I’m not sure which came first, his fear or mine.
We were standing there, his sweaty hand wrapped around my dry one, his head cocked slightly to the left as he began to lean in for our first kiss (to hell with his mother’s opinion of me).
Screams erupted behind us, just beyond the wooded path we had traveled moments before and we both jumped and screamed in response, the romantic moment totally wrecked of course.
These parts were known for creepy, unexplained happenings (like deaths and stuff), which is why we had chosen to come to this exact spot; we wanted to reenact one of the murders, minus the dying part of course, and it was all supposed to have started with a kiss.
Now we were totally freaked out and shaking—the only way back to the car blocked by the screaming—until a young naked, shrieking couple emerged, shivering and muddy; the sudden downpour having rudely interrupted their activities.
—Five Sentence Fiction, of Lillie McFerrin fame, offered up “rain” as this week’s writing challenge.
The cold didn’t bother me; the shivers wracking my body were well worth the price of the much needed darkness, the favor of a shrouded moon. I sat with my arms wrapped tightly around my scrunched up legs, my feet frozen and bare, kneading the moist earth beneath them. Tears weren’t an option for they would do nothing to ease the pain and they certainly wouldn’t change the ridiculous choices I had made, nor the ones she had forced me into. Without anyone attempting to reach me, she had died, been buried and properly mourned; her life celebrated for its passionate creativity and for the fierce hold she had had on those who loved her. Every shred of hope I had harbored that there would be at least a single moment to love her again (not that I had ever stopped, mind you) was gone, and the only way I knew to get through such a tragedy was to embrace the blessed darkness and endure the bitter cold just as I had endured the bitterness she had died tasting.
Aftertaste is my response to Lille McFerrin’s weekly Five Sentence Fiction challenge. This week’s word: moon
Ignoring the obvious veiled reference to sex, his words landed softly. Ignoring the lustful look, his eyes comforted her. Ignoring the bittersweet memories in her loins, his advances titillated her. Ignoring the knot that immediately rose up in her gut; a tugging she knew all too well, she smiled wantonly. What she couldn’t ignore were the tears streaming down her beautiful face; tears willing to comfort and caress a man who had certainly been through the kind of ordeal that comes not from malice, but from ignorance and a circle of pain that could only be broken by the kind of love that she was willing to give.
This entry is in response to Lillie McFerrin’s weekly challenge to take one word and caress five and only five sentences out of it. This week’s word: malice
It wasn’t that she didn’t have a green thumb, it was just that she was a “Jack of all Trades” and it was impossible to keep up with all the things that she could possibly be great at some day, given enough time and space to spread her wings. At least this is what she told herself over and over again, and especially any time that self-doubt did not have its way with her. Mastery was not her forte, and yet she craved it just like she craved a best-seller, a number one hit, and the perfect body.
So when her mother’s African Violet began to fade away (only one small bunch even slightly green) while an oxygen machine was the only thing sustaining eighty-four years of life, she chalked it up to one more thing that did not get her full attention, versus the failure that it should have been.
Imagine her surprise one day, a few months after her mother’s death, when that damned dying African Violet decided to be wild and bloom like nobody’s business, despite a lack of bloom food, despite a “green-thumb” caretaker, and despite the nagging mourning of the daughter who, as it turned out, needed those little purple flowers to bloom more than she could have possibly known.
It was one of those mindless twiddles that has your fingers working overtime; an incessant fiddling with some inconsequential this or that, like a dangling button or a loose string. My mind was so far off in the distance that, though I was looking intently at myself in the mirror, I could not see a thing.
Swirling around in my distracted brain was, ironically, a very focused thought: he wants to be with me.
Why I found the truth so unbelievable demands a complicated and lengthy discussion; perhaps a mini-memoir of sorts, but suffice it to say that being with the right man had been such an elusive task that I figured, by the time I hit my 50th and it hadn’t happened yet, that it never would.
Imagine my surprise when, while contemplating the miraculous and unbelievable events of the past few weeks, I suddenly found myself topless in the middle of the men’s department, my sweater a disheveled jumble of threads; the quite willing victim of that blasted twiddling.
This week’s prompt, provided by the ever-faithful Lillie McFerrin, is “fabric.”
“Don’t wait too long Donny, your dad is a fickle man; he could change his mind at any moment.
“I know Mom, believe me, I know.”
It took a few days for Donny to pack for the cold cold weather he would have to endure, to find someone to care for his very needy dogs (five Dobermans), and mostly to muster up the courage to visit the old man in his old house, with his old-school set-in-his ways conservative viewpoints.
He had come out to the world years ago, but facing his father with the truth of who he was had proven more difficult for Donny; impossible really as he could think of no one more conservative or more judgmental than his father.
But last week the unexpected call had come, translated into a herky jerky message on his phone that had said something about how time had taught his dad a few hard lessons, had opened up a few locked doors; the cryptic words only becoming clear when Donny finally walked into his Dad’s frozen cabin to see him cuddled up on the couch with someone who could only be described, by the looks of things, as a boyfriend.
It had been difficult to arrange to be there two evenings each week without fail, and harder still to justify the long row of mandatory Saturdays also required; rigorous training and long hours that not only meant precious time away from his beloved family, but that also took every last penny of the emergency fund he had set aside for more important needs.
To his great surprise Kat had convinced him that sometimes a deeply held desire is actually a need; one that, left unrealized, could easily turn into a debilitating regret, a “should have done” that could never become a reality once too much time had elapsed, once the body could no longer comply with the brain’s commands.
The single most intelligent move Kat had made in her ploy to temporarily push Randy away from his practical provider’s nature and towards his little boy fantasies, was to pay for the lessons as soon as she had his, albeit tentative, agreement; effectively eliminating his ability to change his mind. Then, every evening he was away, she created beautiful photos, works of art she would sell each Saturday in order to secretly replenish their savings account.
Months later, Kat and the kids watching and filming from the runway, Randy lifted the beautiful blue Sportstar into the air, the plane and his long-held dream finally taking flight.
If you click on the icon below, you will be taken to Lillie McFerrin’s “Five Sentence Fiction” challenge–a weekly word prompt to spur your own thoughts, to be written down using just five sentences. This week’s word: flight
The sun pushed its radiance upon her through the purposely darkened blinds; always that rogue, penetrating shaft slipping through a lazy crack. So she rose, reluctantly and despite a weight that felt as heavy as three elephants, not because she wanted to but because she had promised him she would.
The automatic coffee maker had been a brilliant idea, a gift from her closest friend, the kind of friend who forces things upon you that you need but don’t really want; the kind of friend who refuses to leave you alone even when all you want to do is pull the covers up over your head and never emerge again – ever.
As she sipped the strong dark brew, she glanced out the window and noticed that someone had been tending the flowers her husband had planted for her last birthday. She was grateful for the help and knew that she should find the flowers beautiful and yet every single thing around her looked as black as soot, as black and desolate as her heart had felt since her reason for living had suddenly stopped breathing.
This piece is in response to Lillie McFerrin’s brain-child, “Five Sentence Fiction,” which can be found here:
The word: “desolate”
“If you abide in my word, you’re my disciple.”
Carmen had heard these words most of her life since they had been uttered after every transgression large or small; there was never a good reason to disobey Him, for if she did, hell would be the result, and who in their right mind would want that?
Bryson had escaped such tormenting guilt by only pretending to believe, so the threat of hell made him laugh inside since he knew that if there was actually such a place, he would be the rare kind of person to truly enjoy it, which made perfect sense; heat had never bothered her brother one iota.
“Jump, Bryson, jump now while you still can, while we still have the chance to do this together!”
But he wouldn’t budge, having accepted Christ the day before and vowing to change his recalcitrant ways, so she kissed him gently on the forehead and jumped off the edge of the window and down six feet into the impatiently idling van filled with giddy young adults heading out to Burning Man.
This week’s five sentences were inspired by Lillie McFerrin’s prompt: edge
Their love had come mid-life, after both of them had experienced enough joy and enough hardship to know what they wanted; to know that this kind of love usually only happened once, and that they had found it in each other. There were those who shunned them for dismantling two lives that seemed, from the outside, to be perfect, but they didn’t care. Each day they burnished their love by nurturing each other with their time, their devotion, their affection, and their passion, refusing to be apart more than was absolutely necessary.
It was true that they got little sleep, so interested in talking and touching each evening that they lost track of time and found that morning came shortly after they had reluctantly closed their eyes. It came as no surprise to their closest friends; those who had stuck by their sides through it all, when Robert took his last breath at the exact moment that Sophie uttered the last words that she would ever speak: I love you Robert; see you soon.
Five Sentence Fiction, the brainchild of Lillie McFerrin, offered up “words” as this week’s prompt. Click on the icon below to read more Five Sentence Fiction entries: