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 the Fird

All right, it's supposed to say third. But I love alliteration, so SUE ME, Motherfronters!

It's been a long ass day. Got to the Kravis Center at 11am. Just got home after 12 hours in the theater with no real break. Sang well and got some compliments. Felt super awkward after the show, as I knew no one, and the friends I was waiting for were swamped with people praising them. Awkward. Understatement. Then I had a burger and a beer. And all was good with the world.

So, again Fiction Friday is happening Saturday morning. I'm sorry. Here it is, with a suggestion of the word Lantern, by the same friend who offered up Chevron last week. I'm listening to the Big Chill Soundtrack as I write. That might explain the below story.

Lantern
by This Girl

Scantily clad women standing in windows beckoned to me as I made my way through the Red Light District. Some were attractive. Many were not. They posed in provocative positions as they tried to tempt me into their storefronts, where thick red curtains would be closed to conceal from pedestrian view the sexual acrobatics that were about to ensue.

I wasn't interested. I had never been interested and never would be. With my short cropped hair, lack of makeup and lean frame, I was often mistaken for a young man when in fact, I had the same parts that these women placed on display for the world to see. It didn't bother me at all. My asexual nature had kept me safe more often than it had harmed me in my 28 years. The errand that I was currently running would require that protection.

The chill in the air caused puffs of steam to surround my head as I hurried towards the small coffee shop with a literal red light mounted next to a swinging sign. Wanting to get this over with, I grabbed a hold of the handle and was surprised when it did not turn. Looking down at my neutral black banded watch, I cursed under my breath in English, hoping to keep my cover for few more moments. Pulling a guide to Amsterdam out of my satchel, I pretended to be a baffled tourist while checking out the security system of the small building in front of me. I felt I was being watched. This feeling was confirmed as I sighted a camera swiveling in my direction. Knowing that my errands success hinged on immediacy, I decided to improvise.

Improvising consisted of grabbing a stacked chair off a table in front of me and throwing it through the window.

Not my most subtle moment, but I knew that the current crop of baddies who dealt in trafficking humans would be caught off guard by my actions. I also knew that I had backup a mere 3 blocks away. What I couldn't handle with surprise and the two .500 Smith and Wesson's I had concealed beneath my neutral peacoat could be handled by my comrades and their testosterone fueled justice.

Unbuttoning my coat and squatting as masculine shouts arose from the interior of the coffee shop, I grabbed the handles of Peace and Understanding and flicked off the safety on both of my beloved guns. I felt a smile cross my face. Anyone looking on would have recognized the smirk of a berserker ready for a bloodbath. Reigning that side of me in, I started counting the pages of paperwork I would need to fill out if I actually killed someone today, and launched myself through the busted window.

It had begun.

The shortsighted and comfortable douchebags tried to reach for their weapons. They failed. A well placed shot in the shoulder or leg incapacitated them enough for me to make my way further into the room. High pitched screams joined the grunting and mewling from the wounded heavies by the bar. Men's voices roared behind me, telling anyone with a weapon to drop them, now. Realizing that I was no longer the only white hat in the room, I made my way towards the piercing sounds. Turning a corner, I was fired on by a roided out jerk in a grey T-shirt and jeans. His shot went so wide I reflexively shot his leg out from under him and waited for his graceless plummet to the ground as I shot the other one in the exact same spot above the knee.

A hand grabbed me from behind, pulling me back. Swinging, I almost kicked the guy in the balls before I realized he was on my side. Signaling me without speaking, he indicated that the building was surrounded and to proceed with caution. Caution is not my strong suit, and I've lived when many would have kicked it. I signaled him back, one middle finger extended to show what I thought of his idea.

Barreling around the corner, I saw that Roid Boy had been dragged out of the hallway. Streams of brilliant red blood showed the path the big man had taken. The smell of blood in my nostrils and the sounds of scared women caused me to see red. I ran for the door that closed above the scarlet streaks and kicked it open while staying low. A gunshot rang out but passed above me by several feet. Pulling up Peace, I didn't even aim, but fired at the man who had attempted to kill me. I didn't care where it hit. I only cared about the teenaged girls and slight women all tied together in the corner of the room, sobbing and moaning.

I hit him. Of course I hit him. I never miss. Never. It's not boasting or bragging. It's the truth. The only casualty in the entire operation died with a bullet in the middle of his forehead. I made sure the women were ok from a slight distance, then turned to the man I had flipped off moments earlier, and said one word to him that indicated I was done with the job that had been assigned to me.

"Later."

Fiction Friday:Kind of.

It's 12:38am on Saturday. The day got away from me with work til 7pm and just being plain tired. A friend texted to remind me of the lack of a Fiction Friday post, and gave me the word Chevron. Here's the story.

Chevron
by This Girl

The crisp fall weather and barren trees were a sharp contrast to the vibrant colors of the coats and scarves worn by the screaming second grade class as they recessed. Children swinging, skipping and reveling in a break from the tedium of reading, writing and rithmitic behaved like tiny maniacs in a ward filled with jungle gyms and see-saws.

I sat on the step to the main building, staring into the distance. My mind was on the cigarette I was wishing was in my hand and a plot to grab another cup of coffee before beginning the next lesson was formulating in my head. Caffeine and nicotine. A way to get through the morning hours til lunch, then the afternoon til recess, and finally til the children went away. An almost circadian rhythm of teaching elementary school for the 10th year. Starting out, it had been a crusade to educate and illuminate the life of a child with the glow of knowledge and curiosity.

Now, it was just a job. I cared for the kids, but as soon as that bell rang, I was gone.

Herding the children back into the construction paper bedecked halls of the school, we finished the day with art projects that were Pollock inspired not by intent, but by pure lack of imagination and motor skills. Hanging each piece to dry on a clothesline with various multi colored clothespins, I barely gave the images a second thought as I quickly turned out the lights, locked the door, and headed for my car that I could barely afford.

It was getting colder out as the day waned, and my breath puffed out in front of me as I unlocked the door. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted one of my students standing by herself, neck craned to spot a car heading to pick her up. She was small for her age, with long ashy hair and a sweet face stuck behind a bright pink scarf. She was one of the quiet ones, and never gave me trouble so I'd never really paid her any mind. My phone twirped, and looking down I saw a text from a girlfriend asking me to meet her for much needed drinks. As I pulled away, a beat up Subaru pulled up and the anxious expression on the little girls face disappeared.

The next morning dawned cold and hungover. Caffeine and nicotine and aspirin. Entering the room, I started pulling down paintings that had improved little after drying and began placing them accordingly on each students desk. Timmy painted a lion. I think. Lilly painted a flower with a smiley face. Barf. Rachel painted a tree with a racoons face peeking from a hole in the trunk. Not bad.

The next page was from the little girl standing outside by herself the previous afternoon. It depicted a gas station with a man standing in front of it. The man was wearing a white blob which could have been a robe, and had a yellow circle above his head, a childish interpretation of a halo. I had no idea what it was meant to depict, but with my pounding head and the countdown to the arrival of my students, I gave it little thought.

As the kids filed in noisily, I loudly announced the schedule for the day that I had meticulously written on the board. Addition, subtraction, telling time...lunch came and went, and then recess. The kids all screamed out the door, save the little girl. She slowly came towards the front of the classroom, where I was putting on my coat.

"Ms. Leehman?" she asked, quietly getting permission from me for her to speak. I looked down at her and was about to urge her to get her coat as well when I noticed the dried tears on her round chipmunk cheeks. Something inside of me shifted. I forgot the headache and the fuzziness behind my eyes, and finally looked at this hurting little person who was now looking at me with fresh tears welling up in her eyes. I was seeing her, my student, for what seemed like the first time. I was feeling it again, the fire that urged me to protect this little girl and to make everything okay for her.

Holding my finger up to her to wait, I called to one of the teachers in the hallway to cover my recess shift. I gestured for her to join me in the reading circle, and when we had both settled into our bean bag chairs, she told me. About how her dad had two jobs, and worked nights at a gas station to keep a roof over their heads. How some man had killed him for the money in his cash drawer and snacks from the front counter. How now it was just her and a littler sister with their mom, all scared, all lost, and all mourning. She explained it as a child would, with an adult tone creeping into her words that broke my heart. Tears flowed, from both of us, and though I was told to never show affection to the kids, I grabbed this little girl and hugged her until all her tears had gone. And I started to talk.

"I know it's going to hurt. And I know it's going to be hard. But you talk to me whenever you need to talk. Let me know if there's anything you need. Ever. My door is always open. And the principal and I will talk to your mom. Ok?"

She nodded. With one last squeeze, I walked her over to her coat, helped her to put it on, and walked with her to the double doors leading to outside. I sat on my step. She sat with me. We watched the other children playing in silence. I watched the kids with new, refreshed eyes and realized that the politics and the rules and the standardized testing didn't mean anything. The grading papers and the wasted weekends crafting assignments didn't mean anything. My shit didn't mean ANYTHING. These kids meant everything.

And I was going to do my best for them. And for this little girl, whose name was Sarah.