Lizet's Place

Continuation of A Wolf in Silk with the concept of Toi toi toi (an expression used to ward off bad luck, often whispered like knocking on wood).

Title: To Ward off the Wolf
Summary: Haunted by Vincent Lane’s power and her own fear, Mira whispers “toi toi toi” before every risk she takes, as if it might shield her from his reach. But luck can only protect her so long, and courage must do the rest.

---

Weeks passed, and St. Leora shimmered on as if nothing foul hid behind the velvet curtains of its charity galas. Mira carried on at the Gazette, writing features about local heroes, restaurant openings, and the occasional human-interest piece that barely scratched the city’s polished surface.

But every time she pressed save on an article, she whispered softly under her breath: “Toi toi toi.”

The words, a tradition she’d picked up from her grandmother, felt like a frail shield of sound, a small ritual to knock away the shadow of Vincent Lane.

Sometimes, as she walked to work under the golden façades of old buildings, she would catch her reflection in a shop window, shoulders hunched, eyes darting, and whisper it again. Toi toi toi. Like knocking on unseen wood, like spitting out the bad luck that clung to her thoughts.

In quiet moments at her desk, she’d remember the call: Lane’s voice warm and unhurried, the threat wrapped in velvet. And each memory would tighten her chest until the words toi toi toi tumbled out like a plea.

Colleagues teased her gently about talking to herself. She forced a smile, claiming it was a nervous habit. But only she knew the truth: fear had become a silent companion, and those three whispered words were all that kept it from swallowing her whole.

And yet, even wrapped in fear, something stubborn flickered in her: a certainty that the truth mattered, even if the city itself seemed content to keep dancing under chandeliers, blind to the wolf in their midst.

At night, before sleep, she would press her fingers to her lips and breathe the words into the dark. Toi toi toi.

Not just to ward off danger, but to remember that courage still lived in her somewhere, waiting for the moment she’d dare to use it.

---

The whispers had begun the morning after Vincent’s call. Mira had woken before dawn, heart pounding, his words echoing like iron bells in her head:

“Don’t waste it on a battle you can’t win.”

She had poured coffee with shaking hands, staring at the cold sunrise outside her window, and found her grandmother’s voice surfacing in memory:

“When danger circles, Mira, say toi toi toi. Spit the evil away.”

So she did. Three quick words. Soft as breath, sharp as prayer.

The first time, the words felt thin and foolish on her tongue, almost childish. But something in them steadied her, like catching the edge of a ledge just before the fall.

That day at the Gazette, she whispered them before she opened her laptop, before she checked her phone for messages she dreaded yet half-expected. The words became part of her breath: a rhythm, a charm, a whispered pact with whatever small gods might still be listening.

In the silence of her apartment at night, she spoke them into the hush, voice barely louder than the hum of the city beyond her window. Toi toi toi. Against Lane’s threats. Against her own gnawing doubt.

But even as she whispered, the memory of his voice coiled in her mind: calm, certain, cruel in its softness. It was a warning, but also a promise, a promise that his power reached further than she could see.

And yet, under the fear, something stubborn refused to die. Each whisper wasn’t only a defense; it was defiance. A vow to herself that she wouldn’t look away, not completely. That the wolf might watch her, but she would watch back.

Toi toi toi, she breathed, over and over, until the words felt as familiar and necessary as her own heartbeat.

---

Despite the editor’s order to drop the Lane story, Mira couldn’t let it go. The photos from the warehouse were hidden on an encrypted drive; the contractor’s statement was locked in a drawer at home. At night, she reviewed them like talismans, each detail a knot in the thread of truth she was quietly weaving.

Toi toi toi, she whispered before she logged in, before she touched the files, before she dared imagine what would happen if she shared them.

Each image burned itself deeper into her mind: the shadowed crates, the logo of a shell corporation she’d traced back to Lane, the blurred figures loading what looked like medical supplies meant for the city’s free clinic. Supplies that never arrived.

She would close her laptop and sit in the quiet dark, breath held, listening for footsteps in the hall that never came. Fear stalked her constantly, like the echo of footsteps just out of sight, but the truth she’d glimpsed haunted her more.

Some nights, sleep refused to come. Instead, she’d find herself pacing her small apartment, the contractor’s voice replaying in her head: the tremor when he’d described what he’d seen, the hurried scrawl of his signature at the bottom of the statement.

Lane’s power felt like a shadow stretching over every bright street of St. Leora. And yet, each time doubt crept close, each time she wondered if she should bury it all and walk away, she whispered those three words, soft as breath but sharp as iron:

Toi toi toi.

It didn’t banish the fear completely. But it kept her moving, file by file, word by word, down a path she knew might lead to danger, and perhaps, if she dared, to something like justice.

---

The danger proved real soon enough.

One evening, as Mira left the Gazette, the city’s light rain misting her face, a dark sedan idled at the curb. Its window rolled down to reveal a man in a charcoal suit, sharp-eyed, silent. Without a word, he held up his phone: on the screen, a photo of Mira’s tiny apartment building.

She froze.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He rolled the window back up, and the sedan disappeared into traffic.

Heart hammering, Mira pressed her palm to her chest. “Toi toi toi,” she whispered into the wet night, as if the words could wrap around her like armor.

For a moment, all she heard was the rain pattering on pavement, the distant hiss of tires. Then the world seemed to tilt, fear crashing over her in cold waves. Her safe routine had been pierced. Lane’s warning had crossed from words to a silent, unmistakable threat.

That night, Mira checked the locks on her door three times. She pushed a chair under the knob, drew the blinds tight, and whispered the charm again and again until her voice turned hoarse. Toi toi toi. Not out of superstition anymore, but out of raw need, a desperate plea to hold on to courage.

Yet even as fear clawed at her, so did something else: anger. The photos, the missing supplies, the contractor’s trembling voice, they weren’t just evidence anymore. They were people being hurt. And Lane, sitting somewhere behind velvet curtains and polished glass, thought a single silent threat would be enough to silence her.

She powered on her laptop, the glow spilling across the dark room. The encrypted drive opened. For a heartbeat, her finger hovered over the delete key, but she didn’t press it. Instead, she opened a blank document, hands trembling, and began to type.

If she had to walk through fear, she’d do it word by word. And every paragraph, every whispered toi toi toi, became both shield and spear.

---

That night, sleep abandoned her. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering: How far would Vincent Lane go? How many had tried and failed before her?

And then, the darker question: Was she going to fail too?

The thought hollowed her chest like a cold wind. She imagined headlines that would never be printed, files that would vanish into digital ash, and a city that would keep dancing under chandeliers, never knowing what had been stolen from them.

Her grandmother’s voice came back to her, softer this time: “Spit the evil away, Mira.” So she whispered again, toi toi toi, her breath catching on the last syllable. But the words felt smaller than before, barely enough to steady the quake inside her.

She turned onto her side, clutching her phone, thumb hovering over her contact list. Who could she trust? Colleagues? Too risky. The contractor? He was already terrified. The names blurred together until they all felt equally fragile, equally unsafe.

Outside, rain streaked her window, each drop catching the amber glow of a passing car. The city felt endless and empty at the same time.

Yet as the hours crawled toward dawn, something stubborn sparked beneath the fear. If she stopped now, Lane would win, easily, silently. And if the threat had been meant to scare her off, maybe that meant she was closer to the truth than she’d dared hope.

She swallowed hard, sat up, and pulled her laptop back onto her knees. The files blinked on the screen, waiting. With shaking fingers, she began drafting an outline, facts, sources, and gaps she needed to fill.

Every word felt like stepping onto thin ice. But she kept going. Toi toi toi, she whispered into the hush of her apartment, as if each syllable could stitch a layer of courage around her fear.

Maybe she couldn’t defeat Lane outright. But silence, she realized, would be a greater defeat than failure. And as dawn’s first gray light crept through the blinds, Mira decided: she would rather try and fall than never try at all.

---

The next morning brought an unexpected flicker of hope. A message on her personal email, signed only “K.”

I know what you saw at the warehouse. You’re not alone. Meet me tomorrow, 8 p.m., Riverwalk. Come alone.

Mira read it three times. Toi toi toi, she whispered, pressing her lips to her knuckles.

She weighed the risk until dusk, finally deciding: better to face danger with truth than live safely in silence.

That night, her nerves tangled tighter than ever. What if it was a trap? Lane’s people luring her out? She imagined the dark sedan waiting again, the man in the charcoal suit stepping forward. Her breath quickened; her palms went clammy.

But another thought pushed through the fear like dawn through fog: What if it wasn’t? What if K really was someone else who had seen too much, someone who might help her thread this story together into something unignorable?

She spent the day preparing. She printed copies of the contractor’s statement, hid one in a cookbook, and tucked another inside the lining of her purse. On a slim flash drive, she saved the photos from the warehouse and slipped it into her coat pocket, taped behind her phone case in case someone tried to take it.

By sunset, the city shimmered under bruised clouds, lights reflecting off the slow-moving river. Mira stood at the edge of the Riverwalk, jacket zipped to her chin, heart rattling like a trapped bird.

She whispered it again, under her breath, almost like breathing: toi toi toi.

Then she stepped forward into the night, toward the meeting that might change everything—or end it before it began.

---

At the Riverwalk, lights reflected off the black water, blurring into smears of gold and white. Mira’s breath puffed in nervous clouds as she scanned the path.

A woman stepped from the shadows, tall and dressed in a dark coat, her eyes wary. “Mira Walsh?” she asked.

“Yes. Are you ‘K’?”

The woman nodded. “My name is Kara. I used to handle accounts for Lane’s foundation.” Her voice trembled, though she kept it low. “I have proof. Transactions, offshore accounts. But he found out I copied them. I’ve been hiding ever since.”

Mira’s chest tightened. “Why risk coming to me?”

“Because I saw your photos. You have something too,” Kara said. “If we bring it together, we can bury him.”

The idea felt like a lit match in the dark. But fear curled cold around Mira’s ribs. “He’ll come after us.”

“He already is,” Kara whispered. “That’s why we must move fast. Tomorrow. I’ll send everything I have.”

Toi toi toi, Mira mouthed silently as Kara disappeared into the night.

---

Back home, Mira waited by her laptop, heart pounding. At midnight, the email arrived: files, spreadsheets, bank statements that glowed on the screen like forbidden treasure.

She exhaled shakily. “Toi toi toi,” she whispered, as if the words could keep Vincent’s gaze away.

But luck, Mira realized, was only a cloak; it couldn’t replace resolve.

Her grandmother’s charm could ward off shadows, but it couldn’t write the story for her. Fingers trembling, she opened the first spreadsheet: shell company names she recognized, transfers timed days before the clinic’s missing shipment, sums that spoke louder than a hundred testimonies.

Piece by piece, the truth formed in her mind, uglier and more damning than she’d dared guess. Lane wasn’t simply siphoning funds; he was bleeding the city dry through a lattice of fake charities, contracts, and silent partners.

The cursor blinked at the top of a blank document. Mira hesitated only a moment, then began to type: dates, names, amounts. Facts cold as stone. The story she’d been too afraid to finish was now too real to ignore.

Outside, the wind rattled her window. Fear twisted her stomach, but she let it sit beside her resolve rather than chase it away. Her whispered toi toi toi was no longer just a charm; it was a promise to herself: to keep going, even when the night felt endless.

And as dawn’s light broke across St. Leora’s polished skyline, Mira kept writing, ready at last to drag what hid behind velvet curtains into the morning sun.

---

She gathered everything, Kara’s documents, her photos, notes, and testimony, and wrote. For hours, until dawn bled through the blinds, she typed the story she had once been warned to bury.

A piece of truth powerful enough, she hoped, to break the wolf’s silk disguise.

She hesitated over the send button, fear rattling in her bones. Then, softly but fiercely, she whispered: “Toi toi toi.”

And clicked.

For a breathless moment, nothing happened. The draft vanished into the Gazette’s secure submission box, the screen flickering back to her tired reflection in the darkened monitor.

Mira sat frozen, listening to her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. The apartment felt impossibly still, as if even the air was waiting to see what she’d done.

Slowly, her shoulders sagged. She wasn’t safe, not yet, but she had done it. She had chosen truth over silence, her voice over fear.

Outside, St. Leora’s skyline gleamed gold in the first light, its facades still hiding a thousand secrets. But today, at least one would not stay hidden.

Mira whispered the words again, softer now, almost like a prayer of hope rather than fear: “Toi toi toi.”

Then she closed her laptop, drew the curtains wide to let in the morning sun, and finally allowed herself to breathe.

---

The story went live the next evening, first on her anonymous blog, then shared by a dozen smaller outlets that weren’t in Lane’s pocket. It spread like sparks on dry grass: accusations, evidence, questions no one could now ignore.

Lane denied everything, of course, smiling, charming, the city’s darling still. But the mask had cracked. Rumors whispered through St. Leora’s marble hallways and gilded dining rooms. Donors began to pull back. A councilwoman publicly demanded an inquiry; a clerk leaked more documents. The network Mira had feared was now splintering from within, cracks turning into fissures.

Late that night, Mira walked the Riverwalk where she’d first met Kara. The wind smelled of rain, the water dark and restless beside her. Fear still curled cold in her chest, but beside it, something warmer sparked, a fragile defiance, alive and stubborn.

She pressed her palm to the railing, felt the river’s steady current below, and whispered into the night: “Toi toi toi.”

Not just to ward off danger this time, but to keep courage alive. Because the wolf had been wounded, not slain. And tomorrow, she knew, the real fight would begin.

---

Two days later, Mira received another email from Kara. “They’re coming after me. I’m leaving the city. Keep fighting.”

Mira closed the laptop, heart heavy but steady. The wolf still prowled, but the flock had seen his fangs.

And Mira kept whispering, every time she felt the fear rising: “Toi toi toi.”

Because luck might bend. But courage, once found, could keep her standing. And as long as she stood, the truth still had a voice.

She knew Lane’s allies would strike back, with lawsuits, threats, and quiet whispers to discredit her work. But the silence that once blanketed St. Leora had been pierced, and there was no going back.

Every day, Mira returned to her desk, gathered new tips, and spoke to people who would once have never dared to talk. Fear walked beside her, but so did resolve, a quiet companion forged in long nights and whispered words.

At night, as the city lights shimmered beyond her window, she would press two fingers to her lips and breathe out softly: “Toi toi toi.”

And in that breath lived defiance, memory, and hope, a promise to keep the truth alive, no matter how dark the wolf’s shadow grew.

---

(2,880 words)

Here it is *smirk* I was on vacation this past week. Sadly, not in Florence, but it was someplace just as, and seeing the colors of the shops in the Bahamas gave me some ideas for this prompt. Also, hearing people talk about wanting to go on a cruise to Italy contributed to the story's location. Then, when I got home Sunday night, which is when I was able to start working on this.

I used Google Translate, so...y'know, *shrug*

---

Title: Ecco il Cuore (Here is the Heart)

Summary: A young American artist living in Florence stumbles upon an old bookshop and an even older mystery involving a series of paintings signed only with the word Ecco. As she uncovers the story behind the signature, she finds herself entangled in love, legacy, and the question of what it truly means to be seen.

---

It started with the bell, an old, cracked chime that sang out above the door like it hadn’t been touched in years.

"Ecco," said the man behind the counter, with a flick of his hand, as if the very sight of her had completed something.

The word hung in the air like perfume, unexpected but not unwelcome.

Juliette blinked, pushing up the sleeve of her linen shirt, the one now smudged with charcoal and city grime. She had ducked into the narrow bookshop not for any philosophical reason, but because the Florentine sun had become unbearable and her sketchpad was threatening to melt.

She glanced around. The shop was a maze of crooked wood and dust, with old shelves leaning like conspirators. There was no air conditioning, but the thick stone walls offered enough relief to make her linger.

The man behind the counter was older, perhaps in his late sixties, with silver hair and eyes that seemed to have seen wars or, worse, the boredom of students.

He nodded again. “Ecco. I was wondering when you’d come.”

Juliette half-laughed. “Excuse me?”

He waved her over, and when she hesitated, he simply said, “Non ti preoccupare. Vieni. (Don't worry. Come.)”

She stepped forward, wary but curious, the way a stray cat might approach a friendly hand. He slid a book across the counter to her. It was a slim volume, bound in wine-red leather. No title on the cover.

Juliette opened it, and the scent of ancient ink hit her like a song she hadn’t heard in years. Inside were sketches, some rough, some detailed, some like half-formed dreams. She recognized the hand immediately.

“Who did these?” she asked.

The man gave her a small, knowing smile. “That is the question.”

Each sketch was signed the same way: Ecco.

Juliette traced the name with her fingertip. “Here is...what, exactly?”

“Ecco can mean many things,” he said. “Here it is. Look. This is it. A presentation, a revelation. Or perhaps just presence. The artist signed not with their name, but with a gesture...an offering.”

She didn’t speak for a moment, then finally asked, “Do you know who they are?”

The man tilted his head. “Some say a student of Botticelli. Others, a nun who painted in secret. One theory insists it was a young man who disguised his identity to escape scandal. But the truth?” He tapped the cover. “Perhaps the answer is inside you.”

Juliette looked at him, uncertain if she was being played or recruited into something. “Why give this to me?”

“You came in from the sun, sì? Uninvited. And yet, Ecco. Here you are.”

That word again.

He wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to her. An address, an alley not far from the Arno.

“Go there,” he said. “Bring the book.”

She should have walked away. She should have thanked him, put the book down, and left the shop as if nothing had happened.

Instead, she tucked the book into her satchel and walked out the door without another word.

---

The address led her to a decaying palazzo wedged between modern cafés and careless traffic. The courtyard was made of cracked marble, but still beautiful, with ivy curling around its columns like whispered secrets.

Inside, the rooms were empty except for one. A small gallery faded but intact. A light filtered through stained glass, washing everything in the colors of melted gelato.

And there, along the walls, were more works. Sketches. Oils. Frescoes barely holding on.

All signed: Ecco.

She moved from piece to piece, breath catching in her throat. There was a woman holding a broken compass. A child lighting a candle against the wind. A mirror turned toward the sea.

Each one felt like a sentence from a language she once knew and had nearly forgotten.

And then she saw it. Her face.

Or someone who could have been her. Same jawline. Same mole beneath the left eye. The same look of stubborn longing. She stumbled back, heart hammering.

Ecco.

Here it is.

---

She returned to the shop that evening. The man was locking up.

“You knew,” she accused.

He smiled gently. “I suspected.”

“Who painted that?”

He leaned against the doorframe. “The artist used what they saw. That doesn’t mean they knew you. Or maybe they did.”

Juliette’s mind reeled. “Are you saying I’ve been...reincarnated?”

“I’m saying ecco is not just a word,” he replied. “It is a mirror. Some people run from it. Some people chase it. And some people live it.”

He handed her a small package wrapped in brown paper. Inside: new sketchbooks, brushes, and a single note: The past is not only behind you. Sometimes it waits to be remembered. Ecco.

---

Juliette never did learn the name of the artist. But she spent the rest of the summer sketching by the river, in cafes, in shadowed alleys and sunlit courtyards. She started signing her work differently. Not with her name.

Just one word.

Ecco.

---

(833 words)

 An original piece.

The Measure of Quality

Marisol prided herself on precision. Each evening, she stood in her workshop, a narrow, sunlit room at the back of her house, and cleaned her tools, inspected her materials, and arranged her worktable until it aligned with her exacting standards. On the wall hung a tiny brass plaque she had crafted herself, engraved with the single word Quality. It served as both reminder and command.

Tonight was special. Tomorrow she’d present her latest creation at the citywide Maker’s Exhibition, a celebration for inventors, artisans, and tinkerers alike. Her entry was modest. A mechanical flower, delicate and intricate, with gears as elegantly arranged as petals, powered by a tiny clockwork mechanism. But to Marisol, it represented the pinnacle of her craft.

She watched the flower revolve gently under the soft glow of her lamp. With a fingertip, she traced the polished edge of a petal. “You're perfect,” she whispered.

Behind her, a cough. Her brother, Marco, stepped in, rubbing his eyes. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.

“You’ve been at it all night,” he said.

Marisol blew on one last smear of oil and set the piece to the side. “I need to get this just right. The judges at the exhibition...they’ll expect the same attention to detail you see here.”

Marco stepped into the workshop. “It looks great. But they also pay attention to presentation, story, charm...not just mechanical precision.”

Marisol frowned. “I know what’s important. The quality of the mechanism will speak for itself.”

“Maybe,” Marco said gently. “But people connect with a story. And with emotion. Don’t underestimate that.”

Marisol paused. “It’s just...telling stories feels sloppy. Unmeasurable. Mechanical quality, I can control that.”

Marco nodded, stepping over the threshold. “Control, that’s part of it. But craft is more than control, isn’t it? You’ve always been able to build the most precise widgets, but this...this flower is beautiful in a way your others weren’t. Maybe it’s because you let a little imperfection, some humanity, speak through.”

She tilted her head. “You think I should, what? Add a flaw on purpose? A smudge of paint?”

He smiled. “Not exactly. Let the mechanics bite a little, or let the petals cast a shadow. Show them something that feels alive.”

Marisol turned back to her workbench. “Alive,” she mused. “I can’t schedule that.”

Marco walked over and added, “Maybe you don’t schedule it. Maybe you let it happen.”

She closed her eyes, then opened them. “Alright. Show me.”

He flicked a finger at the wind-up key. The flower rotated, rhythmically, but with near-mathematical predictability. “What if you change the rhythm? Make one rotation take just a fraction longer, then let it spring quickly, like a heartbeat?”

She frowned again. “That sounds like a defect.”

“Or a heartbeat,” Marco countered.

She considered it. Then placed her finger on one crucial gear and shifted it. An imperceptible change. She wound the key and let it run.

For the first three revolutions, the flower rotated slowly. On the fourth, it sped up, then slowed again. The change was subtle but noticeable. The flower no longer moved like a machine. It pulsed.

Marco exhaled. “There. Alive.”

Marisol studied the flower’s motion under the lamp. She hardly recognized it. Her fingers trembled. “It's different.”

“It’s magnetic,” he said. “That’s what the judges will feel.”

She nodded slowly. “Let it be my flaw.”

---

At dawn, Marisol packed the mechanical flower in a velvet-lined box. She tucked her brother's advice in her pocket too, like a talisman. Then she set out, walking through the city’s cobblestone streets to the Exhibition Hall.

Inside, the hall buzzed with excitement. Booths displayed wooden automata, embroidered tapestries, holographic art, robotic pets. A steady hum of conversation and clinking cups drifted overhead.

Marisol found her assigned table. An oak slab with half a dozen other entries. She laid the velvet box carefully in the center. Around her, exhibits gleamed. She felt a flicker of doubt. What if mechanical quality wasn’t enough?

An elderly judge approached, Ms. Augustine, a slim woman with silver hair and sharp eyes. She stopped at Marisol’s table and peered down.

“Good morning, young lady.” She extended her hand. “I’m Aurelia Augustine. Would you tell me about your piece?”

Marisol exhaled. “It’s a clockwork flower. I built it to mimic the rhythm of life, with gears designed to pulse...”

Ms. Augustine’s lips curved into a small smile. “I’m intrigued. May I?”

Marisol lifted the velvet lid. The flower, at rest, seemed paused in slumber. She wound the key and stepped back. It began its dance: deliberate, then quickened, like a breath drawn in surprise, then slowed, receding, gathering power, then pause.

The judges and nearby visitors leaned in. Marisol’s heart raced.

Ms. Augustine nodded slowly. “There is...emotion in its motion. Not random noise, but something more profound.”

Marisol felt her breath catch. Her vision narrowed.

Ms. Augustine pointed to the mech. “Tell me, were these fluctuations intentional?”

Marisol swallowed. “Yes. I...I over-engineered many versions to be perfectly smooth. But my brother...he said life isn’t perfect. He said to let it breathe.”

A murmur passed through the crowd. Ms. Augustine whispered, “You've created not only a mechanical device but a living echo. That quality, the soul within craft, is what elevates invention to art.”

Marisol felt warmth flood her. She dared to look at her flower, spinning in gentle, uneven perfection.

---

Later, on the Exhibition stage, the winners were announced. Marisol’s table was already being cleared when she heard her name, “Second Prize for Innovation: Marisol Reyes, ‘The Mechanical Heartflower.’” Applause echoed off the walls.

She frowned. Second place? But she felt...accomplished.

Ms. Augustine approached again. “Congratulations. You've done something rare. But to place first, the top entry needed more scale, an expanded concept, a larger context.”

Marisol nodded. “I understand. And I’m grateful.”

Outside after the ceremony, Marco greeted her with a grin. The air smelled of summer blooms.

“You did it,” he said, pulling her into a hug.

She closed her eyes. “You were right.”

He squeezed her hand. “So what’s next?”

She looked up at the rotating Ferris wheel in the distance, its lights painting the dusk sky. “I think I’ll build a whole garden of mechanical hearts. Not perfect machines, but machines that feel. And this time, I won’t treat the wobble like a defect. I'll treat it like the point, the centerpiece.”

Marco laughed. “That sounds like something only you could make.”

Marisol turned back to the Exhibition Hall, where late stragglers lingered, admiring others’ works. “I want to invite people in. To let them wind a flower and listen to their own heart in its beat.”

He smiled. “Now that's quality.”

She paused, pressed her fingers to her pulse. “Yes. That’s real quality.”

---

(1120 words)
 

I'm ready and hope I don't strike out at therealljidol

Right...so the thing I never thought about when I decided that I wanted to complete my WIPs is WHERE they were saved.

In fact, where are ALL of my fics that I've written saved?

I have a really bad feeling that they were on the flashdrive that stopped working earlier this year. They aren't on my laptop hard drive and all of the working flashdrives that I'm pulling up have other things on them - none of my fanfics.

I'm about to do a search of my laptop harddrive for the specific files I need but I'm not hopeful about it.

*sighs* Nearly 20 years of fanfic potentially gone. A lot of them were outlines of stories I would have liked to work on too.

ETA 6:05pm: No sooner had I pressed post on this entry and typed in the start of the file I was looking for, than I found it! The first file in the search, no less! OMG I'm so relieved! ALL of my writing! ALL of my H50 fic that I've written! It's ALL there! Why I moved it to the new location, I don't know, but it's all there!

I'm about 23,125 words away from 300,000 words on AO3.

There are ~54 days left in this year, that would break down to ~421 words a day.

I could spend the next 54 days wrapping up my WIPs. I only have 13 and some are 1 or 2 chapters from being complete.

I think, though, quite a few would be okay where I left them so its a matter of changing it from WIP to complete and fixing the chapter count.

This table is for the first quarter at fluffbingo.

I don't know what fandom I will be writing for but it will either be Hawaii Five-0, Teen Wolf or a crossover with Hawaii Five-0 and Adam-12.

Posting starts Feb 6 and ends Feb 28. I've got this, right?!

Never Give Upe	Touch	Discovery	Under the Stars	Date Night
Lips	Beauty	Spring	Song	Up All Night
Candy	Happy	♥ Free Space ♥	Insatiable	Stolen
Smile	Casual	Nerves	Adore	Flirt
Unconditional	Hug	Second Chance	Treat	Candlelight

What the heck...I'll do this too.

It goes like this: you go to page seven (or seventy-seven) of your WIP and select seven lines to post. Then you tag seven other people to play.

Finding 7 stories was easy. Finding 7 lines was much harder.

( read more )

I signed up for twreversebang and sort of regret nothing?

I hope I get art that can inspire me to write at least 3000 words. I mean, I've written 1800 words based on nothing more than a prompt, so having a picture should help more, right?

We'll see once art preview is posted on April 9th (and claiming on April 11th). I have a feeling it's going to be like how it was for h50_reversebang but more competitive and I'll be staying up all night (10th to 11th) to make sure I get the piece I want.