FlashmobWrites gives you a choice of two different prompts, both taken from the lyrics of a song (which you can also use for inspiration, or ignore as you see fit).
For Week 1.17 the prompts were
Cara Michaels: “locked up in your room”
Ruth Long: “a doubt like a shadow”
I go to where I left the body hanging on the hooks and take my time. It’s been ages since I’ve indulged myself, and I wonder if I’ve still got it. Like riding a bike, a skill’s a skill I tell myself, and after a bit of a shaky start, I’m off to the races.
Time doesn’t seem to pass, and before I know it, the job’s done. I wash the blood off my hands – I’ve never understood what Lady Macbeth’s problem was – and head home. On a visceral level I love the sound of a sharpening steel sliding down a knife, but that’s not exactly the sort of conversation you can have with your mates down the pub. Some things you just have to keep to yourself. But there’s always a yearning to share. That’s why ever since you were little I’ve dropped hints for you, hoping to pique your interest. When you were younger you just cried and said I was disgusting. Now that you’re older and understand the world better, I’m thinking you might be willing to come round to my way of thinking.
I try broaching the subject obliquely at the dinner table while your mother’s in the kitchen (she always was a bit squeamish), but I can’t tell if the surly teenager attitude I cop for my troubles is just a facade. Hoping for the best, I knock on your door the next morning. I’m about to give up, but blow me down if I’m not greeted by a grunt. I try and play it cool, though I realise the generation gap means that I’m likely making an arse of myself.
“You won’t regret this Michael,” I say as we head off.
We go via an indirect route, so I can try and explain why it calls to me so, but end up just talking trivialities.Still, it’s a better connection than we’ve had in some time. Before I can give you any advice, I’m unlocking the heavy door and ushering you in. You’re scared, I can tell. A bit repulsed, but excited too. You take a knife and make a few exploratory cuts. A smile blossoms on your face and I know you’re starting to understand. A noise outside distracts me. I head out to take care of it, leaving you to hack away. Your enthusiasm compensates for your inexperience.
As I’m wrapping up the snags for the customer, you come bursting through the door waving the knife and screaming.
“Fuck me swinging Mike! Do you want me to get locked up? In your room, NOW!”
A nice rack of lamb on the house helps to smooth over any misunderstandings, and I nod understandingly as the sparky whinges and moans about kids these days and apprentices in particular. When they finally piss off I can’t help but crack up. Mikey, you’re a butcher’s son and no mistake!
This story came 2nd, Underboss:
Cara Says:This gruesome, yet humorous take on the family business has levels that add so much punch. No matter what, they’re not lying when they say they’re butchers.
Ruth Says: A perfectly wicked misdirect! I read this one several times for the sheer pleasure! 🙂