Companionship?

Eyes blaze bored, scrutinizing her latest meal stumbling in drunken shock.

Hundreds of years lacking companionship tugs her mind.

Floating soundless, debating her dilemma:  mortal or immortal.

He screams.

Irritation fuels his silence.

On to the weekend challenge.  This week we’re again asking you to stand on the shoulders of another writer.  But this time that other writer is you.  Take one of your former Trifecta or Trifextra 33 word entries and build upon it with another 33 words.  If you are new to the challenge you can use a Trifextra entry from one of the other community members, with their permission of course.

These are the first two weekend challenges from which I continued this segment: Crimson Liquid and Survive To Exist

 

Nothing But Time

For this weekend’s Trifecta, we return to a photo prompt. Your task is to use the photo as inspiration for a story or poem of between 33 and 333 words.

Who says Satan doesn’t have a sense of humor? Desmond thought, hoisting the heavy black bag securely on his shoulder. A slender business woman, focused on texting, bumped his bag. Desmond emitted a low growl of agitation as she continued to walk, oblivious. There was a time his growl would have instilled a morbid fear in the stranger. Desmond sensed her insecurity regarding her looks as he stared after her. He wanted to age her instantly as punishment for the slight infraction.

Situating his bag, Desmond cursed Satan, again, for removing his powers. He envisioned Satan sitting in the melting heat of Hell, surrounded by mindless minions. How many times had Desmond been on the other end, watching those punished by Satan’s wrath? Countless hours of watching Satan’s version of reality t.v. Oh, how they’d howled with laughter at the doomed cast from Satan’s good graces. Satan didn’t pride himself  on the torture in the pits of Hell. No, he enjoyed taking an annoying snippet of your mortal life, causing you to relive it for eternity.

Desmond sighed, a faint trail of smoke evaporating from his nostrils. His own personal snippet was his intense hatred for traveling. Packed in overflowing air terminals, surrounded by p-e-o-p-l-e. He shuddered. He’d always harbored a distaste for his fellow mankind. This made him an easy target for Satan’s slick-talking, webbed tongue. Funny, most people thought Satan’s tongue was forked. Desmond knew first hand this was one of many untruths regarding Satan.

Reaching the terminal, his amber eyes, tinged red at the iris, scanned the departure board. Anger surged through his head. Delayed. Again! It was the same every time. Delays. Layovers. The cycle repeated itself. How long has it been? he vaguely wondered.

Settling in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, his eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. He watched as time  literally slowed down. Snorting, he closed his eyes. The tune, “Time Is On My Side”, played continuously in his head as he waited.