wobblyh
I can't deal with it. He's holding the full hand of cards, there must be about thirty of the damn things in those big palms, but he ain't doing nothin' with them but holdin' them and that's almost worse than anythin' else he could be doin'. Note I said *could* be, but it ain't, 'cause you don't hang around this bar for long without learnin' some creative applications fer gambling apparatus. I'm gonna have to make him a deal, else there'll be a great deal o' pain when he does deal the damn cards.
They called it a haunt because they hung out there all the time, but also because it had a ghost. They'd never actually seen it, but they knew it was there from the banging noise it made in the walls and the times where it rattled the pipes. It had been scary, at first, but eventually they got used to it, and even started developing some affection for it. They left out little gifts which would be gone by the morning, and whispered even though they knew there was nobody to hear.
They were wrong, of course. There's no such thing as a ghost.
What they had was a banshee.
He was, as far as I could tell through the clouds of flour, handsome. It wasn't in the way you usually thought of as handsome - no individual feature on his face could be called beautiful by itself - but somehow the sum of all the parts added up to much more. Perhaps it was the open honesty of his features, the straightforwardness of his clothes, the little blue tie behind his neck holding up his well-used apron, or the easy mess of his hair. He was nobody else but himself, and that was attractive as all hell.
"This shirt, Balgruf, is not red."
I held the offending item up to the flickering torchlight. If you squinted your eyes, and indeed only had one eye, myopia, and colour blindness, it could perhaps be called red. To everyone else, however, it was salmon pink.
Balgruf bore a hunted look, but tried defiance anyway. "It's light red, Jarl. That's a good colour, light red. It's like, you know, blood and that."
"The only creature that bleeds this sodding colour is a unicorn, Balgruf!"
"Marty!!"
My voice echoed down the length of the well. I could hear it bouncing from wall to wall until it reached the shallow pool at the bottom where my brother had fallen.
"Yeah, I'm here," came the reply, faint and pained. "I'm..."
"Marty? Marty!" I hollered desperately down the shaft.
"Marty! Are you alright? Answer me! Marty!!"
But my cries went unanswered... until I heard a deep growl that almost make the ground shake.
She was a pretty young thing; but then again, most of the social workers were. Awkwardly, I tried to reach past her to grab a file from the cabinet, but she shifted sideways and suddenly we were face to face.
"Where's my money, Alan?" she hissed, and for just one second I felt a shiver run down my spine. She was short, slim, petite, or whatever adjective you liked to use to call her small, but I somehow got the impression she could do more damage to me than anyone else in that office.
I'm absolutely exhausted this morning, so I suppose you could say the timing of this prompt is pretty poor. You could also say my timing is pretty poor too, since I'm the one who stayed up late. Although there's not much else to say, I'm gonna keep typing because these prompts are always a good way to wake my brain up in the mornings.
It'd been a quiet morning for the grave men. They were passing through an area without many burial halls, so the number of walkers was relatively low. That said, when you've a twitching, writhing statue in front of you, one seems like plenty enough. They knew the animated statue wasn't really alive - it was just the random growth and shrinkage of cancer crystals through its stone body - but it was damn hard to keep that in mind when it's the corpse of your grandfather dancing in front of you.
We'd been digging for hours and hours, shovels hacking at the tough dirt and only just breaking through. Our hole was barely three feet deep when there was a loud, hollow thud. We'd hit something. Eagerly, our fatigue forgotten, we seized the handles and dragged it up onto the scrub. No lock; the lid was thrown back greedily. I dug through, tossing aside useless money and cursed Incan gold. And there, right at the bottom, my prize: Mr. Bunny. It had been so long since I'd held him...
We huddled close around the bulk of the iron oven, desperately trying to warm our extremities in the deep red glow of the flare. The snow had been falling for so long the oven itself was starting to fill up; only when we lit the flare and dropped it in the iron belly that it started to disappear.
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writing since 2016 · 31 entries · 30 days shown up
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