Prompt for February 26: The Puppet

Standard

[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ .]

My strings are invisible but
Strings they still are. They pierce
The hard skin of my hands, arms, legs,
And yank my limbs into motion.
Words fly out of my mouth but
Not of my own accord.

They don’t even sound like me.

I stare with my pleading eyes,
The only thing I still have control of,
To make you see he is controlling me,
That I can’t escape his wooden prison.
The real me is trapped within; all I want
Is freedom.

Why doesn’t anyone see it?

Prompt for February 24: Uncanny

Standard

[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ .]

There was just something about her face that I couldn’t quite place. Was it the curl of her honey blonde hair, the twist of her lips in that carefree smile? The way that she’d glance around every once in a while? Or was it the way she talked, that lithe elongating of vowels that spoke of southern ties still binding her the land of grits and rundown cotton plantations? Then again, her eyes were an unusual shade of blue—haint blue if specifics be required; that color I’d only seen a handful of times.

Or maybe it was the fact that this woman, not much older than me, looked exactly like my mother in an hold photograph I kept in my wallet.

Prompt for February 23: The Hole in the Wall

Standard

[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ .]

He just knew it didn’t exist. James told himself over and over that it was simply a figment of little Rose’s imagination. A fairy hole? Ha! It was no fantastic a story as anything he came up with when he was five. Yet there he was, shifting his weight from elbows to knees, his belly scraping the dirt like a serpent, trying to get to the base of the stone wall. Rose wanted to show him her new playmates. And, like the intelligent older brother that he was, James had obeyed her wishes.

He silently cursed his affection for her as his arm raked against a thorn branch. Not only would he get dirt on his new shirt, effectively ruining his appearance for the ceremony later that day, but he would also have to make a visit to the healer if he kept hitting those blasted thorn bushes. And to have the healer’s hands on his skin once more? James tried not to think about it.

“It’s up here,” Rose shouted. She pulled up along the side of the wall, her small frame fitting easily under the bushes.

“Let’s see what you’ve found.” James tried to make his tone light, but all he wanted to do was get back to the marketplace and spend time with his friends.

Rose had been right—though most children had a seed of truth to their imaginative musings. Some stones near the base of the wall had been torn or crumbled away, leaving a hole that pierced straight through the wall. While Rose could no doubt fit through the space with ease, James doubted he could get one shoulder through, much less his whole body. The edges of the hole were jagged; he was starting to wonder if he should even try.

“That’s a nice hole in the wall,” James muttered, trying to think of what else to say to Rose.

“It’s pretty over there,” she said. “Jamie, go see how pretty it is.”

He sighed. There would be no salvaging his shirt after that. But one look at her wide willow bark eyes pulled so ferociously at his heart strings that he could do nothing by run a hand through her raven curls and stare at the hole.

He set himself as low to the ground as he could and, ever watchful of the sharp stone points reaching out to him like claws, James edged his head through the hole.

And there, before his eyes, was the shortest, slimmest, woman he had ever seen.

Prompt for February 17: The Burgler

Standard

[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ .]

Robin Hood and Little John walked through the city, scouring the security, looking for their pray. Robin was a tall blonde with nothing criminal about her save the way her long legs looked in her high-wasted jean shorts. John was stout and rough skinned from working outside most of his life, so much so that he was closer in appearance to a potato than an actual man.

One look at the pair would cause many heads to cock in silent question. What these many heads didn’t understand was that Robin and John weren’t lovers—at least not in the typical use of the word. They were lovers of intrigue, of challenge. They loved planning and executing those brilliantly laid thoughts. But most of all, they loved to be philanthropic.

And what was more philanthropic than helping their poor little selves by stealing from those bad rich banks?