So far, I've managed to write every day and 4 days of morning pages this week. Taking it day by day, week by week seems the better route to take, although in my mind, I've committed to the month of June to get back in the habit of morning pages, writing prompts and blogging. Sitting my butt down and showing up at the page is the most important thing right now. We've started setting the alarm for 8:30 so I have time to write and hubby has time to do his 10,000 steps before work. Yes, we are night owls so getting up early is a bear, especially since the time change. Hopefully after a week or so of rising earlier, it will stick with our body clocks. Funny that now it's summer and no longer doing lessons, here we are getting up early. We are so backwards.
Writing prompt: He haunted the night.
He haunted the night, the stygian darkness hiding the traces of his footprints through the wet streets. By the time he arrived home, Oliver was soaked as usual. His insomnia driving him out into the wet, the cold, the dry and the humid most nights. Thoughts piled upon thoughts, stories coming to him from the characters he encountered on the streets, the boulevards just as busy during the night as the day. Different people, different in a way one wouldn't expect. Shady and careful, friendly yet cautious. Those who hid from the day, didn't want their secrets revealed. Yet they talked to him. Maybe because he looked harmless. You'd think that would set him up for trouble. But he looked like every man. He blended in, his bland features registering as a blank to the bad and the good.
Oliver soaked in the tub, legs throbbing from climbing the high hills of the city. Tonight he'd encountered a woman, a lioness with sharp claws, blond mane flowing around her face, highlighting her ebony skin. A saint or a sinner, he wouldn't, couldn't say. She roamed the streets, snarling at any who came close. Yet she'd sank down on the bench next to him, handed him a Starbucks cup and proceeded to slurp from her own cup of steaming brew.
"You know?" Her deep sultry voice reminded him of a singer he'd once heard at the opera. "Life didn't begin on this planet."
He hmmm'ed, sipped his drink and waited, knowing better than to speak, not wanting to risk the lash of her sharp claws.
"Where do you think I come from?" Her eyes flashed, teeth bared at another man who paused close by.
"No idea." Oliver murmured when she didn't speak for several beats.
"Ah, my dear, but you do. I came out of the night, same as you but farther from the storm. Life is a storm. Violent, clashing, hearty and hail. Beautiful, yet deadly. Do you think I'm deadly?" She all but purred the words.
"I think." Oliver began, then paused to sip the hot brew as a shiver chased up his spine. "That you are true."
She titled her head, a sly smile creased her face. Then she chuckled and slapped his knee.
"I like you." She stood with a shack of her long mane of hair. "Beyond the stars, lives a planet, a country, a town, a house. In it a babe who cries for her father. Do you think you can find her?"
"Possibly." Oliver blinked.
"Good." She dropped an envelope in his lap. "Luck," and slunk off into the dark.
A mystery in the making? Possibly? Who is Oliver? Who is she? Where is this town with high hills? So many questions popping into my brain. All from one little ole writing prompt. I like Oliver's voice. I'm intrigued by her. Do I let it end without resolution or do I pursue? Hmmm!
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