DWP No. 080

FREE WRITE

Allow the prompts to sink in and inspire you. Shoot for somewhere around 100-250 words, and be sure to share those amazing words (in the comments section) with all of us here on Writing Practitioners.

 

3 Comments

  1. Adobe

    That cross that hangs on the wall came from New Mexico. Probably came by way of Mexico-who cares, but I really like it. I like the flowers and birds on it. I like the Adobe house, how it’s painted and all the bright beautiful colors. It’s such a happy memory for me and the time you actually let me out of the house by myself without supervision, or what I call without guard duty. I prayed about this forever. I know you don’t believe in prayer or the power of prayer but that’s your problem, dirtbag, and frankly you’re wrong. So wrong. But I do.

    I got me that cross when I was in New Mexico trying to remember my name and why you ended up leaving. No amount of talking to you did me good. I was both captive and capturer. I couldn’t figure out where you ended and I began. You hoped to beat me to control me with stuff, with things.
    But you’re wrong again. I beat you to the punch, you little bastard, and left first.

    I found my peace, my strength, in Santa Fe‘s streets, the hills of Taos, the Adobe everywhere, such power like none I’ve ever seen in my boring suburban upbringing. Adobe. Clay homes from clay, from the earth, standing strong making structures and sanctuaries. Shaped into rounded smooth corners and not the sharp jagged edges which defined my life, defined my soul. Adobe, the red brown, the peace, the clay.

    I found my peace in that place, in that cross, and with my God. I found my peace. I tell you.

    That cross- you better not touch it or I’ll break your fucking hands.

    Loser.

    .

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  2. With eyelids clenched tightly, the smoldering sizzle of the accursed thing grew in volume until it deafened me entirely, and I forced my eyes open again to stare the damned thing back into submission. This time, however, unlike the previous nights, the horrible thing on the wall mocked me as I jolted upright in the dark room and shucked the blanketry to the worn wooden floor panels that lay beneath the canopy bed- it just stared back at me, sizzling harder and hotter than it ever had before. And in the next moment, I learned, to the utmost sense of disruption to my otherwise ironclad constitution, that the object and its menace in fact were not a figment of my imagination, as the burning back of the crucifix that had grown to torment my nights grew so hot that a deep shadow of the thing, even in the deepest hour of the night, grew rapidly and visibly on the wall behind it, grasping out to the cardinal corners of the room.

    A thick tendril of smoke reached deep into my lungs and I coughed terribly as the smell of searing plaster filled the room. At once, I threw myself to the wretched cross and tore it from its vertical pedestal, smashing it to pieces on the gnarled floor. But I was too late. The awful black outline it had bled onto the wall and now grew of its accord, peeling one dark, cavernous band up across the ceiling, another out in both directions, swallowing the door, the windows, the room whole, and me with it. My skin crawled and screamed with the horribly rising heat, and as my vision faded in the thickening black smoke of the burning room, I took in one last, deep breath, lay down on the floor, and resisted no longer the inevitability of my fate.

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  3. “What cross? What even is a cross?” he asks. The man shakes his head, “You don’t know what a cross is?” The other man shrugs and smishes his lips together. “It’s that small wooden thing that kind of looks like the letter tee,” the man explains. “Oh,” the other man smiles with an outstretched hand that snaps in excitement, “THAT thing. Yea, no, I have no idea.”

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