And suddenly the frame started to melt against the brass door. Who even has a brass door? Lord Grimley, that’s who. Not content with the Rolls Royce, nor the private helicopter he felt the need to display his obscene wealth even behind closed doors. Gold taps on his bath. Solid gold. How can that possible enrich the bathing experience? Lord Grimley preferred a shower anyway.
Yes, of course, a solid gold shower head.
How can a few blockbuster novels translate into this unending well of cash? Well all the film deals, multi-million pounds each now. Each one generating yet more sales of the breathless action-packed novels. Getting a big percentage on all tie-ins a merchandise was one of the best things he had done too. Plus all that property. He still owned the flat he bought after his novel did OK. Sentimental. And it still brings in a tiny pittance of a drop of money every month, he assumed. The tenants struggled, really struggled, to find this money every month. They often had to forego food towards the end of the month, telling the kids that they were on a diet. No hope of buying luxuries of any sort they always had to get the latest Grimley out of the library. Before it closed down a couple of years back.
Chances were around seventy percent that if you rented a flat in his old northern home town he was ultimately your landlord, through a series of off-shore businesses. These simultaneously avoided tax and bad publicity by distancing him from the awful state and high rents of these old buildings.
Nowadays of course it was the huge luxury developments that made him the real money. Dubai, New York, London. Luxury flats such as the penthouse he was in now in Dubai, with the gold lifts and his Italian sports car parked in the flat (a special lift transporting it there) allowing him to marvel at it’s sleek lines and at himself.
But now the frame was melting. He called a number. “What the hell is going on?”. But the gold phone also started to melt. He looked around, everything began to melt. He began to panic, up there, alone surrounded by his own vanity on the one hundred and sixtieth floor. He held his hand up in front of his face. The fingers began to melt in front of him.
Today I wrote from 16:07 to 16:08. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here
Airport. Waiting. Delay. Car Park. Short-term. Waiting. Time. Drive. Round the Block. Airport. Car Park. Short-term. Waiting. Waiting. Car Keys. Time. Delay. Ten Minutes. Keys. Eight Minutes. Waiting. Pace. Up. Down. Keys. Delay. Car Park. Five Minutes. Drive. Out. Wait. Airport. Car Park. Delay. Waiting. Pace. Up. Down. Wait. Due. Car Park. Urgent. Round the Block. Airport. Car Park. Short-term. Waiting. Seven Minutes. Coffee. Two Minutes. Keys. Nervous. Landed. Car Park. Run. Drive. Round the Block. Airport. Car Park. Round the Block. Run. Fourteen Minutes. Text. Off Plane. Pace. Keys. Nervous. Rising. Text. Passport Control. Nine Minutes. Nervous. Pace. Keys. Pocket. Shaking. Text. Through. Pace. Urgent. Doors. Open. Face. Smile. Nervous. Shaking. Car Park. Keys. Drive. Lights. Nervous. Chat. Drive. Home. Keys. Enter. Now. Here. Keys. Table. Here. Now. End.
Today I wrote from 21:57 to 22:07. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here
Chopping along merrily, perms blowing in the wind, First Aid KIt blaring out of the Bluetooth speaker, and the sun beating down on the deck. They could not quite believe it when they turned up for this trip and discovered that the guy who owned the boat and captained it for them was in fact a large pig. Still, he seemed reasonably competent. They were moving forward at any rate.
The beer allowed itself a sharp fizzy exhalation as Juliette cracked it’s cap off. “Pass me another, too.” called out Lillian. “And me.” Tallulah said, as she passed the bottles around. Free. Three friends, freedom. The open seas. A few days together before starting their new lives. The steady breeze guided them along, and they felt like the only people on Earth.
Is it freedom though? Being stuck on a small boat; nowhere to go, nowhere to really be alone. The yacht groaned deeply and slowly as it plunged under water, Lillian, at the front, felt the cool, pleasing, blast of water first, and then the hands of her friends clutching here. Before long they were deep in the water, and the speed picked up. It was beautiful down there. The Captain was struggling for breath, like a midnight fox in space, adrift and cut off. He was just there, on this small boat, but he seemed such a long way away to the women. As if on the other side of some glass. Slowly he gasped and vibrated, before giving in.
Juliette collected the rocks, Lillian and Tallulah tied them to his corpse and the strength of all three was needed to haul it overboard. “How,” thought Lillian, ruefully, “are we to get home now?”
Today I wrote from 19:20 to 19:30. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here
It was beautiful, big, round, bright, and beautiful, there was an amazing spectrum of colours surrounding the outside of the circle and the more she looked at it the more beautiful it became, bursting with incandescence, glowing with luminosity from the edges and into the beyond of the periphery of her vision.
At the centre was an almost blinding whiteness. The type of white brightness that would leave black dots in the centre of your vison if you looked away or closed your eyes. Except she was unable to look away. She was absolutely transfixed by the sheer brilliance of the lights, even if she wanted to, even if she tried to force herself, she simply could not tear her vision away from the lights. Sitting, in the middle of the road, utterly motionless, caught in the vastness of the brilliance as they came closer and closer, faster and faster, until…
Bloody rabbits, the driver said aloud as he sped down the country lane, swerving at the last minute in a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable, imagining the sound of crunching bones as his wheel instantly crushed the poor, blinded, bunny as he zoomed toward his destination.
Prompted by this page
One for a stranger,
Two for an old thief,
Three for anger, and
Four for grief.
Five for a follower,
Four for a friend,
One to seek,
Three for a sad ending.
Four she falls and,
Three she flies.
Six she can live again,
Three she dies.
Prompted by M here and today I wrote 07:10 to 07:20
Before you read, I would like to emphasise once again, this is written in 10 minutes flat with no preparation nor correction. If I had time it would almost certainly not be any better.
Transfixed by the Lights, She Never Noticed He was There
The breeze of nothingness led her around a chain,
The odour was faint, like something almost felt,
Blankly onwards and around and around into pain,
Stumbling, staggering, yet somehow always upright.
Staggering and startling the colours, screaming bright
Onwards throughout the darkness above, skewed,
Odours clinging and claiming her own sweet light
Breeze. One by one the emotions appeared and queued.
One sharp and clear; despair was seen deep inside
Clinging rashly, furiously to her heart, in her body
Throughout her mind, her soul. It wasn’t the lights that cried
And ending, nothing could shake her knowledge of shoddy
Endings. Never once allowing her to see, to notice,
Her own true self finally emerging from the cocoon.
Rashly she ran and still didn’t see, beside her; POTUS?
Sharp her ears pricked, No! T’was not Donald, but a baboon.
Today I wrote from 14:19 to 14:29. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here
He couldn’t bring himself to look at her face most of the time. That was the problem. It was a problem, looking. When he looked… well, it was just worse, that is all. And when he did look he could see. He was fucked. He’s fucked, they’re fucked, we’re fucked. Everybody is fucked. This has fucked every fucking thing up. It’s a fuckup. And he is a fuckup. He’s fucked up.
So mostly he didn’t look. And the longer he went without looking the harder it was when he did look. Could it be harder? It always felt that there was no way it could be harder, yet it always was. Every day harder and harder. Then one day; suddenly, unexpectedly, it didn’t seem so hard any more.
Which is what made it worse when it did come back. Much worse. So yes, it is harder and harder. And in every brief gaze it gets worse. The brief gaze of affection. The brief gaze of pity. . The brief gaze of ridicule. The brief gaze of exasperation. The brief gaze of dismissal. The brief gare of untruth. . The brief gaze of fury. The brief gaze of hatred. The brief gaze of that face, that beautiful face.
That is why he didn’t look. Couldn’t look. The face that brought nothing but joy, relief and comfort for so long. And now he was unable to even catch look for a brief gaze. The gaze a dagger, stabbing the heart. The gaze a hideous machine, rolling ever onwards, crushing all in it’s path. The gaze a black hole, offering only despair.
Oh I know alright, I know. I’m the only rational sane fucker around who really knows.
Today I wrote from 10:04 to 10:14. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here