It’s time again for blogophilia, the fun blog group where martien gives participants prompts to use in their weekly blog. This week’s prompts are:
Ecrits Blogophilia Week 39.11 Topic – “That’s an Accident Waiting to Happen”BONUSES:Hard Bonus (2 pts.): Incorporate a lyric from a song that moves you – Time in a BottleEasy Bonus (1 pt): Use the word ‘inconceivable’ three (3) times
There was darkness.
Thick. Black. Complete.
Within it, time stood still, like molasses in wintertime. Hours stretched into days, days to weeks, until she lost track of the minutes, the hours, the days.
Then it happened. Just as all hope had fled, turned as black as the darkness she was lost in, she felt the difference, the soft give of the rope at her wrists.
Yet, when she tried again, there it was. She pulled, tugged, wriggled. The rope shifted, bit into tender skin, then finally slid free.
She forced sore arms to the front and rubbed aching wrists. Trapped in the black, the movement felt foreign, forgotten, and it took her time to get used to it. But time was something she had. Loads of it, trunks fulls, time in a bottle enough to span the universe.
Or it felt that way.
When she’d adjusted, gotten used to the freedom, she bent to find the rope around her ankles. Clumsy fingers fumbled with knots, taking too long, but finally, the bonds fell away and she could mover her legs, roll her ankles, stretch her feet.
Now to stand. To escape.
It was tedious, torture. She used the wall to pull her upright again and again, until at last her feet would hold her, buckling knees locked, trembling legs shaken with the exertion. One foot in front of the other, she shuffled the perimeter until she found the door, situated behind where she’d been tied, so that she couldn’t see it open each day when her captor came to feed her.
He was going to pay – pay for the days she’d wasted, for the time she’d lost, for all the points she’d missed out on…
She threw open the door and lurched out into the familiar office space. There he was, at his desk, feet up, arms behind his head, leaning back in his chair, some ridiculous video playing on his computer screen.
At the sound of her cry, he jumped, swiveled, stared with wide, horrified eyes. “You’re here? Inconceivable! You’re tied up safely in the office supply closet!”
“I was.” She waved her fist as she advanced. “And now I got out, you…you…” But the word didn’t exist to describe his evilness.
“Inconceivable! I tied those knots myself!”
She stopped to glare at him. “I don’t think that means what you think it means. As for your knots, childsplay! And now, Jonathan, I want my missing points!”
Though he tried to look innocent, they both remembered the conversation. Jo had been sitting at her desk, fresh back from vacation, wondering what to write for Blogophilia.
“Do you really need to? You’re already ahead of me.”
“Yes, but I skipped a couple of weeks so you catch up.”
“I’m more behind than that,” he’d muttered. She’d blown it off as sour mumbles, but she should have paid attention. Not half an hour later, he suddenly said, “By the way, have you looked in the office supply closet lately? That stack of multi-colored ink pens is an accident waiting to happen.”
Colored ink pens were her weakness, and he’d known it; known she would go to the door, open it, step in the closet...
That was when he clubbed her with the binder of rejected comic scripts. She’d woken later to find she was tied up, lashed to a support pillar.
If only we hadn’t gone cheap with this basement office space. The upstairs offices don’t have pillars in their closets!
But all that was behind her now, as she began her advance again, pausing only to grab one of the rejected script binders from the stack by Jonathan’s desk. “You’re going to pay for this!”
Jonathan used his feet to wheel his plush office chair back, hands waving for mercy. “But…But I gave you cheesecake every day!”
She stopped, binder inches from his skull. That was true. He had.
“And coffee,” he added hopefully. “With the peppermint mocha creamer. You know that stuff’s limited edition.”
His words pulled a grunt from her, but dissolved some of the anger. In retrospect this was just another insane stunt in a long line of insane stunts. One had to expect these kinds of things when they had an evil twin. She really should be used to it all by now.
“Fine. I won’t kill you. Yet. Now go get me a piece of cheesecake – chocolate this time – and some coffee. Hurry up. Before I change my mind.”
Jonathan sputtered agreement and hurried away toward the office kitchenette. Jo huffed and dropped into the comfy office chair, mentally calculating the points she’d lost, and the blogs she’d missed visiting.
Oh well. At least there was cheesecake.
And that, blogophiliacs, is where I have been.
Now for guesses:
guesses: 1: that’s not Narnia 2: need more shoes 3: dressed for success 4: wardrobe 5: vintage 6: through the looking glass 7: why are kid’s fantasy stories obsessed with bedroom furniture? 8: chiffarobe 9: in the closet (in blog) 10: out of the closet
Hello there. Hopefully wherever you are and however you are, you are at least OK.
Recently I was texting with someone I hadn’t caught up with for more than forty years. You think that makes me old, but it doesn’t. The truth is that I am pressing fifteen in my present emotional growth phase – but vigorously! Anyway for some reason I started to talk e-style about the person who does the covers of my books, Joleene Naylor. I’ve never met Jo, as I call her, though we’ve spoken on the internet once or twice. She’s from the part of the world where I was born, but not brought up – Iowa, and our tracks would have crossed maybe if she had actually been born when I was in some of the spots she cruises effortlessly today.
Jo spent what are described as “formative years” in the town where the…
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