A dozen pardons for the missed week. A turned-in dissertation means it ought not to happen again.
However…
If an extra week again means more new voices popping in to write for these challenges, these picture prompts, well…
But no, we'll keep uploading them weekly and as every week before, I thank you for letting these prompts challenge you.
If you've nothing you want to write this week, how about telling me how you are? A line, a paragraph…say hi. Let me know you're here.
Riffing on Kindness
And direclty on to what people wrote for broken by kindness:
‘I’m sick,’ Cal said.
‘I’ve already had it,’ said the big man. ‘You shouldn’t be out here in the cold.’
‘Nobody wants me,’ said Cal, and wheezed again. ‘I’m not safe.’
The big man didn’t ask why, so Cal didn’t have to tell him about the shouting at home…
‘Come on. Let me take you somewhere warm.’
Cal peered over Adam Lindsay Gordon’s arms to the big man. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom and dear god, the man was huge. Like a bear. Like a statue come to life. His eyes seemed kind…
*
The webs were rainbow colored; shimmering blues and pinks and purples. Gold that waxed into red that waned into green. And they weren’t the dainty little spiderwebs that Kel was used to – spun by the spiders that always seemed to find their way onto space-faring ships. Be it commercial transports or a smuggler’s hulking relic, there were always spiders on board, somewhere. Those webs were fine and clung to the high corners of the ships, gathering space dust. These webs though? These were substantial. 2 millimeters in diameter, easy. You could knit these webs into a pair of socks. She was certain her grandmother would have given it a try.
*
“Jake. My name’s Jake.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Jake.” Cora said, tempering her grin into a softer, warmer smile.
“Pleasure’s mine, Cora,” he said, and with a slight bob of his head at them both, he went back to his lunch.
“Another convert, looks like,” Lucas said, bending to whisper it into Cora’s ear, then laughing and dodging as she swatted at his shoulder. He picked up the box and headed to the storage room.
“Not broken by kindness,” she murmured to herself, “but maybe, one day, rebuilt.”
*
As she tried to make sense of it, the flickering lights matching up with the pounding in her head, Sarah realised it wasn’t in her head at all. Wherever that deep, resonating sound was coming from, it wasn’t her body. Something outside of her, something connected to the lights.
Music.
It was music. Identifying it was too hard, far more than her brain could handle, but she held onto that single word.
Music.
It was music. Identifying it was too hard, far more than her brain could handle, but she held onto that single word.
Music. She was somewhere with music…
*
rose tinted glasses, queerness, the long slow hard fought climb toward acceptance, found family, belonging
*
“Do you know why I like you?” Niamh asked as the waves pushed her a little further up the sandy beach, her body rolling with the flotsam as the high tide line drew nearer.
Alison laughed. “Because I’m the most beautiful human you’ve ever seen?”
She was sitting on a rock, one foot resting on the seat of her wheelchair to keep it from drifting off the path. One day they’d buy a beach chair, when they could afford it, when the check from her album finally cleared.
“Beautiful AND modest!” Niamh replied. Her sharp teeth glittered like mother-of-pearl when she chuckled.
Alison laughed. “Because I’m the most beautiful human you’ve ever seen?”
She was sitting on a rock, one foot resting on the seat of her wheelchair to keep it from drifting off the path. One day they’d buy a beach chair, when they could afford it, when the check from her album finally cleared.
“Beautiful AND modest!” Niamh replied. Her sharp teeth glittered like mother-of-pearl when she chuckled.
“Get up!“
The voice sneaks its way into my state of unconsciousness, past the undefined softness of purple clouds.
“Come on, you need to get up!”
I don’t want to leave the place where I don’t have any limbs, where everything is gentle and dim, but the voice is insistent. I groan.
There is not enough oxygen in the room, someone should open a window, I think. But then I remember the bars in front of the window, still sturdy despite being old and rusty.
“Get up now!”
The voice is closer now and the person it belongs to grabs my arm. Dammit, I have limbs again, all of them stiff and hurting.
I try to remember what day it is and what kind if torture they inflicted on me before I passed out. My head pounds and it is difficult to open my eyes. Someone is kneeling before me, their face swimming into view, blurred and out of focus. I feel like I have seen the man before.
I think I might be dying and maybe the man needs to know.
“I think I’m dying.”
“Seriously, Kyle, you ridiculous drama llama. You had one beer and were in bed by 11:30. Class starts in 45 minutes. Get up!”
“Kel! C’mon. Wake up now.”
Kel’s grandmother, Ell’a, fairly burst into Kel’s bedroom, throwing the window drapes open and whipping the covers off of the bed.
“Argh… Granma, I’m sleeping.” Kel squinted her eyes against the morning sun, “Let me sleep, please.” 8 year old Kel curled herself into the tiniest ball she could manage.
Undeterred, the little round woman bustled around the room collecting dirty clothes from off the floor and setting toys back onto shelves. “Nope, today is the first day of school. You need to get up and wash, have something to eat and then we’ll go meet the teacher.” She tossed a relatively clean looking coverall onto the bed. “There, put that on, it at least smells better than the rest of your clothes.”
Kel sat up, sniffed the coverall and said, “School is just like being in jail. I don’t want to go. Why do I need to learn all that stuff anyway? You can teach me what I need to know.”
“Sure, I can teach you how to do stuff like cook and clean; basic things you need to know so you can function on your own,” Ell’a dumped the bundle of dirty clothes into a bin, “But stuff like math or how to put a busted impulse drive back together? Not so much.”
Kel’s eyebrows went up at the mention of impulse drives. “I get to learn about mechanical stuff at school?”
“Yup, that and physics stuff and engineering stuff. Stuff I don’t know kark-all about.”
At the swear word, Kel laughed, “Granma, watch your language!” She got out of bed and haphazardly pulled the covers back into place in an attempt to make the bed look nice. Turning serious she asked, “What if the kids make fun of me?” Kel stepped into the coverall and zipped up the front.
“Why in stars would they do that?” Ell’a was holding out a pair of shoes for Kel.
“I dunno… because I’m an orphan? Because I’m half Miralan and I’m all green?” Kel took the shoes and put them on.
Ell’a put her arm around her granddaughter, “You think you’re the first orphan to go to school here on Yavin? Sadly, not even close. And so what if you’re half Miralan. And all green? You’re all perfect just as you are. Don’t let anybody ever make you think otherwise.” She gave Kel a squeeze, “Now go see if you can tame that hair into something reasonable. I’ll go scramble up some convor eggs for you.”
“Where is the school, Granma?” Kel called from the ‘fresher.
“That’s the best part. It’s outside, next to one of the temple complexes. You’ll learn out in the air, under the trees. It won’t be like being in jail at all. But get your butt in gear, you don’t want to be late on the first day.”
Kel came into the kitchen. She’d managed to wind most of her curly hair up into a knot on top of her head. “Do you really think the kids will be nice?”
“Yes, I do. If they’re not, tell ‘em your grandmother will bring her pet narglatch to school to teach ‘em how to be nice.” Ell’a stirred the eggs around in the pan. “Sweet girl, just be yourself and things will be just fine. Now, do you want these eggs spicy or not?”
Kel ran to her grandmother, wrapped her arms around her as far as she could reach and said, “Make them spicy enough to clean a dirty blaster barrel. I love you granma.”
“I love you too, Kelar. More than you can ever know.”
“Get up now, the days a-wasting!”
He threw the blanket over his eyes, the flashlight beam seemed to drill directly until his head.
“Get up now. The boat’s gonna leave without you.”
She took his hand, and kicked as he pulled. Together they maneuvered her over the side.
“Get up now, you don’t want to miss this. The ladder is over there.”
He climbed up the dry wooden ladder, heavy and solid. The view from the top was arid, sandy, and amazing.
“Get up, now!” The words barely registered as his shoulder was roughly shaken. But the next ones brought him fully awake: “the Shad’s house is on fire!”
“Get up now. It’s not as though you need me for this part. There’s barely enough oxygen to breathe here, just take the tank and go. Get on up there.”
(Congratulations on the dissertation!)
Get up. C’mon, on your feet. The house is burning.
I know you can feel the heat, smell the smoke. Stop pretending you haven’t noticed.
Yes, there’s more oxygen down there at the moment, down near the floor. But you can’t stay there. You can’t ignore the danger.
You think maybe conserving your air will save you, that maybe you don’t have to take action. Just wait it out, let someone else extinguish the flames.
Sorry, but that’s not how this works. If you don’t do something, if you don’t stand up and fight the fire, this house will become your prison.
Then, your grave.
It’s a nice home, all things considered. It’s worth saving. As are most of its occupants—seven and a half billion, give or take. Plus the countless non-human denizens, too.
So, yeah. It’s on you, on all of us. And time is running out.
Get up now.