Wednesday 7 October 2015

(vol 2) Chapter 39: “Where a prompt can lead”

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.



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.


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!


“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.


“That snobby bitch turned down my sales pitch!”


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.

No comments:

Post a Comment