The Prompt: You still smell like my childhood.
You pick at a loose thread on your jeans while I watch. My head is down, ringing up a customer's order, but I keep my eyes on you through a curtain of hair. You look the same as you always did. Taller and stronger, but still the same. Your brown eyes stare lazily across the room and try as I might, I can't see what catches your attention. It certainly isn't me.
You take another step in line, coming ever closer and I hope you notice me. The idea is thrilling and butterflies flutter in my stomach. I take another peek, but you're still looking across the room so I take the opportunity to study you carefully. You're dressed for work, jeans and a t-shirt despite the heat. Your skin is a pale brown, tanned from your hours of work in the sun, but when you reach back to scratch your neck, I see the pale skin beneath your hem. The back of your neck is red and grass stains adorn your jeans.
I keep watching you until you reach the register. Then I duck my head down, embarrassed by my quiet observations. "A small coffee," you say, not bothering to look straight at me. I'm a nobody here, only the hands that supply coffee. "Black."
You still smell like my childhood. Freshly mowed grass. Antibacterial soap. Clean clothes. As you hand over the bills to pay, I notice the dirt under your fingernails. The smudges left on your shirt from wiping your hands. You're closer than you've been in years, yet you don't notice me. You're still staring off in the distance, a blank expression on your face. Tired and drawn. Your eyelids droop. You need the caffeine.
My hands tremble as I hand over your drink and your fingers graze mine, the slightest touch an electric shock, sending lightning through my veins. But it's over and I let go. "Thanks." You turn your back and before I have the chance to say a single word, you're out the door. You don't look back. I'm the one left staring after you, like always.
Friday, July 11, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Damien
The Prompt: Write the same character twice- once to make someone like them, once to make them hate them.
It's in his eyes, his cool blue eyes, as he touches your cheek. You blush and want to turn away, but he's too close. He leans down, closing the gap. In this moment he becomes your everything, too close for you to see anything else. His lips graze yours softly, tenderly, before he pulls back. Your eyes open and you're only just aware that they were closed. His lips pull into a smile and his eyes light up. He leans in for another kiss, this time lingering. He's intoxicating. You feel drunk off his affection, wanting him to never stop, never let go. His lips pull away, but he stays close. They trace your jawline, your cheek, reaching your ear before he pauses, arms holding you to him.
"I love you."
~
His hand keeps a tight grip on your arm and his eyes flash angrily. You don't know what you did wrong, but you've paid for it over and over again, each time his fists met your stomach, chest, and back. You expect a foul word or insult to fly from his mouth. Instead he drops your arm and it falls limply to your side, nothing more than dead weight. You lean on the bed for support, pretending you quiver from exhaustion, not in fear of the man you love. A weight causes the bed to shift and you know it's him, but you don't look up. You can never face him after. His tender touch traces along your shoulders which you know will be mottled with bruises come morning. Then his lips meet your neck.
"I love you."
It's in his eyes, his cool blue eyes, as he touches your cheek. You blush and want to turn away, but he's too close. He leans down, closing the gap. In this moment he becomes your everything, too close for you to see anything else. His lips graze yours softly, tenderly, before he pulls back. Your eyes open and you're only just aware that they were closed. His lips pull into a smile and his eyes light up. He leans in for another kiss, this time lingering. He's intoxicating. You feel drunk off his affection, wanting him to never stop, never let go. His lips pull away, but he stays close. They trace your jawline, your cheek, reaching your ear before he pauses, arms holding you to him.
"I love you."
~
His hand keeps a tight grip on your arm and his eyes flash angrily. You don't know what you did wrong, but you've paid for it over and over again, each time his fists met your stomach, chest, and back. You expect a foul word or insult to fly from his mouth. Instead he drops your arm and it falls limply to your side, nothing more than dead weight. You lean on the bed for support, pretending you quiver from exhaustion, not in fear of the man you love. A weight causes the bed to shift and you know it's him, but you don't look up. You can never face him after. His tender touch traces along your shoulders which you know will be mottled with bruises come morning. Then his lips meet your neck.
"I love you."
Saturday, May 17, 2014
A Few Words
The Prompt: He had his daughter's handwriting tattooed on his left forearm.
It said I love Daddy in the messy script of a young child. He'd taken it from a picture she'd drawn him in art class a few years back for father's day. She'd been eight at the time. Her eyes were like blue diamonds and she was missing a front tooth so whenever she smiled there was a gap. She lisped her words ever so slightly in that cute way kids have and she always hugged him when he picked her up from school, even though her friends were reaching the point where they didn't hug their parents in front of each other anymore.
Her favorite place was the playground. That wasn't too different from most kids, but she'd always beg him. Her wide eyes would stare up at him, pleading silently to take her and he'd have to relent. No one could say no to those eyes. He would always be rewarded for relenting when she beamed up at him and threw her arms around his midsection. He could still feel the ghost of those arms when he closed his eyes at night.
Sometimes he dreamed of her. She would be on the swings, pumping her legs back and forth and pushing the swing ever higher. He'd call to her to be careful, but she wouldn't listen and just swing higher. She was unfearing, unrelenting. She'd swing higher and higher into the sky, her shrieking laughter infectious and he couldn't help but smile. Then he'd wake up, the alarm clock muting her laughter all too soon.
He kept pictures in his apartment, though he no longer lived in the house she'd grown up in. She was everywhere. First her as an infant, wrapped in a green blanket. Green's the new pink, his wife had told him. Unisex, perfect for their daughter. It wasn't the blanket he looked at now, though. It was her face. Then her at age two, four, six and her first day of school. She stood proudly with her backpack on the front porch. Six and a half. Seven. Eight. Eight. Eight. She froze at age eight.
The photographs captured moments, her smile, mouth open in mid laugh, but they couldn't capture her. Couldn't bring her back. She was a photograph forever now. Nothing but a photograph and a few words on his arm.
It said I love Daddy in the messy script of a young child. He'd taken it from a picture she'd drawn him in art class a few years back for father's day. She'd been eight at the time. Her eyes were like blue diamonds and she was missing a front tooth so whenever she smiled there was a gap. She lisped her words ever so slightly in that cute way kids have and she always hugged him when he picked her up from school, even though her friends were reaching the point where they didn't hug their parents in front of each other anymore.
Her favorite place was the playground. That wasn't too different from most kids, but she'd always beg him. Her wide eyes would stare up at him, pleading silently to take her and he'd have to relent. No one could say no to those eyes. He would always be rewarded for relenting when she beamed up at him and threw her arms around his midsection. He could still feel the ghost of those arms when he closed his eyes at night.
Sometimes he dreamed of her. She would be on the swings, pumping her legs back and forth and pushing the swing ever higher. He'd call to her to be careful, but she wouldn't listen and just swing higher. She was unfearing, unrelenting. She'd swing higher and higher into the sky, her shrieking laughter infectious and he couldn't help but smile. Then he'd wake up, the alarm clock muting her laughter all too soon.
He kept pictures in his apartment, though he no longer lived in the house she'd grown up in. She was everywhere. First her as an infant, wrapped in a green blanket. Green's the new pink, his wife had told him. Unisex, perfect for their daughter. It wasn't the blanket he looked at now, though. It was her face. Then her at age two, four, six and her first day of school. She stood proudly with her backpack on the front porch. Six and a half. Seven. Eight. Eight. Eight. She froze at age eight.
The photographs captured moments, her smile, mouth open in mid laugh, but they couldn't capture her. Couldn't bring her back. She was a photograph forever now. Nothing but a photograph and a few words on his arm.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Don't Scream
The Prompt: Don’t scream.
It’s just a dream. It’s not real. A nightmare. Yes, it’s only a nightmare. You can survive a nightmare. In a few hours you’ll open your eyes, roll over in bed, and wake up to the light of a new morning. You’ll see. You’ll be fine.
So don’t scream.
The sheets tighten around you. You feel smothered. They’re suffocating you and you want to gasp out for air. Your lungs beg for oxygen and you want to comply, to fill them. Your hands clench around the blankets, clumps in your hands, but you still can’t breathe. Not without screaming.
Please don’t scream.
His hands on you, burning holes through your skin. You’d expect to see scars in the morning, if it weren’t a dream. He moves. His hand slides down your chest, past your waist. Your eyes are closed, but you squeeze them tighter. Push the nightmare away. Push him away.
Push away the scream.
His weight. It wants to crush you. Your bones feel fragile under him, as if one wrong move could shatter them, shatter you. You almost hope it happens. One fracture, one rib, that’s all it would take. If it’s the right one and you’re lucky. You wish, but you don’t dare to hope.
Don’t dare to scream.
Your head moves, but you didn’t move it. Your eyes flash open from the shock. His hand on your cheek. His eyes staring straight into yours. Dark. Bottomless. The kind of eyes the pull you in and tear your apart. Your mouth opens in fear and his hand moves, covers your lips. Smothers you. His rough voice in your ear.
“Don’t scream.”
It’s just a dream. It’s not real. A nightmare. Yes, it’s only a nightmare. You can survive a nightmare. In a few hours you’ll open your eyes, roll over in bed, and wake up to the light of a new morning. You’ll see. You’ll be fine.
So don’t scream.
The sheets tighten around you. You feel smothered. They’re suffocating you and you want to gasp out for air. Your lungs beg for oxygen and you want to comply, to fill them. Your hands clench around the blankets, clumps in your hands, but you still can’t breathe. Not without screaming.
Please don’t scream.
His hands on you, burning holes through your skin. You’d expect to see scars in the morning, if it weren’t a dream. He moves. His hand slides down your chest, past your waist. Your eyes are closed, but you squeeze them tighter. Push the nightmare away. Push him away.
Push away the scream.
His weight. It wants to crush you. Your bones feel fragile under him, as if one wrong move could shatter them, shatter you. You almost hope it happens. One fracture, one rib, that’s all it would take. If it’s the right one and you’re lucky. You wish, but you don’t dare to hope.
Don’t dare to scream.
Your head moves, but you didn’t move it. Your eyes flash open from the shock. His hand on your cheek. His eyes staring straight into yours. Dark. Bottomless. The kind of eyes the pull you in and tear your apart. Your mouth opens in fear and his hand moves, covers your lips. Smothers you. His rough voice in your ear.
“Don’t scream.”
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
In the Eyes
The Prompt: Despite everything he said he’d be when he was eighteen, when he looked in the mirror, he still saw that scared ten-year-old boy.
It was the eyes, he decided. Those wide, pale blue eyes. They were in a constant state of fear. They glanced alarmingly around, never stopping for too long. Danger could always lurk behind that door, in the shadow over there, behind him. At ten he had learned about danger. His teacher, the door locked tight to protect them. Protect him.
He was supposed to be stronger now. At eighteen he was an adult, legally ready to take on the world. Legally. He wasn’t ready in any other sense. At ten he’d had a plan. He’d be all grown up at eighteen. He’d get in a car and drive. He’d drive anywhere. New York. Florida. California. The very edges of the country. It didn’t matter as long as he was getting far away. But now he was eighteen. He was an adult. And he had no car. He wasn’t driving away. He was crouching, burrowing, hiding in the same place he’d always been.
When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see an adult. He didn’t see a teenager. All he could see were his eyes, the ten year old’s eyes. So many things could change. He was taller, his hair was longer, his clothes different, but the eyes. The eyes never changed. They were the same pale blue, the same fearful expression. The eyes were windows to the soul, they said. The soul must never change either.
Stronger, smarter, faster, braver. It was all a crock, a child’s dream. Naïve. He was naïve. That had changed. So he had finally found it. The eyes staring back at him, those scared pale blue eyes, didn’t belong to the ten year old after all. They were his. Just as broken and scared, but without hope. Only children dreamed and he was no longer a child.
It was the eyes, he decided. Those wide, pale blue eyes. They were in a constant state of fear. They glanced alarmingly around, never stopping for too long. Danger could always lurk behind that door, in the shadow over there, behind him. At ten he had learned about danger. His teacher, the door locked tight to protect them. Protect him.
He was supposed to be stronger now. At eighteen he was an adult, legally ready to take on the world. Legally. He wasn’t ready in any other sense. At ten he’d had a plan. He’d be all grown up at eighteen. He’d get in a car and drive. He’d drive anywhere. New York. Florida. California. The very edges of the country. It didn’t matter as long as he was getting far away. But now he was eighteen. He was an adult. And he had no car. He wasn’t driving away. He was crouching, burrowing, hiding in the same place he’d always been.
When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t see an adult. He didn’t see a teenager. All he could see were his eyes, the ten year old’s eyes. So many things could change. He was taller, his hair was longer, his clothes different, but the eyes. The eyes never changed. They were the same pale blue, the same fearful expression. The eyes were windows to the soul, they said. The soul must never change either.
Stronger, smarter, faster, braver. It was all a crock, a child’s dream. Naïve. He was naïve. That had changed. So he had finally found it. The eyes staring back at him, those scared pale blue eyes, didn’t belong to the ten year old after all. They were his. Just as broken and scared, but without hope. Only children dreamed and he was no longer a child.
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