Intense psychological themes and/or interpersonal conflict.
I, the stray dog of the desert, who sloped long and pale, slashed to ribbons, across the moonlight sands on my journey to God.
"You are the only one who has acknowledged me," she suddenly whispered , "since he's been gone."
On the day the Fuhrer died, it snowed.
It was, and he hated to admit it, an intriguing proposal. Ed wondered who the General had leaned on to get it written in just such a way to make his alchemic blood tingle.
Here, in this place where eyes were all but useless, hearing could be confounded with the sensation of touch.
When night fell in Ishvar, night vision or no vision, flares or no flares, there was nothing you wanted to do less than draw attention to yourself.
It was well known around Central headquarters that Roy Mustang was lusting after the visiting Major-General.
It hurt, somehow, to know that there was no one now who could see past the mask if he didn't want them to.
"When you put it that way--" Roy conceded. "But it does seem improbable. You promised me a murderer, but are you so sure that it was no accident?"
She paced the wide, marble floor, visited each of the soaring windows, feeling every supple sinew beneath her skin move with the perfection of the young.
Roy had been among the rebels for weeks now, and he'd learned very early on that these men were dangerous, very dangerous.
She would notice when that body's pulse went up around her, the flush of cheeks, and the way the eyes followed her curves.
For instance, Havoc knew that Hawkeye was not fond of gunmanship.
It was easy enough to start a fire, with the appropriate array and dry wood.
She knew the instant she opened the door and saw their blank faces.
For an instant, a look passed between them, and Alphonse could almost imagine that he saw his own emotions reflected within the eyes of his brother.
Were Riza to choose, she would be the shield rather than the sword.
As far as Edward was concerned it could just take for-damn-ever if it wanted because that’s how long he could go without taking to the Bastard.
The metal in his mouth tastes cool and tangy and yummy but he can't eat because he has to find Lust.
Could I burn like that - would the lick of flames on my skin wipe me clean?
It was getting kind of depressing, though, by the time the color red alone would make him wonder about the child; the flash of a cardinal, a sprig of bright berries, the gaudiness of nighttime tavern lights, and the scarlet lipstick of bar women.
"Mai--" Ed didn't finish his sentence as he stared at the three-inch stack of letters in Foley's hand.
Ed meets his eyes, holds them, and then -- slowly, painfully, but deliberately, traces his free hand in a line across his throat.
He made the slip-up not whilst in the throes of passion, but rather, sitting quite peacefully at the kitchen table, watching the slender blond cook.
There was no question that the very act of living in this world was to be in exile.
She hated being idle; it ranked far above the petty pain of a mere gunshot-wound in her personal list of annoyances.
Fear kept Al's metal arms at his sides, shaking slightly with each of Edward's pained moans.
When he comes to, the blue light of the alchemical reaction is fading, and the air is thick with smoke.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her tobac tin, more to annoy her visitor than anything else.
Greed grinned, slid a hand from his pocket, curled one suddenly black claw. "Great. Come on, let's get it on."
I'm lying through implication, but the kid won't know that, and after all the stuff I've done, lying has gotta be my pettiest sin.
He has seen the desert. Seen her scorched and scarred beneath his steady hands. Stepped in her tattered remains, tasted her ashes with every breath.
"It's different when it's Mom," Ed said with a scowl, but he looked at Al's face, and he softened a little.
"They raise the dead. They make creatures to fight in the war. This is Edward! This is your son. You have to see that!"
Here was the corner where she retreated, reloading her gun as she prepared for another kill.
She moves the king again, to its last optional safe square and murmurs, "I'll admit this is not how I envisioned my first night on the battlefield."
Among them he walks, the man whose name only God remembers.
A small smile crept along her face--this visage made for mischief--and her tell-tale purple eyes narrowed.
A collection of 100 word ficlets.
Theirs is a strange relationship--they know so little about each other--but somehow it's okay, as though knowledge would throw a spanner in the works.
And when you held your breath, where did you keep it, in your lungs or your mouth or your throat?
If Al began to forget things, then Edward would remember anything and everything for the both of them.
Very few alchemists believed in God, but all of them believed in books.
The pretenses stopped midway through the second cigarette.
"Brother," he whispers into the soft warmth of Ed's skin, "Is mom going to get better?"
Heavy-lidded, he would savor them slowly, letting them seep into his mind's eye until he could see nothing else.
Every statement directed at me now seemed to be prefaced with "you bastard." I didn't mind; it was as good a name as any other.
Besides, no one ever said that tumultuous times had to begin with a fanfare.