Waiting For Her To Arrive

Even though he had been told that it was the epitome of bad manners, he kept his hands in his pockets.

He couldn’t help it.

It had been a long time since he’d seen her. Too long. She had moved high up in the world, while he had stayed in the bottom rungs.

The fine suit that he was wearing was just an easy lie. A borrowed suit coat. His best pair of old slacks.

She would see the old seams.

She always saw through his lies.

Every lie.

That was why he was standing in line like the others, waiting for her to arrive, instead of walking by her side.

The old games they had played.

The easy comradery they had shared.

The fast and easy nicknames.

The chance for her to love him…It all went to wreck and ruin with his last lie. She left him and took her rightful place as the Princess she was meant to be.

She left him behind with angry words and awful hurt.

“She’s coming! Look! Look! Look at the Grand Duchess Anastasia!”

He kept his hands in his pockets and nervously jingled his keys.

He wanted to lower his gaze and contemplate the blue and gold tiled floor.

But he kept his head up.

He had to see her again, even though it would destroy him all over again.

Then, like sunlight bursting through storm clouds, Anastasia arrived with her entourage of important people.

He knew their faces and names, but none of them mattered.

There she was…The Grand Duchess Anastasia. Her red hair beautifully arranged. Her brocade gown, a charming fit. Her blue eyes, so much brighter and deeper than he’d remembered.

She greeted each person she passed with a smile and kind words.

He knew that smile. He remembered it. More than anything else, he remembered that smile.

He stopped jingling his keys.

He held them, tightened his grip on them. Their teeth bit his skin, reminding him that he was still alive, he was still there.

She stopped in front of him.

They looked at each other in a frozen moment.

He bowed. “Your Highness.”

“Dimitri.”

December Writing Prompts

No Superhero In Disguise

I’m a laid-back, wassup kind of guy. You know what I mean? I’m no superhero in disguise. That’s for sure. Superheroing ain’t my pile of dishrags.

Never planned on being a superhero. That’s like Mick Jagger territory or something.Or, uhhh, you know, that Iron Man guy. Whatever his name is.

Then, my ex-wife got mad at me and bit me. Yeah, she’s always been kind of a savage thing. It’s what attracted me to her in the first place and what very quickly drove me away. She owns her savagery like a lion cub owns his mane. Or something like that.

So, yeah. She bit me and all. I don’t know why. She don’t even live in my house anymore. Why should she care if I use Arm & Hammer laundry detergent instead of Gain?  Don’t even get why she thinks it’s any of her business. I mean, I don’t go pitching fits about her using her girly glop shampoos instead of Axe.

I gaped as she dug her teeth deep into my arm. She pulled the skin this way and that way. And you know? It kinda hurt. It kinda hurt a lot. Then, she spit out a whole hunk.

I guess it alarmed me to see a whole honkin’ chunk of my arm meat on the floor. Or maybe the blood loss got to me. Don’t now for sure. Anyway, I fainted.

I came out of my faint hours later.

And dogs be punched! That woman was still there. She asked me how I was feeling. I thought that was ripe with weird. She’s never cared all that much about how I’m feeling. That was the other reason why we broke up. I was doing all the feeling and she was doing all the not caring. It got to me after a while

Any such, I opened my mouth to tell her all manner of stuff and this loud sonic boom noise came out of my mouth instead.

Her face got all white-like.

I don’t know much about what my face looked like, but it just had to be as pale as hers.

She got into this whole big tangent about how that wasn’t supposed to happen. I was all like Heck yeah. That ain’t supposed to happen out of my mouth. I tried to tell her that too.

Sonic boom #2 came out. Vibrated the insides of my ears. Made my throat all itchy.

So, yeah. She really freaked out about that. She ran away, wailing that we were gonna be mortal enemies. Or nemesis. Nemesises. Nemesesesed? Or you know, whatever the plural of nemesis is. I watched her drive off in her beefed up Volkswagen Beetle.

I scratched my head. So…? Was I supposed to go chasing after her and make her pay for her wicked ways or *insert heroic catchphrase*?

I wasn’t all that keen on that idea. Chasing means running and making her pay don’t mean getting her to hand over her charge card. It means fighting to the death and *insert heroic action*.

Nuh-uh. All that stuff sounded like a whole lot of work that I just wasn’t up to bothering with.

I went into the living room, cracked open a warm beer, and watched Maury Povich instead.

Only For You

This short story was inspired by Sarah Doughty’s micropoem “Thumping”. 

https://thesarahdoughty.wordpress.com/2017/02/24/thumping/

“I’m going to tell you a secret.” He whispered the words so soft in her ear. “I trust you.” He paused and said in a softer whisper, “My heart beats only for you.”

Susan smiled. “All lovers say that and many husbands and wives.”

“They don’t mean it the way I do. Whenever you leave me, whenever you aren’t around, my heart stutters, sputters, and stops. I stand in suspended animation. Unable to think. Unable to breathe. Unable to move. Then, you return and my life returns. My heart beats again.”

“That is the most beautiful thing any man has ever said to me.”

“It isn’t beauty.”

“It’s poetry.”

“It isn’t poetry.”

“Then, what is it?”

“It’s truth. All truth.”

“Of course, it is.” She kissed him.

His heart beat strong as he kissed her.

“I’ll see you in a little bit. I have to get some things from the store.” She grabbed her purse, blew him a kiss, and left.

His expression dulled.

The light in his eyes darkened.

His posture wilted.

His arms hung limp.

She’ll be home soon. was his last conscious thought before his brain fully shut down.

 

 

Do You Want Your Picture Taken?

The little girl watched the photographer set up the camera, the stark white screen. It was all strange and mysterious to her.

The photographer smiled a wide, easy smile. “Do you want your picture taken?”

She ducked her head and ran off.

She hid in the safe serenity of her tent. Her fingers touched the lines on her face. Lines that dug deep through skin layers.

She heard the voices of the other villagers inside those lines. “Ugly. Scarred. Ruined beauty. Ugly. Ugly .Ugly.”

Ugly.

Strange how a word, a simple word, four letters long and short, could feel worse than the knife that had created the physical wounds.

Ugly.

It hurt so much more than the word scarred. She understood why. Scarred indicated something old, something healed, something without power.

But ugly.

Ugly was something always new.

Ugly was a face slap.

Ugly was a rejection.

Ugly was worthlessness in four letters.

She curled up under her blankets.

But she could not sleep.

She kept thinking about that woman with the large camera and the stark white screen. Unblemished white screen. Un-ugly white screen.

It too held power over her.

The power of wonder.

The power of curiosity.

The power of insomnia until she knew more.

She crawled out of her tent and glanced around. No one was about.

She walked carefully as a cat.

She walked faster as curiosity called her onward and pulled her and chased her.

She stopped at the edge of the clearing.

The other villagers were there getting their pictures taken.

The little girl slunk into the shadows and sat still, watching.

The white flash startled her at first, but no one seemed to be harmed by it.

A couple of the babies cried. The mothers smiled. The fathers looked stern and unapproachable. The teenaged girls giggled and laughed. The teenaged boys acted silly and preened and smacked each other with branches.

The photographer flashed the light on all of their antics.

The little girl’s curiosity grew stronger. She crept out of the shadows.

The light flashed again and again.

She hesitated. Her fingers trailed the lines on her skin. Would the photographer call her ugly? And scarred? And unlovable?

She remembered the woman’s easy, unafraid smile. “Do you want your picture taken?”

The word ‘ugly’ was not in her words. Nor had it been in her eyes. Nor in her smile.

Yet, the little girl waited until all of the other villagers had their moment in the light’s flash.

She approached the photographer.

As careful as a cat.

As timid as a child.

She tugged on the woman’s tan skirt.

Again, that easy smile. “Do you want your picture taken too?”

The little girl covered her large scar with her small hand.

The woman’s hand touched the child’s hand.  “Don’t hide it. It is a part of you. Your past. Your memories. It is something you have survived. Be proud of it. Own it.”

Strange words.

But the word ugly was not hidden in them. A strange powerful magic lived in each letter, in each breath, in each punctuation mark.

The little girl lowered her hand and held her head with pride.

“Do you want your picture taken?”

The little girl nodded.

She sat with her hands in her lap and looked straight ahead at the photographer.

The light flashed.

Today, My Name Is…

I’ve changed my name a lot of times. I used to keep a list of names I’ve used. Then, I ran out of paper.

Paper isn’t cheap.

Neither is ink.

Now, I just store those names in my head. Sometimes I write them down in the dirt or in the sand. I don’t like writing them down in the snow.

Today I’m Emily Barclay. That is who I am. Emily Barclay. It’s important I remember and don’t slip up.

I slipped up once.

Nearly died.

Won’t make that mistake again.

So, today I’m Emily Barclay. I can’t forget. So, I won’t forget.

Who knows who I’ll be tomorrow?

Some Nights

The girl with the ebony hair laid down on her makeshift bed in the old classroom.

Some nights she liked to imagine that she could hear the voices of the students.

Some would be laughing.

Some would be gossiping.

Others would be just like her.

Silent.

But, unlike her, they would be silent by choice rather than by design.

Some nights she wondered what it would be like to talk.

What would it feel like? The thrum of the air vibrating her vocal cords and coming out as speech. She tried to imagine it, but failed so many nights in a row.

What would it sound like? High? Low? Nasally? Would it be a good voice?

Would she have an accent? Like Professor Hrashna, perhaps? She had a beautiful voice that came out in starts and stops and stammers and Scottish burrs.

Or would her voice be plain? Devoid of any accent. That’s what they had originally planned for her. Her voice had failed them and it had failed her too. So, they removed it before she could become too attached to it. Before she could even remember its feel, its sound, its wholeness.

She lay in her makeshift bed and stroked her neck, trying to find the place where her voice was supposed to be.

The room was dark.

And it was too dark.

Just like it had been back there.

She got out of bed and shuffled towards the light switches on the wall.

She flipped one. The universe and all of its constellations appeared in neon purple light.

She flipped the next one. Chemical formulations overlayed the constellations, creating a nonsensical pattern of hodgepodge.

She flipped the third one. Mathematical equations blended into the purple lit mix.

She went back to bed and laid down.

Purple lines streaked and colored her. Blurred words stretched across her skin.

She raised her arm into the equations, formulations, and constellations and wondered at it all.

She wondered where she fit in.

She wondered where she belonged.

She wondered if she should return to the Institute.

Maybe they would be kind this time.

Maybe they would welcome her back.

Maybe they would treat her well.

Maybe.

Maybe this time.

Maybe this time they would give her a voice.

Maybe.

https://pauldaronson.wordpress.com/2017/02/11/flash-fiction-count-to-50-and-breathe/

 

Daily Prompt: Ten

It takes only ten minutes to make rice. Or was it eleven? Would that one minute added or subtracted make that much of a difference?

Eloise had no idea, but she wanted to make it right.

No one would notice if it were so right or wrong, but this wasn’t about other people. This was all about her.

She wanted to know that she could do something right. She needed to prove to herself that she could make something good.

Do something right.

Just for once in her life.

Even if it were something as ordinary and everyday as boiling rice and making it good.

Making it all right.

Just for once.

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/ten/

via Daily Prompt: Ten

Sword In The Ceiling

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There’s a sword stuck in my ceiling.

I look at it every which way.

Yeah, it’s a sword all right.

I suppose I must have been the one who stabbed it up there. I don’t remember doing it, of course. A person can’t help but remember doing strange things like that.

So, yeah.

I don’t know what to do about it. I could pull it out, but what if it makes the whole ceiling come crashing down? I wouldn’t like that. It would be expensive to fix.

So, no big deal. I’ll just leave it up there. It seems to be in pretty solid. So, no point in jiggling it loose and have it come crashing down on unsuspecting heads.

Still.

There’s a sword stuck in my ceiling.

I think I need to pull it out.

Somehow.