not horror? oh the horror of it…

Let’s try a prompt that’s not pointedly horror.

The train never stopped in Apple Grove, it was too small and too boring for anyone interesting to want to come here.

prompt, prompt, prompt…

I should really start writing to all these prompts…

Caroline dug through the contents of her worn leather purse and gave him the last six dollars and forty five cents she had left.

For now, I’ll keep them safe and remembered while I wind DeHaven through his journey.

another prompt…

We danced until the sun set knowing it would be the last time.

a new prompt to work on…

There was a pair of children’s shoes, small and white, abandoned on the asphalt next to a glass jar filled with dead beetles.

Some days I can write all day on my novel. Other days, I just want a writing snack. Prompts are my half a PB&J folded over with the crust cut off.

bluing has a metallic taste…

A very quick attempt at ActivelyDying’s prompt.

I singe my finger with the match to watch the flame glow and smell flesh burn. It takes me home. Back to the times when I held a gun and felt safe. When it was all black and white. The enemy was the enemy and we were the good guys.

The room is empty for the most part. I never really cared to get back to civilian life or the trappings of it. Dust hangs in the air and I pace.

Do you ever feel your mind creep back to the scenes you thought you were long past?

Mine does.

I hear the outside world. It sounds suspicious. They’re out there. Around every corner, they wait for me to let my guard down. But I won’t. The enemy is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Two realities battle in my mind until I cannot find which one is here and now.

I load my gun. Here and now may be right where I cannot afford to be unarmed. I need to be ready for that here and now.

Shots. A car door slamming. Which is it? Both or neither.

Do you know what it is like to get lost on your way to the bathroom?

I do.

I can feel the heat and smell the diesel. Burning flesh.

I’m at war. But I’m at home. It is a long way between to two and I make the trip more than I want to.

My gun is my only comfort and bluing has a taste. The war will be over. And I will end it.

directions

“Excuse me sir.” She pulls a map from her pocketbook. It’s been folded and refolded then finally balled up. A bright red mouth makes her look as though she’s been kissing a freshly fed vampire.

The color has bled into the little smoker’s lines around her lips. It is disturbing to me.

“Did you fart?” I ask polite as I can since I can’t understand why she would ask my forgiveness.

“W-what? I need directions to the museum.” She un-balls the twisted map a bit.

“The museum.” I feel my head start to bob up and down. “Yes. The place where they house the things ripped from artist’s souls. I know it well. You know they allow that willingly to be done to them. It’s a horrific thing.”

“What an interesting perspective of art,” she says. “Did you study formally?”

“Formally?” The red bleeds more, making tiny rivers of blood on her face. “No, but it’s not hard to see how they suffer. Their souls fed off by vultures.”

Her head begins to bob along with mine. “I spent many years suffering over my paintings only to be left misunderstood.”

I feel that twitch develop under my eye. She smells of flowers and bowel. She disturbs me. “Who are you again?”

She laughs. It is more a cackle, like a crow laughing at finding a piece of carrion. “That’s right, who are any of us?”

“Us. Were we together?” I could not remember.

The woman giggles as if she were one of the young women I watch in the park. The noise grates against my skin. She is old and unappetizing. Her skin is lax, transparent.

“Is that your way of asking to accompany me to the museum?” She touches my hand with long snakelike fingers.

“I don’t like you.”

“Oh.” Her face, powdered and drawn-on, flushes red. “I guess I misunderstood you.” She smoothes the map. The blood spreads. Her hair reaches toward me. I step back.

“Don’t touch me. You need to not touch me.”

“I wasn’t. I just need to know where exactly I am and where the museum is-”

“What makes you think I know where you are? How would I know that?” I grab the map and tear it up, my hands working completely on their own. “You could be anywhere.”

“I’ll ask someone else. I…” She steps back as if I were growing toward her. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“You can’t ask anyone else. Who will know?”

“Sir, please. I don’t want any trouble.”

“But who will know?” I hear my voice grow larger. Her eyes match it. They swirl with color. “You have to find yourself before they do.”

“What? You’re crazy.” She turns her back to me and starts to walk. “Why does this always happen to me? I always talk to the strange ones.”

“Didn’t you need to know where the museum was? It’s on Lancaster north of Seventeenth. Turn left.” I smile, knowing I saved her.