Samantha Lee Week 86: Puppy Love

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Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: One

Title: Puppy Love

He thought giving her a puppy would be a good idea. He'd seen it in movies, read about it in books, heard about it in coffee shops; it seemed like the right sort of thing to do. He knew she wanted a normal, traditional relationship - the kind that came with surprise flowers, romantic gestures, and deep emotions. She said she didn't want to be Penelope, stuck waiting for something that was on indefinite pause, or Ariadne, doomed to love a man who'd only abandon her when her use expired, or Echo, swept up in a one sided romance fated to be her undoing. She wanted something real, something true, something enduring. In short, she wanted the fairy tale.

Unfortunately, he wasn't a prince or a knight or even a farm boy with high aspirations. No, he was the villain, irredeemable and unrepentant. This wasn't going to be the story of a fish in love with a bird or the sun in love with the moon; he wished his problems were as simple as biology and geography. What he was was a mole in love with a star; the object of his affection was so far out of his league she was already gone and he didn't even realize it.

The obvious solution to this problem was to overcompensate. Thus, the puppy. Well, he called it a puppy. He'd thought about getting her an actual puppy - her sister had all those hounds, after all, so it wasn't an unheard of concept - but he'd thought a pet with more...versatility would suit her best. Technically, the puppy was a morphling - a rare quirk-of-nature creature that was able to shift into any other creature it had ever seen. Or maybe it was any creature it had ever touched. He never could keep that part straight. Point being - the creature changed form.

But it started off as a puppy. A fluffy black and white wolf-like puppy with triangular ears and bright blue eyes. He meant it as a birthday present and so he tied a big pink bow around its neck and put it in a big pink hat box (pink was her favourite colour). The morning of her birthday, he had his minions slip into her bed chamber before she woke and leave the gift atop her desk. One minion remained behind, concealed in shadows, so that he might witness her reaction. From his lair, leagues away, he watched her rise, saw the surprise fill her face when she noticed the hat box. She lifted the lid slowly, carefully, as though she was afraid what could be inside. Given who she was related to, it was a wise precaution on her part.

He knew the exact moment she realized what was inside; her whole being seemed to light up with joy. She lifted the squirming puppy from the box, laughing as it licked madly at her face. She looked happy, something that was far too rare an occurrence, and her happiness took her beauty and magnified it, making her practically sparkle and glow. It made him swell with pride for having caused it and wonder for having seen it. For a few moments more, he watched her play with her new pet, stroking its fur, conjuring it toys, and laughing in delight as it changed form.

Sighing, he finally, reluctantly looked away. There was no point to see more; no more would come of that moment than the joy he'd already witnessed and the satisfaction he had in knowing she'd no longer be alone.

It would help, he supposed however, if she was aware of his feelings or even his existence. But then villains didn't get happily ever afters.

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Lizzie Koch Week 86: Bedtime Stories

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Lizzie Koch’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Bedtime Stories

“Once upon a time,” began Jess, “there was a beautiful princess who lived in a magnificent castle.”

“Why do princesses have to live in castles?” Lilly asked as she snuggled beneath the covers. “And why are they always beautiful? Why can’t she be ugly, so ugly that when people see her, they turn into dust.”

“Um, Ok but then how is she going to marry her prince?” Jess asked. “I mean it’s not your traditional fairy tale is it? Princesses are beautiful and live happily ever after.”

“It’s boring. Make her do something else.” Lilly yawned, hugging her teddy.

Jess smiled, getting comfortable on the bed next to Lilly. She loved having Lilly when her brother and his wife wanted some time together but this was the first time she had stayed all night. “Ok, Lilly. Once upon a time, there was a princess who, although beautiful, was evil. Her heart was as black as coal and as hard as ice. With each passing day, her beauty began to fade as the evil deep inside her heart grew.”

“That’s much better,” Lilly said eagerly, sitting up, now wide awake. “I like these stories. Mummy tells them to me when she has time.”

“Wow, then your mummy is a very clever lady because I don’t know how to make a princess evil. Wanna help me?”

“Well when she walks through the forest, animals hide, flowers die and everything feels sad.”



A sudden chill swept over Jess and she shuddered. “I think I need to snuggle under there with you,” she joked. The light started to flicker as a wind whipped around the house.

“You have to finish the story now,” Lilly said, looking around the room. “They’re here and listening.”

“Who?” Jess asked nervously.

“Friends of mummy’s. They like her stories,” Lilly replied calmly. “They won’t go until you’ve finished.”

Jess got up from the bed and walked over to the window, pulling the curtain back. “I can’t see anyone,” she said, playing along with Lilly. “Not a soul,” she murmured peering out. The street lights flickered before going off completely, plunging the entire street into darkness.

“They don’t have souls.”

“Excuse me?” Jess felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle and tried to keep her voice from cracking. It was silly to be scared in her own home because of the words of a ten year old; a creative, imaginative ten year old that.

“Mummy’s friends. They’re soulless as they wander the earth, feeding on stories. You have to finish it otherwise they’ll be here all night and you won’t want that. You won’t sleep a wink.”

“Oh this is silly, now, Lilly, I’m going to read you a fun story. All this talk of evil and bad princesses is not what young children should be going to bed with. How about a nice, fun, simple Mr Men tale,” It wasn’t a question as Jess picked up Mr Funny, the first one she laid her suddenly icy hands on. It also happened to be one of her favourites.



Jess began to read, focusing on the words as the wind outside howled causing the windows to rattle. She ignored Lilly’s constant warnings. A door banged shut and Jess jumped out of her skin. She walked out onto the landing and heard the comfort of the TV. She went from room to room, turning on the lights in the study, her own bedroom and the bathroom. As she left, Jess halted at the sound of running water and turned to see the taps in the bath and sink running. Steam quickly filled the room. She tried to turn them off but they were too hot to touch. A squeaking sound caused Jess to whimper and she stared at the mirror as letters appeared.

Finish the story.



Running screaming from the bathroom, Jess slammed the door shut, her breathing heavy.

“Just finish the story Aunty Jess, that’s all you have to do. You can’t leave a story once you’ve started.”

“I need my phone. I need to ring your daddy.”

“He can’t help. He doesn’t know about the soulless people, about mummy. About me.”

“What?” Jess paled, her body trembling. The windows flew open and the rain poured in, whipped up by the wind. As Jess tried to close the window, the rain hit her, stinging her face. It felt like a thousand sharp needles were constantly jabbing at her skin. Soaked, her face stinging red, Jess eventually closed the windows. She had to catch her breath before she spoke again. “What do you mean?”

“Mummy is a witch. Not a good witch or a white witch but a real, bad witch. I’m half witch because mummy married a human. I have to have the stories to make up for my human side and the others come to listen. You have to finish it. Mummy will be cross if you don’t and you don’t want that.”

“This is insane! There’s no such thing as witches! Now stop telling lies and go to sleep! I’m telling your parents!” Jess turned out the lights, closed the door and stomped down stairs. Without warning, Jess was plunged into darkness as the light bulb exploded. She screamed and tripped, tumbling down the stairs on her backside, swearing as she went.



The light came back on despite no light bulb and Jess screamed as Lilly stood before her, hair billowing behind her, eyes sparkling, almost glowing. An energy flowed from her, like a heat that Jess could feel.

“I don’t want you to get hurt, just finish the story. I need it, my friends need it.” As she spoke, glowing lights appeared, figure shaped, hovering in the hallway.

“I - I - I don’t know where to start,” Jess stammered, frozen to the bottom stair.

“The flowers dying, the animals hiding, the humans living in fear. You must know what that feels like.” Lilly smiled but it never met her eyes. A thin, smile, almost a sneer evaporated as she waited for Jess to begin.

“Once upon a time . . . there was a princess, a beautiful . . . princess who had a . . . dark secret.” As she begun, Jess noticed the white flowers, from her boyfriend, wilting in the vase. They were only delivered fresh that morning. “Wherever she walked, flowers . . . bowed in her presence . . . before succuming to the evil that . . . radiated from her like a perfume.”

“Perfect,” Lilly commented, “You’re learning already.”

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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 85: The Debriefing

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Ruth Long’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: The Debriefing

I'm on the way to the elevator when she pushes out of the stairwell door. Always doing things the hard way. That's my girl.

I greet her and unlock the apartment door. "I'm heading out for a game but I left Indian food on the counter. You’ve been dodgy the last few days so I figured I’d give you some space tonight. But if I misread you, I can just as easily stay home."

She drops her bag on the hall chair, puts her badge and gun in the wall safe, and gives me half a smile, which is more than she’s afforded me all week. “No, I don’t need the guys knocking down my door because they’re short on the court. You go ahead and we can catch up when you get home.”

I swoop in and kiss her cheek. “There’s a whole box of Quinoa Chicken Biryani with your name on it, baby."

She heads down the hall but turns and comes back. “Hey, Nick, about the other night, when I grabbed your ass in the restaurant. I'm sorry if that offended you or, you know, embarrassed you."

I nuzzle the top of her head. "Okay. But the way I remember it, that led up to a pretty damn good night, so where's this coming from? "

She reaches out to touch me but doesn't connect. "My behavior wasn't - it was disrespectful to treat you like that. You're more to me than just a good piece of ass."

Okay. I'm so not going to play basketball tonight. Something way more interesting is playing out under my own roof. "Hey, tell you what. I haven't eaten yet. How about we hold court over a plate of Chicken Tikka Masala? I'll call Tony and tell him to make do with one of the clowns on the bench.”

Her hand catches mine, caresses the ring on my left hand, and when she glances up at me, there’s a ‘thank you’ in her dark eyes.

I text Tony, leave my phone on the counter, and walk to the kitchen. We make short work of dinner, clean up the dishes, and go to the living room. The bar and grill across the street has live music on the weekends and I push the windows open to catch a breeze and the tunes.

I settle on the couch, leaving a cushion between us because I'm still feeling like she needs space. "Mind if we go back the conversation we started in the hall? The ass-grabbing and apologies. There some kind of sexual harassment suit or workshop going on at the office?"

She shakes her head and I can feel her trying to decide where to start. She's usually pretty damn direct so I'm curious and a little worried about what's on her mind.

Life is learning to balance that fine line between holding onto the status quo and accommodating change. Whatever it is she needs or wants, I’ll adapt. It’s easier for me. My world is four safe walls and free coffee. Toughest thing I deal with during my work day is insurance lapses and muzak.

"Okay, I'll just throw some things out here, honey, and when I get to the topic on your mind, let me know. My sister’s baby shower next weekend? To which I’d report that a considerable gift has been sent in lieu of our attendance.”

She put her legs on the couch, stretches her toes until they almost touch my thigh.

I trace the pattern on the cushion just shy of her feet. “The ongoing parking problem? The simple solution was trading the garage attendant our season hockey passes for a secure slot. Bedroom boredom? Easily cured with regular ass-grabbing, spanking, or the use of the old silk ties in the bottom dresser drawer.”

Anytime you can catch a cop off guard, that’s a moment to savor, and the surprise on her face is priceless.

When she composes herself, she says, "There aren't any harassment classes at the office and I have no interest in trading handprints or ligature marks with you. Thing is, it's this case."

I put a hand on her ankle, let my thumb draw slow lazy circles around the bone. “From the front page news?"

She nods, looks away from me. "Yeah, that’s the one. I’ve seen a lot of shit over the years but this one … I can’t even look at the case file, that stupid manila jacket, without my stomach cramping.”

"But you don't want to beg off because it might diminish your authority and status?"

"Yes," she says, looking at me now, eyes narrow and harsh but making contact. “I can't quit. Even when I want to. I have to keep going because every creep I get off the street now is one less monster our child, if we ever have one, will have to deal with. I'm always waiting for the day you tell me to quit, to leave all the crime scene horror and political bullshit behind us."

I don't stop touching her or holding her gaze. “I knew what you were when we met and I made peace with it before I married you."

She pulls her feet back. "I don't see how you can be so calm about it."

Always a hairpin at this juncture. "What goes on when you put on that badge, that's your shit to own, Leona. You want to come home and hit the sheets with me to get a little humanity back in your veins or drag me on a hike around the neighborhood at midnight to stave off the nightmares, I'm always here. Always."

She springs at me, across the couch, full weight crashing into my chest and words spilling out. "This kid, she was fifteen and they ruined her. What the newspaper reported, that’s nothing. Both orifices were shredded beyond repair. If she’d survived, she’d never have been able to have any kind of sex life.”

I know I should be gentle with her but I’m shaking so much my control is shot and I hold her so tight I’m afraid her bones will break.

I’m angry that there are men out there who have no appreciation or respect for women and the sanctity of the female body.

And I’m angry that the wild passionate woman in my arms, the strongest person I know, the woman who so willingly lies beneath me, so boldly pins me to the bed, so readily gives herself to passion, is trembling in my arms like a child who’s just seen the monster under the bed.

And I’m angry that I’m just a guy in a white lab coat who passes bottles of medicine over the counter instead of a conscienceless animal who wouldn’t think twice about killing the kind of man who could harm a woman.

I bury my face in her hair. "Baby, I want to say the right thing here but I don't know what it is."

Her hands frame my face. She’s steadier now, my own momentary lack of constraint bringing her back. “I don't know either. I want to get tangled in the sheets with you but the idea of undressing, of being vulnerable, of submitting to your touch, to my desire … I can’t do it. Feels like I’m on one of those carnival rides that just keeps going around and around and around.”

“Is that why you’ve stayed late at the office all week and paced the living room when you were home?”

“Yes,” she says, her hands finding mine and lacing with them. “How terrible am I? All I can think about, when I’m not trying to deal with the case, is how much I want your body to remind mine what's good and decent about life, about love, about sex. But then I realize that thinking about you that way objectifies you, as though you merely exist to satisfy my needs, and that makes me sick and disgusted with myself. I can't get out of that cycle. Horror. Desire. Shame. Around and around."

I have to say my anxiety is at an all time high. Hearing my bright, independent, complex wife tell me she feels like a child stuck on a carnival ride that won’t stop pierces my heart. "You want to go see Dr. Kavanaugh and talk this through? With or without me. Just say the word. Whatever you need, baby. Or if you want to sleep in sweats for a few weeks, I'll keep my hands to myself. You're my partner, my lover, my friend. We’ll work through this. Together."

She puts her mouth to mine. It's not a kiss but it's good. She’s here, with me, connected, focused. Against her lips, my lips say, "I could write a sonnet to your astonishing, breathtaking, magical female body. How Do I Love Thee? Wouldn't you like to know?!"

Her mouth smiles against mine. "What do you know about Browning?”

"There was more in the university library than Mad Magazine and yellowed pharmacy textbooks. Besides, the only thing I ever needed to inspire me to poetry was a taste of you. One kiss. One bare thigh. One throaty sigh.”

Her lips press mine for a moment. “If I counted the ways I love you, Nick, I’d begin and end with your beautiful mouth. That damn smile stops my heart. And you talk to me every which way, stern and soft and snappy, but always with respect, always with love. And the way you know just how and where and when to kiss me. You and your mouth wreck me.”

I can’t help myself now. I’m done with holding back. I kiss her with a gentle fervency that reminds her she can take whatever she needs from me - without asking, without reprimand, without recompense.

Loving her has always been like holding a wild bird in my palm and knowing that the moment I move too fast or close my fingers, I endanger its safety and sense of security. She deals with uncertainty every time she wears that badge so when she comes home to me, I willingly become her nest and roots, a soft and sturdy place to land.

She struggles with my belt, getting the buckle stuck in the loop. Always doing things the hard way. That's my girl.

I take her hands, kiss her palms, and say, “Here, baby. Let me.”

Maybe I’m not the guy with a gun and a grudge but that’s okay, that’s not what she needs. I’m the guy with a strong heart and gentle hands. The guy with perceptive ears and an eloquent mouth. The guy who loves his intense untamed passionate wife enough to be the rock steady remedy for the dark and crazy world she’s sworn to defend.

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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 85: The Lights

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JB Lacaden’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: The Lights

He wrapped it
Around the pole's
Narrow body.
Smiling,
He stepped back into his
Home
Of cardboard and
Broken dreams.
John, the cat,
Purred at him
At it snuggled beside his
Body.
Homeless Mike
Watched snow
Fall all around him.
He could feel himself
Slipping away.
The cold pulling him
Farther.
As his eyes
Dropped to a close,
He thought he saw
The lights
Come to life.
Homeless Mike
Laughed
Before giving himself
Up.

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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 85: Night Train - Part Three

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Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Night Train - Part Three

The door beside the kitchen table opened.

Two guys walked through, the man who'd been wrapped up in the muffler back at the train station, and Herschel Lerner.

Muffler Man smirked at me.

“Traveler's Aid, eh, fella?” he quipped in a brogue thicker than the smoke inside Florian's juice joint late on a Friday night. “That's a good one.”

One look at his mug explained the muffler. Shrapnel scars covered the right side of his neck and his jaw looked like he'd used it to stop a mortar round. His left eye drooped and his nose bent to the right, features not quite offset by as fine a mop of reddish brown hair I'd ever seen on a man.

His white shirt, worn with the sleeves rolled up, and tan trousers hung on his thin frame.

“That you on the chopper back there?” I asked him.

He nodded and kept smirking. At least I now knew what he'd had in the bag on the platform.

“That was some good shooting,” I said.

“Yes,” chimed in O'Shaughnessy, “I'd imagine it was. What was the butcher's bill tonight, William?”

“Seven, Mr. O'Shaughnessy,” he replied. The smirk deepened. “Eight if you include the Polack here.”

“The Polack survived,” observed Hersch Lerner.

Taller, rounder, and balder than his older brother, Jackson, Hersch took up a lot of space. His sleeves were rolled up too, though he still wore his tie.

He dug half a cigar out of the pocket of his good black pants as he shouldered past William and took a seat at the table. He moved with the grace of a yak on ice.

We all sat and watched while he got a match lit and fired his cigar.

“Moe,” he began, “I'm sorry you had to get in the middle of this business.”

He grabbed my glass and poured himself some Irish whiskey.

“You don't mind, do you?” he asked, indicating the glass.

“I can stand it if you can, Hersch,” I answered.

“L'chaim,” he toasted, then knocked back the hooch.

William went to the opposite side of the kitchen, taking up position by the door that led out to the backyard.

“Expecting company, O'Shaughnessy?”

“Tynan's always expecting company, Moe,” said Hersch. “That's why he's still alive.”

O'Shaughnessy chortled.

“Is that why, Herschel? All this time I thought it was my winning personality.”

“Lay off with the comedy act,” I cut in. I picked up the bottle of whiskey and took a belt. “Somebody spill. Now.”

Hersch and O'Shaughnessy glanced at each other and laughed.

I kept at it.

“My Colt,” I said. “I want it back.”

O'Shaughnessy stopped laughing long enough to pull my gun out of his pocket.

“This is a quality piece of merchandise, Moe,” he said, looking it over.

He broke it open, shook the bullets out onto the floor, then handed me my empty revolver.

I snatched the thing hard enough to cause a twinge of pain in my wounded shoulder.

“The trust you show me warms my heart,” I grumbled.

“That's the way it is, boyo,” he replied, looking at Lerner sideways. “That's the reason I'm still alive, Herschel.”

“Nifty,” I said. “I'm proud of you. Now spill it.”

Hersch stared at me like he couldn't decide if I was blotto or just a plain old sap.

“I'd think you'd be anxious to show a little gratitude for my saving your life, Moe,” said O'Shaughnessy.

“I'll get around to that,” I shot back, “when I know what it's gonna cost me.”

“A wise policy,” muttered Hersch.

I nodded. “That's why I'm still alive.” I stashed the Colt in my pants pocket. “Quit stalling. What's the story?”

Hersch got up and started to pace. It was going to be that kind of conversation.

“You got any idea who killed Lon and winged you, Moe?” he asked.

O'Shaughnessy reclaimed his whiskey and poured himself a drink.

I could've used some more myself.

“I'm not going to like the answer to that, am I, Hersch?”

“Like's got nothing to do with it, Moe”

“It's Jack, isn't it?”

O'Shaughnessy reached a huge arm across the table and clapped me on the shoulder-- the good one.

“Buy this man a cigar!”

Jack. Jackson Lerner. My boss. A guy I'd have called a friend if it were possible for a boss to be pals with his crew.

I Edisoned Hersch without looking at him.

“He send anyone I know?”

“You probably knew 'em all, Moe.”

“On the level?”

“I wish it wasn't, but it is. It's Jack.”

“Why the hell would Jack want me bumped off?”

“Don't know that he does. Could be a wrong time, wrong place thing.”

“Could be.”

I thought it over. Hersch Lerner had more faults than an earthquake zone. Lying was not one of them.

He dropped himself back in his chair.

I felt O'Shaughnessey's eyes on my face, watching my reactions.

“We know he had it in for Lon Robinson,” continued Hersch.

I nodded. “That's been coming for some time now.”

“It's not just Robinson,” added O'Shaughnessy. “He gave me the bum's rush and had some of my boys killed on our way out.”

“There's something screwy with Jack, Moe.”

“All right,” I said, “so Jack's gone screwy. What's that got to do with me? Apart from the bullets?”

I looked from Hersch to O'Shaughnessy, then back at Hersch.

“You boys want his crew, don't you?”

He took a while to answer.

“I don't want it so much as I don't think my brother oughta be running it anymore. Don't forget-- he thought I'd be on that train tonight.”

“How'd you find out about it, O'Shaughnessy?”

“You don't actually think I'm going to be answering that, Moe, until I know you're with us, do you?”

“I suppose not.”

We sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the clock tick and the water drip.

“All right,” I said, “say I'm with you. What do you need from me?”

“We want you to meet with Jack,” replied O'Shaughnessy.

“He'll be at the Santa Fe tonight,” added Hersch. “You know the place?”

I knew it.

The Hotel Santa Fe. A crumbling shell of a building with the dumbest name in town. The only Santa we ever heard of was the fat guy in the red suit who hung around department stores and flew by on Christmas Eve.

“What if he meant for me to get killed?” I nodded toward my shoulder. “I only got one good arm.”

“Moe,” said Hersch, “I'll take you with one good arm over a lot of guys with two. Every time.”

I glanced at O'Shaughnessy.

“You gonna let me load my Colt first?”

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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 85: Winter Memory

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Michela Walters’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Winter Memory

Glancing out the window, I saw the stupid lights hanging along the back fence, a lasting reminder of Allen’s attempt to get me into the holiday spirit. Little did I know it would be the last symbolic gesture he’d ever make. A heart attack took him the day before Christmas and I kept forgetting to turn the timer off on those fucking lights.

“Mom, do you want me to take them down?” Lucas asked, nodding his head towards the fence out the window. My oldest son was taking his new role as man of the house seriously. A weight someone his age shouldn’t have to shoulder.

Rubbing his back, I tried to hide the tears leaking from my eyes. “No sweetie. Not yet.” While the lights represented everything I’d lost, the kids needed to feel like he was still with us. Even if it was just by the glow of a string of lights along the back of our yard.

He hugged me back with a fierceness I hadn’t felt in a long time. “We’re here for you, Mom. You know that, right?” Lucas’ eyes were filled with an innocence I thought he’d lost the night his dad died. “We’ll be okay.”

I knew that even though the coming months and years would be difficult, my boys would help me through it. “I know, baby. I know.”

We never did take those lights down. They stayed up year round until my youngest finally went off to college. It was the year I moved out of that house and left the memories of Allen in the past.

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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 85: Got a Secret . . . Can You Keep it? (Part Twenty-eight)

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Sarah Aisling’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Got a Secret . . . Can You Keep it? (Part Twenty-eight)

Jason placed himself between the bed and Janice, his broad shoulders blocking Ciel's view. “No way.”

Joanie joined Jason. Though dwarfed by his height and width, she was a force all her own. “You just step back. Haven't you and your psychotic family done enough?”

Silence descended. Janice didn't attempt to defend herself or move past Ciel's self-appointed bodyguards, and Ciel knew instinctively that Janice was leaving the decision up to her.

“Guys, it's okay. Janice and I need to talk.”

Joanie whirled around and crossed her arms. “You've got to be kidding me! You could've died! This is so not happening!”

Ciel reached a hand out, and Joanie grasped it tightly. “Jo, I love you so much. Thanks for always being on my side. I really want to speak to Janice . . . alone.” Before Joanie or Jason could protest, Ciel kept going. “You both can wait right outside, okay? I need this. Janice needs this.”

Joanie glared over her shoulder at Janice. “I don't care what she needs.”

“C'mon, Jo. This isn't you.”

“Okay, but I'm not leaving! I'll be right outside.” Joanie allowed Jason to lead her by the arm. She paused by Janice and poked a finger at her. “I blame you for this. You better not hurt Ci anymore, or I'll wipe the floor with you.”

Janice smiled sadly and nodded, maintaining her silence.

Jason glanced back at Ciel before closing the door. “If you need me . . . for anything . . .”

Ciel smiled. “I know. Thank you.”

After the door clicked closed, silence flooded the room, filling every crevice. A steady weight pressed down on Ciel's chest. She blinked back tears and turned her head toward the windows, which now emitted ghostly bluish light as the day drew to its end.

“Oh, Ciel.” Janice took a few faltering steps and sank to her knees, resting her head on the edge of the bed. She grasped Ciel's hand and squeezed so hard it was painful.

Ciel didn't complain—the entire situation was agonizing and heartbreaking and impossible. There was no neat way out, no happy ending. Tears slid freely down Ciel's face, the first time she'd allowed herself to feel wide-open since waking up in this hospital room. The burden of being kidnapped, fearing for her life as well as Janice's, and taking advantage of their spur-of-the-moment escape was a crushing weight, taking a tremendous toll on her still-healing body and her psyche. Ciel slid her hand across the scratchy blanket until her shaking fingers encountered Janice's tangled hair and started stroking it gently. Knowing there was someone in this world more lost than she was sent a surge of determination through Ciel—she would be there for Janice.

Janice lifted her head and looked back at Ciel, dry-eyed. “Aren't you pissed at me?”

“God no! Why would I be?”

Janice tilted her head, cradling Ciel's arm between her neck and shoulder so she could rest her cheek against Ciel's pale skin. “You never would have been hurt if not for me . . . and my psycho aunt. I bet you wish you'd never met me.”

“Stop it! You're my friend, and I'm not sorry about anything. Well, except maybe the part where we got locked up . . . and I got thrown from a horse . . .” Ciel laughed shakily. “Being drugged doesn't top the list, either.”

“God, I know! I've been going mad this whole week because I couldn't see you.”

“Why couldn't you see me?”

Janice's eyes widened. “Your pit bull of a mom! She hates my guts. I was only able to sneak in here because your parents left you alone for a few minutes. I've been skulking around here for days, dodging those stupid reporters.”

“My mom kept you from seeing me? I can't believe she'd do that.” Disappointment sat heavy as a stone in Ciel's gut. As far as she knew, Susan had never lied to her before.

“She said you didn't want to see me . . . that I was trouble.” Janice blinked away a sudden film of tears and sniffled. “She's right. I just—I had to talk to you, see for myself that you're going to be okay.”

Ciel shifted toward Janice, wincing when a flare of pain shot up her side. “No. We're friends, and you're not trouble. Maybe you've made some dumb mistakes, but we all have! My mom has no right to judge you.” She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Anyway, let's forget about that. I'm worried about you. Janice, you're so thin and pale. Are you all right? Have you been eating?”

Janice looked down, unable to meet Ciel's concerned gaze. “I can't keep much down. Not really hungry. I've been worried about you and . . . and Paul.” She fiddled with the sleeve of her black hoodie, and Ciel observed that Janice had bitten her nails to bloody stubs. “Everybody's pissed at me. My dad—and especially Lara. The cops aren't too happy, either, because I won't tell them shit. They arrested Paul for statutory rape! As if—as if I wern't there, and it wasn't what I wanted, too! They're making what we have into something dirty.”

Ciel grimaced but allowed Janice to unburden herself without comment.

Janice continued to pick at her sleeve with a frown. “I wouldn't talk, so they had to let him go. Lara told the cops about my diary, but the bitch couldn't find it. Aunt MJ has it—I know because she tore some pages out and shoved them in my face. All my shit's gone from the cave, so I'm guessing my aunt has it. I know she's not going to tell . . .” She shrugged her bony shoulders and smirked.

Ciel looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah, about that . . .” She gripped Janice's hand. “I went back there and took all your stuff. I wanted to keep it safe for you. It's all in the back of my closet.” She finally dared to meet Janice's eyes.

“It is?”

“Yeah, your aunt may have ripped some pages from the diary, but she left the rest sitting in the middle of the path at the park along with some of your poetry books. I climbed up to the cave and got your trinket box. I—I kind of read some of your diary.” Ciel hid her face. “I didn't want to, but I thought it might help find you. I'm so sorry.”

Janice smacked Ciel on the arm. “Please. After all we've been through, that's what you're worried about?”

Ciel peeked from between her fingers. “You don't hate me?”

“No! Just stop.” A sudden storm brewed behind Janice's eyes, and she rose to her feet and started pacing around the room. “They can't find my stash. The cops would have a field day with my diary! You won't . . .”

“No way. I've hidden it away all this time—you think I'm going to pull it out now?” Ciel chewed at her bottom lip, looking worried. “But, Janice, I can't unread what I read. Professor Jeffries . . . the way he treated you wasn't right.”

Janice quit pacing and spun to face Ciel. “What are you talking about?”

“The supply closet . . . at school?”

Janice looked away. “Ciel, there's a lot more to me and Paul than that. He loves me.”

“You're sixteen. He should know better!”

“Promise me you'll protect my secrets. Ciel, they've got nothing on him if I keep stonewalling.”

Ciel held her hand out, and Janice grabbed on. “You're my friend. I won't betray you, but part of being your friend means telling you the truth. He's no good for you. In the end, you're the one who's gonna get hurt. Can't you see that?”

Janice blinked back the tears stinging her eyes. “You're really smart, you know that? I don't know what the hell to do, but I can't let him go to jail.”

“Maybe he deserves to,” Ciel whispered.

The two of them stared at each other, unsure of what else to say. The uncomfortable silence stretched between them, yet their bond of friendship only strengthened.

The door flew open suddenly, and Joanie popped her head into the room. “Guess who's going home tomorrow? Your mom's on her way up to share the big news!” She glared at Janice. “You might want to skedaddle about now.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Janice nodded then turned back to Ciel. “You feel better. I'll see you soon.”

Joanie waited until the door clicked shut behind Janice before bouncing over to the bed and hugging Ciel. “You're going home, Ci! Wait until you see what I did to your room!”

“Oh God.”

“No, you're going to love it! I strung some twinkling white lights along the ceiling over your bed. It looks so cool, I'm going to do it in my room, too! Oh, and I'm sleeping over tomorrow night!”

“Awesome!” Ciel squealed. Joanie would be a buffer between her and Susan.

“Sure is! I can't wait for you to spill all the dirt on Janice and Professor Jeffries!”

Ciel's face fell along with her buoyant mood. Secrets could be a real burden. Rock, meet hard place.

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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