I’m trying out something new. I found a link party for “Five Minute Friday,” which is a group of bloggers who respond to a one-word prompt each Friday. It’s a writing support group. The idea is to look at the prompt and just go, spewing out content to a five-minute timer, without much forethought. I’ve been wanting to write more creatively lately, and I look at this as a good way to get back into it. I was so excited to find this group!
Not going to lie, I’m kind of nervous to put my writing out there. It feels like I haven’t written fiction in SO LONG. But it also feels good to do so!
Warnings for violence and language.
09.13.13 – Mercy
Mercy is weakness. Mercy is strength.
Isa knew this. Sometimes she thought she was the only one who understood it implicitly, and she felt that the others tried to take advantage of her because they thought she was weak. It grated, sometimes. But often enough she was glad to be viewed as weak. Because that kept her from being a target. Keep the non-combatant out of the war, right?
But her home was a place of refuge to the people on her side. Brenna had sent the children to her, after all, as well as Paige and Audrey and a slew of others who’d used her house as a veritable underground railroad on their search for a life free of war. The last who’d gone through was Nicky, searching for Paige. They’d been separated for months as he fought with Brenna, and when he showed up on her doorstep, Isa swallowed back the question that’d jumped in her throat – what happened? Where is she? Because questions in this time never had good answers.
Brenna was here now. There wasn’t even a knock on the door, but the dog’s whine let her know that someone was creeping about. Isa opened the door, gun in hand, only to find her childhood friend’s corpse on the front porch.
No, it wasn’t a corpse. She was still breathing, but she was covered in blood that maybe wasn’t hers and her clothes were scorched and she was like ice and Isa had never seen her so pallid–
Two days later, there was a knock at the door. Isa was expecting this.
Brenna had led the demons straight to her.
She opened the door to Priscilla. Her former friend was known for her composure and impeccable dress. Tonight, she looked a little more worn. Her hair was in a disarray and an angry cut marred her beautiful, porcelain cheek.
“Yeah. Me. It’s been a long time, Pris.”
Priscilla sniffed. “I didn’t think you were still alive.”
“You never thought of anything that didn’t matter to you.”
Priscilla’s eyes narrowed at that jab. “Brenna’s here.”
Isa answered Priscilla coolly. “Where else would she be?”
“Dumb sentimental bitch,” Pris said, pushing past Isa without a backwards glance, heading towards the back room where Brenna lay sedated in bed, wounds bandaged from their last encounter. Isa knew she intended to finish the job.
She never saw the gun as Isa raised it, pulling the trigger in three short bursts that tore through her back. She never saw the floor as it rose up to meet her. And she never saw the strength that lay in Isa’s core – the conviction that good must be protected.
Even by the weak.