Today’s prompt will be short but, hopefully, sweet.
Left by the side of the bed of room 321 of Pineview Hotel, folded neatly, police officers found the following note in a flowing and elegant handwriting:
Dear humans,
I don’t know how you do it, but I’ve had enough pretending to be like you.
Officer Wallace was the first the wall sucked in.
Since tomorrow is Halloween for most of you, I figured I should post something relevant, something dark and, hopefully, a bit scary.
You’re in a single-room apartment where the last rays of light slip through the window and land on an old woman sitting on her rocking chair. She lives alone and forgotten. On her lap is her dog, a feisty and very protective little beast that snarls or bites anyone who dares come near her, or makes the dreadful mistake to walk outside the tiny and rundown apartment she inhabits. She has just put a record on the player – Verdi’s Nabucco – and a strong, crystal voice rises in an unpresedented crescendo.
On the wall facing her are photographs of herself at a much younger age, when the spotlights seemed like they’d never go dark, when fans flocked to her and others begged to be on stage with her. On the other side of the wall she has pinned newspaper articles from when they dragged her to prison, accused for murder. No one comes near her anymore. No one wants to know her. She’s all alone in the world. Except for her dog guardian.
The song on the record ends. It’s a live recording, so people applaud, a true standing ovation. The dog on her lap is calm. This song is almost second nature to it by now. The clapping from the record fades and eventually ends. Silence.
Except for the clapping sound in her small room that carries on. It’s coming closer.
I think most of you must have heard of the story of the pied piper. How about you attempt to retell the story? Perhaps a kid wants to save kitties (from someone or something) and lures them to safety, or maybe the child heard of the folk tale and wanted to do the same, but only managed to lure one cat (a neighbour’s cat or from someone who needed the cat; you can expand on that and create conflict).
Or the flute is magical and is the only way for the two of them to communicate. Perhaps the cat (or any other animal you choose) understands the child needs her and guides him to the flute.
You can go any way with this one, I think.
Tom blew smoke from the edge of his mouth and eyed me askance through the haze. “Back again? You going for a record or something? How did it happen this time? No, wait. Lemme guess. Bullet, right? Angry husband.”
I sat on the chair facing him – more like collapsed, to be precise. ‘Re-establishment,’ as I liked to call the procedure back then, was – and still is – a pain in the ass. Drained all my strength for a whole day. I barely had enough energy in me to reach out and snatch his cigarette. “Nah. Not how I died this time, man.”
The surface of the small puddle of water rippled and a quarter of an inch high tsunami raced to its edges. A deep resonance barely touched the soles of my shoes, sent vibrations up my shin. It was a clear day, not a speck of cloud on the horizon, and people came out to feel the sun on their faces, hands brought over squinting eyes as shields. Those dressed heavier now shed the extra layers. Perfection. Except the fact it was December and a blizzard was raging five minutes ago.
Stacey looked up, thin perspiration coating her forehead. She pointed to a dark and shifting mass on the sky. “What’s wrong with the birds?”
