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Hello everyone and welcome to our newest prompt! This week, we'll be featuring a picture prompt. Remember that you can interpret the prompt however you'd like, provided that there is a clear link between your entry and the prompt provided. For more information, please check out our guidelines below!
PICTURE PROMPT:
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WINNERS:
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The only sound in the room was the shuffling of cards and the mens' heavy breathing. Then Jack spoke, "You know, Gigi, you're the only girl among us boys tonight."
"I know, but y'alls are fine fellas, so I guess I don't mind," I drawled, leaning against the back of my chair lazily. "'Course, none of you are really my type, 'cept for Whit over there."
The men burst into laughter, looking at the Siamese in the corner. "Lucky cat, getting the pretty one. Whee-ooo!" Tenor joked.
"Not so pretty anymore now that she's old," Jim, ever the raincloud, muttered.
"Sour grapes, thirty-three isn't all that old. Besides, y'alls ain't much less than thirty yourselves," I stated.
Everyone chuckled, except Sour Grapes Jim. "The lady's got more than just good looks in her, whee-ooo!" Tenor crowed. "Smart as hell and fiesty as it, too."
Jim, looking sullen, tossed some money on the table. "Whatever. Let's play. We'll see if Gigi can keep up with us boys."
"Sour grapes, I'll be fine. It's y'alls I'm worried about. Could your fragile prides take the hits I'm gonna deliver?" I teased.
"If we prove you wrong, are you going to sell your virginity again?" Eddy asked.
"Naw, Eddy. Did that last year already," I admitted, laughing to myself.
The door burst open. A man, hair mussed and tie askew, stumbled in. "Is it true that you're the Poker Queen?" he blurted. Jim went white.
I flashed a brilliant smile at the dishevelled man. "Naw, Black Jack's more my game," I said, winking slyly at the boy sitting next to me.
"Enough of your nonsense, Gigi. Let's play," Jim grumbled.
While on the fifth round of card bettings, smoking cigars and drowning back whiskey, the merchant noticed her. As soon as the strands of red hair came loose from the turban she was wearing, he recognized her. After hustling his way through a few more rounds of cards, the merchant made an offer to her owner and got her for a night.
Amelia accepted her fate and followed the man into his room. Once inside, he took out a knife and ripped the rags from her body. He'd circle her three times before placing the knife against her throat, his breath encrusted with the smell of tobacco. Grabbing her long red hair, the man inhaled her flowery scent, still persistent over the mated tendrils.
"Tonight, you will be mine, Princess of the Skylands," he hissed into her ear. Amelia stood proud and kept her demeanor stoic. "Any last words?"
The princess turned to face him; her piercing blue eyes locking with his. The death sentence he found in them terrified him. She turned her focus back to the mirror she'd been staring at from the moment they stepped inside.
"You've missed something, merchant," she whispered. Confusion crossed the man's face right before a blank look overtook him. Then he dropped to the floor blood pooling at her feet.
Through the mirror, Amelia's stoic eyes met with the intense yellow eyes of the one responsible for the merchant's death.
Alric, King of the Earthlands. Her mortal enemy and the man she loved but could not have.
He'd been watching her all night, playing cards and putting out bets like the rest, waiting for the right time to save her.
Amelia turned, crouched, grabbed the merchant's knife, and threw it in Alric's direction. The King's eyes widened as he searched his body for the embedded knife, but there was none. The knife was sticking out from the guard's chest behind him.
They were even.
Amelia didn't owe him anything. She would be ready to face him at war, even if her heart died along with his.
"You see, I have this fear of losing my money over stupid things. So I have always been very careful with it." His words slur out of his mouth. His eyes are closed, hiding those beautiful set of deep brown eyes. The once perfectly ironed button-up shirt is now wrinkly and messy. He is holding on to a half empty bottle of beer while his forehead is pressed against the edge of the round table.
"Half empty or half filled?"
The woman stares intently on the dark glass of the bottle. The content is barely visible.
"Huh?" He lifts his head up. A semi-circled line has formed on his forehead. The sleek eyebrows furrow. Confusion clears on his face. "Oh... there is still some of it left. Thanks," he says before gulping down the entire liquid in a matter of seconds.
The woman looks down and smiles to herself. The guy with black curly hair has won the round and people immediately put their bets as she too leans forward.
