The Last Trifecta: Wake

A touchstone,
our sometime
inspiration,
inexorably
winds
its way
down
to the finish. 
We lament
our loss,
And we
raise a toast
in celebration
for the joy
of the pen
put to paper.

How the Zombie Apocalypse Really Got Started

Jorge found Celestine's appetite titillating, but he knew that what he had in his head would never satisfy her. Her desires were beyond him. Still, where was the harm in one little bite?




Trifecta's prompt for this week is the third definition of the word SATISFY. Sorry, but I'm on a zombie kick this week, after a particularly riveting episode of The Walking Dead.

Pep Talk

My lackadaisical efforts at dressing should have been a dead giveaway. Here I was, playing the fashion victim while grocery shopping for beer, ice cream and cookies. I didn't even care that the shirt I was wearing was stained with yesterday's flavors. I was there for caloric comfort, and not much else except a couple of movies to get me through the weekend.

The signs were there, if I'd been paying attention, but I was too busy choosing between Banana Split and Mint Chocolate Chip to notice. I walked out of the store with my purchases, cursing that it was 100 feet to my car. 

It wasn't until I was beached on the couch, the Mint Chocolate Chip container settled underneath my chin, spoon in hand, that it hit me.  I need to get myself some sweatpants, I thought, and it was as if a lightning bolt had hit me.

I had never owned a pair of sweatpants in my life. What was wrong with me?

I was obviously in some sort of a funk. 

There might have been a man at the heart of my gloom, but he didn't really matter anymore. I had never been the sort of girl to mope about.  It was time to get myself out of this rut. 

I turned off the movie, left the ice cream to melt in the sink, and showered. Then I dressed in my favorite dark jeans and boots and grabbed a dark shirt that wouldn't show any blood. I pulled my dark hair into a pony tail and tucked it underneath a blonde wig, and smiled at myself in the mirror.  My razor was already in my purse with the gloves, just in case I needed it. I was going hunting, and whether I found a good candidate or not, the anticipation got my blood humming. 

I felt better already.






The prompt is the third definition of FUNK.

The Lesson

"I hate you."  Melanie stood in the doorway of her sister's room, her fists clenched.  "You sold Mary Jane."

"Your heart is too tender, little girl,"  Caroline turned away from her mirror to glare, then returned to her makeup application. She just did not have time to explain to her sister yet again, and she was running late. It was payday, and many of the miners would be spending their money at Elvira's tonight. She carefully applied the red with a lip brush.  Satisfied, she moved over to the bed to pick up her new dress, purchased with the money from the sale of their last horse.

"Look, Melanie," Caroline tried a kinder approach.  "One day you will understand that this is how it has to be."

"You're lying!" Melanie crossed her arms, her voice rising.  "Mama says lying is a sin! Mama says that you're a whore! Being a whore is a sin! Mama says that you're going to go to hell for fornic--"

Caroline had had enough.

"Grow up, girl!" She grabbed her sister by the arm and shook her, her teeth clenched. "And don't you let Mama manipulate you with all that bible thumpin', neither! We need money and Mama knows it. Mama is a damned drunk who won't work a day, and she knows that, too.  Ain't nobody going to help us pay for this house or put the food on the table outta the goodness of their hearts, and it's high time you realized that!"

Caroline let go of a crying Melanie.  She could see the marks of her hand on her sister's arm, but she steeled herself against hugging Melanie and soothing her tears.  There could be no more of that. Caroline closed her eyes and prayed for the strength to do what needed to be done. Until tomorrow, anyway.  She finished dressing and picked up her purse. Melanie shrank away. Caroline crushed the hurt feelings underneath her heel as she walked out the door.




The prompt is the third definition of the word MANIPULATE.

The Bookmaster

Jericho Jones stepped out of the rain and into the cramped bookstore, and took a moment to slick his wet hair out of his face and pull a rubber band around it. His eyes scanned for anomalies, but all he could see were mountains of books, stacked high into the darkness of the ceiling.  A haze caught what little light there was, twisting the shadows and pulling his attention to the back of the store, where an old man sat.

He looked like somebody's frail grandfather, lost in a beige sweater that might have once fit snugly, his balding head reflecting the dim light. There was something quaint about the old man, a reminder of bygone days. He looked completely harmless, right down to the bifocals, a papery hand resting on top of a stack of old books.

Jericho wasn't a bit fooled. He was supposed to protect that guy?

"It's about damn time you got here, Jericho," Tiberius groused.  "You think I can take on an army by myself?"

"Old man," Jericho laughed. "I've seen you do just that."  He made his way to the island of light and found a chair.  He picked up the book lying on the seat, the title gleaming in the musty light.

"No, no!" Tiberius said. "That is just the book I was looking for.  Let me have that." 

"Are you sure about this book?" Jericho had to ask.

"Yes, yes! Give it to me! And whatever you do, stay in the light!"

Tiberius' intensity was disconcerting.  Jericho uneasily placed the book into the old man's hands before he sat down.  Tiberius caressed the leathery cover of the book, his fingers tracing the raised lettering of the title. He cackled, nodding his head and Jericho watched as the Bookmaster whispered over his chosen tome.

Then he opened The Selected Works of H.P. Lovecraft, and the monsters came out to play.




The prompt is the third definition of QUAINT.


The prompt is this quote:

“Sometimes legends make reality, and become more useful than the facts.”

~ Salman Rushdie

First Love

The first time I saw

love--

it was in

one small hand,

with

a firm grasp,

held fast

in mine.

That bright smile,

that sweet face,

that trust.

Who could not

feel blessed with

such a rare gift?




The prompt is 33 words plus this: "The first time I saw..."

The first time I saw. . .

The first time I saw. . .

Cadence

A continuation of a story I started here.  Concrit is most welcome.


Cadence Wilkerson was in Paris, passing the time at a street cafe, when the rosemary essence of her home seemed to surround her in loving arms.  She smiled unconsciously, inhaled deeply; then annoyance and irritation flooded her.  That damned old woman!  Always meddling in their lives and never worrying about the consequences. She angrily stuffed her laptop into her bag and stood up, thinking about defying the summons.  Maybe she'd call Granny and give her a piece of her mind while she was at it!  Cadence stormed off.

Or rather, she would have stormed off, if she hadn't slammed into a hard chest.  Her storm ended suddenly, with Cadence falling face first.  She had a moment to see the cracks in the sidewalk she was about to meet, then she was swept up, her fall arrested by a pair of strong arms.  Cadence found herself staring into a pair of the bluest eyes she'd ever seen in her life.  She was transfixed, unable to decide whether the blue was a tropical sea or an Atlantic storm.  To swim or drown in those depths?  Cadence blushed, sure that her carnal thoughts had been transparent.

"Are you okay?"

"Uh...yes, thanks."  Cadence struggled a bit, wanting to have her feet on the ground for a bit of clarity.  She still felt dizzy, as though she were still drowning in his eyes, and that made her awkward and uncomfortable. She quickly studied his face-- the graying hair, the hard lines at the center of his forehead. Her eyes froze on the white collar, and she thought that she would do a million prayers of penance for the thoughts that had just been circling through her head.

"Sorry about that...Father?" 

Now it was Garrett's turn to blush.  For a moment, he had forgotten everything...except her.  Somehow, holding her in his arms felt more right than anything else.

Even revenge.





The prompt is the third definition of the word FATHER.

Coming Home

The Matriarch, Granny Wilkerson, only stirred the iron cauldron once a year, but the spell she cast with those unknown spices was legendary magic. Her intangible whispered chants, wrapped in the golden warmth of a comforting aroma, wafted far afield, and found each of the sisters where ever they happened to be. Whatever their differences, the Matriarch was cheerfully obeyed.  None of the Wilkerson daughters had the magic or the will to resist the Matriarch, anyway.

All thirteen sisters felt the pull within their core, the urgent need to find their way home.  One by one, the spell found them, drew them in.  Cadence Wilkerson was in Paris, passing the time at a street cafe, when the rosemary essence of her home seemed to surround her in loving arms.   Rhyme Wilkerson paused in mid-lecture to inhale deeply before dismissing her class for the remainder of the day.  Treble Wilkerson awoke from a coma with the taste of home on her tongue. Mezzo Wilkerson was waiting to summit Mount Everest.  

Old animosities faded, old hurts healed, not so new slights were forgotten. Only Adagio Wilkerson noted the passing of those negative emotions within her, and smiled as she felt the familiar anger melt away.  As often as they argued, as much as they fought, the sisters were bound by blood. Family was everything. None of them ever felt as safe, as protected, as when all of them were gathered in Granny's kitchen, surrounding the cauldron as it boiled, the steam pinking their faces.  No toil and trouble, no sturm und drang.  There was only laughter, love, and the fierce magic that only family can conjure.

Granny was waiting for them, they knew. It was time to go home.





The prompt is the third definition of MELT.

Tush

Elise and her Grandma were comfortably snuggled on the couch, an old plaid blanket covering their legs.  Grandma said that it would help lighten her mood, and Elise was happy to be with her.  Her mother had been on the phone all day, calling relatives and making arrangements, so Elise had quietly tiptoed into the attic to retrieve the box of old photographs.  She brought it to Grandma, sneezing from the dust, and climbed up next to her.   There they sat, looking at long ago faces, sepia windows on a time past. Elise loved to listen to her Grandma tell stories about the faces in the photos, but today Grandma just silently rummaged through the old box until she found a picture of a handsome, dark-haired man in a military uniform.

"Grandma, how did you meet Grandpa?"  Elise asked.  Grandma didn't speak at first, just continued to stare at the photograph in her hand.

"It was at the end of the war," she finally began quietly. "Your Grandpa was just back from Europe.  All the men were.  It was a crazy time, we were all so happy that the war was over.  My friend Carol and I went to the docks to greet the soldiers as they came off the boat, but everyone else had that idea, too.  We couldn't get anywhere near the docks!  So we went to the deli on 35th to wait for the crowd to thin out.  Your Grandpa was at the counter, ordering his first pastrami on rye in three years.  He smiled at me as we passed him on our way to a table.  I didn't think anything of that, lots of men smile."

Elise looked up to find a slight, whimsical smile on her Grandma's weathered face.

"Then what happened, Grandma?" Elise was feeling warm and sleepy, but she really wanted to hear the rest of the story.

"Well, Carol and I were just settling in when your Grandpa just walked right up to our table and sat down!"  Grandma chuckled.  "That just wasn't done in those days, and we were scandalized.  We told him so.  Your Grandpa didn't even blink.  He told us that he wasn't leaving until he had my name and a phone number."   

"He looked me right in the eye, and told me that he intended to call on me once he was settled up with the Army. Well, what could I do?  I gave him my name and number, and then Carol and I were practically giddy as he marched off."

"Your Grandpa had the cutest tush," Grandma giggled, making Elise smile.  "That's when I knew that I was in love."

"Are you going to miss Grandpa?" Elise missed Grandpa already.  The room felt empty without his booming voice echoing through it. Her Grandma hugged her tightly, her voice a shaky whisper.

"Oh yes, I will miss him, sweetie," she said.  "He's waiting for me, but I still have things to do.  Like love you."





The prompt is the third definition of the word TUSH.  I apologize for any errors.  This was written with a six year old trying his very best to distract me.

Pluck

"And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee..."  The minister droned on, and Cassie barely restrained herself from screaming, If only someone would pluck me from this never ending sermon!  Four hours they'd all been sitting here, and all the minister wanted to discuss was what filthy sinners they all were! 

Cassie glanced at her mother.  After Cassie's father passed away last year, she had worried that her mother would fall away into the darkness of depression.  Instead, Cassie's mother had begun attending this new church, and these days she seemed more serene and happy than ever.  That was the entire reason that Cassie was sitting here today; she wanted to know exactly what was going on in this church.  As far as she could tell, most of the people in her mother's congregation were good people.  They fed the poor, her mother said, and cared for the sick.  That counted. Cassie wasn't very religious, but she recognized that right actions were more powerful than a few good words in this world today.  So why did the minister felt the need to rant about hell and damnation for four plus hours? 

The door behind the altar opened, and the ministered stopped in mid rant. He moved quietly to a small seat behind the podium, the rustle of his robes the only sound.  Every eye zeroed in as a man walked in front of the altar and stood.  Cassie stared.  His hair was dark, his eyes the blue of a tropical sea. His lips were made for sin, and her face felt flushed.  Her head spun; she realized that she had been holding her breath.  As Cassie exhaled, the man's head turned toward her.  Their eyes met, and she saw bright red flames burning in his eyes. Her heart fluttered.

"That's the Reverend," her mother whispered loudly.



The prompt is the third definition of  PLUCK.  The word always makes me think of that bible verse.  And Puritans.  But never chickens.  Go figure.

Death's Companion--Fiction

It's hard to watch your parents grow old, Carl thought. He sighed, and wiped the drool from his mother's chin. He moved her chair closer to the window, so she could see outside.  He stood next to her, his hand on her shoulder to keep her from slumping forward, and stared out the window.

"Mr. Smith?"

Carl turned, transfixed.  A young woman stood before him. Her eyes were an intense shade of blue, her hair black as pitch.  Her skin was pale, almost white, as though she were an animated corpse or made of a fine china.  He managed to nod.

"I am Elise Canter." She smiled politely. "The agency selected me to be a companion to your mother on her journey,"

"Aren't you--damn!" Carl stared at Elise. "You're awfully young. I thought the agency would send someone older."

"There was no one else available, sir. Will I suffice?"

Carl bit his lip. He looked at his mother, a trail of drool making its way down her front.  Young or not, his mother would be unable to go on her own, and he had promised her a companion.

"Yes."

"The priests are coming." Carl moved a chair from the hallway and placed it next to his mother's chair.  He picked up the knife from the tray table next to her bed. Elise sat in the chair offered by Carl, and took the hand of her charge.  She looked up at Carl, leaning back to expose her throat.

"It is so," Carl fell easily into the formal language of the old country, and picked up the knife.  "Elise Canter, I bind your soul to the soul of my mother, Alexandra Clifton Smith.  You are to be her companion in death, and have agreed to serve her faithfully.  Is this so?"

"It is so. I will be faithful." Elise closed her eyes, but Carl winced as the blade cut into that fine white skin.



The prompt is the third definition of COMPANION.

Seeing Infinity--Fiction

"What brings you to see me this morning, Mrs. Bettelheim?" Dr. Clark held his pen over his clipboard and looked over his glasses at his new patient.

"Well, Dr. Clark, this is going to sound crazy..." Mrs. Bettleheim paused, her hands clenched together. She took a deep breath.  "I woke up this morning and my eyes were full of..."

"Floaters?" Dr. Clark asked helpfully as he scribbled on his clipboard. "Little black specks? Flashes of light?"

"...Uh, I guess." Mrs. Bettelheim hedged.  "I'm not sure."

"We'll take a look and see what's up?"  Dr. Clark smiled at her reassuringly as the nurse told Mrs. Bettelheim to sit in the chair and placed the eye drops.  While the patient's eyes dilated, Dr. Clark moved the slit lamp into place and asked her to place her chin and forehead on the designated pads. Based on the reported symptoms, he was sure that he would see at least one retinal tear, so common in the elderly.

"Look right at my finger here," he held his right index finger next to his head and looked into Mrs. Bettelheim's right eye.

Dr. Clark saw stars. He saw galaxies. Mrs. Bettelheim's eye was somehow full of them, stretching further back into her brain than he could see. 

He blinked, then turned away, and stared at the wall a moment. Perhaps his own eyes were failing.  Assured this was not the case, Dr. Clark moved the lamp to examine the left eye.

Each bright star in the infinite sky of Mrs. Bettelheim's left eye seemed to call to him, and Dr. Clark realized that each one was a soul. The souls of family and friends long past, those he had promised to remember each year during holy days, but had forgotten in the daily struggle of becoming a doctor and raising a family.  Tears poured from Dr. Clark's eyes, but he had no awareness of them.

Instead, he remembered.



The prompt is the third definition of the word REMEMBER.  This came to me as I contemplated the increased number of "floaters" in my own eyes.  I don't know if it works, and concrit is appreciated.

Dinner Date

The mark sat by himself at a lovely table near the window, a glass of a pretentious chardonnay in his hand.  Clare nodded to herself from her vantage point near the ladies' room; he looked just desperate enough for her company to be welcome, but she decided to give him a couple more minutes to stew. 
Clare had grown up hard, and had learned very early that the fastest way to success in life was by using what she had to get what she wanted.  Her mother had taught her all about men; Clare had lost count of the number of dates her mother brought home.  But it kept the rent paid and put food on the table for Clare and her sisters, and that was all that mattered to them.  Now Clare was out on her own.

Stand up, shoulders back, chin level with the floor, and smile.  Clare sashayed into the main room of the restaurant, aiming straight for her target.  The mark watched her walk his way, anticipation tensing his features.  Clare walked right past him to sit at the next table, where her own glass of wine sat.  The waiter approached her, and she ordered the prime rib.

The mark was waiting for his blind date to appear, Clare knew. She'd happened to hear her coworker discussing an upcoming date; it wasn't difficult to leave a phone message indicating that the date had been cancelled.  Then she'd made reservations at the same place, requesting a nearby table.  When he was sufficiently upset about being stood up, Clare would begin her routine, sobbing quietly, but loud enough.  He would be curious, they would talk.  The two of them would bond over their woeful experiences, and soon, his money would be all hers.

Clare had it all planned out.  She knew her craft. She just hoped that this one wouldn't need killing.





The prompt is the third definition of the word CRAFT.  And you get a bonus verse, just because I happened to have it running through my brain while I was writing, and I had to get it out.



Every spider knows well his craft,

knows just which silver, silken webs to weave,

to draw each briefly dazzled fly into his lair.
 
The spider's lifelong task is to ever so cleverly deceive.

Wrecking the Curve

This is the worst day of my life, Stephanie thought.  It was likely the worst day of anyone's life, but most certainly the worst for her.  If she believed in reincarnation, today would be the worst day of all her past and future lives as well.  Crying in the bathroom wasn't helping; word had already spread of her humiliation.

Her parents would be so angry with her.  Her mother had already been telling her friends that her daughter would definitely be the next valedictorian, and Stephanie wanted more than anything to make her parents proud.  She had studied, struggled and worked hard for the grades she had, and now it was all undone.  Her dreams of attending college were ashes; no respectful college would accept her after what she'd done today.  How could she have been so stupid?  Now the principal wanted to see Stephanie, probably to expel her.

She opened the door to the bathroom and stepped into the hallway, which was lined with students and teachers.  One by one, they fell silent, turning to glare at her.

"Boo!" the jeers and catcalls began. Stephanie hunched her shoulders and ducked her head before walking down the hall toward the principal's office.  She deserved their scorn; their own lives were affected by what she had done.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" hissed Mrs. Wolfe, Stephanie's favorite teacher.  An eraser came hurtling past her.  Other teachers threw wads of paper while the students, her friends, and even her little brother, threw epithets like rocks at her head.

Near tears, Stephanie stopped outside the door to Mr. Wexman's office.  She slowly turned to face the angry mob.  A gob of spit struck her cheek; she didn't bother to wipe it away.

"I'm sorry, okay?" she yelled above the cacophony. She entered the principal's office and slammed the door. He was waiting for her, tissues in hand.  He shook his head.

"All this fuss over one less than perfect SAT score!"





The prompt is the third definition of "Boo". 

Phantom

She thought that it would be different.  Feel different, at least.  But she felt nothing. Nothing at all. Elisa hugged her knees to her chest, her tears dried by the wind around her.

She had wanted so very badly to just fit in!  Elisa tried. She really did. She thought she had found friends.  She thought that she was part of the group, that she was accepted, even loved. 

It was all a lie.  They told her she was a loser, a freak.  The people she thought were her friends told her that she should die, that she should kill herself so that they could be rid of her.  Whispered it in the hallway during passing period.  Tweeted it during football games.  Facebooked about it over the weekend.  Texted to her during classes.

When Elisa had been a child, she wished upon every star she saw for a happy life.  She didn't care about riches, or fame--she just wanted to be happy.  She could kick herself for being so stupid.
Those wishes were a sham, a phantom.  There was no such thing, and she had been a fool to be so naive.  Life was nothing but pain and hurt and despair, and it never got any better. Elisa knew that now.  But it would be all better soon. 

The wind rushing around the water tower, and her, was almost deafening.  She stood slowly, her eyes focusing on a distant star in the sky.

She stepped off the ledge.






The prompt is the third definition of the word PHANTOM.  Constructive criticism is welcome--I've stepped way out of my comfort zone. 

How The Zombie Apocalypse Really Started

"It seemed harmless.  Benign.  Beneficial, even!  It could bring nothing but good to humanity, four out of five scientists agreed. The fifth scientist disappeared quietly under mysterious circumstances.

The corporations grew ever bold, seeking to profit. People could not get enough, my grandfather told me. Farms sprang up overnight, to create vast fields of the bacilli. It was spectacular, the brilliant colors, as binary fission occurred.

People traveled for miles to photograph that, believe it or not. 

Then suddenly, not so harmless anymore. People died, writhing and screaming in hideous pain, nothing we could do.

Then they came back."




The prompt was to pick a word from page 99 of the Oxford English Dictionary and write 99 words. Can you tell I've seen one too many Activia commercials?

The Second Best Day

The second best day in Carly Joe Patterson's life began with the arrival of a lawyer.  She was in her new pajamas, sipping coffee on the balcony when a harsh knock interrupted her.  It was seven in the morning.

Carly Joe experienced a panic. Maybe the oil company had decided not to pay for her room after all.  She looked over the side of the balcony speculatively; too far to jump off the balcony into the river. She never should have chosen the El Presidente Suite, but she just couldn't resist the personal Mariachis. Or the free drinks. Those zombies were quite a treat.

The knock persisted, and Carly Joe just got tired of the sound.  She opened the door, staring into the face of the second most gorgeous man she'd ever seen. His piercing green eyes were smiling, and she felt like a prize filly at a horse auction.  Carly Joe shook her head; this man was obviously not looking to fool around.

"Y'all a bill collector?" she moved aside to allow him to come into the suite.  "Because I ain't got any cash.  Won't be paying for this room, either, if that no good oil company won't pay."

"Miss Patterson?" Smithson Coltrane smiled, offering his hand.  "I represent that no good oil company. I am here to discuss a settlement check."

Carly Joe shook the lawyer's hand.  She vaguely recalled talk of a meeting with a lawyer on the phone last week, when Jackson Coltrane had shown up at her trailer. She sat down at the table, wishing she'd ordered up breakfast.

Smithson Coltrane sat down across from her and opened his briefcase.  He removed a folder and slid it along the table toward her.

"My client feels this amount represents an appropriate compensation for the loss of your husband."

Carly Joe opened the folder and scanned the check inside. There were a few more zeroes than expected. Carly Joe smiled. She would never have to ask about bill collectors again.
 



The prompts were a quote from Rumi and a video by a well known metal mariachi band, Metalachi. 
Yes.  There is such at thing. 



The prompt is the third definition of the word ZOMBIE. 

The Best Day Ever

The best day of Carly Joe Patterson's life began when a piece of oil rigging fell on her lying cheater of a husband. Carly was in the kitchen nursing her latest black eye with a flank steak when the oil company foreman knocked on the trailer door. Thinking the visitor was her neighbor Elly Jane, who regularly visited for coffee and gossip, she didn't even bother to put on her robe. She just hollered for her visitor to come on in and set. 

Carly, dressed in her black silk unmentionables, turned around with the coffee pot and froze.  The most gorgeous man she had ever seen was standing in her doorway, white cowboy hat in hand.  His brilliant blue eyes held her in place while her mouth caught flies.  The flank steak slid down her cheek to land on her chest.  The cold finally brought her to her senses.  This man obviously wasn't here to sweep her off her feet.

"Y'all a bill collector?" She asked as she put down the coffee and grabbed her robe off the chair.  "Because we ain't got any cash around.  Won't get paid until this well comes in, neither."

"No, ma'am, not a bill collector," Jackson Coltrane coughed discreetly.  "Are you Carly Joe Patterson?"

"I am, but not for long." Carly nodded her head in the direction of the suitcase on the couch. "He said he'd kill me next time he saw me. What can I do for you, Mister?"

"There's been an accident up at the well," Jackson began. "I regret to--

"That pansy-ass bastard is dead?" Carly interrupted. 

"--say that your husband did not survive the accident," Jackson finished.  He waited to see if his news lead to female hysterics.

Carly was struggling to keep her smile to herself.  She was free. An angel of a man had come down from heaven to free her with his words.

Now she could sell the trailer, load up the Mustang, and leave town for good.






The prompt is to use be postpositive and use the third definition of the word ASS.   Really.  I never lie about postpositives.

Nobody Better Lay A Finger

We separated the body parts, tossing them out the window at random intervals along our drive across country. The heart and other viscera we threw into an incinerator, and watched them burn away.

Then there was only the head. 

It sat in a Rubbermaid tub on the backseat. Occasionally we hit a bump, and then the head would tumble around in the container, an oddly squishy sound in the darkness.  We would probably throw the head out into the desert.  It served the bastard right.

"What the hell did we just do?" I asked.  The entire day suddenly seemed too surreal to have actually happened; a bad trip, and nothing more.

"We?" Laura snorted, and gave me a sideways look, her hands at ten and two. "You got a mirror in your pocket? Because I'm just the cleanup crew here.  I didn't touch the guy until after he was dead."

I was too wound up to point out that Laura was the one who owned the chainsaw, "just in case".  I also could have mentioned the gloves, heavy duty trash bags and four gallon container of bleach that she always carried in her car.   I kept my mouth shut.  Fighting with the person who knew more about getting rid of bodies than the Mob was kind of stupid. Besides, she was saving my backside.

"He just brought out the animal in me," I scrubbed my face, as if I could erase the vivid images.  "I just lost it."

"It happens to us all," Laura was always philosophical at times like these.   I was less so, but that's likely because I had just killed my boyfriend.  That sort of event tended to color one's outlook a bit. I wasn't a bit sorry that I had done it, either. Even now, with a nagging fear that we had left some sort of clue behind for the police, I was still outraged.

"He knew that was my last Butterfinger, the son of a bitch!"





The prompt is the third definition of the word ANIMAL.

Rainbow

Mr. Matthias of Matthias Talents, Inc., strolled up the driveway from the road, as if he were simply admiring the green glass jars perched precariously atop the picket fence. He knew that the girl and her mother were waiting, but he took his time.  He preferred to savor their anxiety, breathing in their fears with an almost feral glee.  He was their only hope, their only ticket out of this godforsaken backwater, and everyone knew that. What they didn't know is that he took their money and never made a single phone call to a movie producer or modeling agency. Mr. Matthias specialized in finding a certain kind of talent.

The sole of his well-shod foot had only barely touched the dingy welcome mat when the door was yanked open.  The girl was indeed a beauty, her skin pale and perfect, her blonde hair homespun gold.  She smiled at him tremulously, good manners overcoming her natural curiosity.

"Mr. Matthias! Won't you come in?" She held the door, and took his hat.   Her mother sat on the couch, her hands folded in her lap. She nodded to him as he sat down.  Both mother and daughter leaned forward in anticipation.

"I'm sorry, but you're just not what the producers are looking for at the moment."  Mr. Matthias had practiced his bad news face until it was second nature. But with Miss Elizabeth, he found some difficulty concealing his joy at destroying her dreams.  The rainbow in her eyes had burned with such delicious intensity that he could not help but celebrate as it flared and died.  Miss Elizabeth's shoulders slumped forward, a sob escaping.

"Please, Mr. Matthias! I'll do anything!"

Mr. Matthias specialized in finding a certain kind of talent. Talent that would pay him a significant finder's fee.  They'd pay extra if Miss Elizabeth was a virgin.  She would just disappear one day, of course, but that was the cost of doing business.





The prompt is the third definition of the word RAINBOW.


The prompt is this picture:

image courtesy of Unsplash, Creative Commons

And a quote from Sylvia Plath: "August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time."