#3 - Make Me Sick

Prompt: A person has the ability to make people very ill. 

Crunching leaves under foot, she walked along. She couldn't hear the crunch of course. Her ear buds were firmly resting, pumping the wail of a guitar into her brain. The vibrations of her mind coursed along with the music. 

Her hands were tucked in the hoodie pocket. Her favorite hoodie, dark gray with a dragon silhouette across the front,  read 'Fire Force.' It was Fire Force's guitar riff that was her whole world as she made to cross the street. 

A few street lamps were out. A trash can was lying on its side. The traffic light switched from green to red and a car sped by a few blocks away. It was peaceful and familiar. All the straight lines of pavement, road and sidewalk, all intersecting at perfect right angles. Even the stoops of the apartments stood out in a perfect pattern. She was like a marble in an intricate maze, and that's how she liked it. 

The leaves crunched behind her. Another marble was coursing the maze too. This one was larger, and its goal was not to find the right hole to plop through on its way home. This marble's goal was to break her. 

The shadow fell over her as she stepped under the street lamp. Immediately she knew something was off, someone was there who shouldn't be. Her maze was invaded and so was her personal space. Large arms, muscular and vice-like, wrapped around her and pulled her out of the light. 

Into an alley she was dragged, literally kicking and screaming. But the shouts only echoed off the brick. There was no one to hear. No one heard her cries for help. No one heard the man slap her, punch her, shove her against the dumpster. She did not hear anything after her head slammed into the metal then bounce and cracked against the wall.

She awoke to streams of daylight peeking over the rooftops. Her head pounded. She reached to touch it, but the pressure of her fingertips sent lightening through her. Everything hurt. Everything was sore, cut, and sticky with dried blood. 

Sitting up, she examined her hands. They were covered in alley gunk, dirt and who knew what else. Her hoodie was torn, the right sleeve was hanging limply from a few stitches. Her jeans were ripped and unbuttoned, the zipper was broken. 

Looking down she saw it then, the blood stains on her jeans. It was like she had pissed herself, pissed blood. This wasn't right. No, nothing was right. She should have woken up in her own bed with her hoodie and jeans draped over the chair. The sunlight should have peeked through the window, not over a rooftop. She shouldn't have blood all over herself. She shouldn't be so sore, sore everywhere she could feel. 

"Help," she called out. Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. It felt like pushing jello over sandpaper. "Someone, help!" Remembering her cell phone she felt her pockets, but it wasn't there. They were all empty, barren like the alleyway, like her memory. 

She looked toward the street. Cars drove by, unaware. There would be people, that's what the cars meant, she thought. Almost crying from the pain she got to her feet and everything spun. The bricks wiggled and the ground rose up. She caught herself on the dumpster. 

With hands on the wiggling wall, she stumbled toward the street. It felt like a mile before the world opened up into her perfect maze. A man stopped midstride as the alley released her and she tumbled forward. 

"Miss, are you alright?" The man asked. She found his face, his eyes, and was surprised by his expression. He was appalled and concerned. "Let me help you."

He took her arm and she winced. She winced again as she was sat upon a step. The man pulled out a phone and began talking to her, or to someone on the cell phone. She couldn't tell.

Now, she was on fire. Her head throbbed. Her limbs shook. Her stomach back-flipped. It flipped again and pushed up anything that could be left inside. Her sandpaper throat became wet and hot. 

Just before she blacked out she remembered the big arms pulling her away - and she hoped those arms were in as much pain as she was.

Fifteen miles away, a man doing his morning workout routine fell onto the mat. His muscles burned, but not like when he had done too many reps. It was like they were set on fire. The fire raced up and down his arms then shot across his shoulders. When it reached his spine, his mind gave up. He blacked out. 

#2 - Concrete Barrel

Prompt: About 20 minutes after the oil drum you are crammed into is filled with concrete you realize you are probably immortal.

Everything is still black. There is no sound except that rushing noise of nothing. I feel plugged. Nostrils stuffed, ears caulked. I won't open my mouth, I refuse. Concrete probably tastes terrible. More importantly, my legs and back are killing me. All cramped up in here.

They took me to the warehouse filled with hundreds of blue metal barrels. Drums, like the ones they put oil or chemical waste in. The goons in their black suit pants and leather jackets dragging by the arms. I tried to walk, but when guys twice your size are hauling you around it's hard to keep your feet under you. Heck, it's hard to keep your wits, to organize your thoughts, when you feel like a kid being brought to dad after a royal screw up. 

When they let go of my arms I fell to the ground, slammed by gravity onto the cement floor. My arms burned, my knees and wrists were jolted so damn hard I felt it in my head. It's hard to get up with any dignity from that. That's the point though. When they treat like a prepubescent you're not  supposed to feel dignified. They wrack your nerves before they kill you.

Except I'm not dead. How the hell am I not dead? 

Rocko said some stuff. I muttered back like the delinquent they want me to be. I get mad at myself for not standing up to him. Rocko says "You won't live to regret this." He nods and I'm dragged off again. Not far though.

I kick, I fight, but I'm still shoved into a blue barrel. They hit me hard with the butt of a gun right on the temple. My head is thick and on fire when I feel something heavy and wet pouring in around me. 

What's this, I think. I can focus long enough to realize it's concrete. I'm about to die, I think. I scream, but it only echoes on the close metal walls. 

And I'm still here. The lid is on tight. I can still move a little; can press my hands on the steel ceiling. The panic is gone, but the confusion is my whole world, my whole black world. I'm not breathing. I have got to be dead. Is this my afterlife? Blackness and a stiff neck for eternity. Yeah, this must be hell. There's no fire or brimstone. No red devil with a pitchfork and a pointy tail. No air, no light, no sound. There's nothing. 

But I'm thinking. I'm moving. I'm feeling. I can't be dead, can I? 

The concrete on the bottom is getting harder to shift around in. It's hardening. Huh, cement shoes. I wonder if there's a way out of here. Not if this is hell. But, why not try? I'd love to see the look on Rocko's face when I come walking up, dripping with concrete. And those guards of his, with one brain cell between them, would look as dumb as they are. Why not try? 

I stand up as much as I can, pressing my shoulders against the lid and push against it. I crouch and then release as quick as the rocky sludge will let me. There's a metal clank, like when the screen door slams. I crouched again and launch myself up. It's maybe six inches, nine if I'm lucky. The metal gongs again, the barrel rocks slightly. Now there's an idea. 

I lean to my left, then right, then left again. Nothing. I throw myself to the left then quick back right. The barrel shifts, the concrete moves around me. Alright, I think to myself, keep it up. I rock back and forth, back and forth through the mixture I'm marinating in. It feels like a carnival ride as I move and my world moves around me. The ground is missing under me in the front then the back, back and forth, forth and back. 

Suddenly, I'm tipping. I'm on my side and my barrel is rolling. I'm sure there was a bang when I landed. Someone had to hear that sound. They're probably coming. I'm slammed against the side of the barrel. We've stopped rolling, me and my barrel. Something is happening. The concrete is moving still. I reach for the lid and feel around the rim. There it is, a cinch. The concrete is leaking out, slowly, very slowly. 

What am I supposed to do now? Think, think. I want to open my eyes, but I know I ain't gunna see nothing. I remember camping when I was kid. My dad forgot the can opener, but he had this pocket knife. After he had jammed the blade into a can of baked beans and sawed around a little he used the blade to pop the lid up enough to get the beans out. Why am I thinking of beans?

Nobody has come to set me up right again. They probably left thinking I'm not a problem anymore. When I get out of here, man are they gunna see what kind of problem I am. My dad gave me a real nice pocket knife after that camping trip. It had all kinds of things on it besides a knife. That knife is still in my pocket. Those dumb goonies always check for guns, but not for knives. I drag my arm through the concrete and feel for my pocket. My jeans are stiffer than my joints, but I can feel it. I kind of kneel to straighten my right leg and reach into my pocket. Turning the knife over in my hands I start thinking about the tools I could use. I smile, a weird close-mouthed smile, and flip out the can opener tool. 

Reaching toward the lid I find the cinch, the hole that’s leaking out concrete like a stuck pig. I jam the can opener through the hole and wiggle it around. The lid clanks again. I wiggle the tool a little more. The lid clanks and the concrete flows out more now. Pressing my feet against the bottom of the barrel I put my hands flat on the lid above my head. I push with my arms and legs as hard as I can. 

Finally the lid gives way and the concrete and me come sprawling out of the barrel like a newborn babe. I can feel the air; I gasp and fill my lungs for the first time in what feels like my whole life, like I've never really breathed before. I wipe the concrete from my face, my eyes, my mouth and nose. 

Lying on the ground, I'm staring up at the ceiling of the warehouse. Early morning light is coming in from the high windows. I must have been in that barrel for hours. 

My knees and back hurt. My hands are raw from rocks pressing into them. My ears feel like slugs crawled out of them. I breathe deeply through my mouth. How am I not dead? 

#1 - Golden Troll

Prompt: She's a troll with gold skin and golden fur. She creates and sells exotic artifacts.

She pulled the wagon into her usual stall. The other merchants were busy with their own stands, adjusting their fruits and rugs and whatnots, but they always gave her a wide berth. All her life she had been avoided, not ignored per say, but edged around and eyed from the corner. She smiled at them when their eyes met; some smiled back, always nervously though. 

The sun peeking over the rooftops was like a gate, opening the market for business as it had every day before. No sooner than the first customers stepped into the street did the merchants began barking. Best fruit in the land. Finest made rugs made by pretty ladies. Fresh fish. 

She did not bark; she did not have to. They would come to her as needed. That's how it worked. When they needed an emerald vial or a mohair prayer shawl or a silver chime they would come. She stepped back into the shade of her stall and watched, waiting. 

Soon enough a young boy skirted around the tables, once, twice. She glided forward as he peeked around again.

"What do you need, child?" Her voice was deep and soothing. The boy stared; she did not blink. 

"Tooth," he mumbled.

"Mountain goat. Crocodile. Elephant tusk, maybe?" She suggested, widening her eyes a little with each. The boy's eyes grew too. He quivered. 

"Goat," he managed. Then added, "please."

She scooped a few of yellowed teeth into a pouch and extended it to the boy. He continued to stare. An idea came over her and she smirked. 

"You seem like a good boy. Getting ingredients for your mother's poultice I bet. How about a special treat for you," her voice sang in its low and lovely way. She laid the leather pouch on the table and with it a beautifully wrapped candy. "A sweet, it makes you feel happy and warm all over, made by the hermit wizards." 

The boy smiled a little. He reached out, two silver coins in his hand, payment for his purchase. 

"You are gold," he gasped. 

"I am," she replied with a smile. "All my people are." As he took the pouch and candy a woman stormed up to the stall. She grumbled and looked between the boy and the seller. 

"What's this now," she scowled. Snatching the candy from the boy she flung it at the giver. "Trying to poison him I reckon. Don't take nothing from a troll for free. They steal children for their stews!" 

The boy panicked. He ran. The merchant woman shook her head and marched away. 

"Peste," the troll spat at the woman. The dust whirled up and trailed behind her, carrying the word away. 

Leaning against her cart she crossed her arms in the shadows. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence, to be accused, but it still hurt. Trolls were a misunderstood race, often associated with Ogres. Most people did not want to know the difference, did not care to. They only knew that some ate people and that was enough. It was like avoiding water because one person had drowned. 

Her mood was darkened for the day, and though the sun shone and glinted against her furred forearm warmly she could not shake the feeling. More customers came. One for a silver oil lamp and sheepskin oil, burned for good luck. One for a fine, sheer shawl darned by fairies, hung over the door for happiness. Others for potion and poultice ingredients. The sales were good, but not a single one would look her in the eye. 

As the shadows stretched over the market street she packed up her wagon. 

"Miss," a voice called behind her. "Excuse me, please." 

She paused and carefully turned. A young dark man stood before her stall, wringing his hands slightly. 

"Hello," the man smiled. She forced herself not to cock her head though the surprise and suspicion was growing inside her golden mind. "Are you still vending?" 

"What do you need?" Her usual question when folks were wary. This man was not wary though. 

"I am looking for a gift. You see, there's a woman and she's lovely, just stunning, but she won't even look at me. I want to, need to impress her," the man pleaded, blushing. "It's silly, but... I just have to give her something."

"What color are her eyes?" She raised her brows. The man's jaw fell, but no words came out. "Do you know what color her eyes are?" 

"I do not," his gaze fell. "Her hair is like the sunrise. Her walk it like the stream flowing. Her smile is like a heartbeat." 

"And her eyes are...?" 

"I am embarrassed," he sighed. "I do not even know her name or the sound of her voice. I am not introduced to her yet. If I bring her a gift, something excellent, then I can meet her and profess my love." 

She could hardly believe this man's speech. The poetry books used words like his, but no actual person said these things, at least not in her experience. 

"You are serious," she said finally. Reaching into a basket she pulled out a silken and scaled scarf, golden bells tinkled on the ends. The light shimmered on the fabric, dancing colors across her golden face. "It is a mermaiden's veil." 

The man took it gingerly and tilted the veil this way and that, watching the light move over it. 

"This is the color of her eyes," he whispered. "Thank you. So many times, thank you."

"You are only welcome if you can pay for it," she clipped. Her deep voice was sharp, but kind. 

"What does it cost?" He furrowed his brow, now suspicious like she had come to expect. 

"10 tanka. And a lock of her hair." The man shook his head and laid the veil upon the table. 

"I cannot ask her to defile her head in such a way," he continued shaking his head. "I am sorry to have wasted your time." 

"What color are her eyes?" She let the words slip, softly and heavy. They swirled around his head, tickled his eyes, brushed his hair. His eyes shifted. 

"10 tanka," he was barely audible. "I will bring you her hair." 

"You will bring it before the new moon," she stated. He repeated and placed the coins on the table. 

"Be well," she smiled. The man smiled too before folding the veil and walking away dreamily. 

Grinning to herself she wrote the sale in her ledger, a palm sized notebook. The scrawls looked like no mortals words, but were written in the troll language. It flowed the like gold of their fur.