This has been a day where I woke up and struggled to get up. Got to work reasonably on time and settled in, but the fact that this wasn't already done and posted has been bugging me. So, here I am, on my lunch hour, typing away with no clue. Of course, that is my normal state, so status quo.
Had a good weekend with the review / comment process. Spent quality time with a number of different things across a variety of sites. I even had time to work on my story and got a couple of chapters done. Naturally, though, the well is now dry, so I'm going to "cheat" and paste the flash stories I came up with and mentioned in yesterday's post. I'll let you decide if I'm wicked, evil or simply sick and demented. Or, perfectly normal.
* * * *
Light and Shadow (Posted on the FFF thread in response to the prompt "Torchlight")
July, 1992.
Outside the canvas walls, the night was soft with dew and
crickets whispered. Warm light still glowed from the windows,
and the faint murmur of the television washed the yard.
Inside the tent, it was dark. Sandy and Matthew had been
given permission to ‘go camping’. Even though it was past her bedtime, Sandy
snuggled inside the sleeping roll.
“Come on,” she sneered at her brother, older by three years,
“I’m not afraid.”
“No. Mom’ll get mad if you wet your bed or run crying into
the house.” He slid down and pulled the covering up.
“You’re a chicken, that’s what, but I’m not.”
They had argued for almost twenty minutes and Matt was tired
of it. He hated being called a chicken. Sometimes his friends said it, and it
stung. Having his little sister say it stung more.
“All right.” He grabbed the torch and flicked the switch,
moving it up and holding it under his chin so that the wash of light changed
his face into something new. His voice was low, menacing and he leaned forward.
“Once, not too far from here…”
Sandy slid up to listen, made uncomfortable by the change
the angles of light made to Matt’s face, but not willing to whine or show it.
“…he had a golden arm…”
Outside, there was a sharp rustle followed by the crack of a
breaking branch and the neighbor’s dog began to bark. Sandy skittered out of
the sleeping bag, darted between the canvas flaps, and threw herself in the
direction of the warm lights.
* * * *
November, 2014
“Damn.” Sandy stepped inside to flick the switch from a
different angle. The lights still didn’t come on. After dropping her purse and
coat onto the sofa, she headed for the kitchen to get the candles.
The house, built in the 1950’s, had wiring that seemed to
supply power only when it felt like it. Rain or shine it didn’t matter.
“I should just leave these out,” she muttered as she opened
the cabinet door.
There was a sound from the doorway into the dining room.
Whirling, she saw the bulk of a figure. Her lips tightened in irritation. It
had been one solid bitch of a day and she was in no mood for her brother’s
antics. When the torch flicked on, casting light and shadow, she’d had enough.
“I warned you!” She crossed the floor in three quick steps,
balanced, and flung her foot upward, into the channel between his legs and wham, caught him as hard as she could.
With a shriek, he collapsed, curling into a fetal position,
gasping and clutching himself. At the same instant, something clattered to the
floor and the finicky lights flickered to life.
She stepped back. Shock became horror as she realized it
wasn’t Matt. She didn’t know who it was – she had never seen him before. Next
to him lay a knife, not one of hers. She stepped back, again, turned, ran
through the family room, down the short hall and out the front door.
Matt was coming up the street with Jess and Dave when his
little sister came tearing out of the house.
“What is it?” He lurched forward to grab her, seeing the
shock and fear in her staring eyes.
When she pointed, he let her go and raced to the house,
closely followed by his friends.
WEST SIDE RAPIST FELLED IN ONE BLOW
Sandy McLaine arrived home at eleven o’clock last night
where she found an intruder she mistook for her brother, Matthew. An
altercation ensued…
* * * * *
An Unexpected Assailant
(Posted on WriteOn in response to the Weekend Write-In prompt of "Falsetto")
It sounded like the high-pitched whine of a teakettle on
the boil, a hoarse and muffled shriek of pain. He lay on his side, curled in a
fetal position, his cheeks wet with tears while his hands clutched his crotch,
not yet rocking to comfort himself.
Kelly stepped back, the adrenaline still pounding through
her body in a flood that stiffened her spine even though her nerves were
waiting to collapse. The knife, blood tipped, glinted eerily in the shadow cast
by his body. A step forward and she scooped it up, gingerly, and then paused,
debating. Sounds from the street, just thirty feet away, intruded on them.
I could. No one would know. The chill night breathed on her neck, raising
goose-pimples and a shiver. No. I would know and he’s not worth that.
Extracting her cell phone from her pocket she stood over
him while she dialed. Guess all those hours working with my sensei paid off
after all. Bastard never stood a…
“911. What is your emergency?”
* * * *
“We met in a bar earlier tonight.” God, she was tired,
particularly in the aftermath. “He offered to walk me home because it was late.
I live close by, so didn’t think about it.”
* * * *
In a room down the hall, Drake held the ice bag between
his legs. The need to throw up had passed, but he knew he was going to be in a
world of hurt for at least a few days.
“She came on to me, I swear. I thought she’d like it.”
The cop’s eyes were blank and jaded. He’d heard it all
before, a million times, and he was bored. “So you shoved her into the alley
without asking.”
“Yes… I mean, no. I…” Drake shook his head. It was so
fucked up. The pretty blonde babe, slender at the waist with a nice rack and
hips that… well, they made him hard just thinking about her, and that hurt. He
shifted, clearing his throat, hoping the squeaky girl sound in his voice wasn’t
going to be permanent. “We were kidding around, joking, and I grabbed her and
pulled her along. She didn’t resist. Well, not much.”
The cop nodded, wrote and looked up, “What do you do for
a living?”
Drake looked up with a smile, straightened on the chair
and began to sing – a bouncy rendition of “I Feel Pretty”.
The cop stared, his jaw dropped in surprise and, a few
bars into it, burst into laughter, collapsing against the hard plastic chair
while Drake continued to belt out the lines in the falsetto created by his
balls having been kicked into his throat.
“I’m a singer in a drag revue.”
* * * * *
Have a lovely (entirely pain-free) day!
Best~
Philippa
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