Shine

The shine of the metal burned my eye. I had to keep them open, though. Couldn't close my eyes. Had to keep watching.

From underneath the truck, I could see the abandoned knife sitting so close to my eye. They were fighting now. Fighting over me. I could only hope the right one won.

Please don't let me die.

Steve had told me to hide when my stalker attacked us. Jealous over Steve. But Steve was my fiancée. He shouldn't be jealous over Steve. Steve was right. He was wrong.

Steve had told me to run. I ran. Steve had told me to hide. I hid.

I couldn't see much under here, though. Sometimes I saw their feet, locked together in an ugly dance. Things picked up, though.

The knife was stolen from the ground. Someone grunted. Someone fell. Blood rolled toward me. I shifted away.

A hand came into view, reaching for me. They pulled me into a pair of arms. Steve's arms.

It was over.

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings.

I Dreamt a Dream! What Can it Mean?

Rolling pink waves. Yellow flashes. A man in the wake of it all.

Cooling voice. Burning touch. Ariel in the wake of it all.

But what does it mean? What does it mean? This dream of mine.

This dream of mine. He says, he says....something will happen at the party.

He says, he says....Man will happen at the party.

Beware of Man. Beware of Man.

Beware of Man at the party.

Inspired by Carry on Tuesday. Also, please read Alexander Pope's "The Rape of the Lock."

A Scientist's Design

Light flickered. Machines rumbled. The dead howled. The scientist ripped off a limb here and there from the bodies. They lay on his many operating tables deep down under the earth.

The scientist stitched the flesh together slowly. Still after so many years he was not a skilled tailor. His children suffered as a result. The scientist stared at his current project. The seams stretched open at the joints. He could see the ravaged muscles inside. But he wanted a beautiful child.

Maybe next time he should design a beautiful wife instead.

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings.

The Magic of the Desert Sun

It was evident he wasn't going to make it.

I watched from afar as he clamoured toward the illusion of an oasis I conjured before his eyes. He was getting desperate. Soon, he would die. He couldn't last much longer. The desert heat was even starting to get to me. And my witch's blood could usually withstand such abuses.

Finally, the tragic figure fell to the ground. When I closed my eyes I could feel his tears caress my cheek. When I tilted my head I could hear his hoarse whisperings float on the heat waves. When I opened my eyes I could watch him die.

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday.

The Locket

The locket sat on the desk. It did not move. Its owner watched it, waiting. The forlorn thing really didn't seem all that important. Who would've thought it held the key to the girl's past?

It was a peculiar, little thing, sitting there as if the world was right. The girl picked it up and held it in her hands in the dim, attic light. Dust motes swung this way and that in the lonely sunbeams. She pinched the chain between two fingers and swung it like a pendulum before her tired eyes.

She had to get going.

The girl picked herself up and tucked the locket away in the pocket of her little dress. She descended to the garden in the backyard, calling out to her step-mother, "I'm going to play, mummy."

The girl pulled open the little gate and crossed into the next street. It should be here. Her older brother, Mark, told her it would be. She wished he was there with her now.

The girl studied the numbers on the houses as she passed them. It really was too bad Mark couldn't come. In truth, her brother had fabricated a tale to explain why he couldn't join his younger sister, Arabelle. Mark had said he had a date, had been quite adamant in saying he did, but Mark never had dates. His sister was just too young to notice.

The numbers 597 gleamed on a small, white house. Arabelle checked the back of the photo in the locket. That's what it said. Mark had told her it was here. He was right. He was always right. That's what big brothers did best.

Arabelle climbed the steps and rang the doorbell. A woman answered with the same carrot-red hair as Arabelle.

"Hi." Arabelle plucked the photo from its place and shoved it into the woman's face. "Is this you?"

"Yes..."

Arabelle flung herself at the woman.

"Hi, mummy! It's nice to meet you."

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday.

Messenger

It's in the sunbeams

Streaming down from the sky

It's in the wild air

Tickling my

Skin touching the cool grass

Thick

It's in the lives of the animals

Nature's limerick

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings.

Problem is fixed! :)

I love My Wife

I love my wife. Or rather, I loved my wife. The poor dear. I strolled into our favourite coffee shop; it was where we had met decades earlier. The tiny bell announced my entry and the young man behind the counter offered a familiar smile. I came every day. I came faithfully at the exact same time. It was a ritual.

I kept my hands tucked deep into my pockets, like hammers in a tool belt. I continued on to the bathroom at the back of the shop to wash up before I ordered my usual coffee and lemon cake. The biting January air crept through the tiny crack in the high window. A crack ran through the middle like a ragged scar. I twisted the taps on the sink. The cold one didn't work. So, I used the hot tap. I watched the soapy foam as it swirled down the drain. One more look at the window and then I returned to the young man behind the counter.

His face crumpled into a mask of concern. "Hey, are you okay, man?"

My eyes darted to find the culprit of his alarm. My thumb found the spot of blood on the stiff, white collar of my favourite shirt (it was a gift from my wife, my darling Mary) and I rubbed at it a little. I hadn't taken the thing off since she died.

"Yes," I offered a tight smile. "I just had a bit of a nose-bleed, that's all. It's this cold air that does it."

I smiled again for good measure. He smiled back.

"The usual?" I nodded. I shoved the cash onto the counter and took a seat near the far window in the corner, away from the door. As I sat, I watched the passerby and the people who wandered into the little coffee shop. It was in this way that I saw them.

They were across the street when I looked, talking to the locals and writing on little, spiral notepads. Their heads--a pair of blonde heads, by the way--snapped up to stare through the frosted windows of the coffee shop.

I groaned, my fingers flying up to grind into my temples. Those damn sirens were giving me a headache.

The police burst through the door, hands on their guns and legs braced apart.

"Gregory Smith?"

I indicated my presence with the wave of a hand and a small grunt.

"Over here, boys."

I really didn't expect them here so soon. I hadn't even gotten my coffee and cake yet.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Mary Smith..."

The cop's voice trailed on but I couldn't listen.

I stood to make securing a pair of handcuffs around my thick wrists a little easier.

Mary, dear Mary, had been a bad woman. She never listened. Well, she certainly had listened that night. But still...I loved my wife. And love means never having to say you're sorry.

Inspired by Carry on Tuesday.