01 Apr 2019
Today’s prompt: “You’re having lunch with a friend. Your friend gets a call in the middle of the meal. Write just your friend’s part of the conversation.” [Choose the name in brackets that accords most closely with your gender expression.]
“Oh. Oh hey. Hey yeah, can we talk later? Yeah, things are fine, it’s just – now’s not a good time to talk, okay? No, I’m at lunch with the vic– I’m at lunch with them right now. Yup. Yeah, talk to you soon.”
“The vic?” you ask when your friend hangs up.
“Oh. Ha ha. Yeah. I guess I’ve always thought of you more of as a [Victor/Victoria]. You know how sometimes you’ll associate a person you know with another person you know? Like, my mom mixes up my brothers’ names all the time, and she sometimes calls me Carol, after her sister Carol. So yeah. I guess you just seem kind of like a Vic to me.” You stare at your friend, who suddenly seems incredibly manic and is barely pausing for breath. “Yup, yeah, a Vic! Kind of, you know, a sturdy name, like, good old dependable you! Yeah, it just seems like it fits you. Vic! Can I call you Vic? I mean, ha ha, you just seem so much like this other Vic I know, ha ha ha.”
“Do you. Know a lot of Vics?” you ask, a bit baffled.
Your wild-eyed friend grabs her phone, goes into Recent Calls, and thumbs the number that just called her. You think you hear a muffled “Hello?” against her cheek, but she just shouts into the phone “NOW NOW NOW NOW!”
People in black robes stream in from the kitchen of the surprisingly quiet restaurant, stuff a cloth napkin in your mouth and frog-march you to the wine cellar, where a pentagram, a chanting figure and a ritual death await you.
31 Mar 2019
Today’s prompt: “There are often three reasons for something: the reason we tell others, the reason we tell ourselves, and the real reason. Write about the war among the three.”
Other members of the congregation often approach me in awe. How do I always end up with such a high body count for Our Dread Lord Cthulhu? Why am I able to murder so many people to honor The Great Dreamer?
I always smile and tell them something about how the Master of R’lyeh inspires me, or that it is the Dread Cthulhu’s own malevolence shining through me, making me a better killer. I let them think I’m just that much more true a believer, that much more pure a vessel for his hatred and murderous rage.
Most of the time when I’m murdering someone, though, I don’t have to pretend to piety. Most of the time when I’m killing someone, I’m just telling myself, I really need this now. I just need to spill some blood. Work has been really stressful – my boss has been pressuring me to land more accounts, but it’s such a slog to do all the prep work for the sales pitch only to have to throw myself out there at the mercy of the buyer. And things are really rocky with Becky right now. Three nights out of the last two months, she’s taken the kids and stayed with her parents. Sometimes the murder is the only thing that makes me feel normal.
But occasionally, like today, when I’m taking a chainsaw to your guts, it hits me, the real reason. I kill so much to cover up the fact that I’m a fraud. I kill so much because I know I’ll never be good enough. Dread Cthulhu will never smile on me. I kill to pretend that’s not true, but it is.
30 Mar 2019
Today’s prompt: “A child needs to do one thing over and over to calm himself down when the adults get angry. What does he do? How did he learn it?”
It’s not unheard of for obesessive-compulsive behaviors to embed themselves in children who find themselves in anxious surroundings. Turning the light switch off and on 11 times before bed. Rearranging their bookshelves over and over. Touching each of their stuffed animals in the exact right order as they enter the room.
For Marcus, it’s stabbing your corpse precisely seven times when his parents get shouty.
One of the last moments Marcus remembers where his family felt truly together was when his father murdered you in the family basement in the center of a chalky pentagram. His mother chanted, while his father stabbed you. Seven times.
Marcus’s parents didn’t know he was watching at the time. They figured it out later, which is part of why the shouting happens so often now.
What Marcus’s parents still don’t know is that, when they started having arguments about whether and when he should be raised in the occult, Marcus took a shovel to the makeshift grave where they buried you. He dug up your corpse and dragged it to the fort his father built for him.
Marcus can hardly bear the stench of your rotting body now. But what he can’t bear is the thought of dealing with his parents’ impending divorce without some kind of physical, tangible outlet for his frustrations. So he goes back, each time, to the last moment he remembers being happy. Being together. Being a family.
29 Mar 2019
Today’s prompt: “Describe your favorite part of a woman’s body using only verbs.” [Similar self-imposed rules to yesterday’s post.]
The ultrasound had … abnormalities.
She went forward with it anyway. She had a wild, haunted, protective look in her eyes.
You scrubbed in.
Push. Push. Push.
For hours. For so much longer than it should have taken.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
The smell on her breath – what is that? It’s like she’s been drinking some foul substance for months.
Push. Push. Arch. Breathe. Breathe. Groan. Push. Push. Squat. Breathe. Breathe. Wail.
At last, a rush of amniotic fluid, and the baby crowns.
It. Has. Horns. And red, red skin, redder than any newborn you’ve ever seen.
“What,” you say. “What is that?”
“That will be all, doctor, thank you,” a voice speaks behind you. And suddenly a knife enters your heart.
28 Mar 2019
Today’s prompt: “Describe your favorite part of a man’s body using only verbs.” [I’m not going to focus on a single part of a man’s body, but I will use primarily verbs when describing the viewpoint character’s body throughout the scene.]
As if in slow motion: Flex. Bend. Extend. Then to the ground: Press. Push. Rebound. Then up again. Arch. Reach. Flex.
Run.
Run. Run. Pound. Gasp. Glance. Run. Run. Run.
The sounds of timber cracking follow you. In front of you, the path is overgrown by a thicket of shrubs and young trees.
Push. Scramble. Scratch. Gasp.
The sounds are closer now. An entire tree is ripped from the ground and thrust from the path of your pursuer.
Stumble. Rebalance. Sprint. Gasp.
Beat. Throb. Beat. Throb.
The sounds of the creature in the forest are nearly deafening, and yet you can barely hear them over the sound of your own lungs fighting for air, your own heart thudding in your ears.
Yellow eyes glow from a mass of black hair. Claws reach out and rake across your back.
Shriek. Stumble. Scream.
27 Mar 2019
Today’s prompt: “Write from the perspective of a historical figure like Franklin Roosevelt, Marilyn Monroe, or Jack the Ripper.”
The day hasn’t exactly had the most auspicious start to it. A young man threw a bomb at your car while you were visiting Sarajevo. It bounced off the convertible roof and exploded on the road below the car behind you. It left a crater, and a lot of wounded people.
As your driver hit the gas, out of the corner of your eye, you saw a young man run away, climb up on the bridge, and jump.
“Some hospitality, Fehim,” you tell Mayor Čurčić when you get to the town hall. “Does your country always welcome your guests with bombs?”
The mayor looks shocked, but you’re on a tirade now. “It’s an outrage!” you shout. “An absolute outrage!”
Sophie’s hands perch themselves on your shoulder, and her warm breath whispers into your ear. “Franz, my love,” she says. “You have every right to be upset. But it’s not his fault. The whole world’s on edge now, and Austria will never be the power you want it to be if we offend our allies. He only wants to welcome you here.”
She’s right, of course.
You take a second to calm yourself down, then look the mayor in the eye. “You can speak now,” you say.
The mayor gives his speech. It’s a fine speech as mayors welcoming archdukes go, but you can barely pay attention to it. You keep thinking about the explosion, the young man running away. Christ, what a day.
At least Sophie is looking particularly radiant today.
She’s worth it. She’s always been worth it, all of it. Father refused to let your children be heirs to the throne because her bloodline doesn’t run blue enough. She doesn’t even get to stand next to you when the family assembles. But she’s your wife, and she is as lovely as the day you met her.
You give your prepared remarks, and thank the crowd for their applause. “I can see you’re all glad the assassination failed,” you joke awkwardly.
With the speeches over, your retinue is trying to figure out what’s next on the agenda.
“His Highness won’t be going anywhere until there are troops lining the streets,” Baron Rumerskirch says. “One close call today is quite enough, thank you.”
“He’s right, you know. I’ve said all along we don’t have enough security in place,” says Chief of Police Gerde.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Governor Potiorek says. “Do you think Sarajevo is full of assassins?”
“Well, I know what my dear wife wants to do now,” you say. “We should go to the hospital and visit all those poor people who were hurt in the blast.”
She smiles, and you know that that was exactly the right thing to say. Sophie is a natural diplomat, but you’re learning.
“I suppose it’s settled, then,” Rumerskirch says. “Gerde, let the drivers know.”
Gerde rushes off, and immediately three of his men come up to him to debrief him on the would-be assassin they just pulled out of the river, apparently still alive. You hear snatches of their conversation. “Cyanide” and “riot” and “Serbian” and “The Black Hand.” The Black Hand. How morbid. These young men – do they think they’re cool naming their weird fucking secret societies that way?
You and Sophie and the governor get in the car, and you settle into an even darker mood than your usual moroseness. You still can’t believe it. That bomb was meant for you. Here you are, trying to make things better between Austria-Hungary and Serbia, and this young Serb with murder in his eyes….
“Where are you going?” the Governor says, jolting you out of your thoughts.
“I thought we were going to–” the driver says.
“The police chief didn’t tell you? The archduke and his wife wish to go to the hospital. Turn around!”
The driver brakes, and you see a young man in a black suit running toward the car, reaching into his jacket. The governor sees him too. “Go go go!” he shouts. But there’s nowhere to go. Your car is already halfway through the turn, and the car behind you is stopped and needs to back up.
The gun fires. The bullet tears through your neck. It fires again. Sophie! Sophie’s clutching her stomach, blood spreading across the front of her dress. No!
“Please live,” you say to Sophie. “Please. Stay alive. For our children. Please live.”
“Your highness! Are you all right?” You can’t even see who’s talking to you.
“It’s nothing,” you say. “It’s nothing. It’s nothing.”
Your eyes close, or was it darkness falling? Darkness falls, or was it the world collapsing into war?
26 Mar 2019
Today’s prompt: “A soldier is about to embark on a mission that she knows will kill her.” [As always, I’ll be avoiding the gendered language.]
The images from the reconnaissance satellite showed light-colored mounds around the target site on Pohnpei. Your commanding officer told you it could be sand, maybe rubble. It’s not. You’re picking your way over mountains of bone. Your heart stops every time a fibula crunches under your weight or a skull clatters down the side.
Plant the bomb. Try to get out of the blast radius in time. It’s risky even if Squidhead doesn’t catch you in the act.
Someone’s ribcage collapses below your foot, and your leg plunges in up to the knee. Fuck! You crouch down and listen. You hear a slow, heavy breathing coming from two more bonehills away, and your heart pounding in your chest.
Your C.O. in boot camp told you that your training then would prepare you for anything you would need to deal with in your military career. This was not in basic training.
He sounds like he’s still asleep. You slowly pull your leg out of the side of Bone Mountain, trying to keep from shifting your weight too much or move too many bones as you extricate yourself. Okay. Breathe deep. Focus on the mission. Deliver the package. Blow that fucker sky-high.
Your C.O. told you that you probably wouldn’t be coming back. He was wrong to include the “probably.” Even if everything goes right, you’ll never be able to get back over Bone Mountain in time.
Breathe. Breathe. Listen. There are his breaths again, slow and ragged and incredibly loud. Now – carefully, carefully – stand up.
There he is. His bat wings curled around his resting form, rising and falling. Massive green coils spilling out from his monstrous face. Giant yellow eyes staring straight at you.
Fuck.