Peculiar

I'm joining Tara on her inaugural hosting of  the 100 Word Challenge. I think I've missed writing within a specific word count. 

The cellar never bothered her. She wasn’t one to be spooked by dark corners or the peculiar smell of damp dirt. It was the perfect environment for jars of fruits and vegetables preserved for winter use. 

Recently, the trips left her rattled. Small noises emanating from the dark corners. The smell of damp dirt becoming more foul than peculiar.

She stubbornly shook off the idea she was being watched. 

She ignored the tingles down her spine, the raised hair at her nape.

Until she saw the eyes glowing from the dark corner. And the long claws scratching in the dirt.

Joiner

Linked up with EatSleepWrite for Master Class Monday.
This is my take on the prompt "along with the crowd"



Anne huddled in the corner of the cushionless love seat. Her head bowed, arms hugging knees drawn up to her chest. Her tangled red hair hung limply over her face. Discreetly peeking through the veil of hair, she inspected her surroundings. Cinder block walls stained with moisture, an uneven, crumbling concrete floor combined with thumps from above confirmed the hunch that she was in a basement.

Elsewhere in the cellar she could hear sobbing intermingled with angry tirades of creative cursing from fellow captives. Her ears perceived perhaps a dozen other women sharing her prison.

The smell of rotting fabric vying with the medicinal odor of an anesthetic was abruptly overpowered by the the foul odor of death and decay. Fingers parted her hair, a partially decomposed hand cupped her chin, forcing her head up. She summoned an appropriate shriek as she studied the creature in front of her.

The flesh gripping her chin was spongy, and she assumed was the same purple tinted grey-green as the mutilated face. No life shone from clouded eyes. No breath expelled from between decaying lips.

Her study was interrupted by the thwack of a two by four connecting with the corrupted flesh. "Get away from her! You back off or I'll make you deader'n you already are!" To Anne's surprise, the creature shuffled away.

"You okay, honey? Ol' Squishy there, he ain't dangerous, just nosy. An' he stinks."

Anne remained silent, now studying her new companion. Dark skin with darker eyes, small in stature but large in attitude. Finally she spoke, "I'm fine, thank you. Just what is...Squishy?"

"Zombie, I guess. 'Cept he ain't tried to eat nobody. I'm Meeshie. Who're you?"

"Anne." She sized up the petite woman, then asked, "How long have you been here? How many others are there, and anyone know why?"

Meeshie offered a hand, "Well, I been here about a week, I think there's fourteen of us, maybe fifteen now." Anne grasped the proffered hand, allowing Meeshie to pull her from her seat. "Why're we here? No idea."

Anne Marie stretched, working out the kinks of sitting folded for hours. "I was grabbed off the street, same for everyone?"

"Was you workin'? Not judgin', just askin'. And, yeah, I think most of us was picked off the street."

"Working, yes, you could say that." She glanced around, trying to catch sight of the other women. "Were all of you working?"

"Nah. Only a couple really. I was just comin' back from the quickie mart with a slushie." Meeshie chuckled, "My cousin keeps tellin' me they ain't good for me." She scrutinized Anne closely, "You don't seem very shook up about joinin' the crowd."

Anne ignored the remark and cast a glance at the ceiling where the sound of footsteps had resumed. "And no one knows who's up there, calling the shots?"

"Nope, hauled here with hoods over our heads. After, we ain't seen nobody but Squishy." Meeshie looked away, shifting eyes belying her bravado. "An' that's the spooky part, spookier than Ol' Squishy himself."

Anne Marie gave an imperceptible nod, "Spooky indeed," she muttered, wondering just who was walking upstairs and what were they waiting for?

Canning Season

Trifecta: Week Ninety-Seven

Congrats to last weeks winners!  This will be my first Trifecta post in too long.  I've been sneaking into the Trifextra Weekend, cause 33 words has seemed more do-able.  I do hope I got the gist of this week's prompt correct.
And here it is:

This week's prompt word is inspired by a less-than-inspiring few weeks in the life of at least one (no more than three) Trifecta editor(s).  If this type of language is not your thing, don't worry.  There aren't too many more swear words with third definitions in our dictionary, so we can guarantee Trifecta won't always be not safe for work.  If it is your thing, well, give us your best.

ASS

1. (noun): any of several hardy gregarious African or Asian perissodactyl mammals (genus Equus) smaller than the horse and having long ears; especially : an African mammal (E. asinus) that is the ancestor of the donkey

2.  (noun):
a. often vulgar : buttocks —often used in emphatic reference to a specific person <get your ass over here> <saved my ass>
b. often vulgar : anus

3. (adverb/adjective) often vulgar—often used as a postpositive intensive especially with words of derogatory implication <fancy-ass>

Don't worry about the big, three-dollar-word language of 'postpositive intensive'.  Basically, we are asking for something similar to the example.  Think: pansy-ass, fancy-ass, smart-ass, dumb-ass.  This week, your prompt word may be used, as in the above examples, as a suffix.  We aren't hung up on the 'postpositive' aspect of this definition, and you don't need to be either.  (Though it's really not difficult to figure out.)

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


I loved Grams to death.  As a boy of nine, nothing was better than sitting in her kitchen eating her homemade apple pie, warm from the oven, with a giant scoop of vanilla ice cream on it.

As much as I loved Grams, I hated her cellar.  I hated it from the ratty-ass wooden door that was tucked in the corner next to her old wheezy fridge to the dirt floor at the bottom of the creaky steps.

There was something down there.  My mother rolled her eyes.  My dad said to grow up.  Gram just said it was a cellar and the only thing down there was jars, full and empty.

I spent two weeks at Grams my tenth summer.  We ate warm pie and played cards and picked apples.

Picking apples meant canning apples. Which meant getting jars, from the cellar.

Grams could tell I wasn't keen on the idea, but she just shooed me along with the assurance nothing was down there except the jars.

It was the sixth trip that was the "charm", I was feeling cocky by then.  There wasn't anything down here.  I was just a kid last year when I thought that.

Just as I was thumbing my nose at that silly nine year old, I felt a cold hand on my arm.  I spun around to my worst fear. 

A face red as flame with long jagged teeth framing a forked tongue.  I tried to inhale enough breath to form a shriek, but choked on my fear.  The monster gripped my arm tighter and began to pull me closer.

I was going to die in Grams cellar.

I heard a sound like a bell being rung.  The thing let go of my arm, and simply melted away.

And there stood Grams, an iron skillet in her hand.  

"C'mon, boy,"  she said, "I told you, there's nothin' here but jars, and the apples are waitin'."