Blue Jeans by Lesley Whyte

You should be here by now. You said you would be. You said you'd come on Monday, and now it's after midnight. I've stayed up, waiting, pacing the room. I must look like a crazy person. If anyone was peeking in the curtains, they'd wonder what was wrong with me. You should be here by now. You said you would be. You said you'd come on Monday. You should be here. Everything will be better once you're here. You're coming. I know you are. You said you'd come on Monday. If you don't come soon, it'll be too late. You need to be here soon. You're always a little late, I should have predicted that. It was stupid of me. I won't forget it again. I'll be better.

You should be here by now.

I drift in and out. I'm having trouble focusing. I can barely keep my eyes open. The room is hazy, shifting in front of me. Shifting underneath me. I tumble from the sofa and land face-first in the carpet. I can't breathe. I turn my head, scraping my nose across the carpet just so I can keep dragging in shallow breaths. Is that the door? I think I hear the door. You're here! You're finally here! You're late but you're here now and that's all that matters!

You call my name. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. You come into the room. The last thing I see before my eyes shut are the scuffed hems of your blue jeans. I hate those damn jeans. You could have worn something nicer than that. You could have been on time. But then you wouldn't be you. And you're perfect. I try to tell you I love you, but I just can't manage it. I should have known you'd be late, I should have planned for that and waited a little longer to take the pills. Still, you're here now, and that's all that matters.

Blue Jeans by James D. Irwin

The jeans were executed without trial. Everything had dyed, and it was his fault.

Day Thirty-One

And the final prompt is...

Blue Jeans

Broken Doll by James D. Irwin

They treated her like a plaything in her teens. By twenty-five she wasn't much more than a broken doll.

Broken Doll by Lesley Whyte

He called me his little broken doll. I wasn't sure if it was a compliment. Actually, I'm still not sure, but I like to think it was. I always pictured little girls who loved their dolls so much that they broke them - squeezing them too tight, playing with them too wildly, taking them to bed when really they should have been left on a shelf. I thought it was a cute little pet name. I thought it was a sweet. He wasn't good with words, he wasn't good with feelings. But it was something we shared, something that brought us closer and made what we had real.

Turns out he called me his little broken doll because I was pretty but damaged goods. Still, that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Broken Doll by Sara Travis

When Elsie was five years old, her mother bought her a china doll. Blue eyes, painted lips, dark curls, Elsie loved her instantly.

When Violet came to stay, Elsie was instructed to share her newest playmate with her older cousin. And when she refused, Violet snatched the doll from Elsie’s hands, hurling the thing against the bedroom wall. Elsie did not cry. She did not scream. She did not tug at her cousin’s long hair, or scratch at her eyes with her fingernails, or throw herself down on the rug, thumping her fists and kicking her feet. Instead, Elsie watched with mild curiosity as chunks of her beloved doll’s head fell to the floor.

They stuck her little face back together with glue, but the cracks never disappeared, and she was never quite the same after that. Elsie didn’t like to look at her. Something had broken inside of the girl, too, and although the cracks were never visible, they were there nonetheless. When Elsie turned twelve, Violet came to stay for the weekend. Elsie crept into her cousin’s room in the middle of the night, and sliced her face with a kitchen knife. Even now, many years later, when she closes her eyes, Elsie can hear the screams, see the red seeping through the bed sheets, smell the fear in the stale air. And when that happens, she pictures the cracked, distorted face of her lovely china doll, broken on the carpet, and something inside her feels whole once more.

Day Thirty

And today's prompt is...

Broken Doll

Speechless by Sara Travis

Afterwards, I lay in his arms for hours and traced the lines on his face with my fingers. He pulled the duvet up over us and squeezed me closer. I could feel his heartbeat against my cheek and tangled my legs in his. He lit a cigarette and took long, slow drags, and we watched the curls of smoke drift lazily up towards the open window. His jeans lay in a crumpled heap by the door, my sundress thrown over the back of his chair. The memory of his hands tugging at the zip, slipping the straps down over my shoulders, made my heart swell and burst. I kissed his chest and smiled to myself. He placed a gentle hand under my chin, and lifted my face to his.

There was no need for words; his eyes told me everything I needed to know. And I don’t think I’ll ever love again.

Speechless by James D. Irwin

Everything was black and white. Lloyd thought he must be dreaming. Usually he dreamt about appearing in another sort of film altogether, but this was almost as good. But Lloyd wasn't dreaming. He pinched himself, and it hurt. His monochrome dream had become an absurd reality.

Lloyd got up. He had always been a big fan of old black and white films, and found it all quite exciting. He dressed, and stepped out onto the street. At one end of the street was a Model T Ford. Although it was only a milky silver, Lloyd knew it was gleaming fresh cream. Everything was quite and peaceful. Even the man dangling from the clock tower wasn't screaming for help.

As he walked down the street he heard occasional bursts of jaunty piano music that seemed to come from nowhere. Outside a restaurant there was a dishevelled tramp. Lloyd felt the inside of his pocket, and threw the character a few coins. He entered the restaurant. The place was nearly full, but no-one was eating. A waitress showed Lloyd to a table. She was beautiful--- glamorous like a movie star. She brought Lloyd a menu, and whilst he read it he imagined himself doing obscene things to the waitress. He decided on the Salisbury steak, because he didn't know what it was, but heard people mention it on TV shows.

The waitress returned, pencil and pad ready to take Lloyd's order. He opened his mouth and made all the movements that should have resulted in him saying 'I'd like the Salisbury steak, please, and a glass of beer.' But no sound came out. He tried again, the waitress waiting patiently. Lloyd tried again and again, failing each time. After twenty minutes the waitress began to get impatient. After half an hour she got angry and left. After forty minutes it occurred to Lloyd that he could point at the menu, like you do in foreign restaurants when you can't pronounce anything. About an hour and a half after first walking in, Lloyd finally got his Salisbury steak. It had not been worth the wait. As he left the restaurant he noticed it was now a lot busier. The silent, skeletal customers had followed Lloyd's example and were now frantically gorging themselves on long overdue lunches.

The sun was shining brightly outside, and the whites and creams and dark greys were blurring into each other. Lloyd tried to adjust his eyes as he crossed the street. He never made it across. His body, stained black with blood hit the grey asphalt, the witnesses cried out silent screams, and the milky silver Ford continued on it's noiseless journey to nowhere.

Speechless by Lesley Whyte

Speechless. That's the only word for what I am. It's taken me days just to put what happened and my feelings about it into words. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to voice them. I just...I can't believe you would ever do something like that, I can't believe you're capable of it. And so this is the end. Because unless you can change, we can't be together. And you can't change. You will always have done this. You can't change that. You can't change my opinion of you. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it has to be.

Unless...well, unless it was an accident. Was it an accident? It was an accident, of course. Let's forget all about it. I love you.

Day Twenty-Nine

And today's prompt is...

Speechless

The Sound of Silence by Lesley Whyte

Can you hear it? Tell me you can hear it. Please. Please tell me you hear it. I can't be the only one. Don't you hear it? Can you hear me? Hello? Am I talking to myself? Why can't you hear me? Guys, if this is some kind of joke, it's not funny. It's not funny at all. It's sick. Stop it. Stop it! Guys? Guys? Oh, God. Why can't they hear me?

The Sound of Silence by James D. Irwin

The last two days had been hard for Jakob. But now he was finally home again, and the sound of his own front door was faintly reassuring. But then he was hit by the thunderous, deafening silence. It was impossible to ignore. Jakob missed her, and thought he probably always would.

The Sound of Silence by Sara Travis

In restless dreams you walk alone. But open your eyes, let the daylight in, and there you will find me. A nameless face to you, but yours smiles from photographs lining the walls, the mantle. A gentleman in a suit and tie, clutching the hand of a smiling young woman in white. Leaning over the bow of a ship, flashing a smile back at the camera. Cradling an infant in strong arms, lips puckered, eyes watery. On horses, in cars with the top down, grinning in bowling alleys, cooking Sunday brunch, picnics and bike rides and parties and bedtime stories and anniversaries and Christmases.

I will preserve your memories, my love, for they are all that’s left you. Through the fog you battle on, and every day I will pretend your indifference to my presence doesn’t hurt. Because I am here and you are not alone. You are never alone.

Day Twenty-Eight

And today's prompt is...

The Sound of Silence

Family Man by James D. Irwin

'No, no--- we're not saying Familyman is a bad idea. We like it. We think the character has a lot of potential. We're just saying that, for the time being, we're going to go with Superman. We just feel he has wider appeal--- I mean he can fly and stuff. As far as we can tell--- and correct me if I'm wrong--- the only power Familyman seems to possess is 'the supersonic guilt trip'. We're just thinking about what the kids'll want to read about...'

Family Man by Solomon Blaze

The rain Poured.

Stormwind tears around the pair in a sadistically small cyclone, made up of searing hot atmosphere and acidy rain. The plains are expansive. The plains are dark, and cold, and lonely. He can’t see; the light’s left this place, to be with him.

She shivers and shakes in His arms,’ I knew you were trouble,’ she chokes out, thumping him on the chest in frustration.

He grits his teeth against the idea, ‘I would burn it all down; if you would be Queen of the Ashes...’

She looks up, startled.

He looks down into her StarStream eyes and kisses her; brilliantly uplifting light explodes out of the two, stopping the tornado dead and clearing the path ahead – if there had been one to begin with...

He scowls at the horizon, ‘get on my back,’ He says definitively.

‘What?’ she winces, turning frantically from side to side,’ why? What’s there??’

He looks back into her; ‘Do you trust me...?’

‘...what?!’

‘Do you trust me?

She thinks – really thinks...’Yes.’ she agrees after what seems like nevermore.

He turns and kneels down, holding his arms back, ‘hop on!’ He says, turning back with that Peter Pan smile.

The anxiety falls away with a look into those carelessly haunted eyes and she does as he asks

He turns on his axis 180 degrees; and their off.

Not 200 yards into motion and a small, hard object comes whizzing past His face, so fast that the air around it is enough to cut his cheek.

A bang is heard in the far off distance, followed by a noise not unlike a swarm of motivated Hornets.

‘Hold on!’ He shouts to the precious treasure on his back, who wraps Her arms around his neck like an Anaconda, burrowing her face into his red hair to hide.

A wall of the miniature objects come flying towards them; He takes a deep breath, let’s Himself enter the Flow State and moves through the pellets one after the other until they’ve completely cleared the barrage.

‘What happened?!’ She screams, lifting her head up against the g-force of the run.

‘Just close your eyes and count to sixty!’ He yells back.

A frown covers His features as the ground starts to quake...suddenly sending a gargantuan Barrier of earth to stop them. He runs faster and faster, until he’s sure that he can clear it. He comes to the face of the monolith, slamming a determined foot in the first of it, turning them both upwards and sent their joint momentum rocketing against the force of Gravity.

...

......

.........They make it.

The view is spectacular: golden ambiance floods the abyss beyond this threshold, with a skyline carrying the promise of everything and nothing; all the things that are beautiful...in this world, in the next world, in your heart and mine; all the things that are beautiful; all the things that are Fine.

- But the Wall is still dark, cold and windy;

...

......

.........so He jumps, with her held tight and plummets to a new tomorrow; out of the Endless Night and into the Windless Light.

Family Man by Sara Travis

I line their heads up on the table, one by one. Size order is important; the larger ones go on the left, the smaller ones on the right. I peel back the gloves to examine my work with my fingers, feel their dismembered limbs under my flesh. Hard. Cold.

Their empty eyes stare back into mine, and I feel a faint stirring in my chest. So beautiful. Such dainty faces, delicate, young. I sigh happily. My other family.

I think the kids will really love the new dolls for the playroom.

Family Man by Lesley Whyte

You’ll need to know everyone's names and a little bit about them, but you shouldn't mention any of what I’m about to tell you. You should just know it.

Her oldest brother, who spent four years in prison for drug offences. The two middle brothers are still there. The youngest has never been, but it's expected he'll go. This family regard prison time the way most families view college, and they're a legacy family.

Her sister, who married someone who was not approved of - he will never be mentioned, but the children will be around from time to time - and works as a teacher on the South Side.

Her aunt who lives on the farm and raises goats. Never mention the goats.

Her other aunt, the one who likes to get drunk and spill family secrets. That aunt's husband, who has lung cancer but still smokes forty a day because, at this point, what harm can it do.

Her uncle, who is kept away from the children. There's a story there that she's not telling me, but she insists he's not a danger. He just doesn't like children. Apparently.

Her mother, who will be kind and welcoming and then criticise me behind my back. Once we're married, she'll do it to my face. If I can win her over, we'll have a long and happy marriage. If I can't, well...she didn't answer me after that.

And then her father. The one that really scares me. The kind of man who sits at the head of a family like this. I feel like I've stepped into a gangster movie, and not a particularly good one. He claps me on the shoulder and pumps my hand up and down. "Welcome to the family, son!"

Family Man by Nick Trussler

I’m a family man. Through and through I love my wife and kids. Sure sometimes my eyes may wander, my hands too, and my lips and tongue and other various body parts but apart from that I am a solid, 100% family man. And okay I may occasionally go to a certain seedy hotel on Friday nights to meet with girls and married women from online but I’m still a family man and I’ll be there for my kids and wife anytime and anyplace…except of course if there’s football on, I wouldn’t want to take them there, it cuts into my time with the boys. Oh and Sundays of course because that’s when I meet my mistress at her house but apart from those times I’m a dedicated family man. I’d never miss a holiday or a birthday unless it crosses with my evening classes and any dates I have and the aforementioned things of course but I’m still a family man. And okay I may not come home after work at all some night but when I am there I am a family man, everyone knows me as such I mean just because I like to eat my meals by myself in my own room doesn’t mean I am not a family man right? I’m still in the same house with the wife and kids and we’re still eating at the same time just not in the same room. And okay I may never have wanted a family, and just because my wife started as a one night stand that turned into a friend-with-benefits situation that turned into an accidental pregnancy, still I’ve always wanted to be a family man. From day one I was a family man, sure I went to the occasional party by myself, I still do of course but only on Tuesday and Thursday nights, and I may have missed all of the births of my children but I did give my wife flowers eventually. Just because they were picked from my mum’s garden doesn’t mean they mean any less. So yes, I would say I am a family man and that is what I shall say at the divorce hearing.

Day Twenty-Seven

And today's prompt is...

Family Man

Hysteria by James D. Irwin

The gathered crowd didn't seem very excited. In fact at least one man seemed to be yawning. Everyone else was gazing at little tiny screens in the palms of their hands. He thought maybe the site of an alien from a distant planet might provoke some hysteria, but nobody much seemed to care.

The unearthly traveller wondered around for a while, and tried unsuccessfully to get into this Game of Thrones show everyone seemed to be talking about. After two weeks he got bored of waiting for someone to show any interest in him, gave up and went home--- taking the secrets of life with him. He was halfway to Jupiter before he realised he'd been under a cloaking device the whole time.

Hysteria by Sara Travis

They’re coming. You’ll see. They’re coming. And when they come, you’d better be prepared. Who knows what sort of technology they’ll have. Stun guns and laser beams and zappy weaponry that will make humans just evaporate. We’re so behind, they’ve got billions of years of experience on us. We think we’re so forward thinking, so technologically minded, so smart, it’ll never happen. That’s what you think, isn’t it? That it’ll never happen. Well, let me tell you something. It’ll happen. It’s already happening. Can’t you see it? It’s everywhere, all the time. They’re watching us. Always. We need to get preparing, we need to protect ourselves. I won’t let them take me. I won’t. They’ll creep into our houses in the middle of the night and take our children, our women, and torture them, experiment on them. I know, I’ve read about it. We need to start now, before it’s too late. Arm ourselves. I’ve built myself a bunker in the garden. There’s a secret doorway in the floor, underneath my – I shouldn’t have told you that. I shouldn’t have told you that. Pretend you didn’t hear that. If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you. I’ll sneak up on you and rip your heart out. I mean it, I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t, because I will. Unless you’re one of them. My God, you’re one of them, aren’t you? You can read my thoughts, can’t you? You’re making me tell you about the door to my bunker under the rockery, aren’t you? Jesus, you’re good. Oh-ho-ho, you’re good. I could be good, too. I could help you. I’ve believed in you my whole life, even when people told me I was mad, even when the boys at school kicked my head in, even when Mum had me stay in that hospital for a month for evaluation. I knew. I’ve always known. I’ve got a sixth sense, I think. I could help you. We could be great, you know. I know things. I know loads of things. Take me with you!

Hysteria by Lesley Whyte

"Did you know that the word hysteria comes from the Latin for woman? Because it was thought that only women could become hysterical? Something to do with their menstruation or lady bits, I didn't fully understand that part. But it's interesting, right? And it must be some comfort to you, I suppose, knowing that none of this is your fault. That you're only hysterical because you're a woman."

I lunged across the table and tried to throttle him. Not because I was hysterical, but because he was being really fucking obnoxious. And he was wrong. Hysteria does not come from the Latin for woman, it comes from the word for uterus. And, actually, I think it's Greek. But whatever. Apparently you can't try to throttle your father and then bite the orderly that tries to restrain you and still have people believe you're sane. What a fucked up world we live in.

Day Twenty-Six

And today's prompt is...

Hysteria

Nerdy by James D. Irwin

Alvin settled on legal action. It was the only way for them to take his application seriously.

Alvin considered himself a bad-ass motherfucker, and didn't see why the LOBAM (League of Bad-Ass Motherfuckers) kept denying him membership. Alvin thought he was just as cool as some of the League's best known members, such as John McClane, Samuel L. Jackson, and three James Bonds.

As a young boy Alvin had seen his parents murdered by street punks. He then joined the unsuspecting gang, learnt their fighting secrets, and used the skills he learnt to brutally avenge the death of his parents. He was also a cop, whilst hating authority. He regularly traded tense insults with the older, more traditional Police Chief. He always wore sunglasses, whether it was sunny or not. He chain smoked, dressed in battered leather jackets, and held all the vaguely misogynistic views required by the LOBAM charter. He treated guns like toys, and women like... also toys. He was a casual alcoholic, a mean card player, and the driver of a 1973 Plymouth Fury.

Once LOBAM heard Alvin was considering legal action against them, they decided to give him a chance to apply in person. Alvin was excited. He thought he'd really nailed it this time, and even had a new catchphrase--- go fuck yourself, hombre!

Alvin presented his case to the senior members of the League. He outlined his case via powerpoint presentation. After he was finished he looked eagerly at LOBAM's President, Batman.

'Application denied' said Batman.

'B...but why?' asked Alvin.

'You're too much of a nerd.'

'Too much of a nerd?' Alvin couldn't believe what he was hearing.

'You gave a powerpoint presentation. Like a nerd would' said Batman.

Alvin was heartbroken. He started to cry.

Batman murmured how very bad-ass, motherfucker but he was being sarcastic.

Nerdy by Sara Travis

Today you sit
approximately 4 feet, 6 inches away from me.
That’s almost 9 and a half inches closer
than yesterday.
For you, my Peach, my Zelda, my Leia,
I’d simply walk into Mordor
And fight the Battle of Middle Earth
in your name.
Your smile, your eyes, your scent, your taste,
Cause my cardiac muscles
to palpitate.
My feelings for you grow
exponentially every day.
And if those tears start to fall,
I’ll be there with my poka-ball
ready to catch them all.
Because roses are red,
the Tardis is blue,
so press Start to join,
and be my player two.

Nerdy by Lesley Whyte

NERD. GEEK. SWOT.

The words are imprinted in my mind.

BITCH. SLUT. WHORE.

The words are etched into my soul.

LOSER. FREAK. NOTHING.

And now the words are carved into my skin.

Day Twenty-Five

And today's prompt is...

Nerdy

Build God, Then We'll Talk by Sara Travis

“I mean, I think I’m a strong team player, a great motivator. I’m well respected by my current employers, and I think that really speaks volumes about the sort of worker I am. I think I’d really be an asset to the company, and I hope you do, too.”

“Right. Well, but have you ever built a god?”

“Excuse me?”

“Built a god. Have you ever done that?”

“Um, no. No, I don’t think so.”

“Mm. Well, thanks for your time.”

“Oh. I mean, I could learn how to do that. Probably.”

“I’m sure you could, but really, this position is better suited to someone with a little more experience, you know? But thanks for your time, and well, good luck. Bye, now."

Build God, Then We'll Talk by Lesley Whyte

She knocked on the door of my office and then flung it open, sending my carefully built playing card castle clattering to my desk.

"Sir! They've started to communicate with each other! No words yet, but definite gestures and signs that they'll soon be starting to develop pictures!"

"Great," I said, sweeping the cards off my desk.

"Are you coming to see? We have footage of the test subjects-"

"No, I'm going to take a nap."

"But sir-"

"If they start to develop religion, wake me."

Build God, Then We'll Talk by James D. Irwin

I built the Genesis device in seven days. I only stopped to rest once. The whole time I just heard her voice echo around my head over and over and over… build God, then we’ll talk she said.

She— Eleanor— was a fellow student at the Andromeda Academy. Obviously she was beautiful. Nearly everyone thought she’d be Miss Universe sooner rather or later. Her people never aged, which was a distinct advantage. Anyway, I fell in love with her as soon as I saw her. Most of the students did. For the first seven years I was at the Academy I was too nervous to approach her. Most of the students were.

Eventually I couldn't take it any more I just walked right up to her, like I would a sales assistant in a discount shoe store. I nervously coughed, but before I could say anything she just looked at me dismissively and said ‘build me God, then we’ll talk.’ I was hurt, but distracted by how pretty she looked when she looked dismissive.

I took her remarks at face value, and set to work. I thought if I could pull it off, she might pull me off. I didn't have a clue as to how to build a god. You can invent gods easily enough, but building them into a physical presence is generally quite tricky. Most gods exist in ethereal forms, if you even see them at all. Gods also, as a rule, need a domain to rule over. That’s when I came up with the idea for the Genesis device. If I built a world I could declare myself God. It wasn't quite what Eleanor had asked of me, but she’d probably still be impressed. Also I’d be a God, and that’s the sort of power girls are supposed to find attractive.

Building the Genesis device wasn't that difficult. We’d be learning all about them in Terraformology class. The next step was obviously finding a planet I could terraform. I got pretty lucky and found one in a nearby galaxy. I fired off my Genesis device and BANG, the process began. Things evolved a lot quicker than I’d anticipated.

As soon as sentient life appeared I declared myself God. It was good to let my inner-authoritarian out for a while. I handed down a list of simple rules, although I got bored of enforcing them after a while.

Really my biggest mistake was boasting about it all over school. That’s when the problems began. All the older students would visit the planet and declare themselves to be the one true God. A lot of people on the planet believed them. I was never entirely dethroned, but it was still heart-breaking to see the creatures I’d created slaughtering each other.

Maybe things would have been different if I’d kept quiet and just shown Eleanor in private right when I first became God. I tried to put a positive spin on things, but she just laughed at me for not being god of my own world. I took this to be a rejection.

I cried for a long time— floods of tears. I abandoned the whole planet after that and hoped everything would just sort itself out. I’d forgotten about it for the last several thousand years, until I saw Eleanor on TV. She’d been crowned Miss Universe. She was just as beautiful as ever.

Build God, Then We'll Talk by Nick Trussler

‘Build God, and then we’ll talk,’ he said. I didn’t know what he meant. So I went out and got a job. When I came back he asked me again, ‘Have you built God?’ I told him I built houses for a living. He shook his head. ‘When you have built the house of God then we’ll talk.’ So I waited for a year and managed to build a small chapel in my back garden. Well, it was really more of a converted shed.

I went back to him and said, ‘I have built a house of God, now can we talk?’

He shook his head again, ‘It is easier for a poor man to squeeze through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. To build God you must first have nothing.’

So I sold my house and all my possessions save for the clothes I was wearing and came back to him. ‘I have nothing, tell me how do I build God?’

‘To build God you must suffer with his people. Go out and suffer.’ And so I wandered the country for two years and I suffered; I suffered cold, hunger, thirst, heat and, surprisingly, chlamydia.

I returned three years to the day since I first spoke to the man. I was thin, I was ill, I was hungry, I was poor, I was tired, I was dirty. I said to him, ‘Now can we talk?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Now we can talk.’ He took a deep breath. ‘We have meetings Tuesday and Thursday evenings, with prayers and songs and coffee and biscuits to follow. Friday evening is film night where hot cocoa is served, but you will need to bring your own food. Is this something you would be interested in at all? He added, smiling, and passed me a leaflet.

Now I think about it, it was really quite a lot of an effort just to please a street preacher.

Day Twenty-Four

And today's prompt is...

Build God, Then We'll Talk

Lullabye by James D. Irwin

I only remember my dad a little. He left when I was about five. Mum said he was full of empty promises. I knew what she meant--- every night he'd sing to me about buying me mockingbirds, and diamond rings, and looking glasses, and billy goats... He never followed through.

Lullabye by Sara Travis

I sing her to sleep. I hold her close to my chest. I cradle her in my arms, and I sing her sleep. Not my baby in blood, but in heart, in feeling, in a mother’s intuition, I know she’s mine, risen again and come back to me. My baby. All mine. And there ain’t no one can take her away from me. Not this time. Never again. She’s mine. All mine. I sing her to sleep. I hold her close to my chest. I cradle her in my arms, and I sing her sleep.

Lullabye by Lesley Whyte

For my fourth birthday, they bought me a doll house. It was a beautiful thing, carved to look like my grandparents' house. The one that got sold off the year before. I didn't know if it had been made specially for me or if it had been in the house somewhere before they sold it. I played with it every day, morning 'til night. And then, when Mummy and Daddy woke me up, I'd sneak out of bed and play with it some more.

For my fifth birthday, they got me a bird. A real live bird. I was scared of birds, so I put its cage in the doll house and spun it around so I couldn't see the bird anymore. It would flap and sqwawk and make this horrible keening noise all through the day and night. I couldn't play with the doll house anymore. So when Mummy and Daddy woke me up, I'd sing the mockingbird song to myself, over and over and over until they stopped.

For my sixth birthday, they didn't get me anything. They were gone by then. Mummy lives in a big house with lots of other women now. They won't let me see her. They won't tell me where Daddy is.

Lullabye by Solomon Blaze

Something in me

Once was dead,


Breaks on through

As Light in stead.


I am (not) borne to any Path.


I am Love and I am Wrath.


The Riptide come;

I am Downed...


Until the Next Time.

Lullabye by Nick Trussler

Go to sleep, go to sleep

Daddy has got a shotgun

Go to sleep, go to sleep

He’s pointing it at your heads

Go to sleep, go to sleep

Before the bank repossess our house

Go to sleep, go to sleep

There’s no need to wake up

Day Twenty-Three

And today's prompt is...

Lullabye

Holland Road by Sara Travis

I didn’t know I was loving on borrowed time. How could I? They say, when you know, you know. But I’ve never been entirely sure of anything in my life, so why should he be different? He was, though. He was different.

Thursday nights were our nights. I’d meet him on the corner of Holland Road and we’d wander down to the park and sit on the swings, talking and hoping and dreaming and regretting. I shared more of myself with him than I’d ever shared with anyone, even me. I felt more around him, more certain of who I was, who I wanted to be.

One evening, it rained. I half expected him to stay in, but as I turned the corner, there he was, standing beside the road sign, his face tilted up towards the sky, the blur of the rain obscuring his features. I snuck up on him and gave him a fright, and he laughed and took my hands in his and twirled me round and round. We danced for what felt like hours, in the rain, under the yellow glow of the streetlamps. And I noticed for the first time that when he laughed, he bent over slightly, and crinkled his nose and it made me melt right into the puddles at our feet. And when he pressed his lips against mine, the knot in my chest lessened slightly, and I felt lighter than air.

I told him I loved him. He didn’t say it back. And the next Thursday I waited for him on the corner of Holland Road. And the Thursday after. And the one after that. And now every Thursday, I wait for him just the same. Rain or shine, I’m there. Waiting. Hoping. Dreaming. Regretting.

Holland Road by James D. Irwin

A lot of the fans get it wrong. They think Marco died at the studio on Holland Road. He died in his apartment just up the road. I was the only one there when it happened. I still live on Holland Road--- right opposite the studio. Sometimes I watch the fans come by and leave flowers and stuff. It happens less now, but then the band split back in '74 so it's really a surprise anyone shows up at all. But they do. Mostly it's tourists and die hard fans. Usually on the anniversary.

It's nice though... it's nice to see people leave flowers and it's nice to know the band are still remembered. It's kind of funny though, the way they all come out to grieve for some dead rockstar. It's funny, because if they looked across the street they'd probably see me and realise that Marco isn't dead at all.

Holland Road by Lesley Whyte

The house is at the end of Holland Road. I pass by the street whenever I head to the newsagents to buy cigarettes. I know, I know, I shouldn't be buying cigarettes. Half the time, I'm going there for something else, I pass by Holland Road, I think about the house at the end and I have this sudden need to fill my body with something more toxic than my thoughts. Smoking is the easiest way to do it. And there's really kind of a poetic...thing to it.

Eleanor died in that house. My beautiful Eleanor with her bright blonde curls and her disgusting incense candles. Her books on French cooking and her hip-hop CDs. She never downloaded a song in her life. I don't think she even knew how to do it. We used to lie on the grassy slope in the back garden and look up at the clouds or the stars or just the clear sky. More often than not, we'd see the trails of aeroplanes and wonder where they were going. We'd make up stories about the people on board and then we'd plan where we would go once university was done and we had jobs that gave us enough money to travel and enough time to do it, too. It was supposed to be the beginning, that ugly old house in Holland Road. The warped windows and doors and the draughts they let in.

And then there was the fire. I wasn't there. By the time I got home, the fire was out. There was nothing but smoke. It filled the streets, it licked the other houses and clawed at my throat. They brought Eleanor out in a body bag. They wouldn't let me see her. They said it was the candles, those disgusting incense candles that she used to burn in every room of the house. They were probably right, it probably was the candles, but I like to think she was cooking. She was trying one of the recipes from one of her hundreds of books about French cooking. The girl couldn't so much as boil water, but she was going to study cooking in Paris. It was a nice thought.

Day Twenty-Two

And today's prompt is...

Holland Road

Accidentally in Love by James D. Irwin

I always thought of her as a sister to me, so it came as dizzying but pleasant surprise when I realised that I had--- quite accidentally--- fallen in love with her. But now, about three years later, it just hurts. It hurts, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Gatsby threw parties for the same reason I write stories-- I write them just for her.

She reads them, I think. But I don't know if she ever realises that they are all about her.

Accidentally in Love by Sara Travis

It happened very suddenly on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I remember it was Tuesday because I was supposed to be working, but the basement at the store had flooded so we’d all been sent home early. He said, ‘Let’s chill,’ and I said, ‘Sure,’ so he came over and we dug out our pyjamas and ordered pizza and stuck on some old Friends re-runs. We ate strawberry ice cream from the tub and sat under a wooly blanket and turned the volume up to drown out the rain pounding at the windows. And he sat close to me. And my gut squirmed when his hand brushed mine. And I liked it. And I noticed that he smelled of sawdust and cologne and coffee and something slightly sweet and musky that I couldn’t put my finger on. And I’d never noticed that before. Because he was who he was, and that was my friend, and you don’t really notice stuff like that about your friends, do you? Or do you? I don’t know, but I never did. Until Tuesday.

And then out of nowhere he says, ‘Oh hey, I’m seeing Celia this weekend. Like, you know, a date. Can you loan me twenty quid?’ And all of a sudden I was very cold, and my mouth was dry, and my heart was pounding in the back of my throat and I thought I actually might die. Because he was going on a date with Celia, and that meant he liked her and she liked him back. And it didn’t matter that I’d had an epiphany, that I’d finally noticed what had been staring me in the face for fourteen years, that I’d realised – holy shit – he smelt bloody fantastic and there was a very good chance that he was the one. And that everyday I’d thought about the future, every time I’d fantasised about jobs and houses and new cars and road trips, he was standing right next to me in a suit and tie, or signing his name next to mine on the deeds, or sat in the passenger seat feeding me biscuits, or taking my picture next to the Taj Mahal. And now he was going on a date with Celia. And he was going to marry Celia, and have a baby with Celia and there’d be no room for me in his new life with a wife and baby. Even though we’ve been friends since we were eight years old, and he calls my parents ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’, and we’d holidayed together every other year since forever, and I’d seen him naked on two separate occasions that he may or may not know about.

And then I realised we were still sat on the sofa under the blanket, and the chill from the ice cream tub had made my thigh go numb. So I arranged my face to resemble a smile and said, ‘Sure,’ and I got my purse and I handed over the cash and I winked at him and said, ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ and he laughed and I laughed but really I was crying except on the inside.

Accidentally in Love by Nick Trussler

‘You’re so beautiful,’ the boy smiled to the other.

“You’re so beautiful,” the other replied.

The boy stared at the other dreamingly. He tried to reach out and touch him but the other boy disappeared.

‘Who are you?’ he asked the boy.

“Who are you?” replied the other.

There was silence between the two, but a happy silence. Both smiled the exact same smile

‘I wish I could be with you,’ the boy said.

“I wish I could be with you,” the other replied.

The boy could not bear the pain of separation any longer. He leaned forward, getting closer and closer to the other boy’s face until he fell into the water and was lost to its depths.

Accidentally in Love by Lesley Whyte

"It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I wasn't supposed to fall in love with you."

"What was supposed to happen?"

I sigh. He isn't taking this the right way at all. You'd think I'd just confessed some sort of crime instead of telling him I was in love with him. I mean, sure, starting the conversation with 'I'm running away to Mexico and never coming back, please don't call me,' may not have been the best way to go. But I maintain he's focusing on the wrong thing.

"Just a bit fun, really. You were a distraction."

"Well, I'm glad I could help you out."

"Aren't you listening? You didn't help at all. You completely fucked everything up. You made me fall in love with you."

"Oh, I am so sorry." He snatches up his jacket and leaves.

I don't follow him. It'll just make things worse. I should have ended things weeks ago, when I realised what was going on. This is my fault. But then, he shouldn't have made me fall in love with him.

That's never happened before.

Day Twenty-One

And today's prompt is...

Accidentally in Love

Two Worlds by Lesley Whyte

"There are two worlds now. Are you listening to me, kid? Because if you want to go back out to highway and carry on scavenging from corpses in burnt out cars, you be my guest." I pause for dramatic effect. There's no freaking way I'm letting this kid out of my sight, but he doesn't need to know that.

He gulps. I can actually see him swallow. Awesome.

"I didn't think so," I say in my most cutting voice. It cracks halfway through - dehydration's a real bitch - but it'll do. "As I was saying, there're two worlds now. The world inside the fence and the one outside it. You're outside the fence, which means you lost. But you found me, so I guess in a way, you also kind of won, didn't you? We got food. We got clean water. Not a lot, so don't be getting any ideas, but a little. We got somewhere sheltered for when the attacks come and we got strength in numbers."

The kid looks terrified, but he looked terrified when I found him. The M16 might've had something to do with that, but it doesn't matter. He's scared. Scared is good. I can use scared. The kids who didn't seem scared, the bolshy ones or the ones who'd just given up, they had to go. I couldn't have them around. Couldn't have them getting ideas and infecting the rest of my army. Because that's what these kids are. An army. And soon we won't be the ones outside the fence, the losers, the ones who got left behind. No, soon we'll be inside and we'll rule both worlds.

I turn and walk away from the kid, pushing through the overgrown field.

"You coming?" I shout back over my shoulder, but I don't look round. I don't need to. There's no way that kid is saying no to me.

Two Worlds by Sara Travis

All I am is what you’ve made me.
You come and go with the days
just like you do.
But there’s no other way to tell you
I love you more.
We’re driftwood for the sea -
from two different worlds,
carried away on the tide.
Our love is an island,
can’t you see it?
Surrounded by a deep, dark unknown.
This much I know -
All I am is what you’ve made me.

Two Worlds by James D. Irwin

Our romance was doomed from the start; we were from two very different worlds. There she was, the beautiful daughter of a senior officer, and here I am a lowly and insignificant sentient gas cloud from the outer reaches of the Quantark Nebula.

Day Twenty

And today's prompt is...

Two Worlds

Eyes on Fire by James D. Irwin

Tricia didn't know it, but Jon had been in love with her for several years. Jon had decided Tricia didn't really need to know, because the idea of expressing his feelings about her made him feel ever so faintly ill. Frustration, he felt, was better than rejection. However, one evening in June he found himself full of Courage--- not to mention numerous other ales that he had been steadily sinking over a seven hour drinking session.

It was around eight in the evening when Tricia entered the bar. Jon was half-way through pint number nine when he noticed her. He knew he had to play it cool, and immediately stumbled towards her with all the grace and elegance of a new born foal.

'Tricia' he said, slurring slightly. 'You are so beautiful I want to tear my eyes out of my skull and set on them on fire.'

Tricia, obviously stunned by this bold and eloquent declaration of romantic affection, ignored Jon and joined her friends at a nearby table. Shortly afterwards Jon heard very loud and raucous laughter. He didn't mind--- he'd made progress. She knows who I am!

Several days later Jon received a letter. It was from Tricia. He opened it with nervous excitement and read the message over and over again. He took long sniffs of the paper. It smelled of her. Jon carefully folded the letter, tied it with an elegant red ribbon, and placed it gently in the box with his other romantic correspondence.

 Jon vowed to show Tricia just how deeply he cared for her by respecting her formal request to stay at least one hundred yeards away from her at all times.

Eyes on Fire by Lesley Whyte

He's beautiful. I've never seen anything like his face. Every line could have been carved like Michaelangelo. His skin is poreless but it glistens with something like sweat, only without the odour. He shines under their bright lights, but that isn't all. He shines, he glows. He always has. He's always been beautiful to me. The way his curls of light brown hair stick to his brow when he's hard at work. The way his hands shake sometimes, like he's afraid of what he's doing. They're shaking now. I smile. His eyes lock onto mine and they're on fire. Like we're alone together. Like I'm his everything, his last chance, his redemption. His everything.

And then they flick the switch. The chemicals start to bleed into him. The chemicals that will take away everything that makes him who he is. He closes his eyes, breaking our eye contact, destroying our last moment together. I don't blame him. This is almost as hard for him as it is for me.

Eyes on Fire by Sara Travis

From the corner I watch her work the room.

She walks – no, no – she saunters between the cliques of people, lifting her glass in manicured fingers, laughing her tinkling laugh that wraps itself around my heart, squeezing and squeezing until I think I might die. She leans in closer to hear the punch line of some joke, throwing her head back and placing a playful hand on his chest. It’s torture but I can’t look away. Her auburn curls sit around her shoulders, and God, what I wouldn’t give to run my hands through them. She kicks her heels off to dance with him, and her feet are perfect, her toes are perfect, her legs are perfect. She is perfect and I want her to be mine, but she will never be mine because she doesn’t notice me. She never notices me. I stand in the darkened corner and I sip my beer and I avoid eye contact with anyone and I stare at my shoelaces and I ignore the pangs of hunger in my stomach because this is a party so there’s a buffet, and I can’t eat from the buffet because how much is too much? I think I read that it’s socially unacceptable to go back for seconds at a buffet, so then do I just pile as much food on as I can and ignore the looks from my co-workers, and the not-so-subtle glances at my beer belly, or do I just take a small plate and eat in the corner and hope I don’t have potato salad in my beard? No, better to have nothing and burn the calories from lunch simply by standing up. Don’t look at her, you’ll make it obvious. Stop it. Don’t look at her. She’s dancing to a slow song now, and his hands are on her waist and her head is against his shoulder and if I squint a bit it’s almost as if she’s dancing with me and what I’m seeing now is an out-of-body experience, but his hand is lower, grazing her lower back, and that’s not me, because that’s impolite, I’m a gentleman, and now I’m staring again, but it’s so much effort to look away when she’s so beautiful, so perfect, and so not mine. So I don’t look away, I stare and now I don’t care who knows it, I’m staring because she is heaven and if my eyes were lasers I could burn a hole straight through his head and swoop in to catch her before she falls, and she’ll know at last and she’ll love me back and we will be perfect.

But it doesn’t work like that. She never dances her dances with me. And every time I feel my gut coil with envy. Because she doesn’t notice me. She never notices me.

Day Nineteen

And today's prompt is...

Eyes on Fire

Search and Destroy by James D. Irwin

It had taken four years, but the search was over-- this was the house. I kicked in the front door and went upstairs.

Search and Destroy by Lesley Whyte

We thought they'd come to save us. We hunkered down in the dark, in the cold cellars and dingy basements and the odd bunker, listening carefully. We couldn't see anything, so we listened. The roar of the engines was unmistakable - jets. They were coming, they were finally coming. The fuel had been the first thing to go in the attack, leaving everyone stuck, but the government must have had back-up resources hidden away somewhere. And now they were coming. They would save us from the ships that blocked out the sun.

A few people crawled out of the exit, the brave ones, or maybe those who had been most addled by their imprisonment underground. I admit it, I wanted to crawl out with them. I wanted to feel fresh air on my skin, taste the salt of the ocean on my tongue. But I couldn't. I had to stay with Jamie. It was only right. Those who went first called down to us, called us up to the surface. We stumbled out to watch the jets take down those awful ships. I held Jamie's hand tight as we pushed along through everyone else, the memory of leaving at the end of a concert coming back to me, and it wasn't long before we were outside again. For the first time in weeks. The air felt wonderful.

It was dusk, there was just enough light for us to see the stars and stripes painted on the door of each jet. There were four of them. We saluted the flag, some people recited the pledge of allegiance. I lifted Jamie up so he could see. And then something shifted. One of the jets plummeted from the sky. It started shooting. At us. And that's when we realised our mistake. That's when it occurred to us just how easy it was to paint a flag on the door of a jet.