The place is on the water. It has little umbrellas that have frayed in the wind. The fresh salty air from the gulf can’t penetrate the smells of stale beer and greasy food that surround the plywood structure like a fugue.
Gulls circle looking for morsels of food. With protesting squawks they fly off when the big bikes roar into the parking lot. The leather-dressed men smell of piss, shit and vomit. They have long greasy hair and beards. They wear dark glasses and scowls. They step off loud machines onto sun bleached cement stained with blood and violence.
One after another they park until twenty bikes are lined up.
When the last one enters the dive bar the door closes after him and the music inside kicks off and the gulls return to search for food.
The old orc stands, turning milky-blind eyes toward the intruder. He wrinkles his nose smelling the air.
“Do I know you human?’ he snarls. ‘Have I tasted your blood?”
The epic of the knight’s life has lead him here.
“Speak!” Grunk takes a step, a withered left leg fails him. His ancient face scrunches in pain. He leans heavily on a wicked club spiked with nails rusted deep-red. “Why do you come?”
Ser Gerald pulls a long-sharp-gleaming blade from its scabbard. ‘I seek revenge, gray-one.”
“Good. I am ready.”
The knight charges.
Soon enough Grunk returns to his fire, victorious
The tour guide stops and sighs, “this is one of my favorite exhibits in the entire museum.
You’ll notice there’s an actual outside beyond that window. It’s not just a picture, this little girl’s bedroom overlooked Broadway and Sixty-Sixth street. If you listen carefully there is a soundtrack playing of long ago New York City. Do you hear the traffic and the sirens? My favorite part is coming up. There it is! A horn honk… and a crash… then two men arguing. That is an actual recording of a minor auto accident.
Oh, what a world to have lived in.
The toys and furniture are all made out of natural elements like wood and actual cotton and wool.”
“Was this child rich?” a little girl with purple hair interrupts.
“Not even.” In early 21st century all of these things could be made by hand, or even store bought. No 3D printing was even needed.”
Thursday photo prompt – Child – #writephoto
With a deep bellow the mountain raises and the Earth shakes. The ground is torn. Large roots and rocks pour from the being’s undercarriage. It moves its head, swiveling it from side to side, its mouth opening and closing, bits of stone chipping off its gnashing teeth, crashing into the forest below as its tongue attempts to work a word. Yellow eyes glow bright in the gloom searching for the one who called.
“Mother!” The twenty-billion-tonne creature bellows.
Mother stands in a small flowered glen in urine soaked garments.
The book worked.
“Come,” she stutters unsure, but her progeny obeys.
Things die. That’s what they do. They die and rot and new things grow. Benjamin put the bench on the grounds over the place he buried his wife because things that once lived here would one day start to die.
And she would live.
He knew the woman, black-hearted and proud, would find a way back.
That was the promise she made with her last breath.
He trekked for miles into the back-country. Dug the red clay deep and planted her coffin under a headstone he bought expecting questions.
Today things started dying.
Photo prompt courtesy of:
The writer taps his fingers on the keyboard, but not actually typing any words. He has a problem. His characters have nothing to pull them through the world he built. It is too perfect. Every convenience is accounted for. All wants satiated.
Money is not needed because of the nano-tech he painstakingly constructed that builds everything out of a special kind of atomic stacking.
Antagonism has been ruled obsolete due to the complete reverse engineering of the human brain.
The worlds exploration and history has all been pre-created.
The writer leans back in his chair and sighs. He built the perfect world and sadly he realizes, perfect worlds make sad settings for fantasy.
Then it dawns on him.
He will make a character whose job it is to search for something to be excited about. The character will lift every bed curtain, look in every drawer, peer into every closet and cave and hole in the ground. He will make problems if he cant find one.
The writer cackles madly as he types the words, The MacGuffin Hunter, deciding it is the best title he has ever written.
Three days later his wife checks him into the hospital, “for some rest.”
The hum of industrial strength air-conditioning keeps the insane summer heat at bay.
Tristram sweats anyway. He needs this sale and has been nervous all morning for a meeting that seems to be over before it really got started.
“These cups are 100% biodegradable, fossil-footprint responsible.”
“Can you beat a thousand for seventy-eight,” The fat-manager with a shiny pink scalp, dressed in an over starched white oxford-button down, asks with a smirk. His little name badge, hanging from the tip of a monstrous left tit, says assistant-manager.
It might as well say gatekeeper.
Tristram dips his chin and shakes his head no.
The fat-man laughs derisively, turns from the table he did not even sit down at and walks away with his pants riding up into his buttcrack.
Tristam curses, wishing his brother-in-law had never convinced him to invest in his paper-cup business.
He stands to make his next appointment across town, his thoughts returning to the idea of an insurance scam.
A slip and fall.
A nice little warehouse fire.
Suicide by cop.
FFfAW Challenge-Week of April 25, 2017