I only went to the party because I was bored out of my skull, and that’s why I talked to the peculiar guy who was leaning against the wall, too.
I told him to go ahead when he told me he did magic tricks and would I want to see one, expecting him to maybe produce a flower from behind my ear – it took me a moment to realise he’d begun to float.
Now I come to see him every day, trying to figure out how he does it – I keep failing but hey, I haven’t been bored in weeks.
‘Look at my camera roll.’
Terry keeps going on about her photos and I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t care about her dog. I’m a cat person. So I pretend, again, that I’m interested.
‘What do you think?’
‘They’re not puppy pics,’ I reply. ‘Who are these people?’
‘No idea. I don’t know how they get on my phone, either.’
‘Weird. Maybe the cloud got confused and now your phone is syncing with somebody else’s?’
‘That would be an explanation, wouldn’t it? I like to think my phone lives a secret party life at night, though.’
***
(Story 1 of 31 for Story A Day.)
I soak up the tears so your pillow won’t get wet. Every night you say you won’t fall asleep; you always do. Because I’m here to restore some of the comfort the muffled voices drifting up from downstairs have taken from you.
I don’t understand the words. I don’t need to. I know they make you scared and my job is to make you feel safe and secure. The louder they shout, the more you need me.
You rescued me when they wanted to throw me out. I may look old and threadbare, but you know what I’m capable of.
He got the eyes wrong.
They are gentle creatures, cows – they were rightly chosen as vessels to convey the message of peace. He won the bid to paint them with his flower and heart-shaped leaf design.
It’s a good design: bold colours, strong symbols. It works, it emphasises the message. If it weren’t for the eyes, it’d be a triumph.
Instead of a gentle, peaceful expression, the cows’ eyes burn with hostility. He got so engrossed in the colourful depiction of love, he made a glaring mistake with their eyes – undoing the message.
And he only notices as they’re unveiled.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know how to do this.’
‘Course you don’t. You’re not supposed to, that’s your whole USP – from what I’ve heard.’
‘USP?’
‘Unique selling point. No ties to family and friends, no emotions – the perfect soldier who’ll do anything for a mission to succeed because she has nothing to live for.’
‘I don’t want to die.’
‘Well, they messed that up, then. And you’ve something – someone to live for now.’
‘I still don’t know if I can do it, Olli.’
‘I believe in you.’
‘I have no idea how relationships work.’
‘Nobody does. We’ll figure it out.’
Check out Nortina’s Moral Mondays challenge and write your own 100-word fable – it’s fun.
She recognises neither the place nor the time. The machine’s display, after emitting a blinding light, has gone black; she hopes this is where she meant to go.
There’s a knock. She unlatches the window and finds herself surrounded by crude petroleum-fuelled vehicles. Rightish time, it seems. But these people speak a language that doesn’t sound like any of the hundreds she’s learnt. She makes what she believes to be the universally understood sign for ‘I don’t understand’; they shrug.
Before she can stop them from destroying the planet, she’ll have to figure out a way to communicate with them.
stuff – folks like it
bright and colourful;
other folks, however…
This is the place, I know it in my bones. Neither peeling paint nor closed blinds slow me down. I push against the heavy wooden door; it opens without resistance or creaking.
Dancing dust motes light up in the sunshine the closing door allows in. There’s a whiff of ancient egg with base notes of mothball. A shrivelled man, hair standing up in hornlike tufts, smiles at me.
‘Um, I need …’
‘A photo which captures your soul while making you look as if you should have been a film star, yes. Take a seat and sign here while I prepare.’
Who do you think you are?
He doesn’t know who he is anymore. He used to be somebody – does that makes him a nobody now?
What gives you the right to behave like this?
Easy: money. Having it is all that matters; money means carte blanche.
Shouldn’t you treat others the way you’d want to be treated?
Everyone used to treat him like royalty; he rewarded it, yet none of his crowd stuck around after he’d lost everything. They follow the money; they ignore him if he’s lucky, call him names if he isn’t.
Who do they think they are?
***
The lovely Nortina has just started Moral Mondays, a new weekly flash-fiction challenge. Yay, more writing prompts! Click on the picture on the left to find this week’s prompt and join in.
My story this week is more wishful thinking than fable. A girl can dream, right?
I love painting, but I’m rubbish at it. I don’t let it stop me. Once I get in the zone, I’m getting better. So I’m not best pleased when the doorbell rings and it’s the postie with a letter addressed to occupant that needs signing for. I mean, the cheek.
I throw it straight in the bin.
Next day, same thing.
‘Does everybody get these?’
‘Just you.’
‘Strange.’
‘Yup.’
I dangle it over the bin. I’ve already been interrupted, though, I might as well take a break. I make a cuppa, open the letter and wonder if I’ll regret it.
***
Boy did this week’s FFftPP photo prompt do nothing for me… Best I could do.
Only 100 Words 