Prompted by: Roxanne Victor
The crazy author says: I’m digging these creative prompts a lottle. That’s like a little but a lot, ya know?
“Aww, poor baby.”
He shoots me a glare with murderous intent.
I jump as his hand slams onto the artwork and crumples it into an angry little ball.
Which goes flying in the same direction as the pen.
I can’t tell if he’s joking anymore. He seems serious. I search his expression for answers and come away with nothing. The surgical tape above his brow has lifted, the corner curling outward. I reach up to fix it.
He grabs my wrist.
“Let me help.”
His grip tightens, digging into bone.
But the sudden rush of tension between us is what makes me wince. It’s not the good type of tension. It’s heavy. Like an anvil placed directly on my chest. The weight is suffocating me. I attempt to pull free.
There’s a flicker of emotion, quickly replaced by a mask of cool, icy composure. He lets me go.
Flexing my wrist, I mumble, “Fine. Sorry.” I don’t even know why the hell I’m apologizing. Come to think of it, I shouldn’t be. He’s the one giving me whiplash. He’s the one having massive mood swings.
And brain surgery.
I suppose he’s had that too.
His gorgeous blonde hair has been hacked to death. They shaved a large strip of real estate in order to saw through his skull, plus a couple extra patches to drill burr holes and relieve the pressure. End result is a scraggly, lopsided mohawk. Neurosurgeons are brilliant at saving lives, but they suck the saltiest balls when it comes to landscaping.
Regardless, I still feel butthurt. “No touching,” I mutter under my breath. “Got it.”
Trace tucks a loose strand behind my ear. He’s apologizing too.
I’m not ready to accept yet. I’m not mad either. I’m not sure what I am.
I shrug and shove my hands into my pockets. Or his pockets. Whatever. My fingertips are greeted by a Rubik’s Cube. I’m constantly finding them everywhere. Trace owns at least a dozen, half of which end up in the washer by accident on a weekly basis. He can solve all six sides in five seconds flat.
My man is a bit of a genius.
I wonder if that’s changed. I don’t care, I’m just curious. Maybe we’ll send him back to school. Nah, he’s always hated school. Not to mention, his IQ can afford to take a few hits. Smiling, I fish out the puzzle…
It’s not a Rubik’s Cube.
It’s a box.
A black, leather box.
A fucking ring box.
What’s the prompt for next week, guys?
Make suggestions below. 7 words or less.