The Paper

Sneaking in to  The 100 Word Challenge  at the last minute with my offering; a memory.

It lay on the front walk. Wrapped in an orange plastic baggie. I watch it from the window, that bright beacon, begging me to rescue it. 

It calls to me. “Look! The Times’ Crossword, and don’t forget the sudoku.”

I gaze at it as morning slips to the afternoon. “I’m the Sunday paper; comics, sales stuffers, coupons and news!”

The afternoon wanes, still it beckons. “Editorials?”

Just before the sun sets, I rise from my chair and bring it in. 

Turning the pages hesitantly.

I gasp at his picture; though I knew it would be there.

Under the heading: Obituaries.

After Shock

Living alone means you always know where your things are. There’s no one to put the sugar on the wrong shelf. Nobody to fold the kitchen towels, then stack them in the linen closet. Or, leave every light on in the house.

Living alone simplifies everything. No opposition when picking a movie. Meals made easier with only one set of taste buds to consider. 

Daily routines are never compromised by the needs of another. 

Then one day you stand motionless in the middle of a room and realize you’ve lost your way. It’s such an odd thing to lose. 

Why is the daily routine so important? You have no schedule to follow, no reason to have lunch exactly at noon. Or supper at six. 

Is it truly necessary to get out of bed by seven? Is it necessary to get out of bed at all? 

Old habits keep you moving. Hunger pangs remind you to throw a plastic tray into the microwave. 

The dark tells you it’s time to go to bed. The sun insists it’s time to rise.

One day you find you’ve lost your voice. It’s such an odd thing to lose.

Good morning no longer falls from your smiling lips. No one asks what you want to do today.

You look in the mirror at eyes that cried through the night while you slept. The lips in the reflection no longer to smile at you. 

The silence of the house surrounds you. Every movement you make echoes through the empty rooms that used to be your home.

Finally, you just lose it.

It, is such an odd thing to lose.

It's Not Over

Trifecta: Week Eighty-Three   
and
Write at the Merge, Week 26

After my Trifextra offering, I was inspired to create a new character in my ever changing world of Anne Marie McClarren.  So I'm throwing two prompts together this week,  this image from Write on Edge..

and, from Trifecta Writing...

This week's word is:

RUSTY
1: affected by or as if by rust; especially : stiff with or as if with rust
2: inept and slow through lack of practice or old age
3a : of the color rust  

  b : dulled in color or appearance by age and use <rusty old boots>
4: outmoded
5: hoarse, grating

- See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.31EjgJ5O.dpuf

Damp air touched his face, a soft caress awakening him.  Jean Philippe Michel L'Parre struggled to raise rusty eyelids.  As consciousness returned, so did memory.

She'd been there, in his lair under the lighthouse.  Lying in wait for his return at sunrise.  He remembered the surprise followed by the pain.  Excruciating, burning pain.  It immobilized him as she sealed the entry of his cavern.  His final memory had been of black, dry silence.

His eyes adjusted to the dark as he slowly moved his weakened extremities.  Arms lethargically drew his hands over his body.  When they reached his unmoving chest, he grasped the rotting wood of the stake driven there. 

He twisted the shaft free, the accompanying scream reverberating in the small space meant to be his tomb.  The elder memory of pain blotted out by fresh agony.

He lay still, willing strength to return.  Vengeance growing hotter as the burning wave of pain subsided.  He threw the offensive wood, its clatter echoing more softly than his cry.

Hours passed before he became aware of the sound dripping water.  Then the scuttling of tiny clawed feet.  Here was the creature that had breached the seal, inviting the wood moldering wetness.

Curiosity drove the rat closer.  L'Parre waited patiently as it sniffed and shuffled about his feet. When it moved within his reach, he snatched it with one emaciated hand.  Not bothering to bring it to his fangs, he simply twisted its head off.  He held the body over his open mouth, letting the crimson flow run down his throat.

When the blood no longer ran freely, he used both hands to wring the remaining rusty drops directly into the gaping hole in his chest.  

He tossed the empty body  the same direction as the stake.  Then closed his eyes once more, resting, to let "nature" take its course, while he dreamed of the demise of Mademoiselle McClarren.


   

Duty

Master Class #3

Roxanne’s choice of opening sentence for this week’s class promises to generate some more creative and off-the-wall writing. She chose Kelle Groom’s book I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl whose opening line is:

Morphine makes me weightless, airborne.

Morphine makes me weightless, airborne.  That wouldn't be useful just now.

So, I embrace the pain. Ripping my body, searing my brain with fire tipped knives.

Oddly, it keeps me focused.

When my thoughts stray from the job, the pain invades and shreds the edges of my sanity.

Morphine makes me fuzzy around the edges. I forget the face of my target. When it wears off, I'm reminded of my duty with punishment harsher than before.  

Acid tipped knives.

I embrace the pain, focus on the face.

Squeeze.

Relief that outclasses morphine floods my exhausted flesh. 

I'll be airborne, until the next face floats into the margins of my vision.