My first friday flash in a couple of weeks. Didn’t feel like writing one today either, but thought: I should.
The full moon rose above the tree line, big and round and dirty white, like someone had smeared dusty fingers across it.
She looked away, not wanting to see it. Terrible thing.
Flowers buried their heads in their petals all along the lawn. When she was little, she used to think they slept and sang them a lullaby in the evening.
She knew better now, didn’t she?
She bent to pick a bloodroot. Its white petals were tightly furled and soft as a newborn’s head. She picked one and let it drop on the dark green grass.
I will die.
Another petal floated to the ground. He will die.
A third petal joined its siblings. I will die.
A wolf emerged from the copse of woods and padded closer. His blond fur gleamed in the moonlight.
The fourth petal drifted down to rest on her sandaled foot. He will die.
His fur wavered and rippled under the full moon.
A fifth white petal wafted away in a gust of wind. I will die.
A man rose from the grass, tall, naked and skin like brightly polished copper.
The sixth petal landed on his black hair. He will die.
“We need to talk, babe,” he rumbled.
They did not.
The seventh petal circled down to land on the ground between them. I will die.
She pointed the gun she had taken from our locker. It held silver bullets she had especially commissioned. “There is nothing left to say.”
The last petal drifted away, out of sight on the wind. He will die.
The shot missed him, smacked into the ground behind him. He never even flinched. Bastard.
He took several steps forward. “Come on, babe. You don’t want to shoot me.”
She turned away. “I want you gone.”
His arms closed around her waist. “I am sorry. It won’t happen.”
His heat seeped through her clothes. “No. It won’t.”
“I can make it up to you.” He blew a breath in her ear.
“You can’t. My mother’s crystal! You can’t replace it.”
“Give me a chance. Please.”
She huffed out a breath.
This post is a little weird. It comes at the end of a spectacularly shitty week. At first I wasn’t even going to write one, but it is Friday evening and I thought why not? It’s mostly incomplete sentences and almost random images. It is a little strange and a new thing for me to do. I am not sure it works.
Arms raised. Turn. Turn the other way. Look up. Look down.
Gentle fingers probe a soft, flabby stomach, move up to bare, sagging breasts.
Avoid the large protrusion on the bottom left joint. Wipe off yellow pus and red blood.
Get up, dress in a hospital gown and clutch the back with one hand. Lie down on a hospital bed. Get wheeled to a room.
Smell disinfectant. Finger is pricked. Swallow pills. Watch blood fill three little tubes.
Sign forms. Dress again in normal clothes. Leave.
Stuff like this comes out of my keyboard when I don’t feel like writing. ;)
She leaned close to the mirror and examined the tattoo. It covered up the scar very well, distracted the eye with intricate whorls and angles of black ink.
Her man appeared in the mirror, right behind her shoulder. His tattoo was white, bright against the inky darkness of his skin. It made a pretty pattern of slashes and dots on his throat and arms.
He put both hands on her shoulders. “Ready?”
She turned, met his red eyes. The eyes of a hunter; the eyes she would soon have. “Yes.” This had been decades in the coming, but she was ready now.
The room was prepared, clean, the knives sharp and the drains cleared.
She stripped and lay down; the paper crinkled under her.
Her maker ran his fingers over her throat. She tracked the movement of his hands when he stroked his knuckles down her arm.
She gasped when he slashed her wrists open. The wound hurt. He held her down, pinned her arms to the table so she wouldn’t move. She flexed her fingers against the steel of the table, trying to block the pain. But soft whimpers escaped from her.
Warm blood gushed down the drains. Her vision went black at the edges. Her last sight was of her man being led in and lying down in the table next to her.
They would be together.
This just came to me. I am not entirely sure about it figured I would post anyway.
Color smeared the sky like a child’s finger-painting.
The colors were reflected in the glass and concrete buildings around. He sighed and sat on the edge of the roof, legs dangling in empty air.
Four stories below, people walked or biked past. Some strolled and many ran as though they were in the middle of a marathon. Poor things. Why did they bother? Nothing was going to happen tonight. Dreams shattered and it didn’t matter how hard you tried. No one cared.
Too bad his building wasn’t taller. He raised his eyes to the too-pretty buildings around him. Like sitting in his micro car and being surrounded by a dozen trucks. He should stay away.
But he couldn’t help but think of ways to sneak to the top of one. Maybe the bridge would be easier.
V danced for the crowd. The red folds of her dress swirled around her, sometimes obscuring her from the crowd, sometimes revealing her.
The crowd chanted her name: Red V. V. V. Red!
The music thrummed through, a counter point to her own nature, named for her. Venom.
The crowd swayed with her.
She twirled over the stage, her bare feet pounding the floorboards. Thump. Step. Thump. Leap.
With each step the venom in her music spread. One by one the people in the crowd crashed like felled trees.
Only one man was left standing. The reason she was here. The reason for these destroyed lives.
He grinned and jumped atop the nearest body. But the music didn’t stop and she didn’t stop moving.
Soon he, too, fell.
She was free! She turned one last somersault and landed on his chest.
Tell me what you think about this story? Is it confusing?
Eyebrows arched high, blue eyes wide and carefully made up to hide the first signs of wrinkles, Ashara posed in front of the crowd. Colorful fabric streamed behind her, a parody of the flags ringing the stadium. Cameras flashed, but the applause was polite.
She turned on her six-inch heels and stalked back across the stage. Her hair swept down her back in long, loose waves; it excited more comment than the flower-print folds of her dress.
Her heels left faint gold marks on the wooden boards, but no one noticed.
The next model was a slim, dark figure in white wedges, a shimmering black crop top and ivory pants. She strode over her predecessor’s footsteps.
The crowd roared and cameras flashed enough to blind anyone unfortunate enough to get caught in the glare. The model kept turning, kept moving. She was rumored to take Ashara’s place as the next top model.
A hush came over the crowd when she stumbled and went down hard. One of the stage crew helped her off.
Ashara came back in a number designed to show off a svelte body, all smooth lines and shining fabric. Whispers flowed like water at her appearance. She looked as if she had lost a decade in the ten minutes she had been off stage.
My J word jinni. My take on it is slightly different.
Only the tip of his nose, lower cheeks and jaw was spared. The rest of his face was covered in shadow as dark as night.
His stared at me with eyes like chips of the sun-drenched sky, given life. I had failed him, I and I alone. Seated on either side of me, the other village elders trembled like leaves in a gale. The villagers gathered around us, shocked speechless.
Oh, but for all the honor we did our dead, had either of us expected this?
I kept my gaze fixed on his face; I didn’t want to look at the rest of him. I knew what I had done too well. “Blessed jinni, what may we do for you this night?”
His mouth opened; broken, bloody teeth shone in the firelight.
I rubbed my knuckles under the table, massaging away remembered pain.
I jerked. He’d been blindfolded. He couldn’t have recognized me.
He turned his burning gaze next to me, on my twin, whose life I had chosen over the fruit of my own blood.
The jinnis’ words came again: “Die.”
The villagers gasped. I looked up to see my son staring at me. His head whipped between me and the jinni of his own dead son. Understanding appeared on his face like a storm, with soft rain and gentle breezes, than with the force of winds powerful enough to uproot whole trees.
He knew I’d betrayed him. I failed to protect his boy from the filth of my twin, as I’d failed to protect him decades earlier.
My son’s anger was a blade sharp enough to let free my lifeblood. And, this time, I didn’t fight him, didn’t try to protect my twin.
A story made up of nothing but dialogue is a challenge for me, because I’m not especially good at it. I haven’t written one in a long time and today I feel, oddly, inspired by soap operas. I suspect nothing good can come of this, but I’m giving it a shot.
“Stay away! Go away, or I swear to god I’ll call the cops! Go. Go.”
“Baby, listen. Please, just listen. I’m -“
“You have the nerve to apologize, after what you did? With the pool boy!”
”It didn’t mean nothing. He wasn’t always a pool boy and I know him from way back. But I’m just into you these days, baby, just you. He means nothing to me. Nothing!”
“Officer? Yes, my ex is harassing me and won’t leave. Could you – thank you.”
“You shouldn’t have done that, baby. You really shouldn’t have. You see this? Give me a hundred thousand and your computer, and the world won’t see it.”
I actually came up with a Valentine’s Day flash! Yes! Well, a drabble anyway.
Her mouth throbbed in time to her pulse. Scree had clocked her good. The bastard was going to pay.
She stood above him on the muddy ground, heedless of her white heels. “You shouldn’t have done it.”
Scree stared up at her, eyes terrified, and moaned something. She thought it sounded like sorry.
“Should’ve been sorry when you slept with my sister. The bitch.” She stood above him in the shooting position she had looked up just an hour ago: feet spread, right elbow slightly bent, left fully bent.
The first shot hit his heart. Blood sprayed like red champagne.
I am not sure where this came from, but it’s only a hundred words.
She watched his truck barrel down the road. The convoy – friends for at least a decade – followed him like beads on a string. Odd-shaped, bumpy beads, rejects from the bead factory.
She waved my fingers; the large snow dunes on either side of the road melted slightly and shifted.
His truck sped past the first of the dunes. Lumps of snow and ice fell and lodged between wheels and coated windshields in a fine icy pellets.
His truck slowed to a crawl; behind him the convoy stopped entirely. He stopped only when the truck’s wheels spun uselessly.
She smiled, pleased.