FictionFriday

One story each Friday [secondary blog]

[fictionfriday]

The door opened slowly. She came in and sat down on the worn chair in silence. The outside world could be so noisy. All she needed was this respite to compose herself. Her ears still rang from the sirens of the ambulances, the fire trucks, and the police. It had been a horrific accident and all she wanted to do was escape the noise.

[fictionfriday]

She typed furiously. No one knew what. The only thing that was certain was the sounds of anguish coming from the corner of the cafe. It was a mixture of pain and defiance. People were enthralled as if watching a piece of musical theater. The mystery mounting as a tense note. Finally, it gave when the cover of the typewriter was slammed with such force that it toppled the cup of tea next to it. The typist got up and walked out as anonymously as she had typed.

[fictionfriday]

“There’s no rest for the wicked, but many rewards,” read the ad in the old tattered newspaper on the ground. Priscilla took the paper in her hand and looked at the number. She yelped in surprise. It was her old number. Her hands started to tremble as she dialed. The phone rang six times before someone picked up. “Hello, hello,” said Priscilla. The voice on the other end sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. “Priscilla Young, it is nice for you to finally call. I’ve been trying to reach you for years.”

[fictionfriday]

The rain punished the roof, as if it wanted to pelt away the barrier. The wind roared and random objects flew into the fence. Inside the fire burned brightly. The crackling of the wooden logs hypnotized, but the roof began to leak. Drop, drop, drop, incessant came the sound. Slowly, the mind began to give and the drop, drop, drop seemed to be steps coming up the walk way, they were shots fired from a gun, they were bubbles being blown. She walked through one of those bubbles and found herself in another place. It seemed to be another land in another time. She stood facing a row of men throwing questions at her—a trial. She was declared guilty and the guillotine came down and just before it took her head, she was back before the crackling fire and the maddening drop, drop, drop.

[fictionfriday]

The house was perfect, but the bedrooms faced the street.

[fictionfriday]

FF will be taking some time off. Happy Holidays.

[fictionfriday]

The water felt so damn good, and it looked better on him. It washed over us as a salve, calming our nerves. We were waiting for the most important news of our lives. Will that bastard award us a passing grade, so we could get our bikes?

[fictionfriday]

The sky splinters apart, as the sun obliterates all in its path. It’s heat melting the clouds and setting ablaze the horizon. They embrace, hungrily, not taking one caress, one kiss, one moment for granted. As all ends around them, they only inhabit each other. This, their last act of defiance—love, in all its reverent destruction.

[fictionfriday]

“Three minutes ‘til midnight,” he uttered under his breath. Pacing to and fro was not relaxing him. If only he had been able to find a charger. He was about to miss the only chance luck had ever allowed him. He needed to get that text.

[fictionfriday]

She stared out the window, as she slowly savored her lemon tea. It was 7 A.M. The Tea House was packed. Humanity hurried in and out. Her red hat, gloves, journal, and pencil laid discarded on the table in front of her. Today her attention was with the man across the street. He was on the phone, and as his conversation went on, gesticulated louder and louder. His glossy leather glove caught the light over and over. It became some sort of symphony interrupted only in her head by the opening and closing of the shop’s door. When that happened, she was able to hear bits of his conversation.

Door opens. “Yes, I know, but…” Door closes.

Door opens. “Why would you think…?” Door closes.

Door opens. “No, no, that is not what I’m…” Door closes.

Out of nowhere a kid on a scooter wrenched the phone from the man’s hand. She almost dropped her tea. He did not react, at first, but then did something that she did not expect. Raven, as her mind had decided to call him, sat down at the curb and cried. People kept walking by. The world did not stop. Only her. After staring for another minute, she too, sprung to action. Alíz ordered two black coffees, one cup of warm milk, took four sugar packets, two stirrers, several napkins, and crossed the street. She handed him a cup, told him she had milk, and sugar, and sat down next to him. Silently, they sipped their drinks and somehow the day felt warmer.

[fictionfriday]

Another kind of movie

The lights in the movie theater came down. “Great,” I thought, “trailers galore.” However, instead of getting colder the air conditioning was turned off. I looked around, but strangely no one seemed to notice. All looked forward transfixed by the screen, except a shadowy figure holding the left back entrance door open. Our eyes met, more like sought each other out—brown eyes full of concern. Then, my ears were ringing, my eyes watering, and I started to cough. The putrid smell of burning rubber permeated everything. The screams paralyzed me. Those eyes were now holding me, pushing me towards the right front entrance. The door was swung open—I struggled to adjust to the blinding white-hot sun. Above, there were hundreds of helicopters. The whirring of the blades was deafening. My ears could hardly comprehend the words coming from a disembodied speaker: “Mandatory Evacuation. Go to the nearest helicopter. Alien Invasion. We Must Evacuate.”

[saltaelmuro]

Respiro tu aire viciado que me oxigena, que me da vida, y que se complementa al mismo tiempo con mi espacio vacío. Rezo para que nunca te alejes, te imploro que te estanques entre mis labios y despedaces el hielo profundo que otro amor dejo en ellos. Miradas en silencio, miradas cómplices sonríen, bocas que calman mares de deseo. Me enredo en tus besos hasta arrastrarte por mis manos, por mi piel que arde en llamas. Te quemo, me incineras, todo a nuestro alrededor arde por fin. Falta el aire, y ahora vos respiras mi aire. Falta la calma y como salvajes caníbales nos alimentamos del otro, disfrutando el dolor, del placer que nos causa.

SALTA EL MURO

[fictionfriday]

Ardamos entonces

[projecthypershort]

It was the thirtieth morning in the void, and she came to the bridge wearing a turtleneck and jeans. She smirked at the other officers and sank into the captain’s chair. One month they had gone now without seeing anything other than darkness or hearing anything besides the echoing rumble of their own engines. The clothes were a small act of defiance, barely worth noting, yet against that sea of blackness and tired faces she felt real, grounded, like a spot of red paint on a white piece of paper, differentiated somehow from the abyss.

[fictionfriday]

“a small act of defiance”—gorgeous

[fictionfriday]

The new offer

The apple has been offered again. It is no less shiny than the last. It just smells better—intoxicating. It looks better—ravishing. The red just drips with promise. My mouth waters and the fangs just descend. What inferno am I going to this time?

[fictionfriday]

Finally, take off

It ended. How many more times were they going to do this dance?

How can this roller coaster be love? Wasn’t it supposed to settle at some point? Couldn’t it become a gentle hammock?

The short answer is no. Not possible. Incompatible. Never.

We almost made it this time. He had gotten his dream job, as a school librarian, in one of the inner city junior high schools, and I thought, finally, take off. This was it.

“Honey, let’s go to the movies tonight.” I said.

“Baby, I can’t. Going for drinks— you know I gotta get to know these people.”

“Sure.” I said.

A variation of this convo took place as on a loop for weeks. And then a very different conversation begun: the silent freeze. Questions met with one-word answers. Kisses, unanswered. The end announcing itself. Should I place the period to this story? Or should it be an exclamation point?

In the end, there were no raised voices. We didn’t even speak. I packed my bags and left on one of the many evenings he was“getting to know people.” He didn’t call. And, surprisingly, I didn’t care.

The roller coaster ride was over. Next: that nice hammock.