Come to Papa, Mia! You’re such a smart girl, such a smart girl! Papa loves you, Mia! Come to him!
And, as she approached, Ricco grew less okay with it all. She was thirteen months yesterday, and closer to death than before. As was Ricco. And Maria. And he had no answer to that. He had no way of slowing this single moment, captured behind a lens and imprinted onto photopaper.
There was time, and this was time.
Mia grin grew unsure. Ricco adjusted his expression and encouraged her. Into outstretched arms, she stumbled the last few steps.
Ricco decided against holding those last few steps against her, and welcomed her into a spinning embrace.
She lapsed into a fluorescent adolescent, donning the brightest of graphic tees depicting nonsense splotches of color as trendy art and shaving the side of her head for contrast. It was all so depressing. Her hair still clogs the sink. Even though she’s gone. Gone.
You see, I watched her from afar. High school Marty was moody, and high school Mindy eluded my arm, fingers, and possession. She wore the same stocking to school every day, and only washed them when her mother scowled. Were we friends? Perhaps. She waved to me in passing, then leaped into her girlfriend’s arms. They often attracted an audience. It was only then did I avert my gaze.
I missed her without having her, and she noticed me in fleeting moments. Her heart belonged to another race, another sex, another person. I hated her. But I loved her.
The above piece will be continued at another time. I listened to the song “Dory” by Grizzly Bear, and wrote what came to mind. Needs some work, but that was five minutes or so of writing.
NOW! It’s time for a prompt.
Why is it important? Write and publish a post, link it below in a comment or ping my post. Looking forward to reading some responses.
Here’s some prompts that may or may not interest you if you’re into writing.
A gritty underworld where people store their potential children in banks. A huge source of fraud becomes the tampering of the child’s genome by insurance mercenaries, yielding high risk individuals with high premiums.
After the world nearly blows itself into two, New Republic is rallying its troops to scour the lands for refuges. The protagonist is a chemist who must make stimulants for the soldiers. Twist: he is part of the resistance.
A young mother is suffering from PPD. Describe a particularly rough day.
Rhythm, a sequence in time repeated, featured in dance: an early moving picture demonstrates the waltz. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
“Shall we dance?”
She speaks so coyly, as if she knows I’m putty in her hands.
She guides me to the center of the dance floor, amid a fluid mosaic of teens swaying with the rhythm. We’re just two people. But this feels so special, so unique.
“I…don’t dance much.”
“Neither do I.”
Tell her she’s pretty.
“You’re…the most beautiful girl in the room.”
Did I say too much?
We kiss, and sway the rhythm with the rest of the dance floor. The song plays on.
Hunger like a storm
How do I begin
A room within a room
A door behind a door
Touch, where do you lead?