Monday May 29th, 2017

The exercise:

Write about: disgust.

Sorry again for the late posting. I'll just get to it.

After pointing out that Tuesday's prompt will be delayed by a day. Hopefully it will go up shortly before Wednesday's prompt and I'll be back on schedule then.

Mine:

She sniffed as though it pained her
And then said with a sneer,
Watching you work fills me with disgust.
So I told her that's a shame
But it changes nothing,
For I'll continue to do what I must.

1 Comments:

Greg said...

I'm curious to know what the work being done is now. I'm kind of hoping that it's something mundane like baking or sewing :) But the attitude that pervades is rather nice; pleasant and accepting. I really like it.

Disgust
Natasha Monkeybutt stood at the microphone and looked out over the sea of faces. Knowing that her police-officers had had to corral and kettle people to force them to be here didn't change the way she felt: an element of fear that these people were listening to her, an element of joy that she could talk and have this many people listen, a frisson of power... ah, yes, power. Something she couldn't get enough of.
She opened her mouth to start, and then closed it again as a familiar face caught her eye. Without meaning to she pointed a finger into the crowd and asked, "McArthur? What in the seven hells are you doing here?" The microphone whined a little at the mention of his name, but that was only to be expected.
The shabby man, dressed in clothes that appeared to have been ruined before they were sold to him and probably never washed, lifted his hat a couple of inches off his head, perhaps as a gesture of acknowledgement, revealing greying hair that was thick. She shuddered reflexively, wondering if it was as filthy as the rest of him.
"Your mayoralty," he said. His speech stuttered slightly, but at very high speed as though someone had taken a recording of a stutterer and sped it up to make it sound as though they were speaking normally. "I heard you wanted to talk to us common folk."
She couldn't help herself. Something about him pressed all of her buttons, in the wrong order, too heavily, and repeatedly where they were labelled 'just once'.
"Not you," she said, narrowly remembering in time not to spit. "You disgust me. People find things in their toilet bowls more sanitary and appealing than you."
"Miss Monkeybutt--"
"It's not pronounced like that!"
Was that a smirk on his face? His features were so bruised and misaligned that there were rumours his doctors had advised him to get glassed as a cheap form of plastic surgery.
"Your worshipfulnessling," he said, and she was sure she heard a snigger from the crowd. "A cat may look at a queen, mightn't it?"
"You're no cat," she said. "Cats have dignity. Cats clean themselves once in a while. Cats--"
"Are well known for being curious and finding themselves looking into things they shouldn't be," said a deep voice from behind her. The Head of the Prison Service had stepped forward and was eyeballing McArthur with malice.
"A situation I often find myself in, your highness," said McArthur. He coughed so hard that people in the crowd formed a wide circle around him and looked nervous. Natasha took advantage of it to ponder the 'your highness' and suddenly realised that she'd not denied that she was a queen when she'd challenged him on being a cat. Curse the man -- well, whatever species he was.
"Take him to the morgue," she said, waving a hand. "He's clearly terminally ill."