Hit me with number 17!

16, please :D

Number 9 please!

(And my character, Zayne, is great for turning anything he touches into sarcastic humor!)

I'll take 23, please- and 15 if that's okay!

This sounds cool!

May I have numbers 13 and 45?

Woo hoo I did it! a 235 word The Flash drabble and it's unangsty :)

Don't Switch to Decaf

I apologize for the edits but I was able to figure what I did wrong with the linking--WOO HOO again :):)

Edited at 2018-02-06 08:48 pm (UTC)

22?

I'll play. 5 & 18

I did two separate scenes for my original fic today during Word Wars. Here's the first:

After dad had left, I immediately went to the phone bank. I just wanted to hear my mother’s voice. She hadn’t come, she wasn’t sick. She hadn’t even shown up at my last trial. This woman, who fought lions for me, was pissed.

I had no idea what I was going to say to her. “I miss you” was probably the biggest thing I could say. What if she wanted an explanation? Do I give it? Dad knew everything, but he was a guy. He could sense the change in my demeanor as soon as the deed was done. I don’t know if he talked with Mom about it, but some part of me would like to believe that she thought I was innocent about some things until Heather.

I picked up the phone and dialed. I waited for the operator to go through her spiel. A collect call from me, would she accept the charges? I waited until my mother gave her assent. Then the operator was gone and I was met with silence.

“Mom?” I asked.

“Is your father all right?”

“Yes. He’s on his way back. We had a good visit.”

“Good.”

“It would have been better if you were here.” I couldn’t help laying on the guilt, but was it really guilt if it was what I felt?

There was mostly silence from her end, punctuated by ragged sighs. Was she crying?

“Mom. Oh shit, mom. I’m sorry. I didn’t… look, I messed up. I know that. Can you hear me out?”

I jumped at a sudden banging noise. I worried for half a second that something had happened to my mother, then I realized that she had thrown the cordless handset at the wall. There was a shuffling sound.

“Billy?” she asked.

Now it was my turn to feel the tears gather at the corners of my eyes. I nodded, then realized that she couldn’t see that. “I’m here,” I said.

“You could have just asked.”

“What?”

“For the money. You could have just asked your father and me. I know we don’t have much but we would have done something, would have found a way to help you.”

“Oh.”

“Instead, you badgered that poor woman. You’re lucky that they didn’t file suit against you for maligning her name.”

Maligning her name? Mrs. Jonas was as guilty as sin. All I did was want to profit a little from her actions. Somebody should have.

“Mom,” I started.

“I don’t want to hear about it. I’ve said my piece. Don’t call here again.”

The phone was hung up and I was left with the sound of a dial tone.

And here's the second (which may wind up being one of my favorite scenes in the whole piece):

“Billy, your mom wants to take a picture.”

“Okay.” I sat down on the edge of the hospital bed and looked at my mother holding the camera.

I thought of the other times my picture was taken. Usually it involved standing on a line and then facing the camera, then turning to the side for a profile shot. They really didn’t want you to pose at those times. They’d also taken my photo when I was brought into the infirmary. Documenting the condition of my face after getting pummeled didn’t exactly warrant a grin. Besides, when shit like that went down, it hurt like hell to smile. Or frown. Or wince in pain. (It was terrible how wincing in pain caused there to be even more pain.)

“For Pete’s sake, Billy, just smile.”

I plastered my best fake smile on my face and grinned at the camera.

“Dear lord, it looks like you are being tortured.”

“I’m having my picture taken. It is torture.”

My mother was halfway across the room and I could hear her sigh. Dad chuckled, “Why don’t you just look at Maxine?”

Maxine. My little girl. She was brilliant. Not when she first came out. Then she looked like a prag on red jello day, just covered with crap that I didn’t want to think about. But once they got her cleaned up, she was just as beautiful as her mother. I looked down at her, resting against Simone’s chest, and I smiled.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the flash from the camera.

“Beautiful,” my mother said.

I'm terrible at graphics, so I'd love an icon, please.

Either some generic writing image or a quote would be nice.

Thank you! These are very nice and you'll probably be seeing them show up in my comments soon. Will credit you, of course.

I miss having a typewriter. It was such a nice sound. You could hear the progress being made.

#21 please.