Love Spell

Garrett stared at her.  He at once felt weightless, as though all of his burdens were gone, as if they'd never even existed.  Somehow, she had cut his soul free, a balloon floating on the barest of tethers.  He had nowhere to be right then, except with her.  He smiled, and took her hand.  If he could just touch her, she would understand.

"Stop it." Cadence glared at him, pulling her hand away, and turning away.  She muttered under her breath, and he caught the words "damned old woman".  He grabbed her arm so he could see her face.  Her eyes were emeralds glittering, her lips rubies...he lost his train of thought, because Cadence kicked him in the shin. 

 "I'm not a priest," Garrett blurted, still holding her arm.  He needed to tell this woman the truth.  Or close enough. "I'm an actor."

"Mister, what you are is bespelled,"  Cadence said. "You are lovesick, the victim of a powerful love spell, and the only cure is for me to get as far away from you as possible, and hope the symptoms fade."

"That's impossible," Garrett laughed. "Magic doesn't exist.  But you are a goddess. Who wouldn't fall in love with you?" 

He moved in closer, thinking that he might try for a kiss, but Cadence put her palm on his chest.

"Goddess, huh? Whatever. You're a riot, Mister."  Cadence's mouth quirked, a small, hysterical giggle escaping.  "Do you see any other idiots besides you lining up? And magic does too exist. You're experiencing it right now."

"If I agree with you, will you kiss me?"




 

The prompt is the third definition of the word WHATEVER.  Yeah, I didn't think there was such a thing, either, but there it is. 

This continues a story from way back in 2013.

The Skeptic's Dilemma

Old stockings
Were flung
Hastily
Upon the mantle,
The star
Atop the tree
Slightly askew,
As we heard
A jingle,
Hoofsteps
Rooftop.

"Hurry up!"

"I thought he
Was just
A myth!
Didn't you?"

Frankenstein's Lament

"It is the first day of November, and so, today someone will die."

"Does he always talk like that? It's a bit creepy!"

"Don't mind him--he always gets depressed when Halloween is over.  Says it's the only time of the year when nobody's afraid of him."




Use this quote from Maggie Stiefvater from The Scorpio Races: "It is the first day of November, and so, today someone will die." Add 33 more words.

Cellar Door

"Certain words or phrases are infinitely more lyrical than others,"  Nigel was talking to himself again. Nobody else would respond; it was his house, and Nigel was a mean drunk.   It was all about the image with Nigel, and we were happy to play along.  We were all so full of ourselves that a sort of ennui had settled, so that all the days and nights seemed exactly the same, stretching out in a never ending nothingness. 

Until Charles brought a date to the party.   Some girl he'd met at the speakeasy he'd been frequenting of late; a perky, cheerful girl with an easy laugh. She wasn't really dressed for dinner, but we enjoyed our new plaything. She found Nigel's piano in the study, and began to play.  We all gathered round, grateful for the change of pace.  Nigel stood rigidly in the door, staring at Charles' date while she played, jaw muscles clenching.  The piano player was oblivious, but Charles had a smug look, as if he had bested Nigel at some sort of contest.

Nigel moved quickly to the piano and before anyone knew, he struck the girl hard on the side of the head, knocking her away from the piano.  She hit the ground hard, and Nigel kicked her in the head repeatedly, occasionally stomping on her.  All this with his martini in hand, and we just watched. Nobody moved. When it was obvious that the perky girl was dead, Nigel just stopped, breathing heavily. He gulped the last of his martini.

Nigel pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and threw toward Charles.  The rain of money startled us all, though none of us were so crass as to pick any of it up. Charles and Nigel stared at one another for a long moment, and we wondered why.

"The cellar door is at the end of the hallway," Nigel finally said, as he turned to leave. "You need to throw your trash in the incinerator." 





THIS IS FICTION.  I don't know a soul named Nigel, and would feel compelled to mock him if I did. Such things never end well. 



Prompt: Third definition of  "rain": 3: to take a lot of money in bill form and toss it up in the air. This is most effectively done at a strip club for the effect of raining one dollar bills on the dancers (and it makes them feel so pretty), or to snub a hater by throwing money into their face that then falls to the floor like rain (use this when paying a debt to a punk bitch who keeps asking for their money to the point that they are ruining your friendship or when dumping someone who has been bankrolling you for a while now that you're making money). 





The password is "cellar door" or a picture of a propeller.

Look With Wonder

I fled into the mountains to cry out my despair to the skies.  Nobody followed me; it was expected that I would do as I was told.  Five goats and four lambs, and I was sold into a marriage that I did not want. My tears fell to soak the earth as I sat under an olive tree; I did not see the old woman at first.

She sat so very still that she seemed a part of the mountain itself.  She smiled at me with kind eyes. As she tried to stand, I ran to help. I touched her arm, and all of the earth flowed within my veins, the movement of mountains and seas flooding my senses momentarily. The crone finally stood and waited for me to collect myself.

"Whatever is the matter, child?" She asked me. She was a stranger, yet kinder to me than my own father. I did not love Jorn, I told her, who was old and cruel to his sheep.  I did not want to marry him.

"I love the blue of the sky, Old One."  My heart could not hide my hopes.  "I love the rising sun.  I love the noon, when the sun is high overhead.   I love the light of the sky in the evening before darkness falls."

For a moment the crone stared hard into my eyes. 

"You must honor your family." her voice was crisp.   

I knew that the old woman was right.   With a heavy heart, I turned to make the long trek back to my village, and my duty.  The crone's next words stopped me.

"Still, it is lucky that I found you."  I stared at her in confusion.

"Look with wonder at that which is before you," the old woman's eyes had gone opaque, her voice had dropped. "And look for me on the day of our wedding, beloved."

The crone vanished, and in her place lay a golden arm band.




Week 13 (my lucky number!)
So, today, we took our son to Boston’s Museum of Science. His favorite part of the museum is the audiokinetic sculpture (or as my son calls it, the ball tower) on the lower level of the atrium, a piece called Archimedean Excogitation, by George Rhoads.
For this week, take your inspiration from this video of the sculpture in motion and from the word WONDER:




LUCKY (adjective)

1: having good luck
2: happening by chance : fortuitous
3: producing or resulting in good by chance : favorable

Sacrifices

This is fiction, Ma.

"Sacrifices must be made, Svetlana."  Gregor's voice was hoarse with fatigue and cigarette smoke, but he was firm.

Svetlana stared across the table at Gregor with bleary, half-closed eyes.  They had stayed up all night arguing, a bottle of vodka between them, but Gregor always won these kinds of disagreements.  He could exhaust a topic, spinning a web of words around her until there was no escape; she must give in to his demands. She had tried to leave him before, even moving to America, but he always found her.  Now he offered her a way out.

"How long did Nikolai give you this time?" Svetlana's voice was tinged with a weary resignation; always, Nikolai must be paid, because Gregor could not pass up a wager. 

"Until the end of the week."

"So soon?"

"Nikolai has a reputation, even here in America."

"What if I were to get another job dancing?"  

Gregor snorted at her idea.

"Svetlana, my dear," he smiled at her patronizingly. "You were a has-been before you ever stepped on the stage.  No, there is no other way.  The insurance company will pay double for an accidental death." 

She was too exhausted to get angry at his insult, and so she pushed herself up from the table and stretched, picking up her purse and rummaging through the contents. 

"Will it hurt?"  Her voice was small. 

"Not at all, Svetlana.  It will all be over quickly.  Then the insurance will pay me, and I will pay Nikolai."  He poured the last of the vodka, raising his glass toward her in a toast.  "I will cherish your memory forever for your sacrifice, my love." 

Svetlana picked up her purse, her hand still immersed inside, and the .38 went off with a roar that made her head ring.  Gregor slumped forward, the empty vodka glass shattering on the floor.  She stared at the blood spatter on the wall behind him, and waited for her neighbors to call the police. 

"Sacrifices must be made, Gregor."
 












Prompt:  The word is EXHAUST:  3a : to consider or discuss (a subject) thoroughly or completely  
  b : to try out the whole number of


 

Prompt

It stands to reason that where there’s sacrifice, there’s someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there’s service, there’s someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master.
—Ayn Rand