Dissolution

This is another scenario I wrote for my fantasy lit course, but I don’t want to give away too much about the context or prompt. Read and discover for yourself.

 

Emilia was still upset by the time Daniel got home from wherever it was he had stormed off to after their fight. She wasn’t sure how he’d decided to deal with his anger—getting plastered at the bar, perhaps? Or maybe just some good ole reckless driving to blow off steam and clear his mind? Whatever it was, she was sure it had been foolish and dangerous. That was just how Daniel behaved under emotional distress.

As for Emilia, nothing she’d done had been able to abate her own ire and distress. Her favorite indie album, which could usually calm her and put her in a more pleasant mood no matter the situation, had failed her. Her yogic meditation, a go-to stress reliever and relaxation technique, had also failed her. She had finally surrendered and gone down to the wine cellar.

It had been months since Emilia had drunk even a drop of alcohol, so resorting to the stuff was no trifle. It wasn’t that she’d ever had a drinking problem—no, quite the opposite—she had previously indulged only rarely but had nevertheless made the decision to abstain completely in order to live more health-consciously. But she knew that tonight a glass of wine was just what she needed.

She poured herself a generous amount and took a seat in the living room, careful not to spill any of the deep red liquid on their pristine white sofa. When she had swallowed the last drops, she thought, why not have another? It wasn’t as if Daniel would be stopping after just one whiskey.

She could feel the tingling effect of the alcohol spreading throughout her body already and had an idea—an idea which led to her swapping her yoga clothes for a swimsuit (one that reminded her of the trip she and Daniel had taken last spring to Hawaii and thus only succeeded in flaring up her anger again), grabbing her wine glass with one hand and the bottle with the other, and settling into the delicious hot bubbles of their outdoor jacuzzi.

As she waited for Daniel to come home, Emilia felt simultaneously more irritated and more detached from the situation. She supposed there were some things even booze couldn’t touch, though it was helping a bit. If anything, she’d gained an understanding and appreciation of Daniel’s methods. The longer he was gone, the longer she waited in the hot tub, and soon the wine bottle was emptied of its contents.

Growing bored, she returned to the house. In her altered state of mind, she had come up with the brilliant idea of giving Daniel the silent treatment. He would certainly be surprised to find her intoxicated, and when he tried to question her about it, she would refuse to give him answers—a taste of his own medicine. If he could leave a fight unfinished and go drink away his troubles (when he knew she couldn’t stand this sort of coping), she would do the same to him in return.

She still had half a glass of the pinot noir left, and she arranged herself and it in the living room, where Daniel would see her upon entering. The sight of Emilia sprawled across the white sofa in that scarlet bikini, the towel beneath her not doing much in the way of keeping the cushions dry and her fingers wrapped around the stem of her wine glass, was sure to send him into a shock. She laughed at the thought of it. He would think she’d gone mad.

Her laughter continued to bubble up and spill out of her until she heard a car door slam outside, when she forced herself into stoic silence. This alert of Daniel’s arrival brought back the sick feeling of anger in her stomach—anger he had caused. Well, no matter; she would show him, and he’d be sorry about their fight, about leaving.

Presently, the door opened, and Daniel stepped through it. He didn’t seem drunk. She wanted to inspect his appearance for anything that betrayed where he’d just been, but she refrained—she wasn’t going to look at him in any way that was obvious.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him remove his shoes and coat and toss his keys on the entry table. When he stepped closer, he sighed faintly but gave no indication that he noticed or cared about the state of her. He continued on into the hall. Emilia was furious.

She stood and walked after him, making sure to bring her glass of wine along.

“What, you don’t have anything to say?”

Her sneering question was met with silence. Daniel reached the end of the hall and started up the stairs without pause.

“Really, Danny?” she asked derisively, following him upstairs. “You’re ignoring me? How mature.”

She didn’t mention, of course, that she had planned to ignore him, and she was keenly aware of how immature she appeared at the moment.

Daniel entered their bedroom and began to undress. Emilia stood in the doorway.

“So you’re just going to go to bed and refuse to acknowledge me.”

He continued to swap his day clothes for pajamas without so much as looking at her. She couldn’t believe his nerve. She stepped into the room and closer to him.

“God, you’re a coward, Danny. You know that?”

At this, he threw his dirty clothes towards the hamper in frustration. Finally she’d gotten a reaction out of him.

But instead of blowing up on her like she expected he’d do, Daniel stood abruptly and left the room. She scurried after him back downstairs and through the house to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of water. He stopped short when he saw the corkscrew on the counter. She waited for his response. He picked it up and twisted it in his fingers, brows furrowed—in anger or contemplation, Emilia couldn’t be sure—then put it away in a drawer.

He leaned against the island counter on his elbows, head in his hands, and she stood across from him. A long silence elapsed.

“Say something, Danny.”

He raised his head, the look on his face morphing into one of resolve. Once again, he left the room with her trailing behind him.

She was so furious that it didn’t register where he was headed.

“I can’t believe you. You don’t even care, do you?”

Daniel stopped in front of the door to her personal yoga studio, his back to her and his posture tense. He paused.

“Em,” he said finally. His voice sounded strange, and she couldn’t make out his tone. She waited for him to continue. Instead, he pushed open the door.

He stepped in and audibly let out a breath he’d apparently been holding.

“Shit.”

Emilia glanced at the state of disarray she’d left her normally immaculate yoga studio in. In her earlier frustration, she hadn’t bothered to tidy up after herself and had even kicked aside her blanket and blocks—which were now strewn across the room.

“Yeah, shit. Even yoga couldn’t repair the state you left me in.”

He ran a hand through his hair and took off again, moving at a brisk pace.

“Would you stop walking away from me?” Emilia rushed down the hall after Daniel, who was headed towards the back of the house. He didn’t stop or turn. “Okay, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t all your fault. We both—”

“Em?” Daniel asked, a bit too loudly, still striding away from her.

“Danny?” Emilia’s voice was quiet.

Daniel yanked open the sliding glass door.

“Em?” He was shouting now. He stepped out onto the back patio.

“Danny, what—I’m right here. Why are you–?”

She stopped midsentence, unable to comprehend was she was seeing.

Daniel was rushing over to the jacuzzi, frantic. She was sure he was still yelling, but she could no longer make out what he was saying. And there was a girl in the hot tub. Why was there a girl in their hot tub?

Emilia felt suddenly very hot and dizzy.

The girl—whoever she was—lay face down in the water, Emilia noticed as she drew near. That wasn’t right, was it? And Daniel was screaming and crying and getting into the jacuzzi and pulling the girl up by the armpits and still wearing his pajamas and Emilia thought this was absurd and wished he would be quieter he would wake the neighbors they hadn’t liked it very much last month being woken up at two a.m. but that had all been in good fun just laughter and squeals of delight when they’d decided to go skinny dipping and there was a dog barking now Danny’s screams were so loud he was saying her name but she was right there and the water was red the jets were off the timer must’ve run down there was blood and the girl was wearing a red bikini that reminded her of Hawaii and Danny kicked an empty bottle of wine on accident as he drug this girl’s body from the hot tub in his wet pajamas but who was she and why wouldn’t Danny look at her I’m right here why won’t you look at me?

Daniel collapsed in a heap at the edge of the tub, holding the girl in his lap, his back to Emilia. He was sobbing and repeating Emilia’s name.

“Dammit, I’m right here, Danny!”

She circled around to face Daniel, who was pushing the unconscious girl’s hair out of her face—but no, she wasn’t unconscious; she was dead.

And with a shock of recognition that was less shock and more of a confirmation of what she had already known but pushed away, deep down within her, until it was like she’d erased it completely, Emilia saw herself and remembered.

“I’m dead.” Her voice was almost a whisper.

Daniel touched a gash on the dead girl’s forehead, and Emilia brought her fingers up to her own, remembering the heat and the dizziness and her drunkenness and slipping—slipping and falling and that sudden pain in her forehead and then watery blackness.

“Danny, I’m dead,” she half-choked. “I slipped and fell. I was drinking. It’s been so long, and I had so much. I don’t know how—”

And the dizziness was back. The world was spinning, and she couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe. Her vision went dark. The last thing she heard—and she heard it as if she were underwater—was Daniel’s voice—Daniel, who was in so much pain, who was sobbing against that cold, lifeless body he’d pulled from the hot tub—telling her, “Emilia, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.” And she had wanted him to be sorry, hadn’t she?

But she was the one who was sorry.

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Portal Fantasy Scenario

Again for my Fantasy Lit course, we were given a creative writing assignment. This one was to write our own portal fantasy scenario after having read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, The Chronicles of Narnia: the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and other short portal fantasy narratives. This was my take, inspired by my sister Becca and her love of bubble baths (my nickname for her is Beverly, since my iPhone always wants to autocorrect her name to this for some reason). Like my previous post, this short scene doesn’t have a title yet, but perhaps I’ll continue it when I get a chance.

 

It happened on an ordinary day.

Beverly got home from school, cursing the cold as she walked up the long snowy driveway. She kicked off her boots at the door and let her backpack slip from her arm and plop down in the middle of the floor, just like always. Her coat she threw over the back of the couch. And she went straight into the bathroom, like any other day.

Beverly had the habit of taking extraordinarily long bubble baths every day after school. When she was home alone, no one could complain about her using up all the hot water or staying in there for too long. She could do as she pleased.

This time, like all the times before, she adjusted the tub faucet until steaming hot water poured out, then reached for her bottle of bubble bath on the shelf above the toilet—only to come up empty handed and recall that she’d finished it off the day before. That was okay, though; she had some more in her room.

The new bottle, still in a sparkly green gift bag, had been a Christmas gift from her older sister Wren. Beverly smiled at the gift tag, where Wren had drawn a little cartoon beaver in the To field and a small songbird after From. The bubble bath itself was in a glass container the shape of a chemistry flask, sealed and stoppered with a cork. The label revealed that it was from Andromeda’s Apothecary—probably some weird hippie shop in Wren’s college town—and that the scent was Perpetual Pear, which it went on to describe as “a crisp yet smooth blend of nashi pear and honey with a just hint of lotus.”

Beverly saw for the first time a note in Wren’s writing at the bottom of the gift bag—she hadn’t noticed it on Christmas morning. It read:

 

Dear Bev,

To the Ancient Chinese, pears were a symbol of immortality. Honey, throughout the ages, has been valued for its sweetness. The lotus flower, in various cultures (i.e. Buddhism, Ancient Egypt, Ancient Greece, etc.), symbolizes purity and rebirth.

So, if you use this scent in your baths, maybe Mom will stop complaining that you’re growing up too fast and wondering what happened to her sweet and innocent little Bevvie Bear. Also, it smells pretty.

Merry Christmas,

Wren

 

Beverly laughed out loud at this—it was really a thoughtful gift. And then she remembered the tub was still running and rushed to the bathroom, bottle of bubble bath in hand. Luckily, it wasn’t too full, and she still had time to uncork the soap and add it.

Minutes later, Beverly had music playing through the portable speaker—it was her bath-time playlist—tea-lights lit and spaced evenly along the edge of the tub, and fluffy pink towels hung on the rack on the wall. She stripped off her last bit of clothing and toed her way into the warm water.

She sank down into the bubbles, letting the water line reach her shoulders, then leaned her head back against the edge of the tub opposite the faucet. These bubble baths were the best part of Beverly’s day, a time when she could finally be completely relaxed and calm. And Wren was right—the Perpetual Pear did smell nice.

After a couple songs, beads of sweat coated Beverly’s forehead and upper lip—she could taste the saltiness. She shimmied down and let herself slip completely underwater, submerging her entire being in the soapy warm cleanliness.

But when she came back up into the cool air, something seemed off.

She sat up and wiped the water from her eyes, and then Beverly realized that everything was all wrong.

It wasn’t just cool; it was cold, like the window had been left wide open and the heat shut off. And it was dark. At first she thought her candles must’ve been blown out or splashed on or knocked over, but then she realized they were no longer there at all. The afternoon light that should’ve filtered through the blinds of the bathroom window had been replaced with inky blackness. And it was silent—no sign of the speaker or her phone that had been bluetoothing music to it.

Once her eyes had a chance to adjust to the sudden darkness, Beverly came to the conclusion that she was no longer in her bathroom at all. Nothing was the same except herself and the smell of the bubble bath.

She quickly got out of the tub and dried off with a thin, white towel she found hanging on a wrought iron hook in the dark wood-paneled wall—this was nothing like the slim silver bar fastened to the painted white wall of her bathroom.

But as she examined everything more closely, she realized it still resembled her bathroom in layout—it was just the furnishings and décor that differed… and the vibe. This bathroom wasn’t cozy and welcoming like hers; it was eerie. Still, the toilet was where it should be, though not as it should be, and the sink was to the toilet’s left, but instead of a basin resting in a marble countertop, it was a stone pedestal sink.

Where her dirty clothes had lain in a pile on the floor before, there was now a neat stack of dark folded fabric: simple but sturdy clothing, which Beverly quickly put on. She twisted her wet hair into a bun using the hairband on her wrist, which for some reason hadn’t disappeared or changed—perhaps because it was directly on her.

At this point, she’d come up with an explanation for everything: she was dreaming. She’d fallen asleep in the tub, and being in the water was making her have a really strange dream. But even as she thought it, she knew it couldn’t be true. She’d never before been aware of dreaming, and she’d never had a dream that felt like this.

It was all too real.

She decided she might as well go check things out.

She stepped over to the bathroom door, which, like the walls, was now of dark wood instead of painted white. The plain silver knob had been replaced by an antique-looking bronze handle that curved and had elegant embellishments, but nevertheless, Beverly turned it and opened the door.

Flash Fiction: The Fox

This semester, one of the classes I’m taking is Fantasy Literature. One of our short writing assignments was to – rather than comment on a passage from our reading (Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, by the way) – come up with our own piece of animal fantasy. We were to either summarize what would happen in our story or write out the beginning of it, and I chose to do the latter. Since I haven’t posted in a while, I figured why not share it here? It doesn’t really have a title, and it’s just a short scene – but I enjoyed writing it.

 

As the forest grew darker, Meredith’s sense of unease grew greater. It had been two hours since she’d run away, climbing noiselessly through her bedroom window and escaping into the woods behind her house. After another torturous dinner with her mother and Richard—neither of them listening to a word she’d said or even acknowledging her existence—she’d gone to her room under the guise of fatigue and locked the door behind her. She knew they wouldn’t disturb her for the rest of the night, and then who knew how long it would be before they noticed her disappearance?

As she walked on, the long, black shadows of the trees seemed to be reaching out for her, trying to grab her and pull her back home. Meredith quickened her pace, and her backpack bounced lightly against her shoulder blades. She hadn’t brought much with her—just some warmer clothing, a water bottle, protein bars, and her journal. She never went anywhere without her black Moleskine, for she was constantly jotting down the extraordinary ideas and images that seemed to spring forth from out of nowhere in her mind.

In fact, just up ahead to the left she saw a flash of color that she couldn’t be certain wasn’t part of her imagination. It had looked like a trail of fire, appearing as if by the stroke of a paintbrush between two dark trees and vanishing just as quickly. Surely it was just in her head. This happened all the time—her imagination conjuring fantastical details and apparitions that could not actually exist—and habit made her pause to unzip her bag and withdraw her journal…

But there it was again: a red-orange blur. And it looked so real—it didn’t have that weird hazy quality and texture by which she’d learned to identify her mind’s projections and distinguish them from reality. She slowly approached the spot ahead where she thought she’d seen the thing, whatever it was.

The forest seemed to go still, and an unnatural hush fell. Meredith was hyperaware of the sound of her breathing and the crunch of leaves beneath her feet. She paused. The silence was broken by a whispery sound, though there was no wind, and she could’ve sworn she heard her name: Meredith.

She spun around abruptly.

Not ten yards away, in the misty darkness of the woods, stood a fox.

Meredith expected the creature to flee, but it watched her, unmoving. She waited, and a sort of stare-off began to take place.

Finally, after a full minute had passed, Meredith took a step forward. The fox tilted its head to the side, pawed the ground, and took off at a sprint.

Meredith let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She watched the animal go, its bright orange fur blazing through the gloomy forest. Just when it would’ve disappeared from sight, it stopped and turned back to her. Waiting.

She hesitated, then took a step in its direction. When it still hadn’t moved after several seconds, she continued toward it. The fox dipped its head, almost as if to say, Yes, that’s it. Come with me.

When she had nearly closed the distance between them, the fox took off running yet again. And this time, Meredith ran after it.

The Forgotten Words: a translated short story

This semester I took a comparative literature course that was a translation workshop. For the final project, I had to translate a certain number of pages of text from a foreign language into English. I chose a short story I came across online by French author Xuan Vincent called Les mots oubliés, or The Forgotten Words.

This was my first time ever translating formally, but I really fell in love with the process. My professor praised my work and suggested I submit it to a university blog dedicated to literature translated by students – and, of course, I wanted to post it here as well. This led to me contacting the author via email to ask her permission.

Xuan Vincent has read over my translation of her story and kindly agreed to allow me to post it. If you know French, I highly recommend you read the original as well as check out her other writings. You can find them at http://www.oniris.be/auteur/xuanvincent-706.html. Her blog is here: http://xuanadoo35.unblog.fr/.

In addition to the translation itself, I’ve written a translator’s preface that explains more about the story and the author as well about the choices I made as a translator. I hope you find yourself caught up Vincent’s story and enjoy it as much as I did. Perhaps soon I will translate more stories of hers and other French writers as well.

Here is my brief synopsis of the story (which is also the first paragraph of my preface) to give you an idea what the tale is about, and below are both the preface and translation:

Fabien Vannereau bumps into a gypsy musician from his childhood who offers the writer the strange and mystical gift of seven words. A bewildered Fabien continues with his life and forgets all about this encounter until many years later. Now struggling with his career, he is in desperate need of some source of inspiration, and the words start coming back to him and offer him just that. He ends up at a mysterious masquerade meeting in the château of a countess, where he regains hope for his writing career. But there is more to this enchanting place than he thinks. He will soon discover both the truth about the Countess and the purpose of the musician’s strange words.

Translator’s preface.
The Forgotten Words, translation by Rachel Daniels.

 

French kiss.

Below is a brief scene I wrote last year. I’m not sure if I planned on going somewhere with it or simply letting it stand alone as a snippet of a character’s personality, but I decided to post it as is.

 

“You know French?!” she exclaimed, eyes lighting up. He, who would have otherwise been out of her notice, had sparked her interest. She amused herself with the idea of a new conquest.

“Yeah,” he answered, “I took six years of it.”

“I’m so jealous. I’m only in my second semester of French. But,” she gave an alluring smile, “I am studying abroad in France this summer.”

“Wow, really? That’s amazing! I’d love to go to France.”

“You’ll have to come visit me while I’m there then.” She smirked.

* * * * *

“So,” she began pointedly, “say something to me in French. I’m sure yours is far superior to mine.”

“Um,” he paused to think. “Okay… Je voudrais dormir.”

“You want to go to bed?!” she scoffed and playfully slapped his arm with the back of her hand.

“It was the first thing that came to mind!” He laughed and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “And, it is really late.”

“You’re so lame.” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in feigned offense. After an exaggerated sigh, she leaned in a little and ran a hand through her hair. “How about… tu veux m’embrasser instead?”

His eyebrows raised instinctively at this, and in an amused voice, he responded, “Peut-être.”

She smiled and held his gaze for a moment. “I’m going to go get us some more drinks,” she suddenly declared, pushing the blanket off herself and moving to stand.

 

 

Confessions to those I’ve loved and to those I didn’t quite.

While I will not say whether this is all true or made up, I do want to clarify that the *emotion* was not fabricated, for if it were, I certainly would not have been so cheesy and full of clichés. Thirteen “you”s are not necessarily thirteen *different* “you”s, but this deserved thirteen separate “confessions,” if not more.

Confessions to those I’ve loved and to those I didn’t quite.

1. Because we were a secret for so long, I had a really hard time being with you in public once we could actually be seen. To me, we only existed during the midnight walks, the phone calls that lasted until three in the morning, the rides to nowhere in your shitty old car, and the countless hours spent hidden in my covers.

2. Even though I have no intention of you and me ever being an us again, I sill get a bit of a thrill knowing I could have you if I wanted. I feel as if I have some sort of special claim on you or some permanent place in your heart, and even though it’s selfish, I like to remind myself of this every once in a while.

3. You made me do things I never thought I would do, be someone I never thought I would be, and what’s even worse is that I thoroughly enjoyed it and only experienced inklings of guilt. And because of that, if some day we could possibly be together, though the chance is slim, I would turn the opportunity down; I let you behave badly with me despite having her, but I would never be with someone whom I thought would do that to me.

4. I worshiped you once, was completely infatuated with you and the idea of getting your attention, but now I find you absolutely pathetic. At one time any interaction with you made me delightfully nervous, and when you placed your hand under my chin and pulled my face towards yours, I couldn’t imagine anything ever comparing. Now, just the idea of you and your distorted perception of your self-worth disgusts me. But I almost pity you, because you’ll surely end up alone since no one ever even comes close to being good enough for you.

5. The first time you kissed me was brilliant, to be sure, but the best moment for me was the long hug goodbye that night, when our bodies couldn’t have been pressed more closely together and my heartbeat was speeding out of control. I felt so emotionally connected to you, and I didn’t think that was possible for me. I still feel a little sad wondering how things would’ve been had they worked out and remembering how the contact simply ceased and everything dissolved with no real closure.

6. You were the first person for whom I ever went out on a limb, who fascinated me so completely in such a short amount of time that I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. I had such high hopes; nothing had ever been so long-lasting but so rarely occurring until you, so I thought it might be real. But you disappointed me. You didn’t give me just enough to tease me and make me desire you all the more; you just didn’t give me enough, period.

7. I had fun with you and all my feelings were legitimate, but I never had any intentions of it turning into anything serious. You had a reputation, and I’m pretty sure you only had one goal. So I let you believe that, just maybe, you would get what you wanted in time and once things progressed. But you were never someone I could actually see myself with long-term. It’s okay that you were trying to use me; I was pretty much using you, too.

8. I am absolutely terrified by the idea that my feelings for you will never go away, but it also scares me to think that I could someday forget about you. I don’t know how or why I still care about you so deeply after all this time. I don’t know if I project my ideals onto you and my perception of you is really just a skewed version of reality. But it kills me that nothing has ever happened between us, nothing that truly counts by normal standards at least, and I want nothing more than for you to come home and show me that you still want me, too. I want us to finally have our moment.

9. You broke my heart so quickly simply in trying so hard not to hurt me. All your concerns and advice, all your baggage that you didn’t want to subject me to, just made you even more perfect and one hundred percent more desirable to me. Despite all the mixed signals and confusion, the envy and the wish that you wanted to be with me, too, what made me the saddest, what made me actually want to cry, was the thought of you going back to her and letting her treat you so poorly. You don’t deserve that at all, and she doesn’t deserve you.

10. On one hand, I desperately wish I could see you again, but on the other, I know we left things off on the perfect note, in the loveliest way, and I don’t want to risk souring what is so fantastically dreamlike and seems to be once-in-a-lifetime. You were stimulating and amusing, gentle yet pressing. You were the epitome of everything I’ve ever wanted in a guy and exactly how a guy should be, and you reminded me not to settle, to keep searching for someone who both deserves me and is deserved by me.

11. It was meaningless and half-remembered. No, it was even less than that; I only have glimpses of it in my memory, and I wish it would have never happened. It’s truly not your fault that I resent you as much as I do, that I feel needlessly and unreasonably angry whenever you’re around, that the slightest idiosyncrasies of yours make me sick. It wasn’t really anything you did that made my early feelings toward you completely flip. I’m sorry that I detest you now, for no real good reason; I’m just glad you’re completely unaware of it.

12. I never knew I had unresolved feelings for you until you moved on for good. Knowing that and seeing you two together made me miserable. Being around you guys was practically unbearable, but it would’ve been worse not being around you at all. So I suffered through it, even though all I wanted to do was sit alone and cry about it, cry over you. I’ve never had the need to be particularly convincing or persuasive before, but I really wish that, somehow, I would’ve been able to change your mind.

13. I still get touchy when your name comes up, and I feel flustered whenever I happen to see you somewhere. I think I still hate you sometimes, but other times, I think I might still like you. I sometimes miss you, as strange as that is. And I wish I could’ve been different, could’ve been better. You were the first person to make me trust, to make me feel comfortable with another, to make me open up. You were the closest I ever got to love.

Winter, A Piece of Flash Fiction

I found this image online this evening and decided to write a bit of flash fiction using it as inspiration. Everything was going well when I realized something. I was writing something very closely related to another story I had started once but never finished. Realizing this, I went with it.

Fortunately, I happened to have this other story on my laptop (which I didn’t own at the time of its composition). Normally I don’t share my older writing, but I thought it was kind of interesting how a previous plot of mine had come creeping back into my brain. So I’ve decided to share both works.

The first link is the piece I wrote this evening; the second is the start of a story I began over two years ago and haven’t really touched since. I hadn’t even formally named it; I saved the document as simply ‘Winter.’ I imagine the newer work could be a scene that occurs as part of the same story as the first piece, just later on (and, of course, skipping a bunch of stuff).

Read them in whichever order you desire.

Flash Fiction 10.3.12

Winter