magali-writes

[magali-writes]

“That’s literally not even my job!”

“You’re a corporate lawyer!”

This appeared to anger Sayuri: she turned and stabbed a finger in Thom’s face. “I am a junior associate. I do not write company regulations. You can tell, because if I was allowed to write them, we wouldn’t be in this clusterfuck!”

“So write them,” Thom said cheekily.

Sayuri glowered at him. It was an impressive glower, all flattened brows and unimpressed lips and cool contemptuous eyes. Thom, with the dubious blessing of an utterly irrepressible personality, bore up well under it, but Maria shrank back a little bit.

“No,” Sayuri said, once she had deemed Maria sufficiently cowed and Thom unfamiliar with the concept. “The rules might, technically, not punish you for pulling a fire alarm if you swear under oath that you smelled smoke. That does not mean it’s a good idea to pull a fire alarm so you can delay this inquiry another day or two. Okay? Look at me so I know you’re listening, Thomas.”

“Why not?” Thom asked. “I mean, it’s not like it matters at this point. They’re gonna fire me no matter what.”

Maria elbowed him, and Sayuri closed her eyes as if praying for patience. “Because they’re going to fire you for the stupidest reason ever cooked up by a C-suite bastard with a grudge—which, believe me, is a low bar—and then you’re going to sue the pants off them for breach of contract and violation of about six different labor protection laws. But if you pull a fire alarm, you start to look like an idiot.”

“But it would be funny.”

“Funny,” said Sayuri through her teeth, “is not an excuse that will hold up to a judge.”

Twenty minutes later

A wailing klaxon split the air. Sayuri nearly dropped her briefcase, then spun on one perfectly glossy dark green pump. Her eyes—along with those of everyone else in the open-plan office—fell on her client standing by a “Pull Here In Case Of Fire” sign.

Somehow, he managed to both shout over the alarm and still keep his voice an absolute monotone: “I smelled smoke.”

“I’m going to kill him,” said Sayuri to no one.

“Just because the rules technically allow it doesn’t mean that you should do it!”

“Hey, when you think about it, we’re just tying up loose ends in the rules.”

“Yeah! We’re pointing out loopholes for you to fix! Duh!”

#story prompt #writing prompt #dialogue prompt #do not repost #flash fiction #short story #ok to reblog #written #my writing #snippet #magali wrote

[magali-writes]

Then why did you do it?

Fate heaved a sigh. I liked his hair.

Oh for stars’ sake. You do remember how it went the last time you picked a Chosen One because they had nice hair, right?

It wasn’t nice hair!

Unimpressed, Life waited.

It was her arms, Fate admitted. You can’t tell me she didn’t have lovely arms.

That, said Life, as though they wished they had teeth to grind for emphasis, is not the point. She might have had nice arms, but she spent seven YEARS hunting those murderous lackwits!

Maybe if you didn’t put murderous lackwits on the human plane in the first place—

It doesn’t work like that, and you know it. Stop pretending to be obtuse.

Fate sighed again. Or, more accurately, made an undulating not-motion that approximated the emotions conveyed by a sigh, since at this moment, neither Fate nor Life was anywhere near corporeal, and as such neither occupied a physical form, nor breathed. Fine, then, if you’re so clever, you can pick the next Chosen One.

Life’s incorporeal presence rippled. Do you mean that? You haven’t let anyone else choose since—

Chaos, one hundred and seventeen Chosen Ones ago, and that was an unmitigated disaster.

I’m cleverer than Chaos.

Fate allowed that that was, generally speaking, true. Still— I’m not sure that you… understand about my Chosen. There are very specific selection criteria—

Must they all have glorious hair? Or do you perhaps allow for a soul pure of heart but laboring under the unspeakable trauma of being brunette?

If you’d let me finish? Thank you. My criteria are very specific, and I confess, I favor the pretty ones, but it’s not as that’s the only reason. Do you know how many beautiful imbeciles you put on that plane? No, of course you don’t, because you never actually visit.

With an irritated thrum of tension, Life dismissed this concern. No. Let me choose. I’ll show you a bald Chosen One.

[seventy-one years later, as measured by mortal calendars]

The Three-in-One This is absurd! Fate, why on earth would you give that mortal your grace? He’s worse than the one the Sky-Father asked you to destroy!

I didn’t, said Fate, with, it must be said, a degree of smugness unseemly for an ageless manifestation of one of the primal forces of the universe. Life wanted to pick.

If the Three-in-One had a head, or hands, they would have dropped the former into the latter. As it was, their exasperation and rage blasted all the assembled Forces with a wash of power that threatened to dissolve their temporarily consolidated presences. I thought we forbade you to delegate after that incident—

Don’t look at me, said Chaos. You all should have known better.

They’re right. We really should have, admitted Time.

Fate—no more delegating. And Life, I’ll deal with you later. The Three-in-One gathered herself into an ever-denser point of primal energy, until the Forces’ presences withdrew from them in fear, and the planes bent towards one another as the Three-in-One bored their way into the world of the corporeal. Right now I need to go settle this before the mortals Destroy one another.

“You chose him?”

“Yeah…”

“You saw the pompous asshole-y one and thought, ‘Ah, yes. Perfect.’?”

“Look, I’m not proud of it, ok?”

#written #short story #comedy #kind of #magali wrote #my writing #do not repost #ok to reblog #original writing #prompt #dialogue prompt

[magali-writes]

If you're willing, can you write a work with a OP seer who royally messes up/keeps their head down in their first life but time loops after death and starts DOING THINGS TM in their redo

Sunny didn’t expect to wake up in her own ten-year-old body when she died, but once she got over the shock of it, she climbed right down off her loft bed and lit a candle for her patron. This could only be the work of her god. And she had never been more grateful for a second chance.

In her first life, she had resented her gift. Spent years ignoring it, fearing it, suppressing it. Denying the visions that haunted her every minute, worn polarized glasses that kept her from seeing layers of palimpsest possibilities over reality. By the time she had really tried to use it… well.

Things were already past fixing.

Every future she saw was hopeless. Every path led to ruin.

Sunny came to regret, by her death, that she hadn’t fought anyway. By her death, well, she wasn’t sorry to go, to escape the weight of millions of lives that were lost because she didn’t act in time.

So now she lit a candle, and sent up a prayer. Thank you.

And then she set to work.

Step one: growing up. Sunny was an adult in her high school classes; she had no problems writing essays and acing tests, especially when she could see, if she looked hard enough, the test answers. Cheating? Sure. For a good cause.

Step two, age eighteen: winning the lottery. This she had never done, the first time around, because it felt unfair, green, selfish. Sunny had no such compunctions now. Money opened doors, greased palms, tipped the scales of power. She wasn’t going to be held back for something as silly as money.

Step three was more complicated. Sunny was barely an adult: she had no credentials, no influence of her own. Step three took time.

By age twenty, she was a Rhodes scholar.

Age twenty-three, a city councilor.

Age twenty-six, a representative of her state in Congress—the maverick who predicted a pandemic and then a flood and then a war, the voice of the people. Vox Populi, they called her, and Sunny might hate the nickname, but she used it as the tool it was.

At age thirty-one she went into the forest for a day and a night, fasting until she was dizzy, and then sacrificed to her god.

For another day and night she was lost in her visions. Infinite possibilities fractured her into ever-smaller pieces, and when her god put her back together on the other side…

Years later, when she was known only as the One Who Knows The Way, when Sunny had long grown used to the loss of her mortal eyes, her people wondered how anyone could act with such certainty.

Sunny only ever said, “Because I saw what would happen if I did not.”

#flash fiction #do not repost #short story #written #ok to reblog #my writing #magali wrote #short fiction

[magali-writes]

prompts for a vampire and a vampire hunter falling in love? very romeo and juliet-esque

“What the fuck?”

The vampire rolled their eyes. “A thank you would be nice. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

“I only use manners for humans,” spat the hunter.

It earned her an angry look, but no more. The hunter’s fingers itched for a crossbow or a sanctified blade. But even if the vampire had left any of her weapons within arm’s reach, she was too weak to even lift them, let alone use one in a fight against an undead monster.

A monster who she had known for years.

A monster who’d just saved her life, again.

A monster who didn’t look so monstrous right now. She tilted her head and studied them: instead of shooting off a witty retort, they’d just turned away and leaned against the windowsill. In a city this big, light pollution far outweighed any distant shine of starlight, and the glow limned their profile in silver. With their fangs hidden behind their lips, only the faint gleam of light reflecting off their eyes, catlike, belied that the hunter’s companion wasn’t human.

She shouldn’t ask. She shouldn’t do anything that might delay the monster’s departure. And yet— “Why’d you do it?”

For a long moment, they remained still. Too still. Most people wouldn’t consciously notice when someone’s chest didn’t rise and fall as they breathed; the hunter was trained to detect those subtle cues of vampirism, and could not ignore it. She’d had over an hour to calm down from the adrenaline rush of a life-or-death fight and yet her pulse still thundered a warning in her ears.

“Your opinion of my kind is lower than I thought,” the vampire said, “if you truly believe I care nothing for your life.”

You’re not capable of caring for people. But the hunter couldn’t say it.

“I’m a—I hunt your kind. I’ve tried to kill you.”

Now the vampire moved, faster than any human, standing just out of reach. A faint smile curled their lips. “You’d stand back and let me die, then?”

The hunter opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

The vampire smiled fully, fangs gleaming a threat in her half-lit apartment. “I’ll be seeing you,” they said, and then, faster than her eyes could track, they were gone.

“Thank you,” the hunter whispered to the empty room.

#human x vampire #hunter x vampire #vampires #flash fiction #prompted #magali wrote #mine #do not repost #ok to reblog #my writing #short story

[magali-writes]

“You have terrible parents too?”

“Oh yeah. My parents are mad scientists who turned all their kids into freak monsters.”

[magali-writes]

plot feeling a little empty in the middle? here’s some food for thought.

actions have consequences. things that your characters do inevitably can affect other people around them. what might they have done in the past that could come back and serve as an obstacle? or, maybe, what could they do now that could possibly raise the stakes just a little bit more?

subplots! be mindful of the subplots you’re adding - but sometimes it might be a good idea to include one if your plot is feeling a little bit empty. not only can it tie back into the overarching struggle, but it could also serve as a way to explore one of your characters or points further.

character exploration. get to know your characters a little bit better! let your readers find out something new. connecting and understanding the people within your story is important if you want your readers to grow attached to them.

world exploration. similar to the previous point, with the addition of creating a greater sense of familiarity of the circumstances that your story is taking place in. remember that nobody else knows the world of your wip as well as you do - illustrate it even further so everyone else can grasp it even better.

let your characters bond! maybe there’s a lull in the plot. if your characters have the chance to take a breather and get to know the people around them, let them! it might help flesh out or even realistically advance their relationships with each other.

#plot #character design #on writing #outlining

[magali-writes]

Fantasy Halflings, Elves, and Dwarves of Color

Zach submitted:

In my fantasy series I have multiple non human races such as halflings, elves, dwarves (which I might change to neanderthals), and gnomes. I remember reading somewhere not to have POC werewolves, but what about elves and dwarves? Would that be fine since it would help add to the realism of the world?

Thank you for the response, and I appreciate all the work you all are doing!

Having some of your elves and dwarves be people of color is good, at least in principle. Personally, I think it would add to the realism of your story, but it depends on your pre-existing worldbuilding. For instance, is your story set in an isolated area, or in a multicultural, metropolitan area? Are there different cultures in your world? Different nations? Because if you want to mimic real life demographic trends, you can have large cities that are more diverse, both in terms of human races and fantasy races. And you can also have small, rural areas that are predominantly one human and fantasy race, with only a few people from other demographics mixed in. But you’re already using a fantasy world of your own creation, so at the end of the day, “realism” isn’t that important—your worldbuilding can work however you want it to, as long as it’s logically consistent with itself.

Now here’s the only caveat in all this, or at least, the only one I can think of: if all of your human characters are white, having some of your elves and dwarves be people of color could come off as othering. But since you’re here, I trust you not to do that.

—Mod Ixia

The thing with non-human races, monsters, etc. is that you’re going to have to be more specific! With werewolves, what you want to take away is, “if your only werewolf characters are all Black/dark-skinned POC (or a combination), you are likely to perpetuate animalistic/barbaric stereotypes and therefore you should steer clear;” not “POC werewolves are disallowed altogether.” You might be referring to the issue with Indigenous werewolves, which IS a much more hard-and-fast answer; Mod Lesya will touch on that below. The same idea applies to elves, dwarves, and halflings.

When we think about high fantasy races, there are going to be different stereotypes attached to them, some which are very deeply encoded in high fantasy media, due to influences like Tolkein and DnD. Elves are seen as noble/wise, intelligent, and close to nature. Dwarves are seen as blunt, blue-collar, and good with their hands. It’s the associations between race and stereotype that we have to work to avoid. 

You may notice that some of these stereotypes line up with things we don’t want to see in POC rep. For example, making elves in your world allegorical of East Asians may perpetuate the “smart asian” model minority myth, if they’re shown as more inherently intelligent. Notice also that I said “allegorical of [group as a whole];” there’s no problem with making a fraction of your multiple elf or dwarf cast one of these groups; it’s when you make a generalization, either by tokenism or racial allegory, that makes it an issue. Similarly, making all of your halflings mixed-race could potentially end up creating racial allegories or assumptions depending on what side/race is human vs. non-human.

~Mod Rina

For me the issue is: are the fantasy races made up entirely of one ethnicity or not. 

If you’re talking “Elves= Natives”, then I have a problem with that (as outlined in Fantasy Elves as Indigenous Peoples), but if you’re talking “some elves are Native but some are Black and some are white and some are Chinese” while also having human characters of those ethnicities, then it’s fine.

The “having human characters of those ethnicities” is the critical bit. The problem with making fantasy races as PoC is the tendency for writers to make all their humans white. This deeply and toxically links humans with white as default, and other species as other races contributes to dehumanization.

My caution with werewolves is very specifically Native werewolves, because Twilight has thoroughly poisoned the well for that. I’ve answered that before, as well (Werewolf Natives: Problems or Not?). It’s something to be extremely cautious about, because of how big Twilight is—especially with its recent resurgence. 

Non-Native PoC have their own history with werewolves and being seen as animalistic that must be looked at, but when you have a multi-billion dollar franchise that set up a whole nation of people (the Quileute) as predatory beasts because of their lycanthropy, there is a lot of damage done. Native people are also often treated in historical documentaries as wolf-like, with the colonizers as helpless prey, which adds to the problems of associating Natives with werewolves.

It’s theoretically doable, but it’s also something so be very sensitive to the context of.

But as for the general concept of fantasy races having PoC members, it’s usually fine so long as there’s an established human society also having the same ethnicities. Also, really try to not make interspecies tensions as analogues to racism, because it just reinforces the concept that PoC are other and that humans don’t have those tensions amongst themselves.

Don’t stick all the fantastic racism on halflings because they’re mixed, don’t make orcs analogues for Black people then have orcs be discriminated against, that sort of thing. Each fantasy species should be more than just a single note, a single culture, because each species should be reflective of a population instead of a caricature. And populations have variety to them.

Also, do educate yourself on what fantasy races were coded as and avoid playing up the traits that line up with real-world stereotypes, as Rina said. Because fantasy has such a white-as-default problem, you’ll often find racist caricatures be the basis for them. Many, many, many PoC have discussed how certain fantasy species are caricatures of their cultures; googling around and spending some time listening to non-white book critiques is important (Booktube is very diverse and a great place to start).

And, importantly, see what ownvoices authors have done with fantasy races. This will help break out of the white, Christian-centric baseline that tropes assume, and will help you see more variety in how to handle trickier topics. Authors of colour and non-Christian authors have shown what they can do with what was originally caricatures of themselves, and seeing their perspectives will help you avoid some of the worst pitfalls that privilege allows you to ignore. 

~Mod Lesya

As the other mods have already included most of what I wanted to cover, I just wish to point out one thing. As this blog often points out, trace your logic even for seemingly innocuous word choices - why are you using the word “race” to describe elves, dwarves, and other fantasy species?

The common answer is genre convention, since using the term “race” for fantasy species has its roots going back to Tolkien. But its use makes it easy for both writers and readers to fall into the trap of assigning an actual race or ethnicity to a fantasy species and appropriate or exotify the original culture on top of it. It also makes it easy for writers to just put together one race for the human race (see where it gets confusing?) and not consider building multiple races that make together a diverse society.

I highly recommend choosing a word other than race to describe the fantasy sapient creatures, so it’s easier to build more diverse cultures and portray more races into each fantasy species.

- Mod Rune

#writing with color #writing advice #fantasy #character creation #worldbuilding #on writing

[magali-writes]

Annika let the phone ring for over a minute before she picked up. The number it showed was familiar, and certainly no one she wanted to talk to, but—

Old habits died hard.

“What,” she said into the receiver.

“That’s rude.”

Annika waited.

Shuffling came from the other end of the line, and then Mel spoke again, exasperated. “Are you really going to be like this?”

“What do you want?”

“I—there’s been a situation.”

“And I care… why?”

“Because—“ Annika could hear Mel gritting her teeth— “it’s the house.”

Oh, no. Hell to the no. “No,” Annika said, and hung up.

The phone rang again immediately. She answered only because she knew Mel would keep hassling her if they didn’t settle it between themselves now. “No,” Annika repeated, before Mel could get a word in. “Okay? I mean it. I’m not helping you.”

“You need to come back.”

“I was kicked out! Banned from ever speaking to any of you and told charges would be pressed if I ever tried to go back to the house! Like hell am I coming back!” Annika’s fingers were tight on the phone and her voice shook: it had been her house, originally, before she met David, before they spent two years together, before she put his name on the mortgage for tax reasons, before David convinced her to rent the spare bedroom.

Before Mel.

“We need you,” Mel said.

“Tough shit.”

“Your name’s still on the mortgage! David can’t deal with this, not alo—”

Annika hung up again, and then blocked Mel’s number, and David’s too for good measure.

Honestly, she was surprised it even took this long. Two years since David filed a restraining order for fabricated domestic abuse so he and his real girlfriend Melissa could move into Annika’s house. It was the kind of con artist shit you heard about in Reddit stories and true crime shows. Annika half-smiled, now, because, in a way, she should be thanking them.

No one would ever be able to prove that the lien on the property had been taken out by Annika rather than David—she had all his social security information, all his IDs, everything. He’d let her have them, back when he was still pretending they were together. After Annika picked herself up and got back on her feet, well, she hadn’t been able to resist getting her pound of flesh back, by doing exactly the sort of thing David and Mel did to her.

She hoped the debt was too much for them.

She hoped they fucking choked on it.

"You need to come back."

"I was kicked out! Banned from ever speaking to any of you and told charges would be pressed if I ever tried to go back to the house! Like hell am I coming back."

"We need you."

"Tough shit."

#short story #story prompt #writing prompt #my writing #written #flash fiction #do not repost #snippet #dialogue prompt #ok to reblog #magali wrote

[magali-writes]

Prompt #769

“I don’t want to choose between you.” The thief crossed their arms, defiant to the end. “I won’t.”

“Fine.” The villain shrugged. “Take the middle ground, stand in no man’s land, gain yourself two enemies instead of one. I can’t say I won’t run you over on the path to victory.”

[magali-writes]

They should have known this would happen, when they tried to steal from a superhero and got caught. It was so blindingly obvious, in hindsight: a power that the thief didn’t know about, an extra few seconds’ warning, and just like that, they’d walked in on not a sleeping superhero but Nimbus, wide awake and in full glory.

Caught.

Nimbus came to visit them in their cell, calling the thief by a name they’d abandoned years before; and for a few weeks, the thief even tried to forget that their lover was still out there, probably mad with grief—tried just to reconnect with their old friend.

The unexpected part was that Nimbus’ unmasked face was an older version of someone pictured in the thief’s high school yearbook.

Had they really thought it would be that easy?

No. Not really.

But they’d thought they had more time.

Now their lover and their captor stood at opposite ends of the cell, both armed, both dangerous, both furious. Behind Nimbus—a trial, a prison, consequences, but also a chance at something the thief long ago thought lost. Behind their lover, a still-smoking hole blown in the wall, and freedom, the perfect, pure lack of roots that had drawn the thief to them in the first place.

“Love, come on,” the lover snapped, one hand held out. “Stalemates don’t last forever.”

“This isn’t a stalemate. I just don’t want to hurt Peter.”

“That’s not their name anymore!”

Nimbus frowned at the villain, and then at the thief. “What? You didn’t tell me—”

A horrible klaxon split the air. The thief clapped their hands over their ears and watched in horror as the sound dropped Nimbus like a stone.

“Heroes,” said the villain, lowering the device they’d used for the sound. “Always so sure everyone else will be honorable. Now—choose.”

“I won’t.”

The villain narrowed their eyes. “Then you will have betrayed me. And now Nimbus knows you’re my lover, they’ll hate you too.”

“Refusing to choose isn’t betrayal!”

“You’re either with me or against me,” said the villain. “Choose, love, or make two enemies instead of one. I won’t hesitate to run a traitor down the next time our paths cross.”

The thief’s heart hammered painfully.

This wasn’t freedom. This—their lover’s demands, that imperiously held-out hand—wasn’t freedom.

“Then I choose nimbus,” they said, barely feeling their mouth move.

Did their lover flinch? Under so many layers of tactical gear, it was impossible to tell for sure. Their hand fell.

“Very well,” said their lover quietly, and turned around. “That’s your choice? Then enjoy the consequences. I won’t even lift a finger.”

— — —

It was the wrong choice.

Prompt #769

“I don’t want to choose between you.” The thief crossed their arms, defiant to the end. “I won’t.”

“Fine.” The villain shrugged. “Take the middle ground, stand in no man’s land, gain yourself two enemies instead of one. I can’t say I won’t run you over on the path to victory.”

#short story #flash fiction #original fiction #mine #snippet #do not repost #ok to reblog #heroes and villains #original #nonbinary #magali wrote

[magali-writes]

Amanda just stared, which was, in all fairness, an entirely logical response to what just came out of Evvie’s mouth. She played her own words back and sighed. Two weeks. That’s all she lasted this time. Uncle Frank was going to kill her.

“Okay,” Amanda said slowly, “I meant, like, my mom drinks too much and my dad never wanted kids, not… are you for real?”

“Unfortunately.”

“That’s the kind of shit that happens in movies. Or—I don’t know—big cities! Places where stuff happens! Not—here!”

Amanda gestured wildly with one arm. This again was entirely logical: from the roof of the school’s performing arts center, they could see the entire town of Barnett, Kansas, population: 2,097. Few of the buildings had two stories, and none had three. The only thing of comparable height to this rooftop was the church steeple—Evvie flexed the tiny muscles in her eyes and focused on it until she could pick out its peeling paint. In the other direction, past the school and the weedy lot they called a sports field, fields stretched away to the horizon, rolling green and dusty gold.

“Exactly,” Evvie said, and sent a quick text. “It’s like, witness protection, but for supervillains’ kids.”

“So your parents…”

“In prison, and good riddance. Gum?”

Amanda took a stick from the pack on what looked like reflex. In the two weeks since Evvie moved here, all thirty kids in the eleventh grade class learned Evvie always had gum, and shared it freely—exotic flavors too, the kind of thing that the town’s two tiny convenience stores never stocked. This, however, was not the usual type of gum, and Evvie ate none of it herself.

“Wild,” said Amanda, chewing thoughtfully. “So can you, like, do stuff?”

“Define stuff,” Evvie said.

“Well…”

Amanda never finished her sentence: the drug in the gum took over, and she slumped. Evvie caught her gently and lowered Amanda back to lie down on the roof, careful that her head didn’t thump to the synthetic surface. Then Evvie dialed Uncle Frank.

He picked up on the first ring. “I’m on my way. Your phone tracker is in the damn theater, kid, are you trying to get caught?”

“Actually we’re on the roof.”

“That’s worse! How in the blazes did you get up there? Wait. Tell me you didn’t—“

“No, I didn’t climb up here using any of my,” Evvie never could find a good word for this, “modifications. Just climbed. You know, like a normal teenager.”

“So your little friend didn’t see anything, you just… told her? I’m going to sew your lips shut.” It was an empty threat. Uncle Frank had been Evvy’s government-assigned custodian since she was taken away from her parents aged five and a half. He’d never hurt her.

He would bitch about it a lot, though.

“There’s no one around, I’m sure of it. Can you just wipe her, so we can stay? Please? I like it here. It’s quiet. And Amanda is nice. I’ll be more careful.”

Uncle Frank grumbled into the phone for a few seconds. “Fine.”

“You’re the best!”

“I’m prematurely gray is what I am,” he said. “Sit tight. I’ll be there in five.”

“You have terrible parents too?”

“Oh yeah. My parents are mad scientists who turned all their kids into freak monsters.”

#story prompt #dialogue prompt #short story #written #snippet #superheroes #heroes and villains #flash fiction #ok to reblog #do not repost #magali wrote

[magali-writes]

If identifying an assassin is difficult, how might a character frame one?

Have complete control over the criminal investigation.

Framing someone for a crime is much harder than it may seem. Basically anything you manipulate in your attempt to frame someone will leave forensic evidence behind.

For example, if you wanted to frame an assassin by retrieving the gun they used, and planting it somewhere that's tied to them, you've now handled that weapon, and potentially left evidence behind when you tried to stash it. That could potentially include video of you, with that murder weapon, sneaking into their home.

At that point, even evidence that would be normally useful to proving they possessed the gun, would be tainted, because now they have a very solid explanation for why their prints are on the thing. “I was cleaning out an upstairs closet and found a gun. Then I went, checked my security cameras, and saw this goomba breaking into my home, so I called you guys.”

“Why do you have security cameras?”

“I get a discount on my homeowners insurance.”

It's a real problem. Because now, that murder weapon is tied to you, not to the assassin, and any evidence that might might incriminate them can now be written off as a part of your campaign to frame them.

It's almost easier to draw law enforcement attention down on them by staging an entirely unrelated crime, and using that to direct police attention, such as dumping a conspicuous corpse near their discarded murder weapon, or firebombing their home. Of course, this carries the risk of being discovered for the crime you committed, but crimes where there's no connection between the criminal and victim are pretty difficult to solve, unless the criminal screws up in some way. This is, ironically, one of the major factors that make identifying professional assassins nearly impossible.

Hilariously, this problem with forensics is one of the reasons why the whole, “clearing your name,” plot line is basically impossible. If you've, somehow, been framed for a crime, and you go out and try to stage an unofficial investigation to clear yourself, you're going to succeed in forensically tying yourself to every piece of evidence you discover.

In fact, one of the best ways to frame someone, is by personally investigating the crime you've been accused of. The limitation in this method is that you can only frame yourself. The more you uncover and learn about the crime, the more you mess with the evidence, the more solid that frame becomes. One of the classic examples of this is, locating the murder weapon, which of course, once you find it, you're now forensically linked to that weapon, your prints are probably on it, and if they're not, whatever methods you used to avoid putting your prints can now be established for why your prints weren't on the weapon in the first place.

I mentioned at the beginning that the best way to frame someone is have complete control over the criminal investigation. That, unfortunately remains true. The best way to frame someone is to be the investigating police officer. A corrupt cop can tie evidence to their intended target with shocking ease, if they're the one doing the search, and planted it in the first place. Best of all (for them), any connection they have with the planted evidence can be easily dismissed or concealed. At a particularly horrific end of the spectrum, they could simply execute someone in cold blood and plant a weapon on them. The colloquial parlance for a firearm in this case is a, “drop piece,” which should inform you exactly how real this practice is. It's not something you'd expect when they're going after an assassin, but when dealing with something like drug enforcement, it's on the table.

A frame like this can still fall apart if you can afford a good defense attorney, but that's a lot of money. So, again, something a professional assassin could probably afford.

The hard part with all of this remains in the question of whether professional assassins are real in the first place. We don't have any real examples. Now, proving a negative is another (nearly) impossible thing. It's impossible to prove that globe trotting master assassins are strictly works of fiction. However, and I'm going to stress this, there is no evidence they do exist. This persuasively suggests they aren't real, but it doesn't prove their non-existence.

Identifying and framing one would have to start with identifying one. If they don't exist, that's an impossible task; if they do exist, and are so skilled to have left, virtually, no footprint, that is an almost impossible task. If your character is in some privileged position that allows them insight into the identity of one of these assassins, framing them is probably a poor method for removing them, unless your character has direct control over law enforcement agencies, or control over corrupt elements in the same. Though at that point, simply having them executed in a traffic stop would still, likely, be a safer method of eliminating the assassin.

-Starke

This blog is supported through Patreon. Patrons get early access to new posts, and direct access to us through Discord. If you’d like to support us, please consider becoming a Patron.

#writing advice #assassins #how to #writing critique

[magali-writes]

“What’s the best Pixar film? Answer carefully.”

“Ratatouille.”

The interviewer narrowed her eyes. “Take off your hat.”

Cynthia did. It was a straw fedora, and quite stylish in her opinion, and more to the point did not conceal any anthropomorphic rodents telling her what to do.

“Hm,” said the interviewer, and made a note.

“Is that a problem you have often? Rats hiding under baseball caps?”

“There’s a first time for everything,” said the interviewer with a perfectly deadpan expression.

Cynthia had known to expect weird, when she applied to this job, but even so—

“Name your favorite type of tooth.”

“My—ah, molars,” said Cynthia, improvising wildly, “because they’re… multipurpose.”

“Best way to destroy a house without arousing suspicion?”

Now that was more the kind of question Cynthia expected. “Gas leak, termites in the foundations, or fire.”

The interviewer gave no indication whether this was a good answer, just scribbled another, longer note on her paper, and then leaning back to peer at Cynthia over her glasses.

Cynthia looked calmly back.

Slowly, the interviewer nodded. “Do you have any more questions before we complete this interview?”

“Just one,” said Cynthia. “The application forms didn’t provide much guidance as to the hazard pay and health benefits attached to such a volatile job.”

“Oh, they’re excellent, I can assure you of that.” Now the interviewer smiled, as if at a private joke. “We’ll be in touch within a week.”

Cynthia took her leave, stopping at the receptionist’s desk for a butterscotch hard candy on the way out. Her eyes fell on the seal on the wall behind the desk: two crossed swords, under the words Supernatural Threat Response Division.

The receptionist followed her gaze and made a face. “Yeah, you’d think for a super top secret office they wouldn’t, like, put the logo everywhere, you know? What industry’re you from?”

“Poltergeists,” said Cynthia, which didn’t come close to describing what all she did but was a useful capsule summary for casual conversation.

Immediately, the receptionist brightened. “Oh, I know you! You’re that chick from TV, the fraud!”

“Not a fraud.” Cynthia winked. “Just a recruit.”

The receptionist’s laughter followed her out of the office and into a benign hallway of the sort that marked drab buildings leased to failing companies by the square foot. At least out here the sign on the door said only Barnett Analytics.

- - -

Cynthia gets a call one week later, and hung up with a smile. She was officially hired for the most dangerous job no one knew existed: Crown Paranormal Investigator.

"What's the best Pixar film? Answer carefully"

#original #flash fiction #snippet #paranormal #do not repost

[magali-writes]

“Where—where are you going?”

Sky paused with his back to the group. “Home.”

No one answered for a moment. “But—we’re not done,” said the General, slowly. “We still have to press on to the palace.”

“The pass is clear now.” Sky turned back, scarred face unhappy. “We won today. The King doesn’t control the borders. You can call your allies, march on the city, take the kingdom back, whatever. You don’t need me.”

Elian stepped forward and put her hands on Sky’s shoulders. “Yes, we do. You’re Skybreaker. You’re the one in the prophecy!”

Sky closed his eyes and stepped back, out of her reach. He never wanted to be in a prophecy. He never wanted to sit on a throne.

“Sky,” the General said. Even now, battle-weary, wounded, leaning on his spear for support, he exuded the kind of dignity only found in those who have seen the worst of humanity, yet kept hold of their faith. He, Sky knew, would never give up, would never waver, would never be anywhere but at the front lines of the harshest battles. He would not rest until he or the King was dead.

“That tyrant made you a slave!” Elian said, as if Sky could somehow have forgotten. “If you hadn’t come into your power you’d be one still!”

“And I hate him for it. I fought. But I never said I was a hero.” He looked at Elian, beseeching. “I told you, remember? I just want to stay alive long enough to go home to my family.”

“I thought we were your family.”

The General coughed. “Elian…”

But the damage was done. Sky had already taken a step back, eyes growing cold like the winds he commanded. “No. You’re not. My family lives in peaceful lands far south of these cursed mountains, and it’s high time I returned to them.”

They weren’t happy, he saw that clear as day. This group represented the rebel General’s best field commanders, tacticians and warriors all. Good people, for the most part. But ruthless, too. Sky had been forced to be ruthless by circumstance, and longed to return to a life in which such wasn’t necessary. The rebels knew nothing else.

Good people, for the most part, who nevertheless might try to force him to stay.

“I’m going,” Sky said with finality. He clenched one fist. Distantly, thunder rumbled. “And if you follow me, you won’t live to regret it.”

Good people could still do bad things. They could try to keep him: Sky could kill them for it. Sky could kill them to keep their war from shadowing him back home.

When he walked away up the pass, he heard no footsteps following, and despite the heavy pack on his shoulders felt lighter than he had in years.

"I never said I was a hero. I just want to stay alive long enough so I can go home to my family."

#original #prompt short #dialogue prompt #do not repost #flash fiction #fantasy #short story #superheroes #heroes and villains #ok to reblog