“Seriously,” she questions herself, trying to stretch out of them as if they were merely non-existent remnants from a bleary-eyed dream; the kind of pre-waking delusion that has you in the middle of a critical interview in which you cannot convince your future boss that there is something in your eye, and that this is the reason you can barely see and keep bumping into things, “is this how the day is going to start?”
Sitting straight up, accidentally flinging kittens; of which she has six orange, black, and gray ones, in all directions with an accompanying cacophony of mewling objections, she cranes her neck to the left as far as it will go. “Damn,” she says, lingering on the vowel a bit too long, “this is one hell of a fantasy.”
Finally she rises, kittens still complaining about being unduly disturbed, and trudges, bleary-eyed, to the mirror. “Holy mother of Zeus,” she exclaims, “looks like I’ve finally earned my wings!”
This is part of Lillie McFerrin’s weekly Five Sentence Fiction. This week’s prompt: faeries
The worst part is when he cocks his head so that their eyes meet and he wonders, even before she answers him, if he has already asked. For a moment, an illusory burst of hope seizing her naive heart, she thinks that maybe it is reversible; maybe he is going to snap out of it.
Then she snaps out of it instead, just in time to hear him ask, for the eleventh time, “So, are you teaching the kids German?”
“Yes, Dad, as much as possible,” she says.
“Well good,” he nods approvingly, “good.”
And though she feels it acutely, like a dagger permanently lodged in her soul, he does not; he has no recollection of what he has lost.
“Francesca” is a response to Lillie McFerrin’s “Five-Sentence Fiction,” and this week’s word, “lost.” Visit her site by clicking on the icon above, where you can enter your own five-sentences and read the clever, moving, creative submissions of other writers.
My friend Jayne Martin turned me on to “Five Sentence Fiction,” which is the brain child of Lillie McFerrin
This week’s prompt: orange
Peter was a handsome neurotic who organized his socks and his freezer using the same alphabetical system. It wasn’t the long, dark hair I found in his bed that did it. I could almost forgive him for giving in to his ex-girlfriend now and again, especially since we weren’t actually “sleeping” together. But I had to draw the line when his obsessions got the better of him, and my patience. He wouldn’t leave the house until he had found a word to rhyme with “orange.”