Day 23 #iWriteDaily
I wrote along with my prison writers this morning. Here are a couple of things I came up with, rough and raw. (The prompt is in bold.)
They seek to make us all question ourselves and our worth. To stir the pot they toss in small bites to feed uncertainty — not challenges exactly — but a statement, masquerading as a question, the voice rising up into the electrified air at the end.
Or an almost imperceptible turn up at the mouth’s corner, wanting to be a smile but knowing better. It would ruin the ruse. Such things are intended to fly under the radar, to be inconspicuous enough to make us wonder about our grasp on reality.
We want with everything in us to stay grounded in solid knowing of where we came from and who we were when we came from there. But even the strongest among us are sinking into the quicksand of doubt, and with that the resolve to survive this with as little additional damage as possible.
And this one:
The prompt: Some said she was a proper lady. I knew she was an assassin for the fun of the game.
Cassandra was decked out in flawless, colorless diamonds from her ear lobes to her throat to her wrists and fingers. She looked the part of the ambassador’s wife as she emerged from the white limousine.
Before she had stepped out, she had tucked a small syringe of liquid — deadly but undetectable after death — carefully into her evening bag. She placed the needle into a chamber in her bag, which would both protect the syringe and force it to eject at the precise moment.
Or at least she hoped it would. Cassandra had used daggers, handguns, swords, piano wire – even an anvil once – but this time it was personal, and that called for something entirely new . She needed to get close, to look him in his eyes when she killed him. She only regretted that his death wouldn’t be as painful as he deserved, but she couldn’t risk that.
Anyway, she wanted to enjoy the party for a while first, and show off all this jewelry, and the little black dress she’d purchased this morning. She wanted to be the talk of the town, just not in connection with her husband’s untimely passing.
She wondered, only half-serious, if it would be terribly gauche to wear this dress to his funeral — not the diamonds, of course, just the dress. The diamonds would be overkill.
She thought he of all people would appreciate her wardrobe choice. He did always like the way she looked in black …