The prompt for the Shapeshifting 13 Challenge #98 at Grammar Ghoul Press is the adjective "sticky," meaning "tending or designed to stick to things on contact or covered with something that sticks.".
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My living room’s my son’s gallery of sticky finger portraits, caramel faces galore.
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Despite the setting sun, the air was frigid and kissed goose pimples to life, caressed strands of hair, persuading them to stand on end, and kicked dust into the air around the pair as they walked over the interstate’s asphalt. Milo shivered and shook, then looked longingly up at George and wished for a break. They had been walking for hours, stopping every so often for a release. As they stopped again, Milo wiggled in the confines of his collar. His eyes traced the black woven leash that was tied around his friend’s wrist, and looked up at George once again, who was leaning over with his hands on his knees, sobbing. Milo looked around, snarling, ready to attack whatever was hurting George. When he saw nothing was around them, he nuzzled George’s swollen leg, licking the caked dust on a pants leg. A faint metallic scent wafted around the two of them, and Milo licked more vigorously. George didn’t let up; he just hung his head, then jerked himself up and screamed an obscenity at the sky. Milo flinched, his tail between his legs. He had never heard George say something so angrily before. Milo looked down, whimpered, and stared at the dirty, broken shoes on George’s feet. A hand reached down and softly stroked Milo’s head. “It’s gonna be okay, buddy.” George knelt down, holding Milo’s face close to him. He pulled out his phone, pushed buttons, and sighed. “No service.” George gave another sigh, and looked back at Milo. “We’re gonna be okay.”
Marc scanned the email chain from his client. “Dinner should be served at seven. The attire is intentional. Don’t be alarmed.” He chalked it up to some theme party; he had catered many theme parties over his two years in the business. Walking into people’s home as a caterer had proved immensely interesting and amusing. He gathered his pots and spoons, produce and meat, into a large wooden crate and carried it to his truck.
Lucas woke up to the setting sun, surrounded by feathery reeds and tall grass, lying beside splinters of wood and a lonely wagon wheel. With trees off in the distance and the sun slowly escaping below the horizon, his stomach twisted and ached for a warm meal. The memory of his mother, standing on the wooden front porch, screaming his name as the wind swept over his face tingled his skin and filled him with sorrow. He forced himself to sit up, but pain quaked his body with the movement. His legs were held to the earth under the weight of the wagon wheel. He struggled and writhed, trying to move the wagon wheel, but it was too much for Lucas to budge. He blamed his withdrawal inside the home when his father was working outside for his lack of physical strength. Never once did Lucas venture outside to help chop wood or herd cattle, to milk cows or to mend the fence. His journey to this spot was a blur, but it slowly merged into a vivid picture as he cried, his voice carrying pain away from him and echoing back, reverberating the fire in his leg.
Everytime I walk the sidewalk along Rivers Drive, just where the oak tree stands at the corner where Rivers meets Payne Street, the air grows cold. I remember the powdery outline that enveloped me that night--legs draped over asphalt, arms in grass, my torso contorted over the sidewalk.
On the night I died, I had decided to meet a friend for drinks. My girlfriend, Cheryl, was in her dorm room, working on a paper that was due the next day. I had wanted to break things off, had been thinking about it for a while, but how do you say “I don’t want to be your boyfriend anymore” over the phone? You can’t. So, I wanted to wait and tell her in person. It was the only gentlemanly thing I could do. Before I met my friends for drinks, I decided to trek over to her building in West Hall and speak to her. It wasn’t pleasant, for either of us, but it was necessary, I thought. Once our conversation had ended, I desperately needed drinks, so I made my way to the restaurant. Jimmy’s Pizza Bar wasn’t far from campus--I only had to walk a few blocks, and I could easily catch a cab back to my apartment, even at that late hour. I remember, as I walked, there was a ceaseless buzz in my pocket. Within a few minutes, I had 27 messages--missed calls, text messages, Facebook assaults, Twitter hashtags. Ah, life in the time of social media. The air sizzled in the summer heat as the thunderstorm in the clouds rumbled for the umpteenth time. Joanie sat on her front porch swing, her bare feet dangling beneath her smoothed out skirt, the colors that of a rich July sunset. She fixed her gaze over the banister, letting it graze on the trees in her yard which stretched out, kissing a dirt road which snaked between her home and the Fleet Street Cemetery, population: one-hundred and four. There was an itching in her head, beneath her hair follicles, buried inside her skull--an itching her fingers could never reach, so she tried to ignore it, but it was overwhelming. Perhaps, she thought, it’s the cicada, but the rain had forced them into their burrows.
Sheldon opened his eyes. The room was dimly lit by the cloudy sky outside, shaded sunlight gently seeping in through the blinds. The candle on his desk was melting over the wooden top and dripping on the carpeted floor below. He erected himself, shifting his swivel chair into a standard position, his eyes still in a haze after his nap, and the dull white paper, tucked into the typewriter, still blank. Three months, and nothing, he thought, placing his elbow on the armrest and his head in his hand. Once the fog in his eyes subsided, he scanned what he called his “library,” a single bookshelf of random books he’d gathered over the years, few of which with broken spines, all unexplored. His eyes shifted back to the blank page in front of him, and he sighed. There was no expectations placed on him by an outside source. There were no deadlines or due dates. There was simply an urge, and urges, as Sheldon had seen, all far too often detrimental. He cringed at this thought, swivelling his seat around to face the window instead of his desk. He watched the wind gather in the trees, the grey clouds dance ever so subtly in the sky, and world outside grow darker. His thoughts raced, out pacing the clouds. He thought back to his job, to the day he threw his papers in the air and shouted “I quit” to no one in particular. He thought back to the moment he stormed into his boss’ office, claiming to be a writer, claiming to be better than the job and everyone else dumb enough to stay, claiming to be in the right frame of mind to make such a drastic change, claiming to be so financially stable at home to not need to work any longer. His thoughts raced, out pacing his ability to withstand the sadness that began to wash over him. |
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March 2017
AuthorTony is actively working on several writing projects including a play, a novel, short stories and children stories. Some of these items may appear on this page, and others may appear on the store page (not active). Categories
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Awards:for "Just Like Mommy"
for "Pim & the Open Drain"
for "Pim & the Glass Jar"
for "One Drink."
for "No Prince."
for "Neither would he."
for "The Burning of Pounce"
for "Revelation, Part Two"
for "Precise Specifications"
Tony's bookshelf: favorites
This book has stuck with me since I finished reading it over three years ago. I was deeply fascinated by the story being told from the point of view of such a young child, and the way he tells the story is so viscerally devastating and b...
by Ernest Cline
From start to finish, this book had me excited! I struggled putting it down. Although many of the references went over my head (because I have yet to enjoy such nerd culture), it didn't matter. The concept and the pure exhilarating joy o...
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