Prompt-Fill: 016. hand 2A

Prompt-Fill: 016. hand 2A

It was gone. Only a stump remained at the end of his wrist. They’d amputated his hand.

Tears gathered in his eyes. He’d trusted them when they said they wouldn’t do anything without his permission, yet they’d drugged him and cut off his hand. The betrayal stung even in the face of his loss.

The door began opening. He hurriedly wiped his eyes dry on the pillowcase and the shoulder of the hospital gown he wore.

By the time the nurse came in, he had a stoic expression on his face. She didn’t mention the redness of his eyes, simply gave him a smile and asked him how he was feeling.

“I’m feeling like they chopped off my hand,” he snarled, then bit his lip, instantly contrite. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “From what I understand, it’s not your fault either. A decision had to be made or you would have died.”

“I know.” He avoided looking at the bandaged stump. He looked toward the window instead. “It’s sunny out there. All those days of rain, and now it’s sunny.”

The nurse—PAM, said her nametag—moved around the room. She opened things and shut things, checked readings on the machines and changed the IV so quickly and expertly he wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t watching.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she said. She crumpled up a blue paper cloth and tossed it in the garbage can. “I think I’m going to recommend that you get some time outside today.”

“What?” He gestured with his hand at his stump. “They cut off my hand yesterday.”

“That was yesterday,” she said. “This is today. And while the stump is still tender and I wouldn’t jostle it around, it should be okay while you sit in a wheelchair in the garden. It’s a lovely sunny day and we don’t know when the sun will next decide to visit us. You should get the chance to enjoy it a little.”

He wanted to object—”I don’t want to leave my room. My hand. They cut off my hand“—but the thought of being outside with the sun on his face was too appealing.

“Okay,” he said instead, tone grudging.

“Good.” She smiled brightly. “I can tell already that you’re a fighter. You’re going to be okay. I’m sure of it.”

“If you’re sure,” he said doubtfully.

“I’m sure,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “And I’m due on another floor in five minutes. So I’m going to run out of here. If you need anything, the call button is right there. Lunch is in forty minutes. And I will see you tomorrow. Bye!”

“Bye,” he echoed, but she was already gone. The clicking shut of the door was the only sign that she’d ever existed.

“How weird,” he whispered. But he felt better.

Sure, they’d amputated his hand, but he was still alive. And maybe he could 3D print himself a cool prosthesis. It was terrible. But it was going to be all right.

“I’m alive,” he said.

And when his family came to visit he managed a tremulous smile that gradually became real. Because they loved him. They were here. They’d made the decision he couldn’t manage to make.

He was alive.


Prompt Fill: 342. lucid 1A

Prompt Fill: 342. lucid 1A

Her first lucid thought was that things had gone wrong. Then the pain pulled her down again and it was another two days before she regained consciousness. By then they’d already taken her right leg below the knee and her left leg at mid-thigh.

She was a huddle of blankets on the bed. Her body made small by stillness and the mass of bandages covering her face and arms, each of her fingers individually splinted and wrapped.

It was pain that woke her, then they had to knock her out again when she was unable to stop her panic.

She almost thought that waking was a dream–a nightmare–except she was still in the hospital when she woke up. Her legs were still ruined. Her arms and fingers were still broken messes of healing bone and flesh. She was still the only surviving victim of The Renaissance Mangler, a serial killer that had been preying on the city for the last four years. Men, women, children–the Mangler had no preference but to cause pain to his victims before killing them and dumping their bodies where they would be found.

It was the Mangler’s need for attention that saved her life. Through his interactions with the media, the FBI were able to find the warehouse where he tortured and murdered his victims. And though The Renaissance Mangler wasn’t caught, his latest victim was found alive.

Splayed out on the floor of a large metal cage, she’d looked dead. The Mangler must have known they were coming and killed her before he fled. It was grim work breaking into the cage, until someone shouted that her chest had moved–she was breathing!–and they burnt through the lock with heightened urgency. The EMTs streamed into the cage and she was bundled into an ambulance and away. All while cameras took pictures and recorded the moments.

She would see those pictures later–on the Internet, on the TV, in history books–and it never seemed like her. A pile of bloody limbs on a dirty floor and a mass of tangled hair sticking out from under an oxygen mask and blanket on a gurney. The words of pity and recrimination coming from reporters and pundits alike made her angry on principle at first, before she began associating that image of a broken body as being her. Then she was just angry.

Because the Mangler had hurt her, tried to kill her, but the media had torn her apart. And once she became a spectacle, everyone had an opinion about the “poor survivor”, the “broken angel”, the “lucky idiot” that had survived being “sliced and diced” by the Mangler.

Stephanie was glad for her uncle’s quick action to have her identity kept from the public. Citing the need to protect her from the Mangler and the detrimental psychological effects of media attention while she was trying to recover, he’d kept her identity quiet. He’d even convinced the judge to have all mentions of her name replaced with a code name in court documents.

So while everyone in the world talked about what happened to Lily May Howerton, Stephanie Babbage was allowed to recover without anyone knowing they were the same person.

It allowed her to work through her shock, horror, and grief in some semblance of peace. She didn’t take the amputation of most of her legs well. She was horrified by her physical imperfections, by the scars that tugged and pulled when she moved her arms, and the strangeness of her post-reconstructive surgery face (That’s not me! That’s not me!). And she had to take some time out of her life to deal with what had been done to her and how it had ruined her plans for the future.

By the time she was back to feeling normal again, four years of her life had passed. She’d had multiple reconstructive surgeries and gotten used to her prosthetics. She’d inured herself to pain; to the point that it eventually disappeared.

She learned to walk and run and laugh again.

And then she found the love of her life.


“365 Prompts” – partial Prompt-Fill: 004. spring 1A. “Out of the Wild Lands” by Harper Kingsley

Prompt 004. spring – 1A

1. It was a relief when the spring frost began. They’d been close to running out of nearly everything.

A. Once the river melted, it was a rush to finish building the boat and gather enough food to see them out of the Wild Lands. If they were lucky they could reach civilization within a few months. If they were unlucky they would die. They didn’t have a choice either way.

There was no staying where they were. They’d stripped the island of everything it had to offer, and there hadn’t been much to begin with.

It was either make the attempt now, or slowly starve to death. There was not going to be another opportunity.


Prompt-Fill: “Out of the Wilds”
Author: Harper Kingsley

Once the river melted, it was a rush to finish building the boat and gather enough food to see them out of the Wild Lands. If they were lucky they could reach civilization within a few months. If they were unlucky they would die. They didn’t have a choice either way.

There was no staying where they were. They’d stripped the island of everything it had to offer, and there hadn’t been much to begin with.

It was either make the attempt now, or slowly starve to death. There was not going to be another opportunity.

“Quiet that baby,” Gareth ordered. He was lashing the last of the supplies to the boat and didn’t need the distraction.

“Yes sir.” Leilan shushed the blanket wrapped bundle, jostling it until the wails turned to an unhappy grumble. The baby had been fussing ever since her twin — her Other Half — had died. There was a real concern that she would follow after, the broken strings of her tattered soul pulling her down and down after her sister.

When Poiler had suggested killing the baby as a mercy — she must be suffering with her broken soul — Leilan had hit her as hard as he could and taken the baby himself. He couldn’t believe a mother could ever suggest murdering her own child. It made him suspicious of how the unnamed baby had died. She’d looked healthy after her birth; then she’d been quiet and still.

Leilan tightened his grip on the baby he held. She was alive. She needed him.

He stood out of the way as the men and women worked. He looked down at the baby’s face. She was skinnier than he liked, as his milk had only just begun to come in, but seemed healthy enough. He thought there was a chance that she would live.

“I’m going to risk it,” he said. She blinked up at him. One fist had worked itself free of the blanket and found its way into her mouth where she furiously gummed on tiny tiny knuckles. He chuckled and used two fingers to pull her hand out of her mouth. He wiped the slobber off with a scrap of cloth from his pocket, then tucked her arm back in the blanket.

“None of that,” he ordered when she looked about to cry. She hiccuped and blinked, but remained quiet. “Good girl.”

He jostled her a couple of times. “I’ve decided that you need a name if you’re going to be my daughter.” He licked his lips. “I think my mother would have approved her granddaughter sharing a name with her.”

He held her a bit away from himself so he could see all of her and she could see him. Even if she didn’t understand, this was an important moment. By giving her a name, he was accepting responsibility for her. She would be family.

“Melissa Kim of the House of Graythorn,” he said. “Welcome to my family, Melissa.”

magazine 001 – prompt, Eric Andre, Snowden,

PROMPT: “Like werewolves and serial killers, I prefer a fullmoon and clear skies.”

A. Florentine and Rickets:

R: “What’s with the helmet and leather jacket?”
F: “I’m going out to ride my scooter.”
R: “It’s the middle of the night.”
F: “Like werewolves and serial killers, I prefer a fullmoon and clear skies.”

B. A Last Goodbye to Balor Hammerhart:

The last flight of Balor Hammerhart was burned into Aeron’s memory. He’d been in the crowd of spectators watching the launch of the first Seed ship. He’d seen it arch up and up, then there was a flash of light so bright that the outline of the ship seemed burned into the sky. It was the last thing he’d seen before his eyes were permanently damaged by the radiation released during the explosion of the hyperdrive.

Balor’s last words rang through his mind, “Like werewolves and serial killers, I prefer a fullmoon and clear skies…” and it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. It seemed that he was finally getting over what had happened.

Seven years of therapies, surgeries, and sacrificed dreams and he finally felt as though he could let go of Balor and move on.

“Which is why I need to visit his grave,” Aeron said.

“But it’s all the way on Titan,” Saera said. He could hear the worry in her voice.

“Mom, it’s going to be fine,” he said. “It’s a short shuttle ride to the Gatestation, then a needle trip through the Eye. I’m only going to be gone a few weeks.”

“Still, anything could happen. It seems dangerous to me.”

“It’s not anymore dangerous than a trip past the Wall. Plus I’ve already hired a Security clone to act as my Companion.” Aeron held out his hand until she laid her palm across his, then he squeezed his fingers around her hand. “I’m going to be all right. I promise.”

“Oh Aeron…” The waver in her voice said she wanted to say more, but she knew him enough not to say the words.

“It’s going to be fine,” he said again.

She drew in a shuddering breath and her hand squeezed tight. “It better be,” she said. “I’ll make a list of things you should take on your trip.”

“I can handle it,” he said.

“Shush. Let me do this for you.”

Even six months ago Aeron might have argued with her, fought for his independence. But he’d grown enough to recognize the need in her voice.

“Okay,” he said. And leaned into the hug she gave him.

* * *

What is the deal with Eric Andre? I feel like he might need some drug counseling.

He’s constantly freaking people out on his Adult Swim show, but I saw when he guest starred on Ridiculousness. He was obviously on something. At one point he actually started taking off his pants with plans to show his wiener. Then it cuts out, and it’s a while later and he looks thoroughly chastened and is playing sober as hard as he can.

It was an ugly scene, is what I’m saying.

* * *

The movie Snowden isn’t my usual cup of entertainment tea, but I might give it a chance when it comes out on video. I am a fan of Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s work, so I would at least want to see what’s up.

PROMPT-FILL: Intense Thoughts: Q. The wedding is already arranged

Title: Q. The wedding is already arranged
Collection: Intense Thoughts
Author: Harper Kingsley
Rating: Adult

“I masturbated furiously.
Then I smoked some weed.
And my thoughts became very intense.”

Q. The wedding is already arranged. The invitations have all been sent out. But it felt wrong to marry.

Not when she loved another.

It was so stupid. She’d been ready to get married. Then she’d met Shaun and he was everything she’d ever wanted. It was a case of bad timing.

Instead of meeting the man of her dreams and having a whirlwind romance, she resented him. If he’d moved to town six months earlier. If he wasn’t so head-over-heels for her. Anyway she looked at it, knowing him was going to hurt her.

Naomi stared at the blank diary page. Then laid the pen down and closed the book.

She’d thought smoking weed would open her brain and help her think. Cold logic was what she needed, to keep her parents happy and to ensure her future.

Except all she could think about was choosing him.

His future was so uncertain. It made her araid. The last thing she wanted was to live in her car.

Even if her parents disowned her, she didn’t think her grandmother would let her starve in the street. But she wasn’t 100% sure.

Which led to thinking of all his faults. Of the loudness of his angry-voice and how he’d made the server cry. Of how he’d taken his socks off the second time she’d met him and walked barefoot on her rug. Or how he’d cheerfully used her toothbrush without asking.

There were some mannerisms that she didn’t like. But he looked good to her, in the way of paintings or bodies she wanted to rub up against. She’d let herself think of him while masturbating, wondering what his kisses would feel like. Rubbed her clit while imagining his dick–Was he cut? Uncut? Did he have big veins or a dark purple cockhead?–and what it would feel like thrusting between her legs.

She was getting married, and she couldn’t stop thinking about what she might be giving up. The what-if happiness she might have with a guy she’d just met.

There was a knock at the door. A rolling rhythm of knuckles against wood. Their secret knock.

Naomi jogged to the door and pulled it open. “Are you supposed to be here? I thought it was bad luck.”

Rolf gave a lopsided grin. His eyes were bright when they met hers. “I felt like I would never be able to sleep tonight if I didn’t see your face.” He shrugged. “So here I am. Seeing you.”

She pulled him in by the arm, kicking the door shut with her foot. “Since you’re here… Come cuddle with me.”

He agreeably let her arrange him on the couch. Once she was satisfied, she pressed herself close against him, her upper body covering his chest. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck and softly breathed him in.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

He didn’t press for any details. Just held her until she was ready to go to bed. Then he kissed her goodnight and went back to his brother’s house.

And she pressed the sleeves of her shirt against her nose and sniffed the lingering scent of him. A man that loved her, desired her, and was eager to spend the rest of his life keeping her happy.

Naomi married Rolf the next day. Her smile was radiant.


PROMPT-FILL: Intense Thoughts: A. Her tone was so matter-of-fact [choking]

Title: A. Her tone was so matter-of-fact
Collection: Intense Thoughts
Author: Harper Kingsley

“I masturbated furiously.
Then I smoked some weed.
And my thoughts became very intense.”

A. Her tone was so matter-of-fact that it took them a moment to catch up. Then the meaning sunk in.

Albert went bright red and Clarice made a sputtering sound in her throat. “Why I never…”

“Did she just say what I thought she said?” Leon whispered to Yoshina. She hushed him and swatted at his hand, telling him to listen.

He refrained from rolling his eyes. She was probably right. The old people were so touchy; they took offense at every little thing.

His reaction to the farce taking place in front of him was going to be remembered for years to come.

Leon straightened his back and kept his facial expressions placid and untroubled.

He kept up his mask of scion of a respectable family all through the rest of the party. He swallowed his reactions to the things the dotty old relatives said and knew that he’d done well. At the end of the evening, Great Uncle Hermann even gave him a hearty farewell hug.

Leon enjoyed his sense of accomplishment all the way home.

Until he grasped the handle for his front door and the door swung open. There were broken ends of wood sticking out where pieces of the doorframe had broken away.

Leon turned on his heel and began to run. But from the muscled arm that went around his neck, he was too late.

As he choked and flailed helplessly, he could feel the walls of his throat closing shut. Tight pressure that didn’t quite hurt. His assailant was being careful not to damage the merchandise. He could almost be grateful.

He felt an entirely inappropriate pressure in his groin. Now? You wanna do this NOW?!

It was a teasing lick of pleasure. An instinctive tightening of muscles. From I want to pee to Oh as his body couldn’t decide whether it liked being strangled or not.

Then the black spots took over his vision. And his lungs were screaming. Terror had his heart hammering out blood as it tried to get oxygen to his brain.

There was the almost gentle stroke of a gloved hand against his cheek. His grasping, clenching fingers clawed weakly at a leather coat as the man’s head leaned close to his ear.

Say goodnight, Brucie” was the last thing he heard before passing out.


PROMPT-FILL: Intense Thoughts: J. He’d been in prison long enough [NSFW]

Title: J. He’d been in prison long enough
Collection: Intense Thoughts
Author: Harper Kingsley

“I masturbated furiously.
Then I smoked some weed.
And my thoughts became very intense.”

He’d been in prison long enough that he didn’t care who watched. As long as they kept their hands to themselves, they could admire all they liked.

The paper crinkled in his fist and he fought not to squeeze. He wanted to save the letter. It was from his favorite admirer. But it was hard not to wrinkle the sheet of notebook paper as he rocked his dick up into his encircling right hand.

With as much care as he could manage–not much–he laid the letter on the edge of the pillow near his head. Then he dug his heels into the thin mattress and began thrusting his hips as he jerked himself. He propped his left elbow behind his back to get some leverage as he made the mattress cry out beneath him, a creaking of springs and shifting of his whole body.

He gasped rhythmically as he worked himself off. And when he came, it was with a dramatic thrusting of hips and a flop back amongst sullied sheets.

He lay there for a long moment, face uplifted and eyes closed. He drew in deep shuddering breaths and let the sweat and cum dry on his skin.

Tomorrow was laundry day. They’d come around with the big carts and change his bedding for new.

Tonight he would sleep amongst his own body’s excretions. He would breathe in the scent of himself and rub it deep into his touch-starved skin.

And he would dream of his dear admirer.

His dear heart that he wished he’d met before his incarceration.


“So I Like to write prose. So what?” #promptfill

‘Sometimes I feel as though my mind moves too fast for me to ever catch up. I am a fisherman lost on a timeless sea.’ – Blake turned to give her a long looking over. “You really wrote this?”

Fancy shrugged. “What’s the big deal? So I like to write prose. So what?”

“Are you sure you’re using that right?”

“Huh?” Fancy cocked her head.

“Are you sure you’re using the word ‘prose’ right?” (He loved to watch her squirm. He could see the growing confusion on her face. The fear.)

“Pretty sure.” Fancy laughed. “Could you imagine? Maybe I have been walking around saying it wrong this whole time. Oh well. Who the fuck cares, right?”


“Come on, let’s get you something to eat. You look famished.” She rested her hand on his arm and ushered him out of the room. Her palm was firmly pressed against his shirt; he felt it like a brand. “I tried making this new kickin’ teriyaki recipe that I think you’re going to love. You can be my taste tester.”

The conversation restarted behind them.