I was left in a bit of an awed state when I discovered I hadn’t written any flash fictions, aka risen to the writing prompt challenge, since October of 2022. You read that correctly – 2022.

What?! How?!

Eesh.

That’s embarrassing.

Up until now, I’ve been sitting on an abysmal 68 flash fiction pieces based on the writing prompts I’ve shared…of which I’ve posted 158. That’s not a great ratio. One of my goals for January, because I was counting it as part of 2023 ;P was to complete 80. Twelve more quick stories in a month. Sure, I could do that.

I did not.

The month got a little weird. I’ve written 6.

Here’s what I’ve got so far: 69-74.

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

*This is a snippet of the fan fiction I wrote when we first moved. It was the story that had made itself known at the inopportune moment, and this image spoke to the loneliness, the isolation, and the weight that a certain decision put upon them.

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.

~ * ~

I haven’t had anyone join me in the writing prompt challenge in some time. If you made any writing goals that may benefit from trying something new, it would be delightful to read your inspirations based on any of the prompts I’ve shared.

Happy Writing!