Protagonist’s mother first kiss…


I will twist today’s daily prompt a bit, to make it more interesting. I will write it from my protagonist’s point of view.

A.’s mother was a woman of a great beauty and charm. She was an elegant and imposing lady even when she merely a young girl, standing on the threshold of adulthood. She had a fair share of suitors but the one she was to join in a holy union was already handpicked for her by her father. She was allowed to be entertained by flocking, young handsome boys but to never engage into anything serious or scandalous. After all she was already promised to someone.

When one stops looking and is indifferent to faith, that’s when the destiny strikes.

That memorable night she was attending a charity ball. It was an event same as many before, people chatting, mingling and sharing mindless talk with each other. A usual boring night in which A.’s mother had to participate. By now she has seen so many similar balls that she lost interest in them. They all looked the same to her.

Except this time, she met him. A man that would finally make her heart beat faster. A man that would stir her from head to toe. She noticed him much later then he did her. She caught him watching her, like a hunter watches its prey. She thought that he was extremely rude, a scoundrel really. But still she kept glancing in his direction. Her attention was going back to him over and over. He was dressed in finest clothes. His demeanor demanded attention, captivating people in that effortless way, many man could only dream of. She imagines he would look good even in rags. He was observing her, watching her every move. Every time he caught her gaze he smirked. It unnerved her. Who did he think he was? He was a handsome rogue that she had to admit. Many women shared her thoughts it was obvious.  There were plenty of females surrounding  him, bating eyelashes and laughing flirtatiously.

He was tall and dark, a striking man with piercing light brown, nearly yellow eyes. His hair was neatly trimmed, curling around the ears with only a few unruly strands. His lips looked like they were made for giving breathtaking kisses, but instead they were curved in that irritating smirk. His long and slender fingers were closed on a glass of whiskey. She hated the vile drink, preferring sophisticated wine instead. Maybe he was a pianist? He definitely was a heartbreaker and a man she should avoid. But why was it that she was so drawn to him. What made him so compelling, so irresistible to her, a girl from good house. A girl promised to another man.

And yet that same night, under a birch tree, in the garden A.’s mother allowed that handsome devil to capture her lips in a fiery union and steal her very first kiss. The men left her yearning for more and little did she know that the ache would not be fulfilled. Not until she met him again. But that is an entirely different story.

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ABC poem…


Amanda never:
Accepted the fact that
Boring school lessons
Captured half of her day
Despite being smarter then
Every teacher in her school
Fickle girl sat quiet and
Gingerly participated in the
Horribly boring history lesson
Innocently doodling in her notebook
Keeping watchful eye at the teacher who was
Looming over a book and
Making grunting noises while
Nobody was really paying attention to historic
Occurrences that took
Place hundreds of years ago therefore no
Questions were being asked which
Really annoyed the hell out of
Serious and stern history
Teacher who was already having
Undeniably the worst day in his
Vacation less school life
While the students had the time of their life
Xeroxing the notes from other
Youths and not being overly
Zealous about learning history at all.

Yes I know it turned out to be a complete gibberish but it was challenging and fun to write.

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Inspiration #1

Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Describe the ghosts that live in this house: Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

Helen Reed was a house wife and proud of it. She used to bake apple pie and make rhubarb compote. She liked the smell of fresh linen and laundry so she did it quite often, even when all the linens were pristine clean. Helen liked the house to be neat. No dust on the shelves, no bundles of  filth in the corners and definitely no item should be put out of its place.

It is a wonder how she managed to put up with George. Ah George where to even begin talking about dear, sweet, mellow George. George Reed was a history professor. He liked his job, he enjoyed teaching young minds about the value of past. He particularly took pleasure in reenacting the Civil War. Every year he would take his class out into the field and set up a battle between South and North.

How this two came to be a couple and later even more – a marriage? Well, George likes to think that it was done the right way. That as a man he dropped to one knee and eloquently proposed to his future fiancé. Helen sees it differently. The moment she saw young, tall, pale boy with dreamy eyes  and a bright future ahead of him, she knew he was the one for her. Helen steered the young man in right direction and “pop” there goes the ring. Either way both Mr and Mrs Reed are fond of each other very much and enjoy life together.

Helen is not bothered by the fact that she has to pick the stray socks, parchments, pencils and pens from various strange places around the house. George calmly listens to his wife’s tirades about keeping order and being more organized. They both seem at peace with each other. And why shouldn’t they? After all the years they have learned each other’s vices and virtues. One foresees every little move before the other makes it. They complement each other’s shortcomings. They truly became two half of one piece.

Moreover it took them only 234 years to come to terms with all of their little quirks. Oh didn’t I tell you? The Reeds are no longer walking among the living. Instead of crossing to the other side they decided to stay in their little home and work on their relationship. Now they live here peacefully tending to their garden. Wasn’t it Voltaire who said “we must cultivate our garden?”

The bedroom of the protagonist as seen by the antagonist…


My presence here remained unnoticed of course. She never knew I invaded her most intimate, private sphere – her home, her room. I cherished the thought. I gloated. Maybe there will come a time when I will tell her this little secret but right know it will belong only to me.

The girl’s bedroom turned out to be nothing out of ordinary. Just a regular room with big bed, fluffy pillows and rather strange taste in music collection. The room was furnished in light colors, mostly white and cream accents. Nothing eccentric. Only one stuffed teddy bear impressed me. I always thought girl’s bedroom was full of sweet dolls, unicorns and other pink crap.

Around the oval mirror there were pictures of her friends and relatives making goofy faces. However, that was not what I was the most interested in. I was here for a purpose. I need to find it.

I know it is somewhere here… Hidden, stashed, obscured. Where is it? Think like a girl? Not a chance but still, where would I hide the artifact?

It can’t be too obvious place, she is not stupid. Underestimating your opponent is a fault of many. I can appreciate brains and beauty. At the end of the day I know I’m far more intelligent. So why can’t I find it?

Suddenly my attention was brought to the enormous rectangular painting hanging above the iron headboard of her bed. The painting was of a landscape, a beautiful view. A small river was weaving its way throughout the canvas. A quaint bridge thrown over the water. And the moon, the silver light of the moon shining over the long branches of willows. The painting seemed eerily familiar. Have I seen this place before? Have I been there? In another time, in another life.

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A poem…


Today’s exercise is the most daring and intricate out of all the “daily prompts” that I’ve written so far. For all it’s worth I cannot write a poem. No way, not a chance. I can interpret one but to write the stanzas…that is an entirely different and very challenging endeavor. Well let’s give it a go, shall we?

Inside there is a war going on,

the forces are battling and clashing,

the turmoil of thoughts chasing one another,

the ever chanching moods and atmosphere,

the bullet quick tears and rapid laughter,

the speedy nausea and quick paced joy.

All this mixed up in a bowl of life,

with a dash of atoms, pale skin and frail bones gave shape.

A thread that runs through the corridors of universe,

just trying to unravel the mysteries and gain the ultimate fulfillment.

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A ghost in that house…


The dust that covers the bookshelves of my library worries me. The beloved books I collected throughout my whole life are getting more and more worn out. The pages become yellow, the spines crackle and the ink fades. I walk around my library dolefully and sigh to myself. No one can hear me, as no one reads my books anymore.

Once those pages held people captive. People who wanted to see the world read tons of volumes. Knowledge was gained by reading. Imagination was build upon reading.
Now…who reads books now? They fade away like flowers when left without water. They slowly die like a creature left without food. I walk around my beloved books and weep at their fate.
But wait…what is this? Is the door opening? Is someone coming in? Oh, it’s just a small girl, no older than 7 maybe. What is she doing here? Oh no don’t tell me she came here to play? No! My beloved books, they won’t take it I won’t allow it…Wait, no… She is reading…Can you imagine? A child who reads…Beautiful sight beyond words. My dear literary volumes, pages of fantastic stories, history archives and treasure vaults – all finally used wisely and rightfully.
The doors open again. Another reader maybe? I perk up with excitement only to be brought back down. It’s the mother of the child. She scolds the girl and orders her to put down precious book and go outside to play. Put down this book from where you took it, she says, you will dirty it.

As if a child could ruin a book, as if it could do it any harm. Hey lady – books are for reading, not for looking at. A child knows it, how come you can’t comprehend it? I silently fume at the woman. I cannot stand this anymore, when I finally meet a true avid reader somebody spoils everything. I can’t take it, I’m leaving!
The window shutters clash loudly.
– That awful window, I told your father to fix it already. – The woman bristles at the noise.
– Mum I want to read a book. Aunty was happy that I came here. – whined the daughter.
– Honey, those books are very rare, they are very valuable and have to be treated with great care. You have other books in your room. Besides what do you mean, that aunty was happy? Aunty is in heaven sugar plum, she may look over us from there but she is no longer amongst us.
– But I know she was here…I could feel her smiling at me. She loved books, she wouldn’t want them to be alone in this library. Aunty would want somebody to read them.

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