Finish That Thought #2-8

 

I’ve found this fun site through a fellow writer, Alissa Leonard, where they post a first line story prompt and you must finish it in under 500 words. Now this is a great word count for easier done, for me, than the 55 word count challenge I still do on occasion. Though the following stories did not win their weekly challenge, I wanted to share them with my followers.

Rules:
1. Start with the given first sentence.
2. Up to 500 words
3. Keep it clean (nothing rated R or above)
4. Optional Special Challenge
5. Stories submitted must be your own work, using characters and worlds that you have created. Sorry, no fanfiction.
6. Include: Twitter/email, word count, Special Challenge accepted
7. The challenge is open for 24 hours on Tuesday EST

Oh, and feel free to change pronouns, punctuation, tense, and anything in brackets to fit the story/pov/tone. I’m not going to be TOO picky… Our judge however…

Each week the winner of the previous week sets the prompt.

If you’d like to participate in the fun you can find the prompts Here.

This weeks prompts:

Your first sentence for Finish That Thought #2-8 is:

I’m sorry, [sir], but I believe that’s [my] [suitcase].

Your special challenge from the judge is:

Include a secret recipe.

And my winning story:

 

 

Untitled (I know, sad it has no title so if anyone would like to suggest one I’m open)

“Sorry, sir, but I believe that’s my sarcophagus.”

The stone funereal box is on end, held upright strapped to a heavy duty dolly. A few of the gems once laid in the ornamental front have fallen off during the move, but there’s no sleep to be lost over them.
Hands on hips, I tap my foot as the man stares at me blank faced. Ignoring the wrappings that have come loose, I tap more insistently.
There are things about being one of the undead that normal folks just aren’t tuned into. Like keeping all my parts together while going about life.

Last week I decided to move and had my belongings shipped to my new abode. Dumb shit currently standing with his mouth open like a lizard waiting for a fly, wasn’t one of the men hired to do the heavy lifting. In fact, I’d never seen him before this moment and can’t fathom a reason for him to be in my apartment trying to cart off my personal property. I don’t have much that belongs to me as it is.

“It belongs in the corner.” I motioned with my nearly severed arm to the furthest most recess of the room. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“But you’re a…a…” He stumbles over his words and then my sarcophagus on his rush for the door.

“Don’t you want your dolly?” I ask grabbing him.

He doesn’t stop immediately. It’s harder than you’d think to keep it together when you’re a 1000 years old mummy. There’s the wrappings that tend to loosen, and the essential oils meant to keep me from growing a stench, but even with all those precautions, frequently I fall to pieces. So he goes to run with my arm still attached to his and the swear, “shit”, slips out before I can stop it. Hell, what would you do? Several strips of wrapping hang off, flapping in the breeze from the ceiling fan. Mouthbreather looks from the arm to me and back before proffering the limb his face whiter than the frost on a cold winter’s morn.

He retches, covers his mouth, and rushes into a bathroom I have no use for.

“I’m really sorry. I just—“ he says once he’s emptied his bowels and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Want I should help you put it back on?”

The exposed end of my shoulder is covered in crawling maggots and he turns a few shades of green before passing out and crumpling to the floor. I sigh. I hadn’t planned on being exposed for what I am so soon upon arrival. I retrieve my arm and make a temporary connection using an industrial sized stapler I packed for just such occasions; I drag the dead man, I assume a heart attack, into the kitchen. I make mincemeat of his flesh, and contemplate what to serve with him for dinner, before turning on the Yankees playing in the World Series.

 

I was extremely pleased that this story won as the judge for this week is known in many circles, her own words, as “the girl who does not like zombie/vampire/undead stories.” Thank  you Jamie Hershberger and glad I could change your mind.

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