Refill

“Pepsi,” she said, and the glass immediately filled itself to the brim with the dark and sticky cola. She picked up the glass and sipped from the edge, careful to make sure none of it spilled before placing it back on the cafeteria table. She smiled a bit, proud of her skill, and then frowned, suddenly ashamed by it. This was it. This was all she could do.

Everyone had a superpower these days. Some dormant gene had resurfaced in the human race decades ago, granting each human their own ability. Some could shapeshift into people, others into animals. Many could fly, at least one person was confirmed to be totally bulletproof, and there were rumors of a man in Asia who could actually control all four elements. But for Emma Fuller, the best she could do was fill a cup with whatever liquid she wanted.

Her mother, blessed with super speed, had been bustling in the kitchen one day when Emma was about seven, multitasking between cleaning the oven, frosting a seven layer cake, and bathing the dog. Emma had asked for some of her favorite soda and pouted when her mother took too long to get it for her. “If you can't wait for ten seconds, Emma, then you can get it yourself,” she had scolded between forming another delicate frosting flower on the cake and pouring the pet shampoo into the bathtub.

Emma had pouted, placing her head on the table and tapping the empty glass with her finger, stewing about cherry soda. “All I wanted was some cherry soda,” she had grumbled, and suddenly the glass had sputtered up pink liquid. Both mother and daughter were stunned by the sudden appearance of the drink. When her father had come home, the three of them sat down and had a discussion about responsibility and how they expected her to use her new summoning power. But still, Emma found herself sneaking an empty cup into her room at night in order to drink as much cherry soda as she liked.

The downsides quickly became apparent. First, Emma drunk herself into cherry oblivion, and one night in the bathroom caused her to swear off the stuff forever. Second, and most importantly, once she had enrolled in Hero School, it became clear that she couldn't summon anything other than liquid. After months of working on her powers, it was now official. The best Emma Fuller would ever manage was free refills.

“There she is!” Emma winced at the sound of the voice. No matter where she sat or how she dressed herself, they always managed to find her during lunch. What should've been the best time of the day always ended up being the worst.

“If it isn't Refill Fuller, trying to hide from us,” sneered a large girl who looked more like a gorilla. Three cronies behind her burst into uproarious laughter. Emma just sat there, staring at her tray. It was easier this way, she had learned. Easier if she ignored them, easier if she didn't react. Easier than getting angry and finding her head in the toilet of the basement bathroom again, anyway.

The girl knocked over Emma’s glass, and Emma automatically jumped out of the way of the cola, cursing her reaction. One of the gorilla’s arms pushed her down into the bench hard, and Emma winced not only because of the bruise she knew she would have on her shoulder, but because of the loud crack that came from the bench.

“You know what we’re here for, Fuller,” she hissed. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I don’t want to get another detention, do I?” The hand clamped down harder on Emma’s shoulder, and she tried to hide her wince as she held out her own hand. The gorilla smiled and placed a water bottle in Emma’s hand, and she started whispering the commands. Alcohol, high proof. Next bottle: an illegal protein shake that was more drug than protein. Bottle after bottle placed into Emma’s hands, forcing her to be an accomplice to the crime. She never knew if they sold them or drank them all, but she never asked. She didn’t want to know.

As she finished off the last bottle, the gorilla smirked and ruffled Emma’s hair. “Good job, Refill. See you on Monday.” Emma just sat there, tears in her eyes. One day, she’d fill it with bleach.

Ten years later

Lieutenant Bridget Rodriguez strode down the halls of her old Hero School, telling herself it was out of necessity rather than nostalgia. After all, nostalgia wasn’t something she wanted to relive. As much as she had enjoyed playing on every sports team, she regretted nearly every action she had taken back then. Smarts were something she had only acquired after she had joined the Navy and realized she was a tiny fish in an ocean of sharks.

She had studied physics, what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, what happens when the two meet in battle. Strategy was a hard science, particularly when so many living variables made up each equation, but somehow her answers had achieved positive results the vast majority of the time. It was that, along with her strength, which had caused the Navy to dub her with her Hero Name: Roadblock. Her husband teased her about it constantly, but she could tell he was secretly proud of her.

Her reflection caught in a pane of glass to her right, and as she glanced over at it, she stopped. It was a picture of the football team from her sophomore year, and there she stood in the middle of everyone, grinning. But now, she frowned. That girl was mean. That girl tried to bulldoze her way through everyone and everything. That girl needed someone to care about her enough to tell her that she needed kindness instead of platinum hair dye. And above all, she needed someone to intervene and tell her that one day, people would love her, even though she wasn’t as feminine as she thought she was supposed to be.

But here she was now, about to meet with a reporter who was going to put her on the cover of Hero Weekly, with a husband and a rank and an upcoming promotion. Not everyone with powers got an advancement to Hero, and never so soon. No, for the time it was best to let the past stay in the past, a place where it couldn’t hurt her or anyone else anymore.

She entered the school’s gymnasium to see it brightly lit with two chairs placed neatly near the wall to her left and a petite woman shrouded in a baggy black cardigan standing near them, flipping through a notebook. When Bridget entered, the woman looked up and smiled, her caramel ringlets bouncing, and motioned Bridget over to the chairs.

“Come in, come in!” she said cheerily. “Come sit right here, Ms. Rodriguez! I’ve got us all set up!” The woman kept talking as Bridget smiled woodenly. She looked so familiar. However, Bridget dutifully took her seat.

“...so the photographer will come tomorrow to get the shots. Is that okay?”

“Yes, ma’am, that will be fine.”

The woman smiled. “Good, good. So how do you prefer I address you? Roadblock? Mrs. Rodriguez?”

“Whatever is easiest,” she said, uncomfortable. The gym seemed to loom over them, reminding her of all her past misdeeds. And the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach…

“So,” the woman said breezily, readjusting her glasses and raising her notepad to eye level. “Roadblock. You’re a Hero now. That’s so exciting, to get there so soon, right out of Hero School. A lot of other people who have reached Hero so fast almost feel a sense of guilt for their past actions. They feel like they aren’t ready to save others because of who they were in the past.” The woman put the notebook down and stared Bridget in the eye, and Bridget felt a sudden chill as she realized the woman had never stated her name. “Do you?” she asked quietly, and suddenly Bridget remembered her name. “Do you feel guilty?”

“Emma,” Bridget whispered in horror. “You’re Emma Fuller.”

Bridget’s head spun, remembering the bottles upon bottles she had poured down the locker room’s drain, bottles she had filled out of power more than pleasure. It had been so long since then, so long since she had felt the need to feel emotions by being cruel.

“I-I’m so sorry, Emma,” she gasped, terrified by the bright and cheery smile that had reappeared on Emma’s face. “I was wrong, I was--”

“You made me transfer schools,” Emma sang. “You made me think that all I was good for was hurting people. But filling is such a profitable business, you know. I guess I have you to thank for that.”

Bridget had never froze in a combat situation before, but here, confronted with the sins of her past, all she could do was attempt to stammer out an apology.

“It was such a long time ago,” she said. “Emma, I was--”

Emma smiled and put her hand on Bridget’s braid. “I know,” she said, a little sadly. “I know, Roadblock. But my name isn’t Emma anymore.”

Bridget’s breath caught in her chest. Without the designation to Hero, there was only one other option…

“My name is Floodgate, and I’m not a reporter. I’m a Villain. And it’s too little, too late.”

And before Bridget could run, or even raise her hand in defense, Floodgate had placed her hand on Bridget’s chest, smiling.

“Bleach.”

Top It Off

The night was deathly still as Terry Torres tiptoed across the semi-vacant parking lot to his hunk of junk car affectionately known as “The Lemon”, both for its terrible color and for its lemon-like state. He thought arrogantly that he planned his escape so well not even Omniscient Oscar would know he was gone until morning, when he would be far enough from this hellhole to ever be forced to return.

One would think the power to give people infinite soda and beer would be enough to make friends, but when you live at a superhero academy, refill powers put you somewhere very far underneath the bottom of the totem pole. But never mind that now; Terry was on his way to a new life. With a never ending supply of gas and a head in the clouds, he knew he could find somewhere to fulfill his destiny and be a hero.

After a few days of open road, stopping only for bathrooms and to find food, as he had yet to learn how or if he could refill solid objects, Terry decided to pull over at a small campsite and set up a place to rest for the night. He could easily refill his energy and eliminate the need to sleep, but every so often he enjoyed the sensation of being unconscious for a few hours.  It gave him less time to regret leaving his entire 17 year old life behind.

Terry’s tired eyes shot open in the growing darkness in response to a whisper that might not have existed. For the first time, he regretted leaving his only friend, Sonic Simon, at school. He had the best hearing of any superhero before him, and he would have clearly heard the shout from the distance, that may not have been. Just as Terry closed his eyes again, he heard it clearly:

HELP!

Before his mind caught up with him, Terry was already a football field away from his shabby campsite running toward the noise. With the aid of the shrill female voice that sounded out every thirty seconds, Terry was able to find the pretty girl huddled over something that he couldn’t see. Only then did he realize he had run without grabbing pants and stood in front of the girl in his boxers and a shabby t-shirt. He considered turning back to find something better to wear, but the girl turned and saw him and sighed in relief, so he couldn’t leave.

The girl, who didn’t seem to notice Terry’s boxers, had tears in her eyes as she looked at him and hoarsely whispered “thank goodness you’re here.”

Terry smiled awkwardly and didn’t know what to do or say. He was never any good at this hero thing.

“What… uh… what’s going on?” he painfully stuttered out.

“It’s my boyfriend. He got hurt and he was bleeding and he lost a lot of blood and I don’t know what to do.” She collapsed into tears as Terry bent down to look over the injured boy. Knowing immediately what he should do, he ripped off his shirt and wrapped it around the wound as best he could, and then he put his hand on top of the makeshift bandage, focused his mind, and used his power to refill the boy with the blood he had lost. He dialed for an ambulance and gave clumsy directions to wherever they were, then he put his arm around the still-sobbing girl.

“Do you… have any water? You should probably drink some.”

“No, we’re all out.” The girl muttered somberly.

“Oh, I can fix that” Terry said, grabbing her water bottle that was instantly filled. He handed it to her with a smile, but she eyed it suspiciously.

“It’s just water.” He said, self-consciously lowering the bottle that she refused to take.

“But how did you…”

“… refill it? That’s my power. I’m a superhero… of a sort… like Spider-Man, you know? Except for, well, I just refill things… I guess.”

                She sat staring at Terry, with nothing to say. Not that he could blame her; he couldn't remember ever uttering such a lame sentence, and he was no orator on the best of days. Finally she said “so… like, you never run out of money, that sort of thing?”

                “Well…” Terry brushed through his hair with the hand that wasn’t still holding the water bottle. “No, not really. I mean, it only works on liquid… water, blood, gas…”

                “Blood? Is that what you did to Mike? Is he going to be okay then?”

                “I think so… you should really take this water.” Terry’s arm felt sweet relief as the girl finally took the bottle, and drank from it deeply.

                When she finished drinking and finally swallowed, she said, “what’s your name, Superman?”

                “Terry. Yours?”

                “Sarah. Terry, huh? That’s not a very superhero-y name.”

                “Well, sorry, but it’s all I got. Well, I have my school name- Top Off Terry- but heroes don’t get good names until they actually become… uh… heroes.”

Sarah just laughed, and then turned to look at her boyfriend, still lying lifeless on the ground. The sky still wasn’t completely dark, but it wouldn’t be long before the stars would be the only light. Terry hoped that help would arrive quickly, and just as he did, he heard voices approaching from the trees.

“Hey, uh, Top Off? You should probably go…” Sarah muttered. “Not that I want you to leave, it’s just… you really do have your top off. And your pants for that matter.”

Drat, she had noticed. “Uh, yeah.” Terry muttered.

“But… well… thanks a million!” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re my hero.”

Terry smiled, then ran away from the approaching men. He stayed long enough to make sure they were people who could help, then he disappeared into the night… a hero, even if in the smallest sense. 

Round Up 24

Last Week’s Prompt:

Create a story from the point of view of your character’s shadow.

Amanda

I wrote a story about a shadow. I like shadows, because they can do fun things like act out plays and form shapes and stretch across multiple surfaces. But they also remind me that some poor photon traveled 92.96 million miles across the empty void of space only to be stopped from hitting the earth by bouncing off you and hitting someone in the eye, assuming someone is looking at you. That being said, if no one is looking at you, do you still exist? Do you cast a shadow if no light is striking you? How do you know it’s there when you can’t turn around to see it? It could be creeping, moving, sneaking up on you, waiting for the perfect moment to spring and enact its terrible revenge against you, the dull human who keeps all the nourishing light away from it.

And now, the weather.

MY VOTE: Korrin

Korrin

I played with the idea of writing a cool story from the shadow’s view but then I was lazy and didn’t. So I created Aaron, pronounced Erin, not A-A-Ron. Aaron is a normal guy. He’s an accountant at a firm in San Diego. He puts everything into his work and is therefore single. He’s not that appealing to women but you could call him decent enough. I wanted to make sure that his shadow had a different personality than my character. It seemed right to make them one being, but separate nonetheless. This is why the narrator, aka the shadow, uses both “I” and “We” as a pronoun.

I wanted to explore the different aspects of what shadow’s do. Because shadow’s are just the absence of light, they can change in the blink of an eye. They move, the elongate, they disappear, and if a shadow is an intelligent being then it must have an opinion on the constant change. That’s why I brought in Alice in Wonderland. It was the best example I could think of with a character who loses their way because of constant physical change.

MY VOTE: Amanda

Kylie

If y’all thought I wouldn’t take this opportunity to write about a sad ghost, then y’all don’t know me at all.

This is a shadow person. Although technically shadow people are genderless (fun fact: all of my shadow people are basically what skeletons would look like if they wore a morphsuit), this one is much more feminine. She is obsessed with Jensen, like a creep. But, like, a sad creep.

Shadow people have always intrigued me, and I tend to write about this paranormal, outside view of a world that is increasingly normal. How do you relate when you are inherently not part of this world? In my stories, they usually do it by being unintentionally creepy.

Jensen is either a nice guy, a douchey ladies’ man that doesn’t deserve such a sweet guardian angel ghost, or a serial killer who is actually murdering all these ladies that Mimi is jealous of. Whatever interpretation you like the best.

(also Jensen would u smooch a ghost b/c HECK YAS)

MY VOTE: Amanda

Next Week’s Prompt:

“Everybody made fun of you in hero school because your superpower was ‘free refills,’ but now you discover it has bigger implications than anyone realized”

(found via Reddit)

Mimicry

I like to mimic him. When he turns his head just so, I do the same. I try to follow him from every angle, every tilt of his head. He moves so gracefully, in wide arcs, unlike the way I move. My movements are like light and his are like sound, and it is delicious to slow and follow instead of dart and flee.

I’ve followed Jensen longer than any other human. When I first saw him, he was small, and I followed him out of curiosity. He liked to run and to be in the sun. I stuck to walls, then, afraid of what might happen if I allowed my body to ooze onto the ground. But when I saw him, saw the way he moved and heard the voice he spoke in, I knew that all I wanted was to follow him. And I have.

He moves his head again, dips it down towards the woman, and my chest grows heavy. She is thin, but not ghastly. Her hair billows around her in a halo that I will never have. It’s the hair I want the most. They all have that same hair. Long and flowing. What must it feel like? To have hair. To be held. To have Jensen.

Jensen has never touched me. He’s never even seen me. He is light and color and I am shadow and darkness. I can’t stop looking at him, but his eyes never rest on me, even when I am tangled with his own shadow. Jensen’s eyes never reach my body, and I am too afraid of frightening him to manifest myself. My people have never had luck with humans and corporeality, and I cannot be the source of Jensen’s perceived insanity. I love him too much.

Instead, I trace the edge of his jaw. I slip down the curves of his fingers. I watch his jaw meet hers.

And I mimic.

Shadow.

My entire existence is controlled by light,

Yet every time a photon comes near me, 

I run. 

The brighter the light, the darker I am,

And when the sun is low in the sky,

I stretch.

Through sturdier silhouettes of trees and buildings,

You stroll down the street, and

I follow.

Across grass and water, over cars and people,

I can only go where you take me.

I'm trapped. 

But when the light is finally gone,

and you lie useless in your bed, 

I'm free.

Aaron

Aaron never really thinks about me anymore. I mean, who would? I've been there his entire life. Sure, when we were first starting out, I was this thing of fascination.  Something to be roughly manipulated and played with. I remember when we were seven, we would stay up late with a flashlight just to play make believe. But now, it’s like I don’t even exist.

Time passes in the same old routine. We go to work at the office, trudge through the day, and spend the evening doing even more work from home. Aaron isn’t even exciting anymore. I think about the ones like me on TV that get to do fun things like flicker over trees in the amazon or run down bad guys in Alaska. I even get jealous of the poor fools that have to spend hours in old warehouses switching from one old piece of junk to the next. At least they get to be doing something.

I remember once that our third grade teacher read us Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll. That is one of my favorite books. I can relate to Alice so well. She is lost and confused in Wonderland because she is constantly changing. She doesn’t know who she is anymore because of all the physical changes she is subjected to. That is how life is every day for me. I’m constantly moving and changing. One moment I could be chilling on a nice brick wall and the next I could be split in two! I change color! Well, not color really, values. One minute I can be pitch black, menacing, and the next I can be pale gray with barely any substance! And don’t even get me started on what it’s like to be 2D in a 3D world.

 When I first wake up, I’m this huge giant, but around the middle of the day I am merely a circle that Aaron stands on. The good part about that is, I always know that as more time progresses, I will once again become a giant, just on the other side of Aaron.

But after that is when the worst part of being me happens. People talk about death all the time. They talk about how it is inevitable, theorize what it could be like, whisper how scared they are about their own final day, and grieve when death takes someone else. People don’t know what real despair is like. At least there are theories about an afterlife. For me, there is nothing. Every single night of my life, sometimes more often than that, I just disappear. I become nothing. My existence ceases, until suddenly I am again. I loose time. There are just these huge jumps in my life where I know I have stopped. 

Every morning, I rejoice in existence. Every night, I despair over deletion.

I don’t expect Aaron to change how he lives his life.  He has enough to worry about without the guilt of knowing he erases me every time he walks into a movie theater. I just wish, that once in a while he would appreciate the fact that I’m there. I will never leave Aaron. He is never alone with me around. We are, literally, stuck together forever. Can’t a shadow just get some appreciation around here?

Round Up 23

Last Week’s Prompt: Write a story inspired by a color

Amanda

I like the idea behind Indigo and it had the potential to be a great story, but between school and being sick, I had a hard time writing it to be how I imagined. I also had a lot more of a backstory that took way too long to write, so I started over halfway through and tried to include the important details for the sake of the story, but maybe I will revisit the idea in the future and flesh it out more.

Guilt by association plays a big part into why “the girl” is so scared of the police because the bullies at her school told her she was a bad person because of guilt by association because her dad is in jail (not a big house as she would like to believe, but THE big house). Children who think they’re monsters are both sad and interesting to me, especially since I watched the new Netflix series “Stranger Things” this week as I was thinking of the prompt. The girl definitely looks like Eleven in my headcanon.

MY VOTE: Kylie

Korrin

I know the prompt said, “story” but I interpreted that as poetry. Poems can tell stories too. This is the story of blue.

Blue is such a basic color. It is everywhere in our life that I wanted to show the various aspects in which blue touches my life. Besides my own personal feelings on the color blue, it’s my favorite color so…, I also googled what things are associated with the color blue. Things such as emotions, stability, wisdom, and cleanliness were among my google search results. It was illuminating. And as always, I had to add in some fandom references because I’m a nerd.

I could go on and on about each line in this poem, but I won’t. Let’s just say sometimes I think I’m clever where I’m probably not. For example, the line “I am primary in your life.” Get it, blue is a primary color in the color wheel. Also “knowledge and wisdom within magic” is a loose reference to the best Hogwarts house, mine, Ravenclaw.

I titled it “Untitled No. 1” half because poem titles are like that sometimes and half because I didn’t want to use the word “blue” and I’m lazy.

MY VOTE: Amanda

Kylie

I wanted to use a lot of color in mine, and I wanted to use them in unconventional ways. No “red, the blood of angry men.” I wanted to use colors in weird ways that might not carry any significance to the reader, but obviously had a lot of symbolism for the protagonist.

Do I feel like I did my best? HAHAHAHA no. But I feel like it didn’t turn out as terrible as it was during my first few drafts, and I’m so grateful for that.

MY VOTE: Amanda

Next Week’s Prompt:

Create a story from the point of view of your character’s shadow. 

Color

That summer night was drunken with maroon. It steeped in the darkness, the haze spreading into the light with its lazy tendrils. It was a choking color, a color to get lost in.

Until you arrived.

You arrived in your turquoise mist, clarity emanating from your steps, from the way your hair moved to the way your hips swung when you walked. It was hypnotizing against the summer backdrop, and it took no time for my indigo heart to be drawn to your aura.

And then you were turquoise and I was orange, and our hands dripped a green I had never seen before as our colors met. Every touch was yellow and every sigh red, and when I showed you the indigo heart I had kept hidden for so long, you smiled in emerald.

It wasn’t until you left and the world went white that I realized you never showed me your heart.

Untitled No. 1

I am a clear sky on a sunny day
I am a baby's eyes before they change
I am the candy that children covet
I am the smell of sprinklers on a warm summer night
I am a staple to collegiate life for many
I am the music of Memphis
I am primary in your life
I am the feeling you get when things stop shining
I am a recessive gene
I am a police box parked on the corner
I am the calm
I am the pants you wear
I am knowledge and wisdom within magic
I am next to godliness
I am a deep ocean stretching into the horizon

Indigo

The girl sat trembling in a seat not meant to be oversized, but that looked comically large against her tiny frame. She still couldn’t entirely tell if the shaking was from the icy wind creeping through the window across the room, or from the incredible sadness of her day, or from the deep fear she had that the men would recognize the guilt behind her eyes… that they would know. Whatever the cause, she had been shaking so hard for so long that she now felt completely numb, both inside and out.

The fussy old woman behind the desk walked over and handed the girl another candy with a small smile, just as she had been doing for the last few hours. The woman knew it was pointless to try talking to the girl. She didn’t utter a word and could hardly pay attention, poor thing. So she brought the girl candies and tried to be as welcoming as she could, though she hated sharing her workspace with people as a general rule.

Unwrapping the cellophane with shaking hands, the girl put the candy in her mouth and stopped to listen for the men who took her from her home and tried to make her talk. She didn’t like the woman, but she liked the men even less… they tried to make her remember things that she didn’t want to have to think about ever again, but just the thought of the men coming back flushed all the bad memories back into her mind and she saw the terrible events again like a movie in her mind. The girl started shaking from a new source as she silently sobbed into the torn piece of fabric in her hands.

She went to school that morning wearing her mom’s favorite scarf- the one that was dark blue and silky and that she let her daughter wear when she was feeling sad. Her mom didn’t know the girl wore the scarf, but she promised herself she would take extra good care of it and her mom would never know it was gone.

The boys at school always laughed at her for her dirty clothes and broken toys, but that was all the girl had. Just wait till they saw her today- they couldn’t laugh anymore! With the scarf around her neck, the girl imagined she looked like a princess and stood tall as she stepped off the bus.

During recess, she left the scarf in her desk so nothing would happen to it… but something did. When she went back to her desk, the scarf was replaced with a pile of blue fabric and strings. The girl saw the boys in her class laughing and holding up their scissors, and all she could do was cry.

Stepping off the bus, the girl cradled a small strip of what used to be her mom’s favorite thing in the world and tried to be brave enough to tell her mom what happened. The closer she got to the door, the louder she could hear the shouting. One voice was her mom’s, and the other was a man’s voice. Not her dad’s… he lived in a big house somewhere, or at least that’s what everyone told her. No, this was one of the many men who would stay at the girl’s house for a few months and then leave so another man could come. They changed so much that the girl stopped trying to know their names.

“You know that scarf is the one good thing I have, and you took it and gave it to another girl?”
“I didn’t touch your damn scarf, woman.”
“Then where is it? Where is my indigo scarf?”

“You sound so pretentious when you call it indigo. It’s dark blue, it’s not fancy.”

The girl hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. They were yelling about the scarf. They were yelling because of her. Trying to gather her courage, she pushed open the door to stop their fight, but instead she had to run straight into another room and shut the door behind her to avoid getting hit by things that both her mom and the man were throwing around. The yelling got louder and turned to things the girl didn’t understand… something about other men and women and pigs. Eventually, her mom just started screaming one word over and over: “Indigo” she screamed. “Indigo, indigo, indigo!” The screams got louder, until they were punctuated by a loud sound the girl knew came from a gun. She slowly creaked open the door and saw her mother lying on the floor surrounded by broken glass and the insides of pillows and the man holding a gun who glanced at the girl and ran out the front door.

The girl cried in the room alone, knowing it was her fault they were yelling in the first place. It took a while before the men came to get her and put her in the car with lights… the one where bad guys go, and she knew she must be bad. She clutched at the strip of fabric as they drove far away and the men talked from the front seat. Her mother’s yelling of “indigo” echoed again and again around her head. Indigo… Indigo… Indigo…

“What’s your name, kid?” the man with a mustache muttered.

A single tear finally broke free and rolled down her cheek and she whispered “Indigo.”

Back In Black (And White) (Like Print, Get It?)

Hello there, readers with unusually good taste. You may have noticed a lack of posts from us recently. This is because of a funny little thing called "Life." It caused us to launch an unannounced and, to be honest, completely unplanned hiatus.

But wait no longer, dear readers, for we are back! WITH A VENGEANCE!

Okay, not a vengeance, but we are coming back with new stories every week. Same schedule as before: new stories on Tuesdays, new prompt reveals on Thursdays.

This next prompt will be Amanda's unused prompt from before the hiatus: write a story inspired by color.

See you all on the 26th!


Love,
The Sexy Pants Crew

Round Up: Week 22

Round Up: Week 22 (that turned into a month)

Last Week’s Prompt:

Find a news story/headline about the ever-entertaining Florida Man and write the true story behind the headline.

Amanda

My favorite headline that I found in my first search was “Florida Man rescued from vending machine”, so I immediately started thinking of ways someone could get stuck inside a vending machine. Out of all the many reasons to reach inside a vending machine, I decided with trying to redeem a lost love. Brita saw the live news coverage of the jaws of life ripping her love from a vending machine and felt extra bad about setting our hero’s record player on fire and decides not to tell him until he recovers.

MY VOTE:

Korrin

As I scrolled through headlines about Florida Man I discovered the Ebola article. Really, why would that be your excuse. “I think I want to be in a hospital surrounded by guards instead of a jail surrounded by guards.” There is no difference.

It also reminded me of a joke that was told by the wonderful singer, in the band Gaelic Storm, in a concert here in Utah. The audience gave him the sound of “oh, man. That is a really bad joke and I am kinda ashamed that I laughed at it.” But more in a grunting manner. The lead singer then replied “Too soon?” to the audience. Everyone, stop what you are doing right now and look up Gaelic Storm. You will never ever regret it.

Anyway, since we here at Cleanup in Aisle Sexy Pants are so very PC, we tell Ebola jokes pretty much all the time. Hence my affinity to picking the article that I did.

The disease that I referred to is called “Witzelsucht.” It is a brain disorder that causes the person to engage in silly behavior at any given time. Real disease, but can you really expect Florida Man to know the real name of it?

MY VOTE:  

Kylie

Next Week’s Prompt:

Write a story inspired by a color