Very Short Stories, Week 23
Another weekend has come and gone and I already long for the next one. I find them relaxing in such a new way in the fall. Here’s hoping Autumn will help me blossom.
Anyways, I tried to not to be too repetitive with this week’s set of prompts and I think I pulled it off. Not gonna lie, I feel I have lost the sensory aspect of my writing and I’m trying to tap into it again. Working on my description that way as it were. So here’s hoping that’s noticeable in the future!
The wolves prowled the ground, tracking the scent until they came across their prey. Low to the ground, they crawled forward in the dense grass. In the quiet evening sun, their paws dashed forward in thunderous waves. Their #carnivorous fangs sank into the fat of the calf.
His warmth welcomes her, leaves her #infatuated with his presence. His words soothe her, teaching her to love who he is inside.
But their souls?
Those meet in the dark nights, wrapped in need and want for each other. Connecting their broken pieces for one whole being.
The path into the dark is never lined with light. It’s a #cavernous descent into the bowels of one’s own soul. Eyes adjust slowly to constant night and it’s left to one’s imagination how the trail begun. But it is home now. Its warmth and smell of brimstone there always.
In the heat of the moment, passion #devours the mind. Thoughts of laundry and chores vanish. And they’re at the edge, the peak, the tiptop of release. They disintegrate into a husk rocked by wave after wave of climax. The body controls the wheel and only lets go after orgasm.
In the depths of her bones, in its very #marrow, were the answers to her abilities. And she couldn’t let him harvest it. Struggling against the restraints, they frayed and snapped, freeing her. She grabbed the thin shaft of the scalpel and lashed out at the doctors.
My #garden lies barren. Its soil hard and unyielding. There are no weeds to pull, no flowers to tend. Instead it weakens further, unnurtured. The sun dries it and the wind kicks at its dust. When the rain comes, I fear it will be too late. Another patch of death.
The #Equinox seemed to approach faster this year, leaving her frazzled. She ran her hand through her hair and collected the stones she owned. The polished black of the hematite called to her and she held its rounded edges in her palm. This will do, she thought and began.
Very Short Stories, Week 22
Good Monday morning! Or at least, I hope it will turn into one if it hasn’t yet.
My dreams were sweet and intoxicating, and kept me in bed longer than I’d like. But here I am with my very short stories.
Here you go!
The tree lay on its side, but relatively intact. Winds from last night’s storm #uprooted its proud base, leaving it exposed to the elements. She wandered over to it in sun’s brilliant rays and mourned its fate to shrivel and decay.
But the tree didn’t give up.
#Smoke tumbles off the burning logs, crawling slowly towards the heavens. The fire’s scent hangs in the air and spreads its warmth and fond memories. Leaves rustle underfoot and form a carpet on soon to sleep grass. The taste of Autumn is in the air, beckoning.
Rain gathered behind the dam’s walls. Its angered waters licked and spilled over its confinement, taunting those in its way. Shouts were scarcely heard over the storm, ordering evacuation.
The police rushed to remove those in the city below, to beat the #floodwaters.
The teachers blamed the #lunar eclipse but the students only wanted freedom. From rules and regulations. From homework and grades. From the rigors suffocating creativity. They longed to spread their wings and read from forbidden works.
Really, they wanted stimulation.
I remember doing #somersaults on the ground. The grass wet or dry, but soft against my clumsiness. I remember it turned into flips in the air that ended badly, too. I remember the child in me who made the attempt despite the outcome.
Where did she go?
His eyes were #amber and sweet like honey. They raked over her naked body, sending shivers across her skin. Tension rose between them in the still silence. The pure sexual energy demanded release.
If she were a lock, his kiss was the key to unleash both their passion.
Her fingers fluttered like hummingbirds across the keys of the piano. It was the only thing betraying her #euphoric mood. With eyes shut and lips a thin line, no one thought she was anything but serious. The notes that rose and fell were uplifting, demanding. Like her.
Her eyes feast
on wanton flesh
and passion’s flames
flicker like bonfires.
in her sultry gaze
He saunters forward
from his naked skin
It pulls her in
and begs her to feed
until he runs dry.
She’s staring into empty eyes
and yet the thirst
Time to find another
Very Short Stories, Week 15
Good morning, friends! Couple things to share today…
This week, My hubby and I are taking one of our nephews to stay with us. There’ll probably be some Pokemon Go and Harry Potter: Wizards Unite. Swimming, splash pads, day trips. Or maybe a more lazy week with in home reading and crafting. Who knows!
Because of this, I will most likely be absent from my blog and less active on Twitter (if you follow me on there; if not, here’s me! @KEMwriting ). There’s no point trying to guarantee blog posts when I’m going to be focused on having fun and laughs with my nephew!
It also means little editing will be done on my book. I plan on making time for it since the writer’s life for me will eventually mean children of my own. This will be a great way to figure that aspect out more.
While I’m off for a week of joy and adventures, I hope this week is fulfilling for the rest of you! Take care!
Oh, and enjoy my very short stories just below!
This is #folly, she cried and barrelled out the open window of the train compartment after her friend. She heard a splash seconds before cold water surrounded her, pulling at her limbs. Unbuttoning her heavy clothes, she sprung to the surface and sought out her friend.
Such a waste of time, she determined and slammed her laptop closed. What a #joke, thinking I could be a writer. She tossed her USB across the room and left it there like a piece of forgotten trash.
Pick me up now, it seemed to say from the floor. We’re not done yet.
Vivian stepped out of her room and the black dress clung to her body like a wet glove. A hesitant smile played on her lips as she descended the staircase. In front of Damian’s hungry gaze, her cheeks turned scarlet.
His kiss was sudden yet she #answered it with passion.
Give ’em #hell, his dad said and tapped his gloves.
He entered the cage to the roars of the crowd and threw his arms up high with his own shout. Pacing back and forth, he watched his opponent. They approached each other, knocked fists and squared up.
The bell rang.
What’s your #intent with my son? she asked. Her legs were crossed, hands rested on her knee.
I plan on making him happy til the end of my days, he answered and smiled. He fiddled with the ring box in his pocket.
That settles it then. You have my blessing, she grinned.
Do you get it yet?
I want You gone
Into a Darkness
only You can
Tired of cruel whims
that Sabotage my attempts
You’re a bad taste
I #renounce You
and Your Tainted Touch
Your Traitorous ways
#Stray dogs littered the streets; unwanted and untended. She shook her head at the sight until a wet nose kissed her hand. Smiling, she stroked the ragged pup and it demanded belly rubs. I can’t save them all but I can save this one, she mused and took it home with her.
Music pounded above the chatter
the beat louder than the melody
but she swayed to it.
Downing her whiskey in a chug
she rose from the table
and danced to the center of the writhing bodies.
Surrounded on all sides
she twirled her lithe form
like a lustful seductress.
Sex filled the air as she danced.
Warm, liquid, and kinky.
Begging behind the bars of it’s cage.
His electric touch summoned her.
The promise of fulfillment
on his velvet lips.
Pulled into a dark room
She tasted the sweet liquer
Of his passion.
Wrapped about his waist
he pounded at her chains
and she moaned for freedom.
Her nails dug into his shoulders
Desperate to hold on
Drawing a groan from him.
Sweat beaded on their foreheads
Its scent beneath the musk of need
And in a cry they succumbed.
A New Project For Me
Writing has always been a passion of mine. It may have been forgotten for spans of time, but I have enjoyed it since I was a child. While it is a hard thing to do, you can only improve, right?
So, in an attempt to improve my craft, I am going to start tweeting a #vss365 every day.
For those of you not sure what that means, vss stands for Very Short Story (the length of a tweet) and 365 means to do every day in a year. I am sure there will be times when I am unable to complete the task, but I am making the attempt.
But, instead of inundating my followers and readers everyday with a new one, I am going to post them once a week. They will be dated and I will leave the prompt word with # to indicate it.
Since Wednesday is an odd date to start, I am going to share today’s attempt (and my first). Afterwards, I hope to do it every Monday.
#veneer covered the coarseness of the room, calming it into a beauty, but she could only hate it. It is a mask, a facade, she thought as her eyes longed for the rugged stone and rough wood beneath it. “Why must we hide the beauty of truth?”
Finger tips trace
Lover’s soft skin.
Share more than words.
Pure want for it
That beguiling touch.
Bask in passionate warmth
Skin to skin.
Bodies move as one
Heads tossed back
To greet Ecstasy.
Cries ring out,
Atop heavy breaths.
In Sweet Climax.
It’s Hard To Kill What’s True
It’s hard to kill what’s true.
It hides inside your soul,
Reaching forward for your heart.
It inspires passion,
Feeds the struggling fire
You secret from the world.
It turns on the light
You’re afraid to shine
The blinding brightness too much.
It’s hard to kill what’s true.
It screams when you refuse to listen,
pouts when you deny its truth.
It defends itself
Against your self deprecating lies.
It fights for its freedom
Its actualization in your mind.
It’s hard to kill what’s true
Because the truth is…
You’re Amazing to Someone
Even if that someone
Mind and Soul
You can’t be a good writer without being a good thinker. This is a depressing thought for a writer. ~ Andy Rooney