Secret Identities.

Here’s a little thing I dashed out today using a writing prompt from Tumblr. The prompt was to use this dialogue snip:

“Names aren’t prophetic.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

So yeah, that sounded like fun. Here’s what came of it. (Keep in mind that I know no more about these people than you do. Literally, this is all I have, so your interpretation is as good as mine.)


I stared at him. “You mean William isn’t your real name?”

He shrugged. “Is Thea yours?”

I blinked. He had a point. I guess I didn’t really have any right to be indignant when we were both playing the same game. Still, I felt used, somehow. Betrayed. “When did you figure it out?”

He grinned at me. “Let’s just say you’re not the subtlest of liars. So, cards on the table?”

I groaned, letting my head sag back on my shoulders. “Harmony. My fantastic parents named me Harmony.”

He folded his lips quickly between his teeth, but one of his eyebrows quirked. “Huh. And how has that operated in your life?”

“Operated?”

“Yeah, like how has it affected you; how might your life have been different with another name?”

I shook my head. “Names aren’t prophetic.”

“Don’t be too sure. I play football as a direct result of the name my parents chose.”

“And that is?”

His usually direct gaze skittered around, and he laughed. “Oh gosh. Okay. It’s Dior.”

“Like the fashion label?”

“It’s French, okay? It means golden. Mom called me her golden boy. Now shut up.”


So there’s that.

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