WEEK 34: An inch to the left

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.

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WEEK 33: Damn, that’s cold

Prompted by: Amanda Siegrist

It shook me.

Because the man who was larger than life, the man who was built like an armored tank, the man who could fight like a Spartan and kill like he ruled the godforsaken underworld…

Had been taken down.

Reduced to nothing.

Again.

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WEEK 31: What are you doing?

Prompted by: Amanda Siegrist

“You came.”

“I said I would.”

“Didn’t think he’d let you.”

Men.

They’re all the same. Every last one. All the fucking same.

Bastards.

“Nobody owns me, Dice.”

Glancing down at my hand, he didn’t even attempt to mask the jealous edge in his words, “Looks like somebody does.”

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WEEK 30: You stealthy little bitch

Prompted by: Leto

It’s been a month since I’ve seen the asshole.

A whole month since he buried his favorite blade deep inside my shoulder.

Then kissed me.

Then spun me around, slammed me down against the trunk of his Wraith, pushed up my skirt, forced my legs apart, ripped off my panties…

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WEEK 29: You’re sick

Prompted by: Ember-Raine Winters

The crazy author says: Totally forgot I already gave dude blue eyes last week when I made em “pitch black” this week, eh? Went back and fixed my boo-boo. They’re officially black. Unless I forget again. Thanks for reading my (obviously) random crap. Seriously, thank you.

He hasn’t budged.

After we’d come to a stop, the vehicle had been left idling for a bit, purring like a well-trained tiger before the ignition was cut, followed by…

Nothing.

He still hasn’t budged.

I was seriously starting to wonder if the crazy bastard had grabbed his 50 cal, turned it around, jammed the silencer between his pearly whites, and pulled the fucking trigger.

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WEEK 28: Do I know you?

Prompted by: B.A. Mealer

I met him six years ago.

At the dickhead’s funeral.

That would be daddy dearest, in case you’re wondering who the dead dickhead is. And don’t you dare offer your condolences for my loss. Don’t even think about it. Because you’re not really sorry. And besides, you never even met him. If you had, you would know that I didn’t lose anything.

In fact, I gained something that day.

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