Fast Fiction 2008 - As Soon As You Start
Title: As Soon As You Start
Word: wine
Word count: 250
Requested by: Lisa Beauchamp
I’m here, after reading your letters again. It’s bad enough seeing you four times a year. Not even that, any more. You’re not visible often, not as obvious as you were. You seem slightly lost now, even though your outward façade is saying Look at me, look at how powerful I am, I don’t need any of you.
You, in your glass bubble. Everyone says you’ll end up alone. You made them so angry.
Bars don’t smell smoky any more, and for once, I wish they did; if there was smoke on the air, I wouldn’t be here in a cloud of your scent, shampoo and indescribable aftershave, whatever you wear that makes my stomach tight and my high heels stumble.
You pour red wine; you don’t need to ask. Straight, no additions. I don’t mix my drinks, we both know that, not since that night, delicious as it was.
She’s hurt you, I know that, and it riles me, confuses me; how can I be furious with someone so tiny, so doll-like, delicate? I could smash her china face against the pavements, scatter her like dandelion fluff over the field. Not just could; would. But what would it achieve? Nothing.
So I’ll wait. Watch as you flit from flower to flower, giving less and less, each time more wary, until your chrysalis petrifies. And when you splinter, I’ll pick you up, and store you away from the world in silk and velvet and cotton wool.
You know, it’s unconditional.
(c) H J M McAlroy 2008
Word: wine
Word count: 250
Requested by: Lisa Beauchamp
I’m here, after reading your letters again. It’s bad enough seeing you four times a year. Not even that, any more. You’re not visible often, not as obvious as you were. You seem slightly lost now, even though your outward façade is saying Look at me, look at how powerful I am, I don’t need any of you.
You, in your glass bubble. Everyone says you’ll end up alone. You made them so angry.
Bars don’t smell smoky any more, and for once, I wish they did; if there was smoke on the air, I wouldn’t be here in a cloud of your scent, shampoo and indescribable aftershave, whatever you wear that makes my stomach tight and my high heels stumble.
You pour red wine; you don’t need to ask. Straight, no additions. I don’t mix my drinks, we both know that, not since that night, delicious as it was.
She’s hurt you, I know that, and it riles me, confuses me; how can I be furious with someone so tiny, so doll-like, delicate? I could smash her china face against the pavements, scatter her like dandelion fluff over the field. Not just could; would. But what would it achieve? Nothing.
So I’ll wait. Watch as you flit from flower to flower, giving less and less, each time more wary, until your chrysalis petrifies. And when you splinter, I’ll pick you up, and store you away from the world in silk and velvet and cotton wool.
You know, it’s unconditional.
(c) H J M McAlroy 2008