Posts Tagged ‘writing prompts’

The Woods and the Wolf

Posted in Fairy Tales, Fiction on February 25th, 2013 by Annabelle – 13 Comments

Her feet carried her slowly, unwillingly, down the forest path.  A hush had fallen, and the gentle clatter of branches and the quiet squeak of the fresh snow under her boots were the only sounds she could hear.  The wolf was pacing her out at the edges of sight, no more than a grey whisper among the grey trees.  It wouldn’t come any closer, not yet, but she could feel it waiting.

She pulled the crimson cloak closer around her against a cold she barely felt.  It had been a gift from her grandmother, a token of an affection that now made her skin crawl.  Under the sun, the cloak flamed, impossible to miss.  Here, under the trees at the last tail of dusk, it faded to the color of old blood, melting into the dark as if it belonged there.  The obscurity was strangely comforting.

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Standing in the Flames

Posted in Fiction on December 13th, 2012 by Annabelle – 7 Comments

It pressed on Michael from the moment he walked in the gallery door.  The last exhibition of Itu experiential art, and it was packed, but the crush of humanity was hardly more than a thread against the overwhelming presence of the art.  The almost tangible buzz made him stumble and apologize to a woman who barely knew he was there.  A pickpocket’s dream, if only there were earplugs for the mind.

Michael looked out over the swimming room and saw him. A slouched figure, strangely alone, in front of a jangling, twisting work in the corner.  He closed his eyes, then pushed his way across, deliberately avoiding looking at the other man.  He fixed his gaze thoughtfully on a corner of the frame, trying not to see the art itself, and spoke.

“I was afraid you’d be here.”

A sharp laugh, and a twitch of the hand.  “You did say you wanted to say goodbye.”

“This isn’t what I meant.”  He slanted his eyes left.  “You look terrible.”  It was true.  Lucien was gaunt and jittery, unshaven.  Worse, the same consuming aura that radiated from the art seemed to spark from his skin.

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Posted in Fiction on December 6th, 2012 by Annabelle – 7 Comments

She stood in the dusty parking lot, the peeling wooden door before her.  The warm glow coming through the bar windows seemed to beckon, a welcoming yellow that spoke of candlelight and the hearth.  Behind her, the unlit road stretched, featureless, into the dark.  She couldn’t remember how she had gotten there.  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

She pulled the door open.  The bar was empty but for the man behind the counter, and instead of stale beer, there was a faint whiff of incense.  She sighed.

“Is this another one of those damn allegorical bars?”

The bartender looked up from wiping a pint glass with a striped bar towel –when did real bartenders ever do that? — and nodded.  “You got yourself into a pretty bad accident,” he said with a lift of the eyebrow.  “What did you expect?”

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Posted in Calere, Fiction on July 11th, 2012 by Annabelle – 7 Comments

They fled on foot, and all night.  There was no choice.  The baby was too little for anything else, and not for anything would they leave him.  They had left it too late, she realized.  They just hadn’t been able to believe it.  Not until the stories started coming, of burnings, quarterings, people chased to their deaths from horseback.  They were no longer welcome in this new world.

They were going south.  If they were lucky, they might make it across the border before the invaders reached them.  Maybe.  They kept going.  There were no choices left.  Only the hurry.

Since this week Trifecta has given us *gasp* two and a half weeks to come up with a more substantial bit of fiction, I’m trying my hand at 100-word fiction with this week’s Velvet Verbosity challenge.  The prompt: hurrying.  This goes along with The Fall.  Thanks for reading!

Trifecta: Fireworks

Posted in Fiction, Tacar on July 3rd, 2012 by Annabelle – 17 Comments

“Until dinner.”  Par finally left.  Thank heavens.  There wasn’t enough wine in the city.

“Did he propose to you, or is he saving that for dinner?”  A wickedly inflected baritone caught her ear, and Raicha turned with relief to see Par’s brother Avash.   “You could do better.”  He lifted an eyebrow suggestively.

“You don’t imagine my grandfather would let you anywhere near me, do you?”  Avash combined his brother’s middling social position with youngest-son ineligibility and a scandalous reputation for affairs with married women.

“Grandfathers never seem to approve of me.  Even my own.”  A regretful look that she didn’t believe for a second appeared.

“Well, mine is here,” she laughed.  “Go away before you get me in trouble, Avash.”

He winked and strolled off to the imperial balcony where Camilia and Sahmin were sitting.  He casually dropped into the chair next to Camilia.  Sahmin addressed a friendly comment to him.

Raicha froze.  She could see the corner of Avash’s mouth turned up ever so slightly.  Avash?  She had never caught so much as a whisper.  And joining her this publicly could only mean one thing.  She folded her lips under and firmly bit down on them to control the hysterical bubble of laughter that was welling up.  Her eyes darted around the room.  The Temeru patriarch had stopped with a glass of wine halfway to his lips and was staring toward the balcony with an expression he’d be embarrassed by later.  Raicha quivered.

“My lady.”  A servant bowed.  “Her imperial majesty invites you to join her to view the fireworks.”

“I think my view of the fireworks would be better from here.”  Dahla Faro’s face was furiously red.  Raicha’s great uncle – Camilia’s grandfather – caught her and gave her an amused glance.  Raicha quickly looked away.

“My lady?”

“Yes, by all means.  I would hate to miss them.”  Camilia turned and caught her eye.  Raicha choked, but her shoulders only shook a little as she sauntered off to join them.


This week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge!  33 to 333 words on the third definition of the word  FIREWORKS (noun)

1: a device for producing a striking display by the combustion of explosive or flammable compositions
2: plural a display of fireworks
This follows The Newlywed. Thanks for reading!


The Fall

Posted in Calere, Fiction on April 30th, 2012 by Annabelle – 28 Comments

He’d moved out of sight, but he couldn’t escape the sound, the distant thunder of stone falling on stone, of walls toppling to the ground.  It was all day — all night.  Didn’t these conquerors sleep?

He waited, and watched.  Watched for survivors, travelers returning to the City unaware that the world had changed in their absence.

He watched for survivors, but that wasn’t what he saw.  With each carrying rumble, he saw the City.  He saw the bright mosaics he’d played next to as a child.  Gone.  He saw the fountain where he’d told Asiri he loved her.  Gone.  He saw the sunlit columns of the temple.  Gone.  His eyes watered, and he told himself it was the sharp summer wind.

He’d thought the thunder was the worst of it, but in the end, he was wrong.  What was worse was when the thunder stopped, and there was only silence and the wind on the plains.


This week’s prompt from Trifecta Writing Challenge. This week’s challenge was to write between 33 and 333 words using the third definition of the word thun·der (noun \ˈthən-dər\)

1: the sound that follows a flash of lightning and is caused by sudden expansion of the air in the path of the electrical discharge
2: a loud utterance or threat
3: bang, rumble

It’s good fun, this prompt business!