The New Muse

Photo © – Renee Heath

A year ago, the new edition of me, my sequel, entered the story. She slipped in between the sheets and became his fresh, eager muse. Desperate to thrill him, she was not daunted by his mythical desire to manipulate her character, to mold her with fictitious flattery and romantic, candlelit tales of happily-ever-after.

When she’s no longer able to inspire his imagination, he’ll place her dog-eared volume on his special shelf, next to me and his other silent muses. Each of us bookmarked with a lock of hair, his literary trophies, as our bones gather dust beneath his library floorboards.

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Written for Friday Fictioneers 100-word photo prompt. You can find more stories by clicking on the badge.

The Accident, Part 4: Copycat

I’ve been absent from my blog for a couple of weeks and unfortunately missed last week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt. Life does get in the way sometimes. I’m back, at least for this week’s photo prompt.

I would like to thank Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for always being the gracious and diplomatic host to well over 100 creative (and sometimes temperamental) writers. Her job is not easy. I want to say that I appreciate all the effort and time she puts into the prompt, her weekly story, and the many, many comments and “Likes” to all. She is a generous person.

The Accident, Part 3: Accusations

This 100-word story is Part 3 of The Accident, written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue the story of Detective Stuart Leale, and I’m still not sure how I feel about it. It was difficult to write part three (in 100 words) and make it a stand alone story, yet fit with the other two pieces. If you haven’t read Parts 1 & 2, I will make it easy for you:

The Accident, Part 1 (written for Visdare)

He searches his face in the mirror and smirks at his 58 years of hard-earned wrinkles. They are reminders. Stuart often relives his ingenious triumphs, but lately, one in particular feeds his ego; that defining moment his brother Charlie died.

Charlie was their favorite, their golden boy, their reason to live. After he was born, Stuart was forgotten. His resentment festered.

“Charlie’s so smart, much smarter than Stuart,” his mother always said.

“Finally, a perfect child,” his father always replied.

The Accident, Part 2: Everglades

This 100-word story is Part 2 of a story I wrote for the VisDare writing prompt. If you haven’t read Part 1 of The Accident, you can read it here:

The Accident, Part 1

Part 2 stands alone, but trust me when I say it’s much better with its counterpart, so please go read it first. When I saw the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt, I knew this had to be a continuation.

Photo Copyright – Adam Ickes

The Accident, Part 1

Photo Source

He searches his face in the mirror and smirks at his 58 years of hard-earned wrinkles. They are reminders. Stuart often relives his ingenious triumphs, but lately, one in particular feeds his ego; that defining moment his brother Charlie died.

Charlie was their favorite, their golden boy, their reason to live. After he was born, Stuart was forgotten. His resentment festered.

“Charlie’s so smart, much smarter than Stuart,” his mother always said.

Severed Love: A Friday Fictioneers Tale

Copyright – Sean Fallon

“I just don’t love you anymore,” he said, as the beaded sweat evaporated from our bare bodies.

My heart raced at his words, just as it had at his touch. I felt damaged, manipulated, outraged.

I watched him casually dress. His face wore a look of relief; his brunette burden finally lifted.

“What now?” I asked, feigning indifference.

“Not sure. Maybe travel a while and get my head straight.”

A man of his word, his arms traveled downriver. The rest of him traveled to the place where we first met. I ensured his head was straight with an unobstructed view.

This disturbing piece of prose was written for Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. The challenge was to write a 100-word story based on the photo. As always, thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this challenge. You can check out the other stories and poems here.

A Day to Remember: A VisDare Short Story

Photo Source

It was a romantic and dangerous place. It reeked of prestige and privilege. “The Gherkin,” a building shaped like a glass pickle; the name always made her smile.

The groom and his four groomsmen were drawn to it, pulled to the 41^st floor by a great force. They gathered each year on October 31st, to remember her, to forget her, but mostly to lessen their guilt. The fifth anniversary of their wedding day. The fifth anniversary of her death.

They are forever connected by the bride’s memory. They had all loved her once, but she had chosen only one. They fought for her affections. She tried to stop them. They outnumbered her. The consequences were tragic.

As they admired the infinite cityscape, the groom whispered, “I wish I could tell her I’m sorry.”

“You can, my darling,” she answered. “You all can. I’ve come back to collect your penance.”

Another VisDare story based on the photo provided by Angela over at Anonymous Legacy. I’m back to creepy, but his one is a subtle creepy. The photo is of 30 St. Mary Axe, “The Gherkin,” in London’s financial district. If you want to join the VisDare challenge, click on the badge:

Trifecta Week Ninety-Eight: The Collection

It is my once a year kill night. My one night to unshackle the surplus of depravity that dwells inside my skin. My one night to add to my collection of catches. I hide my craving under the guise of a push-up bra and plunging neckline that effectively captivates the ogling eyes of every man in the hotel bar. I sit on a corner barstool, the perfect vantage point for man watching.

The men are drawn to me like bees to nectar. Pathetic. Desperate. Arrogant. None of them will satiate my hunger.

“What can I get you,” the bartender asks.

I swivel around to look at him. Desire prickles my skin. My heart palpitates. He is the prey I hunt for, the catch of the year.

“A zombie, please,” I say, a little breathless.

His smile is charming, full lips and flawless teeth. His skin is a lovely, creamy brown. And his eyes, those eyes are dark with a sparkle of mischief. I am in love.

“Tommy,” I say, reading his nametag, “I believe in being direct.” I lean forward to give him a healthy dose of cleavage, and he is instantly a captive in my web.

“What do you have in mind?” he asks, placing my zombie cocktail on the bar.

I take a long, slow drink and reply, “When does your shift end?”

“Right now,” he says and motions toward the other bartender. They covertly whisper and give me that knowing look. I smile innocently and slide off the barstool.

As we exit out the back door, he says, “I hate to use a cliché, but, your place or mine?”

I slip my arm through his and pull him close. “My place,” I reply, and gently plunge the needle into his arm. He collapses against the car, awake but paralyzed. I push him into the backseat and whisper, “I have a spectacular taxidermy collection I want to show you. I’m an enthusiastic hunter, and I love to keep trophies.”

This October creepiness was written for Trifecta Week Ninety-Eight . The challenge this week was to concoct a tale using the third definition of the word:

ZOMBIE – 3:  a mixed drink made of several kinds of rum, liqueur, and fruit juice

Sorry, living dead lovers, no zombies here other than the fruity, tropical kind you drink. If you would like to join the challenge or read the other stories and poems, click on the badge:

Trifecta Week Ninety-Six: The Final Victim

I said it many times, to many insistent faces, “I didn’t know.” My words were met with skepticism and judgment based solely on rumor. They cannot know what I felt, what I experienced, what I knew.

When they came with their grandiose weaponry raised, their cagey interrogation tactics and groundless accusations and plucked him from our once normal home, I refused to believe their lies. I stood at his side through the feeding frenzy of hate. I held his hand and whispered in his ear, “I believe in you.”

He insisted it was a matter of mistaken identity. He wasn’t capable of such violence and debauchery. His face was a portrait of virtue. His eyes a porthole of anguish. His tears saturated my heart with misery.

Six months of wait, of worry, and warding off the vigilant eye of the community, and the trial began. I dutifully watched from the back row, craving anonymity. I became an afterthought for a brief and glorious moment. All eyes on him. All ears on the facts.

Judgment day came and through a haze of testimony and evidence, the creeping tendrils of doubt latched around my mind and suffocated my faith in his innocence. The proof was undeniable. He was a monster, animal by nature. His deeds corporeal.

His punishment was death. Far too inadequate, I realized, as I stared into the plagued eyes of the victims’ families and listened to their grief-stricken pleas for answers. Justice had failed to resurrect or bring closure. It only reflected a callous light on the how and when, unable to illuminate the why.

In the end, I was his final victim, the only one to have survived. It made me, not admired or pitied, but hated, ashamed, accountable. A jury of my peers rendered my verdict, “Guilty by association.” I was sentenced to death, not in body, but in spirit.

This story was prompted by Trifecta Week Ninety-Six. The word (third definition) to use for this week:

ANIMAL (noun) 3  :  a human being considered chiefly as physical or nonrational; also :  this nature

Don’t forget to read the other creative writings based on this prompt. Click on the Trifecta link above to visit their website.

Secondhand Wife: A Friday Fictioneers Tale

Copyright John Nixon

He would joke to his society friends, “She’s my secondhand wife. I picked her up in a consignment shop. Gave her a real life.”

They would laugh, uncomfortable, and look at me with a mix of pity and arrogance. Sorry that I was not their kind. Confident I never would be.

I would smile like a mannequin selling a pretty, used dress. The good wife. The beautiful prize. Always kept in my rightful place by a stand-out narcissist amongst the elite.

That was before. Before I sold him to the highest bidder. A first-class assassin for a high-end husband.

If you would like to join this writing prompt based on the photograph, go to Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a 100-word story with a beginning, middle and end. I did it in 99 words. I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is always appreciated.