In the back of the two-room office, a telephone rang. The telephone was bright red - standing out in the dark, under-furnished office - with a rotary dial. It sat in the middle of the room on a simple, somewhat cluttered, wooden desk.
At the sound, the slim figure standing at the window turned towards the telephone, watching it quietly as it rang again, then a third time. On the fourth ring, he - or she, it was difficult to tell - finally stepped over to the desk and picked up the phone.
“Peregrine Falcon, detective for hire, what can I solve for you today?“
“Are you all right?”
Alan let out a long breath, something between a sigh and a hiss, and looked at his assistant’s
concerned expression through the darkness. Trevor was new, and young; he could be forgiven a few
stupid questions at stressful moments, at least. He might even have missed the bullet hitting
insult to injury
“Why are you always so pissed off?”
“Ha ha funny.”
“No. Dammit, Dez.” Jake frowned. “I’m serious.”
Desdemona stared at Jake like he’d grown a second head or something. ”You’re… You
seriously have no idea?”
Written for Lyn Thorne-Alder in a fic
Vidrou, sa’Tree-Hugger – more commonly known as Vid or Viddie – hummed quietly as he inspected
his orchard. It was summer, which meant the seasons for peaches, plums and nectarines. Never mind that
their home in ex-Michigan was nowhere near the right climate. He might not be able to change the
weather, but he could change the trees. Combined with his diligent and affectionate
caretaking, this meant come midsummer, there were fresh peaches.
Aside from tending to the trees, gathering fruit for the next few days was Vid’s main purpose in being
out at the orchard this sunny afternoon. The basket slung over his shoulder was already half full,
bearing a mix of red plums and yellow peaches.
“Papa, papa, look!” Seven-year-old Tilden raced across the grass, ignorant of the scrapes and
dirt on his shins and elbows. He bounced to a stop in front of his father, proudly displaying a
nectarine. “I picked it myself, just like you showed me.”
Written for the Thimbleful
Thursday prompt: throw down the gauntlet. I squeaked in at 439 words!
Desdemona barely restrained herself from punching Jake into the wall. “What the hell–”
“Desdemona cy’Fridmar,” he interrupted, waving the glove he’d just smacked her with in her face, “I
challenge you to a duel.”
As the Director left the stage, the newly graduated Cohort slowly began to gather themselves to leave the auditorium. All, that is, but one. A tall blonde woman (they were all adults now in both senses of the word) wearing a full set of studded leather armor and weapons, slipped out of her seat on the aisle and strode forward, leaping onto the stage with ease. Before most of the assembled students noticed, she turned to face them and, using her heel like a gavel, stomped her foot three times.
“And I’m the rightful king of Scotland.” Jake snorted derisively, looking down at her - or trying, at least. At five foot eight (and a half), Desdemona was taller than at least half the school. “You think I give a shit who your parents are?”
“I think you should know better than to think I’m some weak little girl.” She sank back into a fighter’s crouch, raising her fists. “I also think you’re an asshole.”
It was raining outside; not simply rain, but waves cascading down in a ceaseless deluge. Wall-like
sheets of the stuff were the only thing visible out the window, casting a watery grey light into the
Burnwood common room - which, as only a few daring souls had ventured out of doors, was rather more
densely populated than usual. And as a direct result, substantially louder.
Off in a (relatively) quiet corner of the room in a kidnapped armchair sat - sprawled, rather -
Theodore Gainsfeld, a tall dark-haired older boy, maybe sixteen, thoroughly absorbed in a book. Also
in the corner were Mallory Waters-Kingston, a tousle-haired boy with an insouciant smile, and Justice
Babbet (full name Justice Abides, which his schoolmates treated predictably), a younger freckled boy
with curly brown hair and a permanent air of resignation.
Mallory, being the older of the two, had claimed the also-kidnapped ottoman belonging with the
armchair, relegating Justice to the floor as the two did their best to talk over the general chaos.
“How d’you like Smythe so far?”
Part of this
setting, but except for a couple unimportant references you don’t need to know about it.
I tossed yet another dozen red roses into the discard pile, flinging myself back into the pile of
cushions with a pained sigh. As much as the idea of a day entirely devoted to professions of
romantic inclinations appealed to me, the sheer quantities of trite poetry and overpriced roses had
led my enthusiasm to wear thin.
Now I must admit, I am quite fond of chocolates, flowers, jewelry, and being showered with gifts from
my devoted admirers. That was all well enough. The irritating part was how cheap they all
were! Oh, not in terms of cost; they were all quite evidently the most expensive roses and chocolates
they could lay their adoring hands upon. Which only served to emphasize their complete lack of
Although sometimes one of them did get things right. There was that one gentleman, David I think his
name was, who had a true eye for flowers. He hand-picked a half dozen musk roses in an absolutely
beautiful shade of pink and, I could tell, had lovingly arranged the bouquet himself with a few sprigs
of purple lilacs and delicate ferns. Now that had been a bouquet to be proud of, both in
giving and receiving.