Write Drunk, Edit Sober – 9 August 2017

Posted on Posted in Random Writings

Prompt #1 – We had been traveling for 4 years, 6 months, 3 weeks, and 2 hours with no hope, and then…

Life, detected in the distance.
Is it a computer glitch?
The onboard bitch has been silent for years.
Years!
Now she’s chirping like a mother fucker.

We’d silence her mundane bullshit eons ago, because we didn’t care about this or that discovered element. I only want to know when she’d discovered the specific chemical makeup that’ll allow me to breathe natural air one last time before I die.
Before I die like Michael.
Or Dana.
Or Ben.

Let me tell you, one does not comprehend exactly how alone they are until they’re stranded in space and conducting last rites by shooting their friends out the starboard portal like common debris. That’s when the voices start talking, and a relatively sane son-of-a-bitch sees shadows in otherwise vacant corners.

Honestly, I’d rather be dead. Yet, somehow my body won’t give up, and I’m unwilling to talk about other options.
Dammit. Too beaten to contemplate suicide, and now this fucker taunts me with hope?

Scrambling to the helm, I see what the bitch is squawking about.
It looks like home.
Well, kind of, if home still looked like what you’d see when cruising the archives. But that world is history. A fairytale someone else will someday tell.
Holding my breath, I punch in the coordinates, settle into the captain’s chair, and say to no one, “Home Sweet Home.”

 

Prompt #2 – When I found out the man I called dad was not my real father, I thought is was the worst news ever. Then I discovered…

the dark secret which shaped my mother’s overprotective nature. Or at least I’d felt overprotected.
Sheltered.
Burdened.
Stifled beyond individual creativity.
I’d never understood why my mother and father were so strict with me, what they were so afraid of.

After it happened, I learned.

After he climbed off of me, snickering in a raspy smoker voice,
After he’d walked away from where I lay bleeding out,
After the couple screamed their horror upon discovering me in that dark alley,
After the pints of blood and numerous surgeries and my father’s agony over his inability to donate one ounce,

After that I learned how a woman pregnant with a child she never wanted makes a decision that would affect numerous lives.
After that I learned how to make my own decision.

 

Prompt #3 – For years I insisted there was something wrong with me…but no one listened.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It’s amazing how much blood the human body holds. It takes only minutes to drain free of the meat sack it’s spent it’s existence sloshing about in…depending upon the cut, of course.

Me personally, I prefer a slow, steady stream. And I absolutely hate it when my beautiful canvas is ruined by the random twitch or unfortunate thrash. So, I make sure everything is perfectly contained before the paint is poured.

Don’t look at me that way. You must understand, I avoided the voices in my head for years. Honestly, I really did. I even asked for help, but none was ever provided. Perhaps it’s my 5’3″ frame. I mean, no one ever seems to take me seriously. Or maybe it’s my cherub face, bright blue eyes, or curly blonde hair?

Y’all seem to think I’m freaking Shirley Temple, but soon learn we’re no where near the good ship lollipop.

I don’t mind anymore, not since I’ve embraced my artistic flair. Now, I welcome your misconceptions. You sheep have no clue what I’m capable of, and that makes it all the easier to create my next masterpiece.

Come on now…be my model. I promise you’ll never be forgotten.

 

Prompt #4 – I was very specific about what should be written on the cake, but apparently not specific enough…

How hard is it to write, “Go Fuck Yourself, Chuck”? Okay, perhaps in icing its a tad difficult, but if it were easy she’d have done it herself.

Stella stared at the cake with its fancy borders draped in raspberry drizzle…his favorite. His absolute fucking favorite. If he’d been given a chance, the cheating, lying bastard would have no doubt smeared and eaten the buttercream off his bitch secretary’s perfectly tight body, but Stella envisioned a different kind of delivery. All day she’d been fantasizing about him modeling it face first, while wearing one of his thousand dollar suits, in front of client, judge, and jury.

How could they mistake “Go Fuck Yourself, Chuck” with “Good Luck”? Honestly, it barely rhymed.

With Chuck’s big court appearance two hours away, Stella requested a rewrite…

 

Prompt #5 – He’d begun to think of the starship as a friend, as a companion, maybe even a part of him, so when he’d heard the news…

Finally, he understood AT-438 was a jealous, crazy bitch, and she’d rather kill him than lose him to another. At 19, he’d meant it when he’d said, “This ship is my life, the dark sky my blood, the stars my air. Never shall my loyalty waver, never shall my affections wane.”

Only he hadn’t realized she’d been listening. Taking to her core his pledge as one made to her and her alone.

At first he’d been fine with the isolation, but then the comm system stopped receiving broadcasts, and the distress beacon wouldn’t send. And now he was trapped. The doors malfunctioned, the navigation system constantly off-route.

She’d been coy at first, presenting herself as nothing more than superfluous glitches. Then she professed her love.

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