When/Papers Characters: Madge & Fletcher

Partial character profiles: Madge and Fletcher

Fletcher Perks

Welsh

Taller than Madge (then again, who isn't)- about 5'11-6'0. Ginger. Longer hair in a ponytail, small beard. Serious, long face. Hazel eyes. Lean athletic build. "Gangly'.

Fletcher is reasonable, able to keep himself in check, and prefers to sneak rather than outright brawl. He moves quietly and gracefully. He doesn't talk much, but when he does his voice is deep and soft. 

Weapon of choice: (Knives? baton? *Self*)

Good shot? Secondary weapon?

Madge Shelton

Welsh

Thief (brawler)

Short stature- about 5'2, strong- NOT a waif. Good muscles but also good curves.

Blond hair cut short (pixie), expressive eyes and face, wide mouth, eye color blue(or brown)

Madge is a force of nature; she tends to approach life with a devil may care attitude. She smiles a lot, laughs in the face of danger (literally) She loves to brawl, she loves a challenge, and she's impatient about certain things; at the same time, she's great at thieving, nimble and quick on her feet. She's good at locks, but not as good as Fletcher.

Madge and Fletcher have known each other for years; they have a dynamic that is hard to understand.

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When/Papers: The 'Quiet' Approach

Quinn strode back down the streets towards the docks, the boy- who, it turned out was named Michael, in tow. It was warm and sunny, but close enough to evening that the crowds had lessened, especially in the part of town without vendors or shops.

Quinn was looking forward to getting back on board her ship; the brawl in the alley hadn't left her in a particularly good mood, and there were a few questions which needed answering. Still, she paused when she saw the figure just before it rounded a corner into an alley a short way ahead. 

"Now, what are you doing here?" she murmured, deciding there was only one real way to find out.

"Listen, kid, stay here." she said over her shoulder, not waiting to see if he'd heard before swiftly changing her direction, heading into the same alley.

Quietly, drawing herself up against the stone wall of the building, she peered around the corner. 

*Meanwhile....*

At the end of the alley way, two very large, unpleasant looking men stood on either side of a set of stairs leading downward. The straightened when the figure approached.

"Afternoon, boys." the voice belonged to a woman. She was short- only an inch or two above 5 feet, and sturdy looking, her breeches and vest cut in a way that showed well toned, sleek muscle and curves. Her skin was golden tanned, her hair white blond and cropped short over a round, expressive face with wide lips and dark blue/grey eyes with thick lashes. She came to a stop about ten feet from the men.

"Private party, girl." one of the men grunted, jerking his head to indicate that she should go back the same way she came in.

"Ah, fine my mistake" the woman said, turning on her heel- and then turning right back a moment later. "Here's the thing, though," she said "I'm just so terribly curious as to what sort of party happens two streets away from the skirt ends of the vendor roads, in a back alley in late afternoon." she shrugged, shaking her head and smiling apologetically "Just a personality flaw of mine, you understand." 

The men didn't look pleased.

"Nothing that concerns you," one of them said.

"I think it does concern me, though." the woman said, still smiling "Because it's not really a party down there, is it? Too dark to be a party; too quiet for there to be anyone else inside. Which makes me think that you two fine individuals aren't here to keep someone safe; you're here to keep something safe."

ARC Writing Prompt #5: In a Parking Lot

"You are in a parking lot unlocking the door to your car when you realize the car was moved from its original spot." (From 'Writing prompts' by ARC Apps)
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Anna crossed the lot towards her car, cursing under her breath as the heel of her slightly too big boot wobbled, forcing her to devote more concentration than usual to the task of staying upright with both ankles intact.
Concentration wasn't something she had an excessive amount of at the moment, and it occurred to her as she stopped walking in order to fully focus on the task at hand- rummaging through her giant tote for her keys- that this had been the norm for quite some time.
That morning, she'd arrived in the cool, Seattle air in those boots, along with a dark grey blazer, a nice button up blouse and a pair of dark washed blue jeans, her makeup subtle but as close to perfect as she could get, her long hair brushed back into a sleek bun.
Now, ten hours later, her hair had rebelled, escaping from her simple bun in tendrils which tickled her face and blew in front of her eyes and mouth with the slightest provocation. Her blouse was wrinkled, her blazer was creased, her pants had stretched and- as she used her free hand to push her hair out of her eyes for what must have been the hundredth time- it was very clear that whatever makeup was left on her pale pink skin wasn't the same anymore.

It had been, all things considered, a pretty crappy day. But at least, she thought as her hand triumphantly closed around the elusive keys and she wobbled the last few steps to her car, it was almost over.

She took a deep breath and stuck her key into the door.

And then she saw the can.
The can of soda that had miraculously ended up unsquished between the front and back wheels on the drivers side of her car when she'd pulled into the spot that morning. She'd been irritated at how unscathed it'd been.
Except that that wasn't the case anymore. Now, the can was very near to the back wheel,  and it was flat as a pancake.

She swallowed and carefully settled the hand that wasn't holding her key to the side of her tote, gently feeling around for the outer pocket…

She froze at the sound of a pistol being cocked resonated behind her, then:
"Alright, so, where did I go wrong?"

Feet- Short Story Idea/Blurb

I look at feet for a living.

I want to be absolutely clear about this: I don't look at them because they turn me on. Okay? I don't get some sick thrill from feet.
Nor does my looking at them have anything to do with improving them, aesthetically or otherwise; I'm not a pedicurist, polishing and painting toes, or a podiatrist (the word for 'foot doctor' where I come from).

No, the reason that I look at the feet of countless people from 8 in the morning to 4 in the evening (with a 45 minute lunch break, huzzah) is to make sure that - well, that they're people. Human, I mean.


Believe it or not, this wasn't my first career choice. One of the many perks of this reality is that each person is tracked from the day they enter the work force. Records are meticulous, rendering the days of people lying magnificently on their resumes firmly in the past (if they ever actually existed- note to self: look that up). Not surprisingly, it raises a few questions when a guy in his mid - to late twenties doesn't have anything on file. At all.

See, I'm not really from around here. Up until about (4? 5? 3?) years ago, I lived in a very different place. Having just finished obtaining my master's, I'd landed a new job at an awesome company, Able and Abel. I had a great apartment, a nice enough family that I visited on the holidays. I had a new girlfriend who I'd just started sleeping with - she was really pretty, too.. What was her name, again? Mary Marjory? Ah, doesn't matter.

And then somehow, I ended up here. Woke up in a park in the busier part of suburbia. Things were a bit hinky for a bit, there - someone called the police to report a shirtless man curled up in the wood shavings of a playground in the middle of a school day (thank God- I can't imagine what I'd have been charged with if there had been kids around). Naturally, I was taken back to their precinct for a 'talk'. Five hours, countless questions, and a consensual DNA swab later, it was official: I didn't exist. As it turns out, while not having any records is a bit suspicious, it is not, in fact, a crime.

I was released and left to my own devices, to find my bearings in this whole new world.

At least, it was new to me.

Howler (short fiction assignment #4)

The storeroom off the back of the bar was dim and dusty; as desolate and lifeless as the rest of the town. The slight creak of the door shutting behind us made us both cringe. Gwyn grabbed my hand as I reached out to latch the door behind us, motioning for me to be silent. Drawing her gun with one hand, she rummaged in her pocket with the other and drew out a stone on a long cord; crouching, she stuck a loop on the end over her thumb and tossed the stone. It clattered across the concrete floor noisily, coming to a stop some 15 feet away. Both of us stayed motionless, straining to hear anything in the silence that followed. A few seconds went by. Five. Ten. Twenty.

Nothing happened.

I let out a whoosh of breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding as Gwyn stood. “Clear.” She said, “Still, pull the latch behind us, just in case.” I did as she hopped down the three steps, casting a brief appraising eye around us.

“Doesn’t seem to be much here,” she said with a sigh as she walked over to the stone.

“Still, make yourself useful and look around-” she continued, picking up the stone and winding the cord around it before sticking it back in her pocket “maybe we can find something that makes this whole trip worth i-”. Her words were cut off by a low snarl that rose into a high-pitched, shrieking whine that sent icy shivers down my spine.

I knew that cry.

Gwyn’s gaze flicked off to her right.

“Fuck.” She breathed, then whipped around, raising her gun to fire. Not quick enough.

The creature hit her full on, tackling her to the floor. God knows what happened to her gun- I reached for mine before remembering she’d disarmed me when we met.

“Kid!” Gwyn grunted as the thing gnashed it’s teeth at her, her hand clamped around it’s throat the only thing keeping it from making her a meal. “Any time!”

Frantic, I looked around before my eyes fell on a crowbar stowed on the shelf next to me. Grabbing it, I ran up and swung with all my might, slamming it across the creature’s back.

It shrieked, reeling up- and turned to look straight at me.

A cold terror washed over me, paralyzing me as I stared into those mad red and gold eyes in the blue-tinted, pale face. It snarled again, Gwyn forgotten, and turned, ready to pounce- and crumpled to the ground, the hilt of a knife protruding from the back of its skull.



Gwyn stared down at it, breathing heavily. Reaching down, she grasped the hilt and wrenched the knife free before looking back up at me, one eyebrow raised.

“Took you long enough.”

"It was broken, but she was determined to fix..."

It was broken, but she was determined to fix it; that's what kept Emmiline Grey kneeling on the rough floorboards of the small cabin, even after the scream of police sirens in the distance had risen in tandem with the howling of the winds outside.

And so that's where they found her. The rescue workers were first on the scene, rushing in and jostling past her in their haste to attempt the impossible; to bring a man back from the dead. Whatever questions they asked fell on deaf ears as Emmiline ran her fingers over the shattered pieces of the antique jewelry box, her slim hands hovering over the remains of what had once been the complex inner workings safe inside their pretty carved rosewood shell. Cracked open, now. Smashed like an egg.

Nothing else existed. The world of her awareness started and stopped with the object in front of her. The thump of footsteps causing dust motes to swirl up from the floor, the hum of voices seeming to come from far away, and the crumpled, lifeless body not ten feet away- all of those things were irrelevant, as insubstantial as wisps of white smoke.

Emmiline had to fix it; of that, she was certain.
But she had no idea of how to do it.

Tidbit: The Boy King

"I leave this city in your hands, a thriving living being, and come back to this!" he roared, upending the enormous table; Lancels' precious territory maps fluttered like anxious bird wings, the quills and jars of ink falling to the floor, spreading a stain of black and blue and shattered glass across the stone.

"People scurrying in the alleys rather than face my company, gaunt faces peering up at me from darkened windows, streets spread with filth and the smell of death from the corpses strung up, rotting at every crossroad!" He strode forward, closing the distance between him and his son. Lancel had gone pale, but abandoned his lounging on the throne to stand at the bottom of the steps to the dias, facing off with his father.

"What in the Gods names possessed you?!" the man, this massive imposing king, shouted "Your advisors? Your council? I am told they are dead! And your sister-" he took a deep breath and shook his head, once, as if to clear it "I placed her in your charge, Lancel. You were her protector, she was your ward, your blood!"

"She was nothing!" Lancel spat, "Worse than nothing; a craven, a vile traitor!"

"Hold your tongue!" King Wallace cut in "She is your kin. Your own flesh! I will not have this smear against family!"

"Not my kin, dear father," Lancel sneered "only by half; only by your romping with some baker's woman in the square!"

"Enough." the Kings voice had gone deadly quiet, his fists clenched at his sides. Lancel continued, oblivious.

"She was worthless! A fool, a folly, a bastard-"

"ENOUGH!" Quick as a snake, Wallace's hand swung up, dealing a blow across the face which sent Lancel crashing to the floor.

"You dare speak to me of folly?!" he roared "Look at what you've done! The city is dying, our people starving, unable to afford the rising price of bread and meat! All this because of your pet, this imagined war between you and the Duke!" he shook his head in disgust as Lancel lay prone, staring up at him, eyes wide, blood trickling from his split lip.

"You are a wrecker, a deciever, a selfish child, and Gods forgive me for ever placing the rule of this kingdom into your greedy hands."

"Father-" Lancel's voice was a plaintive whine as Wallace made as if to turn from him. The older man paused, turning back.

"And as to your sister. A traitor she may be," he said, staring down at the boy-king with cold eyes "but you are a fool. I cannot help but think, which is worse? A traitor, who knows her own cause and pursues it with fervor, or a fool, who knows nothing at all." With that, he turn on his heel, his cloak swishing behind him as he strode out of the hall.
He did not look back.

Lancel staggered to his feet, hand to his mouth. His face turned contemptuous, cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment.

"Father!!" He yelled, then,

"Seize him!" he pointed at the door his father had just stepped through, and glared around at his guards. None moved forward. Beneath their helms, their faces were uncertain.

"I said, seize him!!" Lancel screamed "Arrest him for- for slander, for assault on the monarchy!" One or two of the men took a tentative step towards the door, their gazes flicking from it to Lancel, who grew, if anything, more livid.

"I command you, damn you all, you pox-ridden idiots!" he shrieked, stalking over and shoving the nearest guard towards the door "Seize him, arrest him in the name of the your acting King!!"