Day 2: Today’s piece wasn’t a prompt and was instead something I just came up with one day out of sheer boredom. It started out as something entirely different and ended up what it is.
I’ll put my through process at the end of the piece.
“I’ll ask you again, where is she?” He slammed his hand into the wall behind my head in an attempt to intimidate me. I didn’t even flinch.
I was used to being threatened, and I knew giving away a reaction was exactly what they wanted.
I could hear a low growl begin to rumble from deep within his throat when he finally realized his scare tactics wouldn’t work on me. He pulled his hand from the wall and stood up straight, tugging at his vest that had risen in his angst. His hair remained disheveled, no matter how manically he pushed it from his forehead, and the slight reddish tinge wouldn’t leave his face.
I sat in silence and stared from my position on the floor as he attempted to compose himself, putting himself together piece by piece as though she would strut through the door any moment.
“I think you know where she is, and you know she isn’t coming.” He stared at the floor as his hands curled and uncurled at his sides as though he couldn’t decide how to feel.
“I apologize Old Sport, I….” he trailed off as I held up a hand to stop him.
“No apology needed, Mr. Gatsby.” I chuckled. “We see all kinds of reactions when we attempt to welcome people to heaven.”
My writing process for this, as with many of my short short stories is that I start with a completely different idea from what I end up with. I can’t tell you how it morphs in my head into something entirely different from what I began with, but it does.
This one specifically started out with the original “I’ll ask you again, where is she?” line, however it was supposed to be a murderer who didn’t remember killing his wife/girlfriend/woman in his life. Then it somehow morphed into a death welcoming and somehow I pictured Gatsby freaking out when he realized Daisy wasn’t coming.
Don’t ask me. My brain does weird things sometimes.
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