The Morning After

Trifextra: Week Sixty-Four


(hope I got this right...)
The challenge this weekend is to give us 33 words about anything you want.  Your piece must include at least one hyphenated compound modifier. 


The morning's sun-dappled walls seemed a cruel joke
to spite the prayers stuttered on the brink of sanity
throughout the night of knocks and whispers,
and shadows figures dancing the edges of vision.

Homecoming

Write at the Merge, Week 17

                               pinhole 970, bridge © Darius Kuzmickas via Flickr
This week we were given two photos from Cam, I was inspired by this one.  



Willa checked the address again.  She drove this route daily, but couldn't place the house she was supposed to show.  

Trees and thick brush lined the road.  Shielding her eyes from the sun's glare, she slowed the car to a crawl as she searched for a mailbox.  The brakes locked with a screech when she finally spotted the tire ruts that passed for a drive way.

Willa eased the car onto the track, navigating potholes and fallen limbs as she followed it into the urban forest.  Leaf laden branches met overhead, casting shadows over the hood of the car.  She'd idled down the path about a quarter of a mile when she spied the bridge ahead.  

At least it pretended to be a bridge.  Wooden planks thrown across tree trunks was a more apt description.  No way was she driving her car across it.  

As the car idled, she pulled the paperwork for the property from her briefcase.  The house should be just beyond the far side of the bridge.  She squinted through the windshield, trying to catch a glimpse of it.

As she scanned the space, a fog rolled up from whatever water source the bridge spanned.  Frustrated, Willa turned the engine off and stepped out onto the dirt road.  She'd have to walk from here.

Her first step on the structure caused it to sway belligerently. There were no rails, Willa threw her arms out for balance as she waited for it to stabilize before resuming her trek.  

While she hesitated, the fog continued to build.  She could barely see the other bank at all now.  Her second step caused a shiver in the wood that ran up her legs and back.  The accompanying creak dried her tongue to the roof of her mouth.  

The planks halfway across faded into the fog, Willa reached out with her mind.  Her gift was generally only active inside the homes she sold, but since the property had seemingly sent the fog as an emissary, perhaps she could sense something from it.

She slid one foot forward, still holding her arms out.  The fog moved toward her steadily.  All she could sense was the physical. Chill, damp air, and the sound of the wooden planks rubbing against the logs and each other.

With a deep breath, and the shallow remains of her determination, Willa slid her other foot forward.  The fog rolled into her, flowed over her body, caressing her with cool moisture as it wrapped about her legs and draped across her shoulders.

Willa froze, the fog continue rolling around her.  Though she couldn't make contact, she felt like she was being sniffed, evaluated. Finally, she risked a careful peek over her shoulder, the few feet she'd traveled were hidden, as was her car.

She faced forward again, and gasped in delight.  The fog now lay behind her.  In front of her, the sun reflected brightly off the gleaming red roof of a modest sized bungalow, just the other side of the bridge.

Willa hurried across the rest of the planking, practically running up the concrete steps to the front door.  She unlocked the door and stepped into a light filled foyer.  She was overwhelmed by a feeling of warmth.

Then the house spoke.  "Welcome, Willa!  Welcome home!"  








  

Witch's Desire

Trifecta: Week Seventy-Four
Congratulations to the Weekend winners!

I'm continuing the story of the witch and the demon.  It's a prologue of sorts for my Chaos in Progress.
Now on to the prompt...

ECSTASY (noun)

1

a : a state of being beyond reason and self-control

b archaic : swoon

2

: a state of overwhelming emotion; especially : rapturous delight

3

: trance; especially : a mystic or prophetic trance

Lillian congratulated herself on accomplishing the spell banish Aslozoth.  When Lillian had first called her up, she'd been pleased to see a feminine demon.  She'd thought that would make the control easier.  

Far from it.  Aslozoth had an agenda all her own.  It hadn't taken long for her to exert control over Lillian.  It was a subtle seduction, leaving Lillian breathless in the power of the magic she was shown.  Each new spell required levels of ecstasy she had never thought she could attain.  Each lesson accompanied by a touch, caress, stroke, evoking physical ecstasy, almost an addiction.

Yet, Lillian was satisfied.  Until she spied the sword.  The demon's blade that could buy her the allegiance of the chief of Clan MacClarren, the strongest clan on the moors.  An allegiance to fulfill a different lust.  Power over a nation.

Aslozoth's laugh at her plan was a cruel noise in her ears.  

A witch of lesser will would have ducked her head and continued to be the demon's pet.  

A witch of lesser will would never think to steal a demon's blade.

Lillian had a will of iron as hard as the sword she coveted.

  

Revenge of the Shoemaker's Elves

Master Class 2013 #11: Desperation, Authority, and a Lamb
"It was Tara who set the bar highest this week with a fantastic tale of fatherly love in A Father’s Right.

Tara to chose the first line of the last paragraph from any book of her choosing. She chose Lamb by Christopher Moore. Your challenge this week is:
“That’s all I remember.”

You cannot use this line to begin or end your story. In fact, you have two choices this week. You can use the line anywhere else in your story or you can write a story based on the prompt without using the line at all. If you need an example, check out Words with Teeth‘s submission from last week. He did a fantastic job of using the prompt as the basis for his story without inserting the line at all."

I have no idea where I came up with this last minute silliness, forgive me...

I resumed awareness on the cold of a concrete floor.  The painful stripes woke at the same time.  The floor's penetrating chill was a blessing, I suppose.  A soothing balm against my skin.

Where did these welts come from?  They adorn my arms and legs in random pattern and size.  On my back I can feel burning tracks of raised flesh.  There is throbbing lump on my head.

I remember walking through the mall, shopping for shoes to match the new suit.  I tried so many pairs, none were right.  The colors were off, the toes pinched.  The heels were not the right height.  

The clerk was as frustrated as I was.  It seemed for hours, he brought box after box.  Measured and remeasured my feet.  He kept a smile fixed on his face.  Even when I waved the last half dozen away, he smiled.  There may have been a slight twitch in his left eye, though. 

That's all I remember.  The clerk stalking away with disarranged boxes of tissue paper and mismatched shoes.  

I wonder who puts them all back the way they were?

Witchery

100 Word Song – Lucretia Macevil
As always, you have 7 days from NOW, to write 100 words inspired by Blood, Sweat, & Tears Lucretia Macevil. Please use Mr. Linky below to post your 100 then tweet, book o face, google +, smoke signal, pony express, or standard mail your 100 word song to everyone you know.

I've visited with the witch, Lillian and the demon, Aslogoth again.  They each have a place in my Chaos in Progress.  Neither are good by any stretch on my imagination.  

  
Lillian wielded the mortar with increased vigor as the odor of char enveloped her.

Aslozoth pressed against Lillian's back, peering over her shoulder into the pestle. She absently ran clawed fingers down Lillian's arm, across her belly, tracing ever widening circles. Lillian shuddered with longing as the other hand slid from shoulder to hip.

"What potion is this, Witch?"  

"Nothing special, Demon." 

 "You would banish me?"  Aslozoth's whisper threatened to blister the skin of her neck. "Haven't I taught you... everything?"  

Lillian hesitated, then spat, invoking the spell.  

Aslozoth's fading chuckle taunted her. "I'll be waiting for your call, Lillian."

Semantics

Trifextra: Week Sixty-Four

Congratulations to all the winners!  Wish I'd had time (and energy) to visit and comment on every one.  
I'm beginning to believe that most of mine are becoming character studies for my...uh,characters.

Anyway,
The Prompt: 
 This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 of your own words plus the following three words:

charge
century
lost
So 33 of yours plus 3 of ours means that everyone will have a 36 word response this time around.





"You lost my sword, Lillian?"

The demon bitch had been hounding her for the last century.  "It's not lost, Aslozoth."

"Then, let me amend the charge, witch," Aslozoth's eyes burned red.  "You stole my sword, Lillian?"

Ancestry

Write at the Merge, Week 16The song is “Tiny Dancer” from Elton John, and you can use the lyrics, the music or anything about the video that inspires you.
Trifecta: Week Seventy-Three
On to the one-word weekly challenge where we ask for a 33-333 word response to the third definition of a given word.  If you need a refresher, click here for more information on how to play.  Be sure to check that you've used the correct definition this week!

color (noun)

3: complexion tint:

  a : the tint characteristic of good health

  b : blush

Anne Marie sat away from the crowd.  She settled in the shade and shadow of an old oak, well removed from the lake's sandy beach.  

Children ran amok, parents yelled warnings about swimming too soon after eating, young couples sat staring dreamily into each other's eyes.

Anne Marie's eyes were fixed a little girl with dark curls and an infectious smile.  She was accompanied by her mother and grandmother. The girl was spinning in circles on the sand as the women talked. 

A small smile bloomed on Anne Marie's lips as she followed the girl's dance.  Memories surfaced in wisps of foggy images.  Of a beautiful man with dark curls and perfect smile.  Of a young girl with flame red hair and cheeks that glowed with the color of impending motherhood.

Unbidden tears flowed down those same cheeks centuries after her world was changed.  Her young man's life ended before his daughter was born.  Her daughter stolen from her at birth.

Her daughter, seen only once from a distance all those long years ago.  She'd kept track of the bloodline, knew of all the daughters born after.  Had watched from a distance the two older women when they were but toddlers.  Had known of the birth of this one.  

This one, this tiny dancer that so resembled the child she never held.  This one, that stopped spinning to look across the space between them.

With head cocked to one side, that perfect smile lit the girl's face.  She raised one chubby hand and waved merrily at Anne Marie. 

Just as she began to lift her hand to wave in return, the women took notice, "Katie Crowe!  What were you told about strangers!" Her mother gave the girl an exasperated look.  "I've told you, Mom, she never pays attention."

Caroline Crowe followed her granddaughter's gaze, caught the eyes of the woman under the tree.  A feeling of recognition washed through her.  "She pays more attention than you know, Natalie.  More than you know." 


Anne Marie has been a recurring character in many of my stories.  Katie Crowe is part of the "novel" I've been... ahem... working on.  Somewhere along the way, they became part of a bigger story that links them together.  Most of the bits I've shared here are under the labels at the top of the blog.  Annag of Clan MacClarren/Anne Marie MacClarren and Renewal; A Tale of Katrina's Kitchen.  This is the first time I've put them in the same post.





  

Awakening

Master Class 2013-Motherhood and Desperation


The Master Class is back in session!  It was my honor to choose this week's prompt.  I went a different direction than my usual "weird and twisted"   Any feed back is welcome!  And now...

Professor Stephanie says "I asked Renee to open any book of her choosing, open it to page 152, and give me the second line of the last paragraph.  She chose T.H. White’s The Once and Future King. Your line for this week, to be used anywhere in your story is:

“Desperation had given him authority.”

Wake the muse and get to work. Time is a-wasting. All assignments are now due by 9:00 pm EST on TUESDAYS. The new Master Class will go live every Wednesday (and to keep you on your toes, I’ll leave the time open. (: )

I expect to see a link up to YOUR story by Tuesday, April 16th, 9 PM EST.

The link up is live. Ready? Set? Write!!"

Joe huddled in the corner of the bench, his hands wrapped around the greasy brown bag that wrapped around the bottle.  His once olive green jacket, now faded to grime streaked gray, was stiff with old sweat.  Dirty nails tapped to a silent melody playing for him alone.  He stared vacantly at the traffic mauled street as lunch hour pedestrians hurried by, intent on seeing anything but him. 

Whether it was the squeal of several sets of brakes harmonizing with the rip of metal, or the orange that rolled jauntily across the sidewalk to his feet, Joe's attention suddenly focused on the scene in front of him.  

an elderly woman frantically tried to free herself from her car, that now straddled the curb. The middle aged executive slumped over the steering wheel of the BMW embedded in her sedan's rear quarter panel. the young Latina lay on the sidewalk, her groceries scattered around her.  The toddler with her recovered from his shock and began to scream in confusion and fear.

The people of lunch hour stood watching, uncertain what to do.  Their mouths pursed in O's of concern, eyes darting from one to the other.

Joe leaned forward, waiting, watching.  He tucked his bag in the corner of his bench.  As the toddler stumbled in widening circles around his fallen mama, Joe stood.  

To the passers-by, he simply materialized from the air.  With a voice so unused it sounded like the grinding of gears, he pleaded for someone to call 911.

They looked at him, then each other, and waited.  His desperation gave him authority.  Joe grabbed the shoulder of a khaki clad young man, his thumbs sliding across the touch screen that was his world. "Do you know how to make an actual call on that thing?  Call 911!"

The boy looked up, only then seeing the chaos.  "Holy shit!  Holy shit!" he pressed the keys and put the phone to his ear.

"Good boy!  Tell them holy shit there's been an accident with injuries"  Joe moved to the mother on the sidewalk, she moaned and tried to get up. "No, don't move, wait for the paramedics." he soothed.

"Bebe!" was all she said.  Joe located the boy and brought him to his mother, "He's okay, don't move."  He reached for the hand of a girl with bright blue hair, "You!  Come sit with her, talk to her! Hold the boy next to her!  Don't let her get up."

Regaining his feet he leaned into the window of the sedan. "Help is on the way.  Are you alright?"  

"I can't get out!"  she cried.

"They'll get you out...are you hurt?" She shook her head, "Then wait for help, you'll be alright."

The man in the BMW was beyond help.  The cars still on the street vied for lane space to get around the wreckage.  Horns blared and voices cursed.  Joe yelled at two large men, "Help direct the traffic, get the looky-loos moving before they cause another accident!"  The men moved into the street, working together, they restarted the flow.

Joe heard the sirens close in.  He stopped once more at the BMW,  shook his head, then glanced at the sedan.  The boy of smart-phone and khakis was holding the old woman's hand, keeping her occupied.

On the sidewalk, a man in nurse's scrubs was talking to the woman on the ground in Spanish.   The blue haired girl continued to cuddle the toddler, who was enamored of her nose ring and several necklaces.

Lunch forgotten, the pedestrians became minor heroes.  They'd have pride in remembering their quick responses.  

As the emergency vehicles arrived, Joe backed to the bench.  He picked up the orange and put it in his pocket.  Sliding onto the seat, he retrieved his bagged bottle and melted back into the corner.  His grubby fingers began tapping the rhythm. Summoning the melody that would block the sirens and loud voices, that would return to him his invisibility.   

journey

Trifextra: Week Sixty-Three

This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 of your own words inspired by the following quote from the book you could win in the WBN giveaway. Good luck!

“It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” ― Paulo Coelho, Alchemist

i will chase rainbows after the storm

and leap for stars in the dark

i will race with adventure

and laugh with a full heart

all on the road of my dreams

For Sale; Reduced

Write at the Merge, Week 15

Happy Birthday to Cam!  "I am one of those people who celebrates their birthday in month long chunks. So, for this week’s Write at the Merge prompt, I’m giving you two photos that hit me like a sucker punch from an imgur.com photoset." 

Willa heard about the house at a lunch she had attended with other local realtors.  More than one had tried to sell the property, all had failed.  Most wouldn't even show the place after their first walk through.

She had to see it.  She had a way with houses, a gift to find its heart, and then the perfect buyer.

Willa eased her car up the leaf drifted driveway.  Dirty windows glared at her as she approached.  It wasn't often she was unnerved by a house, but this one was doing it's best to intimidate her.

She stopped the car in a wide parking area and surveyed the house. It sat precariously against a hillside above the city.  It was huge, three stories and a walk-out basement that opened to stone stairs leading down the hill to the street below.  On the city side, a long stone veranda promised a spectacular view.  

The small bit of lawn, left to its own devices, had gone wild, sending shoots of ivy crawling up the stone exterior.  The untended gutters were spouting a forest of saplings and the sidewalks and steps were carpeted in moss. 

Willa picked up her briefcase as she left the cozy comfort of her car and stood on the uneven pavers.  The house sent a psychic wave of haughty disapproval that almost sent her diving for the safety of her front seat.  Instead, she drew a deep, calming breath, pushed the warnings of the previous realtors to the back of her mind, and keys in hand, walked boldly to the front door.

She stepped into the entry hall, dust covered every surface.  Papers and trash littered the marble floors.  She let out a gasp of dismay.  Who had let things go so long?  No wonder the house was angry, she thought.  

She opened her senses to the home, searching for memories of happier times.  The presence of the house retreated from her probing, not hostile now, but distrustful.  

She slowly explored the main floor.  Each room showed the sign of abandonment, disregard.  When she entered the kitchen, she was delighted.  Though the space was just as disheveled as the rest of the home, the floor to ceiling cabinets and vast counter space excited her.  As she explored the nooks, in a cobwebbed corner, she found a broom.  Leaving her briefcase on a counter, she grabbed the broom and went to work.  

Willa spent the next several hours sweeping piles of dust and debris.  Once the floor was clear, she started on the counters and cabinets.  As she toiled, she felt as if someone was watching.  Not with animosity, but with curiosity.  

She stopped finally, and regarded her handiwork.  Sunset was close, the light in the kitchen was dimming.  She wasn't ready to spend the night just yet.  She grabbed the briefcase and headed for the door.

She could sense the house, sigh.  Her mind showed her the image of a child dropping their shoulders in disappointment.

"No," she said, "I'll be back, I promise."

Last Trip

Trifecta: Week Seventy-Two
Congratulations to the weekend winners!
And on to this week's word;
ALCHEMY (noun)

1

: a medieval chemical science and speculative philosophy aiming to achieve the transmutation of the base metals into gold, the discovery of a universal cure for disease, and the discovery of a means of indefinitely prolonging life

2

: a power or process of transforming something common into something special

3

: an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting

Jackson had spent fifty years in the one room shack at the base of the mountain.  He'd married, once.  It hadn't gone well.  He found he preferred being alone to arguing over every detail of life.  

But there had been loneliness.  Until he found Ayrydd.  

He was going to see her today for the last time.  He owed her that.  

The pain running up and down his arm was getting worse.  His number was up, no sense in fighting it.  He just hoped he had enough strength left to hike up the foothills to her lair.

Jackson had no regrets, he was somewhere in his eighties.  He could still get around, until just lately.  Yep, a good time to die.

As he labored up the mountain, he pondered what alchemy made the air suddenly unbreathable.  His wheezing had alerted Ayrydd to his arrival.  She waited outside her lair, sparkling green eyes reflecting her knowledge of the reason for his visit.

He accompanied her inside.  They sat together the rest of the day in silent communion.  As the pain spread into his chest and his breath stuttered, he whispered a barely audible goodbye.

                   **************

Ayrydd sat motionless for several hours, grieving silently for her latest loss.  She pushed her snout into Jackson's still face, though she knew there was no life left.  Then, with utmost tenderness, she cradled his body in her forelimbs.  She carried him along a narrow passage to a small cavern deep within the rock.  

In the center was the bier she'd built for him only days before.  She laid him gently on the bed of dried branches.

Ayrydd gazed at his lifeless form a few moments longer before emitting a puff of flame.  The fire's glow danced along her golden scales as she bid her friend a final farewell.

Fishing

100 Word Song – Dirty Work
This week, Rene aka http://nottherockefellers.blogspot.com/, chose Steely Dan's Dirty Work.




Aslozoth reached into the murky bog.  As her clawed fingers raked through the muck at the bottom, she admired the red glow of her eyes reflecting from the greasy water. 

Finally her hand closed around the object of her search. She settled on the squelching bank, examining her treasure.

The dull, green orb weighed heavy in her grip. She turned it round slowly, peering at the pattern just beneath the surface.

"There you are, Lillian!"  She drew one razor sharp claw down the stone.  "Who's dirty work is this?  That is some potent magic.  Now... how to get you out."

A Word of Advice

Trifextra: Week Sixty-Two

Congratulations to this week's winners, and to Draug for joining the editorial crew!

On to the weekend challenge.  We want you to give us thirty-three words of advice.  Your advice can be to anyone or about anything.  We only ask that you make it uniquely yours.  If you have time to kill, you can easily get lost in the advice of others here.



A word of advice.

Open your eye.  

Not those eyes, the other eye.

The one that sees inside.

No need to fear.

Sometimes,

you have to traverse the dark to find the light.




.

Cleaning Day

Write at the Merge; Week 14

The Prompts:  This week, one of your offerings is the phrase “cellar door”. “Cellar door” is considered a perfectly euphonic phrase, some say the most beautiful in the English language.

I first heard it expressed as so in the film Donnie Darko, which led me to the following image for the other half of the prompt.

Mary worked the padlock free and pulled the cellar door open.  She'd put this off long enough.  Duke raced down the stairs, plumed tail waving, as she hunted for the light switch.

She could hear the dog snuffling below as she flipped the lights on and descended the wooden steps.  when she reached the floor, she saw Duke had made himself comfortable on an old blanket laying next to John's work table.

"You spent a lot of time down here with him, didn't you, boy."  Mary began sorting through the bits and pieces littering the table.  John had loved his model planes.  There were wings, wheels, and tiny rudders.  his tools had been miniature versions of  everyday tools.

From the floor beams that made up the ceiling hung dozens of completed models.  She gently tapped a propeller and set it spinning.

John had brought his son from his first marriage down here every other weekend until the boy had grown into a young man.  They'd spend hours together, John, the boy, and the dog.  Mary smiled sadly at the memory.  She knew she couldn't just throw everything out, John had taken such care with his hobby.

She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket, quickly tapping through her contacts, she hit dial.  John Junior's wife answered, Mary took a breath, "Hi, Elise?  This is Mary, John's step..."

"Mary!  Oh my gosh, how are you?  It's so good to hear from you!" Elise gushed, then Mary heard her muffled voice as she covered the phone, "Johnny, John!  It's Mary...yes, Mary!"

"Mary?  It's John, how are you doing?  I'm so sorry I haven't stopped by, I just..."

Mary finally spoke, "I'm doing okay, John.  And I understand, I never expected a visit."  She took a breath, "But, I could really use a favor right now."

"Of course, Mary, how can I help?"

"Well, I'm trying to clean up the cellar, and I honestly don't know what to do with your Dad's planes."  Mary continued, "I don't want to throw them out.  Are you interested in them, or know someone?"

"Wow, Dad's planes."  Johnny hesitated, "I would love to have them, but, Mary?"

She waited for the rebuff, "It's okay, if..."

"Mary, could Elise and the boys and I, if it's okay, all come over and help you with them?  The boys always loved playing with Duke.  He's doing okay, isn't he?"

Mary laughed, the first good laugh in more than a year. "Duke is doing great, and I would love for all of you to come by.  Any time."

Duke lay on the floor at her feet, one ear cocked, his tail thumping as though giving his approval.

Finishing the Job

Trifecta: Week Seventy-One


Congratulations to first and second place this weekend!  And I'm so excited to have been chosen for third!  Thanks to all that sent me congrats. 
This one stumped me for a while, I hope I got the prompt right...

On to this week's one-word prompt which, this week, is inspired by the recent arrival of the Hong Kong monsoons and the start of April in general.

rain (transitive verb)
1: to pour down
2: to give or administer abundantly <rained blows on his head>

3: to take a lot of money in bill form and toss it up in the air. This is most effectively done at a strip club for the effect of raining one dollar bills on the dancers (and it makes them feel so pretty), or to snub a hater by throwing money into their face that then falls to the floor like rain (use this when paying a debt to a punk bitch who keeps asking for their money to the point that they are ruining your friendship or when dumping someone who has been bankrolling you for a while now that you're making money).

Please remember:

• Your response must be between 33 and 333 words. 
• You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post. 
• The word itself needs to be included in your response. 
• You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above. 
• Only one entry per writer. 
• If your post doesn't meet our requirements, please leave your link in the comments section, not in the linkz. 
• Trifecta is open to everyone. Please join us. 

Arlen Jeffs exited the elevator on the twelfth floor.  It was near midnight, far too late for a legitimate business meeting.  But then, his business was far from legitimate.

"Bruce Darden" was the name etched on the brass nameplate.  The door was unlocked as promised, he entered and crossed the outer office.  

The man was waiting within his private office.  Arlen scanned the room quickly.  The dim lighting was enhanced by the full moon shining through the panoramic window on the outer wall.  A mahogany desk dominated the room, it sported a photo of Darden with his arm around a petite brunette, palm tree and the blue of an ocean in the background. Jeffs had a picture of the same brunette in his pocket. 

Darden stood at the window, his back to Jeffs. "Is she dead?" he asked as he watched the light traffic through the glass.

"You're free of her."

"Then I suppose you're here for your pay."  Darden turned away from the view and reached to the desk. He pulled a heavily stuffed envelope from the center drawer.

"The full amount is here, count it, I don't want any mistakes."  As he turned to Jeffs, his eyes focused in fear on the gun pointed at him.

As Darden backed against the window, Jeffs fired.  The silencer muffled the shot, but it couldn't mute the sound of the window giving way to Darden's body as it fell backward, the envelope following him.

As Arlen Jeffs looked down at the scene below, he was joined by the brunette from the photos.  He unconsciously wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"You okay, Jenny?"

"Yes, Daddy, I'm okay."  Together they watched the rain of bills settle around her husband's broken body.

The Army

You have six and a half days from now to write 100 words inspired by the great band Dead Sara and their incredible song Sorry For It All. Make sure you link up with Mr. Linky below then tweet/book o face/google +/smoke signal/pony express your piece to as many people as possible. Tell a friend or 50. Visit your fellow 100 word song slingers. This is a pretty awesome group. GO>








Am I sorry for it all?  

No.

They were an evil, ready to unleash their insidious offspring on an unsuspecting world. 

It was necessary, so many brave souls stepped up to stop the invasion. I had to do my part. 

We hunted for them everywhere.  

We found them, hundreds of them, still cocooned in their shiny shells.

One by one, we destroyed them.

It was easy really.  The hardest part was hiding the shells, so no one would know.

So no one would know what we had to do to stop them.

Yes, too easy, especially the caramel filled ones.