Writing Prompt: A miser finally spends his money on a single lavish item.
He'd always been a bit of a tight-wad, and more than a bit of a miser. He'd heard plenty of Scrooge jokes, sure, but most of those were by people who hadn't made their first million by 23, or their first billion by 26. As he'd grown older, and more wealthy, he'd begun storing his wealth near him. He had began to lose his trust in banks.
And then there it was. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen had come to him in a dream, and he had envisioned bringing it into his home in all of its radiant glory. He had to have it. He dreamt of it, when he wasn't too busy staring at the picture of it he had taken to keeping near his bed. He clutched it to him.
And so he took all he had, and made his wish come true. And so he sat, staring. The gold and diamonds sparkled in the light, the platinum accents giving life to the simple and elegant lines of the object resting on the table before him. His trembling hands traced it, caressed it as if it were a lover. He lifted the hinges, gazing at the smooth reflection of his face and inhaled in awe at the beauty of the silver surface that greeted him. Below his hands, a light flickered, and from underneath it lit the ruby forms where his fingertips rested gently. In the illumination, his eyes widened, his heart raced, and then...
They found him like that, staring straight ahead, his hands resting on the home row of the solid gold Macbook pro on the table. The screen was still lit, and the backlit keys splashed light like blood across his form. His heart had stopped beating before he had been able to put it to good use, like a paper weight, or book end, or coaster to hold his glass while he used a useful computer. And such was his legacy, the proud owner of another gloriously overpriced and unremarkable Apple product.
No one ever said he was a smart man; only rich.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Writing Prompt: An assassin is given instructions to kill a person they love. [Word Count: 300]
It was all perfect, but cliché. There were long stem red roses on the foyer table, with a note hanging from the ribbon holding them. She read it and smiled at the abundance of clichés. Predictably him. She gathered the roses and brought them to the kitchen, where, in line with expectation, a romantic spread was on the table. He’d even remembered to use her mother’s china and the real silver. A little ham-fisted, but honestly, it was better than no effort. Setting the roses on the table, where she noticed another folded card. She took the card and read the second note. A small smile graced her lips. She set the note on the table before making her way to the stairs where a trail of red rose petals lead up and, presumably, to the bedroom.
Following the trail to the bedroom she saw that it ended predictably on petal-strewn silk sheets. The room was faintly lit with some sweet smelling, headache-inducing candles and full of tinny violin music. On the sheets there was another note. Folding it open in amusement, she saw that it read only “Turn around.”
She heard the door close as she turned, and saw him standing in there in the vague half-dark, clad in black. She gave an involuntary shudder, and then he stepped into the light, his hands behind his back. He stopped a few feet away, smiling.
“Happy birthday, Emily.”
As his hands came out from behind his back, she slid the small, suppressed pistol from under her coat. In an instant, three rounds thudded through the silk sleepwear he’d been wearing and buried themselves in his body. His eyes registered shock before death. She knelt down, and rolled him over, looking at what he’d had in his hands.
Diamonds. How predictable.
Days slowly moving by
Passing like swift shadows in the sun
A melancholic blur of wasted time
Like the heat-haze of a desert mirage
From the back of our minds
Before a sand storm shrouds us
With a beautiful, discordant reality
Every harsh-angled grain flowing
Like it was dancing through an hour glass
In a rush to fall among its friends
Like autumn leaves and rooftop suicides
Moments ticking by
Like the hands on a clock
Drawing our attention
Holding it like a child or last breath
And keeping a steady beat with our hearts
Pumping blood through our veins
A human water clock
Slowly emptying itself
In the race towards the future
The steady rocking of the pendulum blade
Swaying in time with the gallows
As the hush falls over the crowd
Before the neck snaps and cheers erupt
As if we must forget the inevitable
Doing our best to enjoy the rising action
In between the dusty pages
Of our lives
Resisting our jagged mortality
Our fear of the dark unknown
Looming as time passes
With finis written in blood and tears
On the last pages
As we are bound in soft dirt
Our bodies winding down
To their final days
Like tired clocks
And burnt-out ceiling fans
Too utterly afraid of death to see
That when death comes for us
He can't help but smile
And that once death has taken us
We shall only smile too