the fling

The Fling

Flash Fiction

For the most part, I wasn’t picky.

It’s only temporary, I decided. Where’s the harm?

The attraction was mutual, the bond unimportant. I flirted with commitment, but, really, what a joke. 

In the beginning, we played make believe, filled the roles we said we would. There were problems they said they’d fix, but, of course, what a concern: my eyes saw roses where thorns sliced skin.

We shared secrets, we shared lies. Yes, over time, we convinced each other we’d be fine. 

The days are running out now and I feel them letting go. I’ve dug in my heels, I’ve begged with sad eyes, but here now, what a child I am to miss the presence of such failed ties.

Their fingers fall through my grasp now, and, really, who’ve I to blame?

In desperation, I scream, “Stay!” but off in the distance, they just can’t miss me now that I’ve gone. 

Rounding the corner, they sneer, I’m just another promise you’ve made but won’t keep.

brick wall

Brick Wall

Flash Fiction

They build you, brick by brick. 

You’re a pattern to master, an un-objector, a work of art made by them. You’re not hard to assemble, you’re sturdy when needed, you’re protection for the frail. 

Shh, we must be quiet now: a simple sigh can cause a crash, a confused glance could crumble their creation. Each attempt from you to join in their construction is met with a slap of cement to seal you in. 

No, you are not important now: be still, don’t smile, coax the brick in place. It’s a pattern, a rhythm, a routine.

There, now you’ve done it: the last brick to seal your fate.

You take pride in their accomplishment, but they themselves don’t know: “Well, hey now, what about you?”

You do your best to curve your lips, to pick up a brick to lay it down. But the construction they’ve built, they’ve taken too far: your presence is made of bricks, your body an impenetrable wall.

the witch

The Witch

Flash Fiction

She’s not there every day, but when she is, she doesn’t leave you alone.

She is not nice to you, she doesn’t love you, she doesn’t want to be your friend. She calls you names, slaps your fat, makes you question your hair, your nose, your lips — those little tiny features you hoped might one day be loved for their charm. She puts you under her spell and, despite all your usual defenses, she takes control of your body and all you can do is watch. 

The Parasite is in control. 

Her games are not for the feeble-minded: she curves your innocent fingers into a fist and beats your stomach, she makes you gag at the sight of yourself in the mirror, she takes scissors and razorblades and your own dull fingernails and pierces the flesh all over your body.

The Witch is in control now. She smiles in your face while you lay exhausted, weak, and bleeding.

The deed is done, the games have been played: she rests next to you now, holding your hand, knowing you’re defeated.