Animal Instinct – Dee | Grammy’s Grid Writing Prompt

Title: Animal Instinct
Source:  Dee | Grammy’s Grid Writing Prompt
Word count: 75 words

tiger photograph

Photo by Prashant Saini on Unsplash

Hunger burns the pit of my stomach. My focus narrows and all I see is you. Imagination fuels my senses. I smell the sweat of your body and taste sweet flesh with my lips. My muscles twitch and yet I wait.

I know the moment you see me, our eyes lock in undeniable attraction.

You come willingly, eagerly, sinking your claws deep into my heart before you leave.

And I wonder, “Who is the animal?”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

The Paradox of Free Will – Friday Fictioneers

Title: The Paradox of Free Will
Source:  Friday Fictioneers sponsored by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple
Word count: 100 words

PHOTO PROMPT © Ulrika Undén

Tabbris allowed his gaze to follow the escalator’s path upward towards the light. In the eerie stillness, tinny speakers pumped strains of show tunes that echoed in the space like tennis balls bouncing off granite canyon walls. He hesitated.

A finger snap cut through the haze, reality thundered into focus and urged him to act. Tabbris stepped aside, letting the automatic stairs continue without him. He ran his hand over his eyes and considered his options. Was everything pre-ordained, a foregone conclusion, or could he conjure freedom? Did he possess power?

Long moments passed before Tabbris turned and walked away.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Teatime – 100 Word Writing Dare

Title: Teatime
Source:  100-Word Writing Dare
Prompt: (5 random words): Strong, Circle, Party, Four, Lid
Word count:  100 words

group of people holding mugs

Photo by Nani Williams on Unsplash

Demir ordered four Caykur Rize teas from the gritty street vendor. Ender arrived as the man poured strong sludge the color of muddy streets into paper cups. Ender waved away the proffered plastic lids, passing two steaming cups to Demir while he grabbed the remaining two.

They didn’t wait long for Kadir and Cemil to join their party, completing their circle of trust. They shared bonds forged in a different world. None of them remembered when they met, how they became friends or any day they had failed to meet, and sip the tea that stopped the hands of time.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

If She Only Knew – 100-Word Writing Dare

Title: If She Only Knew
Source:  100-Word Writing Dare
Prompt: …if she only knew…
Word count:  100 words

scenery of ocean

Photo by Barth Bailey on Unsplash

I am repeatedly drawn to this bleak monument that commemorates my deepest regret and replays a scene I can never fix.

They say no one is to blame, tell me to live and learn.

Yet, I can still touch the whimpering monster, taste his evil spark and the heartfelt rage that extinguished my future. Hatred lived in those eyes, fueled by an all-consuming love.

Painful words thrown like brutal punches left me with smoldering embers of bittersweet anguish.

Selfishly, I demolished every bridge with my clumsy attempt to declare my desire. A single wish remains.

If she only knew.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Chalk Outline

The truth is lost in time. Erased by centuries of chest-pounding men. What power could a mere teenage girl lacking noble birth, hold over her betters? I’m here to tell you, women have their ways.

Fluent in Latin, an educated mind grasps diplomatic intricacies and gathers skillful, wealthy, and intellectual people into a formidable defensive circle. Ambitious men heed the girl’s counsel and indulge her whims. Ludovico the lover, patron of Milan provides influence and fortune. Rare books, animated discussions, beautiful music, and a sitting with the court painter are the order of the day. A compliment here, a good word there, helps ensure the rising star of a talented artist.

Tokens and favors are currency more valuable than gold. Love is not an emotion to consider when status, livelihood, and beneficial concords are the prize. Diplomacy dictates marriage alliances, and it sweeps aside feelings. But an acknowledged son forges deep bonds with his father and protocol insists on a mother’s security. A gift of Carmagnola Palace serves as a just reward and an advantageous wedding seal the deal.

My life would have been forgotten except for the brilliant painter and a young woman’s captured image as she tried to keep her one true love. The work was both cursed and charmed. Recused, hidden, found, exiled, stolen, almost destroyed, a heavy army boot left its insult upon my face. Its survival is a miracle

Safe today, the painter’s reputation dances with my legacy. For now, my story endures.

 

*** The chalk image is a representation of Lady with an Ermine – Cecilia Gallerani.  A painting by Leonardo da Vinci ***

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

https://ko-fi.com/johawkthewriter#

Dragon Deal

Photo by Jared Rice on Unsplash

Once upon a time, Princess Lola watched as her father drew the lottery name for the annual sacrifice. The name was hers.

Her family cried, but Lola had a plan.

Late at night, she made her way to the Dragon’s Den.

Smoke billowed from the cave.

“You’re early,” the dragon’s voice echoed through the cave.

“I have a deal for you. It’s just between us,” Lola said.

“I have a deal with your father,” the dragon countered.

“Your deal is for girls. Wouldn’t you like a juicy boy?”

“You are scrawny.” The smoke heaved and billowed as the dragon chuckled.

“I’ll bring a boy if you’ll spare my life.”

“Are boys tasty?”

Lola promised the dragon a boy and several hours later she returned.

“Where are we going?” the chubby boy asked as he clung to Lola’s hand.

“It’s not much further,” Lola said pulling him along behind her.

“Is this the Dragon’s Den?” the boy asked as they reached the end of the trail.

“Dragon,” Lola called.

The dragon’s claw grabbed the boy, and he was gone.

“Remember our deal, Dragon,” Lola called over her shoulder. Not waiting for the dragon’s answer, she hurried home.

The next day the festival led Lola along the same path to the Dragon’s Den.

Like the previous night, the dragon’s claw reached from its den, this time the dragon grabbed Lola.

“Hey, we had a deal,” Lola screamed.

“Deal? What deal?” the dragon asked.

“Remember, I brought you a boy and you promised you’d spare my life.”

The dragon laughed.

“Promise? I made no promise. Besides, girls are made from sugar and spice and everything nice. Boys are not as tasty.”

And Lola was gone.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Harbinger

Long before dawn, Callie was awake, dressed and headed to her car. The night’s light snowfall and freezing temperatures meant she needed to clear the car windows. She shivered as she crunched across the parking lot, adjusting her hood to shield herself from the biting wind.

The long frigid days, dark gray skies and never-ending work hours left her weary. This morning she had been reluctant to leave her warm bed. She fantasized, imagined pulling the covers over her head, forgetting her responsibilities and letting sleep take her. The boss would not approve, and her meager paycheck would be lighter than she could afford.

The car blasted freezing air through the heater, and she hit the button for the rear defogger. It would clear the back window while she chipped ice and snow from the windshield. She worked quickly, eager to avoid the wind and blowing snow.

The door squeaked as Callie tossed the snow scraper in the back seat and slammed the door closed. She blew on her hands, creating heavy clouds in the still cold car.

“The forecast calls for another cold day, today,” the voice chirped from the radio.

“Who would have guessed?” Callie responded as she drove.

“Didn’t the groundhog predict an early spring?” the voice continued.

“Could have fooled me.”

“Don’t hold your breath, but we’re predicting a warm-up for next week.”

“Promises, promises,” Callie grumbled.

“No, really folks, it looks like we might be able to shed a few layers by next Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“You’re pretty optimistic. Besides, aren’t you guys wrong half the time?”

The station switched to music and Callie noticed a slight orange glow of dawn tinting the sky.

Darkness ebbed as she drove. Her car was almost lukewarm when she pulled into the work parking lot. She hunched, head down, as she braved the walk to the entrance.

Beside the door, a purple splotch lay on the ground.

“Why can’t people put their trash in the bin?” she wondered as she stooped to grab it.

But it wasn’t trash. Confused, Callie brushed back the snow. There, sheltered from the worst of the weather, purple crocus emerged from their hibernation. The tiny heralds boldly proclaimed winter’s end. Hope washed the bitterness from her soul and buoyed her tired body.

“Spring is here,” she whispered.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Inner Conflict – Extended Version

Yesterday I posted Inner Conflict edited to meet the challenge requirements. However, what I wrote during my first sitting was much longer, twice as long, with a word count around 500 words. Reading the story again, I find I prefer the longer version. This version finished at 456 words. Let me know what you think.

the_fallen_cherub_by_charllieearts_dd0j9ye-fullview.

The Fallen Cherub by CharllieeArts, source

Nervous, and unsure, I took stock of my surroundings. Crouched behind the building’s jutting column, hidden from view, I accessed the alien version of my beloved city. Cold, stark and silent they had transported me into a hidden world. It was the world that lay between reality and dreams.

In the street to my right, stood a glorious black angel his wing unfurled. Exuding confidence, power, and determination he faced his opponent. To my left stood a monster straight from my nightmares, hideous and menacing I knew he meant to win this battle.

“Why don’t you run from me?” the monster growled.

“You think I should fear you?” the angel sneered, chuckling softly.

“You know who I am, my reputation. I am deadly. I hold life in my hands.”

The angel laughed, slapping his hand on his thigh, “I should cower under the bed, hiding the way you do? You kid no one, everyone knows you evaporate with the light.”

They circled, searching for a weakness, an opportunity to strike.

“But she hears me. My words echo in her mind long after I have gone,” the monster said as he licked his lips.

“Your words fall apart once removed from the dark,” a fireball gleamed, as it erupted from the angel’s chest.

The monster saw his opening, rearing back he lunged at the angel who sidestepped the assault, using his wings the way a matador uses his cape with a charging bull. As the monster passed, the angel let the fireball fly. It grazed the monster’s shoulder, and he whirled, swiping at angel feet, toppling him to the ground.

The two rolled in the street as I watched in horrified fascination, unable to turn away.

“Submit, you dishonored beast, you will not gain your redemption with her salvation,” the monster howled as he gained the advantage.

“No matter the cost, I will not let you win,” the angel roared as another fireball propelled the monster back.

The struggle continued, both evenly matched, and I watched them bruised and bleeding, determined to fight to the death.

At last, I could stand it no more, the self-mutilation of my fallen cherub and my noble monster and stepped from my hiding place in the dark.

“Enough,” I screamed, and two sets of eyes met mine.

“Neither of you will win, and we all will die. The truth is the decision is mine.”

I paused. They waited, eager to hear my next words.

“Get up. Compose yourselves.” Confused they complied.

“We must learn to live together,” I said. “We are two sides of the same coin, and neither side is fully right nor fully wrong.”

Sheepish expressions met my gaze, and I knew we would live to fight another day.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

After the Storm

snow-field-farmhouse-barn-mountain-pine-tre

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Outside the storm raged through the night. Icy tendrils swept down the chimney, teasing feeble flames which were the only source of heat for the occupants of the house. With covers pulled tight, they huddled in their beds, feigning sleep as the storm buffeted the house.

Riordan listened as the winds died and a faint gray light seeped through the windows. The rooster’s crow alerted the household of dawn’s arrival. Riordan didn’t wait, he threw back the covers and hurried to dress in the chilly room. Downstairs, he pulled on his boots, coat, and fingerless gloves, then jammed his hat on his head. His easel and a stash of canvas rested by the door, ready for the day’s adventure.

He opened the door to discover a world of stark contrasts. The storm had erased the normal colors, rendering them in shades of gray, accentuated by black shadows and pristine-white snow. Riordan surveyed his new world and considered his options. The pond, already frozen over before the storm would resemble any snow-covered field, he reasoned. He wanted to capture the subtle textures and the muted tones. He knew where he wanted to go.

With his easel and a large canvas tucked up under his arm he plowed into the snowdrift and headed toward the road leading into town. As he trudged through knee-deep drifts, he reminded himself to look at the landscape and consider possible compositions for their artistic values. After walking a mile, he decided on his scene. The Olsen’s white farmhouse lay outlined by the dark tree-lined ridge behind it. Clouds, still heavy with snow, filtered the sunlight that fell on Lookout Peak in the distance.

The Olsen’s barns and other outbuildings helped to give the scene movement and a single tall pine framed the composition. Riordan juggled the canvas as he opened the easel and stuck it in the snow. With the easel situated he placed the canvas on the supports, pulled his pallet free and opened paint tubes. Dabs of Payne’s Gray, Mars Black, Prussian Blue, Sap Green, Titanium White, Raw Sienna, and Cadmium Red soon lay arranged on his pallet.  He needed to work fast before the light changed.

Riordan selected his largest brush and blocked in color. His brush swiped across the canvas, his body swayed with the movement and he lost himself to the process.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he noticed the brush slipping from his freezing fingertips. Laying the pallet aside he blew on his hands, warming them before getting back to work. But now his work slowed, he paused more frequently to warm his fingers, and he noticed the cold, as it nipped his nose and seeped into his boots.

Just one more brush stroke he told himself again and again. That shadow needs more blue, and the barn more red, he thought as he tried to ignore the discomfort. At last, he shivered and knew he must stop. Riordan hated to admit defeat against the elements. He stared at the scene attempting to commit each color change, every shadow, each fleck of light to memory before he packed up his gear. He handled his canvas, his day’s masterpiece, with care as he retraced his steps and headed home.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Birthday Breakfast Surprise

bright-colored-cereal-floating-in-milk

Photo by David Streit on Unsplash

Caleb woke early. Today was her birthday, and he planned to show her how much he loved her. He slipped from the bed and tiptoed to the kitchen.

He dropped bread into the toaster and prepared a tray. Standing at the open refrigerator, he realized he hadn’t thought beyond the toast. He set butter, jam, and orange juice on the counter then added Lucky Charms and milk.

He filled the bowl with cereal, then topped the box, spilling cereal onto the counter and floor. He tried to pour the milk, but it sloshed over the edge of the bowl and onto the tray. Smoke snaked from the toaster and he beat the handle until the charred bread popped. His tossed the toast onto the plate and attempted to scrape away the black spots. Crumbs flew everywhere.

When he poured the orange juice, he knocked the glass and sent it crashing to the floor. This wasn’t going as he planned.

“Caleb! What are you doing?”

Caleb was pushing orange juice across the floor with a soaked paper towel.

“I’m sorry, Mommy. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to,” Caleb’s voice quivered, and a tear trickled down his cherub face. “I was making you breakfast in bed, and now it’s ruined.”

Darlene surveyed the splattered kitchen.

“You did this for me?” she asked as her hand covered her heart.

Caleb nodded.

“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” she said as she scooped him into her arms.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer