photo by Matt Palmer via Unsplash
The front room stank of beer, the armpit smell of stale kebab meat. Gingerly, Sandy stepped over discarded food wrappers, knocking over a bottle that gurgled lager onto the rug.
A muffled cry from the crumpled duvet on the sofa told her Dave hadn’t made it to bed last night.
‘You’re a pig!’ Why did she still flat share with this loser?
‘Didn’t find it,’ he mumbled.
Dave always claimed his night’s picking up girls in clubs wasn’t selfish gratification, but a quest for the ‘spark’, an indefinable moment of connection that would tell him when he’d found his soul mate.
Sandy pulled back the duvet, revealing a mass of tangled brown hair, lids firmly shut over what she knew to be dazzling blue eyes.
‘You can’t even see in front of your face, you idiot.’ She let the duvet drop.
Written for Sonya’s Three Line Tales. See the pic and write. Visit here to read the other stories.
PHOTO PROMPT© Jan Wayne Fields
Some anniversaries through their thirty year marriage he’d left a hastily scribbled card on the mantlepiece – though more often there was nothing but the carriage clock and an unpaid gas bill. Life had delivered her Prince Charming only for him to turn into a frog the moment she had a ring on her finger.
This year, fairy lights, candles, a bottle of the sparkling wine she’d liked from their trip to Italy years before.
He gave her a shy peck on the cheek. ‘Thought you deserved something special.’
Her heart – dormant for so long – began to beat.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the prompt pic and write a dazzling tale. See here to join in and to read the other stories.
When David shared his attentions, it was either feast or famine.
Sharon could go weeks without seeing him, her texts ignored, her calls cut off without an answer. Then one day he would turn up at her flat, the boot of his Mercedes overflowing with bags from Hermes, Gucci, Prada, Tiffany, enough to paper over the cracks his absence had breached.
Then she met Col, who ran his own building firm and could bench press 230 pounds. She began to wonder if it wasn’t time she enjoyed a more balanced diet.
Written for Stephanie at Word Adventures’ #tuesdayuseitinasentence. See here to join in and to read the other stories.
David enjoyed working in the local cafe, his papers clothing the table, the low buzz of conversation as soothing as the hiss of waves on sand.
He looked down the column of figures, felt the cool paper under his fingertips. There were rhythms to numbers, beautiful patterns – even within the starchy constraints of a tax form – that he was aware other people didn’t see. To him they flickered invitingly, tight budded mysteries that with a little pressure from his fingertips, a little effort of mind, blossomed into elegant solutions.
But through all his visits to the cafe, he never noticed the waitress with the warm smile, how she tried to catch his eye, brushed his hand as she served his coffee.
A mystery he would never solve.
Written for Stephanie at Word Adventures’ #tuesdayuseitinasentence. This week the word was TAX. See here to join in and to read the other tales.
photo by Faustin Tuyambaze via Unsplash
It’s hot in the auditorium, summer sun blazing through the high windows, open doors drawing through little but traffic noise, the metallic whirr of labouring air con.
Three years on from my first day on campus, my first glimpse of your dark, clipped hair, your shy, clipped smile.
Does anyone here miss you except me? Resentment bubbles at the thought of all these smiling people, caught in their selfish, happy bubbles and not one giving you a thought. But that feels right too – it was always you, always me, always us alone. The chancellor stands, smooths her gown and starts to speak.
Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words’ Three Line Tales. See the pic and write a story. Go here to read the other entries and to join in with your own.
This week’s photo prompt is provided by Maria with Doodles and Scribbles. Thank you Maria!
By the burn she’d sit day after weeping day, shawl pulled tight over bun and bonnet.
The old women – sooty jackdaws on pin legs – took turns to scold her. ‘D’ya think you’re the first? D’ya think y’all be the last? Life is naught but strife.’
Mother came, arms crossed tight as barrel hoops. ‘I could drench the moors o’er my losses,’ she said. ‘Pull up your boots or you’ll settle where you sit and wither to a stump.’
Brother came with hands of bark to haul and maul the lass away home, but still she wept, snatching at the foamy water for the face gone on before.
Then the frosts fell, the burn turned bristly with ice, salting her lashes, cracking on her lips.
When the thaw came she melted too. They found her shawl, the bonnie bonnet now paled, silk orange blossom twisted in the band.
A bloom for love eternal, faded.
Written for Priceless Joy’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. See here to join in and to read the other stories.
The assumption that those deserving of love will receive it is a fallacy, as sweet and baseless and fragile as a nest of spun sugar.
Made from wishful thinking, this misguided idea takes shape in the naive and guileless through every honey dipped romantic comedy, every page of rose hued chick-lit, every strained simile in every heart stuffed, petal strewn, cliche crafted love song.
That’s why Nesta prefers to watch slasher movies while reading Stephen King novels and listening to Fleshcrawl on her phone. Together, they are her dark armour.
Then she meets Stevie, who shares her thoughts on love, on The Shining and the Saw movies. And who loves German death metal …
Written for Stephanie at Word Adventures’ #tuesdayuseitinasentence. See the word – this week it’s FALACY – and write a tale.
See here for more about Fleshcrawl.