It’s not really the smell of cooking eggs that I hate.
It’s the nose curdling smell of burning butter.
The smell of an incoming fight as my sister and I struggle to properly fry eggs for my dad’s plate. It sets into the nose, waving disgust throughout the face.
It’s the sneer as he gazes upon broken yolks.
It becomes the increasingly fraught silence as he refuses to eat. Then tears, as my mother stares everywhere but at the glaring reality.
At night, while the washing machine spins our soiled clothes, it moans like a haunted whale song. Notes echo through the dark rooms, tempting us to a depth we’ve never met before. Slipping away beneath the waves of sleep, the songs carry us until we’re resting on the backs of giants hidden at the bottom of the sea. Their skin, like velvet, holds us against the undulating weight of the water trying to carry us on.
“You aren’t meant to stay”
The giants drop us, sending our bodies down into the darkness. We fall forever, deeper and darker than we knew possible, before landing in beds of sand. Small creatures, keepers of this new darkness, prickle our fingers and toes. The sand curls into the folds of our skin and dances through our hair. The itching is infuriating but the darkness is heavy. It sits on our chests like a bully on the playground, pummeling our faces with meaty hands.
Suddenly, light, a small beam reflecting from a hook strung down by a fishing line. It roots in the darkness, searching for the target, before finding the fabric of my gown. More hooks descend, each carefully hooking our linen night clothes and pulling us away from the sand. We ascend, past the giants, towards the light. Our previous fears fall away with each grain of sand taken by the tide. Anxiously we await the chance to truly breathe.
Breaking the surface we are met with nothing but fishing boats rowing away.
Image from the Pexel’s photo library
Offering a sort of sangfroid, the music was unlike anything the crowd had ever heard. Notes weaving from the stage slid their ways into the patrons brains.
They swayed.
They bounced.
They flailed.
They … except Marlon. A singular bastion of disgust in a sea of enthralled fish.
Marlon watched the band jump around the stage creating a cacophony.
“I will never understand.”
“You don’t have to! Just let the music take you!” His right hand woman, Aileen, jumped around beside him. “I can’t stop!”
“I can’t imagine why. Instead of dancing why don’t you help kill the vampires.”
Aileen spun away, joining with another vibrating group of club patrons.
“Fine, I’ll do it myself.”
Hattie almost missed the fraying brown clue blending into the brickwork.
Almost.
Matt would never let anyone miss it completely.
“It’s a clue!” He howled as he dropped to his belly and slithered towards the string. “Hattie. Hattie. Look. They were here.”
“I don’t see anything Matt.” He groaned and lifted the string between clenched knuckles.
“Right here. They were here.”
“Who?”
“The ghosts! Hattie! Did you forget what we were doing today?”
“I guess so Matt.”
“Ghosts. Ghost hunting. The email invite was clear.”
Hattie gazed at the sunset. Why were the cute ones always so weird?
Word Count: 98
For Friday Fictioneers (I’m getting better at this!)
Photo credit: © CEAyr
“If your friends jumped off a bridge would you jump too?”
Well mom, looks like we know the answer.
In my defense, it was only 3 feet off the ground.
Surely I would’ve come to my senses before diving off anything higher.
You’re not amused. It’s ok, I get it.
It wasn’t in your weekend plans to care for this ungrateful snot you call a daughter.
I hop to the window, wave to my friends and part of me wonders …
Would they believe you pushed me if I jumped again?
Word Count: 91
For Friday Fictioneers, serving up photo prompts, hot and with a side of crazy fries.
PHOTO PROMPT © Susan Eames
“I was surprised you agreed to get BBQ with me.”
“Why? I know the importance of good BBQ. I am from here remember?”
“Debatable.”
“Oh, fuck off, it is not.”
He tossed a sugar packet in my direction.
“For your ‘unsweet’ tea.”
I stared out the window, wondering if things would ever be the same.
“Seriously, what are you going to eat?”
“Well, I do love fried okra.”
“You’re going to eat fried okra? That’s it?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t think anyone likes okra that much.”
“Blasphemy. Fried okra is the best okra.”
Brief smiles.
Sighs.
“Why are you here?”
Word Count: 99
Returning to Friday Fictioneers , after forever, with an only dialogue piece.
PHOTO PROMPT – © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
A small robed man prepared to dip into the lake. He gazed at his reflection, as if what lay just beneath the surface were the better judge of his sins.
As I drew closer, his lover’s frock slung over his shoulders and stripped red from her blood seemed to assume a voice of its own.
No wonder the man crawled and cowered.
Tufts of grass, ripped from the dry dirt, were flung towards stoic blue stones slowly submerging beneath the hate he spewed.
All because his lover requested he wash the dishes. How ashamed he must be.
Word Count: 97
For Friday Fictioneers
“Hey there hon, what would you like?”
Toki felt a rush of endorphins as her human counterpart, Katrina, took in the male in front of her. His teeth glistened unnaturally against his sun damaged skin.
“What are the options sweetheart?” His deeper voice sent shivers through Katrina.
Toki could barely think over the quickly increasing noise Katrina’s pounding heart made.
“Well, coffee, tea or me …” The sentence careened from confidence to shyness with the “me” barely whispered.
Why is her voice undulating into that sickly tone?
Blood rushed through Katrina’s viens, something Toki could also feel even if she’d rather not. The male’s smile stretched across his narrow face. He closed in on Katrina, grossly violating what Toki had learned were the human distancing requirements.
“Well, I know what I’ll choose.” His warm breath brushed by Katrina’s ear.
Toki hated these overwhelming sensations. The blood rushing around the body, the amount of noise it made, the varying heat sequences. Reading about it didn’t prepare her for the feelings associated with humanity. In just hours Katrina had taken Toki on a ride spanning the emotional bridge of humans. She cried, laughed, yelled and hit every point in between.
Toki feared this male was going to push her into even more uncomfortable territory.
His fingers slide down Katrina’s back. Her giggle made Toki’s skin crawl. Of course, Toki was borrowing Katrina’s skin for now. Small bumps spread in waves over Katrina’s arms and neck.
How does humanity exist like this?
It was less than 24 hours in and Toki was exhausted.
For Stream of Consciousness Saturday (SoCS)
I enjoyed this, it was nice to find a stream of consciousness prompt different than my usual word based one.
As long as I don’t move I pretend no one can see me. I’m a statue, gathering snow. Birds traipse across my table, eyeing my lone piece of banana bread. They examine then flit off to inform their friends.
It won’t be long before they descend, all for too sweet artificially flavored bread.
My pen stares stoically at my notebook. It needs to bleed. It needs release.
My notebook is having none of it, a lovers quarrel I’m sure. It remains steadfastly shut against the longing notes my pen wishes to deposit.
Quiet conversations erupt into laughter. Engines spurn to life. A world of constant din and none of it can be composed until the notebook forgives the pen.
I force them together, apologies be damned, but the pens strike is fatal; leaving an ink lined hole where a word should be.
I try again, gently this time. The paper shreds beneath the pen’s flow. Total refusal to cooperate. Ink won’t flow over paper, not while they’re not speaking this way.
All the world’s deadlines building unending pressure. Surely that’s enough to squash any relationship but pen and paper? I thought for sure they were stronger.
Word Count: 196
For Sunday Photo Fiction
Photo Credit Morguefile
It was a dark and stormy night. He was disheveled and slammed my door, something I hated.
I couldn’t stay mad. He was cool, real cool.
“I need your help. My pie’s been stolen. I’m told you’re the one for the job.”
I nodded and scribbled over my notepad like I was taking notes. “Pie. Got it.”
“It was key lime.”
My mouth watered at the mention of key lime pie. I’d found one earlier that afternoon abandoned on a table outside my favorite coffee shop.
“Will you help me?”
“Of course. But first, do you want some pie?”
Word Count: 99 per the rules
Word/Idea/Food: Key Lime Pie
For Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction challenge
