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Eeeeee...is it really Monday again, already? No!

Interesting word, 'No' -- it can be negative, but the results? Sometimes they can be positive...

Your prompt this week, should you accept it, is:   Hell, no. Just...no.

That's what one of your fictional darlings is thinking/saying/living this week. Something has come to a head - a relationship once good now gone bad? A job offer/proposal/decision they've been putting off? Someone making a play for someone they adore but have feared to tell about it?

Saying 'no' isn't always negative - sometimes it's about saying no to hesitation, to 'doing the right thing' according to everyone else.

Things are looking grey and difficult, but....one of your characters has had it, and is about to take action. Why's that? What happens next? Do tell!

Happy Monday, and hope you have a good and creative week.


( 5 comments — Leave a comment )
Apr. 18th, 2016 03:11 am (UTC)
I think this prompt will fit perfectly into what's coming next in my WIP fanfic...so I'll be sure to post it if it works out :D
Apr. 18th, 2016 03:27 am (UTC)
Excellent! Please do, love it when a prompt and a WIP dovetail. :)
Apr. 21st, 2016 02:41 pm (UTC)
prompt in this excerpt
G; Daredevil; no spoilers

She was awash in color, predominantly the reds and golds of flame he was use to but there were hints of others as well, spring emerald and the silver, white, and blue of sunlit surf, and the scent of the sea surrounded. Not the rancid, oil and fish and chemical smells of the docks he knew, but rather the way he had always imagined the open sea would smell. She had no physical features, only a vaguely outlined form, wisps in a fire both capable of burning him with its proximity and freezing him if he got too far away. A hand upon his face, tender, electric, and the barest whisper tickling within his ears made his heart beat faster.

“Get up…you must get up.”

“No…I…can’t…” He wanted to, but his leaden limbs hurt too much to be willing to obey his brain’s demands for movement.

“You must…”

His fingers flexed. He poured his concentration into his arms, but the effort to pull them beneath him, to push himself up from the rocky surface upon which he laid, ended in failure, the pain too great, for once in his life, to allow the fight to go on. Only the sensation of hands now cupping his face brought him ease from pain, brought him peace.

“No….” It was so much easier to remain where he was, to succumb to the hurt. Hadn’t he done enough?

“Your fight isn’t over, Matty…Murdocks always get up…”

That was his father, a distant, distorted scolding voice seeping in as through too much water were between them. Choking, spitting, he gasped for air, wanting to disappoint neither voice, wanting to prove himself, wanting them both to be proud of him, but it felt like he was drowning, like someone was standing on his back so that his lungs were compressed, trading air for fluid that would surely kill him if he could not shake it

“No one knocks a Murdock down and gets away with it.”


Fingers caressed his cheek. The corners of his mouth twitched in response. He tasted blood. “I believe in you…”

His mother?

No. He had no recollection of that woman’s voice, her face…he had been very small when she left him and his dad, but he knew this wasn’t her. This was someone who made his nerves tingle, who added a surge of warmth into his veins that banished the sluggish feeling of dormant blood. Some of the pain receded, but the rising of blood brought sensation into places he had not felt before, awakened his body to the innumerable injuries he had sustained.

How was he even alive? How could he be expected to fight like this?

“You came for me. I return to you what was taken.”

A third voice, smaller, the strident sound of youth, a lilting, natural foreign coloring of accent that he could not pinpoint in origin but recognized from…


It was one of the last memories floating at the foggty edges of his mind, anchored only in the pain that immobilized his limbs, his lungs, his other organs and seared in the crevices where the feminine touch had stirred his blood.

“Please…” whispered the woman’s voice again, her breath heady and sweet against his mouth. He could feel her desperation, not only hear it; it gave him goosebumps.

His father again, stern, demanding, encouraging…like a boxing coach to his fighter. The significance of that, as his words added to the weight of the others, was not lost on him. “No beating keeps a Murdock down, Matty…get up and fight…show them who you are.”

And then hands…small, dainty…spread across his back, adding to the weight pushing down upon him, sending sharp, intense pain through his core…


He gasped and opened his eyes, the dreaming vanquished by the searing pain, and he lay rigid for several moments, blinded to sounds, scents, to other physical sensation, aware only of the now receding ache and the pressure of tiny hands pressing against his spine. He could barely breathe, which gave birth to physical panic, but between the lingering feelings of breath across his lips and the hands upon his back, his breathing gradually became easier and the hurt throughout his body subsided to an endurable level. This was a level he could overcome. This was a pain he could push past to make his father proud.

No, he would not go down without a fight. No, he would not let The Hand win by giving up. Surrender was not an option.
Apr. 25th, 2016 02:39 am (UTC)
Re: prompt in this excerpt
Congrats on the words! I'm sorry I missed this the other day, and that I don't know the fandom - but it's compelling none the less!
Apr. 25th, 2016 12:43 pm (UTC)
Re: prompt in this excerpt
No worries on either count ;)
and thanks!
( 5 comments — Leave a comment )


Little comm. that could
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