Prompt 404: Besom: Teen Wolf: skargasm : Not So Different ~ Spike/OMC, Sterek ~ R

[skargasm.livejournal.com]

Author : → skargasm
Title : → Love Song for a Vampire (Not So Different)
Pairing : → Spike/OMC, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, implied Spike/Xander Harris
Rating : → R
Word Count : → 1474
Prompt : → Song!fic ~ Love Song for a Vampire by Annie Lennox & Prompt #404: Besom @ tamingthemuse
Summary : → Ed calls his favourite radio show host for some advice on how to handle his vampire lover… Derek and Spike do some unexpected bonding.
Disclaimer: → Not mine.

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Something in Common

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Dust Ink - Prologue

[red3nyc.livejournal.com]

I wouldn’t say that I had talent, nor would I say that I had motivation. The only thing I would claim to have possessed is an aspiration. Like every other human being out there, I had a desire. This objective was something very simple, not too big and bold, not something that should’ve been underlined or in italics, yet… Alright. So eloquence isn’t really my style. In order to get to the point, screwing around with words will have to be thrown aside right now.
I wanted to be a writer. Not just any writer, but a novelist. To publish something new and actually decent to read was what I had wanted to do since elementary school. My goal sounded easy enough. All I had to do was get through school, all the while writing. Work, while writing on the side. Finally get published. Then I’d be a hit. I’d be a legitimate writer with fans and new fiction galore. At a point, I had begun calling myself ‘The Future Hemingway’. A few of my pieces had been published online just to see if somebody would actually comment on it or like it in general. They were mostly short stories without real plots and every few weeks I’d maybe get some positive feedback or at least a view on the site. Putting so much effort into that one thing became my life. However, my ‘aspiration’ to be a 5-star author was soon to be destroyed.

The first bomb to shatter our peace hit a facility in a town that was literally called Nowhere, located in Oklahoma. Nobody, not even our government, could fathom why they would hit there… But then the second bomb hit. Albuquerque, New Mexico. Two bombs. We all figured it was from Russia, or maybe some place in the Middle East. That was the easiest option. It didn’t matter though. The bombs were untraceable. Nobody even noticed them in the air space until they were practically at their destination. We weren’t the only country fired upon, either. England, France, Australia, and Germany all had thousands of victims.

It was as if some sort of god decided that humanity was no longer scared of natural disasters, so they had to scare us with things of our own creation.

Governments began pointing fingers and everybody was turning their backs on one another and soon they were past the point of no return. “At least my country has somewhere to put our sewage instead of out on the street!” “Sacre bleu! How dare you accuse us of these tragedies!” “Vhat?! Are you saying zat ve vere ze vuns to blow up zat leetle town of yours?”  The bigger the egos, the harder it is to reach apologies, so the world’s population had damned itself to high hell, turned on its heel and stomped off into the hills, not to attempt to break bread until one person were to speak up and say, “Yo! I screwed up. Oops.” Not even our own president would step into peace-making actions.

From then on, bomb shelters became the local night club and raids turned into parades. Some of the twenty-somethings in my town made it a drinking game to see how many people cried in their shelter each night. Our world had become populated with people made of twigs, and some were too easy to snap.

Bombs came down more than the rain did. The rain gave up long before the bombs stopped.

Two years, seventy-six days, one hour, and twenty-three minutes.

The bombs stopped.

A pen was sitting on the dresser, and I decided to write.

Dust Ink - Prologue

[red3nyc.livejournal.com]

I wouldn’t say that I had talent, nor would I say that I had motivation. The only thing I would claim to have possessed is an aspiration. Like every other human being out there, I had a desire. This objective was something very simple, not too big and bold, not something that should’ve been underlined or in italics, yet… Alright. So eloquence isn’t really my style. In order to get to the point, screwing around with words will have to be thrown aside right now.
I wanted to be a writer. Not just any writer, but a novelist. To publish something new and actually decent to read was what I had wanted to do since elementary school. My goal sounded easy enough. All I had to do was get through school, all the while writing. Work, while writing on the side. Finally get published. Then I’d be a hit. I’d be a legitimate writer with fans and new fiction galore. At a point, I had begun calling myself ‘The Future Hemingway’. A few of my pieces had been published online just to see if somebody would actually comment on it or like it in general. They were mostly short stories without real plots and every few weeks I’d maybe get some positive feedback or at least a view on the site. Putting so much effort into that one thing became my life. However, my ‘aspiration’ to be a 5-star author was soon to be destroyed.

The first bomb to shatter our peace hit a facility in a town that was literally called Nowhere, located in Oklahoma. Nobody, not even our government, could fathom why they would hit there… But then the second bomb hit. Albuquerque, New Mexico. Two bombs. We all figured it was from Russia, or maybe some place in the Middle East. That was the easiest option. It didn’t matter though. The bombs were untraceable. Nobody even noticed them in the air space until they were practically at their destination. We weren’t the only country fired upon, either. England, France, Australia, and Germany all had thousands of victims.

It was as if some sort of god decided that humanity was no longer scared of natural disasters, so they had to scare us with things of our own creation.

Governments began pointing fingers and everybody was turning their backs on one another and soon they were past the point of no return. “At least my country has somewhere to put our sewage instead of out on the street!” “Sacre bleu! How dare you accuse us of these tragedies!” “Vhat?! Are you saying zat ve vere ze vuns to blow up zat leetle town of yours?”  The bigger the egos, the harder it is to reach apologies, so the world’s population had damned itself to high hell, turned on its heel and stomped off into the hills, not to attempt to break bread until one person were to speak up and say, “Yo! I screwed up. Oops.” Not even our own president would step into peace-making actions.

From then on, bomb shelters became the local night club and raids turned into parades. Some of the twenty-somethings in my town made it a drinking game to see how many people cried in their shelter each night. Our world had become populated with people made of twigs, and some were too easy to snap.

Bombs came down more than the rain did. The rain gave up long before the bombs stopped.

Two years, seventy-six days, one hour, and twenty-three minutes.

The bombs stopped.

A pen was sitting on the dresser, and I decided to write.

Prompt 404 Besom - The Old Mrs Marsh - naughty_bangles - Original

[naughty-bangles.livejournal.com]

Author : naughty_bangles
Title : The Old Mrs Marsh
Rating : PG
Word Count : 504
Prompt 404 Besom
Summary : There's no such things as a ghosts or magic brooms, right?
Disclaimer: all mine, expect for the little Harry Potter reference.

( And now with the story ... )