Fiction Friday: [A Life Extraordinary]

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A calm breeze shakes the long blades of grass to life. They tickle my cheek as I stare up at the marshmallowy cloud looming overhead. Impossibly out of reach, I wonder what my life must look like from up there. 

Boring, I decide. Extremely boring.

Looking over at Will—his arms clasped behind his head and eyes closed—I know he never thinks such things. He’s content to just lie here, basking under the sun, on this unseasonably hot spring day. Right now, he’s happy here. Doing this. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sometimes I envy him.

Closing my eyes I become weightless. Air quickly fills the space between my body and the lush field of green as I ascend. A coolness washes over me as I enter the wispy folds of the cloud. Tiny beads of icy moisture cling to my skin, but as I break through to the other side, heated rays from the sun evaporate each one.

Perched atop the cloud, I feel free. So free that I’m hesitant to peek over the side. To witness a life less fantastical than this very moment.  But, curiosity wins out and I do.

Expecting to see a woman muddling her way through a humdrum life, destined to have a humdrum future, I am taken aback by what plays out before me. Every event of my life, leading to this moment, is projected in flashes. Suddenly, I am glowing. Radiating from the choices I’ve made and the work I’ve put in to get me here.

I see my future—the extraordinary things to come—and feel foolish for ever doubting my life was less than amazing. From here I can see how capable I am. How big my heart is. How incredibly lucky I am to be me.

I see my family, my friends—my Will.

Despite the distance, we’re clear as day. Two people in a field of many who all just seem to fade away. I am overwhelmed by how gently and trustingly he places his heart in my hand. 

Opening my eyes, I am back on the ground. Back to my life.  I reach over to Will, weaving my fingers through his. Right now, I am happy here. Doing this. Nothing more, nothing less.

Fiction Friday: [Sterling Farms]

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A couple of weeks ago I posted a story about a writer's creepy visit to a graveyard. It was based on a prompt by Scene Stealers, but I'd exceeded the word count and never submitted it. Boo! Well, I decided to take another stab at it and this piece of flash comes in at 350 words on the dot.

[This week's Fiction Friday is my submission for Scene Stealers #21. Scene Stealers is a fun writing prompt from Write to Done where they provide the first two--or in this case three--sentences and limit your word count to 350. Enjoy!]

She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she'd oiled the hinges just yesterday.  

Another creak. She felt her muscles tighten. Her ears perked, straining for a clue.

This is why a city girl shouldn't visit the country, she thought.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Goosebumps stood her hairs on end and her breathing grew shallow. She looked down at her fingers, frozen over the keyboard, and realized they were shaking.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Closing her eyes, she tried to fold into herself, but knew she had to get in control of the situation. She slowly made her way toward the vicinity of the tapping. Her ear touched the wall and she was startled by its iciness. Regardless, she pressed it tighter and listened. She didn't have to wait long.

The sound of clawing screamed in her ear from the other side. Long, deliberate strokes escalating to desperate scrapes. She couldn't breathe as the fear sat heavily on her chest.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound echoed and amplified in her ear. She shot from the wall. Grabbing her laptop, she shoved it into its case. As she was about to gather the rest of her things:

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Racing out of the house and into the car, she drove blindly until she came across a hotel. Although it was thirty minutes away, it still didn't feel far enough. Settled in, she opened her laptop, launching the search engine.

"Sterling Farms, Middleburg VA"

She read article after article about how, in 1992, during renovations, a body had been found buried within a bedroom wall of the farmhouse. They'd determined the body to be that of Margaret Sterling, who had gone missing in 1832. Forensic evidence proved she'd been buried alive. Evidence such as scratch marks and divots dug out with her finger.

An hour later, she was still in front of the computer, knees pulled up to her chin as she hugged herself tightly. Wide, unblinking eyes sat over her tear stained cheeks. She would never return to that house again. Not when she knew that Margaret was still there.

Fiction Friday: [I'm Still Here]

I hate the beeping.
I know I shouldn’t
since it’s a
constant reminder
that I’m alive.

But I do.
I do because
it also reminds me
that no one believes
I’m still here.

My mother visits.
She holds my hand,
but I know.
I know she thinks
I’m just a shell.

The lifeless body
of the daughter
she doesn’t know,
doesn’t realize,
is still here.

If she knew,
she wouldn’t
talk about
how close she is
to giving up hope.

She wouldn’t lament
over all the things
she never
had a chance
to tell me.

She would know
I heard her.
Every word. Every time.
Even over
the relentless beeping.

Fiction Friday: [A Change of Scenery]

[This week's Fiction Friday is my submission for Scene Stealers #21. Scene Stealers is a fun writing prompt from Write to Done where they provide the first two--or in this case three--sentences and limit your word count to 350. Unfortunately this time I blew past the word limit. Enjoy!]

She looked up from her writing. Was that a creak? But she’d oiled the hinges just yesterday. 

Sallie’s fingers froze over the keyboard. She held her breath and listened intently in hopes of dissipating the fear. As the sound of her heart pounded in her ears, she really started to regret leaving the city.

Go to the country, her agent suggested, get a change of scenery.

A sense of dread, lurking just below the surface, had struck her from the moment she arrived. She’d attributed it to her overblown imagination and gone for a walk, hoping to combat her anxiety. Strolling along the quiet dirt road, she was drawn in by the hypnotic flow of the rolling hills and the graceful beauty of the grazing horses. In her trance-like state, she felt a sense of calm wash over her.

Then she came upon the sign. Spotted with rust and partly covered by vines, it should have been easy to miss, but she’d seen it, clear as day.

Friendship Cemetery 1773

Suddenly, she was standing on an overgrown path with no recollection of how she’d gotten there. At her feet, weeds snaked their way through cracked pieces of stone. In front of her, a short, stone stacked wall surrounded long forgotten tombstones. Her mind told her to run, but her body had other ideas.

The pebbles crunched beneath her feet—screaming through the quiet—as she breached the entrance to the cemetery. Her panic growing with each step. Her desperation to turn around growing even faster.

She finally stopped in front of an arched tombstone that had broken in two. It was weathered, but she could just make out the inscription across the bottom piece: April 1778 – Dec 1862. Her breathing grew shallow as she looked down and found her toes touching the top half that lay face down, on the ground. Reaching out to pick it up, her mind screamed in protest. She read the inscription and her blood ran cold. Her hands shook as the stone slipped through her fingers, breaking in two as it hit the ground.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The banging brought her back and she jumped at the sound.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

It was coming from beneath her feet. It was coming from the grave.

She scrambled out of the cemetery, jumping over the wall. Too afraid to look back at the broken tombstone that lay on a bed of dead leaves. The tombstone that bore the name Sallie Fleming.

Her name.

Now, sitting at her laptop in the quaint little farmhouse, Sallie clasped her hands over her mouth to hold in a blood curdling scream. She could taste the saltiness of the tears that seeped their way to her palms. Closing her eyes, the sound that had followed the creaking felt even closer.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

As she opened her eyes, a scream ripped from her throat right before her heart stopped.

Fiction Friday: [Toeing the Line]

Just the thought of standing too close to the platform edge scared her. She’d heard the stories, although rare, of some demented psycho pushing a fellow commuter onto the tracks. There’s no way to survive getting hit by a New York City subway train. No way.

Across the platform a woman stands so close to the edge that both feet are on the bumpy yellow strip. The yellow strip you’re supposed to stand behind. Behind. How does she not know this?

The sound of the metal beast nearing causes a tightness in her chest and a shortness of her breath. As much as she didn’t want to die via subway collision, she didn’t want to witness it either.

Regardless, she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Away from the calm that never left the woman’s face. Her nonchalance as she teetered on the brink of death. She couldn’t comprehend the woman’s bravery. Couldn’t imagine what it was like not to flinch in the face of danger.

But she wanted to. She wanted to understand. She wanted to know what it was like to live, for one moment, not drowning in fear.

Screeching rocks her back to reality--surrounded by commuters plugging their ears against the grating of wheel to track. She watches as the woman, head aloft, disappears into the crowded car. She’s gone. Lost within the sea of black wool coats and free newspapers.

The intercom crackles above and, through the static, she knows her train will be arriving soon. Heart thumping and mind racing, she makes a decision her mind hasn’t quite registered. The platform vibrates under her feet as the train growls into the station blowing her hair back and away from her face. Startled and confused, she looks down. A sense of hope whirls around her--mixing with the gust from the train--as she finds her right foot firmly planted across the yellow line. 

Fiction Friday: [The Trouble With Caring]

Lights from street lamps sparkle and spread into abstract shapes as the rain pours down on the windshield. The urgent squeak of the wipers echo through the car, but do little to help Oliver see the road ahead. It hadn’t rained in weeks and the roads were slick, but he had no time to think about it.

Time was ticking, of the essence and every other cliché related to life or death situations. Slick roads were the least of his concerns.

The message was clear and if he was late, she would die.

He pulls himself closer to the steering wheel and scrunches his neck, hoping to see how far he’s gotten. A beam of light penetrates the curtain of rain and travels across the windshield. The lighthouse.

He’s close.

Vivian had gotten dressed and left for work, as usual, without a word. Their marriage had been slowly disintegrating for years now. And as the kids grew older and left home, it had become a competition of who cared less.

He no longer hid the affair he’d been having with their former nanny—and Vivian invited her for dinner. She started stepping out with the tennis instructor at the clubhouse—and Oliver signed up for lessons with him. The volleying, he knew, had gone on for too long. He’d grown tired of the antics and was ready to file for divorce.

He was surprised when she’d called him that evening, and even more so when she’d left a voicemail, after it had gone unanswered.

She'd had enough and decided to take her life. At 5 ‘clock she was going to jump from the lighthouse. The lighthouse that had once been their special place. She’d only given him the details because she knew he wouldn’t care enough to stop her—their love too far gone.

Oliver had reached the elevator before the message ended, his secretary calling behind him about a meeting in ten.

The message.

Sitting in its cradle, he reaches over to his phone and hits the voicemail button. As Vivian’s voice fills the car, he realizes she’d left a new one.

“Oh, Oliver. I can’t believe you were foolish enough to think I’d let you file for divorce. I haven’t suffered these last years of our marriage to be dragged through the mud and come out with nothing in the end. Now, I don’t want you to worry. I will wear the mask of the grieving widow for the sake of our children. I do need to thank you for them. And the weatherman for an accurate forecast. I can only imagine how recklessly you’re driving through this downpour. Oh…and I also have to thank the makers of the hedge trimmers I used to cut your brakes.”

Before he can react, the car hits a watery patch and hydroplanes. For the briefest of moments, he gets lost in the feeling of weightlessness before trying to right the vehicle. Jerking the wheel back and forth, the car doesn’t respond and his hands grip tighter as it slides across the road until it ends. Tumbling over the embankment, Oliver feels light as a feather.

A revelation fills his mind before he has a chance to truly grasp that these are his last moments.

Vivian has won.

Not only had she led him to his death, she proved that he had, in fact, cared more.

Fiction Friday: [Sanctuary]

[This week's Fiction Friday is my submission for Scene Stealers #20. Scene Stealers is a fun writing prompt from Write to Done where they provide the first two--or in this case three--sentences and limit your word count to 350. Enjoy!]

You’re surprised when the usher hands you an envelope with your name on it. How would anyone know you’d be watching this movie here, now? You open the envelope. 

Your fingers pause between the envelope and the card tucked within. Seriously, who would know you were here? This theater was your secret sanctuary. Your hideaway in moments when you were feeling down or, in this case, mad.

David doesn’t even know about this place.

David.

How a fight about not washing the dishes had turned into not caring about the relationship was beyond you

Curious, you free the card and handwritten in thick, blocky letters it read: TURN OVER.

You flip it and see the words: LOOK UP.

The screen flickers and the over stylized car chase that had filled it fades to white. Murmurs well up throughout the theater, but you don’t take your eyes off the screen. Another flicker and you gasp as David appears thirty feet tall on the screen.

“Hi honey. I know you’re confused, probably even wondering if you’re crazy, but trust me, you’re not. I guess the first thing I should do is apologize for the stupid fight this morning, but it was the only way to get you here.”

Your heart is pounding so hard that the sound of it in your ears threatens to drown out his words.

“I know you come here when you want to wallow, but I hope after today it becomes a place that you come to when you want to lift your spirits. I hope it becomes the place that reminds you of how much I love you and the day that you agreed to become my wife.”

The house lights come up as the screen fades to black. The audience stands and as your eyes go from face to face you recognize your family and friends. In unison they all extend their arms to your right and at the end of the aisle stands David. You turn to face him and he drops to one knee.

Then, you christen your transformed sanctuary with tears of joy.

Fiction Friday: [One Tough Job]

Neil couldn’t stop staring at her tiny fingers. Nimble they were not, but he marveled at her determination. Her little hand was like a carnival claw as she tried again and again to grab a Cheerio off the tray. There were no signs of excitement when she finally succeeded—clutching the crunchy ring in her fist. She stubbornly kept her mouth open while her hand hovered drunkenly, less than an inch away from it. When the treat reached its goal, he couldn’t help but cheer a little inside.

It had been difficult in the beginning. All she seemed to do was cry. Cry and poop. But now he could see that she was a little person. He was fascinated by her clumsy hands and chipmunk cheeks. Her bright, inquisitive eyes and fat smooshy thighs. He found that when she smiled, he smiled. When she laughed, he laughed.

He watched as she mindlessly gummed the treat—her focus returned to the circles still on the tray. Staring at the déjà vu of it all, he couldn’t help but wonder who she would become. What she would grow up to be.

He imagined her as a doctor, or a lawyer, or President of the United States. He wished for her to find love, to get married and have a family. Ultimately, he just wanted her to grow up to be happy and kind and loved.

She wiggled back and forth, clapping her hands, pleased with herself as another Cheerio reached her mouth. She looked up at him, revealing her two tiny teeth as she smiled. Heart melting, Neil clapped his hands and smiled back. By the time Stu came into the room they were laughing.

“Hate to break up playtime,” he said sarcastically, “But the parents called—they have the ransom. Get her ready to go.”

“Alright,” Neil said.

He tried his best to hide the overwhelming sadness that suddenly gripped him. Stu wouldn’t understand.

Then, he thought about her going home and imagined her graduating from high school, then college. He imagined her curing cancer and mediating peace talks. He imagined her happy and then, just like when she smiled, or when she laughed, he was happy, too.

He pulled her from the highchair and she kicked her legs with excitement as if she understood.

“Looks like you’re going home, sweetie,” he said as he handed her one last Cheerio.