PROMPT NUMBER THIRTY-SEVEN

Phew. I'm alive, though school is trying its hardest to make that not be true. So, I bring to you a prompt:

Write a short story of 1-10k words (or verse, 333-3.333k) based on the following:

Seriously, it was the worst thing I could have chosen to choke on.

Best of luck!

Winter

Case o' the Crazies

Case o' the Crazies

Waiting room.
          There are people coughing and I figure that even though I'm here for some sleeping pills, maybe a set of handcuffs if the doc thinks they're necessary, I'm going to leave with a lot more than that—like at least one cold, maybe more.
          Gotta love coughing strangers in a confined space, no windows, no aeration.
          But I figure as long as I don't catch crazy, I'll be fine.
          Yeah, there's one of those sitting beside me—I always attract his type; I think I'm a magnet for them—babbling on about hiding places and being smelled. I have no trouble imagining people smelling him from a mile away—as far as him and baths go, let's just say it's been a while between meet-ups.
          His words wash over me, an incomprehensible melding of slurred words and 'sh' sounds. I don't want to look, but I make myself look, and confirm what I suspected—he's got a few teeth missing. Strike that, he's got a few teeth left in his mouth. The rest have gone walkabout. Part of me wonders if he misses them. Then I realise I'm in a waiting room, surrounding by coughing sneezing hunched-over people…and with a bona fide crazy for company.
          He's the only one who doesn't have a cold. Or if he has one, he's hiding it well.
          He's got plenty else to be thinking about, though. Like the holes in the walls and the way you flatten yourself against brick and stop breathing—for minutes at a time, even; he claims he was the best out of anyone at keeping his lungs full. He's got stories to tell, ohhhh does he ever. And lucky me is here to listen.
          Doc's running late again. As usual. She's coming up on a record this time—forty-seven minutes so far. Longest I ever waited was an hour and two minutes, but I'm hoping I won't be outdoing myself this time. Fifteen more minutes of sitting here with Bozo the Dirty Clown doesn't really float my boat, I've gotta say.
          For the most part, his words wash over me. But then he says something that gets my attention.
          "…Sleep-walkin', they call it. But I didn't feel sleepy, I'm tellin' you. All I know is, I woke up halfway to Merton City, no idea what I was doin'. Train station. Got this distinct feelin' I'd been…with company, I guess. Saw shoe prints in wet stuff—prolly good ole H20, I don't know. But I could see 'em clearly down there on the ground. Right beside me. Not my shoe size, 'fore you ask. Different size, by a long shot. Looked around, but no sign of anyone. I just got a sense of…having been with at least one other person. Not sure they're a friend, know what I mean? And I remembered a really white light. And I don't mean no 'Call to the Heavens' type deal. Nuh uh. More like 'M'gonna shine this in your eye and see how you like it.' Or, like, they're tryin' to see how I react to it. Like…experiments. Know what I mean?"
          He's looking at me, mouth twisted in a sort of grimace, eyebrows furry with dust and grime, skin wrinkled but not with age—more with hardship. One of his eyes is fixed on me—the other's kind of scrunched shut, as if it's remembering the white light. Why don't both his eyes remember? And don't try and tell me maybe he's got no second eye at all—I can see it moving around under his lid. It's there. So what I wanna know is, what's up with the scrunching.
          More to the point, I want to know why the hell a chill just rippled through me as I listened to more and more of his words. And why it's not going away.
          "You should be careful," the crazy says. "I wasn't careful. Now look at me. Wouldn't want the same thing to happen to you."
          What, I wind up on the streets with dusty eyebrows? I want to ask him. But I stay quiet as he rises to his feet.
          "You might think you're safe, lady, but you ain't safe. Not anywhere. Not anyhow. Just telling you to be careful. Watch yourself. Watch your back. 'Cause nobody else is gonna."
          "What's that even mean?" I ask, turning to face the crazy.
          He's not there.
          And suddenly, coughing waiting people are staring at me. They're looking wary, like I'm the damn crazy in this place.
          I swallow a sick feeling and clear my throat. I reach out through my body with my mind, seeking discomfort. Nothing, except maybe the dullest ache in the back of my head—something I just put down to sleep deprivation. Walking in one's sleep will do that to a person, at least that's what I had figured. But maybe it's an ache that's a sign of more than just lost sleep. Maybe it's a symbol of something lost.
          Like sanity, for instance.
          I stare down at my hands trying not to grimace.

Doctor Osbourne checks out my eyes. She shines a light into them. Goosebumps break out over my skin as I remember the crazy and his strange tale. Hell, I heard a lot of strange tales while I sat beside him, but I didn't pay attention to most of them. The only one I remember is the one about sleepwalking, about train stations at night and company you don't remember. About white shining lights, not the kind that welcomes you to heaven.
          Heaven, I think bitterly. She shall never be mine, for I am damned. Some old poem, but it fits. Not that I'm damned. I just feel that way sometimes. It's like a subconscious thing. Something I can't put my finger on, but it's a feeling and it's there.
          Sticking to me like dandelion dust.
          "Everything seems fine," Osbourne tells me, clicking her miniature flashlight off and tucking it into a voluminous white pocket. "Have you been having the headaches?"
          Something tells me to lie. So I do. "No, I just woke up last night… In my hallway. I mean, it's not that scary. I just thought…"
          The doctor nods. "You've seen the ads on TV?" I don't answer, just incline my head. "I wouldn't worry. Those cases are…extreme. And those victims have been exposed to…well, let's just say it's not something we need to worry about here. Not yet."
          Don't we? I say in my head. What about the crazy I talked to? What about what happened to him? Only, I'm not sure he ever existed, except in my own troubled head. I refrain from asking the question. From incriminating myself further.
          All this goes on record, I realise. Every visit I make here. Every inquiry where I identify myself. It's all on record for anyone in the right position of power to see.
          I haven't been careful. I haven't been watching my back.
          I'd better start. Because if I don't, who's gonna?

"There are places you can hide," the hobo tells me, "if you just know where to look. The trick, though, is to disguise your smell."
          I stare at him, wondering how many hobos I'm going to have to talk to before I understand what they're telling me.
          "Why do you think I'm dressed like this?" he adds.
          And finally I get it.

I go down to City Park and find myself a nice muddy puddle. Some of them have too much water, but I finally stumble upon one that is sufficient percentage clay. I peer left and right, up and down, making sure I'm alone. Then I dive into the puddle and roll around, making sure to get as much dirt in my hair as I can.
          This isn't going to be enough. It's just mud, clay, what have you. I need to smell really bad. I need to smell worse than I ever imagined I could.
          I need to complete my disguise.
          Then I need a hiding place.
          Somewhere they can't smell me anymore.

Prompt 36

Hahahahahah!!!!!  Not late this time.   The power of writing things up on Sunday.

I thought I'd give folks a little extra incentive for this prompt.  There is a Titanic (as in that rather large ocean liner from 1912) writing contest on this blog:

http://novelnovice.com/2011/09/02/fateful-by-claudia-gray-titanic-writing-contest/

And . . . for any girls between the ages of 13 and 21, Seventeen.com is giving away a $5000 prize for a 500 word short story on any subject.  That's $10 a word for the winner.  I don't think Charles Dickens was paid that much.  Details here:


 http://figment.com/contests/seventeen/

 Let us know if you've entered or are intending to enter.  We'll <3 you as often as we can.  ;)

Now for the prompt (1k-10k prose/ 333-3,333k verse):

"I know all the best places to hide.  But there are certain precautions you need to take if you don't want them to smell you."

Good Luck!

Housekeeping

Hi all,

Just reporting that I did a bit of housekeeping on the blog, reduced the number of labels that are displaying, etc. This can be changed at anytime. I also added a new page, Navigation, which lists all the prompts & links to the associated labels. Sometimes that list of labels just got a bit long for my brain to handle... hehe

Feel free to protest here!! I want to see picketing!

Hope you are all having a great day!

Trisha

PROMPT #35

Oooh you thought I forgot didn't ya? Okay maybe not...anyway, this week's prompt is very unoriginal but

This could all be over in a matter of seconds... Should I or shouldn't I?

Hope everyone's going well!

P.S. You may have noticed we've all slacked off on story picks. One excuse is that there aren't many stories to choose from lately! Another is that we're all super busy & can barely keep up with our own stories. I'm thinking the latter is a better reason... hehe. But we have not forgotten any of you!!

Ingrown Twin

 Errr . . . evidence of my diminishing coherence?

I have memories of drowning.

Ever since I could remember water has scared me.  Not ‘scared’—as in sweating hands and racing heartbeat.  ‘Scared’—as in can’t breathe, brain shutting down, skin getting too small.

When I was little, I would break out in hives at the sting of a raindrop.  They thought I must have been allergic to water.  There are strange allergies like that, you know.  The doctors did all kinds of tests.  But they found nothing.  The only possible conclusion was psychological.  

It must be true.  I am deeply somatic on so many levels.  Even my own tears scare me.

I have never taken a bath.

I have never been to the aquarium.

I have never learned to swim.

“That’s all going to change this year.”  Coach Blaus says when I tell him why I can’t join the class as they splash around the pool.  “Water safety is mandatory.  District wide policy.”

I don’t move.  I can’t.

“I want you dressed out and back here in ten minutes.”

My muscles are petrified.  I feel the water molecules already penetrating my blood cells, bloating them until they explode like tiny red fireworks.

“Did you hear what I said?”

I fall to the ground with a dry sob.  The words burn like vomit coming up my throat.  “I want to die.”

Coach Blaus laughs.  “Freshmen.  Listen, if it won’t kill you, it’ll make you stronger, right?  Jackson, Johnson, help young—um—” he flips through his role sheet, “Marlberry up to the locker room.  I’ll sign permission slips when you get back.”

Two seniors grab me by the armpits like gym equipment.  “Listen, if you make this hard for us, we’ll make this hard for you.”

They tell me about something that is important to them—something they can only get through my cooperation—but all I hear is my own death knell over the sound of their cannibalistic screeching. 

I change with their weapons held to my head.  Invisible hands close around my throat, choking out my vision and making my ears ring.  I must look like everyone else from the outside because no one else notices the knives in my chest or the fact that my head is spinning three sixties.

My wardens drop me on the edge of the pool where I dry heave into my own hands.  My heart is beating so fast that I can feel it in my eyeballs.  I wish that I could just pass out.  I wish I could pass out every day this semester.  If there is a God, if there is any benevolent force in the entire universe, this would be possible.

“There isn’t.”  A voice whispers through my panic.  “I should know.”

“Who—are—you?”

A violent pain rips through my head.  “I am the one that drowned, not you.”

The memories of drowning come back fast and furious now.  But I am not in water.  Where I am is dark and warm.  I do not breathe in this place.  I—

My hand flits to my belly button.

This is what I did in that place.

“Not you, you idiot.  It was me.  It was always me.  Nothing happened to you.”

There is something hard closing around me like the shell of an egg.  But it does not protect me.  It consumes me like the whale from Pinocchio, sucking me deep into its monstrous cavern.  When it finally closes its horrible jaws, my life line snaps.  It’s then I drown.

“But it isn’t you.  It was me.”  There is hungry pleasure in that voice that rips through my brain tissue.

“Who—are—you?”  I say again.  What I mean to say is Why do I have your memories, if I never drowned?

The words are slow and precise as if the speaker were talking to an idiot.  “It was your skull that closed around me, brother.”

When he says it, I remember him.  Or maybe he remembers himself.  Four hands.  Four feet.  So much alike.  We nuzzle each other forehead to forehead, never moving from that position.  We can’t.  We are blood and bone and organs fused.

But I take the blood.  And I get big while he stays small.  My body sucks him inside.  And in that dark place, no one ever knows.

“Okay,” Coach Blaus blows his whistle.  “Everyone in the pool.”

“You may be wondering why I’m talking to you now,” my brother says.  “We need to show them.”

“Hey Marlberry!”  Coach yells when I don’t move.  “In. The. Pool.   You won’t melt.”

“Show them what?”  I don’t care that I am speaking out loud.  Voices ripping through your brain tissues change things like that.

“We need to show them.  We don’t like the water.  Do we brother?”

“No we don’t.”

“Now Marlberry!”  The coach’s voice sounds so far away.  Like I am sitting dry and clothed in my nice safe English class.   Maybe now I will finally pass out.

“We don’t like the water one bit.”  I feel my brother reach into my limbs and pull my muscles like strings.  My body jumps into the water.  Gulps a breath of air.  Dives deep.

We don’t know how to swim.  We don’t know how to swim.  We don’t know how to swim.  We don’t know how to swim.  We don’t know how to swim.  We don’t know how to swim. We don’t know how to swim.  We are going to drown.  Drown.  Drown. Drown.  Drown.

“Relax.  I have been drowning for thirteen years.  I know how it’s done.”

In a second, he is at the bottom of the pool.  From the very back of his eyeballs, I watch him pry off the enormous drain cover.

It takes a second for anything to happen.

In that second, we are back where it is safe, dripping on a patch of tile at the pool’s edge.

We watch the pool give a giant belch.  And then . . .  the whirlpool starts to spin.

It spins, catching each boy.  Spins.  Spins. Spin.   Until the pool is empty.

Coach Blaus has stopped screaming.  Stopped calling for security.  It is too late.

Together, my brother and I get up from the pool’s edge.  He is one on the right and I am on the left, fused in every cell.  Sharing this strong body.  The only one that was born.  We say the words in unison because there is no other way to say it.

“Did that make you stronger, Coach?”

PROMPT NUMBER THIRTY-FOUR

Eek, so sorry, everyone! The prompt is late, so... er, how have we dealt with this in the past? Just let it blow over? Okay, cool. Hey, have an extra day to write, on me. :P

Because I'm thinking about nothing but the beginning of school these days, write a short story of 1,000-10,000 words based on the following:

The first time I walked into that classroom was also the last.

Bonne chance! I don't speak French.

~Winter

Daddy

I did actually write this on Thursday night...then I forgot to post it on Friday! But here it is, backdated (it's Sunday right now, but yes I'm backdating).

Daddy

She bloomed with life and good health. He was inclined to thank the baby for that. The creature growing inside her, a small human awaiting its turn at life. Not long now. She was forty weeks pregnant and ready to burst. But he hated the faraway look on her face, hated the way he’d talk and she’d forget to listen.
     Amazing that in just nine months, he’d grown to hate the love of his life. And all because of a dreamy expression.
     There were mysteries he could never be in on, secrets he could never learn. He didn’t want to be a woman, but he envied the secret nooks and crannies of their minds, those places he’d never been able to reach. His mother had had them, all his girlfriends had had them. And now his wife, the one he’d had to beg just to get a first date, to get the ring on her finger, to get her to stay when the grass on the other side glowed searing green. His wife was the worst of all. Because begging didn’t work this time.
     She didn’t even hear him.
     Despite his frustration, he counted down the weeks and days and hours and sometimes even the seconds. He craved the day when he would see his son—or daughter, he reminded himself; might be a girl—in the flesh. He longed to see that minute face, however prune-like it might appear at first. He longed to study those tiny hands, fingers laid out in all their perfect glory against one of his comparatively enormous fingers. He longed for the day, he hungered for it, and he stayed by her side because that day was coming.
     It was the only thing that kept him here.
     He’d seen newborn babies in sunlight—sometimes it was like you could see through their skin. They glowed red, and you saw the skin silhouetted. It was difficult to describe the wonder of such a sight. He’d always been insanely jealous of others and their babies. He was jealous of his wife for being closer to the kid than he was. He was jealous of his friend who was a single father. He wished he could be a single father too.
     Just Daddy and baby, living in harmony together. Glowing in the sunshine.
     Because really, what man needed a wife?

For the first time in weeks, a new expression flitted over his wife’s face. A slight pinching of her brow, a flicker of an eyelid, a soft intake of breath like a snake’s hiss. He tensed in his chair, leaning toward her. “Darling? What is it?” He called her darling out of force of habit alone, now. She wasn’t his darling any longer. Hadn’t been for a good while. But since all words were empty to him now, what was another meaningless utterance?
     “I think…” She’d had it for a moment there—a grip on the thing she wanted to say. But then it had slipped through her fingers, wafted out of her mind like every thought she’d had for the last nine months.
     His fingers itched to slap her. He tensed the muscles of his arm to keep it by his side. He gritted his teeth and reached out in his mind for an anchor. Something to hold him steady on the stormy seas. He was so close, so close. He couldn’t ruin things now.
     He wouldn’t let her ruin things now, when he was so close.
     “Darling? What is it?”
     She blinked. “I think the baby…”
     And then she doubled over, as far as her distended belly would allow her to, and that flicker of discomfort became a fixed mask of pain. Teeth were bared, eyes squeezed shut, and breathing sped up. A strange guttural moan began in her throat, and he saw her chest rattling with it. Then he saw the belly—it was moving, writhing, the creature inside it fighting to get out. Fighting for air and freedom.
     He knew it then—the baby didn’t want her anymore than his Daddy did. The baby wanted freedom. The baby wanted a life with just Daddy.
     It was settled, then. Daddy would take care of him.
     He would.

At the hospital, it was everything he could do to hold everything on the inside. He was bursting with feeling: excitement, fear, desperation, elation. Anticipation. He anticipated the beginning of his life, for really, life hadn’t begun before now. The baby would kick start everything. The baby would breathe new life into its lungs and into its father. The baby would change the world.
     But first, it had to escape the prison of its mother’s womb.
     He’d started to wonder, in the last few minutes, if that creature was the baby’s mother after all. How could such a sublime creature have such a thing as a mother? Surely it was more divine than that. And somehow, the thought of that baby being tainted with such a vacuous influence was too awful to bear. So he decided, in his infinite wisdom, that the baby was his and nobody else’s. Mothers didn’t matter, anymore than wives did.
     He was forgetting his own beloved mother, of course. But it had been so long since she died that it was natural he would’ve forgotten. All he knew of women was the one he’d married, the empty shell who had served as a vessel for the growth of his son. His only son. There would be no others. For there to be others would mean taking attention away from the child. That couldn’t happen, not even for a moment. The child was all, it would be everything. And together, he and the child would never want for anything more.
     The vessel was laid out on a cot. The kind that rolled down hallways, when pushed. She was laid out, and her stomach climbed into the air like a mountain. The baby pushed against its bonds with increasing fervour and strength. Growing more desperate. Daddy was hard pressed not to lunge for the cot and plunge his hands into that mountain, ripping his child free. He was hard pressed not to wrestle the vessel to the floor and scoop its treasure out. But ending up in prison wasn’t his idea of quality fathering. That would really mess things up. So he stood beside the cot, staring down at the trembling mountain and biting his tongue. Clamping down on the scream that built inside him.
     At last, the nurses arrived and the cot began to move. The vessel was wheeled along one hallway, then along another. At a pair of double doors, he had to fight the nurses to be able to follow. In those days, fathers weren’t meant to be anywhere near the birthing room. But he knew just the right wheedling words to say, and he said them, and he begged and pleaded and he even cried a little. It was easy. All he had to do was think of a life without Baby. The tears flowed freely after that.
     In the birthing room, things happened quickly. Nurses spoke encouraging words while Daddy held his tongue, unable to speak for fear of unleashing a stream of invective. He raged inwardly at the vessel for taking so long. How dare she withhold his treasure from him? How dare she laugh at the ceiling, eyes practically crossed from the stupidity flowing in her veins. How had he never noticed her stupidity before? How had he been so blind?
     At last, things started to look up. The nurses began talking of crowning, and Daddy knew that meant something about the head appearing. He gathered it hadn’t appeared yet, but was set to at any moment. He tried to lean closer, tried to see, but bodies crowded in front of him to keep him away. He growled and clenched his fists and thought about smashing faces in. Only thought about it, mind; it’d never do to end up in jail at this particular moment, when he was so. damn. close. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, though. Hold himself back. Restrain himself. Wait.
     Voices rang out in the room, and the vessel’s stupid airy laughter coated everything. Daddy felt in desperate need of a shower, but that was hardly his main concern. His main concern was an exclamation from one of the nurses: “Oooohhhhh…” And then the strange croaking sound, the kind of sound he’d never heard before. It made him think, Baby! but no, it couldn’t be. Babies didn’t sound like that…did they?
     All fell silent, but for the vessel’s hateful laughter and the beeping of machines. The thundering of Daddy’s heart in his chest. The ticking of some distant clock. The faint hush of activity beyond the doors of the birthing room. Daddy’s thundering heart. What is wrong? he found himself thinking. But nothing could be wrong. Nothing at all.
     “Where’s my baby? Where is he?”
     Nobody looked at him. All eyes were on the vessel, or rather on what had just come out of her. He could not see! And though he tried to be polite about it, nobody was letting him through. So, politeness wasn’t the way. He had to try something new.
     He shoved the first nurse aside, and the second. People started getting the message, shifting so he could pass. The vessel’s mindless titter wafted through the air, grating on his nerves, making him flinch. The way forward parted, the crowd around the cot making way for him. For a moment he had eyes for something other than his baby, and what he saw sent a faint chill through him. Round saucer eyes full of fear, a nurse’s mouth hanging open in apparent disbelief. Sympathy. Sorrow. Confusion. Horror.
     What the hell is wrong? He longed to ask, but he had no time for questions. He had to see with his own eyes.
     At last, the cot was revealed. The vessel was torn open, blood everywhere. He could hardly see that she had been a person. He realised that the sound of her laughter was in his head, not happening for real. It echoed in his head, seeming to grow louder with each second that passed. Blood and gore and death greeted him. But not everything was dead.
     There, nestled in the middle of a lake of wet and sticky redness, was a creature so unlike any human baby that Daddy had to wonder just what he was looking at. The thing had a spine on the outside, it had protrusions from its back that he quickly recognised as folded bat wings, it had oddly arched eyebrows that reached nearly to the hairline. And the hair. It had a fountain of black hair, longer than its body, clumped with blood and bone and other unrecognisable matter. But the main thing he saw was the eyes. Glowing orange-yellow like the strongest flame, blazing from where they nestled in a misshapen head, the eyes fixed right on Daddy and seemed to glow even brighter. Daddy, a voice whispered straight into his mind. You’ve come, at last. Take me home, Daddy. Let us begin our life together.
     And despite the dismay all around him, Daddy wasn’t sad at all.
     The grin on his face was fixed—destined to stay there forever more.
     He scooped his child up into his arms and cradled it, gazing down with mindless adoration into that beloved face.

Prompt 33

Why do I always leave these things until last minute?

So on Wednesday, I have to do a presentation on classroom economies (does anyone remember those from elementary school?) and I had this thought:

"I closed my eyes and reached into the class treasure chest.  Uh oh.  THAT'S not a pencil."

Yep.  That's it.  That's your prompt.   1K-10K prose/333-3,333 verse.

Oh and yeah, go ahead and ask me about bizarre/dangerous ways to implement token economies.  I've been cracking myself up all weekend.

PROMPT NUMBER THIRTY-TWO

Sorry...yep, I forgot and I'm late! I blame my head being done in by my significant other and his makeshift psychiatrist ways. :P Anyway...head screwed on tight, so here goes!!

Write 1,000-10,000 words based on the following:

"Any moment now, he's going to press the button. Are the cameras rolling?"

Aaand...GO!