Day 12: His Whispers

Prompt:

Read something and write the first thing that pops into your mind.

His Whispers:

He whispered this thing in his sleep and I ground my teeth. I can’t remember what the word was now, thinking back. Angelina or Jasmine, maybe; probably. It had the curl and frill that bitches’ names had. Francine possibly. I didn’t know who she was, but it didn’t matter; we weren’t dating or married or anything really, he and I.

He grinned slow, lazy and rolled onto my side of the bed. His fingers knit in the pillow case under his face. I sat on the chair across from him biting the inside of my cheek, trying not to think. I didn’t want to cry or maybe I just wanted to break that vase over his head—end it all. That particular vase was a gift from him and it sat on my night stand, mocking me. The faint glow from the sun coming through my curtains made the white vase glow orange. Recently picked flowers, jagged and plucked by hand from wherever, casted a long shadow over the dresser. He probably stole it out of someone else’s garden, staggering through decorated lawns to my home. He brought it to impress me. Or maybe to apologize. His green, droopy eyes opened in that idle way it did after he’d been awake a while but didn’t want to get out of bed.

“Come here.” He demanded.

He never asked for anything; he mandated it. I followed along behind him when it was harmless, but yesterday, he got drunk and climbed into my bed. He felt me up under the pajama top that my mother bought me. It had little cartoon pineapples on it.

“How’d you get in?” He smiled and rolled over to give me his back, when I asked. I reached over and tugged on his ear. Instead of jolting he grabbed my arm, “Why are you still here?”

I yanked back, and he didn’t resist. The spot where he’d touched me was warm with sleep. This was probably how he liked to ensnare women. He probably liked to hold—I had to do something with my hands to stop myself from thinking. I looked to the vase and past it, to keep myself from throwing the vase out of the window and screaming at him. I picked up his jeans, crumpled up next to the night stand, then his keys and wallet and I tossed them into the bed. He turned onto his back.

“If you have a hangover y–”

“I don’t have a hangover–”

“You can take the medicine in the kitchen as you get out.”

I folded my arms at the foot of the bed, and he looked up at me the way he did when he thought someone would see it his way. He swung his feet off the bed and started to put on his jeans

“You don’t make any sense, Elma.” He was taking his sweet time putting his feet into the pant legs. I already had my back to him. I was picking up the same item and putting it down in another place, pretending to clean, to keep from thinking. Does the candle go on the dresser or in the bathroom?

“He was a loser, wasn’t he? Only a loser would—”

“Fuck off, Jack.” I said over my shoulder, slamming the candle on the dresser, “Give the fucking key to me.” He rolled his eyes, sighed, and made a huge production out of removing the key from the link. He tossed it to me and I flipped it over in my hand

“That’s my key so now we’re even.” I looked at it for a moment. If he wanted to give me this then why—I clamped my eyes closed. This is just what he does: entraps. I threw it across the room to the pile of laundry.

“Why do you ever come around with these stupid stunts to get my attention? You obviously couldn’t care less about me.”

He shrugged his shoulders at first. With hands heavy on his knees, he stood up like an old man might. He turned to me as he tugged his pants up over his grey boxers and buttoned them. I looked at the ground on my right and fiddled with the hem of the pineapple pajama. I could feel him standing close to me. I could stare him down forever, but I knew I shouldn’t.

“Believe it or not I might actually love you.”

And then we both laughed. I looked up at the crinkles at the ends of his eyes instead of at his mouth. He was young somehow with lines like that one his face. Maybe he smiled too much or used his mouth to please too much. Maybe he was too full of shit. I turned out of the room and into the kitchen. He followed. The kitchen was painted blue because he thought orange was too gaudy. I went along with it because it seemed innocent enough at the time. When I see it now—when I dwell too much on things that have been long gone—I remember he shouldn’t get to make decisions in a home that doesn’t belong to him. I poured a glass of juice and put an aspirin next to it.

“Not hung-over.”

“Then get out.”

His lazy eyes were on my back, as I put the juice back into the fridge and the air got heavy with silence.

“May, the Jewish girl.” That was the word. That’s right. I did know her, “She saw me at the party and she was hot believe you me.” I smiled thinking back to when May used to be called Vivian. She had brown hair and was always in the pleated kinds of skirts. See, at the time I had a thing for pleated skirts so we got to second base at one of her friend’s birthday parties, “Goin on and on about some guy so I did what any gentleman would do.” He was talking and as usual I didn’t understand why he ever told me any of these things. I could guess, but I didn’t want to, “I pulled her hair back like this—oh by the way she dyed black.” His step sister, Joanne, had black hair. She pulled it back like that, “Eyebrows and puss too! Just the way I like it—and then I just—”

“Please, Jack. Get out.” I knew a thousand things I could say to him to hurt him, and they crossed my mind, but I didn’t say them, “One of those guys at the police station owes me a favor.” I traced the wood lines on the counter with my finger

“Because you sucked his blue uniformed dick?”

He was mad now. Something about being okay without him made him volatile. I was mad too. Livid, even. Something about him talking about me having sex with other people made me crazy.

“Yes and he fucked like a firefighter. He might have wanted to be a firefighter once, but he’s a cop now.”

That made him smile, but he didn’t put on his shoes. They were neatly placed under the coffee table. I stared at them and counted the ridges on the side.

“You’ve got to admit what this is sooner or later, Elma.”

I stopped talking. He never listened when I—whenever I bring up anyone he would—I focused on counting again. He eventually left. His ego could only endure being ignored for so long. I called the lock smith for my building and they said they’d change them by Tuesday. He likely wouldn’t be back for a week.

I needed a shower. The water slid through my hair and onto my scalp and I tried not to dwell, but there was nothing to distract me. There was only me, naked in there, with the white walls and white tiles. I had counted the tiles before so I knew how many there were. I tried tracing them with the tip of my nose, but it had already started, rough and coughing like. I curled over and slammed my fist on the porcelain, choking and dribbling into the shower head. I hated him so much. So much.

“I think about you all day, Elma.” He whispered into my ear when he climbed into my bed. His arm were strangley warm as they slid over my stomach to grab hold of my chest. I knew it was him. He had broken in before. He rubbed his briefs hard into my back. It woke me up properly. I turned around, head now niched in the crook of his arm. The room was dim and only street lights from way off lit the room through the curtains. He smelled like whiskey and lemon juice. Our breaths were mingling. He always had this way of staring into my eyes without saying anything. He pulled his hand back from under my shirt and just stared at me. He inched in a bit closer.

“If you kiss me, you bastard, you better marry me.” The words came out. I almost took them back, but his eyes searched my lips and then back up to my eyes. He kissed his teeth.

“Don’t be so stingy.” He shook playfully and I rolled my eyes.

“Stop fucking around then.”

“I’ll marry you if you say you love me.” He stopped shaking, speaking suddenly. He was serious now. This was the game we played. Let’s make the other do something they hate.

“I’ll say it if you are honest to me for once.”

“I don’t love you, Elma.” Our noses were touching now.

“Then why are you here?” I knew this, but I needed him to—he was making this so hard on me.

“If you know the answer to your question, why do you need me to say it to marry you to kiss you?” And then he kissed me soft and innocent like a child just learning.

“I want a winter wedding.” I said, taking his arm to wrap it around me.

He called me later, after my shower. I dried my hair and my face, swollen now from crying. I crouched in my chair, biting my cheek. Blood flowed into my mouth. The phone vibrated and I knew it was him calling to say something awful. He would say something that will make me count the drops of water plopping from hair. I answered.

“I’d marry May before I ever marry you.” were the first words out of his mouth.

I laughed to myself. He was right.

“Why don’t you crawl back up into Joanne’s vagina?” And then I hung up and regretted it.

He was back at my place the next week. When he knocked on the door I knew he’d tried his key and that made me feel dark, smile, and count my steps to the door. He looked like he’d gotten into a fight. His once straight cropped, black hair was matted and covered in sweat. His knuckles were bruised or bleeding and his shirt color was stained from yellow to orange. I couldn’t stop myself quickly enough so I looked concerned and he smirked.

“You changed the locks.” He shoved his way inside.

“You knew I would.” I locked the door and turned around and he was right at my back. I jumped, “Jesus, Jack! What is wro—” He took hold of my face and kissed me. My brain ran off the tracks. Why—why—has he finally—One two three pecks and 4 loooong and hard—He was crazy, but I was laughing and pushing him back to look in his eyes properly. I wanted to be sure.

“I’ve decided that we should get married.” He spoke before I could see, turning on his heels away from me. He was pacing the floor like a man waiting for his wife in the hospital and—I hadn’t seen him this excited in a long time.

“What happened to you?” And he stared at me for a moment too long before he continued

“So I slept this man at a bar.” He started, grinning like he had a big secret.

“Bullshit. You did not sleep with a guy. What’s going on?” My arms hung dumbly to my sides and I balled my fists.

“Slaaappped! I slept him.” He drew out the words and then giggled. He rushed up to me and squeezed my tits like some 8 year old with a toy, “It was these. You were so bitter then the—the fight, and I was being wheeled back to the hospital, but then it dawned on me!”

Oh.

I watched him as he paced away from me, blood dribbling out of the back of his head. Bruises and scuffs all over. I had to realize this silly man had gotten my hopes up. My eyes stung. I picked up my phone and dialed. When I gave them my address he stopped and turned at me

“What is wrong with you, Elma? Can’t you just accept what I’m saying and marry me goddammit?!” He raised his voice to new heights and his face grew wrinkles. I could feel the neighbors dialing the police. I crossed my arms and tried not to—not to in front of him—in front of anyone except this…man, “Henry has been dead for 11 years, Elma. We aren’t young anymore. Why won’t you let me—” I grabbed his shirt in my hand. It was quite the sight: a man, nearly two heads taller than me and a hell of a lot stronger, being pulled down to face me.

“Did you know that 15 years ago Henry had an asthma attack when I asked him when you’d be getting there?” I was angry, heartbroken, “We waited at that restaurant for hours, Jack. I thought I was waiting for you. He thought that you had given me to him!” I was crying. He saw, “Henry and I dated because you forced us like you force everything! I thought I was—I thought you’d be—I was fucking wrong.”

And I let him go. And for a long moment Jack stared at me without saying a single thing. I wasn’t looking at him anymore. I was looking at my palms.

“Don’t even pretend you didn’t love him.” He said it so softly that it didn’t even sound like it came out of him

“I didn’t love him!” I screamed louder than I wanted. And I could hear the neighbors dialing faster. I breathed hard and lowered my voice, “But at least I didn’t hate him.”

We heard the sirens. Lucky for the paramedics, I had taken the fight right out of him.

He stayed at the hospital for a while. They said it wasn’t serious, but I don’t believe them. I’d never seen him like how he was when he was pacing and kissing me in front of my door.  I sat in the chair across from him. The wrinkles were on his face when he didn’t think I could see him. They were gone now.

“I slept with Joanne on the Friday before my parent’s wedding to stop it. They waited forever to tie the knot. I hated the idea of them being together and happy.” I knew this story and he knew I knew it, “Sometimes I think about how shitty a person I must be to do that. They didn’t get married because of me and I was actually proud of that. I think of how scummy I am to be proud of something so awful and now—and now that’s when I think of you. You make me feel scummy, Elma. Every time I see you face. Every single time.” I nodded and took his hand. He grabbed hold tight, and looked away

“About Henry—” He started, “It was us wasn’t it?” His shoulders shook gently

“Jack—”

“It was us and you and I shouldn’t be here together, Elma.” I could just catch a glimpse of the wrinkles on his cheeks, “We should be miserable and—”

“Henry was selfish!” I screamed over him, clenching his hand and my eyes, “He did that to hurt us! You said it yourself! He was a—” I was ashamed of the words I said, “And we are—we are getting married this winter.”

He didn’t turn around but he laid down tightly holding my hand. He fell asleep muttering about Angelicas and Vivian’s and I ground my teeth.

Day 11: Mannikin

Prompt:

Then, write a 250- to 500-word fictional scene that includes this line: That changes everything. (Note: you can’t do this wrong… use it as a prompt. Wherever it takes you (even to other characters that aren’t related to Alpert’s story is fine or a story that doesn’t include the prompt)

Mannikin:

They don’t hide, which is what confused me. They let us dress them up and paint their faces. We make them pose, smile, and frown in plaid and khakis. I felt ashamed putting the taller, wide shouldered, man in the small green polo, khaki, and slippers.

“I’m sorry.” I pulled his collar and rested my hands on his chest, “I wouldn’t do this to you if I had a choice.”

“Please.” He started, relaxing his stiff body for a moment. Color came to his cheeks, bluish and light under the pasty white. My eyes met his with cold, hard seriousness. He stiffened again, “Plea—”

“Don’t give them a reason.” I glanced around the room. No one seemed to be around in the summer section this early in the morning. The aisles were waxed nearly transparent and the racks were aligned and quiet, “I didn’t know you all could actually speak our language.” I turned my back to the hind camera, adjusting his belt buckle and hushing my voice.

His eye trailed onto mine, but he didn’t speak. He just watched me, tug on his pants and lower it a bit to make it urban. He swallowed hard. It wasn’t until then I’d realized how their eyes moved around so freely. Maybe if I’d noticed that maybe I would have thought that was how they spoke to each other.

Later that night, I rolled a piece of clay in my hand trying to remember how his face looked. He was very straight nosed and had this long sloping jaw—European jock looking but obviously not. The clay rolled in my palm and I decided what I wanted was to talk to him. I didn’t want to be stupid about it so I waited until the summer was over and they were replacing the display with the more childish, festive young ones. They looked great in coats and stockings.

“Don’t panic.” I said stacking his light body in the back storage locker with the rest of them. They had changed him into a button down in blue and black plait at this point and he looked almost cool. I pulled the door behind me and turned on a flashlight. He grabbed me and slammed my back against the rusty lining of the metal box.

“Please!” His voice came through again, this time lower and pained. I pointed the flashlight at his white face, blue veins traveling to his eyes and green globs streaks coming from his eyes. I wanted to scream, but if I did they’d know I locked myself in here with them. I’d more than lose my job, “Please.” His smooth, plastic hands clenched mine.

For a long moment we stood there and he whispered the word over and again and I felt my heart break; I didn’t know why. I was sure this was why they never let us talk to them. I made a mistake coming there. (493)

Day 10: Probably

Prompt:

Then, write a creative writing post (500-word limit) where you think of an absurd situation and then try to move it toward something meaningful. Consider this story about the talking wolf and how, later, it really became a story about a man who is grieving the loss of his brother and dealing with his own guilt about being a “bad person.” In my opinion, this makes it literary (based on character development and emerging theme) and not “fantasy” (although I have yet to meet a talking wolf).

Probably:

The banana was already mostly lit, flame occasionally going out, and some wheel-chaired man was waiting for me to finish outside the stall. He’s going to have wait because this thing was getting so soft in my teeth I couldn’t keep it lit. Someone said you could get high if you lit the banana up, and I really needed to be high. My sweaty briefs were rolled up around the ankles, sitting in the mouth of my brown slacks, and my cheek was pressed against the inside door of the big bathroom stalls. My switchblade’s metal engraved my thigh and my palm, lighter in between my index finger and middle.

Aphrodisiacs, drugs, or ruse, if you needed it bad enough you’d do anything they told you. Put apple slices into your ass if it could—oh dear God! I’d never done anything like that before. Waves of hot rolled up my chest and to my face; my knees got weak. I felt muddled and I might’ve been moaning in a pool of my own vomit, but I felt like I could control space and time. My eyes shot open again to light the banana. I had accidentally bit through the skin and was near clenching my teeth. It tasted like crap.

I am convinced of it really. We’d believe anything—which is probably something someone must’ve been really convincing about before. The rest of the banana was on the ground, where I could see the wheel-chaired man’s feet. I bent over, sliding my sweaty face down the stall door, and the apple piece slipped out—God have mercy. Some tears slipped out too. The bit-off side was back in my mouth, and I carefully flicked the bic. When it was smoking I cut myself another slice and—Holy macaroni. My face might’ve boil off and that was exactly what I needed.

They told me that what I did was the right thing, but I’m not so sure anymore. They were knocking on the stall now, and it felt so good against my face. The jangling of keys was soothing. I was finally feeling it, eyes rolling back in my head. The hairs on my body were standing on end. The banging was getting worse, but I felt at peace for once. I could quiet my little boy’s voice. He wanted to stay with me but they told me that I wasn’t fit to take care of a child after all. My lips might have been burning with the banana but as the stall door swung open I was certainly rolling into it. They could make anyone believe anything because people do what they want no matter what. I guess I never really wanted to keep him, then. It didn’t even hurt. Maybe I wasn’t actually sad to watch him kick his way into the car, house burning behind us, handcuffs cold on my wrists. I couldn’t even feel the cold air on my wet back and naked ass, now. (499)

Day 9: DVD

Prompt:

Write on your cellphone

DVD:

He was like one of those movies you were so excited about to see in theatres at one point and now you see the DVD in WalMart and wonder how bad it had to be to be below your radar until now. He was a good ish looking, I guess. He had a kind of “charm.” To be honest it’s so hard to make a judgement call on someone that you just are so far from being into. Like making a judgement call on one of your siblings.

I saw him at a book store, in those awful “stylish” scarves, jeans rolled up right above his ankles, and a grey v-neck. I wanted to slap the bullshit out of his clothes. He spotted me, leaning and staring, putting the lines to dots. I couldn’t run now. Well I could, but I didn’t.

“Amy!” And he smiled and waved at me. Didn’t even bother to get up, but I admired his outgoing yell in the middle of a BOOKSTORE.

Soon I was beside him at his little stupid window seat, his sweet coffee probably left to get cold or was cold all along.

“how have you been?” He asked, folding his hands on his lap and leaning back, eyes all over me

“shit. Nothing new.” He frowned for a moment and I swear to god that when he picked up his apple phone I thought his case would have a fucking cat on it, but it was just plain blue.

“I don’t have you on facebook.” He said aimlessly. I didn’t say anything back to him because that wasn’t a fucking request was it. Go back and fucking read the lack of “huh” symbol.

I needed to pick a book in here, I remembered. A famous author was coming to do a reading at this blues poetry place and I needed a copy of her book. Now normally I’m not a fan of pretentious posh shit like poetry places or authors and getting autographs, but I read an excerpt of her book and feel in love

“instagram?” He offered suddenly loudly over my thoughts. I realize I was staring out the window and returned my faze to him and he was scrolling on his phone, eyes fixed there. That one was a question, I guess, but I had no fucking clue as to what.

“oh by the way Ames, you dating anyone right now? I’m not seeing anyone right now so…” He crossed his arms around him into this sort of self hug, phone hanging out of his left, eyes finally around mine.

First of all, my name is Amy. It’s already fucking short as it was. And second, “oh by the [fucking] way. I’m not [dicking] anyone right now [and since we are like sorority girls on our periods synching the fuck up] so… [how about you get to the part where you suck my—

“Ames.” His voice ended my thoughts right in place. I smacked his coffee onto his lap and walked away. I was grateful that he didn’t make a huge scene. I mainly grateful that he can’t work his brain and mouth and arms at the same time in order to make a scene.

So his name was something like Jack or Mitch and yes I over reacted. I tend to over react.

Day 8: Dry

Prompt:

Dry:

Everything seem like it’s never be dry. I hate it. It added this kind of depressing element to even the happiest moments. Happy birthday but with a wet special entertainment and wet hats, and wet coats, and sneezes, and coats, and apologies for things out of their control.

I couldn’t avoid it though. i guess that’s the inevitable beauty of it. My socks were scrunched up and soggy and slurping up the water it squashed out with every step. Nonsense. They wanted me to stand ‘round the front of the building in this thin coat and guard the front door. Me alone.

Nothing would be coming in this kind of weather. Nothing really did come…at first. Then the back of the building shook and red clouds and smoke pressed out of the side. I was blown on my back looking at the insides of my eyelids.

“Son of a bitch!” I slid into the mud, thin coat ruined and useless.

I tore off the cloth and stood upright. Everyone was screaming and running, and then another explosion. I had my duty to the front, and i had to trust Danny could handle it inside. Danny? I turned back. There was no way he could—

“Cheyenne.”

Standing there in the rain, was a man twice my height. He glared at he building, but spoke kindly to me

“It would be in your best interes-”

He took a step back, my bullet carving past the vest and into his shoulder, red blood bubbling, spitting. I then started running back to get to behind the barricade they’d set up for me.

“ENEMY IN FRONT!” I’m hollering and unstrapping a few grenades off of my hip.

blebeleebelehhehehe i fucking hate this

Day 7: Dirty

Prompt:

Dirty:

It wasn’t unusual for her to see herself standing behind a man. Broad shoulders, taller than hers, thin beard sneaking around his pasty skin, hair slick back with sweat.

“Take a good look. I don’t want to explain this again.” His fingers lid down the painting’s frame, almost sensually.

She didn’t reply to him, but watched his fingers, instead of his skinny beard. His breath usually smelled of carrots and soups. When he got angry he had a way of leaning into her face and whispering in an impossible harsh way. He must have been angry.

“This painting is more important than you could ever hope to be.”

She often breathed into his mouth because she refused to breath in the carrots and soup. His breath was hot and his eyes were scrunched up and beedy black. They’re breaths mingled oddly. She could almost taste it. His eyes flickered across her face for a moment, lost in his thoughts. He took a breath sharp from his nose and closed his eyes, forehead nearly pressed against hers.

“What do you see; hurry up.” and he pulled away from her and gestured to the wall with the heavy painting. Miriam looked at it along time, the faces easing to her face. She blinked, and just before her eyes closed she saw them jump out at her, faces contorted and demonic. She jolted back, hand on her heart

“It-”

“Yes, now. You need to take your hand like this and.” His hand was on hers now, fat warm palm against the back of her hand. He slid her fingers over the gold ridged frame, “I want you re-imagine the the dirtiest thought you’ve ever had. It will thank grant you entrance.” His breath was hot and near. “Dirtiest.” He whispered again, a light smirk to his voice.

She thought of this man lying in a pool of his own filth, crying out for her and the painting jerked forward, painting laughing and scuttering in all directions on dry wood ground. She tried to follow the images in the painting, as the room warped inwards, light snuffed out of the hall. It, the hall and the darkness as one, it all groaned like one living thing.

“Must have been quite the imagining.” He laughed in his chest, like mucus would catch if he were ill.

Day 6: Please

Prompt:

Please:

Sam liked the way the soles of his feet rested on the sharp edge of the table. It was a little painful, but pressure sent these strings of pleasure up to his ankles and his calves. His tongue licked the inside of his cheek, looking for the flap of skin he we trying to rip off, but truly he was focused on his palms. The bandages had made the wounds itch and while the man who’d dressed the wounds instructed him not to scratch, that guy was dead now, and the wounds felt like they were closed.

He was shot clean through both his hands, in the middle of the night, slobber straining out of his mouth as he begged them.

“Please-please-no! I’ll do anything—”

Sam had a sister who used to tell him about how the world could be a peaceful place if everyone could learn to not compare each other. The look in that man’s eyes as he cocked the hot gun up against his forehead, pressing the nozzle unto Sam’s skull, was look of a creature completely happy. And to be honest, when sam had been saved by the nurse man, he climbed on top of that bastard and squeezed his neck, the blood gushing out of his own wounds. Sam might have looked the same way.

His finger slipped under the bandage and he began scratching, toes curling and soles rubbing against the table. He pulled his hand back and brown and red blood mixed under his nail. He disgusted himself and pressed the bandage back again.

“Please!” The voice filtered in from the back door and Sam grabbed the rifle, laying against the table. Five paces forward was a pool of blood, and the dead doctor. Five paces back was a door, rickety with a slapping screen door. Sam itched up against the cupboards facing the pool of blood, waiting for the sound of something.

“Please God!” And then the sound of crashing and water spilling.

The person had knocked over the water supply, near the bloody entrance. Sam was quick, stepping over the pool of blood and aiming carefully. Sam stood there in the crook of the door, looking at an incredibly pregnant woman, skin dark brown and eyes the same.

Once Sam was in view the woman pointed her shotgun up and towards him, elbow propping her up against the kitchen counter, and at her leg a lighter brown girl, gripping the tattered material of the pregnant woman’s pants.

“Please.” She asked again, cocking it, “Please, she’s bleeding. I just need some bandages.”

The blood had begun to wrap around Sam’s bare feet. He’d stood too close.

Day 5: Red

Prompt:

In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Red: 

His eyes were red, fixated on the door handle. When he’d said it blood filled his face and nearly exploding out. He stared at the man next to him in he car, Eddie. His eyes were widened with fear again. Dan wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the goddamn drive, but he wasn’t about to listen Eddie whine anymore

“I’m trying to protect you, you stupid little fuck!” Dan’s head ached, he hadnt brought his migraine medicine and this drive wasn’t even halfway through, “why do you have to make it so hard for me?!” Eddie stared back almost blankly, the fear creeping up in his eyes as he scanned Dan subtly

“you aren’t going to be able to help me….you should it’s let me go already! You’re barely holding yourself together!”

Day 4: Boom

A/N: I am so sorry about my lapse in the last few days. Finals has been me writing literally 6 essays. I’m mostly finished with them. In return i will be writing an especially long piece today. I know it doesn’t make up for it…but still here.

Prompt:

Song Inspiration: Super Bass

Boom:

It started with the light rapping in the back. It wasn’t coming from under the stack of papers on her desk. The chair creaked back as Allison peered down the aisle from in her cubicle. It’s was surprising that she could hear the sound at all; the office was a loud and busy place. The phone was pressed against her ear and an older woman was muttering about maybe wax sculptures. The rapping wasn’t coming from the receiver. The beat was familiar but it slipped around her head. The chair jerked back suddenly and Allison’s heart was in her throat and she yelped and threw the phone. Hand on her chest, she breathed and regained herself. Mike, the guy across the aisle, was gawking at her but like most things he sighed about it and went back to tap tap taping on his calculator. How old had that calculator had to be to tap tap tap like that. Better yet, why was he using a physical calculator? It wasn’t the 80s.

The rap-a-tat-tat came again and Allison was standing up and peering over her cubicle’s shared wall with Wally. Wally was creaking back in her chair, head hanging back, long black hair a river to the ground. Their eyes met but neither said a thing for a long time.

“Is there a weird sound.” Allison finally said, her phantom hair tickling her face. She swiped hair that wasn’t there.

“You yelped.” Wally smirked her alluring smirk. She had a way of hitting on everyone that was both charming and scary. She was very good at making the lady workers giggle nervously and cover their mouths and cheeks.

“I mean something like a-a tap tap like someone on a book with their um hands.” Allison swiped the phantom hair again, “Forget it. It-it was stupid. Forget it.”

“Nah. Sorry Alli, no secret book band hiding over here.” Then she smiled and her olive skin glowed, “But i have a serious question for you.” She folded her arms in front of her chest, the buttons on her oxford  stretching. Allison could see that Wally’s bra was black. Wally smiled, “Are you busy later today after work?”

Allison wasn’t busy. She had things to do, but that didn’t mean she had to busy

“I’m not particularly busy, what’s up?” Allison was trying to sound aloof and “cool”

Wally laughed, “What is up is that i was wondering if you wanted to get dinner. i know this pretty average Japanese restaurant that i’m dying to hate.” Then Wally flipped the hair behind her ear and Allison smiled. She nodded and slipped back over onto her side of her cubicle. She picked up her receiver and the old woman was still going on about some man named Sam Jinks. Allison was grinning like a fool and caught sight of Mike looking over at her. He sighed and tapped again.

“Alli.” Wally’s voice came from above her head. Wally’s black hair flowed down the shared wall, “My number.” Allison took it with a nod and a point to her receiver, “Have fun.”and Wally’s hair slid back over to her side.

Allison gets out of work at exactly 7 pm every day. She usually has to turn her forms to her boss ten minutes early, punch out, gather her files and things, before she could actually get out. Allison has got the perfect cocktail for leaving precisely at 7. She didn’t know if  she should wait at her desk for Wally to finished or at the door or at her cubicle.

“Meet you at the exit in twenty.” The text came in on Allison’s phone as she finished putting her coat on. Allison smiled and headed towards the exit.

It was colder than the weather channel had told Allison. She kicked her feet on the concrete, the tap tap taping coming back to her. Oh that’s right. She found herself thinking. She shuffled through her bag and her pockets. It had to be something she was carrying around. The question was from–

“Sorry, Ellen thinks that my–you lost something?” Wally had materialized suddenly next to Allison and she jumped, “Okaaay?”

“No. I mean. I haven’t lost anything. What were you saying about Ellen?”

Wally put her hands in her pockets slowly, a sly smile on her lips. She didn’t say anything. She just started walking and Allison followed along.

“We’ll take my car. It’s not too far.” And Wally slipped into the front seat.

When Allison sat down in the car next to this cool woman she suddenly realized she was confused. This was Wally and they had only spoken a few times and about work stuff. She had no idea how to even begin speaking to such a woman. Allison kept stealing glances and rubbing her palms on her pants. Wally seemed like an elite working a job much below her. The car was clean and new smelling and expensive. Her clothes were probably expensive too. Allison didn’t know anything about cars or clothes, but she knew that elites had expensive versions of the things she had bought at bargain places. Allison sighed and fiddled with her fingers then she was wiping her sweat into her pants again. Hard to breathe suddenly. She had to be at least 30 and–

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh-um just um Japanese food. Haven’t ever had it.” Allison laughed.

Wally looked Allison in the eyes for a moment, smiling. Allison couldn’t break herself away from the dark eyeliner sweeping under her slim brown eyes.

“Well this place is probably going to change your life.” And they were seated in the restaurant, cheap seats and men rushing around in aprons. The ground was bare and un-tiled and the staff were squeezing through the tiny spaces in between the tables. Allison couldn’t help but notice that Wally seemed so out of place.

“Alright. What do you want, staring at me like that?” The way Wally eyes curled when she said that meant that she meant it.

“I-i wanted to know…it’s not–i don’t know how to say it.” Sweaty palms.

“I’m an only child. MY parents are married. I’m left handed. I just saved up my checks for 3 years and bought that car you were in.” She listed off a few things and flicked back her black hair, “Stop me when i hit the answer to the question”

“Oookay.” Allison didn’t know what to do.

“I live in a small apartment down the hall from you, but i’ve never come over and said hello. You are always gone in the morning before i get there and back home before i get off of work.” She leaned forward, her pink goat on her lap, making her face glow pink, Allison’s eyes widened, “Sometimes i hear you listening to soccer in your back yard, grilling hot dogs, yelling to your friend on the phone. Yelling pretty loudly too.” Allison is covering her cheeks and looking down

“It’s called football.” Allison found herself mumbling into her hands.

The waiter came suddenly and Allison was waving and saying she’d have the same as what she was having.

“Is that why you invited me to eat?” Allison started, fiddling now with the forks in the tight napkin.

“No. I just hate coming to restaurants alone.”

The tap tap taping suddenly started up again. Where in the world–Allison started shuffling through her purse.

Day 3: Balls

Prompt: 

JIngle Balls (As the french call them)

Jingle

He didn’t like the way his father twisted and tinkered with the ornaments. It made him uncomfortable sitting across from his younger sister dressed in pink and red frilled dress. She looked so very upset, arms cross, and cheeks red from pouting so furiously. She had this absent look in her eyes like she’d forgotten why she’d gotten so cross but was too committed to her frown to stop now. His father twisted the green striped on over and again, the tree shaking and flaking. His mother walked over every so often in her black high heels sweeping the shedding under under the fake snow. She looked very sophisticated in her black dress, but his father always got so cross when mother looked so curvy.

The second ball ornament slid down the string and collided with the green stripped one, crushing a popcorn in the middle.

“Juan-Carlos!” His father’s voice came suddenly almost like he’d turned around and rushed at him with both arms. He was standing facing the tree his green sweater facing the boy. Juan-Carlos lept up and rushed, palms up to help, “Hold these!”

Juan-Carlos cradled the two balls in one hand and his cheeks grew red. Two red balls in his hands. He wanted to giggle. Make a snide comment the frills on his sister dress, the black heels on his mother, and the sweater on his father kept his kravatte tie tighten like a noose around his neck. Sweat globbed up on his hand and is father glared at him for a moment looked at his red face.

“Help your mother.” And he snatched the balls, separating them into two separate hands