[Steelhawk Crossbow]

Like rehab…but without the pretty certificate

So once again, I am attempting to write a post, this time it is driven by two major factors. One, I am very bored at work and two, I am trying to get a rhythm going.

My addiction to MMRPG's continues. I, however, have not been log into the game, save for an hour on Wed. night, and I am starting to feel the effects. How many more times do I have to reload the guild forum to see that NO ONE is using it! / sigh. Another bone of contention, I am not sure what I want to do with my toons. Can’t really raid due to my work schedule and don’t feel the overwhelming desire to play. Should I, gasp, put them in storage?

On an Aculeus Upon Ordeum front, things are starting to heat up as our guild is becoming larger and we are having a harder time keeping a semblance of control.

Canadianfem is a god sent and promptly sent me an email yesterday which listed the guild’s dirt for the week. Just got another fantastic email from our Social Director. Raid drama FTW! I really need to get on tonight.

Language or the Kiss

Take the song you are listening to right now or the first song you
think of and write a story or poem using it as your template. Do
not use any of the actual song lyrics, either verbatim or
paraphrased,except as dialogue that is also dialogue within the song.
For example,you cannot use "up ahead in the distance I saw a
shimmering light" as dialogue for the main character, but you can use
"you can check outany time you like but you can never leave" as
dialogue for the night
man character.
________________________________________________________________________

This is inspired from the Indigo Girl's song The Language or the
Kiss.

"Well, look at what the devil brought in" Sam's drawl voice let each
word drip from his wet lips and dangling cigar.

Smoke permeated the air. A thin fog of white swirled underneath the
tired stained glass lamps. The bar was empty. The wood counter
gleamed and was puck full of cigarette marks and water stains. At
first Sam, looked the same, large barrow chest, chest hair peeking
from his open white shirt. Then she noticed the once solid black
hair, now tempered with gray and his face looked tired, lines cut
around his mouth, his skin aged and pale. Bushy eyebrows casted
shadows over his eyes.

He rubbed a mug dry.

"Hi Sam," blood pounded in her ears. Don't throw me out, don't throw
me out...The rubbing slowed. Sam just looked at her. She knew what he
was seeing. Expensive jeans, tailored top, sculptured brown hair with
gold highlights, manicured nails and a custom Gibson in the gaiter
case.

Swipe, another drop of water disappeared into the ragged cloth.

She could hear him say, Ten years you're gone and you come back with
a 'Hi Sam'. Get your skinny ass out of my bar.

Except he didn't
The cloth rubbed the bottom of the mug
"Wha' you want?"
What could she say? Anabel swallowed, her pride curing in her
stomach.
Sam's frown deepened, "I mean a drink, girl. Wha' you want to drink?"
Relief weakened her legs. Coward a voice hissed.

She angled to a stool and sat down.

"Jacks on the rocks."

Sam gave her a curt nod and turned away. The light in the bar grew
dim and at the far end of the room, a spotlight lit a single mike and
stool. Sam placed the glass in front of her.

"I don't know what's you're doing, Ani girl, but you might want to go
upstairs." Started, Ani looked up at her father, surprised to see his
blue eyes full of pity.

"What do you me-" She didn't get to finish.

A tall, thin man came on stage. He settled without pretense on the
stool, his right leg stretched, and the other leg hooked on the bottom
rung of the stool. A shabby guitar graced his raised knee. Long
calloused hands curled around its neck, stroked the taunt strings, and
started to play.

"Didn't know you where coming." Sam said, his voice soft.

Ani shook off the explanation.

With a trembling hand, she downed the whole glass. Sam looked on and
quickly poured a refill.

Then before she could move, Daniel opened his mouth and started to
sing.

Each note incinerated her.

Well, Ani girl, she said to herself. Welcome home, and took
another swig.

Wrong Address

Write a poem or story using the opening line: "It was the wrong house."

It was the wrong house.
Had the right address,
2521 Opportunity Ave.
But it looked different.
Clipped paint.
Water stains.
Cracked foundation.

Too bad.

The previous owner was such a lovely young woman.
Wonder where she went?

"We Need to Talk."

You or one of your characters receives a note/email/voicemail that
simply states: "We need to talk." Who is the message from and what is it about? Does your character know (or think s/he knows) or is it a mystery?

"We need to talk." Black letters burned the digital white screen.
What could he possibly want to talk about? Did he-no he couldn't.

Could he?

Pushing the chair back from her desk, she looked around the sea of
gray and blue walls dividing the office into a geometric field, until
her eyes settled on the very last cubical dangling between the
precipice of walls and empty space.

She could not see him, but she could easily imagine him typing away on
his keyboard, slightly hunched over-intent.

Should she go there? Stay here? She bit her lip and her eyes once
again fluttered back to the message searing itself into her LCD.
It couldn't be what she thought it was. There was no way. No one
knew about that. She had made sure of it. The best course of action
was to go and find out what it was about. Maybe it was about the
Jamerson account. What an idiot you are.

"Amy?"

A squeak escaped her. Holding her hand to her chest, she turned and
came face to face with the sender of the message.
Offering a weak smile, she said, "You startled me."

He didn't smile back.

Oh no.

Pushing back his iron rim glasses, he lifted his hand and opened it.
Cradled in his palm was a scrap of black fabric that barely qualified
as an article of clothing.

"I think this belongs to you." He thrust his hand pass the boundary
of the cubical entrance. His palm was only a few inches from her
face. She knew what he held. Careless, idiot. She swore at herself.
His body taunt. A vein in his neck beat with a hard pulse.

"Well James, I am not really sure why you would think it was mine, but
I haven't seen it before." Those words caused him to snap. In an
instant, he barricaded her between her chair and her desk.

"I saw you two last night." Everything liquefied within her. Only the
tingles of fear, anger and strangely, attraction ricocheted within
her. In her mind, she replayed last night. What could he have seen?

She tilted her head.

"What are you talking about?" She asked, focusing on the force of his
eyes, the pain bracketing his mouth.

He gripped the arms of her chair harder.

"How long have you been sleeping with my wife?"

Fortune Teller

Write about a visit to a fortune teller of your choice. This can be fictional, involving characters you create or are currently working with; or it can be nonfictional, involving you or someone you know; or it can be a mixture of the two.

"I see death."

His raspy voice seemed to become lost in the sequins and velvet
walls. Incense fogged the room, turning all the angles into curves.

"Um, can you be a little more specific?" His rough hands graded
against the back of Millie's skin. His musky perfume and the incense
made her nose itch. She watched his dark eyes narrow and looked again
to her open palm. Using his other hand, he pointed to a long defined
line which ran from her index finger, passed her palm and seemed to
curl around her wrist.

He pushed his finger harder against her flesh. It stung.

"Here," he said. His blotchy, pale skin glowed with a thin film of
sweat under the candle light. His rotten teeth were barely
noticeable.

"Um," Millie blinked. There was just something about the way his eyes
got all wide and dark. She forced her attention to the back of her
hand. The long fingernail stood erect, like a compass needle marking
a path.

"Here," he said again.

Millie leaned in towards him. Her large breasts resting on the top of
the table.

She strained her neck to look over. His finger was pointing to a very
small break in the line.

She could hardly see it. She leaned in a little further, her left arm
now propped on the table.

"That means death?" Her eyebrows crunched. That small break, could
that really-

He gave her arm a hard jolt. Millie flew across the table, his left
arm pinned hers to her side and his right curled around her back and
pinned her head against her other arm, pulling her neck taunt and
exposing it to the night air. Blood thundered through her. She could
not think, scream. His eyes. His eyes turned an electric blue and
seemed to throb with each beat of her erratic heart.

"Yes." He whispered, then bit.

Writing Drunk, Revise Sober Writing Prompts...

In an effort to keep track of my prompts and to orgainze them, I am posting them on the blog. Feel free to use these to help you warm up. If you would like to share send them to me and I will post a few on the blog.