Awkwardly haunting her back garden in the wee hours of the morning. Peeking through the curtains in a pathetic attempt to catch a glimpse of glistening pink skin.
She knows I’m there. She loves that I’m there. It excites her.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
The neck-broken tulips under my feet will serve as evidence later. They will say that I stomped on their corpses in anticipation. The delicate yellow heads crushed and battered. They deserve the same chalk halo.
She loved me in the end. Throat wrapped in precious silk. She loved me.
Word Count: 99
So I’m not quite sure I like the way this turned out, but it is what it is.
So it’s been a little while since I’ve written anything. A lot of stuff going on and I was honestly just a bit of a breather over the summer. Let’s get back to it shall we.
I watched them hack him into pieces that no longer looked like they came from a human and shove them into their mouths. Their tools were crude misshapen gouges of nearly black iron, and I knew by the grunts that accompanied their thrashing blows that they were not sharp. The jagged metal was tearing more than it was slicing. Continue reading →
So I woke up this morning, earlier than I would have liked, and popped open my gmail account to find a comment and a like on my blog despite not having written in it for almost 3 weeks. Finals happened, then my Mom came out to visit for two weeks so it’s been a blog free couple of weeks, and because we are about to move to a new apartment, it might be a week or so before I get back to work.
However, in the space of time that I have been writing I have come across a few bloggers, or they have come upon me, thus expanding my writing community. One of the bloggers that discovered me, and by that act allowed me to discover him, is remingtonmoll over at think/look/write. Not only has this guy written some great stuff, he has encouraged and supported my work along the way. This week he threw his hat in the ring to give me the Liebster award for new blogs. I’ll explain the rules of the award and sort of get into what it means below. Either way, I would like to really thank Remington for the honor and the privilege. I will refrain from passing the Liebster right back, but I will send my sincere thanks and get down to the brass tacks of my obligations when it comes to the Liebster. Continue reading →
“Down the wheezing stairs–to the right, the moth-eaten sack hangs on a hook. Every night I crowd into the moldy burlap and hug my knees until my stomach aches me to sleep.”
There is house in central Vermont at the apex of a cul-de-sac. The address is 385 Champlain Circle. There are no other houses in that particular cul-de-sac. There are no other houses in that particular community. There are piles of decaying wood and plaster in each lot of that community, but they have all but turned into hillocks dotting a long abandoned landscape. In the basement of 385 Champlain Circle there is a staircase. At the bottom of the staircase, just to the right, there is a burlap sack hanging on a rusty hook. It is slightly green from mold, and if you were to see it at night, it would look quite full. This is where Morsel sleeps. Continue reading →
An aching beep pushed its way into her mind dragging her from the depths of sleep with a slow insistence. She opened her eyes and stared at the small blinking set of numbers that told her it was six o’clock in the morning earth time. She glared at it, wishing–not for the first time–that she could destroy the blinking numbers with her mind. When nothing happened aside from the incessant beep-blink-beep-blink repetition, she sighed and pushed her arm from beneath the warm blanket and flicked a switch. A small light popped on at the same instant as the beeping stopped and the ceiling of her sleeping chamber became gradually brighter, giving the appearance of a curtain being drawn back from a window on a Sunny day. Continue reading →
His legs felt like overstretched elastic and his lungs crackled and burned like a campfire.
He had been pedaling for hours through the cobblestone streets.
His hands had grooves worn in them from the grips on his handlebars.
He had been riding for days through this burnt out husk of a country.
Twice this week he had been woken up by the terrible feeling of a pack of feral dogs trying to make a meal of him. He had run then, too shocked to get to his bicycle in time. Climbed onto a balcony where they couldn’t reach until they lost interest.
He was almost out of food now. The canteen he had pulled off of a dead corpsman and filled with rusty green fountain water was nearly gone as well.
He hadn’t seen anyone alive for nearly two months.
Even then he had to run to survive the blows.
Again a prompt from another blog. This from VisDare and the prompt was the picture above. I’m pretty sure the originator asked for whimsy, but I felt it going another way. Then again, I just like dark prose so… sue me 😉