postcard ficlets
I was cleaning my hard drive and came across this file - and I can't seem to find it posted anywhere, so I'm not sure if I've shared these already.
Whoops?
Powergeneration ficlets inspired by postsecret. Apologies if you have seen these already.
POSTSECRET 14th August 2005
Powerverse Stories
Ride’em
Awards, trophies, claps on the back and looks of respect. My father’s approval, his met expectations resting on me like a shroud.
The bone orchard is full of them. My father’s father, and his father, and his father before him. All real men. All cowboys. Taming the wild beast with skill and strength and dedication.
I lie and claim the place they’ve made for me among them. But I’m not like them. I don’t force my mastery over the beasts. I ask them, and they do what I need.
They call me a horse whisperer. But to make them hear me, I don’t have to speak at all
Too Early To Talk (Drabble)
I refused to come home for the holidays. I made excuses, claimed a huge workload, a major assignment, hinted at a boyfriend. They were upset, but they accepted it. They thought it was just their little girl growing up.
I walked among the trees, feeling the wind whip across my face, and thought of the family meal they were eating, the stories they were sharing. Safe and warm, together. Sharing.
I couldn’t face that. They’d see it on my face, and want to know. But it’s too early to talk about it.
How could I explain that I’m a four?
Should Have Known (Drabble)
I thought we were friends. I should have tried harder. I should have known. But it was cold where we lived, everyone wore big jumpers, high collars. He hid it well.
I thought we were friends. He never hinted, never let me know. Maybe he thought he couldn’t trust me? Perhaps he shared his parents’ shame?
I thought we were friends. He pulled the gun, and I ran, and didn’t stop until they called me back for his funeral. He chose death over the meds that could have helped the pain in those proto-gills.
I wish I’d been his friend.
Hear Me
Coming into the clinic is like a kind of refined torture. So many voices, a cacophony of sound, chaotic noise. They know, they see my distress, and take me and push me through and send me home with a fresh bottle of pills and another notation on my chart.
My little village, clinging to thin strip of shore, is a haven. Few people, all moving slowly, all at peace. They smile at me as I walk down from my lonely cottage. Their voices are like echoes, almost lost in the howl and beat of the ocean beyond.
I chat and talk and listen to them. They talk about their lives. I hear more than they say. I respond and guide and suggest, and they go away happy, never knowing what I’ve done.
I listen and try to help them, in the hope that, one day, someone would help me.
(Un)Done
“He’s my brother!”
She smiles weakly and shakes her head. “He lives so far away. Are you sure he’d even want to travel all that way just for the weekend?”
He puts his hands on his hips and stares her down. “He’s my brother,” he repeats as if that explains everything. “He’s coming to our wedding.”
Her smile grows sickly as he turns away. She knows it makes her a bad person, but she can’t bear the thought of that blue-scaled freak in her wedding album. She bites her lip, writes the invitation, and adds it to the pile.
Outside the post office, alone and unobserved, she watches as a single white envelope floats down and is washed into the drain.
i could
you did it for me
i wish you hadn’t
we could have found another way
blood on your claws
you looked so scared so young so lost
you flinched as i reached for you
you don’t believe me
trapped in your cell
know this
i could love you…just as you are
Sweet Sixteen
Miriam bustled around the kitchen. If she kept busy, kept going, she might be able to push this through without argument.
“Or maybe a dinner party?” she mused out loud as she stared at the pattern on the plate she was scrubbing with a fierce intensity. “After all, sixteen is nearly grown up.”
“I don’t want a party, mama.” Jamie’s voice was flat, completely toneless and without life.
Miriam felt a hot prickle behind her eyes. “Why ever not, dear,” she asked, proud of the way she kept her voice from shaking.
She heard the chair bang on the floor as he kicked it back. “I just don’t, okay?” She felt the passage of air as he pushed past her. “Why do you always have to push it!” The back door creaked open then slammed shut. She lifted her head in time to see him scramble up the tree like a…she looked away, and refused to even think it.
Pulling off her gloves, she walked over to the kitchen table. She had sat him down with a glass of milk and a piece of paper, and had asked him to write down the names of all the people from school he wanted to invite.
The paper was blank.
Miriam sat down slowly and tried not to cry.
Outside Chance
“What the hell were you thinking?” The man from the party hadn’t stopped yelling since he’d stormed into my office like he owned the damn place.
Hell, I was running on the party dime. He probably did own the office. “I thought I could make a difference.”
That stops him in his tracks. He stares at me, agog, eyes bulging, mouth open. “A difference? A difference?” He throws his hands up and addresses the ceiling. “Heaven help us, we’ve got a fucking idealist!” He spins on the spot and jabs at me with his finger. “This isn’t some fucking fantasy land. This is fucking politics. And while we’re conducting this little lesson in naming shit, let me give you another one.” He leaned over the table and glared at me, his breath hot and stinking of cigarettes. “Political suicide. Which is what you have just committed. Congratulations, you’re out of the race.”
That got me to my feet. “You’re fucking firing me cos I’m a Power?”
He sneered at me. “Fire you? You’re the one that’s into suicide, not us. No, my friend, the voters will get you out all by themselves, and hand this seat to the fucking Opposition.” The last two words are yelled so loudly the windows rattle. He stormed out before I could argue back.
There was nothing else to do. I went back out there and fought and campaigned and tried to discuss the issues. And every interview, every debate, everywhere I went, there were questions on my Power, on my politics, was I a single issue candidate, was I going to start a Powers First party on my own? And on election night, the electorate I had so much faith in gave me a quarter of their votes and handed the other bastard the place on a silver platter.
I went back to my life, and tried to ignore the stares and the comments and the way I was passed over for promotion in the firm where once I was consider the rising star. And I seethed with a quiet anger I could do nothing about.
Until one night in February when my beautiful wife called me down to watch a news clip of a speech in Florida. And I smiled as she cheered and hollered.
One person couldn’t make a difference. But perhaps all of us together could.
Seeking (Drabble)
The GP sent me to the urologist. The urologist sent me to the proctologist. The proctologist sent me to the psychiatrist. They poked me and prodded me and gave me no answers. I tried acupuncture and naturopaths, everything under the sun, looking for answers.
Looking for relief. I thought I was never going to find it.
My sister introduced me to Audrey, who introduced me to her husband. Two hours later I was in the clinic. Two days later I had a diagnosis.
I cried when they declared me a hydrokinetic. Finally, I had my answer.
Finally, I could rest.
I’m Not Okay
You used to swear it would be forever. That I was your number one, the only girl for you, the centre of your universe. That nothing could tear us apart, that nothing could ever break the bond we had.
We talked about the future, our future. The life we were going to make together.
I thought what we had was unbreakable.
You drove me to the clinic, and kissed me goodbye. I could sense your fear and confusion. I was afraid too, but I never doubted you.
I came home from the clinic to an empty house. Your things were gone. No note, no explanation, no apology.
I don’t know what to do now.
I changed. I’m sorry. I miss you.
Come home, love. Please.
Blame
My father was the local vicar. He preached sermons of hellfire and damnation, believed in exorcisms, browbeat the faithful into following his word of God.
He told his parishioners that I was sick, a weak child, prone to pneumonia and asthma. They nodded and made noises of sympathy and he quietly basked in the glow of being a Christian martyr.
I wasn’t allowed to play with the other children. When I went out, I had to keep my head covered - to keep out the chill, my mother explained to the shopkeeper, the postman, everyone. She repeated it so often I think she began to believe it.
My father used to beat me. He called it spanking. But I think he was trying to beat the devil out of me.
I left the village when I was eighteen. I now paint them with nail polish, bright lurid colours, and go around with my head uncovered.
I wear my horns with pride.
Touched
They call me standoffish. They whisper words like freak. They all forget that I’m a human being.
Just a slightly more hairy version, is all.
I miss being stroked. I used to love nothing more than to have someone else brush my fur. It was my own, simple, pure idea of bliss.
It’s a cliché, but he was a jock. One of those big dumb blonde boys who think that the world exists to serve them. I told him no, of course. Not that he asked. He just reached, tried to take. I said no. I slapped his hand away. He tried again.
He was a footballer. He was big and strong and nearly a foot taller than me. Slaps turned to scratches and no turned into a scream.
He came and he took and he left me curled up whimpering on the floor.
I hate what he took from me. I don’t let any one touch me any more.
Whoops?
Powergeneration ficlets inspired by postsecret. Apologies if you have seen these already.
POSTSECRET 14th August 2005
Powerverse Stories
Ride’em
Awards, trophies, claps on the back and looks of respect. My father’s approval, his met expectations resting on me like a shroud.
The bone orchard is full of them. My father’s father, and his father, and his father before him. All real men. All cowboys. Taming the wild beast with skill and strength and dedication.
I lie and claim the place they’ve made for me among them. But I’m not like them. I don’t force my mastery over the beasts. I ask them, and they do what I need.
They call me a horse whisperer. But to make them hear me, I don’t have to speak at all
Too Early To Talk (Drabble)
I refused to come home for the holidays. I made excuses, claimed a huge workload, a major assignment, hinted at a boyfriend. They were upset, but they accepted it. They thought it was just their little girl growing up.
I walked among the trees, feeling the wind whip across my face, and thought of the family meal they were eating, the stories they were sharing. Safe and warm, together. Sharing.
I couldn’t face that. They’d see it on my face, and want to know. But it’s too early to talk about it.
How could I explain that I’m a four?
Should Have Known (Drabble)
I thought we were friends. I should have tried harder. I should have known. But it was cold where we lived, everyone wore big jumpers, high collars. He hid it well.
I thought we were friends. He never hinted, never let me know. Maybe he thought he couldn’t trust me? Perhaps he shared his parents’ shame?
I thought we were friends. He pulled the gun, and I ran, and didn’t stop until they called me back for his funeral. He chose death over the meds that could have helped the pain in those proto-gills.
I wish I’d been his friend.
Hear Me
Coming into the clinic is like a kind of refined torture. So many voices, a cacophony of sound, chaotic noise. They know, they see my distress, and take me and push me through and send me home with a fresh bottle of pills and another notation on my chart.
My little village, clinging to thin strip of shore, is a haven. Few people, all moving slowly, all at peace. They smile at me as I walk down from my lonely cottage. Their voices are like echoes, almost lost in the howl and beat of the ocean beyond.
I chat and talk and listen to them. They talk about their lives. I hear more than they say. I respond and guide and suggest, and they go away happy, never knowing what I’ve done.
I listen and try to help them, in the hope that, one day, someone would help me.
(Un)Done
“He’s my brother!”
She smiles weakly and shakes her head. “He lives so far away. Are you sure he’d even want to travel all that way just for the weekend?”
He puts his hands on his hips and stares her down. “He’s my brother,” he repeats as if that explains everything. “He’s coming to our wedding.”
Her smile grows sickly as he turns away. She knows it makes her a bad person, but she can’t bear the thought of that blue-scaled freak in her wedding album. She bites her lip, writes the invitation, and adds it to the pile.
Outside the post office, alone and unobserved, she watches as a single white envelope floats down and is washed into the drain.
i could
you did it for me
i wish you hadn’t
we could have found another way
blood on your claws
you looked so scared so young so lost
you flinched as i reached for you
you don’t believe me
trapped in your cell
know this
i could love you…just as you are
Sweet Sixteen
Miriam bustled around the kitchen. If she kept busy, kept going, she might be able to push this through without argument.
“Or maybe a dinner party?” she mused out loud as she stared at the pattern on the plate she was scrubbing with a fierce intensity. “After all, sixteen is nearly grown up.”
“I don’t want a party, mama.” Jamie’s voice was flat, completely toneless and without life.
Miriam felt a hot prickle behind her eyes. “Why ever not, dear,” she asked, proud of the way she kept her voice from shaking.
She heard the chair bang on the floor as he kicked it back. “I just don’t, okay?” She felt the passage of air as he pushed past her. “Why do you always have to push it!” The back door creaked open then slammed shut. She lifted her head in time to see him scramble up the tree like a…she looked away, and refused to even think it.
Pulling off her gloves, she walked over to the kitchen table. She had sat him down with a glass of milk and a piece of paper, and had asked him to write down the names of all the people from school he wanted to invite.
The paper was blank.
Miriam sat down slowly and tried not to cry.
Outside Chance
“What the hell were you thinking?” The man from the party hadn’t stopped yelling since he’d stormed into my office like he owned the damn place.
Hell, I was running on the party dime. He probably did own the office. “I thought I could make a difference.”
That stops him in his tracks. He stares at me, agog, eyes bulging, mouth open. “A difference? A difference?” He throws his hands up and addresses the ceiling. “Heaven help us, we’ve got a fucking idealist!” He spins on the spot and jabs at me with his finger. “This isn’t some fucking fantasy land. This is fucking politics. And while we’re conducting this little lesson in naming shit, let me give you another one.” He leaned over the table and glared at me, his breath hot and stinking of cigarettes. “Political suicide. Which is what you have just committed. Congratulations, you’re out of the race.”
That got me to my feet. “You’re fucking firing me cos I’m a Power?”
He sneered at me. “Fire you? You’re the one that’s into suicide, not us. No, my friend, the voters will get you out all by themselves, and hand this seat to the fucking Opposition.” The last two words are yelled so loudly the windows rattle. He stormed out before I could argue back.
There was nothing else to do. I went back out there and fought and campaigned and tried to discuss the issues. And every interview, every debate, everywhere I went, there were questions on my Power, on my politics, was I a single issue candidate, was I going to start a Powers First party on my own? And on election night, the electorate I had so much faith in gave me a quarter of their votes and handed the other bastard the place on a silver platter.
I went back to my life, and tried to ignore the stares and the comments and the way I was passed over for promotion in the firm where once I was consider the rising star. And I seethed with a quiet anger I could do nothing about.
Until one night in February when my beautiful wife called me down to watch a news clip of a speech in Florida. And I smiled as she cheered and hollered.
One person couldn’t make a difference. But perhaps all of us together could.
Seeking (Drabble)
The GP sent me to the urologist. The urologist sent me to the proctologist. The proctologist sent me to the psychiatrist. They poked me and prodded me and gave me no answers. I tried acupuncture and naturopaths, everything under the sun, looking for answers.
Looking for relief. I thought I was never going to find it.
My sister introduced me to Audrey, who introduced me to her husband. Two hours later I was in the clinic. Two days later I had a diagnosis.
I cried when they declared me a hydrokinetic. Finally, I had my answer.
Finally, I could rest.
I’m Not Okay
You used to swear it would be forever. That I was your number one, the only girl for you, the centre of your universe. That nothing could tear us apart, that nothing could ever break the bond we had.
We talked about the future, our future. The life we were going to make together.
I thought what we had was unbreakable.
You drove me to the clinic, and kissed me goodbye. I could sense your fear and confusion. I was afraid too, but I never doubted you.
I came home from the clinic to an empty house. Your things were gone. No note, no explanation, no apology.
I don’t know what to do now.
I changed. I’m sorry. I miss you.
Come home, love. Please.
Blame
My father was the local vicar. He preached sermons of hellfire and damnation, believed in exorcisms, browbeat the faithful into following his word of God.
He told his parishioners that I was sick, a weak child, prone to pneumonia and asthma. They nodded and made noises of sympathy and he quietly basked in the glow of being a Christian martyr.
I wasn’t allowed to play with the other children. When I went out, I had to keep my head covered - to keep out the chill, my mother explained to the shopkeeper, the postman, everyone. She repeated it so often I think she began to believe it.
My father used to beat me. He called it spanking. But I think he was trying to beat the devil out of me.
I left the village when I was eighteen. I now paint them with nail polish, bright lurid colours, and go around with my head uncovered.
I wear my horns with pride.
Touched
They call me standoffish. They whisper words like freak. They all forget that I’m a human being.
Just a slightly more hairy version, is all.
I miss being stroked. I used to love nothing more than to have someone else brush my fur. It was my own, simple, pure idea of bliss.
It’s a cliché, but he was a jock. One of those big dumb blonde boys who think that the world exists to serve them. I told him no, of course. Not that he asked. He just reached, tried to take. I said no. I slapped his hand away. He tried again.
He was a footballer. He was big and strong and nearly a foot taller than me. Slaps turned to scratches and no turned into a scream.
He came and he took and he left me curled up whimpering on the floor.
I hate what he took from me. I don’t let any one touch me any more.