Daily writing prompts from June 9th, 2008 to December 31st, 2022
Sunday July 7th, 2019
The exercise: It's been a while since the last time I used the First Line Prompt. So start your prose today with: Lessons born of pain are always the last to be forgotten.
Now that you're caught up to that point, I should note that for Sunday June 30th's prompt, you wrote 30h instead of 30th :) I might write you a Scrabble tale one of these days, but it definitely won't be Lord Derby length :) And what did one of the kids do that generated this prompt today?
First line prompt Lessons born of pain are always the last to be forgotten. MacArthur lifted his head, his eyes burning like coals in the grate of a grace-and-favour cottage and mustered enough saliva to spit into the face of the uniformed police officer stood in front of him. The woman recoiled, instinctively wiping her hand across her eyes and cursing, and MacArthur, manacled to the damp brick wall by his wrists and ankles, forced a smile. Blood ran down his face from cuts on his scalp, matting and blackening his hair and making him look like a vampire with no self-control. "Idiot," said Monkeybutt, Commissioner for the city and provably somewhere else at this exact moment in time. "Get out of here and go and see a doctor. Immediately. Whatever he has is almost certainly contagious and possibly fatal." The woman shook her hand, noting with increasing horror that the sputum clung to her skin like a small child clutching its mother's leg as she was dragged away by the secret police. "I didn't know," she said weakly, her voice fading out as she wondered if the sputum was trying to crawl up her hand towards her wrist. She tried to wipe in on her uniform, but it slid across the fabric as though it were oiled. "Now," said Monkeybutt, her tone heavy with demand. "Marchand, where are you? I still need information from this creature. Clearly we haven't provided him -- it -- with enough pain to have learned its lesson yet." The woman left, her face continuing to whiten as she struggled to remove MacArthur's saliva and it continued to fight back. From wherever she left to, a man emerged, presumably Marchand. "You call this pain?" MacArthur's voice sounded like it had died three years ago and was being forced to work anyway. "You have no idea what pain is, Monkeybutt." "It's not pronounced like that! Marchand, break his teeth. Let's see him -- it -- try and mispronounce my name then!" Marchand smiled, trying to look threatening, but he was also keeping out of spitting range of MacArthur which spoiled the effect. He looked around for something to throw. "What are you waiting for?" Commissioner Monkeybutt sounded impatient now. "Get on with it. What do they teach you in schools these days?" "With your latest round of cuts, I imagine they teach nothing," growled MacArthur. "You sold off most of the school buildings to the cigarette companies didn't you? And you sold their playing fields to mining corporations." "Shut up." "I did hear you were looking to indenture the children to the textile manufacturers," said MacArthur. "So they could learn useful life skills on the job. Like how not to get caught in heavy machinery." "Shut it up. Marchand!" Marchand had finally located a half-brick, and threw it. It made it halfway to MacArthur before hitting the floor. "Good God," muttered Monkeybutt. "What do I pay you for?" "Monkeybutt pays peanuts, gets monkeys," said MacArthur, grinning wolfishly as she screamed.
2 comments:
Now that you're caught up to that point, I should note that for Sunday June 30th's prompt, you wrote 30h instead of 30th :) I might write you a Scrabble tale one of these days, but it definitely won't be Lord Derby length :) And what did one of the kids do that generated this prompt today?
First line prompt
Lessons born of pain are always the last to be forgotten. MacArthur lifted his head, his eyes burning like coals in the grate of a grace-and-favour cottage and mustered enough saliva to spit into the face of the uniformed police officer stood in front of him. The woman recoiled, instinctively wiping her hand across her eyes and cursing, and MacArthur, manacled to the damp brick wall by his wrists and ankles, forced a smile. Blood ran down his face from cuts on his scalp, matting and blackening his hair and making him look like a vampire with no self-control.
"Idiot," said Monkeybutt, Commissioner for the city and provably somewhere else at this exact moment in time. "Get out of here and go and see a doctor. Immediately. Whatever he has is almost certainly contagious and possibly fatal."
The woman shook her hand, noting with increasing horror that the sputum clung to her skin like a small child clutching its mother's leg as she was dragged away by the secret police. "I didn't know," she said weakly, her voice fading out as she wondered if the sputum was trying to crawl up her hand towards her wrist. She tried to wipe in on her uniform, but it slid across the fabric as though it were oiled.
"Now," said Monkeybutt, her tone heavy with demand. "Marchand, where are you? I still need information from this creature. Clearly we haven't provided him -- it -- with enough pain to have learned its lesson yet."
The woman left, her face continuing to whiten as she struggled to remove MacArthur's saliva and it continued to fight back. From wherever she left to, a man emerged, presumably Marchand.
"You call this pain?" MacArthur's voice sounded like it had died three years ago and was being forced to work anyway. "You have no idea what pain is, Monkeybutt."
"It's not pronounced like that! Marchand, break his teeth. Let's see him -- it -- try and mispronounce my name then!"
Marchand smiled, trying to look threatening, but he was also keeping out of spitting range of MacArthur which spoiled the effect. He looked around for something to throw.
"What are you waiting for?" Commissioner Monkeybutt sounded impatient now. "Get on with it. What do they teach you in schools these days?"
"With your latest round of cuts, I imagine they teach nothing," growled MacArthur. "You sold off most of the school buildings to the cigarette companies didn't you? And you sold their playing fields to mining corporations."
"Shut up."
"I did hear you were looking to indenture the children to the textile manufacturers," said MacArthur. "So they could learn useful life skills on the job. Like how not to get caught in heavy machinery."
"Shut it up. Marchand!"
Marchand had finally located a half-brick, and threw it. It made it halfway to MacArthur before hitting the floor.
"Good God," muttered Monkeybutt. "What do I pay you for?"
"Monkeybutt pays peanuts, gets monkeys," said MacArthur, grinning wolfishly as she screamed.
Greg - argh. Thank you. I've fixed it.
I'm pretty sure this was inspired by what Miles went through. A delayed prompt reaction of sorts.
Ah, Mac. Charming and winsome as always :)
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