PROMPT THREE

Here's one of my absolute favorite exercises:

Write a bad story.

DUE: Wednesday, September 10, 11:59 PM.

Prompt #2 - Where I Found Myself Not Too Long Ago

My original ideas for this prompt were completely different than what you see here. The harder I tried to write out my Plan A material, the more boring and lame it got. So here's what I finally came up with.

I pass by a window on my way to the bedroom, but I refuse to let myself even look at it. I know all too well that the sky beyond it is bottomless cornflower-blue, and the rich green leaves on the tree whose branches form a perfect cradling arc over the house across the street are like an army of flags waving on a hill, enticing me over to greet them. Best to avoid temptation, as there's still work to be done.

The shades on the bedroom windows have been drawn since yesterday afternoon, when the setting sun glared through them and made it almost impossible for me to see the words in my book. Resisting the urge to yank them up, I cross over to the stereo and press the power button. The room instantly fills with music; something in the pit of my stomach slackens, like a knot unraveling that I didn't even know had been tied.

I pick up the dustcloth and set to work, allowing myself to get swept into the rhythm. I keep a steady pace around the room by counting out the beat, swishing the cloth over the furniture as though each motion were a step in a dance. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight is the headboard; two-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight is the nightstand. Soon, I'm back where I started, and I trade the dustcloth for the broom. I imagine the floorboards are the keys of a giant piano and the bristles of my broom are thousands of spindly fingers, and I compose a silent melody.

Before long, I've finished with the whole room, and it's finally time to enjoy that delicious-looking day outside. I put away the cleaning supplies and switch off the stereo -- but the music doesn't stop.

The summer breeze whispers through the trees lining the street, creating a cadence of rustling leaves that flows around me as I walk. My feet, clad in last year's fraying flip-flops, scuff haltingly along the sidewalk, picking their way over the lumps where tree roots have protested being paved over. Somewhere nearby, a cicada hums to himself. I am not completely alone -- I pass a jogging woman and an elderly couple out for a stroll, each of which smile and nod to me, and I return the favor.

Even if I had met no one, I would not consider myself alone. The events of the day before yesterday, when my friends and I gathered to drive to the same old places and eat junk food and generally do nothing much at all, stream incessantly through my head. Each burst of laughter, each sarcastic comment, each impromptu critique of the newest song to blast through the car speakers seems as vivid as if it had happened mere seconds ago. I smile to myself.

I reach the park. A wide swath of grass stretches before me, framed by gnarled trees on three sides and a moderately busy road on the fourth. I cross the road and make my way across the grass, hunkering down on the far side of a rock so that I can see a bit of each. I almost open my book, but I simply sit for a moment, my fingers splayed over the spine.

I've never been a very pious person, but, I suddenly find myself thinking, if there is a Heaven out there somewhere, I hope it's not much different than this.

Prompt #2

I wanted to do so much more with this, but the deadline crept up behind me too quickly! Oh well, perhaps I'll revisit it once I'm back on campus.

~~~~~~~~~~

A pleasant feeling, that.

The water, I mean. Gentle, a cat’s caress around my ankles, cooling the fever in my blood, but adding warmth to my soul. A slight tug, I shuffle forward. Comforting. The tug becomes more enticing, ever-so-slightly more powerful. Another small step, then another, another. I sit, for it is far easier to let the flow take me.

Silly. The water isn’t nearly deep enough. But then, suddenly, it is. The riverbed has dropped out from underneath me. I float along on my back contentedly, closing my eyes, allowing the river to gently lap over me from time to time as it swiftly carries me away.

I remember flashes.

A car ride, a thunderstorm, a bridge. A feeling of claustrophobia, a feeling of suffocation, hopelessness.

But it all seems so far away, so far away indeed.

I float along endlessly. That is to say, until I reach the end. I feel myself bump along the ground, my butt dragging against the side of the riverbank. Startled, I sit up, water cascading from my hair and body as I do so. I lean forward, allowing my hair to fall in a curtain in front of my face. I watch as the seeming waterfall slows to the rate of a dripping faucet, the once solid mass of hair now separating into thick, wavy columns.

I am dead. I don’t let little things bother me, though.

It takes a moment for my eyes to full adjust. Sweeping the hair away from my face helps. I lean back, resting on the palms of my hands. I squish and squeeze the mud through my fingers for a while. The soft, gritty texture makes me smile.

A slight breeze rustles through the tall grass that frames the bank. I push myself to my feet. The sluggish trudging out of the river begins. Shloop! Shloop! It’s as if the mud of the river wants to cement me in place, but I wish to see what is beyond the banks. I carry on. Shloop!

I am relieved of my shoes. I write it off as a present to the river, in thanks for a smooth ride. They’ll probably be re-gifted.

The land is full of lush, green grass. I remove my sodden socks so I can feel the slight sharpness as I walk. I glance back at the river, noting that my shoes have disappeared entirely into the mud.

“When you are ready, return to me.” The river says.

I nod and continue to walk away, all the while admonishing myself for listening to a river. A river, after all, cannot talk. Therefore, listening to one would be a silly choice. Nonetheless, I took the words to heart, tucking them away in my mind.

Light Years

Okay, so, I'm not super happy with what I made. I might go back and change it. I think it's a little lame.

When they were lowering my casket into the ground, I was already gone, being lifted high above a thousand tiny lights. I couldn't see but one clearly, but I could hear their screams. Hear their shrieks and cries and see their hands lifted up towards the black sky. Shifting shapes and colors danced behind me on a towering wall and a group of ten men and ten women swirled below, synchronized with the sounds going on around them.

I didn't force anything. The movements came naturally. Somehow, I knew all the words. I knew each step I was supposed to take and each spot to land on. I knew that in the third act, I had to clap three times before the second chorus. I knew that nothing would make sense if I didn't scream "Come on people, let me hear you sing!" during the break. And if I wasn't behind the fourth screen to the right when the fifth song started, everything would look off-balance.

Down below, beneath the crowd and beneath my stage, a man lacing up my boots asked me, "Are you tired yet? You've got a lot more to go."

"No, no, I'm fine. You know me."

I'm never short for breath, and I've completely forgotten what it's like to sweat. No matter how many hip thrusts or front flips I do in a row, I'm always back on my feet and ready for more, craving the attention and carrying on another song to hear my name praised.

"Keep going! Just one more song!" I walk up and down a long, black catwalk and the screams get louder. I'm not doing anything special, but the lights seem to get hotter. If something reaches the outside of my stage, I never see it again. I once tossed a hat overboard and it was devoured by the hungry voices. I can't always hear them clearly, and even though I feed from their loyalty, I'm not sure I'd ever want to be with one up close.

I am still looking out into the ocean that cries out my name. I am still waiting for the music stop. I'm constantly afraid that soon the sounds will stop. Or that I'll lose my voice. Or that the curtain will finally drop. If the Sword of Damocles above my head ever falls, it better be for good reason.

Runnin’ Dry (Submission for OwieArt)

Hey, guys! This isn't my submission for Miss Lady's prompt, but I need to host this story here. I recently joined the staff at OwieArt, and this is my first piece for them. Critique is still welcome, of course.

Runnin' Dry (Part 1)

T.M. (Duke/Volume-Junkies)

I was my father's housewife. My jobs were, but not limited to, ironing shirts, making breakfast, ensuring a good amount of shampoo was left for his morning shower, changing his razor, and picking up the trail of socks he left throughout the week. It wasn't a spiteful setup, and he never came out and demanded anything; it's just the way things worked out. It started gradually—cleaning up the coffee mugs in his office and putting his pencils back in the cup holder. Eventually I noticed just how much of a bachelor he was. One could accurately describe him as an infant with an overly active schedule.

He was that guy that all the temps fell for. Coifed black hair and nicely tailored suit. Shoes with a shine that the blind could recognize. What they didn't see was the 5 a.m. scrambling around the house and him spilling his coffee on the kitchen floor. His appearance in the professional world was not intentional. He doesn't attempt to hide his life's disarray, but he certainly didn't try to flaunt it. The problem was that he never stopped working. He's that guy you see driving home on the highway with his cell phone glued to his ear, as you wonder, "Does he know that he's in the fast lane?"

Talking to one another was reserved for weeknights during dinner. By dinner, I mean that we sat on the couch and watched television, feasting upon whatever wasn't expired or stale. And when eight o'clock rolled around, well, that when he turned his phone back on, and I would draw a bath for my brother George. I had it pretty easy, actually. I ran that house. I never saw the need to enforce a bunch of typical household rules. I never forced my brother to eat his peas or made a big deal if someone drank out of the milk carton. Popcorn for dinner was okay. Smoking in the house is not a big deal. Curfews were non-existent.

~

Annie was tall, had a tendency to use a little too much perfume, and her hair looked as if it lowered on her head Darth Vader-style. She tried the best she could, but no matter how hard she tried, she didn't know how to talk to kids. It's difficult for a seven year old to understand words like "dynamic" and "refine." Sitting on the couch, squished to one side as to avoid the chocolate sauce stains, she looked into the piles of laundry I had yet to do. Her black coat was highlighted by the gold purse in her lap, and she would stroke it nervously, as if in her mind George and I were about to pounce.

"Ben!" I heard him shout-- the kind of shout that could mean a number of things: he couldn't find the right tie, he lost his wallet, or he noticed that I had been taking quarters out of the jug in his room. I left George alone to stare at her. One kid is more than enough to make Annie squirm in her seat.

"Yeeees, Jeff?" I said, turning the corner into his room.

"Listen, I'll be out late. As in, really late."

"As in, you'll be home tomorrow morning."

"As in, watch your mouth, you smart-ass," he said, tightening his tie. "Pass me my coat." As always, it was lying on the other side of the bed atop of pile of old shoes. "You can order out tonight. Twenty dollars maximum."

"Sweet. Thank you," I said, lightly ripping the money from his hand and grinning.
"So, where're you taking her tonight? The 99? Friendly's? Sonic?"

"Sonic? No, we're not going to the seventh dimension to find the only Sonic in existence."

"Way to work for your 'love'," I said, flipping through the newspaper lying on his bed. He sprayed cologne on his wrist and held it to my face.

"What do you think?" he said with bright eyes. I scowled.

"Well," I started, "it's certainly...potent…" I said, wriggling my nose.

"Thanks for the help. Annie gave it to me."

"Sorry, Jeff. You're just not my type, and Annie's, well, not my type."

"Some fag you are," he said, shutting off the light and leaving me in the dark.

"Bitch."

PROMPT TWO: Heaven

Due to religious differences, we as a species have varied perceptions of just what “Heaven” will be like. For this prompt, write a short story of an ideal “Heaven,” either for you or your character. If you do not believe in any kind of after life, then please feel free to write about the resulting nonexistence.

Due Date: August 30TH, 11:59 p.m.

Prompt #1 - Jill's!

By the time Carl shucks off the cap and slides the next bottle over, Joe's vision is already starting to blur. He only manages to grab the bottle by digging the fingernails of one hand into the countertop for balance, pressing little half-moons into the soft, rot-riddled wood. When he raises it to his lips, his arm muscles jerk and spasm as though they've forgotten how to work in tandem. Carl watches him out of the corner of his eye, knowing he'll have to cut him off soon, but dreading it all the same.

When Joe surfaces from his swig, the first thing he hears is the blaring of the bar's dusty old TV, perched high in a corner and adorned with a faded old sign admonishing the patrons not to change the channel. Billy's ignored it as usual, browsing through the channels between sips of scotch. Joe doesn't pay much attention to it until Billy settles on the news station and something about the reporter's voice catches his ear.

"-- has decided to use a portion of this grant to increase highway patrol throughout Chickasaw County, concentrating on Highways 8 and 15 in particular. Sergeant Chris Trenton of the Salvage Police Department commented on this decision for us."

The scene shifts to a clean-cut, smiling man standing outside the town police station. "Well, as Chickasaw is one of the few non-dry counties in Mississippi, we feel we need to make an extra effort to combat drunk driving..."

Joe turns away from the TV, his tanned forehead contorting into a scowl. Even though he's working on beer number lucky seven, he still can't bring himself to look at that face.

"Dunno why he thinks there's gonna be much to find here," Billy says. "Ain't nothin' ever happens 'round Salvage."

"Yep, pretty quiet," Sam chimes in, looking up from his one-man game of pool. "'Cept I don't think that Trenton kid would agree, d'you?" He and Billy share a glance. Further down the bar, Joe's hand clenches around number seven, which doesn't feel quite so lucky anymore.

"Well, no, y'got a point there, Sammy." Carl shakes his head in disbelief, chuckling. "Shit, comin' up on twenty years and they still ain't caught nobody?"

"No indeed. Musta been a right awful state of affairs, though, 'cause I remember hearin' when I was a kid they had to have his poor ma in one of them closed caskets, she was so roughed up--"

"You dunno what the hell you're talkin' about," Joe growls. The others are hesitant to look over at him, as though they'd been all too happy to forget he was there. He totters to his feet, pushing back his barstool with a thick groan of metal scraping against wood. "I don't wanna hear one more fuckin' word about none of that Trenton business."

"Take it easy there, Joe," says Carl. "We're just discussin', is all."

Joe takes a few lurching steps forward. "Y'all think you're so fuckin' smart?" he asks, glowering through the low-lit haze. "I ain't gonna sit here and let you carry on your goddamn discussin'."

Billy bristles, stubbing his cigarette into the ashtray more harshly than usual. "Ain't your place to decide that, Joe."

Joe throws his beer bottle to the floor. It shatters, the remainder of its contents fizzing balefully amongst the shards of amber glass. "I think we oughta step outside, Billy."

"I think you oughta step outside, Joe," says Carl, "and not step back in." He concentrates on squashing down even the tiniest bit of fear, knowing Joe will slip into any little weak spot he can see.

With a final "Fuck you!", Joe storms out of the bar and into the street. The sun hasn't even fully gone down yet, enfolding Main Street in long, low shadows that aren't yet strong enough to trigger the streetlights. He curses and raves as he staggers down the street, his eyes struggling under the double influence of the alcohol and the fluctuating levels of light. As he swims out from the shadow that has spilled itself between the hardware store and the coffee shop, he encounters a woman and a young boy. The woman clutches the child's shoulders and steers him behind her, the color draining from her face. "What the fuck you lookin' at?" he bellows before he can stop himself. He ducks between the two buildings, and when he glances back, he sees her frantically pushing buttons on her cell phone. Muttering under his breath, Joe lopes down the alleyway, knowing he'll have to stick to the back roads and woods if he wants to get where he's going without the cops showing up.

He stumbles along through the slippery grass that marks the transition between road and wood, slapping his palm against the scraggly tree trunks to steady himself. Soon he catches himself wishing he was drunker than he is now, so he wouldn't have to think about where he's going. In the back of his mind, though, he knows it wouldn't make a difference, as he could probably find the place blindfolded. No matter how thoroughly he tries to drown himself in drink or fill himself with vitriol until it bubbles over, there's something about this place that he just can't abandon, as though it had buried an anchor in the pit of his stomach long ago and was now carefully, deliberately reeling him in.

At last, he rounds a curve in the road and knows he has arrived. The driveway is still there. The woods have never managed to completely conquer it; instead, they have filled in a once-severe rectangular tunnel through the shrubbery, creating a rounded, supple curtain that separates what lies beyond from the rest of the world. Through the oldest of the trees, he can see the corner of the roof, pockmarked with missing shingles, and half a boarded-up window. He wants to see the lawn, its graceful slopes once manicured to perfection, now choked and swarming with decades of overgrowth. He knows the truth about where she's buried. Taking a deep breath, he sets off down the old gravel path.

A police siren wails directly behind him, and he shouts and jumps, twisting to face it. Officer Mulborn pulls up and smiles at him as he rolls down the passenger window.

"Evenin', Joe. Heard you were causin' a racket in town just now. I think you oughta come with me."

***

At the station, Joe glares at Officer Mulborn as he's led down the familiar hallway. The portrait of Sergeant Trenton grins at him from above its polished plaque, and he averts his gaze. "You'll have to sober up here," Mulborn says as he ushers Joe into a cell. "We'll let you go in the mornin'." The door clangs shut in front of him, and he sinks down onto the bench, head sagging against the back wall.

It's a slow Monday night at the station, and as far as Joe can tell, he's the only one in there. He's surprised to hear the echo of footsteps down the hallway, and when Sergeant Trenton appears and draws up a chair opposite his cell, it turns to revulsion. He twists sideways on the bench and tilts his head so that his shaggy brown hair will sweep out to his chin, hiding his face.

"Hey, Joe. Had a rough night?" There's still a smile in Chris's voice.

Joe only manages an affirmative grunt in reply; the thought of a conversation with this man makes him want to punch something.

"What's this, your third spin through the drunk tank?"

"Fourth," Joe mutters.

"Ah. Now look, I heard they picked you up over by the old house. What were you doin' over there?" The smile is fading.

"None of your goddamn business."

"I think you know it is my business, Joe. And if you're gonna tell anybody why you're goin' there, it should be me. Remember all those good times we had in that big ol' house? Playin' hide and seek and cops n' robbers and all that?"

Joe shudders and hunches his shoulder up to aid his hair. The alcohol suddenly threatens to make a reappearance, and he doubles over, willing his stomach to stop contracting.
"C'mon," Chris continues, "if the place means that much to you, you really oughta tell me what's goin' on."

Joe whips himself around to face Chris, panting, the muscles in his jaw quivering with the effort to keep his throat under control. "I was out for a walk," he states, with enough finality that even Chris knows it's fruitless to continue.

"Alright then," he says, "I'll come back for you in the mornin'."

Joe waits until the sound of Chris's footsteps has ceased entirely before he lets himself lose control. He folds himself over the cell's toilet seat, choking up the last of the beer.

He remembers his and Chris's games all too well. He remembers the last game of hide-and-seek they ever played. It was a crisp November day, and even though they'd wanted to stay inside and chase each other through the house, Chris's mother had shooed them outside. She and his father were fighting again, Chris had told Joe, it's best to stay out of their way. Joe, however, tired of Chris always winning so easily and frustrated at his lack of ability to find a suitably clever hiding space, had decided to sneak into the house and hide in one of the rooms, knowing Chris would never even think of it. He had chosen the armoire in Chris's mother's bedroom and gleefully crawled inside, not bothered by the sounds of his parents screaming at each other several rooms away.

When the screams got louder and closer, however, he began to worry, and was just about to make a run for it when the door flew open and Chris's mother was shoved through, closely followed by the father. They argued for another minute or so, though Joe can't remember a single word either of them actually said, before the father attacked. He threw his hands around her throat and squeezed, shouting at her all the while; she began gasping and choking, her mouth twisted into a misshapen oval, the lips turning bluer and bluer. Through it all her eyes stayed focused on the father's face; the raw fear and disbelief in them was enough to make Joe's head spin. The sharp snapping noise sent him over the edge, and he shrank back into the armoire, hiding his face in one of her dresses. Finally, when she had stopped moving and lay sprawled on the floor, he summoned his courage and peeked out. Her neck lolled at a grotesque angle and was blooming with purple splotches. His shifting weight must have made a noise, as the father had thrown open the door and stared at him, his face as red as his wife's had turned white.

"You -- get on outta here! You just go!" he had shrieked, pointing at the door.

Joe had gritted his teeth. "I'll tell everybody! You ain't gonna win!"

The father had grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled him frighteningly close. "You do that, boy, and she won't be the only dead momma 'round here." The father had flung him towards the door, and Joe had started running, not daring to look back.

Joe drags himself back to the bench, curling up on it as best he can and trying to ignore the moonlight streaming in through the window above. He refuses to look at the wall opposite his cell, where Chris had stood only minutes before, as he cannot bear to look at the portrait of Police Chief Christopher Trenton, Sr., hanging next to that of his son.

Prompt #1 You can never tell! (draft)

“I’m not suggesting that they remove it, but don’t you find it a bit sadistic to have a police blotter in the newspaper?” She inquired, looking up at her friend over the top of “The Daily Grind.” Her friend just stared at her in disbelief.

“Are you kidding me? If those jackasses are stupid enough to break the law, and get caught, then they damn well better be exposed to the public. It’s common sense. We, as the public, deserve to learn all about these idiots. Besides, I always look in them expecting to see someone I recognize from high school.” He snagged the paper from her hand and flipped to the blotter.

“Now, see, I think that setup is odd. Having it next to the obits is just weird.” He said while scanning the ages in the obituaries.

“It’s the most viewed page in the entire newspaper, which is pretty morbid.” She stated, resting her head upon her hand.

“Again, how else would you find out about someone you were acquainted with if you didn’t look? Ahh, high numbers this time around. That’s good to see.” He shifted his attention to the police blotter. “Aha, get this: ‘Fourteen year old female caught shoplifting at local Macy’s, charges pending.’ Wow, it seems like there it one of these every time… Is it really too much for them to ask Mommy and Daddy for a couple of bucks so they can by their shitty Hanna Montana posters or whatever the hell it is fourteen year olds are into these days?” Bitterness and annoyance dripped from his voice.

“Eh, trial and error, my friend. I wish I had done more bullshit when I was younger. No jail time for a minor, yeah?” A wry smile graced her features. “Imagine killing a that bully who pushed you too far when you were twelve, or that teacher who gave you a failing grade on a report you worked your ass off to do. Scott free! It would be amazing!”

“No, it would really depend on the crime. There’s still Juvee, you know.” He looked back down at the paper, ignoring his companion’s hefty sigh. A crack whore here, a piece of trailer trash there, the usual crime that brought a chuckle to the lips was what consisted of today’s column. He was about to turn the page when a name caught his eye. He flipped the paper around so it rested in front of his friend, and pointed to the name. She raised an eyebrow and leaned forward to take a closer look.

“Hey… We went to high school with her…” She shook her head. “DUI, operating without a license, resisting arrest, assault on an officer, damn, who would have thought?”

“She seemed pretty nice. I mean, I had a couple of classes with her senior year. She was kind of quiet.” He stood and walked over to the fridge, pulling out a large jug of iced tea. “Sometimes people just snap.”

“I guess so. Hey, I’m just glad it wasn’t you or me.” She said with a shrug. “Oh, and pour me a glass of that, would ya?”

“You got it.”

Prompt #1 - Sunday, Bloody Sunday - Micheal

SUNDAY, BLOODY SUNDAY
A contribution from Micheal.

Lee wanted to be important all his life. Fate killed him.

In the innermost confines of the building, Lee was sitting on a chair. His qualities were entirely plain, though both of the men in blue standing over him could not help but notice the glint of pride in his eyes. Sitting there was a man who had aspired to greatness and had, just the Friday before, achieved it. Lee could not help but bask in the afterglow of his glorious achievement with such exuberance that it radiated with searing intensity from his flesh. Despite this embodiment of joy sitting before the men in blue, their eyes were cast down and dull, their chests leaden. A sadness was upon these men as they prepared to escort Lee, the celebrity, to the car waiting outside – between them throngs of reporters, cameras, onlookers.

Sitting in an idling car outside, just several cars down from Lee's destination, was Jack. His face was red, his hands trembling. Jack looked at the reporters, dozens of them, waiting like vultures for their prey. Nervously, he smiled to himself; if he went in there, he'd be on national television. A star! But that didn't matter, he thought. His eyes, bloodshot, sank down to his hands. To what he held. Thoughts of Jackie swam in his head. He ached, his palms sweaty, metal scents filling his nose. Nobody else mattered to Jack. He just wanted was to keep Jackie happy – as happy as she could be.

Lee could hear the crowd outside and his ego swelled knowing they were all there just to talk to him. All his life he had been belittled. People told him he wasn't good enough. Wasn't man enough. He knew he had proven all of them wrong, and this was his moment of glory. Generations would talk about what he did, what he was capable of. Children would read about him in textbooks. A far cry from just a poor bastard who could barely support his own wife, the dumbass who shot himself in the marines.
Jack imagined it. He would summon his courage and, afterwards, Jackie would thank him personally. On television. America would adore him! From club owner, to national treasure. All he had to do was... to work up the courage. Jack paused. He looked down to his lap again. Who the hell was he kidding? He didn't have the balls to go through with it. With a sigh, he put his car in reverse.

Lee stood when prompted. The two men began to bring him out, but he refused with a grin. “Boys, I'm going to be on national television. I've got to look my best.” The men sighed, relenting, allowing Lee a few more minutes to switch shirts into something nicer.
A few more minutes was all Jack needed to build his courage up and step out of the car. And into the building. He weaved between reporters. It felt so heavy in his hand. Sweat distorted his vision.

Lee walked back to the men in blue with a spring in his step and winked. “All right, fellahs. I'm all ready.”

Jack wiped the sweat and saw Lee.

BANG!

Lee Harvey never made it to jail.

Prompt #1 - Smug [Draft]

Prompt: Write about someone you'd like to see going to jail.

SMUG

Standing in my now-ex-boyfriend Rich's apartment, I grinned in what I claimed to be my secret spot. First window, second floor, looking just beyond the tree branches that hung low in front of my sight. Where I once saw my sweetheart yelling on his phone or sitting in parked cars filled with smoke, I, now, saw a grown man reduced to nothing but a statistic. He never made a fuss. He didn't cop an attitude. He was disturbingly quiet, but you could hear his loud rueing.

My eyes kept darting between the police siren lights below and a line of birds perched atop the townhouse across the driveway.

"We know everything," they seemed to say. But the look I gave them could have crumbled stone. It was my special day, I was happy, and nobody, especially not a group of guilt-tripping birds, was going to spoil my good mood.

"Paul?" Matt said from down the stairs. "They need Ginny's number, and I don't have it."

"I'm not close with Rich's sister. Besides, I don't have a cell phone, so I don't have it on me." I said. I didn't turn around. I liked Matt, and I'm sure he was a good roommate to Rich, but I don't think he'd react well to my smile. "I guess he'll be spending the night at the station." I could hear Matt begin to say something, but he held his tongue. He was Mr. Nice Guy, really, and I pitied the fact that this had to ruin his day. The other two guys Rich lived with were just coming home as this was happening. I didn't see them except from my window. I walked up the stairs rather leizurely, like a madame in a 1940s musical; the world my oyster. I didn't bring much over this time. A change of clothes, my laptop, just enough gas money in my wallet to get home.

There was something rotten about Rich and I from the very start, and I was lucky to even get a toothbrush in the bathroom, nonetheless any clothes. He gave me a corner on the floor beside what became my side of the bed. My bag was light, when I walked downstairs, where I found the landlord puttering through the kitchen cabinets, presumably looking for some sort of dime bag. The other tenants sat in the den, discussing what had just happened. Some of them were shaking; maybe they had something to hide, I dunno.
The all gave me a look that seemed to whisper, "What have you done? Did you know this was happening? Is he taking the blame for you? What's been going on?" My keys jingled in my hands and my hair was a mess. I could have just strolled by them to the slider door and driven home. I had already been questioned. I had no connection to this place anymore, but I felt like I owed them some relief.

"I was the one who tipped off your landlord. Rich never hit me. I wasn't there where he got the stuff. I found him in the bathroom. I had no idea," I said, matter-of-fact-ly. Each sentence came out of my mouth the same way a list of rules would: Do not walk on the courtyard past 11 P.M.; The pool is not for children younger than 8 with adult supervision; please return hotel key upon checking out; do not leave lines of cocaine in your boyfriend's bathroom; do not place dime bags in his top dresser drawer; do not leave an anonymous message on his landlord's answering machine; do not get into your car with a smug grin on your face; do not drive home and leave him sitting in a local jail cell; do not feel proud of yourself. Do not feel proud of yourself.

PROMPT ONE: JAIL

Non/Fiction

Write about someone you'd like to see going to jail. This can either be from anybody's point of view, really.