch you if you stagger, though you don’t like to touch.
(Insert dank mold, peeling paint, sealed windows.)
A familiar pathway. Reflex. Repetition.
(Insert cold fever, black bile, dark city.)
Eyes open. The baby cries.
no subject
Date: 2015-12-16 06:28 pm (UTC)