Swiftly Told Tales (Taking Prompts/ Requests!)

SAY MY NAME au

Drop a comment for what story/prompt you want to read next!

The rewrite no one asked for, but I want for publishing purposes. lol. A little insight to how the story will be tweaked and changed. This would be close to, if not, the opening introduction to the book. Still a draft, but isn't everything?

Enjoy.

(Also if you want me to write an AU scene of one of my books, I totally will! Just drop a comment. Or any kind of short story you've always wanted to read, but couldn't find. Just drop some words in the section below and see if I do :) )

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Doors locked. Body pushing upon body. Liquored lips painting long fuelled lust upon a repulsed body. Slack, slumped, slimy from the touch of the other. Damaged like a blow swiped across the forehead. Oozing, caressing, whimpering out weak wimpish cries. The moon a haven to admire high above, watching and whispering into the whisking night air that help comes no closer, waits beyond bruised finger tips sticky with sweat. No aid, screams caught in webs of lies, entrapped in a box with keys shoved out of sight.

This is her story; full of survival, revival and avenging the tainted trust taken from her comfort.

It's been forty-five minutes and she would really like to go now. She'd like to leave this place where the exuberant sun hangs diligently in the naive sky, glowing it's starry sights down like a marksman's rifle trying to bend bullets around the corner where she remains controlled and contained in her shaded cold corner. These building anxieties inside her pinching her lungs every time she takes a deep breath, needing to leave, to drag her favourite cotton blanket over her head and simply breathe. But no, not now, not yet, and certainly not here. For Molly and her father, she must keep herself together. She can do that, she can. One foot propped up on the oddly discoloured chair where she sits, unsure if the odd splotch of long dried beige to brown is from the unfortunately still blazing sun or has more to do with the fact her father has no laces in his worn down tennis shoes, paired with sagging pants without a belt to sturdy them. Maybe, sombrely watching her father trapped behind this sealed window with no option to welcome the breezing ocean scent, she'll never quite know for certain which it is.

A squeaking thought flickering with wonder wonders the untold stories that lay seated in the stitches she sits on, why no one has discarded of this furniture yet, or if simply no one has noticed it. Quickly repulsed by that traveling thought, doesn't want to imagine how perhaps this is the actions of her suffering father forever marked here. (No though, this stain looks longer than three weeks old.)

"Come on, this is ridiculous. Can't you do anything about this, or call someone who can? I mean, fourteen hundred dollars is just outrageous."

No pestering clouds lay lingering above the city skyline, no hopes to deter the sweeping landscape below of a refreshing dump of rain, of a sheltered position away from the too bright, too happy day beyond her touch. Only if, she thinks as she leans forward, hanging her head against the pounding fatigue trapped beneath her skull, only if she could figure out why she silently sits days on end gazing out at a world moving on without her. Strained by the reality that it is, that she's being left behind and consumed by her own dwellings.

Birds whistling beyond enclosed doors, encroaching scrub strewn nurses wandering in their caffeinated hastes. They don't shy away from the light streaming through finger printed glass windows like she does. Though, like she, they don't steer near to revisit their ill patient. They stray far from pearls for teeth unearthed past plump stretched lips, avoiding the storm that visits their station weekly with new tangents, new lists of enrolled critiques to be served out on a cool dish.