A Place in Your Arms

What Place do you remember?

I remember being in your arms. real or imagined. Tanned, strong, warm. The fire is crackling and popping in front of us and you are whispering me how much you love me in my ear as I grin. Sound moves the air around me and tickles my ear and neck. Warm. It feels so nice as you play with my arm, creating the gentlest circles, carving paths there. But I know in the back of my mind not to believe you. Though I have no reason to think this. Because I know you are probably a great person. You seem like you are. Something about how nice you feel, makes my mind riot in believing. But the glass of wine, and the gentle rhymic cracle of the fire humming through the air, and the strong arms coiling me tighter, turns off my fighting reflex. And I start to sink instead.

I feel myself falling asleep, gentle sounds, feelings, smell around, and those words still on the tip of my thoughts, you repeating them over and over like a chant to me as I drift down lower and lower. And I am going down, till i find am in water with seaweed in my mouth and hair and I’m spitting it out, salt. And looking about.
Bluish water, pebbles underfoot, and watery flowy plants.

And then I rise a moment later, and I pull up out of it, and wake up back in the apartment. And you are gone. I put on my flip flops and wander out into the apartment tentatively looking around. But I am met with empty corners instead. I am going outside without a thought on it, the feel of the cold air, and smell of the smog both hitting me at once, the loud honking and engines on the side of me. People walk and push past me, and look angrily at me cause I won’t get out of their way. And I walk like this. In this haze. Where did you go. I keep looking as if on a beach, if I keep at it I will find it. The treasure with golden blocks inside.

But there the streets wind like a maze that I am too tired to pursue. And so I sit on a bench next to a man rolling a cigarette. I put my head in my hands and I cry. I wanted so much for that dream to be true.



Tiny nodules of texture rippled under her fingers, exciting the fine whorls in each finger tip. As her eyes darted back and forth and she felt the warmth of her screen, she felt a wave of muscle squeeze in her forearm, as her fingers punched down giving buttons. The air around her cool and exciting lifted the hair of her arms on end. Then with an inhale of breath, she let her heavy eye lids drape down and let herself smell the dusty odor of the room. Listened to the buzzing of electronic equipment all around her.
Home. It had been this place that she dwelled in, but never noticed before. Could not have. She had been numb to everything, closed off smells, sounds, the feels of things, the faint warmth coming through the curtain. She hadn’t known she could still feel a thing. So long had it been, she didn’t know it were even possible. A loud thump echoed in her chest.

The Open Casket, writers prompt.

The Open Casket:

Gregory the Third’s skin looked grey in most light. He towered above others at 6.7, and had booming steps when not careful. But often he was.
He spent many nights retired at home, pencil tapping, frowning over a crossword on his cherry wood glazed table, with a heaping cup of tea steaming nearby. He had a small mansion on the edge of town, a quaint mansion. He was quite comfortable there. Born from wealth, his home made him feel closer to his old folks. His chair was red felt with brass buttons pinned at five places, like the five on a die. He had an antique black phone, and a bookshelf with weathered copies of the classics which he’d read many times and never tired of. He also liked the occasional mystery or spy book. He had an English accent, unlike the locals.

Once a week he’d go to the store for necessities. It’d seemed quiet when he entered. Two people creeped as they pushed their carts past him. One tripped over his feet and then broke into a run past Gregory and turned into the meat department. A few others hid deeper in the aisles as they peeked back at Greg from boxes of cereal or cans of vegetables.

A man started to cross his path but stopped and turned slowly to face him, his finger poised as he spoke, “You crawl back into the hole you’ve come from. You’re nothing but a curse to this town.” Other people came out of hiding crowded around the man. A few other men bellowed, “yeah!” A woman nodded her bobbed blonde head, shuffling her white polka-dot dress, “None of us want you here don’t want you here, so why don’t you just go somewhere else.” A boisterous call of yeahs boomed from the crowd.

“I apologize for any inconvenience, ” Gregory said, “but my family is gone. And this place is all I have left of them.” Then rolling his cart. “Excuse me, but you are blocking the oranges.” He reached and put four oranges into a clear bag.

“You’ll be sorry.” The man said. But Gregory went past him, ignoring him, twisted the bag of oranges shut and rolled to the next part of the store.

When he returned home, he opened his over-sized door, it creeked, and sat at his chair and read Moby Dick till his eyes started to feel heavy. He placed his book mark in it and set it on the table. Then lumbered to his office and composed a letter to a friend.

Afterwards he got up, his back stiff with a hunch at the shoulders and stalked down the hall into a room with dim lights along the wall. There was a casket in the center of the room on grey carpeting. It was a shiny black, and inside it pillowy red velvet pads. He turned off the lights and walked to the casket, and bent down and lay down his long body and shut his eyes. As he relaxed the lines on his grey face deepened.