Unpopular

Another one word writing prompt (See: Short-Fuse, below). This time the word was 'Unpopular.' Here's my take:







Wood shavings collected at her feet. She had been carving for a while now and was growing impatient. Her superior strength made it easy to snap that short length off of the broom handle, but the point was going to take some time. Besides a small mound of gray dust, the stake would be all that remained. It had to be done soon.
Very few possessed the ability to discern the reality of her condition. Many would even label it a blessing, while she considered it a curse. Some might view it as a gift; her, an affliction. It had been glamorized and sugar-coated by literature and film. Nobody knew what it was like, she thought, to be stuck in your teen-aged years for what seemed like an eternity. For what was an eternity. She was expected to relate with her high school peers, kids she was innumerable times wiser than. Keeping it a secret was possibly the most wearying part.
The broken-off piece of broom handle was now beginning to resemble a mini spear. Not yet sharp enough, but she continued carving unwavered. The blade sliced downward into the blunt stake at an astonishing rate. She whittled away, channeling the perseverance of a retired carpenter with nothing to spare but time and passion. Her bed (which of course was solely for show) swayed with each stroke. She would never tire.
The zeal that was characteristic of her strain had long since faded. The horror had lost its allure. The challenge, a drag. The insatiable thirst had become a burden. To the others it was a driving force. She would call it a crutch. She was manufactured to live a strictly natural life. Tonight, she would revisit nature.
The tip of the stake was at last sharp. She tested it with her fingertip. The sight of the rich, crimson fluid teased her tenacity. She allowed her tongue to clean it up. Her canines extended slightly; they ached. No, she reasoned, no more. The bloodlust had to end. Failure, coupled with weakness, had vanquished many previous attempts. This time was different. This time lives would be saved.
With this prospect arousing her mind, she stood. It was time. Tears cascaded down her pale face. So human, she thought, as a slight smile materialized. She started to reminisce over the last hundred-plus years and stopped. Fuck that. Ironically, she had never felt as alive as in those final moments before her death. This time she would actually be terminated, not turned. She gripped the stake tightly with both fists and held it perpendicular to her body. The point just touching her chest. The floor directly in front of her was already cleared. The tears were gushing now, the smile ear to ear. Her head had never been as clear as it was in those last couple seconds. She felt so real. In her mind, she was no longer a murderous, blood-sucking vampire. She was just another delusional teenager, dying to live.

Short-fuse

Here's a fun little piece from an online forum I'm always on. I was given a one-word (or one-phrase) writing prompt. It was given at random, and I had just had to write something related or inspired by the word. Nothing very long. I scribbled it out in less than an hour without revising. My word was Short-fuse. This is what I came up with:

“Why even bother with all of this, Bobby, you know how you get.”

“Because, Ev,” Bobby griped, “I’m a patriot, and this is what we do on the Fourth.”

“You fought for your country’s freedom hon, isn’t that enough?”

“That will never be enough!” he barked, realizing even himself that he was teasing the cusp. He settled the matchbook into his trouser pocket. Letting the fervent July air enter his weathered lungs, he gathered himself. His line of sight climbed the flagpole in his front lawn. Old Glory awaited his gaze atop the pole, dancing a tired dance in the evening’s tepid breeze. For the first time Bobby saw the banner as a piece of defeated cloth. It seemed to yearn for the ground, as if too much had been asked of it. Not unlike the old man, he thought.

Evelyn knew her husband had calmed down. Her concerned expression was transitioning into a neutral one on her wrinkled mug. The war had rendered her lover an emotional wreck. Undiagnosed bipolar disorder, she was sure. So what if he had crawled across mine-riddled fields for a handful of months so long ago, she thought, she had been the one evading explosions in the many years since. However sure-footed for her old age, she hadn’t taken a comfortable step in decades.

“What’ya say we do one more and head on in?” Evelyn suggested.

“Yeah… okay, babe.”

Bobby was calm now. He collected the matches from his pocket and an unspent mortar. He struck a match and introduced it to the wick. Evelyn caught a glimpse of a courageous man in the orange glow that painted her husband’s face. The smoky scent of sulfur yielded a mild ache in her head.

“Drop it, hon.”

“Wanna make sure it doesn’t go out,” Bobby retorted, despite the lively sparks darting at him. He clutched the small explosive as the sparks raced down the wick. Daring it.

“Dammit, Bobby,” Evelyn snapped, “drop it in!”

Bobby placed the mortar into the canister.

“I know what I’m doin’ Ev, don’t you question that!” The composure was gone. Evelyn paused, anticipating the bang. There was no bang.

“Son of a bitch,” Bobby spit, and started over to the canister. Yeah, the blast of the mortar would rattle his soul, but he owed this to his freedoms. To his country.

“Give it a minute, Bob.” Evelyn held out an arm in a weak halting gesture.

“It’sa dud…” His voice trailed off. He leaned over the canister and peered into the cardboard cannon. “Damn thing’s upside-down, wick’s on the bottom.”

Evelyn remained silent. She didn’t know why. She knew Bobby should’ve tipped the canister over. Maybe the old woman was too worn out from avoiding mines. Jaded from living in fear.

Evelyn didn’t jump when it went off. She simply watched as the explosion devoured her husband’s face, granting her a freedom forever unknown to Bobby.