“What did you just do?” He was gasping for air, slouched over while clutching his chest in agony. His skin was as pale as refrigerated milk and when I reached out to him, my fingertips sent another shockwave through him causing him to stumble into the mantle beside the couch.
Watching clothes tumble in the spin cycle of a washing machine in a dingy barely lit laundromat really does something to a person. My thumb rubs across the top of a lighter but no flame comes of it. I flick my not even lit cigarette into a pile of mushroom encrusted clothes stationed below flickering lights. I don’t even know why I do it, I’m not even a smoker. I suppose it was for a dramatic entrance but no one’s even here to see it. As I step over moss covered laundry baskets, I can’t help but wonder how my simple life of being an elementary teacher has lead to this.
Difficult question as always. Whenever I read these prompts, for some reason I automatically assume it will be a piece of cake. Then when I sit down to actually write the prompt, I’m stumped. For me, actual blogging is harder than creating a random story. There’s something about opening up and admitting these are my thoughts and feelings that make it hard to complete blogging prompts. But anyway, I’m determined to complete this one, so here I go:
Gabbie tiptoed barefoot onto the cold wooden pedestal, leaning against the saleswoman for support while her good for nothing sidekick sank further into the couch cushions, legs crossed in a feminine manner, sipping on Gabbie’s Frappuccino from earlier. Struggling to keep her balance, she tossed her arms out wildly almost knocking the woman in the face as the fluffy white fabric from the dress threatened to twist around her legs like a python.
I don’t have the time. This is an excuse I’ve heard slip out of my mouth so often I might as well have it tattooed to my forehead (ouch, just thinking about that makes me cringe xD). But really, I don’t have time! It’s true but at the same time, it’s not.
The little boy’s hand shook as he pressed a bottle against his chapped lips, sucking down the few remaining drops of water. His tongue circled the rim of the bottle, desperate to find more but there was nothing left.
Kyi rubbed his bloodied face across his sleeve, leaving a trail of crimson behind. Wincing in pain, he continued rubbing his eye, hoping to see the hooded girl more clearly. Unfortunately, his efforts were in vain, the gushing gash above his eyebrow kept his vision clouded with a steady flow of blood. “If not Astrans, then who?”
Kyi dug his nails into the remains of the wooden amphitheater, dragging his body from beneath the rubble. Pain inched up his spine, blood tainting his vision as he scanned the area for his manager.
Fading in and out of consciousness, he could see the blood. Thick, deep red, coating his hands and knees as he begged his father to wake up. Gun shots continued to ring out, echoing the scenes of murder. The murder of his father and the otherworldly visitor.
Mark’s grip around her shirt tightened, sending wrinkles down the fabric around his fist. Raising his clenched hand high into the air, Kyi knew what would happen next. Mid-punch, Mark’s arm collided with Kyi’s, Kyi instinctively blocking him, preventing him from hitting the alien girl.