Sneaking in at the very last minute with my offering for Kat Avila's Tuesday Flash Fiction Train
Rita stood in the middle of the aisle, eyes squeezed shut. The screams no longer reached her ears and she shuddered in anguish at the result of her rage. The memories had flooded her mind, intermingled with the taunts of the old woman and other passengers.
She had let it overcome her.
A hand touched her shoulder then stroked her cheek.
“Rita.”
She ignored the whisper, soft and warm as a summer’s breeze. But Walter would not be shunned.
“Rita, open your eyes. Look at me.”
“Nooo,” she sobbed, “I can’t look! I can’t!”
She could hear the people on the bus again. “What’s wrong with you, girly girl?” it was the screech of the old woman.
Again she heard the soft voice, “Hush now, Lucy. You haven’t walked in her steps. Go still yourself.”
“But…”
“Sit, Lucy.”
As Rita finally opened her eyes, she saw the old woman trudge to an empty seat. The bus moved steadily down the street, the passengers still staring at her, but without the hostility she remembered. There was no blood, no shattered windows. No one screamed.
Rita looked back to Walter, “I thought…I thought I killed them!”
“You almost did.” Walter said, “but you stopped before it became real. You chose life over death.”
“How?”
Walter smiled at her. “Because you are stronger than the coven. They couldn’t control you as easily as they thought.”
“But the memories, the pain.”
“Lies. All of it.”
Rita shook her head in confusion, it had seemed so real. But as she tried to recall the fear and hate, the feelings faded.
“You are free, Rita.” As he turned to go, Walter looked back one more time, “See you in my dreams.”
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Friday, March 4, 2016
Blown Away
My offering for this week's Coldly Calculating prompt at Our Write Side.
Sherry sat on the back porch listening to the newly opened leaves shuffle against each other in the gusty spring air. She loved the smell of fresh growth. Though this morning it was tainted with the strong flavor of bleach..
She sighed, it couldn’t be helped. In the end, bleach was the only answer. Some things just couldn’t be washed away with soap and water. At least not entirely.
She rose from her seat and headed for the garage. Once there, she searched the neatly organized shelves. “Ah! There you are!” she grinned as she bent to retrieve the mason jar filled with the soft blue hue chosen for her bedroom. “And he thought I was silly to save some of the paint.”
Rummaging further, Sherry found a paint brush. it had been carefully cleaned and stored after use. She glanced around the garage contentedly. Everything neat and tidy. Just as it should be.
She took the brush and jar inside. Refusing to be distracted by the clutter in the kitchen, Sherry strode purposefully into the bedroom. It would only take a few minutes to touch up the spots left by the scouring pad.
After she finished, she scurried through the kitchen once more; only taking time to toss the blue tinged brush at the sink. Once the jar was tucked safely back on its shelf in the garage, she took a deep breath. The kitchen would have to be tackled next. The longer she left it, the more stressed she’d get.
As Sherry crossed the yard, she was momentarily mesmerized by the movement of three sheets waving lazily in the breeze. They were secured to the line with her grandmother’s old clothespins. She smiled. No hint of stain was visible in the bright spring sunshine.
Now, on to the kitchen she told herself. With lips pressed in a determined line, she stepped into the space.
He’d thought he surprise her with a spaghetti dinner. It had been thoughtful of him she supposed. But what could he have been thinking? Leaving puddles of sauce on her normally spotless stove. And so many pans crusted with filth in her shiny sink.
Sherry swallowed the bile and dove into the task.
Well, at least it wasn’t a mistake he’d make again.
Sherry sat on the back porch listening to the newly opened leaves shuffle against each other in the gusty spring air. She loved the smell of fresh growth. Though this morning it was tainted with the strong flavor of bleach..
She sighed, it couldn’t be helped. In the end, bleach was the only answer. Some things just couldn’t be washed away with soap and water. At least not entirely.
She rose from her seat and headed for the garage. Once there, she searched the neatly organized shelves. “Ah! There you are!” she grinned as she bent to retrieve the mason jar filled with the soft blue hue chosen for her bedroom. “And he thought I was silly to save some of the paint.”
Rummaging further, Sherry found a paint brush. it had been carefully cleaned and stored after use. She glanced around the garage contentedly. Everything neat and tidy. Just as it should be.
She took the brush and jar inside. Refusing to be distracted by the clutter in the kitchen, Sherry strode purposefully into the bedroom. It would only take a few minutes to touch up the spots left by the scouring pad.
After she finished, she scurried through the kitchen once more; only taking time to toss the blue tinged brush at the sink. Once the jar was tucked safely back on its shelf in the garage, she took a deep breath. The kitchen would have to be tackled next. The longer she left it, the more stressed she’d get.
As Sherry crossed the yard, she was momentarily mesmerized by the movement of three sheets waving lazily in the breeze. They were secured to the line with her grandmother’s old clothespins. She smiled. No hint of stain was visible in the bright spring sunshine.
Now, on to the kitchen she told herself. With lips pressed in a determined line, she stepped into the space.
He’d thought he surprise her with a spaghetti dinner. It had been thoughtful of him she supposed. But what could he have been thinking? Leaving puddles of sauce on her normally spotless stove. And so many pans crusted with filth in her shiny sink.
Sherry swallowed the bile and dove into the task.
Well, at least it wasn’t a mistake he’d make again.
Riding the Flash Fiction Train, Round 3/Week 3
I've been regularly joining in at Kat Avila'a Fiction Trials to play a story writing challenge. Check out this week's offerings, then come back to play on the Flash Fiction Train. Here's my offering...
Rita glared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked awful. The cold wasn’t budging and it was just a miracle she made it through the conference call. Thankfully Laura had been on her game and kept the conversation grounded.
A yawn, interrupted by a new bout of coughing brought Rita back to the perusal of her image. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Her nose reddened and tender from the continuous application of tissues. With a sigh she pulled the bottle from the medicine cabinet.
As much as she needed to dampen her symptoms and get a good night’s sleep, Rita was hesitant to dose herself again. The dreams induced by the vile liquid were becoming harder to shake off. The most recent dream had conjured a name for the mystery man. At the thought, Rita’s lips tingled at the memory.
“No.” She spoke to the mirror, “I'm not going to do it!”
She replaced the bottle and shuffled out of the bathroom. Her slippers scuffed the carpet, the small noise causing her head to pound. She dropped onto the couch grabbing the knitted throw from the back. She wrapped herself in its warmth. As long as she stayed upright she kept the drainage from choking her. She closed her eyes and drifted into an unsettled doze.
“You're back! I didn’t think I would see you so soon.” He reached to stroke her cheek.
Rita pulled back, “Who are you? Why do you haunt my sleep?”
His eyes filled with hurt, “I’m Walter. I’ve always been here for you.”
“Not always. Only if I use that gawd-awful cold medicine.” Rita narrowed her eyes, “which I did not take tonight!”
“No, I’m always here, Rita. You just don’t remember…”
“Oh, I’d remember, just like I remembered last night’s dream.”
Walter sighed, “It’s not a dream to me, Rita.”
“Really? Then, I think it’s time you explain why that is!”
Rita glared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked awful. The cold wasn’t budging and it was just a miracle she made it through the conference call. Thankfully Laura had been on her game and kept the conversation grounded.
A yawn, interrupted by a new bout of coughing brought Rita back to the perusal of her image. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Her nose reddened and tender from the continuous application of tissues. With a sigh she pulled the bottle from the medicine cabinet.
As much as she needed to dampen her symptoms and get a good night’s sleep, Rita was hesitant to dose herself again. The dreams induced by the vile liquid were becoming harder to shake off. The most recent dream had conjured a name for the mystery man. At the thought, Rita’s lips tingled at the memory.
“No.” She spoke to the mirror, “I'm not going to do it!”
She replaced the bottle and shuffled out of the bathroom. Her slippers scuffed the carpet, the small noise causing her head to pound. She dropped onto the couch grabbing the knitted throw from the back. She wrapped herself in its warmth. As long as she stayed upright she kept the drainage from choking her. She closed her eyes and drifted into an unsettled doze.
“You're back! I didn’t think I would see you so soon.” He reached to stroke her cheek.
Rita pulled back, “Who are you? Why do you haunt my sleep?”
His eyes filled with hurt, “I’m Walter. I’ve always been here for you.”
“Not always. Only if I use that gawd-awful cold medicine.” Rita narrowed her eyes, “which I did not take tonight!”
“No, I’m always here, Rita. You just don’t remember…”
“Oh, I’d remember, just like I remembered last night’s dream.”
Walter sighed, “It’s not a dream to me, Rita.”
“Really? Then, I think it’s time you explain why that is!”
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
The Paper
Sneaking in to The 100 Word Challenge at the last minute with my offering; a memory.
It lay on the front walk. Wrapped in an orange plastic baggie. I watch it from the window, that bright beacon, begging me to rescue it.
It calls to me. “Look! The Times’ Crossword, and don’t forget the sudoku.”
I gaze at it as morning slips to the afternoon. “I’m the Sunday paper; comics, sales stuffers, coupons and news!”
The afternoon wanes, still it beckons. “Editorials?”
Just before the sun sets, I rise from my chair and bring it in.
Turning the pages hesitantly.
I gasp at his picture; though I knew it would be there.
Under the heading: Obituaries.
It lay on the front walk. Wrapped in an orange plastic baggie. I watch it from the window, that bright beacon, begging me to rescue it.
It calls to me. “Look! The Times’ Crossword, and don’t forget the sudoku.”
I gaze at it as morning slips to the afternoon. “I’m the Sunday paper; comics, sales stuffers, coupons and news!”
The afternoon wanes, still it beckons. “Editorials?”
Just before the sun sets, I rise from my chair and bring it in.
Turning the pages hesitantly.
I gasp at his picture; though I knew it would be there.
Under the heading: Obituaries.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Check Mate
I took a stab at the Fractured Friday prompt at Our Write Side this week. The challenge was to take a famous love triangle and mix it up, change the story a bit. I chose the Arthurian trio; Guinevere, Lancelot, and of course the King himself, Arthur.
“Lance, babe. He’s the King.”
Lancelot frowned at his fiance, “So what? How does that give him the right to claim you? There’s plenty of other girls out there. Available girls.” Lance paused and stared at Guinevere with narrowed eyes, “unless…you lobbied for his attention!”
‘Vere eye-rolled a sigh. “Really Lance, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Maids and fancy dresses. And riches! Hey, don’t worry, we can still see each other.”
“We can ‘see’ each other?” Lance snorted, “Right, I’ll wave as you roll by in the royal carriage on your way to the royal bed.”
“Don’t be an oaf, Lancelot! Marrying the King is politics. We can still, you know, be together. It’s common practice, all the kings have mistresses, I’ll have you.” She batted her lashes at her erstwhile boyfriend. “It’ll be exciting!”
Lancelot grunted, he knew his arguments were in vain. His Guinevere had always acted like royalty. Well, being the Queen was as royal as it gets. “Fine ‘Vere, be the Queen, but I’m not sitting at your knee like a pet dog.”
“Of course not, silly man. I already told Arty how special you are. He’s going to make you a knight!” ‘Vere clapped her hands in delight at her own ingenuity.
“Oh yeah? With armor and stuff?” Lance began to smile, “that’ll be cool, ‘Vere, good idea!
*****
Lancelot knelt before his King. Excalibur touched each shoulder in the solemn ceremony of knighthood.
“Rise, Sir Lancelot! Knight of the Round Table.” Arthur’s words echoed around the hall.
Lance rose, beaming giddily within Arthur’s embrace. As the celebrations began, he found the Queen and reached to give her a hug of thanks.
She dodged his grasp. “Not here, Lance!” she whispered. “I’ll send for you later. Go now, party hearty!” Then, she slipped away.
Lance sighed in resignation and returned to the festivities. After a few flagons of mead and a couple of hours of merry making, he was feeling more optimistic. As the party wound down he readied himself to retire to his quarters where he’d await the Queen’s summons.
He approached Arthur to make his good-night and reiterate his thanks.
“Ah, Sir Lancelot! I’m glad I caught you.” The King smiled at him, “how quickly can you suit up and saddle your steed?”
“Sire?”
“I have an important task for you. A dragon needs slaying, my boy! It’s already eaten two of my best knights. But, the Queen assures me you are the best of the best.” The King waited as Lancelot hesitated, “come along, Sir Knight, time to get a move on!”
*****
‘Vere hummed to herself as she brushed her golden curls. She donned her prettiest nightgown in anticipation. When the knock at her door came, she jumped up and hurried to greet her lover.
She threw the door open, ready to throw herself at Lance. It took great effort to maintain the smile she was wearing.
“My Queen, you look lovely tonight,” Arthur said dryly as he walked past her into the bed chamber.
Guinevere followed numbly, her heart trembled as the King removed his robes.
“Lance, babe. He’s the King.”
Lancelot frowned at his fiance, “So what? How does that give him the right to claim you? There’s plenty of other girls out there. Available girls.” Lance paused and stared at Guinevere with narrowed eyes, “unless…you lobbied for his attention!”
‘Vere eye-rolled a sigh. “Really Lance, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. Maids and fancy dresses. And riches! Hey, don’t worry, we can still see each other.”
“We can ‘see’ each other?” Lance snorted, “Right, I’ll wave as you roll by in the royal carriage on your way to the royal bed.”
“Don’t be an oaf, Lancelot! Marrying the King is politics. We can still, you know, be together. It’s common practice, all the kings have mistresses, I’ll have you.” She batted her lashes at her erstwhile boyfriend. “It’ll be exciting!”
Lancelot grunted, he knew his arguments were in vain. His Guinevere had always acted like royalty. Well, being the Queen was as royal as it gets. “Fine ‘Vere, be the Queen, but I’m not sitting at your knee like a pet dog.”
“Of course not, silly man. I already told Arty how special you are. He’s going to make you a knight!” ‘Vere clapped her hands in delight at her own ingenuity.
“Oh yeah? With armor and stuff?” Lance began to smile, “that’ll be cool, ‘Vere, good idea!
*****
Lancelot knelt before his King. Excalibur touched each shoulder in the solemn ceremony of knighthood.
“Rise, Sir Lancelot! Knight of the Round Table.” Arthur’s words echoed around the hall.
Lance rose, beaming giddily within Arthur’s embrace. As the celebrations began, he found the Queen and reached to give her a hug of thanks.
She dodged his grasp. “Not here, Lance!” she whispered. “I’ll send for you later. Go now, party hearty!” Then, she slipped away.
Lance sighed in resignation and returned to the festivities. After a few flagons of mead and a couple of hours of merry making, he was feeling more optimistic. As the party wound down he readied himself to retire to his quarters where he’d await the Queen’s summons.
He approached Arthur to make his good-night and reiterate his thanks.
“Ah, Sir Lancelot! I’m glad I caught you.” The King smiled at him, “how quickly can you suit up and saddle your steed?”
“Sire?”
“I have an important task for you. A dragon needs slaying, my boy! It’s already eaten two of my best knights. But, the Queen assures me you are the best of the best.” The King waited as Lancelot hesitated, “come along, Sir Knight, time to get a move on!”
*****
‘Vere hummed to herself as she brushed her golden curls. She donned her prettiest nightgown in anticipation. When the knock at her door came, she jumped up and hurried to greet her lover.
She threw the door open, ready to throw herself at Lance. It took great effort to maintain the smile she was wearing.
“My Queen, you look lovely tonight,” Arthur said dryly as he walked past her into the bed chamber.
Guinevere followed numbly, her heart trembled as the King removed his robes.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Luck
This week's word is 'luck' at the 100 Word Challenge over at Tara's place..
Greta looked warily at the hand held out to her. It was large and rough; black dirt embedded under the nails.
She forced a smile to her lips as she allowed her carefully manicured fingers to be swallowed within its grasp.
He towered over her as he led her to the dance floor. she spied the perfectly matched couples swirling gracefully.
Greta swallowed her sigh. The luck of the draw.
His arm encircled her waist and he twirled her into the music. Greta’s reserve fled as the crowd moved back to watch.
That night, he danced her into her dreams.
100 Word Challenge
Greta looked warily at the hand held out to her. It was large and rough; black dirt embedded under the nails.
She forced a smile to her lips as she allowed her carefully manicured fingers to be swallowed within its grasp.
He towered over her as he led her to the dance floor. she spied the perfectly matched couples swirling gracefully.
Greta swallowed her sigh. The luck of the draw.
His arm encircled her waist and he twirled her into the music. Greta’s reserve fled as the crowd moved back to watch.
That night, he danced her into her dreams.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
There's a Monster Under the Bed
<
Bobby’s blankets lay on the floor again. The monster under the bed pulls them off every night as Bobby sleeps.
The monster lives among the dust bunnies and one shoe that's whisked away in the middle of the night. Bobby knows it’s a monster. He hears it at night grumbling and mumbling. He dares not get up to look. Bobby has no wish to join the shoe.
Even in the morning light it’s all he can do to dive under the bed and quickly grab the stray.
If only the monster wouldn’t mess with his blankets. Bobby knows if he pulls them off the floor at night he’ll drag the beast with them. Then the monster won’t be under the bed. It will be in the bed with him.
So, he shivers through the night because he's cold without his blanket, and he's afraid of the monster under his bed.
Mommy doesn’t believe him.
Mommies never do. They're stubborn that way.
But Bobby has a plan.
It’s a great plan and he spends the day putting it into action.
He borrows the stapler and the glue from Mommy’s desk.
He makes the bed himself, then glues the blankets tight and staples them into place.
He smiles as he shimmies under the covers.
But Bobby should have taken the stapler and the glue back to Mommy’s desk.
Because he can hear the monster grumbling and mumbling as it walks around the bed, gluing and stapling.
Coming closer and closer.
Stapling and gluing.
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