|
Never done this before. I want in please.
|
#
¿
Mar 24, 2020 12:17
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Jan 23, 2025 06:34 |
|
|
Prompt: White Rabbit (Alice) Lucky’s Pizzarino ~1480 words The chips were set. The cards had been dealt. Some had even been played, before Lucky and his crew politely barged in and commandeered the table. But they weren't here to play Poker. Today, Al's Pachinko Lounge would host a different game of reading people. Al's was owned by Lucy—Lucky's only sister in a lineup of nine brothers—and while Lucky usually called his meetings at his own establishment—Lucky's Pizzarino, kitty-corner from here—today there were circumstances. Last night, Lucky's Pizzarino had been raided by the Pigs, and Pete "Cheeky Bon-Bon" Tomasino got nabbed. Of course it itched; Cheeky was his best guy. But what itched more was the nagging feeling that this was no random bust. Someone in the Colony was a rat. Today, Lucky aimed to find out who. Already, he had a suspect. Lucky counted five of his goons around the green felt table, when there should've been six. To his left sat Jimmie "Checks" Napoli, the gentle giant who required two chairs, one for each cheek. Checks once took a shotgun blast to his torso and lived, so you're drat right he earned that extra chair. Next, Louie "Long-ears" Lanzetta sat between Franky and Frankie— "Two-Buns" and "Bucktooth" respectively—and finally, Vincent "Clover" Moretti incessantly chewed on something, but at least he was quiet about it. The chair to Lucky's right was vacant. "Where the gently caress is Tipper?" he said. Tipper was the new guy. Little rough around the edges, but with his talented tongue and charismatic smile, the guy could sell you a dead fish from the canal at a hundred-percent markup. Sure, he was annoying as hell, but he was useful—or so Lucky had thought. His boys glanced around, but offered nothing. Their scared looks, like rabbits hiding from a wolf, might've amused Lucky any other day, but today he was fresh out of patience. He dug his pocket watch from his burgundy waistcoat pocket and flicked it open. Time's up. He clapped it shut. That confirmed it. Tipper was the rat, and now he was in hiding. Lucky opened his mouth to speak, when a bell jingled in the doorway. Tipper entered and sauntered over, pulled up a chair and straddled it. "You're late," Lucky said, grimacing. "Sorry Cap," Tipper said, snatching a martini off a passing server's tray. "That's it...? You're sorry?" "I'm... really sorry." Tipper raised the glass to his lips. Lucky unhooked his striped umbrella from the back of his chair and batted the stemmed glass out of Tipper's hands. Tipper yelped as it shattered on the floor. Two little olives tumbled away as a salty pungent aroma filled the air. "Do you think your time is more important than everyone else's?" said Lucky. "N—no, C—cap..." Lucky leaned closer. "You think I'd ever be so disrespectful as to show up late to a meeting?" "Ey Bosso," Clover interrupted, speaking through the wad in his mouth, "weren't you late to your own wedding?" The scraping of metal across tile made Lucky's teeth grind to the root as the others scooted away from Clover. Clover stopped chewing. His eyes twitched back and forth. Perhaps he wished he could dial back time and try again. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Lucky barked a laugh. "You right," said Lucky Tipper's face lit up. "Cap, I never knew you was married!" “I ain’t.” Lucky smirked. “Because I was late.” Raucous laughter spread around the table. Clover’s laugh rang louder than the others. He had a cute face—chubby cheeks, beady eyes, and a pink nose—it was a wonder he didn’t get chewed up out there. Or was it? Why was he asking such personal questions? Why did he need to know? Who was really asking? Lucky eyed him suspiciously. "Alright, boys," Lucky said abruptly. "You all know why we’re here instead of—" "Ey Bosso," Clover blurted, "any word on Cheeky Bon-Bon? We gonna roll some heads?" "... I'm getting to that, you knucklehead." Clover turned red. "As you know,” Lucky started again, “the 'Rino got hit, and Cheeky got nabbed. I've called you here because I suspect— Hey Tips." Tipper’s head shot up. Everyone had been paying close attention except him. He’d been busy stacking cards into a house. "Tips, could you go get my beat-stick from my car?" "Sure thing, Cap!" Tipper sprang up and hurried out. Lucky met eyes with Checks and nodded. Make sure he don't make it to the car. Both metal chairs sighed as Checks rose to his feet. He followed Tipper out. An elderly couple skittered aside from the doorway to allow him to squeeze his mass through. Lucky tugged his pocket watch out and flicked it open. His white mustachio twitched with each tick of the second hand. He glanced at his remaining men. Clover’s knee was bouncing beneath the table. What did he have to be so nervous about? Just as Lucky determined Clover had to be the real culprit, Franky "Two-Buns" sprang up and disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, he reappeared carrying a fluffy white-frosted cake that smelled of caramel and cinnamon. He plopped it atop the pile of cards and chips at the center of the table. There were two problems with that. Firstly, Lucky hated when people drew attention to his birthday—let a man age to himself, you know? Second, and more importantly— Lucky jabbed the point of his umbrella into Franky's hand, pinning him to the table. "Just curious," he said, "what kinda cake is that?" "C—carrot…" A sweltering rage boiled inside Lucky. His body shook as he allotted every ounce of willpower toward containing it. "I know my name might confuse you," he said, his pulse quickening, "but allow me to make one thing perfectly clear…" Lucky hooked his umbrella handle around Franky’s neck and yanked him down. Franky's face smashed into the cake, the impact sending poker chips rattling across the table. Lucky pressed his face close to Franky’s ear and bellowed, "I AIN'T A FUCKIN' RABBIT!" Lucky shoved Two-Buns to the floor and jutted an accusatory finger at the others. "Did you know about this?" "Nah Cap," Bucktooth said, shaking his head. "Errybody knows yous allergic…" Lucky was on his feet in an instant. Louie "Long-ears" tackled Two-Buns and pinned him down, while Lucky circled the table and jabbed the tip of his umbrella into the soft pressure point of Franky’s shoulder. "First, you sell me out to the Pigs," Lucky said between gritted teeth. "Now you tryin' to bump me off? Well not on my watch, bucko!" "Lucky, noooooo!" Franky yowled, "I swear I didn't know!" The little bell jingled in the doorway. Lucky ignored it, raising his umbrella overhead like a club. "Ey Bosso..." Clover said, looking past him. Lucky followed his gaze. Checks had returned. And so had Tipper. Before Lucky could express his dismay, a stout woman with dark curls and a pronounced aquiline nose budged past them. She parked before Lucky with her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised to her hairline. Her lips did that scrunchy thing. Lucky let his arms fall to his sides. A smile climbed over his face. "Lucy!" "Aldo Giovanni Esposito," she said, scowling. “You let him go right now.” "Aw, come on, don't call me that in front of my boys…" Lucy whirled on the crew and spoke in her best customer-service voice. "Could you excuse us please?" Once they’d all filed out, Lucy turned back to him. "Lucky, what're you doin'? Why'd you send Checks after Mario?" "Tipper's a rat, Luc! He got the Pigs to raid the 'Rino." Lucy crinkled her brow. "Okay… And Franky?" "He tried to poison me." Lucky gestured at the cake splattered on the table. "Disliking carrots ain't the same as bein' allergic..." "Well, they don't know that." Lucy rolled her eyes. "Look, you don't have a rat." "Of course I have a rat! How else would the Pigs have cause to strike the Pizzarino? Thankfully they came while I was out celebrating my birthday at Cotton Tales." He added with a whisper, "It was open poetry night. I won third!" A smile flickered across her face, but disappeared just as quickly. She shrugged one shoulder. "Lucky... It was me. I called the Pigs." "I—" Lucky's heart stopped. She was kidding. She had to be. Right? How could his dear sister do such a thing? "But Lucy. Cheeky was watchin' the place. They got him..." "I know." Lucky gaped at her. "You know? But... why?" Lucy raised her hand to inspect her nails. She smacked her lips. “Because he dumped me."
|
|
#
¿
Mar 29, 2020 06:39
|
|
|
Oops. Didn't see the new prompt mixed in with the entries being posted. I understand if it's too late, but if not, I'd like in.
|
|
#
¿
Apr 11, 2020 09:38
|
|
|
Blackfeather ~1500 words =-=-=-=-= “Wake up, little brother!” Soring jolted awake to the warm weight of his sister pressing over him, the way she always did when he stopped breathing in his sleep. Streaks of red flashed across his vision—the last remnants of a nightmare that had plagued his sleep since he was a kid. He shook the images from his mind, but they circled back like a swarm of flies tackling a rotten apple. Red. Everything was red. The white wooden slats of his crib were coated in red. His soft velvety cushion, red. Red covered his body and stuck in his downy hairplumes. A man’s face was pressed against the slats. His bulging eyes were wide open; so was his neck. Red seeped out. “Sor, look at me.” A flash of warmth struck across his cheek, sending the images racing from his mind. His eyes fluttered open. He dragged in a sharp breath—too deep—and winced as the air burst into serrated knives in his lungs. His pulse hammered in his ears. He rolled over and sought refuge in his sister’s mint-green eyes. He flopped his arm over her, gave her a light squeeze and planted a wet kiss on her forehead. Hyvani tickled the tips of his pointed ears. “Thanks,” he rasped. She recoiled at the bite of his dry, acrid breath. He flagged his hand through the air, signaling for her to reach his water for him. She crinkled her brow when she realized what he was referring to. “You’re not supposed to drink from these,” she said. Still, she handed him the spherical water globe from his night stand. He slurped it all down before replying. “If the Lifebringers have a problem with me using their sacred bowl to hydrate myself, they shouldn’t have created me with half-functioning lungs.” Hy reached over his head and pushed open his shutters. A shaft of sunlight spilled over her sunset-bronze face. Her mahogany-red hairplumes were woven into two Himari-style braids. The loose ends coiled over her shoulders. “Are you having those nightmares again?” she said. He didn’t answer. Instead, he picked out little images in the popcorn texture of his bedroom ceiling. “Sor, why haven’t you told me?” He turned away and spoke muffled into his pillow. “I’m fifteen. I don’t need my sister to rescue me from my nightmares.” “It’s not about the nightmares. It’s about you not breathing. You were already blue when I found you. If I had come a minute later—” “In that case,” he said, “you should just let me go.” “Don’t say that.” “Why not? It’s how I feel.” “Because you’re my brother, and I love you, and so does Mom. She’s been through far too much for you to give up.” He grunted and rolled onto his back. Hyvani’s eyes drifted to the thin red line down the center of his chest. He pulled his sheets over himself. “It's not so bad, you know,” she said, tracing her finger along the line as if the fabric wasn’t there. “You shouldn’t hide it away like you do. You should carry your scars with pride. After all, it’s the best proof you can have.” Soring shoved her hand away. “I’m the son of my father. I don’t need proof of purity. How messed up would that be if the Heir of the Slayer turned out to be a demon?” He rolled out of bed to get ready for work. After rummaging through his wardrobe full of many shades of black clothing, he shrugged into a simple black shirt and a pair of pleated black culottes that fell just below his knees. He popped his face in front of his dusky mirror and edged an errant hairplume aside. It bounced right back, so he left it. He caught Hyvani making faces behind him. She wasn’t wrong. He should be proud of his scar. He knew, as everyone knew, that demons could regenerate even the most grave of wounds, leaving behind nary a trace. Immortal, but not invincible. A scar so prominent was the best proof someone could have that they were pure of soul. But in truth, he hated it. Bright red against pallid skin, it looked like a fiery demon was trying to carve its way out of him. Beyond that, he didn’t know why it was there. Other people’s scars told stories—This guy got stabbed through the arm. That guy got bit by a drakathra, and it got infected, and his leg was amputated. But Soring didn’t have a story for his scar. “A heart defect,” was all he knew. What heart defect? What did the healers do? Did they carve it out and replace it with someone else’s? Could they even do that? Maybe they just poured Kohiilo on it and called it a success. Every scar had a story. Every scar but his. Downstairs, the front door slammed open. Two bodies crashed up the spiraling staircase and into the adjacent bedroom. Soon after, a headboard thumped rhythmically against the wall. Darsi’s home. Hyvani giggled into her hands, her cheeks darkening slightly. “I guess that’s your cue to head out.” “I’m already gone.” = - = - = Stepping outside was like walking into a hydrakathra’s fiery maw. Within seconds, sweat rolled down the crease of his spine. He raced through the streets of the Grove between girthy half-tree, half-stone structures called mabokiin, where most residents lived on this peculiar little river-island. Raised zig-zags formed where the tree roots spread between the walkway bricks. Sunlight glittered through little holes in the veil, the great tapestry of greens, reds, and blues that stretched overhead where the residents had woven together their pendulous mabokiin willow fronds. Soring leapt up to swat at a metal chime that dangled overhead, but missed. He paused at the edge of the Grove to brace himself. The blinding sun seared his eyeballs as he pushed through the veil. With eyes clenched nearly shut, he trekked up the rocky slope to the Town Hall. He dove into a pocket of shade and flapped the moist hem of his shirt to draw in some circulation. Behind the Town Hall, a spiraling wooden ramp led him up to an airy octagonal fort at the very top of the massive tree, called the Hushery. Soring’s legs blazed as he blasted through the bamboo curtain. The Hushery had no true walls. Rather, the tree’s upper branches had fused together, creating chin-high barriers. Rows of nesting boxes lined the perimeter. A Y-shaped contraption stood at the center beside Soring’s workstation. He yanked his chair out and slumped into it. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a little blue head poking out of a nesting box. It ducked back in when he looked directly. The air buzzed with lively murmurs. His work day began with sorting incoming mail to the appropriate zip lines. Green seals were personal and went west to the Grove. Yellow were business and went east to the Riverside Market. Thankfully, there weren’t any red seals. Those were urgent. Only the Massat could read those. Red seals seldom carried good news, though, so no news was good news. Soring fed and watered the whispers and cleaned out their boxes, careful not to disturb any who were sharing a nest. Rule #6 in the Whisperer’s Codex: never disturb mating whispers if you value your hands. With several hours to go, he sorted through a drawer full of scent marking oils. Those told the whispers where to fly to. Black Cedar went to the Lithiiri capital city Fjolla Gavina. Orange-Bergamot went to An Seremat. Tomato-Pineapple went to Hyvani’s heritage city, Himari. Stuffed in the far back, he found one with a hand-written label: “Worm Dirt.” The Whisperer before him had written it; Soring agreed, so he left it. Soring shoved the drawer shut. He leaned back and spun around in his chair hoping a whisper would fart and produce a bit of wind. Exhausted from the squatting heat, he put his head down on the desk. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have. He snapped awake when something crashed into the side of his face. The shadow-black creature beat her feathery wings, nearly gouging his eyeballs with her hooked talons as she fought to untangle herself from his hairplumes. Finally, she sidled onto the Y-shaped perch and innocently tucked her snout under her wing. “Bindi, you're such a brat,” said Soring. “What did you bring me?” Black scales covered most of her body. A strip of black feathers ran down her spine. Two long black plumes curled up behind her. Everything was black. Everything except for the little red seal.
|
|
#
¿
Apr 11, 2020 22:29
|
|