31 Days of Prompt Writing: Day 6

This was a funny one to write!  I thought it was hysterical when I fully realized what I would have to write about.

Here is the prompt:

XD  The last show I watched was the 2005 Casanova mini-series with David Tennant, Peter O'Toole, Rose Byrne, and Laura Fraser.  It's on Netflix if you want to give it a watch.  It's pretty good. 

When time and mysterious circumstances conspired together, fate somehow landed me in a space shuttle with none other than the notorious seducer himself.

Casanova.

Three months in the middle of space with him.

….

He didn't survive the trip.

Quite unfortunate, really. I'm afraid I can't say what happened.

What I can say is, he had three strikes. 

This is fictional of course.  It's short, but that was literally all I had to say about it.  I think it would be interesting to really write a long version of this prompt, but I like how this turned out.

Please comment, give feedback, and share!

31 Days of Prompt Writing: Day 5

 Hi everyone!  Here is Day 5's writing prompt: 

I found the prompt on Pinterest.  This gave me a lot of inspiration!  And I'm interested to see if I can keep working on this!

OSIRIS/ORPHEUS

My gentleman of midnight stars and crescent moons. Galaxies swam in his eyes underneath the slits in his ivory moon mask. I could see new worlds within them. Speckled starbursts of violet, sapphire, and gold swirled like liquid gems in his irises. From a distance, his eyes were opalescent when they gazed on me as I called his name.

I seemed to float when I ran, as one does when they dream, clothed in a rosewood cotton dress. Despite the thin boning down the bodice and the laces tied tightly against my back, I could breathe as cleanly as though I wore nothing at all. The long skirt didn't tangle around my legs, it floated no higher than my shins as a I rushed to him, his arms outstretched, then folding around me as he pulled me into him. His long spider-like fingers tangled themselves into the web of my brown bed-head messy hair, chuckling as he stroked it and mussed it up.

He smelled like nightfall; like two glasses of cabernet, musky cologne, dewy pine trees, and untamed secrets whispered in your ear.

He was covered from head to toe in darkness. His suit glowed from navy to black like a raven's wings, and his leather gloves made his touch seem like soft moonlight on my body. And his skin...I wasn't sure you could call it skin. He was obsidian silk under my clean fingers. He would seem to have no features if it weren't for his mouth holding all which could pleasure ears with a sweet tenor voice, and pleasure skin with tender lips. He had everything else that would make up a handsome face. If only you could see it against the galactic backdrop of my dream.

He was there in every single one. The darkness comforting and the swirls of color surrounding us as he caressed my hand in his and took me skipping across planets and moons and stars.

He, himself, was a dream. Gentle and soft, adventurous and brave and charming, with the humor of a trickster in the night. He was...perfect. So perfect, in only a dream could he exist; blinking in stardust, waltzing on auroras, kissing me in the shadows.

Could dreams be waking life and waking life be dreams as long as it meant he was real?

It felt like my skin was melting. My cotton dress singed and fell away at the sleeves. It blistered my arms and shoulders. I couldn't breathe. Smoke and ash stormed into my mouth and filled my lungs; the boning of my bodice dug into stomach and chest, and the lacing was so tight it crushed my rib cage. My body revolted, forcing me to hack until my throat was raw. I couldn't feel the bottom of my feet against the burning molten rock.

Fire...fire and darkness. Not like the darkness that surrounds me in my dreams. No, this darkness was thick, and so black I didn't dare believe there was anything beyond it. It weighed heavily in the air like a suffocating blanket. The only light was the burning flames, scorching the air and the sky all around her.

It was fire and blackness sometimes. Sometimes it was a dense forest in the dead, haunted hours of the night. It was a countless many things that fed on the silence and shadows. It fed on my fears.

And he'd be there.

The ground felt like lava under my feet, the scalding heat shooting through my toes and heels.

Run.

Running was the only thing I could do. At least I didn't feel the burning as much when I ran, but it made breathing even harder to manage.

Fragments of rock in my path tripped me. They broke my toenails and scraped my legs and knees on impact.

And then I would see him out of the corner of my eye. I'd whisk my head to and fro. My heart pounded in my chest like looming drums counting down to my end. Was I running away from him, or running to him? In the fiery depths of my prison, who could tell?

Sweat rolled down my forehead, my neck, and my back. It made my skin glisten in the heat, and my dress cling to my body.

I coughed some more.

Where was he?

When would I wake up?

Then he was there.

My heart stopped. I rose my chin slowly, following the navy and black silk pant legs that stood right in front of me all the way up to the face looming above me.

Tornadoes of wrath and horrible mischief whirled in the eyes underneath the skull mask he wore. My stomach lurched at this phantom so close to me; in distance and emotion.

He knew all my secrets. He knew where I was every second when I was awake and asleep. He knew what my lips tasted like and how soft my hands were. He knew everything about me. He remembered everything about me...but he didn't remember himself.

He was my gentleman who created universes for me in my dreams. And he was the specter that stalked and tormented me in my nightmares.

© All writing belongs to me.

31 Days of Prompt Writing: Day 4

Hi all!  Here is Day 4!  Still trying to catch up!  Hope you enjoy!

I pulled the prompt from a generator here:  http://writingexercises.co.uk/subjectgenerator.php

This is from another perspective in my story The Alchemist's Wife.

 

The prompt is: Is there anything you regret?

He wished he had kissed her more.

He remembered when he first kissed her. Not their first kiss on their wedding, a quick, chaste, unfeeling peck on the lips. But really kissed her.

In that respect she was irresistible. He wished he had realized it sooner. That sort of intimacy had eluded him for so long in his life. It didn't fancy him as much as the action of melting metals and mixing chemicals did. As did women. If she hadn't been thrust upon him under the contract of marriage, he never would have looked twice at her. Shouldn't she have married someone who could provide a happy, fruitful life for her? Like his brother. Corvus knew Adam had feelings for Georgie. Who could miss them, as he was always chasing after her, finding reasons to be around her, letting her borrow books. Given, Corvus would have been mad not to think that she was pretty at least. She had all the respects people cared about in a woman, and she did her duty as a wife to him, taking care of the household. He hardly cared about that.

He hadn't cared for so long.

He regretted that too.

“You shut yourself away for hours on end after you come home from the university! There is no companionship in your books and whatever else you're working on down there!” She had raised her voice at him in the offensively, cheerful yellow drawing room. The broken clock clanged at 11:30 pm; she was usually in bed at that time and he astonished to find her waiting up for him.

“I can't bring myself to believe that you're content living your life holed up in a basement and a laboratory. Perhaps you are, but I'm not. Call it selfish if you will, but I don't care. Not only is it detrimental to your health, but what about me? You're my husband, but it feels like I don't even have one. Has it ever occurred to you that you need people in your life, that you need companionship and friendship and affection? Well so do I! And the affection I crave is from you, the only person I can seek it from!”

His mouth had gone dry, and a small, warm, guilty sweat formed on his brow underneath his dark brown hair hanging over his cheekbones. All that spark and anger was not usually expected to come out of someone with her usual temperament. Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. He had to fight a small smile from creeping to his face. He formed his hands into fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms; but it didn't stop the corner of his pert lips from drawing up.

“I...I wasn't aware you cared.” That was the only thing he could think of to say.

She scoffed haughtily, any unladylike gesture he didn't expect to come from her either. The smile was becoming harder to mask, and she noticed, her brow knitting even tighter, and the muscles in her neck tensed. He had never seen her this way before; forceful, passionate with anger, perplexed. The warm guilty sweat that was forming on his brow lowered to his neck where heat formed and spread even lower throughout his abdomen. But he felt remorseful at sensing her surrender, and her vulnerability. This was what happened when someone had been bottling things up for too long. He had wondered how long she would be able to keep it bottled up. In return, he wondered if the same thing would happen to him in time.

“Well, I do. Perhaps I'm wrong to do so. But it's not like I have any choice. Even if you weren't my husband, I'd still like you. That much is something my heart has gathered all on its own. If you'd only see that. If you'd only come up from the basement and your...your...experiments long enough to notice.”

She had stomped up the stairs, wiping angry tears from her bottom lashes before they could roll down her cheeks for him to see them. Her bedroom door slammed shut and Corvus was left there, his shoes glued to the drawing room carpet and his legs frozen stiff. The smile had crept more visibly onto his face until finally he found himself grinning.

But why?

His insides lurched with guilt at having made her feel this way when he knew she deserved better. And he knew he was incapable of giving it to her. But there was something else. The surprise of seeing her like this, like he had never seen her before aside from her usual gentle, kind, comforting, and ladylike self. He had finally witnessed what he knew she was capable of. The spunk and passion she so desperately wanted to show, but, for propriety's sake, couldn't. It had made her glow, all of that hurting rage seething inside of her. Fire had sparked in her eyes, burning through her mind and soul as she poured herself out to him, so hot that it could have melted gold.

And he had stood there, like a dimwitted fool, smiling at her.

He reached the top of the stairs, not aware that his legs had taken him there, and he heard the soft cries of Georgie through her closed bedroom door. He raised a hand to the door, wondering if he should knock. Instead he turned the knob and let himself in without so much as a moment passing by and then closed it behind him.

The click on the door jamb roused her from her boudoir, sitting there in front of the mirror in nothing but her nightgown, her hair half out of the twisted and curled masterpiece on her head. If there was something he had always admired about her, it was her hair. Like precious, glimmering gold, he thought.

She wiped her face dry with her handkerchief, and gave him a stern, strong look, ready to defend herself. Corvus chuckled at her iron-will.

He got to his knees beside her, staring up at her. Heart beating so hard he thought it was going to burst through his chest at any moment, he made sure his eyes read sincerity. Perceptive, another thing he admired about her when he had the time to notice. He had noticed, well before they were married. He wasn't opposed when they first proposed the idea to him. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why. There were many things he admired about her, he just didn't realize it. He was so wrapped up in his work and life's pursuits to realize anything he could feel for anything, or anyone else.

He took her hands gently, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. When she looked into his eyes and her face softened, Corvus brought his arms up to wrap them around her waist, pulling himself to her, his head pressed her side. She tensed for a single moments, but then relaxed and returned the embrace by wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

Corvus knew that he was incapable of giving Georgie what she deserved, but damn it, he might as well try to.

He loosened their embrace, and their hands met again. There was a hopeful, understanding smile on her lips. He barely noticed his hands travel up to her neck, caressing the side of her face. And soon, he was bringing her lips to his for their own sweet embrace.

Why hadn't he done this more?

Now especially when he might not ever see her again?

Please leave a comment or feedback!

©All creative writing belongs to me.

31 Days of Prompt Writing: Day 3

Hi all!  I apologize that I'm several days behind.  The only excuses that I can give are that I started my new job on the same day that I caught strep throat.  So the past several days have kept me very busy, very exhausted, and very sick.  I hope to catch up over these next several days now that I am feeling infinitely better.

This prompt follows the same story, The Alchemist's Wife, only from another perspective. 

I got the prompt from a generator here: http://writingexercises.co.uk/subjectgenerator.php

Here is the prompt that it gave me:

Write about someone you used to love. 

Adam Stoker glimpsed at her as she poured over the stacks of curiously stained papers and over-sized leather-bound manuscripts, pages torn, dog-eared, and peeling from the bindings. In the low light of the candles and the gray outside light coming in from the high rectangular windows of the basement, shadows cast over her fair face, distorting it to liken it to the dry, sullen skulls on the shelves behind her.

In profile, she didn't appear very beautiful, her face and cheekbones flat save for a pointed noise. Based on her profile alone, no one would think that she was beautiful. Such was the expectation of women these days in the 19^th century. He chuckled, catching himself, and covered it with a clearing of his throat. Beauty, birth, money, and accomplishments were the only things that women could count on. But Georgiana Stoker had beauty that could rival even the most fashionable woman in London...in his opinion.

Adam cleared his throat again, tugging at his cravat around his neck where a guilty blush was slowly creeping. Here he was, in the basement of his missing twin brother's wife, thinking how beautiful she was. It had been several months since he had last seen her, not out of his spite or rudeness, but for his sake. During that time he had been remembering. If half of it could be called remembering. He would remember first meeting her, her kindness and humility hid an intelligence and resourcefulness that would be seen as unfashionable for a lady of her standing. He saw it as remarkable, with her yearning to learn which she made to seem as though she was curious rather than a hunger for higher education. He always respected it. She hid a lot, necessary to her sex and her upbringing, but unnecessary to him. He saw right through her. Apparently, so did his brother.

The other memories he had of her were rather more fantasies, delusions. But they felt like memories, they just hadn't happened. He would find her sitting in the drawing room reading one of his law books after he returned from the office. She would beam up at him, with that wide smile of hers, and go to greet him as he entered the room, placing the softest kiss on his cheek. It would play over and over in his head, so much that he had almost convinced himself that it had happened.

These past couple of months that he had removed himself from his brother's life he had been training himself to be rid of that fantasy-memory. He eventually did. It had been hard for him to admit the most dangerous thing he could to himself.

He loved her.

He had since he first met her.

But once he had admitted it to himself he was able to begin healing himself.

He had been doing well. Any feelings he had for her were gone.

However, he often found himself asking, more recently now that he was back into contact with Georgie since his brother had gone missing, if Corvus had ever received such affection from Georgie. More curiously, he wondered if she ever received such affection from him. The latter was highly unlikely given Corvus's interest or experience in giving any sort of affection to another human being. The only love he had shown Georgie deserved more than what she had been dealt.

But she was so keen on finding him. She was fraught with worry and anxiety. She hid it well, like everything else incredible about her, but he could see it in her twitching eyebrows, fighting not to furrow themselves, the moistness in her eyes, her distant expression, and her chewed nails. Maybe it was her duty as a faithful wife to be worried about her missing husband, but he didn't expect her to be this distressed. Maybe there were some affections that were passed between her and Corvus.

His heart beat in his chest so heavily it hurt all the way down to his stomach. He clutched the edge of the wooden table, his knuckles going white.

He didn't love her anymore.

He didn't love her anymore.

He didn't love her anymore.

Just keep telling yourself that, he thought.

Georgie looked up from her searching, the first since she started looking for any clues as to where her Corvus had disappeared to. She gave him a nervous, but encouraging smile.

Damn...

He was still in love with her. 

Please leave a comment or feedback!

©All creative content belongs to me.

 

31 Days of Prompt Writing Day 2

Here is Day 2 of my January Prompt Writing Challenge

I had the same character from yesterday in mind when I wrote this, trying to capture a voice and description through her eyes.  It's very prose-y, and I wanted to keep it like that.  Just an exercise.  Please enjoy!

There. In the cushioned window seat during mid-morning. When it's brightest and the golden-white sunbeams glisten through crystal glass, casting sparkling rainbows throughout the room. With legs drawn to my chest, and bare feet curling under crushed velvet cushions, the warmth through the windows warms my face and the open pages of a book resting on top of my knees. The peach blossom tree swaying in the breeze outside invites me to stray from the page and chase after a daydream. It is peaceful. It is magical. It is beautiful. It is distracting. The petals of the blossoms dance like fairies to the sidewalk where nameless strangers stroll with parasols and polished walking canes. I make up stories about their lives, and their families, and their secrets, and their desires. The author of their mysterious lives. I have forgotten what I was there to do. How many pages have I read? 2. I slip my fingers through single, thin leafy pages, feeling the paper between them. They are soft and crisp and sharp. The scent of the aging yellow pages is like a man's cologne, musky and addictive; only better. Tea sits beside me on the tea table, untouched but begging to be enjoyed by the tongue and the depths of the mind strangling over the mysteries weaved onto paper on my lap. When noon rolls around and the sun is higher in the sky, there will be little point left to read when the crystal-formed rainbows have faded, and the tea is cold. And the book will be left there on the window seat, characters and voices trapped between to hard covers. Until the next mid-morning.

I get my daily prompts from here: http://writers-write-creative-blog.posthaven.com/tag/Writing%20Prompts

They post daily writing prompts.  I choose the one they post every day for my writing prompt.

Please leave comments and feedback!  Also if you wanted to join along or write something based on the prompt that I use and leave it as a comment or leave a link to yours that would be awesome!

All writing belongs to me©

31 Days of Prompt Writing: Day 1

Happy New Year everyone!  I have decided to take control of my writing this 2017 and will be doing a small challenge.  For every day in January, I will be taking a writing prompt and will write something, and then post it here.  It's important for an author to gain a readership, especially before they are published.  I am mostly doing this for those who wish to read what I write, since I have had some requests from friends to read my writing, but also for those who wish to read the writing of someone new and hopes to entertain.  If this goes well, I may turn it into a year long project :)

So here is Day 1:

This inspired me to write something from a story idea that I have.  It's a little bit of a Flash Fiction exercise that I hope will turn into something bigger.  It is currently titled The Alchemist's Wife.  Enjoy!

Georgie tugged at the white lace cuff on her sleeve while chewing the inside of her mouth, a nasty habit her mother always rapped her knuckles over with whatever she happened to have in her hands at the time. Sometimes it was a hand fan, or a fountain pen, a sewing sampler, and once she had even smacked them with a fork. Georgie couldn't help it. She would often chew her lips raw, close to bleeding, when she was nervous.

The Earl Grey tea sitting in front of her in the bone China teacup, half drunk, was beginning to cool, the steam becoming more transparent. The cheerful floral and lace pattern on the teacup and saucer mocked her as she sat, alone, in the tea room of her London townhouse. The broken grandfather clock in the hall groaned a half hour past tea time. She hadn't realized she had been sitting there for that long; waiting. She was already on her second pot of tea, having asked her housekeeper, Mrs. Craven, to refill it.

“He'll be along soon, I'm sure,” Georgie had told her housekeeper, glancing at the basement door, hopefully.

“Shall I go down and alert him that tea is ready, Mrs. Stoker?” Mrs. Craven had asked.

Georgie protested. Her husband hated distractions of any sort while he was working. She shivered remembering the poor doorman who had made the mistake of going down into the basement to tell him he had a visit from his brother. Georgie was distraught to hear him resign almost immediately after he came tripped up the stairs, the shouting and screaming of vulgarities still persisting.

No, it was best to leave him down there. He knew they were going to have tea together. She had reminded him, twice, last night.

The teacup on the table across from her, however, was still full, laying flat, lonely, and untouched. She felt ridiculous, feeling like she understood how the tea felt waiting there to be drunk.

She glanced at the basement door, tightly shut to keep intruders out.

Bang!

A cry.

Georgie sighed. Given the usual ruckus from the confines of the forbidden room in her own household, she finally resigned herself to the fact that she would be having this tea alone after all.

She stared down at her teacup, the glowing amber beverage begging to be finished. The lukewarm liquid melted down her throat leaving sweet citrus notes, and the fragrant taste of something she hadn't noticed before.

Lavender.

Known for it's calming qualities, it didn't seem to do anything for her. She shook her head as she placed the teacup back on the saucer, leaving nothing left but a single drop of tea. She stood from the table, disturbing the hem of the lace tablecloth with the elegantly bustled folds of her black skirt.

Her peppermint green eyes were being threatened with moisture, and she balled her hands up into fists, her nails digging into her palms, to keep the moisture from forming into pools. It worked, but instead it churned her stomach and made her heart ache. She sniffed, her footfalls heavy on the hardwood floors as she passed the basement door towards the stairs. When she started to close the door to her bedroom, she thought she heard the creak of the basement door opening.

She didn't care enough to check.

Corvus Stoker stood in the entrance of the tea room, his gold pocket watch open in his wet palm. His sharp knuckles were dripping water onto the wood floors. He hadn't been paying attention while he was working, as usual. It was 15 minutes till 3. 45 minutes late. He had washed his hands in haste, not bothering to dry them when he realized that he had failed in being punctual once more.

But she wasn't there.

He had hoped that she would be sitting there at the table draped in white lace, the early afternoon sun shining through the matching curtains, crowning her with a golden glow, like it usually did when he came up from the basement for a break and breath of fresh air. She would always be drinking tea, sometimes with a female guest, but mostly with a book open on the table, her hands combing through a single marigold curl resting on her shoulder. It wasn't until yesterday, when he nearly missed supper, that she finally asked him to take tea with her the following day. Lately, he had been noticing that she was trying to get closer to him; talking to him more, sharing an amusing story or joke she had heard that day. It had made him realize that in the three months that they had been married he hadn't spent much time with her, nor had they taken the trip he promised her that was supposed to be their honeymoon.

His work had to be dealt with.

He wondered how lonely she was in this house while he slaved away at his work downstairs in the basement. He couldn't even talk to her about it. What would he say? What would she say?

Corvus stepped remorsefully to the table looking down at the offensively cheerful teacups. One was empty, with only a drop of amber liquid left. The other teacup was full to the brim with tea. The cup was cool to the touch, left to be forgotten or drunk cold with the reminder of a broken promise.

With a slick, wet hand, he smoothed a long dark lock of his hair out of his young face. He sat down across from the empty teacup. With a single small sip he found the tea in the full cup was, unsurprisingly, cold and bitter. He gently placed it back down on the saucer, as though asking for forgiveness for abandoning it. Resting his elbows on the table, he drew his hands together and pressed them to his lips, meditatively pecking his brain.

Finding only disappointment clawing at his heart and mind, he buried his face into his hands, leaving the teacup full. 

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© All characters and writing belong to me.