Fiction Friday-WOOOOO!

News: I  have an official boyfriend, he met the family, they love him, Bailee quit PMS, I cried and now I'm PMS'ing.

Now on to Fiction Friday.

I had a friend comment on a status update with "Mmmm, brains." So. That's gonna inspire today's Fiction Friday.  I hope you like it.

Brains

by This Girl

I've been sitting here, in this jar, for what seems like ages. Floating around in formaldehyde, with no stimulus other than the occasional mad scientist's assistant coming in to steal one of my neighbors for some crazy, misguided experiment. They never pick me.  They barely even glance in my direction.  I'm going to be honest and say that it's beginning to effect what was once a brilliant and somewhat egocentric mind.  I was never the last one picked. Always the first, always the best.  And now there is a film of dust covering the label on my jar that screams to the world two names that during my life were connected with the word genius.  I honestly couldn't tell you at this point of my death what those two names were, but I hope you'll forgive me as it's been years since this brain was actually inside a skull.

I can remember how I died. An argument with the wife distracted me whilst I was combining elements that required precision in measurements, and boom! My hands were blown to smithereens and I bled out on my laboratory floor while she screamed like a banshee for help that never came. Why I ever married that woman is a question I have pondered on countless occasions while on this shelf. I should have stayed in the lab when my dear mother told me to come upstairs for that ridiculous party.  I should have never bowed to societal pressures and began courting that ridiculous creature, and should definitely not have placed a carbon allotrope ring on her finger.  She was always nagging about how I loved my work more than I loved her, and she was right. That night she had gotten upset about my missing a dinner party. She claimed my absence caused her embarrassment.  Usually, her complaints fell on deaf ears, but the addition of flying missiles being hurled at me from the staircase caused my attention to wander.  I'm sure she has since remarried, or has died of consumption. I don't know and I don't care.

I long for the day when a hunchbacked Igor will grab my jar from the shelf.  When a Dr. Frankenstein will take my gray matter into his hands and plunge me into the cavernous skull of some patchwork cadaver, then animate me with the electricity of the gods.  The day will come when I will be able to walk and talk and create again.  My research was on the verge of completion when that harpy ended my life with her absolute idiocy.  An irony to die while researching immortality, but no one can say that I don't have a sense of humor.  Didn't have a sense of humor, as I can hardly laugh in my current state.

The day will come. I'll be plunked from the death I could not avoid and live again. My hands may be larger and rougher than my delicate, white hands with which I was born.  My gait may be lumbering.  My speech may be impaired, but the ideas and the genius behind them will be immediately recognizable.  I will outreach even my new master in regards to fighting and beating death.  I will conquer death and with it, the world.

If I had a mouth, I would maniacally laugh right now.

   

Fiction Friday, Finally.

To my few readers who enjoy the Fiction Friday Format, I apologize for the delay in postings.  New relationships are wonderful and all consuming, so here I am, a week late in continuing the story created two weeks ago.  I apologize to my dear readers, and hope you will stay with me on the incredible journey of love and blogging. Ewww. Insert barf noise here.

Hope Returns

by This Girl

(continued from two weeks ago)

I heard a rustle and realized that Ms. Adaams was making her way over to my table. The scent of cigarette and Jovan White Musk hit me first. I heard her take a breath to speak. My own breath sucked in, a defense mechanism from years of non-smoking. And she said, with a voice raspy from menthol's and screaming orders to the kitchen area, "What'll you have?"

Looking at the food smeared menu that served as a place mat, I pointed a shaky finger to a breakfast combo that looked large enough to feed a family of four.  Eggs, hash browns, bacon, toast...the standard diner fare.  After a series of follow up questions that I answered with one word sentences, she sauntered away to grab my  coffee and small orange juice.  Realizing that staring at the wall and identifying various stains was not going to amuse me for the entirety of my meal, I reached into my purse and snagged my dogeared copy of Jane Eyre.  Taking out the gas station receipt bookmark, I entered the alternate world of a down on her luck governess and her passionate affair with the lord of the house. Immersed, I barely looked up as Morticia dropped off my drinks, instinctively pouring suspect creamer and sugar into the coffee in the exact measurements required by my palate.  Morticia hesitated a moment, inhaled to speak, but seemed to realize that I was not in a talking mood and turned on her heel, squeaking her shoe as she walked away.

Ten minutes later, she was back and I took a break from the goings on of Thornfield Hall to gaze upon a mountain of breakfast food that had been placed before me.  As I unwrapped my silverware, Morticia spoke up. "That's one of my favorites, although my copy is a little worse for wear," she said, gesturing to the book that was now lying open on the chipped table. I was surprised by her comment, having made assumptions about her character and intelligence based on her profession and appearance.  "Really?" I asked. "What's your favorite part?"  Her face softened, revealing a hint of hidden beauty behind the cosmetic facade.  " The end. When Jane goes back to Rochester and he's been hurt. It's so romantic. Much better than that 'haunting the moors' nonsense of Wuthering Heights. Well.  Enjoy your breakfast."

She walked away as I sat, dumbfounded.  I had judged her harshly, given her surroundings and my own perception of societal norms. Given my mental state, I allowed myself a moment of indulgence that road weariness and my own life being so overwhelmingly shitty that I had merely transferred my negative emotions onto this poor woman who had done nothing to me but look differently. I dug into my meal, my book now laying ignored on the table as I ate with a gusto that had come from nowhere.  I swore to myself that the next pass the waitress took of the table would find me in a more talkative mood.

As she wandered over with a coffee pot to top off my cup, I finally looked into the face of the woman who was taking care of me.  The makeup was harsh, but underneath the eyeshadow were hazel eyes that shone with intelligence and life.  Her lips may have been crimson and over drawn, but there was a genuine warmth in her smile that reached two small dimples in her cheeks. I finally looked at her name tag, wanting with all my heart to know the name of the woman that I had given such a harsh nickname. "Hope," I said, glancing up at her face as she poured a fresh cup with an expert hand.  "That's my name," she said, "and what I believe in. Jane had it.  Rochester had it.  And I have it, in abundance."

As she turned to walk away, I reached out and placed my hand gently on her coffee wielding arm.  Without thought, tears welled up in my eyes as the words "Thank you" came tumbling from my toast crumb dusted lips. She stopped, turned towards me, and winked. Walking away, she called out to the boys at the counter, teasing a laugh from them with her words.  I didn't hear what she said.  I only knew that I would be leaving the diner with something that I had not come in with. And that was a big ole helping of Hope.