via Daily Prompt: Fragrance The dramatic sunset, the sky's colours swirled from dark blue through aquamarine pale to saffron yellow before an explosion of crimson and scarlet. Her head felt like she was swimming in a rainbow but the real intoxication came from the night-blossoming fragrance of jessamine. Was she drunk or in love?
Roger the Cat was a highly skilled forensic analyst and moved about in tiny blue plastic bootees, examining, observing, collating and calculating. A tall human committed this crime, he concluded, with facial hair and dirty fingernails. His work done, Roger left, but not before leaving a tiny trace of himself.
via Daily Prompt: Farce The orange faced buffoon centre stage, gesticulates, his fingers point, effeminately. In the background, bit players, lackeys and yea-sayers smile, grovel and fawn while, in the foreground, uniformed bullies beat the undergrowth. 'Is this a farce?' asks a bemused onlooker. 'Oh no, it's real,' he's told.
Declamatory, they complained , assuming they referred to how I said it, but the substance, I admit, was unrelentingly derogatory. but no one could prove it. But then, everyone knew the background. So sue me, he said. The girl was raped. She know her victim. Her bloody knickers were in his pocket.
She felt a tremor of excitement, a frisson of anticipation. It all came down to this. Everything was arranged, there was no turning back. The other participants in this, what she called 'a Gothic drama', may be secured with zip locks and gags but for her, it was a collaboration. Image source: Wallpaper Abyss
Thank you, those tiny number of miniscule you who acknowledge my existence , when you can or where there's fuck all else to do, THANK YOU. I''m really grateful to you because, hey, you amount to the achievement (however minor) to which I've always aspired, to connect to people who think.
Not for the Squeamish The horses were his friends and understood him as much as he understood them or so he believed. People called him a whisperer and thought the horses read his mind. He didn't know but after a day spent slaughtering his four legged friends, he felt reluctant to say he's knackered.
Isn't it unfortunate that a word like 'blanket' can be so misused and abused it's become a shorthand phrase for corporate smothering, indiscriminate bombing and wholesale exploitation? Growing up, a blanket was something a cowboy toted with his saddle and bags, it kept you warm and gave a child comfort.