Raging_Hopeful

Freezing - 491 words

“If you’d shut up, then maybe everything would be okay!” he shrieked. She imagined the veins bulging beneath the tissue-thin skin of his bald head. Linda recoiled, placing her hands around her neck. She never thought she would die in a freezer.

“Don’t scream,” she said. “It’ll use up more air.” In her mind she was tearing his throat open with fingers that had no nails. Upon reflection she wished she hadn’t devoted so much time to biting her fingers. Perhaps more time biting those who deserved to be bitten.

“You stupid bitch! SHARON!” he howled, pounding his fists against the lid of the freezer. The freezer itself was not working and it had seemed like a good place to hide. Sharon, baldy’s wife, would never find them there. Never find them half naked and gasping. Linda wished she had fucked someone more attractive. Baldy, as she called him mentally, had been the only man who had ever shown interest in her bony knees and large spectacles. He was her boss at the Frosty Freeze and tingling in the hot air between the grills had been a sexual tension so powerful that when he had slipped his hand between her legs, she was only too eager. Her strange attraction to older, unavailable men. Men who never saw Linda as anything more than a Burger rat, shoveling junk food at them through the drive through window. Surely he saw something more. But now, as she stared at him in the inky darkness, she realized he saw nothing more than a desperate fuck.

“Linda?”

For a moment it was silent but for their gasping. There was something finite in their terror. Some intangible emotion. Linda wished she had taken that desk job at the library. Wished she hadn’t been so afraid to try something new.

“Steven?”

“What?” he said, his voice still taut with bitterness and fear.

“I think we should start seeing other people.”

“And I think you should stop being such a withered cunt and help me figure a way out of here.”

It hadn’t occurred to Linda that she should stab him. The pointed nail file had been tucked in the pocket of her dress, which she had only grabbed at the last second. But his pale head gleaming in the otherwise pitch dark was suddenly splattered with blood. His fists were hitting her, but the nail file rose again and again. Far longer than it took for his screams to stop. She felt around in the darkness, her fingers slippery with his blood. There was a spring inside she knew, thanks to regulations passed in the 1970’s. Her dad had spent his whole career repairing them. The lid popped open and light filled the once darkened freezer. Linda stood up from the puddle of blood. She didn’t look back as she closed the lid. For a moment, standing in the middle of Steven’s three car garage, Linda felt alive.

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C.Gholy

Time and love
Love in a Private Journal 452 words checked on Cut & Paste Word Count


I think that time and love truly compliment each other. I spent some of my time, thinking about a boy who used to claim me as his one and only girl.

Everything used to be sunshine and joy when we were an item. The typical things that lovers do, and the emotional security that existed within our bond we used to share. The cold frosty nights without him were difficult to handle. I would feel hunger one minute, then a feeling of hatred the next moment. Splitting up from a relationship you thought was going to last for decades, is not an easy thing. That warm blanket of security had vanished.

Every time walking through the school corridors, I thought of him, and he’s not really interested in me any longer.

Seven months on, and my heart feels so silent. I don't like blaming other people on the way I feel, but he is partly responsible for this silent feeling. I do wish he could still communicate with me, and not just ignore me or hide my messages. I just wish he could, say things to my face and just be honest with me.

I know, I never fulfilled all of his requests, but I'll try and get at least one finished. I do hope that's not the reason he's ignoring me. I haven't mentioned him to my mother, I have a good idea what she might say, a whole list of direct phrases such as: I'm a naive child, I need to get over him. He's a jerk, it's time to move on. He might not have be a perfect son-in-law for my mother, but he was perfect for me.

I had no idea that talking about other guys would truly hurt him. I actually thought that he would be happy that I moved on with much more backbone. I haven't really gotten over him however, no one forgets their first love.

I do have my occasional moans, groans and complaints about him, but I get a feeling that's what love does to you. You end up rating about the person in your heart and other people notice that you can't shut up about them. They say that love blinds people, from my experience I would say that is true.

Just when I thought that our love was going to last forever, the feelings die out like a flame of the candle. I miss the good old days when he used to smile when I smiled. Those innocent little kisses and the passionate nights, those memories are far too special to forget. I think it's pretty amazing how one moment of pure coincidence could alter your feelings for the long-term.

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Itsaboysname

Empty Chairs - 499 words

Casey laughed and snorted. I pretended not to notice and smiled at her. The muffin in my hands had gotten cold and the chocolate chips solidified. It was not as satisfying.

“And you know what I think it was?” she continued. “I don’t think Billy ever actually liked the sandwiches. I really think he preferred plain Tuna.”

She sniffed. Her crooked nostrils flared, baring boogers caught in nose hairs. I looked her in her eyes- I never liked brown eyes- smile still stuck to my face with cheap paste. I sat my muffin down. “Billy was a Salmon man. Tim was the one that liked Tuna.” I reached into my bag for a cigarette and a lighter.

“Tim…” Casey twittered her bushy eyebrows. “Tim isn’t really- are you still smoking that shit?”

“Don’t give me this again. I know what I’m doing.” I lit up and resisted the urge to blow smoke in her face. “Tim is a good man.”

“Tim is an asshole. Now listen, all I’m saying-“

“Stop it.”

“All that I am saying… Is that Marijuana can’t give you lung cancer-“

“That’s not true-“

“It’s not addictive- And you know what?“

“Not physically addictive! And Tim is great.”

“Tim wasn’t really his friend. And you know what? Being high is better than your stupid nicotine addiction.”

I gently observed her bottom lip. For whatever reason it pouted out a tad further than her top one and I could never ignore it. “I don’t want to argue this with you. It’s stupid.” Smoke filled my lungs. She didn’t know what she was talking about. “Tim is a good man.” I said again, exhaling into space.

“Billy didn’t like Tim. He told me he hated Tim.”

“Well Tim loved him like he was another son! Your muffins suck!”

“I can’t stand smokers!”

“Unless they’re toking weed you fucking hypocrite!”

“You’re an ass! Tim is an ass! I just don’t…” The rest of her sentence was cut short by soggy sobs.

“You just don’t what?”

“Nothing.” She curled into an emotional fetal position.

“Don’t give me that.” I always hated this about her. Billy always knew how to calm her down. I looked at the empty seat next to me.

“I just miss him is all.”

“I miss him too.” My cigarette had gone quick. I smashed the butt into the ground with my toe and immediately regretted it.

Casey was silent for a moment, then, “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

She started smiling again. “Remember what he used to say before? ‘I put ashtrays back here’-“

“’Back here for a reason you fucking son of a bitch.’ I remember.” This time it was my turn to snort. After a moment of solemn laughter I scraped what I could off the walk and placed it in an ashtray. I sat back down and turned to the empty seat next to me. “I’m sorry.” I said.

“I miss him.”

“Me too.” And I ate the muffin anyways.

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I wish I were witty...

Tiamat10

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No Brakes

seigfried007

Like Mother
Word count: 216





In alpine fields of whispering grasses and blooms, the clear sun and cool breeze sighed through his floating body. Frost followed his drifting form and stilled flowers and shoots as he passed. Mother had lived in a field like this.

A small, brown road like a grass snake slithered up a hill. He followed it.

A log cabin with smiling windows welcomed him. Mother had lived in a place like that.

As much as his tiny body was capable, he raced for the humble house, over its manicured flower bed and through its closed door. The air was still and warmer, but dark. Like mother’s house.

A young woman stared at him, her pale hands on the curtain she had been pushing aside. She was not his mother. But she could be.

He drew near to her. She backed away from him. Her face like mother’s—eyes wide, mouth open. Her heat called to him.

Here I am, Mother!

He climbed inside. She flailed her arms against her belly. She swiped her fingers like claws at him.

He curled in her belly, rejoicing in her warmth. Mother had felt like this.

She screamed and raked her fingernails at her belly.

Don’t you want me, mother?

She doubled over. He heard her breaths slow. Her hands clapped together, then over her breast as she knelt into a ball on the floor. Her heart slowed… then stopped. He remained in her belly until it froze, then he floated away.

The windows weren’t smiling any more. They were hard with frost. Not like mother’s.

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IrishLad

Einstein, and Rock n’ Roll (486 words)


I came into being in 1964, sharing a birthday with Mark Twain and Jonathan Swift. T. S. Elliot was still alive in 1964, so I cannot be his reincarnation. It is worthy of mention that Einstein had already passed on, as well as Hitler, so possibilities abound. Of course I claim neither possession of, nor even relationship to, the spirit of such men; I simply like to leave doors open until they are slammed shut, and locked. Such has been my outlook from earliest memory.

From my teen years to my late twenties I doubled as lead guitarist and lead singer of a popular local rock band. I should note that Jimi Hendrix died after my birth, not that he would have wanted to come back as an Irish-American, anyway. While my band did not achieve national success (though we did enter into discussions with some heavyweight record executives), the quasi-fame it brought garnered me a comfortable income by standard of my peers, and netted me--a skinny kid, not unattractive, but not Jon Bon Jovi by any means--well more than my share of firm young women, which, more than money or artistic expression, was the driving force behind the experience for me. Long live rock.

My father passed away unexpectedly when I was twenty-seven. A profound ordeal for any young man, my father’s death affected me all the more, as we were extremely close. I quit the band, cut my hair, and entered the real workforce as a construction superintendent, intent on taking care of my mother and younger brother. It was what my father would have expected of me. I succeeded, for what that’s worth. People make tradeoffs sometimes, and occasionally lose a dream in the bargain. As for music: slammed, locked. I have few regrets.

Now I write. It is a freeing thing, to write. Being childless (I was very careful during my days as a musician) and a man, I can only suppose, but I feel that writing a story is akin to giving birth to, and rearing, a child. Creating something from nothing, and then sending that creation out into the world when you’ve nurtured it as much as your abilities allow, hoping it finds its way, makes something of itself.

People write for differing reasons. It may be that my reason is a base one. Beyond expression, beyond a need to divest myself of inner demons, as I believe Hemmingway unsuccessfully tried to do, I think I write in the simple hope that, one day, someone will pick up a book and read the author’s name. My name. One day, a stranger will know that I lived. Faux immortality, I guess. So I write, and I listen for a door to shut. I listen for a key to turn, and for tumblers to click into place. So far, so good.

eggo

My submission

Good prompt

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1195399

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