I haven’t done a stream of consciousness write in a long time. I didn’t time this one.
If you haven’t read these before. This is a stream of conciousness write with very little editing (so apologies for anything that doesn’t make sense). I pick a prompt, usually a word of the day, turn on some music and just write whatever comes to my head for a set time (usually 10 minutes).
It’s lips curve downwards and it’s nose hooks right under those skeptical eyes. Made in your image but it’s not you.
It’s soft and stretchy, moist and sticky. Strings of dough stretch from one lip to the other as it mocks my humanoid appearance.
A spark forms in my belly and spreads like wildfire. Before I realize the scope of my ideas, my limbs begin acting. My legs carry me forth, my arms swing out wildly. My fingers pinch at its doughy arms, pulling away long pieces and tossing them into the endless span of existence below us.
They can’t work fast enough, its sticky being pulls at the hairs on my arms and legs. Doughy fingers work their way through my hair, ripping me back.
I could try to frantically escape but something tells me this is like quicksand. It envelops me. Moist strings pry into my mouth, holding my tongue and filling my lungs.
You are dreaming. You are dreaming.
My jerking body flings onto the floor. Pizza boxes scatter and cower from my cries.
A stray pepperoni sticks to the bridge of my nose. A menacing reminder encroaching on my vision.
Jada had no idea why it was the kettle. Surely it wasn’t always. How many childhood stories were there about tea kettles being possessed?
She couldn’t resist the designs. It begged to be taken home.
Such a tea slut.
The walls rumbled. In front of her individual scales twitched and flapped. A beast of terrifying size draped over her furniture.
Jada knew the beast couldn’t be real. Yet here it was, half chasing something in its sleep; its forked tongue hanging from between scaly lips. Its serrated claws curled as it feigned trotting through a field playfully tossing its massive head.
And probably a corpse.
A feeling of panic rested low in her belly. Jada’s legs ached to run but she was frozen.
Its head snapped up. Jada could see her reflection in the glossy red iris. The beast inhaled as its nose passed across her.
Not a snack, the whole meal. Is this really gonna be my last thought before I die?
Its putrid breath filled Jada’s nose. Instead of a roar it let out a series of low clicks.
Oh god, it’s engine won’t turn over.
Word Count: 200
For Sunday Photo Fiction – It’s my first time joining in with this (we can post on days other than Sunday right?) Also, dragons are like puppies. Who knew?
In the dream I’m standing at the intersection again. There’s the green truck, barreling towards the stop sign. The driver, otherwise preoccupied, with his head lolling back and his eyes half closed will never even brake.
The little red car will never see it coming, they will never realize he’s flying the wrong way down the one-way street.
I don’t need to watch the scene again and again to see the fear and recognition cross their faces. An anger bubbles inside me. That poor girl is no more than twelve years old when she flies through the passenger’s side windshield.
I can see the blood pooling by the tires and feel the splatters warm on my cheeks. The scene is the kind they say you never want to look away from but you know you should.
Even in my dreams I’m too shocked to do anything. There is no springing into action, no saving lives.
Even in my dreams they all die.
But I don’t hear the grinding metal and crunching bones. No, all I can hear … as loud as day even though I’m not wearing my headphones, is Aerosmith.
“Honey, you’re headin’ down a one-way street … And I gotta go the other way …”
My sheets are always soaked by time I wake because even in my dreams I can’t seem to go the other way.