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)

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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:


tumblr_nhcji4HCa01rnl2v3o1_500Dry:

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:

writeworld: Writer’s Block A picture says a thousand words. Write them. Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture. Be sure to tag writeworld in your block! 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.

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:

writeworld: Writer’s Block A picture says a thousand words. Write them. Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture. Be sure to tag writeworld in your block! 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.

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!”