#fridayflash "Slug"

 

Today's flash fiction piece is prompt-inspired again. The prompt is in bold and came from this website here.

Slug

From his sleeping patterns he appeared jetlagged when in fact it was laziness. How else could he still be asleep when I got home after a double shift at the restaurant?

My enthusiasm for home flopped like a dying salmon when I saw my good-for-nothing, out-of-work, lazy ass husband sprawled in bed. I dropped my purse upon the table and kicked off my shoes and socks. My toes curled into the plush carpet. His snores grated my nerves until my fingertips stretched toward the pillow. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to smack him or smother him with it.

I yanked my hand away and stepped toward the closet to change clothes.

At first, I thought Jerry was depressed when he lost his job at the factory. They laid off over four hundred workers. Times were tough, and work wasn’t plentiful. That was ten months ago. Now he stayed up half the night playing video games and drinking beer. The rest of the time, he watched TV or slept.

I slipped the T-shirt over my head and ripped the ponytail holder from my hair. Strands—more gray than black—entwined around the elastic band. I tossed it upon the bureau and pulled on a pair of shorts.

He hadn’t applied for a position in three months.

I stepped into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. The water sloshed into the sink’s basin and splashed the sides. I cupped my hands under it and rinsed the makeup and long day off my face.

The snoring stopped and the bed-springs creaked. “What’s for dinner, hon?”

My breath spurted against the droplets. I closed my eyes, cut off the water, and grabbed the hand towel to dry off.

His steps clomped behind me, and he smacked me on the rear. The playful gesture got him a hard glare. He lifted his arms and gave me that stupid cocked grin. “Tough day?”

“You have no idea.” I straightened the towel on the rack.

His hands dug into my shoulders. The pressure felt good, relaxing, but I just didn’t want to give in. Again. He leaned closer and pressed a kiss against my neck. His breath reeked of stale beer and cigarettes. When did he start smoking again? We didn’t have the money for that crap. He wouldn’t even let me buy the dollar store hair color anymore. “How about I—”

“No.” I jerked away from him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What?” He gave me that damn slack-jawed expression.

A million words jammed against my front teeth, as if they could knock them out. I wanted to spew the verbiage all over him. Fists formed at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. A tremor raced through my body before I regained control. “Nothing. I’ll go make dinner.”

I twisted away and left for the kitchen, but I didn’t know how much longer I could stay in the house. Life had to change, or I would do something I may—or may not—regret.

How long I could remain with the ungrateful slug?

#fridayflash "The Substitute"

 

For today's #fridayflash piece, I used a writing prompt generated from this website here. The writing prompt is in bold.

The Substitute

It was hard to command any sense of gravitas with gravy stains on your shirt. Of course, it could’ve been worse. I could’ve had onion breath or collard greens sticking between my teeth. My hand fluttered before my mouth for a quick breath check. Nope, still minty fresh. I smoothed down my tie. Perhaps the students wouldn’t notice the stains. Why had I left my coat in the car?

“My name is Charles Fisher, and I’m substituting for Dr. Roberts today.” My gravelly voice barely made a dent in their conversation. Thumbs flew over cell phones. A girl laughed, high-pitched and flirty. Thirty years ago, such a giggle would’ve thrilled me. Now it made me feel old, sad.

Sweat pooled in my armpits. I loosened the tie, which felt more like a noose with each passing second. A spitball splattered against the dry-erase board. My fingers fumbled through Dr. Roberts’ notes. Their chatter increased as they ignored me. I didn’t blame them. Who respected a fifty-seven year old grad student? My mouth dried out before I could even mentally count the number of students. With a sigh, I slammed the notebook shut and sank upon the stool. My loafer rested upon the stool’s rung.

“She said you were studying Descartes’ philosophy.” I stood from the stool and wrote “Cogito ergo sum” on the board. I might exist, but these students didn’t think I did.

“Does anyone know what this means?” I waited. “It’s Latin.”

Nothing.

Another spitball flew and dotted the “I” in “cogito.” If I wasn’t supposed to be teaching them, then I would’ve been impressed.

“So . . .”

The volume crescendoed, so I strolled to the desk, grabbed the trash can, and flung it against the wall. It boomed and rattled delightfully with a metallic clang. The room silenced as mouths dropped open.

“Does that trash can exist?” I perched on the desk. Not a single student looked away from me, but none answered.

“Does it?” Instead of yelling the words, I spoke softly.

“Y-yes,” a girl answered.

“Prove it.” I crossed my arms, almost not caring I had gravy on my shirt. After minutes of disrespect, I had their attention now.

 

If you like flash fiction and want to try your hand at writing some, don't forget my blogfest coming up on May 21-23. Click here for details and to sign up.

 

#fridayflash "Red Rose"

*Today's #fridayflash is inspired by writing prompt 287 at Creative Writing Prompts: Use these two metaphors in a poem: "an inch of scorn" and "a cradle of beliefs." Since I'm not much of a poet, I've decided to make it a prose piece with these two metaphors.*

"Red Rose"

I scooped up the rose's head and held it in my palms.

Thorny stems poked from the water-filled vase, except the one flower in his hand. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes narrowed within an inch of scorn at the last complete rose. His fingers enclosed the bud, and he ripped it off.

Petals floated to the linoleum like fat, red raindrops.

He grabbed my shoulders and forced me to my feet. His breath reeked bitter-sweet of whiskey with a hint of cigarette smoke. He always drank, but I didn't know he'd taken up smoking again.

"I thought you quit," I said, my voice soft.

His backhand followed by a grunt was my answer.

My knees struck the floor again. I smelled the roses. They were better than his breath.

Heavy boots clomped through the house. The sound drifted until followed by the squeaking bed. He'd sleep off his anger.

Things would be better in the morning.

Tears didn't quench my burning cheek. I opened my fingers to the crumpled rose. A cradle of beliefs crushed.

#fridayflash "Mystery Box"

Today's flash is prompt-inspired from this website http://creativewritingprompts.com. This is prompt 121: Start your story with this: "She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled."

"Mystery Box"

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled. A sigh tumbled from her lips as she shifted on the sofa. She wanted to open the box, but Jeremy insisted she wait.

"It's a special gift," he said, "just for you."

The present had surprised Yasmine. Jeremy and she broke up three months ago, and she already had a new man in her life. Marshall was everything she could ask for in a man. He could cook, was sweet and caring, and he had a career as a plastic surgeon. Jeremy couldn't keep a job longer than a few months, and the misogynistic pig didn't like her to work. He never listened to her. When she got fed up and left, they didn't part on friendly terms.

So the gift was a surprise. No, more like a shock to the system, an electric jolt.

Jeremy looked nice too. He'd shaved, cut his hair, dressed in business casual. He no longer reeked of cigarettes, cheap cologne, and the occasional even cheaper beer. It pleased her to see him turning his life around.

Her heart fluttered to discover what was inside.

The soft strains of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata interrupted her thoughts. She snatched her cell phone from the coffee table and pressed talk.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Yasmine. It's time to open the box."

"Mind if I put you on speaker, Jeremy?"

"Not at all."

She pushed the speaker button and set the phone back on the table.

"I ran into your new boyfriend yesterday. Seemed like a good guy."

"Yeah, he is."

Her fingers trembled from anticipation at what was inside. She tugged the red ribbon, and it fell away onto her lap.

"Are you ready to open it? I think you'll like it. Marshall helped me with it."

"Yes."

Would it be a piece of jewelry? She didn't know what to tell him. Did he want her back? She really liked Marshall, but the tingling feeling was back. Did Marshall know it was for her? She still loved Jeremy, despite how bad he was for her.

"Jeremy, I wanted to—"

She opened the box and screamed.

Amongst black velvet sat an ear.

#fridayflash "I Do, or I Don't"

Author's Note: I decided to try a writing prompt from Creative Writing Prompts. I used Random.org to pick which one. My number was 240, and I had to use the words: preacher, coin, stairwell, and comb in a short story or poem, so I bring to you my flash piece for the week. Enjoy!

I Do, or I Don’t

Mother placed the pearl-encrusted comb into my hair. The teeth dug into my scalp, and I held back a grimace.

“There now. Such a beauty.” She patted my cheek. Her voice oozed in a condescending tone.

I knew that tone all too well. I heard it from her friends when we announced my engagement to Sir Walter. At the ripe ol’ age of twenty-two, I was the old maid being wed almost too late. I gritted my teeth and stood as abruptly as one could stand with all the lace and ribbons attached to this dress. My corset pinched and I squirmed within it.

“Stop fidgeting, Daliah.” She thrust the lily bouquet into my hands.

I wrinkled my nose to keep from sneezing. A lady never sneezes, I imagined my mother saying, despite the fact I’ve often heard her nearly blow the house down with some of the achoos to come from her mouth.

“Now, it’s almost time. We shan’t keep Sir Walter and the preacher ready.” With a flick of her wrist, she motioned me out of the room.

I followed her down the corridor. The faint plucking notes of a harp floated through the air. My mother told me they paid a pretty coin for this ceremony. The lilies cloying scent tickled my nose again, and I lowered them to my waist. Each step upon the padded carpet felt heavier, as if children had clasped upon my ankles for the ride. My heart felt like it slammed against the corset bones.

“Mother, can I have a m-moment?” I stopped. Beyond those doors, hundreds of people would wait to see me. Only one of them was of any importance, the one who would be my husband. My husband. I couldn’t breathe.

“Of course, dear, but just a moment. Sir Walter is waiting.” She left me.

I only had a moment.

I dashed down the hallway and took a corner too short. I knocked into a column and a vase fell, breaking into shards. The lilies drifted from my hands, white against the blood red carpeting. My feet flew as if I had Hermes’ winged-shoes. I found the back stairwell. Lifting my dress to my knees, I pounded down the stairs and out the servants’ entrance.

Sunlight blinded me and a warm breeze lifted up the stray strands of hair. With a few shuddering breaths, I felt more composed, more myself. I squinted into the light and spotted the line of carriages.

The scent of horses wrinkled my nose, but they held my freedom. I took the front carriage, the one was supposed to be mine and Sir Walter’s as we journeyed to our honeymoon, and flung myself inside. My dress tilted over my behind, but I didn’t care about the indecency.

“Drive, drive!” I insisted to the coachman.

A whip cracked and the door slammed shut from the force of the carriage racing off.

I climbed into the seat and breathed a sigh of relief. I was free. Then I froze as I noticed gleaming eyes peering at me from the seat across mine.

“Hello, Daliah, my sweet,” Sir Walters said, “Going somewhere?”