[Reddit Theme-Thursday] - Wrath
(*warning - triggering subject matter)
His words, as we lay together, "You are lovely. Gazing at your tears gave me a certain kind of pleasure. I felt closer to God when I was inside you. We were meant to be together," still echoed in my head.
He was a pastor and it was a blind date set up by one of my Christian friends. He was like no one I had ever met before. Mature. A man. Not a silly boy.
Things got out of hand quickly. A rebuff to his advances. His reaction at being turned down...immediate and violent...and it was over as quickly as it had begun.
I contemplate how a man of God brought me to my knees. Oh. Not in the way you are thinking. Shame on you...On my knees, praying for God to have mercy on my soul. I couldn't staunch the mental images and evil thoughts that ran through my head; thoughts of how I wanted to make him feel the same pain that I felt every minute of every day. What we had, on the fateful night, was not consensual. I prayed the wrath of God onto his soul.
He appeared; quietly, at my side. I looked up to see a face so familiar. So kind, with eyes filled with empathy. I felt shame and turned away. Back to nursing my wounds and my drink.
The bartender growled, "This man bothering you?" pushing up his sleeves to reveal what could only be prison tattoos. I shook my head then glanced at his fingers wrapped around the bottle of cheap whiskey I had been steadily draining for the past hour. A shaky letter, just below each knuckle, spelled out M.I.N.E. I hadn't noticed it. I was wrapped too tightly in a cocoon of misery. What could it mean? I really didn't care—as I tapped my empty glass on the sticky bar top.
"Keep ‘em coming, Barkeep," I slurred. I was only joking and he laughed at my cliched attempt at humor. I joked when I drank.
"You're pretty funny there, little lady," the Barkeep chuckled as he topped off my highball, adding a couple of fresh ice cubes. Then, aiming a snarl of sorts at the man still hovering around my barstool, he said, "Holler if you need anything," giving me one last look before he turned a corner, disappearing into what could only be the kitchen.
Continuing to ignore the man, standing very close to me now, I sipped my whiskey, watered down by melting ice cubes. This was my new life. My dirty little secret. Slipping out as the sun was setting to a different bar each night. Drinking away the memory...hoping to find a glimpse of the person I was before the incident. What used to be an occasional indulgence had become an addiction in recent months.
“Let me pay for your drinks,” a hand, speckled with age spots and wearing a thin gold wedding band, set a credit card down beside my empty glass.
"Please come home, Sweetheart. This will only make things worse." He softly, so as not to startle me, rested his hand on my shoulder.
I looked up at the kind eyes. He knew me so very well. He was the one who would never give up on me. A gentle man I could trust with my life and darkest secrets.
"How did you find me, Daddy?" I reached up toward my shoulder and like a drowning victim going under for the final time, grasped his hand.
“I’m ready to come home.”
By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by a Reddit Theme-Thursday Writing Prompt-Wrath
[Reddit Writing Prompt] The world's potatoes suddenly go missing. It is your fault.
We are an army. Earthlings, united on behalf of our home, planet Earth.
That was it. The agreed upon signal. An army of the strange alien creatures was just visible on the horizon, back-lit by the setting sun. This was the battle. The final World War (more like an Other-Worldly World War). The creatures seemingly showed up out of nowhere; their goal was to eat the world’s now trendy farm-to-table healthy food supply. By God, the Millennial's became incensed, recruiting the entire planet to their cause. “Farm-to-Table! It’s Your Health!” And “Eat Right!” And “Scurvy...The New World Order!” signs and billboards began popping up on every continent, shortly after the aliens began to ravage the planet.
It was purely by accident that their weakness was discovered early on in the crop invasion. A single Snarferoneous (name origin: The appearance of a hose-like appendage, used as a mouth to suck up food.) apparently wandered a little outside of the safety zone of its newly formed crop circle, smack dab in the middle of a field in Blackfoot, Idaho, deemed the potato capital of the world.
The weird creatures holed up…literally in the ground...began to awaken while more and more crop-circles began to pop up. As the beasts and circles started appearing simultaneously, all over the world (in rural areas) the long-time mystery of the crop circle and the purpose behind it became evident. They were just the exit-points, used by these anteater-sized alien creatures, once they awakened from a dormant state. They had maintained a state of hibernation possibly since the dawn of mankind. Were they alien? Scientists and farmers did not know; but what they did know was they popped out of the circles in droves and they were hangry, intent on eating the world's supply of fruits and vegetables, grasses and grains. It didn't matter...broccoli, lettuce, wheat, artichokes, apples, oranges, edible flowers and garnishes; even the rare forest truffle was not safe from the voracious appetites of these savages. The honey bees were on a rampage, swarming and stinging the beasts as they dipped their gnarly human-like hands into the hives to annihilate even the planet's supply of honey and its precious comb. The entire planet's fresh food sources were at risk.
The particular Blackfoot Idaho beast, staggered out in a confused state, and was spotted by a group of migrant crop harvesters on their lunch break. The farm workers had not even noticed a crop circle in their vicinity earlier in the day as they went about their business, as usual, examining and separating the good potatoes from the bad.
The men found a shady spot to sprawl out while eating and resting, all the while ribbing Paco-the-old-guy, laughing as Paco napped and used his backpack as a pillow. The gnarled creature ignored the men as it began snarfing up the precious potato crop at an alarming rate...using the hose-like appendage...where its mouth should be. The frightened men exploded to their feet and one burly thuggish guy pulled a gun out of his pack and began firing. The bullets bounced off of the creature...about as damaging as a mild hailstorm would be to a human.
Paco-the-old-guy was awakened at the sound of gunfire. He bolted upright, bleary-eyed and cranky that his siesta was cut short. He picked up a potato, and using a jiggly muscle-less arm, just chucked it at the distracted Snarfer. It was a softly lobbed airborne-missile about as dangerous as a ping pong ball, but the creature went down hard, half of a potato still visible in its snout.
Thus it was discovered...that while bullets, grenades, poisons, traps and smoke bombs could not deter this creature...a single lobbed potato could stop it in its tracks.
The munitions factories of the world, after amassing the entire world's supply of PVC pipe, aerosol spray cans, matches and lighters, stopped production of all things "weapon" and began production of the lowly-and-often-scoffed-at potato gun.
So here we are at sunset; the citizens of the planet aligned in solidarity and armed with potato guns, ready to destroy this common enemy of the world using every single potato on the planet if necessary. As the horde of Snarfs moves closer, the soon to be extinct potatoes begin flying.
A new world-order, void of potatoes (but fortunately, still populated by farm-to-table restaurants), will soon be upon us; but that's alright. I never really like potatoes that much anyway.
By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt
Shut Up & Write Prompt: The question, “Who are you?” is usually answered with a name. Only when you start asking the question over and over do you start digging into details not exterior to your identity. You are an artist, a gardener, or maybe an administrator, employee, or business owner. But you’re also how you see the world and the experiences you face. The simple question, “Who are you?” sparks so much juicy content. Beyond your name, who are you?
Who am I? That is a great question. I guess the only way to answer is to tell you; it depends on what minute, hour, or day you chose to ask.
Say, for instance, you catch me with a stylish beret atop my head, rushing down the street carrying a wooden box filled with brushes and tiny tubes of Winston and Newton oils in one hand while a blank 10" x 10" canvas is snugged under my arm. If, by chance, you were to stop me mid-stride and ask what I do; I might tell you that, "I am l'artiste very late for a class!" (Stated with an obviously French accent!) And that would be true.
Or, if you see me shuffling along the sidewalk, pulling one of those dual-wheeled wire carts (the kind you see little old ladies pulling to and from the market) filled with crumpled aluminum cans, I might have another answer to your question. You would find me clutching a Grabber in my free hand, making it easier to collect the cans littering the sidewalk without actually touching them. You see, that day if you were to ask, I might tell you that I am disabled living on a strict budget. The cans, turned in at the recycling center for cash, help me make ends meet. That day I would drop the elegant French accent in favor of local Bronx-speak. That would also be true.
On another occasion, if you spotted me in my stylish Lululemon running attire with the most recent and trendy jogging shoes on my size 9 feet (I would be running through Central Park, of course!), I would not stop if you questioned me. I must keep up the 8 minute mile pace...at any expense. Stopping would ruin my time and I couldn't have that. Since I wouldn't stop to give you an answer, I will tell you right now. That day, I would be training for the New York Marathon. I wouldn't win any ribbons at that pace; but I would at least finish. I would speak with the affected accent of the posh Upper-East-Siders. Believe it or not, that would be true.
I never know who I will be on any given day.
Who am I?
Gidget or Theresa or Tiffany?
That is the reality of my disease, Multiple Personality Disorder.
By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by a Shut Up & Write Weekly Challenge
Copyright © 2022, Lisa H. Owens and Lisahowens.com
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site's author/owner is strictly prohibited.
Website Built by I Am Mad Art and Autumn Year Round.
Proudly powered by Weebly