A Point of Truth

Blowing Wishes

If you asked her what she was doing, she probably would have told you nothing. It was nothing that she in the park at midnight, just like it was nothing that she was alone. The things fisted in her hands were probably nothing too.

Her favorite pen, metal-barreled and sleek.

A scrap of tissue paper.

The thumbstone in her pocket.

The last item wasn’t necessary, but she knew from literature that three was a powerful number. So three it was.

Sniffling in the cold air, she shucked off her gloves and clicked her pen. She wrotekind. passionate. loyal. playful. smart.on the tissue paper. Three wasn’t enough, and four was death, so five it was. The last one seemed off somehow, veering slightly into shallow territory, but lack of intelligence was a dealbreaker. Immaturity was one thing, stupidity completely out of the question. She knew better now.

After all, she didn’t go to the park after midnight just to half-ass her wishing. Which was what she was doing. Wishing.

Wishing for luck. Wishing to meet someone who wouldn’t use her, reject her, forget her. Wishing for love.

She clasped the paper to her chest, held it pressed to the thumbstone that had rubbed most of her worries away. Then she ripped it, tore the tissue paper into pieces the size of her pinky nail, and piled them on her hand. A tiny mound of paper snow.

Deep breath and blow, the woman had said to do, so she did, deep breath and blow. She blew and watched the paper pieces scatter in the winter wind and disappear into the night.

Please, she said to the universe. Please, please, please.

Spilled Ink Prose: Your car left a cloud of smoke

Your car left a cloud of smoke as you drove away because dad was on his way home and we didn’t want him to see you so you started up the engine real quick and sped off and you didn’t even realize that you’d forgotten your sky blue necktie all crumpled and knotted on my pillow and on that very night I knew that that was the last I would ever hear from you again because you got what you wanted and anyway I hardly had anything else to keep you coming back.

I’ve never written run-on sentences like this, but I’d like to try my hand at flash fiction through this form.

Spilled Ink Prose: Dinner for Two

nyaradi:

Whenever we felt good on a Saturday night, we used to go out to dinner. Do you remember it, babe? We used to just get in the car and drive, and whatever place we saw first that sounded good, we’d stop there. We’d go in and sit down, hungry and thirsty. You’d always order water, without ice of course. You hated the way the ice felt on your teeth. And I always remembered. At first you couldn’t believe that I would remember something that trivial, that stupid.But I did. Does he know you don’t like ice in your water? Does he remember things that would seem stupid to others?
We’d look at the menu, discuss what we were planning on getting. Just like real couples do. It was beautiful, because you’d play with my hands, one under the table and one on top of the table, for everyone to see. And the server would come to our table, and ask what we were to have for dinner.
And every time, it was as if you were saying, “I’ll have life, with a side of him,” as you casually pointed across the table at me. I never realized it then, I was too dumb-founded to read that in you. Too stupid to realize I was only a side.

And I’d order. “I’ll have her, with a side of life.”

Don’t you get it?

You were my life. You are my life. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s all I wanted that Saturday night. It’s all I want now. It didn’t matter what our situation was, just as long as I was with you.

But I’m just a side.

Whether it’s to life, or to men who’re prettier and better than me. I’m just a side.

And for right now, you want to keep me there, conveniently next to your desert spoon, dipping into me for a taste whenever you like.

But soon, you’ll be at dinner with someone else, saying “I want him, hold the sides.”

Because you never really liked sides.

Great concept here.

(Source: proofofapen)