The Slash Foundation Prompt Posts
RULES
This is how this post works.
Since I started off the post, I have chosen a random word to make my story around. At the end of my story, I put up a random word, and any or all three of my fellow Slash Foundation members can write a short fic (length doesn't matter there is no too long or too short) around that word if you are inspired to do so. When you post up your contribution for that prompt, include a new word for the prompt at the bottom…and it continues.
At the top of your post, include your pen name and the prompt you are writing in response to.
Get it? So, here we go.
Author: Wrestlefan4
Prompt: Notepad
Chris ran his finger over the spiral metal at the notepads edge. It was new, the blue-lined pages undefiled with his scratchy, nearly indecipherable script. He stretched out on his bed and opened it, shifting against the mattress which felt like it had rocks in it, or maybe he'd just taken too many bumps. He chewed at the plastic end of his pen until the cap was warped and crushed with tiny dental indentions. He plucked it off and studied it tweezed between his two fingers. It wasn't even salvageable, but it was only a cheap hotel stick pen, there were millions more from where they came, each name on the colored casing always different, and yet in the barest sense, always the same.
He turned his attention back to the fresh white page before him. Blank, it stared him down, just demanding him to put down at least one word. This was perhaps the hardest thing he'd done in his entire life. With a sigh he pressed the tip to the paper and carefully drew the strokes that made up a name that was very familiar to him. It was one that had rolled from his tongue many times in love, anger, passion, laughter—but this one, unspoken version of the dear name, was so different from any of the others.
He placed the comma after the two t's and stopped, dragging his fingers through his gelled hair and twisting the bleached plume in annoyance. He told himself he was a coward this way, for doing it by written words rather than phone or even better (or worse) face to face. He just couldn't bring himself to do that though. He couldn't bring himself to witness the heartache on the face of the man that he loved when he confessed what had happened, and why he was ending their relationship. He didn't even realize that he was crying, until he saw the fat drops plummet to the sheet bellow and wet it. The places where the salty drops touched thin blue lines, caused the ink to fuzz up like an out of focus picture, and that's really what this whole situation seemed like, one huge fucked up, out of focus picture. Only Chris could manage to ruin something so perfect, by giving himself up to another in a moment of drunkenness. What was worse, was who had gripped his shoulders, and moved pleasurably inside of him, as he bent to all fours like a dog, and accepted it like a slut.
With one sweep of his hand, he tore the page away and crumpled it into a tight little ball, and lobbed it across the room where it bounced off the wall and tumbled behind his suitcase. The notepad was left depleted of one of its 100 wide-ruled sheets. The curly spine was left with a ragged edge of paper remains that had held onto the rings, like tiny clutching fingers. He chewed the cap between his teeth, furrowing his brow, trying to come up with the exact words.
He'd seemed to have been sitting there for hours of heart stopping monotony, faced with the daunting, guilt inducing task, when his phone vibrated against his hip. He rolled over and fished it out, swallowing hard when the name of the man he was trying to compose to flashed across the small screen.
"Hello?" He said, his voice coming out small sounding.
There was pause where nothing could be heard but ragged breathing. It was breathing that Chris was sure was laced with tears, maybe anger. He closed his eyes tight, as his own sorrow wet his lashes and trailed down his cheeks. He knows.
"Jeff called me."
The words drawled in Southern accent were broken, and the click of the phone that followed, let Chris know that there was nothing that could be done to fix those splintered words, or the heart that matched them. He put his phone away, and turned his watery, cobalt gaze back to the notebook that laid splayed open on the bed, like the legs of a whore, like he had that night. With an angry cry, he slapped it closed. The cover seemed to leer back at him, boasting its 100 wide-ruled sheets, only now there were just 99. His fingers slid over the red cover, feeling the incompleteness. He rolled from the bed, and slowly crossed the room. He reached behind his suitcase and his hand wrapped around the crinkled ball he'd tossed there moments ago. Inside that ball was Matt's name, written on the first, tear-fuzzed line, on a sheet of paper which had been carelessly torn away. Now it could never be replaced--it was just a scrap crushed in the hand of a fool.
Next prompt: Feet