Thursday's Three Word Wednesday
The word prompts over at Three Word Wednesday are candid, impulse and risk. 3WW is a writer’s prompt created by Bone and administered now in his absence by ThomG and The Tension. Take the words, write something with them, and leave a link. Try it yourself – and tell your friends.
Class Wars
Blaze has a calculated affinity for me; she’s candid about it, sticking her tongue in my ear and clamping a hand on my crotch, even though we’re on the crosstown train and the stares of disgust burn my cheeks as much as her grip scorches my loins.
Blaze took her name from her hair color. An impulse color she said, it looked like out-of-the-can pumpkin pie filling.
She has also gone by Cerulean, Cerise and of course, Scarlet. Her hair - and thus her alias - was a deluxe box of Crayola Crayons.
She was a woman almost in miniature, as if the drugs fed off her flesh. He skin was like the tissue paper they line gift boxes with, marbled and translucent. She hid the track marks in the cuffs of her elbows with her hands, the chewed nails painted the color of dried blood.
“My little punkrocker,” I whispered as she took a new, glorious grasp on my privates.
It took a $50 and two vodka rocks to lower her defenses in the grimy, back-alley club. The promise of more cash, as well as what she desired most – the shakes and the itch betrayed the time since her last hit – and she was mine for as long as I wanted. Her risk-to-reward alarm was completely disabled.
And who could blame her?
I am a particularly handsome fellow. Blue eyes like huskies, raven hair. Even-toned skin, which was exfoliated daily in the bath. My suit is a two-button Kiton in gray wool with the most luxurious lavender pinstripes; my shoes are John Lobb customs in black.
We’re the Odd Couple, without the canned laughtrack.
But I’m not really laughing. Not really.
Blaze was selected, shopped for, carefully chosen. For her willingness to do just about anything for drugs and money. For her willingness not to question or rebuke a single statement I make.
Besides, she’ll look so good, so hot, in the black leather jacket I’ve altered. Almost like it was tailored just for her.
Along with the big silver buttons, the shiny metallic studs, the lug zippers, the jacket was lined with enough C-4 plastic explosive for a blast radius of several meters. The same jacket I’d hooked up to a remote timer, a cheap cellular telephone that when I pushed 6-6-6, well, Blaze would be true to her name.
And I’d already selected the pretentious bar to light up.
“My little anarchist,” I said, stroking that fabulous, fiery hair of hers.
Class Wars
Blaze has a calculated affinity for me; she’s candid about it, sticking her tongue in my ear and clamping a hand on my crotch, even though we’re on the crosstown train and the stares of disgust burn my cheeks as much as her grip scorches my loins.
Blaze took her name from her hair color. An impulse color she said, it looked like out-of-the-can pumpkin pie filling.
She has also gone by Cerulean, Cerise and of course, Scarlet. Her hair - and thus her alias - was a deluxe box of Crayola Crayons.
She was a woman almost in miniature, as if the drugs fed off her flesh. He skin was like the tissue paper they line gift boxes with, marbled and translucent. She hid the track marks in the cuffs of her elbows with her hands, the chewed nails painted the color of dried blood.
“My little punkrocker,” I whispered as she took a new, glorious grasp on my privates.
It took a $50 and two vodka rocks to lower her defenses in the grimy, back-alley club. The promise of more cash, as well as what she desired most – the shakes and the itch betrayed the time since her last hit – and she was mine for as long as I wanted. Her risk-to-reward alarm was completely disabled.
And who could blame her?
I am a particularly handsome fellow. Blue eyes like huskies, raven hair. Even-toned skin, which was exfoliated daily in the bath. My suit is a two-button Kiton in gray wool with the most luxurious lavender pinstripes; my shoes are John Lobb customs in black.
We’re the Odd Couple, without the canned laughtrack.
But I’m not really laughing. Not really.
Blaze was selected, shopped for, carefully chosen. For her willingness to do just about anything for drugs and money. For her willingness not to question or rebuke a single statement I make.
Besides, she’ll look so good, so hot, in the black leather jacket I’ve altered. Almost like it was tailored just for her.
Along with the big silver buttons, the shiny metallic studs, the lug zippers, the jacket was lined with enough C-4 plastic explosive for a blast radius of several meters. The same jacket I’d hooked up to a remote timer, a cheap cellular telephone that when I pushed 6-6-6, well, Blaze would be true to her name.
And I’d already selected the pretentious bar to light up.
“My little anarchist,” I said, stroking that fabulous, fiery hair of hers.
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