Category Archives: #fridayflash
[FridayFlash] The World Still Shakes
In light of the crisis in Haiti, please consider donating time or money to help those in need. A list of ways to donate can be found here.
THE WORLD STILL SHAKES
Life was still, or at least it seemed so.
And then the world shook.
It shook free our souls.
Some left. Some shattered. Some were shaken but not destroyed.
All were changed.
Chaos reigned for a time.
Aid waged war against it.
The sun somehow continues to rise.
But the world still shakes.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
Merry Happy
I’ve wanted to send out a 100-word Christmas story with my Christmas cards for a few years now. This is the first year I’ve gotten around to writing a story. Alas, I did not get around to actually sending Christmas cards. So, I present it here instead, along with my wishes for a lovely Christmas if you celebrate it and a lovely day regardless.
And to make up for the mush, I’ll also share this riveting piece of cinema, created by my sister and myself as a bit of Christmas entertainment for our family.
[FridayFlash] Leave Your Values At The Front Desk
I was going to post an old story, but then this jumped out at me from my idea box. It’s another venture into poetry, which happens from time to time, generally when I least expect it and never when I try to force it. It’s inspired by a blurb I read somewhere about a place where at least the first verse rings true. As for the rest, who knows?
LEAVE YOUR VALUES AT THE FRONT DESK
At our little Parisienne hotel, we have a simple sign.
“Leave your values at the front desk,” it declares.
With its quaint lack of pretension
And its implied promise of security
It makes our guests feel at ease.
The astute ones even chuckle,
Thinking our English is less than perfect.
They smile and say nothing, and so do we.
Never occurring to anyone
Is the realization
That we are deadly serious.
The moment your shoes, be they well-worn or très chic,
Cross the threshold into your room,
We take them into possession.
It’s in the fine print
When you sign the receipt.
Don’t blame us.
We warned you.
We are quite skilled at keeping them well-protected,
The morals, the promises, the religions and idols.
They are locked in a vault
And only we have the key.
Many of them stay there forever.
Sometimes we wonder what causes a guest
To leave them behind once their stay is done.
Other times we smile as they scurry out
Holding them tighter than ever before.
It seems to us –
And we refer to our years of experience –
That the best way to appreciate your values
Is to lose them.
And when you want to find them again,
If you want to find them again,
We will have them waiting here,
Safe and sound at the front desk.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Search for Santa
After a month off from all non-NaNoWriMo-related writing, I’m ready to get back to business. And that means #fridayflash! Now that it’s December, I present to you a little Christmas story, inspired by an idea my sister gave me this afternoon. I hope you enjoy.
THE SEARCH FOR SANTA
Michael stared out the window as the bus drove him home. Usually one of the rowdiest of the bunch, he was completely oblivious to the furor around him. Today Michael had more serious matters than elementary hijinks on his 10-year-old mind.
The topic at school that day had been “Holiday Traditions Around the World,” and it had always proven popular with the kids leading up to the holiday break. Indeed, this year was no exception, except for Michael, who proved the rule.
As soon as Michael walked through the door, his mother could tell something was wrong. “What happened?” she asked, going to him and helping with his coat in that overly worried sort of way mothers do.
“We talked about Santa today,” Michael said, looking up at her with a grimace that he felt should explain everything.
His mother looked at him as if she’d been expecting this somehow, and she sighed and pulled him into a hug. Michael tolerated the hug for a few seconds and then pulled away. “Why is Santa different everywhere?” he asked.
“What?” his mother replied.
“Mrs. Dunning says he’s called Père Noël in France, and he goes around with Black Pete, and Black Pete gives bad kids coal. But Black Pete doesn’t come here.”
“Well…”
“And in Austria and Germany and some other places he’s called Kris Kringle, and he’s a little angel.”
“That’s because… Um…”
Michael looked at his mother with increasing frustration. “And sometimes he’s called Father Christmas, and sometimes he’s called St. Nicholas, and sometimes he wears all fur, and sometimes he wears all red. He always comes down our chimney, but Ryan says they don’t have a chimney and so he just comes in the front door. And in some places he leaves stuff in shoes. Shoes, Mom!”
His mother simply stood there, mouth opening and closing, but nothing coming out. Michael huffed, grabbed his backpack, and stomped his way into the family office where the computer was located. He sat down and pulled out the sheet of traditions his teacher had given him, the source of all his angst, and placed it next to the keyboard with the precision of a scientist. He would get to the bottom of this mess, with or without his mother’s help.
Hours passed, and his focus never wavered. His mother brought him dinner, but it remained untouched. His father tried to convince him to give up his search, at least for the night, but, having no more answers than his mother, Michael refused him. Darkness fell, and the house grew quiet. Soon only the glow of the computer screen illuminated the room. Finally, fatigue began to gnaw at him, and he allowed himself a yawn. The handout was now covered in notes, none of which had helped shed any light on the situation. If anything, poor Michael was even more inundated than before, as the internet — even one with parental controls on — had much more to say about Santa Claus than any of his peers or teachers.
Michael leaned forward and rested his chin on his crossed arms. His eyes drifted to a picture frame on his father’s desk. It was from three Christmases ago, and his mother put it out every holiday season. In it, almost too big for such a thing, he sat on the lap of a white-bearded man in a red suit — a man whom Michael had thought was Santa — while his parents stood proudly on either side. He’d been so certain in that picture, but now here he was, full of doubts. If Santa had so many names and behaved so differently around the world, perhaps he wasn’t even real at all. He’d heard other kids proclaim this, of course, but he’d always thought them fools. The thought that perhaps he had been the fool all along was enough to bring tears to his heartbroken eyes. He closed them and buried his head in his arms.
Had the tap on his shoulder not been so gentle, he might have screamed. He turned around slowly, ready to admit defeat to whichever parent had come to shuttle him off to bed. But the tap had not come from a parent. In front of his very eyes stood — well, it couldn’t have been anyone else — Santa Claus. Somehow, he looked exactly as Michael would have imagined and also like nothing he’d ever dreamed. Michael opened his mouth to speak, to ask, to cry out in happiness, and then, perhaps, in anger at all the confusion for which this man was obviously responsible. But before he could get a word out, Santa put a finger to his lips.
“Never stop searching,” he heard Santa say.
Michael leapt out of his chair and embraced the jolly old man with all the relief and thankfulness of a child who has just had hope renewed. As much as Michael wanted to beg Santa to stay, for some reason he knew he couldn’t. He watched with both longing and joy as he disappeared into the night, and then he turned back to the computer, his determination to find out as much as he could renewed.
His parents found him asleep the next morning at the computer. Seconds after they had tenderly shaken him awake, he launched into his story, sparing no detail nor enthusiasm. His parents nodded patiently and smiled patronizingly, and even though they never said it, he could tell that they thought it had been nothing more than a dream. But Michael knew better.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] A Succubus’s Worst Nightmare
So, this week, I went for something I’d probably classify as R-rated. (Sorry, Mom!) Just a heads up there for you all. So, that’s that. Thanks for all the fridayflash support from week to week. It’s lovely seeing what everyone thinks, and I’m having a great time reading everyone else’s stuff, too! Be sure to check out all the other fridayflash entries, available by searching #fridayflash on twitter or via J.M. Strother’s weekly reports.
A SUCCUBUS’S WORST NIGHTMARE
They were at it again. She could hear them through the walls. She bounced onto her other side and buried her face in the cushions of the couch, pulling her blanket to her chin. Nope. She could still hear it. The moaning, the grunting, and — worst of all — the giggling. She scowled and grabbed a throw pillow to smush into her face. She considered trying to suffocate herself out of sheer annoyance. No matter how many layers of fabric stood between her ears and open air, she could still hear them.
She threw off the blankets and pillows and stood up. “That’s it!” she yelled. In response, more giggling. She snarled, walked to the wall and yanked the heirloom mirror off the wall. It had been her grandmother’s. But that was beside the point. She ignored her haggard reflection, turned the mirror around, and stomped into the bedroom.
There they were. Going at it, just like every night. His eyes closed with that stupid smile on his face. Bastard. And that thing on top of him! It rode him like one of those dirty, bar-room bucking broncos. Disgusting. Though, the woman had to admit, there was something attractive about the thing, if you liked that sort of style. And judging by the noises he was making, her husband obviously did. It took every ounce of will power she had not to smash the mirror over his face, but that’s not why she’d brought it in here. Frankly, she’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that the thing would go away on its own, but it had been months. And she was tired.
The woman sighed and held up the mirror. It caught the reflection of the thing, and the thing reveled in it, amping up its performance. Its ecstasy was sickening.
The woman rolled her eyes and set the mirror on the bed, where the thing could still see it — or rather see itself in it. She slipped off the rings from her left hand and stared at them for a minute. She’d never had them fused. She took one last look around the room and sighed. She’d never imagined things ending like this. But any sadness she might have felt was interrupted by a cry of joy from her husband. She was running out of time tonight, and she had no interest in waiting any longer.
She grabbed the thing’s left hand and slipped her rings onto its finger. The rocking of its hips stopped immediately, and, for the first time ever, it looked at her. The woman smiled. The thing slid off the man and looked into the mirror. It seemed confused at first, and then horrified. “Take it away,” it whispered. The woman complied, setting it on the floor beside the bed. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes sparkled, and the well-worn look of a poorly treated wife was gone. In short, she looked free. She looked back at the thing. She almost felt pity as she watched it slide under the covers. She watched it put a hand on the man’s chest only to have him turn over and away from it. It looked at her, distraught. “Please,” it whispered.
“Sorry, honey,” the woman replied. “If you want the milk, you’ve got to buy the cow, too.” And then the sun peaked over the horizon, and through the blinds, and into the room, and the woman disappeared. The thing remained, and a tear slid down its cheek.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] Jack and Jill
There are a number of fascinating Halloween legends out there, and I knew I wanted to write a story about this one. I found the opportunity when, a couple of weeks ago, my sister, inspired by Tim Burton’s sketches from Sweeney Todd, sketched a spooky image of her own. I loved it immediately, and I knew the woman in the picture had a story to tell. This is it.
JACK AND JILL
Jill hadn’t been in Ireland very long. Thus, when she saw the strange man holding what looked like a turnip walking down the road, her only consideration was that she was looking rather gaunt and feeling rather hungry. She needed the money, and if a turnip-loving man had it to offer, then she would happily provide whatever services he requested.
The villagers here didn’t like her, and she couldn’t honestly blame them. The women hated her because their men loved her, and the men hated her because they couldn’t help loving her. Needless to say, she was far from popular. She didn’t let it bother her, though. Whatever troubles she faced here, though, they were far easier to bear than what she’d left behind in England. Her hand instinctively brushed her stomach, and she felt the lump rising in her throat. She’d lost much.
Immediately, she sniffed and straightened herself up. She looked out the window again. Yes, the odd but thankfully handsome man was definitely heading this way. She pulled down her dress and pushed up 
her breasts, and then she opened the door before he could knock. She batted her long-lashed eyes at him, and he smiled back at her. Her eyes flitted to the turnip. Now she could see it was hollowed out, and inside it glowed an ember, brighter than any she’d seen in the admittedly pathetic fires she’d built in her decrepit hut.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked, in a tone somewhere between playful and husky, having not yet figured out what sort of fantasy suited the man’s fancy.
“Indeed, I would, if you’re offering,” he replied, grinning in such a way that Jill couldn’t help but be a little charmed.
She moved aside, just enough for him to enter, but not without brushing her skin as he passed. “I see the fog cleared,” she remarked.
The man swung around. “Finally. And on Halloween night, no less.” His smile only got wider, as if he’d stumbled upon a pot of gold.
“What’s your name, stranger?” she asked, settling on husky.
“The name, my unfortunate beauty, is Jack.” He spotted a kettle on the dwindling fire and motioned to it before she could reply. “May I?”
“Of course,” she said, still a little unsettled by being called unfortunate. She shook it off, though. She had a job to do. “But please. Let me.”
She walked to the kettle, grabbed a mug from a nearby shelf, and poured him a cup of cider.
“It’s almost a shame,” the man mused, more to himself than to Jill.
“What is?”
He turned to face her, and she handed him the mug. He took a sip. “You’re not from here, I take it.”
“Is it that obvious?” she asked, giggling as she once again batting her eyelashes. Perhaps playful was his preference after all.
“Unfortunately so,” he replied.
Again with that word. She felt her brow furrow just for a second, and then she simply smiled at him, wide-eyed. He set down the mug, but not the turnip, and moved toward her. His hand found her neck, and his fingers found her hair, and then, his lips found hers. They were cold, and he tasted like smoke. She pulled away, demurely, just as he began to pull her closer.
“Now, Jack,” she purred, stroking the exposed skin at his collar. “If that’s your business tonight, then we should talk about… compensation.”
Jack moved away, his grin even wider than she would have believed possible. “My dear,” he said. “My poor, unfortunate soul. My business here is utterly finished.”
She stared at him, perplexed. He grabbed the mug of cider and then backed out the door, taking it with him. Jill followed him outside the house without thinking. She peered into the darkness, but the fog had returned. There was no sight of him. It was then that she noticed it: in her hand was the turnip, and the ember inside it was glowing brighter than ever.
“Jack?” she called into the night. But there was no answer. She turned to go back inside only to find the door closed. She tried the handle, but the door had latched, and it would not give. She sighed. As much as she hated the idea, she would have to ask for a neighbor’s help. She walked down the road toward the next home, cursing the man Jack, who had stolen a kiss and been too stingy to pay for it.
When she came to the path leading to her neighbor’s door, she could not force her feet onto it, no matter how hard she tried. She told herself it was fate, or God, or destiny, forcing her onward to the next house. But when she came to it, she could not approach it either. And so she walked on, and on, and on. After a number of hours, or days, or weeks, or perhaps even years, she could no longer remember why she walked. All that remained was a hope that the fog would lift.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] You Have Been Replaced
I’m cheating a bit and posting something I wrote last year. Give me a break, OK? I had to make pie! From scratch — crust and all! Anyway, excuses aside, I normally stay pretty clear of poetry, but this dropped out of my brain one day, and I kind of liked it. Hope you do, too.
YOU HAVE BEEN REPLACED
Dear Sir or Madam
We must express our sincerest regrets
And please know that you have our deepest apologies
But we simply must inform you
That you have been replaced.
Perhaps this comes as a shock, and perhaps it does not.
We didn’t quite see it coming ourselves
But foresight has never been a strong point for us.
At first we thought of the New Component
As nothing more than a simple accessory.
A supplement, if you will.
But as time moved forward
It became clear that there was a hole of sorts
A mold that needed to be filled
A mold that you had indeed created
And yet, you seemed to be outgrowing it.
Rebelling against it.
Trying to reshape it to your new form.
And we came to realize
It wasn’t you we needed.
We needed the mold.
And the mold needs to be filled.
And the New Component fits.
And so, while we know it might be awkward
To see yourself replaced
In niches, in requests, in photographs, in social situations, in minds, in hearts
Know that we enjoyed you while you were here
And we wish you the best
But the time has come
And you have been replaced.
All the best,
The Management
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Bronze Head
Had to do a little wikipedia hopping to find this week’s inspiration, but I eventually settled on something that felt fitting for the first FridayFlash of October. Hope you all enjoy, and thanks (as always) for reading!
THE BRONZE HEAD
Sylvia had become an expert at spotting diamonds in the rough on the shelves of the town’s thrift store. She had an eye for what things could be rather than what they were. Her friends all eyed her impeccably and uniquely decorated home with envy, and she reveled in it.
The bronze bust had caught her eye immediately. She ran through her mental packet of swatches and immediately settled on a cool blue to cover the ghastly gold. Yes, it would be the perfect finishing touch for her parlor when she was done with it. She rescued it from the shelf and carried it to the register, cradling it as if it were an actual head. She even refused to hand it over to the cashier, instead choosing to show him the price tag. He’d seen weirder behavior, though, and thus he didn’t bat an eye.
A couple of days later, she set to work in her garage, wielding the can of spray paint like a graffiti pro. In mere seconds, the head had a lovely new sheen. “Well, what do you think?” she asked.
“I was partial to the bronze, to be honest, but I suppose I could get used to this.”
She screamed and dropped the can of spray paint. She pressed her hand over her mouth, staring at the head in horror. It stared back, unfazed. She shook her head and walked out into the fresh air. “Paint fumes,” she muttered to herself. “That’s all. Just paint fumes.”
Sylvia returned to the garage, avoiding eye contact with the bust as she picked up the paint can from the floor. She took a deep breath, squared off against the bust, and then looked it in the eye. “You did not just speak,” she told it in no uncertain terms.
It raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing. The paint can clattered to the floor again as she ran into the house. The bust grimaced, its expression suggesting this reaction was not uncommon.
Greg came home several hours later to find his wife sitting on the sofa, staring devotedly at nothing in particular. “Honey?” She looked up at him, as if confused to see him there. “Are you OK?”
She jumped up and grabbed onto him, almost as if she were afraid of falling. “Take it back,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Take it back,” she repeated, with more intensity.
“You’re kind of freaking me out, Sylvie.” She pulled him back to the garage door, opened it, and pointed to the bust. “Didn’t you just buy that?”
“Take it back!” The meekness was gone, but the horror was not.
“Can’t we just throw it away? It wasn’t that expensive, was it?”
She shook her head fervently and backed away, closing the door on him. Greg sighed. He walked over to the bust and picked it up. “You’re awfully sad-looking,” he said, examining the face of the sculpture. “Let’s get you back to Goodwill, I guess.” He stuck the head under his arm and got back in his car.
Ten minutes later, he pulled into a parking spot. He looked over to the bust in the passenger’s seat. “Sorry it didn’t work out,” he said, grabbing it and stepping out of the car. “What’d you do to her anyway?”
“I think I scared her,” the bust answered.
Greg dropped the head onto the pavement, where it landed with a thud, punctuated by the ringing of the hidden metal. Greg bent down and peered at it. He nudged it with his toe. Finally, he shook his head, even chuckling at himself a little. He picked up the bust and dusted off the gravel. The paint was marred where the bust had landed, and the bronze was showing through once again.
No emotion registered on the face of the cashier when Greg walked in with the bust. “We don’t take refunds,” was all he said.
“Um, that’s OK,” Greg said, setting the bust on the counter. “Donation.”
“Did you want a receipt for taxes?”
“No, thanks.” And with that Greg was out the door.
The cashier walked up to the bust. “Back again?”
“So it seems,” it answered.
The cashier picked it up and carried it back to its dust-lined shelf. “You’re not giving up hope, are you?”
The bust seemed to mull over the question for a moment. “No. I suppose not. After all, one person’s trash is another person’s treasure, right?”
“That’s the spirit,” the cashier said, giving it a friendly punch on the chin.
The cashier walked back to the register, and the bust, as it always did, fixed its gaze on the painting on the far wall, waiting once again to catch someone’s eye.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Portrait
There are some stories that seem to have no logical origin at all as you’re writing them, and then there are stories that make their inspiration very clear. This is one of those stories for me, and I imagine anyone who knows me very well at all will be able to figure out what planted the seed for this little tribute. It’s a bit more than 1,000 words, but sometimes that’s just how things go. Anyway, Happy Friday to you all. Hope you enjoy.
THE PORTRAIT
The young man was growing restless. He could see his friends across the way, already admiring their own portraits. In this part of Montmartre, there were dozens of sketch artists waiting to pounce on tourists for as many euros as they could swindle. His eyes refocused on the artist, and the look on her wizened face startled him. It was piercing, as if she were trying to see his soul. He opened his mouth to stutter out a syllable or two, but her eyes were back on the paper before they managed to leave his throat. She made exactly three more marks and then nodded.
“Fini,” she said. She unclipped the paper from easel, rolled it up into a cylinder, and then handed it to him. “Voilà.”
“Merci,” he said. She started packing up. Night had fallen whilst he’d sat for the portrait. He unrolled the paper as he walked toward his friends. The image on the paper made him stop in his tracks. The face staring back at him was angular and jarring, nothing like his own, which still bared traces of adolescent roundness. He searched for his own features, but found none. The eyes were dark, much darker than they should have been, even in the charcoal medium. They certainly didn’t depict the almost ice-blue eyes staring down at them. This wasn’t even caricature. He saw no trace of himself at all in the portrait, and he felt his cheeks flushing red. He turned back to the woman.
“Excuse me,” he said. She stared at him blankly. “Sorry, excusez-moi.” Her look became one of impatience.
“Quoi?”
“Um, ce n’est pas… correcte. It’s not me.” He pointed at the paper, and then he pointed at his face, shaking his head.
The woman gave him a mocking smile. She pointed at the paper and then patted his face. “La même chose.” She winked at him and then hobbled away, carrying her easel and supplies with her. The young man grimaced. He didn’t like being had, but what could he do? He sighed, called her something cruel under his breath, and walked over to join his friends.
“Let’s see it,” the pretty girl said.
“It’s not very good,” he explained. “Really. I got gypped.”
“Oh, come on.” She made a grab for the paper. He pulled away, but then she smiled and tilted her head in such a way that there was no possible way he could refuse. He rolled his eyes and handed it over. She unrolled it and examined it closely. Her eyes went wide.
He forced a laugh. “See? I told you it was terrible.”
“What are you talking about? This looks just like you. This is way better than mine.”
“Let me see.” Another boy reached for it, and she handed to him. “Whoa. Man, I wish I’d gone to her.”
“Stop kidding around, guys. I’m pissed enough as it is.”
“We’re not kidding,” the girl insisted.
The young man reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He slid his driver’s license from the plastic and held it up to the portrait.
“You’re saying these two pictures both look like me.”
“Yeah! It’s uncanny,” the girl said. He searched her eyes. No sign of teasing or sarcasm.
He looked to the other boy, who was nodding emphatically. “You’re being way too hard on her, dude. This is a great picture. You’re going to have to get it framed.” To the young man’s dismay, there was complete earnestness in his expression as well.
The young man spotted their adviser across the way, chatting animatedly with a shop owner. He grabbed the paper from the boy’s hands and walked through them toward their teacher, leaving them dumbfounded in his wake.
“Mr. Hallward?” the young man called.
The teacher finished up his conversation with the shop owner with a polite nod and a smile. “What can I do for you, son?”
“I got this sketch done of me –”
“Yes, I saw. Your artist certainly took her time, didn’t she?” He chuckled, which did nothing to better the young man’s mood. “Let’s see if it was worth the wait.”
He unfurled the paper for his teacher. Again, the widened eyes. “Wow. Not too often you run across this sort of talent here. You didn’t catch her name, did you?”
The young man’s face screwed up in anger and confusion. “Are you guys all playing some sort of joke on me? Because it’s not very funny.”
“What do you mean?”
“This isn’t me!” the young man cried, more fervently than he’d meant to. Half in outrage, half in embarrassment, he grabbed the paper and stomped away. He heard his professor call after him, but he only quickened his steps. Once he was a safe distance away, he slowed his pace. He walked into a restaurant and asked the hostess for directions to the bathroom. She pointed him around the corner. He pushed a few small coins into the pay slot and stepped inside.
He bent over against the sink in front of the mirror. His reflection stared back at him. Impulsively, he slammed the now slightly crumpled portrait up against the mirror. His eyes darted back and forth between the two.
A stall door opened, startling him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said, his voice accented.
“How did you know I –”
The man motioned to the portrait as he washed his hands. “A Parisian wouldn’t have one of those.” He smiled, and the young man quickly rolled the paper back up, embarrassed. “Wait a minute,” the man said. He reached to smooth the paper back out, and the young man let him, his face full of hope and fear. The man let out a low whistle. “Impressive. Looks just like you.” The young man looked to the portrait and then to the mirror once again as the other man exited. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. He quickly rolled up the portrait, hid it in his jacket, and exited the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, the professor and the young man’s friends found him sitting on a bench outside the restaurant. In front of him, a few embers glowed on the sidewalk. He paid them no mind, instead choosing to fiddle with a matchbook bearing the name of the establishment outside which he was sitting.
“Hey, we’ve been looking all over for you,” the girl said, bringing him out of his reverie. He stood, stamping out the last of the embers into ashes.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just needed some air. Is it time to head back?”
The professor nodded. “We’re late,” he said, his voice curt. “The other group’ll be waiting for us.”
The young man walked past him back in the direction of their hotel, pocketing the book of matches. The professor’s clenched his jaw shut and followed, his years of experience having taught him to pick and choose his battles. The girl and the other boy exchanged nervous glances, each clutching their own portraits to their sides. They walked in silence.
© Elizabeth Ditty 2009
[FridayFlash] A Love Story
Thought I’d try my hand at #fridayflash since it’s about time to start warming up for NaNoWriMo. Just a quick little character study piece. I’m taking part in the Screenwriting Expo’s Cyberspace Open this weekend, so I didn’t want to get into anything too involved here. Hoping to have something a little more story-like next week. Anyway, have a good weekend, everyone!
It was a beautiful wedding. I know everyone says that, but it’s actually true in this case. And even if it weren’t, no one would dare argue with me because, firstly, it was my wedding, and secondly, I’m 87 years old and no one wants to excite me for fear of stressing my heart to its breaking point. It’s because of that second fact that the wedding even happened. Sure, there were a few hesitant questions from wilting flowers who thought I was being swindled.
“Are you sure she loves you?” they’d asked whilst wringing their hands and staring at me in a way I’m sure they thought was meaningful instead of simpering.
How does a person answer that anyway? Is anyone ever sure that another person sincerely loves them? Of course not. It’s a leap of faith, or maybe even turning a blind eye, but there’s never certainty, and it’s a fool’s errand to expect it. The truth of the matter is, if you’re not miserable, then who cares? Nonetheless, I’d always answer that question in the confident affirmative because I knew it’d make them feel better, and I’m not here to cause anyone pain when I can avoid it.
What I’d love to tell them but never would is that I know very well my new bride doesn’t love me. And I don’t care. I don’t love her either. We’re performing a service for each other. We’re symbionts. I get an aesthetically pleasing, intelligent companion with whom to spend the remainder of my days, few as they may be. She gets a provider of both financial wealth and the wisdom that can only come with the number of years I’ve lived. She should not be vilified for this, and I should not be made out to be a senile old man. But we will be.
People can’t let go of the fairytale, I guess. They can’t understand that we are simply two realistic people who know what we want. Valuing these cerebral things over hormonal attraction — which is scientifically proven to fade for most couples after two years, by the way — should not make us outcasts. And yet, we’re happy to sacrifice social acceptance, too. What we lack by way of a passionate affair we more than make up for in mutual and devoted respect for each other. “Mutual and devoted respect.” Hm. You know, that doesn’t sound so different from love after all.
© Elizabeth Ditty 2009
