Spot Writers......

My favorite colour tastes like…..

This month’s challenge is to write something beginning with “My favorite colour tastes like…”

Today’s writing comes to us from Melinda Elmore. Her most recent publication, Blood on the Feather and Shall We Dance, is mixture of mystery and murder and a sweet Halloween tale. The books are available on Amazon and my publisher, Dancing with Bear Publishing.

“My favorite colour tastes like…”

My favorite colour tastes like….

The dew on a new morning leaf

The sparkling drops tingles the mouth

Leaving one to mesmerize the taste across their lips.

My favorite colour tastes like….a Hersey’s Kiss….

Chocolaty, divine….never-ending…..

Melts in the mouth from the warmth of the sensations

My favorite colour tastes like…an Arizona sunset

Full of color and breathtaking…..

My favorite colour tastes like…..

The sound of the flute…..

Soothing and musical.

My favorite colour tastes like….

My family….

Full of unconditional love.

My favorite colour tastes like….

Love….

Heart feeling and full of emotions.

My favorite colour tastes like….

Friendship…

Being there for everybody you can…

My favorite colour tastes like…..

Life….

Full of vibrant sensations for total enjoyment.

The Spot Writers- our members: 

RC Bonitz
http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller
http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie
http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Melinda Elmore
http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

My Favorite Colour tastes like.....by Cathy MacKenzie

This month’s challenge is to write something beginning with “My favorite colour tastes like…”

Today’s writing comes to us from Cathy MacKenzie. Her most recent publication, BETWEEN THESE PAGES, is a compilation of 18 short stories. The book is available on Amazon and Smashwords.

 My Favourite Colour

.

My favourite colour tastes like death and demise,

the evil that lingers behind the light at night

.

It’s the dark in the day and shades of grey

of living and dying

.

It’s hard and firm, chokes one up

and leaves a film upon one’s tongue

that lashes out at all in sight

.

It’s the soiled, the wicked,

the disastrous, the disgraceful,

the dishonourable

.

It’s grim and hopeless, angry,

illegal and sinister,

the Devil in all of us

.

It’s the dank in the darkness,

the smell of skunk and

spiders, dead and alive

.

It’s a pelt marred by a steak of white

like lightning rushing through the night

to wake the dead

.

It’s six feet under in a rotten pine box

so cheaply made, disintegrating

and disappearing to dust

.

It’s the bits that fly in the air

when a body sleeps

and stirs to shake off the fallen unknown

.

It’s morning before the sun

when dusk still prevails

and eyes can’t adjust to the slew

of shadows swarming by

.

It’s when dawn tries to open its eyes

and yawns a morning sigh

and awakens those

who dream of nightmares

.

Its name is known and it’s the doom,

the evil that takes over the good—

Satan in the garden

who spews and stills the world

.

I’ll come for you when your time is due

and you can’t stop the pitch,

the coal, the burning coal,

or the enemy who seeks to destroy

.

You must wait for day to wake

to brush away the cold

.

My name is Black

and I may leave,

but I’ll be back.

* * *

The Spot Writers – our members:

RC Bonitz

http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller

http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie

http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Melinda Elmore

http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/

Too Late....By RC Bonitz

This week's post comes from RC Bonitz, author of A Blanket for Her Heart. The theme is once again- "My favorite color is x and it tastes like…"

Too Late

I hate it when I wake up in the middle of the night like this. Something, a noise, whatever drags me out of sleep and then I can't get back to dreamland for hours.

Light from the street steals around the edges of the blinds, casting phantom shapes and shadows in my bedroom. Freaks me out sometimes, especially when the house creaks too.

What was that? Something sliding, a window, the glass door in the family room? I'm awake now, yes I am. There's silence again, did I imagine the noise? No!

Footsteps now, sneaky, moving through the house? This can't be happening, must be my imagination, has to be a dream.

The floor creaks, the kitchen door squeaks, oh God, someone's in my house! I grab the bedside phone. Too late, it's dead!

I have to get away. I throw back the covers and jump from my bed. I'll go out the window, quiet as I can. Or should I shout and try to scare him off? Too late, the bedroom door swings open and the light goes on. He's there, a man, dressed in black, a very shiny knife in his hand.

He smiles, an evil, vicious smile it is. "Well, well, what have we here."

"Go away. I called the police," I shriek.

"Not on that phone you didn't"

I'm trembling, shaking, scared to death. There's something about this guy. "What do you want? Take anything, I don't care."

His smile becomes more sinister. "Don't worry I will. What's your favorite color?"

"What?"

He glances around the room. "Looks like you like blue I guess. Dull color if you ask me."

I'm shaking now. What an insane question.

He takes a step closer, and then another. "Now me, my favorite color is red. Have you ever tasted red?"

I try to back away, but he matches me step for step. I'm up against the wall now. "What? No, I don't know."

: Sure you have. Wine, jelly, tomato. Now me, I like something stronger. Bet you can't guess what."

I can't speak, can only shake my head.

He switches now and simply stares at me. I cringe, my heart stops at the evil in his eyes.

"Blood," he says, so softly I can barely hear him.

He takes one more step closer and swishes the knife through the air, back and forth in front of me, coming closer all the time. "I'm not a vampire. I just like the taste of blood."

This can't be real, must be a dream, but he's right there in front of me. The knife comes slashing at my throat. I throw up my hands to block it. Too late, oh God, too late.

Salt By Val Muller

This month’s challenge is to write a story beginning with “My favorite color tastes like…” Today’s story comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series and the supernatural chiller Faulkner’s Apprentice. The story below is written in the voice of a rebellious protagonist riling up the crowd in one of her works-in-progress, The Salt Rebellion.

* * *

Salt

By Val Muller

My favorite color tastes like salt. White is the color of salt, after all. But my favorite color, the white I’m thinking of, isn’t the color of innocence or purity, if that’s what you’re thinking. Brides and baptized babies and all that. No. That is not my favorite color. Brides and babies are white by default. White by inaction.

Inaction can never be my favorite color.

My favorite color is the color of salt. Salt as in sweat and tears.

Action.

Think of what power salt has. It renders the ocean habitable to countless creatures. It balances our metabolisms, aiding water in its vital purpose. Salt aids our palate, taking the plain and ordinary and bringing out flavors inertly buried.

We all contain flavors inertly buried. Dreams, goals, desires, thoughts. We all have a purpose, something we were made for, and yet in a place as bland as this, we wander about unsalted. We grow complacent and look beyond ourselves for the spice that makes life worth living. But true joy cannot come from without. That is not the place for greatness.

True joy—the ingredient of greatness—must come from within, and we must be allowed to draw it out. May salt leave its streaky white trails on our cheeks, but we must be allowed to draw ourselves out from within our shells.

Perhaps this is why salt is not allowed here.

Perhaps there are those who do not want us to find happiness from within. Perhaps there are those who already live without and wish for us to seek joy in the externalities they can deliver. Perhaps there are those who have only power to gain from our unhappiness, from our weakness.

From our inaction.

Salt is the color of action. Its whiteness is the color of diligence, of work. A white piece of cloth will only remain so through diligence and care. So, too, our freedoms. Ignored and neglected, our freedoms will turn a dirty white, then a dingy dung, a soiled soot until no trace of its whiteness is left as a testament to its former glory.

So I say hold out for salt. Hold out for joy. Hold out for greatness. Don’t let our whiteness be sullied by the gentle agony of inaction. Fight back and persevere until you taste the salt of tears and sweat and action.

* * *

The Spot Writers- our members: 

RC Bonitz
http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller
http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie
http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Melinda Elmore
http://www.authormelindaelmore.blogspot.com/