Writing Prompt #19


I don’t do scary.

I’m serious! A couple weeks ago, I saw ALIEN for the first time all the way through, and it was terrifying!

But that’s only because I have such a vivid imagination. I mean, I’m still afraid of the dark because I can see the monsters hiding in my closet. (And they’re great, really. I get they’re just doing their job….*wink wink*)

Now, I’m not saying today’s little story is scary…. that’s all for you to determine.

So, let’s get started:


I forgot my card in the car and I don’t realize it until I’m ready to check out. My cart is full to the brim with groceries, and I stand near the registers conflicted.

Do I leave it here and hurry back? Or do I notify a cashier? The cashiers are busy with disgruntled customers. It’s the weekend after all. So I pull my cart off to the side and make a mad dash for the parking lot.

I run into a friend, quite literally, just as I’m blazing through the exit. “Hey!” She shouts at me, ready to rip me a new one. But then she notices who I am, and questions my rush.

“I need to get to my car- my money is inside it.” I ask if she can watch my cart, telling her where I left it. She only shrugs.

“I’ll be fast, considering there’s ice cream in there.”

We part ways and I’m jogging over to where I think I parked my red sedan. Of course, it blends in with all the other cars and I find myself off by two aisles.

My husband is in the passenger seat when I get there.

And he’s covered in blood, head to toe.

The initial shock takes a while to dissipate. I stand frozen for a small eternity, shaking in disbelief.

Then that disbelief is replaced with panic. Suddenly, I’m going to his side of the car and pounding on the windows. I yank  the handle, kick at the door, and scream at his still body.

I’m pleading with him to open up, to be alive, to be okay. I cry and wail, ignoring the cluster of bystanders that begin to form.

One minute, he’s not moving.

The next, his head rolls over and his eyes are pale and vacant.

Then he smiles, rolling down the window, just a crack.

“Look closer,” He says, and I listen. I look at his lap, at his hands. He’s holding something, a bottle. The crimson fluid pours from it, thick and slow. He’s also writing on his seat, swirling together the words look closer over and over.

I register the fumes immediately.

His laughter startles me, but then suddenly I’m laughing too.


This writing prompt was more of a challenge. See, I dreamt this. All of it. And it was probably one of the most vivid dreams I’d had in awhile.

I say dream, but really, this was a nightmare.

I felt everything. From the hoarseness in my throat from screaming, to the rapid beating of my heart. And as I watched my husband just sitting there, covered in blood, I had a moment where I just split.

I was suddenly Ciara, the girl in the dream. But also, Ciara, the girl who as dreaming.

I became aware, without waking up. So I told myself, my dream self, “I’m in control. This is my head. That’s not blood. He’s fine.”

Of course, my brain registered that as nail polish. And then he went from being dead to simply high off fumes.

And when I woke up, I shared the dream. And I was told I should write on it. End of story.

How cool would it be, though, if life was that easy? If you could split in half, and tell yourself to look closer because you’re not seeing things right? Then all of a sudden, a nightmaric sittuation turns into joke.

If only, man. If only.



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