Write Drunk, Edit Sober – 10 May 2017

Posted on Posted in Random Writings

Writing Prompt #1: No one could have predicted the impact the empty apartment upstairs would have…

It was sad, honestly, but I remember laughter. Albeit, a few years have passed.
A little girl with golden blonde hair, running up and down the hall, laughing without a care in the world. She’d greet ol’ man Winters daily, and I swear it was the only joy he ever knew.
She was a friend to everyone in the building. Young, old, male, female, black, white, or otherwise. Innocence didn’t care about color or sex, she didn’t see status or sexual preference.
The little angel represented beauty and purity, hope for the otherwise jaded building.
For we were not beautiful, and paled in comparison to her shining bright light.
And instead of instilling hatred or jealousy within each of our hearts, we cherished the little girl in 4C.
But life takes it’s toll. Work demands our time, family and friends demand our attention, and we tend to forget.
It’s been four months since we heard the angel laugh.
Four months since we’ve heard the pitter patter of size 3 shoes running up and down the fourth floor’s hollowed halls.
Four months since we were greeted by cherub cheeks, blonde curls, and sparkling blue eyes.
Ol’ man Winter noticed first. The rest of us realizing only after his color turned a pallor shade of gray.
The whole building marked by the absence of our little angel.

When I look back now, with my feelings shut down like the automaton society has turned me into…
I remember the tubes.
I remember the ashy scalp devoid bouncy, shiny curls.
I remember a little girl, more brave than the rest of us, smiling weakly while pushing us forward towards our futures.

Good God, how I miss her.

 

Prompt #2: The first time you heard someone tell you a lie…

You feel your heart break.
You finally understand betrayal.
Because no matter how small, how innocently made, that lie defines your relationship with society, with friends and family, with lovers, and pets, coworkers, and even the clergy…

All of them.

No one can really be trusted…can they?
No, of course they can’t.

Bastards.

Every single one of them.
But then again, so are you.
Because you’ve lied since day two on this earth when you cried for no reason. When you ask for something you didn’t really want. When you told a lover, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

Oh yes…you, too, are a bastard.

 

Writing Prompt #3: Light refracting off the gemstones…

Never did she believe his tall-tale. And yet, he had a yacht. He was handsome. And she really didn’t care if she died during this little adventure.
She wasn’t stupid enough to believe in true love ever after, but she did believe in once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. So when he offered her an all expense paid month abroad, she jumped.

Now, a month later, she lost 30 pounds, was in the best shape of her life, and had eaten what one can only describe as survival fare. She was filthy, without a trace of makeup on, and yet, felt more beautiful then she’d ever felt before.
Perhaps it was the equally filthy man next to her?
Or perhaps she was finally free.
Free of judgment.
Free of social pressure.
Free to be exactly who she was meant to be.
And it didn’t hurt that the sex was amazing too.

In the end, all her happiness could not be eclipsed by the glimmer and shine refracting off the trunk of gems found on this isolated rock.
Make no mistake, they did shine, but she was positive she shined brighter.

 

Writing Prompt #4: I could not quite place the accent, but it made me think of…

Stone gray walls.
Cold and damp.
How the fuck can a place stay cold and damp twenty-four-seven?
But it was.
Fucking amazing I didn’t die of pneumonia, but the bastards would never let me die. And my body seem to agree with their position, because no matter how much I begged for death, no matter how much I pray to an absent God for mercy, death wouldn’t come.
While two years dragged on for an eternity, they also, in a weird fourth dimensional kind of way, skip trace right past us.
I remember very llittle of those solitary years, besides the cold and the damp, and voice in the darkness.
Odd, like it was came from a mouth not fully formed.
Accented, with intonations and dregs I could never place.
I swear, half of my sanity was saved by the riddle of where this anonymous voice herald.
Sometimes he would sing. A soft lullaby, as if I’d unsure of his talent.
Sometimes he’d ramble with tales from his youth, his family and friends, ex-lover’s and sexual exploits.
Sometimes he’d pray, confessing his sins and begging for forgiveness.
I would always forgive him.
He seem to find peace in that.

Two years, and that is all I remember.
Cold, damp stone…monotonous…with the exception of his lovely, anonymous accent, tempting with it’s peacefulness.

I wish I knew from where my storyteller dwelled, because as a free man I would surely risk life and limb to travel there.
It is the voice that rocks me to sleep on stormy nights.
It is the voice that slays my demons.

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