Flower Crowns

JournalWord: Covered in flowers.

***

The children are silent.

The boy looks up from his lap to gaze at the girl across from him in the squashed patch they had made in the flower field. She's really pretty. Shoulder length blonde hair and cream skin. Her hazel eyes are sad. She's clutching brown teddy bear.

He turns away from the ragged stuffed animal squeezed between her fingers, blowing his dark hair out of his face and remembers what his mother reminded him earlier.

They can see the house just around the hill but his mother stops him by placing her hand gently on his mop of wavy hair. She bends down to his level and looks him in the eyes before speaking.

"You should know, Darren, that the girl you're going to meet is going to be a bit strange."

His mother pauses, scrunching her delicately shaped eyebrows for the right words.

"She's very hurt, sweetie. You have to remember that. She doesn't talk anymore," his mother gives him a smallsmile, 'But I think that you can make her happy.You can be her knight in shining armor."  

How sweet that sounds: to be a knight like one of the heroes in his stories!

He could save people just like his big brother.

It's decided then. He would save her from whatever dragons or wizards that wanted to harm her!

Peeking at her from the corner of his eye, he looks again at her sad form. First, he should make her happy.

Scanning the area for any enemies, he thinks of something for them to do, his eyes landing on the petals of a familiar white flower. He scrambles out of his spot in the field and runs off to search for more.

The girl looks up at his sudden movements and her gaze follows him running back to their spot with an armful of small white flowers tucked into every crevice of his arms. As soon as he sits down, he sets to work.

Curiously, she tries to see what he is doing, but is startled by his pleased grin. He hurriedly finishes up and stretches his arms out to present his gift.

Daisy chains.

"These are for you!"

She's surprised by the gift and gives him an expression of confusion, tweaking her head into angles to decipher what he means with the gift.

He picks up one of the chains and places it on her head. She blinks and fingers the daisies.

And then she laughs. A soft twinkling hymn that swirls in the fluttering breeze.

This wasn't what he expected.

She stands up, letting go of her bear so it topples onto the nest she had created from the tall grass and takes one of the chains in his hands and puts one on his head too.

And that's when he's presented by her angelic smile.

She looked so beautiful with her halo of daisies, but her smile is what defined her as an angel.

She looks down at him and grins. "Daisy!"

His eyebrows rise in amazement. She speaks!

"Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!" She chants, placing necklaces of daisies on both of them.

She pauses at his dumbfound expression, delivering another warm smile that lights up the viridian flecks in her hazel eyes.

"Daisy!"

And that's when he understands what she is intending. She is saying he is Daisy!

He frowns.

No way is he being named after a flower! Knights aren't named Daisy!

"I am not Daisy. My name is Darren." He huffs, arms crossing his chest in exasperation.

She frowns in confusion, her enchanting smile gone.

Why does it hurt when she doesn't smile? Why can't I look at her when she's like this?

"..Fine.." He sighs, defeated. "I'm Daisy."

Her smile returns and she claps excitedly, pushing more daisies towards him.

"Daisy!"

***

Something short and sweet as I attempt to organize myself in preparation of focusing on larger tasks at hand.

I've been extremely flabbergasted by the sheer motivation developed by all the support I've been getting to continue writing. Thank you all! You make my mini-mind world spin!

Keep bubbly!

Mera. 

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Poison Prince

JournalWord: He is poison.

::

His first memory is war and starvation.

His next memory is of darkness and crying bodies.

He can hear the sobbing of other children beside him, quivering and howling in the pitch dark. He feels the walls behind him, pressing his hands against the rough stones of the cave. 

The howls and cries are so loud and don't stop for nights and days; time he can't decipher anymore.

 His tears of fear have dried from listening to the other children, and he can't find the heart to care about them. After fending for himself all his life on the merciless streets, scraping for days on rotten fruit and dried crumbs, this is an opportunity he must pull through with. 

They are feeding us, he reasons, and that is enough for him to ignore the cries and darkness. Just knowing that there is food to eat, albeit cold because he is squished far back by the walls, he can continue to bear with this hellish hole.

Slowly, his patience and perseverance prove worth when retching sounds start to intermingle with the screams and sobbing. The ground has become soft underneath him and he pushes away the thought of why. The bodies huddled and squished around him are losing their heat, so he pushes them away from him, without a care that they don't make a noise of protest.

The noises are silencing, and the sobbing cries are dwindling to whimpers that snuff out in due time. His food steadily becomes warmer by the time it gets to him until, finally, it comes served piping hot, straight from the oven to his waiting hands. 

He hasn't moved from his place from the back of the cave, eating whatever is given to him without a sound escaping his lips, even when the stomach pains ached for him to scream. The pain has long since passed, along with the cries, without any indication of it being present in the first place.  

He still eats, and the other children die beside him, spoons and bowls clattering around them, but he still eats until his spoon scrapes the bottom of his bowl.

When the first light peeks through the opening at the other end of the cave, a bellow hollers for any survivors to come get their meal. On shaky legs, he makes his first attempt to walk, ignoring the smell he has almost become accustomed to and the mounds of rustic clothes he has to walk over. 

He is met with surprised congratulations at the door and light, and when someone breaks through the crowd to rustle his long, dirty hair, their hand burns black. He passes by the scream and writhing body, walking through the silent path and heading for the table, towards the steaming pot. He sits on the bench, alone, and helps himself to the porridge, having not been fed in nearly two days. 

He has become the poison that he is fed.

::

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Spilling

JournalWord: Premature.

::

She finds him in the bathroom, more specifically, sitting in the claw foot tub. The shower is on and cold water pelts relentlessly at his bowed head. He’s soaked, and the fresh bandages she had taken the time to apply are ruined. 

He’s bleeding again, she realizes when she connects his cupped hand, pressed loosely to the swatch of spreading red on his left side. His other arm hangs over the edge, palm up and fingers curled, as if it had lost it’s grasp. His legs dangle off the side of the porcelain tub, defeated like the rest of him. 

She watches his body tremble and fidget from a shiver and she wants to squeeze herself in and curl up beside him and cry. He’s only twelve, she wants to cry, and he’s too big to fit in her tub. 

Her eyes sting at just the sight of his broken soul, and she can’t imagine the pain he’s been through; all the pain he shouldn't be in. He’s too young to fight alone. He’s too young to fill my tub, like the rest of the army he leads.

::

What would you like to read?

More JournalWords?
More of a specific genre?
More lists?
More dialogues?
More YGMM?

(Drop me a hint in the comments)

I want to know what you like to read. :)

~mera!

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Unleash Your Inner Artist

JournalWord: Drawing cats.

***

"Miss Tina! I drew a cat!" Jeffrey announces excitedly, swinging the scribbled mass of orange cat drawn on his sheet of paper, through the air above his feathered hair. He bounces from the plastic chair he sits on, the stitches on his body threatening to pop and unravel.

Tina detours from the hallway to enter the children's nursery, musing that the room is actually quite cheery for a room in a castle dungeon full of zombies, maniacal scientists, and a satanist. There is even a great number of normal toys, like trains and dolls strewn on the matted floor. Although the rubber ducky wallpaper is an eyesore. 

"What a lovely cat, Jeffrey," Tina praises, patting the zombie child's head and forcing him down into the seat. He calms down and stops his bouncing to brightly smile at her. Perfect, straight, gleaming white teeth will always be a mystery that the zombies in this household will never reveal. Tina claims that they're actually just stolen dentures from raids. 

"I drew you," Levi cuts in, shoving his picture into Tina's face.

"You drew me?" Tina asks, touched, taking the sketchbook from Levi's hand. She places a hand on her chest and blinks away astonished tears to look at the picture. "What a lovely picture of.. me picking my nose," she finishes flatly. 

She squints her eyes from behind her glasses in hopes that she's interpreting the portrait wrong, however, Levi's impeccable talent in drawing, clearly displays her right index finger plunging into her nostril with incredible detail and realistic texture. 

A glance at Levi's smirk is enough to conclude her suspicions that he really is just an evil brat. She flicks over to the next page to see if there are any better ones, and then she chokes.

"Levi, you can't draw that!" she hisses, looking around frantically. "I'm sure that was a very private moment between Lisa and George-"

Speak of the devil, George walks past them in the hallway, pausing to give Tina a suspicious look. She smiles at him around the mouthful of paper as George walks away with a raised eyebrow.

"Do pictures taste good, Miss Tina?"

Tina turns around at the inquiry and watches, dumbfounded, when Jeffrey starts to stuff his cat picture in his mouth expectantly.

Levi continues a drawing from a page in his sketchbook, accurately depicting a scene from one of Ishin's many questionable rituals that involved too many virgins that a nine year old boy should have witnessed.

***

Art and zombie children. I'm just silly, teehee!

My evil castle dungeon is growing! And yes, there are children (albeit zombies!) who live there. 

Drop a comment, please! 

Be good, 

Mera ;P

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Kinky Games

JournalWord: "Are kinky games like Twister?"

***

"What are kinky games, Mr. Luke?" Ruben pipes up from his mess of newspapers. He is constructing a series of piles from the shredded newspaper scrapings on a mangy rug. He smiles expectantly up at the man hidden behind the economy section.

Luke chokes on his saliva and lowers the newspaper to patiently reply. "They aren't very fun to play," Luke says, hiding behind the section of paper and hoping that his answer will be enough to soothe the curiosities of the child.

His hopes are denied, though when Ruben's high pitched voice interrupts again.

"Are they like Hungry, Hungry, Hippos?"

"No, Ruben."

"Are they like Duck, Duck, Goose?"

"No, Ruben."

"Are they like Twister?"

"No, Ruben, they are not-" Luke pauses, lowering his paper slightly to contemplate. "Well, perhaps just a little," he concludes, dropping the section onto the floor for Ruben to tear apart and picking up the business section.

"I like playing Twister, Mr. Luke," Ruben says, and Luke attempts to block out the annoying high pitched voice, humming to seem like he is listening. "Can we play kinky games later?"

Luke hums without acknowledgement, unconcerned when Ruben shouts in excitement and runs up to the game closet, excitement bubbling as he yells that he's going to be "playing kinky games with Mr. Luke".

***

Yeah, my comedy lies in perversion. I like being naughty ;)
I'm not going to stay PG, as there will be hints (and bluntly stated) innuendos and inclinations to sex (like kinky stuff, fetishes, and threesomes). 
Just a warning in the future.
I'm an adult so my writing will be adult, as well.

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A Tiny Tune

JournalWord: When a misfit comes home.

***

He stumbles into the cafe, slamming shut the front door from the peeking rays of the morning. The jumbled chime of the bells over the door announces his arrival and he grunts, clutching his head at the sharp pain the sound induces. 

He shuffles one of the tables, knocking down a chair from it's upside door position on the tabletop. It's too early for anyone to be up. Dan isn't even up yet to turn down the chairs for the day.

Placing the chair on it's legs, he falls into the wooden seat, ducking his head under his arms as he places them on the table. He attempts to ignore the pounding at the back of his head with whispered curses. No one messes with him. No one should mess with him, he corrects. It's their own goddamn fault for bringing a bat to a fist fight, he scowls. 

So he fights the beginning of pain, knowing if he doesn't sleep now, the bruises will be keeping him up for days. Dan will know, then, and when he knows he's been in another fight, he'll have to be kicked out. 

He doesn't know why he fights. Dan should have kicked him out months ago. Coming home every week with a new set of bruises and gang members out for revenge, he's endangering Diana and the cafe for being here.

Damn, he curses again, a fist meeting the wooden surface of the table. A jagged pain runs through his knuckles for his efforts and he swears quietly, praying he doesn't have any broken bones or fractures. Then he wouldn't be able to help out. Then he wouldn't be able to teach Diana her lessons. 

He cradles his hand in his lap, hiding his eyes in his other forearm, wiping away ungrateful tears. He doesn't even deserve to cry, not for his actions, and not for his broken promises. He's still mentally cursing himself when tiny pattering of feet sneak down the stairs into the dining hall.  

He wipes his eyes again and plucks his head up from his arm to the stumbling tune of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. He watches as she struggles over the keys of the old upright piano. Her tiny fingers flutter and stretch to reach the ivory keys, tripping over others in the obstacle to complete the children's tune. 

She finally finishes the song and spins on the bench, her nightgown twirling along with her long hazel braid. She beams when she sees he's been watching. "Are you feeling a little better now?" she asks, hopeful.

"Not in the least," he gruffly replies at the child. Her smile falters and he adds, "yeah, so play it again for me."

He drops his head back down onto his arm, hiding his smile in the crook of his arm when she starts to play the tune again, this time with an exited gusto. He stays awake knowing she'll be lonely when he falls asleep. The pain will be worth it, he vows. It's the only equivalent to the sweet serenade of an angel.

***

Love, love, love misfits!!

I'm realizing I like writing from a limited third-person point of view. Seems to feel right.

Let me know what you think!

~mera

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Prison Papas

JournalWord: "They're in jail."

***

5-year old Melody turns to wave before skipping over puddles beside her father, heading towards a car parked down the street. The sky has cleared up since this afternoon and the stars are already peeking over the remaining glow of the sunset. Walking back into the daycare, I start collecting strewn toys as I stroll down the orange and blue hallway. Stuffed bears and railway cars are piling in the crook of my arm and I occasionally press down falling, taped corners of scribbled sheets decorating the walls.

Dumping the collection of toys into an overflowing chest of Legos and plastic dinosaurs, I stretch, cracking my back.

"Ouch!" I rub at the base of my spine, vowing for a hot soak in my bathtub later while cursing the twins for convincing me that I am still young enough to give all ten of the children a gallop around the playroom. 

"You will be their neighbor," a cheery voice states from the playroom. Following his voice to the yellow room, filled with alphabet mats for story time and mountains of toys and children's books in all four corners of the room, I watch Joey sort dolls in front of himself while narrating where they will be living. 

"You're going to have to live by the pet store," he instructs a doll with short black hair, sporting an outfit combination of a blue summer dress and neon tights. She only has one pink heel. "We don't want the snakes and lizards to escape. You lost your shoe chasing after them last time."

It's almost 6 O'clock and this will be the third time Laura has been late to pick Joey up. Picking up some of the toys around me, I shuffle the toys a bit in my hands so Joey knows I'm here. His babbling stops but he walks a Barbie slowly, tracing an "S" into the mat on her stroll. 

I toss the toys into one of the mountains in the corner before gently settling beside Joey on the mat. He doesn't look up from the doll in his hand, picking at the red skirt. 

"So tell me," I start, smiling when he lifts his head. "Where does this Barbie live?"

His face brightens with his smile and I remember how proud he was when he lost his first tooth a couple weeks ago. "She's a doctor," he says, placing her down and picking up the little boy doll beside her. "And this is her son." 

Joey starts to introduce five pairs of dolls, indicating the mother's job and each mother's daughter or son. He is all smiles but falters at the last set of dolls, hands hesitating over the three dolls. 

I notice his hesitancy but urge him on. "And what about these lovely dolls?" I ask, picking up the set of three and raise my eyebrows with an interested smile to encourage him. 

He eyes the dolls, not taking any notice in my exuberance. "That's the mommy, and this is the son, and this is the mommy." He points to each respective doll in my hands, a small, shy smile on his lips.

I take the time to nod my head in understanding, handing the dolls to Joey's waiting palms, watching as he carefully places them in front of him, patting their heads. 

I finally bring up the question I've been meaning to ask. "Now, where are all the daddies?" indicating the neglected male dolls in surfer shorts and suits laying on the other side of the room.

"Oh," he snaps his head up, a surprised expression in his eyes, head tilted like I should know, "they're all in jail," he answers, a frown of disappointment present on his face at my lack of knowledge.

Stunned by his answer, I don't notice the doorbell. Joey jumps up and starts to run down the hall, and he makes it halfway before I catch up to him, reminding him not to open the door without an adult present.

Laura is apologetic for being late again, thanking me for taking care of Joey before helping him gather his boots and jacket. As they leave, Joey babbling on about his day at school, I lock up the front door. 

Cleaning up the remainder of the toys in the playroom and turning off lights, I recall Laura talking to me last week about her engagement to her long time boyfriend, and Joey's father, and their wedding five months from now. 

***

I'd love to know what you think and what comes to mind as soon as you are given the statement, 

"They're in jail.". 

All my keywords that spark my writing are from a personal collection of phrases, ideas, and words that I have compiled from my everyday excursions. I did want to base my writing on a published book, compiled with a list of already written writing prompts (and none of that mumbo-jumbo about how to write and where to find inspiration and such), but apparently such a book does not exist (as according to the Chapters employee who sat me down and instructed me to write it myself). Yeah, that may or may not happen. 

We shall see!

Thank you for reading!!!

~Mera

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