Truth or Dare

Today's muse: Six Sentences

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Truth or Dare

Staring down the length of a gun barrel wasn’t quite the experience she’d expected. More frightened, is what she should have been, and even though her heart pounded so much she was sure he could see it bump against her meagre shirt, she was rather calm about the whole thing. The argument had escalated, moving with lightening speed from harsh words to blood-letting blows, until they stood panting, each sizing up the other. He saw her gaze flick over to the night stand where he kept his .22 and he lunged after her as she darted across the room, his hand clamping on hers as she wrenched open the drawer. And now, his cold grey eyes stared back at her, unblinking, unfeeling, asking one thing: Who would have the nerve to move first? Well, she thought, it might as well be me, and she squeezed back the trigger.

Back in Order

Today's muse: Six Sentences

I have been wanting to try this for quite some time. Conveying a story (or at least a complete scenario) in six sentences is not an easy task.

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Back in Order

She picked up a brass figurine, one he so often used to punish her, and wiped off a stray drop of blood. She wove her way around the various floor lamps, tables and chairs of the crowded living room, assuring herself that no item was out of place. Considering the vicious struggle that had ensued, it was quite surprising she was able to put things back the way they were—the way he liked them, the way he insisted they be. Satisfied that everything was in order, she left the house, closing the door behind her one last time. “They won’t even notice he’s missing,” she thought, quite pleased with herself. “Until he starts decomposing, of course.”

Accident ~ a haiku

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

It's Two Haiku Tuesday at DWP. Today's prompt: Accidents.


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some say accident
but you, my lovely daughter
were a nice surprise



~


a mistake you say
yet you continue to strike
sorry’s not enough

The Spill

Today's muse: One Minute Writer


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The Spill


“Shit!”

It was a frantic whisper as the glass of milk tipped and a white lake spread across the table. If he sees this, there will be hell to pay.

Sheila grabbed a cloth from the kitchen counter and sopped up the mess, lunging back and forth from the table to the sink to wring out the drenched rag.

“Jesus, what the hell was I thinking?” she muttered.

Her hands trembled and she prayed he didn’t walk in and catch her cleaning up. She knew that would be worse. Like the time she had replaced the broken vase. She had nudged it while dusting and it had exploded into a million pieces. It was days before he found a tiny shard that had slid to a far corner under the sofa. She had walked with a limp for quite a while after that.

The milk crept towards the edge of the table. She squeezed the cloth into the sink, wrung it violently, imagined it was his neck, and turned back to the table to damn the lactose waterfall.

This was how he found her. He stood in the doorway watching her. As she whipped around from the sink, shaking out the twisted cloth, she looked up and met his gaze. The terror in her eyes was unmistakeable. Her body twitched as she hesitated. He could see her mind spinning, searching for an escape, weighing all the options.

“Sheila.” He said her name quietly, afraid to startle her. “It’s me.”

His heart plummeted as he watched her crumble.

“I’m sorry!” she pleaded, holding her hands up in defence. “It was an accident.”

“I know,” he said, and started to walk towards her. She backed away, her eyes darting about, calculating the safest route to freedom.

“I can clean it up. It’ll only take a moment. I didn’t mean it. It was an accident.” Her words tripped over each other as she rushed to explain before he could mete out retribution.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” he said, his voice gentle and calm. He inched closer. “It was an accident. I know that.”

He stood next to her and studied the top of her head as she studied the floor. He was careful not to touch her, knew she’d shatter like fine crystal.

“Look at me.” It wasn’t an order, not even a suggestion. He was begging her because it tore him up inside to see her like this, to see her cower in fear. He couldn’t understand why anyone would destroy such a delicate flower.

“Please, Sheila.” He was embarrassed that his voice faltered, knew he was about to cry. “Please look at me.”

Before he could stop himself, he reached out and touched her arm. She cringed, but he only held her arm tighter. He wasn’t going to let her run away. Not this time.

“Look at me.” His voice was sharp now. This has to stop, he thought, and it’s going to stop now.

Recognizing the anger in his voice, Sheila lifted her head and met his gaze. Her eyes flared with challenge and there was no doubt she planned to win this time. He was surprised by that, and more than a little pleased. A smile played on his lips and he gave an approving nod.

“There’s my girl,” he said, and the smile broke into a grin.

“Allen.”

She was surprised to see him. Just moments ago, she was back with the monster, living a nightmare. She could feel her heart pounding, but she looked around and took in her surroundings, realized where she was.

Home. With Allen. Not the monster.

He caught her as she collapsed against him. He held her tight until her trembling stopped.

“It’s ok,” he murmured into her hair. “I got you. He won’t hurt you. He can’t. Not anymore.”

Carve

Today's muse: One Word. Today's word: Carve

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Carve

He ran his hands down her bare back, closed his eyes as his fingers travelled back up the line. His hand trembled as he caressed the silkiness. Who knew he could ever possess such beauty? A sculpture created by the gods, delivered on a whisper by angels.

“I will always protect you,” he whispered, as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Her tiny hand gripped his finger with surprising strength. Her bright blue eyes stared into his and she cooed. Though she spoke no words—at least, none he recognized—he understood what she said.

“I believe you, daddy.”

The Robin

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

I was delighted when I saw Marc's prompt was The Robin. Spring is my favourite time of year and I'm so excited when I see my first robin. It's like a message from the gods: "Fear not, child, the sun cometh."

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The Robin


The delicate balance of day and night shifts,
ever so gently.

The light shall now defeat the darkness
and conquer the moon.

Glorious fire shall reign
and all will praise its power.

And The Robin shall herald its return.

Dancing with the Stars

Today's muse:

I was going through some old writing and came across this piece. I don't recall the muse, and barely remember writing it, but I rather like it. And I assure you that it's fiction! I seem to be obsessed with writing in the first person lately.

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Dancing with the Stars

When Vanessa returned the iPod she borrowed, she mentioned that she had downloaded some music for me.

“To expand your musical library,” she said. I guess she wasn’t fond of my selection of one-hit-wonders.

I forgot about her little gift until this morning, when I put my iPod on before vacuuming. Turning the volume to an ear-splitting level to drown out the angry whir of the upright makes the chore tolerable.

I vacuum the second floor, my hips keeping rhythm to classic dance tunes I remember with fondness from my teenage years. As I move down to the first floor, the music fades from a catchy disco tune to a provocative tango. Ah, good ol’ Vanessa.

Without hesitation, I take the lead and spin the vacuum around, throwing my arm out with flair. I reach over and snatch a flower from the bud vase and clench it between my teeth. We strut across the living room floor, cheek to handle, twirling with finesse. I dip the upright in a provocative move, gazing at the worn handle with love, my eyes promising more.

As the music fades, I hear cheering and whistling, mingled with wild applause. I whirl around and see the construction crew that is installing our swimming pool. They are lined up along my porch, hardhats tucked under their arms, cheering madly at my performance.

After a moment’s pause, I do what any respectable artist would do: I graciously bow and make a hasty exit to hide downstairs in the den for the remainder of the day.

The Speeding Ticket

Today's muse: Recent news.


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The Speeding Ticket

“Slow down.” Though it is whispered like a caress, the meaning is clear. It’s a command, not a suggestion. “Slow down, child.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have time,” I mutter, and slap my hand at the air, as though I can make the Voice go away. It’s been nagging at me for months now.

“You can’t fool me,” I challenge the Voice. “If you wanted to take me out, you would have done it years ago.” God knows I’ve done things to deserve it.

I stare at my computer screen, careful not to glance away. If I make eye contact with anyone, I know I’ll cry. I’m barely holding it together these days.

I heard the doctor’s warning. Not only heard, but listened. There’s a subtle difference between hearing and listening that few people understand. Listening involves comprehension and digestion. What he had to say didn’t go down too well and left a bad taste.

The numbers are high and if you don’t bring them down there is a heavy price to be paid.

I don’t know what the price tag reads, but I’m certain I can’t afford it. I also can’t afford to stop. Stopping, in my mind, is an admission of failure. And that’s something I cannot do. It’s just not part of my DNA.

So, I lower my head like a bull in battle with a toreador, prepared to charge through the day.

“Slow down,” the Voice whispers.

“Get lost,” I snarl, as it squeezes my chest.

The Break Up

Today's muse: Based on a true story.


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The Break Up


“Tell me everything,” Ellen says, as she drops her purse on the floor and slumps into the chair across from me. “And don’t leave anything out.”

“Thanks for coming,” I tell her, and take her hand. She gives me a reassuring squeeze and I attempt a brave smile.

Ellen signals our favourite waiter--a self-proclaimed Diva--who sashays over to our table.

“Dry martini.” says Ellen. “Straight up. Bombay Sapphire. Olives.” Ellen is serious about her martinis.

The Diva responds with an approving “Mhmmm!”

They turn to me. Ellen raises a questioning eyebrow and The Diva cocks his head. Out of nowhere, the weight of the world falls on me and I can’t make a decision; as though the choice between a Cosmo or an Apple Martini is going to topple the scales of life and nothing will ever be the same.

Tears well up and my lip trembles.

“Oh, honey!” The Diva whips a tissue out from an invisible pocket and dabs at my eyes, careful not to smudge my mascara.

“Make it two martinis,” says Ellen. The Diva nods and scurries away.

I shake my head, mortified at making a scene. “I don’t know where to start.” I lift my hands in a hopeless gesture and let them drop to the table.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re leaving him,” Ellen prompts.

I take a deep breath and let it out in a shaky puff. “It’s just not working anymore.” I shrug, not really sure how to express how I feel. Ellen rests her elbows on the table, cups her chin in her hands. And waits.

“Things were going so well, for so long,” I begin. “Josh was perfect.” I stare up at the ceiling and Ellen nods, prompting me to continue.

“He listened when I talked. He really seemed to care, you know? When I got that promotion, he snuck in two mini bottles of scotch so we could celebrate. And no matter how late it was, he’d drop everything and make time for me.”

“Then why are you leaving him?”

I sigh. “It’s so hard to make the time to fit him in.”

Ellen nods, and I know she understands, without judgement.

“Almost every time I make plans to see him, something comes up at work and I’m rushing out to see him. Most of the time, I go back to work when we’re done, just to finish up a few things. It’s ridiculous.”

I bury my face in my hands and groan. “It’s too stressful. I need to find someone closer to home. Someone I can see on the weekend.”

The Diva returns and places our martinis on the table.

“Boyfriend?” he asks Ellen, flicking his head toward me.

She shakes her head.

“Hairdresser.”

Hush Now Child

Today's muse: One Minute Writer

Prompt: Describe the most beautiful sound you've ever heard.


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Hush Now Child

My pace slows and I come to a stop. I stand on my toes to see above the grass that sways in the breeze. The blades brush against one another making a sound much like a mother hushing a frightened child. It soothes me and I continue walking, my eyes scanning the horizon.

Then I see them—the tops, at least. As I crest the hill, they come in full view and I realize how enormous they really are. And more than a little intimidating.

They swing open as a deep melodic voice greets me.

“Welcome back.”

Attention

Today's muse: The One-Minute Writer

The Prompt: Complete this thought: "I wish I'd paid more attention when..."


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Attention

I wish I'd paid more attention
when the gods whispered in my ear
and explained my reason for being,
why they left me here.

Is it to help the homeless man
I see on the corner each day,
who holds his cardboard sign up,
and blesses me on my way?

Is it to lift the others
who have lived a life like mine,
to make them strong to face the day,
and leave abuse behind?

Is it to raise my children
and watch them as they grow,
to be loving, kind and fair,
and have children of their own?

Or is my lifelong mission,
the reason I am here,
to know that You are with me,
that You are always near?

Renovations

Today's muse: Daily Writing Practice

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Renovations

Staring at the blue prints, I try to imagine his vision.

“It’s too boxy here,” he says, with a vague wave. “This all needs to come out.” He swishes his hand in a sweeping motion, as though this small gesture will magically fix everything.

I nod. He’s probably right, though I don’t think it’s possible. Isn’t some of that structural?

“And here,” he taps the paper. “We could add something here, just for aesthetics.” He makes a few marks with his pen. “See?”

“I just don’t know,” I say, not sure I want to commit to such an extensive overhaul.

I squint, trying to visualize what he’s trying to tell me.

“Is this all really necessary?” I don’t want to offend him. After all, he is the professional in this scenario.

He raises an eyebrow as if to say, Of course it is.

I back off, raise a hand to signal a truce.

“When I’m done,” he assures me, “you will wonder how you lived with it before.” He sees my hesitation. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”

I sigh. “Alright.”

And shake hands with my plastic surgeon.