Applepoisoneer
Supernova
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2016
"Move your ass, woman!" The joker yelled over the not-so-silent alarm that Harley had accidentally triggered. In all fairness, it was the first sound-activated alarm either one of them had ever encountered. He broke a window, rather needlessly, and leaped through.
Harley, with her arms full of bags containing priceless jewels of every shape and size, attempted to step carefully through the protruding blades of glass, but Joker was impatient and grabbed her by the arm. He ripped her through the glass, tearing her suit along the shoulder near the neck. Tiny strings of red rolled down her pink flesh. She cried out in pain and reached up to touch the spot, but Joker kept pulling her along.
"I ought to give you worse than that for tripping that alarm, you ditzy dope!" He hissed into her ear.
..................................................................
Bea tapped the lid of her ink pen against the glossy green surface of her coffee mug. The lig,t over the counter space in her apartment's sad excuse for a kitchen was abismal. But, squinting or not, she hadn't missed a "Raven's Writing Desk" challenge since she'd moved to Gotham and stumbled upon it in the paper. The sequence of riddles over the years had nose-pickingly easy most weeks, but she wrote in anyway. And often times, the answer would be printed the next week with her moniker, followed by "...again." But lately, not only had the riddles gotten harder, but a new name would often take her place. Who he or she was, Bea couldn't say, but she admired and detested them all at once.
"...thieves I consort. With the vilest, in short..." She muttered the riddle to herself one last time before it clicked. Sometimes with spelling riddles, it was best to hear them out loud. On the index card in front of her, she scrawled "The letter V" and signed it "Miss Anthrope", her nom de plume for the weekly occasion.
She slipped the index card into a little envelope, which was pre-addressed to the Gotham Tribune, and put it in her purse for later postage.
Harley, with her arms full of bags containing priceless jewels of every shape and size, attempted to step carefully through the protruding blades of glass, but Joker was impatient and grabbed her by the arm. He ripped her through the glass, tearing her suit along the shoulder near the neck. Tiny strings of red rolled down her pink flesh. She cried out in pain and reached up to touch the spot, but Joker kept pulling her along.
"I ought to give you worse than that for tripping that alarm, you ditzy dope!" He hissed into her ear.
..................................................................
Bea tapped the lid of her ink pen against the glossy green surface of her coffee mug. The lig,t over the counter space in her apartment's sad excuse for a kitchen was abismal. But, squinting or not, she hadn't missed a "Raven's Writing Desk" challenge since she'd moved to Gotham and stumbled upon it in the paper. The sequence of riddles over the years had nose-pickingly easy most weeks, but she wrote in anyway. And often times, the answer would be printed the next week with her moniker, followed by "...again." But lately, not only had the riddles gotten harder, but a new name would often take her place. Who he or she was, Bea couldn't say, but she admired and detested them all at once.
"...thieves I consort. With the vilest, in short..." She muttered the riddle to herself one last time before it clicked. Sometimes with spelling riddles, it was best to hear them out loud. On the index card in front of her, she scrawled "The letter V" and signed it "Miss Anthrope", her nom de plume for the weekly occasion.
She slipped the index card into a little envelope, which was pre-addressed to the Gotham Tribune, and put it in her purse for later postage.