Micro prompt: Woman must deal with the fact that her wife joined a hive mind without her. Bonus plot that yesterday, her wife was her husband, but that's kinda a secondary non-issue to her right now
"She fucking killed me!"
She was back on the operations deck, plugged into the interface. Of course there was nothing on the other end of the connection as the drone had more or less been slagged.
"She?" her tech asked.
She makes a face. A whole lot of emotions playing out at once.
"It’s... complicated," she said finally.
The tech rolled their eyes. Of course it was complicated. This little development was barely a drop in the whole bucket of complicated that was this situation.
"You need to send me back out!"
"Why? So you can get slagged again?" the tech said, exasperation boiling into frustration. "These battle drones are fucking expensive. Just get a divorce like a normal person!"
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Merriam-Webster’s: a thorough yielding to natural impulses
Oxford English Dictionary: complete freedom from constraint or convention; surrender or abandonment to natural impulses; lack of inhibition or restraint
Oxford Languages: complete lack of inhibition or restraint
Cambridge: in a completely uncontrolled way
⬜Experience
We typically think of abandon as a verb, and when we do use it as a noun, it’s usually attached with a modifier to make it a state of being (‘wild abandon’). However, it is through the liberating abandonment of all else that we allow ourselves to become fully immersed in the moment, inspiring us to embrace life with open hearts.
It can be raw despair—the sense of being discarded and forgotten, a hollow ache of isolation. It can be a liberated release—letting go of inhibition and dancing alone in the rain. And, sometimes, it’s both—a deep yearning to be seen but relief when disappearing. As a wound and as liberation, it is both the collapse of the walls of safety; one brings fear and shame, while the other is embracing the moment with an open heart rather than guardedness.
While ‘abandon’ may not be viewed as an independent emotion, it is a state of being that I felt was worth including. It’s a popular word in literature, but how do we truly define it? The best summary I’ve come across for this experience is: to feel abandoned is to feel fully present.
🫀Biofeedback:
Negative:
Chest tightness
Cold extremities
Lethargy and weariness
Tight throat
Positive:
Goosebumps
Elevated heartbeat
Relaxed muscles
Tingling
🛠️Facta Non Verba
⛔Negative
Body Language:
Gestures: fidgeting or even sitting entirely still
Posture: slumped, hanging head
Expression:
Eyes: Averted, unfocused, dull
Mouth: lip biting
Dialogue Tags:
Whisper - evokes a sense of fragility
Murmur - conveys hesitation
Plead - carries raw desperation
Sob - painful overwhelm
Choke - desperate restraint
Confess - shameful admission
Lament - completely mournful
Quaver - trembling with trepidation
Blurt - a sudden discharge
Moan - vulnerable ache
✅Positive
Body Language:
Gestures: loose, expansive, emotive
Posture: straight, leaning forward slightly when engaged with others
Expression:
Eyes: open, bright, focused
Many lists of descriptors or body language notes I’ve come across note that eye contact is consistent and intense. However, this should be considered from a sociological perspective. In some cultures where eye contact is considered confrontational, a marked awareness of the surroundings may be more appropriate.
Mouth: genuine smile (crinkled eyes)
Dialogue Tags:
Exclaim - exuberant communication
Shout - loud and untamed
Cry out - spontaneous defiance
Declare - unapologetic statement
Gasp - out of breath
Sang - euphoric singing
Whoop - loud celebratory cries
Bellow - crude release
Rave - fiery intensity
Spill - speaking rapidly with no filter
📃Microprompts
These prompts are to help get the juices flowing, now that you are armed with a definition, experience, biofeedback, and nonverbal cues. You are free and welcome to share them with us—but there is never any pressure to do so.
✒️Writer:
Write a scene where a character is speaking in bursts because silence feels like erasure. Let their voice be the map, without using any feeling words.
🎨Artist:
Sketch a figure mid-collapse or mid-flight.
📓Journaling
When have you felt the most present?
🕊️Use these words to listen more deeply, speak more honestly, connect more fully, and write more believably.
The melodramatic residence he’d taken up at the window; the longing glances through the glass as if he was a war widow waiting for a sweetheart that would never come home.
Twenty-nine was at least nine rotations around the sun too many, and yet, spring succumbed to summer as it did every year and Sirius’s focus once more surrendered along with it.
Time punished him, promising a fix that it couldn’t deliver. He dissociated from real life, going through the motions so convincingly no one noticed his annual soul-death; that, or no one cared enough to pay attention.
He was immune to the infectious conversation that trickled across the pub, about the newest bingeable television show everyone was watching or that viral meme forcing its way into every group text chain. He seemed to be the only one who found his coworker’s objectively hilarious retellings about the disastrous meeting of his parents and in-laws tiredly predictable, and even routine, polite small talk with the postman drained him of energy.
Sirius regularly found himself nodding along and smiling small and making his excuses to leave before his preoccupation was exposed, which inevitably left him entirely too alone too often.
It meant he was a prisoner in his own mind, forced to watch the warmest days of the year pass by from behind bars; forced to compare them to the tangible memories that kept him from escaping his hold whenever an opportunity presented itself; forced to straighten the curl of his lips when a faint voice no one else could hear called to him, his truest company.
Every sunrise lacked that particular burning glow that crept over his skin on those legendary nights, the ones that stole his breath and left grains of sand in his hair as dusk gave way to dawn.
The air was too polluted or clear or floral wherever he was, lacking the brine and salt that would cling to his fingers and tongue, that expanded his lungs and made him sleep-soft even when he’d never felt more awake; when he’d never felt more alive.
Boats were event locations and possessions to be toured, paraded, and sold. They were polished and staffed, the cost of purchase and maintenance always supplied in the first breath of arrogance. They were never sailed for the feel of flying; they were never touched reverently, or gazed at with pride, or repaired with painstaking care, the kind that only came from blood and sweat and the last dollar in your pocket that could’ve gone towards food but was allocated for a bottle of Collonite instead.
Thunderstorms were mild and subdued, uninterested in his little circle of existence, unimpressed with the landscape it had to work with. Where were the waves, it asked, the ones that reached for the skies and tumbled down in a huff; where were the gusts of wind that clamoured for my attention and the miles of open water that mirrored my reflection and the frantic red flags waving on the shore and the lighthouses fighting against me and you, where are you, why are you here?
He wondered the same. He always did, this time of year.
Read the rest on AO3 (bc I wrote 3.6k for a “micro” fic 🫠🫠 don’t look at me).
If you're taking the micro story prompts, how about 15 for Ramona and Sharky?
Microprompt 15: “Trembling Hands”
Pairing: Sharky Boshaw/Ramona Belmont
Word Count: 800
Warnings: Cursing, implied smut
A/N: I’m counting this as Day 9 of Ramona’s Birthday event.
All that came out from Ramona was a shallow gasp as she brought back into the waking world in a cold sweat. As she gathered her senses, Ramona found that it was night and she was in a bed tucked under a snoring Sharky's arm. The bed of course belonged to an unknown owner of an abandoned house Sharky had suggested they crash in for the night. They were currently in the Whitetail Mountains.
As Ramona sat up, while not disturbing Sharky, she tried to recall her nightmare. She remembered running, jaws snapping, fog, blood, and being alone. That was all she could make sense of.
Ramona huffed a sigh and looked out the window over the bed. The moon and stars were the only thing illuminating the forest and the bedroom, even if the light was just dappled in certain areas. Light no longer reveals potential dangers lurking within these woods. Ramona didn't even feel safe in this house, despite securing the doors and windows and having quick access to their weapons if something were to happen.
The woman took notice of how the moonlight stretched out on the bedroom floor. Almost reaching the desk Sharky threw his clothes on in contrast to Ramona's that were folded on the trunk at the foot of the bed. "If I gotta blast a Peggie in my undies, then so be it", Ramona remembered the pyromaniac stating in response to her questioning if they should just sleep in their clothes or not.
The bedroom door leading out to the rest of the house, next to the desk, had darkness filling the threshold. Darkness which made Ramona wonder if the previous owner had moved out before the Reaping or was forcefully removed. The woman's breathing picked up at the intrusive thought that she and her partner weren't really alone in the house. The sinking feeling of one of Jacob's hunters accompanied by a Judge stalking into the bedroom, ready to do unspeakable things to the couple. Ramona clasped her knees together tightly and clutched her arms to her chest as she felt the air getting thinner.
What was this? What was making her feel such dread? Ramona had defied death many times before, but there was something about being in these mountains with danger lurking around every corner. Were they really safe? She hasn't really been "safe" since she got to Hope County. Are they prepared if something happens? She was never really sure. Sharky and Ramona always "winged it" when it came to dire situations like running low on ammo or not having enough cover. But if they couldn't "wing it" anymore? What if--?
"Hey, woah 'Mona. You okay?" The feeling of a hand grasping Ramona's shoulder took her out of her thoughts. It was Sharky, now awake. "I woke up to you makin' noise and saw you shakin' like a leaf." The way Sharky looked at her with such concern made Ramona realize how she must've looked to him right now. Pathetic and weak. Afraid of the very thing she's been killing every day. All because the stupid bedroom door was open.
Sharky carefully took Ramona's trembling hands into his warm, steady ones. "What's wrong? You can tell me." Ramona couldn't answer. All that came out was sobs. Horrible, pathetic, body racking sobs. Sharky immediately took Ramona into his arms, letting her sodden cheek rub against his bare shoulder.
"I'm just gonna assume you hadda bad dream" he inferred, rubbing her back. "It's okay. I get 'em too sometimes."
Ramona just nodded. Face still hidden in the crook of his neck.
"And I guess this creepy ass house in these creepy ass mountains ain't helpin'."
Silence. Ramona didn't mean to be so unresponsive. She and him both know that she's too emotional to explain herself properly right now.
"Fuckin' asshole. Messin' up your head like this", Sharky cursed darkly referring to Jacob's brainwashing. He hugged his partner tighter.
Ramona slowly calmed down as she melted into Sharky's comforting warmth. The very comfort which keeps her grounded. It keeps her from feeling so hopeless and alone.
"Yeah, it was a bad dream", Ramona confirmed, voice still shaken by nerves. "I'm sorry I scared you."
"Nah, nothin' you do scare me", Sharky scoffed.
"That's good", Ramona responds, relieved.
The two separate to press their foreheads together to enjoy this moment of peace.
"Do you need me to do anything for you, 'Mona? Y'know, to take your mind off of things."
With the way Sharky was lazily tugging at the hem of her panties, Ramona knew what he was suggesting.
"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking…I would like that very much, Shark."
words: 489 (I swear that I’m actually trying to do the 3-10 sentence quota. I just don’t know when to shut up.)
requested by: @archetypesinthefog
This is inspired by Charlie’s original ending of actually coming to her senses/not going off the deep end. Also, gave a little sneak peek at another one of my chosen ocs here.
Charlie had tried to tell John that this would happen; warned him that she would leave if it turned into a bloodbath. He didn’t believe her, thought she was putting up a front; that she was just afraid. And she was afraid, so afraid she had begged him to leave the county with her and their daughter and start a new life somewhere else. But he wouldn’t listen.
If it wasn’t for Jacob blowing up the roads she would have been long gone by now. The collapsing structure and ensuing chaos had almost run her off the road, forcing her to turn back around in hopes that either Deanna or Sarah could help her. Instead she sits parked in the driveway of the ranch with a wailing baby, watching as John angrily approaches.
“What the fuck were you thinking?,” he asks as he reaches into the backseat for the child.
Charlie watches as he lifts her into his arms in an attempt to stop her screams. Tiny fingers grasp onto his leather necklace, the new interest soothing her.
“What were you thinking?,” she hisses back at him. “How am I supposed to protect my daughter when there’s a damn civil war starting?”
John’s hand grasps her shoulder as she hops out of the car; anger beginning to bubble up inside of her.
“Our daughter,” he reminds her, a look of warning on his face that tells her not to push it; not tonight. “Where did you think you could go and hide that I wouldn’t find you?”
There is nowhere.
“I can’t just sit here and watch as your family tries to kill mine.” Charlie looks up at him, olive eyes pleading with him to understand.
John just sighs, exhaustion clearly written all over his face. “The Collapse is coming now. This is what we’ve been preparing for.” His free hand comes to cup her face; thumb brushing a free-falling tear from her cheek. “When all of this is over the three of us will walk through Eden’s Gate together.”
She doesn’t know if she believes him; doesn’t know how to cope with the possibility of losing the ones she loves. Whether that be Sadie or the tiny family she’s created since joining the project, she just wants them all to be safe.
“I don’t know if I could forgive you if something happens to her, though,” Charlie whispers, giving a slight nod to the baby in his arms. The baby who looks as if she was created solely from John’s genes.
How unfair she thinks.
“You may hate it now, but one day you’ll understand everything I’ve done to protect our family.”
Charlie takes a deep breath. She already understands, even if she hates it. But one look at John’s somber face and their sweet, babbling daughter wriggling in his arms reminds her that they are truly all she has and there is no hiding from that fact anymore.
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Maybe she'd thought that since he’d lived most of his life in space, he’d flounder here among the trees and the damp and the wilderness. Clearly, she hadn’t given Hux enough credit.
Looking around the little cabin, with its stone hearth and kettle perched above it on a little hook, the fur skins hanging along the far wall, to the little bed made up with its neat, military corners-- exile hadn’t broken Hux. No, he was thriving.
A low, rough voice gruffed behind her, “Are you just going to stand there gawking, or are you going to go inside?”
Rose gave a start, taking a step over the threshold, the scent of cedar and dried herbs filling her nose.
“Tea?” Hux said, dropping the basket of vegetables onto the small table.
“Oh, yes please,” Rose breathed, turning around in a slow circle to take in every little bit of the homely space. H
ux fiddled with the kettle as she walked over to the makeshift bedside table- an upturned crate he must have received during a supply drop- and the leather-bound journal on top. It had been so long since she’d seen real flimsy...
She wondered what secrets it held.
Her hand jerked back at Hux’s voice. “If you’re going to snoop, perhaps you should wait until I’m gone."
“Sorry,” she said quickly, clasping her hands behind her back. “It’s beautiful here. You’ve done really well."
“The wonders one can accomplish by oneself,” he muttered, perhaps a bit bitterly “when one finally has time.”
And he would have time, Rose knew. Years of it. Decades, probably.
Until the New Alliance either expunged his punishment or forgot about him entirely.
Well, there was one thing Rose knew for sure: she wouldn't forget.
At this point, he thinks he could walk through Yongen blindfolded. Fifty paces from the cafe door to the alleyway shortcut to Shibuya Station, thirty-five and change to round the corner and end up on Sojiro’s doorstep. Fifteen to the bathhouse, twelve to the laundromat. Three inside the laundromat, slow paces like a caged animal while his clothing bakes down.
The streets don’t change with the seasons. Everything else besides the buildings shifts, born anew, people coming and going, stock switching out, flowers blooming and fading as the days and nights pass. It’s a welcome piece of stability, when he steps off the subway so tired he can barely keep his eyes open.
Fifty paces from the alleyway shortcut to the cafe door. Fifty paces home.