Monday: Poetry

[beckonade]

Hi there! I'm your host for the week, beckonade, and today's theme is poetry. All prompts should be either poems or quotes from poems. If the poem you'd like to use as a prompt is long enough to be unwieldy, feel free to simply provide a link to it.

Just a few rules:No more than five prompts in a row

Comments

2/2 - Scream 1996/Highlander, talk of violence/death

[tigriswolf]

In a diner in Oregon, with a plateful of breakfast hash and a notebook full of half-baked ideas, Stu shivers as a tingle dances along his spine.

A pale guy slides into the booth across from him, messy dark hair that reminds him of Billy and a smirk that’s all teeth. Stu blinks at him but the guy just reaches out to steal his breakfast.

“Go on,” he says, adding salt and pepper to the hash, with a nod to the notebook. “I’m curious to see what you come up with.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Stu demands quietly because even though he’s supposed to be dead, everyone is still freaked out by the so-called Woodsboro Massacre. (Okay, the name is kinda cool. It still feels like failure because Billy-)

“Call me Ben,” he says, and now he’s reaching for Stu’s soda.

Stu just lets him take it. “Okay, Ben,” he hisses, pulling the notebook closer. “And what the fuck do you want?”

Ben’s pale eyes assess him as Ben leans back, still fucking smirking around Stu’s breakfast. “You need a teacher, kiddo,” he says, like he’s not barely older than Stu, from what Stu can tell. Stu’s normally good with accents but he can’t place Ben’s.

“A teacher?” he echoes, because what?

“A mentor, an instructor, a trainer, take your pick,” Ben says before taking a gulp of the soda. “I’ve grown bored with my current circumstances, moralizing boyscouts always preaching at me, you know,” he continues though Stu, of course, does not know, “and you seem to be quite entertaining.”

Stu stares at him. He straightens up, pushes the plate and cup to the side, clasps his hands on the table. Seriously, quietly, he says, “You remind me of my brothers,” and he looks Stu straight in the eyes. “Without being tempered, you will attract attention and too much attention, Stuart, is fatal for our kind.” Ben grabs the knife from the tableware still wrapped in a napkin, scoffs at it, and as Stu watches in bewilderment, he slices open the pointer finger of his right hand.

And then, lightning dances across the finger, leaving unscored skin in its wake.

“What the fuck,” Stu murmurs. Ben just smirks at him again. Still. Stu wonders, inanely, if the bastard can even make another expression. “Just… what the fuck.”

“Are you finished with breakfast?” Ben asks, pulling out his wallet. “I’m quite curious about the plans you’ve got in there.” He tilts his head toward Stu’s notebook, which Stu quickly flips closed.

Stu now leans back, crosses his arms over his chest. Then, he shrugs, says, “Ah, what the fuck,” and when Ben throws down a 20, he follows the guy out into the bright morning.