Aged Letters

This story is drawn from my own experience.  Back when my husband was getting his business started I did indeed accompany him to one of his bids in Oakland at this beautiful old house.  And I did go snooping through every drawer and closet, eventually happening upon these letters in the exact spot described.  As of this moment I have not read them because they are in French and I can neither read nor speak the language.  In addition, I do not know anyone who can and even if I did I have no idea where they have been put.  I tend to do this thing of hiding certain items to "keep them safe" and in the end just keep them from myself.


A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems and Zachary Petit
January 15
“She’d Pass him the note years ago, when he was studying abroad. He’d never had it translated. Until now.”

The house sat on the edge of a hill, built somewhere at the turn of the century, with a mission style theme. Over the years in the wet Oakland weather it slowly but surely began to sink. Many attempts were made to level it, but none were successful. Eventually it was purchased by a modern family who raised a family in it and began decorating it to change with the times. Somewhere in the 60’s dark brown wood paneling was placed over the fireplace, which had begun to crack due to sinking, and curtains were hung between rooms to give them more definition. The drapes were thick cotton, with swirling patterns embroidered from seam to seam, and dyed a wretched pea soup green.
Soon the family began to age. The boys went off to college and the husband doted ever more on his wife. She had begun to grow weak and making it up the four steps to their bedroom was becoming a bothersome chore. Before long she just slept on the couch. Her husband sitting in the chair next to her. The position kinked his back (and would be thecause of his later hunch) but he would have been nowhere else.
Finally the man and wife died only moments apart. They left the house to their sons who couldn’t find the time to go in and sort out their things. Nor could they be bothered to make the payments. The house fell into the hands of the bank, who sent in men to clean out the house. These day hires stormed every inch of the home and rid it of any sign it had ever been lived in. Once the real estate agent in charge of the property signed off on their clean-up they sent in the contractor.
“So the job is all the way in Oakland?” Josh asked.
“Yeah, both of them.”
The two men sat in the white pick-up truck, towing a trailer they had rented from U-Haul. Their two dogs, Klause and Sadie, a german shepard and a lachschund, panted excitedly in the small space behind the bench seat.
“If I get these jobs then it could open up a whole new world for Cline Home Improvement.”
Josh looked at his boyfriend, his eyes wide and his mouth stretched into an uncomfortable smile.
The two had spent the last couple years trying to get the company up off the ground. This was a whole new world. And with the pending jobs it would mean that they would be a real business.
They pulled in front of this sinking house, as the sun was setting behind it into the sea. They walked inside and Josh was taken by the view that stretched out before him.
“You can almost see San Francisco from here,” Josh exclaimed.
The dogs scurried excitedly through the house, sniffing every crevasse.
Charlie stepped next to him.
“It sure is gorgeous.” He paused. “God I’d love to live in the bay area.”
“In this house!”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Charlie began his inspection, making notes on a yellow legal pad. Josh on the other hand went snooping through the house for lost or forgotten treasures with the dogs.
“What’re you doing,” Charlie called, “Come here.”
Josh scrambled up the narrow staircase that lad to a room downstairs.
He emerged into the entry hallway and turned to look into the living room with the view.
“Yeah?”
“Help me remove this,” Charlie said, pointing to the wooden casing around the fire.
“Why do we need to do that?”
Josh stepped to the other side of the fireplace and waited, while charlie used a crowbar to pry it away from the wall.
“There is foundation damage and the realtor told me she thinks that it might have caused some structure damage. So I want to make sure the fireplace is okay.”
Charlie dropped the crowbar to the hardwood floor, it landed with a hallow thud.
“Just pull and lower it slowly. With me.”
The two men heaved and lowered it gently, but on the way the mirror that had been placed in it cracked.
“That’s not good,” josh said, looking at it.
“Oh well.”
Charlie examined the fireplace on either side and in the hearth. He made a note on the pad and turned to continue his inspection.
Josh on the other hand looked into the alcove that had been put above the fireplace. It was even equipped with a socket. He went up and touched the shelf and found a worn stac of letters, tied with a silk pink bow.
“Oh my god, Charlie,” Josh said, “I found some old letters.”
“Neat.”
Josh turned the bundle around to find a date. The penmanship was exquisite with sharp loops, all squashed together. Up in the right corner of one of the letters was the date written in French with the year 1920.
“You’re not going to believe how old these are.”
Josh rushed over to charlie and showed him the year.
“Wow.”
Josh ignored his lack of enthusiasm and instead focused only on the letters.
“I wonder what they say. Do we know anyone who speaks French?”
“Nope.”
Josh pulled out his phone and facebooked a status explaining his incredible find, asking for anyone that could read it. Within minutes it got four “likes,” but no offers to help.
The boy groaned and turned the letters over and over in his hand.
“I wonder why they put them here. This would make a great story.”
“Well why don’t you write it. You say you’re a writer.”
“I don’t know what I would say about it.”
Charlie finished his inspection and the two men, with their dogs, piled into their truck and headed for the next job site.
That night Josh’s cousin posted a comment on the thread with an offer to read the letters and translate. As luck would have it, she happened to live in the Bay Area.
“We have to go!” Josh said excitedly.
Leaving the dogs behind at the vacant house, the two men drove across two bridges into San Francisco to meet Josh’s cousin Alis at Vesuvio’s for a drink.
Veusvio’s was an old two-story dive. The likes of Jack Kerouac could have been found here back in the day. Some say he even wrote a few of his stories in the bar.
“Hey cousin,” Alis said, as she rushed in for a hug.
“No time to waste.” Josh said, excited. He produced the letters from the front pouch of his pull-over hoody.
“Someone’s excited,” she said.
“Are you kidding? How many times does someone find something extroadinary like this?”
Alis laughed and smacked a kiss on her cousin’s cheek, leaving a pair of ruby red lip prints.
The three climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor and took up a table by the window, above the entrance. While Alis read, her lips moving with her eyes, the two watched the people pass on the sidewalk.
“This place is great,” charlie said. “If we lived in the city would this be the place you came to write?”
Josh looked around at the growing number of hipster patrons and rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, no.”
“This is beautiful,” Alis said.
She lowered the letters to the table and pressed them flat with her hands.
“These are letters to a woman named Emily, from a man named Rene. They had met in Paris while she was travelling abroad and he was supposed to come over on the Titanic to meet her.”
“Are you kidding me?” Josh bounced in his seat.
“Yes,” Alis said.
“That’s not very nice.”
“It’s great.” Charlie said with a wicked grin.
“Really,” Josh leaned forward, “What does it say?”
Alis glanced over the letters once more.
“They’re letters from family. The woman they are addressed to is named Emily. Rene is her father, or at least that is what I gather. He is pleading with her to forgive him for what he had said in their fight.
“He begs her to come home. With each letter he pleads even more until the last one where he wishes her the best.”
“That’s fantastic!” Josh said, “Sad, but fantastic.”
“You should try and find the family that owned them.” Alis said.
“And give these up? Hell no.” josh said, “I may use them in a story one day.”

13 Steps From Murder!

This one is... Well, it's weird.  I thought the prompt was WAY specific.  It even gave me a name for this particular character.  Granted, I could have been any perspective other than him, because as specific as it was it didn't tell me where the perspective of the story came from.  For instance, I could have been a bum to witness the murder and spend the story running from Tim.  I had actually thought about telling the it from the point of view of John H.  Now that I think about it, I don't know why I didn't.  I think the story would have been better for it.  Oh well.  These aren't meant to be amazing.  I've come to accept that this year is going to be an exercise of finding my voice and to just get myself in the habit of writing everyday.  The only way I can become good (or return to my former glory) is to write, write, write.  So, here it is...
A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems and Zachary Petit
January 14
“Only two weeks had passed into the New Year and Tim had already broken his first resolution: Don’t kill anyone. Write this scene.”

Tim clutched the phone in his bloody hand and dialed his sponsor. He lifted the receiver and pressed it hard against his ear. There had been a moment of hesitation for Tim to call John H., but he had assured him if he slipped that he should give him a call. Although it should have been before it happened. Tim knew that. He had told himself as he prowled the back alleys of Chicago to call him first.
On the fifth ring he picked up and sleepily mumbled into the phone.
“John, it’s me. I,” he said his voice breaking, “I broke my sobriety and killed someone.”
“Oh, Tim,” he said, “it’s just a slip. We can get through this. Don’t let this be the thing that throws you off the wagon.”
Tim began to cry. The inevitable remorse was setting in and he regretted his actions more than he ever had before. This was 2015, the year he was going to get clean. Just two weeks from the turn of a new age and here he is with blood pooling around the souls of his shoes once again.
“Can we get coffee?” Time said.
“Yeah, yes we can, buddy.”
“I’ll meet you at the diner on Limerick.”
“See you there.”
John H. ended the call and the line went dead. It’s termination signaled by the double beep.
Tim pocketed the phone and looked down at the man at his feet. The gash in his throat smiling at him like a second mouth, with blood drool pouring from the open maw. He had to get rid of the body. If he just left it here someone would spot it before he made a quick getaway.
Tim grabbed the man’s ankles and pulled him to the side of a dumpster, heaping with trash. If he just lifted him on top it would be even more obvious. Like the many times before, Tim rushed to remove some of the debris and pile it off to the side. Once he dug a space big enough for the thirty-something, he lifted him over his shoulder and dropped in the stranger. Much to Tim’s chagrin the small action pushed out even more blood. He could feel it soaking into his clothes as it ran down his back.
“Damn it,” he said, tears forming again.
What am I going to do now? Trying to be sober had made him sloppy. In the past he may have been a mastermind at keeping himself clean from his dirty deeds, even though it tarred his soul, this time he wore his mistake all over him.
Tim rushed down the alleyway, sticking as much in the shadows as he could. With any luck he could find someone else along the way that he could just choke out to steal what they wore.
No! That’s more pain, he thought, And how do I know I would stop before it went further. It’s never just choking someone out.
Plus he also was very aware of DNA captured in skin flakes would be all over his current duds.
Just run home.
In a city so well lit and thriving with so many people, it was amazing how much one could get away with. Not a single person took a second look at Tim, or even a single glance for that matter. Most he came across, sticking to the darker parts of the city as possible, had their eyes glued to their smartphone or talking loudly to some other person.
He got to his flat and rushed upstairs. For a split second he thought Mrs. McNeal would catch him as he stuck his key in the lock, but luckily her small dog Bitsy, tried to escape and drew her attention away.
Safe in his one bedroom apartment, devoid of any kind of furnishings, other than a single plastic chair, lamp, and a mattress in the other room, Tim melted against the door with relief.
Get your clothes off idiot!
Tim stood up and ripped off his clothes. He balled them up and dropped them in the kitchen sink, where he turned the water on and squeezed a spiral of dish soap over the mound.
While the sink was filling he jumped into the shower and rinsed off any sign of what he had done.
By the time he was out, dripping wet with no towel, the sink was just about to overflow. He shut the water off and then swished the clothes around, spilling some soapy water onto the floor.
Satisfied that all it needed is time to soak, he went into his bedroom. His trash bag of clothes stood with a pair of brown boots in the corner. He picked out a suitable shirt and a pair of pants, grabbed his shoes, and threw them on. Appearance was nothing to him. At this moment, all he cared about was a calming chat with his sponsor.
The diner was just around the corner from his home. His choice of venue wasn’t deliberate but turned out to be a subconscious decision that he was thankful for. Walking any further would have been too much for him.
John sat in a booth in the far back.
Tim rushed around the dining counter, ignoring the greeting from the night time waitress, and took a seat opposite the man with the answers.
“So,” John began, “why didn’t you call me before? We talked about this. You need to think a slip all the way through before you do something.”
Tim fought back another wave of tears.
“I know,” he said, voice shaking.
“It’s alright. You can do this. The program works.”
Tim nodded.
“Where are you with your steps?”
“I can’t find a higher power.”
John nodded. He sighed and leaned forward, propping himself up on the table.
“It is a hard thing. You think that no god could ever love me after what I’ve done.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“You can’t think like that, Tim.”
Tim wiped away the mist pooling under his grey eyes.
“You can’t let this break you. You’re letting this thing control your life. We both know you are not this person. These are not normal urges.” John paused. “You have to pick yourself back up and get back on the wagon. Just take it one day at a time.”
“How did you get sober?”
John made a sarcastic laugh.
“It was tough going. I had been raised in a hit-man household. It was all I ever knew. When I wanted to stop,” he shook his head, “it was extreme agony. I kept a journal. I prayed to God. I dealt with the stuff that was boiling deep down in me. You need to do the same.
“Don’t worry about how long you can go without killing someone. Just worry about not doing it now. Now is all that matters to you. Remember that.”
Tim nodded.
“Right now, to make sure you don’t do it again is you’re going to go to a pay phone and dial the police.”
Tim went wide-eyed.
“It’s part of the process. Just don’t leave any finger prints. Used a towel to dial. Once you do that I want you to go home and write down everything that’s bothering you. Everything. Try and piece together what it was that made you want to act out. You and I will get through this together.
"Remember, one day at a time."

Another bad one...

Today is going to be a quick one.  Mainly because I have a headache, but another reason was because I wasn’t feeling this prompt.  Just a quick heads up, this is going to be a dark one.

Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems and Zachary Petit

January 13

“Write a story featuring an author, the ocean, and an antique weapon.”

 

Xander sat waiting, seated in the overstuffed leather chair facing the front door.  Held in his right hand was a pistol, the hammer pulled back, ready to be fired.  For the past four hours he had sat perfectly still, running the scene through his head; the phony would come home to his beach house, wanting a vacation, and Xander would bless him with a peaceful rest. 

A smile stretched across his lips.

Once his story had been printed under the name of someone else he wanted nothing but vengeance.  He tried the legal route, but when one has no money coming across competent legal aid is difficult. In the end he knew what it was he had to do.

Keys jingled and scraped into the lock, sending Xander’s heart into his throat.  His index finger hovered nervously over the trigger.

Gregory Dreck opened the door and was met with a puff of smoke, a loud bang, and a metal bullet whizzing by his head.

Xander gulped and forced a smile.

Flowering of the Undead

I have to admit, I'm rather proud of this one.  I wasn't entirely certain where it was going but it ended up being rather good.  If I do say so myself, and I do.
A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems and Zachary Petit
January 13
“Your neighbor has taken in an unsual pet and it does something unpleasant to your house/yard. Confront your neighbor.”

I stand in my backyard, admiring my work. My garden has never looked as wonderful as it does this very moment. In the far corner, bathed in the shade of the two willows standing sentinel on either side, is my most prized flower. It is a rare corpse flower and very soon it will blossom. Many have told me how insane I am to plant one in my very backyard but they do not know it’s value. The site of it is rather entrancing but the stench I’m afraid, well, it isn’t called a corpse flower for nothing.
I had come by it in the strangest of fashions. I took a trip with my neighbor to Indonesia. He had some family members there and I didn’t want to travel alone. We had quite a lovely time. Our only souvenirs was an old book given to him by a strange man in some market, and mine was a snippet of the Tetrastigma vine, by which the corpse flower can grow and survive.
The grass makes a metallic sound, like a brillo pad on a pot, as I walk closer to my pet. It stands taller than me. Maybe even past it usual height of six feet.
My heart begins to pound in my chest. Very soon it will blossom and when it does I will be on the front page of the life and time section of the local paper. And certainly, everyone in town will want to come and see it, get a whiff of it’s wretched aroma. How many people can say that they have? None. That’s how many. And here I am, the one with it blossoming in his garden.
The next day I wake early in the morning and rush out to see if the petals have begun to spread. Sure enough, it has. I take out a measuring tape and mentally note the length. It has gotten a full foot further away from its pistil. For extra care I get some manure from the garage and sprinkle it around it’s base and water it once more. That done I busy myself with the other parts of my personal eden to keep my mind off of my prized possession.
Before I tuck in for the night I measure it once more. The petal has lowered another six inches. Excitement rushes through my limbs like electricity.
Even with the excitement I am still able to fall fast asleep.
In the early hours of dawn I rush outside and before I’ve taken a step over the threshold I can smell the rotting stench of the flower. My legs can barely move quick enough for me and I nearly stumble over them in my rush to see my blossoming beauty. Shrouded under the willows it has opened its crimson petals, that bleach into a pearly white as it reaches the base of the pistil.
“Fantastic” I say, as I pinch my nose.
I hurry back inside and dial the number for the paper. The journalist insisted I call the moment it flowered so that he could come out and inspect it for himself, before writing the article of course. I was happy to ablige.
“Gerald,” I say, my voice raising in pitch, “I’m sorry did I wake you? No matter I have some exciting news.”
It is in my eager awaiting for his dreary response when I hear the crash and screech of wood. Glancing through the lace curtains I see no site of anything and return to the phone call. He quickly agrees to rush over immediately.
I hang up the phone and rush into the backyard and that’s when I see them, my neighbors zombies have congregated around my flower and are tugging on its delicate petal.
My hand flies to my garden shovel and I rush out to them and beat them back into Anthony’s backyard. They growl with irritation, one of them gurgles and glares at me with the eye dangling out of its socket. I replace the boards over the fragmented hole they had made in the fence.
“Damn things,” I say. “Anthony!” I call through the fence. I follow my beckoning with another and another until I am almost hoarse. The man must sleep like the dead.
The zombies listfully paw at the fence and that’s when I feel it appropriate to get the garden hose. The noze seems to turn forever until it jerks to halt and I know that the pressure it high enough. Placing my thumb over the spout an press the water into a sharp spray and point it at the pests.
They moan again and shuffle across the yard to the other side.
“That should do it,” I say.
I promptly return to my bedroom where I dress in a flurry, picking only the best ensemble for the event. Properly attired I resign to the living room to wait for my visitor.
At eight o’clock, on the dot, he knocks on my door.
“Gerald!” I say, opening he door.
He obviously spent little to no time on his outfit. What should be a nicely pressed shirt, with tie, and slacks, he’s donned sweatpants and a knitted skull cap. The only thing worthy of his esteemed profession is a Canon camera, on a strap, hanging at the top of his pot-belly. I force a smile and welcome him in.
“I could smell it from the street,” he says, “I can only imagine what it must be like up close.”
“It’s certainly a treasure.”
“I wouldn’t say something like that,” he says quietly.
I usher him out to my prize. The noble queen of my garden.
His expression goes sour and he holds up his camera with one hand, while pinching his nose shut with the other.
“It’s pollen isn’t toxic is it?”
“No,” I assure him.
He snaps a couple of photos and my heart pounds in my chest.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask, “Coffee perhaps?”
“Yes, please,” he says excitedly relieved, “Black.”
I bustle back into the house and buzz around the kitchen making a fresh pot.
Once again I hear the screech of twisting wood and the percussion of thin planks of wood falling into a pile.
“Dear god.”
In the back yard I see the zombies have forced their way back into my yard and have surrounded poor Gerald. I pick up the shovel and advance. The metal smashes against his face and one is momentarily stunned. The others continue on in their endless quest for flesh.
“Anthony!” I scream over my shoulder as I whack at another that has it’s rotting hands wrapped around Gerald’s wrist. The blade of the shovel severs the limbs from his torso and Geral goes stumbling backwards onto his rump.
I call again for my neighbor.
The most spry of the four, Sharon I think Anthony calls her, rushes upon the fallen journalist, but before she can realize she still has working knees I body check her to her side where she falls and lands on her back. Her limbs move continuously like a tortoise turned on its shell.
Before anoher one of the beasts could continue their attack I pull Gerald to his feet and escort him safely inside.
He is visibly frazzled.
“What the hell?” He screams, making his way into the living room. “I have to get the hell out of here.”
I Jump in front of him and barricade the door with my body.
“Please, no! I really need this article.”
“You’re insane. I’m not going back out there!”
The whites of his eyes are turning pink.
“I beg of you. Just sit tight. You are absolutely safe in here. I swear to you. I am just going to get my neighbor. They’re his zombies and I’m sure he can corral them.” I pause and study his features which have not softened in the slightest. “This is very important to me. You can’t leave just now.”
He jerks around, startled by some imaginary noise.
I Step forward and put my hands on his shoulders.
“You are far from danger in my house.” I step to the table by the door and open the drawer, retrieving the pistol within. “Here,” I hand him the automatic weapon, “take this just in case.”
With some reluctance he accepts it and I usher him into the recliner. Once the two meet he bounces once and he relaxes.
“Okay.”
My heart leaps into my throat.
“Thank you,” I say.
I exits and storm across the front lawn to Anthony’s front door, whereupon I bang repeatedly upon it until he arrives to answer the door.
“Can I help you Shawn?” he says.
He is clearly just waking, for his glass eye is pointed in an odd angle. Dressed in only a pair of leopard bikini briefs. The hair ringing the crown of his baldhead is sticking out at odd angles.
“You need to contain those monsters,” I say pointing toward his backyard. “They very nearly at the man who has come to write the column on my prized corpse flower!”
He rolls his one good eye.
“I promised I would not tell anyone you had resurrected the dead with the tome, but here I stand regretting that decision. Should I alert the townspeople.” I make a fake shocked expression. “NO need the journalist has already seen them.”
Anthony growls like one of his pets.
“Fine,” he mumbles.
He shuts the door and I return to my guest, who is still very shaken. He very nearly shoots me as I come through the front door.
“It’s alright,” I say, holding up my hands, “it’s just me.”
Gerald gulps and lowers the gun.
“All taken care of,” I say, beaming.
I wrench him from the chair and pull him back into the backyard. The zombies have long since fled, back into their yard.
The stench of the flower has only grown. I can barely stand in front of it without wanting to retch. The writer’s eyes dart nervously around as I lift the camera and cup his hand around it, while simultaneously turning it on. His finger intuitively returns to it and he finds himself calm enough to start snapping photos, moving around to get different angles.
I can hear Anthony in the backyard. He yells and snaps what sounds like a whip and the zombies moan, which in turn seems to startle Gerald who fires a shot into the yard and I hear a grunt and excited groans.
I poke my head through the hole in the fence to find Anthony dead from a gunshot wound right through the head, laying sprawled on the lawn. His zombies have eagerly descended upon their handler and are ripping into his flesh.
“Damn,” I say.
I rip the pistol from Gerald’s hand and storm into Anthony’s backyard and pop a round in each of the zombies brains, ending their undead lives.
Returning to my own lot of land I find Gerald staring slack jawed at me.
“Did you want to ask me any questions about my horticultural technique?” I ask.

Another Bad One

I don't know what's up with me.  This one was rough.  Although I think this time isn't on me and more on the prompt.  We just didn't see eye to eye.  Much like the exchange between the two below.


A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems and Zachary Petit
January 11
Literary Road Show – J.D. Salinger Edition
“…one author’s stray lines become your source of inspirational gold?”

“C’mon, I’ll take ya home. No kidding.”
“I can go home by myself, thank you. If you think I’d let you take me home you’re mad. No boy ever said that to me in my entire life.”
“Probably because you’re a raging bitch.”
Her eyes widened.
“How dare you say that to me. Do-“
“Yes, I know who your father is and no I do not care. I don’t have to offer you a ride home after you brutally rebuff my advances, but I thought it’d be the gentleman thing to do.”
She began to storm down the wet sidewalk, her heels clicking on the cement.
Richard sighed and hung his head. At one point he had been madly in love with this woman, which was why he had mustered up the most courage he could offer to ask her out on a date. Then he lets his ego get to his head and he becomes a bully.
“Lily, wait.”
He chased after her and she only picked up the pace.
“You are ridiculous. You call me filthy names and expect me to stop.”
He placed a hand gently on her shoulder to stop her. She in turn reached a hand into her purse to retrieve a pink sparkle pepper spray can. The red spray arched over his right shoulder and onto the cement below.
“Hold on there, I am not going to hurt you. Please, let me just say one more thing before you decide to end whatever this could be.”
She held the can aloft, pointed threateningly at his face.
“I have been in love with you the moment you stepped into the library.”
Her angry expression lessened some.
“The past two months I have tried desperately to work up enough courage to ask you out. I do know who your father is and that is terrifying to me. Father’s in general are terrifying to the potential man whom may steal his daughter away. It’s just a fact of life.
“I know this night has been nothing you’re accustomed to. I don’t have the kind of money some people do at times. My money requires careful thought and planning. This whole night was planned from the get. The walk along the river, the dinner at Rivera’s, and I had planned a poetry slam before you, for some reason, decided not to enjoy my company any further than it had gone.”
Lily closed her eyes, lowered the can of mace, and sighed.
“Rick, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had such strong feeling for me. If I had known that I wouldn’t have agreed to this.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I only agreed because I’ve seen you around campus and I knew what type of person you are. My father is an ambassador and would have hated the very idea of me being out with you.”
Richard’s shoulders slumped.
“What I didn’t expect was to enjoy the night as much as I have. I felt terrible that I had even given a thought to use you as some sort of pawn. It was terrible of me. That was why I had decided to just end the evening.”
Richard stood silent for a moment, pressing his lips into a thin line.
“But you said you were having fun.”
Lily laughed.
“I did indeed.” She paused. “I’m sorry I tried to mace you.”
“I’m sorry you’re a terrible shot.”
The two looked into the other’s eyes.
“I’m sorry I called you a bitch. Can we please start again?”
Lily bowed her head.
“Another time perhaps. But I would gladly let you walk me home.”

I am not proud of this one at all...

This was not one of my bests. After a quick re-read I was thoroughly disappointed.  It's either because I'm a little bit tipsy or I'm just a terrible writer.  Whatever the case may be, I promised I would do a prompt and here it is.  With massive errors and all. I could edit it and have it not suck but... Meh.
A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems and Zachary Petit
January 10
Snow Day
“Write about a day during your elementary school years when school was cancelled due to snow. Remember waking up to the “good” news? How did you fill your newfound free time?”

My initial reaction to this prompt was that of a typical Southern Californian. We don’t experience snow days. Although it is not true. While my town is not really in an area with likely snowfall, it could happen, theoretically. That is, if the stars aligned and rain was in the forecast. While it can get below freezing in the San Joaquin Valley, unless it rains the chances of it snowing are really slim. Especially since we typically have an awful lot of sunny days. Which is why our entire state has been in a drought for some time.
The one and only snow day I ever got I remember very well. My mom woke me up at six in the morning. She whispered to me that she had something very important to show me. I was annoyed and told her I wanted to sleep. She assured me in the softest voice, that I would not be disappointed.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I walked across the hall to my mother’s bathroom where she had the window open. I looked through the undistorted view at the most beautiful scene I have ever witnessed.
In our backyard is a kidney shaped pool, with a large fiberglass rock waterfall at it’s head. There is even a matching fiberglass planter just to the left. In the summer it’s very beige and our backyard is typically very brown, except for the lush greenery in one corner. This particular morning every surface was covered in soft white powder. The flakes were still drifting down in small flakes.
My heart skipped a beat. “Wow” was all I could say.
In my younger years I went to a private Christian school. During the first year we moved from true southern California to the San Joaquin Valley, I would pray every day in class for snow. I drove my other classmates nuts. I distinctly remember this one morning there was a heavy layer of frost on the grass and this one classmate of mine said, “There’s your snow. Now will you stop praying?” This particular girl regularly hated me. So I just smiled and said no. (Believe me, she was a cunt of the highest order. She was one of the kind who hated me purely because I was fat.)
From my parent’s bathroom I rushed to the front door and looked out at my usually drab world covered in a glistening blanket.
The thing that sticks with me, just as vivid as the moment I stepped out the front door that day, was how silent it was. The silence was so other worldly. It was beautiful, but like the modern world tends to be, it was a true silent. Cutting through the serene silence was the snapping, cracking, of the trees. They were unfamiliar with the weight of the snow on their limbs and were growing weak as they attempted to keep them raised.
I rushed back inside and grabbed our old film camera and starting snapping photos. What came out was so very disappointing. The photos were very dark and did not, in the slightest, capture how it had looked when I took them. To make it worse, the flakes passed right in front of the lens and looked freakish in the photos. Almost like misshapen specters sailing through the air. Me being obsessed with the paranormal, fantasized that to be the case.
By some miracle, the school cancelled instruction for the day. My school typically didn’t even do fog delays like the other schools in the valley. So, it was so exciting to have a whole day to play in the snow.
The cold powder lasted until about midday and it began to melt. Our location is not conducive for the life of snow. Ultimately the only thing I did that day was build snowman cheerleaders in the formation of a two tier, pyramid. (Yeah. I wasn’t gay.)
It has been almost 20 years since that happened and the people in my town still talk about the snow day.

The Eye of God

I have to say... this is a bit risky of a short story.  I couldn't help myself.  I want to be controversial but who doesn't?  Supposedly it acquires you fame or infamy.  Either ay it draws readers.  So, shamelessly, my mind wouldn't let this idea go.  Please know that I meant no harm. I just needed  characters of legend for a "matchup."
A Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems & Zachary Petit
January 9
Matchup!
“Write a scene featuring a cruise ship or a boat, a sudden change of weather, and the idiom “Fools rush in.””

The prophet Mohammed stood on the rickety dock that jutted out into the waters of the Sea of Galilee. His band of followers were busily preparing the boat to set sail to the other side. One called from the ship, beckoning the prophet forward onto the skiff. Using the gentlest of motions he stepped down and they immediately set sail.
Mohammed tried dearly not to show his uncertainty, he was the prophet from Allah, he could not show any sense of fear, but deep down he dreaded being on the open sea. The fear of being washed overboard weighed heavily in his mind and he prayed for safe passage.
Then the clouds rolled in. Those around him commented at the momentary shimmer jumping from cloud to cloud. “It’s going to be a bad one,” someone said. Mohammed did not know who had whispered, what he thought, were the final words of his life. He had to admit that none of them truly mattered to him. They were mere stepping stones in his journey to retrieve the stone of power that rested on the other side. It was known as the Eye of God and any mortal that held it would take on the powers of one not of this world.
If it were not that he feared another would retrieve the stone he would have walked around the sea or at least found some other transportation other than the sea.
If only I had the stone now, he thought, I would stop this storm before it had spread like a disease across the sky.
The waves began to grow. They lapped at the edges of the boat, lobbing spray of sea at the men. The man chosen as captain tried his best to steer the ship through the waters. Mohammed would have thrown him overboard I he didn’t need him. The man clutched to the side of the ship, trying to stabilize himself, while keeping his eyes pointed ever forward.
The winds picked up and ripped the prophets ‘Imama from his head, relinquishing the greasy, black locks beneath. It whipped at his face like angry tentacles, entangling itself in his thick beard.
The wave first rose like a mountain rising from sleep at the bow of the ship, blocking Mohammed’s view of the other side of the sea. Then with the strength of the earth it crashed over the ship and sent everyone swirling into the blackness.
He scrambled. Climbing his way through the water but he could not tell what was up or down. But soon he found himself slowly drifting ever upwards.
His head broke the thrashing surface of the water. He gasped and gulped down the salty air.
“Why have you done this,” Mohammed cried out.
His black eyes scoured the sea for any sign of his companions. He knew none of them by name and felt it ridiculous to call out for anyone. There was no room for weakness.
A wave rose and cresting over it was another, larger, boat, still surviving the rough waters. It dove down the other side of the wave. It rushed past Mohammed, spraying him with a miniscule wave compared to it’s brethren.
“Over here,” he called out.
Lightning cracked the black and he saw the silhouettes of twelve men, scrambling across the deck of the ship. There was incoherent shouting but he did not recognize any of the words against all the other noise around him.
The storm quickly subside in a cool breeze.
“Look” shouted someone on the boat.
Mohammed waved his arms above his head and shouted again, until he was submerged in the water.
A hand grasped on to his shoulder and pulled him from the water.
Mohammed looked into the face of a Hebrew man, bearded like himself, with long locks of flowing hair. He knew that face. It was the man who claimed to be the son of God.
“You,” Mohammed said.
He looked down and realized with the sense of falling, that this man was standing on the surface of the water.
“Did you-“
“Yes, Mohammed, I got the stone.” Jesus sneered. “Cause only fools don’t rush in.”