wolven7: (The Very Devil)
The south face was actually harder. The continual erosion of the rocks from snow-melt and wind exposure caused a shifting scree underfoot which was worse than the cold. It meant that she'd have to abandon many of her precious few pitons buried in the stone, but just so long as she didn't lose her way down. She went over the sequence in her head, again, the specific order of words, ropes, hammerings, and gestures that she would have to do, at the next cave mouth. Each opening was different, and the price for missteps rose sharply as she descended. She looked down, and saw the ledge, about twelve feet below her, but she'd taken her eyes off the rock in front of her and then she heard it.

Their skittery, chitinous chattering wasn't unfamiliar, at this point, and she knew what she would have to do to stave them off. She pulled out one of the wrapped parcels and lit it with her flint and tinder, relishing the brief heat before extinguishing it and drawing the sigil on the wall. She heard the screeching, and continued her way down, this offering made. She just hoped she'd brought enough cheese.
©Damien Williams. All Rights.

This flash fiction was written from [livejournal.com profile] mendori's prompts.

Might do the last one before I turn in. Might do an essay, instead, to clear my head and start fresh.

We'll see how it goes.
wolven7: (Me)
It seemed to eat away at the filigree of rust on the edge of the bed frame, so that was good. Every time she woke up in the darkened cell—no windows for fresh light or air—she concentrated on two things: Reminding herself who she was and why she was here, and getting out. For that last, she'd need some things.

She was killing time looking for weak spots and cracks in the walls and it still amused her that none of the corners added up to ninety degrees. It meant they were remembering other escapes, listening to the myths she'd spread. She was pushing at the worn-down spot on the furniture, again, when she heard someone coming down the hallway. Again, the disorienting harsh light shining in her eyes. Again the temptation to just rush her captors. But she still had bruises and burns from the first time, so better to wait for them to disappear and use the food they left.

They never remembered all she knew; what she was making from her meals could wear strong metal down to a fine edge. And with a bit of blood and the right words, she could bring down the tempest.
©Damien Williams. All Rights.

This one is from [livejournal.com profile] unknownbinaries' prompts.

And that's the last one, for tonight. I am super tired, and need to go drink more water and go the fuck to bed.

Good night.
wolven7: (The Very Devil)
The light refracted through the stained glass window as if through a prism. His parishioners stood enraptured in dawn, singing hymns of praise to no audible music, except... The priest tilted his head skyward, as he did during most services, and while his flock perhaps assumed that he was raising his face toward their Lord, what he was actually doing was listening. He could always hear something else under their droning song, like a finger around the rim of a wine glass. A constant force in his ears, a resonance in the centre of his brain, and if he could just isolate it...

“Let us pray,” and they bowed their heads and he intoned the words, new-old words, words that he shouldn't be able to form, and yet which were... familiar. The ringing grew higher and louder, and he had to scream the words to be heard above the cacophony. He thought his head might burst from the pressure, but he raised the knife, time after time, and when he was done he turned his face to the rose window. As the glass shattered silently toward him, he felt Its presence, and knew what it was to come home.

©Damien Williams. All Rights.

This flash fiction was written from [livejournal.com profile] thenowhere's prompts. Which is fitting, because every episodic writing exercise I do makes me think of her.

Well over Halfway there. One more tonight, before bed.
wolven7: (The Very Devil)
They sat waiting for a train that, as far as they knew, might never come. It was very Waiting for Godot, that way, and she turned to her to say something, and she giggled, and understood exactly what she meant. They sat holding hands on the terminal platform bench, listening to the sounds of the wind through the leaves across the track and they watched the progress of something small, fast, and green through the weeds growing through the railway ties. Their heads turned in unison as their four identical eyes tracked the lizard's progress up out of the tracks, over the platform, and onto the walls of the station.

They watched as it crawled over the protruding bits of bones, the chunks of clavicle and sternum accenting the marble-swirled concrete; the height of architectural fashion. It reached one of the broken stained-glass windows and disappeared with a noise like something very large slithering, shattering, ringing like chimes. The smell of acrid smoke and the rush of wind told them that (perhaps) a train was near, and so they stared at the tracks, their identical blonde hair billowing in the nowhere wind, and they waited.
©Damien Williams. All Rights.

Tori Amos - [Yes, Anastasia]--- This flash fiction is for [livejournal.com profile] cailement, from her prompts.

There'll be one more, before midnight, and one more after it.

Didn't write a goddamn thing yesterday. Between errands and picking Rebekah up from the airport, and hanging out with her, all day, i didn't really have time. And then, after what I'm roundly writing off as the functional failure that was my hosting trivia, last night, I just didn't have it in me to do so.

Snake River Conspiracy - [Strangled]--- So, lots of writing, today. Hooray!

Or something. Whatever.

15 minutes until the Caffeine Mines.
wolven7: (The Very Devil)
He paused in his reading and looked over to her. She'd fallen asleep again, but he didn't have the heart to wake her. She'd asked for this poem, specifically, tonight; had said to him that it would help get her head right for tomorrow. He didn't question it, anymore, he just found the passages and read them to her. Because he wanted her to come back to him, wanted her to think of him as home and safe and stable and to be that he would read whatever words she needed, every night.

He liked that she slept hard, in his bed-- that as long as she fell asleep first she would stay asleep at least until he followed (he had a suspicion that she woke up as soon as he fell asleep, but he didn't have the nerve to ask her, to be sure). Her arm across his stomach, his behind her head: they would lay like that for hours, for days, in dreams.

He looked at her sleeping face and reached over to the bedside table next to her, letting his fingers touch what she always kept there. He repeated the line:

“'...cool and heft of it....'”
©Damien Williams. All Rights

This one is from [livejournal.com profile] raoin's prompts.

A little ambiguous. A little not.

It's about time for bed, yes.
wolven7: (The Very Devil)
She comes to him like whispers
in the dark and winding connections
of this place. The thrum of a girder
in a derelict warehouse, struck
by a careless rock: An Echo
(all echoes) of meaning and former form.

She is an association in his mind, now--
an insinuation of memory, twisting
like smoke through the halls of thoughts.
She is the subsonic reverberation, itching
behind his eyes, the resonance
in his guts. And everything that he is
will be shaken apart, drowned out,
strained toward, covered in,
and rebuilt toward
©Damien Williams. All Rights

This poem is from [livejournal.com profile] kittenspeaks' prompts. They felt more like a poem, than a story. Or maybe she did. I'm too tired to tell the difference anymore.

wolven7: (The Very Devil)
“Hello?! Are you there?!" The line hissed and then the signal finally cut out.

He looked around the wreckage of the cockpit and weighed his options. Now that the fire was out, he wasn't actively losing oxygen, but he'd had to sacrifice most of it to the the void, so that the flames wouldn't crack containment. Quickly taking in the ruined features of the space which had once been his whole life, he reached a decision. He'd have to crawl back into the ducts of the ship, but if he could disengage or destroy the AER fail-safe... But they were down there.

He didn't want to think about them. They were some kind of horrible, carnivorous amalgamation of child and reptile; a hideous, swarming, hydrocephalic lizard. Their huge blank stares and jerky, skittering movements made them difficult to look at, let alone catch. He'd only been on the surface for an hour, but by some horrifying sexual alchemy, they'd laid their eggs throughout his ship.

He steeled himself. The ship was on an Automatic Emergency Return course to home colony, but he could stop it.

With any luck, the fallout from the crash would wipe out the whole species.
©Damien Williams. All Rights


This flash fiction was written based on [livejournal.com profile] t3dy's prompts (here: http://wolven.livejournal.com/1848067.html )

Two down, six seven eight to go. Really, if any one else wants in, there are two more slots open.
wolven7: (The Very Devil)
He had seen her in the bookstore window, staring at him with her hair blowing in a breeze that he couldn't feel. Her reflection seemed to glow with an inner light, and there was something hazy about her side of the street, something half-seen and oddly-lit, and he tried to do what he could to resolve what he was seeing with what he was feeling and... Smelling? What was that smell? Something like flowers and a smell of earth so rich it made his heart ache. He remembered he'd wanted to sit down on the sidewalk, remembered needing something to hold onto, a rope or a rail. And then he'd leaned forward into the window and...

He opened his eyes on the meadow before him, and he saw her standing there, the breeze blowing her skirt away from her kiddish legs. He heard the pipes, looked down, and understood. He was her Satyr, and she was his Maenad, at last.
©Damien Williams. All Rights.


This one was made for [livejournal.com profile] spiritualmonkey, based on his prompts (here: http://wolven.livejournal.com/1848067.html). For the flash fiction, I'm going to try not to exceed 200 words.

May do one more, tonight, may not. We'll see.
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