Mini-writing prompts · 5:11pm Dec 22nd, 2020
Prompt 2:
Choose one of the following action prompts to write a scene around:
1. Holding your breath, and hoping that nobody finds you.
2. Help from the most unlikely source.
With one hand squeezing tightly around the hilt of her hunting knife and the other held over her mouth and nose, young Clementine continued to inch back as far as she could until she was up against the very back of the cupboard she had chosen as her hiding place. The sounds of screaming and gunfire were gone, and in their place was the groaning and snarling of what had once been humans. She forced down a silent gulp as the groans drew ever closer, those heavy, shambling footsteps growing louder, audible even with all the wood in the way.
Remembering what she had been taught, Clementine forced herself to loosen her grip over her dagger. Too rigid a hold could just as ineffectual as one that was too weak, especially for a one who by the old world’s standards was still just a child. She couldn’t rely on hard stabs and killing blows, her smaller frame didn’t quite allow for such a style. No, if it came down to it, her best bet would be to inflict as many light wounds as possible in the shortest amount of time possible, just enough to slow her assailant down and allow her to escape.
That is, of course, if it came down to it. Fighting was rarely her Plan A and was usually only considered once the running and hiding options were no longer viable. Clementine slowly tried to shift into a more comfortable position. The cupboard left her with little room to run, so she could only hope it was an adequate hiding place. Otherwise, well, she looked down her knife.
Something just outside fell to the ground, something made of glass or ceramic by the sound of the loud crash. A gasp left her lips before she could stifle to exclamation, and her hand closed into a fist over her face, clasping tightly around her nose and mouth in an effort to keep any further noise from being made.
As the seconds passed, Clementine slowly became increasingly light-headed, but she didn’t dare take a breath, an inhale or exhale being all it could take to reveal her position. Be that as it may, however, it did not change the fact that her body required oxygen, and fear and desperation made for poor substitutes. She lowered her hand from her nostrils and quickly sniffed in a quick puff of the dusty cupboard air.
The door to the compartment flew open, and Clementine didn’t even have the time to muster out a scream before she was pulled out of her hiding place and tossed down onto the tiled floor of the kitchen. Pieces of a broken whiskey jug littered the floor, and as Clementine breathed in more deeply, she noted of the faint scent of hard liquor in the air along with the smell of rot. She looked up at the sullen face of her assailant, their face gray from decay and with a grin of yellowing, bloodstained teeth.
The creature let out a groan as it took a step toward Clementine who immediately scooted back and held up her knife. She tried to keep the blade steady, tried to still her nerves. She had no choice now but to fight and no room for error. Strike fast, then run.
The stumbling creature continued its approach only to stop and slump over when its head suddenly exploded, showering Clementine in bits and pieces of skull and whatever had been inside. When she had finished wiping the mess from her face, she found in the creature’s place a man wearing a suit, complete with jacket and tie. Perched upon his nose was a pair of rounded glasses, and a groomed, bushy mustache adorned his upper lip. His mouth was set in a humorless line as he regard the young girl before him.
Clementine’s eyes grew wide. “Wayne B. Wheeler of the Anti-Saloon League?”
The man lowered his weapon, the double barrels of his shotgun still smoking, and held out a hand toward Clementine. “That’s right,” he said. “As promised, I have returned to the land of the living when America once again is in need of prohibition.” He turned to the headless body at his feet and sniffed. “Come. If we are to keep this new kind of rampant alcoholism from spreading ever further, we must speak with Congress.”
Taking the man’s hand, Clementine got back to her feet. “But I thought Washington DC had already fallen and most of Congress had already been turned.”
“Perhaps,” the man said with another sniff as he ejected the spent shells from his shotgun and replaced them with fresh ones. “Luckily for us, I happen to be an expert when it comes to pressure politics.”
2