Flash Fiction Compilation 2

chinyerevivian (66)in #fiction • 8 years ago

Hi, everyone. Welcome to day 2 of my flash fiction compilation. I did the first one few days ago. I’ll share four stories today, all of which are a one paragraph stories less than five hundred words. I hope you enjoy them.

First:

_{Everyday, I sat and watched. It used to be every Tuesday, but not anymore. I've been watching them since the day he was born, sixteen years ago. It wasn't an easy birth. I had held her hand and called her a champ, which she hated, but it worked. Her hands always fascinated me. They were what attracted me that warm Saturday night. She was sitting alone in a booth for two at the east side of the restaurant, holding a wine glass with both hands. I had noticed the long fingers and the short nails before I saw the sadness in her eyes. Two months later, we were married. Then life happened. Work began to pile up for both of us. We barely saw each other. Sex became a ritual. We stopped trying to conceive. And one day, I received the annulment papers and a note. "I can't do this anymore," the note read. I never questioned it. I just signed. But that wasn't the end. A voicemail came after two weeks. We were going to have a baby; our baby. I was thrilled. I pushed and got visitation rights once every week. I would sit and watch them - she and our son. He was perfect. The curly bangs across his forehead, the mole on his small upturned nose, the dip on his upper lip and the smooth skin all helped frame his beautiful face. His eyes, however, remained closed. At first, we tried to deny it. We told ourselves that babies took all the time they needed to adjust. But anophthalmia was diagnosed. She stopped smiling. Every night, before putting him to bed, she would gently cup his face with both hands, her index fingers on both eyes, as she traced his eyebrows, and raised his eyelids. Then, she would remember the eyeballs didn't and wouldn't form, and she would stifle a sob. I began to show up everyday. She never objected. I would rub her shoulders while she read to him. Today, I sat on my usual spot at the foot of the bed, watching her slender fingers run slowly across his face. For the first time in sixteen years, I saw a warm smile on her lips.}

Second:

_{It used to be a monastery. Before then, it was an abandoned castle, with tall walls and beautiful designs, in the middle of the forest. Year after year, when the weather was kind, people from far away, trooped to the monastery in pilgrimage. They admired the paintings and prayed with the monks. That was before the arrival of three young and ambitious wizards. Then, witchcraft was practised in secret. Their mission was to seduce the monks and turn the monastery into their coven. Before they set out, they made dresses; long, dark, hooded robes, similar to that of the monks. On the night of their arrival, they casted a killing spell. One by one, the monks fell for it. A wizard's powers came from his blood, and because they were ordinary people, they began to die. The three wizards failed to hold the spell as it had suddenly began to get stronger on its own. However, one of the monks stayed alive. He was a powerful wizard who had fled from home when the hunt and execution of those with magic was at its high. The spell had fueled his blood, kept him alive and made him more powerful. Soon, he found the young wizards and in his fury, killed them, then cut off their upper torsos from the rest of their bodies and hung them on the wall. It was rumoured that the magic kept them from decaying. They just hung there, dripping blood, with flowers growing around them, while plants sprouted on the alter and turned into trees. The wizard, in his hooded robe, stood guard over them. Now, the castle is only a museum and the story is told to keep children away from the treasures. Or is it?}

Third:

_{She stood under the sprouting willow tree, north of the bayou and stared at the house. The Gilbert Hall, as it was called, where she grew up. She had taken her first breath in the servants' quarters, played on the marshes near the water, learned from her mother – the senior maidservant, and when she came of age, had glided noiselessly through the large corridors, carrying dry sheets and polishing doors with dull brass knobs, while The Gilberts held parties in their flowing gowns and spotless suits. She used to be pretty, her mass of dark curls a wild mane tumbling down her back. That was before that night, the night she was pushed out into the cold winter air, the night her mother died in her arms. January 2 was the day. It was a new year and Julio had come home drunk, again. He liked to do that, the spoilt youngest son and his mother’s favourite. She had stumbled upon him in the hallway leading to the ballroom, few minutes before midnight, her hands full of glasswares. She knew the way he looked at her, not really at her, rather at her chest and her long legs hidden under faded old gowns. But the madness in his eyes that night was nothing compared to anything she’d ever seen. When he grabbed her, the noise of shattering glasses had woken the entire household. Mrs. Gilbert rushed down first, saw Julio atop her, his fingers closed around her throat. She overlooked it, together with the torn clothes and bleeding eye, called her a whore and threw her and her dying mother out. She sighed and touched her right eye lightly. She had managed to get the pieces of broken glasses out but it was too late to save it. She wore a patch over it now. It served as a nice disguise, as did the big hat on her head. She was finally back. It took her years of hard work but she survived, and now, she would take back what they took from her. Her first step was trading an old golden locket for a pair of binoculars. Every night, she stood and watched the house. Julio had a young wife now. The men at the tavern, over large tankards of mead, had nodded when she instructed them on what to do. She put the field glass down and smiled. As she walked away, she neither noticed the decaying stomp where the old willow had stood nor the gentle sway of the dark bayou.}

Fourth:

_{It began with a smile. Me sitting on a high bar stool at Flemings Grill, she standing at the door, looking directly at me. One smile, that was all it took, and when she walked over and casually asked, “Are you here on business or pleasure,” I was tongue-tied. I never objected when she loosened my ponytail and released my hair around my shoulders, neither did I say a word when she signaled then whispered something to the bartender who walked over and added some booze inside my half-finished glass of wine. I was lost. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from her face. The pink lips were full and slightly upturned on both sides. But it was the eyes that held me spellbound; that deep sea between blue and green. I was smitten. That was the word I would use when I woke the next morning with her lying next to me, her right arm draped over my breasts, her breath coming in short whispers on my shoulder; smitten. We were happy. I went to work everyday, walked into the house when I returned and there she was, in bed where I left her, that smile on her lips. I looked into the mirror every morning, with her standing closely behind me, watching me intensely. But something happened. I didn’t know what it was. The smile went away first, followed by the fire in her eyes. Then one morning, I woke with broken lips and dark bruises around my eyes, same with the day after. I never asked questions, rather, I began to refrigerate spoons. The look in the mirror became an inspection. One hand over my eyes, my mouth open, I studied the face that used to be mine. She never left my side, even after the doctors said I had a problem and gave it a name. Dissociative Identity Disorder, that was what they called it. They said there was no one else but only me, before they threw me inside a room with nothing but a mattress, to keep me from hurting myself, to save me from myself. I didn’t remember any of it. This was my life now.}

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