Prompt: Obsessed

creepy kitten

Marigold loved romantic movies, loved sitcoms about relationships, loved books about passionate love affairs. She knew the drill:

A real man doesn’t give up. He knows who he loves, and if she doesn’t realize it quite yet, then he is persistent. His passion is romantic, masculine; her hesitation is either false or fickle, and to be overcome. Love will conquer all.

Sending flowers, cards, messages and emails, appearing unannounced at his true love’s workplace, or flying across country and showing up uninvited on his true love’s doorstep, even though she has rejected him, is real love. She will see that, eventually. She will be flattered, understand the power of his love, and love him back.

Real men pursue until their prey acquiesce.

After meeting Jeanie’s “friend”, her views shifted. Jeanie did impress upon her that Guy’s attentions were unwanted, intrusive, and even threatening behaviours. As a friend, Marigold supported these perceptions, but in her heart she wondered what it would be like to have someone love you to such and extent that they simply would not take no for an answer.

Now she knew. He left gifts outside her door. They were creepy, intimate gifts: soaps, or body oils, or odd little figures of puppies and kittens, or postcards of exotic places he had never visited, or letters. The letters described what they would do together, when she finally loved him back.

She stopped answering the telephone, and he left messages, some so long that the tape ran out. He left messages on her Facebook page.

She could see him standing on the sidewalk across from her apartment.

Marigold contacted the police. She said he was harassing and stalking her. They said their hands were tied, as he had not made any explicit physical threats. He had told her more than once that he would kill himself if she wouldn’t see him. Jeanie told her to ignore him.

She could barely sleep at night, afraid the phone might ring. So she developed a plan, whereby she would return the attentions. She started a notebook, and jotted down ideas and strategies as she thought of them. Repaying Guy for the hell he had been putting her through, for the time and attention she wasted worrying about him, for the futile visits to the police— became an obsession. She wanted to ask Jeanie for help and suggestions, but feared Jeanie would not approve.

But she would go ahead with her plan anyway. She would leave scary things on his doorstep— truly scary things. She would call him at all hours and hang up— consistently. She would send anonymous messages to his employers, and she would hack his Facebook account. Her hands were not tied. She would act.


  • The subject isn’t really funny, but the satire is: The Onion.

The Object of My Desire

Prompt: Object

youre my cup of tea

She is the object of my desire. I want only the best for her, because she is special and deserves it. She is modest and doesn’t see how important and worthy she is. But I see it. I see it in her eyes. They are blue-gray and expressive. I watch her eyes when she isn’t looking. I see that she understands the world and is saddenend by it, as I am.

Her name is Jennifer.

Her hair is blonde and she has some pale freckles. She is pretty. But that is just the external Jennifer. Inside she needs care and attention.

You think I am a stalker? You are wrong.

Jennifer is my wife. I wouldn’t stalk my own wife, since that makes no sense.

It’s just that she sometimes doesn’t understand her own power, her own goodness and the light she shines on others. That is why I ask her to be careful.

She says she will be, but she really isn’t. She has friends who take advantage of her. Why should she drop everything to go see a friend who has barely proven their friendship to her? People treat her with less than the respect she deserves, at work especially. She does nothing to change this, because she has faith in others.

I love her more than anything. More than my mother, or myself, or Perky, our dog.

Sometimes people are too good for this world.

Now you think I would kill my wife. Jennifer, the woman I love. Of course I would not kill her, or harm her in any way. You have been reading too many trashy novels.

But I need to do something. You see, I am dying.

I haven’t told Jennifer this, but of course she already knows. She puts that stuff in my soup, in my coffee, and thinks I can’t taste it. But I can. It tastes a bit like clay, sort of slatey and salty.

She knows best though. She is wise and kind. I’m sure she has chosen a formula that should not cause me pain. And there is not much pain, not much at all. When I start to cramp up, she brings me tea.

I love her so much.