In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
AN: I’ve been messing with an original story about a magic house...
“Don’t bleed on my floor,” she told the man sitting at her kitchen table and about to pull his boot off.
“It’s just a leech inside my sock.” He looked up at her.
“I mean it.”
“If I make a mess, I’ll clean it up later.”
“You won’t have time.”
“The house... it doesn’t like blood.”
He frowned at her. “The house?”
“Yes. It can’t abide a mess and blood really upsets it.”
“Right.” He pulled at his boot; ignoring her.
She snorted. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She continued to wipe down the counter.
The boot hit the floor and she made a small noise. “Don’t panic,” he said.
Stepping over the shoe, she pulled the back door open and propped it with a door wedge.
He watched her do it and then rolled his eyes.
As he yanked his sock off, a fat leech fell out. It had drunk its fill and then the anticoagulant it had injected into the tiny wound had let it bleed freely. He caught the swollen body before it hit the floor and gave her a triumphant look. But then he put his bloody foot down on the kitchen floor.
There was a moment’s silence and then he shot out of the chair, across the room, out the open door and landed on the grass in the backyard. It looked as if a very large but invisible entity had thrown him out.
He rolled over, sat up and tried to speak. “Wha?”
She peered around the doorjamb. “I told you.”
“What just happened?”
She took pity on him. “Do you want me to bring you a Band-Aid?”
“Please.” He still looked confused.
She grabbed a clean, damp cloth and the Band-Aids and walked out to him. He was glaring at the house as if it had just declared war on him. She sat on the grass and cleaned, then covered the wound. “There,” she said.
He didn’t look appeased.
“Look,” she tried to explain. “I inherited the house. It took me a while to work out its little... quirks.”
“Yeah, fine... whatever.” She stood. “Did you want to try again?”
He glanced at the open door. “Your house is weird.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Why is it like this?”
He walked after her but he looked highly suspicious of the house. “I don't like it,” he grumbled.
“You don’t have to; it’s not your house.”
He had been rather hoping to tumble her into bed, or at the very least, kiss her. Now he was wondering what the heck her house did to people who kissed its owner inside its walls?
© AM Gray 2014