a <400 word story prompted by my friend and fellow writing streamer: BigfootBjornsen. The prompt was “neon lights”. Additionally, I decided to pair the prompt with an image of uncut gems.
Whereas with polished gems, light would bounce off them and strike the viewer with grandeur, light fell into these uncut gems like satellites falling into black holes. Once inside, the strobes and glowsticks compressed into foggy debris. To the college students on the dance floor, they held no meaning. The majority of the clubbers didn’t even know they were there.
But those at the table…
Crisis was grinning. She knew she’d brought in a good haul. A red glow dug into her boiling buzz cut, adding a volcanic quality to her hair. It set her gold hoops on fire and raced down her leather jacket and short shorts.
Crisis leaned forward, one elbow the table. Her head was perched in her hand as she smirked directly at Cleaver.
Cleaver’s expression was, as always, one of unwavering unamusement. His posture was as stony as his face. He was a gargoyle of a man at 6’07” and packed with muscles beneath his tailored silver suit. Blue light glinted off his diamond cufflinks. Raindrops rolling down a windshield, shivering and slithering away as if even they were afraid to bother him.
Only Crisis had the audacity not to fear him.
Only Crisis was allowed to have that audacity and live.
“This is a good haul, daughter” Cleaver said, giving her a smile, his final word washing away in the club music.
The only person who needed to hear it, heard it.
“Just wait ’til you see the next one,” Crisis smirked even wider.
“I look forward to it,” he said.
A tight-vested, micro-skirted server brought them their drinks. The clacks of faer heels drowned in the music, but each sultry step fae swaggered made light burst beneath faer from panels in the floor.
Cleaver handed a blank check to the server, pointed to Crisis, and said, “Anything she wants is hers.”
The server’s eyes only temporarily bugged out. She pocketed the check and gave Cleaver and Crisis a smirk of her own. “With this kind of money, daddy, she can have the whole damn club if she wants.”
“I’ll take just you,” Crisis said. “For now.”
Cleaver snorted, finalizing the end of their business. He sipped his cocktail, content with his pleasure of drinks, as Crisis whisked the server off to her own.