yonmei

Just any word? It doesn't have to be from a fandom or something? (I am not very familiar with flashfic etiquette.)

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Yes, just any word. No guarantees what I write will be fanfic flashfic, either...

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Surrender.

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"I surrender," the alien whispered deliciously in the Doctor's third ear. "Have you room in your second heart for a shapeshifter?"

"Can you make yourself look like a blue box?" the Doctor asked wistfully.

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*giggles* I like this!

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Tomato!

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"They're coming for us," she whispered. "Oh my God, the tomatoes are coming for us..."

"We're sauce," her companion said, in a voice hollow with despair. "They'll bottle us."

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That's brilliant! And I love Whatho's one as well:):):):)
::DANCES YOU::

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Blueberry.

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The sky was blueberry, and the fields were raspberry, the day the Knight of the Cloudberries rode out on the strawberry roan to meet with the Cream Dragon, whose name, perhaps inevitably, turned out to be Puff.

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Uhm... it's not one word, but it is one concept: martial arts.

(Or, if you're really going to be a stickler, then: aikido. But I feel guilty sticking you with something I know much better than you... ah well, you'll probably consider it a writer's challenge, eh?)

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Words to fall in love with: ai ki do, she murmured to herself. The way

(He was the first man she ever struck. The blood spilled out of his nose. Ganmentsuki. Randori no kata. Words she had fallen in love with.)

The way of harmony. The broken bottle was its own word, glinting in silent discord.

She had always been uke. "You make me nage," she said to the man, staring up at her, incomprehending. "Suimasen."

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dirigible

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Birds fly, planes leap, helicopters climb in whirring madness, but our fleet of elderly dirigibles climbs, bloated and ancient, patched with love, unsinkable in the wide sky. I live with the knowledge that when these are gone, we will build no more, that never more will we sail the sky with such easy grace on our clumsy, comfortable whales of transport.

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Ooh, "whales of transport", very fine indeed. Thank you.

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Curry.

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Your favour, I say, bowing to the great, nodding to the good, a slight uplifted sneer to the humble.

Your favour, your favour, I say more often than I say anything else: with the right tone and inclination of the head, communicating what each one needs to understand of our relative ranks.

I want them all to eat at my kitchen: to pay their goods for my food: to bring and share and tell others of this kitchen at this market where the cooked food is spiced and sauced with flavours, where dishes burn the mouth with chemical heat.

To achieve this, I don't mind currying favour.

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Generous.

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A generous love, the woman said, staring across the room. She did not know if she had spoken aloud or to herself: no one at the party seemed to hear her. The wine in her mouth tasted thin and vile. Across the room, her love was holding hands with someone else.

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Poor woman. I've been there. It's not being generous if it was never yours or it got taken away. One doesn't have to keep drinking the nasty wine either, but it's hard to remember things like that.

Anyway, you are a generous writer. I think the dirigible is my favorite.

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Quotidian.

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"Nineteen," the other player said triumphantly, laying the letters down. "On a double word score, that's thirty-eight points."

"I feel like we've been doing this every day," the dead woman said, staring at the board, unable quite to focus on the other player's face.

"We have."

"That you've begun with the same word, every time."

"I have."

"That you're cheating."

"Your turn."

"Damned," the dead woman said.

"Ten," said the other player. "Double letter score on the A and the D. Thirteen points."

"You win."

"I always will."

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Awesome. Now there's a moment in hell for you. Where nothing ever changes.

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