flutepiccy

The Tiger Spirit ----------- November 2: In the Land of the Dead, a new morning paralleled the Land of the Living's bright weather. El Tigre glanced around his old shack, destroyed by the use of the Ancient Tiger Spirit. Thanks to the new El Tigre, though, he wouldn't have been using it anyway. He would try to spend more time with his family. It was in part his separation from others drove him mad in the first place. (He wished he'd said something about that to the new El Tigre.) He'd probably figure it out. Manny was an amazing kid; he was destined for greatness far longer than he'd owned the belt. El Tigre pulled up a lop-sided, singed c

Adelita and Scardelita ran quickly from their room to the living room of the Sanchez Hacienda. No, not the Sanchez home, the old bullfighting ring where cousin Carlos lived, but the old, grand house outside of San Angel where Abuelo and Tía Anita grew up. The hallway, despite its connection to the spacious living room, was dark and the four-year-old twins could not distinguish the sound of their footsteps on the smooth floor tile from the rain pounding down on the clay roof tiles. With courage befitting of a Sanchez the two girls proceeded through the silent, black house, all too aware of the thunder roaring through the night sky. It was

The intensity of the ring radiated through the audience, but not with excitement: Fear, the heel realization that the bull in the ring had fought (and won) before gripped almost all. Somewhere, someone had slipped in their duties and allowed a seasoned bull to fight again. Those in the stands could only watch as the matador Carmelo Sanchez attempted to face the beast. The man's lack of a cape multiplied the difficulty of the task indefinitely. Jorge Sanchez, on the other hand, had the utmost confidence in his father. The five year old had seen Carmelo face three… no, four different bulls. It was his tactic, what made his fights more "in

63. (from creativewritingprompts) Start freewriting with the help of this image: "A melon strolling on two tendrils" (A line in Sylvia Plath's poem, "Metaphors")A melon strolling on two tendrils. That was the first thing I saw, in this garden. He strolled on two tendrils down the rows of vegetables. Oh, yes, there were the usual rakes, shears, and wheelbarrows, but the odd thing was that they weren't being used. Not by people, anyways. It was that old melon again, picking up the shears, pulling up a carrot plant, and snipping away at its leaves. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. The melon was joined by one of its friends, a turnip wi

I know I haven't published things in a while. I've been trying these free writing prompts. I hope y'all like them! This one's from Writer's Digest: Two objects sit before you: a golden hammer and a cup of what seems to be water. A note on the wall says: "Go ahead, make your choice. The outcome will decide whether you're ready or not." Ready for what? What is this place? Why these objects? Which will you choose? I could say that my life is a series of poor decisions, which are occasionally paraded in front of me some years later, but I'd rather not. Anyways, if it is true, how do I know what is really a poor decision, and what's not? Funny thi

Hi! Thanks for reading. I love writing these, and feedback, challenges, or requests are always appreciated and without further ado, here is prompt number five! Silvery flakes drifted down, glittering in the bright light of the harvest moon. The blackbird swooped down… Silvery flakes drifted down, Glittering in the bright light of the Harvest Moon. The Blackbird swooped down and landed on a brittle branch. Silently He watched the forest floor. Beneath a blanket of snow, the Earth slept, And nothing stirred. Nothing, save the Blackbird. At length he raised his head the sunset Moon. The forest relayed its restless cry Through the Wind, Thr