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.
“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.
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”
Occasionally she took a ride in her mother’s car; without permission, which made a good thing (driving) even better. She wished she could have been honest with Harriet, her loving mother, but she knew her place as the eldest most responsible daughter, and coming clean would have meant giving up a modicum of respect and honor, which she was not willing to do. So she drove the Bentley when she felt like it, but only when her grieving mother was safely tucked away in her room, sipping her syrupy sweet sherry and reminiscing, and only while wearing her best dress and sleek black driving gloves–a gift from her father.
If Daddy were still alive, he would have encouraged Erin to drive as much as possible because he was a practical, no-nonsense man; a father beyond comparison who loved her more than life itself, and who had still remembered what it was like to be a passionate person living a sheltered life. But he wasn’t here, so she had to handle her urges on her own, even though it was illegal for a 14-year old to drive, and even though she knew that it was only a matter of time before her mother found out about her trips to the fiery edge of town where she could fan the flame of her desires without worrying about her responsibilities for a change.
This week’s challenge, provided by the ever-wonderful Lillie McFerrin was the word “flame.” See more entries by clicking on the icon below:
The only time he wasn’t worried about the future was when she visited. Her stopovers were so infrequent however, that he had never been able to find a pattern; some timing to count on, to look forward to, to fantasize about.
He waited, mostly empty, impatient, merely existing, barely breathing, until she appeared out of Nowhere, took his shaking hand, and made love to him without the slightest whisper. She ravaged him hungrily, fully, silently.
Rising on her haunches, sated, his skin in her teeth, blood dripping seductively from her ravaged lips, she leaped once, twice, and again to reach the next detour out of Forever and back to the place from where she had come.
You will blush if I tell you what he did to me.
If I told you about the way he kissed me, his passion devouring my lips like fine chocolate, you would be okay, your face impassive, colorless.
Even if I told you about us falling into bed, hungry as wild animals deprived too long from succulent, wild kill, you would merely smile at the imagery.
But if I told you about the way he looked at me, with his eyes wide open and tender, with his heart fully on his sleeve, talking to me, loving me completely, you would blush because what came next obliterated everything rational.
It’s hard for me to tell you what he said, to actually say it without blushing myself, but you must know, I have to share this: “You feel like breathing,” he said.
This week’s word: blush
Simple, shy, and unassuming, she was always shocked to read accounts of her escapades that described her as a “cold, calculated killer.” Though admittedly her world was a dark existence, devoid of deep, meaningful relationships, it was anything but dreary. The fact that plying her trade meant keeping out of sight during the day felt as natural to her as the habitual preparation required for every kill: better put, she loved her job.
Who could have guessed that the world could produce such a quiet, stunning creature so physically beautiful that her unwitting victims practically begged her to kill them? She had no shortage of suitors, it’s just that she couldn’t help devouring them at night.
Join the fun that Lillie McFerrin inspires with her “Five Sentence Fiction” prompts. This week’s word is “Night.” Hurry…you have through Wednesday to link up.
By the time she noticed him staring at her, she had already done three stupid things, and was about to do a fourth.
1. She had picked her itchy left nostril.
2. She had vigorously scratched an unmentionable spot.
3. She had shifted her too-tight g-string panties back into place.
Just prior to adjusting her ample bosom, its creamy skin puffed up and over the top of her scoop-neck ‘T’ just like baked, over-filled muffins, she caught his eye, her mind suddenly pondering how on earth she was going to explain to the incredible and sexy Professor Kent what a nice, educated girl like herself was doing working at a place like Hooters, her face warming, then burning, into what she could only imagine was a violent shade of scarlet.
This “Five Sentence Fiction” piece was based on Lillie McFerrin’s prompt: scarlet