Captive

Title	Captive
Genre	General
Warnings	None
Rating	G
Words	100
This was written as a prompt for the Week 30 prompt on Gather's "100 Word Stories" community. The prompt was What appears to be the end may really be a new beginning.

* * *

Maybe things can’t get worse. That’s the single thought that gets me through each day, as I sit in this little cell, waiting for my sand to run through the funnel. Mother, father, the sisters, all taken, to somewhere I hope is better, but I know is worse.

Every day I get a new linen gown and a whispered promise that this will be my last. It’s the block or stocks for me.

Today I hear a new voice. “Not this one. I want her.” The gown is silk, the door open. I stand and wonder what waits beyond it.

Sensual Melodies

Title	Sensual Melodies
Genre	Romance
Warnings	Adult Themes
Rating	PG
Words	349
I don't usually write anything sensual, or even romantically based. This kind of appeared in my mind a few hours ago, and flowed so well it had to be fate.

* * *

With lithe, talented fingers, he made her sing.

Every touch was like magic. The soft, suppleness of her called to him, she knew, as she lay motionless under his delicate ministrations. She wanted to feel him stroke her. Every caress sent blissful tremors through her body.

So she waited, night after night, waited for him to come to her. When he did, she stood silent, in awe of his powerful arms and anxious fingers. She wanted him, needed him, to touch her so intimately. Only for him did she open her most sensitive areas, relishing the feel of his calloused fingertips against her hidden spots.

She longed for the magical hour of the night, nine o’clock on the dot, when he set aside his meal and his paper to come for her. For two, delicious hours, he would satisfy the cravings that had gnawed an unyielding void in her core since the night before. It ended all too soon, but she could feel the shuddering reminders of his enchanting talent long into the night.

The plate was pushed aside, the paper dropped to the table. Now he came to her with unrestrained worship. His careful hands exposed her fully, and he took her in with a renewed sense of awe.

She made only the sounds she knew would bring more of that beautiful, loving touch. With every soprano cry and baritone moan, she spurred him on. She was his goddess for those two hours, and his delicate worshipping shifted to desire filled fervor as the clock ticked toward eleven o’clock. His adoration never faltered; each night, he knew her better than the last and caused her to praise his talents in even more exotic melodies.

Then it came. Their time was up.

Her singing lulled into a pleasured whisper. His promises came through the sounds of rustling papers.

”Tomorrow, love. I’ll come back tomorrow.” His fingers ran the length of her, feather-light and lingering, for a few stolen seconds. He sighed and touched her one last time, protectively, covering her delicate ivory body with a heavy, wooden lid.

The Run

Title	The Run
Genre	Action
Warnings	Language, Violence
Rating	PG-13
Words	568
This was created as a writer's-block smasher. The concept was provided by a friend to get me to stop whining.

* * *

In the middle of the woods, unprotected and unsuspecting, they fall on him like wolves on a deer.

The thin branches of the saplings catch against his body, ripping, tearing, pulling his skin as he runs. His steps are quick and lithe, even as his feet move backwards over the fallen summer brush. Snow cracks and breaks under his weight. Between the crunch of the snow and the pounding of his heart, he can almost ignore the reports of his pistols.

Behind him, she calls out his name. What a stupid thing to do, at a time like this. Bullets whiz past his head as he pushes the sound from his mind. Ignore her, keep shooting. Ignore her, keep running. His foot loses purchase on the slippery ground. He feels – no, hears, he's too numb from cold and adrenaline to feel – something lodge in his flesh. His body falls hard into a trunk and the air leaves his lungs in a misty puff.

Blood pumps through his veins and out his thigh. “Fuck,” he hisses. Light reflects off the snow covered forest floor like a beacon, and he knows he's close to the edge. To clear ground. To her.

“Peter!”

The trees grow sparser. He has to work harder to find cover from the moving sheet of ammunition looking for a home in his chest. He ducks behind an old, barren tree and lets out a deep, labored breath. The open meadow is so close he can see tiny blades of brown grass peaking through the snow.

He reloads both pistols. Just ten rounds to take down fifteen men. He takes another breath before moving from his cover.

His aim is perfect. Seven bullets, seven kills, all with a precision he thought he'd lost. He fires one more shot before one hits him in the chest.

It's a glancing blow; he knows he'll live. The refrozen snow of the meadow is under his foot. The sun is shining on his back.

He turns to her, for just an instant, just long enough to yell, “Run!”

She is frozen in fear. He holds out his left arm, fires one more round. It finds its mark with ease One left. One last bullet, and I'll put it in his fucking head...

His body shakes again and again. Pop, pop, pop, one round after another delving deep into his flesh. She screams as he falls.

He wants to tell her to run, but his lips won't move. He hopes she knows how much it hurts him to fail, how it hurts worse than all the bullets pulverizing his organs. He fears that once he's down, she'll stay anchored in her spot.

Time is slow enough for him to feel the lead bore into his heart. His body twitches reflexively, as if he's shooing away a bug. He sees only her. She stands so close, huddling behind a dead tree, her silvery hair blowing in the gentle breeze, her stark blue eyes wide with terror. The sounds around him muffle, as if he's underwater, but he can't miss the chilling report of his pistol.

Her body collapses. Her warm blood drips down her forehead to stain the white snow. Before he breathes his last, he realizes that she's dead.

It's probably for the best.