momebie: (Torchwood Gwen collapse)
TITLE: Opalescent Dinge
AUTHOR: [livejournal.com profile] momebie
RATING: PG
WORD COUNT: 661
FEEDBACK: On || FEEDBACK TYPE: Any
WARNING: None.
SUMMARY: Just because you can fly doesn't mean you can get away.
PROMPTS: Shattered glass.
A/N: A bit literal, but that will happen. The more I think about Burst the more I think I might make it YA. It's not my general inclination, but it just feels right for some reason. I don't know. I should probably come up with an actual story first.


“We’ve lost them,” Cody said.

“We haven’t.” Her voice scratched its way up her throat and sounded battered when it finally escaped.

The train shuddered to life around them and started to pull away from the station. Outside the window Taylor could see a brightly lit atrium and then more windows. It mustn’t have been later than noon--too late for the going to work traffic and too early for the coming home traffic--but there were a lot of people milling about and waiting for trains. Every one of their stray glances hit her and felt accusatory. They knew. They knew that it was her being hunted. There was a man in a black suit at the back of a group of old ladies. They wore bright colored scarves and talked animatedly with their hands, which made him stick out even more.

‘We haven’t,” she said again, and pulled her feet onto the seat, wrapping her arms around her knees and burying her face between them.

“They’re not on the train. They won’t catch us.”

“It’s not hard to find out where trains go. They’ll beat us. They’ll catch me. I can only...”

“No,” Cody said. He grabbed her fingers and squeezed them between his own. “No, don’t you leave me, not now.”

“I--”

And then there was nothing to say and no voice to speak it. Her thoughts shattered with the pieces of her and every single one of the birds just wanted up and out. There was an open window three seats up. Each of the birds fought against the other to escape it and stream into the open empty spaces of the train station.

A shot echoed around her and she heard it bounce through fifty sets of tiny ears. There was another and some part of a wing twinged as the pain spread through every one of the birds. Up, she thought, out. There has to be a way out.

The flock swooped down toward the open doors, but more shots were fired. The people waiting below her started screaming and running for the exits themselves as she flitted and dodged them at shoulder level. Not there. Up, out. So the flock turned up to meet the fast approaching glass ceiling, blinded by the sunlight.

Hitting the glass hurt. It hurt more than the bullet-shorn wing. It hurt over and over and over again as she tried to apply enough pressure to just crack it. It hurt so much that soon she couldn’t think about anything else but the pain and the glare of the sun and how she needed to escape. Another bullet hit the ceiling near the edge of the flock and broke through the glass, leaving tiny bits of it to fall back down to the platform.

She refocused her efforts on the pane with the hole in it and soon the bits of her were streaming through the broken ceiling pane. She left feathers and bits of skin behind as she got caught on the sharp edges and tangled in the metal supports, but it didn’t matter as long as most of all of her escaped the station.

Once free the flock dove towards the street and then steadied out at the second floor level as it frantically beat its tattered wings towards a copse of trees peaking out from around the buildings in the distance. When she made it the flock landed at the base of a scrawny birch tree and coalesced.

Taylor’s jeans were torn and she was missing a shoe. There were scrapes all down her neck and arms and a wide gash on her left calf. Every part of her felt bruised and sore. Breathing hard she looked about, trying to see if anyone had noticed her. There was no one around. No one. Not even Cody.

She pulled her knees to her chest again, dropped her face into her hands, and sobbed.
momebie: (Trigun Wolfwood mercy)
For today's [livejournal.com profile] thewritinggame prompt we were to pick a primary or secondary color and then write something to evoke it without actually mentioning it. The fun part is where you lot read it and guess what the color was. I think I've made it easy for you. I hope anyway.


TITLE: The Way I Remember Being
AUTHOR: [livejournal.com profile] momebie
RATING: PG
WORD COUNT: 306
FEEDBACK: On || FEEDBACK TYPE: Any
WARNING: None.
SUMMARY: She'd hold her breath if it would help.
PROMPTS: Guess the Color
A/N: I was talking to [livejournal.com profile] theemdash the other day about the reason I like watching Skins. It's because it reminds me of what it felt like, to me, to be a teenager. Where everything was large and all consuming and every feeling was greater than every other feeling and how the world might end if it changed ever so slightly. So here's one of those memories. Sort of. Memories never really filter the way you think they will at the time.


It feels like the end of the world.

It’s not, and she knows it, but that doesn’t stop her chest from feeling like it’s caving in with every exhale. It doesn’t stop the humidity from feeling like it’s weighing her down and pinning her to the sand beneath her.

The sun is setting on the opposite side of the island. In the direction she’s staring the sky has already slipped into gloaming, but the edges where the sun is still managing to reach and stain are slightly lighter, slightly more bruised looking. The clouds are scraps, slowly tearing the sky to shreds as they drift south.

It’s the waiting that is the real killer. She’d hold her breath, let her lips and cheeks slowly turn from healthy to dim as the oxygen pushed against the base of her throat, trying to escape and get to where it was needed. She’d hold her breath if there was anyone there to notice, but there’s no one.

That’s why she comes to this place. A short trek across faded and splintered wooden boards and she’s suddenly in a whole new world of tossing dune grass and pelting sand and crashing sounds as the battered shore shrugs off the waves. Even when there is someone there who might notice, they don’t. Everyone is looking for an escape.

So she lets herself feel like the world is ending. She notes the different hues as the color slips from the sky, the last shred clinging to the darkness as long as it can. She embraces the dreadful stain of feeling, because one day she’ll be able to use this.

As she unclenches her fist, blood rushes back into her fingertips and paints her unvarnished nails the same color she’d seen in the sky and reminds her that nothing ever ends, not really.
momebie: (Angel Sanctuary setsuna torn)
I cannot find the word processor file that contains all the writing I did on the Dickbag Angels a couple Nanos ago. This is slightly distressing, because it was something I had very much planned to return to. On the other hand, I could only make it better if I was forced to start over, right?

TITLE: Goodnight, Sleep Tight
AUTHOR: [livejournal.com profile] momebie
RATING: G
WORD COUNT: 854
FEEDBACK: On || FEEDBACK TYPE: Tactful
WARNING: None.
SUMMARY: I'm putting out the lamps, find your own way back home.
PROMPTS: And I'll Make You Go
A/N: I'm not religious, but I still don't think I'll ever get over angels.

Araqiel sat cross legged in the sand at the edge of a glass still sea. His hands were clasped in his lap. He was not being patient, because he did not need to be patient. Or perhaps he only knew patience and therefore could not differentiate this waiting at the end of everything from the waiting he had already been doing. Whatever the case was, he was reasonably certain that there would not be an end for him, merely another change in scenery.

He had been by himself on the edge of the glass still sea for a thousand years before Seraphiel finally came for him. Seraphiel appeared in a sudden, localized clap of thunder and lightning that danced just above the reflective water. The resulting light was breathtaking, twice. When he had fully formed he hovered over mirrored surface. He studied Araqiel with dispassionate eyes.

It did not have to happen this way, he said. )
momebie: (Default)
TITLE: Some Men Are Made
AUTHOR: [livejournal.com profile] momebie
RATING: G
WORD COUNT: 769
FEEDBACK: On || FEEDBACK TYPE: Tactful
WARNING: None
SUMMARY: Something old, same thing new.
PROMPTS: Something that's lost, horologium.
A/N: And this is an odd little thing. It came from several different places and almost no place at all. The first watch is something like this and is late 18th C. in origin.


I'm sorry, he said. But if this bauble belongs to you I would appreciate it if you would wait until morning. Most unseemly, sneaking into men's bedrooms this late in the evening. )
momebie: (NNoD Caleb smoke)
TITLE: Still, Life After
AUTHOR: [livejournal.com profile] momebie
RATING: PG
WORD COUNT: 691
FEEDBACK: On || FEEDBACK TYPE: Tactful
WARNING: Character injury.
SUMMARY: Aed doesn't depend on others and he doesn't know why they depend on him.
PROMPTS: "write a still-life"
A/N: This was really hard to pull out once I settled on the scenario, which is unusual for me. I don't know if that works for or against it. Also, in case Snow In Florida is confusing: it's the future! Weather patterns be damned!

Every time two men stand toe-to-toe there should be seconds at their sides. Rajin has brought one. From fifty paces their long black coats appear to hang on them like Spanish moss clinging heavy to dead trees. Aed has tried his damnedest to come alone. )

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