Twitter Writing Prompts, Feb. 2020

#haikuchallenge  (return)

She wills herself weightless
Atoms diffussing like light
Returning to stardust

#haikuchallenge (swoon)

Summer evenings swoon
Suspended on the warm breeze
Like dandelion seeds

#haikuchallenge (related)

Related by blood
Pumped by such differing hearts:
Siblings. Not family.

#haikuchallenge (light)

Light through my curtains
Dreamy and diaphanous
Dust glows like fireflies

#haikuchallenge   (price)

Cold, gray-skied mornings
Wet socks chafing toes raw red
The price of rainbows

#haikuchallenge (refract)

Light refracts through dew
Like gems strung on gossamer
Scintillant as stars

#haiukuchallenge (over)

Overcast morning
Gray-ruffed pigeons dart through clouds
Playing hide-and-seek

#hangtenstories (renown)

“‘Renown’ means shit. I need to see you in action.”

#hangtenstories (circuit)

“It’s all circuitry, my friend. Brains, neurons, synapses. All re-programmable.”

#hangtenstories (rival)

“Unrivaled beauty?” she sneered, picking up the scalpel. “Not anymore.”

#hangtenstories   (cordial)

“Cherry cordials,” he mused.  “She’d never even taste the poison.”

#storyin12 (ink)

“A suicide note.” She steadied herself, looking around. “The ink’s still wet.”

#storyin12 (bloom)

She lowered the gun.
Blood, like forgotten roses,
bloomed across his chest.

#storyin12   (organize)

“This was an organized strike,” she panted.  “We’re all targets.”

#hintfiction (bloodbath)

“Your stories were always bloodbaths, but this is… gratuitous.” He turned the page. “What happened to ‘writing from life’?”
The chamber clicked.. “Oh, I’m trying.”

#hintfiction   (clout)

“You’re a little pissant.  You’ve got no pull around here.”

He shrugged.  “You’re right.  No clout, no status.”

He smiled.

“No reason to suspect me.”

#hintfiction (awe)

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” her eyes gleam. “Awe-inspiring.”
“It certainly is a… cake.”
She sighs.
“I’m watching the next season of Bake-Off alone,” she mutters.

#whistpr (atrophy)

“Do you think your heart can atrophy from disuse?”
I chew my lip, tasting sea salt, and the bitter tinge of beer and blood.
“Disuse? I’m pretty sure you’d be dead at that point,” I say. You scowl.
“I mean figuratively, you ass,” you say. You look out over the balcony, the boardwalk alight with soft sunset neons. “If you close yourself off from, you know, love. For long enough. Do you think you lose your capacity for it?”
“No. Or, well. Maybe yes, but with some caveats.”
“Christ, you really can’t just give a straight answer.”
“All muscles atrophy with disuse,” I say, leaning against the balcony railing. The sun is falling beneath the horizon now, a glorious display, like a net of fairy light cast across the water. “The longer the disuse, the worse the atrophy, the longer the road to recovery.” I lay my head on my arms, and the world lists sideways. I look at her, dark silohuette outlined in golden against the neon sky.
“And there’s always a road to recovery,” I say. She snorts.
“Yeah? How do you know?” I nudge her playfully with my toe, blow her kisses.
“Cause you’re on it,” I say. She sucks her teeth, looks away before I can see her smiling.
“Shit,” she says, but I can hear it in her voice.

#whistpr (undulate)

Hypnotic, the peaks and troughs
Undulating across the smooth plane of her belly
How you’d laid your head there nights
Listening to the seashell whisper of her breath
The plodding rhythm of her heartbeat
Like footfalls on a distant shore

Tonight she is transcendent, dancing
The breathless sigh of chiffon and charmeuse
As she shimmies across the stage
Tonight you will rest your head against her
And hear her heartbeat
like thunderous applause

#vsspoem (force)

“I know I can’t force you to love me.”
He doesn’t look at me, eyes in the road,
The long straight stretch of asphalt
That disappears into the slate gray horizon.

I study his face, the plane of his jaw
Where errants patches of stubble grow
Untended, and the soft pulse of his heart
Fluttering quietly in the soft valley below his throat.
There is a tenderness in me, like an open wound.

“I so love you,” I say.
“Just not the way you wish I would.”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple
Bobbing and sinking, like a man drowning.
He doesn’t speak.
The rush of our tires is the only sound,
Like the quiet roar of a distant ocean.

BlackDahliaProse (ancient road)

Regret is an ancient road; well-tread,
and grooved like a grit stone by the restless feet
of wayfarers, shuffling past,
Sharpening their sorrow with every step.