draliman on life

Here is my story for Laura’s Literary Lion prompt. Mr Lion has spoken and this week’s prompt word is “flower“. I’ve left all attempts at humour behind for a slightly grittier attempt for this week’s story.

Ring-a-ring o’ roses,
A pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!

We all fall down.

The words of the old nursery rhyme run through Dravid’s head as he looks around. Apt, he thinks, but the Black Death had nothing on this.

Here a woman stumbles past, sobbing, clutching the remains of her baby close to her. There a child stares blankly, a numb look on his face as blood-tinged tears trickle down his cheeks.

Once upon a time there were “rules of war”. You can do this, but not that. Kill this person but not that one. Not anymore. Rules? In war? War is all about winning. About killing, and killing, and killing, until there’s no one left to kill. That’s how you know you’ve won. And so finally both sides unleashed the stores of chemical weapons they never admitted to having.

Delivery was always the trick, thinks Dravid as he muses on this. Too easy to shoot down missiles, planes. He drops his backpack by the side of the road, the empty chemical bomb rolling out into the dirt, its contents already unleashed. He’s done his bit. Time now to rest. Lowering himself to the ground, his fingernails already rimmed with red, he knows that his end is near, past overdue in fact. He plucks a perfect white rose, marvelling at how selective the chemical is, leaving plants and animals untouched. Something to do with DNA, he understands.

The chemical, his chemical courses through his body, and his last sight as his insides liquefy is his blood, staining the rose red. Such a beautiful shade of red.

Here’s my story for Laura’s Literary Lion challenge. This week Mr Lion has supplied the prompt word “eye“.

Marcus settled back into his chair after one of his infrequent visits to the kitchen. This is where he felt at home, felt alive. Banks of monitors stared back at him, each showing a different scene.

Here a road, there a bedroom, on another scenes from corporate CCTV flashed past – an office, a stairwell, employees catching a sneaky smoke on the roof…

Some men had armies to enforce their will. Others knew the human psyche so intimately they were able to manipulate people into doing almost anything. Marcus had his monitors. His window on the world. Knowledge was power. And he knew everything.

Within his peer group he was known as “The Eye”. He was at the top of the pyramid. He knew everything worth knowing. And he used it to his advantage, regardless of the harm he caused to people’s lives.

A scene on one monitor caught his eye. Wasn’t that… yes! A middle-tier government minister. Not so high as to cause him problems but high enough to have a reputation to protect. And the lady he’d just entered the hotel room with? She was at least a nine, maybe nine point five (Marcus had no trouble objectifying women, and it would come as no surprise to learn that he’d never had a meaningful conversation with one). The minister was married. To someone else.

Fingers flickering over his keyboard, Marcus activated the webcam on the laptop in the hotel bedroom and began taking screenshots. He’d get a pretty penny for this, maybe buy himself a new server. Who would pay more for these pictures, he wondered? The minister to keep it quiet, or his wife for leverage in a divorce? Life was good!

Unseen in the corner of his room, a tiny lens watched his every move, streaming images back to base.

There’s always a bigger fish.

Very soon, Marcus is going to learn this. Because actions have consequences, and Marcus’s cosy little life is about to change in unexpected and unfortunate ways.

Here is my contribution to Laura’s Literary Lion prompt. I had one for last week (“water”) but it was complete pants quite frankly, and I didn’t have time to make it less pants :-).

This week’s prompt word, kindly supplied by the Literary Lion, is “dance”.

The picture I have used was taken from The Guardian, but the same picture was on multiple websites so it’s likely a publicity shot (from “Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell”) and owned by the BBC.

Mirabelle whirled amongst the dancers, her feet a blur. Her head swam and her heart pounded as she swirled around and around the Hall.

The Lord had wooed her, told her she was pretty and invited her to the Hall. For a poor peasant girl, this was a dream come true!

No longer.

The Lord of the Dance watched the mass of unwilling dancers with an appraising eye. As one flagged, he moved in and touched their shoulder. A moment of agonising pain and then, magically revitalised, they would dance renewed. But each time, the renewal faded more quickly. Mirabelle had witnessed the end of the cycle – a girl spasming, helpless on the floor, froth pouring from her mouth. The Lord, uncaring, stepping over to snap her neck.

This would be Mirabelle’s fate – already she had danced… two weeks? Three? How was she to keep time in this nightmare? As she whirled, she longed for death, an end to this travesty of joyful dance. She no longer cared, just wanted this to end.

Garett, concealed on the balcony above, watched the dance, horror reflected in his eyes. He’d long suspected that the Lord of the Dance was of the Elder Folk. He’d known The Lord was cruel, but this?

It was too late for his beloved. He’d watched the Lord snap his darling Jenna’s neck when he had no more use for her.

She would be the last, he determined. Holding the Medallion of Akros in one hand and raising the other above his head, he drew a deep breath, ran over the spell one last time, and began to chant.