Wednesday, July 3

Prompt Tuesday, Image-Eleven, Letitia Minnick

21

Letitia Minnick

Capitulation

Focus blurred by bleary eyes struggling
with the language of legalities--
theretofore and henceforward,
the soul surrenders to the whispers
of ancient wisdom pleading
a case against pragmatism--
making art of monotony,
pivoting plain proposals
into poetry.

Music Monday-Song One, Ian Andrews

Music Monday is a music prompt writing event done each week in the Show Offs Community on Google Plus. Each week we take a different song, listen to it and write about how that song makes us feel. This piece was written for: Song One

Ian Andrews

Angel had spent the last two days wondering where her time went. Between the drugs and the frequent blackouts, it was only appropriate that she not remember. But to wake on the third day inside a dirty motel room with a dead body on the floor, and blood covering every inch of the squalid, single-bed domain...how could she begin to explain anything to herself, let alone the police? Jodie was there on the recliner. Her arms were covered in blood but she didn't seem to have any injuries. Angel had just woken up and had been staring at the carnage in the room for what felt like hours. It may have been hours, or only a few moments. She couldn't tell time anymore. The human wasteland before her was just too overwhelming.

Jodie stirred a bit in the chair and then felt back into motionless sleep. Did Jodie know? Was she responsible? Angel could remember meeting some people at a local bar. They were from out-of-town. Some rich kid on a road trip with his two friends. She vaguely remembered a party and piles of cocaine spilling onto the glass coffee table that was now the centerpiece of this catastrophe. Angel's mind flashed with images of laughter. Then, suddenly, her mind was assaulted with flashes of pain and red. Had she done this? A quick scan around her sitting up in bed revealed she was nude except for a long t-shirt. She had no visible marks, no wounds. There was some blood splattered on her thighs but not her blood, she was certain of that.

Tentatively, Angel pulled the covers from her body and stepped gingerly onto the carpet as if the world itself would fall apart should she make more than a whisper of a sound. As her field of vision rounded the end of the motel bed, she saw the first body. There was a name assigned to that body but she just could not remember who he was. Her hand covered her mouth as she gaped in confusion and utter disbelief. She flicked her eyes between the body and Jodie in the chair. Did Jodie do this? How had things gone terribly wrong?

The memories came flooding in. She and Jodie had gone to the local pub; a complete dive by anyone's standards. But the music was good and the bar staff didn't card. Angel was only 19. After a few drinks, she and Jodie decided to approach the table of boys. There was Cody, Dan who preferred Daniel, and Devil, clearly a nickname. Small talk was made, drinks were ingested, and the suggestion was made by someone at some point that some powder was the next logical step in the equation for the evening. Everything seemed fine until the motel.

Angel stared wide-eyed at the second body in the corner. That was Devil. A well-muscled young man with not a care in the world. Now he was face up, eyes cold and dead peered into the ceiling as a towel rod jutted from his chest. Now two dead bodies lay on the floor. For some reason, Angel knew where the third boy had been resting. She cautiously stepped between stains and limbs until she reached the bathroom. Daniel was laying face down in the tub, blood running up and down either side. It looked like a heavy object was used to smash in the back of his head. Small rivulets of blood still streamed from his open mouth that hung open above the basin of the bathtub.

Angel was stricken with a sense of disbelief and fear. She didn't remember any of this. Jodie would remember. But should she wake Jodie? What if Jodie had done this and was simply napping until she had enough strength to finish her off? The paranoia began sinking into Angel's heart like a metal slug. Angel knew what she had to do. She quickly tiptoed from out of the bathroom, grabbed for her pants on the floor, also covered in blood, and would run out into the morning sun screaming for the police.

But what would she tell them? She didn't remember what happened. She would be arrested for sure, charged with drug and alcohol use at the very least; perhaps even murder. Did she pawn it all off on her best friend of many years who lay sleeping in the recliner? Sick with fear and unknowing, Angel pulled on her pants and sat on the floor wrapping her arms around her knees as she tucked her body in on itself.

“Did you like last night?” A voice came from the recliner. Angel didn't turn to look at her. She knew the only living person in the room was speaking, the only person who may know what happened so she asked the question; “What happened, Jodie?”

“You were a handful but as you can see, I took care of it for you. Now we just have to clean up the mess. You don't remember do you?” Jodie seemed so calm, so in control and Angel didn't remember. She shook her head. Jodie smiled and pulled herself from the recliner. Her arm snaked around Angel's shoulders and pulled her in tight as she sat beside her on the floor.

“You know, being the best friend of a vampire can be a tough job,” Jodie said matter-of-fact. “Next time I might not be around to bail you out so you had better learn to control this thing.” Jodie leaned her head against Angel's shoulder. The memories of the previous night suddenly became clear to Angel as she in turn rested her head against Jodie's. “I love you!” Angel told her, almost distantly.

“I know you do sweetheart, I know you do.” Jodie sighed, stood up and got to work placing the bodies into black bags.

Music Monday-Song One, Letitia Minnick

Music Monday is a music prompt writing event done each week in the Show Offs Community on Google Plus. Each week we take a different song, listen to it and write about how that song makes us feel. This piece was written for: Song One

Letitia Minnick

On the Run

Concussion waves
turn dust to smoke
obscuring all but impact.
Light filters in frantic
fingers pointing at nothing
as pathways fade to black
sucking shoe soles
into an undertow abyss.
Staccato shots pierce the din
followed by further detonation
and all goes dim--
not stopped
but stunned
and so, the chase continues...

Music Monday-Song One, Pensador Louco

Music Monday is a music prompt writing event done each week in the Show Offs Community on Google Plus. Each week we take a different song, listen to it and write about how that song makes us feel. This piece was written for: Song One

Pensador Louco

- no title -

Time. Running. My feet move as fast as they can. Faster than sound. Faster than the sound of my heart. Not as fast as I wish they did.

Footsteps behind me. Like a flash. So close. What do they want from me, these people? Run. Blood pounding like deaf drums in my ears. Run. Run. Hands. So close to touch me. So eager to grab me.

Claws. Dirty nailed fingers, twisted into claws. Almost. If I could ever find a way out. Any way out.

I'm sick. Ill. Thin blood, yellow, stained, pumping into a heart that still doesn't know it's all but close to a sickening end. Faster. Run. Nowhere to run.

More hands. A cat screams in the distant woods. Like a frightened dead baby being born. Ill.

Begging the hands and feet to stop. I wish I could scream louder. Cry harder. Escape in quiet.

Disease in me. Turning memories into pain. Oh, my memories. I'd trade them all for a chance to be away. The cat knows it's too late.

Rip, torn shirt. I fall. My knees scratching in the dust and stones. Blood. Excruciating pain. The feet stop. The hands are all around me. Tearing my clothes. Myself. To pieces. My thoughts shred to festering bloody pieces. All falling down. All of them.

Flowing from open wounds and merging into the assaulting hands. I'm ill. I'm dying. I have no reason to run anymore.

And there is a bonfire nearby.

Bright. Red. Hot. I know what the hands want with me. Purification. Moral. My body deprived of every sense but the burning, senseless sentence of fire. No. No. Stop. It hurts.

All so close to the end now. The cat knows. I know. Too late.

For them.

Open flesh. My flesh. Pouring like gold through their hands. Melting in their clothes. The fire is so close now. The heat is unbearable, but it isn't hot enough to cauterize my wounds. Yellow sickness. Liberated from my body. This is my flesh. Eat it.

Breathe it. Live with it.

I'm being thrown into the bonfire and the flesh burns, but my illness flies into the air. They can't stop me for I am an ill wind.

I go pass the willows. I pray the cult with their lungs and body. My own flesh turned to a golden yellow bible. Stronger than their purification. Higher than their red hot cure. Faster than their morality.

And in the woods, somewhere, I know a silent cat is smiling.

I am.

Long live the disease.