Prompt for January 21: The Dump


[Prompt from . I had some prompts saved in an email from one of my class days that I’m just now getting around to posting. Sorry. Story from a story idea of mine entitled Iron Maiden.]

The night air was cold; icy fingers kept stroking the bare skin of my shoulders. I should have brought that cloak with me after all.

Too much clothing would be a waist where I was going. The lower streets were so caked with filth that I would most likely have to resole the boots I was wearing after. Any cloak of mine, even the shortest, would have to be discarded shortly after my visit. There was no return from the stench of waste and death.

As an added safeguard, I bustled the back of my skirt higher than normal. I hoped I would not have to discard that as well. Keeping this in mind, I kept an eye out for any puddles on the cobblestones while I glanced around for signs of life.

Those you do not wish to find in a dark alley were typically the only souls awake at that ungodly hour.


Prompt for January 1: Sleep


[Prompt from . Characters and story from an idea of mine, tentatively titled Iron Maiden.]

The clock in my drawing room began to ring the time. Ding. Ding. Ding.

The sun would begin to rise in another three hours and, with it, the woman who was supposed to be completely and utterly happy with her life. I had a home; a grand estate with more money in its walls than many in this God forsaken nation would ever hope to see in their lives. But the large house was cold, through and through. I had parents who loved me, if not adored the position I could gain once I married an even richer man. But anything outside of social gain seemed to be too mundane for them to pay attention to. I had a circle of friends who never failed to invite me to their parties and soirees. But that particular group of ladies never failed to speak of me, even when I had left their presence.

And then there were the injustices faced by many in the city. More grave than any lack of attention or superficial friendships, these grave travesties walked around in expensive suits, praying on those who could not afford any help or lacked the understanding to see through the fake smiles and empty promises. There was the backhanded deals and itchy fingers, transferring money from deserving spacious pockets to ones far too full. There were those who took the easy way around the social ladder, stepping on anyone they could to reach a higher rung.

Then there were the murders and the demons lurking behind them. The daylight disguised their cruel intentions, but the moon always showed them for what they truly were.

And I seemed to be the only person who cared to find out exactly what that was and put a stop to it. Each aching muscle, bloodied scratch, and purple bit of flesh was testament to a dedication no one on my rung could attest to. They were badges of my goals in helping those who could not help themselves.

And they were the least of my troubles when it came time to try and escape the world for a few hours each night I spent in bed rather than dodging the streetlamps as the Iron Maiden.

So again, I tried to close my weary eyes and prayed for a few minutes of sleep before I was forced to take the stage once more.