This is a piece I wrote for #FridayFlash with the letter I as my writing prompt.
She pirouetted through her door.
Sunlight flooded the living room from the skylight overhead. She danced through the rays. Step, step, jump, arms at shoulder length, step, hands above her head, be graceful, turn her head just so.
She stopped on the final pose, and laughed. It was too perfect.
“You got the part,” her husband stated.
She straightened, smiling up at him. “No.” But she would as soon as full dose of ice worked on her.
I decided to write a Friday flash with a title that starts with C, because of the A to Z challenge. This is what resulted.
Rain drizzled down, a steady, punishing stream of water.
It wound down the body of the stone statue, past its blind eyes and dripped on ground already soaked with rain.
And me? It left me dry. My sister didn’t dare touch me, even here, far from land and age of our power. She still stayed clear of me, left me in a circle as dry as the sands of our birth.
Well, she would not touch her either. This rain wasn’t true, as fake as the rosy color on her cheeks. She wasn’t grieving. How could she? She had done this, shoved my beloved into a deep ditch and poured water she couldn’t breathe.
I brushed my fingers across the statue’s damp eyes. They were large in life, one brown and one blue, and so beautiful.
I would deepen my sister’s oceans until she thought she was winning; I would dry up her rivers and lakes; I would turn her land into the sands for our family’s graveyard.
And I would start here, on this island.
Snow covered the tumulus. Scraggly, bare brown branches rose above it, providing meager shelter against the weather.
Not that she needed shelter anymore.
Drifts piled up against the edges and the steps were impossible to see.
I sank in to the knee on the first step. Wet and cold seeped in past my pants and trickled down my bare skin.
I pushed my hands through the snow for something solid to brace my hands against. The snow was soft and white as my hair. Perfect.
I crawled up to the top of the tumulus, slowly and with great care. Cold seeped into me until I felt as though my bones were made of ice and my belly filled with rock pellets.
Gray edged my vision and my breath made foggy puffs of wind in the air. Snow started to fall again. It dotted my black coat like a white fungus. My face heated under the falling flakes and I laughed.
The sky was white, a glorious white, beautiful as my absent wife. It warmed me as she did. This snow, it was better than the softest wool blanket.
I stood at the top of the tumulus, panting. Blood covered my fingers, but all I felt was burning. This burn didn’t hurt, couldn’t compare to the ache in my chest.
I sank down under the nearest tree. Snow crusted my pants and shoes and shirt. But I didn’t care. The tree’s slender branches bracketed the sky and I knew I was home.
She chortled and spun the hard black lace. Sweet, delightful air rushed past her wings.
She grinned and hopped backward, watching. It spun and spun!
Oh! Such fun!
Below, her provider paused and looked up. Now he would see.
She jumped and grabbed hold of the pretty blackness and yanked, wings beating furiously.
It was off! It spun faster and faster, until she hardly needed to make it go. Wind pushed her forward, glorious, speedy air. It was better than her provider’s big metal den.
“Sofia!” Her provider stood below her, waving his hands. “No! No, Sofia. Sit.”
Concerned, she let go and drifted down. He only sounded like that when some danger tried to cut off her wings.
“Good girl.” His hands cupped her back, warm and comforting. “What were you doing up there anyway, huh? We’ll get you some sugar and you can play in your cart, okay? But stay away from the mill.”
Step. Step. Step.
Gasp. Step. Gasp.
She staggered inside, shuddered as the heat of the store made its way under her jacket, sweater, shirt, thermals and scarf.
She ignored the roars and rush of the crowd.
Instead, she clenched with her numb, worn gloved fingers a yellow ticket: small, badly printed, but the answer to her dreams.
The check-out line grew long behind her, wove around product displays and was full of loud chatter.
She ignored it all.
The small slim box the checkout girl handed her was wonderful. Perfect. Others wouldn’t think so, but she could type now. Write whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted to. Watch videos, even.
She no longer needed to wait on the school’s computer labs.
Today’s Friday Flash! It still needs work, I think, but I am not sure exactly what.
Crazy color smeared across her face. Pale pink on her eyelid transformed into neon pink on her eyebrow. The left eyelid was colored light blue, but somehow bright blue dotted her cheeks. Her hair was powdered with lemon yellow. Similar colors spilled down her shirt and the new white shorts she’d wanted to wear for her birthday party.
“What are you supposed to be?” he asked.
She burst into tears. Oddly, her tears made no tracks through the color on her face.
His wife chose that moment to come in and scowled at him. “She’s a Neon. Her ability is to spread color on every surface.”
He winced. That was the most useless Neon ability. Invariably, they were house painters, interior designers or fashion designers. Artists, too, many times.
Too bad his baby girl could only draw stick figures and hadn’t the fashion sense of a poodle.
“Papa!” She threw herself into his arms. “What am I gonna do?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.” He closed his arms tight around her. “We’ll figure something out.”
They had time. She was only sixteen.
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.
I don’t know where this come from and I had a little trouble with it, but it’s done.
Purple oil flowers covered the landscape as far she could see. A money maker, these fields, but so far from any shops.
She cast a longing glance to the west, past the big tree, picturing the town miles down the road. Her brother would be meeting with PurpleFlow’s finance people right about now. Her job was to babysit the flowers.
Too bad they needed nothing from her. The flowers were like a weed. They would grow anywhere at all, as long they had the right soil. But that was her secret.
She sighed, tucked her matching PurpleFlow phone into her jean pockets and went out to make a soil check.
The soil compost containers were stacked against the back walls. Faint whimpers emanated from the last, top-most crate. She detoured to check on it.
The young man looked fine. His blood trickled into the soft, black soil. His hazel eyes were dazed from the pain, but his still struggled against his chains. His wrists, elbows, knees and ankles were rubbed raw, but that didn’t matter. She’d made small holes in his limbs so the blood drained slowly. Too much would ruin the soil.
But the whimpering! She grabbed a ball gag she’d left in the box for just such occasions and stuffed it into his mouth. The strap cut into his mouth, but she didn’t care.
She petted the top of his matted, stiff hair and closed the crate lid. The bottom one was ready; the boy in there was just a skeleton now. She filled a container with the soil and set off to fertilize her fields.
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.
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.