Strike Three

Today's muse: Thursday Tales

Today's prompt is this awesome picture by Scott Speck:

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Strike Three

There isn’t much light coming through—that haze just before dawn—and it takes a moment before I realize it’s because my eyes are closed. I try to open them, but can’t.

I press a hand to my face, tracing fingers around the contours of swollen eyes. Something is wrong. Very wrong. Panic rips through me, followed by searing pain. Hundreds of ice picks stab, tear at my limbs.

What the fuck happened?

It takes considerable effort, but I open my eyes a crack. I can’t see much, but I see enough to know that I’m lying on the floor, in the middle of…oh shit.

Now I remember.

Pieces drop into place, flash before me like a maniacal slide show. My body convulses as my mind replays his rage; feels, once again, his fists, his boots. The sound of crushing bones echoes in my ears.

I wonder if I can walk. I need to get up. Get the hell out of here. I sit up, hold down my stomach as the room tips, then rights itself. The door opens and closes with a soft click, and I realize it’s too late. As his footsteps bounce off the columns of the mausoleum, the final slide drops into my memory.

Kneeling over me, a leg on either side, hands pressed against my head, he lowers his mouth to my ear. Bile burns my throat when he presses his hard cock against my thigh.

“Wait here,” he whispers, swiping his tongue across my cheek. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get the baseball bat.”

New Day

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's Prompt: New

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New Day

When the sun sets and the moon is high, nightmares creep into my bedroom and drag me into the undertow, hold me down as I claw for air.

Each new day dawns, tangled in the threads of my dreamcatcher, childhood memories fading in the morning sun.

Promises, Promises

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: demolish, resolution, transform

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Promises, Promises

Milky blank pages of linen note paper stare back at me. After a moment’s pause, lips set in grim resolution, my Mont Blanc etches lines of promises.

Vow to decrease the numbers that have crept higher and higher on the scale. Pledge to explore my writing; finish the book—at least the first draft. Commit to leave work at a reasonable hour and reduce (if not eliminate) those retched twelve-hour days. Transform the tired, angry person I have become, into the content, peaceful woman I once was.

In a moment of clarity, the pen hovers above the expensive parchment, and I know what must be done. My hands curl around the paper and, in one violent motion, tear the pages into shreds, demolishing the words of promise.

Who am I kidding? The entire list will be moot by January third.

Small Town

Small Town

There is a paved road that runs east off the highway, winds its way around a small lake, then veers north. If you drive long enough, it becomes a dirt road. Further along, a two-lane path. Eventually, it’s nothing more than a rut in the dirt, camouflaged by tall grass.

It’s been years since anyone has driven through here. A shame really. It was a nice community. Corn grew higher than you could reach, everyone knew everyone, and the church was full every Sunday. The chug of tractors echoed across the fields, cows chewed lazily in the sun. Neighbours had a friendly wave when anyone drove by. The response was always a quick toot of the horn.

Prosperity died when the mine closed. One by one they left, moved to the Big City to start over. Or fail again.

Once a God-fearing community, it is now a desolate trail, reduced to a mosquito-infested swamp miles from any living being. It doesn’t appear on any map. No one talks about it.

It's perfect. This is where I’ll bury the body.

More Time

More Time

Darkness drapes over me like a funeral pall. Wishes and dreams press down on my shoulders with surprising weight. They weren’t so heavy when they were filled with light and hope.

Voices call down the cavern, coax me from the mire. I ignore them, turn my face into my bent knees. Go away, I want to be alone.

I should crawl toward the light, drag myself up, but I don’t have the energy. Reaching for outstretched hands is exhausting. It’s easier to slap them away. Leave me here, wrapped in the darkness, pressed in the quiet. Just for a while.

I need a little more time.

Where are you?

Today's muse: Carry on Tuesday

Today's prompt: Where are you?

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Where are you?

They stayed up well after the moon was high; spent the night talking, laughing, crying.

“How did we get here?” Rhonda tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “We were in love once weren’t we?”

“Some part of us still is.” Jason took her hand. “And always will be. We just, I don’t know, took different paths.”  

Rhonda nodded. If she was honest, she’d admit that she wasn’t happy either; hadn’t been for quite some time. “We’ll still be friends, right?”

“Of course.” Jason brought his hand to her cheek. “We’ll always love each other, it’ll be different, that’s all.”

Rhonda forced a smile, flicked her tongue across her lips. “Maybe better.”

Jason leaned into her, his mouth hovering just above hers. “Much better.” He pulled the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder, ran moist kisses across it and up her neck. “Much, much better.”

She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. His mouth teased as he murmured promises, drew her higher until she flew.

In retrospect, he should have just held her after, cuddled a little. Even gone another round. Instead, the afterglow of sex had his mouth flapping like a teenaged girl; admitting to Rhonda that the reason he’d been late almost every night for the last three months was because he was banging his secretary. He hadn’t worded it exactly that way—he was much more eloquent—but it didn’t matter.

Jason was now hunched behind a tower of boxes in the basement. Sweat had his t-shirt pasted to his back; his breathing was harsh and fast.

He’d never seen Rhonda that pissed before. She had lunged at him, screaming and clawing at him with those sharp nails she kept perfectly manicured. Jason tried to reason with her but she had raged like a maniac.

“Emily means nothing,” he’d insisted. She did have a great ass, though.

It was all a little grey now, but Jason wondered if he’d admitted that last part out loud. He must have. It explained why he was crouched behind a pile of old boxes, the click of the Colt’s hammer bouncing off the basement walls.

Rhonda’s sing-song voice rang out, turned his bowels to mush.

“Jaaaason. Wheeere aaaare yooooou?”

Name

Today's muse: One Minute Writer

Today's prompt: Name. Is there a name that would fit you better than the name you were given? Explain.


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Name

How well, I wonder, would the name “Mom” have fit?

I like to think it would have lifted my heart, made my face glow and my eyes dance in delight as my children called my name. Alas, that name was not meant for me.

Instead, the Fates chose another.

“Step-Mom”.

Resignation

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: figment, inclined, vulnerable

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Resignation

She thought the others exaggerated, embellished their tales of horror. He couldn’t possibly be that evil. Besides, she was no longer a vulnerable twenty year-old struggling with her first job. She was a strong woman with more than twenty years of experience behind her. She could handle a demanding boss.

Larissa snorted. Oh, how wrong she’d been.

Lucas Fitzgerald was nice at first, praised her often. She felt quite smug that she was better than all the others.

“Stupid twit,” she muttered. “You should have seen through the smoke and mirrors, paid attention to the man behind the curtain.”

Well, she thought, it’s over now. She tilted the bottle of scotch to her lips, took a long pull of courage.

Human Resources brushed her off when she spoke to them. Just a figment of her imagination, they said.

“But he shouts all the time. Surely everyone else has heard him,” she argued.

“No one else has said anything,” they countered.

Larissa tipped the bottle again. Well, they’ll be talking now, she thought. She grinned at the wall behind his desk. Every framed face that grinned back was now modified with permanent black marker. Wild, curling moustaches and enormous devil horns now adorned each dignitary photographed beside the CEO. Some had voluminous breasts. A few had engorged penises. She knew it was childish, but it had felt so damn good scrawling the Sharpie across those smug faces.

She twisted her wrist, checked the time. Mr. Fitgerald was inclined to stop by the office late at night, rifle through her desk.

“Checking up on me. Making sure I’m doing my job.” Larissa spun around in his leather executive chair. “Let’s see what you discover today.”

She toyed with the Christmas gift he gave her last year. Mr. Fitzgerald had called from the airport as he waited for his flight to Barbados.

“I left you something on your desk.” He said it as though he’d left her the keys to a new BMW. “I expect you’ll put it to good use.”

The other assistants had received cheques from their bosses; some with a comma in their figures. But not Larissa. Lucas Fitzgerald found it necessary to give her a practical gift.

A click echoed down the hall as the double oak doors opened and closed. Larissa recognized the brisk militant march of her boss. She was surprised how calm she felt. She thought she would be more nervous terminating her employment.

As the door swung open, Larissa was pleased to see the look of anger on Lucas Fitzgerald’s face, watch it shift from fury to fear. By far, she thought, the best expression was that of shock as she plunged the stainless steel letter opener into his chest over and over like a jack hammer.

Breathless, sweating and more than a little giddy, Larissa, wiped the letter opener on his Armani suit.

“Thank you for the present, sir.” She stood up, adjusted her skirt. “I put it to good use.”

You are here

Today's muse: Sunday Scribblings

Today's prompt: #289 You are here

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You are here

It’s annoying when you state the obvious. I don’t need you to tell me where I am; I am well aware of my location. I am neck deep in this quicksand and at any moment it will pull me under, destroy the bit of spirit I have left.

What I need is help out of this stinking hell hole, and a little guidance. Don’t tell me I’m here. What I need is for you tell me how get there, help me get away from all of this.

Quiet

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: admire, follow, piece

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Quiet

Swishy skirt, crisp white blouse and pearls at her throat; the closest she can be to the June she admires.

One more look around the living room she vacuumed twice today. Polished furniture gleams in the fading daylight. He’ll be home soon, it must be perfect, nothing out of order, everything in its place.

The intoxicating aroma of prime rib floats throughout the main floor. Rearrange the flowers on the table, centre the chairs, re-fold the napkins, press them once more.

Trembling hands smooth away nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt, finger the pearls he gave her for their anniversary, the ones he said would remind her of him, that feel like his manicured hands around her throat.

She struggles to push aside fear. He’ll see it, use it, torment her with it, take away the one piece of her she has come to love. She won’t let him. She can’t.

“Coming sweetheart!” She follows newborn cries up the stairs. “There, there,” she croons, rocking away tears. He hates when you cry, just be quiet, please be quiet.

Baby tucked in one arm, she spins the tap, fills the tub with water, tests with an elbow. A gummed smile is her reward when she floats the cherub in the tepid pool. She laughs as chubby legs kick and splash.

Daddy’s pretty little girl, his perfect little angel, no more crying now, no more crying, no more, no.

Bathwater is still as glass now, except for the occasional tear that streaks down her cheek and ripples the water to blur precious blue eyes that stare back from beneath the surface.

All is quiet now. Quiet.

Last Night

Today's muse: Three Word Wednesday

Today's words: eject, impact, render

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Last Night

The tile floor is cold against my bare ass. I don’t have the energy to pull the bathroom rug under me. It’s all I can do to hold my hair back, keep it from falling in the toilet.

My head rings like a kettle drum. What the hell happened last night?

I have a vague recollection of dinner. My stomach wants nothing more than to eject the tender prime rib. And the booze. The fucking booze just kept flowing, like Christ himself was standing at the bar and filling glasses with a wave of his hand. I can’t remember how many martinis I had before switching to rum and Coke.

I spew into the toilet. Obviously too many. I had pledged my undying faith to Jose Cuervo; we’re BFFs now. Arriba!

I spew again. Not much is coming out now. I’ve been at this for a while.

Last night comes back in snapshots. The managing partner’s speech after dinner; I remember now. He droned on about the financial impact of the merger, bonuses all around, yadda yadda yadda. Everyone clapped at the announcement, some wolf-whistled.

It was at that point that Martin put his hand on my leg, skimmed it beneath the short skirt. The journey up my thigh came to a halt when he reached the clasps of my garter.

“Jesus.” Martin angled his head, appeared to be listening to the speaker. He dropped his voice. “Meet me in the lobby. Bring your purse.”

He left as everyone applauded the final words of the speech. Chairs scraped, music blared and bodies swarmed onto the dance floor. I followed a few out of the ballroom, the handful who were going outside for a smoke. I didn’t want a smoke. I wanted to finish what Martin and I had started back at the office, before leaving for the staff banquet; when he’d pinned me against his desk, ravaged my mouth with his, squeezed one hungry nipple between thumb and forefinger.

It’s no wonder I drank so much. I should have known the drinks wouldn’t dampen the fire. Booze always makes me horny.

At a discreet distance, I followed Martin out the building, half a block up the street and into a taxi. He pressed me against the seat, pushed my knees apart.

“Go,” he said to the driver.

“Where?”

“I don’t care,” Martin snapped. “Just fucking drive.” His hand rushed up my leg, pushed thin silk aside and plunged.

Yes! Yes! My hands had a mind of their own at that point and craved to reciprocate. I don’t recall much after that, but I know only one of us was reflected in the cabbie’s rear-view mirror, rendered speechless, eyes closed, mouth curved in bliss. It wasn’t me.

I don’t remember dropping Martin off at his house, coming back home, getting into bed. I'm not even sure how I came to be crouched in front of the toilet, wearing nothing but a Bon Jovi t-shirt.

The scream of the telephone stabs like an ice pick. The answering machine kicks in. My cheerful voice rings through the apartment.

“Hi, it’s Charlotte! I can’t take your call right now, but leave a message and I’ll call you back soon. Have a great day!”

I dry heave. Am I really that fucking annoying?

“Hey, Charlotte.” Andrea’s voice floats through the speakers. “Why aren’t you at work? What happened last night? You left without saying goodbye. Some people are saying you left with Martin.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “And his wife called to find out where he is. His wife, Charlotte! She says he didn’t come home last night. Everyone’s talking about it. You HAVE to call me and tell me what happened!”

Andrea hisses the last sentence into the phone. Then the buzz of a dead line.

I press my forehead against the cool porcelain. Oh fuck.

Like Fire

Today's muse: Succinctly Yours by Grandma's Goulash

The rules: Using the picture and/or word (the word is optional), write a story under 140 characters OR 140 words.

Today's word: Pugnacious. Though I didn't use the word, it's implied.

Today's photo:



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Like Fire

Love once burned white hot, their passion a Dali canvas. A decade later, it burns with fury, and their voices scream with the sirens.