Friday, April 20, 2012

Fiction Friday the Fifth or Damn, I love alliteration.

This week, I was discussing Fiction Friday with my mom, complaining that it was harder than I thought.  She casually threw out the sentence, "Then maybe you should stop giving your writing away."

WHA?

I'm so used to giving it away. My writing, my voice, my acting, my time, my emotions and my energy.  I don't know any other way.  People have OFFERED to pay me for all of the above things, but I've rejected their advances. Why, I don't know.  But it's something I will continue contemplating.  Who knows where I would be if I insisted? Not me.  It's not my nature.

Ah, well.  Another late Fiction Friday, though this time is was due to watching Monte Carlo until 1 am and feeling depressed and sorry for myself while eating half a box of Cracked Pepper Triscuits.  Mostly cause I'm jealous of Selena Gomez's amazing boyfriend. BIEBS!! (I kid.)

Here it is.  No suggestion from anyone on this.  Just my brain.

Darkness
By This Girl



Slow and stealthy. Sinuous steps. A sigh escapes me in anticipation as I reach the prone form sprawled across the fallen chair that moments before had held a breathing, living being.   I looked at the surprised expression on Gary's face as I grasped the heart tipped pink and red arrow and pulled it from his chest.  Wrenching it out from between fragile ribs, I delighted in the spray of blood that followed a squelching noise of which I had become very familiar.  I was getting better at this. The first few times had been messier, noisier, and less quick for my victims.  Now it was rote. Watch, wait, then shoot.  Always aim for the heart. 

My predecessor had trained me well.  As a young Cupid in training, I had believed wholeheartedly in the idea of true love. I'd signed on for the job of creating romantic feelings between two human beings, of fulfilling individuals by bringing them together with their perfect mate.  I wore the diaper proudly, and the day I received my own bow and quiver had been one of the best days of my life.  I was happy. I'd watch the couples I had brought together frolic through sunshine, have picnics in parks, and marry each other in a ceremony that was intended to cement the love I gave them for eternity.

Then it went wrong. They weren't staying together for eternity.  They weren't even staying together past a night.  Romance and love gave way to carousing and one night stands.  And I watched each and every person that I shot with my arrow of love interpret it as lust and squander the gift I had given them for the next tumble in the sack.

I'm not gonna lie.  I became depressed. So depressed my normally pink and chubby frame lost the baby fat and became gaunt and sickly.  My diaper didn't fit.  My curly blonde locks were limp and lifeless.  My wings went from snow white to smoke grey.  I had no motivation. I could barely hold my bow, and my arrows were careening so far from their intended targets that I once had a woman fall in love with the Eiffel Tower. They even got married, which would have been a success story were it not for the fact that it was a building and she was a human being.

And then I got mad.  How dare these human beings not appreciate the gift that had been given to them by the GODS THEMSELVES?!!?!?  How dare they make my job, which I had done every day without fail since I got my wings, OBSOLETE?!? WHO THE HELL DID THEY THINK THEY WERE?

And I snapped. I sharpened the tips to my arrows, and worked on becoming real.  I concentrated, with all my might, on physically effecting the human world.  It was slow work, taking years and years to perfect.  And one day it happened.  I found a lone man sitting in front of a computer, looking at multiple windows on his screen.  One was a dating site.  The other was a streaming adult video. My anger helped send the arrow into his sternum, just missing his heart.  As he screamed, I sent another arrow through his throat, ending his miserable life. His landlord found him shortly after, but the killer, me, was nowhere to be found.  There wasn't even a murder weapon.  And I got away with it.  And I'll keep getting away with it.  WHO'S GOING TO STOP ME?

I've lost track of the number of people I have killed.  They far outnumber the number of people I helped to fall in love. I've even caught up with a few of the no longer couples that so disappointed me. They deserved this fate. They had something that I will NEVER, EVER have and I hate them for having had it and throwing it away.


    

1 comment:

  1. As one who suffers from the same affliction — I usually give away my music, comedy, improv, teaching talents and would give away my writing if I felt anyone actually wanted it, even for free — I more than get it. The best asset you have is that you're who you are. Work to live. Live to create. Combine them when and if possible. The few times I've made $$$ from my creative writing (some plays, songs, etc.), I must say I've found the experience unrewarding, and the validation flimsy. As for the story, I notice you've kept up with first-person. You must feel like you've hit the ball with the sweet spot of the bat. Nice job. Again.

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