Week 7 winner @katiewinkles has chosen a beautiful prompt to inspire your writing this week.
Here it is:
Have your 100 - 200 words submitted by 12:00am Friday, March 22, US EDST.
We want anything and everything: poetry, prose, fanfic, OF.
JUST GET WRITING!
Leave your entry as a comment - include your word count, and your twitter handle if you have one.
FYI - entries that exceed (or are under) the word limits will not be considered by the judge.
@magtwi78
ReplyDelete200 words (boom!)
Smoke curled through the air—grey ribbons mirroring the lustrous chestnut tendrils piled atop her head. Drawing from her cigarette, she propped her elbow against her bare thigh.
As always, she was on show. The sexy black heels. The skin-revealing, black dress. The tiny black purse, only large enough to store the essentials a lady should carry. Cigarettes. Phone. Lipstick.
She sat listening, the picture of pretty, apathetic disinterest, as the men spoke of their business. The gentleman by name only in the seat next to her—the Boss—nodded as his worker-bees spoke of the evening’s haul. How they’d never seen it coming. How it was their biggest yet.
She gave a wan smile when the big guy called her ‘doll-face’. She batted long lashes when another called her ‘sweet-cheeks.’
What would they say if they knew their real boss was a woman? A lady with a purse, barely big enough to hold the essentials, but that one of those essentials could bring them all to their knees with the flick of one perfect, painted finger.
Sweat trickled down the neck of the man sitting next to her. He knew. That was all that mattered.
@shellisthimbles
ReplyDelete191 ineligible words
---
I wanted to touch her.
I wanted to trace the line
Of her calf with my fingers.
Walk them up her thigh.
Squeeze supple flesh,
And know for sure
That she felt like silk.
I longed to trail my lips
Over the expanse of her back.
To taste her skin.
And press kisses from the base
Of her spine
To that little dip just below
Where her curls began.
To know for sure
That she tasted of honey.
I wanted to breathe in
The curls of smoke that
Slipped between her lips.
A nicotine kiss.
Pulling the air from her lungs
Into mine.
To know for sure
That I would take
Some part of her home
With me.
But I didn’t touch,
Or taste
Or inhale.
All I feel is the slip and slide
Of colour over canvas.
All I taste is the wooden end
Of my brush
Clamped between my teeth.
And all I breathe is the
Acridity of my paints.
Taking her captive
The only way I could.
Trapping her here
In my room.
She was as momentary
As that plume of smoke.
I will make her
Endure forever.
Word count: 200
ReplyDeleteTwitter handle: @AnnaLund2011
Is there not a one among them that measures up? She’s too intelligent, too beautiful, too much.
Most influential men are scared of smart women, and here she is, the epitome of brilliance and beauty.
There is not a one among them who dares approach her.
Lighting up her last cigarette, she leans her chin forward into her left hand, deciding to give it another 6 minutes of her precious time.
The curse of being a bright and beautiful woman is you often end up sitting alone at your table. Other women avoid you; the men are afraid to approach you.
She puts out her cigarette, gets up to leave, miniscule purse in hand, walking smack-bang into a young man who has been watching her a long time, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Are you leaving me behind?” he asks, with one raised eyebrow.
“Do you want me to?” she answers.
“No. I don’t. I want you to lead me out of here,” he says, looking straight into her eyes.
His long, shiny, black hair is twisted into a tidy ponytail and he looks like he might be 28.
That happens to be her favorite age on a man.
~~~~~
200 words
ReplyDelete@lellabeth
My hands shake as I take a drag from the cigarette I shouldn’t be smoking, grey mist floating from the amber glow end. The silk of my dress had felt feminine, just how you like me to look – but now it chafes my skin like burlap, the coarse threads rubbing until I peel. I feel exposed even in the black of night, as though everyone can see the mascara running in rivulets over my cheeks and pooling around my too-soft jaw.
I’m the scorned-woman stereotype, red eyes and a broken heart, but I won’t stay this way for long. Our life together is over, and I almost smile as I think of not having to live up to your impossible standards any longer. I kick off the heels I’ve never liked and untwist my hair from the style I’ve forgotten the name of. I wipe the dark tracts from my face as best I can and take one last pull of my smoke before I flick it away. I stand, slide off the wedding ring that means nothing now and let my upset blacken into anger.
God is merciful to those who repent, but I sure as hell won’t be.
199 words
ReplyDeleteSherbert20111 on FF
I don’t really want it, but light a cigarette to look the part.
Little black bag.
Little black dress.
Little black soul.
The bellini is almost gone, I’ll need something stronger, after. And breathe, to keep the shaking on the inside.
Warmth settles behind me, “buy a pretty girl a drink?”
I twist towards it, distracted by the voice, not the words. Behind him, the mark is on the move.
“I’m sorry, I was just leaving,” and glance, dropping a smile while the stub suffocates in the ashtray.
“Are you here for the convention?”
“Sure,” why not. The hotel is flooded with attendees, one more won’t matter.
“Technical or medical?” He points to himself. “I’m technical, robotics – you?”
“Medical, actually, but you know, I really was just leaving.” I reach for my bag looped over the chair and find my hand covered by his, warm and smooth. “I have a thing right now, but I’ll be back later?”
Breakfast conversations will carry the unexpected death of a noted scientist. Neither his dark past, nor the hypodermic in my bag will be mentioned.
“Will you tell me your name at least?”
“Bella.”
“Edward.”
In my head it sounds like alibi.
@darlingveruca
ReplyDelete200 words
Mrs. Markham tsks under her breath, walking by the painting. You roll your eyes, knowing her distaste is of the cigarette the woman is holding.
You think field trips are lame now. We’re not in grade school, you say, but I saw you linger at some of the exhibits longer than someone would who’s bored. I would’ve talked to you then but Emma pulled you away, and I missed that infamously life-changing second. You know the one they talk about in movies?
We’re supposed to ask a person in our group what we think the painting means. You can’t find Emma and I happen to be standing near you.
You sigh. “Okay. What do you think it means?”
Something’s caught in my throat – might be my heart.
The artist was love struck. See how the background’s all muted? It’s because she’s the only thing that’s important. Her lines are careful. Like he notices every little thing about her and wants to treat her with respect. Maybe even devotion, too.
She’s kind of dangerous to him and she’s way out of his league, so he’ll capture the fantasy of her since that’s all he’ll probably ever have.
I reply, “No idea.”
2old4fanfic
ReplyDelete169 words
Did she do it on purpose? Wear the dress, that dress, the one she brought home from Paris, the one that graced my floor ten minutes after she walked in? Did she know I would be at this club for the band showcase? Damn, her legs look good. Bet she still tastes good, all over. God, how am I supposed to sing, knowing she’s out there, hanging onto her, her boyfriend.
“Hey!”
Of course, the man of the hour, behind me, a drink in each hand. Edward. He kisses my cheek.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here. Come sit with me and Bella before you go on.”
He didn’t know I was going to be here. The way she lifts her perfect eyebrow, runs her finger along her collarbone and licks her lip before she kisses my cheek tell me one thing. She knew I’d be here.
I can’t stop my heart from giving a little flip when she says my name, “You look good, Rose.”
@femme_mal
ReplyDelete184 words
My physician won’t be happy about the cigarettes; he’ll be pleased, though, that his work has not been in vain. Likewise my therapist will feel gratified her efforts are yielding results.
After their investment in me, I feel attractive. I can see I’ve drawn attention; the men my friends are dancing with give me the eye. They follow the outline I’ve drawn by subtraction, my legs, my shoulders, the softer flesh revealed for viewing. My voice, smoke-enhanced, lures them in for an even closer look.
I’ve hunched over, hiding from them, just like any other vulnerable woman might when exposed both physically and emotionally. With time, practice, and healing, I’ll follow one of those hungry-eyed men to the dance floor.
As much as I hate to admit it, my doctors were right; there can be no more hiding. I needed to get out and assume normality if I’m ever going to be normal again.
A new normal, though, one I can feel every time I shift in my seat, one I choose every time I pass through the right door.
A new, normal woman.
197 words. @CallMePagliacci
ReplyDeleteHe’s here. I didn’t come into this bar to find him, I didn’t seek him out. But he’s here. He’s here, and my plan to move on is shot.
The other men, all likely candidates for just-a-little-fun, cease to exist.
I glance over. Cigarette smoke floats by, a dandelion seed on the breeze. Only people this hip still smoke.
There. In a booth in the corner. The sharp, square line of his jaw flexes as he speaks. The other people at the table laugh. I’m staring, locked in place like a sparrow in front of a rattlesnake.
I study him, looking for the same circles that are under my eyes, the same tired slump my shoulders are bent under.
A woman walks up to the table and sits next to him. His arm had been resting along the edge of the booth above her seat. He doesn’t move it. I watch, and he doesn’t move it.
My gut twists. Heart pounding in my chest, I jump up and throw a ten dollar bill down on the table; it won’t cover my martini here. It’s nothing, I’m sure it’s nothing, but I’m gone before I can find out.
@MazzyStarla
ReplyDelete191 words
Why am I here? Why am I doing this?
I should’ve said no. I should have never agreed to this.
Yet here I am, in this old black dress.
The same dress I wore eleven years go and the damn thing’s still too small.
At least I shaved my legs this time, that’s progress.
Don’t get me started on these shoes. It looks like she colored the faded spots with a black marker.
Classy.
I’ll admit, she did a good job on my hair. I usually wear it down, but this is better.
I can’t believe how humid it is. My body’s covered in a fine mist, causing my thighs to slide and stick together.
John Coltrane thumps through the speakers. Yes, speakers.
A jazz bar with real no musicians.
What a joke.
I look like a loser, in a too-tight dress, wearing marker-colored shoes, and I’m dripping with sweat.
Attractive.
Ugh. I need a smoke. All this waiting is too much.
Wait. Is that him?
Shit.
He’s here. Over at the bar. He’s looking around. Probably looking for me.
He looks exactly like she said he would ... but better.
@runtagua | 190
ReplyDeleteShe watches the dealer place the last card on the table - the king of hearts. She takes a drag off of her cigarette and idly tugs at her earlobe. She’s bored; or that’s what she wants the other players at the table to think.
A call and a raise – the betting goes around the table until it finally gets to her. She simultaneously stubs out her cigarette and blows the hit of smoke out into the stale air. She pushes her last fifty thousand in chips into the center of the table.
All in.
Her eyes flicker up, over the heads of the faceless men at the table, to the man across the room, and down again. He’s been standing at the door, watching her. Watching the cards. Just as the dealer calls for the players to reveal, he leaves. His job is done here; a plan to meet later.
This is it. This is what they’ve been working for all night.
The cards are turned out onto the table. A pair. Two pair. Three sevens. She sits up straight as she turns her two cards over.
Pocket kings.
@WithoutEdward
ReplyDelete173 words
I hung the last painting.
The exhibition wouldn't open for another day, but my agent wanted some 'influential' journalists to see it before the mainstream media.
None of the praise and adulation I'd already received for the collection meant anything.
Nothing in my life meant anything, because my muse...
Bella.
The likeness wasn't entirely accurate, but impressions of her were hidden in all the canvases, seen and felt only by me; her perfume, the silkiness of her hair, the way she would inhale the smoke from her cigarette.
My letters, sent to her family home had gone unanswered.
My apologies for leaving, for discarding our love, unspoken, unheard.
But all that will change; I will correct my wrongdoings.
The obscene amount of money I would earn from this show, would be well spent.
I'm going to find you, and I'm going to spend every day of the rest of my life, making it up to you.
My one true love, my reason for existing.
I won't stop looking for you, Bella, my love.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete@svale17 - 130 words
ReplyDeleteShe sits, alone, as per usual on a high wooden stool. The soft noises of whispered conversations, some louder than others, and the soft music tune make her heart ache.
It’s been like this for the past three weeks, since she found him on their bed making love to her sister. Even though she knew things between them were far from okay, even though she knew she was working too much and pleasuring her man a whole lot less, even then, she never thought he would commit such an action against all moral values.
The smoke from her cigarette fogs her vision and the alcohol drunk during the past half hour makes things quite blurry. But even through this all she can still see him.
Her fiancé’s brother.
Her date.
@CrackedFic
ReplyDelete200 words
They came. Torches ready. She knew they would.
She kicked off her heels for something durable.
No. They would follow. Deal with the problem first.
She slipped her heels back on. They felt like an old friend.
She walked onto the patio. They were minutes away. Clomp clomp clomp came the horses, steady on the pavement.
She sat, propped one leg atop the other, slid her purse over the back of the chair. Mmmm, she inhaled tobacco smoke.
The horses entered the subdivision. Only three men. How confident they must be.
"Devil's spawn: Release the wand!"
She laughed as she blew smoke into the air and crushed her cigarette.
She smiled. "You burned the others, and I said nothing," she said. "I escaped Salem for this place, this time."
Absolute calm overtook her, and she closed her eyes.
Wind disturbed the shrubbery. Fallen leaves swirled. Dark clouds moved in.
She opened her eyes, bright red with the fury of a pissed-off witch. "I shall run away no more!"
The horsemen dropped their torches, turned their beasts, and fled.
She placed her purse strap gently over her shoulder and lit another cigarette. She inhaled deeply and prepared for another century.
132 words.
ReplyDeleteOn Twitter @cynthiamk78
She sat in the smoky room, listening to the jazz melting through the air. Clara felt ok tonight, for the first time in a long time. Her cigarette was lit, but seemed more like a prop than a need at this particular moment. Goodness only knows what her husband would say about her being there, alone, never mind the cigarette, but she thought she was safe from any potential judgement. Time had begun its healing process and the dull ache of grief in her chest was far preferable to the gaping hole that had been left behind a little more than a year prior. This club, the music, her dress, the cigarette, it was all an important step back into the land of the living, a place where she would be ok.