Flash Fiction Friday: Mornings
Hey, you lot. It's Flash Fiction Friday, I mean, um, Fraturday, that is, almost Frunday...? Anyway, here's the rub: in an effort to inspire ourselves to write, we've created A Structure. Every Friday, we'll post fiction shorts on our blogs that are limited by one or two "rules" of our own choosing. You, dear reader, get to read and scrutinize both to try to guess the rules. Hint: there are two this week. Read Crow's story here, and mine after the jump...
I woke up slowly, knowing something was not right. Feeling returned to the ends of my nerves, and I became aware that the left side of my face was coated in saliva. I sat up halfway and wiped my cheek on my sleeve, glad he wouldn’t see me like this. Outside, it was dark as pitch, perfect for me. I felt awake and ready to start composing. The glorious melody was already playing in my head, inspired by the book I’d fallen asleep reading. I’d discovered it in Eric’s bookshelves downstairs: the biography of a very young queen of France.
I woke up slowly, knowing something was not right. It was too dark. The help must have closed the curtains around my bed when the sun rose. I pulled them back and saw a dainty breakfast waiting for me on my table next to a gilded vase full of black roses, my favorites. I knew who they were from: Laurent was a secret, my secret. To my delight, I also saw a new painting leaning on my boudoir, a gift from the Medici girl. It depicted a small girl in the forest, resting against an elm under a cloudy sky.
I woke up slowly, knowing something was not right. A gust of cold air blew into my coat and my eyelids flung apart. What time was it? It was hard to tell where the sun was in the great white span above me. Pietr had been probably waiting a while, sneering as always. I hurried along the road and winced as mud seeped through cracks in my shoes. On the way to the market, I passed two old women gossiping about a girl who’d left her family to sail east with her lover. I’d always wanted to see the ocean.
I woke up slowly, knowing something was not right. It was too still and silent. I moved lithely across the cabin and joined him where he stood staring at the horizon, his face as still as the sea. There was no wind, there were no waves. It was as though all of the earth’s energy had been exhausted creating the most vivid sunset, splattering blood orange paint across the violet sky. I tried to take Mark’s hand in mine but felt paper instead. I removed it and gently smoothed it out: a picture of a sleeping woman on her bed.
I woke up slowly, knowing something was not right. I reached for him, but found only a cold pillow instead. Dog of a man! I growled and sat up, hating myself for wishing Tomas were still beside me. I took the pillow in my hands, wanting it to be his beautiful head. The scissors on the desk were somehow suddenly in my grasp and slicing open the pillow neatly but savagely. It gave me immense pleasure to see its insides; laughing, I tossed the pillow into the air and felt the subsequent caress of feathers on my face, gentle, soft.