Writing Prompt

Stan was in the make-shift media center at the center. Debra had arranged his wheelchair so Josie could frame the shot with her one good hand. The laptop screen displayed the rule-of-thirds grid she had been teaching the media club for 2 months. She waited to see if Josie would recall the hundreds of repetitions and exercises they had done to acquire this skill. Josie looked at her and signed "ready." Debra started to reach for the camera but the laptop showed Stan's head located in exactly the right intersection to the left side of the screen. She stood up and gave Josie a hi-5 and signed "great job! you got it in exactly the right spot!" Josie beamed. Mike came forward and handed Debra the cue cards he had carefully lettered for Stan to read. "I finish yesterday. They are good!" He nodded affirming his own assessment. Debra wished they could just use Mike for the PR department's request. Stan's stammer was very off putting, but he had been practicing and they had carefully chosen words that he found less nerve-wracking. The extra note in the work order request Debra had printed from the web form was a nose tweak. "This time, can we PLEASE have them dress like someone who lives indoors. Pity might raise money but we need to do better than that." As if she could choose their clothes for them. Samantha Deizler was such a see-you-next-Tuesday. Debra seethed inside, thinking about Samantha and Conrad. How could he prefer that cold piece of plastic over her? Her visual imagination replayed all the ways she had thought of killing him, and that evil PR witch. Debra returned her attention to the media club and the project. The lines Stan had to read out loud were total inspiration porn, intended to make the clients look like poor little lambs and the donors feel like they were saving the world by sending their tax-deductible duckets. She felt like throwing up. They were wrapping up when the door swung wide and Samantha floated in with an elderly couple behind her. She did her usual waving hands routine with the smooth voice and just enough wriggle in her pencil skirt to get the old geezers all leery without alarming their wives. Debra's mind flashed all the gory murder images again. And again... and again... She looked at Stan in his wheelchair. That thing weighed about 400 lbs. with both batteries on board... Debra thought about the ramp at the back of the building. It was almost time for the vans to come pick everyone up. The image resolved and she could see the mangled remains of Samantha at the bottom of the wheelchair ramp. She vaguely wondered if the counseling center would be available to help Stan recover from the experience. Driving home that day she began to flesh out the details. Finally. A reason to look forward to coming to work.

My fingers adjust on the wooden handle. My breath hitches but is hot.

I will not tolerate a life I do not deserve!

I won’t let you take it from me.

Nobody will care about your disappearance. They’ll say a quick, “oh, what a shame,” and move on.

Inconsiderate people take up space that’s needed. You’re a waste.

If you didn’t want the job, you shouldn’t have taken the fucking job.

Now people who didn’t ask to be treated like shit are paying because you’re a miserable person. Get a fucking hobby.

I think this winterfest will be the best because I think Santa will give me a kiss on the cheek on December 25th at 328am because I like Santa. I want Santa to enter my present sack as I want some presents in my sack. I want to enter Santa's sack so that I can steal presents like the grinch.

I love winterfest

Some people crave nicotine. Others, tabacco. Fruit. Hot wings.

I crave intimacy. Not sex. I crave my fingers digging into your open stomach. I can taste it—smell it. I wonder, will the warmth of your blood comfort me?

It’s beautiful, how alike we are.

I can’t stand how fucking shallow our generation is. Let me show you what love is. Let me show you how much I’ve devoted myself to you. It’s not a temporary fascination. I might move to the next girl but that’s only after I digest you, sweetheart.

I’m not methodical but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. I just don’t own a hacksaw. I have a hunting knife though, that’ll do. Right?

It’ll make for better memories that way.

Stop fighting.

You should be grateful.

Stop fucking fighting.

You should be grateful!

You’re my final meal on death row.

I was Kaeleb Edwardson, I was a freshman at Seacliff High School, Seacliff was filled with all the usual stuff, arrogant teachers, nerdy kids, jocks, and cheerleaders, then at the center of it was me, as I snapped out of my daze, I stopped dousing "a word which means to put out with water)"Kaleleb Edwardson to the Principal's office", I annoyingly thought "Now?", and as if by magic, a male voice on the PA, said, "Yes Mr. Edwardson, now!", upon entering the door to leave the boys' toilets I looked at the nerd who I was about to strangle and threatened him by whispering, "If you tell anyone in this school, that it was me that killed Summer Johnson, ill gut you like a fish and smear your blood on the walls, you got that, freak?", as I bent one of his arms behind him and pushed him against the wall of the entrance hall, an afraid scream came out of the nerd so I grabbed him threw him against the wall and let him escape. I knew that there were twenty minutes until the warning bell sounded, so I quickly looked at my schedule and then made a mental note, "Find out who murdered my girlfriend and then make them pay". My 1st-period History class was behind the gym, so I used the clues to find out who and where they had taken her. I'd not long been in History class when I noticed that a tall, freckled, blue-eyed snow-peaked boy called Arvin, was sitting behind the empty chair belonging to Summer. He caught glimpses of me looking at him while the video played, and I quickly turned around. After Mr Sanderson, a tall, thirty-something blue eyed, curly haired teacher, called Arvin up to the class. As he'd accidentally left his backpack open, I'd decided to do a little bit of investigation into why he might be the one hiding something. "George Washington", he looked at me abruptly and questioned, "So your saying that George Washington assassinated John Wilkes Booth, while in Ford Theatre?", just then the Recess bell rang and Mr. Sanderson's words merged with the clashing of students in the nearby hallway.

“Goodnight Dakota,” you tease through the connecting bathroom door knowing I can’t help but call after you.

Dear god, I would rip you apart. I adore you. I’m crying and running my hands through my hair.

I’m shutting you out because I know it’s starting to show, my feelings about you. I know you notice. You miss me getting flustered over you. Now that I’m pretending not to want you, you miss your little puppy.

You want to be wanted just as much as I do.

I need to mutilate you.

I need to be violently careful with your organs.

I need to cover myself in your blood.

I want to be wanted.

You want to be wanted.

Want me.

I want you.

When we are older you’ll never have to do those dirty things for money. You’ll have me. You have me. You’ll have me to take care of you and you’ll never have to do it again. I’ll have and be everything you need.

Please. I’m everything you need. I’m going to build a life for us. You’ll never have to leave to our house. Friends won’t be necessary. Food won’t be a worry anymore. I know you worry about how much you’re eating but, love, you’ll have no such worries after you’re gone and even when you’re gone. You won’t really be gone. Lack of bodily function is not death.

It’s not like you’ll have a body much longer. I need to rip you apart and eat your skin. I want to see if it imprints with my nails once it’s off your body. Does skin rip like paper or a fruit roll up? I’m sorry, is that a bad comparison? I thought it was quite clever.

You don’t need a spree to be create a perfect murder if you’re smart. These other men, they had to learn and build their craft. I won’t be that stupid. You won’t be a perfect murder. I need to dent your head against the hard floor. I wonder what made me this way.

[clearly I’m running out of material. My criminology class is getting good and I’m getting tired.]

The sun dipped low over the rugged hills of New Zealand’s North Island, painting the sky in shades of crimson and orange. But for Jack Holloway, the breathtaking view was lost in the haze of his meticulously laid plans. He stood on the porch of his secluded farmhouse, his mind racing as he gazed into the dense bushland that surrounded him like a shroud. To an unsuspecting observer, he was just a simple farmer, but below the surface swirled currents of darkness.

Jack wasn’t always a man consumed by desperate thoughts. He had been loved, and he had loved, once upon a time. But life had a way of twisting paths. A bitter divorce and subsequent financial ruin had left him isolated, with nothing but the swallow of bitter resentment for the company. He had one target in his sights: Edward Langton, the man who had walked into his life and swept his wife away before Jack could grasp what was happening.

As Jack sat in his dimly lit kitchen, his fingers drummed nervously against the wooden table. The idea of revenge had once flickered like a candle in the night but had since grown into a roaring inferno. He could picture Edward standing smugly behind his polished desk, the opportunistic man who had taken everything from him, completely unaware of the darkness that had begun to spiral in Jack’s mind.

Days stretched into weeks, and Jack devoted himself to planning the perfect murder. He meticulously studied Edward’s routines, learning the back roads of the tiny town of Whakatāne. He remembered the stories about the dense, hidden caves scattered throughout the region, places where sounds vanished and secrets could be buried.

It was a fine winter evening when Jack decided to step beyond his plans and take action. Edward was set to attend a charity event—the perfect occasion for Jack’s revenge. He could infiltrate the gathering, finally reclaim a sense of control that had long slipped away from him.

The night of the charity gathering, Jack stood before the mirror in a neatly pressed suit, his heart pounding with anticipation and barely concealed rage. Jazz music dripped seductively from the speakers, mingling with laughter and the sharp clink of crystal glasses. But Jack felt detached as if he were watching the scene through a distant lens. Edward, the object of his ire, was immersed in conversation, the center of attention, completely oblivious to the storm brewing just beyond the shimmering surface.

Jack spent the night lurking in the shadows, his eyes fixed on Edward. As the hours crawled on, anticipation bubbled inside him like boiling water. Finally, the moment he had been waiting for arrived—Edward stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, leaving behind the cacophony of the event.

“Edward,” Jack called, feigning casualness as he slipped through the door into the cool night. The air was thick with tension, and his heart raced. Edward paused, turning to him with a frown, confusion etched across his face.

“Can I help you?” Edward asked his tone a mix of annoyance and caution.

Jack stepped closer, combating the urge to betray any crack in his exterior with a calm façade. “I think you owe me a conversation,” he replied, voice steady yet intense.

Edward raised an eyebrow, hesitation creeping into his eyes. “I’m really not in the mood for—”

Before Edward could back away, Jack lunged forward, grabbing him with a surge of adrenaline. The world around them faded as he yanked Edward toward the nearby trees, where moonlight barely penetrated through the thick branches. Edward’s eyes widened in realization, fury igniting a spark in his gaze.

In an unexpected twist, Edward fought back, his instincts kicking in. He lashed out, swinging a fist that connected with Jack’s jaw, sending shockwaves of pain through him. Jack lost his grip momentarily, the initial shock of the confrontation jarring him. But there was no turning back now; determination fueled him like the flames of a raging fire.

The two men struggled against the backdrop of the night, cloth tearing and muffled grunts breaking the heavy air. Jack knew he had to end this quickly. In a swift, gut-wrenching moment, his hand found a cold, sharp object hidden in his jacket—the very thing that had accompanied his intentions from the start.

“Jack! What the hell—” Edward's words turned into a choked gasp as Jack plunged the knife deep into Edward’s side. It was an act of raw desperation; the kind that lingered in the darkness of his heart until that very moment. Jack pulled away, breathing heavily as he stepped back into the moonlight, his heart racing with a thrill that was both liberating and terrifying.

Edward staggered, eyes wide with shock, and for a fleeting moment, Jack could see the realization dawn on him. Jack felt the triumph wash over him, intertwined with an unsettling sense of dread. Edward fell to the ground, his body slumping against the dirt, and the pained expression on his face transformed into a haunting caricature of disbelief.

Silence enveloped the surrounding landscape, punctuated only by Jack’s own ragged breaths. The thrill of what he had done was eclipsed by a chilling sensation creeping its way into his chest. What he had fantasized about—the perfect murder—was now the horrific reality he had created.

Jack took a step back, preparing to vanish into the night just as he had planned. But as he turned to retreat, he heard a rustle in the bushes behind him. His skin prickled with unease, and he froze, the weight of the moment crashing down upon him. Someone else was out there, lurking in the shadows. A witness to the perfect murder that was spiraling into his worst nightmare. A heartbeat passed, and from the shadows emerged a wild-eyed hare, its snowy coat glowing faintly under the fading moonlight. It darted out from where it had been hiding as if disturbed from its secret world, its little nose twitching in confusion. Jack’s breath caught in his throat, a blend of panic and exhilaration coursing through him.

The hare paused, staring at Jack with its startled black eyes. At that moment, he processed the absurdity of the scene: a man’s life extinguished with a brutal plunge of a blade and a simple animal witnessing it all. Then, adrenaline surged anew, and instinct took over; he dove into the undergrowth, heart thrumming like a war drum.

He ran, weaving through the bristle of the bushland, pressing deeper into the canopy where shadows coiled around him. Edward’s lifeblood soaked into the earth behind him, but Jack felt the searing thrill of evasion pulsate in his veins. As he burst into a clearing, the bright night sky opened above him, stars twinkling like distant witnesses to his dark deed.

Jack stumbled into the cool grass, heart racing like never before, but clarity washed over him as he looked back toward the path that led home, the farmhouse where his facade of a farmer waited patiently. There were no sirens, no calls for help echoing through the hills—it was just him, escaping into the embrace of the land that had always been his refuge.

Days turned into a spectral blur. Jack flipped through the newspapers, absolutely certain that the gruesome crime would make headlines, sending investigators on his trail. Yet, when the stories surfaced, they hinted at a different kind of madness – rumors of a rogue animal, an elusive predator prowling the hills, a murderer in the shadow of a night creature. They painted Edward’s demise as an unfortunate encounter, attributing his death to a feral beast, his body found among the vines of nature untouched.

Jack chuckled darkly at the irony, an insidious glee brightening his chest. His name would not be cleared—the name of a man wronged, left to wither in the aftermath of heartache. No one would seek a farmer in deep valleys and thick-bushed woods. That fate was sealed.

But shadows lingered on the edges of his mind. Despite the reports, despite the temptation to bask in his freedom, he could not shake the haunting image of those hare-like eyes, wide and unblinking, as they stared at him in horror. He became accustomed to the feeling of the rabbit simultaneously reminding him of his freedom and the weight of his sin.

Weeks passed, and Jack replaced his resentment with weary apathy. The thrill of murder turned into a toxic stain on his conscience, festering like an open wound. The thrill had transformed into paranoia; each evening, as the sun dipped low across the hills, he expected the shadows to grow longer, the world to collapse as law enforcement kicked down his calm doors.

Instead, nothing happened. The more time that passed, the more reckless he became. He spent evenings at local dives, surrounded by laughter that had once been part of the life he craved but now felt like a foreign language. People raised glasses to absent friends, and Jack toasted to Edward's ghost in the darkest corners of the bar while strangers danced the night away oblivious to his darker world.

One fog-draped dawn, Jack stood on his porch, contemplating a half-hearted apology to the sun lurking behind veils of gray. It was then he noticed the undergrowth shifting near where Edward's pool of blood had dried in memory — the same spots where the hare had once startled him. The creature emerged again, furtive and wild, brushing against the tall grass.

In a moment of sickening clarity, Jack understood his intimate link to that creature. They were both hunted — he by the world outside and it by the ghosts of untamed nature. A mask slipped away, leaving only the labyrinth inside his own mind, filled with the echo of anticipation intertwined with dread. The memory of that wild hare, perhaps even a messenger of nature, had shielded him, encapsulating his guilt in an unearthly organism teetering on the dance between innocence and savagery.

Jack Holloway, the abandoned man, slipped seamlessly back into his life of mundane rituals. His hands trembled as he tended to the fields, the ghosts never quite leaving his shadow; yet, he was invisible. Edward was merely another piece of history, a placeholder in the lives of those still tethered to strokes of normalcy. His fate secreted away like a fine-laced tapestry in the depths of the bush.

But nature had a way of balancing the scales, and the dawn that welcomed him was never quite bright enough to chase away the lurking shadows.

“Murder is not about lust and it’s not about violence. It’s about possession.” - Ted Bundy

“I’ve been mistaken. See, I can admit when I’m wrong. That’s right, I’m back. You should be fairly familiar with me now. Right? You do remember me, right? You know, the guy with the tackle box.”

“Yeah. You remember me.”

“That quote that I read to you when you came in, that’s my inspiration. You could say Bundy is my muse. Possession is so much more powerful than lust. I never thought about it like that. I thought lust was the darkest of our desires.”

I lick my lips. My throat is dry. You make my heart beat faster and that makes me uncomfortable.

“How would you kill me?”_ You ask a little too calmly._

I smile to myself and close my eyes.

I lick my lips and softly chuckle. I inhale and answer, “I’d tie you to a pipe in my basement. I’d saw your foot off just to see when you’ll pass out.” I pause and take a deep breath. “I‘ll press your eyes in till they pop.”

“What about my hands?”

_I meet your eyes for a moment and bite my lip. _“Good job. You remember. Most of your finger and wrist bones will go safely in my tackle box.”

_My eyes appear glassy, as if thinking about killing you is ripping me apart. _

Finally, I look at your hair. You look like Jodie Foster and it’s incredibly distracting. I shake my head, “forget what I said about the eyes.”

You?

I spent the past five months planning what I am going to do to you. I hate your voice. That’s what has to go first. I don’t want to damage your neck. I hate dosing people. It’s not entertaining. Actually, bruising might be a good additional color to your neck. Let’s snap it. Voice gone and some added color. Good thinking.

I hate your hands. You held my hands with them and then you held hers. They have to go. They are dirty. Your lips. You kissed me but you kissed her too. I cut them off, leaving you with a gaping smile. Maybe it’s not a smile but you see my point.

You’ll be my sweet Vincent. I’ll take all your mistakes away. I’ll wash and comb your hair. I’ll clip your finger nails just how you like them. You can be my doll.

I just want you to stay with me forever.

I had to, it was the only way I could save you from being with the wrong person for the rest of your life.

I love you.

[1AM writing is not a good look on me]

Adam and Melody has just finished their dinner, it was their 1 year anniversary of dating. It was nothing special, but Adam still tried his best to prepare a good meal with the money they had in their joint bank account. Whether it was dollar store candles and microwavable cans of soup or a 5 star restaurant, it meant the same to Melody. She knew that Adam was doing his best and frankly, it was better than what she grew up with. “Time for cake” Adam says, grabbing the knife and cutting the white and red cake. Adam handed the styrofoam plate to Melody before getting his own plate. “How was your day at work today, honey?” Melody asks to try to start a conversation. “It was okay, but it was work.” He replies, placing a plastic fork by each plate on their table and sitting down. “Thank you for all of this, you really didn-“ Melody stutters and wraps her hands around her neck. “Oh, such a shame..” Adam sighs as he stares into Melody’s eyes with her still grasping for air. Adam got up and brushed his hand against her curly brown hair. After he knew she was gone, he grabbed his phone out of his back pocket to dial 911. “Hurry.. We need an ambulance! My girlfriend is choking.” Adam cried alligator tears to the dispatcher.

“Welcome to news channel 27, today we will cover the death of Melody Hernandez, who tragically choked on her engagement ring just 5 hours ago.” Adam changes the tv channel and leans back in his recliner. Everything in life will be fine for him, for now.