Fiction Friday: [Table For One]

in

“Green tea latte with almond milk.”

This time—the third time—the barista’s voice cut through the air with an edge, meant to slice the person inconveniencing her with a dose of public shaming. Rodney Melliver knew the drink was his, but he couldn’t respond. Shoulders slumped forward and chin to chest, he realized there was a distinct possibility the tiny round table dappled in pastry crumbs might be the last thing he ever saw.

The first tingles danced up his arm while he stood in line, waiting to order the ridiculously overpriced drink everyone at work had talked about. He ignored it at the time because, as had been the case for the past several days, he found himself lost in the past. Memories flooded his mind without warning. Each one bringing him to his knees with shame and regret.

While in line, Rodney was in the midst of reliving his daughter’s birthday. Well, the last one he remembered and, more impressively, acknowledged. Two days past the day she was born, he got her a card and didn’t even bother putting it in the envelope. The freshly turned nine year old was on the couch watching television when he got home. He tossed the card next to her and mumbled happy birthday without breaking his stride to grab a beer from the fridge. Now, eleven years later, remorse had found him, demanding as much attention in the spotlight as the dull prickles traveling up and down his arm and the painful contractions in his chest.   

Rodney imagined himself outside of his body. An observer to his own pathetic state: slouched and alone. So alone that there wasn’t even an empty seat at the table for him to welcome potential company. Borrowed earlier by the fleshy-faced guy at the neighboring table. When he watched him carry it away and join his friends, Rodney was gut-punched with jealousy. It had become increasingly difficult for him to see what life could have been if he had only tried.

But he hadn’t. And here he was.

“Green tea latte with…you know what? Forget thi…”

The barista’s voice trailed off and darkness crowded the edges of Rodney’s vision, he hated that his last act before dying would be to add another person to the list of people he had angered.

As the sounds around him melted together into a tinny, echoey jumble, Rodney vowed that if he was given another chance, his life would be different. He would be better. Do better.

And he would definitely try the green tea latte with almond milk.

Fiction Friday: [The Pursuit of Love]

in

[It's October...what better time to get a little creepy! Enjoy!]

Sarah’s skin was cold as ice. And it wasn’t from the chilled air cutting straight through her thin silk dress.

When he picked her up for their date it was easy to see she wanted to look perfect for him. He had witnessed her going on one failed date after another, all the while gathering information to craft each step in his plan to win her over. To make her feel special. To make her his.

Forever.

Now her unblinking gaze stretched toward the sky and her parted lips passed no air between them. The large swath of purples and pinks circling her neck, a harsh reminder that blood had once flowed through her veins. Her stillness sent a surge of electricity through his body. A satisfaction in knowing that her last happy memory was provided by him.

He posed her—hands clasped behind her head, legs crossed at the ankles—so he could lie next to her with each visit. Share with her the ins and outs of his day. He knew it couldn’t last. That their relationship would eventually end, so he relished in every second he had with her.

In a couple of days, three teenagers would stumble upon her pale white body nestled amongst the warm tones of the fall foliage. For the teens the scars of what they saw would take years to heal.

For him, healing would begin only in the pursuit of his next true love.

Fiction Friday: [The Preservation of a Lopsided Smile]

in

The color drained from Margo’s face when the email arrived. She had checked her inbox obsessively for it every day. Now, the breath caught in her chest as the pointy-fingered cursor hovered, waiting to open what she hoped to be the answer to what had defied explanation for so long. Too long.

Ignoring her husband’s protests, she sent the request shortly after Brianna’s death. Her daughter hadn’t left a note and poring through her emails led only to prolonged heartache instead of providing the answers Margo so desperately needed. Facebook added to her despair when they denied the request, offering only to memorialize the page. Her tears morphed from those of sorrow to joy when an employee turned out to be the friend of a friend and offered to do what they could to get her the password. They warned her it would take time, but if she were able to have one last connection, an understanding of who Briana was in the end, the wait would be worth it.

She considered calling Jim despite his attempts to stop this moment from happening. She tried to convince herself it was for his benefit, but her heart wouldn’t allow her mind to push the truth away so easily. It was no secret that Margo blamed herself for their daughter never seeing her sixteenth birthday. As a mother, she should have seen the signs. She should have known Brianna was unhappy.

The phone clicked louder than it should have against the wood as she set it on the desk. If she was truly to blame, the last thing she needed was a witness to the proof. Her gaze fell upon the framed photo of Brianna next to the laptop. An unsteady finger traced the outline of her daughter’s face as the tears slid over her thinned lips, rounded her trembling chin and splashed onto the keyboard.

***

Jim arrived home a few hours later and tossed his keys into the lopsided bowl on the entry table. His mind traveled back a couple of years as he paused to remember the look of pride on Brianna’s twelve-year-old face after she had come home from camp. The shape always reminded him of her smile. The bright colors personified the happy girl he chose to remember.

He found Margo on the couch and recognized the faraway gaze to nothing, the ruddy complexion from a bout of sorrow-filled tears, and the unnatural stillness that had filled the house since they lost their daughter. A full mug of tea sat on the coffee table, and there was no doubt it had gone cold. He had yet to find the right words to comfort his wife. He imagined he’d find them buried somewhere deep below his own broken heart.

Jim planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead and then ambled down the hallway. The downturned picture frame on the desk drew his attention as he entered their bedroom. With stilted breath, he made his way over and placed it upright again. The heat of tears pressed against his eyes as they met with Brianna’s sparkling smile. He slumped into the chair and his heart folded into itself when he failed to remember the sound of her laughter. He understood Margo’s needs, but he desperately wanted to hold onto to the daughter he knew as long as he could. Even as the pieces of her floated just out of reach.

His elbow nudged the laptop, waking it from its slumber. Like a moth to a flame, Jim was drawn by the light and found Margo’s email staring back at him. With each passing second, the strings of curiosity pulled tighter as his gaze lingered on the cursor hovering over an unopened email.   

Fiction Friday: [Detonation]

in

It was the first time she’d seen him since he died.

Crossing Broadway and 72nd, Satomi was stopped in her tracks. Confusion numbed her to the throng of commuters knocking her to and fro around the bustling intersection like a pinball. As flashes of jackets and sweaters zigzagged past their unbroken gaze, the guilt washed over her.

She had never even shed a tear.

The angry horns of yellow cabs barely registered through the ticking. She knew it was the time bomb her family and friends spoke of when they thought she was out of ear shot. Her breathing grew shallow in anticipation of its detonation.

Heat, from deep within, rose to the surface in opposition to the crisp fall air. As her skin tingled, she had no doubt the time had come. A moment that should have happened months ago in the loving arms of her family, instead played out amongst the loud ringtones and honking horns of strangers.

Cutting through it all was his smile. It wasn’t until she tasted the salt in her tears that Satomi realized she was smiling, too.

It was the first time she’d seen her father since he died and her smile grew, knowing it wouldn’t be the last.

Fiction Friday: [Awake]

in

I woke up this morning, but no one else did.

The first hour was the toughest because, despite the rise and fall of their chests, I worried that my family was dead. No matter how hard I shook them or screamed their names, neither my parents nor my little brother would wake. I held my mom’s hand and cried for a while.

After gathering some courage, I sprinted downstairs and right out the front door. Running into the middle of the street, I stretched my neck and strained my ears for signs of anyone…anything. I cracked the silence as I ran, screaming at the top of my lungs.

“Hello? Is anyone out here? Anyone?”

All that greeted me was a disheartening vacuum of nothingness. There weren’t even birds singing or leaves rustling. Even the wind had left me all alone.

My voice grew hoarse and I was blocks away from home, barefoot and in my pajamas. I needed to get back. I plodded toward home, dreading the emptiness that would meet me there.

Reaching my block, I stopped mid-stride. It had been faint, but I was sure I’d heard it. It was a struggle to hear anything over the rhythmic pulsing in my ears, but after a moment I convinced myself that it had just been my imagination and continued on.

Just as I was shutting the door, I heard it again. Echoey and distant, it gently pierced its way through the silence. I raced back out into the street, turning in circles, eager to find whoever it was. Then, I heard it again, much clearer this time.

Icy fingers of fear crept up my spine. I grew weak from the excitement draining so quickly and dizzy under the weight of what I’d heard.

My own voice.

“Hello? Is anyone out here? Anyone?”

Fiction Friday: [Victim | Killer]

in

I dig my nails deeper and rake them across the skin. These are my last moments. I have to make them count.

I’m placing a lot of faith in the procedural dramas I love to watch. Loved to watch?  Whatever. They’ll do it. They’ll scrape under my nails and I know they’ll find you.

So I dig. And I claw. And I pack as much DNA into my nail beds as I can.

My lungs start to burn from neglect. My eyes bulge in their sockets and I struggle to blink. My heartbeat has grown so weak, I can’t even feel the thump of it in my chest.

I want to be proud of staying clearheaded enough to ensure that you’ll be caught. But, as coal colored circles make their way toward my pupils, it isn’t pride I feel. It’s complete and utter sadness for the life I won’t have the chance to live.

Damn, I think.

Then the darkness overtakes me.

She digs her nails even deeper into my arms. The burning is going to go away, but I doubt the scars ever will.  

Choking wasn’t the best choice, but it wasn’t like I’d planned it out. This was a long time coming, so when the opportunity presented itself, I had to take it.

Ugh, she won’t stop digging. I wish she would die already.

Her perfect face is flushed in various shades of red. It’s pointless for her mouth to be open so wide. She can’t scream…or breathe. I swear I can see the light dimming in her eyes.  

This is her fault. She ruined our relationship. She’d been my perfect little baby. I raised her alone and we’d been so close. Then, she became a woman, became my competition. Men used to look at me the way they look at her. I…I think she’s gone.

Damn, I think.

This doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would.

Fiction Friday: [Sterling Farms]

in

A couple of weeks ago I posted a story about a writer's creepy visit to a graveyard. It was based on a prompt by Scene Stealers, but I'd exceeded the word count and never submitted it. Boo! Well, I decided to take another stab at it and this piece of flash comes in at 350 words on the dot.

[This week's Fiction Friday is my submission for Scene Stealers #21. Scene Stealers is a fun writing prompt from Write to Done where they provide the first two--or in this case three--sentences and limit your word count to 350. Enjoy!]

 

She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she'd oiled the hinges just yesterday.  

Another creak. She felt her muscles tighten. Her ears perked, straining for a clue.

This is why a city girl shouldn't visit the country, she thought.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Goosebumps stood her hairs on end and her breathing grew shallow. She looked down at her fingers, frozen over the keyboard, and realized they were shaking.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Closing her eyes, she tried to fold into herself, but knew she had to get in control of the situation. She slowly made her way toward the vicinity of the tapping. Her ear touched the wall and she was startled by its iciness. Regardless, she pressed it tighter and listened. She didn't have to wait long.

The sound of clawing screamed in her ear from the other side. Long, deliberate strokes escalating to desperate scrapes. She couldn't breathe as the fear sat heavily on her chest.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound echoed and amplified in her ear. She shot from the wall. Grabbing her laptop, she shoved it into its case. As she was about to gather the rest of her things:

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Racing out of the house and into the car, she drove blindly until she came across a hotel. Although it was thirty minutes away, it still didn't feel far enough. Settled in, she opened her laptop, launching the search engine.

"Sterling Farms, Middleburg VA"

She read article after article about how, in 1992, during renovations, a body had been found buried within a bedroom wall of the farmhouse. They'd determined the body to be that of Margaret Sterling, who had gone missing in 1832. Forensic evidence proved she'd been buried alive. Evidence such as scratch marks and divots dug out with her finger.

An hour later, she was still in front of the computer, knees pulled up to her chin as she hugged herself tightly. Wide, unblinking eyes sat over her tear stained cheeks. She would never return to that house again. Not when she knew that Margaret was still there.