On the metro, the five-line, I hit a cool breeze, seven-foot tall and made of fine china. I meet a diva, a goddess, something outside the line, outside the cement and the metro.
Hello you. Here is a new timed prompt. I haven’t done one in a while. I put two minutes on the clock for this one. Enjoy!
Prompt: Creative man.
He is masterful. There is no other word. Perfection perhaps, but Mother taught me to beware of perfection. No, there is nothing sinister or mischievous about him. There is no pit beneath his tender resignation to the canvas. But it is more than his canvas. He splatters paint left and right, on the walls, the floor. Yellow and blues drip from the window shades, and then even the sun paints with him. I do not think any real person could remain in the room with him when he works.
His creation is all observing. He thinks not but the angle of his stroke before a conversation is through. He wears his art on him. It is his skin. On his cuffs, on his pant pockets, in his hair. No drip or drop would exist were it not for his expert strokes and craft. The man of art has become his art.
The subject of his portraits, if you could call them that, were universally brilliant. He could capture the latent pride in a hound’s eyes, or the springing spirit of a spaniel long lost. But he, he rises from the grave, the comfort and character of lost souls.
Prompt: Into the darkness.
“You cannot go, because you will not survive,” the old man said.
“I can’t stay, because I don’t live while she is down there,” Tom said.
“She is dead my boy,” the old man said. “She ought to remain dead.”
“She will not.” Tom said.
“Oh, then you will break your oath?”
“My oath was for a loving god. A benevolent god.”
“Hell is not for mortals. You will be engulfed in flames.”
“I will enter the devil’s layer and finish what Orpheus could not,” Tom said.
The old man pulled his beard and lifted his palms up to the clouds. “Protect him lord,” he said. “Protect him lord. Protect him lord.”
Tom knelt on his left knee. He unlaced his sneakers and laced them tighter. Tom wore black gym shorts with red stripes down the thighs. His black Hanes undershirt was frayed along its bottom and missing one sleeve.
Tom squeezed the oak-handled dagger in his hand. “Pray for the devil,” he said, “warn him Tom is coming for his wife.”
The old man sobbed aloud. Tom turned and faced the black throat of the cave. Stone steps faded down to black. A distant rumble echoed off the rock and into Tom’s belly.
Here is a two minute, timed prompt, for this afternoon. I put two minutes on the clock and started to write whatever came to my mind in the time.
Prompt: Write about your Companion.
My companion is black, long, and sleek. My companion is a well tinkered watch, a precision instrument. She wields large fangs and a terrible odor.
“Good girl,” I say. “You’re such a good girl.” I pat her head.
She smiles at me in her confused way and goes back to duty. Guarding me and my property, day and night.