Every time the Ink Slingers meet, we do two to three writing exercises that must include three to four specific words that were unknown to the author prior to hearing the loud “START!” command and then getting to it! We love sharing the end result with you.
Sometimes the author will have three unique shorts and other times the author will write a continuing story from one exercise to the next. These continuations can be tricky to create but this Ink Slinger killed it with this fun story.
Blow, infatuated, streak
“I am infatuated with it, yes,” he said, sitting there, his face only slightly red. “I mean, everyone’s got something right? Don’t shame me.”
Kyle shook his head slightly, working words he could say around in his head until they fit what he thought was a good way to put it. But, none came to fruition, so he just went with: “Yes…sure…but most people don’t do that…most people do not have a streak of ruined parties.”
“It wasn’t ruined,” he protested, his voice somewhat shrill.
“Will they ever speak to you again?”
“Some of the kids did…” He trailed off and looked out the window, trying to find a counter-argument to the accusation.
“No,” came the flat answer.
“Well, alright, so you admit that you should not blow—”
“Now wait,” he interrupted, standing up and raising his hand. “That’s not—that’s not…I need to, don’t you understand.”
“Then get help.”
These words seemed too heavy for him, as he fell back down into his seat without much defense. Eventually, he mumbled out: “It’s not like it is hurting anyone really. What’s a few…people make exceptions for your eccentricities all the time.”
“Yes, but I am allergic to cats and I am afraid of knives—different entirely. You can’t do what you do.”
“Henry, you cannot blow out every birthday candle you see in sight. Little Timmy will never get over this.”
Candle, black, wax
“But, truly, you do not understand,” Henry said, again managing to push his will into the world and standing up to his full height. He was taller than Kyle by a good foot, and Kyle took a step back in alarm. A child was upset, but he did not want to be decked for defending him.
“Okay, then…explain it to me.”
Kyle regretted this almost immediately as a gleam came into Henry’s eyes. Something not wholesome in the slightest. Something almost dark in him, or at least shaded.
“Well, it’s like this…” he began, his face more and more animated. “The wax—the smell of it. That’s what goes for me to do it, okay? I can smell the heat and—”
“Okay. Stop,” Kyle said, looking a tad green. “That’s enough—I did not want to know. It’s a candle though. Like, it’s not like we are talking about even ears or feet here. Don’t you see it’s just wrong…”?
“Wrong?” came Henry’s question. “It’s a burden, yes—and I am sorry for Timmy. But it’s not like it’s morally an issue.”
“That’s not the point. You stole a child’s wish.”
“Oh, like that’s real,” came the snappy retort.
Off in the corner, quiet and sulking, Timmy began to sob uncontrollably.
Telescope, stickler, beard
Henry’s gaze was like a telescope on Little Timmy, growing closer and closer. And despite the weak protests of Kyle, so small beside him, he moved forward almost automatically. Flowing forward on his feet and with eyes wide.
“I am sorry,” he said, his voice weak. For that moment, with the darkness of his fetish in his soul still bared, he looked frightening. His beard, though mostly managed, was a scraggly thing, reddish-flecked but mostly brown.
Little Timmy looked up with wide, tear-colored eyes. So full of reflected light, it contrasted with the red puffy skin beneath. “You blew out my birthday candles. You blew out my candles!”
Henry did not flinch, did not react much beyond the darkness in his eyes growing more powerful, more pronounced, as he stalked forward. This talk of candles was doing things to his body. And he was doing a poor job of controlling that.
“Oh, don’t be such a stickler for this. Don’t be so that way, okay?”
Little Timmy sniveled but still looked at him with disdain. Some things, it appeared, were not so easily forgiven. And, to a kid, that may have been the greatest crime ever committed.
“Suck it,” Timmy said, drawing upon the strongest swear he felt comfortable to use—even if the meaning was lost on him slightly. Suck what?
“It’s all over, okay? I don’t have any more candles; can’t you protect me and forgive me?”
“Protect?” Timmy spat back, and then his eyes widened. Henry was still stalking forward, but that was not what he was looking at, what he was gawking at right then.
Henry got it too late, and turned, only to have a flower pot explode on his face, and the water wash over his skin. His eyes swam, and the kick to the groin dropped him into unconsciousness.
Kyle panted, and stood over him, eyes wide in a different way. He was not aware he could be that violent—it had not occurred to him.
“I’m calling the police,” he muttered.
“Yeah—the cops will get him for my birthday,” Little Timmy said.
Kyle pursed his lips and bopped his head. “Sure…yeah. That is what he’ll go to prison for. Right.”
He let out a sigh and looked up at his son. “Tim, buddy, could you maybe wait upstairs?”
“I want to see the police,” came the immediate request.
“I’ll buy you a new cake,” Kyle said, his voice flat.
Timmy was pretty sure he did not have to give into demands on his birthday but went along with it.
About Brandon Scott
Hey, my name is Brandon Scott (though I often go by the name coolerbs). In 2014 I became a professional writer and it has been the ride of my life. I’ve met so many incredible people, and created more than I thought I ever could. And I am so excited for the future.