#fff218
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The Old Machine
For @flashfictionfridayofficial's Flash Fiction Friday. The prompt was:
[#FFF218 How Do You Use 'It'?]
This wonderful prompt has been brought to you by the one and only @potaeto-writes, thank you very much! What is 'it'? Why does someone not know how to use it? You better read that booklet with its fine-print! Whether your character tries to get the washing machine going for the first time or your scientist has created a rather complicated time-machine: We want to know how it's used! Write your story and tell us.
A fun fact: I work with kids and had them decide what the machine should be called based on their best guesses.
“How do you use it?”
Price’s breath tickled the hairs on the back of her neck.
“I don’t know.”
Ansley “Lee” Robinson scraped a soft layer of dust off of the top of the faded exterior of the machine with her palm.
What was once an enameled seagreen had become the mottled color of chicken starting to mold, but now she could see tiny glimmers of her own reflection staring out of fingerprints. It was an old bulwark. It might’ve been the green-gray of a whale’s back cresting the surface of the ocean. She held the boxy shape in her hands, shifting the sharp edges, so they wouldn’t dig into her. It looked like a large flat box with a smaller longer box on top, sort of like the beat-up red plastic cash register at school. Instead of numbers, it had a raised circular keyboard. Each key was about as big as a thumbnail.
“It’s one of those story typing machines,” Lee stated with the confidence of a tenured professor.
“Like from an old movie,” Price swanned towards what would’ve been a graceful landing on a stack of boxes had her grandma’s chunky red heels not caught the edge of the suitcase a pace to the right and knocked his butt right onto it, like a sack of dirty clothes on laundry day.
“Yeah, I guess,” she continued without looking up at Price’s usual antics.
Her own eye gleamed back at her, distorted in the streaky surface. She looked a second longer, then blew.
A wave of gray murk flew off or fell in clumps to the concrete floor. The ancient dust raised a fit of hacking, doubling her and Price over. The machine slipped in her hands. Quickly, she fumbled for the blocky shape with her small arms. With a horrible ringing and clattering from the machine, she gained purchase by jamming it into the soft spot just below her diaphragm.
“Lee! Y’all better not be in that damn storage closet!”
She and Price shared a single look and a fleet-footed departure. Him on bare feet, her with the typing machine under her hoodie.
She traded Price his abandoned socks the next day for his pack of new gel pens.
They sat on the playground bench, getting flecked with glittery pink, orange, green as they cracked the ink reservoirs open to dump them into a little plastic bottle they’d found near the slides. It looked like it’d held bubble liquid once. Now it had a concoction that was slowly turning a nauseous black.
Price pranced on his sneakers’ tiptoes as he practiced staggering around in front of the bench Lee was sitting on.
“You have to bring whatever you write on it to school, okay? I got those pens for my birthday.”
“It’s not like I’m using all of them,” Lee grumbled, but she knew in her heart of hearts that she wanted Price to be there.
“Yeah, but they’re still mine, so I get the first page.” Price teetered on a toe for a moment before he sank into the bench beside her. “I’m gonna put it in a frame next to my bed in the new apartment.”
Like the aftermath of a stone splashing into a pond, the two fell silent.
Her great grandparents had lived in her house prior to her grandparents who had lived there prior to her dad; she had always thought that she would live there as well. But Dad was always going on about the neighborhood being sold off to the city so white land developers could push into the block with new condos. Old Miss Mattie - who’d planted crepe myrtle trees down the block and knocked on their door every month or so to remind them about the neighborhood potluck had stopped coming ‘round. Dad had said she’d had to move. Then he sighed in that world weary way and shook his head. That had been when the stone had started to sink Lee’s stomach, then, that something that had been so assured for most of her life could be taken without her ever having realized it’d gone missing.
Using the borrowed time between Dad’s room door closing and the onset of drowsiness in her body, Lee dragged the typing machine out from under her bed. Setting the glass of water on her nightstand on the floor, she hefted the thing into the empty center. It didn’t take long to fish the improvised ink bottle out of her backpack, but it did take her the better part of that hour and several Google searches to find the name of the thing.
“Typewriter. I knew that,” she mumbled as she popped the letters ‘how to use a typewriter’ into YouTube on virtual keys. The blue-green behemoth stood perfectly still beside her. She almost felt as though it were waiting. Waiting as she stumbled through finding out it already had a loaded ink ribbon, cramming in a sheaf of notebook paper borrowed from today's math notes, and marveling that the typewriter had sat there all those years patiently waiting to be used.
The carriage moved as if oiled to click into place. A minute passed in silence, but nothing stirred except for the hum of cold air being spit out of the AC. She laid her hands on the keys.
“Springhill was never”’ she began to write, then opened Google on her phone beside her. She puzzled out different variations of
jentrefid
jentrifyed
jentreefied
until ‘did you mean?’ spat back out the correct input.
‘Gentrified.’
Under the painstaking guesswork of another fifteen minutes, she wrote:
“Miss Mattie never moved away and Price will not move because the city ran out of money paying lawyers. When we’re together, they can’t defeat us. We will live here and so will our children.”
When she set out for school the next morning Old Ms. Mattie waved at her from across the street.
#fff218#Flash Fiction Friday#creative writing#Writeblr#short story#my works#by quinn#I had fun with this!#thanks for the event
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It
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial 218 prompt.
My take on how a thirties farming community might react to a modern cell phone.😁
“What is it?” They gather around, eyes down, staring at the unearthed object. Mrs. Brown was turning her garden when she found it.
“I don’t tightly know. Now don’t be touching it ma.” Her sixteen year old son advises, “Not until Pa gets back.”
Mr. Brown ran to fetch the preacher and the sheriff. He wants to cover all bases.
It lays looking innocent enough. A small rectangle with, what seems to be a glass front.
“Maybe we should cover it back up until the men return.” Their neighbor, Mrs. Kelly, worries her apron as she looks down on it.
“No, Mr. Brown said to leave it be.”
They stand around the half turned ground, chores forgotten. Behind them, the rooster let’s out a loud cock-a-doodle-doo.
“Hush , it is way past daylight.” The son says. The rooster doesn’t hush. His almost mournful cries add to the tense atmosphere.
“God alive. Go do something with him, will you?” Mrs. Brown shoos her son off.
“Ma, he bites.”
“Pa’s belt stings harder. Go.”
He does and the women are left alone.
“I wish they would hurry back.” Mrs. Kelly frets.
“You don’t have to wait.”
“No. No. What type of a neighbor would I be if I left you alone with that.” She gestures with her kerchief covered head towards it.
“And,” Mrs. Brown adds in her head, “you want to know what it is too.” She gives her a smile.
The man return, to their relief. “Mr. Brown, we didn’t touch it.”
“Very good Mrs. Brown.”
He and the other two men gather around to look at it. The sheriff takes the butt of his rifle and pokes it.
It lights up, a picture appearing on the front. Mrs. Kelly screams and almost swoons. The younger Mr. Brown, returning from seeing to the rooster, catches her. They all six stare at it.
The sheriff takes his handkerchief and carefully lifts it up. They all back away.
“What is it, sheriff?” the pastor asks.
“I don’t rightly know.” He sits it on the small table that is full of seeds, plants, and other gardening supplies. They slowly approach it.
The front has returned to black. He touches it with his finger and the picture appears again.
Out of the ground, they can now see that the picture is unlike any they have ever seen before. A couple, wearing what at first glance appears to be their underthings. Mrs. Kelly shrieks and covers her eyes. The Browns son looks wide eyed. Mr. Brown steps in front of him and his wife. The preacher says a prayer.
“Rebury it and salt the ground.” He says.
Then it rings.
#my writing#fff218#flashficfridayofficial#how do you use 'it'#it#how a thirties farming community would react to a modern cell phone
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modus operandi
(Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt: FFF218 How Do You Use It? This isn't related to anything I'm working on but enjoy!)
It wasn’t much, but it had been her mother’s.
Maybe that’s what made it hurt all the more.
She lets her face press to the cold stone of the bridge, trying to ease the ache of her heavy heart. It shouldn’t matter that she had hand sewn every one of the beads onto the bodice, that she had embroidered every stitch into the skirt by candlelight, that she had never worn it until today. She had stayed up late, squinting by the weak glow of the candlelight, eyes burning and fingers bleeding from where she had pricked them trembling with exhaustion, trying to finish the alterations in time.
All she had wanted was one night. One moment to remember what she had used to be, what her mother had wished for her.
The gash in the skirt bleeds where the ink pot was thrown at her. Where she rubs her fingers on it, they still come away black, instead of the blood red it looks under the moonlight. She feels the last sob escape her, bubbling through her throat.
She is no scholar to win her freedom by sneaking out to take the Civil Service exam as Shen Xiumin did. She has no skill for singing, unlike Huang Meilin, to run away to the stage and hide her face behind the face paint of the opera. She is no warrior to restore her family’s honour as Hua Chenyi did.
All she had were her hands. All she had were her eyes. The eyes that picked up the beads left behind where noblewomen dropped them from their hems, the calloused hands with unpainted nails that stitched them into the dress.
“Hush, child.” A voice emerges from behind her. “Why do you cry?”
She turns, bowing to the fox emerging from the undergrowth, her seven tails swishing. “Lady Fox.”
The fox’s fathomless eyes dart to the dress. “I see, the Prince will choose a bride tonight at the masquerade, won’t he? He will choose based on the dress.”
She could not admit that all she had wanted was a single night. She was no great beauty, but she had her skill.
“You have always been kind to the water spirits and the forest sprites. I will reward you now.”
The dress lifts into the air as she gazes upon it. The jacket lifts, the skirt puffs outwards before narrowing. When it descends, it is as soft as the mulberry silk only palace nobles could afford, the expensive deep green dye covered with intricate silver and gold where her own once laid.
And it looks nothing like her mother’s dress.
“Put it on. It will return to its former state by the hour of the tiger, but you should have time for a dance.”
But even as she takes it into her hands, she finds her head shaking. “Noble Lady Fox, I cannot accept your gift. For this was my mother’s and it would be a disservice to both of us to wear the dress as it is.” She swallows. “I am sorry, Noble Lady Fox, I am honoured but I still have my pride. I cannot accept this. I cannot wear it to the ball.”
The fox gazes at her, her dark eyes inscrutable. “Is that your final answer?”
She nods. “Then very well.”
The dress disappears from her hands altogether and when she looks up from the ground, the fox is gone too.
She swallows past the bitterness suddenly in her throat, for she knows better than to demand her dress back.
Days pass, and the prince announces his bride. She watches as the noblewoman steps up beside him, her hand dainty and soft, her nails painted elegantly, her face powdered and her lips as small and red as cherries. She moves on with her life, until one day, a courtier comes knocking at her door.
“Are you Xiu Yanli?” The courtier asks, her eyes squinting to read the characters. “Please come with me to the palace.”
She goes, even though the courtier doesn’t explain, not even when her stepmother demands to know where she’s going, demands that the walnuts will not shell themselves nor the tea steep itself in its pot. She goes, even though she knows she will never be able to come back after this.
All she had left that meant anything was the dress anyway, and that was taken from her too.
She stiffens as they reach the palace, but relaxes as they go around to the back. Then, she stiffens again, as she is led through a corridor opulent with gold dragons on the windows and through staircases with deep walnut wood engravings in them. Only the emperor is allowed gold dragons.
But she doesn’t say anything as she is led into a room. She sinks to her knees, bowing fully as the new empress-to-be stands before her.
When she raises her eyes though, she cannot help but gasp.
Her dress lies beautifully against her body, exactly as it looked that night, except the gash was now a silver and gold inlay that spiralled like a cobweb and the ink stain curved into beautiful delicate patterns like a painting of lotuses and bamboo on silk.
“I am told you are the seamstress who made this?” The empress-to-be’s voice is soft and high.
“I did the alterations, your Highness. It was originally my mother’s.”
“How did you make it do that with the beading?”
She explains but after, she forces herself to speak. “How did you get it?”
The empress purses her lips, and all of a sudden, she’s reminded that the empress is younger than her. “I’m new to the palace too. Another lady ruined my original dress and I was crying, except a fox came in and offered it to me, if I would recognise the seamstress later.”
She looks shyly at her. “Would you come and be a handmaiden for me? It’s just… I need a friend. You would stay here, of course, but you can return if you want. I’m not- I don’t mean to force you.”
She bowed. She bowed deeply and gratefully, before straightening up and smiling.
“Of course. But can I have my dress back? It isn’t much, but it was my mother’s.”
#Syl's writing#flash fiction friday#fff218 how do you use it#i was thinking of writing another fairytale but inverted thing#so this is another exploration#also the names in the references to the legends are completely made up and are not actually from any legend#yes anyway i'm reading a lot of work in translation and it probably leaks through#enjoy!#also the title is a pun like mode as in fashion#but mode also as a way of doing things
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Ringing in the New
This is a fill for today’s @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt [#FFF218 How Do You Use ‘It’?] as well as my @stonyauniverse Edging square. It’s a bit spicier than my usual Tumblr fics, and is therefore under a cut.
Fandom: MCU/Marvel
Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: Mature
Tags: Established Relationship, Sexual Discussion, Cock Rings, Edging, No Actual Smut
Word Count: 324
Steve examined the metallic ring-shaped object with a dubious expression. “How do you use it?”
“C’mon, Cap,” Tony teased, taking his usual approach to a potentially touchy subject, “surely they had cock rings back in your time!”
Steve shook his head. “Probably. I just never came across one.”
“Well, not coming is kind of the point,” Tony replied, keeping the tone light. “The main use of this helpful gadget is to wrap it around the base of your cock before the festivities commence. It restricts the blood flow, keeping you harder for longer.”
“Oh.” Steve’s cheeks turned a dull red, and Tony’s heart went out to him. They’d finally gotten together just a few days earlier and during what was supposed to be foreplay, Steve had experienced an occurrence of premature ejaculation.
He’d explained in a pained voice that the serum had made him much more responsive and he had difficulty lasting for very long. The bright side was that his refractory period was minimal, but it was clearly something that bothered Steve. So of course Tony had to try to fix it.
“I just thought maybe it was something we could try,” Tony shrugged, trying not to make a big deal of it. “We could combine it with a bit of ‘edging’. That’s where you bring yourself – or your partner – almost to orgasm, then stop until you’re no longer on the edge. You repeat that a couple of times, and it builds up a kind of stamina.”
“Sorta like being cockteased?” Steve raised an eyebrow in what Tony hoped was interest.
“Well, yes - and it can be a Dom/sub thing, too,” Tony explained, “especially combined with orgasm denial or ruined orgasms, neither of which are my thing. I am very into happy endings, promise.”
Steve huffed out a soft laugh. “So you think this would give us both that happier ending at some point?”
Tony wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist and pulled him close. “I’d like to give it a try, sunshine.”
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The Other Globe
FFF218 How Do You Use 'It', for @flashfictionfridayofficial
As always the fandom is Good Omens, and the 'It' in question is the Globe of Earth.
The first time, as they say, is always the hardest. When Aziraphale pressed his finger into the Earth globe, he had no idea how it will work. But, as another saying goes, drastic time takes drastic action. And, without a doubt, being stuck in Heaven while Armageddon is about to happen was one of those times.
Aziraphale carefully touched the globe, and much to his surprise, it worked. Beginners luck, probably, if to use another cliche but truthful phrase. The terrified face of the quartermaster was the last thing he saw before disappearing completely, and if he was honest with himself, it was a rather lovely site. He did not know where he was going, but as long as it was towards Earth (and away from the other angels), it was already an improvement.
As he went through the portal, Aziraphale knew it was a step of no return. And for the first time in his very long existence, he was ready to make that choice.
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FFF218 How do you use 'it'?
Something short and sweet and a bit plain for this weeks @flashfictionfridayofficial 😂 but hey, at least I wrote something!
It's a little Teen Wolf Steter thingie - have fun!
Stiles felt Hale’s eyes roam over his whole body and couldn’t keep the blush off his face.
“But how do you use ‘it’,” the man asked him and Stiles hands twitched with the wish to let his face sink into them.
“Well, wouldn’t you like to know?” he snarked back and turned to leave. There was no reason to endure this humiliation if the Alpha didn’t trust his words or his skills.
A hand on his wrist stopped him mid step. He pressed his lips together, looking down at the hand on his wrist and then up to Peter Hale’s face, narrowing his eyes.
“Hands off. Or I’ll show you what happens when I use it,” he growled out between clenched teeth. The Alpha stared at him a moment longer, then he let go, raised his hands in a placating gesture and stepped back.
“I just wanted to keep you from leaving, sweetheart. I’m very much invested in getting you into my pack.”
Stiles huffed at the purr in Hale’s voice.
Yeah, right. He would believe that if the guy stopped pestering him about the one thing everybody else was always pestering him about. The only thing everyone else was interested in. Because of course Stiles only was a one-trick-pony and not a human with layers. Sarcastic layers maybe, but layers.
“Right. And you trying to get an answer about something I have never told anyone has nothing to do with this conversation. Sure. No one would ever think to just try to coax my secrets out of me just to let me drop like a very ugly hot potato afterwards. And of course, especially you, the great Alpha Hale, known for his manipulation and ruthlessness would never stoop down to such a level.”
He didn’t even try to keep the acid and frustration out of his voice, as he shook his head and sighed.
“I’m done with this. And with you. Good day, Mr. Hale.”
Again he turned to leave and again, a hand grasped his wrist, making him sigh.
“Alpha H-“
“Mr. Stilinski. No. Stiles,” the man behind him started again, an oddly earnest tone in his voice.
Stiles groaned and rubbed his free hand over his face, before spinning around and pulling his hand out of Hale’s - astoundingly loose - grip.
“What.”
For a moment he could have sworn that Hale’s face had shown hesitation, but that had to be his imagination. Though at least the teasing smirk had vanished, replaced by a calm but serious mask.
“You have a place in my pack, if you want it. And though I would prefer to know about your… skill set, I don’t expect you to divulge your secrets - as long as they won’t hurt the pack.” The smirk sneaked back on the Alpha’s lips. “And if you’d like to get a cup of coffee with me - and this is completely divorced from you becoming a member of the pack or not - I would be very honored.”
Stiles squinted at the man.
Alright, that was a new angle. No one had tried flirting with him to get his secrets before. But also, he would be blind and probably dead if he wouldn’t appreciate the good looks of someone like Peter Hale.
And, well. He wasn’t immune to them either.
“I’ll take the coffee. And I’ll think about joining the pack afterwards.”
Peter’s smile widened into something genuine and Stiles couldn’t help the warmth tingling in his chest and climbing up his face.
“Well then, I’m looking forward to it,” Peter purred, reaching for Stiles’ hand, and pressed a kiss on his knuckles.
Stiles swallowed.
God, what had he gotten himself into?
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