Legal Theft Project: Practiced Escapes

Sometimes the island felt like a prison. She could leave more easily than others, but she was also more recognizable, and in more danger than some of the others. If something happened to her, the others would lose one of the main advantages they had over their enemies. So she grabbed her harness and glider. Scaled the cliffs up the sides of the mountains. And leaped. Soaring under her own power over the glittering ocean, it was hard to feel trapped.

Sometimes the island felt like a prison. Kneeling among the earth of his garden, tending the miraculous curse that let them fight for so many years, he wondered if the roots and vines were strangling him. Even dusting off and wandering into his lab did not lessen the weight pressing down on his shoulders. He did have to remain rooted and still. It was lives and purpose and revenge all rolled into one. When his mind rolled too far in that direction, he left the current harvest in the kitchen for others, and retreated farther into his lab. Past the everyday titrations and herbal experiments into the warded room. And there he pushed the limits of power. He often made little progress, but he had time to crack the mysteries of the universe. Incremental progress would move mountains. After all, wasn’t that the whole point of resistance?

Sometimes the island felt like a prison. The holding point between battles and action. Sometimes it felt like a home. Sometimes if felt like both. He’d felt trapped by station, standing, and home before. He’d now lived on the island for as long as his entire family had lived in his old home. He could bleed off the feeling. Ride a storm, harass a trade caravan, sail, go to the theater. But it never addressed the root issue. Few things did. Sparring with his brother was one. And his short idiotic trips to visit someone he should not be, were another. He smiled to himself and planned his next risky trip. Maybe she would like a new jacket….

Sometimes the island felt like a prison. It was the most incredible place he had ever been. Even as he kept travelling, kept roaming, what the isle contained and how it grew and thrived, were miracles he could not compare to others. Even if the grandeur was wearing off, even if the stories were fanciful tales to be told around the campfire and the wonderful lords and ladies wandered around barefoot like regular people in their cottons, he still felt part of another world. So he wrote. To capture the island as it, and its inhabitants, captured the hearts and minds of so many others. To add in the loneliness, the sense of stasis, the longing that pervaded every corner of it. Maybe when their actions failed or succeeded, people would read the stories he wrote and never believe it true, but they would know … so much more. Maybe, win or lose, it would never be in vain.

Sometimes the island felt like a prison. When it did, she ran. When running didn’t work, she sailed. When sailing didn’t work, she worked. When work became meaningless, she sparred. When even that didn’t work, she read. She read everything. Somewhere there would be an answer, somewhere there would be a thought that could change her mind. And when she could not find one, she played. She took her violin to the practice room, and she played and played and played. In music she found peace and freedom. In music she let herself feel all the things she could not let affect her judgement. In music, the island no longer felt like a prison.


I am a thief! Myself and others have thieved the line “Sometimes the island felt like a prison.” from a machete wielding diplomat. Check them out here.

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Legal Theft Project: In the Dark

The sputtering fire barely kept the night at bay. It did nothing against inner demons. Old habits warred against the new world, and it was like shrapnel pulling against her skin. She was two days away from Surewood and each one dug the shards deeper as she drove in her stolen and oh so familiar military issue jeep. She wished she still believed in God. She wished the fire would die and something she could fight and defeat would- NO. No she didn’t. That was the …. That was what they were doing. Oh god. The woman the new world called Bloom stared into the fire and realized the added component to what she’d left behind a week ago. The base, the people who could quote the Princess Bride back at her, who knew what genres of music were, who knew what it was like to walk in step and swear an oath to something bigger…. Were doing the same damn thing as the rest of this post traumatic world. They were fighting the dangers that came out of the dark. They were using violence. It had all of the trappings of what she loved and lost, but it was trapping. It was the shield, the rhetoric. It was a tool that had been channelled by a country that had crumbled. Memories rose unbidden, memories of brass avoiding her unit, and dim thoughts about the … the information that had to be… kept… from them….

She stared at the fire until her eyes were too dry to tear up and went to gather more firewood. Log after log she brought back. Log by log, she built up the fire until it was blazing. Dried out more wood. The world had ended. She didn’t know how, but the fire and ice had turned into water and soaked everything that remained. The fire challenged the night and Bloom challenged the darkness. Old world or new, she was what she had always been even if the words had changed. So her honor was no longer tangled up in oath to powers that no longer existed. And now she knew what she was in the dark.


I stole this first line from a machete wielding diplomat with criminal connections…I may have had an accomplice or two. Check out the original piece to see.

Legal Theft Project: Rest in the Rain

Rain drowned the world in white noise.

Shedding his black coat and hat in the entryway to his home, the hard holder shivers. He is not immune to the cold and the damp, he only pretends it away when his people can see him. He sits down on the bench and removes his boots, placing them carefully in the tray just for them. He can hear the radio from the living room and sees the warm glow of a fire. Before giving in to the warmth, he drifts into the bedroom. His wife’s clothes are jumbled on the end of the bed as if she could not decide what to wear and so tried everything before she settled on something. It makes him smile as he picks them up and puts them away before taking out a sweater and slipping it on. He pulls the curtains closed on the grey grey day and goes back to the beckoning warmth of the fire. His wife smiles when he comes in and he lets the iron in his spine relax. He pours them both a drink and sits down with her in front of the fire.

Rain drowned the world in white noise.

The soldier, still lost, lets it wash all other thoughts from her head. She has not had peace since she woke up from the ice and the rain makes it easier to pretend. She sits back and takes care of her guns, watching the mechanic tinker with things she used to know the names of, now made strange and ethereal by the light and the man who twists them to do impossible tasks. She misses sitting in the barracks, playing cards with her fellows, bickering about assignments on similar rainy days. Back when the world was ordered. Back before storms and white noise were similar. Back when wolves only had one name. Rain at least, rain is the same. So she protects the items from her past and meditates on her place in the future, now that there is no army, no city, no country, to claim her.

Rain drowned the world in white noise.

Under the miraculous clear roof, the dedicate watches the rain. He’s met the springs, the sea, the fog, and the rain. While the springs may have his heart, the rains are a flirt, at times dangerous, at others delightful, and only time will tell which is which. Dry under the greenhouse roof, he tends to the flowers and vegetables, singing. His voice accompanies the scattered rushes of raindrops and rises and falls in time. When his work is complete, he walks out into the rain, letting it wash over him in chill sheets. It blinds him, but he knows the ways of his domain well and he makes it to the springs. He wades into the steam and the warm water with a smile. Water takes and water gives. And he is content to follow where it flows.

Rain drowned the world in white noise.

For the first time in a long time, the driver is not waiting out the rain in her car. Her car is safe under her custom tarp, though it does not keep the driver from the occasional worry when she glances out the window at the sheets of rain. The room is smoky and close with people lounging and dicing, playing cards and chatting. The radio plays lowly in the background, something moody and slow. Her brother is on a stool at the bar, flirting with the bartender. For his part, the bartender smiles and puts the finishing touches on something warm and steaming that smells of apples and better days. She walks over and takes a seat next to her brother and earns her own flash of a smile. They talk and the driver forgets to worry about her car. They are not talking of much, but it has been too long since she spent a day out of the rain. A day safe with other people, and not worried about what would happen when the rain lifts. At least while it rains, tomorrow and its roads will wait. At least for now, she can pretend she has a home.

Rain drowned the world in white noise. And the world slowed. And the wolves went home. And all, for now, was quiet, was well. For now.


Thieves abound! and stole this rainy first line to write their own pieces. Take a look! Completely independently that machete happy diplomat and I ended up with eerily similar pieces.

Legal Theft Project: Battlefield Mud

She blinked. The dead were not supposed to do that. She blinked again, but the corpse kept moving. She scrambled back, reaching for her fallen sword. Around her, more fallen were starting to stir. The dead from both sides of the battlefield were rising in jerky movements. The soldiers in her company drew together and backed away from the rising horror. Bad enough to be too hot, to be fighting until you dropped, to square off around your fallen friends, now they were rising, and they were turning on you. Regardless of side, the risen dead were turning on her people. The enemy seemed equally off balance, but the dead were not attacking them and so some brave souls pressed forward with them.

This meant a mage. It was hard to take controlled breaths and narrow her focus to battlefield necessities. She wouldn’t be the only one who would be trying to find them. She was just the one with the best chance of finding them. She hacked her way out of the battlefield to the outskirts of the engagement area. Some soldiers were fleeing, her side taking losses which then shuddered and rose to turn on their former allies. Thankfully they weren’t very good. But there were more of them all the time and slow and stupid could still kill you. She darted off down the path, circling round the edges of the enemy line. There were a few sentries, but most were distracted by the sounds and action on the battlefield and she slipped by. One of the benefits of leather armor over chain or plate. Less noise to give you away.

She saw the mage standing on a slight rise, before the sun, explaining why they hadn’t spotted him before. He was chanting as a score of prisoners knelt around him. All were bleeding from gashes in their left arms. She focused on narrowing her view again. No use raging, more use attacking. Unfortunately there wasn’t any cover which meant the handful of guards around the rise would see her coming. She had to stop the mage regardless. She shifted to get a better view and her foot slipped in the soft soil. She looked down at the dirt and gravel. There was more than one way to halt a spell.

She sheathed her sword and unclipped her waterskin. Twisting off the cap, she damped some of the earth around her feet. Putting the waterskin away, she knelt and gathered up loose gravel and damp earth. Mudball in hand, she scanned the surroundings, she would need to be a good shot.

She got as close as she dared and stood up, launching the mud ball at the mage and following it with a charge. The guards shouted and leaped to halt her progress and the mud ball sailed just off center of the mage’s mouth. Whether it was the impact or the unexpected taste of mud in his mouth, the mage faltered, and with that single hesitation, the spell shattered. The mage collapsed under the backlash of the sundered spell.

Job done, she turned and ran. The tide of battle would be turning and she needed to lead some of her squad back to that hill.


This first line has been stolen by opportunistic thieves. Keep an eye out for those blinkers!