Hump Day Kick Start – Morgue Edition

Hump Day Kick Start – for your muse, a writing picture prompt, or just a visual treat.


It’s coming! Halloween, that is. And what better way to celebrate the holiday than with something…creepy.

Tell me about today’s prompt. What’s going on here? Is she a scientific experiment gone wrong? The beginning of a zombie apocalypse? Had he not killed her after all (or maybe he had) and she’s coming back for him? What if this is a case of mistaken identity?

Come on, ghosts and ghoulies. Tell me a tale or caption the pic.

6 Responses to Hump Day Kick Start – Morgue Edition

  1. jeff7salter says:

    Poor Uriah.
    As the eighth son of an eighth son, Uriah always got the short end of the stick.
    The essence of a family curse, from the 14th century, held it that the 8th son of an 8th son in the Leopold clan would not even experience death properly.
    Sure enough, eight days after Uriah had been laid out in the morgue… that little light inside him flickered back on.
    Now he remembered how he’d died — fleeing his lover’s upstairs bedroom window as her outraged husband burst thru the door with a shotgun.
    Uriah, with no time to even collect his clothing, had landed in a pile of mud that should have been a garden.
    This morgue is cold and dark… and Uriah has no clothing.
    Maybe Helene would be glad to see him again?
    Maybe time for a cold cuddle?


  2. jbrayweber says:

    Haha! I must admit, Jeff, this is one of your cornier ones. Still, no complaints from me.


  3. jeff7salter says:

    aw… it’s not really corny, is it?
    Maybe hokey, though.


  4. I told him I’d love him to the grave and back. He just didn’t believe it, laughed at the idea. To him it was ridiculous, an impossibility for someone, anyone to claim let alone prove. So when I watched put the ring on another’s finger, of course I wasn’t in any sane frame of mind, forget behaving rationally. All I could see was that hand, some stranger’s hand receiving what should have been mine and not the real impossible curve over the Hollywood Hills. Normally people couldn’t see that and neither could I through the tears that ran angry from my eyes and blurred them into red.The Maserati was airborn for a long, long moment down toward LA and the red turned from anger to terror as both it and myself burned to cinders that fell like all the fallen angels of Hollywood on their downward spiral.
    I woke up here. The incredible pain was still with me but I told myself that it was nothing compared to the pain of losing him. And it was. The seared flesh hummed into the background as I kicked open the cold door easily as if I’d somehow grown powerful and horrifyingly so. I had to find him, to show him that it was possible to love someone enough to return from the dead to be with them. Once he saw me he would know that. He would know the pain that even the Maserati felt when we hit the ground flaming and died alone each one of us. He would see that when I swore nothing–and no one–could stop me from that deep demented love I was serious. He would know now what pain and hell I’d go through–did go through–to love him endlessly. I grasped the cold wall of the morgue “cooler” box and slowly, agonizingly inched my body outward toward the warm side of the room. Once he saw me he would know what I said was possible, is possible because I just did it. Once he saw me, he’d have to love me then because I’d done it–swore it and had the awful scars to prove it. “I told you I’d love you to the grave and back,” I could say to him now and make him believe it. All the scars all the suffering were worth it. “See?” I could say, “I loved you to the grave…and back.”

    Okay okay, it’s late and I am soooo sick of the stupid saying “I love you to the moon and back” and I wrote this in response to that…


  5. jbrayweber says:

    Ooh…creepy. I love it, Patti! Somehow, though, I don’t think he will welcome seeing her again.


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