Saturday, February 9, 2013

Weekly Writing Prompt

Hello Bloggers and THE SAVANNAH SYNDROME (TSS) fans!  Running behind, yet again, and we have a long day ahead of us, so I'm going to jump right in.  Below is this week's writing prompt from, followed by my very "topical" take on my short story.  I would describe the back story, but if you don't pick it up in the writing, head over to my personal blog to read all about it.  I hope y'all have a great weekend!  See you Monday when we'll either have some good news or just a few days left in the countdown.

The Prompt:

You’re searching through your closet and find an old stuffed animal or doll from your childhood. It starts to bring back a warm memory of a specific night that’s near and dear to your heart. Suddenly, your stuffed companion begins to talk and says, “There’s something you need to know about that night.” Write this scene.

The Story:

Yes, I’m Officer ----, as I am known to you, the general public.  I’m the one that stupid monkey is blaming all his “problems” on.  If that stupid ape would have kept his mouth shut, none of this would have ever happened.  And now, thanks to his big mouth, I’m currently on a forced leave, confined to my home and surrounded by a bunch of rookies who will most likely shoot my neighbors before they successfully defend any assault on my home.  Not that I’m worried.  I’m well prepared for that idiot whenever he grows the balls to come find me.  He knows where I live.  He thinks he’s instilling fear on me.  He thinks I am going to be sitting around consumed with worry now that I “am the prey,” as he termed it in that rambling manifesto he posted on his FACEBOOK page.  His FACEBOOK page!  We’re supposed to be scared of an idiot who uses FACEBOOK to post all his “accusations.”  Grow up.  And stop drawing this out and come get me.

I currently have two pistols strapped to me.  My Bushmaster AR15 is waiting for me in my king size bed, just under the comforter.  But right now I’m searching my closet for an old service revolver handed down from my grandfather.  He would love for me to bury a slug from that gun in that man’s thick black skull.  And I find the case, in the back left corner, next to a dirty old teddy bear.  I grab the case to the pistol but I pause at the teddy bear.  It’s dusty and dingy.  I press my lips tight and pick it up.  It’s a lot heavier than I remember, which is odd.  I remember it as a young girl, a young girl who used to cling to a silly stuffed animal for comfort when all those around her made fun of her size and shape.  But those days didn’t last long.  Soon that little girl realized her “big bones” and towering height really only meant one thing:  she was that much bigger and stronger than all the brats that sought to bully her.  So by the third grade, my teddy was no longer my source of encouragement, but my secret confidant, whom I would whisper my school yard beat down victories to.  I have been kicking chests and heads for a long time now.

One of the most popular, prettiest girls lived down the street from me.  She always had a handful of friends with her.  On one night, when I actually brought my teddy outside, that smart little priss started running her mouth, thinking the support of her friends would be enough to keep her safe.  Me and teddy did a good number on them.

He was really heavy.  I smiled at him.  I brought him in for a tight squeeze.  Only one bully trying to pick on us now.  Upon squeezing him I heard a slight click.

“There’s something you need to know about that night.”

Had my teddy just talked to me?  I pulled it back.  Then I realized I recognized the voice.  A recording of his voice began a quiet rant about that night; that night I kicked some piece of trash who wouldn’t stop running his stupid mouth.  I tossed the teddy away, but not soon enough.

I never heard the explosion, or felt the pain.  All I knew next was darkness.  A lifetime of protecting those I felt needed the right kind of protection.  I would be hailed and praised in the Heavens, ready to see my grandpappy again.  But for some reason, I wasn’t heading toward a tunnel of bright light; I was heading toward a hot flaming lake of fire.

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