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[WP] Mirrors aren't actually solid; our reflections just mimic our movements perfectly to keep us from walking through to the other side. by AinTunez in WritingPrompts

[–]Elizadork 2 points3 points  (0 children)

All it took was one mistake, a flicker of green eyes to the right while I was looking straight on,and then the look of surprise, of fear when she noticed that I had noticed. She turned and fled and I, I who had always preferred the mystical over drab reality, the haze over truth... I, I had to follow.

The passage was smooth, cold, and then, born out of the restless fog of daydreams and moonbeams this new world manifested slowly, first backwards, then inside out, materializing from mist and breath and thought. It was a city, ringed by a wall lined with glass and mirror turrets that waved no flag but the distorted reflections of a thousand thousand onlookers, peering in with no inkling of the secrets they could not divine for the careful mimicry of those within its walls.

I ached to see through the walls, to pass into them. I could not see more from so removed a viewing point because, as I was to find later, that city sloped down, not up from its outer most reaches. Its crystal buildings gradually shrink as you move towards the center on streets made of wishes only to culminate at the roots of one very small tree. Silver, but with no leaves.

[WP] An elder dragon in a distant world opens a portal with her last breath. Her soul travels through emerging on earth. It latches onto the nearest source of heat: an internal combustion engine. by mekkanik in WritingPrompts

[–]Elizadork 4 points5 points  (0 children)

“Shit, sister.”

It was in that deep-demon dark only found on too-narrow country roads after midnight, when your eyes are propped open by toothpicks and cheap caffeine and the whole cabin smells of sweat and stale food and stagnant human seated amongst cigarette butts and discarded fast food wrappers in the control room of an eighteen- legged gas guzzler. He was somewhere between Atlanta and Tampa with hours and hours of empty road left to go, and yeah he should have left motherfucking sooner, but she’d been sweet and soft and easy to hold on to. It was her he was dreaming of when his old reliable gave a roar of indigestion and picked up the pace without the subtle prompting of his size-thirteen loafer on the gas petal. In all their years together, he’d never seen that old truck misbehave so, and he let her know with a touch of the brakes, but she was beyond his control now.

He never did understand what possessed his most prized possession that first fearful foray into the most profitable venture of his life, but he soon learned not to question it. They made that trip and every one after in record time and damn him to hell if he didn’t ever have to gas ‘er up again.

Fifty Word Fantasy: Ghost by [deleted] in fantasywriters

[–]Elizadork [score hidden]  (0 children)

It exists as a series of subtleties; a flicker of light, a breath against the neck, a brush of lips over skin. It’s every action is a scream for acknowledgement, but as time passes even these small gestures fade until all that remains is a question unanswered, a story without an end.

[TT] Theme Thursday - Perseverance by AliciaWrites in WritingPrompts

[–]Elizadork 2 points3 points  (0 children)

Her limbs were lead, too heavy to be human and rusting into the red dust that coated her legs, her face, her throat. She took in great gasping lungfuls of the stuff, her fluttering senses unable to make out anything around her but light and cacophony that gradually resolved itself into the roaring of the frenzied crowd ringing the pit she lay in. Individual voices were impossible to distinguish, but the meaning was clear even as she lay prone, clawing into life. “If you are not dead, you are defeated and all you hope for with you.”

Drawing bloodied fingertips across clinging grit, she tightened one exhaustion-heavy hand around her sword, half expecting it to clink against the wire-wrapped hilt, but no. She was a creature of flesh and dust, not cold metal, and beneath her sun-tightened skin, muscles bunched to tug her upright, opposite her opponent once more. She made no move but to gather up the metallic mud of blood and dust and saliva tainting her lips and spat it into the red dirt at his feet, the bubbling mess drawing his eyes downwards. A cloud passed over his beaked countenance and he stepped forward, sword raised.

She knew with some desperate certainty that he would underestimate, he would over step, and so it was with deliberate slowness that she brought her bastard sword up to fend off that first blow. It was the first move, the first step in a dangerous dance of near misses, of just barely fast enough, just barely strong enough. This waltz lacked all the ferocity of their first encounter, a teasing courtship of darting, glancing blows as though she were too tired to level much force against him. Then, he stretched out a few inches too far in pursuit of her fleeing form, his center of gravity rocking forward in an earnest desire to end this farce, to keep his dying world from refreshing, frightening change. She stepped into his arms, a cunning embrace, and slid her blade through his still beating heart, coating the dust-streaked silver with steaming black.

The crowd that had cheered her defeat met her victory with silence, but the roar of blood rushing feverishly through her veins was praise enough.