Jada had no idea why it was the kettle. Surely it wasn’t always. How many childhood stories were there about tea kettles being possessed?
She couldn’t resist the designs. It begged to be taken home.
Such a tea slut.
The walls rumbled. In front of her individual scales twitched and flapped. A beast of terrifying size draped over her furniture.
Jada knew the beast couldn’t be real. Yet here it was, half chasing something in its sleep; its forked tongue hanging from between scaly lips. Its serrated claws curled as it feigned trotting through a field playfully tossing its massive head.
And probably a corpse.
A feeling of panic rested low in her belly. Jada’s legs ached to run but she was frozen.
Its head snapped up. Jada could see her reflection in the glossy red iris. The beast inhaled as its nose passed across her.
Not a snack, the whole meal. Is this really gonna be my last thought before I die?
Its putrid breath filled Jada’s nose. Instead of a roar it let out a series of low clicks.
Oh god, it’s engine won’t turn over.
Word Count: 200
For Sunday Photo Fiction – It’s my first time joining in with this (we can post on days other than Sunday right?) Also, dragons are like puppies. Who knew?
The sight of him sends heat pulsing through my veins. My skin grows warm. Sheer will pushes me forward. What’s worse, my throat dries and heart hammers, I can feel his energy fixating on me. There’s a thousand women in this room; a thousand men too. He’s misdirected. He’s confused. Why would anyone pursue?
Doesn’t he see? People like me … We exist in the shadow. There for your amusement, or bemusement, but never serious inquiry. We slip in the cracks, stay behind a crowd’s back. His aim’s amiss. That must be it.
He must know I’m just a play thing, just the monster free of chains.
It started with a dream, a thousand eyes surrounding me.
Now they’re part of the permanent daydream.
Drenched in disdain from behind the dime store shelf,
Heavy lidded and high as I drive.
I can feel them on me, even now.
Sitting at my desk, drowning Bailey’s in coffee
They stick to my legs, crawl between my toes.
How’d they get in my shoes?
I can feel them, eyelashes stroking the hairs
Serenading down my hands,
They even exist alone in the air.
How do I survive
With a thousand eyes?
The softly yellowing light from the hall tosses shadows against the wall. It catches the stubble lining your jaw, ever so quickly it flashes in your eyes and reflects from the waves in your hair.
I’m frozen, blanket pulled around my waist and pillow hugged tight in place of where you should be. You stand shyly while your eyes seem to gloss over me. We’re here, only feet away, but there’s a thin veil of reality guarding the way.
You move steadily through my room though your eyes see straight through me. Your smile, perhaps not meant for me, sends waves of anticipation, pure pleasure, cascading down my arms.
I reach for your hands, the seemingly knowing comfort of your arms, my fingers gently stirring the thin mists guarding us from real and fiction. Each ripple in the foggy veil, more violent than the last, sends shocks through time; beginning to distort this moving picture at my bedside. Your eyes of adoration transform to looks of condemnation.
Missiles from a past long forgotten explode at my feet, stirring runaway memories. Noxious fumes and pretty perfumes take hold, guiding my stumbling trip along nightmare lane. Your visage, dark, brooding and all at once silly and loving, is no stranger behind the veil.
Without warning the undulating mist falls away. All at once I find I remember everything.
In the dream I’m standing at the intersection again. There’s the green truck, barreling towards the stop sign. The driver, otherwise preoccupied, with his head lolling back and his eyes half closed will never even brake.
The little red car will never see it coming, they will never realize he’s flying the wrong way down the one-way street.
I don’t need to watch the scene again and again to see the fear and recognition cross their faces. An anger bubbles inside me. That poor girl is no more than twelve years old when she flies through the passenger’s side windshield.
I can see the blood pooling by the tires and feel the splatters warm on my cheeks. The scene is the kind they say you never want to look away from but you know you should.
Even in my dreams I’m too shocked to do anything. There is no springing into action, no saving lives.
Even in my dreams they all die.
But I don’t hear the grinding metal and crunching bones. No, all I can hear … as loud as day even though I’m not wearing my headphones, is Aerosmith.
“Honey, you’re headin’ down a one-way street … And I gotta go the other way …”
My sheets are always soaked by time I wake because even in my dreams I can’t seem to go the other way.