short stories, writing

clouded in a heavy sourness [short story]

Written for Prompt #44 (below) – from this post


The maid is not a maid, the house is not a home
~

My life isn’t what I’d call conventional. It’s okay, it’s good, whatever people define as not bad. I live in a huge house. By huge, I mean, huge. There’s ten bedrooms, probably more bathrooms and enough scented candles to stock an apocalyptic safe house. I have want I want and I can’t complain.

That’s how I’d describe my life to a stranger at least.

Perfect.

Idyllic.

Nothing is wrong.

Smiles aplenty.

In reality, it’s fucked up.  Continue reading “clouded in a heavy sourness [short story]”

writing

scorpion scar {flash fiction}

There’s a scar on my chin, right under the center, at the bottom. It looks like a scorpion and feels like a raised ridge. 
I tell everyone it makes me feel like a badass, but really it makes me feel like a battle axe. 

The story goes that I got into a bar fight.

Jim from the up the street was three shots of whiskey too far gone and putting his sweaty oversized paws on a woman that didn’t want nothing to do with him. 

I stood up, bold and sober and I demanded that Jim leave her alone. The ensuing fight involved all sorts, from broken chair legs, to broken glass to me slamming a cashew shell into Jim’s ruddy cheek.

The punchline always gets people; the part where Jim pissed himself and scuttled away in embarrassment. 

They laugh, buy me a drink and everybody’s happy.

Except, that’s not how it happened. 

I’m a writer and one thing writers do is embellish. Even in real life, writers are forever telling stories. If I can entrance someone just by telling them a story, I can make magic happen on paper. 

That’s how the story of my scar grows. 

The real story is that I fell asleep at my desk one day. I know what you’re thinking, how does that lead to a scorpion shaped scar? 

Now you’re wondering if the scar really is shaped that way. 

I know the answer but I’ll never tell.

What’s important is that I was sitting on a three legged chair and unfortunately, chairs are inanimate. They don’t think the way that we do, if they think at all. 

So when I startled awake, there was some kind of breakdown in communication between the three functional legs and I went down hard and knocked my chin against the hard pine. I tasted blood almost immediately and I knew that it was going to leave some kind of mark.

I didn’t know it would be scorpion shaped, but I’ll just take it as a blessing.

That story – the truth – isn’t as interesting as me being a hero. People might laugh at clumsiness, but heroics get you the golden points. A free beer, a free slice of pie, a questionable donut from an officer who probably knows that I’m full of shit.

Being a hero makes me feel like a king and I’m not a good enough person to walk away from that.

Is anybody?

People aren’t interested in the truth so I don’t bother to give it to them.

Life is all about the illusion and even I find myself playing along. Some days I live in that bar fight, play it over and over in my mind like it really happened.

In some ways, it did.

The setting just happens to be my imagination.

writing

crushed {flash fiction}

Why am I always writing about weddings or people who want to get married? I don’t want either of those things at the moment, lol. Unless my conscience is trying to tell me something! 😂

There’s a glint in the distance, gleaming bright. She creeps forward, her heart beginning to race with anticipation. It’s been three years and she’s hoped.
Wished.

Dreamed.

Even though he’s against it and changes the subject every time. People change their mind all the time, right? She just has to hope.

Wish.

Dream.

One more step and she comes face to face with the sparkling object.

Her heart sinks when she sees what it is.

It’s what now remains of the faux diamond earrings she lost last week.

It’s crushed, with the diamond part hanging limply, as if it’s given up on life, on being whole.

It’s like looking into a mirror; she realises that she’s just deluding herself.

There’s no hope.

There are no fulfiled wishes.

Dreams are just dreams, pockets of imagination that aren’t supposed to be unleashed.

She takes a step back and ignores the way her heart continues to sink with disappointment.

She’s been on this train for three years, but this isn’t her stop. This isn’t the end of the road.

She’s only halfway through the ride, and not ready to give up just yet.

One day, she may regret her decision but one day isn’t today. It won’t be tomorrow either.

It never is.