Hidden away in the store room of a castle in the clouds, my hopes and dreams of a life among the stars lie half-forgotten amid the debris of a once-vibrant imagination. Covered in cobwebs and rusted from lack of use, my imagination lies in tatters as I await the gruesome end I am certain I will see.
(c) 2020. All rights reserved.
Practice your ballerina hands, the email said, without much clarification on how to do that.
I looked down at my hands. They were frying pan hands, and the Teflon was peeling.
Practice pointing your toes like a ballerina, the email said. But I’m no ballerina, and all my practice was futile.
Practice smiling genuinely, the email said. At last, something I could do! But when I looked in the mirror, all I could see was the ruby nightmare that framed my face and glittered beneath the bright white vanity lights.
So much for that idea, I thought.
I took a deep breath and tried again. This time, instead of imagining…
A piece of brick caught my eye as I hunkered down in the ruins of the ancient capital.
“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.” -Albert Einstein
I snorted as I picked up my bow and nocked an arrow. I didn’t know who this Einstein guy was, but he hadn’t been far off.
I froze as an arrow whizzed by, narrowly missing my ear. The world was a lot smaller now, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t fight to the death to save what was left.
(c) 2017. All rights reserved.
The bell clanged long and loud and low outside her window. Day was done, and with it, her toil. She sat back and stretched, shaking the cramps from her fingers before kneading the knots from her neck and shoulders. The bell’s echo receded into the distance, replaced by the sound of jingling keys, of rusty hinges screeching in protest.
He wasn’t supposed to come till tomorrow. She was supposed to have more time. Maybe if she didn’t turn around, if she refused to acknowledge him, maybe he would leave her. Maybe he would come back tomorrow, like he’d promised.
She wasn’t ready to die. No matter what she’d said.
(c) 2017. All rights reserved.
It was a dry snow; I could tell by the way it swirled in the wind. I shivered.
Old Man Winter wasn’t about to go quietly into the night. Oh, no. He raged outside me window against the coming of the light, huffing and puffing with all of his might. We’d have another foot by morning, or I wasn’t Effie McCray.
At least it would move easily, being so dry. Thank goodness it weren’t packing snow.
Packing snow was heavy, wet stuff, perfect for felling timbers and building snowmen. But we didn’t have any old trees, or even any young ones, to worry about anymore, nor any young’uns itchin’ to build a snowman. The ice storms had already taken care of ’em.
They’d taken care of a lotta things.
I rolled over in bed so’s I faced away from the window. The fire was out in the hearth, and I was out of logs. Oh sure, there were plenty out in the woodshed, but I weren’t about to fetch more. Not after dark, no siree. My Peter had always kept…
The fog wove in and out of the trees, making the dark of night seem even darker. The light from my high beams disappeared into the void, swallowed whole by the night. I’d driven this road every night for as long as I could remember, yet tonight it felt new. Strange. Ominous.
I heard it as I rounded the curve, a kettle’s high, whining song, only much, much louder. Home was just within view, and just out of reach. And then, engulfed by a blinding fireball, it was gone.
I sat for a moment, watching the blaze. And then I backed up, turned around, drove into the night till the flames were no more than a memory. The fog wrapped itself around my car as I drove, and I let it envelop me like a warm blanket.
(c) 2017. All rights reserved.
She could feel it burrowing inside her; the earworm was nothing if not persistent, and it had lodged itself firmly within her brain before cranking up the volume to eleven. Pretty soon, the bright and brassy sound of a new age jazz tune was the only thing she could hear; its rhythm pulsed through her, and she couldn’t stop her toes from tapping along in time. Though she tried – oh, how she tried – to stifle the urge, the day finally came when she could no longer keep from singing; she threw herself up onto the stage and belted out the earworm’s tune, and the thunderous applause made the months of torture worth every minute.
(c) 2017. All rights reserved.
She crouched over his body on the floor. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be happily ever after. He’d sold her a fairy tale, a life she’d barely been able to imagine.
And now he was dead.
They had had only a month together, hardly enough time in which to give her the moon and the stars like he’d promised. He’d sold her a fairy tale, a dream he could not make true.
And now he was dead.
The wind carried her anguish to the hills, swirled her bitter tears out to sea. The trees bent beneath her wails, snapping and cracking like his bones, creaking and groaning like the bones of her house.
When the freak storm finally passed, her neighbors found her frozen in the rubble, still crouched over his body, and thought how sweet it was that they had perished together.
(c) 2017. All rights reserved.
“Fare thee well, my love,” the old man whispered.
The love of his life lay broken on the beach below, hair splayed out like rays from the sun, and he thought as he plummeted toward her that he’d never seen her look more beautiful.
Photo courtesy of Purple128 and Flickr’s Interesting Photos section. 🙂
(c) 2017. All rights reserved.
It was rainy and dreary here on Monday, then foggy as anything yesterday morning. Nothing inspires me quite the way fog and rain do, especially at this time of year. Add to that “Gretchen am Spinnrade,” which has been getting a lot of play on my iPod, and I quickly found myself in Inspiration City. This piece has been brewing for a couple of days, and I hope you like it. 🙂
The steady beat of the rain on the glass echoed the steady beat of her tears on the floor. The fog on the lake mirrored the fog in her soul, and she wore it the way she’d have worn a comfy old coat. If she could just find him, she could make him see. If she could just find him, then she’d be free.
But the fog hid more than her drooping frame, and the rain did wash freedom’s sun away. She searched through the windows, tore open the door, but the fog hid her love forevermore. She climbed up the mountain, looked high and low, but the fog hid everything in the valley below.
Then a flash caught her eye and without hesitation, she stepped into the sky. She dove toward the lake where he’d rested his head on a pillow of stone, with sand for a bed. But a trick of the light was all it had been, and the freezing cold water welcomed her in. The bitter blue waves stole every breath; with tears in her eyes, she at last greeted Death.
The steady beat of the rain on the glass echoed the steady beat of her tears on the floor. The fog on the lake mirrored the fog in her soul; she wore it the way she’d have worn a comfy old coat. If she could just find him, she could make him see. But she never could find him; she’ll never be free.
(c) 2017. All rights reserved.
Suddenly they all died. The end. 