Original prompt here:
The inciting incident doesn’t matter. It never
has. It never will. What that matters are
the words forming behind glazed eyes,
twin marbles dipped in two colours of vinyl
matt paint. The lips are important also.
Spittle-flecked, pulled tight over crooked
yellow teeth. Meat-slab tongue darts back
and forth across them, lubricating the path
of another vicious verbal assault.
The breathing is worth noting. Calm and
rhythmic breaths flow in through distended
nostrils, inhaling clean air and goodness.
The exhale is loud, although the venom-
heavy miasma is not the rasp of struggling
lungs but the staccato assault of
machine gun fire. In with the good. Out
with poison vomit.
The posture, shoulders hunched and spine
curled slightly as if that of the inferior,
tells a story almost as sadistic and red as
Oh, those words…
Cold and clinical. Logical reason
verbalised into scalpel blades. Each
syllable an incision. Each vowel and
consonant a gutting slash or impaling
stab. A surgeon’s cool warmed impossibly
hot. Ice melting under its own destructive
heat. The words come. The words burn. A
leviathan of jagged hate upon a lava sea.
Murder in prose. Savage, dragon-breath
beauty. Air vibrates and shivers under
pulmonic force. Tendons strain. Orchestral
violence reaching a crescendo. Twitching
hands chop at nothing, a loathsome
conductor directing vocal murder. A
psychopath painting with a victim’s
Words do their worst. The subject
shrivels. Tears and snot. Head in hands. A
sleek, perfected yacht smashed upon
jagged reefs. It rocks beneath the verbal
waves, sobs as the flow weakens and rage
dissipates. The words finally, thankfully,
A god of foul torture surveys his kingdom.
Blackened, burnt, ruined. Nothing of
beauty remains. Love, passion, trust. They
smoke oily tendrils upon the altar of
suppression. They are gone forever. Lost.
Burned-heart-stench, bitter, black,
scorches his throat. His prize, his treasure,
lays tarnished and broken at his feet.
In sudden darkness, unbearable cold, he
sifts through his authentic, deliberate
attacks. Guts sour, he hugs his shoulders.
He wonders why the words cannot come
when he needs them, why they this stick
in his throat until his world burns. Why he
cannot speak gently and be a man.