Writing Prompt #2: Tiny Stories

Again, the challenge was to write, just write. Not think, not edit, not change anything.

As a result, I present:

Quest Accepted

It is the twenty-first century. The days of seven league boots, of secret wizards doling out quests from hidden booths in the market, of dreams that come true are long, long gone. 

Modern people could only shuffle through racks and shelves of vintage stores to get a glimpse of the most mundane of treasures. 

The well-worn denim jacket fit perfectly. Rare for a thrift store find, but what drew her to it was the trio of badges that promised things she only dared dream.

One was a smiley face with a negative sign to indicate a wink and a positive sign for a nose. One was a topless woman, reminiscent of a Nagel painting, with the words Soft Metals across the center, and the last, the most intriguing button said, “Talk Kinky to Me!” 

She clutched the lapels in her hands and posed in front of the mirror. The reflection showed a bad-ass, someone daring, someone who flirted and knew her own desires. Someone who took risks.

About as far as she could get from her normal introverted self. 

The jacket was five dollars.She chewed on her lower lip. Five dollars for a broken-in jean jacket was not a risk. She could take off the buttons if she wanted to.

Blushing, she bought the jacket and hurried out the store. Quest accepted.

Tiny stories

Last year was a rough one here at the Charming-Mercury household. As I result, I lost my love of writing and shut down. 

Quite frankly, it sucked.

My dear friend Coral Mallow rode to the rescue! For Christmas, she gave me a box full of writing prompts. Here is the first prompt. Her challenge to me was to write fast, not edit, and let the story come.

And here we are!

Secret Rose

 

He was the baddest, burliest, biker boy you ever did see. Leathers, patches, tattoos, scars, beard, long hair…the whole shebang. There was one thing, though, that no one was brave enough to ask about – the matter of the tiny bouquet of roses pinned into his hair.

But if they had asked, he would have told them the truth. Of the baby sister he’d once had. How he had built a full Victorian  doll-house for her; three floors of little  rugs, teacups, and lace curtains.  

She was a surprise baby, born when he was fully sixteen years old. The late pregnancy took a toll on everyone, though. Their miracle had Down’s Syndrome. 

No one cared. Little Rosie was their sunshine, their joy, the reason the household smiled every day. Her uncoordinated hands could play with the delicate handmade furniture for hours, never once scratching or dropping his hard work.

The therapist always encouraged his time with Rose, but truth was, he would have played with her anyway. She was his escape from the misery of High School where he only excelled in the automotive arts.

She died the day he graduated from from his motorcycle repair course. He took the tiny bouquet of roses from the entry hall of the doll-house, put them in his braid, and left town, never to return to the scene of his heartbreak.