prompt: oscillation

Too many people crowded together in the small room. They bumped into each other, clamouring to reach the front, oblivious to the elbows jabbing into their ribs. Everyone jostled people out of their way only to have a new body appear in front of them. Each person was blind to the identity of their neighbours, set intently on their goal of reaching the small door on the far wall. The only relief from the sweat and tacky heat of a stranger's skin was a small oscillating fan sitting in the corner. Nobody took notice, only pushed hard to get to their goal. The small fan's whirring and clacking echoed off the ceiling and bare walls, overpowered only by the shuffling of feet and the small sound of skin on skin.

prompt: intemperate

She raked her nails down his sides, laughing wildly and tossing her hair back over her shoulders. She sat back on her heels, surveying her prey; drinking in the sight of him. His wide and frightened eyes begged her silently, pleading for her mercy, but there was no having it. She was insatiable. Her intemperate spirit was pulling the life out of him, one poke at a time, one pinch at a time, one agonizing drag of steel at a time. He struggled against his bonds for as long as he could, but eventually he would succumb to her ministrations and his eyes would close. Her fiery thirst would then be quenched, if only for a moment.

prompt: juxtaposition

It wasn't her personality, though it should have been. It wasn't the mean way her sharp little mouth turned up into a sneer as she made some comment dripping in sarcasm to her so-called friends. She was a nasty little girl. What drew me to her was not all of the things she exuded that I hated. It would have made more sense if I had a concrete and justifiable reason for following her that night as she left the bar she clearly was too young to enter. If I could tell the world that I was making it a better place by taking her out of it, maybe Cara wouldn't look at me under her lashes like I know she will when I tell her about this incident. She would try not to let on that I was beginning to scare her, but I know her well enough by now. She wants there to be meaning behind what I do, and she I both know that that will simply  never be the case.

This is why I know that I will disappoint her when I come home tonight, splashed in my cologne-of-the-week, dripping red and finally able to breath again. She will ask me what made me choose this one -- she always asks. I will look her in the eye and I will tell her.

It wasn't her foul temper or the disgusting way she sashayed down that alley, on display for all. It wasn't at all complex or difficult to understand. I looked at her, sitting in that bar-stool, holding court and lording over the other patrons, and knew instantly that she would be next. It all came down to her dress...It was the red satin strap clinging to her shoulder; the juxtaposition of colour against her alabaster skin.

Look

He looked at me the way he looks at her.

His eyes soft and downcast, a certain sadness tinging the corners; he was a man taking in the last glass of water he knew he'd never get.

my head tilted . tines untangling the coils of pink and green . neck bent . an attractively unnatural angle

My eyes locked with his, I don't think he saw me. All others in the room were forgotten in the background.

He wore the same expression as when he followed her with his gaze across a room, instead following my fingers guiding the brush through my hair.

I pretended not to notice, gave him what little dignity he had left.

closed my eyes . kept talking . kept brushing . a mockery of decorum

I know he saw me. He knows I saw him. But still he looked.

I looked up once more, testing my memory. Perhaps the conjuring of a vain imagination?

His eyes still there. Did he not care if I noticed?


His stare was too focused, too aware. He was not lost in though, he was conscious of every detail he took in.

pause in my strokes . sudden blush . babbling random conversation . attempt at distraction

The smalls hairs on the back of my neck prickled with the invading caresses his eyes raked over my form.

My hair now in order, I straighten and drop my brush. I pick up the conversation, forcing him to participate.

The moment is broken. He returns to himself, joking and deflecting. He does not acknowledge and neither do I.

His actions seem forced and overly-secure. I know his pain. He is alone and wanting and it hurts.

I know this because I look at him the way he looks at her.