Prompted by: Jane Jago
WARNING: This fictional storyline may contain very disturbing situations, dubious consent, and graphic violence.
“Daddy home!”
Shit.
It’s too late.
By the time I turn the corner…
“Daddy home! Daddy home!”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
It’s already too late.
Prompted by: Carole
It was a mistake.
I wouldn’t regret a single moment. I wouldn’t change a single thing.
But it was still a mistake.
There would be serious consequences for this.
I’d held her in my arms. Tasted her on my lips. Inhaled her into my godforsaken lungs again…
Prompted by: Tiara Giles
The crazy author says: Yeah, I couldn’t bring myself to kill off this storyline quite yet. The struggle is real…
Today was the day.
She did the same thing every year. Visited all the same places. Went through all the same motions.
Every single year.
Trust me, I would know. I’ve been her shadow for the past three.
Today was the day she hated me.
And the day I hated myself.
Prompted by: Yamna Rashid
The crazy author says: I took creative license and shortened the original suggestion (“I shoved the gun into his bloodied mouth”) to 7 words cuz I like 7 😏
The crazy author also says: Yeah, I’m reusing some chick’s name from a past flash fiction for the dude. Don’t judge me. Thanks.
I couldn’t breathe. I might throw up again. I was having another panic attack. Shaking uncontrollably. Like a dog shitting razorblades. Or a cat pissing goddamn shurikens.
My name was barely legible.
But it didn’t matter.
Because it was done.
Continue reading “WEEK 37: Shoving the gun in his bloodied mouth”
Prompted by: AnRo
Something broke.
I couldn’t tell if it was the bones in my hand or the bones in his goddamn face but something fucking broke.
I felt it.
Prompted by: Jane Jago
WARNING: This fictional storyline may contain very disturbing situations, dubious consent, and graphic violence.
Seven bullets.
Pierced through flesh, shredded through muscle, obliterated tissue into nothing but minced meat.
One grazed his temple, almost taking an eye in the process. A pair lodged in his thigh, refusing to exit on the other side. Another tore into his neck, creating quite a fun mess to clean up. A couple blasted through his ribcage, puncturing a lung, no doubt making him gasp for air. And a shot to the chest nicked his heart…
Continue reading “WEEK 35: Only two fingers on his left hand”
Prompted by: Matthew S. Williams
The crazy author says: I’m gonna use the original suggestion (“In inch to the left and I would’ve been a widow”) in its entirety but have shortened it to 7 words or less for the rest of you superstars. Who loves ya, eh? 😉
“Calm down!”
There was an oversized armchair in the corner. An expensive leather one. That I could easily sell and make enough money to feed a small village. Or three.
And I’d fallen asleep in it.
Actually, I’d passed out cold. Kneeling by the bed with my head resting on folded arms.
Fingers interlaced with his.
