Writing Challenge: Flash Fiction #1

Prompt from here.
#1 is to compensate the atmosphere of #2 that I will post after this.

“Are you sure about this?” he mumbled.

But the blonde girl next to him merely smiled.
“Don’t tell me it’s your first?” she smirked, tugging at her sleeves.

The redheaded lad shook his head frantically and fumbled at his seat, desperately searching for something to hold on to. He gulped audibly.

Apparently God didn’t hear his prayer (it made him wonder ‘what sin did he commit earlier to deserve this?’).

“Ready?” she said, grinning.
“No,” he whimpered, closing his eyes.

With that, she stepped on the gas pedal and the car screeched its way out of the parking lot.


Daily Prompt: It’s My Party

Prompt from here.
A completely plotless starter just because.

‘Have I met you before?’

I found the unfamiliar pair of blue eyes staring at me through the mask when I turned to look who poked me in the ribs rather rudely. The annoyed frown on my face must had been obvious. Instead of waiting for my reply, he smiled apologetically and chuckled, bowing as he introduced himself. Judging from what he was wearing he was probably trying to pull off a… Sherlock.

About that.

I might’ve not mentioned that this whole masquerade party thing is the biggest event this firm does just to make sure people like me get a proper supply of booze and show their inner geeks without being jeered at for at least once in every half-a-year. Considering this young man’s attitude, he was a newbie – probably an intern, because anyone who’s worked here at least a month would know better than to go near me lest he want to… suffer certain consequences. And they would know who I am even with the stupid Venetian mask and festive dress I was wearing.

So… back to young Mr. Holmes (although I don’t think I have the right to call him that. He looked the same age as I am). Fortunately enough there was wine left in my glass so he would have to bear the rare, courteous me. This time.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr. Detective,’ I sighed, ‘how may I entertain you this evening?’
He laughed. “Isn’t there enough entertainment in this room alone to keep all these people up the whole night, Milady?’

I rolled my eyes. Newbies and their carefree attitude they tend to brush off as charming. Ah, the naivety in it all. ‘I’m not all these people.’ One sip of wine. Two sips of wine. I had to get out of here before I ran out of the heavenly tranquilizer. ‘Now if you’d excuse me, I have things to do.’

‘You mean more wine to savour.’
‘I’m not aware that we’re keeping tracks now.’

‘Oh, we don’t. I’m a detective. I deduce.’
Smooth, I thought over the loud clinks of silverwares and buzzing chatters roaming over a gazillion legitimate imposters.  ‘And what else have you observed?’

‘Nothing big but the fact that you should ditch that crappy wine in your hand and let me take you to the real deal.’

That wasn’t the last glass of good wine I let him take me to.

Photo Challenge: Letters

Prompt from here.
Because these are the letters that shaped me from the early years.

A gazillion letters ©mk17design

A gazillion letters ©mk17design

Writing Challenge: Great Expectations

Prompt from here.
If you could guess whose faces I imagined when I wrote this you are very, very good. Or you’re in the same universal fandom with me. Off we go now.

A crumpled piece of paper was stuck into her fist right in front of the vintage bookstore she loved. Caught off guard! The redheaded culprit lost himself in the crowd before she realised what was happening. How humiliating it was to the twenty-year old claiming to be the best in the business. Cursing the downside of being off duty, the brunette girl continued to walk briskly until she reached her doorstep. She paused for a moment and bent down, pretending to tie her shoelaces while glancing around for any sign of flaming crimson. Nothing. He was fast and he was no idiot, but nor was she. She knew what it meant.

The little thing in her hand was a message. It was a classic hit-and-run, the easiest and the most desperate attempt of communication between people like them. Some call them assassins. Some other call them sweepers. They call themselves professionals, just because the amateurs boasting about the profession weren’t even worth the title.

The brunette girl stood up straight and pushed open her door just to find the sewing needle she put on the hinge lying on the floor. Break-in. Her hand flew to the holster resting on her belt as she altered her stance. Slowly but sure she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The note could wait. She pocketed the scrap of paper and readied her aim as she delved further into the drawing-room, careful to not step on anything …until all of sudden something moved in the corner of her eyes.

The next thing she heard was a silenced shot. Oh, she knew the sound so well. It was her silencer. She had used it on almost every job she had, and she remembered every single body dropping right after she heard that familiar sound – only this time the only one falling down was her own.

There was the shade of crimson she was looking for. There was the very same flaming red hair that slipped her that unread note. She tried talking. Once. Twice. No word came out – only gasps for air as she hit the floor, blood spluttering out of her lips. He was fast, and he was no idiot. Apparently, she was. Her amber eyes wandered to his blue ones as he wiped his gun clean, smiling down at her.

‘I tried warning you,’ he chuckled, ‘really, I tried. I was hoping you’re as smart as people said.’ He kicked the gun off her hand and bent down to search her pockets. Tears dwell in her eyes. The pain stung and everything began to blacken. She hated it. She hated the feeling of being handicapped in the worst way one could’ve imagined. Where had she gone wrong?

The young man finally pulled out the note out of her pocket, unfolding it with a sigh. He held the scrap in front of her to read.

They are coming for you.

There was where she went wrong. The message was clear. He did try to warn her. She thought too much and too long. Everyone else had told her that her brains would be the death of her, but she didn’t expect it to come this soon. Once again the girl on the floor choked, her perforated lungs screaming for air. Her eyes rested on the first and last mistake she made as she heard his footsteps heading to the front door.

The house went back to its original silence within seconds, the still body of its owner stained with a darker shade of red.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Street Life

Prompt from here.

LV :)

LV :)

A night view of the bookstore in my old campus. Whenever I walked back there it felt like Christmas due to the street lights – but who doesn’t like Christmas?