Forging ahead with fictional endeavours: ~ Write a life on a page and hurry not to its grave; abhor not the coming age, for eternal is the next page. ~ Read what you will, I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I do writing.

Mr. Right


Yay. A Story! Today is officially productive.  (Nevermind the housework I did or job interview I had.)  The first prompt,  dictating the scenario, has been borrowed from Mayhem Monday. The second has been borrowed from Picture It and Write. This one’s gone to a dark, dark place again.  Feel free to comment/leave con-crit ect.

It had been a quick, competent snatch-and-run. Eleanor just wished she hadn’t been on the receiving end. The fabric restraints were rubbing her raw. The chair was becoming highly uncomfortable.  “Hel…lo?” Eleanor tried to peek from under her blindfold. All she could distinguish were faint ridges of concrete. There was an irritating scent that clung; much like the dankness of a damp basement. The chair creaked as she tested the joints. Hmmm, one collective tug and I can pull this to pieces. Thank you, God, for flat-pack furniture! “Please don’t wreck my furniture.” Eleanor started, uselessly turning her head towards the speaker. Damn, all she could see was barely lit stairs and nylon socks. “If you untie me, I won’t have too.” That’s it, keep calm. Figure out what he wants and look for an opportunity to escape. There was a soft chuckle as the mystery man flipped the lights on, followed by muffled footfalls as he circled her and tugged the blindfold loose. It fell limply around her neck; his hands still holding the ends. Eleanor could not repress the shudder that rippled through her shoulders. It would be too easy for the stranger to strangle her with the former blindfold.

“I will untie you. Once you’re calm, that is.”

“I am calm,” Eleanor replied, proud that her inflection hid the dread. She caught his eye as he came into view and held her gaze as he towered over her.suit “Are you?” He asked, caressing her cheek with a nicely toned hand. Eleanor’s dread grew with a sense of foreboding that traced through her, much like his hand had her cheek. She was immediately aware of his frame; beneath the moderately expensive suit she detected muscle tone. Oh, god, let me be faster! She thought as she took in surprisingly well-designed features. “Ye-es…” There was that chuckle again. It did nothing to sooth the rising dread. He knelt in front of Eleanor, elbows pressing into her thighs, cupping her cheeks with a firm grip. “I’ve always loved the confident way you carry yourself, but this look isn’t bad either.” Eleanor froze. She would remember such a face, if they had met. This was stalker talk. The panic began to needle her gut. “Flattery is more effective without restraints,” Eleanor replied, in a flat quip. A thumb now traced her features; her flesh burning in it’s wake. “Sorry. This was the only way to get your attention,” he replied; his expression an innocent contrast to his actions. Eleanor clamped down on an influx of bile. “With a face like that you only had to approach me. Preferably in public. You currently have me riveted; why am I here?” She replied, with a thinly veiled pretence towards composure.

“Because I love you.” As her brain froze she felt the burning of hysteria bubble up beside the needles of panic and for a moment she was completely still. Pouncing, he took advantage of her moment of paralysis; pulling her into a deep kiss. There was bile in Eleanor’s mouth again. He shot back retching. The hysteria burnt through her shock and chair was pulled to pieces before he could react. Somehow a chair leg made it’s way into her hands. “Crazy bastard!” -Whap- “You’re good looking!” -Whap- “You clearly have money!” -Whap- “Why the HELL did you not just come up to me like a normal person?!” Eleanor returned to the present. Her kidnapper was now guarding his face with a very confused expression. Eleanor took her chance. She bolted up the stairs, slamming the door shut. Brilliant! He’s left the key in the lock! Eleanor turned the key and made a break to freedom. The last words she heard: “Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of a suit?!” Accompanied by violent thumping.

Comments on: "Mr. Right" (3)

  1. Firstly let me say I like your story, it is engaging, reminded me a little of John Fowles – The Collector..
    ‘Seemed like she was in a basement. That explained the mouldy scent that was irritating her nose.’ If you rewrote these sentences into one – Like – ” There was a irritatingly moudly smell that suggested to her she was in some sort of damp basement.” Just a suggestion.

    At the end you need to say she bolted up the stairs and slammed shut the door.
    Her captor seems very nonchalant about the whole business I was wondering if the last line could be stronger as he appears to put up no struggle to stop her but is more worried about the state of his suit.

    Some thoughts as I read through your tale.

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