The Stairs

CCC #40

As we entered the vestibule, the bulb at the top of the stairs flickered. There was a surge of blinding light before it sputtered and the stairwell went black.

I felt his arms encircle me, pulling me close.

A shudder of revulsion eclipsed my being as he pressed himself against me.

“Honey..” I wriggled. His breath quickening with each attempt I made to free myself. “You’ll wake the neighbors.”

“So what? We’re married, aren’t we?” He whispered teasingly, the heat of his breath on my neck causing my flesh to crawl.

“That’s not the point!” I quipped, as my body steeled itself against him, betraying any notion I had of concealing my repulsion.

His arm slipped from my waist as swiftly as if I had slapped him.

“Then what IS the point?” His wounded tone- impaling.

Nails driven deeper still, by heavy footfalls, as he retreated up the stairs.

This was written in response to the photo prompt provided by Crimson’s Creative Challenge.

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Isaiah

photo courtesy of Shopkeep online

The capitol grew rank in the summer heat, the humid streets clogged with sweating tourists and rats.

Local villagers flocked to the coastal capitol seeking to pluck eager to be rid of dollars from the plump damp palms of the rich touristas in exchange for cheaply made trinkets and bastardized versions of local delicacies.

Beyond the hawking vendors brightly painted lean-tos lay the garbage strewn alleyways along which hungry mothers and hollow eyed children hid in shadowy alcoves and awaited the less savory tourists who frequented the capitol not to purchase trinkets or sample local stews, but to sate their twisted appetites on the salty brown skin of island children- over which they salivated in the flickering blue light of their computer screens the remaining weeks of every year.

And it was there, in just such an alleyway that Isaiah crouched- amongst the severed fish heads and the flies, clothed in tattered loin cloths and reeking of the accumulative filth of a lifetime’s insanity, waiting for the moist little man in the white summer suit who had once bought him ice-cream and promised to return to him his little sister, Esmerelda, before he had finished the cone….

This was written using Misky’s Twiglet, ‘salty brown skin’ opening with Dylan Hughes’ First Line Friday Prompt, ‘The capitol grew rank in the summer heat, the humid streets clogged with tourists and rats.’

Seems to me there exists a very fine line between the two…

Spring Break 1987

Photo source imgur.com

The week that was supposed to have been the absolute crescendo of Melanie’s collegiate career and celebrate her embarkation upon the home stretch of her senior year, that final year of growth and liberation, instead became a nightmare from which there will be no waking up.

It began innocently enough, two middle of the spectrum girls from Ohio fly into Ft Lauderdale, rent a car at the airport, and stop off at the first bar they come to, the famed Elbow Room on the corner of Las Olas and the A1A strip- even before checking in to their less than lavish ocean-side accommodations.

A few celebratory libations later, they are engaging in some pre-code flirtations with a couple of liquored up pre-law students who just happen to be in search of a ride to Confetti’s, a notorious hot spot over on Commercial, a multilevel lounge that serves up dancing girls in cages as appetizers- free with the purchase of every over priced cocktail.

As any thought of consequence quickly effervesced into the scent of the alcohol induced hormonal haze that is Spring Breaks signature perfume, the giddy foursome poured themselves into the girls rented car and set off in the rose glow of and early evening dusk for titillating points as of yet unknown, Melanie at the wheel.

From that point, the events of the evening have had to have been reconstructed by the district attorney, as Melanie, the only survivor of the high speed T-bone collision, perhaps fortunately, has no first hand recollection.

In fact, the only thing Meanie knows for sure about the daymare that played out in that rented car, just over the tracks, headed west on Commercial, as the sun slipped below the horizon, is that four bright, young co-eds embarking upon what should have been a right of passage, shared only a brief interlude on the streets of South Florida, from which none of them are ever going home…

This is a Six Sentence Story that utilizes Denise’s prompt word: Code, Eugenia’s Brew-N-Spew Cafe prompt words: Nightmare and Daymare as well as the three phrases provided by Tnkerr’s OLWG writing challenge: The final year of growth and liberation, Liquored up and Never going home- well, almost…

Together

CCC #39

Together they witnessed their paralytic brother painstakingly free himself from the confines of his wheelchair, and slip silently from the pier into the same dark waters that had taken from him the use of his limbs only a few short summers before.

Together they knelt at the waters edge as the bubbles ceased to rise, and prayed that god have mercy, and receive his sin stained soul into heaven- even if it meant they would together take his place in hell.

Together they guarded their brother’s secret even after his once best friend was arrested and charged with his death. Even as the man was tried and convicted and sentenced to death- for a murder- only they knew was not really a murder at all- they remained tight lipped.

Chained undauntingly to a secret that in the end would claim four lives, and hold three tattered souls in it’s clutches.

This was written for the photo prompt provided on Crimson’s Creative Challenge #39. For once I adhered to the 150 word count. I guess a little forced time away from a computer summoned my more obedient nature… Not..

Man’s Law

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

If God is love, and Ismael truly believes He is, and love is the most powerful of God’s attributes, then no man, no law, and no government could forbid his love for Marta. And yet man’s law decreed a black man could not love a white woman, and his government, enforced it.

Driven like a fugitive from his homeland. Ripped away from not only Marta, but his family, his culture, his people. Forced to flee from one strange city after another, in hope of remaining alive long enough, to someday return, and lay eyes on his first born son.

Written for Friday Fictioneers photo prompt.