Writing Prompt

"Where's the treasure they promised...?" He murmurs to himself, more confused than anything. His face is pale, heartbeat thundering in his ears as he digs through the chest with a desperation of a man starved. There's no gold inside, no gold at all. No jewels, or pretty baubles - not even an old, rusted coin or two. There's only red. More red than he's ever seen in one place. There's so much red that it spills out of the chest where coins should have been and onto the floor, forming into little puddles he *supposes* look like the color of precious, uncut rubies. He falls to his knees, scrambling closer as he scoops the red into his cupped palms. No matter what he does, it won't stay. It slips through the cracks of his fingers, trickling down his wrists. It catches and pools in the crevices of his palms like liquid. But treasure should be solid, no? "This is no good," he mutters to himself, standing and wiping the red on his clothes. It smears, the lovely (but very much *not* precious) red left to dry on soiled fabric in waste. "Worthless. Not treasure, bad treasure." The moment he saw what the chest contained, he wished he'd never opened it...but it was too late now. If all there was inside was *red*, then... He stares at his hands, still slick with crimson despite the few good wipes he'd given them on his dirty clothes. He clicks his tongue in dissaproval, turning to peer back into the opened chest. The chest, which he had exposed before splitting open, has a very sharp lid. Rows of white, jagged things curve inwards, tearing at his arms when he gets too close. He doesn't know what they are, but he assumes they're some kind of trap set by the owner of the chest - something to ward off greedy men like himself. Perhaps it's the body of the chest, having splintered when he tore it open with reckless abandon. Nevertheless, when he inspects the teeth-like rows, he acknowledges that they *do* look a bit like ivory. But it's what's *past* the gaping maw of the chest that grabs his attention. It dangles before him temptingly in the chest's dark, cavernous space - which had been previously concealed by soft material and heaps of the red. That... *That* must be the treasure he was looking for. His prize - a *real* ruby, just for him. He reaches in with both hands, tugging on the hefty gem until it breaks away from whatever is keeping it in place. He holds it close, inspecting it carefully as he turns it over in his hands. It's...soft. Squishy, delicate. It's familiar, almost... ...flesh-like. He cradles it close, frowning at it. With it's softness and the strange bluish-purple criss-crossing cracks that travel over the pliant surface, it doesn't look much like a ruby at all. But it's solid - unlike the red - so it *must* be treasure. And now it's *his*. It's his treasure, and beggars can't exactly be choosers. He turns, tucking his souvenier into the pocket of his pants. He doesn't bother to hide the gleeful pep in his step, proud to have pilfered such a fine treasure. He's sure everyone will be talking about it tomorrow on the news - a world-class treasure, stolen. He drops his shovel, deciding against re-burying the chest to hide what he'd done from it's owner - it's not like they'd be needing it anymore. As he makes his escape, the chest falls from where he'd propped it up, limp and forgotten and covered in red.

**_(I know this doesn’t match up with the prompt but this was for a completion and I couldn’t finish it because I submitted it and wasn’t ready then I deleted it so I’m just placing it on here because I liked it)_**__ __ _Dandelions._ __ __ They do what they must to survive, deattaching each part of themself and splitting apart so they can regrow and repeat the process. Dressed as a flower but kicked aside like a weed, as fragile as life itself but resilient on keeping themselves alive no matter how much they’re hated or kicked. Their pieces scatter across the world in hopes to eventually come back around. And they always do. I wish I were like them. Strong, beautiful, whimsical, and quick to start anew when things get hard instead of giving up. Despite being seen as a flower, like me, it’s only a weed. Just like how I’m the only weed in a field of flower. Fragile, quick to leave, annoying, and sprouting where I don’t belong. Not dying even after being chopped and cut into pieces and spat on like trash. Always pretending to be something I’m not, sprouting pathetic yellow bulbs in hopes to become a flower. My world was always dark and monochrome, at least until it burst up into flames. Little clumps of dandelion flying high alongside the window of the helicopter. Loud whirling overwhelmed my ears, the only peace was the ever so whimsical yet resounding cloud of fuzz. It was the only thing hiding me from the dark, desolate, and steaming island below. The higher we went, the easier breathing had become. The higher we went the further I got from home and the more the **void** in my chest expands. Beating still, a heart sits alone in the darkness. ~~~~~~ _Spring_ Rainy days, muddy grounds and bright green grass. Flower sprout from the ground, birds chirp, and weeds try to hide between the bushes. But not these. I stood in front of a wooden cabin, a safe haven. At least for now, while I’m still young and seen as useless to society. Until I’m compensated for my terrors. _Hah-_who_ _am I kidding? As if the goverenmrnt cared for its people. The wooden planks were stacked up upon each other unevenly, so perfectly imperfect. To the side of it was a clear stream, a relaxing sound so opposed to the bubbling and roaring of the volcano. So devastatingly slow and scarily fast. Dandelions drifted in the wind, swaying side-to-side. Circling the cabin like magic, a dreamy world far away from the corruption I pretend I don’t live in. Something I wished was just a figment of my imagination. Coming and going just like spring. Growing back just like dandelions. I sat in the fields, the tickling fuzz of dandelions brush my face, a sweet scent of nature. Almost as if all that smoke was just a dream. _Choking, that’s all I could remember._ __ _Screeching sirens. Screaming. Bursts of red and orange and black._ __ _Panic. _**_Run._**_ _**_GET AWAY. _**_That was all I can think of as my barefeet padded as fast as it could, carrying me far, far away as I could. Barely even stopping when I stepped into a sharp rock or a piece of glass. Adrenaline choke through my head, pumping blood of my throat mixed along with the ash and smoke in the air._ __ _Screams of people getting boiled and burned alive. People who..weren’t so fortunate._ __ _Not even taking a second to breathe, my little legs carried me onto the nearest helicopter. Four other people hopping along with me, or just panicked and worn out as me. Smudges of dark ash spread across my face, leaving me still choking as I got off._ __ __ I winced, as if it were still freshly ingrained in my mind, as if it hasn’t been two years. A horrific experience that still haunts me to this day every time I tried to heal and look back. But it’s better. It **_will_** be better. After all.. It’s a new Spring Growth.

The moment I saw what the chest contained, I wished I’d never opened it. . .but it was too late now. My hands shake as I stare inside it. “Damon,” I whispered, “How?” I pick up the strip of pictures. I trace my finger across Damon’s face. Tears make there way down my cheek, denting the dark earth beneath me. I choked out a sob, “Damon,” I cry, “Damon are you. . . Alive?” I close my eyes letting the picture drop to the ground. It had been years, it felt like hundreds. And all this time, I could have saved myself the pain, the tears. Damon wasn’t gone, he hadn’t died in this ocean all those years ago. My eyes open, the picture laying on the sand. I pick it up, my smile looks so real. It must have been, I wonder what it feels like to smile. For real. “Maia.” My heart skips a beat. And a smile comes to my face. “Dae?” I ask, turning around. And there he is, standing with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’ve missed you, Mi,” he smiles, as I stand up running into his arms. “How are you here?” I ask as he hold me close. Damon doesn’t answer his grip becomes tighter, too tight. “Damon!” I yell, “I can’t. . .” Breathe. My vision becomes foggy, my lungs begging me for air. Damon laughs as he looks at me, that smile. My smile. It switches, I’m holding Damon, choking him. Covering his nose and mouth with my hands. His blue eyes, slowly turning black. “Damon!” I scream, sitting up in bed. My back is soaked with sweat making my shirt stick to it. I take deep breaths, my hands on my throat. “Maia!” Mom rushes into my open bedroom door. Her tired eyes filling with fear. Anger. I feel water gathering in my eyes. “He’s gone,” I choke out, “Damon’s gone.” Mom sits on my bed, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered. “I . Kil. . .killed him,” I say, my eyes meeting hers. Mom pulls me into a hug, “Damon was dying. Suffering. You did the right thing. . . You did the best thing. You put him out of his misery. . . Gave him peace.” I shake my head, my mouth open but no sound coming out. I could feel the tears in my throat begging me to cry like a little kid. Begging me to grow weak. “I killed him,” I cry, “I killed him.” Mom rocks me back and forth shushing me as she brushes her hand down my head. “It’s okay baby,” she soothes, “Damon’s okay.” “I killed him,” I whisper, “I killed him.”

“I’m coming for you,” she laughed…… I wake up, gazing into the darkness of my dorm room. The cold sweat dripping off of me like a cold rain. She gave me sleep paralysis, like a ton a bricks sitting on my body I struggled to breathe. “I won,” I thought to myself. I’ll never open another stupid chest in my life. No more dares to go into the attic alone either. I chuckled. A girlish chuckle came from my closet too….. “La La Oopsy” the entity sneered.

“The moment he saw what the chest contained, he wished he had never opened it… but it was too late now.” His booties stuck to the viscous mess on the floor. The air was noxious with all of the typical odors you might expect in such a situation. But what was before him was anything but typical. A greenish-gray mass lay steaming and hot under the glare of the sterile light and it wriggled. Nothing was red. Nothing. Red, gore, that would have been expected in a situation such as this. And shouldn’t have been wriggling. Frank’s gorge rose up. He tucked it back down with a stern will. His hand shook, just a bit. He thought to himself, “Why the hell did I sign up for Exploratory Alien Anatomy Lab 101?”

“I miss you.” “I know.” She was flustered. “‘I know?’ That’s all you have to say? ‘I know?’” No change to his countenance, no sign of contrition, empathy. Simply, “What do you want me to say?” “I want you to say something that let’s me know that I matter to you, that this relationship matters to you.” “I…” He hesitated, looking at anything but her eyes. “I can’t.” She got up from the table, feeling that the situation had too much gravity to stay seated, but quickly realized there was no where to go in the small diner, save for walking to the door. She sat back down. Angry. Frustrated. Hurt. “You can’t?” She picked up a room temperature French fry but jury played with it, didn’t eat it. “You can’t? Awesome. That’s what I want to hear. You can’t say that I matter? That our love matters? That’s… fantastic.” “I’m not trying to hurt you. It’s just—“ “It’s just… what? What is it ‘just?’” He finally met her gaze. “It’s just… you and I are made different. I don’t know why. We just are. It’s like, I don’t know, you’re programmed differently than I am. You need things I don’t need.” “I need things you don’t need?! Really? You don’t need love? Commitment? Friendship? That’s bullshit. I’m so tired of this.” She became aware once again of her surroundings, of the looks they were getting from other customers, but she didn’t care; She was all-in on this, fighting hard for what mattered. To them. She knew it was crazy, maybe even detrimental, but wasn’t that what love was about? Didn’t every Grand Romance have an element of insanity? “So, what? What do we do now?” He was silent for too many heartbeats, but she was going to make him speak first, even if they had to sit in that booth for hours. “I think, well, I think we have to stop seeing each other.” “What?! You want to break up with me? Are you serious?” “I think I am. I mean, I’ve done the calculations, added everything up, and… we just—well, we don’t make sense anymore. Sometimes, well, sometimes when people come from, you know, two different worlds, well, it can’t always be expected that things work out. It just can’t.” “Really? Really?! We don’t make—are you kidding me right now? ‘We don’t make sense anymore?’ ‘Two different worlds?’ Who even talks like that? It’s like you’re looking for an excuse to get out of this relationship or something. Are you?” “I should go.” “What? No, you don’t get to just walk out. That’s not how this works. I’ve given everything to this. How can you, you don’t think that I would let you just—“ “Really, I should go.” He stands, gathering his things. “No. No, you can’t—“ “It’s for the best.” “Wait, no, I’m sorry. Sit back down, please. I—“ “No. I am leaving.” The tone of her voice changed, deepened as she commanded him to stop. Something inside of her snapped. She was not who she had been only a moment before. She could hear her heartbeat, feel her peripheral vision shrinking. He took a defiant step toward the door. Her hand, the knife, the swift motion of the two combined, plunging the blade into his sternum—it was all ephemeral, otherworldly, disconnected—As though she was merely an observer, as shocked by the sudden violence as the other patrons in the restaurant; Sickened by it. But it was her. She did it. She held the knife. She committed the violent act. She was now cutting him open, in spite of the voice in her mind shouting at full volume to stop! The moment she saw what the chest contained, she wished she’d never opened it… but it was too late now; There was no turning back. It was done. The complex, science-fictional nature of it was overwhelming. In some back corner of her adrenaline-and-rage-filled mind she could only compare it to opening the hood of a modern car or taking the panel off a PC: Wires, gizmos, servos, cables, microchips. All of it at once familiar and foreign. She knew it would be different. He would be… different. Inside. In her mind, she knew that what she understood as her Love—her Man—was merely a suit, a vehicle of sorts. She understood—in conceptual terms—that the life she loved, the personhood of her One-and-Only, was not the same thing as the warm, fleshy approximation that it controlled. But to see it, ‘unsheathed’ as it were, was an entirely different level of Truth. It’s one thing to understand the theoretical nature of an alien being—one who has no recognizable form—creating a humanoid facsimile in an attempt to bond with a lower life form. It’s a completely different thing to see how it actually functions, internally. She vomitted. The other patrons in the diner looked like they might vomit as well, if they weren’t so thoroughly and completely dumbfounded by the suddenness of it all. She stood, pacing, unsure of what to do next. He had been her love, her lover. But he had tried to leave her! And now the bodysuit he had been using as a means of physical interaction was laying on the floor of a diner, chest splayed open. What happened? Was this who she was? WHAT she was? Was she capable of real violence? Was her reaction to a break up to plunge a knife into the chest of the one she loved?! Or was it something else? Did she, at some level, see him for what he really was? Him ‘the machine,’ not him ‘the consciousness.’ Was this no more a violent crime than smacking the side of a slow computer or kicking the bumper of a smoking car before opening the hood? She looked at ‘his’ open chest once again. What had she done? She collapsed to her knees, suddenly feeling the overwhelming sense that she’d committed attempted murder. He looked at her. “I’m so sorry. I—“ She began to crawl toward him, weeping. He looked directly into her eyes, smiled, and opened his arms.

Wolves Hollow? That’s an odd name for a street. Is a hollow like some kind of name for a road, something fancy, Blues thought. Vito had found this AirBnB in one of the classy inner ring burbs. Drumming the solo to Rush’s Tom Sawyer on his steering wheel, Blues sat in his rusty 1999 Chevy Caviler waiting for FedEx. He looked at the nice stone house. There were two stories with big windows and shutters. There was a wraparound porch and the attic had those little Amityville Horror windows that always made Blues think those kind of houses were smiling to him. Blues surveyed the street with its daffodils and irises wishing he could walk up it, get a pricy coffee from the cafe in the town square and walk back to drink his coffee on his own sunny porch. In his mind, Blues was nodding his head to his neighbors walking along the street. A FedEx truck was up the block. Crap, Blues sprinted to the stone house and walked onto the porch. Purple sweet smelling flowers were in a flower boxes. Blues tried to think of their name as he lit a cigarette and acted calm. The FedEx truck pulled up in front of the stone house. The delivery man, a hot chick actually, climbed the porch stairs. Blues gave the hot delivery chick an appreciative look over and took the package. She gave Blues a thank you without making eye contact and was punching in info and climbing back to her truck in a fluid movement. Blues took two more puffs until the truck turned the corner. Overly casual, Blues sauntered over to his Chevy and pulled away from the curb. He flicked his cigarette out onto the pretty tree-lined street. Blues was a delivery man, too. He picked up packages at ArBnBs and hotels. Seven or eight drops a week is easy money. He drove them home and took his cut and then delivered them to his boss Vito at Vito’s club or one of his girls’ places. Vito took his larger cut and sent the rest of the cash over seas. Blues didn’t know if it was an electronic transfer, or if Vito used foreign currency or cryptocurrency. Blue knew the money went to India or Indonesia or some place on the other side of the world. It wasn’t his business to know. Blues did know where the money came from but he didn’t like to think of the grannies and old dudes tricked and bullied out of their life savings. Thinking of his one hundred dollar cut per box, he pulled into his complex’s parking lot and spat nicotine on the tarmac. Blues popped gum in his mouth and sprayed the Axe body spray that he kept in his glove compartment on his hoodie. Holding the package under his arm, Blue entered his home, his grandmother’s row house. He beelined for the basement, since Grandma had trouble with stairs it was the only room she didn’t visit. “You too grown to speak,” Grandma said. Blues rolled his eyes. “Good Morning.” He turned the basement door knob. She huffed. Blue ran over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Your plate is in the oven. And you better quit smoking or get better cologne. Grandma pushed his forehead away from her. Blue took his package downstairs and then ran up for his breakfast, grits and eggs with bacon extra crispy like he liked it. In the basement properly stuffed Blues carefully opened the package. His camera was filming because Vito didn’t trust anybody. Blues didn’t think of the scammed or the scammers. Blues thought about the new kicks waiting in cart. He was just the delivery man. The moment he saw what the chest contained he wished he had never opened it. But it was too late now. Some times it was an envelop filled with cash, or a book with hundred dollar bills in the pages, or a foil-wrapped package. Once it was a bible with a note in a spidery hand asking for forgiveness. Sometimes the old people thought they were returning money given to them by mistake and they were rushing to return losing their life savings doing the right thing for the wrong people. Blues was the wrong people. Today the package contained a small square metal chest. When he lifted the lid the sides flopped open revealing a camera and a GPS and a tag that read: Property of the Pennsylvania Bureau of Investigations. Grabbing the tracker, Blues ran up the stairs, ran out of the townhouse, ran from his Grandma’s startled questions, ran to not see the look in her eyes when he gets taken away again.

It was a bright sunny afternoon and Tariq strolled through the garden in his light crisp shirt and linens looking dapper as usual. He whistled absentmindedly, and where was his mind you may wonder? It was lost in Parvati’s beautiful tresses. She lived right next to his beautiful mansion, just a few steps away. Just a few steps away but at a worlds distance. She had her eyes on him too, he could tell. Alas his parents would never accept the house helps daughter as their own. Tariq’s heart sank and his hopes and dreams crushed in that instant. Well, at least I can walk by her solemn little home, he thought to himself. There it was, her humble abode with a huge lock at the front door. I guess everyone is at work and Parvati isn’t back from school. He decided to take a quick peak and landed in her backyard in a bed of weeds. As he fought his way out of the wilderness his foot hit a large chest. Very unusual he thought. Maybe I should just mind my business. Or. Let me take a quick little look I guess. The moment he saw what the chest contained, he wished he’d never opened it….but it was too late now. A hard push and a lifetime later he woke up in Parvati’s arms. In her coffin. And she whispered - always had my eyes on you Tariq. Till death do us part. Or not.

Thinking back to earlier that day, the moment I saw what the chest contained I wished I’d never opened it.. but it was too late now, I wish I wouldn’t have went up to that attic, been so damn curious and now I’m stuck in a situation I can’t figure out, the moment those officers banged down that door I knew they would think I did it but I still shouldn’t have ran. I could’ve cleared my name at that moment. Now not being able to go back home, being accused of something I didn’t do. I can’t even see my family, friends because their all being questioned. And all I have is the fifty dollars that I took out of the bank earlier that day. I need help and their is only one person I can think of who the police wouldn’t question… Someone even my parent’s don’t know of, I tuck my head down and head towards the station knowing where it’ll lead me to, will be the best possible chance I have of clearing my name.

*This story is actually the 10 sentence writing prompt using a word from a book (I chose fleeting), because I don't have premium access I'm writing it here. In spite of the city’s attempt at choking out the skyline with ever growing building complexes, the sky was clear and bright that morning. Hurrying home, she hummed the same tune that was blasting out of a nearby SUV and rushed across streets during breaks in traffic. The noise and chaos of the streets never bothered her though, she enjoyed the bustling sounds of a place she had always called home: New York City. She said she would be here until the day she died, because nothing could beat the adventure–and above all food–that the great city had to offer. She even quite liked the smell; damp streets and concrete, wafting chimichangas from her favorite food vendors, and she even liked the musky trash smell that was always present. While it was not everyone’s idea of paradise, it was all she had ever known; it was home. But life on the streets is not easy; as she made her way across the traffic to her cozy hole hide-away, her steps were not quick enough to avoid the oncoming tire. The sky was still blue, the music still playing, and the wheel still turning as she lay flat against the rank pavement. Life is fleeting when you're a rat.