Writing Prompt Winners, March 6-11

Every Monday I do a prompt challenge for writers to participate and the plan with them was to advertise the best work of fiction from the prompts on Saturday. This was the first week people volunteered their work to my blog and I am grateful for them having done that. So in honor of the participants of the prompt, below are all the entries from the prompt “It was a pleasure to burn“.

The first post is from Booky Glover at https://bookyglover.wordpress.com/

I was angry
Yet the more angry I got
The more my heartbeat rate increased
I was drained physically and emotionally after
I developed a high temperature
I was burning
I wanted to burn
The aftermaths were not delightful after all.

Next is Madathil Rajkumar from https://azuremorn.wordpress.com/
It is a pleasure to burn
By my dad’s summer house and lawn
When father Gabriel takes his turn
With a silver urn and a crown.

Lastly Carl Bystrom at http://www.carlbystrom.com

She threw the token onto the pile in the center of the table.

Chisholm froze. “You serious?”

“I’m always serious,” she said, letting an amused smile curl one corner of her mouth as the eyebrow above it raised. “Even when I’m playing.”

Especially when she’s playing,” chimed Davis. He’d folded on the previous round, his tongue, and his wisdom, loosened by whiskey. A tight player when he was sober, Davis had dropped to two gold pieces after ordering his fourth glass. “Serious like a dog star…”

Chisholm shot Davis a glance to shut him up and leaned into the light to pick up the small figurine.

Brass. It was polished so smooth it almost felt soft. Meredith watched him fondle the form, a miniature of a Nazaraik, perfect in every detail. Down to the toenails. Meredith had studied the token for hours under a jewelers loupe, the craftsmanship was as spellbinding as the magic itself. She understood what Chisholm was experiencing; she could almost feel the surface glide against her own skin as she watched him roll it between his fingers.

Meredith had collected many treasures on her travels, but the Nazaraik certainly ranked among the rarest. An hermaphroditic pleasure slave, bound to the tiny statue by some curse or indenture. The token gave the owner complete control over the spellbound Nazaraik to which it was tied.

“I don’t have anything to see this with.” Chisholm said, lowering the figure back to the pile. Meredith noted that he didn’t actually let it go.

“You have the Arken.”

“My ship?” Chisholm guffawed. “Well, first off the Arken isn’t worth this much.” He raised the figure and leaned back in his chair, his face swallowed in the relative darkness. Light glinted off the token as he continued to roll it at his fingertips. “And she’s my ship.”

“Do we have a bet?”

The Nazaraik was rare to be sure, but it was one of many pleasures in Meredith’s collection. A pleasure she’d tasted. It was a pleasure to burn. Meredith was hungry for novelty. Just throwing the token on the pile had raised the stakes enough to get her heart moving a beat or two faster. If she succeeded in wresting the ship from Chisholm’s landing bay in a hand of cards, the rush of the win would be a pleasant hit to her endorphin starved system.

Chisholm leaned back to the table and gently placed the statue back on the pile. Then he pulled the Arken’s fob from his pocket and tossed it down next to the brass figurine.

Meredith let her smile spread.


Pen and Paper, A Poem by Jessie Gutierrez

Each swipe of the pen is
Like needle and thread;
A suture to mend,
All the ways these days
Have cut me.

Each sheet of paper sullied,
Soaked equally with anguish and joy,
Bleeds me of anxiety and need,
Forever stained with the pain
Of too visceral emotion.

A healing ledger of what was once felt;
The only reminder of cards once dealt,
Day to day marked by all I wouldn’t say.
Better than any doctor or drug was the daily
Treatment to be found in pen and paper.

Jessie Gutierrez finds that the only way she can comfortably write about herself is from behind the veil of poetry or goofy blog rants, most of which find their home at https://redstringpapercuts.com/. Her first science fiction novel is set to debut sometime this year.

Flash Fiction: Blackout

Continue reading “Flash Fiction: Blackout”

The Mind-wandering Wanderer

The wind told the boy to live
To be unique bold and free
He, although greatly pensive,
Grew to a man who could see
The person he couldn’t be
So his soul became wild
Still the wind filled him with glee
Like when he was a child

Fire, such insanity
Taught the boy about passion
But left harsh reality
He grew up to fear action
Lost even his compassion
Depression would stay awhile
Leaving his spirit ashen
Like when he was a child

Water had its own design
The boy was to grow up calm
With heavy heart but a clear mind
He grew up without aplomb.
Calmness disarmed that bomb but
Grief and joy left him beguiled
Still, of life, he had few qualms
Like when he was a child

Mind-wandering wanderer,
The boy, nature’s brainchild
The idle time-squanderer
Like when he was a child

Guest Post: Abbey Escudero, First Sight of Happiness

Heart pounding,
Lips beaming.
Shamefaced and stammered,
While walking through each other.

As our hands lock,
It tingles back like a poke of shock.
A strike of light hits
As our eyes exultantly meet.

It’s a bursting silence of treasure,
An atmosphere so pure
As butterflies flying above
For two people who found love

Regina Salve Escudero also known as Abbey on her Blog Wanderlust, is a graduate of BS Information Technology at St. Paul University Quezon City, Philippines. She can be contacted through her social media links.
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