#fictember

WELCOME TO #FOTFICTEMBER! 

September's challenge is centered around autumn-themed drabbles! Make them spooky, cozy, or anything in between! We want to see everyone inspired, but not bogged down by this event.

So remember, you don’t have to spend a lot of time on these (unless you want to!) nor are you required to do them in order or complete each day. Pick and choose, just write! We want to see it. There is no right or wrong about these, just have fun with it!

Be sure to tag #fotfics and #fotfictember so we can find your drabbles!

Happy writing! 🍂🎃

Written version under the cut!

Prompt: Resilience Characters: Featuring Michael, one of my tabletop characters, and Daniel, a character in the same campaign belonging to @apassingshadowSetting: TSW Tabletop game/Cascade City Warnings: None

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A span of two-inch thick plywood and Michael's own rapidly waning strength stood as a flimsy bastion against the mangled, grasping blob of raw hatred and twisted teeth on the other side.

How many times had misfortune put him in this same shitty kind of scenario, now?

The Big Guys at Ye Olde Eye handed out orders, they trickled down the line, and he usually found himself saddled with the more troublesome types of recon work.

Like venturing into a national park where the plant life had become a great deal more carnivorous than he ever remembered it being.

Or combing through a storage unit belonging to someone who may or may not have been raising supernatural isopods the size of small dogs.

Or checking out a shitty, zombie-themed carnival only to be accosted by a group of Filth-infused costumes and having to flee and barricade himself and his assigned field partner behind the brittle door of a tiny maintenance closet!

Michael Sava was not an impatient man by any means. Life always enjoyed tossing him about in its tumultuous waves. A messy childhood and an unlucky adulthood had taught him to temper both his anger and his expectations.

The resultant young man was someone who, while vocal about his displeasures, did not easily break under pressure.

Still though, just because he could endure it didn't mean he wanted to. Michael was far from that kind of masochist. It would be nice if the world would throw him a bone now and again. Grunting in discomfort, he turned to look over his shoulder at Daniel, his unfortunate partner in crime.

"I sure hope you've come up with a plan by now, cause too much more of this and I'm going to tear a muscle. Or they're gonna chew the door off. Or maybe, since the universe has such a lovely, fucked up sense of humor, both of those things can happen at the same time!"

His arms strained and shook and his muscles screamed and burned in agony. Even through such pain, Michael could practically feel the eyeroll returned in his direction.

"I'm working on it!" The reply, though clipped and anxious, still managed to sound sassy.

"Can you think faster? I don't mean to be a dick but I don't think I can hold this for much longer. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Remember that trick we pulled in the sewers about a week ago?"

"I had almost happily forgotten, as a matter of fact. My hand still hurts!"

"There's a gas can near my left foot. Are you ready to try something really stupid?"

"No!"

“Okay, what about tea leaves?”

“Dunno. Never used tea leaves.”

Harris pulled an expression of shock that I felt was entirely inappropriate for the situation. “Steven. You drink tea all the time. You're drinking tea right now.”

I took a long and calculated slurp of said tea. “Yes, and I made it with a tea bag. If I'm making loose leaf I use an infuser. I don't just leave the leaves in the mug. That's gross and frankly I don't know why anyone ever did it.”

“So what you're saying is, you could actually be really good at reading tea leaves and just not know it because you've never done it.”

“It's possible. But at what cost, Harris? At what cost? You want me to drink tea with a bunch of bits floating in it just so I can read the future?”

Harris rolled her eyes. “So can I take it you’ve never tried reading entrails?”

“Uurgh.”

“Yeah okay. That’s fair.” Harris scrolled down on her phone. “Aichmomancy. Divination using sharp objects.”

“I have never tried or even heard of that one.”

“You know, I’m beginning to suspect that the only reason why you’re so sure card-reading is what you’re best at is because you haven’t even tried any other methods of divination.”

“Not true. I’ve tried other things.”

“Oh yeah?” She cocked a daring eyebrow at me. “Like what?”

“Casting lots. Stars. Melting wax. Birds.”

“Birds?”

“Yeah, sure. You go outside, walk around, see what birds you see. Look, it works for some people.”

“But why birds? I mean, birds are just...birds just show up! How do you ascribe meaning to a bird just deciding that it’s gonna hang out near you that day?”

“Why is that weirder than any of the other ones we’ve been talking about?”

“I don’t know, it just...it just is.” Harris sighed and shook her head. “I don’t think I get this whole divination business.”

“That’s okay. I don’t really get it either and I’m psychic.”

“I’ve heard some people call this wisdom, you know. Wisdom of the ancients. Reading the stars. Divining the future. Seers have been talked up a lot to me and now you’re telling me you don’t even know how it works.”

“Some people will call anything wisdom if you give it a long enough Latin name.” I shrugged. “It’s all just...tools. A way to channel what’s up here.” I tapped the side of my head. “Like...I dunno...art supplies. Paintbrushes, chisels. A paintbrush doesn’t do anything on its on. It’s all about the person using it.”

“So...the difference between you using Tarot cards to divine, and someone else using, I dunno, tea leaves—that’s like, the difference between one person being good at painting, and one person being good at sculpting, and so.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Hmm. Alright.” She looked down at her phone again. “What about a crystal ball? Ever used that?”

“Harris, I just--”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. But there’s a whole Wikipedia article here and now I’m curious. So, what about it?”

I sighed. “I have no idea where I would even get a crystal ball.”

“Hmm. What about...alectormancy?”

“What even is that?”

“Divination with roosters.”

“Oh. No. I don’t think so.”

“Aleuromancy? That’s with flour.”

I stirred my tea and looked down into the mug with exaggerated surprise. “Oh, look! Turns out I can divine with tea. I divine that I will have a headache soon.”

Prompt: Serendipity Characters: Michael Sava, Lance Marsh, Catalyna Hall @zoetic-tome, Daniel Samuelu @apassingshadowSetting: TSW Tabletop game/Cascade City Warnings: Contains non-detailed mentions of past physical violence, and also mentions of the aftermath of a fire.

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Lance Marsh always loved to talk about serendipity after a disastrous occasion. He liked to believe that, as if in some act of alchemy, one could and should take the bad from a situation and turn it into a sign of better things to come. He'd drilled that belief into Michael's head from the moment he'd been dropped off at his house at the age of twelve, only for the car's driver to never return for him.

"Kid, I know I'm funny looking and all, and you just wanna go home, but I promise you I'm going to make this into something good for you."

And he did. It was hard at times, and Michael remembered eating a lot of struggle meals as he grew into a young teen, but Lance was true to his word. By the time Michael was sixteen, he'd all but forgotten that his home had been anywhere but there. It helped that Lance was so amenable to facilitating visits with the kid's grandmother as often as possible and, barring that, paying for long-distance phone calls and allowing the occasional trip overseas to see her at home. The pain of abandonment grew into the warmth of home.

Lance was right about serendipity much later in Michael's life too.

He couldn't remember much about the incident. Only that his stupid coworker Tim had opened his stupid fucking mouth at the wrong fucking time and tugged at the edges of a wound still raw and bleeding. Michael saw red, fists flew, and next thing he knew he was sitting with an ice pack pressed to split knuckles while Lance made a phone call to keep him away from an assault charge. He couldn't keep him from losing his job at the repair shop (a matter of liability), but he'd made yet another sacrifice for his sake.

It didn't feel like there was any good to come after that. To his own eyes, Michael had lost everything; his fiancé, his job, and his sense of pride. Shame came to mingle with the loss, and he believed he'd truly hit rock bottom.

But Lance was right again.

It took time. It took hard work. It took moving out on his own. But gradually, as always, time worked its magic to heal things, and pride slowly replaced that shame as he found himself a new job and independence in Cascade. Much to his annoyance, he found himself believing in Lance's alchemy of serendipity.

Even when his roommate's foolishness and an otherworldly asshole's petty revenge cost him the symbol of his hard-earned independence and pride, Lance's smug 'I told you so' smile lived freely in his head.

Maybe he saw himself in Daniel. Maybe he understood the raw edges of his particular kind of wound all too well, and knew exactly the kind of pain it took to do such foolish things. He'd had someone kick him while he was down. He wasn't about to do the same to Daniel. Sure, they traded a few heated words; a huge chunk of what Michael had worked for was gone, and it was only a miracle that no one had been home and a neighbor had noticed the smoke in time to save everyone from a greater disaster. But like hell was he going to rip at someone else's fresh hurt.

And unlike Tim's dumb move, Daniel's foolishness hadn't been intentional. There were greater forces at play.

Maybe Lance was onto something with his belief. Maybe some good would come of this as well. Cat had invited them to stay with her until a new place was found, and her home was far nicer and more welcoming than his had ever been, despite its strange emptiness.

WELCOME TO #FOTFICTEMBER! 

September's challenge is centered around fall-themed drabbles! Make them spooky, cozy, or anything in between! We want to see everyone inspired, but not bogged down by this event.

So remember, you don’t have to spend a lot of time on these (unless you want to!) nor are you required to complete each day. Pick and choose, just write! We want to see it. There is no right or wrong about these, just have fun with it!

Be sure to tag #fotfics and #fotfictember so we can find your drabbles!

“People like you have no imagination.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. It was only 9:30 in the morning and I already had a headache bad enough for a whole day. “I have a perfectly fine imagination. It’s not that I can’t imagine these things. I just don’t want to do them.”

“You have psychic powers and you’re not using them for anything. Nothing! That is just a straight up lack of creativity, is what it is.”

“Harris, I am literally using my powers all the time. Constantly. Twenty-four-seven. I cannot turn them off.”

“Nothing interesting, though.”

“Why do I have to do anything interesting with them? That’s like saying you—you have arms so you’re obligated to do interesting things with them--”

I realized too late my mistake there. I was, after all, talking to a woman who had never been known to back down from any kind of physical challenge. Harris was currently working on her fourth weapon proficiency, after learning how to fight with a sword, fire a gun, and throw knives. She had probably done everything interesting it was possible to do with arms, and every other part of her body as well. And from the smug grin on her face, she knew she had me.

“That would be a perfectly salient point if you weren’t—you,” I muttered.

Harris perched herself on the edge of the counter I was sitting behind. “Look, all I’m saying is—one weekend in Vegas and you could be set up for life. You’d never have to come back to work! God knows you complain enough about it.”

I glanced around the little store. It was currently empty save for the two of us, the shop parrot Moriarty, and our boss puttering around somewhere in the back. We didn’t exactly have a heavy customer turnout, on account of being a magical store that moved around the world and never stayed anywhere for more than a few days. But, somehow, enough people found us to consistently make my life annoying.

“I don’t hate working here,” I said defensively. It was true. Alright, working in what was basically a magical thrift store could cause some interesting problems, but there were certainly much worse jobs. “I—I just hate...people. Things. Life in general.”

“So, make yourself a millionaire, buy a big mansion on a hill somewhere, and become a recluse. Shouldn’t be hard. You’re halfway there already.”

It was a tempting thought, honestly. To live far away from people and all their noisy thoughts, constantly pushing and blaring at me. To not have to put on gloves whenever I went out of the house, or fret about dodging eye contact all the time. To not constantly be the subject of weird glances and laughs and rumors and muttered comments because of the various strange mannerisms I could never fully suppress.

It’d be nice. And lonely.

“Look, okay, there’s three problems with that. One, it’s unethical--”

“Oh, to win a lot of money from a casino? Those rich pricks can stand to lose for once. They’ll be fine.”

I sighed. “Two, I’m pretty sure they don’t just let you come in and start winning a whole bunch of money without getting real suspicious.”

“So do it carefully. Win a little here, a little there. Strategize. I’m sure you could make it work.”

“And three—Harris, I can barely make it through a Wal-Mart. You want me to go to Las Vegas? All those people? I’d never make it. I’d pass out before I ever got into any casino.”

Harris sighed and drummed her fingers on the counter. “Have you tried?”

“Have I—no, I have not tried going to Vegas. And I am not going to try going to Vegas.”

She folded her arms and looked away. Harris was not the kind of person to accept limitations easily, and I was a person with a lot of limitations. She tried, but she didn’t always fully understand that I really couldn’t do some things. It could put a strain on our relationship.

“I just think you could do more than you’re letting yourself do in life,” she said after a few awkward minutes. “I mean, you just—you’re grumpy all the time, and you don’t seem like you enjoy anything, and, and—and what’s the point of going through life like that? If you have to have these powers anyway, why not put them to good use instead of just letting them ruin your life?”

“I think life is just going to be like that for me,” I said quietly.

“But it shouldn’t have to be!”

“Maybe not, but it is.” I shrugged uncomfortably. “And...hey, if I lived on some mansion on a hill somewhere, when would I get to see you?”

Harris looked at me for a moment before a grin slowly spread across her face. “Are you saying you’d miss me?”

“Well--”

“Steven, you—you sap! I knew it! I knew you cared! Deep down in that heart of yours you do have feelings!”

“Yes, well, don’t let it get out,” I said. “My reputation would never recover.”

“I’m going to remember this. Every time you fuss at me, I’ll know, I’ll know you really care--”

I sighed and stood up. “I’m going to get more tea.”

“You can’t escape, you know!” she called after me. “Hey, when you get back, let’s talk robbing banks--”

“No!”

“Yes! They don’t need all that money--”

“I’m not listening!”

“Come on, Steven! Eat the rich!”

“That’s not how it works, and also, can’t hear you.” I shut the door to the break room behind me as loudly as possible. It didn’t help. I could still hear her yelling about capitalism.

“Can you feel this?”

Mal, apparently lost in thought, took a moment before he turned back to Mo. “Feel what?”

Mo made a general kind of gesture in the air around her. “This breeze.”

It was a cool, damp breeze, that ruffled her short hair and raised goosebumps on her arms; it was one of the first winds of autumn, a sudden foreboding of early nights and falling leaves come unexpectedly out of the calm, drowsy September night. She’d only worn a t-shirt, not anticipating the need for anything more, and was now finding herself hugging her arms to her chest to stay warm. But Mal seemed not to have noticed at all.

“Hm? Oh. In a way,” he said.

“In a way? What does that mean?”

Mal shrugged. “I can tell that there is a breeze. But I don’t feel cold from it. Don’t feel cold at all anymore, or hot.”

This felt slightly unfair, considering that she was cold while meanwhile Mal was wearing three times as many layers as her. She didn’t mean to bring that up, exactly, but the question spilled out anyway: “If you don’t feel cold, why do you wear all that?”

Mal glanced down as if he was only just now noticing the clothes he was wearing: a hooded jacket and battered red scarf over a flannel shirt and a Doctor Who t-shirt underneath that. “Well, I like it,” he said. “But also, it helps pad me out.”

Mo shot him the raised eyebrows of confusion. Mal smiled. “I don’t really look like a living person anymore, do I? I mean, you’ve seen me naked--”

She would have done quite the spit take if she had been drinking anything. “Dude! You can’t just--”

“What? When you were doing the post-mortem on me--”

The post-mortem. The first time she had met Mal, all laid out on the slab like any other corpse. It was true she’d seen him naked. You saw a lot of people naked when you were a medical examiner. She’d gotten quite used to it. But said people weren’t supposed to wake up afterward. That made things feel awkward.

“Yes, I know, but you can’t just say that out loud like that,” she mumbled, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard. But the pier they were walking on was mostly empty. If any of few scattered other people around had overheard their strange conversation, they didn’t show it.

“Why not? No one’s listening. Anyway, you gotta live a little. And I say that as a dead person.” Mal flashed her an unnaturally white grin, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of something devilish in his eyes. It caught her by surprise. Not that she knew Mal very well yet, but in their limited interactions so far, he had always been polite, a bit awkward, and generally very innocent seeming.

Then again, he was a vampire. Probably you didn’t get to keep that position for long by being too innocent.

“My point is,” he went on, “when you saw me, did you think I looked normal?”

“Well...no. Not really,” Mo had to admit.

She’d known, even before she knew that Mal was anything other than another unidentified stiff, that there was something strange about him. It was hard to pin down—something about how thin he was, something about the build of his frame, the sharp angles of his bones, something, something—something off.

And he had looked like a corpse alright, all waxy pale skin and sunken, still face. He still looked like a corpse when he sat up and looked around, just a corpse that was moving. And that was...unsettling.

The extra layers did help, though. Buried under innocuous flannel and a nerdy t-shirt, there was a lot less of that unnatural figure to catch the eye. It made it much easier to think of him as just a normal person, and forget for a while what he really was.

“Okay, I see your point,” she said. “But...what about the scarf?”

“Sometimes I have to hide my face.” Mal pulled the edge of the scarf up over his nose and mouth and waggled his eyebrows at her. “Or hide some blood stains. I try not to be a messy eater, but sometimes...things happen.”

“Right,” Mo muttered.

The breeze came back, and Mo shivered involuntarily. Mal glanced at her. “Are you cold?”

“Little bit,” Mo admitted. “Wasn’t expecting it to be this chilly this evening.”

“It gets cold by the water. Or so I’ve been told.” To her surprise, Mal slipped off his jacket and offered it to her.

“What? What about your whole...that whole thing you were just saying?”

Mal shrugged. “It’s alright for now. Not a lot of people around. Unless it makes you uncomfortable?”

He did look a little odd without the extra padding of the jacket, a strange, foreboding shape in the dim light. For a moment she felt a different kind of shiver, the age-old fear of looking out into the dark and seeing a monster lurking there.

But then she looked up at his face. The scarf had slipped back down, revealing his features again. Pale and sharp and...almost a little sad.

She took the jacket. It didn’t fit her so well; Mal was shorter than her and considerably skinnier, but she made it work.

“I can’t go getting uncomfortable around dead people now,” she said. “I’d be out of a job.”

Mal smiled. “So, anything else you want to know about?”

“Oh yeah. Loads.” They started strolling down the pier again, passing in and out of the glow of the lampposts overhead. “Does garlic bother you? What about silver? Holy water?”