October Prompts

(this is the fifth part of Claire’s story. It is not an end. The rest may be found here) “You have the most fascinating eyes, little sprout. I think I’ll take them with me.” Claire wakes with a start into an emptiness more profound than any darkness she has ever known, a void utterly unlike her bedroom’s greyscale night. For a moment she thinks that she’s tangled her blankets around her head—that the silver-eyed darkness has forced its way into her parents’ house—that she’s fallen under the bed. But she feels nothing against her cheeks, nothing but clean air on her face and blankets on her body. ...

(this is the fourth part of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) The forest floor is cool against Claire’s cheek, sun-warmed ground no match for the fearful heat radiating from every inch of her body. Her wounds burn, sharp and dripping; her eyes brim with tears and her unwise fingers still clutch the flower. Yellow and gold rise around her like a buzzing tide, each little bee-body blazing like a jewel in the sun’s bright light—a mob nerving itself for the first strike, eagerly awaiting the violence that will follow as soon as some brave soul gives the rest permission— ...

(this is the third part of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) That was a mistake. What was she thinking? She hasn’t yet brought herself to drop the flower—could she even if she wanted to? Its broken stem oozes with something that’s not honey, sticky and warm against her sweaty fingers, gripping tight— Claire’s heart pounds in her ears, beating in tune with her frantic footfalls, each step crushing insects and leaves alike beneath her filthy shoes; she’s making noise, so much noise, enough to scare off all the forest’s creatures and quiet their sounds— ...

(this is the second part of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) Breakfast is icy. There’s something wrong with the house, something beyond the crushed lawn and torn siding outside. Claire struggles to swallow half-frozen scrambled eggs and too-chunky orange juice; her parents don’t fair much better. Finally, finally, she reaches the end of her mandatory presence (denoted by her father getting up to do the dishes, and her mother receding into her morning emails). Neither of them notice when she leaves. They never do. ...

(This is the start of Claire’s story. The rest may be found here) Bonk. Claire pulls her blankets tighter, burrows a bit deeper into her bed’s comforting warmth. Bonk. She pointedly turns her back on the window. Bonk. Her patience breaks. “Will you stop already?! I’m trying to sleep here!” The glare she directs at the darkness outside her window could power her entire town, if it were ever properly harnessed. It is her most powerful weapon, and it frustrates her to no end that the darkness appears to be immune to it (as are her teachers, classmates, and parents). ...

“Call me Ishmael” the doll said, though its path had never led it to the ocean and it had little regard for water. It thought that it was clever even so, and Ishmael was a better name than the one its witch had given it when he stitched its wings. Ish (which was what the other dolls called it, and which it held was because they had no flare for the dramatic) was a aeronaut aboard the great ⸢Remembrance of Her Unwilling Blessing⸥. A sky-ship one hundred and sixteen meters from bow to stern, with a wingspan thrice that! The culmination of a witch’s craft, powered by banks of witchwork hearts driving it forward and pumping reality away with their every bone-shuddering beat! Vast and powerful, held together only through the unceasing effort of a dozen lobotomized witch-houses … ...

“There! Do you see that?” An endless twisted thread; a mat writhing beneath the surface. Sprouting bodies receding into the rotting soil; corpses blossoming into ghostly light. Ribs crunch beneath Abigail’s feet; a smile lights her face. Her companion tarries, unwilling to venture in; Rob’s mothers told him so many times to stay away from the burial pits, not to risk whatever ordinance might yet be buried among the numinous dead. ...

“Oh!” Kassie exclaims, her trowel half-buried in warmth, “Mx. Squirmy Wormy! I didn’t realize you were here!” The worm bleeds, not especially politely, as Kassie pulls her trowel back out. Its bifurcated halves squirm; its eyes brim with pain. “There’s no need to be rude, Mx. Wormy!” Kassie lowers her voice, eyes flicking across the variegated heap. She’s pretty sure none of the others can see her; all she can see of them is wingtips blazing with light. “It was an honest mistake.” ...

The doll wakes up. This is the first mistake she makes each day. The second mistake is sleepily grasping for her phone, hands moving in long-conditioned reflex: swipe through the pattern and tap the brightly-colored little icon— Many wild species use bright colors to indicate danger. It is meant as a warning against attack: you may hurt me, they say, but you’re going to have a fucking awful time afterward. ...

(this is a direct sequel to this story. you might want to read it first) Mouse never returned. The rest of them—Stance and Tide and Ashes and Sparrow—always knew that it was a possibility. The ruins were dangerous, they knew that well enough; the unquiet dead, the ancient traps … But Mouse was supposed to be better. She was the best of them. And yet … “S-she’s fine,” Tide finally stammers, “just … just delayed a bit. Right? She has to be …” ...