Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Pick of the Litter

Our writing exercise this week was for the narrator to be a spectator to the story. I'm not sure I got it exactly right, but here's my take:

Sometimes, I watch them and I just know they’ll be mine. Other times, they still surprise me. It’s rare, mind you, but when it happens, I can hardly contain my frustration. After all, I picked them for a specific reason, because they have that special something I’m looking for, so when it doesn’t work out I have to start over from scratch. I hate wasting my time like that.

Take Carly, for instance. I thought she was perfect. I’ve been watching her for weeks. I picked her because she has that certain something, an elegance about her, that I find appealing in any woman. The only problem is that I’m starting to think it’s all a facade.  

When she thinks no one is looking, Carly can be downright crude. I so hate crudeness in a woman. I’m going to have to watch and think on this a little longer. Thankfully, I have Tara to satisfy my needs in the meantime. 

Sweet Tara. Well, she wasn’t so sweet when she first woke up, but I’ll forgive her for her lapse into the vulgar. It would be a shock to wake up in a strange room with all your clothes removed and a clown bending over you.

Still, she kept her dignity for the most part, and she never, ever acted like a slut the way Carly does. No, Tara definitely has that special something. 

Once she calmed down, Tara was a delight to watch. She tentatively reached out to the clown to see if he was real or not, which I thought showed great courage. After assuring herself the clown was only a prop, Tara searched the room for an escape route. That part is always fun to watch. I never know exactly how they’ll search or how long it will take before they give up, but the end result is always the same. The utter hopelessness that washes over them when they realize there is no way out is delicious.

When the tears stopped, Tara got mad. I love it when they get mad. The pounding on the door, scratching at the walls and screaming just heighten my desire. It’s almost time.

She’s finally settled down and is back sitting on the bed. Now I can release the gas. I would love to just lower myself through the ceiling opening and appear while they are awake, but that isn’t feasible. I don’t believe any of the women could overpower me, but you never know what can happen when adrenaline takes over. Yes, better safe than sorry I always say, which is why I use the gas to knock them out before I enter the room. 

Here goes nothing.

That’s a girl, lay down and sleep, daddy will be there soon…

Wednesday, July 18, 2012


My story for the Three Word Wednesday prompt this week.

Tara could still feel tingles racing down her back at the thought of Jason’s touch. Just remembering his deep blue eyes was enough to send her running for the shade tree in the back yard to cool off. 

Tare still couldn’t believe Jason was hers. After the months of watching him from afar, to actually be able to touch him was almost more than she could bear. Almost. 

She was learning to bear it very well, and often. So often that she was worn out, not that she was going to complain. Tara figured she could rest when she was dead, but for now, she was going to enjoy herself.

Tara was so caught up in memories of Jason that she failed to notice the real thing crossing the street. When she finally saw him, she started to rush into his arms, but the reality didn’t quite match the scene Tara pictured in her mind. 

Mainly, because she tripped over a tree root and got tangled in the garden hose. Instead of jumping into her lover’s arms, Tara found herself knocking him to the ground. 

Not that Jason minded. He just laughed and hugged her close. Tara knew it was true love then. After all, any man who could handle her clumsiness with a laugh was a keeper.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Digging Yourself Deeper

 Here's my story from this weeks writing exercise. What do y'all think?

"You've been outside digging a large hole for several hours when you realize that you can't recall why you are digging it. Retrace your steps to try to discover your motivation. (500 words or fewer)"

I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. It seems like I’ve been digging for days, but I know that can’t be true. I remember going to work yesterday. I know it was yesterday because the sun is just coming up so another day is dawning. 

The pain in my shoulders tells me I have been at it for a while. My head aches something fierce, which makes sense when I think about the blood I wiped out of my eyes earlier. 

I wish I could remember why I’ve been digging a hole. I know it’s important, although I couldn’t tell you how I know. I feel the urgency. That’s why I haven’t stopped until now. I’ve finally reached my limit.

At least I was smart enough to bring a ladder into the hole with me. Not that I remember getting it from the garage, but I must have because nobody else is with me. Of course, the only other person that’s ever here is Greg, and he wouldn’t spit on me if I were on fire. 

I wonder where Greg is. He doesn’t usually let me out of his sight except to go to work. I am his property; he has the papers as he so often reminds me. 

It’s not like him to sleep through me getting up during the night either. Usually, the smallest movement wakes him. I can’t count the number of times I’ve almost peed myself waiting until morning to go to the bathroom. 

It seems like I remember Greg bringing home some beer last night. Maybe he got drunk. Hell, maybe I did too and that’s why I can’t remember why I’ve been digging a hole in the back yard. 

No time to worry about it now though. If I don’t have breakfast on the table when Greg wakes up, there’ll be hell to pay. I don’t think my aching body can handle a beating right now.

That’s strange. The back door is wide open. I never leave it open. A stray cat could wander in and Greg would have a fit. Muddy paw prints might mess up the pristine floor. 

What the hell? Greg is going to kill me. Who knocked all the kitchen chairs over? And the oven’s still on. The house could have burned down while I was out digging a damn hole. 

Is that blood? I should call the cops, but if Greg is ok, he’ll be upset if I involve the cops. I’ll look around first. Where’s my big butcher knife? I always leave it in the top drawer. Guess this one will have to do.

That’s a lot of blood. This is getting scary. 

Pull it together, Sandy and open the door. Greg will kill you if he’s hurt bad and you stand around like a scared rabbit doing nothing. 

Well, well. Looks like Greg won’t be killing anybody. And here I thought all the blood on my shirt was from my head wound.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Many Feeted Love

I love the way he tickles my nose when he’s exploring. The feather light touch of each little leg makes goosebumps all over my body. When he crawls in my ears, now that’s another matter. It absolutely drives me crazy, and I think he knows it because he keeps rushing, well as much as a centipede can rush, right for my ears. 

When I push him away, I swear he smiles. I know, a centipede can’t smile, but if you saw the upturned look on his face, you’d be convinced as well. He takes pleasure in my discomfort. Of course, it could be revenge as well.

After all, I do keep him around for my amusement. I don’t see what he has to complain about, but he must not like it because he keeps trying to escape. Even though I have bonsai trees from him to crawl all over and house plants galore. Somehow, he knows he’s still not outside. 

I’ve caught him climbing up the wall toward the window more times than I can count. He’s running as fast as his many legs can take him. I sit back and watch until he reaches the window seal and then I snag him up. I know, it’s sadistic. I could pick him up at the bottom and he wouldn’t wear himself out. I always tell people we have a love hate relationship.

I sometimes think about letting him go, but not for long. Who would entertain me if he were gone?

It’s time to put him to bed. I even put a fake tree in his glass cage, but that doesn’t make him happy. He completely ignores it and lays in a corner all balled up. Oh well, you can’t please some people, or worms in this case.
I feel awful this morning. I know what the problem is, my stupid sleep walking habit. I never know what I do during the night, but I can always tell when I’ve been up roaming because I feel like I haven’t slept at all. I think I’ll go see Willy. He always cheers me up. 

Oh no! What have I done? 

I nudge him with my toe but he doesn’t move. I’m not really that far gone. I knew he wouldn’t move. Half his body has been squished. I pick his crushed little body up and give it a closer look. Interesting. His insides look funny. 

Oh well, no time to dwell on the past. Into the trash with Willy. I’ll find me another little friend at the park later today. Maybe the next one won’t like ears so much.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Late for the Meeting

This was the writing exercise/prompt that inspired my newest story. What do y’all think?


You're at lunch when your smartphone buzzes with an e-mail from your boss: "Don't forget, we have a meeting in 10 minutes." Of course you did forget, so you rush out of the restaurant and attempt to make it before it starts. But a crazy chain of events stops you from getting back in time for the meeting.

“I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date,” has been running through my mind ever since the, ‘Don’t forget, we have a meeting in 10 minutes,’ message I received on my phone just a bit ago. 

I was enjoying a rare lunch with my husband. We had finally managed to arrange our schedules and meet at one of our favorite restaurants. The first time in over a year that we’d seen each other before dark, and I ruined it when I had to leave for a meeting with my boss.

I still can’t believe I forgot about the meeting. It had been scheduled for over a month, but I was so excited that Greg and I were able to get together that it completely slipped my mind. 

Greg, bless his heart, was so understanding that it made me cry, which in turn made me even later to the meeting because I had to stop off and fix my makeup. Once my face was presentable, I kissed Greg, apologized one more time, and ran out of the restaurant. I’m not sure we’ll be allowed back in after that scene.

I was already ten minutes late for the meeting when my heel caught on a grate in the sidewalk and snapped right off. I went down so fast it made my head spin. 

I’m one of those old-fashioned women who still wear panty hose, but after the fall, I had to remove them because there was a tear down both legs from knees to ankles. The blood I wiped off with a tissue the best I could. 

When I rushed through the door, my secretary, Stella, looked at me as if I were demented, which I felt like was exactly the case. I threw my purse on the couch and was struggling out of my jacket when something Stella said caught my attention.

“What did you just say?” I needed her to repeat it because I knew I couldn’t have heard her correctly.

“Debra called and said the meeting has been rescheduled for tomorrow. Mr. Thomas had to leave unexpectedly.”

When I started laughing and fell to my knees, Stella was so stunned she dropped the phone she had just picked up.