She lay there in the dark chill of her bunk and tried to ignore the grating beep of her alarm. It had pulled her out of the deep dark hole of sleep a few minutes before but she always hated that damned sound. It might have had something to do with the fact that she slept so much better out here. No traffic noise, no birds to wake her, no sun coming up and invading her room through her windows. The sun was always up out here, but it only came in when she wanted it too. 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 😉
A crowd was forming at the base of the mottled granite plinth. The stone was reminiscent of black-eyed peas, the beige and black slopped together in a way that was both elegant and nauseating. In the space above the slab was a shape covered in a stark sheet.
Murmurs had begun to spread among the gathering, everywhere at once the question was being asked:
“What is it?”
No one person quite knew what the answer was but all minds were pitched against the question that hung around and clung to each of them like a grasping fog. The curiosity was thick, creating a stew of unease and expectation. Continue reading
That’s all I can remember.
Showing up fifteen minutes early to make sure I didn’t miss you.
Standing in front of La Forchetta alone. Checking my watch. Making small talk with the valets.
Their blue vests, red ties, white shirts, and neatly creased black slacks.
Looking for and seeing a dozen red dresses. You said you’d wear a red dress.
The dress because I could only imagine how great you would look in red. Continue reading
It’s been a great couple of days for writing. I got a prompt from another blog I stumbled across Master Class the prompt was “Desperation had given him authority.” It reminded me of my recent story about Gregorim, so I thought I’d expand on the universe a bit. Let me know what you think :). Here’s a link to the other story
The flames licked at the edges of his vision. Smoke hung thick in the air, carrying with it the smell of burning wood and flesh alike. His mind was frenzied. His breaths came in ragged choked gasps. His eyes stung with the combination of smoke and tears.
He hadn’t meant for it to go so far. He hadn’t meant to do all of this.
He gaze drifted from the husk of one building to the next. The shells of what used to be homes and shops leering at him, flames staring from behind the empty sockets of their sagging window-frames. There was no movement in the streets aside from the hungry fire. The screams had stopped. The only thing to be heard was his own heart, sounding like an army of angry blacksmiths, destroying his ears. The time passed with the slow crawl of tar on a cold day. He was numb.
Finally he looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood so thick it looked black. His once white clothing was also mostly reddish-black. He let his focus slip for a moment, at his feet were three torn and battered shapes.
Children. Continue reading
Dust flew in wisps around his feet as he stood at the edge of the rocky peak. He stared down into the deep valley below the mountain, fury gripping him in tight bonds. The smooth features of his face were taut, frozen in a grim snarl.
“Not now. Not here!” He focused on the small figures far below. They scurried like ants around a small, newly forming building with a symbol perched on its sharply peaked roof. A symbol he recognized. A symbol he did not want to believe was in his village. Continue reading
Derek’s fingers flew over the keys, punching them rapidly and with purpose. The words poured from his mind ceaselessly, each keystroke a defining choice. He spun through sentence after sentence, driving his protagonist, a young swordsman trapped deep behind enemy lines, ever onward into what was surely to be his doom. The rain smashed into the thin pane of his windows as he typed. It had been pouring for hours and the lightning had just begun to flash, momentarily lighting up the otherwise dim living room of his small house.