Pieces of my fiction…
A painful breath in. A throbbing ache in her head. Silence all around.
A memory. Car rushing towards them. Rolling over. A hard thud, then stillness.
Cameron slumped in the passenger seat beside her. Desperate panic rushed through her then.
God, let him be alright.
Oh, Alex. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to get your precious son hurt. Not on my watch.
Tears filled her eyes.
I love your son. As much as I love you.
She tried to move, but couldn’t. Took another breath in and then the pain in her head went sharp. Darkness rushed in like an ocean wave.
A knot of worry the size of the Earth lodged itself in his chest. Alex was about to shoot a scene when the call came for him.
“Alex?” That was his manager who drove the car they sat in now.
He shook his head. He didn’t have a voice.
The car stopped in front of the hospital.
Twenty minutes later, Alex sat in the stark hospital room.
“Alex, do you want anything?” His manager again.
He shook his head again. Still no voice.
He couldn’t muster one when the doctor spoke to him a few minutes ago, either.
Thoughts ran wild with worry in his head, but still…no voice.
He stared at the still woman lying before him, tears in his eyes. His son was going to be okay, thank God, but Kayla, lying still in her beauty, they weren’t sure.
Life. So precious. So fleeting.
That morning, Kayla was vibrant – full of life as he hugged her close and kissed her lips. Now, here she was, barely holding onto it.
Alex leaned down and hugged her tight, pressing his cheek against hers, his lips against hers.
Kayla, baby, hang on. Hang on.
This piece is inspired by a prompt from The Red Dress Clubwhich asks you to write a flash fiction piece inspired by the word “Life”.
Who I Am…
I stare hard at my face in the mirror. Scruitinizing it. My light yellow skin with the wide, dark eyes and smattering of freckles across my nose. My origins are from New Orleans. I’m the only son to an artist father and now dead mother.
Yet, I still don’t know…who I am.
What I am.
And why the blood follows me home. On my clothes. On my skin.
And why I don’t remember how the blood got there even though I can guess. It’s like I blackout for a few hours and wake up to shock of red covering me.
I’m killing or involved in a killing. Of what? Or who? My heart lurches at the thought.
There have been a string of murders with the same MO happening throughout New Orleans in the last several months. They say a serial killer is on the loose.
I cringe. Could it be me?
I’ve tried psychologists, psychotherapists, even a hypnotist. I fear what will be revealed during those sessions but the burning desire to know who I am trumps that fear.
You see, I’m tired of coming home in the early morning hours, exhausted, clothes stained with blood. I’m tired of the constant scrubbing I have to do to get the blood off my clothes.
I hate living like this. With this horrific unknown.
The blood. Incriminating evidence. Of what, though? I want to know. It’s killing me.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, then place my fedora on my head.
Oh, the irony. I’m a private investigator and I can’t even figure out the mystery that is me.
Until I do, I have to live with this nightmare.
I sigh sadly, turn and walk out the door.
This is a piece of fiction I wrote in response to a prompt at The Red Dress Club.
She hunched her shoulders and closed her eyes.
35 years old, white, female – stabbed 15 times. She sat up straight and sighed, opening her eyes. She looked at the pictures, then reached for the red can and took a drink.
She closed her eyes again, reveling in the sweet, smooth cola taste rolling across her tongue and down her throat. She loved the bite of carbonation that flowed with the sweet. So nice.
She lifted the cup to her mouth and took another long drink. Savored the swallow.
She hated when the victims were female, which alot of times, they were. She hated even more when the victims died by the hand of a boyfriend. An angry, drunk or drugged out boyfriend.
Another drink and she put the can down next to the two cans sitting on her desk. She’d been at her desk the last hour and a half. Too busy to get up and walk over to the green recycling bin to toss the other two cans she just drank.
She sighed. She had more important fish to fry.
She reached over and pulled another file towards her. It looked like they were dealing with a crime of passion. They got the boyfriend. Now she had to process the paperwork. She sighed and began the tedious task.
Two hours later, Sophie looked up into the eyes of Dennis Morales, her partner.
“Yes.” She had just finished on the stabbing victim. “Mickey D’s.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You know I dig the garbage.”
Fifteen minutes later, Sophie was laughing hysterically. Her partner just told the funniest joke. She picked up her super-sized Coke and took a long sip.
Yes! – she thought. So good. Even though she already had three cans that morning and she promised herself she would be good and just be done after the third.
And now, it’s lunch. Very rarely did she and her partner have a sit-down lunch. This fourth one was a bonus. Besides, this one would last her awhile, and it would most likely be her last one.
“I’m surprised you don’t have holes in your stomach from where the acid is burning. Or holes in your teeth.” He looked pointedly at her drink.
“What?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s just coke. Besides, this is it for me today.”
“Okay.” He gave her a doubtful look.
Twenty minutes later, Sophie and her partner walk back towards their desks. They are met there by their captain and boss.
“Don’t sit. We got a body down on 23rd and 10th.”
“Got it,” Morales said.
Sophie placed her super-sized cola on her desk. She and Morales did an about-face and headed out.
An hour later, Sophie and Morales walked away from the bloody body, underneath the yellow tape, and through a crowd of on-lookers. Her face was scrunched. Another female victim. She shook her head.
“Poor girl,” Morales said. “We’ll start with the first name on our list. Already got an address.”
“Sounds good,” she said. They walked past a bodega.
“We should head there now.”
She stopped walking. “Yep. First, I need to stop for something. Wait here.” She pushed the glass door of the store open. “You want something?”
“Get me a Kit Kat.”
“Sure thing.” She walked inside.
Two minutes later, she stepped out, drinking from a bottle of Cherry Coke. The cool liquid soothed her throat and smoothed out a little bit of the tension her shoulders held. She loved this. The beverage was close to freezing too, just the way she liked it. Just one for the road. She needed a little boost, after seeing the body.
She handed her partner the Kit Kat. “Let’s go.”
Two hours later, Sophie sat her desk at the precinct, massaging her neck. Her partner sat across from her, talking a mile a minute about this latest case.
He paused. “What do you think?”
“I can see where you are going with this. Can we just go to the board?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.”
They both stood up, Sophie grabbed her super-sized cola and sipped. It was empty.
Jeez! she thought.
“I’ll meet you there, Dennis. I’m just going to grab something.”
“Yeah.” He turned and walked away. Sophie walked in the opposite direction towards the vending machine in the back. She smiled a little. Her saving grace. She stood in front of the soda machine, staring at the Coca-Cola button. She took in the picture of the bottle of Coke – beads of water on it’s outer surface.
It’s okay – she thought to herself. An exception, tonight. It was going to be a long night, after all.
She started digging in the pocket of her pants for change.
This is inspired by a writing prompt from The Red Dress Club which asks to write a piece based on gluttony – eating and drinking to excess.
You stole my joy…
Such a beautiful face – your olive skin, hazel eyes, charming smile, you drew me in. When you returned my interest, I was thrilled. Our dinners in Manhattan, our weekend trips to the Cape, our walks in Central Park.
I was in heaven. So happy. My joy, the size of a glowing, effervescent sun, I could barely contain it.
A few months later we were rushing down the aisle of the old chapel down in Princeton – Mr. and Mrs. I gripped your arm tightly as you held mine.
“You’re mine’s,” you whispered, softly, seductively in my ear. I shivered in anticipation. I couldn’t wait for that night.
Days later, lying on the bright white beach staring at sparkling turquoise blue water was divine. My joy spread as wide as the bright horizon before me. All was perfect in our little world.
And when we moved into our new old Victorian home with the wide steps off the front porch,
my joy pulsated. I was the luckiest woman in the world.
Until rage like a fiery whirlwind appeared out of nowhere, your face a contorted mask. I would see that face often. It would stun me and bring tears to my eyes.
Each fist on my skin would pierce a hole in my joy and bring disillusionment. The punches to my stomach, the shoves into doors, the bruises marking my pale skin, the blood on the floor.
Stinging pain followed after along with my muffled cries. I didn’t want to make you angry again.
After the tenth trip to the emergency room, I left you and my joy behind.
The time with my parents afterwards at their comforting home was a balm to my emotional wounds yet depression overtook me, as the tears flowed. Angry, I wanted my joy back.
So I threw myself into building the career that would make me happy – got that job I worked with great passion for. A little brightness like a spark flared through my darkness but the tears still flowed.
I took that dream cruise to the Caribbean with my best friends. Spent days walking the white sandy beaches and nights relaxing to the sounds of steel drums. Laughed a bit, but deep within me, the sadness still settled.
Months later, I went after a life long goal and made the climb up Denali. Majestic, breathtaking. My first smile in a long time appeared on my lips. But that night underneath the glittering stars a tear or two still made an appearance, though the throbbing in my heart began to slow to a dull ache.
Then one Saturday morning, while I sat on my window seat staring out at the trees across from my home, I picked up a pen and started to write. About all the things you did to me and all the hurts and pains I endured while with you and even a few of the good memories. The tears rushed out and became deep, gut-wrenching sobs. This writing and this crying went on until late in the evening until I truly let you go from my heart.
I wake the next day – today – pack a picnic basket and take off to the mountains near my home. I sit by that spot I love near the rushing water of the creek surrounded by the omnipresent Rocky Mountains. I breathe in the clear air, pick up my pen and notebook and start to write. I smile as my eyes tear up.
It’s been almost two years.
Finally, I’ve found my joy.
This piece of fiction is based on a writing prompt fromThe Red Dress Club which asks to write about a treasure that was stolen from you or your character, and what you did about it.
And there’s more…