"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.

Not a Good Day

I think this picture says it all. I can't help myself. I can rationalize everything that is happening. I can tell myself, "It isn't as dark as you make it out to be." But I can't stop it. The ants are crawling up my skin, lugging massive quantities of doubt and frustrations, sadness and impotence on their dainty backs.

I can't seem to stop my mind from spiraling downward or stop it from looking around and seeing a lack of purpose or movement.

I just can't.

My Mind is the on the Verge of Firing Me.

I had a dream last night. In that dream, I am writer for a T.V. show. I am sitting around the table and a girl to my left tells me, " You haven't been producing. I told you already and they have been talked about it."

I look around the room and I can see a heavy-set man near the middle of the table. His eyes on mine, and then he looked away, weighted with disappointment and annoyance. I tried to reassure her that I had the situation under control, but she continued to insist that I was in trouble and that I hadn't been pulling my weight.

It was disconcerting.

Something pops in my mind and I start to write down an idea of a therapist who specialty are superheros, and when I tried to tell the big guy he brushed me off.

It hurt.

I have letting myself so much that I don't even want to talk to myself.

There is serious work to do.

Because I am just that consistent...

So have I been writing...not really. Thank the divine forces of this universe for allowing Albert and Valerie to start a writing group. It is sorely need.

On another note, I am in the middle of writing a prompt for the day when, as usual, I became sidetracked by a nifty website that creates custom signatures for your WoW toons. Yes, ladies and Gents, you too can display your virtual avatar's stats, name and rank to all of the WoW obsessed.

Click here to go the site. Here they are! My lovely, girly toons!

On the road again...

It is funny how you seem to come back around to the things you once left behind. I have a habit of that, going around in circles. How strange we are, thinking we are actually moving forward; instead it is more-moving sideways, then around. The circumference may be wider, the distance longer and the view better, but in the end you end up intersecting with an old circle you haven't seen in years.

Weird, eh?