Nameless Creation

I craved something positive (or at least somewhat less depressing) than other things I've been writing recently, so I wrote this, based on a piece sent to me by a friend. I think just about the only holdover is the main character - a thing that used to be something else, a thing that doesn't know what it is, and has a world to discover.

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Cool water. A chill breeze. Whispers.

“Well formed.” Husky and rough, like gravel. A rustle, as of leaves or sand, rubbing softly.

“Yes, yes.” Quick and breathy, cousin to the wind.

“Good legs,” said the gravel.

“Yes, yes!” agreed with wind.

“The face… is the hardest part.” Another rustle, the gravel-voice moving closer. “Open your eyes.” An order.

Her eyes opened. Brilliant silver pinpricks above her outlined huge ebony shadows, looming and towering, but ever so much closer than the lights. The lights enchanted her, seeming to flicker and twinkle if she looked straight at them.

Suicide Note

Apparently, my work friend really likes writing prompts that are just a little bit morbid. So, here's another one she sent me not too long ago:

You find your own suicide note.

It is unmistakably in your own handwriting,

it is stained with what can only be blood,

and it is dated 3 days ago.

Then she had the audacity to write something based on her own prompt - and then I couldn't help myself. The story just sort of came into being without my permission. Here it is... well, part of it anyway:

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“Hold on, I had it right here.”

“Sure.”

“Seriously.”

“You know, if you’d organize your - “

“It’s an organized mess, thank you very much.”

Papers started spilling off the desk onto the cluttered floor. Cleaning up was futile. Marie knew. She’d tried. It only took about a day or so before, once again, the place looked like it had been bombed. Or invaded by toddlers.

“Are you absolutely sure you had it here?”

“I swear it was here . . . I guess I could check the living room.” She dropped the stack of papers carelessly onto the desk and darted out the door into the hall.

Stolen Flowers

A friend of mine at work has been sending me story prompts that have been simmering in my brain while I sit quietly at my desk and try not to explode. Here's one of them: 

Every single day, a young man would steal flowers from an elderly woman's garden on the way to see his fiance. 

After a month of this happening, the elderly woman caught him and told him that he can continue to pick her flowers, but only if he showed her that his fiance was not only pretty enough to warrant flower theft, but that they were truly happy with each other.

As they walked together, the elderly woman rambled on about true love and how precious it was. However, the young man wasn't listening. He kept trying to figure out a way to break it to her that they were on the way to the cemetery. 

So, here's what came out of it: 

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Loose grit crunched like snow under his boots as he approached the garden. Gnarled branches twisted through the air like snakes frozen in the act of striking, withered and mottled with moss by the ages that drifted slowly by. A huge rose bush rambled aimlessly against the fence, making an almost impenetrable barrier - almost, but not quite.

Hal glanced around quickly, then grinned to himself as he pushed one of the fence slats. It swung up and out on its rusty nail, parting the thorny creepers and holding them at bay as he slipped through, just out of reach of sharp, grabbing twigs.

A neglected air pervaded the fenced yard, scraggly bushes boasting an overabundance of flowers while weeds riddled the bleached bark mulch below. A bed of huge, colorful daffodils rioted in the corner with tulips and lilies of the valley, tangled with dandelions and queen anne’s lace and thistle. Opposite the daffodils a raised bed seemed to be collapsing under a profusion of strawberry plants, spilling over the edges like wine from a drunkard’s cup.

Happy Ending

So, after dragging you guys along for several weeks, here's the happy ending I had to write for the "Election Day" story. I wanted to write more in the in-between parts, but somehow, every time I tried to start a scene at a different point in time, it petered out very quickly, and I couldn't make it go anywhere. So, following my own advice about "not forcing it," I wrote this scene instead. I found it satisfying, even if I don't think it lives up to the potential the concept had to begin with.

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Soft jazz music played in the background, almost covered by the soft conversational voices and clinking of silverware against glittering china plates. Alice glanced across the table at her husband and felt her heart do that funny fluttering thing that her mother told her meant she was still in love. Philip was dressed in his best grey suit, with a cream shirt and a dark green tie. He caught her eye and smiled in that way of his that said “you’re beautiful” without him needing to speak the words out loud.

Alice’s gaze shifted down to her plate and heat flushed from her neck up to her cheeks, even as she smiled. She’d dreamed about this for so many weeks… and now it was really happening. Thanks to her parents’ patience and a generous donation from Philip’s brother, they were actually having a nice evening together.