February 13, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Prompt: Write a story about a group of people forced to share their luck, passing it between themselves in the form of an object.
Mary kept the coin too long- and Jackson killed her for it, though it was just a nickel. The coin was slick, with the edges worn off but the sheen of the thing still intact. He squinted at a slight cut out of the edge, a tiny sliver missing from the metal, and seemed happy it was there. His smile was like one of those things you see in movies, with too much edge, no softness and the eyes gone up to the hills.
The rest of them watched. Three dead now, they thought, but Mary was the only one they’d seen him kill. Had he killed the others too? He seemed wild enough to them, now. Mad with it, with the wanting of it. Though he’d never tried for more than his week. One of the other boys wanted to do something, but Jackson had the Luck. What could he do?
They worried, the five that were left. The way Jackson looked at them sometimes made them nervous, but at the end of the week – he passed the nickel on to Roland.
They killed him for it, smiling without softnesses, and watched each other do it.
February 9, 2012 § 1 Comment
Prompt: Write a story about blood.
Getting old is like planting regrets in the grassland, or squirting eye drop drips of success into the ocean. It grants perspective.
I hate it, always have. I hate it every time, and can feel it swelling in the bones as my blood goes thin as water and starts to cool.
This time my youngest grandson comes to visit me the day before I’m young. He has a joke for a brain, but his father doesn’t. Jason was always a smart boy. The genes runs true, sometimes.
It’s been long since my sins traveled to their father’s house under guard. A long while. Maybe the line is growing strong again, turned hot and bright with the age of steam. That would be kind.
Jason has a gun in towe when he visits with that boy of his. Its long and gleaming, greedy as the man it’ll have to kill. I look at them both. Love them, want them. Their pulses beat like footfalls, in time with mine, approaching. My family, my blood, my youth.
“Dad,” Jason pleads, an arm around his boy, voice wavering. I smile, lick my lips. They’re old and salty like the water welling in his eyes. He just doesn’t understand.
I hate growing old.
February 8, 2012 § 2 Comments
Prompt: Write a story about enchanted masks.
All art requires sacrifice, no different than any other kind of magic. This one, see, the Boson tribal? Six children died to give it that elusive sheen, that devilish gleam behind beaded over eyelids. Now it keeps you far from danger.
And that Daharmi Lion’s-face, well. There used to a be a Daharmi Lion, remember? Before the last few disappeared, now the only one there’ll be is if someone tries the mask. I have quite a few like it, you know. Shape-changer’s tunics and ballgowns, though those don’t matter. You’re only here for the masks? Looking for any in particular? Ahh.
Let’s see then. I have the finger masks, oni-caricatures, tribal invocations, wall street paper-mache. I have masks from New Guinea, Japan, Boston, Bombay. I have green masks, red ones, blue, rainbow, and striped. I have this one, that one, bloody and typed. Here, here we go. This would be what your looking for right?
Greco, and stucco, and no. Stay right there, no worries. Just a demonstration of lil old snake hair’s gift. No, shhh. Stop that screaming. It’s unseemly.
Yes, quite right. You were the only other life here. Now you’re something else, or will be. Powdered people is the key to my next project you see, how else would I craft my clay?