When I respond to these prompts I usually just write and post (very minimal editing) to keep the process pure-ish…or something. This is kind of a blend of an idea that’s been pushing at my consciousness for a while (and which I might still build on) and this picture prompt from RandomMichelle because writing prompts can help you move ideas forward or, worst case scenario, just get you writing. Here’s a link to some I’ve done before… and here in response to Photo Fiction #28 is Lamplight:
I like to think of that night. Of all the days of my life. Shorty is still with us, with his big muscle bound self. That’s who I’m looking up at in the picture. He chatting some shit. Nobody love stupidness like him. Couldn’t be serious to save his life. In our house, it helped to have someone like Shorty to lighten things up, to make even mammy-self laugh. Because that picture is a lie. We never laugh like that. I look at that picture and I see a pretty girl – lacy tank, gypsy skirt, wild hair, big grin. That girl doesn’t really exist outside of that moment. She is a lie.
Shorty is at 1735, locked up in that place because of that girl and the lies she told. A leaked video from behind the prison’s big red gate showed the hell Shorty and other ghosts like him are living in. Ghosts because we, all of us, would rather forget them piled on top of each other, up there; disease, foul air, violence, and shit. Shit!
Is me cause it.
Mammy would’ve killed me if she knew I was hanging around New Deal, a badjohn from down the block. So when someone told her they saw me talking to him I lied, lied and said he was troubling me. And Shorty, stupid fool, dutiful big brother, for all his laughter, had a temper.
When the fighting done, New Deal dead and Shorty in cuffs. And Mammy had another reason to hate me.
And that picture of my sixteenth birthday sits on my dresser taunting me. Shorty there but just out of frame; that big stupid lamp he bought me because he knew I liked antique-ish things we could never afford, casting a dreamlike glow.