Something's coming.

Clement stood on the beach, close enough so the water could touch the toes of his knee-high boots if it really tried, but not so close so that he would soon find himself with wet boots. It was further up the beach than usual, even for high tide. His metallic, gold gaze was set out to the north-western horizon. There, ominous, was a solid sheet of slate colored clouds. From it dropped pillars of clouds that many would mistake for harmless upside-down towers, but Clement knew better.

They were pillars of the raging storm creating dangerous cages on the surface of the ocean. It was beautiful from this distance, but Clement felt the muscles in his back tighten in awe and fear. If one of those pillars touched land, the ground beneath it would immediately turn to molten rock, the air near it in a half-mile radius would come alive with energy, and any poor soul unfortunate enough to be near by would be knocked into disembodied state for at least a week. If it the person was a mere child, or an elder, it was more likely the disembodied state would be permanent.

Clement's face showed none of this, instead, it was straight, tinged with a grimness, and dashed with a mere sprinkle of ire. He lifted his gloved hand, and pushed his fingers through his bangs and back into scruffy, black locks of hair. The creature that generated that storm was chasing something, someone. It was likely to be a boat, but Clement could never be sure. He could tell it was hunting, or on a war path, because when he looked directly west, there was a stark line where the slate-clouds ended, and instead a rolling, softer blanket of vibrant satsuma and warm primrose stretched out toward the south.

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Word Thieves

Disclaimer: This is a short short written for my studio class, with certain required words. I personally don't think it's very good.

Cadavra looked over her shoulder for them. Word ninjas. Shinobi that stole or switched what she wrote in a cruel substitution technique. Spineless, shadow steppers – they broke her flawless, fluid storytelling into a mess unfit for a first grade reader. She gripped her manuscript to her chest. They would never again turn anaconda into aardvark and shatter the suspense of the death trap. Set by the villain whose hair was greasy black and not candy pink.
Her foot caught on an uneven segment of sidewalk. Rather then throw out a hand to catch herself, Cadavra slammed her shoulder into the brick wall beside her. She wouldn't let go. If she lifted just one finger they would snatch her words right from her mind. No, no, no. Oh no. She would get those traipsing, intrepid ninjas.
Viter sent them. She knew he would stoop so low to keep her from being published. Couldn't let it go. Never, not until she got to the editor's desk. At least they were honorable enough to not touch it when she got it there. She hoped. She never knew. They could be everywhere, oh, how they were. Not letting go. Ignorant, blind sleuth couldn't see any of them, but she could. She even showed him the altered manuscripts. So obvious, so, so obvious. He took her money and kicked her out. Case closed, he said. Lap dog. On the payroll. Viter's, duh.
Write nonsense. It was easy. They couldn't steal what they couldn't understand. Make a code. A long code. But don't let go. If she lets go they'll crack the code and blot out the brilliance.
When did this start? Cadavra couldn't tell if one asked anyway. The word ninjas would crack her code and rewrite her. Her life; all of it.

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