Receding

I caught another PnS! :D I wasn't going to post this submission to my blog, because... because... I don't really know why. Perhaps it's too raw? But the feedback I got on the PnS feed made me feel like perhaps I should.

The rules:
"Prompt-and-Share

Same rules as always apply, all stories must include at least:
- 1 conflict
- 1 resolution
- 1 character
- 1 setting

The "theme" for today is Change . Change can be a lot of things, from the loose stuff that jingles in your pocket, to the big stuff like births and death and there are many places for change in between, so be as creative or uncreative as you like.

300 word max pretty please"

---

I've lived a sort of backwards life. All the years of my youth spent concerned for the comfort of my children. The time when all my friends were running all over the map having the time of their lives while they had the energy to do so, I ran around chasing toddlers and picking up messes and wiping little noses and kissing boo-boos.

Then worrying about having enough food and torn jeans and whether or not the homework's complete. My little ones growing beyond my abilities to pick them up into my hugs. Having to watch them run around the smaller map of town. Then one by one leave on their own greater adventures.

My children, don't live your lives backwards. Run while you have legs to carry you. Breathe the wild winds in your hair and dance with as many friends as you will or alone as you will.

I peered into my future. It was an empty house with no where to go. My friends were no longer running the map, but running after toddlers with snotty noses and potty training -- no time their own. I'd already seen those sights. I wanted to gallivant across the loops and lines. Places that inspired me and called me to see, but my old body unable to carry me any more.

Old enough to really feel the heart of a place, but too old now to see it. I can only sigh and dream.

Then the phone rings and one of my progeny pipes down the line, "Mom! Listen to what happened!" And I smile and listen and travel with them where I can't go.

I smile and listen and am content. I can finally rest my bones.

A start of something

The last couple of prompts haven't called me, so today, I listened to some music and contemplated the emotions of the songs- melody and lyrics. As the music disappeared into the background, my mind wandered, then arrived at a scene.

I don't know if anything will come of it, but it's there if I decide to continue.

152 words in the raw*:

He sat alone. The perfect picture of the tragic figure. His profile sharp against the lowering sun, which just kissed the horizon in a spectacular blaze of blinding color. He leaned forward; pressed his forehead against his palm. His dark hair, scrunched between splayed fingers that dug into his scalp, tumbling down his cheek.

What caused such despair? I felt it radiate out from him even at a couple dozen yards. I never knew such sadness myself, but I carried that heavy burden for many years now. The aching familiarity squeezed my guts up through my throat until I choked back a flood of tears.

His anguish, a potent crashing of waves on a tidal break, throttled me until I kneeled before it. Jagged little rocks cut through my jeans - another layer of pain. If I couldn’t crawl that small distance to reach him soon, I doubted my hold on sanity.

*unedited words as they first appeared on my computer

Whether or no...

"Prompt-and-Share A fun little random word prompt for Friday, keeping it short again but a little longer than yesterday:

150 words max
Use the words: time, attitude, clever"

Those who follow me on Twitter will have a decent clue where this came from. ;P
---


Time, like the soft sigh of a sleeping babe or a clever turn of phrase in the hush of distant memories; it comes and goes.

Woe that it is so. No matter to which attitude we greet it.

It comes.

Swiftly or slow; it goes.

Would you weep for me? Would you rage with me? Would you laugh at the turning of its wheel?

Or holding hands, leap forth into that deep night where it matters not. Where time cannot grasp at our wrinkling flesh. Or touch strands of silvery hair.

Our stuttering hearts wind down. Would you stay with me? My head bowed in final supplication, with outstretched arms to greet it.

Swiftly, now, it goes.

Gone

 I caught a prompt today! I think I've been missing them in my feed.

"Prompt-and-Share A really short one today, just to get those juices flowing.

100 words MAX
Your story has to start with: I'd expected he'd come after me.

No other criteria required - Write!"

To be upfront about this.... I haven't written anything in probably close to two months now and I only put about three minutes worth of effort into this little flash. I have to say, I've really missed the prompt and shares. 

---

I'd expected he'd come after me, but he'd already been. The whispering shadows shifted, lingering where the sun couldn't reach. His scent, I remembered so well. So fondly. It tickled the edges of my awareness. Yes, he'd already come and gone. Long before my dreaming mind fled to reality; the hateful place, but for him.

There, he'd waited, impatiently. Waited, then walked away while I slept. His breath a memory of the wind, now. His sad eyes peering too deeply. His beating heart under warm skin. I'd never know, ever again.

I expected to be first, but he'd gone on ahead.

Fragile Bones excerpt

I hope everyone had a wonderful Holiday last weekend. Going into New Year's weekend, here's a little excerpt for you:

“You would've killed me.”
“Yes.”
I bit my lip. He said it so easily, but I thought I heard a whisper of guilt or maybe it was my imagination. “I don't want to see any more. I've had my fill of your past.”
“It's not our decision. But I agree. It's getting too dangerous. I'll be looking for you. In my past, after that moment, I constantly looked to the shadows, searching for you. I remember.”
I stood up. Sickness sank into my stomach like a hard knot that refused to pass. Things had gotten too strange. Everything I knew about Michael, everything I'd come to depend upon changed. I'd told him so many times I trusted him, but I couldn't help but wonder if that were completely true. The memory of the devil's face cast a shadow over the light.
“I don't know how I'm going to deal with this,” I admitted.
“I tried to tell you before.”
“I know, but imagination can't conjure the truth of experience.” I pushed through the door. “I can't breathe.”
I scuffed across the church and climbed the stairs to our room. Our room. Our bed. I wanted to puke. How many times had Michael warned me? Yet I didn't want to believe it. Not really. I sat on the edge of the bed and closed my eyes. I opened them again. Behind the darkness, a vision of those glowing eyes and blood, thick and black, dripping. I looked at my hands. The dried blood still on my fingertips seemed to flow down into my palm, pooled there, and continued to climb up my arms. I tried to wipe it off, but it leaped onto my other hand until the sticky gore painted both hands and arms.
“No.”
It wasn't me.
But it was.
I curled in on myself and fell into the mattress.
One truth made the whole episode worse: I was jealous. Jealous of that pitiful young man in the alley. For a few minutes, he'd felt the raw, savage lust of the unchained monster. I fantasized what it might be like; wanted it more than anything. Michael cleaving away the unwanted parts of me. The part that raged. The part that cowered. The filthy parts, the fragile parts. Maybe then I could stand beside him worthy of that position. I wanted to partake with him.
Though he denied it, I knew that fear haunted him. How could he not be afraid? Years might have distanced him, but the memories lingered. Refreshed anew by our visits to those places. Images uncovered and once more open to the light of day. Questioning oneself is never comfortable. All the 'what ifs' overwhelming any sense of self. Though, I couldn't imagine Michael ever lost himself to such lines of thinking. He resisted.
Laughter boiled up and tangled in my throat; strangled me. It came out in coughing staccato beats.
The shock faded away and left me cold and empty. The murderous impulses threatened to fill that space. I clenched my hands until skin split under my nails. How easy it would be. Willingly enslaved by that singular pleasure. Those eyes, familiar, yet so alien, would forever chase me. I saw what I could become. That same look had probably graced my face when I murdered that man such a short time ago.
Oh, how sweet that power sang along my every nerve.
The warring feelings tore at my insides.
I wanted to feel myself again.
But who was that? The tender victim? The untamed killer? The young man who overcame both those things?
Whatever had fetched me away from my former life believed in me. Michael believed in me. Why couldn't I believe in myself? I was weak. I couldn't master even my simple impulses, how could I hope to conquer those greater things that gripped me?

You can get it here in paperback and for kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1453822054
or here on Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/94497 (use coupon code NB26F for 53% off.)

Running Scared

"Prompt You or your MC has to do something physically vigorous. Take us through the reaction of their bodies and mind as they complete this task.

Just to make it a little more interesting, I would also like a little setting thrown in there.

Word count limit: 300 (it's a tight fit, but I'm betting you all can do it :) )"


Whew!! Talk about trimming! I shaved almost 200 words to get right at 300 exactly! Phone it in, it's a miracle. lol Kidding aside, these exercises really make you look at every single word to gauge its importance and impact to the story.
---

Night swaddled the sky in a gown of velvet darkness. Enfolded the streets in swirls and eddies of light and shadow. With it, the loud barks, croaks, and hoots of the wild echoed off the sides of hulking, bulky monsters - eyes lit with the inner fires of flickering fluorescents. Or incandescents. Silhouettes crossing LCDs playing fake realities.

Six blocks. Knees high, stride long; arms pumping. My sneakered feet hitting concrete with audible thumps. Eyes scanning ahead for cracks and buckles. I couldn't afford a fall. I wished for the moon, but it hid its face from my plight.

Sweat gathered on my brow. I went off my pace for a breath to wipe salt water away from my eyes.

Four more blocks. Breath stuck in my lungs, rattling. Refused more air. Like if old Jim, the really over-weight guy on the next block, sat on my chest and cinched a wide belt around my ribs. Air came and went in great huffing, panicked gasps.

Suffocating. No way I would make it.

Two blocks now. My joints screamed; long disused from sitting hours on the couch playing videos games or at my desk mesmerized by the web. Knees popped. Hips stuttered. Each pounding step, my ankles would surely shatter.

Vision pin holing. Steps faltering. Nothing but the slow motion huff, huff of rattling lungs and thump, thump of pounding feet.

Half a block. Almost there, I thought in the back of my mind - the detached part that watched in abstract third person. Labored breath, slipping joints, incinerated muscles - black, fear driven flight.

My house loomed. Gloomy creature with half lidded eyes.

I leaped with final desperation onto the porch; turned toward my pursuers, half crouching. But they were gone.

I stumbled, wheezing, but relieved, through the door to safety.

Six to Nine

"Today's prompt is going to focus on a random word generated Prompt-and-Share centering on plot. The rules will be a little more strict, please adhere to them, they are there for YOU to learn how to work your creativity within certain guidelines.

Remember:
#1 -At least one character
#2 – A conflict AND a resolution
#3 – Give us a setting
#4 – Your story must include the 3 random words chosen
#5 – No more than 500 words please
#6 – Have fun with it! Today’s random words thanks to
http://watchout4snakes.com/creativitytools/RandomWord/RandomWordPlus.aspx

Antique
observe
highjack"

Not sure if I adhered to the rules very strictly, but at past 1am, this is all I got. 386 words.
---


"Eddy said to observe the number six when it strikes midnight," Mel said.

"Whaddya suppose that means?" Sam scratched at the beginnings of a pubescent beard.

"I dunno, but doncha think that antique grandfather clock is kinda creepy?"

"Nah." The older boy refuted it, but he kept glancing sidelong at the distinctive piece that seemed to take up the entire room.

In fact, the imposing clock, brooding in the cheery front room, looked much like a stately gentleman overlooking, with pompous disapproval, the frequent comings and goings of the tight knit trio of long time friends.

"Is it supposed to be haunted or something?" Mel asked, hugging her arms tightly about her midsection.

"I guess so, but you know Eddy's constantly joking around. He's probably trying to scare you." Sam elbowed her arm. "Besides, it's hours til midnight"

Mel forced a laugh. "Yeah. You're probably right." She adjusted the wire framed glasses on her nose. "Where is he anyway? He should've been back by now."

"We should've went with him. You know if Casey's working, he'll loiter."

Mel rolled her eyes. "I think I saw her car on the way home from school."

Before Sam could say anything, Eddy's mom emerged from the hall, her footsteps drummed the wood floor in a quick staccato beat. "Hey kids."

"Hi, Mrs. Sellers," they both said in unison.

"Did Eddy hijack the car again?"

"Yeah, he went down to the corner store to get a two liter," Mel said. "But he's taking his time."

"Casey?"

"Yep," Sam confirmed.

"Figures," Mrs. Sellers shook her head.

"I guess we should go ahead and leave," Mel said. "We'll catch him later."

"Before we go," Sam said. "What did Eddy mean about the clock?"

Mrs. Sellers laughed. "About the six?"

"Uh huh."

"I inherited it from my uncle recently. It’s pretty old, so some of the numbers are a little loose and I haven't gotten around to fixing them yet. When the old thing chimes, the reverberations jostle the numbers and the six will sometimes invert or fall off completely. Did he try to make it into a ghost story?"

"Sorta," Mel said.

"I won't tell him I told you." Mrs. Sellers winked then strode to the kitchen.

"We're so getting him back," Sam said.

Mel grinned, walking toward the door. "For once."