Prompt Writing #9

Prompt [veiledinspiration]:

"I’ve had the dish ten or twelve times, but this time it tasted sort of funny."

Randomly Selected Story and Character: Dead Man's Hand, Helen

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I'm eating, I'm eating!" Helen shoved a forkful of rice and General Tso's chicken into her mouth. "Gaw."

Her brother tightened his lips and checked the front door again. No one hovering outside. No one coming in, either, not without triggering the chiming bells tied to the inside handle. Inside the buffet, it was just them and the usual staff. Two-o-clock wasn't the busiest hour after all.

Helen paused in her chewing, squinting at her plate of food. She swallowed and said—something that was lost to Chinese shouts from the kitchen area.

"What?" Adrian frowned, rapping his knuckles against the table until he realised he was doing it.

Helen sighed into her straw, one bubble of Coca-Cola popping under her nose. "Nothing, nothing. I'll keep eating, don't worry." She swallowed another bite of chicken and rice. "It just tastes a little different today. Maybe not as many peppers or something." She used her fork to flick one aforementioned pepper away from her next bite.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Her brother grabbed her wrist. "Stop."

Glaring, she sniffed. "One or the other would have worked. Gaw, you're so bossy."

"Bossy? I—" He trailed off into grunts between gritted teeth before shaking his head. "Helen, there are people trying to kill you. Don't eat food that tastes funny!"

She rolled her eyes. "It's not that funny. I promise if I taste poison I'll stop." She shook her wrist out of his grip. "Besides, you're the one that decided this place was safe."

As he eyed a worker girl restocking the crab rangoon, Adrian steepled his fingers in front of his nose and let out a tense breath. "Well, that was a few minutes ago. What you're telling me now is that it might not be that safe."

"No, what I'm telling you now is—Augh!" She slammed her fork down. "Fine, I'll just starve! Let's get out of here." Pushing herself up with her palms, she stood.

"Helen—Helen!" Her brother leaped after her as she charged for the door. "We haven't even paid."

She snorted, snaking around one of the steaming buffet lines. "I'm not paying them if they're trying to poison me."

"At least—"

He cut off as the worker girl charged for his sister. Swearing, he put his hand to his gun as yellow light glinted off a knife in the Asian woman's hands. Before he could get a good shot, Helen screamed, grabbing a plate or two off the stack and slamming it onto her attacker's head. With a porcelain crash, shards slammed into the sneeze guards as the worker staggered back. Adrian took his chance and fired. The woman with the knife stumbled backward from the impact and hit the floor.

 Panting, Helen pulled a lock of hair out of her mouth and looked at her brother. "You still want to pay them?"

"Nope." Stashing his gun, he grabbed her wrist and ran for the door before any shouting from the kitchen could come closer. 

Prompt Writing #8

Prompt [veiledinspiration]:

"I walk through the burned remains of my home and, sure enough, just like he said, the box was there amongst the remains, unharmed."

Randomly Chosen Story and Character: Midnight at the Iston Diner, Jenny

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

What was left of the one-story house wasn't the most welcoming structure. Everything that was going to fall down already had, but scorched chunks of wood beams, drywall, and bone still cluttered everywhere. The acrid stench had faded, but it still overwhelmed the smell of grass at quite a distance. The whole spectacle seemed utterly out of place when the air was so cool.

Thankfully, the fire hadn't spread to the neighbors. They didn't need to get caught up in this whether they knew her or not.

Well, hopefully they had been caught up in it enough to believe her death. It was the only way to cover her tracks at this point. And by fire, ironically enough.

It was still worth the risk to come back. She had obscured her features, of course, and it was a bit early for anyone around to be awake. There was still some risk, granted, but who would be staring at the burnt supports by now? 

Compulsively clutching the front of her jacket, Jenny took several quick, light steps up to the rubble. It was supposed to be where her "body" had been. Not far from her bed, in other words.

Ah, if only she could wander around here in as little danger as Charlie had faced. He didn't even have to leave if he didn't want to. Just choose another name, another body, and move on. But he was a good friend to her instead. Even disguised the bones to match hers.

The metal frame of the bed was still recognizable, although soot coated the bronzed surface. It took a bit of feeling around and too much light clattering, but she eventually wrapped her fingers around the box. Its wood nearly rough enough to give her splinters, it was a rectangle about the size of a sixteen-ounce cup. Definitely what she was looking for. Scooping it into her arms, she took another brief look around her old home before hurrying off towards the trees. 

She didn't dare stop until daylight was breaking. Far from her neighborhood, she found a fuel station and stopped in. It wasn't one she frequented, and the handful of people inside would provide a little cover. The box in her front hoodie pocket, she walked calmly around the aisles and went into the bathroom. No surveillance.

She had felt some weight in the box shifting around, but she went ahead and opened it up. The little hinges squeaked as she looked at the contents. A folded note, as well as a large wad of cash. She flipped through the bills to count them—plenty—before putting them deep into her jeans pocket. Tucking the box under her arm, she grasped the note and unfolded it.

Already found a place up north. Small town, but friendly enough. There's an old diner at a good price if you want to try that again. I'll meet you there.

Charlie had signed it with his first name only beneath some scribbles. They were unlabeled, but she could tell from the shape what roads they were supposed to be. A large dot was on a side road a while from the interstate. 

It was a good distance to walk, but, with a few bus stints here and there, it wouldn't be bad. 

Putting the note in her other jeans pocket, she shut the box and left the room. She silently paid for a bottle of cream soda and walked out of the store. The box found its way into a nice patch of grass out back.

And she walked north.

Prompt Writing #7

Perhaps not the most exciting, but a short bit of character exploration nevertheless.

Prompt [2YN generator]:

"Yesterday, your character had a chance to meet an alternate version of themselves. Today, they wake up in a world _almost_ like their own. A world populated with different versions of the people they knew. Can they return home? Or will they be trapped forever among familiar strangers?"

Randomly Selected Story and Character: Suture, Jethro

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In this world, Jethro was not in fact a student at the university. When a baffling new reason to study thermodynamics hadn't been thrust upon him, it wasn't surprising.

The others were still in the area, though, virus or no virus. Powers or no powers.

And he had no particular reason not to check up on them.

Midas was the easiest to find, since he was the only one actually enrolled at the university. He was easy to walk behind for a while, too, with his earbuds perpetually in his ears. He didn't seem to be in any trouble. Got to class on time, didn't really interact with friends. It was Midas all right, even if his occasional subconscious conducting wasn't controlling any heartbeats in the area. There wasn't terribly much reason to stay after him.

Sven was at his high school three streets over. He was eating lunch with a few friends Jethro didn't recognise. Of course, he'd only seen Sven at the studying sessions, which were not open to the common populace. There was no reason to assume Sven didn't actually have friends. Perhaps his personality wasn't the most conducive to that, but he did have a life outside of his abilities. Jethro could stand to learn a bit more about him personally.

Not here, though. Not in this world. Although little time had passed since the illness had changed any of them, they were still slightly different people. He couldn't leave the other world, the one in danger, to his powerless self.

If he could find his way back, at least.

Prompt Writing #6

A shorter one, it seems.

Prompt: [Forward Motion Writers generator]

"Where would your character hide if they needed to disappear? Where could they blend into the crowd and, hopefully, vanish in plain sight?

Today, give your character a reason to hide, and then help them find a way to go underground until the storm blows over.

If they can."

Randomly Selected Story and Characters: Mount, Dobson and Crick

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It didn't take their genius IQs to recognise that there was a problem. As a matter of fact, even Theodore and his sister seemed concerned.

Granted, several tribesmen were readying their spears with no targets but the railroaders in sight.

Supposing that that carving Theodore took was quite important to the natives.

Dobson and Crick were currently bringing up the lead in the fleeing party, despite the latter's short legs. The luxury expandable shelters were far too soft to be proper cover; the single railroad car was solid if relatively lightweight, but there were too many windows. The rock face ahead—the actual start point of the mission—was, however, considerably solid. 

It was also considerably distant.

The engineers forged ahead regardless. There were few trees and other obstacles on the way, and, while there was no hope of tripping up their pursuers, there was little risk of tripping up themselves. 

The spears, at least, seemed to be a mere threat rather than, well, a threat. Surely natives that hunted animals were capable of throwing spears at moving targets. They were merely trying to frighten the railroadmen into returning the artifact.

Shame that Theodore had already sent it back to his home.

It was a wooden relief, not particularly large, from one of the trees that were the predominant type in this area. A good number even crept up the side of the mountain.

Surely it would be a simple matter to replicate. With the engineers' attention to detail, they could recall every swipe of the blade that created the medicine man's profile. As long as they could shelter in a spot of the mountain for a while, they could resurface with the "artifact," hand it over, and go on their way. Of course, they would need supplies. And most likely their benefactors out of the way or, even better, as a distraction.

No problem. If anyone could orchestrate such a complex cover-up, it was Dobson and Crick, the genius engineers of their century.

As long as they could outrun the natives first.

Prompt Writing #5

Here, have a little emo excerpt. It's about the only interesting thing Cora has going for her before she was in circumstances where she wouldn't be able to show up at her house for this prompt.

Prompt [Yeah Writers blog]:

"Your character opens the door to their house to a stranger claiming that they are siblings. What happens next? You decide."

Randomly Selected Story and Character: Chemists, Cora

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Cora had only just dumped her bookbags on the living room floor when she saw the boy on the couch. With bowl-cut hair a little lighter a brown than hers, he gripped the bottom edge of the cushion and kicked his short legs, making himself bob on the springs.

"Oh, hey, Cora!" he chimed, waving with his left hand. The orange cloth of his oversized jacket slunk down to his elbow. "How was your day?"

The worst one I've ever had.

"Get out of my house, punk. No idea how you got in or what you think you're doing here, but—"

"Hey!" He pouted. "That's no way to speak to your little brother! I'm gonna tell on you."

"Excuse me?" She let her cold stare rest on him. "You're the one trespassing. If anybody's 'gonna tell on' someone else, it sure isn't going to be you. Now get out before I kick you out."

The boy leapt to his feet. "But, Cora!"

"Shut up!" She ground her teeth, hunching and forcing her fists into the front pocket of her black hoodie. She hadn't taken it off since she'd found it that afternoon, so she knew well enough there wasn't anything in there. "I have had it with everyone today, and I am not going to be whined at by some psychotic little boy, too!"

Still snarling, she took a step towards him. "Now, get out."

He shrank back. "A-are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay! And you're not going to be, either, if you don't beat it!"

It took a second of glaring at the boy before she registered the tears running down her face. Swearing, she pulled up her hood a little more and looked down.

"C-Cora?" He timidly tugged at the wrist of her hoodie. When she didn't respond, he choked. "I-I'm sorry! I'm Vash's little brother—I-I was just joking around... Don't cry!" He wrapped both hands around her wrist. "I-I wasn't trying to be mean or anything..."

Taking a deep breath, Cora shook her hand out of his grasp and wiped her face. "Good for you. Don't try to be mean when you grow up and get a girlfriend, too, huh?"

She folded her arms, frowning down at him. Vash's brother, was it? Why had she thought he'd only had a sister...? Well. It was hardly important. 

"Run back home, all right?" She kept her voice stiff. "I have homework, and I don't need anybody's little brother distracting me."

Now, a certain someone's older brother distracting her... was unavoidable. 

No—no, it was. He was done with her. She would be done with him. The end. No more Moe. No more stupid bull**** about her looks and getting jealous and—right. No more of it. Homework. She had homework. Some pretty nasty thermochemistry junk, to boot...

"Cora?"

She didn't drag her gaze away from her backpack. "What?"

He was hugging her from behind before she knew he was even approaching.

"Do you want a little brother?" His voice was muffled in her hoodie, the dummy. "Just for today? You look lonely."

She stiffened, shutting her eyes and letting out a long breath. "I don't need anyone. Go back home before it gets dark."

He let go. "Okay..." Trudging along in front of her, he went to the still-open front door and stopped. He looked over his shoulder at her and then turned back towards the outside.

"...Can you make tea?"

"Huh?" He whipped around.

Cora lowered herself onto the couch, dragging her bookbag with her. "You can stay long enough to make me some tea if you really feel the burning need to do so."

"Okay! I can do that!" He ran up behind the couch and leaned over it, putting his face near hers. "Where's the kitchen?"

She sighed and pointed him to the right door. "Don't break anything."

"Yes, ma'am!" He scurried towards the entryway. "I mean, no, ma'am. I won't break anything!"

"Okay." Setting her book in her lap, she paused. "What was your name?"

Already in the kitchen, he peeked around the doorframe. "Noah."

She grunted in response. "Well, the less you say to me, the longer you get to stay, Noah." She pulled out a pencil and twirled it between her fingers. "If I'm going to have a little brother, he's going to be well-trained."

"Okay!" He stepped back in the doorway. "I—" He suddenly froze up, wide-eyed. Cora checked the door—it was still open, but it hung open all the time without anyone barging it—before looking back at Noah. He made a motion to zip up his lips, smiled, and hurried for the kettle sitting by the stove.

Ah. If only all boys would do that.

Prompt Writing #4

This one's certainly different, but it's not the worst.

Prompt: [Yeah Writers blog]

"Write a story from the perspective of an imaginary friend of someone who is not a young child anymore (over 12). But they only exist while the person is thinking of them, lately there have been many other things on their mind."

Randomly Selected Story and Character (after rejecting a few randoms that just wouldn't fit): Bloom, M

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I doubt she has much need for me anymore.

I know I've been her lifeline for a while, years, even. A dark cage can't be the best place to find friendship, nor keep one's self sane. As alone as she's always been—well, without any "real" companionship, at least—I don't think she would be able to talk now if it weren't for me. She wanted me to listen, so I did. She wanted me to speak back, so I did. Whatever she needed—someone else with unexplained abilities, with girl problems, with dreams of the outside world—I was. I had no choice; I was hers.

There was never anything wrong with that. She was the reason I even existed; why wouldn't I want to be her friend? Why wouldn't I want to help ease the pain of being alone for so many years? I needed her, too. Just as I listened to her, she listened to me. I knew there were others out there, some like her, some unlike her, but I never wanted to leave. I was needed in that cage, and I really did belong there with her.

When she left, finally ran outside and pulled me along with her, I was excited. We even had a new friend, Lawrence. Or, she did. He could never hear me. I don't know why I expected him to. He wasn't my special friend, nor I his.

At first she would talk to me about him, like girls are supposed to talk. But she started to talk to him more. That was all right. Then the real running started.

We always knew she was kept in that cage for a reason, and that she wasn't supposed to be let out. I couldn't have been any more surprised than her when the others tried to hunt us down. When her thoughts turned more to survival than friendship. When she only had time for friends that could actually interact with the rest of the world to help her keep running.

I was patient. They couldn't stay after her forever, and, once they pulled back, she and I could start talking again. But she kept talking to Lawrence. She kept running. I kept fading.

Sleep felt strange. When she was asleep, when she had stopped thinking of me in the cage, I would sleep. When she turned a blind eye to me in her waking moments, I still slept. I actually started missing things. I didn't see her for days. Weeks.

Even now, as we chat quietly over a fire and a sleeping Lawrence, I can barely hang on. She's not focused on me. She hasn't been lately. I'm not even sure when the last time I saw her was—her hair seems longer, her body thinner.

Maybe she'll keep me around to talk about Lawrence sometimes. Maybe she'll let me stay awake—alive—even if she barely needs me. We've been best friends for years, and we can't turn our backs on that. Right?

I can't fight the feeling that she might do just that. Would that be all right? I've only existed to help her stay sane, and now she doesn't need my help with that. Is it okay if I sleep forever, having already served my purpose? It sounds like it should be. Maybe I can come to believe it wholly if I have the time.

For now, I'll cling to life whenever she needs me to.

Prompt Writing #3

I figured it was about time to give another one of these a shot.

Prompt: [Forward Motion Writers generator]

"For days, the dull gray skies have opened up, the rain a steady, drenching downpour. Every creek, every river, every pond laps at their banks, ready to spill over.

Another hour, two at the most, and the real floods will begin. Does your character dig in, or run for the high ground? Can they run even if they want to?"

Randomly Selected Story and Character: Roughhouse, Terry

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It had been raining since the orphanage released him. At first, Terry hadn't minded the downpour; the shushing and splashing were wonderful, the water dripping down his arms tickled, and he didn't have to worry about getting sunburnt. But as the rainfall continued and his food money depleted, his cheer started to drain.

By the time he was beginning to suspect it would flood, he was already out of town, chewing on wild berries and trying to find more. A little creek at the far end of the stretch of bushes fizzed and pounded at its banks, and brackish puddles in the grass reached out to each other and snapped into bigger puddles. His cheap, leathery boots were nearly black from wetness, and water and particles sloshed around his feet as he abandoned what little remained on a blackberry bush.

Where was he supposed to go? Higher ground, right? The city was too far away to go back, so he would have to press forward. That looked like a little hill ahead. Maybe it would be enough. It couldn't keep raining forever.

Slipping a bit with every step, he crept up the trailless slope. By the time he finally reached the top, he was sure it was high enough, but a look down proved that that was an illusion. Thin currents were already twisting the grass below, though, and he would have to see a better hill immediately if he was going to get to it in time.

He looked about quickly, but the only thing he noticed was the large lean-to straight ahead, in the flatter area. While every branch in the shelter was soaked through, the two pairs of soles visible through the opening weren't moving. He wondered for a moment if they were just abandoned shoes facing the same way, but those would have started to drift in the flood by now.

Still the rain fell, and still neither of the occupants had moved. Surely they weren't dead?

"H-hey! Is anyone..." the twelve-year-old started, cupping his hands around his mouth, but the whoosh of rain pounded the sound down into the water. Shivering hard, he looked down at the sheet of flowing water for a minute before deciding it still wasn't very deep.

His first step sent him sliding and staggering all the way down the hill. Falling onto his hands with a tremendous splash, he hurried to get his fingers out of the mud before he wiped them on his pants and walked ahead. The current was surprisingly strong, but if he just went step by step, he wouldn't get in any trouble.

He was panting with the effort, the water past his ankles, when he finally got close to the lean-to.

"Hey!" he called again, seizing one of the branches, half for support and half to draw attention. "You guys—you guys need to get out!"

Finally one of the boys in the shelter stirred, although he really had to force himself to get into a seated position. Squinting past his sopping wet, dirty-brown bangs, he sat there and groaned for a minute.

"Sorry," Terry started, taking a step back, "but, I mean, you should probably get up..."

It took another minute for the older boy's eyes to open fully. After a pause, he twisted to prod at the half-Asian boy next to him. "John," he mumbled. "Wake up. It's raining too hard."

John didn't move, and Terry let go of the shelter, walking a bit further back. The water was over the tops of his boots now, and his feet dragged in the water stubbornly.

"There's a hill," the twelve-year-old started, pointing, "over that way. It's not very tall, but it's at least better than here, right?" The current tried desperately to sweep him under, so he started back towards the hill after one more look at the bleary-eyed teen.

A high-pitched yawn startled Terry, but the grassy mud was sucking at his soles too much to let him jump. Rubbing his jacketed arms in an attempt to stop shivering, he plodded on a few more steps.

By then the others had caught up. They were taller than Terry had anticipated—at least, they were tall compared to him—and they seemed to be having a bit less trouble pulling their bare feet out of the ground. Despite that, one look at them made Terry wonder how on earth they had made it out of the shelter, let alone hurried along this far. Through a thicker sheet of rain, he hadn't been able to see the swellings and bruises across the white teen's jaw and John's cheekbones. The teens' shabby clothes revealed more damage than that, and John struggled ahead with a steady limp that the other tried to match. Both let their arms hang limply at their sides as they hurried ahead.

What had happened to them? Had they been mugged? Had they fallen down a long stretch of rocks? How did—

With a yelp, Terry went under. One boot remained stuck in the mud, and his ankle twisted painfully as the current wrenched him around. He groped blindly beneath him until he got to the ground, but he couldn't get his chin above the water before his trapped boot slipped off his foot. Grass uprooted in his hands as he tried to at least keep from being whisked away, and his head pounded and tingled as he refused to breathe in any water.

Suddenly the ground was gone. Gasping, Terry groped wildly at the rain for a while before realizing he was no longer underwater. Coughing and spluttering, he wiped some of the dirty water from his eyes and tried to figure out where he had ended up.

He was seated, bouncing slowly, and his feet didn't touch the floodwater. In fact, his calves were resting against fabric—the other boys' shirts. Shared between their shoulders, Terry was borne like a prince over the water. The two beneath him let the mud from his feet soak into their shirts as they forged ahead in unison.

Beyond the rain, Terry couldn't quite tell how far the hill was, or how high the water had come. But John and his friend plowed ahead steadily, and Terry clung to them, sure that they'd make it.

Prompt Writing #2

This is the first official instalment, but my earlier prompt writing exercise will function as Prompt Writing #1.

Prompt: [Forward Motion Writers generator]

After a sham trial, your character has been thrown in prison, no chance of parole, less of a chance of survival. It's only a matter of time before an attempt is made on their life. They have to escape and soon. The question is, how?

Randomly Selected Story and Character: Macbay Transportation Services, Max Webb

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

That Macbay.

That demon Macbay.

Max could have easily scribbled such thoughts all over the walls of his cell if he'd had a pen. That could have upset the other residents, though, and they seemed upset enough. A man with military tattoos stretched across military muscles sat on his bunk sending death glares through the door of bars. An older man quarreled with a young redheaded woman who already bore a black eye. The rest seemed to think that the plump man with no more than the politically necessary amount of army service was worthy of their attention.

Max wondered briefly if any of them were the magic users he had been so eager to push into the army. Although, after the harsh ridicule he had gotten for even believing in such powers, he may have had more to fear if they didn't. Revenge for unfinished deeds, even delivered by these characters, was nothing compared to being shipped to a madhouse. At least here he could die quickly, of a broken neck or some such thing.

Although if that demon Macbay got him killed here, Max would still not be particularly happy. He would only be particularly dead, and that would hardly be good for anyone. Who could be a better and more effective Manager of Conscription? His sons were far too young, and his nearest brown-nosing underling was far too pathetic. The Empire needed him alive, and in a position of power that only he could wield effectively. 

Of course, even if he made it out of here, there was no guarantee of his restoration. The newspapers already screamed lies of embezzlement, much more than he had ever taken for the magic-user project, and that devil truck driver was undoubtedly frolicking about the mainland scot-free and spreading worse. He'd have to charade as someone else to get his position back—although that would hardly be an issue if he were capable of it. As long as he was back in power, where he deserved to be—where his Empire needed him.

"Yer the crazy conscripter, ain't ye?"

Leaping off the mildewed floor, Max adjusted his hat and composed himself before meeting the speaker's gaze. A wiry man with skin stretched over his muscles like extremely shrunken clothing, he stooped over to view Max and squinted to do a better job of it.

"I," Max began, lifting his chin, "am the Manager of Conscription for The Empire. Undue rumours have been spread about me, and so I must bide my time here until sense returns to the men of justice."

The inquirer stood straight as he laughed. "Yeh, an' I'll bide my time 'til they see me wife jump back ta life."

Max frowned, although in a quite civilized way, as the wiry man wore himself out laughing and retired to another corner of the room, shaking his head.

More jeers than punches hit Max as the days passed, but the grimy, unidentifiable food alone would have been enough to wear him down. Between the derisions, scuffles, and general atmosphere, Max was starting to truly lose hope. If the men of justice could fix their eyes so firmly away from this place, if his entire case was naught but yellowed news to them now, how could they redeem him?

How could anyone? He had already broken ribs, cheekbones, and pride, and it was only a matter of time before things got really dire. If it weren't for new hoodlums coming in, his cellmates would be nearing extinction. He was only a politician, with no real crime to his name, but, among so many true villains, that was more of a disability than a virtue. He doubted he would last long enough for anyone to see the truth and purpose in his actions and come to free him.

Wrapping his fingers around the only decently clean thing in the cell, Max was looking over the dark blotches on the door when it suddenly rattled in his grip. Quickly he withdrew his hands, but this only served to amuse the culprit on the other side of the bar.

"You awake there, crazy old man?"

Max's limbs stiffened to the point of paralysis as he turned his eyes upon the outsider. Baring his disgusting, crooked-toothed grin, Macbay stuffed his hands in his back pockets and leaned in to get a better look of Max's bedraggled face.

"Taking good care of yourself, I see," the trucker commented, straightening back up.

Frowning sharply, Max opened his mouth to make reply but could not determine which insult to throw first.

"I've been doing fine, too; thanks for asking," Macbay continued, thumbing the front of his hat upwards, although it didn't improve his fringe-obstructed view much. "Still at my old business. Just got a big job the other day. This lady by the name of Viola asked me to deliver a special package for her."

At his wife's name, Max's enraged thoughts stuttered to a bewildered stop.

Macbay grinned widely as he fingered the bars that would so easily bend for him if he put his mind to it.

"Think I ought to take the order?" he finished.

Promptness

I've browsed a few other writing blogs, and there seems to be a trend in writing from prompts. I think I may start doing this, and I'll make it a series if you readers are interested. I'm going to draw my prompts from the Forward Motion Writers generator, or maybe a few from the example sentences in my Mac dictionary when I find them (they're quite curious sometimes) and then write an unedited drabble that may or may not have anything to do with the actual story of a character.

So, my first shot, the prompt being "Crowds are funny things. They can be chaotic, unpredictable, unma[n]ageable. And they can be dangerous, [especially] when rumors and complaints are running like water through them.

Today, your character finds themselves smack in the middle of just such a crowd, the threat of a riot all but certain. What they do about it is up to you."

and my randomly-chosen character being Michelle:

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Michelle had some basic riot training, of course. With the streets eternally clogged with crowds, and few of the citizens made any happier by this fact, general discontentment could spark into destructive anger within a few words. It was something that happened and something that forced her to sort damage reports. A common nuisance, nothing more.

At least, that was how it looked when she was behind police office doors or sturdy, clear shields. When she found herself standing unprotected in the middle of the crowd, the idea of a riot was a bit more worrisome. The lack of zap in her system—and, judging by the trembling arms across the throng, in the others'—did not help the situation, either.

A man with a shaved head a bit darker than her skin pounded at the front door, which looked more like an overgrown wooden shutter than a proper barrier. It would probably buckle quickly once those in the front decided to bust it down. But no—there was a secure metal door just behind it. Wasn't there, the last time she was inside? That was right, yeah...

Dangerously close to losing her balance, Michelle tried to keep up as her part of the group approached the knocking man in the front. What were they going to do when they found the door wouldn't come down? How was she going to get out of here before things escalated? How was she going to get out of here at all if she didn't get her fix?

The crowd had just come to a stop when she heard the shouting. Rising above the grumbles and cries of the rest, a man's voice called for them to unite. To strike. They all deserved another helping of zap no matter what the organization was trying to do, and together they could secure it. Even if the addicts had to claw every brick from the walls, they would get inside. 

It took little more convincing before the horde was crushing itself to get closer to the building. Everyone was eager to do his part in the distribution of just rewards, even if to do so he had to send his fellows sprawling and ready to be trampled. 

The sweating bodies pressing in on her, the feeling of air going thin in her lungs, and the roar of excitement finally sent Michelle forcing her way past those in front of her. As if these grungy, reeking zapheads deserved to get their fix more than her! They were leaving others to die so they could get a little closer, while she was a perfectly good policewoman who saved people. She would put the energy to much better use than any of them.

She never faltered in that thinking as she fought past anyone in her way.

If only her coworkers could see her now.