Story of grief (WIP)

 Had a dream after my dad died that seemed like it’d make a good story. I am still working on it so it’s only in parts and very rough. The asterisks indicate a break where I just went on another thought train. Ignore any spelling mistakes or grammar issues.

It’s extremely personal and fairly autobiographical  my relationship with my dad could complicated but I did love him. 

Ainsley sighed as she left the warmth and light from her grandmother’s house and stepped off the porch into the pouring rain. She stood at the end of the driveway, face turned up to the sky and let it soak into her black sweater and jeans, fully aware that she’d be extremely uncomfortable soon enough. She also knew that her rideshare driver was going to be less than pleased to have a soaking wet person sitting in his car but she didn’t care. 

She didn’t care about much of anything right now. Her father’s passing had been sudden and shocking, throwing Ainsley’s already chaotic life into more turmoil. Her mother had been inconsolable and her grandmother devastated, having only seen her son hours before he died. 

But Ainsley resented how her grandmother tried to paint the past as something rosy and beautiful when it had been a difficult few years. More than a few years actually. Ainsley hadn't really known her father. Not in the way her mother and grandmother had before he was struck by a car while riding his motorcycle at 21. It completely changed the trajectory of not only his life, but the life of those surrounding him.

Her parents had separated briefly after a series of serious and escalating incidents before getting back together after a year and a half. As they mourned together, her grandmother had said to just remember the good times.

The young woman scoffed as she spotted the headlights of the rideshare driver slowly making his way down the street. It’s not like you can forget any of the bad that happened before Ainsley’s father died. But that could be an argument for another day because right now all she wanted to do was to get home, have a hot shower and fall into bed to sleep for the next thousand years.

A dark-gray sedan stopped and the driver rolled down the window to peer at her through the dark and the rain.

“Ainsley?” he asked with a slight accent, scowling at the sight of his waterlogged passenger.

“Yep.”

He reached down in the passenger seat and tossed what looked to be several towels into the back seat.

“Lay some on the seat so you don’t get it soaking wet and use another to dry yourself off,” the man said. “Don’t you have an umbrella?”

“I forgot it,” Ainsley mumbled, doing as he had asked.

She carefully placed herself and her luggage, which was wrapped in a garbage bag, into the rear of the car and began toweling herself off and squeezing the excess water out of her dark hair. The driver began heading towards the train station and the young woman shivered at the coolness of the car. Ainsley asked him to raise the heat just a bit and stared out the window, watching the streetlights pass.

She jolted with a start 20 minutes later when the car came to a halt outside of the bustling station. She had either fallen asleep or had been so out of it, she hadn’t realized they were so close to her destination.

Ainsley gave her thanks to the driver as she yanked her bag towards her. She gave him a decent tip using the rideshare app, noticing how dangerously low her battery was. The little red battery icon mocked her with its five percent notification. Great, she had to hope she had her battery brick and charge cord in her suitcase.

She grumbled to herself as she moved through the expansive train station, barely concentrating on where she was going. As Ainsley looked at her dying phone to text her mother that she had made it to the train station, her elbow hit something hard. She looked up into the angry, dark blue eyes of a taller man wearing a gray apron.

“Excuse you,” he snapped. “Pay attention to where you’re going.”

She muttered a quick sorry and scurried away, feeling that gaze drilling into her back. As she went to round the corner to hopefully grab a cup of coffee, a man in a slate blue uniform stopped her.

“Ainsley Travers?” he asked in a deep voice.

The young woman jumped, not expecting anyone in the station to pay attention to her, let alone know her name. The man was tall, with broad shoulders and sandy brown hair that was closely cropped on both sides with the top being longer. A black belt crossed over his chest and connected to the belt at his pants, a holster at his waist.

Ainsley realized he must be a cop or some kind of security within the train station. She panicked slightly. Had something else terrible happened?

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“My name is Captain Enzo Carnell and I need you to come with me.”

Ainsley gave him a frightened look and then glimpsed past him, noticing a whole group of people waiting behind him looking anxious and agitated. 

“Please, Ms. Travers, “ the captain said, laying a gentle hand on her crossed arms. “It is of the utmost importance that you come with me.”

Feeling uneasy, the woman picked up her suitcase and let him lead her and the other dozen or so people back the way she had come. The group that trailed Captain Carnell consisted entirely of men, which struck her as odd and off putting.

As they walked past where Ainsley had bumped into the man in the apron, she noticed he joined the group and that a graceful woman, also wearing an apron, had taken his place. Her apron was not pristine like the man’s had been. Hers was spattered with color and a light gray, looking more like a Jackson Pollock painting than clothing.

The man Ainsley had bumped into walked next to her, not even sparing her a glance. Captain Carnell brought the group to a door diagonal from the shop the woman was at and opened it, ushering them inside.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, Ainsley saw small, chipped blue tiles lining the walls and floor. Every two feet or so, there was a round drain glinting in the fluorescent bulbs overhead. On one wall, there was a row of shower heads and on the opposite wall were stainless steel racks to place things on, fluffy looking towels on the top shelf. It was what she assumed prison showers looked like from the movies and television shows she saw.

“Line up under a showerhead and place your luggage on the shelf behind you,” the captain ordered everyone.

“Wait a minute,” a deeply tanned man, several years older than Ainsley, said angrily. “What is going on?”

“I promise everything will be explained but before we can continue, you’ll need to wash,” Captain Carnell said.

Wash? Ainsley thought. She was still soaked from her lack of an umbrella. Her waist long brown hair had started to slowly frizz and curl as it began to air dry.

“It is important that you do this before you can move forward,” the broad man said, his eyes serious.

“Wait a minute, Enzo,” the man she knocked into said. “I’m supposed to be leaving. Why am I here?”

Captain Carnell shrugged.

“Things change,” he said before turning his attention to everyone else. “You’ll need to strip down and clean yourselves. Towels are behind you.”

Ainsley yelped.

“You expect me to get nude in front of an entire group of men?” she asked shrilly.

The tan man side-eyed her as he began stripping.

“Trust me, you don’t have anything we’d be interested in anyway, sweetheart,” he said.

Ainsley shot him a death stare before turning her concern back to the captain. He didn’t seem particularly phased or bothered.

“We’re all the same at our base levels,” he said cryptically. “If you’re that uncomfortable, you can continue to wear your undergarments.”

She glared at the man before slowly peeling off her damp sweater and jeans and placed them on the rack behind her. It seemed as if she had no choice in the matter and found herself shivering in her very unattractive bra and panties.

To her left, the man in the apron was carefully placing a beautifully painted mug on the shelf. The word ‘Jagger’ was written at the top in a flowing script. Ainsley turned to him as he reached up to turn on his showerhead.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” she whispered.

“No one ever does when they first get here,” he said back in an unfriendly tone.

Well that didn’t make sense at all, but Ainsley decided to preoccupy herself by turning on her own showerhead. Which was of course too high for her to reach and she was sandwiched in between a jerk and what her mother would call a “crankysnotapotamus.” Had she been a woman who wore high heels, she would have plopped some on her feet and easily could have turned it on. Instead, she was struggling to stay balanced on her tiptoes as she futilely swiped at the showerhead. She stumbled, knocking into the tanned, rude man who swore at her and pushed her.

Ainsley slipped on the now damp floor and felt herself fall. The hard smack of the tile never came. Instead, she was jolted as the man in the apron grabbed her arm and pulled her upright, shooting the tanned man a nasty look.

“You could have just said you needed help,” he said, reaching up and turning on the water.

Slightly hot water began dribbling out of the showerhead and onto Ainsley’s face and head. The man frowned, fiddled with the head again and the water began coming out at a faster pace.

“You didn’t see me struggling?” she sputtered through the water.

He heaved a huge sigh.

“No, not really,” the man said. “I had my mind elsewhere, like why I’m still stuck here and not leaving like I thought I was.”

Ainsley was confused. Both this man and Captain Carnell acted as if they couldn’t leave the train station. Hysterical laughter began to build in her throat and she fought to push it down. What the hell was happening?

She scrubbed at herself half-heartedly before asking the man to turn off the water for her. Ainsley wrapped one of the large towels around her tightly and waited for Captain Carnell to speak.

The captain cleared his throat and everyone’s attention turned to the burly man.

“From here, I will bring each of you to a supervisor who will explain what is going on,” Captain Carnell said. “You can get dressed if you have other clothes. If not, clothing can be provided. The clothing you took off will be washed and returned to you later.”

“What do you mean later?” asked a man near the back.

“You will be here for the foreseeable future, but the supervisor assigned to you will explain everything,” the captain replied before he escorted the person closest to the door out.

Tears began to well in Ainsley’s eyes. She was stuck here? What about her life and her mother? She would be devastated that her daughter disappeared without a trace. She couldn’t have that happen to her, not after everything her mother had already been through.

Sobs ripped through her as she sank to the cold, wet tile. Apron man knelt down beside her, looking uncomfortable. He touched her shoulder and Ainsley turned her red-rimmed hazel eyes to him.

“My father just died,” she managed to say through her heaving cries. “I have to go back to my mother.”

The man gave her an understanding look.

“You can’t right yet, but you will be able to in time.”

Ainsley began to cry even harder.

“I can’t disappear off the face of the planet! I can’t be kept here against my will, you have to let me go,” she said.

The man sighed and ran his hands through his unruly light brown hair.

“I wish it were up to you or me but it isn’t,” he said. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

She remained on the floor crying as Captain Carnell called people’s names and led them out of the room one by one. Soon it was just her and the man in the apron.

“Jagger, back to Orphelin,” Carnell barked, jerking his thumb out the door. 

Ainsley barely acknowledged that she has learned the man’s name before he had grabbed his things and slipped out the door, leaving her and her echoing sobs behind.

Captain Carnell approached her and stared down at Ainsley for a minute before he crouched low. Her sobs had slowed to small hiccups and she was startled by a white handkerchief with the initials EC embroidered in green at one corner.

“Here,” Captain Carnell said, offering it to her. “Dry your tears.”

“But my father just died and my mother needs me,” she said, feeling more tears burning at the back of her throat. “I need to go home. I can’t stay here.”

“Everyone is here at one point,” the man said to her, still holding out the handkerchief. “I promised it would be explained to you. And Orphelin is one of the best supervisors there is so you’ll be out of here in a jiffy. Not sure why Jagger is still stuck here though.”

Captain Carnell’s last comment seemed to be more to himself than her. She sniffed and took the fabric from his blunt fingers, eliciting a small smile from the man.

"I know grief can be difficult," the captain said, standing and offering Ainsley his hand. "But it is a journey, just like everything else in life."

"Grief is shitty," the woman spat, voice hoarse from tears and exhaustion.

"Yeah," Captain Carnell agreed. "Yeah it is. But grief can root you in place and never let you go. That's not good. That's why it's important to process it."

Ainsley nodded as she took Captain Carnell's hand. He pulled her up and turned his back as she threw on a pair of black yoga pants and a heathered green, long-sleeved shirt.

She hung up the now soaked towel and gathered her luggage before following the captain out of the shower room. She was still sniffling slightly and her eyes were beginning hurt from all her crying as Captain Carnell led her to what appeared to be a pottery store.

Jagger was standing near a display of bowls with a scowl on his face and the spotless apron back in place. The beautiful and tall woman Ainsley had seen before appeared to be lecturing him. He seemed very involved in dusting the display and polishing the shiny finish on the bowls, trying hard to ignore the woman.

"How is it that you always seem to be left behind?" the woman asked. "Out of everyone I've helped, you've been here the longest."

Before Jagger could reply, Captain Carnell cleared his throat, catching the attention of the pair. Jagger's eyes narrowed at the sight of Ainsley and her breath caught in her chest at his look. It was a combination of hostility and pity.

"Enzo, welcome!" the woman said in a loud cheerful voice. She glanced past him and noticed Ainsley trying to hide behind his bulk. "Hello, dear. No need to hide. I won't bite."

"Orphelin," the captain acknowledged with a nod. "I've brought you another ghoseh."

“This is a waypoint station,” Orphelin said slowly as if the young woman standing before her couldn’t understand the words coming out of her mouth. 

“Oh my God, am I dead?” Ainsley asked the other woman. “This isn’t some Chronicles of Narnia crap where the train I was on derailed and killed me but I don’t realize it?”

The older woman snorted. “Of course not!”

“So I’m not waiting to be let into heaven or hell?”

“Hell would honestly be more preferable than this,” Ainsley heard Jagger mutter underneath his breath.

Orphelin must have heard him too because she shot him a glare and he began cleaning the mugs on the display table a little faster.

“No, this is just a jumping off point in your journey forward in life,” Orphelin said.

“That sure makes it sound like I’m dead.”

The woman huffed, annoyed.

"That's not it at all. God, you're worse than Jagger."

The man heard her and turned around.

"Hey!"

"Don't sound so insulted," Ainsley snapped.

"Listen," Orphenlin began. "For lack of a better word, you're stuck. It's not up to me to say who is to stay and who is to go. But I do know that everyone here is here to let go of grief."

"So you're telling me that everyone in the world comes to some sort of spiritual way station when they're grieving?" Ainsley asked.

"No, not everyone," the older woman explained. "Just some. The people who are here are people who have been found to not be able to move on."

Ainsley frowned at Jagger and Orphelin. Jagger just shrugged at her and went back to rearranging some plate display.

"So some benevolent… God? Determines who stays and when they go?" she asked.

Orphenlin shook her head.

"Who needs this place, yes, but said benevolent being doesn't determine when you leave," the paint splattered woman said. "That is entirely up to you."

*****

In her second week at the way station, Ainsley began to explore whenever she wasn't constantly rearranging the displays at Orphelin's pottery shop or bickering with Jagger.

On her third or fourth poke about the vast area, she happened upon a booth with Customer Service written above in big, bold letters. Sitting behind the desk, filing papers, was a neatly dressed man with combed hair, a brightly colored polo shirt and a name tag that read 'Locke.'

Locke glanced up and caught a glimpse of Ainsley and paused his work. He threw a thousand watt smile her way, making her dislike his perfectly white teeth.

"Well, howdy there!" he called in a cheerful voice, a heavy drawl creeping on.

****

Anger

"You clearly have some unresolved issues and anger in regards to your father," Locke stated.

It took every ounce of self-control in Ainsley to not roll her eyes at the man.

“Oh, you don't say?" she said with heavy sarcasm.

The older man gave her a disapproving look.

All her life, her father's world had been dominated by some kind of pain and some kind of turmoil. Her first real memory of medical problems for her father was in the second grade, when his hand began to turn blue because of a blood clot. Then it slowly began escalating from there.

She remembers the fights from high school when his medication would turn him into something she didn't recognize. He tried to kick her out at least three times her senior year of high school. When she was a sophomore in college, he went to rehab in order to help deal with the withdrawal symptoms of getting off his prescribed methadone.

And then in her senior year of college, he was diagnosed with lung cancer. It led to being put back on strong opioids. He beat it, just as he beat testicular cancer at 25 but it left his body and immune system decimated. And that led to physical limitations that frustrated her father and that led to more fights between him and her mother. And fights with her.

It never turned physical with Ainsley but it could have. Once he broke his cane over a gate close to her face. She never thought her father was capable of getting physical with anyone, he was a frail man, until it happened.

That was what caused the separation. She still doesn't know all the details surrounding her parents' brief separation but she knows there's more than what her mother has told her. And she understands to a point.

"How is it possible to be so angry at someone yet love them so much?" Ainsley asked.

Locke gave her a knowing and sympathetic look.

"I think that's a common thought," he said. "People we love anger us all the time."

"I feel terrible that I'm horrible for still being so angry with my father for everything he put my mother, his family, his friends, me, through," Ainsley said. "It infuriates me that my grandmother wanted to pretend like nothing had ever happened."

Locke stops typing on his computer and looks up the clearly frustrated young woman.

Ainsley continued to rail against her grandmother and her obvious blindness against how her father had treated people in the past.

"I mean, she was there when he and I had a big blow up and yelled at each other," she said, her angry voice echoing off the tiled walls. "I wanted to scream at her to open her eyes. All my life people have told me I had to make accomodations for my father because he was sick or he was in pain. But they never understood the abuse my mother and I lived with! Which is why I am still so angry with him!"

Hot, angry tears streaked down her face and she did her best to prevent herself from completely breaking down.

"Listen, Ainsley," Locke said in a serious voice. "I can't tell you when or if that anger will ever subside. You've spent most of your life in a vicious cycle and you're allowed to be angry at your father and hate him, even while loving him. I think you're being too hard on yourself. Grieving is an unpredictable process and clearly you have some unresolved feelings towards his behavior."

Just then Jagger walked in, causing the two to look at him. The man's face turned red as he noticed Ainsley's upset state.

"Oh uh, I'm sorry," he said, hands raised as he began to back up. "Don't let me interrupt."

Ainsley sniffed and wiped her nose with a tissue.

"No, it's fine," she said, standing. "I was just about to leave."

"I was under the impression we were still having a conversation, Ms. Travers," Locke said. 

"I'm not sure if I can finish this conversation quite yet," Ainsley said as she brushed past Jagger. "I'll be back some other time."

The woman disappeared into the bustling crowd leaving behind a confused Jagger and concerned Locke.

****

“Why are you here, Jagger?” Ainsley asked. “Who are you mourning so deeply that you’ve been stuck here for as long as you have?”

The man glared at her, ocean eyes flashing dangerously. She had gotten to know Jagger well enough that his look meant he was about to lash out.

“Drop it,” the man growled, shifting his gaze to the ceiling.

“You can’t leave because you’re just so angry all the time!” Ainsley shouted at the man. 

The Darkness Unto the Light

Post-apocalyptic are among my favorite kinds of stories. Many of my favorite authors craft post-apocalyptic worlds that are interesting and I enjoy delving into them. This kind of prompt enabled me to take everything I love about those stories and write my own. I wrote more than I had expected but this prompt really jumped out at me more than some others that I looked at. I hope you enjoy it.

[WP] You are a post apocalyptic mercenary. You weren't expecting to fall in love in the wasteland, but you recently rescued a lone, scared drifter from some slavers, and you're developing feelings for them.

I stared down at the cowering man in the sand, knowing I looked intimidating as I gripped my glaive tightly. My tan robes, covered in tiny droplets of crimson blood, obscured my figure and the white scarf wrapped around my head hid my features, leaving only my almond-shaped, piercing green eyes, a rarity now, visible. I took a step towards the man, but he pushed himself away from me, the chains at his wrists and ankles making a harsh 'clank' in the desert air.

He began babbling at me in his native tongue, raising his manacled hands in a clear plea of mercy.

"There is no need to be frightened," I told him in Lingua Común, the language spoken by almost everyone in the world now. "I am not here to harm you."

He continued to trip over his words and it took me a minute to recognize it as Kazakh, one of the many almost dead languages that some miscellaneous tribes scattered throughout the world still spoke. In my line of work, an understanding of different languages was important, especially with the paycheck I was getting.

"Be calm," I said back to him in his own language, taking him by surprise. "I am freeing you."

The man shut up almost immediately. I knew I must look like a nightmare to him, covered in the blood of the slavers I had just slain and eyes flashing like an animal. I knelt in the burning sand to root through the pockets of the dead men, looking for money, trinkets and, more importantly, the keys to their victim's shackles. My mouth quirked into a slight grin as I found a large leather purse full of heavy coins as well as a set of keys made of the same dull metal as the manacles.

The man held extremely still as I unlocked the chains and let them fall to the ground with a thud. He eyed me warily, scrambling a few feet away from myself and the sand wet with the blood of the men I killed. From a distance, I had seen the slavers pull him mercilessly across the desert with little care for his well being. Most slavers treated their captured with care in order to get the best price at the slaving blocks but too many didn't care. The ones that didn't care were the ones who eagerly spent their coin at the ramshackle pubs found in the border towns the minute it was in their fingers.

The rich that lived in the thick-walled cities cared even less about a slaves condition, depending on what they were being used for. They would work a slave like the man I had saved until he dropped dead, having no more use for him than a handkerchief. The rich were stupid fools but profitable clients.

"My name is Anis," I told him slowly, watching him rub the red and raw skin around his wrist. "What is your name?"

"Kirill," the man said softly, gazing up at me with eyes as brown and soft as my dog's.

"What happened, Kirill?" I asked, his name rolling off my tongue like a song. It sounded foreign and wonderful at the same time. "How is it that you came to be in the possession of these men?"

Kirill didn't look like a weak man. His tall body was corded with muscles and he looked like he had been working his entire life. He was handsome, I had to admit. Big brown eyes with ridiculously long lashes sat under strong black brows and his nose was hooked, telling me it had been broken. Maybe more than once. He had smooth, deeply tanned skin and full, sensuous. But he had the look of someone who would not be taken willingly.

"I was out in our tribe's furthest field," he said haltingly in moderately accented Lingua Común, tracing the blistered brand, his slaver's mark, on his forearm with careful fingers. "I was ambushed and hit on my head."

My eyes were drawn to the line of dried blood that snaked from Kirill's black hair, over his temple and down his neck. It was flaky, almost completely gone, which indicated he had been out here for several days.

"Will you take me back home?" he asked, a hopeful look in his doe eyes.

"I highly doubt your village is marked on a map and I have already wasted too much time saving you," I informed him. "So no."

He looked crestfallen.

"But how am I to return home?"

"I am in the middle of a job," I told him, pulling one of the slaves head scarves off his body to clean the blood of my long weapon. "I will take you to the next border town and then you can be someone else's problem."

He looked uncomfortable at the thought, mostly likely thinking about how he would not be able to trust anyone especially after his ordeal. Good. Trust was for the weak and trust did not do anyone any good. It was unfortunate he had to learn that the hard way.

"Come," I said to him, holding out my hand to help him up. "We must find shelter before nightfall."

He hesitantly reached out and took hold of my hand, his callouses rough against my skin. A surge of heat flooded my body, sending a shock through my brain. What in all Hell had that been? I dropped his hand the minute he got to his feet, as if I had been burned.

"Let's go," I said curtly, ears pricked for the screams of the predators that roamed the area at dusk.

It turned out Kirill was a decent travel partner. Capable of staying silent and watchful, we continued through the desert until we reached the border town of Karşıyaka. I was almost hesitant to leave him in the desolate shithole. Karşıyaka was a rough and tumble town that catered to the forsaken. For people like me, who chose a life of violence and for people like my mother, a prostitute willing to sell her body to just about anyone. It was a town of low-lives and outlaws.

I had to admit, Kirill had been helpful during the two week journey. He was quick, picking up on my routine in only a day or two. He was a crack shot with a slingshot and a bow, catching several jackrabbits for us to feast on. He was also the jiraw, or storyteller, of his tribe and shared one or two legends over the fire. But I made sure not to touch him again, lest I felt the same shock of heat that I did the first time.

I glanced over at him as he silently took in border town, streets teeming with transports, cycles and camels. He looked lost and I knew everyone in this dung pile would take advantage of his ignorance. He was likely to wind up dead in an alley or back in the hands of slavers if I left him here. I heaved a sigh.

'Shit,' I thought.

"Kirill," I said, startling him. He stared at me, eyes wide in bewilderment. "I have a proposition for you."

"Yes?" he asked cautiously.

"If you agree to assist me with my work, I will do my best to get you back to your village," I told him, crossing my arms.

He watched me curiously, trying to determine if I had ulterior motives.

"Truth of the matter is, the assholes here will rob you blind, kill you or pass you off to another set of slavers," I say, gesturing to the street and the people behind him. "I will pay you and you can return to your village a rich man."

He contemplated my offer, looking thoughtful. After a moment, he nodded and gave me a shy smile.

"I like this deal," he said. "Thank you... Anis."

*Four Months Later*

I cackled with laughter, trying not to spill my steaming mug of tea all over myself as Kirill recounted the tale of his two older brothers getting chased by a bull during mating season. He has turned out to be a wonderful companion. He was witty, intelligent and had admirable instincts. He didn't even seem to mind my violent line of work, knowing when to stay away and when to return to me.

Still chuckling, I brought my mug up to my lips and hissed when I felt a bite of pain. The tender skin had caught the sharp edge of the metal cup, slicing open. I cursed, bringing my hand up to my lips. When I moved my hand, the blood on my fingertips looked eerily bright in the dancing firelight.

Kirill looked alarmed at the blood dribbling down my chin and scrambled over to me.

"Anis, let me help," he said, reaching out to press a dingy handkerchief to my cut.

I shifted uncomfortably at his proximity. Lately, I had done my best to avoid being too close to him. He was a distraction and I had been sloppier than usual in my work. Clients paid for discretion, not distraction and mess. Still, I let him gentle wipe away the blood on my face before more dripped onto my robes. I closed my eyes at the dull pain and was started to see his face close to mine when I reopened them.

"Your eyes have flecks of gold in them," Kirill said softly, tracing a finger from his free hand along my high cheek bones.

I shivered at his touch.

"You can thank my father, whoever he is, for that," I said breathlessly. "I get most of my features from my mother whose ancestry comes from the Eastern Sea regions. My eyes, however, are all him."

"At first, your eyes frightened me," Kirill confessed, removing the handkerchief to see if the bleeding had stopped. "I had never seen green eyes before. I thought you were a demon to come take me for my sins."

"You could not have so many sins that you would need to be taken to Hell by demons," I told him, voice tight in my throat.

He glanced up at me through thick lashes.

"Oh, I am not as clean as you believe me to be. I have done things I am not proud of."

My body tensed at his feather light touch traced along the lines of my collar bone, feeling hot and cold at the same time. He was much too close and I did not know what to do. This was never supposed to happen. We had maintained a comfortable and fairly respectable distance from each other for most of the time we had traveled together. What had changed all of a sudden?

For the last several weeks, all I had wanted was for him to be close to me. Bolts of electricity would jolt through me every time our arms brushed against each other. Every time he said my name, tendrils of pleasure spiraled through my body and my heart rate spiking.

I was an angel of death, good for nothing other than ending the lives of others. Kirill was a bright light against my darkness, a better man that I could ever deserve. I was not a creature worth loving and I did not have the right to want to touch him, kiss him or lay with him.

Kirill leaned in closer to me and brushed a painfully light kiss against my trembling lips and I thought I would burst into flame at the touch. I ached for him and felt desire pool low in my belly. I was unable to wrench myself away from his gaze and the only thought that crossed my mind was that he was never supposed to be mine.

Girl with the Clockwork Heart

I was very inspired by steampunk for this writing prompt. When writing it, it reminded me of a wonderful series by Kady Cross, who wrote the Steampunk Chronicles series that includes The Girl in the Steel Corset, The Girl in the Clockwork Collar, The Girl with the Iron Touch and The Girl with the Windup Heart. Clearly these are where I drew my inspiration from. It's a wonderful series and I would recommend them for those interested in the genre. I was also a bit morose when writing this. The end of today has been trying but writing this has soothed my nerves. It was also a moderator's choice. The highest rated story in this prompt is absolutely amazing. I hope you enjoy mine!

[WP] Her heart was made of cogs

She could hear the slow 'tick tick tick' in her chest as her heart beat. It was a rhythm that had been with her all her life. Her heart was a strange contraption of muscle and metal, pieced together by a father desperate enough to do anything to save his little girl born with a broken heart. And it set her apart from everyone else.

'Tick tick tick tick...'

Girls her age, also born into privilege, sought opportunities she had no right to hope for. When she would walk the streets, she would hear the whispers of balls and dancing and dresses and afternoons spent under endlessly blue skies and buttery sunshine and on the backs of horses. She had a look about her that always put her under the scrutinous and envious stares of mothers and the daughters they paraded around like prize mares. Slim and waif-life, smooth, peach cheeks and plump, full lips, eyes a strange hazy purple-grey of heathered moors, and glossy chestnut curls. A porcelain doll to be seen and not touched.

'Tick tick tick tick...'

But she was an outsider and always had been. The mechanical heart set her apart. There was no visible proof of the machine that kept her alive. Her father had made sure the scars she had were almost invisible every time he would operate. She had a patchwork of scars on her chest, like a map of London.

'Tick tick tick tick..."

She had once asked to see his drawings of her heart. She knew he kept them hidden away lest she be disgusted at what beat in her chest. It was beautiful in a way. Carefully constructed with delicate cogs in constant motion, performing a life saving dance. He had held onto her first heart. A tiny little thing, no bigger than a walnut, made of strings of red and pink and gold and floating in a small jar. He had replaced her heart several times as she grew, each heart more elaborate than the last.

'Tick tick tick tick...'

"I will protect you, my dear heart," he had whispered into her hair after that night.

'Tick tick tick tick...'

But promises were meant to be shattered. Her father was taken from her by a man frantic for money. Her father was not a fighter. One well placed blow pushed him off balance causing him to fall when he was trying to get into a hansom carriage and strike his head on marble steps. He was gone in an instant. Solemn faced policemen came to the door to inform her of his demise and she thought her fragile heart would stop.

'Tick tick tick tick...'

Without her father, she would die. He was her heart's keeper and its caretaker. As the weeks dragged on after his death, she could feel her body failing around her. Her hands were cold and blue, lips bloodless. Her body was sluggish and she felt listless. Her father was so busy trying to protect her at all costs that he, in all his infinite wisdom, had forgotten to teach her how to live.

'Tick tick... Tick tick...'

If she was going to die, she decided she would know true joy before she did. She did things she was never able to before. She took her father's gelding and sprinted him across what seemed like endless fields, her chest aching as her heart fought to keep up with the excitement and joy she felt at being alive. She danced barefoot in the spring grass in rhythm to the throb of her blood. She naked as the day she was born in a hidden crystal lake at the edge of their property, unable to distinguish the cold of the water and the coldness slowing creeping into her limbs. She lay in the glen next to the lake with her hair spread around her, sunning herself.

'Tick... ti... tick tick tick...tic'

She returned to the city proper, hair unbound, in search of a confectioner's shop and pushed her way past the people crowding the small interior. She ordered a boxful of sweets from the harried proprietor and sat in Hyde Park as the sun began to set. She shared the candies and cakes with ragamuffin children and a man thumping by with a wooden cane, missing one of his legs.

'Ti... tick... tick tick tick tick ti...'

She sat, bathed in the golden light and knew her time had run out. She had felt her heart slowing all day. If only she were a true clockwork doll like some believed her to be. Then she could be wound up and start the day anew. Her breath came in small, panting gasps but she smiled anyway.

'Tick... tick... tick... ... ... tick... ... ... ... tick... ... ... ... ti... ... ... ... ... ...'

No one noticed at first. The fairy like girl sitting on a park bench with her hands folded demurely in her lap and a slight smile on her face. It wasn't until they found her to be cold to the touch that they realized what happened.

Time had run out for the girl with the clockwork heart.

Unconventional Family

For years I've been obsessed with the tale of Hades and Persephone and I have read a lot of books surrounding them. Meg Cabot's Abandon series is really good as is The Goddess Test series by Aimee Carter. This prompt was all about awkward family reunions. I was originally going to have Persephone have an affair with Anubis, the Egyptian god of the dead and have their child quip about her mother and her attraction to gods of the dead but changed my mind. I wanted to use a different god and I went with Thoth, who I think suits me. He is the Egyptian god of wisdom. Andela is Greek for God's messenger. Enjoy!

[WP] You're the love child of gods from two different pantheons. Family reunions are...awkward.

"Mom," I whine, pushing away the hands that were trying to fix my halo of curls around my head. "Stop fussing."

"I'm not fussing," my mother says in her posh and queenly voice. "I just want you to look presentable for once."

I roll my eyes and scoff. She just wants to make sure Dad doesn't think she and my step-dad don't take care of me. I run my fingers through my glossy black curls to bring them back to their usual mess, eliciting a grumble of disapproval from my mother. Ignoring her, I sway with the movement of the river, letting it settle the nerves I feel rising in my stomach. Every time I go to visit my father, my mother sets me on edge.

"You don't need to come with me you know," I say to her, an edge to my voice.

Her eyes, brown as newly turned soil, slide to Charon who pointedly ignores the conversation. He's good at that, seeing as the souls of the dead prattle away at him non-stop.

"You need a proper escort to your father's," she says simply.

"For the Zeus's sake, Mother, you just want Dad to see how much you don't miss him," I snap. "You just want to rub it in."

My mother glares and I can see hellfire spark hotly in her eyes. Hmm. My adoptive father has really rubbed off on her. You would think he would have rubbed off on her sooner considering how many millennia she's been married to him. Then again, she spends six months out of the year roaming the earth while I'm sometimes left to my own devices in the Underworld.

"Old man teach you some new tricks?" I ask and grin in delight when I hear a deep, rumbling laughter echo over across the River Styx. Even Charon seems to smile briefly, just a flash of white in the darkness of his robes.

My mother huffs in frustration.

"Don't encourage her insolence, Hades," Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, says to the air.

"Leave her be, dear," Hades says, voice coming from all directions. "Have fun with your father, Andela."

"It's going to be hot," I complain.

"The Underworld can get hot," Hades reasons.

"Not as hot as Egypt," I mumble as Charon's boat scrapes against the pebbles at the edge of the river.

I feel the ghost of Hades's lips brush the top of my head.

"Don't cause too much trouble," he says as a goodbye.

My mother and I follow a stone path upwards until we see rays of sun shining and long blades of grass waving lazily in an arid wind. I stomp the last few steps, dragging my bags with me, thankful I had lathered sunscreen all over my perpetually tanned skin before leaving the Underworld. For a girl who spends 90 percent of her time in the Underworld, my skin was ridiculously dark. I wasn't about to let it get any darker. Beyond the grassy shore, I could see a grand boat floating on the sparkling Nile.

Ancient gods were obsessed with boats, I decided, jamming a pair of sunglasses on my nose to protect from the sun's glare.

"Hello, Persephone," comes a soft, whispery voice on the wind.

My mother jumps, her cheeks turning red at my father's voice. She turns and my father, Thoth, one of Ra's right hand men and god of wisdom and scribes, is standing several feet away. As always, my father addresses her, ignoring me completely.

"Thoth!" she exclaimed, her accented voice higher than normal. "You're looking well."

"As well as can be expected considering you're here, Persephone," comes a husky voice from behind me and I turn to see Ma'at, goddess of law, order, truth and justice, ambling through the grass to reach us. "Hello, Andela darling.

Ma'at gives me a brief smile before turning a stony gaze to my mother. She and my mother hate each other. Even though Ma'at and my father are married (I think), she knows he pines for my mother whenever he sees her.

"Ma'at," my mother says, voice tight and bristling at my aunt's tone.

My mother may be Queen of the Underworld but here in Egypt, she's nothing.

My mother and birth father met one of the times she was roaming the earth, free of the Underworld and Hades. She spent the summer traipsing Egypt and had a whirlwind romance with Thoth, much to the horror and surprise of Ra and the rest of the Egyptian and Greek gods. And especially my grandmother, Demeter. She was so pissed, places around the world recorded the hottest temperatures on record.

When she returned to the Underworld and Hades, she found out she was pregnant. My adoptive father was surprisingly calm about the whole thing apparently, accepting my mother's pregnancy and of me. At least that's what Charon told me. And he loved me. He didn't seem to care that I wasn't actually his. He treated me like I was a true princess of the Underworld regardless and let me do whatever I wished, much to my mother's dismay. But this summer, he was forcing me to spend months with my real father.

And it wasn't like I didn't love Thoth or Ma'at or Seshat. My Egyptian side of the family were all wonderful but very... boring. It was all work and no play which is very different from the other side of the family. Plus, my father's home was light and airy and hot. I liked the darkness and dampness of the Underworld. Anubis didn't like my hanging around all the time so I was often homesick. This would be the first time I would spend more than two weeks with my father.

Breaking her gaze from Ma'at, my mother turns back to Thoth, who finally acknowledges me with a brief nod.

"Hello to you too, Dad," I mutter darkly under my breath.

He frowns and goes to say something to me but my mother interrupts.

"Are you sure it's okay Andela stays here for all this time?" she asks as if I were a young child.

"Hades must be sick of playing babysitter constantly while you go on your walkabouts," Ma'at says with a sickly sweet smile. "Andela will be fine."

My mouth turns down at Ma'at's statement. Hades may not be my real father but he and I were as close as could be. Thoth barely knew anything about me, nor did he ever make the effort. Every time I was in Egypt, he was always too busy with Ra to pay me any mind.

Before my mother could respond, rustling in the grass along the riverbank breaks through the tenuous silence.

"Welcome back, Andela!" cries a blurred shape before it hurtles into me.

I fall back into the grass with a screech, Bast, the cat goddess, sitting on top of me.

"Gods on Olympus, get off of her, Bast," my mother snaps, reaching out a hand to  push the smaller woman away and help me up.

Bast hisses and swipes viciously at my mother's hand with sharp fingernails. They scrape against my mother's skin and a line of red swells up. My mother's lips flatten into a straight line.

"You know you shouldn't be here, Persephone," Bast spits with hatred, pushing herself off of me and pulling me to my feet.

"I'm just here to make sure Andela got here safely," my mother says, wiping her bleeding hand on her dark skirt.

"You just want to rub yourself in Thoth's face!" Bast snaps, fisting her hands, now devoid of claws, on her hips.

My mother turns away from Bast, choosing to ignore her rather than engage her anger. The nerves the settled before are back with a vengeance and I can feel my insides twisting uncomfortably.

"Well, clearly I'm not wanted here," my mother quips, turning to me. She grabs me by my shoulders and quickly kisses my cheeks. "I love you, Andela. Remember to call me every once in awhile so I know you're alright."

Before I can respond, she disappears back the way we came and I'm left standing in awkward silence with my father, his wife and Bast, who I know I'm related to but not in what way. This was going to be the longest three months of my life.

Another Sunrise

Brief post. This prompt struck my fancy and I wrote something quick before I started work today.

[WP] Yet another sunrise. Only something has changed.

He stared at the lightening sky, watching as dawn approached. It wasn't his first dawn nor would it be his last but, for the first time in a long time, it would be a quiet one.

What was different about this dawn was that it cast the roughly constructed cross's shadow across his feature. This dawn brought peace but this dawn also brought heartbreak.

And for the first time in 10 years, he had woken up without his best friend, his soulmate by his side. Hardened by time and by war, they had fought for their freedom together. He thought their story would end in happily ever afters. Instead, their story was a tragedy. The hole in his chest threatened to cave in and he fell to his knees, morning dew kissing them and his fingers curling in the freshly turned dirt.

He had promised he would keep them safe. But promises were lies wrapped in pretty bows. Easily broken with a word or an action. But it is foolish to promise protection when each breath could be their last. His soulmate hadn't stood a chance, attempting to face down a legion of men, better armed and better trained than he had been. It had been over in a matter of seconds, bullets shredding his body.

Safety, he scoffed in his head. What a useless concept.

Battle worn and weary, he got to his feet and turned from the mound of dirt and crude cross. Freedom was not easily won and his war was not over. No. This dawn would rise. And with it, his revenge.

The Discovery of the Pickpocket

So this is a constrained writing example. This limits your stories to whatever the original reddit poster wishes. This one required me to drop my reader into the middle of my book. What I put in was something I've been working on for the past two years. Like much of my stuff, I haven't really had the opportunity to get far.

My idea for this book is based on Oliver Twist, but focusing on an ancillary character, Jack Dawkins also known as The Artful Dodger. Always one of my favorite characters of the book, he isn't exactly the nicest but is considered cunning. He wasn't a good looking lad thus, Jackie isn't the prettiest girl. In Dickens's novel, Charley Bates is one of Dodger's closest friends. In my story, they are still good friends but it turns to something more. But just as Dodger's story doesn't end happily ever after, neither does it for Jackie and Charley.

[CW] Get me hooked. Reel me in. You may write about anything, but there must be no true beginning or conclusion. Pluck your story from the middle of your "book", without any context as to what may be happening.

I heard a gasp behind me and I whirled around, clutching my open shirt at the neck.

“Bloody hell, Dodger! You’re not supposed to have all them jiggly bits!”

I charged across the small room and banged the door behind him. I turned and slammed him against the wall.

“Shut yer, gob!” I hissed, pulling my boot knife out and placing it against Charley’s neck. “You wasn’t supposed to see none of that.”

I felt his Adam’s apple scrape the blade as he swallowed hard.

“Sweet Jesus, Dodge,” Charley breathed. “In the name of all saints, what the hell is going on? You’re a bleeding girl?”

“Yes, I’m a damned girl, you ninny. And you best not be breathin’ a word of it to anyone,” I snapped, pushing away from him and hoping the he would think the red on my cheeks was from my temper and not my embarrassing feelings.

“Does Fagin know?” he asked, rubbing his throat and sitting down hard on the worn stool by my mirror.

“Of course Fagin knows, you idiot,” I said, buttoning up my shirt and yanking my ratty vest on over it, trying to cover up the bits he weren’t supposed to have ever seen. “What the hell were you thinkin’ just walkin’ on up and into my room, Charley? You know better than that!”

“Well, it’s not like I were expecting you to be a girl,” Charley said, taking off his cap and scratching his head. “Makes sense why you never let me come up here. Is Jack Dawkins even your real name?”

“As it were, my real name’s Jacqueline or Jackie, but you best be calling me Jack or Dodger or I’ll knock you on your ass!” I threatened. “And you breathe a word of this to the lads, I’ll have your guts for garters and you’ll be floating down the Thames!”

“Hell, I ain’t gonna say anything, Jack,” Charley said. “You know me better than that.”

That were true. I trusted Charley more than most, but there was a reason I was cautious. Last time I made a friend, I were almost sold as an apprentice whore.

“I ain’t gonna throw you in the Thames, ya big baby,” I said to him, adjusting my trousers.

Charley noticed my movements and got a curious look on his face.

“Why is God’s name are you walkin’ about in kecks instead of a proper dress?” he asked, eyeing me differently.

“Because I’d be like Nancy, tumbling mean blokes like Bill Sikes or boys like you, barely into their trousers,” I said, sitting down in my threadbare chair and crossing my arms.

Charley had the decency to turn red at that.

“What!? I don’t-“

I scowled at him from my seat.

“I ain’t stupid, Charley Bates,” I said crossly, unhappy that we were even talking about this. “I know you tumble plenty of girls down at Madam Devereux’s.”

“Sometimes a man enjoys a woman’s touch,” he said defensively. “You’ve been there plenty! And them at Madam Devereux’s make good enough money. It’s sometimes profitable to be a whore.”

“Them at Madam Devereux’s know I’m a girl. And only if you’re a high class whore. Look at me. I’m nothing to toss more than a few shillings at for a quickie in some dark alley. I’d be dead by the time I was thirty, if I were lucky, with them dirty blighters that visit the Quay,” I said, naming one of the seediest places and a notorious whore nest in London, down by the Thames. “Hell if I’ll be some dockside whore. One bastard tried to sell me for extra coin as a whore’s apprentice when I was no older than eight.”

I noticed Charley’s brow furrow at my mention of almost being sold.

“I always knew you was too pretty for a boy,” he said, moving closer to inspect my face. “But blimey, you sure don’t have the face of a girl.”

I touched my crooked, upturned nose and bared my teeth at my friend. I pushed him away, not liking the tight feelin’ in my chest at his closeness.

“I knew I were too pretty a boy so I made sure I got into enough fights to make sure I weren’t pretty no more,” I said, venom behind my voice. “And I used to be a handsome little thing. But I make fair enough coin selling my hair to the wigmaker.”

“Not lately,” my friend said, nodding to the shiny, dark brown locks that were cascading down my front and my back. “You’re still right pretty enough, Jackie.”

He rolled my unfamiliar name ‘round his mouth like he were tasting a toffee he had just swiped.

I froze at his words. I liked my name on his tongue. I gave me the shivers.

“Don’t call me that,” I said softly, my insides turning to mush.

“Why can’t I call you by your proper name when we’re alone?”

“’Cause it ain’t right,” I snapped, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees.

“You don’t get to have it both ways, Jackie. Anyway, Fagin calls you Jackie.”

“That’s Fagin and he’s allowed to do as he pleases. It were him that took me in when I were starving and half beat to death in an alley. Knew I was a girl even though I was dressed as a lad.”

“Why do you parade around dressed like a boy?”

“Me da always wished for a boy, but he was stuck with me instead. Always called me Jack.”

Charley gave me a hard look.

“I hardly believe that’s why you’re struttin’ around as a gent,” he said. “What’s the real reason, Jack?”

“Because it’s easier bein’ a lad,” I said with a sigh. “Being a girl is rough, especially an orphan.”

The Summoning

I've apparently been attracted to writing prompts that bring Hell a little bit closer to home. A lot of which has been inspired from Supernatural. Which I've fallen woefully behind and kinda miss the monster of the week deal they had going on. Anyway. Trying to get back to writing. I keep apologizing for my lack of writing lately. I've been very lax about writing but very busy in general. Works in progress. I swear. Happy reading!

[WP] As the demon stared at the mortal who summoned it, all that could be heard was a sigh before the words, "You do realize this is a marriage proposal, right?"

"Oh for the love of-" he spat as he appeared before the mortal who summoned him. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The human looked at him, seemingly surprised at her success in summoning him. The flame on the candle in her hands wavered as small, pale hands shook.

"Well?" he asked again.

The female squeaked, almost dropping the candle and the demon rolled his golden eyes. The female was small by human standards and looked to be no more than a child in an oversized black sweater, a pair of jean shorts over ripped fishnets and tall combat boots with thick soles. Her black hair was thick and curly, hallowing around her face and her piercing blue eyes were made bigger by the rim of kohl lining them.

"I require your services," the girl-child told the demon in a wavering voice.

"With?"

The girl's pert nose scrunched and she briefly glanced down at the book open at her feet.

"Shouldn't you know that already?"

The demon curbed the desire to smite the girl on the spot and breathed in deeply

"You summoned me, remember? I don't know what you actually want."

"Oh," was the quiet reply. She looked at the demon through the fringe of her bangs. "I need revenge against someone."

The poor lamb didn't even realize what spell she used to summon him, the demon realized. He didn't doubt that her Latin was shaky at best and unintelligible at worst.

"This is your first time doing this, isn't it?" he asked, taking slight pity on the foolish mortal.

She nodded and he rubbed his head, feeling a headache forming. He stared at the girl and heaved a sign.

"You do realize this is a marriage proposal, right?"

The girl froze, blue eyes going wild. And promptly fainted.

"Guess not," the demon mused.