#creative short story

[writersbloxx]

Body Language

When someone is...

Sad

Face/Body:

Avoidant/reduced eye contact

Drooping eyelids

Downcast eyes

Frowning

Raised inner ends of eyebrows

Dropped or furrowed eyebrows

Quivering lip/biting lip

Wrinkled nose

Voice:

Soft pitch

Low lone

Pauses/hesitant speech

Quiet/breathy

Slow speech

Voice cracks/breaking voice

Gestures/Posture:

Slouching/lowered head

Rigid/tense posture

Half formed/slow movement

Fidgeting or clasped hands

Sniffing or heavy swallows

Self soothing gestures (running hands over the arms, hand over heart, holding face in palms, etc)

[creepyclothdoll]

The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you. 

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite. 

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. ��I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel. 

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion. 

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say. 

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes. 

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob 

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask. 

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it. 

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t. 

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says. 

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!” 

The Devil cackles. 

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

[ljmoorewrites]

How can I become a writer?

Write.

But I don't know where to start.

Write.

But I'm worried.

WRITE.

What if nobody likes it?

W R I T E

What if it's not very good?

Write. Write. WRITE. WRITE.

W

R

I

T

E

Write

Write. Write. Write. Write. Write. Write.

Write.

Write

Write

Write

Write

Write

Write

Write

Write

W R I T E

Write write write

Write

Write

[theaftersundown]

a constant problem

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Alternatives for "She Smiled"

If you can't seem to find an alternative for this common phrase "she smiled". here's a list of different sentence variations.

She beamed brightly.

Her lips curled into a smile.

She flashed a radiant grin.

A smile lit up her face.

She offered a sheepish grin.

Her smile twinkled mischievously.

She gave a soft, serene smile.

A wry smile played on her lips.

She smirked subtly.

Her smile spread slowly across her face.

She smiled wistfully.

A gentle smile graced her features.

She smiled with her eyes.

Her smile was tinged with sadness.

She bestowed a gracious smile.

Her smile glimmered in the dim light.

She smiled coyly.

A giddy smile bubbled up.

She smiled, lips parting lightly.

Her smile was infectious.

She gave a knowing smile.

A tentative smile flickered across her face.

She smiled, eyes sparkling with delight.

Her smile warmed the room.

She smiled ruefully.

A conspiratorial smile crossed her face.

She smiled, a trace of irony evident.

Her smile was wide and welcoming.

She flashed a quick, evasive smile.

She smiled as if recalling a sweet memory.

[sleepgarden]

Pupa ✢ The writing reads:

Time envelops and keeps me Not awake / Not asleep In this chrysalis / In this shroud I am stillborn / I am buried alive Yet I change / I am changing / And I ache Held still

I started this over a year ago and came back to it periodically, but I decided to just finally finish it. It’s morphed, undone itself, and transformed many times in the process of illustrating it. Sincerely, I considered giving up on the piece. I am glad I didn’t despite its awkwardness; I admit that it doesn’t sit in the eye well. But somehow I feel that it suits the piece and what it means.

I am, if anything, relieved to have finished an illustration finally. It’s been nearly eight months since my last. Prints are available in my shop. (I also have mini prints for $5cad/$3.40usd!)

[caplanbuckybarnes]

here's over 5.0K prompts of all sorts you can use for your writing ideas!

happy writing!

**no need to credit the list if it helps you with writing. but reblogging/sharing it with your writer friends is definitely appreciated!

**deleted the Misc prompt section, added Enemies to Lovers section of prompts, along with a "career" section with police/medic/CEOStuden/Teacher prompts.

[stil-lindigo]

the fox god.

a comic about a trickster.

--

creative notes:

–

all my other comics

store

[starryslyii]

Me writing fanfic: They kiss.

Me rereading: They KISS! *kicks feet* They KISSSSS!

[angela-in-oxford]

Love at First Sight but Not Really

Summary: A creative short story, in which a heterochromia condition determines one’s soulmate, and Drew might be the only person who sees the flaws in the system.

WC: 2k

TW: angst, soulmate au, 

—

A soulmate is a person who is ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner. Your other half, the person that completes you, makes you better, and understands you like no one else. It’s rare to find your soulmate. There’s billions of people in this world, so what’s the probability you’ll find yours?

Centuries ago, the gods, fed up by the pain put on mankind often caused by futile searches, decided to deal with the problem.

Thus, heterochromia became the solution. At birth, people receive two different colored eyes, the right yours and the other your soulmate’s. Upon meeting your soulmate’s eyes for the first time, your soulmate's eyes will return so that each pair reverts to homochromia. The gods made this system to assist mankind with finding their soulmate. To find true love. To find happiness.

However, that is a matter of opinion.

—

It’s too early for this.

Dull pain throbs above his brow, and he sobs as his vision swims, blood spilling into his discolored eye. Above, his mother runs a soothing hand up and down his back, whispering kind words and broken encouragement as he presses his round face into her lap and clutches at her with small, pudgy hands. He wonders if she’s bothered by the blood, sweat, and tears staining her trousers. If so, she says nothing.

“I hate him, Mommy,” he hiccups. It wracks his whole body. “I don’t want to be like him.”

It’s not unusual for them to end up like this, him at his mother’s lap and her trying to comfort him. It’s become a routine since he learned to speak coherent sentences, but this time seems to last longer than most; the same comfort routine isn’t working. His sobs reverberate across the room and through the night.

His mother, at a loss, has the sense to remain calm, patting his back softly as she waits it out. How else could she comfort her child?

Then she gets an idea.

“Drew, have I ever told you about soulmates?” she asks gently. She’s afraid a single word might shatter the boy.

For a second, Drew pauses, his arms still wrapped around her waist. She takes it as a sign to continue.

“Do you know what soulmates are?”

He shakes his head into her stomach.

“Well, come out and I’ll tell you.”

And it works. Miraculously, Drew stops crying and the gash from his father’s ring is left forgotten. Instead he watches his mother, mesmerized as she tells him how their world works, of soulmates, how they bring each other happiness, and fairy tales involving soulmate searches, harrowing fights over soulmates, and other interesting tales.

The idea of happiness gives Drew hope.

His mother’s strained smile goes unnoticed.

After all, they are just fairy tales, and only fairy tales have a happy ending.

—

It happens late at night when he wakes up to go to the bathroom. Once he finishes washing his hands, Drew stares into his eyes on the bathroom mirror with an exhausted smile. One of these days, he’ll meet his soulmate. Then his mother’s words echo in his head.

“People are born with heterochromatic eyes. That means different colored eyes. The right eye’s their own eye color and the other their soulmate’s. And when they meet their soulmate’s eyes for the first time, their soulmate eyes will return so that they become the same color.”

His smile drops.

Between his father’s beatings and being with his mother, he never took notice of his eyes; there was always something more important, more crucial going on.

They’re the same color.

The same color.

He rushes out of the bathroom as quietly as possible, careful not to wake his father. Why are his eyes the same color? Did he meet his soulmate already? Or did his mother make a mistake?

He skids to a halt at the kitchen threshold. In the dark, his mother’s a tall shadow as she waits for the kettle, readying her nightly tea as she speaks into a phone, tone hushed and trembling, “Mom, I know it’s not right, but I can’t do it anymore. They’re like him more and more everyday. And Drew,” He perks up at his name. “His face, sometimes I look at him and hate what I see.”

He jerks, taken aback.

Her figure shakes, closer to her breaking point. “I can’t raise him anymore. I shouldn’t raise him.”

“Mommy?” Drew calls out.

The shadow jolts in surprise before turning to him. The kettle at the stove begins to whistle like an oncoming train.

He realizes his mistake.

Then everything burns, and Drew misses his chance to ask about his eyes.

—

Soulmates are a hindrance, Drew decides.

Up till now, he only knew soulmates were supposed to make each other happy. That’s what his mother tells him. Of course he believes her.

Drew was so focused on imagining his soulmate that he never thought to ask: if Father was her soulmate, why wasn’t she happy with him?

As his mother is taken away, he realizes how broken the soulmate system is. He despises it. Loathes it. He hates it almost as much as he hates his father. He remembers his mother every time he reminds himself why. He thinks about people like his mother who are stuck with people like his father, who don’t want their soulmate, and who choose someone else over their soulmate.

How there’s no choice. How happiness is not guaranteed.

Drew knows that it’s not applicable to everyone. Many people happily live with their soulmate. But he can’t help the jealousy burning in his chest and in his stomach like bile, for those who are lucky enough to be matched with good people. People who can make each other happy.

—

Since his mother was taken, soulmates are the last thing on his mind.

Survival is top priority now. Drew can’t rely on his mother as he takes each beating without a fight. Each shortcoming, each failure is a trigger, so the best thing he can do is succeed and meet his father’s expectations. Forgotten what it feels like to be comforted by a mother, his brothers and especially his sister do what they can for him, but it’s not the same. Because of his father, Drew is mostly separated from them, sent to a different, more prestigious school.

In his darkest times when only silence greets him, Drew tries to distract himself, whether with exercise or something else productive to keep his mind occupied. He doesn’t care. He can’t stand doing nothing. It gives him the chance to daydream, and he dislikes when he daydreams. He’s afraid it might give him false hope, but sometimes he stares in the mirror and finds himself wondering about his soulmate. What would it be like to meet them? He squints, the stiff skin around his eye crinkling. Would they think his scar is ugly? Maybe—

Then Drew looks at his irises and remembers. They’re not heterochromatic. Not like his brothers’ or sister’s or everyone else in the world. They’re the same color, but strangely, his eyes aren’t the same color as his parents. Not a warm gray like his mother’s or a cold blue like his father’s. That part leaves him curious. None of his closest relatives have green eyes either as far as he knows.

When his brothers are out (if they’re around, they’ll tease him till he fights them) and it’s only his sister at home, Drew finally asks about his eyes and what they mean.

��Why are they the same color?”

Fable nearly drops the dish she’s washing. “What?”

“Why are my eyes the same color?" he asks again, a bit impatiently. He’s wanted a reasonable answer since he was younger. Fable is smart. He figures she could at least give him one.

“I didn’t even think you cared about soulmates,” Fable stops what she’s doing, turning to give him her full attention. “Why the sudden interest?”

“It’s clear that I haven’t met my soulmate, yet my eyes are both green. Mom—” He catches himself before he continues. “I was told that everyone is born with heterochromatic eyes till they meet their soulmate. So, why?”

For a moment, Fable stares at him in surprise. She’s never seen Drew show interest in anything else except maybe exercise or studying. She asks, “Drew, what do you know about soulmates?”

Drew blinks, more impatient now that she’s answered his question with a question. “I know that everyone is born with heterochromatic eyes till they meet their soulmate, and when you meet them your eye color switches so they become the same,” he states robotically. He omits how they supposedly bring each other happiness.

He knows that’s not true.

“Well, not exactly. Not everyone is born with heterochromatic eyes,” Fable answers. “It’s true that most are born with them, but there are the rare few who aren’t. I don’t know much, but I’ve heard that those who aren’t born with heterochromatic eyes don’t have soulmates. In my opinion, I think it’s a sign. A sign that they aren’t tied down by the soulmate system, by the gods, or the universe. A sign they’re free to make their own choice.”

He says nothing. Then he thanks his older sister for her answer and leaves, contemplating quietly.

Drew doesn’t worry about his eyes after that. He used to when he was younger. He would fret about not having a soulmate. Now he feels slightly relieved.

He isn’t tied down to someone he might not even like.

—

Now almost nineteen, Drew has long forgotten about soulmates. Well, not entirely. Yes, they exist and yes, the system is broken, but that no longer matters—not to him. There’s more important things to worry about, like acing his classes and maintaining his scholarship at the private university, a testament to his hard work as well as his tolerance for his father’s torment. Yes, this is all that matters now, all that’s important to him. Nothing more, nothing less.

But he’s never been great in social settings. Damn you, Father.

When he first becomes acquainted with his classmates, one of the first questions he gets is ‘why are your eyes the same color’? Or, ‘you met your soulmate already’? His classmates aren’t the first to ask this personal question, many before with the same curiosity. He gives the same answer every time.

“I don’t have one.”

The reaction varies depending on the person, but he’s used to it. Some politely apologize for prying. Others nod in understanding, minding their own business. Then there’s that one prick in the crowd that has the audacity to laugh in his face because even people like them have soulmates.

(Drew pities whoever’s stuck with them. He wonders how their soulmates will tolerate that.)

He’s not mad or anything; his expression always remains neutral, unfazed. None of that bothers him. Not anymore. Most are naturally curious and polite about it. He shouldn’t be angry at them. But when he sees the pity in their eyes, he wants to take their tablet pencils and vape pens and shove it into their eye sockets as a reply instead.

He doesn’t need pity. He doesn’t need a soulmate. He’s done just fine on his own.

However, the topic of soulmates is popular. Unavoidable. Other university students, mostly girls for some reason, come up and ask him if he’s met his soulmate because of his eyes. He gives them the same answer.

“I don’t have one,” he replies.

“I don’t have one,” he clenches his fist.

“I don’t have one,” he says through gritted teeth.

He tires eventually and stops answering the question, hoping someone spreads a rumor or something.

Drew sits at the lunch table with his friends, enjoying his udon. Then the word soulmate pops up once again and he sighs, already blocking out the conversation. Why is everyone so obsessed with soulmates? Can’t they see that the soulmate system wasn’t everything to life? He glances at his friends. They chatter amongst themselves as they talk about their soulmates and such, not once checking on him. He looks away and focuses on eating his noodles. It’s gone cold.

They don’t mean to exclude him from the conversation. He knows that. They’re just trying to spare his feelings.

Drew is surrounded by his friends and classmates, but he can’t help feel lonely.

[digitalsymbiote]

What makes a Mech a Mech?

Now you might think it's the shape: Humanoid, bipedal, articulated limbs. And once upon a time that might have been the case. These days those machines are a lot more diverse though, come in all sorts of shapes and sizes; you got quadrupeds, winged mechs, hell sometimes ones that don't got any arms or legs at all.

No, what makes a Mech a Mech, is the Neural Link.

Mechs are unique in the way that their pilots get wired into them. They plug their brain into a machine and they become that machine.

Y'see that's why so many of the early models were so standardized, modeled after our own anatomy and musculature. Back when the tech was first being developed, the test pool was pretty limited. All military types, foot soldiers and the like. Those folks tend to have something of a limited imagination, creativity and individuality gets beaten out of 'em until they conform to the template of what the military wants 'em to be.

Which means they aren't all that great at imaginin' their body as anythin' other than what it is.

So all those early prototypes had to conform to that. If they wanted a pilot to have a decent enough Link Aptitude, they needed Mechs that the pilots could see themselves as. Folks were already used to havin' two arms and two legs, replacin' 'em with metal instead of flesh was a short enough leap that those folks could handle it.

But y'see then they started expandin' the applicant pool; researchers and developers moved outside the military in search of folks with higher Link Aptitude. And they found that humanity is a lot more diverse than that template the military beats into its soldiers. Turns out folks can be a lot more creative with their body map. Not everybody fits into that standardized definition of what humanity is.

They were lookin' in the completely wrong place with the military, turns out. Conformity is all well and good when you're trynna rush somethin' off the assembly line, but when you're trynna really push the limits of what's possible? Well you gotta get a bit more creative with it.

That's why you don't usually see the jugheads piloting mechs anymore. They ain't as good with all the fanciness companies are packin' into them these days. Now y'know who is good with all of that? Queer folks. Transgender folks especially. Turns out growin' up in the wrong body and learnin' to deal with that makes you real good at dissociatin' and messin' with your body map. Makes it a lot easier to trick your brain into thinkin' some weird part of this metal colossus is actually part of your body now.

Once they sorted that out, synchronicity rates skyrocketed. Led to a lot of other good things too. Y'see suddenly Queer and Trans folks were prime candidates for bein' pilots, corpos needed 'em. Which meant they had to make it safe enough for folks to be those things, or at least enough to admit it to the recruiters. Kinda funny thinkin' back, that that was what tipped the scales, but I suppose you can always trust corpos to do what corpos do.

But anyway, that's why so many Mechs are custom made to their pilots nowadays. That's why they craft the IMPs alongside the pilots through basic training. You gotta build a system that'll fit the pilot's body map, and ideally one that'll make the most of it.

If that pilot's more comfortable with a tail? Give that Mech a tail. Digitigrade legs? Quadrupedal? Fuck it, if it works for the pilot, throw that shit on there. Y'see ultimately, through the Neural Link, all you gotta be able to do is trick your brain into thinkin' that Mech is your body, and then it's off to the races.

And that moment, when your mind slips into that metal monstrosity and suddenly you feel more at home than you ever did in your own flesh and blood? That's what pilots live and die for. That's how you know the engineers did a good job.

And that's what makes a Mech a Mech.

[writersbloxx]

Body Language

When someone is…

Nervous/Anxious

Face:

Darting eyes/avoiding eye contact

Rapid blinking

Tense jaw

Looking upwards when talking or fixing eyes on a more distant point

Furrowed (or raised) brows

Frowning

Blushing 

Micro-expressions- quick/short facial expressions like suddenly widening their eyes or a brief grimace

Voice:

Shaky or trembling

Higher pitch or thin

Breathy

Wavering

Raspy or slightly cracked

Hesitant

Speaking quickly or stuttering

Choppy (many pauses in speech)

Shorter, clipped words (staccato)

Gestures/Posture:

Tense, closed off stance

Hunched shoulders

Body is stiffened

Crossed arms

Fidgeting

Touching clothes

Cracking knuckles

Bouncing knee

Subtly covering their mouth

[springstick]

Every time I try to write dialogue my eyes glaze over and I fall on the floor convulsing like a victim of the dancing plague

[the-modern-typewriter]

Short dinner date story between a normal human who just so happens to love garlic as much as they love their partner, but is completely oblivious to the fact that their partner is an obscenely powerful vampire. They are strong enough to not die from eating garlic, but would still be desperately hiding their vampirism while trying to eat every bit of garlic laced food that was lovingly made by their partner.

"You don't like garlic."

The human looked near tears.

"I - what - no," the vampire spluttered. "I love garlic. Garlic is the-"

"-Question," the human said. Their eyes were, somehow, dark and tight with an unexpected...something beneath the tears. The hurt. Frustration? Anger? Were they angry? It was definitely something, that the vampire hadn't fully anticipated. "Do you think I want you to lie to me? Like, do you think to impress me, you should have to pretend to be someone you're not? Is that the kind of person you think I am?"

"Um."

That was not a question most would dare ask them. It was also a ridiculous question. Most humans, most people, in the vampire's experience absolutely wanted lies. Romance was a lie. A curated sweetness, or thrill, carefully separated from the un-sexiness of being alive. It seemed like a trick question.

"I don't," the human said. "Like, what the absolute hell. If you can't tell me something as simple as 'hey, I don't like garlic' how am I supposed to trust you with anything big? Like, hey, we're in bed, and you want to stop, but you don't want to upset me, so you're just like 'it's fine!' But it's not fine."

The vampire's head tilted. It took them a moment to parse that. They weren't sure if it was the garlic burning like acid in the pit of their stomach making it twist in cramps, or the emotions on the human's face.

"Oh my god," the human said, slumping. "Do you actually like it when we're in bed together."

"Yes. Yes! Why would you even need to ask that!?"

"Why would you spend over a year pretending you like garlic when you very clearly don't?"

"I think you're blowing this way out of proportion-"

"-Are you actually going to sit there and tell me I'm being over-dramatic when you've been elaborately hiding the fact my cooking makes you ill?"

"I love seeing you happy," the vampire offered, after a beat. That seemed safe enough. "Garlic makes you happy."

"And does it make you happy?"

"Making you happy makes me happy, darling."

"Oh, for the love of god!" The human pushed back from the table, grabbing the half-eaten pasta plates and storming towards the kitchen.

After a moment, the vampire followed. They watched the human carefully scrape the remnants of their dinner date into the bin.

"Garlic," the human said, through gritted teeth. "Yes or no? Completely independent of me."

"You're cooking is lovely, and sweet-"

The human rounded on them, looking ready to scream or sob or possibly glare ferociously, as if they were one of the most deadly predators to walk the planet.

The vampire cleared their throat and took a step back. "Garlic is, um. I'm not the biggest fan. Kinda gives me a stomach ache. It's not a vampire thing, or anything, I just - I don't know. Not a fan. It's the texture!"

"Thank you for telling me. I will cook less garlic."

"But you love garlic! I don't want you to sacrifice-"

"-It's not your decision." The human closed their eyes. They breathed out. When they next spoke, it was gentler. They wrapped their arms around themselves. "What I sacrifice or don't sacrifice for people I care about is my decision, and something I do deserve to make an informed decision about, you know? There are plenty of people I can eat garlic with. It doesn't have to be you."

"...you are really upset about the garlic."

"It's not about the garlic!"

Had the human guessed the truth then, somehow?"

The human dragged a hand through their hair. "Would you want me to tell you I liked something when I didn't? And not even didn't like it, when it actively made me feel bad? Would you want me to tell you?"

"You don't have to. I can always tell when you like something and when you don't."

"Oh, well, now I feel loads better."

It sounded like sarcasm. They did not look loads better.

The vampire blinked at them again, astonished, not sure how their dinner date had got quite so out of hand. The silence stretched as the vampire floundered, trying to think of something to say that wasn't, 'but you believe me it's not about vampirism, right?'

"I...wasn't trying to hurt you," the vampire said, eventually.

"I know."

"You're still upset."

"Just wondering what else you've lied to me about, I guess."

The vampire laughed, nervously.

The human did not. They turned away again, back to the dishes, as fragile as if the very ground beneath their feet had somehow been wrenched away.

"I haven't. I haven't lied to you about anything," the vampire lied. "I'd never do that. You're too important."

"Okay." But their voice was small.

"Next time I'll tell you if I don't like something, okay? If that's what you want? If that's what makes you happy?"

"And what," the human said, with the tiredness of an immortal thing, "would make you happy?"

The vampire had never hated garlic more.

[theaftersundown]

how it feels to enjoy storytelling but can't physically put the words down