Writing Prompts

Writing Prompt #6

If you set off one more firework at 3 am I will fight you

One lone line stretched across my field of vision. It broke off at the end, branching out towards the middle of my ceiling. It reminded me of lightning bolts.

My head throbbed as I consciously slipped into a warm pool of denial. There was a crack in my ceiling and I had to be imagining it. I had to be.

I mean, look at it logically. Three minutes ago my ceiling was crack free. Now, boom, crack. If I close my eyes and open them again, the hundreds of dollars in repairs will disappear. Ready and...

The crack was still there.

I must still be dreaming or something. This doesn't make sense. I pull the heavy covers over my head, deciding that if I couldn't see it, then it wasn't there. Out of sight, out of mind. But I knew it was still there, taunting me.

This had to be some lucid dream. Such a casual first world problem was too tame and too bland to be a nightmare. I wiggled my toes as they peeked out of the comforter. And I'm relatively in control so yeah, lucid dream. A very bad lucid dream. Very annoying, expensive lucid dream.

Pushing my covers off, I stood and slipped into my fuzzy slippers. A loud bang made me jolt, the bright light illuminating my blinds confused me. My fingers found comfort clawing the nightstand, from fear obviously but also a hint of anger. I realized what was happening.

Half-rushing from curiosity and the other half from adrenaline, I made my way to the patio glass door.

"You better be bleeding to death by the time I get outside."

"What? Why?" Was her reply. She was dressed in her usual silk robe in her favorite dusty pink color. The breeze caused it to flutter in the wind. Unlike me, she didn't have fuzzy slippers. Being barefoot never bothered her. Being naked never bothered her now that I think about it. She was a weird person. We own an apartment together and this isn't the first time she caused property damages.

"Because it sounds like gunshots. Obviously, you're dying. Some hitman found all the songs you downloaded on LimeWire twelve years ago and decided that you gotta go. That's the only logical conclusion I can come up with since I know you're not doing what I think you're doing."

"Uh but I'm not." She offered an innocent smile but the way she shifted from foot to foot gave it away.

I roll my eyes, "And I'm Beyonce."

"But Ed," she began to whine, tucking a loose strand of wet hair behind her ear. "It's Friday--"

"It's Wednesday." I corrected to which she scoffed.

"Peeshaw! What's the difference?"

Crossing my arms, I lean on the doorway and bite back a sigh. "Three am on a Wednesday is not three am on a Friday. Do I even have to explain how weekdays work?"

"But--" she tried but I wouldn't give her the chance to explain.

"I swear to God, Pamela, if you set off one more firecracker at three am, I will fight you."

Her shoulders shrug. City sounds surround us as she attempts to convince me with big, sad looking puppy eyes. Her bottom lip pouts just in case the eyes weren't enough but I'm not falling for it. There is a crack in my ceiling. Our upstairs neighbors are both practically 500lbs each. One false step and that's all she wrote. Mela isn't getting off that easy.

I shoot her puppy dog eyes down with a glare that can only rival a King Cobra, no relation to Vivi.

"Ed, c'mon. Where's your child-like wonder?" Mela asks as she accepts defeat.

With my usual straight face, I say, "It crawled to the back of my heart and died. Now go inside."

She rubbed her hands together and mouthed, "Just one more."

I sigh which she took an approval. Mela picked up what I assume to be a stick of dynamite and proceeds to light it. In the meantime, I am also getting ready. Before the small flame can reach the loose string that waves along with the wind, Mela stops. "...What're you doing?" She asked when she saw me taking off my slippers and rolling up my sleeves.

"Getting ready." I pulled my long hair into a high ponytail. I made sure it was nice and tight and wouldn't fall out if a little pulling was involved.

"You're really going to fight me? Seriously?"

I cracked my neck to the left, "Get your dumbass," then the right "in the house. Now."

"You're crazy!" She visibly flinched as I walked towards her. Her back was to the balcony, skinny fingers wrapped around the iron bars separating her and a six-story fall.

I stop until I'm right in front of her. She gulps as she stares into my eyes. I'm dead serious about the situation and it took all of this for her to get it. Holding out my hand, I hint that the game is over and Mela hands me the rest of the fireworks and matches. Though I'm staring right at her, she refuses to make eye contact, instead placing her focus on our potted plants and curious cat Zion who came to see what all the fuss is about.

"Mela~" I say in a sing-song voice, gaining her attention. She sighs and reaches in her cleavage and pulls out another firework. Satisfied, I step back giving her some space and count the illegal substance like I'm cashing out. Eight. She had eight more of this shit.

"How unamerican." She mutters as she walks past me and heads towards our room.

"I'm an immigrant." I remind her. Milk, I need some milk. Shutting the glass door behind me, I find somewhere to put these, somewhere out of reach and hide it. I don't care if she sees, I just need her to know she can't touch it and I know how many. It's pretty self-implied that if one goes missing, she'd be in some deep shit.

In the kitchen, I pull out my Buzz Lightyear mug and pour myself a healthy dose of milk. I lean on the island and take a long sip.

"Shh, Trump might hear. Do you want to be deported?" She appeared behind me suddenly. When I tell you I almost did a spit take, I kid you not. It would have been funny if I'd stop and it came out my nose like in elementary school but it didn't. It just went down the wrong pipe and nearly killed me.

After my coughing fit and a bit of dry heaving over the sink, I lost all desire to drink milk, God's gift to Earth. Mela patted my back when I was within arm's length. A quick glance at her arm was enough to stop all necessary contact.

"You and I are going to have some problems," I tell her as I kick off my slippers by the bed and crawl under the covers.

She does the same only she sits up until her bonnet is perfectly fastened. Then she scoots until she's right behind me and wraps her skinny arms around me, pulling me into a soft cuddle.

"You're fussy." She tells me.

"Really?" I reply boredly, glancing at the bright red numbers. It's 3:30 now and I gotta wake up in two hours.

"Yeah." She mumbles in my hair. I don't care if its poofy in the morning.

I yawn," You shouldn't have married me then."

With that, she tightens her grip me, pulling me even closer. "Shut up. I like fussy. Just not at three am."

A chuckle escapes from between my lips. "Weird, I feel the same about firecrackers."