#prompt52

[aveartz]

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[nilidoodle]

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[irishswanff]

Prompt 52

[severedhallow-blog]

I've been running...

Late, that is. 

Did I trick you? Because there's zero chance of me actually running.

My new story is up on my page. Go check out Essy's as well!

I swear I'll have a longer piece this week! A new picture with the prompt is coming up!

[bluecrownedbullets]

Prompt 52

A new beginning. Choose a character(s) that you would like to write about and the new beginning they are making or considering. Whether it's after high school, college, or whatever reason.

Try to think of Who, what, when, where, why, and how.

Possible Examples of who/what/when/where/why/how:

Who left, who is involved?

What are their thoughts, what are they feeling, what are their plans? What can they expect?

When is this occurring? 

Where are they now? Where are they going?

Why are they doing this? 

How did they accomplish or plan to accomplish it? Just...how?

[severedhallow-blog]

Negotiation

               “I still don’t understand why I’m here.” Martin Vanhouten countered, fixing his cold gray eyes on his arresting officer. “You haven’t charged me, read me my Miranda’s, anything.” He clenched a fist on the table and growled, “This is against the law.” Once again he demanded a lawyer, but the deputy sitting across from him kept a frustratingly sardonic smile plastered on his face. He pushed back onto the hind legs of the chair, teetering.

What the fuck is he smiling about? Martin raged in his head, but knew better than to open his mouth with something snarky, so instead he tried a different approach.

“Could you tell me what I did to be sitting in here? It’s my right as a citizen.” And, as an afterthought he added a strained, “Please?” The deputy inhaled sharply and tipped forward, clattering the chair onto all fours. Much to Martin’s surprise, the deputy stood up abruptly, grabbed the back of the aluminum folding chair, and slammed it into the wall.

Wait, what…?  Martin felt the color drain from his face.

The deputy was hovering over him in seconds, breathing hotly onto Martin’s cheek. He tried to shift away, the deputy just leaned in closer and spat,

               “We don’t give rights to terrorists.” His face split into a grin.

               Fuck.

[severedhallow-blog]

Promp52 is using some quote inspiration this week!

As you know, there are no rules for what we write, so this can be a quote inspired story, a story that incorporates the quote within it, or a combination of the two.

Curious? Check back next week to find out what we've come up with!

[severedhallow-blog]

Much More To Give

            Sweat pooled on his forehead as he grabbed a knife and began chopping the basil that he’d just pulled from the garden. His lips were pursed, humming a song that the club singer had preform the night before. Lips buzzing, the knife flew over the cutting board to the tune, and Enzo, quickly finishing off the basil, grabbed a clove of garlic. It was meditative; he sank into the rhythm he knew so well. Hum, chop, into the pan. Stir, hum, taste, stir. It was almost a reflex.

            “ENZO!” He looked up, a black shock of hair falling into his eyes. Had he heard his name? He shrugged, flipping the hair from his eyes and casting his gaze back to the garlic. “ENZO!” This time it was louder and he put down his knife just as his father came bounding around the corner. The portly man threw his hands in the air, a look of animated annoyance on his face.  Enzo was completely roused from his meditative state.  

             “Enzo, we have customers.” His father huffed, English thick with an Italian accent. He gestured for Enzo to follow him as he turned to leave. He waddled quickly back towards the front of the store, looking back over his shoulder to see if Enzo was behind him. When he realized he was not, he bellowed, “Andiamo!”

             The front of the store was packed with tourists that had just taken the boat from Sorrento over to the little island of Capri. Enzo heard his brothers cat-calling some American women looking for the restrooms.

            “Bella, beautiful girl! For you, anything!” His youngest brother smiled at a petite, pretty, redhead who had just asked for gelati nocciola. Enzo watched as she blushed, falling prey to Dino’s Mediterranean smile. Enzo elbowed his way over to his brother.

             “Lascia stare la ragazza! Leave her alone!” Enzo chided, scooping the girl’s gelati. Dino frowned and threw his hands in the air.

             “Enzo, the pretty girl likes me!” And in her direction, “Don’t you? Si, Si?” Enzo watched as the pale girl’s blush deepened. She nodded, laughing. Enzo reached over the counter and handed the girl her treat, pointing to the register at the end of the counter.

           “Dino will help you over there.” He watched as Dino flirted with the girl. As she handed over the Euros, Enzo heard him ask,

          “American, no?” Enzo did not listen for her reply, but frowned and went back to dipping gelati for a rather round man that had bellied up to the counter.

          Once the initial rush of seasonal customers had thinned out to one or two tourists out in the open café area, Enzo wiped his hands on a white linen cloth and ventured back into the kitchen. Switching the stove back on, he heated up the olive oil, basil, and garlic that he’d abandoned earlier. He tried to finish it, throwing in some pine nuts and salt, but the relaxation from earlier had vanished like the tourists. He slammed his fist onto the cutting board, sending a knife soaring into the air and landing in a loud clamor on the floor. In a fit of irritation, he threw his apron onto a counter-top and banged through the back door.

          The air was hot, as usual, and sticky with ocean spray. Enzo stooped down and washed his face with water from an ice chest near the door. The water trickled down his neck and under his shirt collar, dampening the fabric around the Capello logo. He listened to the sound the little speedboats with sun-canopies bobbing up and down in the gentle waves of the crystal clear water. The docks were full, tour guides gone home to their wives and children and a bottle of red wine. Enzo sighed at the idyllic scenery, orange sunshine glinting over the large limestone rocks far into the sea, and anger bubbled deep within his stomach. He would never leave this place. He was stuck here, forever, serving gelati to strangers much more travelled than he.

            At that moment his father popped his head out from a window in the apartment above the Capello’s Bakery.

          “Enzo , venuto avere qualche vino! Come drink some wine. It has been a long day!” The anger paused, simmering down into a residual and constant yearning. He stood up, grabbing the handle of the doorway and made his way for the stairs.