Voice Week 2012: Tuesday

Second voice for the prompt “rained out picnic.”

"Today my voice is ______."

She wist not what howling winds and dank rains

The heavens might let fall that merry day,

So kneeling her down before the window,

Begged Saint Medard sunshine for the morrow.

But when the morrow did come and the birds

With their joyful singing should have waked her,

She woke instead to drumming from the skies

On the roof, and then on sleeve from her eyes.

What type of story does this feel like to you? When does it take place? Tell me in the comments!

Check out the Voice Week homepage for links to everyone’s voices.

Voice Week 2012: Monday

So it begins! I’m experimenting with third person voices this year, using “rained out picnic” as a prompt.

"Today my voice is ______."

In those days, men were corrupt, and rejoiced in their wickedness and reveled in violence. And as they were carousing in the field, there was a loud noise, and the sky grew dark. They were frightened, for they had never heard or seen such things. But some said that the gods were angry, and they began to search among them for a sacrifice. They seized a woman. But she took her knife and thrust it into the side of one of those who was trying to bind her. And the skies opened and water poured down. 

What type of story does this feel like to you? When does it take place? Tell me in the comments!

Check out the Voice Week homepage for links to everyone’s voices.

Short Fiction: Fraternization

A little piece of fiction that’s been hanging in my head for awhile. It’s too long and too schmaltzy, but I don’t have time to shorten it – and we’ll just chalk it up to the self-indulgence of the hopeless romantic, eh?  Constructive criticism welcome.

Photo by Chris Costes

It’s the first day of my dream job. Everything is perfect. I sit at my mahogany desk and try not to cry.

I didn’t even apply for this job. The offer came out of the blue, on the heels of seven other unsolicited offers. Higher salaries, better benefits, but I turned them all down. I didn’t want to leave him.

But I couldn’t turn down this one.

The worst part was telling him. I was shaking that morning as I rode the elevator to the fourth floor. No amount of daisy-petal pulling could compare to this moment.

I was finally going to find out if he loved me.

I imagined how it would go – you know, best case scenario fairy-tale ending.

I’ve received an offer for the editor position at the Times, I’d say, You know how much I love working here, but this is the job I’ve dreamed about for as long as—are you alright?

 I’d interrupt myself at this point because I’d notice how crestfallen he had become.

Christy… he’d stammer, I just…don’t think I’m ready to lose you. I know I’ve never told you how I felt—but I’ve always loved you.

Of course that wouldn’t happen. But I was hoping at least for a hint of disappointment. Something that would tell me he cared. Well, I knew he cared. He cared about everyone—treated us all like royalty Monday through Friday for the two years I’d worked for him—but he’d never shown a hint of anything more, and neither had I. I’d been so careful not to.

I arrived at his office. His door was open, as usual, but he was hunched over his address book. I knocked. He looked up. He looked tired, sad, nigh despairing! I wondered if he’d already heard. If he was already grieving for me. He welcomed me in, his eyes searching my face. I sat down across from him, took a deep breath.

“I’ve received an offer,” I began. His expression froze. “For a job,” I dropped my gaze to my fingers, twisted in my lap. “As an editor. At the Times. It’s um—”

“Christy, that’s fantastic!”

I looked up, surprised at his tone. His whole face was suddenly brighter.

“That’s the job you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes. I—”

“You deserve it, you know. You’ll be the best editor that paper’s ever had.”

“You’re not…upset?”

“Upset? Of course not. I’m happy for you. Aren’t you happy?”

He looked doubtful for a moment, but I couldn’t disappoint him.

“I’m thrilled,” I forced a smile, “Just a little sad to leave this place.”

“We are going to miss you around here.”

We. Not I.

It’s replaying that part of the conversation that makes me finally break down.

And here in my new office, I don’t even know where the tissues are. I’ll have to make a break for the bathroom to bawl my eyes out on a roll of toilet paper.

I collide with my new boss as I’m bursting into the hallway.

I apologize and offer a fake laugh, but it’s too late. She’s seen my red eyes and runny nose.

“Oh, dear,” and she pulls me back into my office and shuts the door, producing a pack of tissues from a drawer. “What’s happened?”

I consider making up a story about a dead aunt, but one glance at her concerned expression and I decide I can’t lie to her.

“He doesn’t love me!” I blurt before hiding my face in my hands.

“Wha…who?”

“My boss. My last boss. When I told him…” quivering breath, “I was leaving,” sob, “he even looked h-h-h-appy. And now I’ll never s-s-s-see him again.” Involuntary wail. Oh, gravy. I haven’t been on the job four hours yet and I’m going to get fired for blubbering like a preteen over a crush. “I’ll get over it!” I gasp, raising my head to look her in the eye and nod—repeatedly, because I have to convince myself as well as her. “Please, I’ll get over it. I’ll be the best editor you’ve ever had, I’ve just got to—” quiver, sob, “Compose myself.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t you know how you got this job?” Her voice is high and constricted, like she’s about to laugh.  “Your boss called to recommend you.”

“He…” heart drops to gut. “What?”

But I already understand.

He knew I was in love with him. I hadn’t hidden it as well as I thought. And rather than hurt my feelings, he found a better position for me elsewhere. All those offers. He must have been calling in favors all over town.

More wailing, sobbing, nose blowing. Where are Ben & Jerry when you need them?

“Christy!”

I snap back to attention and realize my new boss—or new ex-boss?—has been trying to tell me something.

“When he called,” she said again, her voice steady, “And told me you were perfect for the job, I asked him why, then, was he letting you go? And do you know what he said?”

I sniffed, shaking my head.

“Because—and these were his exact words—‘I constantly have to remind myself not to kiss her.’ You see?”

I stare at her.

“He couldn’t make a move while you still worked there. He didn’t want you to feel like your job depended on a relationship.”

“He…he didn’t say that…”

“Are you calling me a liar?” she planted her hands on her hips.

“I…” I’m floundering now, lightheaded. Maybe I’ll faint like a woman in an old movie. “That’s not…”

“And now here he comes to take you to lunch, and I’ve ruined the surprise.”

She’s looking out the window down at the parking lot. I lean forward to see. It’s him. Heading for the door like he’s on a mission. A bunch of flowers in his hand.

I look at my new boss. She looks at me and grins. “Told you.”

I smile. I forget to breathe. This must be what giddy means.

“You have about twenty seconds to get that eyeliner cleaned up. You look like a zebra.”

She turns on a heel and walks out. I scramble for more tissues.

First day of my dream job. Everything is perfect.

UPDATE: The second draft of Fraternization is now posted!

Flash Fiction: Time Crunch

Meant to post this last night. Whoops.

I realized I haven’t posted any of my real work in a long time, so I thought I’d try out one of my own prompts. Glad to know what you think.

Time Crunch

It stood in the center of the garage. A puzzle of greenish copper gears and cranks with worn leather handles. A metal mess the size of a Volkswagen Microbus. And, from somewhere inside it, a faint ticking.

            “Where’d you get it?” I asked.

            “Stole it.”

            “How’d you move it?”

            He took a long drag on his Kool. He wasn’t going to answer.

            I stuck my hands in my armpits. My fingers were itching to pump some levers and tickle some toggle switches, but this was no time to play around. Both our futures—or rather, our pasts—were at stake. Imagined scenes sped through my head, a thousand should-have-beens. He’d have finished school, graduated with honors, gone on to college. Met some girl and married her. Maybe I’d even be an uncle by now. It was funny; most of the ideas I had about how much better our lives would be were about him, not me.

            “So how does it work?”

            He shrugged.

            “You couldn’t steal a manual, too?”

            “We’re not gonna use it.”

            I almost hurt my neck, I turned my head to look at him so fast. I knew he didn’t steal it for me. He stole it so he could get back six years of working at the plant to keep me alive and in school. So with so much on the line for him, and with the job half done, why was he backing out now? He had the hard look in his eyes that always scared me, but I was too mad to keep my mouth shut.

“Then what the heck are you gonna do with it?

            He threw his half-smoked cigarette on the ground and mutilated it with the toe of his boot.

            “No,” I shook my head when I realized what that meant. “We finally have the chance to bring them back. You can’t just—”

            “They were my parents, too.”

            “So why can’t we try? Look, you probably just pull that—”

            He smacked my arm back and I yelled so loud we could hear it shake the garage door.

            “I already stopped it,” he told me. “I already went back. I already saved them.” Something weird and distant in his voice made my gut turn.

            “So they should be here with us right now, right?”

            “You were riding your bike that day. Just up the street.”

            “So why aren’t they here with us right now?”

            “I changed it back.”

            “You what?”

            He closed his eyes. “I tried it a million different ways, and it always happens the same. Either the truck hits them,”

He paused, because his voice cracked on the word hits. The knot in my gut spread to my chest as he swallowed before finishing the sentence.

“Or it hits you.”

            All of a sudden my legs were like paper, crumpling under me until my butt hit the concrete floor. He turned around and started searching Dad’s old workbench. I felt sick when he hoisted the sledgehammer.

            “Why’d you pick me?”

            He stopped and looked at me. “The same reason I never let them ship you off to foster care. What, are you stupid?”

            He turned around again, raising the hammer over his shoulder like a baseball bat. I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled through the door into the house. Before I’d even closed it behind me I heard the clanging crunch of the metal as the machine caved under the love of my brother.

July flash fiction: Independence Day

Let’s hope I practice what I preach.

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted some real writing. I wrote this last week based entirely on the phrase “my cappuccino is a choppy sea” which came to me randomly. Maybe I should make it an InMon prompt.

We sit in the very center of the café, swaddled by the muted bustle of coffee mug chit chat. I’m staring down at a froth-topped cappuccino. Giant bowl. Tiny handle. I don’t think my fingers are that strong.

“We’re just not the same people we used to be,” he says. He is half apologizing to me, half justifying himself. He hopes I will look up. I take the spoon and swirl the foam into my coffee.

“We want different things now.”

But he doesn’t want something different. He just wants out. My cappuccino is a choppy sea, swishing and swirling and slapping up in waves against the sides of the cup.

“I just don’t think I can make you happy.”

But I am happy. At least, I was until he bought me this cappuccino, this wretched ugly storm I hold in my hands. For a moment, I feel like I’m drowning. Then I remember to swallow.

“I feel like I’m holding you back.”

What does he even mean? Nothing. Nothing at all. Just sounds to fill the vacuum as I mop up a caramel-colored drip from the table with my sleeve. Now my sleeve is sticky. Stupid, stupid. Where are the napkins? He disappears for a moment and returns with a stack. But what thin paper handkerchief could soak up this ocean?

Why can’t he just ask me to look at him? Why can’t he have the guts to make me face him? Because he’s nicer than he is good. If he had been good, he would never have chased after me, or begged for my phone number, or paid for my dinner, or made me addicted to his smile. He would have known that he would get bored with me, and he would have left me alone. Because he wants excitement and flirtation and impassioned wrestling bouts. But I want a hand to hold, and a soul to talk to, and a band on my finger.

No, he is only nice. Guilt is his only motivation to be good. And he is not what I wanted. I wish that made it easier. I wish it meant I could flash him a smile and walk out with my chin up. But my heart is stronger than my pride. One little crack, and everything else stops working. It’s raining on my cappuccino sea, now.

“You’ll be so much better off without me,” his voice is gentler, but only because it makes him uncomfortable to see me cry.

“What you mean,” I croak out after another swallow and a few clearings of the throat. “Is that you will be better off without me.”

He makes an objection, but it is weak, and empty.

“But that’s alright,” I still can’t look at him. “You can have your life. I don’t think I want it any more. Buy me another coffee?”

He blinks and stares and eventually stutters, “uh, sure.”

“Make it to-go.”