Category Archives: #fridayflash
[short fiction] Frogs
So, I’m knee-deep in NaNoWriMo at the moment, but I wanted to drop in and say, “Hello, I’m not dead, and the things I was working on like STILL and scripty sorts of things are not dead either and are simply waiting for me in the bit of future called December.”
In the meantime, if you’re interested, here’s a bit of flash fiction inspired by the marvelous Chuck Wendig over at his blog, terribleminds.
FROGS
— Oaths they swore on the sacred texts of storybooks and fairytales.
She believed. She hoped. She stubbornly persisted —
— Through countless kisses bestowed in her quest to find the missing.
Finally she found her prince transformed –
— Only to discover she preferred the company of frogs.
© 2011 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] Fortune #3
“You have boyfriend troubles?”
It is more statement than question, and it is the first thing out of the fuschia-saronged woman’s mouth the moment I lower myself onto her pouf cushion. This is apparently the aura I’m giving out these days, and there’s nothing I can say to defend myself. So, instead, I let out an uncomfortable laugh. She doesn’t elaborate — yet. She just sits down across the little table, smiles knowingly, and takes my hands. “We shall see,” she says.
As she studies my palms, part of me wants to believe that’s how she begins every fortune. After all, I bet an impressive portion of women seeking out fortunetellers do so because they’re having boyfriend issues or husband issues. And the lack of a wedding band on my left ring finger obviously signifies, statistically speaking, that there’s a decent chance that I’m having the former.
And so I ignore the look in her eyes that makes me want to believe that she could see that in me. After all, I am not the sort of girl who lets thoughts of a boy consume her entire being. Not anymore. Never again. I wonder if he’s texted me.
The woman’s thick Persian accent snaps me out of my neuroses and back to reality, and she begins drawing lines with a blank ink pen on my palm, telling me what each signifies. Much of it is what I’ve heard before, which I suppose is a good sign, but a few things are different. She asks if I’ve thought about going back to school. “Not really,” I answer. Her brow furrows, and she shakes her head.
“No, I see something with education here. Think about that.”
She moves on before I can begin to.
“Something with sports in your future perhaps,” she mumbles. “Play sports?”
“When I was younger,” I tell her.
Again, her brow furrows. “Maybe related to education. Something with that.”
If she’d meant to distract me from my “boyfriend troubles,” she’s done a good job. I’m now bent on processing all this, to figure out if there’s any truth, any discernment this woman has about my life that I’ve perhaps not yet touched upon myself. Despite the fact that I’ve come into this with a healthy amount of skepticism — I don’t want to reveal anything to help them concoct a story that I want to hear — something about her words stirs my imagination if not recognition.
She drops my hands and pulls out the tarot cards. She lays a few out.
And then she begins guessing names of people in my life left and right with disturbing accuracy. My father. A good friend. My sister.
Another row of cards. She stares, squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, and then a few searching syllables and consonants escape her lips.
“Who is this person? The boy?”
“His last name,” I admit.
“He is not the one for you,” she says. She looks into my eyes. “But you knew that.”
I nod, but in the moment of silent recognition that follows, I feel my heart sinking straight through my body, through the pouf cushion and into the ground. Even though she is right that I have always known that her statement is true, my mind’s voice is already shouting its rebuttal: We are not yet done with each other, it insists. We have more to learn, to teach! I am not ready to let go. I am not done falling.
And though I say none of this, and not enough true time passes in that frozen moment for all the emotion to show in my eyes, the woman’s lips just barely curl into a tiny smirk.
“But he is OK for now,” she says, laying out another row of cards as if the matter is settled. “In current relationship, just go with the flow. It will be fine.”
My heart returns to my body, settling somewhere in that pit of the stomach where hope and sadness meet. Not quite home, but close enough to carry on.
“I think that’s pretty good advice regardless of the fortune,” I say. In fact, that piece of advice alone might have been worth the price of the entire fortune, I think. Like all good advice, it’s something I already know I should do. But that’s what the best advice really is — the magic is rarely in the delivery itself, but rather its timing.
The cards continue to reveal their secrets as it all sinks in.
She tells me I should move away, travel at least. I am unsurprised. “I’ve considered it,” I tell her.
She tells me to watch out for an ex bent on attacking me somehow. I am again unsurprised. “I can handle it,” I say, surprising myself with the steady determination in my voice, and I can tell she does not doubt me.
She delivers the news that I will have three children: two girls and a boy. Here I am slightly surprised, as she has added one child to the load I was expecting based on a two-minute palm reading I had months ago in London. I am momentarily hit with the notion that I might want to think about getting started in a nearer future if I’ve got to pop out three kids. But then she informs me that two of them might be twins, and I figure that buys me a little more time, which is good since taking care of myself seems like a monumental task some days.
She tells me I will marry a man in a uniform. She does not know what kind — “perhaps a sports uniform” — but definitely a uniform. I am once again surprised, and this is the most skeptical I have been, for I no longer know for certain that I am the marrying type, and while the idea of a man in uniform might do it for some girls, I have never been in that camp.
“You just wait,” she says, grinning. “People come back years later and tell me I am always right! You will see!” She laughs, and I can’t help but chuckle myself.
[Memories of Paris] Pigeons
I’m back in Kansas City now after having spent a week in London and a week in Paris, and I’m looking forward to finishing up my short film and starting some new projects, too. London was wonderful for taking in the art other people had produced, and Paris was perfect for creating some of my own. I wrote this on the plane back from Paris; hope you enjoy.
PIGEONS
Most people have one of two reactions to the pigeons swarming the square in front of Notre Dame (or really any other place in Paris). Amusement mingled with amazement at their sheer audacity is one of them, and it is usually reserved for tourists. The other is indignant annoyance, usually combined with a vigorous shooing hand motion or the harsh thwap of a menu or a book or some other flat object. This is demonstrated in perfect form by waiters in outdoor cafés.
A third category, much smaller in both number and stature, is the fascinated child, who sees the pigeons as an odd sort of temporary pet meant to be chased around whilst giggling.
These are the three largest divisions of pigeon interaction, but there is a fourth, and it is the true rare bird of pigeon-related behavior: the elderly man or woman who insists on feeding these avian creatures, considered by many to be nothing more than rats with wings. These folks are content to sit amongst hordes of them, in fact encouraging the birds to come closer. They remain nearly motionless, living statues, save the motion it takes to toss a handful of seed onto the ground.
I saw one such woman as I looked down upon the square from one of the towers of Notre Dame. Admittedly, I’d never given these eccentrics much thought. But from the gargoyle’s eye view, I was suddenly stricken with curiosity. What possesses any given person to adopt such behavior? I myself fall into the Amused Tourist category when it comes to pigeons, but when more than three approach I start imagining Hitchcock-esque scenes and quickly add space between myself and the feathered creatures.
But this woman had to have been keeping company with at least fifty if not a hundred, in front, behind, and some even sitting on the bench right next to her. I was a little baffled, and no small part of me was rather frightened for her safety.
I turned to tap my sister’s shoulder to show her the spectacle, and when I turned back, I saw something even more bizarre. A mass of pigeons was hovering in a column of sorts, only a few paces from the woman. I peered at the strange pillar, for a second annoyed that I was so high up. I pitied the gargoyles who surrounded me, always watching from this dead space between heaven and earth.
But then the column began to change before my eyes. Whether it was some sort of cognitive process catching up to reality or a bit of magic happening on the ground, I cannot say with any certainty, but I know what I choose to believe. I no longer saw a pillar of pigeons but a man, matched in age to the woman on the bench. He wore a Bogey-style hat, and a pigeon sat on top of it. His arms were outstretched, and there were three pigeons on each. The woman did not run away frightened or jump up with excitement. She simply remained on the bench, her face turned toward the man. I could not see her expression from my position, but it must have been welcoming, as the man sat down beside her, displacing some of his avian companions (though they did not seem to mind — they almost seemed to make room for him, as if they accepted him as an equal, just as deserving of the woman’s attention as they were).
At that moment, we were siphoned into another stairwell leading to the very top of the tower. From there, I could see all of Paris, but the woman, her pigeons, and her mysterious male companion were gone. The bench was empty, for a moment, and whatever I’d just witnessed (a meeting? a reunion?) remained only in my memory.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Easter Hare
I’ve been on FridayFlash hiatus for a few weeks due to a variety of excuses, but I’m back for at least this week with a quick Easter story. Hope you enjoy!
THE EASTER HARE
The children woke early and woke their parents, too. Part of having children is rising much earlier than necessary on at least two days out of the year, and this day was Easter.
Barely awake and hastily dressed, the adults were dragged outside by miniature hands on their sleeves. But as soon as they crossed the threshold into the cool, crisp air, an odd crunching sound found their ears. The children stopped in their tracks, nearly sending their parents tumbling over them. Now alert, they looked out over the yard.
It should have sparkled with foil-wrapped chocolates and candy-colored eggs. That was the deal. It was How Things Worked.
And admittedly, there were in fact eggs. Hundreds of them, perhaps. But these were not Easter eggs. No, they weren’t even hard-boiled, and they certainly weren’t chocolate. The brown and white shells, some in tact and others not, littered the yard. Egg yolk colored the tree leaves, and the viscous white dripped from the branches. And even though the air was cool, the sun was beginning to warm the surfaces, and a putrid smell was just barely beginning to rise from the yard. Tears filled the children’s eyes, and thoughts of teenage hooligans rampaged in their parents’ minds.
Before anyone could take action, though, a flash of white sped through the yard.
“Hey!” cried the little girl.
The flash became a fluffy, white rabbit, and it looked at her with sad eyes. “I’m too late,” he muttered.
“What happened?” asked the girl’s brother. Though he was not quite two years older, he put a protective arm around his little sister.
The rabbit grimaced, and then he scowled. “My idiot half brother,” he spat. “That’s what happened.”
“You have a brother?” the children’s mother asked.
“I’m a rabbit. Of course I have a brother. Six hundred and seventy-three, to be exact, and another twelve-hundred and eight half-brothers. And don’t even get me started on my sisters.”
“Are they all Easter bunnies?” the father asked.
The rabbit rolled his eyes. “Of course not.”
“Oh,” the father said, simply. “Then, which one did this?”
Fury flashed in the rabbit’s eyes as he spoke: “The March Hare.”
“The March Hare?” asked the mother, incredulous.
“Yes, The March Hare, and thank heavens there’s only one of him!” The rabbit approached the family now, and they huddled a little closer together. This was not the Easter Bunny the television specials and Hallmark cards had told them about. The rabbit put out his paws, as if expecting payment for something. But then, with a pop, two baskets, filled with the most beautifully painted eggs and decadent-looking chocolates the family had ever seen, appeared out of thin air. “Take these,” he said. “Sorry about the hunt.”
The rabbit turned around and surveyed the yard. His ears went straight up and then bent forward at a right angle, sending a beam of light over the yard. In an instant, the errant eggs were gone, and thankfully so was the smell. The rabbit screwed up his arms, prepared to dash away, but the little girl ran forward. Surprised, the rabbit stared at the little girl, and, surprised at herself, the little girl stared back at the rabbit. Finally, she threw her arms around his neck.
“Happy Easter,” she said. “And thanks.”
She let go and went back to join her family. The rabbit very nearly smiled. “You’re welcome. And Happy Easter to you, too.” And then, with a last curt nod in their direction, he was gone.
The children looked at each other, and their parents did the same, and then the boy — so wise beyond his years, as children often are before they grow up — voiced what they all were thinking: “This is the best Easter ever!”
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Cobbler’s Reward
This story started out as a short scene for a one-page screenplay contest last year. It’s been sitting on my computer for more than a year, seen by only a handful of people, and I figured it was time to give it a new life. Please enjoy.
THE COBBLER’S REWARD
A wizened little man sat hunched over a cobbler’s bench, hammering away at the heel of a well-worn boot. He wore a scowl and an old, grubby coat that might once have been green. Between hammers, he glanced up at the security camera that remained fixed on him, and, with each glance, his scowl deepened. Today of all days, this was not where he belonged.
Outside the shoe repair shop, the parade was just beginning. A boy on the cusp of eight stood beside his mother, who was tending to his curly- and golden-haired sisters. They were two and four, and they were everything. The music was growing louder, and the boy watched as his mother directed the girls’ gazes toward the marching band. They both clapped in delight at the sight of the instruments moving in unison, and their mother — and anyone who happened to spot them — clapped in delight as well. How cute they were. The boy rolled his eyes, and, having lost interest in the never-changing parade two years ago, he slipped away.
He walked down the sidewalk, glancing in all the windows. The furniture stores held no interest for him. The candy shop would have had he remembered to bring a bit of his meager allowance. The candle shop made him sneeze. He would have passed by the shoe repair shop without a second glance if it weren’t for the sight of the gnarled old man, barely much taller than himself, staring out the window as if he were caught in a prison cell. He was startled, and, though he’d never admit it, a little scared by the sight. But then the man looked at him, and his dead eyes came to life with a twinkle. The tiniest motion of the man’s hand beckoned the boy inside. So, inside the boy went.
With a twitch of his head, he invited the boy closer, and, always the curious type, the boy approached. Only when the old man leaned toward him, as if to tell him a secret, did he stop. Suddenly, a litany of after-school specials and school assemblies ran through his mind, and he wondered if he was doing the right thing.
“Do you know what I am?” asked the old man.
The boy looked him over and then shook his head.
“I’m a leprechaun,” he whispered.
The boy raised a skeptical eyebrow. He was young, but he was no dummy. “Prove it,” he replied.
The old man waved his hand, and without explanation, there was suddenly a bright green, golf-ball sized emerald sitting in his palm. The boy gawped, and any notion that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time vanished.
“I’m a prisoner here,” the old man explained, his expression suddenly urgent. “If you help me escape, you’ll be rewarded.”
The boy’s eyes shot to the emerald. The old man, realizing the implication, pulled it back protectively only to receive a stern look from the boy. The old man, clenched his jaw, sighed heavily, looked longingly at his emerald, and then even more longingly outside.
“Oh, all right,” he said, looking none too happy about it.
The boy beamed.
“See those shoes?” the old man asked, eyeing a pair of high-fashion high heels that no one in the small town would ever consider walking around in. They were the only shoes in the store that bore the accessory of an anti-theft device. The boy saw them immediately; they were hard to miss. “Take them.”
The look of surprise on the boy’s face was not unexpected, but the old man had been playing at this game much longer. He moved the emerald into the light, and he watched the boy’s inner struggle with a hint of glee as the sunshine played in the facets of the jewel. The boy grimaced and met the old man’s eyes, and the old man knew he had won.
Without another word, the boy dashed to the shoes, grabbed them, and sprinted out the door. At the sound of the alarm, a fat man barreled out from the back room, giving pointless chase down the street.
The old man stood, and for the first time in a very long time, he smiled. He walked over to the security camera, gave it a wink, and then shut it off. When the fat man returned without his prized shoes, he found he had also lost his prized cobbler.
Outside, having escaped into an alley way, the boy leaned against a brick wall to catch his breath. He’d discarded the shoes in a dumpster a block back, just in case. He wouldn’t know the term for another five or six years, but he understood plausible deniability like an old pro. As his breath finally slowed, it occurred to him that he and the old man had never settled terms on how he was to receive his reward. He stood up and for the first time experienced the unsettling feeling that he had been swindled.
The sound of shoes crunching against the pavement caught his attention, and he looked up. At the other end of the alley was none other than the old man, standing straighter and looking more spritely than the boy would have thought possible.
“Hey, what about my reward?” the kid called out.
The old man grinned and began walking away from the boy. Not about to give up without a fight, the boy took a step to run after him, but got no further than that due to a suddenly odd weight in his pocket. He reached into it, and, when his hand emerged, it held the emerald — solid, real, and more beautiful in the open air than he could have imagined. The boy smiled and looked up to find the old man, but the old man was nowhere to be seen.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] Absolution of an Abomination
Carrie Clevenger did a riddle flash last week, and I’ve decided that this story makes for a nice little riddle, too. Can you guess what the creature is?
ABSOLUTION OF AN ABOMINATION
“WHAT IS THAT?!” the archangel spluttered.
The other archangel stood with his arms crossed, staring at the little abomination that had drawn such a reaction from his colleague. His own reaction had been much the same.
“The one responsible wouldn’t talk. We don’t know if it was a mistake or some sort of cruel joke.”
“Well, either way, we’d better destroy it before the Creator gets an eyeful.”
The second archangel started to walk away, but then paused at the sight of the monster spitting a stream of water from the puddle in which it was playing. He turned back and crossed his own arms. The two could have been twins, arms crossed, heads cocked just slightly to one side.
“Is it just me, or is he… well, sort of cute?”
“Only if you look at him long enough.”
The archangels looked at each other, each searching the other’s eyes for the will to do what needed to be done. Neither found it. They looked back to the
“He’s got fangs,” the first one said.
“Big ones,” said the second, nodding. “Claws, too.”
“Sharp ones,” echoed the first. “He does have wings, though.”
“That’s true. We can use that.”
“And he sure does like water.”
The angels’ eyes met again, and they smiled.
* * * * *
High above the ground, towering over the people who walk below, rests a leathery, eagle-eyed spectator. His claws grip the stones that serve as a monument to something beyond imagination. His teeth, sharp enough to pierce the toughest skin, are bared, waiting. Eyes that find him look away quickly, the shudders that follow a reminder of something savage. Thoughts swirl at the sight of him: why does something so grotesque exist on something so beautiful?
But he is oblivious. The clouds gather above, and, as the skies darken, he feels a thrill of anticipation. Soon, it will rain.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
Did you guess? The answer is here, and you can read more information about his creation and purpose here. Thanks for reading!
[FridayFlash] Seeming is Believing
Noticed one of these this week and found myself grinning back.
SEEMING IS BELIEVING
The child sat on the curb at the corner of two flower-named streets, waiting for her bus. As the snow came down, coating everything in white to contrast the last vestiges of the black night, she fumed. Even at the young age of nine and three-quarters, she had no patience for snow unless it meant a school cancellation. She’d been awfully tired this morning and would have been quite content to remain in bed, dreaming of things that made no sense, rather than dealing with a waking world that, to her, seemed no better.
[FridayFlash] Love in Love
This week’s installment is a little Valentine’s-themed story that I’d eventually like to turn into a short film script (and then a short film, natch). I wanted to do something similar in tone to Neil Gaiman’s “Harlequin Valentine
LOVE IN LOVE
The dress had to be perfect. Everything was riding on it.
She examined the fabric of the little burgundy number she was wearing. Too thin and it would show every bump and dimple she hated about herself. Too thick and it would hide every line and curve she loved. Her eyes poured over the places she liked and loathed. The fabric, she decided, would do.
Her eyes traveled to the hemline. Too high and it would make her look like a Halloween Catholic school girl. Too low and she’d look like an everyday Catholic school marm. She raised on her tiptoes, and then she stood flat-footed. She pulled up a stool and sat down, crossing her legs at the ankles and then at the knees. She stood back up, twirled, all the while keeping her eyes glued to the place where the burgundy met the peach of her skin. She stopped and looked at herself straight on. The hemline, she decided, would do.
In all her focus, she nearly missed the flash of gold dart behind her in the mirror. She turned around just in time to see an old man throw aside his cane, take his equally-decrepit wife in his arms, and kiss her passionately. The woman’s brow furrowed. She took one more quick look in the mirror, ripped the tag off, and stomped to the cash register to pay. She couldn’t chance going home to change. She was wearing this baby out of the store.
As the cashier handed the woman her receipt, a bolt of gold flew over her shoulder, whisking her hair forward. Before her eyes, the cashier, a dowdy matron who could be pretty if she tried, clasped her hand to her heart. She turned to look across the way to the cologne department, where, after another barely noticed flash of gold, a balding man turned to face her. The woman watched in annoyance as the two left their stations and met in the aisle, embracing as if they were star-crossed lovers who’d finally sorted the constellations. The woman scowled. She did a little mental geometry, calculating where the darts of gold had originated. And then she set off at a pace somewhere between catwalk and slight jog.
Down the street she went. Another spark of gold to her left, and another match made. She picked up her pace. To her right now, two lovers reunited with tears of joy. She looked ahead, and there she spotted a tall man in a white suit. He saw her, too. And then he turned and disappeared into the rush-hour crowd. She ran after him, thoughts of grace replaced by the heat of the chase, ignoring the shooting pain from her heels to her knees and praying that her brand-new, blown-paycheck heels could hold their own.
She followed the flashes of gold like they were yellow bricks, and they led her to another glimpse of white. She refused to blink, breaking into a sprint now. She gained, and finally, just as the man in white was releasing two golden, heart-tipped arrows from his bow, she caught him. She made to grab for his arm, but he was too fast. Pointed straight at her chest was a dark, pewter-colored arrow. The woman froze. The tip of this arrow was heart-shaped, too, but down the middle of it ran an ominous, lightning bolt of a crack. Her eyes ran along the silver shaft to the crow-feathered fletching, and then up the arm of the man and finally into his steely eyes.
“You can’t,” she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m in love with you.”
She saw the pity in his expression. The bowstring loosened, if only by an inch. “You can’t be in love with Love,” he said.
She shook her head and moved toward him again. The bowstring went taught, even more so than before. “I’m sorry,” he said, and something in his eyes made her believe he meant it. Before she could cry out, there was a leaden arrow in her heart.
And then he was gone.
The woman walked the dark streets, the sun having retired hours ago. The sky opened up and let loose the rain it had been threatening for days. Still miles from her apartment, and the cabs of the city filled with Valentines both new and old, the woman sat down on the curb and stared at the rainwater washing the pavement of its debris. She heard footsteps, but she couldn’t summon the passion to look up.
It was only when the splash of red passed into her vision that she looked up. A well-dressed man, soaked to the bone, walked down the street, a dozen red roses dangling facedown from his hand. She looked at him curiously. And then he turned and returned her expression. He retraced his steps and offered his hand to help her up. She accepted. He held out the roses, and she accepted those, too. And as they looked at each other, whatever heartbreak had befallen them that night was suddenly forgotten.
Neither suspected or noticed a thing when a man in an unblemished white suit passed them by with nothing more than a nod of his head and a wistful look in his eye.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] I’ve Got Bills in All the Right Places
I thought I’d go way back into the archives of my life for this week’s episode of FridayFlash. A little background: in 2004, straight out of graduating magna cum laude, three internships under my belt, and a history of nearly all straight-As, I found myself unable to obtain a job in my chosen field. Thus, I found myself in the most humiliating position possible for a 20-something with a sense of entitlement — a cashier in the automotive department at Wal-Mart.
I was there for a mere two weeks before I put in my notice, and I rounded out my stay at five. The silver lining is that I had plenty to write about for my first venture into NaNoWriMo back in 2005. Now, I present to you an updated excerpt from that novel/memoir – a snapshot of a day in my life as a Wal-Mart employee.
I’VE GOT BILLS IN ALL THE RIGHT PLACES
Somewhat inexplicably, the automotive department at Wal-Mart attracts an unusual number of very strange women. Most pass out of memory within a few hours if not minutes, but there was one woman who will be forever burned into my mind barring any sort of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-style brain therapy.
One day, late in the afternoon, nearing both the end of my shift and the end of my service to the Big Blue Sign, a very overweight woman, probably nearing 400 lbs., came up to the counter to pay for some merchandise. I tell you this not to be rude or judgmental, but simply to paint an accurate picture of the situation.
I rang up her merchandise and presented her total, which was less than $2. She began digging around in her sweatpants’ pocket for change, which she handed to me one coin at a time as she found it. Though this was certainly annoying, and while it took all my mental prowess to ignore the disturbing warmth of the coins in my hand, I was mostly unfazed. I’d experienced worse. My discomfort was not enough to prepare me for what was about to play out.
“I think I put a dollar in my bra,” she proclaimed.
My first response to this was confusion. It was followed quickly by horror, as my mind could no longer ignore the body-heated coins in my hands. I tried to convince myself that I was simply having some sort of David Lynch-style nightmare. Surely, I was bound to wake up any second. All hope was shattered, though, as I watched her begin to fondle her own massive and ill-supported breasts.
I began a silent chant to any god that would listen to make that dollar bill so hidden within the depths and folds of femininity before me that it would never be found again — or at least not until after my shift had ended. But her hands only searched more fervently as the intensity of my prayers increased.
I was about to offer a dollar from my own meagerly-supplied wallet in order to prevent having to handle anything that had come out of the crevasse of this woman’s cleavage. But then, as abruptly as the caressing and squishing and prodding had begun, it stopped. We stared at each other for one of those moments that seem impossibly long. Terrible thoughts of her next attempt to find the dollar bill filled my mind — one in particular ending with a sweaty triple-F Maidenform bra flung at my face sent an involuntary shudder through my body. And then, she uttered the most glorious words I’d heard up until that point in my life.
“I must have put it in my billfold,” she resolved.
I laughed, half in relief and half at the absurdity as she pulled a black leather billfold out of her purse. She looked at me if I was touched in the head. I muttered an apology and took her unsullied dollar bill. As she left with her purchases, she spared me one last, curious-annoyed glance as she walked out the door. And I, beaten down and exhausted, could only smile politely back.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] Sympathy, in Three Parts
SYMPATHY, IN THREE PARTS
I.
He’d been telling lies so long he’d bought into his own bullshit. Almost. He still had just faint enough a grasp on truth that he could see when someone was trying to shine a light. He could detect when someone was escaping his grasp, and while he was always reluctant to let them go, most simply weren’t worth the effort of keeping. So, he pushed them out the door, but not before dumping a carafe of blackness into their souls. No one would ever again look at those who had left him without a pitiful or resentful eye. He demanded the crowd’s sympathy for himself.
II.
She’d been telling lies so long she couldn’t bring herself to do it anymore. It was killing her. She’d nearly forgotten what it was like to live the way she’d been designed. But something deep within her held on. And with every lie she told and with every lie she tried so hard to believe, it grew. And it became fierce. Unable to escape the blackness, she drank it in. She used it, and it fed the beast inside her. At last, it emerged, overtaking her weakness, and together they escaped. They demanded sympathy from no one.
III.
The crowd could no longer tell lies from the truth. It looked at the portraits presented and chose the painting over the photograph. The truth was hard to swallow, so they downed the drinkable lie. The crowd feared the honest beast, thinking it a monster bent on tearing down their houses. The crowd needed to lie down in comfort, even if the mattress was stuffed with lies. And so it looked upon the beast with pity and resentment, or it didn’t look upon it at all, because the painter told them to do so. They peddled pride, mistaking it for sympathy.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
