Interview No. Seven

“Resurrecting the dead wasn’t easy, but it taught me a lot about working collaboratively within a team, and maintaining the proper procedures associated with it.” Seven said, gesticulating with his hands, miming a flourish.

There was a glimmer of something metal on one of his wrists – was that brass? A bracelet? Those look like runes. Those were definitely rune carvings. Simon reclined into his office chair, furrowing his pepper-white eyebrows together.

“I mean, it’s one thing to speak some Latin and wave your hands, but it’s another thing when you have to coordinate waking times with the refurbishers, yikes!” Seven continued.

Aren’t those bracelets mandatory accessories for pro necros? Humph. He’s certainly not the kind of caster that should be applying to work in an entry-level position.

Simon scribbled down on the interview sheet. Seven has a habit of talking too much. Perhaps inferiority complex? Casual use of language is horrendous. He had no qualms when he underlined the last word with his black ink fountain pen.

“Not to mention working with the cleaners who have to mop up all those gastrointestinal reflexes that come rushing back when we resurrect them-”

Is he seriously talking about anatomical projectiles? Great. Seven’s lax with protocol. Shoddy at keeping confidentiality. And when is Seven going to stop yakking?

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The Terrarium

The glass ceiling to the terrarium opened with a soft clattering. Then, the Hand appeared with its thin and bony body. Blotted in soot, the Hand reached towards them with outstretched fingers.

It was Urs’ turn to take watch, after their botched escape attempt yesterday left the two of them in this hot desert with no food or water. Unlike the swamp world that Urs nearly drowned in, this landscape was humid and sandy, his throat dry with thirst.

At the sight the cruel Hand, Urs attempted to stand up on all fours. His joints wobbled from exhaustion and he huffed short, wheezy breaths from his dark snout. Fresh air trickled in, laced with crisp nectar and wood from outside. Urs let out a soft grunt, his snout pointed at the only other captive stuck here with him, who was snoring softly on a rock nearby.

When the bushy creature resting on the rock didn’t stir, Urs limped forward with his paws until he was face to face with it. He poked hard against its belly, rising and falling with every breath.

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How To Curtsey

Once there was a girl named Lucille who had a pair of very rich, very important, and very neglectful parents. As a daughter of the esteemed Rouxbelle family, she had, on paper, everything she could wish for.

Every day Lucille woke up to a bell by the tall, lanky Bisset or the shout and stout Bertrand, or perhaps an hour late by the forgetful Bouchard, her family’s manservants. Her short black hair would be combed, and her outfit of the day, already chosen invisibly by her father, would be folded at the end of the bed.

After getting dressed in blue or red silk, she would say good morning to each and every one of her toys; Chechat, the hand stitched cat who Lucille often had adventures with in the attic, looking for ghosts. Lapinny, the velvet rabbit who she would bring to the rather real pet rabbits in the garden. Cygnella, a wooden swan puppet who she imagined was an empress of a far off land, and Lucille would have to use her chess-troops to defend her territory. And finally, her most favourite, her stuffed polar bear, Glace, donned with a striped orange ribbon, whom she did everything with.

Other than the rabbits, and her pony, and personal chef, manservants and strict, formidable Monsieur Mouton, her tutor for one hour per day, the only real living thing that was not a toy was her beloved Herbert, her pet monkey.

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August 2014 Prompts (And Updates)

We’re back!

It’s been a long time since any of us posted anything, and to be honest none of us expected to take a break for this long. Work’s been speeding up for all three of us over the past couple weeks, and while we’ve already cut out the challenges for the time being in order to compensate for this, July just sort of slipped away from us. It happens.

Good news – we’re back to posting again, and we’ve got a bit of a queue going so weekly updates shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Below, you’ll find August’s prompts.

Theme Prompt: Write about a polar bear, a monkey, and a wind-up doll.

Challenge Prompt: N/A

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The thick red candy coating crunched along with the apple as she bit into it. She eagerly licked it up before switching hands and taking a bite from the sweet, fluffy blue cotton candy in her other hand. Humans made the best delicacies. Yeek took another huge bite of the candy apple, then another, and still another, and finally ate the core wholesale. She dropped the stick on the ground carelessly and eagerly licking her long, green fingers.

The tinkling carousel music, just loud enough to be heard over the chattering crowds, was slowing down. That meant Kitcha and Garsh were about to get off. Yeek took one more taste of the cotton candy before stuffing it into the pocket of her hoodie.

A rush of people got off from the ride, tall human adults and short human children, all talking loudly between themselves. Yeek shrugged deeper into her hood, trying to hide her face. It was night out, which helped, but the carnival was full of bright, flashing, fluorescent lights, which didn’t.

Kitcha and Garsh separated themselves from the others and came over.

Kitcha walked fast, barely not-running, trying to be mature under her excitement. “Yeek! Was fun, Yeek, you would’ve liked it!

“Silly baby ride,” Yeek scoffed, pretending she hadn’t wanted to, “Not gonna waste tickets on that.”

Garsh followed at her own pace, somewhere between more real maturity and simply not being used to wearing shoes. “No sour grapes, Yeek.”

“What you gonna use your tickets on instead?” Kitcha asked, a mite defensively.

Yeek shrugged. “Dunno, saving them for something good.”

“You keep saving them, you not gonna get on anything at all!”

“Remember, goblins, we not here for funsies, we have a mission.” Garsh had finally reached them.

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