Lizzie Koch Week 78: Stop the Sunrise

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Lizzie Koch’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Stop the Sunrise

Charlie always loved the sunrise. A farmer's boy, he was usually up whilst still pitch, ready to greet the first wisps of red. By the time the sun had risen, his day's work on the farm was nearly done, before going off to school.

Despite the hard work and long day, Charlie always wore a smile; his crooked, white teeth standing out against his tanned skin, despite the tiredness he always felt. But Charlie wouldn't have it any other way; working with his older brother Jack and their father on the farm, managing to make a living when times were tough.

Charlie glanced up at the night sky usually pin pricked with a blanket of stars against the black. But not tonight, not even the solitary twinkle of the North Star, usually guiding weary travellers, could be seen. Thick cloud and stagnant smoke smothered the full moon. Holding his hand up in front of him, Charlie couldn't even see it, nor the ring given to him by his father. Vulnerability wasn't something Charlie was used to, never having experienced it but he had made its acquaintance tonight as loneliness swamped him. A longing for home surged through his body, wanting to sit around the farmhouse table with Jack’s laughter filling every room.

Shoulders heavy, Charlie sighed. Although he couldn't see it, he knew his breath formed a vapour as the cold nipped relentlessly against his skin. What he would give for the clouds to part and reveal the moon in all her glory, to keep him company on his lonely vigil, well apart from the rat scurrying over his boots. He ignored it; used to sharing his space with them. Sometimes, he talked with them but not tonight. Tonight he only had thoughts of his mum back home, alone on Christmas Eve. Sure, neighbours would make sure she was looked after but deep inside, she was alone; husband gone, Jack gone and he, Charlie, sitting in a trench miles from home when he should have been tucked up in bed eagerly awaiting Father Christmas, alongside his brother Jack. Thanks to a German bullet, Jack wouldn't be seeing another Christmas. He didn’t mean to sound so matter of fact about his brother’s death. But it was what it was and this was war. Of course he was frightened, wanted to go home, wanted to cry out loud for his brother, wanted to rub out the carnage imprinted in his brain, wanted the thunderous noise, that shook him violently, to stop but he couldn’t. He was too scared of the consequences, what they would do to him if they found out.

They said this was the war to end all wars, would be over in weeks, with brave men returning home to a heroes welcome. That's why Charlie signed up. He wanted a piece of that action, to be a hero so Elsie Turner would notice him instead of being ignored as he sat at the back of the class behind his desk. She would be proud of him now; Charlie, just turned thirteen, at war. Being a hero. That was surely worth a kiss. It felt like it was worth it at the time. But the reality of war was worth nothing in the entire universe as far as Charlie was concerned.It was pointless, senseless, frightening and his senses were bewlidered by everything he had experienced. And that whistle. He always wanted his own whistle. Not now. Not after what a whistle signified to Charlie and all the other young men waiting for the one blow that would send them over the top. He wished the captain would choke on his whistle.

No one questioned Charlie when he applied, signing up to fight for King and country, alongside his brother. He was tall for his age and cocky. His father had warned him more than once that his mouth would get him into trouble. Sitting in a trench in France wasn't the trouble his father had anticipated. Charlie hadn't either. Being a hero wasn't what he had expected it to be. He was dirty, smelly, cold, hungry, fed-up and tired. He would even admit to being absolutely terrified if he thought anyone cared. Sleep evaded him for days just as the German bullets and shrapnel had; for that he was grateful and thanked God for looking out for him. But tonight he asked God to look after his mum. He wasn't a religious boy and often bunked Sunday School but tonight, he wanted someone to know his mum needed someone. Charlie then asked God to not make the sun rise for Christmas Day. He wanted Christmas Eve to last forever so at least his mum would have hope of one son alive this Christmas.

Closing his eyes, Charlie saw his Christmas Stocking hanging at the end of his bed; it was one of his mother's stockings; more stretchy than a sock so Father Christmas would cram as many goodies as he could inside. The smell of the plum pudding steaming away as the freshly plucked turkey lay ready for the oven. Snuggling down into clean, starched sheets, Charlie would strain his ears for the sounds of sleigh bells and reindeer hooves on the roof, promising to stay awake all night to catch a glimpse of the man in red, only hearing the sweet voice of his mum singing carols as he finally fell asleep which was just as well seeing as he was still expected to work the farm Christmas morning.

Charlie jolted out of his dream, shaking his head and the sleep away. But he could still hear the music and faint voices singing. Craning his head as close to the top as he dare, Charlie listened intently. It was definitely singing, but not words he recognised, wafting across the vast darkness of no man's land. The sleeping soldiers rose and joined Charlie, listening to the soft voices singing a familiar tune in a foreign tongue just as the clouds drifted, revealing the bright moon. She shone down as the German singers crawled from their trenches.
“What's Fritz doing?” a bewildered voice asked.
“It's Christmas,” replied Charlie, “peace on earth and goodwill to all men. Don't matter if you're Fritz or not, it's still Christmas. Me mum loves carols. I was just thinking about her singing as well.” The man looked down at Charlie, staring into his wide, blue eyes of innocence.
“How old are you lad?”
“Old enough to know when someone wants to celebrate Christmas and young enough to care.” Charlie stood full head and shoulders above the trench and took a deep breath before belting out his mum's favourite carol; Silent Night. His young body filled with emotion as the trenches on both sides sung their hearts out, thinking of family and peace and like Charlie, hoping the sun wouldn't rise in three hours time.






Inspiration
This story was inspired by a recent news item on the local news where a boy aged 12, signed up to fight in the First World War. He was the youngest to sign up and managed to spend six weeks on the front line on the Western front on the Somme, seeing some of the bloodiest battles of the war, before his mum found out and complained and he was sent back home.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p01lck31

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I dream of sharing my work with the big wide world one day as a published author. Right now, I share flash fiction with a wonderful community of writers and friends. If you liked this story, then why not visit my blog at http://40somethingundomesticateddevil.blogspot.co.uk/ for more. Thank you. Love Lizzie x

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Ruth Long Week 77: Instruments of Death

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Ruth Long’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Instruments of Death (Introducing Deacon)

He who has a WHY to live can bear almost any HOW.
~Friedrich Nietzsche~

MORNING / CENTRAL CALIFORNIA

I'm not much for talking but my mind’s never quiet and what it’s saying right now is that Life is a perverse master who isn't finished using me as his whipping boy.

Whole country went off the rails when the sickness hit. Ran each other down rushing to their local medical clinics to get the vaccine. Turns out the remedy was deadlier than the disease. Everything mutated. The virulent flu. It's tainted cure. Situation got out of control. Bodies were dropping as fast as the financial index.

Where I was during the pandemic, we didn't have access to the vaccine. We didn’t fare any better, though. Took out ninety percent of us. Made it easy to move from one side of the bars to the other. And then it was just a matter of blending in. Easy to do amidst the upheaval.

Staying alive on the outside was just as hard as being inside. Survival is a faithless mistress, provoking folks to acts of inhumanity they’d never consider under normal circumstances. And these days, Normal was shot to shit and left to rot but men like me were built to thrive on its bones.

Still, Life preys on the confident as well as the chumps. Got shot in the chest by a kid who wanted a bottle of water more than I did. Almost died. Should have. No doubt. But a week later, I was on my feet and back in the fray.

Took a year or so for the government to get its shit together. Well, the original bureaucrats never did. A whole new regime rose out of the chaos. Wasn’t about who was qualified. Just who had the balls to grab the power. The folks who did, they were the same kind of shit-kickers who used to sit in the cells next to me back in the day.

But it was a life I knew, a mentality I understood, and when they came knocking, I signed up. Hell, they kept me housed and fed, put women in my bed and ideas in my head. Said the future was ours now and my skills were welcome, necessary, appreciated.

Most folks wouldn’t see what I can do as a valuable asset, but its kept me alive and made the folks who hired me a very profitable and secure life, so who’s to say? I don’t brag about it but I'm damn good at it, and it put me here, right when and where I need to be for what’s about to go down in the next few hours.

Life and I have had some motherfucking fistfights and we’re about to face off in another bare-knuckled brawl but I’m not worried. He may have pinned me to the mat a time or two but he’s never been able to hold me down for the count.

“You want to head up the crew, Deacon?” Barrios' voice interrupts my thoughts.

Been his right hand a couple of years now. Running enforcement crews. Privy to his holdings. Guaranteed a seat at his table long as I want it.

He doesn't know it yet but five minutes ago, my loyalties changed. The name of the retrieval target he just assigned us grabbed me by the shorthairs.

He repeats the question.

No way. I need to hang back. Stay detached. “How about you put Hanford on it? Kid is about ready to step up."

He nods. “Smart. Okay, but if things go south, it's on you.”

"I got broad shoulders, boss. Who you have in mind for the second crew?”

“Petty. He’s got shit for brains but he’ll run them hard and that’s what we need. If we don’t get to that camp before someone else does, we’ll lose valuable resources.”

I know him well enough to get what he's saying. He wants to squash those resources, not cultivate them.

And he's right, Petty will fast track his crew. Has a real hard-on for heavy artillery too. Makes what I have in mind near impossible but I'll still go after it.

"Mess hall in thirty," Barrios says, thumping my shoulder and heading out of the barracks.

I finish pitching stuff in my duffle bag. Tuck a Ruger into the shoulder holster. Cram a paperback into my jacket pocket. Good to go.

Hit the lights and head out the door. On my way across the compound, I mull over the last paragraph I’d read.

Forget safety.
Live where you fear to live.
Destroy your reputation.
Be notorious.

Sure hope that dude Rumi knows what he's talking about. I'm about to blow the doors off safety, kick fear in the ass, and become notorious as hell.

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A reader by birth, paper-pusher by trade and novelist by design, story-telling in my passion. If you enjoyed reading today's story, please consider checking out my blog bullishink.com, joining my creative community sweetbananaink.com or participating in the madcap twitter fun @bullishink.

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JB Lacaden Week 77: Footsteps

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JB Lacaden’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Footsteps

He madly scrambles inside his head,
Searching for the letters,
Piecing them together
Haphazardly;
Puzzle pieces that refuse to fit.
He tries to form out the words
To make her stay.
He speaks them out
And they sound wrong.
He tries again
And again
And the sound of her footsteps
Receding
Echoes in his head.

The words spill from him
Through his eyes
Through his sobs
But they sound so wrong
And the sound
Of her footsteps
Continue to reverberate
In him
Long after she’s gone.

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JB Lacaden dreams of someday being a published writer. He currently resides in Manila, Philippines. He's a lover of comic books, science fiction, and high fantasy. Check out some of his works at http://www.jblearnstowrite.com/ and follow him at @jblearnstowrite.

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Jeff Tsuruoka Week 77: Don’t Smoke in Bed Part 4 of 5

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice:

Title: Don’t Smoke in Bed Part 4 of 5

(Don’t laugh… I know I said it’d be four parts. Well, five is the new four!)

At some point, Sabine got up to shut the wagon door.

I admired her from behind as she stood in the doorway, smoking. Her skin took on a deep, red hue as the flames of the campfire outside threw alternating licks of light and shadow across her naked body.

When she was finished with her cigarette she lit an oil lamp, hanging its handle on a nail by the door.

She carried some of the glow back with her. Her skin shone in soft, warm light.

“You were going to mention my husband.”

“The subject had crossed my mind.

“Don't concern yourself with trifles.” She got to her feet and shrugged into her slip.

I sat up, reaching for my pants.

“Herve and I have... an arrangement,” she continued. “I have given him his freedom and have claimed my own.”

“That's handy,” I replied as I got my socks on and looked around for my shirt.

She walked to the door.

“That, Mike, is how it is.”

Somebody pounded on the wagon door. Sabine backed out of the way as it flew open.

Stefan climbed onto the top step.

“Get dressed and come to my wagon,” he roared, still grinning at us. “There is news.”

He turned and marched away across the camp.

We stood together in the doorway, watching him go.

“He seems amused by.. this,” I said, indicating the pile of tapestries on the wagon floor.

She smiled as she buttoned my shirt for me. It took more willpower than I thought I had to ignore the tingling whenever her fingers brushed against my skin.

“I'm sure he is. He has never accepted Herve as my husband.”

“Because he's not one of you.”

“That. And for many other reasons.”

The three of us sat by a roaring campfire, perched on packing crates, and joined by two others-- a tall bald man with burn scars on his scalp, and a dark-skinned woman with hair longer and and even more untamed than Sabine's. Both of them wore rough men's clothes-- mismatched breeches and once-colorful homespun shirts that looked like they'd been washed in swamp water and left to dry in a dank, moldy place.

Stefan introduced them as Marko and Ludy.

“These two live in a small camp beneath a bridge, right on the Seine,” he explained. “Ludy, please repeat what you just told me.”

Ludy took a quick look at Sabine and me, then raised her eyebrow at Stefan.

“Our deal stands?” she croaked.

“What deal is that?” I asked.

Stefan nodded at Sabine.

“They need some of that money you're carrying around.”

I looked Ludy and Marko over. They looked back. Their eyes moved up and down, then settled on Sabine.

“How much dough are we talking?”

“Enough to get us out of Paris,” said Marko. His voice was as rough as Ludy's. They sounded like they spent their days drinking turpentine and smoking cigarettes.

“Why do you want to leave Paris?” I asked.

“The luck is no longer good here,” replied Marko.

“He speaks the truth,” added Stefan.

“I do not think this will be a problem,” said Sabine. “You will have what you need. Now, tell us what we want to know.”

Ludy rubbed her grimy hands together.

“We'll do you one better,” she squeaked, “we'll take you there. Figuratively speaking.”

“There”, turned out to be a defunct canning plant by a shipyard on the Seine, not far from the Port of Rouen, near Normandy.

Marko and Ludy had not personally traced the one hundred twelve kilometer trail from Paris to Normandy. They'd been around to witness the two men hit the water and, recognizing a profitable situation when they saw one, were also on the spot to see Wilson and Herve fished out of the Seine by a couple of rough-looking characters in a rowboat. Tracking them to a warehouse upriver hadn't been difficult. They then settled in to watch. By morning, the word from Stefan had gone out and made its way up and down the riverbanks.

The bedraggled pair had been watching as the captors loaded Wilson and Herve onto a scow, then shoved off for parts north.

Stefan's word had made better time up the river than the scow. The boat had docked in Rouen with eyes on it. One hundred twelve kilometers worth of contacts then passed the information back down the Seine, to Marko and Ludy, who'd then arranged for transportation to Stefan's encampment.

“The information is good, no?” asked Ludy, as we sat in the back of Stefan's truck, in Paris, at the mouth of a Latin Quarter alley.

The smell of the vegetables Stefan sold on the street-- mostly cabbage-- mixed with the river water mildew bouquet around Marko and Ludy.

“What can you tell us about the men who have them?” I asked. “Knowing where is good, knowing who would be great.”

“Englishmen is what we've heard,” said Ludy. “Three of them. Well-dressed. Maybe half a dozen others. Locals. Both English and French have been heard.”

Sabine nodded and handed her a small handful of notes.

Marko shook his head while Ludy glared at her.

“This won't even get us across the street, let alone out of the city,” she spat.

“There will be more if we find my husband and Mike's friend in Normandy.”

“Dead or alive?” asked Marko. He averted his eyes almost as soon as the words cleared his mouth. “I did not mean....” he stammered.

“Our word is not enough for you?” rasped Ludy. “Stefan is right. You have been among them for too long.”

Sabine glared back. The other woman withered under the force of it. She threw her hands out as if to fend off an attack.

“All right,” she said. “All right! I'm not going to fight you for it.”

“Leave word for us at L'Auberge Roumanie in Belleville,” offered Marko. “You know the place?”

“I know it well,” said Stefan. “The best bad bar in Paris. I will have a message left with Ziggy. Good enough?”

Marko got off his crate and opened the door.

“That will be fine. You know where to find us.”

He hopped down to the street, then turned to wait for Ludy.

“Don't wait too long,” she said as she followed Marko out of the truck.

They disappeared into the alley. The three of us watched them go, then got out ourselves.

“Englishmen,” I began, “got any clue who they could be, Sabine? Enemies of Herve's?”

“Herve Durant was alive long before he met me.” she said. “If the number of enemies he has made since our wedding is any indication, the possibilities are endless.”

“Dandy.”

“I will drive you to Normandy,” said Stefan. He looked right at me. “I can assume you have a plan?”

We all climbed into the cab. Sabine took the middle, a cigarette already in between her lips.

“I'm working on it,” I replied. “Got to make a stop first.”

“Your office will likely be watched,” said Sabine.

I nodded.

“I'm counting on it.”

It didn't appear as if my office was watched. Not anymore.

I didn't need to use my key on the door. It swung open, dangling from the upper hinge. The window lay in pieces on the floor, spread all over the contents of my filing cabinet.

Stefan walked past me, headed for the desk.

“I like what you've done with the place,” he said as he reached for the phone.

He picked up the receiver, gave the number, and waited.

Sabine stayed by the door, smoking and looking around. She looked upset.

“Don't sweat it,” I said, “Been wanting to get out of this neighborhood anyway.”

I took a lap around the room, surveying the damage, which wasn't too bad. A side benefit of keeping a spartan office was not having a lot of stuff around to break. The little sofa I kept for sleeping on when I didn't feel like going home had been turned on its end, someone had punched holes in the walls, and my desk had been ransacked.

Stefan had a short, sharp conversation in a language I didn't understand, then hung up. He looked at me and nodded.

“Calling in the cavalry?” I asked.

“Such as it is,” he answered.

I went to the desk, stepping around him to get behind it. The bottom drawer sat half opened. I opened it the rest of the way and reached all the way down. I found and pulled the catch and removed the board that concealed a small compartment.

When I stood up I had a gun in each hand-- a pair of Mausers I took from a German captain my unit captured on our way to Berlin.

I stuck the guns into my jacket pockets, then went back into the desk for a handful of extra rounds.

“All right,” I said, “let's go to Normandy.”

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Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

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Michela Walters Week 77: New Year’s Hope

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Michela Walters’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: New Year’s Hope

The streets were packed with tourists, in town for the most celebrated night in New York, New Year’s eve. It made Jenna wish she didn’t have to walk through Chinatown to get to her walk up apartment on the edge of Soho. She normally didn’t mind the eclectic shops hocking colorful wares and livestock from their tiny cramped spaces. Usually it allowed her mind to drift to exotic lands, places she’d only imagined in her dreams. Places far, far away from the dreary life she’d been stuck in for the last ten months.

Her phone trilling in her bag caused Jenna to step aside and answer it, knowing by the ring it was the one person she’d always pick up for, even in the frigid cold. “Hey mom. Everything okay?”

It had been hell watching her mother struggle to fight against the cancer that riddled her body. The chemo and radiation leaving her body frail and sickly, all the things that her vivacious and spunky mother had never been before. It broke her heart to not be able to do much other than hold her hand during treatments or hold her hair as her breakfast made a sudden reappearance.

“My scans came back,” she said, stopping to sob before continuing. Jenna’s mind reeled at what it meant, and couldn’t hold back her own flood of tears fearing the worst.

“The treatment’s working, my tumors are smaller. The doctor’s told me we’re going to stick with this course for another five weeks.”

The whoop I let out scared the strangers who were walking by, probably assuming I was just another crazy lady they’d come across on their vacation to the big, bad city. “I can’t believe it. You’re getting better.”

My mom chuckled and said she’d talk to me later when I came over to watch the ball drop from the warmth and comfort of her Greenwich apartment. “Don’t forget the champagne. Dr. Burke said I could have a half a glass to celebrate.”

Saying our goodbyes, I turned back towards the sidewalk, almost running into a tiny woman standing before me holding out a statue of a fat, laughing buddha.

“You take this. Next year will bring good health and prosperity. Put in the east and it will bring you longevity.” The Chinese woman kept pushing the statue into my arms until I finally grasped it, “You’re mom will be fine.” She disappeared back into her shop, leaving me bewildered and oddly thankful for her gift. I wasn’t sure if I believed in feng shui or any of the magic the statue was supposed to possess, but after the year I’d had, I figured it was worth a shot.

Tucking the statue into my bag, I hummed Auld Lang Syne the rest of the way home, counting my blessing for everything I had, and the health and prosperity I was hoping the New Year would provide.

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Michela Walters is a wife, mother and book enthusiast. She is currently attempting her hand at writing her first romantic fiction novella. You can read her other stories on her blog: michelawalters.wordpress.com

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Sarah Aisling Week 77: Got a Secret . . . Can You Keep It? (Part Twenty-five)

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Sarah Aisling’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Got a Secret . . . Can You Keep It? (part Twenty-five)

Melinda stared back at Paul while his words bandied around in her head. She was mine . . . until I lost her to Mark.

Melinda felt as though her insides had been hollowed out, and what remained was a delicate shell that might shatter at any moment. She wanted to beg Paul to care for her, to hold her together, but she couldn't because he was her downfall.

From the moment they'd met at Dr. Schuyler's office, Melinda had been obsessed with the hushed sexual power Paul Jeffries exuded. He never seemed bothered by her ruined face, often forcing her hand down when she tried to cover it and stroking the gnarled skin gently with the pads of his fingers. He called her beautiful and pursued her relentlessly until she agreed to have dinner with him, followed by skating and movies and picnics in the park—then one day a quietly brilliant ring nestled in a velvet box.

Paul lifted Melinda to new heights, bringing her a joy she thought forever eradicated by scorched rubber, shards of glass, twisted metal, and a flood of crimson. He held her through the nightmares when she awoke bathed in sweat and made sure she continued her therapy. He was the one who encouraged her not to pursue facial reconstruction when the doctors said it would take years of grueling procedures to see little benefit. And it was Paul who returned to the site of the accident with her, year after year, letting her cry and rail over the loss of her beloved sister.

“You stood there with me—comforted me. You lost her, too, but you never said a word.” Melinda balled her fists against the sides of her head, reveling in the tugging of hair against her scalp because at least it was something real. “You said it wasn't my fault.” The words are almost too bitter to utter.

Paul, who'd been watching Melinda carefully as she worked through the memories, abruptly became animated. “It wasn't, Mindy! You had no control over some truck driver having a seizure!” He crawled across the damp grass and crouched a foot away, allowing her space.

Melinda leaped to her feet and stalked over to the split-rail fence, leaning heavily on its damp roughness. The golden rays of the rising sun cast a glow over one end of the field, painting tree leaves and the soft carpet of grass with the warmth of a new day, yet Melinda and Paul remained in darkness, trapped beneath the weight of the past.

“I was supposed to be driving that day!” Melinda's voice was raw. She thought of Marietta posing in front of an art display a few weeks before the accident sporting a smooth new haircut and bit down on the inside of her cheek.

Paul came up behind her. When his hands cupped her shoulders, she fought not to flinch and almost won. “Why weren't you?” he asked.

“You know why!”

“Why weren't you?”

“I had a migraine . . . kept throwing up.” She remained poised there with Paul at her back, telling him things he already knew.

“Could you have driven like that?”

“If we'd waited until I felt better . . . or left sooner . . . or stopped for gas.”

Paul's hands tightened on Melinda's shoulders, and the warmth of his breath ghosted over her ear. “It wasn't your fault.”

Melinda stared into space, seeing nothing of their surroundings. Inside, she was alight with dawning connections, new realization. She reached up and clawed at Paul's hands, digging in hard. “Why did you choose me?” Her whispered words held a new kind of pain.

“I fell in love with you.”

“When did you know who I was?”

“From the beginning. The resemblance was uncanny.”

“Like my underage niece?”

“That's not fair. Janice is young yet. Yes, there's a resemblance, but I had no idea!”

Melinda let go of his hands and rounded on him. “Really? Her last name never clued you in?”

Paul floundered, closing his eyes and sighing. “I didn't know her last name at first, and I honestly didn't want to put it all together once I did.”

“How convenient.” Melinda slammed her palms against his chest. “Why did you do it, Paul? Why wasn't I enough for you?” Tears slid down her cheeks as she gave in to the sinking feeling permeating her soul. She was so tired. Never a day went by that she didn't think of Marietta or relive their accident in her dreams.

“You were! But you withdrew from me. You were cold and distracted . . . always steeping in your shroud of guilt.”

“My shroud of guilt?”

“I didn't know how to reach you anymore. And then . . . I met Janice. It was a terrible mistake.”

“You met Janice—the best parts of me and Marietta rolled up into one nubile, young maiden, huh? Forbidden fruit, anyone? Helped you forget the dead woman you pined after and the broken substitute you settled for?” Melinda's voice rose to a shriek.

“That's not true! I fell in love with you. Marietta and I . . . never worked. She was too flighty, and once she met Mark, she never had eyes for anyone else.”

“Well, I feel so much better now!”

Melinda looked around wildly, searching for a way out. The pain surging through her had become too much. She spotted the gun lying in the grass a few feet away and edged in that direction.

“I was infatuated with Marietta, but I fell in love with you.”

“Why? Because I was so dependent and you knew there'd never be any competition to fight off? Who'd want this?” Melinda flashed her scars at him.

“No! That's ridiculous!”

“Is it?”

A few more inches.

“Yeah, it is.”

She placed her boot over the gun. “And Janice? What does she mean to you?”

Paul floundered. “I—”

Melinda moved her foot, bent down, and snatched the gun. The weight of it in her hand was a comfort because it offered her the control she'd never had.

“What the hell are you doing?” Paul's eyes widened. “Hoffstra! Somebody!”

Melinda removed the safety and snugged the gun beneath her chin.

“No! Don't do this! Don't you leave me!”

The golden rays had almost reached their patch of grass. Melinda smiled and stepped into the light, allowing the sun to kiss her skin. “Goodbye, Paul.”

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Sarah Aisling hails from the East Coast of the US and loves living by the ocean with her incredibly indulgent husband and precocious daughter. She’s currently editing her upcoming novel, The Weight of Roses. When Sarah isn’t being enslaved by her characters, she can be found with her nose in a book, obsessing over nail polish or anything leopard, biking, hiking, camping, and spending time with friends and family. Twitter: @SarahAisling Facebook

J M Blackman Week 77: Second Time's the Charm--The Rabbit Hole Part 11

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J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Second Time's the Charm--The Rabbit Hole Part 11

I was finding that the time between near-death experiences was not nearly as long as it should be nowadays.

And that being the case, I was staring straight at one more opportunity to die.

Samir had given us an even better hand up this time, stealing the coordinates of that specific security room and adjusting it according to time, or place. When he explained, I had to fight an immediate migraine. Apparently, the room's coordinates, like all high level security rooms there, changed time and place to prevent transporting. Sam added that into his equation.

It was a miracle it worked.

We got in no problem. It wasn't surprising that it landed us right back where we were--Sam fighting with a guard.

And me watching.

Everything froze, as those moments of near death do. My eyes darted around so quickly: to the door, the control panel with the blurry image of a church and village in the hills, the Buddha statue. And in my terror, I thought back to my lack in sidekick skills. I was extremely ungifted in every way, lacking any sort of skill that could have helped us out in that moment.

But I, as unlucky, uncoordinated and unprepared as I was to be a hero, I wouldn’t let anything get in the way of me attempting to help Samir. I barreled forward, fists ready to pummel the grey uniform until my hands were sore or useless.

I flew into nothingness and then into a wall; as my knees cracked on impact and I worked to get myself turned back in the right direction, my soundtrack was an orchestra of scuffles and the “whomp” of punches and kicks finding purchase in soft flesh.

When I finally managed to see what was going on, I found Samir kneeling on the floor, the guard unconscious with his arms, for all intents and purposes, ziptied behind his back.

“You got ‘im,” I sighed in relief, all 3 ounces of adrenaline zapped from my body.

“Well, if I hadn’t,” Sam breathed heavily, sitting for just a moment, catching his breath. “I feel safe saying you would have got him for me. Real fists of fury." He looked up at the control panel. "Second time's the charm."

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J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

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