FlashMob Writes Broken

“This, this is the only thing that dulls the pain,” slurred Cheryl, holding up her glass against the dim, smoky light. The caramel liquid swirled gently against the glass, intoxicating her eyes as it swayed and rolled like waves before she downed it one, intoxicating her soul.

“It’s what caused the pain in the first place,” said Cane, making a grab for the bottle, now half empty.

“You don’t understand. No one does!” she spat.

“Then let me in. Let me help you.”

“It’s too late. I’m broken, Cane. The day I got in that car-”

“Stop! We know what happened. You served your time. I don’t know why you keep on hurting yourself like this, hurting me. I already hurt, Cheryl. I lost a son that day too.”

An unwelcome silence hung heavy between them. She knew Cane hurt. She knew she caused it. Why did he think she drank? Every day, she woke up to see his sallow face etched in pain, his dull eyes devoid of seeing any beauty especially when he looked upon her. The one who took from him the most precious, innocent gift. The pain tore at her from the inside out, gnawing and gnashing as it feasted on her being.

“I’m going to bed,” Cheryl said, tipping over the chair as she clumsily got up. She swiped the bottle from the side as Cane could only look on.

The sound of the bottle plonking to the floor made Cane get up from the settee. He sighed, knowing Cheryl would be done. But he still loved her; somewhere deep down, he loved her. Every night he had to remove the bottle from the floor or bed.

“Hey, Baby,” she murmured. “Look, watch the colours paint,” she said. “It’s so pretty.”

From the door, a shaft of light swept across the floor towards the bed. Cheryl lay on her front, her head hanging over the bed, her long dark hair hiding her face. Her bare, pale arm moved ever so slightly as her finger twirled and stirred. It was then Cane noticed red. Lots of red. It ran down her arm, pooling on the wooden floor where her finger swirled, mixing with the spilt caramel liquid.

“I  . . . feel  . . . no  . . . pain,” she whispered, before her finger hung motionless.

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Written for FlashmobWrites hosted by Cara and Ruth

Choice of prompts: "fit the pieces back together" or/and "watch the colours paint" 

  

FlashMobWrites #03 Fall Out of the Atmosphere

I was left for dead.

Clawing my way through mud, I dragged my broken body through the decay of the forest floor. This was not my day to die. A hole in the ground was no place for a sorceress to rot. But I bled like any human. My strength and spirit seeped out in the blood oozing from the gash in my head but I pushed myself forwards, snagging a fingernail on a root and ripping it clean off. Pain scorched my body, paralysing me to the floor.

Maybe this was my time to die. Submitting easily to my fate, I closed my blood sodden eyes.

When I awoke, darkness surrounded me. I lay for a while, adjusting to the night as a cool breeze dulled the burning pain. I’d stopped bleeding. My strength was returning, I felt the energy tingling in my fingers, healing my fragile shell. Magic coursed through my body. And my mind turned to revenge.

Making him suffer would be easy. How was the tricky part. Being a sorceress opened up so many ways.  I had to choose carefully as I wasn’t his only victim but I would be his last. Begging with his last breath, on bended knees, he would eventually fall. Out of the atmosphere, a shooting star blazed across the indigo sky, interrupting my thoughts. It died just as suddenly as it appeared, leaving the night empty. That’s what I would do to him. Leave him empty. Leave him in a state of permanent darkness to match his heart. Leave him with the nightmares of his victims’ last moments, playing over and over in his tortured mind. Leave him broken, screaming out in pain, screaming for me to end his misery, begging me to let him die.

He would never die.

He would never live.

Eternal darkness waited for him. His soul would be nothing more than a black hole, consuming his body from within.

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A new flash fiction challenge to get stuck in to. Flashmobwrites, hosted by Ruth Long and Cara Michaels. 300-500 words and a choice of prompts.

Cara: 'leave the evidence far behind'.

Ruth: 'fall out of the atmosphere'.

       

Race The Date #9 Bengal Tiger

The stream running through the jungle was a good place to stop and set up camp. It provided shelter as well as the perfect viewpoint. The tiger would soon approach to drink or even bathe. Cats not liking water was a myth as far as the tiger was concerned and Brad was sure he’d be near enough face to face with his prey.

Patience.

Brad was used to waiting for his quarry.

His finger itched as it was poised, a practise for when a tiger came into view.

The setting was perfect and Brad found it hard to hide his excitement as a low growl reverberated through the jungle.

The jungle erupted in a cacophony of warning cries.

The tiger was near.

Through the long grass, Brad was sure he saw movement and he trained his eye, not moving an eyelash, afraid to breathe.

Brad was controlled, despite the adrenalin. He was only a matter of feet away from this magnificent animal, could see clearly the sparkling eyes, the huge padded paws.

Silently, the tiger stood. He seemed to be staring right at Brad. This was his only chance before the tiger would bolt into the undergrowth.

He aimed. His finger gently pressed down.

A gentle click.

The tiger yawned then skulked back into the jungle, leaving a deliriously happy Brad with the photo of a lifetime.

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@Lizzie_Koch

Written for Cara Michaels.com/defiantlyliteratee