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Ridden Down

by Jon Clapier

Walks-with-fire lay in the long grass of a prairie ridge and watched the war party of Kiowa far below. The morning sun warmed his back as the sight of the warriors chilled his heart. They were four times the number of his fingers and were slowly working out the trail of his people. So many, and his family were so few.

His pony, Buffalo Runner, was hidden in the depression behind him, and a few miles beyond that his family fled from their enemies.

For three days Walks-with-fire and his two brothers had skirmished with the Kiowa, harassing them, slowing them and giving time for the women and children to escape. Walks-with-fire shivered, remembering how his brothers had saved him and he breathed a silent prayer that their spirits would be allowed to help him from the other world before they began their eternal hunt in the sky.  

He checked his weapons. Only four arrows remained in his quiver but the missing arrows counted for at least two Kiowa who would never hunt again. His war club was still unused, as well as his flint knife. His shield of buffalo hide was with his horse. That he was still alive he attributed to a combination of the thickness of his shield, luck, and the speed and endurance of Buffalo Runner. And the selflessness of his brothers.

If his family could make it through the gap in the mountains, the one carved by the tusks of the great beast, they could find other tribes of the People. Many of the Arapahoe should be gathering at the river of the Wind, but his tribe would need time to find them, and the Kiowa were too close.

Walks-with-fire worked his way backwards until he could stand without being seen, and then he trotted to where Buffalo Runner munched quietly on grass. He leaned against the warm brown neck and breathed deeply, enjoying the smell. He tried to gain strength from the horse, wondering briefly if he would ever taste the flavor of roast venison again. Buffalo Runner looked gaunt but his eyes were still bright as he raised his head and nosed Walks-with-fire.

“You and I, we have done well, my brother. But there is more to be done. Our family must have time after they get through the gap made by the great beast.”

The horse sighed, snorting as if it understood, and then began grazing again.

“There is no more time, my brother,” Walks-with-fire gathered the long rawhide thong tied around Buffalo Runner’s lower jaw and climbed onto the horse’s back, grunting with the effort. He kicked the horse into a trot and worked his way toward the gap that was visible now, only a few miles away.

Holding to the low ground, he tried to estimate when the Kiowa would see his family. His worry forced him to climb a ridge that had a scattering of trees to hide his silhouette. What he saw filled him with dread.

The valley below him was nearly flat saving for the banks of the winding stream that flowed through the gap. He could see the ponies and travois of his family, nearly there. But he could also see the Kiowa. They had seen his family and galloped across the plain towards them. He could only imagine the yells of victory they must already be shouting.

Leaning over the neck of Buffalo Runner, he said, “You have run many miles, my brother. Do you still have the strength we need now?”

Buffalo Runner pawed at the ground, sensing his rider’s urgency. Walks-with-fire gathered a fistful of mane and shrieked his war-cry as they charged down the ridge. The wind screamed past them as they sped across the sage-dotted flats.

Only Walks-with-fire could feel that the stride of Buffalo Runner was not what it once was. Even his great strength wasn’t unending. He moved with the horse, trying his best to become one with him, to add to his speed. And he prayed it would be enough.

The Kiowa were there, on his right side less than a hundred paces away. Walks-with-fire nocked an arrow and shot. They saw him but his shot went wide. If they would turn to pursue him he could yet buy the time his people needed. But the Kiowa ignored him other than shooting a few times in return.

He ducked along Buffalo Runner’s back as an arrow sang past him. The gap was close. He could see the last of his family going into it. The Kiowa were baying like wolves. If they beat him to the gap then they would murder everyone. His grandmother, sisters and young cousins.

He leaned close to Buffalo Runner’s neck and spoke into his ear, “Now, my brother, run! Run!”

The staccato beat sped up as Buffalo Runner threw all his remaining strength into speed. Slowly he drew ahead of the mounts of the Kiowa. Walks-with-fire dared to believe he might make it.

Slowly the gap became a canyon. Arrows landed all around the running horse but none found their mark. Galloping hoof-beats echoed from stone walls. Walks-with-fire screamed in exultation.

And then the stride of Buffalo Runner faltered. His heaving, foam-flecked sides struggled for breath and he went down in a tangle of legs, dying.

Walks-with-fire tumbled free, trying to find his weapons through tear-blurred eyes. He grabbed his shield and war club, stopping briefly at the dying horse, “I am sorry, my brother. Thank you.”

Standing tall, he began his death song, knowing that there would only be one possible end to this day.

The Kiowa screamed war cries as they entered the gap and could see Walks-with-fire standing alone. He tightened the grip on his weapons, wanting to wipe the tears from his eyes before he died. The tears made the air beside him shimmer. He quickly wiped at them, but the shimmer was still there. Standing on each side of him were his two dead brothers, armed and ready

But only for a while. The time has come to make significant changes to how things happen here at TWOS, and there’s no time like the present to throw a wrench into a perfectly serviceable system. This isn’t the end, though. It’s the end of the beginning. TWOS has evolved since it began, and we’ve learned much along the way. It’s time to use what we know to make TWOS better.

We’re going to implement some new practices, which means this is the last Friday Prompt … ever! We’ll still give you random word prompts, but probably on a monthly basis. There are also a few other new features in the works, so there’s plenty to look forward to.

We won’t reveal any more for now, partly because we’re belligerent like that, and partly because we don’t know yet which features will make the cut. Come back in February to get the full announcement.

In the meantime, we still welcome submissions from this week’s prompt. We’ll be accepting them all month long, in fact. Check out the prompts below and let those creative juices flow.

Finally, at the risk of ruining my carefully cultivated persona of a misanthropic malcontent, I just want to thank everyone who has helped us and submitted stories to this point. We appreciate it more than you know. You’re beautiful … you nattering ninnies.

Sorry, couldn’t stop myself.

Set 1:
Flood
Search
Blessed

Set 2:
Victory
Fall
Pseudo

Set 3:
Nylon
Hog
Congested

Submission Guidelines

The Hazards of a Small Business

by Jon Clapier

A man, disheveled and unshaven, rolled out of bed in a dim studio apartment. He picked up a sawed off shotgun from against the side of his bed and walked to the bathroom. He leaned the shotgun in a corner by the door only after checking the bathroom. He emerged some time later, shaved and with his hair combed into a wave. Carefully he dressed and then, taking the shotgun with him he unlocked multiple locks on the door before standing back to open it carefully, gun raised. When nothing happened he yawned and stepped out on the landing and took a short flight of stairs up to the roof of his small apartment building.

He repeated the unlocking-and-pointing-the-gun procedure at the door, finding nothing and then stepped out onto the roof. Buildings flanked the roof on three sides and an open street with more buildings across the way stood empty. Walking over to the edge that sat above the front of the building, he peeked over the short parapet to the street two stories below. A horde of about twenty soulless ghouls clawed ineffectively at the reinforced steel doorway. A few turned rotting faces up to him and growled like dogs with cut throats.

“Not a single good set of hair anywhere. Greedy animals.”

The man picked up a five gallon bucket of gasoline/diesel mix from a row of similar buckets placed carefully on the roof and emptied it down on the zombies. Then he carefully lit a cigarette and took a few puffs while the fuel spread below him.

“They say cigarettes can kill you.” He said to no one and flipped the lit cigarette down. With a whoosh the ghouls begin to howl, crackling and burning.

“Don’t even have the sense to run away,” he commented. The ghouls crowded forward, forcing themselves into the flames as they tried to surge at him. He waited until the flames died away, trying vainly to keep a flickering grip on the brick building. He noted there were only a few of the ghouls left, and then used the shotgun to finish the job.

“Good thing they’re stupid or else I’d have run out of ammo weeks ago,” he told himself as he retraced his steps and went back to the apartment and heated up some soup, eating it straight from the can. After checking his hairdo in the mirror he started down the stairs to the main floor, omnipresent shotgun to hand.

Downstairs he repeated the careful unlock procedure and stepped into the room the zombies had been trying to get into. He checked his large mirrors and barbers chairs and then peeked through the main window, which had no glass but a tight lattice of steel bars.

Several zombies were collected by the door in the short time he spent eating. He used a few choice expletives and stepped to a cross-shaped opening in the bars just big enough for the muzzle of his shotgun. From it he could see everything in front of his door.

“Stupid things are getting worse,” he mumbled.

Several shots later he opened the massive, fire-proof door and carefully locked it behind him. He walked around a corner and started a loader-tractor there, returning and scraping the ghoulish detritus away and dumping it in a vacant lot a block away. He checked his watch as he dumped the last load of gunk and swore again.

“I’m gonna be late,” he slapped the steering wheel and gunned the motor, running over a walking ghoul before speeding back to his shop. “Every day is practically another expedition.”

After parking the loader he walked with gun held ready until he entered the door in his shop, shutting the massive door with a sigh of relief. Then he put a sign on the door that read, “Haircuts. Price negotiable.”

He checked the street in front of the shop and sighed again, then sat in one of his chairs and pulled out a magazine that had been read many times.

***

He woke with a jolt hearing pounding on the door.

“Let me in!”

The voice sounded weak and scratchy. The man scooped up his shotgun and stepped to the cross shaped opening. A young man stood alone. His face was sickly gray and his hair was a tousled mess.

“I don’t serve the half-dead. Go away.”

“I’m not sick,” the young man protested with the same raspy voice. “Not like that. All I have is a cold.”

“Until you taste flesh, and then the virus finishes its course. Go away!” The proprietor of the shop racked a shell into the already-loaded gun, just for effect.

“Please, this is why I need my haircut! Everyone thinks I’m turning into one of them!” The young man raised his hands to show he was unarmed.

“And how can anyone who isn’t half dead go anywhere without a weapon?”

The young man struggled to follow the logic, and then snarled and threw himself at the opening in the bars, desperately trying to force his way through the small opening.

One shot later, the proprietor of the shop carefully stepped out and drug the body to the bucket of the loader to be disposed of later.

“Three days without a real customer. I really hope I don’t have to apply for unemployment insurance. I doubt the local economy could stand the strain.”

He chuckled at his own joke and locked himself back in his shop, picking up the magazine again.

A knock at his door interrupted him before he got comfortable.

“Are you in there? We need haircuts!”

The man stood and took his shotgun to the opening in the bars. Three men and a woman stood by the door, practically bristling with weapons, their hair too long but tentatively combed. They noticed his face at the gap and one of them stepped close.

“Are you Bob? The hairdresser?”

The man in the shop smiled, “I am. Welcome to Bob’s salon.”

~

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Perhaps you’ve heard the old saying about shooting for the moon and landing among the stars, which never made much sense because you’d have to really, really, REALLY overshoot the moon to land among the stars. So does that mean you did far better than expected, or you just have unbelievably bad aim?

Mostly it means that you stumbled across a working prototype of a warp drive, in which case all previous goals and resolutions become moot. You just hit the jackpot and you can die happy, my friend.

But let’s return to the supposed intent of the saying; in other words, if you aim really high, you’ll still achieve a lot even if you don’t reach your goal. The entire premise seems flawed, based on what we know of humans.

For instance, if I say I want to be a rockstar who headlines at major venues throughout the nation and has a platinum album, I am not going to be satisfied if I sell 1,000 records at my local coffee shop’s open mic night.

Or more appropriate for our audience, if I insist I will be the next J.K. Rowling, I won’t be that happy if I self publish in the Kindle store and sell a few hundred copies of my urban fantasy.

Then there’s the opposite mentality, namely the “have low expectations so anything is a pleasant surprise” outlook, which doesn’t seem that productive either.

“I’m going to put this up on the Kindle store but I fully expect that no one will read it. Oh look, Amazon took it down for plagiarism. That means someone read it, which is more than I could have hoped for.”

Nope, not that great.

So, when you make your New Years resolutions, make sure they’re… well, something.

Just stop talking about it and go do it.

Speaking of doing it; wait, let me try that again. If you want to feel that sensation of accomplishment right now, have a go at one of these word prompts. You’ll feel that familiar glow of exceeding nonexistent expectations. Or maybe it’s like shooting for the moon and landing among the hernias.

Either way.

Set 1:
Enjoyment
Wrap
Prompt

Set 2:
Flavor
Estimate
Brown

Set 3:
Diaper
Hibernate
Cute

Submission Guidelines

Frankly, we can’t blame you. But we can bug you about it.

So, if in this crazy upcoming week of family, food, falalas, fights, festiveness, friendship, and freaking out you feel the need to escape into your own mind, try one of these word prompts. Run away into a happy narrative about beaches that don’t allow your Uncle Harry in.

It’ll be the best gift you’ve ever given yourself.

Oh, and it’s supposedly the day of Apocalypse, right? All the good jokes have already been taken, and we’ve done plenty of winking and smiling knowingly at each other. Can we just move on to December 22 already?

Set 1:
Expedition
Eat
Greedy

Set 2:
Quadrant
Reverberate
Phony

Set 3:
Banister
Deteriorate
Mushy

The Nativity

by Rahn Olaso

It was the last day of my trip, and it was pouring rain.  Every day before this had been bright, sparkling, and perfect, and I had spent them all in a boardroom discussing trade tariffs and delivery schedules.  I had purposely scheduled my flight home a day late in order to do some Christmas shopping, and now the shale colored sky was seeking to prove that Noah’s deluge was a historical possibility.

Now that the day was here however, I was not going to fail.  Tensions in this part of the world were escalating, and I might not make it back for some time, if at all.  Three steps from the hotel to the taxi left me drenched, the wind making my umbrella less a help than a genuine nuisance, but at least the market was covered.

Most of my family had asked only for “something fun,” and my shopping duties to them were quickly dispatched.  A handmade knife, an olive wood box, and a leather bound journal quickly found their way into my bag.  My daughter however had asked for something specific.  A nativity scene, and that would prove more difficult.  Mostly because I despised them.

This being the Holy Land a week before Christmas there was no shortage of Nativities, most of them made in China.  Many of them with Mary and Joseph and all the animals in rapturous poses, and wise men wearing more gold paint and faux jewels than a rap star.  A few of them were of cats, dogs, and even black bears as the principle characters.  I even found one that was of rubber ducks, and another that was an entire chess set, with the baby Jesus as king, and sheep as pawns.  A limitless variety of Holy Families both inspirational and blasphemous made of everything from braided straw to refined gold, but nothing that I wanted for my daughter in her last year before college and departure from my home, perhaps forever.

“You seek something different?”

The shop keeper was old, his voice older still, with the gentle rasp of the desert in it.  His beard was grey and thinner than the man himself, yet his step was quick and his gaze sharp.

“Oh, I suppose I am,” I said.  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to complain, I had hoped to find a nativity for my daughter, but none of these seem right to me.  I guess I am too critical.”

“A gift should always be chosen with the most severe eye.  If you could tell me what these lack, I am sure I can find what you seek.”

“None of these seem real to me, they are more like caricatures, as cartoonish as the chubby man in the red suit that was invented to replace them.  I don’t think any of these show what that night was like for these people.”

“You are a believer then?”

“I hope to be, at least on the good days.  And you, are you a believer?”

“I am a Palestinian, and my family have been disciples of Jesus since before the children of Mohamed invaded this land, and certainly long before the Crusaders tried to take it from them.”

“Isn’t it dangerous to say so, when you live here?”

“Discipleship has never been about security.  What are you hoping to find?”

Pointing to a figurine of a middle aged Mary in a spotless blue dress posing angelically I said, “She was a child, probably in her early teens.  She had just spent the last few days traveling by foot and on donkey, probably in labor.  She would have been exhausted beyond comprehension; her survival may have been a miracle in itself.”

Picking up a figure of Joseph leaning on a staff and gazing serenely into the distance I continued. “Does this look like a man who has just been forced to drag his pregnant wife across country, and been tossed out of every inn?  A man who was just the sole attendant at her delivery?  A young husband who had spent the previous six months putting up with the questioning eyes of friends and family for having married the girl in the first place?”

“And don’t get me started on the wisemen, they didn’t show up for at least a year.  The only royal gift that night was the Child Himself, and the only messengers of hope were a few scraggly shepherds.”

“A moment sir, I may have what you desire.”  The old man reached under his shelf and from a worn old crate produced a small figurine of fired clay.  In a manger lay the virgin mother wrapped in a blanket and curled protectively around a small head just peeking out into the cold.  Her face was young, drawn, and tear-stained.  Her hair was unraveled and mixed with straw, yet she was still beautiful.  Beside it he set another figure of clay.  A young man beside a donkey with one hand full of straw where he had been grooming the animal, the other covering his face to hide his tears from the wife he felt he had failed.

“These are beautiful,” I told the old man, and asked why he didn’t display them.

“For most people Christmas is about having their problems solved.  The gifts have arrived, their redemption has come, their hopes fulfilled.  And I understand that, for that is the point of it after all.  But for some of us who find ourselves caught in the journey, we need reminders that hope shines brightest when it seems the farthest away, and that there is often sacrifice prior to redemption.  For men like you I had these commissioned.”

A little distance away he set two clay shepherds walking boldly towards the small clay family.  With upturned faces and firm strides the voices of angels were still ringing in their hearts and I regretted ever calling such men scraggly.

“Thank you,” I said, “this is the gift I was looking for.”

For instance, when a manager leans back in his chair after my presentation and says, “Interesting,” I want to know if he is unimpressed, actually interested, or just barely swimming up out of a daydream that involved custard and the lady in Accounting.

When a relative asks me how work is going, I want to know if she actually cares. For that matter, any conversation where the other person isn’t that interested could be ended immediately instead of prolonging the awkward pauses out of some feeling of social obligation to keep talking.

I realize that all these things are supposed to be readable through body language. But frankly, that language occupies an even bigger gray area than the spoken word.

Sure, people cross their arms when they are feeling defensive. They also do it when they are cold, sleepy, or in my case, feel they look like an idiot when they try to rest their hands on their hips.

I was told that you can also tell if a person likes you because they will cross their legs in your direction. Or it could be that you just happened to sit on someone’s left side when her right hip needed some relief. Frankly, I wouldn’t trust this particular piece of body language to mean anything unless the person actually crossed her leg over mine. Even then, I’d need her to say “I love you” before I was really certain it meant anything more than “You’re on Candid Camera.”

Even facial expressions are hard to interpret. I know how to tell a strained, fake smile with reasonable accuracy, but it doesn’t tell you why it’s fake. Maybe the person can’t stand the sight of you. Or maybe that person just needs to pee so bad that it’s all he can do not to break down crying right in front of you. The smile just masks the intense telepathic messages he’s sending to hurry up and finish the conversation before he has an accident.

So really, I think we’d all be better off with a little device that tells you exactly what that particular angle of a companion’s arm is supposed to mean. Of course, your manager will know when you’re fantasizing about him falling down a dark and jagged well with starving wolverines at the bottom. But then you can probably put on a fake smile and tell him his device is on the fritz and probably just needs a firmware update.

As for you, dear reader, I’ll dispense with decorum and tell you exactly what I think of you: You’re not writing enough. And sometimes I don’t like your laugh. But other times I do. So it mostly evens out. Oh, but I do like that shirt you were wearing yesterday. Very flattering.

Set 1: 
Expert
Make
Trailing

Set 2:
Ventilation
Reconstruct
Evangelical

Set 3:
Backpack
Converge
Engraved

Submission Guidelines

The Dream

by Jon Clapier

A young woman sits by a table at an open air café, checking her watch often.

“Would you like to order now?”

She notices the waiter is getting impatient and thinks it’s a bad omen coming from someone so good-looking, “No thank you. I’m sure my Aunt will be here any minute.”

“Can I refill your drink for you?”

She wants to say yes, but feels self-conscious about a third refill, “No, thank you.”

He nods in resignation and moves to another table.

The woman lifts her glass to her lips before remembering that it’s empty and hurriedly sets it down again. She reaches for her purse and pulls out a cell phone and looks at the screen for several long seconds.

“No, I won’t,” she says to no one and tries quietly not to scream, setting the phone down on the table.

“Melissa? I’m sorry I’m late.”

Another woman approaches her table, in her forties but ageing gracefully. The gray in her hair accents her beauty rather than detracts from it. “I had to finish some things at the office and then got caught in traffic.”

She seats herself and says, “Have you ordered yet?” She opens a menu, a glance over the top edge at the younger woman’s face, and she sets it slowly back down.

“What’s wrong, dear? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Order something Aunt Jessie; I don’t want to ruin your lunch. I’ve heard the cobbler here is excellent.”

Aunt Jessie reaches across the table to rest a hand on her niece’s. “Lunch can wait. What is it?”

The waiter approaches their table in time to hear. He sighs and asks what drink Aunt Jessie would like before he moves away.

Melissa tries to compose herself as powerful emotions cross her features. “I had a dream last night.”

Her Aunt smiles, “Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Aunt Jessie leans back in her chair, “Depends on the dream and what prompted it. Have you met a new man?”

Melissa shook her head, “No, I haven’t. There’s been no one since Jack and I broke up.”

“Was your dream about Jack?” Aunt Jessie asks as the waiter sets down a glass of water in front of her.

“No, I don’t think so.” Melissa plays with her empty glass. “It was about someone I’ve never met, I think.”

“Now you’ve piqued my interest; tell me all about it,” Aunt Jessie says and then sips her water.

Melissa takes a deep breath and says, “I’ve forgotten most of the details from the dream except that he was not as good looking as I would have liked, even though I can’t tell you what he looked like. He has a good heart and is in most ways a very good man, and that’s… about it.” She looks at her phone as she finishes talking.

“Most men aren’t as good looking as we would like, dear.” Aunt Jessie furrows her brows and asks, “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“Yes, when I woke up I knew one thing… his phone number.”

Aunt Jessie chuckles warmly, “So that’s it. You can’t remember the number and it’s haunting you. Am I right?”

“No. I typed it into my phone as soon as I woke up.” Melissa notices the look of surprise on her aunt’s face. “Is that normal?”

“Many people dream phone numbers. It’s probably just a random string of numbers. You know that, don’t you? Unless the phone number is 867-5309, and then we sue the J. Geils Band.” Aunt Jessie smiles but Melissa is confused by the reference.

“Sue who?”

“The J. Geils band… never mind. I take it that you haven’t called it yet?”

“No I haven’t dared to. What am I supposed to say? ‘Sorry to bother you, but is there a young semi-attractive man there with good character who wants to meet someone who recently had a bad break-up because her ex-boyfriend cheated on her with her ex-best friend?’” Melissa bursts into tears.

Aunt Jessie switches chairs to be next to Melissa and leans her head onto her shoulder, holding her. “It will be all right dear. I’m here for you.”

After a few moments Melissa straightens up, and dries her eyes, “I’m sorry Aunt Jessie, I didn’t mean to drag you into my soap-opera. But you’re the best friend I have since we lost mother.” She chokes slightly as her eyes tear again.

Stroking Melissa’s hair, Aunt Jessie says, “Don’t apologize, dear. We’re family, and families are supposed to help each other.”

Melissa nods as she dries her eyes with a napkin and says, “I wanted to meet with you to ask what you thought of my dream, professionally.”

“You know I’m not a psychologist. I only work with one.”

“But you are a real counselor, and I value your judgment.”

Aunt Jessie nods, “Are you sure? You may not want to hear my opinion.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

“Okay, I think that dreaming a phone number is your mind’s way of keeping hope alive. Subconsciously it gives you a way of overcoming your break-up without having to deal with it in other ways; something greater than yourself hinting that there is someone destined for you who is a better person than Jack was, validates your belief in yourself as a good, desirable person. But I can tell you that you are a good person. You don’t need a dream number to know that.”

Melissa nods, “Then you don’t think I should call the number?”

Aunt Jessie shakes her head, “No, you shouldn’t. It was just a random string of numbers or an old pizza delivery place or something equally as odd. Purge it from your mind.”

Melissa’s phone begins to ring. Both women stare at it as it lies on the table, vibrating softly. The screen reads, “Unknown number.”

~

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How lovely you looked in your disrepair, old friend, with your faux-wood veneer peeling up at the corners. There, on the left side, was the shallow scar from when the loose corner caught on my shorts as I passed, tearing a hole in the fabric and chipping off a nickel-sized chunk, almost as if you were made of obsidian.

How long we have toiled together, O staunch one, tolerating each other through the years. It was hard at first, as you ravaged my shins with your ridiculously sharp crossbeam and I made an ever-deepening depression on your surface with slow by forceful blows from my forehead. There were many of those, on those dark nights when the self-loathing took over, and every word that came into my mind was crap, crap, crap.

How generous you have been in letting me scrawl and scribble all over you, inadvertently melt crayons onto you when they strayed too close to the heat vent on my laptop, slam your drawers in frustration because someone took my darn scissors again and didn’t return them. It wasn’t your fault, dear one, and you must forgive me of my shortcomings and neglect. You see, I never meant to hurt you.

How loyal you were, waiting patiently through the dark times when the words didn’t come, standing resolute and unmoving when the keyboards and monitors failed, offering an firm anchor through the wails and cries of both spouse and children. And for what? Just to have me lean against you once more, the only thing standing between my fatigue and the floor.

It was almost too much to bear, that afternoon when I came home to find that you were the victim of a redecorating campaign. You must know how fast I sprinted to the dumpster, how desperate I was to find you, even in pieces, as long as you were still there. I cried, my friend, cried bitter tears into that empty, putrid dumpster, cursing the garbage collectors for being early this week and wondering what horrors you would endure amongst the leaking diapers and rotting arugula, before the sweet embrace of the compactor ended your misery.

Know this; if you only remember one thing, let it be this: It was not I who betrayed you. I have never thought you clashed with our decor. I never thought your surface, dirty though it may be, was anything but lovely. It had a healthy, if gray, patina of authenticity that gave a wholesome, lived-in quality to our living room. Certainly your sleek, presumptuous replacement does not, to my mind, “make the space more modern, light, and inviting,” nor “improve the layout of the room.” If anything, it mocks me, sitting in your hallowed place. No, it was someone else who decided to let you go, unbeknownst to me. Believe me, the betrayal has shaken my faith in her to the core. It will take me a long time to heal. I suppose I shall forgive her, someday, but I will never forget you.

You, the one who stuck with me through the dark times as well as the light.

…

Ahem, now, where was I? Ah yes, the weekly prompt. The words are below, though even they can’t lift my spirits at such a time as this. Go, take these words, make something beautiful, and leave me to grieve.

Set 1:
Hotel
Complain
Royal

Set 2:
Speed
Eat
Notable

Set 3:
Buffoon
Cripple
Ocular

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