Thursday, July 21, 2011
Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday
Wednesday's words: early, jiggle, quality
* * *
Mercy is Strained
Early light crept like fingers through veneer blinds, teased her awake. Cheryl surfaced from the fog of sleep, wet and hungry. Jeremy’s steady, heavy breathing next to her stirred something she seldom felt in the morning. Mornings were for showers and teeth brushing, not sex.
She couldn’t explain why she wanted him—needed him—at this precise moment. It’s not as though he’d expressed any interest in her. Hadn’t for quite some time now. Jeremy insisted it wasn’t the extra pounds she’d put on since they’d exchanged vows. And she believed him; at least she told herself she did.
Back in the day, Jeremy couldn’t keep his hands off her. He’d catch her gaze, glance at a closed door, and Cheryl would lead the way. The lock to the office utility closet would hardly engage before her skirt was around her waist, panties thrust aside.
Need flared with the memory. Cheryl pressed against him, bare skin next to bare skin. The moonstone pendant (the only thing she wore to bed) jiggled between her breasts as she reached over, skimmed a hand over his hip, dipped down to grip…limp, lifeless.
She closed her eyes, mortified. Not even in his dreams did he want her; her pound of flesh rejected once again.
Portia was wrong, Cheryl thought, the quality of mercy is strained and it showers down in biting hail.
Soundlessly, she pulled away, lay back on her side of the bed, pressed her face into the pillow. She lay motionless until he woke and stepped into the shower an hour later.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Today's muse: One Minute Writer
Today's prompt: Expiration. What do you wish had an expiration date?
Obviously, it took me longer than the alotted one minute (more like twelve) so I didn't post it on Mister Linky over at The One Minute Writer. I just really liked this prompt and wanted to use it.
* * *
She stood on the tiny three-legged stool reaching for the box on the top shelf.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Eric stood in the doorway of the walk-in closet. “I thought you were making dinner.”
“I just wanted to check something.”
Janice stepped down and walked past him, an antique hat box tucked under her arm.
Eric glanced at his watch. “Can’t you do it after dinner? I’m hungry.”
“It will only take a minute.” Janice opened the box, rummaged through the contents.
“What is so damned important that you have to check it now?”
Janice continued to sift through the hat box.
“Don’t ignore me, woman.”
“One minute. I think this is…yes!”
She snatched a piece of paper from the box, waved it in the air.
“What the hell is that?” Eric walked toward her, but Janice held out her hand.
Hands trembling, Janice unfolded the paper. Her lips moved in silence as she read the parchment; eyes darted back and forth, moved lower and lower. As she came to the bottom of the page, her lips twitched, then curved into a grin.
She held the page up so he could read it. She waited until the look of puzzlement passed and his eyes widened with understanding.
“There’s an expiry date,” she said, waving the page at him. She flicked her finger as though she swatted at an annoying mosquito.
“I’m outta here.” Tossing the paper at him, she stormed out of the bedroom.
He heard the front door slam before their marriage certificate floated to the floor.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice
Marc's prompt: Four lines of prose about 'the security guard'.
* * *
I have to take off my shoes and socks to count how many years we’ve been together, it’s been so damn long; an eternity some days. You’ve broken almost every promise we made before god and man, though I don’t think god was really listening that day, so maybe it doesn’t count. What pains me most is that you promised to take care of me, protect me, never hurt me.
You let your guard down.