Writing prompt spurs creativity

There are days when a simple writing prompt will spark the creativity and spur that writing desire. Today was one of those days!

I took this morning's writing prompt and went with it, let it go to wherever it took me and here is where I landed.



Writing prompt: He slammed. . .


He slammed his fist into the other man’s face.

“Shit!” It was like hitting a brick wall.

Sucking in air, he cocked his arm back to launch another blow and hope this time he didn’t break another knuckle when a woman strolled right between him and the Neanderthal and stopped. Was she out of her bloody mind?

“What the hell do you think you are doing, lady?” he asked as he picked her up, one hand firmly clamped on either of her arms and lifted her out of harms way. “Do you have a death wish?” He tugged a tumbled chair from its perch beneath a table, righted it, and brushed the seat with his bloodied and bruised hand.

She sat like a real lady, he thought, as she tucked her brief skirt beneath her derriere and crossed her legs at the ankles.

“I’m going to kick your ass!” yelled his opponent.

Diego glanced over to see the bigger man coming at him, meaty fist drawn back ready to take his head off.

“Excuse me for a second,” he told the fair-haired woman with glittering green eyes.

He turned just in time that the man barreling in his direction missed his head and landed a solid punch in his chest. The blow knocked him back a step, but he righted himself quick enough and was ready when the drunk charged him again.

This time, instead of trying to knock the guy out with his fist to the man’s steel jaw, he waited. When the guy raised his fist to take a swing, he kicked him in the gut, knocking the air out of the other man. When the man bent over gasping for air, he slammed his elbow against the back of the man’s thick neck and sent him sprawling to the wood floor covered in alcohol and peanut shells. He paused to see if the man would get up. He didn’t. The man was out cold.

Wiping his hands on his jean-clad legs, Diego straightened his shirt and walked over to the table, to the lady still sitting there sipping her ale. Cool as a cucumber, he mused as he tied back his thick mane of black hair with a leather strap. There had to be something completely wrong with a woman who could sit in the middle of a bar fight and drink her ale without any screaming. He was used to women screaming. Especially in his bed chamber as they writhed beneath him in pleasure.

But this woman. . .this woman. . . He eyed her up and down, took in the sight of her sitting there with bright pink painted nails, black, slim-fitting leather skirt, 3-inch spike heels, and briefcase was completely out of place.

With his hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans, he approached the beautiful woman. “Are you lost?”

“No,” she said and grinned up at him. His heart skipped a beat when her green gaze glittered up at him as if she had found her quarry and he was it. Maybe this was his lucky day after all.

“Want a drink?” She handed him a pint. He drank half the glass and set it down, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

“I was looking for you, Mr. Elias Black. I found you.”

As if the woman had sucker punched him, he took a step in retreat. He eyed her now, wary of those sparkling eyes and intoxicating smile.

“You have the wrong man. My name is Diego. Diego Jones.”

The lady’s red lips kicked up at one corner and she stood. Long legs met snug black leather that hugged all the right curves. She leaned in and his nostrils flared as her perfume wafted over him. She smelled like spring and sophistication.

“I don’t have the wrong man,” she whispered. “Your name is Elias Black. You grew up in Houston, Texas and are now living in a shack in Guadalajara. You live there because you had a fight with your father and you walked away.”

His heart started beating in his chest and the palms of his hands were sweating. He took them out of his pockets and wiped them against the front of his jeans.

“I know you’re Elias Black.”

One of his dark brows winged upward.

“I know because of the birthmark on your buttocks. It’s in the shape of a crescent moon.”

He stiffened, felt his spine almost snap in half at the mention of his birthmark. How did she. . . It didn’t matter, he told himself, shaking his head.

“As beautiful as you might be and as much as I’d like to see you naked and writhing beneath me, I am not going to bare ass so you can prove or disprove my identity.”

His vision started to blur and his head started to feel heavy as if swimming through a muddy river.

“You. . .You. . .”

His speech slurred before he hit the wooden floor face down and everything went black.

The woman grinned, stepped over her prey, and ignoring everyone staring at the fallen man, she squatted next to him. With gentle fingers, she tugged down his jeans just enough to make her identification. Yes, at the top of his left hip before hip meets butt cheek, she saw the crescent moon.