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Chinese New Year, my money, my cigarettes. ( cr: X )
say hello to my little potato…
Meowww ;)
You and Your Twitchy Palm
Something has been weighing heavily on my mind these past few weeks and I feel it is about time to just get it out there. Really it hasn’t just been these past few weeks; it has in actuality been for the last six months since the trailer for Fifty Shades of Grey has been released.
It could possibly date back even farther, back when it was even announced that they would be turning the bestselling novel into a film, but I’m not going to go there.
Read More
Black and Blue Bride
She never knew that diamonds hitting the floor would sound so much like rain, but when the tiara flew from carefully braided hair onto the wooden bridal suite floor, she would’ve sworn it was pouring outside. With shaking hands, she reached for her cheek where he had struck her. It smarted, along with the place where her hip had met the floor.
“I told you not to fucking come in here, Clarice!” Dayton towered over her, a black shock of hair falling over his face. His pupils were pinpricks, so small they looked nearly non-existent. A white powder rimmed his nose, remnants from whatever he was snorting when she walked in, searching for her misplaced bouquet.
Wrenching her by her braid, he dragged her tense body across the floor. The sound of tearing fabric filled her ears as the bustle of the three-thousand dollar Sophia Tolli dress snagged on a rough board. He didn’t stop. Clarice’s scalp was screaming in protest, but she only whimpered as he slammed her into the wall.
“Ungf,” she moaned, colliding face-first with the baseboard. She tried desperately to scramble to her feet, but her ankles buckled at the height of her heels.
“Stay. Down. Bitch.” Each word punctuated with the toe of Dayton’s Armani shoe slamming into her ribcage. White-hot pain shot through her. A sob bubbled from her lips. He kept kicking.
“Dayton, please, stop.” She screamed, no longer able to bear it. She held her hands up in defense and surrender, the pain nearly intolerable. “I love you," she whispered, begging him."Please.”
Dayton stilled momentarily, wiping his nose on his dress shirt and leaving a small trickle of blood on the cuff. His breathing evened and he stooped down to cradle Clarice in his arms. He carried her across the room, depositing her on the white “L” couch on the far side of the suite. Clarice stayed as still as possible, afraid to set him off again.
It could have been worse. She grimaced, thinking about the pound of cover-up she had to use on her shoulders that morning. The strapless gown revealed too much of their conversation about calling off the wedding from the week before.
Dayton reached for her face, but Clarice couldn’t stifle her flinch. His outstretched fingers hung in the air like a shoe stuck in tar. His momentary pause and temporary look of confusion was quickly replaced by a flash of anger. Quickly Clarice pushed her stinging cheek into his hand, nuzzling him and trying to ignore the biting pain she felt with each breath. His mood brightened, light coming over his eyes. He could change in an instant. Pulling her into his lap, Dayton sat down and tucked her like a frightened animal beneath his arms.
“Baby, I’m sorry,” He cooed at her, lovingly. “I’m so sorry. Look at you,” he tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from the braid behind her ear. “Look what you made me do…” A tear trickled down his cheek and Clarice reached up, wiping it away with cold, shaking fingers.
“I’m sorry Dayton,” She choked, fighting the discomfort. “I didn’t know you’d be in the bridal suite. I thought you’d be up in the loft with the boys.” Why was he in here?
“Oh, sweetie. I don’t keep you around to think. I told you not to come in here, didn’t I?” He gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger a little more forcefully than necessary and tilted her face to meet his. Clarice felt anger swell inside her badly bruising chest.
You don’t keep me around to think? But she said nothing. She couldn’t recall him saying not to come into the bridal suite.
“Yes, I’m sorry.” She breathed. He kissed her forehead and got up, leaving her writhing on the couch.
“See you downstairs in twenty, baby.” Two blue orbs stared into her.
She pulled a tissue from a box on the counter and swiped it quickly underneath her eye. Black smudges of mascara and eyeliner covered the tissue.
“Fuck.” While she was searching the drawers of the bridal suite vanity for a tube of mascara, there was a knock on the door. “Give me a second!” The door opened anyway.
“Hey Clar—Holy shit!” Amanda, her matron of honor, rushed over to the vanity, taking in Clarice’s appearance. “What happened to you?” Clarice held up her hand, wincing. She knew she looked rough. Her makeup was smudged and her hair was a mess and a bruise was forming on her right cheek. She looked down at her torn dress and fidgeted with a loose button.
Breathe, Clarice. But Amanda already knew.
“I knew it. I KNEW it. That fucker is going to die. Adam and I had a feeling about him but we trusted your judgment… That’s stupid slick bastard!” She whipped out her cellphone, punching in her husband’s number, but Clarice reached out and grabbed the phone, much to the protest of her ribs.
“No. Amanda, we can’t.” She took a painful breath. “I need to go and I need to go quietly. Since you’re here you can help me, but I can’t marry that man.” Amanda quieted, sitting down.
“Clare, we need to get you to a hospital. You can barely sit up.” Her voice was soft, soothing, and made tears well up in Clarice’s eyes, but she shook her head.
“Later,” she whispered “He’s expecting me downstairs in five minutes. I need to go.” Amanda paused only momentarily and then set off around the room, picking up the honeymoon suitcase. Fishing out some sneakers, leggings and a sweatshirt, she tossed them onto the couch.
“Let me help you out of the dress,” Amanda quickly unzipped the back of the gown, gasping at the bruising underneath. There were fresh ones and ones from weeks of mood swings. Knowingly, she said nothing but as Clarice turned around she saw tears in Amanda’s eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Clarice said nothing, but limped over to the sofa in her bridal lingerie. She tried to pull the sweatshirt over her bony torso, but the pain was excruciating.
“Clare, let me.” After letting Amanda dress her like a small child, she was exhausted and starting to crumble.
Just a little bit longer.
She grabbed the suitcase and Amanda opened the suite door.
“Ready?” Clarice nodded.
"Let’s go."
Write a story about a runaway bride.
Is it cold feet or something more sinister?
How did he feel, being left at the alter?
Tune into out next Written Wednesday (okay... or Thursday... Sometimes Friday...) to see how the cards fall.
I've been running...
Late, that is.
Did I trick you? Because there's zero chance of me actually running.
My new story is up on my page. Go check out Essy's as well!
I swear I'll have a longer piece this week! A new picture with the prompt is coming up!
Negotiation
“I still don’t understand why I’m here.” Martin Vanhouten countered, fixing his cold gray eyes on his arresting officer. “You haven’t charged me, read me my Miranda’s, anything.” He clenched a fist on the table and growled, “This is against the law.” Once again he demanded a lawyer, but the deputy sitting across from him kept a frustratingly sardonic smile plastered on his face. He pushed back onto the hind legs of the chair, teetering.
What the fuck is he smiling about? Martin raged in his head, but knew better than to open his mouth with something snarky, so instead he tried a different approach.
“Could you tell me what I did to be sitting in here? It’s my right as a citizen.” And, as an afterthought he added a strained, “Please?” The deputy inhaled sharply and tipped forward, clattering the chair onto all fours. Much to Martin’s surprise, the deputy stood up abruptly, grabbed the back of the aluminum folding chair, and slammed it into the wall.
Wait, what…? Martin felt the color drain from his face.
The deputy was hovering over him in seconds, breathing hotly onto Martin’s cheek. He tried to shift away, the deputy just leaned in closer and spat,
“We don’t give rights to terrorists.” His face split into a grin.
Fuck.
Welcome to the club, bitch.
“You have to.” Jacquelyn stared down at the shot glass in front of her, brimming with some sort of foul smelling whiskey. Her head was already swimming from the six other shots she’d taken, and he stomach was rolling at the thought of another. She peered up into Brian’s face, who was smirking.
“Why am I the only one that has had to drink?” She slurred, fingering the shot glass. This didn’t really seem fair to her.
Elaine smiled, sweetly patting Jacquelyn on the knee. “We’ve been drinking, too. The bottle just keeps landing on you.”
“But why aren’t you drunk?”
“We’ve all drank before. You get… I don’t remember the word for it… Tolerance I guess? Means you don’t get drunk as fast. It’s your first time and you’re really small.” Jacquelyn tugged at the tight pink shirt Elaine had tossed at her before the party, saying something about looking sexy for once. It scooped low on her breasts, at barely met the top of her black jeans. She felt naked, especially under Brain’s stare.
He lifted the shot glass and told her to tip her head back and she reluctantly complied. The whiskey met her lips and she swallowed difficultly, fire burning her nostrils. She snorted and coughed as Brian took the glass away, skimming his fingers down her neck in a most inappropriate way. She shifted towards Elaine, who just looked at Brian and laughed.
“Let’s play something else.” The words were out of Jacquelyn’s mouth before she had a chance to stop them. She watched as everyone’s brows shot up in surprise around the bottle. After a beat, Elaine’s small voice broke the silence.
“This is your party, Jacquelyn. Induction into our group,” Brian snorted, but Elaine ignored him. “What would you like to play?” Jacquelyn didn’t like the look of Elaine’s smile. Someone from across the circle piped up. Alan, maybe?
“We always play truth or dare at induction.” Brian shifted closer. What the fuck?
“Yes. Sounds good.” Brian purred as his hand shot out and started fondling Jacquelyn’s knee. She wanted to tell him to stop, but the alcohol had her feeling fuzzy.
Elaine started going around the circle asking “Truth or Dare” to everyone. Jacquelyn even felt herself partially relax, not sure whether it was the booze or the fact that the attention was off her. Hell, even some of the answers were funny. Funny until they got to her, of course. When Elaine shifted her gaze to Jacquelyn, her stare hardened.
“Jackie… Our initiates. They always have to do a dare.” Brian coughed, but the alcohol had her feeling brave.
“Fine, dare.” Elaine smiled.
“You have to skinny dip down in Bryler’s pond.” Jacquelyn froze.
“What?”
The air was cool on her breasts as she peeled off her shirt. She looked around, making sure no one was watching. They told her that if she came back in the towel they gave her and with wet hair that she’d be initiated into the organization.
“This is stupid,” she muttered to herself as she waded into the icy water and ducked under quickly before sprinting back to shore. The cold air and water sobered her a little, but her vision was still swimming. That’s why, when she saw Brian standing there holding her clothes and the towel, she didn’t believe it at first. But he was there, oh. He was there.
“What’s up pretty girl?” He breathed as he approached her. She tried in vain to cover herself. And before she knew it, he was on top of her.
“STOP!” She screamed, cold air hitting her lungs like daggers. Kicking and yelling, she tried to fight him off, but his 6’3’’ frame overpowered her in seconds. He clamped his hand over her mouth and threw her to the ground, grabbing her by the throat.
“Don’t move,” He hissed. “All the pretty new ones go through this.” Tears streamed down her face as he violated her, forcing himself inside her. She shrieked in pain, crying until he stilled.
“Welcome to the club, bitch.”
A character is accused of a crime that he/she doesn't commit. What happens?
Stay tuned!
Hi guys!
So sorry I didn't get to post last week -- Our schedules have been crazy.
Last week's prompt was "Write a story about a truth or dare game gone wrong."
They'll be up tomorrow!
I can choose to steer myself towards beauty and peacefulness.
Severedhallow this is a test :-)
A picture from my trip to Capri, courtesy of my aunt. My inspiration for Much More To Give!
Promp52 is using some quote inspiration this week!
As you know, there are no rules for what we write, so this can be a quote inspired story, a story that incorporates the quote within it, or a combination of the two.
Curious? Check back next week to find out what we've come up with!
Much More To Give
Sweat pooled on his forehead as he grabbed a knife and began chopping the basil that he’d just pulled from the garden. His lips were pursed, humming a song that the club singer had preform the night before. Lips buzzing, the knife flew over the cutting board to the tune, and Enzo, quickly finishing off the basil, grabbed a clove of garlic. It was meditative; he sank into the rhythm he knew so well. Hum, chop, into the pan. Stir, hum, taste, stir. It was almost a reflex.
“ENZO!” He looked up, a black shock of hair falling into his eyes. Had he heard his name? He shrugged, flipping the hair from his eyes and casting his gaze back to the garlic. “ENZO!” This time it was louder and he put down his knife just as his father came bounding around the corner. The portly man threw his hands in the air, a look of animated annoyance on his face. Enzo was completely roused from his meditative state.
“Enzo, we have customers.” His father huffed, English thick with an Italian accent. He gestured for Enzo to follow him as he turned to leave. He waddled quickly back towards the front of the store, looking back over his shoulder to see if Enzo was behind him. When he realized he was not, he bellowed, “Andiamo!”
The front of the store was packed with tourists that had just taken the boat from Sorrento over to the little island of Capri. Enzo heard his brothers cat-calling some American women looking for the restrooms.
“Bella, beautiful girl! For you, anything!” His youngest brother smiled at a petite, pretty, redhead who had just asked for gelati nocciola. Enzo watched as she blushed, falling prey to Dino’s Mediterranean smile. Enzo elbowed his way over to his brother.
“Lascia stare la ragazza! Leave her alone!” Enzo chided, scooping the girl’s gelati. Dino frowned and threw his hands in the air.
“Enzo, the pretty girl likes me!” And in her direction, “Don’t you? Si, Si?” Enzo watched as the pale girl’s blush deepened. She nodded, laughing. Enzo reached over the counter and handed the girl her treat, pointing to the register at the end of the counter.
“Dino will help you over there.” He watched as Dino flirted with the girl. As she handed over the Euros, Enzo heard him ask,
“American, no?” Enzo did not listen for her reply, but frowned and went back to dipping gelati for a rather round man that had bellied up to the counter.
Once the initial rush of seasonal customers had thinned out to one or two tourists out in the open café area, Enzo wiped his hands on a white linen cloth and ventured back into the kitchen. Switching the stove back on, he heated up the olive oil, basil, and garlic that he’d abandoned earlier. He tried to finish it, throwing in some pine nuts and salt, but the relaxation from earlier had vanished like the tourists. He slammed his fist onto the cutting board, sending a knife soaring into the air and landing in a loud clamor on the floor. In a fit of irritation, he threw his apron onto a counter-top and banged through the back door.
The air was hot, as usual, and sticky with ocean spray. Enzo stooped down and washed his face with water from an ice chest near the door. The water trickled down his neck and under his shirt collar, dampening the fabric around the Capello logo. He listened to the sound the little speedboats with sun-canopies bobbing up and down in the gentle waves of the crystal clear water. The docks were full, tour guides gone home to their wives and children and a bottle of red wine. Enzo sighed at the idyllic scenery, orange sunshine glinting over the large limestone rocks far into the sea, and anger bubbled deep within his stomach. He would never leave this place. He was stuck here, forever, serving gelati to strangers much more travelled than he.
At that moment his father popped his head out from a window in the apartment above the Capello’s Bakery.
“Enzo , venuto avere qualche vino! Come drink some wine. It has been a long day!” The anger paused, simmering down into a residual and constant yearning. He stood up, grabbing the handle of the doorway and made his way for the stairs.
Prompt52 is going international this week! Join us as we board our planes, pack our bags, and flash our passports.
Are you coming?