mary_j_59: (mug)
Here is another short short story inspired by one of Angela Goff's visual dares. The picture I was responding to follows the story. Comments welcome!

Visual Dare; Encroach:
Everyone else had their eyes covered, and some were carrying slices of onion. Nadia refused. She had no intention of hiding. One of the boys next to her actually had an old-style gas mask that might have belonged to some English or German great-grandfather, and he made to hand it to her.

“Take it! You’ll need it if they start spraying tear gas.”

“Not if. When,” a granny walking behind her muttered. Nadia shook her head at both of them.

“I’m not afraid! Thank you, but no.”

The boy shrugged and dropped back behind her. As Nadia strode on, the granny reached up and patted her shoulder. “Brave girl! Is it your first time?”

“Yes.” Nadia felt her breath catch in her throat, for she saw the soldiers in front of her, by the wall. Her soldiers. Her people. Would they really fire tear gas, and worse? Would they shoot at peaceful protestors? Well, and if they did? She’d come here for a reason, and that reason was peace. She wouldn’t let soldiers stop her.

She lifted her chin, tossed her long, blonde hair over her shoulders, and strode forward.

mary_j_59: (Drive of Dragons)
Another of Angela Goff's visual dares, from her blog. It's a remarkable picture! I'm afraid I committed fanfic as a result - highly improbable fanfic, too! But it's just for fun. The story follows the picture:


Flabbergasted, Mortimer Wimsey glared at the dining room table, then at his daughter. She flinched.

“Polly! Get that damn thing off the table!”

Polly’s lips trembled, but she looked him in the eye. “Lambkin’s on strike, like the suffragettes.”

Mortimer saw his younger son, just home from Eton, squeeze his little sister’s hand. Peter seemed to be trying not to laugh. They’d be the death of him, these two. Far too clever for their own good. “Strike!” he spluttered. “Suffragettes! Why, you-“

Peter walked across the room and whispered in his father’s ear. Mortimer looked thoughtful. He rumbled, “Polly, listen to me. We know you’ve become a vegetarian. We know it’s a principled stand. But don’t you want to take Lambkin to school?” Polly nodded.

”Very well,” her father said triumphantly, “that beast shan’t go to your boarding school until you train it to stay off the furniture!”
mary_j_59: (flute)
This is courtesy of Angela Goff; you can find her original post here. The story follows:

The youngest sister smiled at the young man with the briefcase. “Not going to rain, is it?” he said. She didn’t answer.

Of course it was going to rain. The sisters always met when it was stormy, because that was when they had the power to do justice. They gave people whatever they asked for - that young businessman, looking to impress his wife with his brilliant success; the older man, frustrated, proud, and angry, wanting to be company president; the woman dreaming of murdering her father-in-law; the middle-aged man looking for recompense for his long, silent, loyalty. All of them would get their reward. No one said they had to like it.

The weird sisters, dressed to the nines, strode through the storm and met strangers’ eyes. “What do you want?” they asked silently. “We can give it to you. Take care. What do you really want?”
Weird sisters


mary_j_59: (Default)

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