Prompt #13

The Dead Hour

It's freezing as I walk the misty field, and I pull my arms closer around me for warmth.  The rolling fog lends the empty field an eerie look in the dead hour between night and morning.  I pause my directionless walk when something catches my eye.  A smooth edge.  In a field of rough edges and wild lines, a smooth edge speaks of men’s work.  I stoop down and pick it up, straining to see it clearly through the fog I’m expelling through my nostrils.  A bullet.  Despite its unassuming look and green grass, the meadow remembers what it is.  Though years have passed, it’s still a battlefield.
 
The bullet between my thumb and index finger isn’t alone either.  Dozens have been reaped from the field, and still dozens more lie untouched beneath the earth.  These bullets have voices - stories even - if we’ll only listen.

When I make the effort to hear, it’s the shrieks and screams I hear first.  The bullets can only parrot the dying words of the lives they’ve taken, and now the air is filled with it.  My face grows somber with the sounds of how these men spent their last moments.  My eyes tear when I hear the gentle moans and lonely tears.  

The bullet in my hand keeps asking me to find his wife, to tell her to be strong for the children.  He’s begging me with literally all he has left.  But I can do nothing, and I tell him so.  His voice is only a shadow of someone long dead.  The voice ignores my own though, and talks right over me, insisting that I find her.  “Tell her for me!” The pleading continues, growing louder.  “Tell her!  Tell her!  Tell her I love her!!” it screams at me.  I find myself dropping the bullet and screaming back, “I can’t!  I can’t!”

My voice echoes across the empty field, and I’m vaguely aware that the sun will rise soon.  My hands wipe tears from my face and then are shoved deeply into the pockets of my coat, where they accept the warmth gratefully.  I stumble back to my room, and find my bed.  Maybe I can try to sleep again before the sunrise is complete, and the mist and mystery of the dead hour have vanished. 

Prompt #15

                                              

He excused himself to go to the restroom, and she slipped two drops in his evening coffee.  Hoping it would be enough, she sat still in her chair opposite his full mug, and waited for him to return.  He came back with a smile and sat with his coffee.  

He made pleasant chit-chat, but she was distant.  She was waiting for him to take a sip.  Just one sip.  He talked on for a couple of minutes that felt like hours to her.  Finally, he raised it to his lips and began to tip the mug, but then he remembered something he had to tell her and proceeded with a funny story about the previous day’s escapades.  She only vaguely heard something about the airport, and then he was laughing, and she smiled too.  Finally, he took a sip of his coffee.  She started her stop-watch for one minute.  One precious minute during which he would have to tell her the truth.  Nothing but the truth.

59 seconds

She looked into his eyes, and intently asked him the only question that really mattered.  He was dating someone now.  He was not hers and could not be.  But still she had to know.

“John...” She hesitated.  Did she really want to know the answer? 

“Yes?”  His eyes were serious now too.  Those deep, bewitching, green eyes were hers for one minute.

42 seconds

She took a deep breath, knowing that precious second were being wasted.  “John,” now or never, she thought, “John, did you ever love me?”

Emotions that she had been burying for so long resurfaced with that one word.  She had never dared to speak the word “love” around him before; as if the word was sacred and not meant for her dirty hands.  

36 seconds

He looked at her, pain evident by his creased brow.  Finally, he had to look away.  

22 seconds

She thought of the gentle weight of his hand on her shoulder, the whispers in her ear that one beautiful day.  And all that time when they could have been together.  Before she was in the picture. 

 

15 seconds

Before someone who deserved him took her chance and got him. 

10 seconds

With a glance to her watch, she asked him again, with pleading in her eyes.  She had to know.

4 seconds

He sighed and shook his head.  “I don’t know.”

           
            The minute was over, and the potion wore off as quickly as it had set in.  He had no memory of the minute, that was how it worked.  He started right up again with what used to be a comforting chatter, but now it just hurt her to hear it.

            “Hey, is something wrong?” he asked.  He always knew when something was wrong.

            “No, I’m fine.”  She always said that.  She always lied that way, keeping him out.  It's a wall she built out of fear; not wanting to mess up something so perfect.

            She excused herself from the table with some sudden realization of being late to something.  Driving quickly away, anywhere just to be away, she parked in an empty lot and wept. 

            She cried for the truth she wanted to hear.  She thought that if he would tell her that he never loved her, then maybe she could move on.  But she found a way to get the truth and the truth was so much more confusing.  He didn’t know. 


            She didn’t stop crying when night fell.  The stars came out one by one, only to be blotted out by a heavy cloud. 

Prompt #14

      Telling stories has always been a great love of mine.  When I was younger I used to share a bed with my little sister.  I would lie awake long after we were supposed to be in sound slumber and tell my little stories.  They were mostly what would be called “fan fiction” because I stole the entire cast of The Justice League.   

     Those stories were our secret, and she loved them.  I would tell her enough of the story to get her into it, and then leave off with the best cliff-hanger I could muster, and tell her to go to sleep.  The rest of the story would have to wait for the next night.  Some days she was so impatient to hear the end of the story that she would beg me to tell her the story early.  One day, the secret slipped and two of my other sisters heard about my story-telling.  Their curiosity was peaked, and that night my audience grew.   

     How did we all listen without getting caught?  We had a secret door that connected our rooms and before we crawled under the sheets we would prop it open.  I told the story just loud enough to be heard, and my stories went on.   

     But what was it like to be a creator of stories?  For me, it was like manipulation.  Not like it though, it was manipulation.  I would look for key-words that sparked a cringe, or a gasp.  I would try to find cliff-hangers that really killed them.  I grew as a writer and story-teller during those days.  Even though the stories (that probably weren’t very good anyways) are lost to faulty memory, the things I learned have stayed with me.  I’ll keep on manipulating readers if I can.

Theme Week #3

     I stood behind the counter with a bin of clothes ready to go out onto the floor. I grabbed them one by one and hung them on hangers. It was a dull job, bu a necessary one.  All part of working in retail I suppose. It had been a slow day, most people were probably too tempted by the sunshine to come shopping. So when the door-bells jingled to announce a customer, I was eager. The lady who came in had jet-black hair and wore a leather jacket to match. She was carrying a bucket of clothes.

    "Dropping off today?" I asked.  I work at a consignment store, which is basically a fancy name for a resale store.  People bring in their old clothes and we sell them.

    "Yes, I'm dropping off, " was the reply.

    "And did you have an appointment?"

    The lady came to a stop before the counter and looked down at me from her heels. "No, I did not."

    My heart skipped a beat. Some people are not happy with what I have to say next. "Oh, I'm sorry, but we are only taking clothes by appointment right now." Her silence answered me. "I'd be happy to make you an appointment though....."

    The woman's left eyebrow slowly crept halfway up her forehead. "I've never needed an appointment before."

    "Yes, I understand. But since we are changing seasons from summer to winter clothing we have an excess of things to go through."

    "So there's no way you can take these things today?"

    I squared my shoulders. I tried not to show weakness, but some customers can smell it. "No, I'm afraid not."

    "I haven't seen you around lately.  Is the owner here?"

    Questioning my authority always gets me.  But I keep emotions inside, and that plastered good-nature on my face. "She's in the back right now. Would you like to speak with her?"

    "Yes," she said and pursed her lips.

    So I walked to the back room where the owner was going through clothes. "Hey there, could you come out for a minute?" I asked.

    "Sure, what do you need?"

    Some people hate their bosses, but not me. She is just about the nicest person in the world. "There's a lady here who would like to drop some things off, but she doesn't have an appointment."

    "Did you explain that we can't take it right now?"

    "Yes," I sighed, "but she wanted to speak with you about it."

    "Alright," she said and followed me back to the counter.

    The woman had not moved, except to put one arm on her hip. I wondered what it must have been like to be her mother. Though they were probably twenty years in her rear-view, her teenage years never really ended.

    "This girl," the woman gestured to me, "says that she cannot take my items. I've never had a problem before."

    "Well, I'm afraid we are just too busy to take things without an appointment," my owner reiterated, "but can we set you up with one?"

    The woman tossed her head. "I have them ready today, I brought them in today, and I expected to be able to leave them with you. I certainly don't want to hang onto them any longer. I'll take my business elsewhere." She began to stomp away angrily, but then came back to grab her tote of clothing. Once she was gone the owner turned to me.

    "I think that was supposed to be a threat."

    I smirked. "I certainly don't want her business!"

    The owner shared my smile and went back to her work.

    I turned back to my clothes and began to hang them on hangers. It was still dull work, but my appetite for customers had been well satisfied.