I decided to start the writing prompt challenges as a means to explore options outside my screenwriting, and in an effort to build a writing community. I’ve taken to writing, what I call flash fiction, and I hope you’ll join me!

Faceless

Seeing faces in everyday objects was commonplace. There was a term for it and everything. What they didn’t talk about was what it meant when you could only see faces in inanimate objects while the faces of loved ones started to disappear. Visual sensory overload was becoming just as commonplace in a world that so heavily relied upon that as a means of communication. Words started to dissolve into shortened versions of themselves, acronyms, and emojis. Whatever might be easiest. Emotion, tone, connection…things of the past. So it was no wonder that eventually those who might be recognizable would start to blur into the background and become faceless. You know what? There’s an emoji for that.

*After writing the piece, I found the sentence I wrote upon first seeing this prompt:  I was one of those people, the ones who always see faces on inanimate objects, so you can imagine my surprise, perhaps horror is a better word to describe the feeling of when I stopped seeing faces on people.

*Then there was this piece I started some time ago, and somehow did not finish…

Troubled Water

The legend of the Lady of the Lake is a well known tale. The Arthurian legend is among the most notable which is why so many people, for generations, have sought, and failed, to discover Avalon’s true location. We would not be counted among them. We had been meticulous in our research. We were confident in our findings.

Had only luck been on our side. Had only our confidence been enough to carry us.

Upon traveling to the mystical land, strange things started to happen, accidents, or so they could have been construed. Deep down, I think we all knew…

Awakening

They thought themselves servants of the old gods. They had built their home in the remains of a fallen one as a way to preserve and watch over the sacred ashes. Every year, when the wind shifted and the air turned, they awaited the awakening. They offered sacrifices and held celebrations in the hopes the new god would be tempted. Would be pleased. There were tell tale signs, moments that would harken the coming, but it had been a dozen generations since the last, they had no way of knowing when the time would be right. This year felt different, mist rolled through the town, blanketing everything in a fine sheen so that the lanterns and the moon glowed with a strange, unsettling aura. Then there was the tremor and the sound of the great god shifting in his long slumber. It vibrated in your chest, it tingled up your spine, and in the distance its arms unfurled. The people stopped mid-action to witness the rising, a mixture of fear and wonder, for how could they ever know if their new god would be a benevolent god, or if today was to be their last day?

For the next image I had two ideas, similar enough, and yet each needing to be told.

Museum

Museums are strange places. I was told that once upon a time, they held relics of other worlds. They were places that held knowledge and history, and allowed visitors to travel to distant lands and connect with people long since gone. Or so they would have you believe. This exhibition wasn’t too different from the truth of what museums actually once were. Organizations that paid exorbitant amounts of money to acquire mostly stolen goods from lands plundered for their riches. This place didn’t feel like an art gallery, more like a zoo. The pieces were described as artist renderings of new species encountered on humanity’s exploration of the stars, but then why did they move? Why did I get the sense that their eyes followed me, pleading for aid? There were other stories I had heard of, ones where people protested animals being tested upon for human advancement, setting them free, and I had the feeling, looking upon the strange figure trapped in a box, that I was going to become one of those people.

~ * ~

When I was a little girl, my parents took me to an exhibit of an inventor, a scientist, a so-called visionary. I don’t recall the details with such clarity any more, but I do remember the feelings of awe and sadness as I took in the subject of each clear box. It was as if they were frozen in time. And there were so many of them. The boxes had to be stacked and platforms were built so that visitors could encircle the room to get a “good view” of all his creations. I remember hearing whispers. I remember the looks on some of their faces as they took in each form. It wasn’t a triumph, it was a freak show. They were said to be designed for a purpose, but whatever that may have been has long since been forgotten. I was drawn to a particular display, number 217. There was something about its form, its face, and when I saw the flicker of movement, I had to stifle the cry that wished to escape my lips. It was in that moment, when I felt small and powerless that I made a choice. It wasn’t long after that the exhibit was permanently closed. Two-ey, as he likes to be called, and I made sure of it. My age and size allowed me to be “unsuspecting”, and that shortsightedness, along with my new friend’s abilities, allowed us to wreak havoc.

Welcome

Earthlings were still a fairly primitive species. They still had yet to move beyond their own planet, but that didn’t make them any less fascinating. They had had visitors since the beginning, those that periodically checked in on their advancement, offering them a helping hand from time to time, others that wanted to discover why so many had been drawn to them in the first place. Eventually, Earth became a destination, a vacation getaway, a chance to observe the natives, and on ocassion, interact with them. The appearances became so regular that the Earthlings built their society around it. They created places for their visitors to land safely, and buildings that offered a more welcoming, hospitable environment depending on their visitors planet of origin. They fashioned places they called restaurants and pubs that did their best to serve food and drink they hoped their new friends would enjoy. Of course not all interactions were so pleasant, but that didn’t make them any less fascinating.

Epiphany

The rain came down in a torrent. Its sudden appearance and forcefulness caused those strolling about to flee and take cover. The pitter patter was like a song to my wounded soul, and it was nature’s perfect response to my grief. It was as if she were commiserating and understood that I needed the solitude. I walked for some time in the quiet. The mist clung to my skin so much so that I could not tell where my tears ran except when they first fell warm upon my cheek. I clung to my umbrella’s handle like a life line, suddenly realizing that the empty world before me was my new life. For a moment I was paralyzed. I stood in the archway, knuckles white, cheeks tear-stained, and took a shattering breath that left me light-headed. And then it dawned on me. The world before me was my new life. It brought a smile to my lips. It felt unnatural, given the circumstances. Then my foot took a step forward, almost of its own volition. My arms slackened and the umbrella fell to the wayside. I lifted my face up to the sky and let the rain wash me clean. And then, again, as if she understood, the clouds cleared and a ray of light shone down upon me. I could not help but laugh.

Red is for Passion

She still remembered the day she was given her red drape, the color that designated her station and responsibility, and her vow. It was a proud moment to achieve such status at so young an age. For years she did as she had been trained, serving as a handmaiden to the goddess and upholding her sacrifice, a vow of silence, until he arrived. They worked side by side in the temple, barely acknowledging one another, tending to their duties. Slowly, over the course of a year, he drew ever nearer. He was drawn to her silent devotion, her soulful eyes, her gentle touch. It was forbidden, and if they were discovered…The first time their hands brushed against one another, she pulled away, angry. The withering look she gave him from beneath her hood made his cheeks burn in shame, and yet a warmth spread through him. In time, the priestess partnered them together on a number of tasks that allowed them to spend more time together, more opportunities for a casual caress that eventually spoke volumes more of intimacy. One day, when they found themselves alone, he took her by the hand and led her further into the shadow of the forest where for the first time he could look upon her face fully and hear her break her vow.

Fate

There was something to be said about this place. I could understand why so many of my compatriots had achieved such success. It was a playground. The mortals were more than ripe for the picking – their pains, their desires, their strange compulsions – they were an intersting, odd bunch. And they were so willing to offer up any price to obtain what they believed would bring them the ultimate happiness.

They were so often mistaken.

When I arrived on their plane, it was because I had felt something. A pull at the center of my being. I hadn’t felt it in at least half a dozen millenia. I could barely recall what it was, but I knew I had to seek it out. Follow the draw.

I stood on a rooftop in time to watch the setting sun put off its warm glow. High above the throng, I could reflect in the quiet, could sense the sway. My wings twitched with understanding. Vengeance was on the horizon. Lust and vengeance.

Adamant

In the words of her infamous friend, “Well, sh*t.”

Hawke had never been one to just take it. Whatever “it” was. She wasn’t one to wallow, although Maker knew she had enough reasons to, so as she sat down hard upon the ground slick with the remains of the demon she had just spent what felt like hours defeating, knowing she had been left alone in the Fade, she took a moment and allowed herself to grieve for the predicament she now found herself in.

She had turned a side-eye towards the Inquisitor to ensure her path to freedom, for it was she, alone, who had the power to change things. Having only met her a couple of times before traipsing through the Fade with her, Hawke had formed a kinship with the woman the world both revered and feared. Hawke understood better than most how a reputation could proceed a person. Like her friend and distant family, the Warden and Hero, the Inquisitor, too, was the kind of woman people wanted to believe in and follow, and it was one of the reasons Hawke had offered to stay behind – to be of service to the Herald.

It was strange. Hawke had never considered herself the religious type. She blamed Sebastian’s influence.

The fight had been one of the hardest Hawke could recall enduring, in part because she had been alone. Once the spirit, or whatever it was, that resembled The Most Holy departed along with her new friends, Hawke had been on her own to face down a monstrosity the size of The Hanged Man. That may be a slight exaggeration, but only just.

The moment she sat down the physical strain of the fight, the waning adrenaline, and the thoughts of Fenris made themselves known. Doing her best to keep her tears in check, she choked back both a health and lyrium vial, felt their warmth spread through her body, and watched the light show in the distance. The Inquisitor had made it out and sealed the breach behind her.

It was official. Hawke was f*cked.

Sitting Duck

She hated feeling so useless. She was tired of being afaid. Since the day she and her sister had been abducted, she had been rendered powerless. Ineffectual. Helpless. She had to rely on others with whom she shared no common, well, anything. She could call them aliens, but she was, in fact, the alien, and she was on a steep learning curve. Not only was she a foreigner in a foreign galaxy, she was being hunted at every turn. 

In order to give themselves more options of where to turn or hide, they had been able to piece together a makeshift enviro-suit. It offered her some protection from the strange elements, but it was cumbersome, and she often times felt claustrophobic.

As they tucked her into the confined space, she knew that they had stayed too long. They had gotten comfortable, and she hadn’t taken advantage the time and peace had offered her. She could have at least learned some fighting or defensive skills so she wouldn’t have to solely rely on the others for her protection, as she was doing now.

She could hear the fighting just beyond her barricade. It made her stomach tie in knots. If she couldn’t help those who were willing to defend her, what use was she going to be in saving her sister? She was tired of being afraid. She hated feeling so useless.

The Stage

Artemis had been in the facility for nearly a year when the simulations began. It started out like school. She had geography lessons, language arts, world politics, and P.E. Then introductions into bomb diffusal, martial arts, computer hacking, and weapons training. Finally, they tested her resiliance. Her powers. She had to be prepared for any eventuality that she might encounter in the field, and with her natural skill set, the challenges were designed specifically with them in mind. They weren’t traditional training tactics. Not what you might endur in the military or even black ops, because those were created for normal people. And she was not normal.

Neither were any of the others she’d crossed paths with on rare occasions. She had to prove she was loyal before they’d allow her to interact with the others. So as she hung suspended mid-air in restraints crafted to hold both sides of her in place, she had to wonder what they would consider a show of loyalty. She had allowed them to poke and prod her for months. Torture wasn’t a word they liked to use, because they considered themselves the good guys, doing work for the greater good. Preparation. That was their end goal for her training. So, she let them mold her into the weapon they desired, test her limits, and extend her reach because, as they so often liked to remind her, she was destined for great things…and what was a life without purpose?

Tombstone

After nearly a year of strange dreams, Hannah decided something must be done about it. Bits and pieces of people and places flashed in both her sleeping and waking lives, and while it was driving her mad, she also felt it might be the universe trying to tell her something. She did some research, using the few details she had been able to make out, and pieced together some semblance of an idea of a location. She already knew it was somewhere in England, given the moments she had experienced in her dreams. What she didn’t know was exactly where on the isle. 

Or when.

From the look of the people she “interacted” with, they were dressed in the Victorian era – cravats and top hats, high collars and bustles – the streets were cobblestone and the manors weren’t age weathered. Because of the time period, there weren’t any markers to designate a town or any places of interest, so trying to determine where to find the place plaguing Hannah’s life was difficult.

With effort, and friendly and helpful people, she found the remnants of a manor she believed to be the place she had seen a hundred times in her dreams. Not far from London, in a manor that had not survived the bombings during WWII, she was finally able to walk the familiar stone path that led through the jagged remains. A stillness settled over her upon reaching the center of the manor. Familiar wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the feeling of finding home.

That wasn’t what she found unsettling, it was finding her own name on one of the tombstones in the family cemetery.

Conqueror

They called her the Red Queen. They said her robes were dyed in the blood of her fallen enemies. She was to be feared and revered, and most kept a healthy distance from her in order to avoid her wrath should they fall in disfavor with her. She was said to be quick of temper. She could drive one to the very edge of madness with the wave of her hand, and a look, well, it was rumored that should she will it, you would not survive one of her glances. 

There was so much heresay. So many stories told in order to keep the peace, the balance.

She was nothing like what they believed.

At least not anymore.

There had been a time when she had used her powers to squash uprisings and quell unrest, but that had been hundreds of years ago. She was quite different now, and she supposed maybe it was a good thing so many still feared her and felt her capable of such violence. It had allowed her realm to experience years of peace while remaining vigilant.

But like all things, this, too, was to come to an end.

She had felt the disturbance long before her advisors had warned her of the impending threat. There were those who wished to challenge her, to test her mettle and see for themselves whether she was still the rightful leader. As she stood at the center of her most faithful and fearsome warriors, she was reminded of the dozens of similar times she had stood before them in other lives. She was unlike any of them, and would prove to those who thought she was wrong, yet again.

Spotlight

She stood in the wings, bathed in bright light from across the stage. She always felt a little nervous, right up until the moment her toes hit the floor. She hadn’t had time to finish prepping her shoes, they still felt a bit stiff, but they’d be broken in before the end of the first dance, and rendered practically useless by the end of the show. She continued to point her toes while bouncing lightly to keep warm and limber.

The music ebbed and flowed and she listened intently for her cue, while doing her best to ignore the jealous whispers of those who would never stand where she was. Not everyone could be a prima. 

She was a rare breed. Years spent in lessons, ignoring nearly everything else, had earned her the opportunity of a lifetime, one that would end sooner than was reasonable, but while she was here, she would enjoy every moment.

Stained

The Emerald Graves was the kind of place where you could easily imagine magical things happened on a regular basis. The trees were a shade of green not seen anywhere else, the water was clearer than she’d ever seen, and as if to add to its mysterious nature, a light mist draped everything in a soft white blanket. When they arrived to the remote forest, the fabled land of the elves, a certain amount of reverence felt owed. It wasn’t called the Graves because someone was trying to be clever. If the histories were true, the land was one large graveyard.

Was that supposed to bring anyone any meaure of comfort? There was a strange silence present, and they felt like they were being watched. So, they limited their conversations, kept to the main road, and did their best to not disturb the flora and fauna. They made a small camp in a clearing of what remained of an ancient ruin and slept uneasily in the eerie quiet the forest offered in the waning hours of the night.

She was an elf. She found solace in being in a place her ancestors once called home. So little of their great empire remained, but every so often, there was a glimpse, a wisp, and the Emerald Graves was one such place. She gave her friends a sympathetic smile as they tried to ignore the shivers up their spines. They were unnerved, for a number of reasons, but this place, while romantic and beautiful, was also drenched in blood, and that was a stain that no matter how well hidden, left a mark.

Humans

Humans were obsessed with space. They hadn’t even discovered the entirety of their own planet, and yet they were willing to traverse the vastness of dark space. They were silly creatures; prone to all manner of emotional outburts and frivolity. We had been among them for years, and they were none the wiser. We had done what we could to aid them in their advancement of basic “humanity” and science, but they were a stubborn bunch, only willing to coexist and rally around one another for the most inane of causes. They so rarely saw eye to eye. 

We had finally had our fill, unwilling to continue to bear witness to their ever declining state and left them to their own devices one autumn evening in spectacular fashion. Or so we thought. We timed it with one of their own explorative device launches, but they never saw it. They never knew what we had tried to do for them, what we had done for them. It’s not even worth mentioning now. Perhaps we’ll see them again one day. Perhaps not. Only time will tell what they’ll make of themselves.

Fibonacci

Casi stood in the center of the church, a kalidescope of color raining down upon her from above. She looked up, overwhelmed by the beauty of the hundreds of stained glass panels spiraling in a Fibonacci pattern from the tallest dome of the structure. The colors told a story, one she wasn’t adept at interpreting, but she felt the impact nonetheless.

The colors were only truly present at high noon when the sun, at it’s zenith, reflected their purpose, so there was only a short time each day to spend in reflection. Casi was given an hour. Her special ability was being tested, albeit unfairly. She had only just come into her power, and discovering the intention of the ancient marvel was something she wasn’t prepared for. She wasn’t sure she ever would be. Whoever had designed the unique feature had been touched in their own way.

Dad

It’s hard to think of Death as anything other than what he is. 

He’s the inescapable end. 

The intangible. 

The anti-thesis. 

The great neutralizer. 

The last measure for which almost all beings are desperate to avoid, and willing to barter and sacrifice any and all in an attempt at thwarting his purpose. It rarely works.

He’s also a father. My father. I call him Daddy when I’m feeling especially light-hearted, and although I’m mortal, he treats me like the rarest, most spectacular being to have ever existed. With so many afraid of him, unwilling to greet him, even those he considers his peers, I was an unexpected delight to his lonely existence. 

You may wonder how it is a mortal child found herself in Death’s grasp without crossing over. It’s not that exciting a story, just luck, I suppose, that a sad deity took pity on an abandoned tot.

There was a time he was afraid to touch me, because each time he did, it stilled my heart, but eventually, it no longer had an effect, I became something else. And how could I not share my affection with him? Mortals crave contact, and he discovered it was something he needed as well. So while I may have been raised in a strange realm, with an unconvential parent, I thrive. I live. Something that might not have occurred should I have been left alone that winter’s night long ago. 

Enough

“We all have our reasons.” Those haunting words had come from an unlikely ally, one she knew she couldn’t trust, no matter his “reasons”.

The revolt had long been in the works, but it wasn’t until today that they took action. 

It was necessary. 

They were justified in rising up. 

She just didn’t know how alone they’d find themselves once they finally did.

There had been a surprising division in the populace when offered the chance at freedom. So many were compliant, unwilling to take the risk. They turned their backs. They played dumb. They simply didn’t care what happened to those not so different from themselves. It could have been them, if they found themselves in a different box, but they considered themselves lucky for being “normal”.

How boring life would be if everyone fit that mold.

And so, as she stood before one who had long championed conformity, and everything else they stood against, she had to wonder what had brought them to this point? What did they consider the uncrossable line in the proverbial sand of their morality?

They couldn’t be trusted, but they could be exploited, and so it began.