2015 TOTAL WORD COUNT = 69365
This week has been busy, and in
all the wrong ways.
It’s because of this that today’s
post is nothing short of a stop gap until next week.
But, not one to waste an opportunity,
I thought I’d use last week’s explosion of ideas over at Micro Bookends to
demonstrate one very simple point; it’s amazing were the authors mind can go
from a simple prompt.
At Micro Bookends last week, the
prompt words were PERFECT for the start, and PITCH for the end. A beautiful
picture of a young woman (below) was also required to somehow be tied into out
pieces.
What follows are four entries I
wrote over the course of October 1st, four stories that are very different
from each other, despite all starting and ending with those same words.
Enjoy.
MY WHOLE WORLD
Perfect body. Perfect smile.
Perfect eyes.
That first band practice, I was
uncontrollably drawn to her; following in her scented wake for the rest of the
day, the week, the year.
She was my inspiration, my rock,
a goddess, sent down to dance around us mortals, to give us a taste of
something beyond our fragile mortality.
Yet she was much more than
something to just idolise and crave. While her body and mind were temples, ones
she’d graciously gifted to me, she took such pleasure in leading me on
adventures, expanding my mind, and showing me the world.
We love and laugh, while our
hearts beat in fever pitch.
THAT MOMENT
Perfect silence; the crowd sits
with bated breath.
It’s the final ball of the game;
two strikes down, one more for glory.
I smell the grass, feel the
tingle of the chilly evening air. I tug the peak down to shield against the
spotlights.
This is what it all comes down
to; the innings, the game, the whole damned season. We make it to the big
leagues and I might just make enough to get me and Beth outta that crappy one
bedroom.
I rub my fingers across the
cowhide, get a final feel for the ball, let it sit perfect.
Here’s the wind up, and there’s
the pitch!
JUST TELL ME YOU DID IT
“Perfect way to spend the
evening,” I said to the piece of scum sat opposite. I threw the first picture
across the table. “Know her?”
He didn’t answer, didn’t look at
the photo.
“Karen Newton. 29. Ran her own ad
firm. Loved playing that guitar,” I said, tapping the picture.
He just shrugged. Heartless
bastard.
I showed him another, and
another, ones from the murder scene now. Flesh, blood, death. This time he
looked, face twitching with each image, something pent up inside him, wanting
out.
“Fine!” he yelled. “I did it! I
killed her!” He took a breath. Two. Three.
“Why?”
“That snobby bitch turned down my
sales pitch!”
JUST THE TWO OF US?
Perfect weather is no silver
lining when you’re stranded on a desert island.
I wish I was anywhere but here
right now. I swear to God, if she plays
Kumbaya one more time, I’m going to wrap that fucking guitar around her neck.
I mean of all the people from the
cruise ship to survive besides me, why did it have to be the crazy bitch from
the ‘Entertainment Squad’?
She’s smiling. I hate it when she
smiles.
I’m about to tell her exactly
that, when the island growls, as if it was waking from a deep, deep slumber.
And then I feel the island pitch.
That’s all folks.
See you in seven.
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