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 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.

    

Fiction Friday, the Fourth on the Thirteenth.

My friend gave me the suggestion of clams to inspire this post. I didn't like it. So, I reached out to my facebook people in an effort to get another word that would inspire me, as I'm basically a curmudgeon and a control freak. Their responses were even less inspiring to me. I feel full of piss and vinegar today. I don't know why. I slept well, ate good food and got to visit with some kids that I used to babysit that are now 28, 27, and 25...oh, wait. That may be why. I'M OLD, PEOPLE!

So. What word will inspire today's post? Clams, prickly pears, confidence, Postimperialism, Antidisestablishmentarianism, Defenestration, Bjork, and Paraprosdokian.

PS-I have NO IDEA WHY I WROTE THIS PARTICULAR STORY. It just came out. Interpret at will. I am not pregnant. Just in case you thought that. As I said to my boss the other day,"There's a whole process that has to occur before that can happen!"

None of the Above
by This Girl

The fluorescent lights clicked above my head as I waited impatiently for my name to be called. It had been over an hour since I had borrowed a clicky pen from a cup at the front desk and checked in for my appointment. I had already filled out my paperwork, checking the single status that they require for some reason. My legs were asleep. The anorexic magazine selection had ceased to entertain me, and the hacking cough being forced from the lungs of the man across from me was not only getting on my nerves, but had probably transmitted some sort of virus to everyone in his vicinity. I hate doctors. Hate them. And this one was about to ruin everything.

It had started simply enough. A drunken night. A one night stand in my one bedroom apartment. An expired condom. A missed period. Wishing symptoms away had not worked. Finally biting the bullet, I called my ob/gyn and scheduled an appointment. For this day. For an hour ago.

I knew in my heart what the pee test would say. I knew as well what the sperm donor would say. I had no idea, none at all, what I was going to say. To myself. To the something growing inside me. To my parents. To my friends.

A bored looking nurse in puppy dog scrubs came through the patients door, squeaking in her bright orange Crocs as she mispronounced my name. Looking at my hacking compatriot, I grabbed my overpriced handbag, smoothed out my pencil skirt that had become a little snug in the last two weeks, and followed Nurse Humane Society into the back room, my 3 inch heels clacking on the dingy linoleum. We headed to where the humiliation was about to begin: the scale. "Hop on up, honey," Pound Puppy said, impatient with the time it was taking me to drop the purse, kick off my shoes, and unclip my phone. Every ounce counts.

"My name is not honey, " I snapped as she adjusted the weight further and further over from where it had sat for the past 5 years. "Hmm, 145...that's a jump from your last visit. Let's head to room 1." After the niceties of taking temperature and blood pressure, she asked me the question. "What are you here to see the doctor for?" Wanting to correct her incorrect grammar, I told her. The snarky expression on her face softened. She lead me to the bathroom, and I stared into the toilet, cup in hand for what seemed like an eternity.

The time had come.

Ever the perfectionist, I didn't spill a single drop as I deposited my sample ( a sample that could change my world, would change my world, oh God, what was I gonna do) and exited the small sterile bathroom . Plopping on the exam table fully clothed, I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

I was about to lose my mind when a delicate knock sounded at the door. I squeaked a "come in" in a voice I did not recognize. The doctor, followed by Nurse Scooby, entered the room with a neutral expression on her face. I couldn't read her. Scrappy Doo was an enigma as well. Had these women trained at some sort of acting school to not show any emotion as they delivered news that could shatter a person's life? I wanted to scream at them to tell me...just tell me, goddamnit!

Then they did. Slowly, calmly, they told me that the test was positive. That I was pregnant. That all the worries and the sleepless nights wondering had been confirmed. They looked at me with sympathy as I lay back on the table. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. They left me alone to recover myself.

Tear were welling up in my eyes. Why was this happening to me, now? When I finally had my life in order. When I had a career, and friends, and happy hours to go to. When I was alone and not ready. I wasn't ready. At all. Not for this. Not...

And then I looked around. Really looked around me. I saw pictures of babies. Diagrams of a child in the womb and advertisements for different types of formulas. Sample packs of pre natal vitamins.

And I started thinking, I can do this. I can do this.

And my life did change. It was shattered, but put back into place in a different formation. And I was right about the father. About how everyone would react. But they don't matter. None of it matters.

All that matters is you.

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.

Fiction Friday. For real this time.

Someone asked me yesterday how I'm going to do this whole Fiction Friday thing. What's going to inspire it? What will it be about? And I said, Dunno.

Then I thought, I'm gonna take something I experience during the day, and take a word, feeling, or something I see, and convert it into a short piece of fiction. Today's motivation will be the word amazing, as it's amazing how many things can go wrong in one morning.

Amazing
by This Girl

It started out as an ordinary day. The sun peeked through the slats of dusty Venetian blinds, indicating to our sleeping hero that the day had begun, and that it had begun without him. Eyes gummed together with fragments from the past day, his arm shot from under the blue plaid comforter as he groped for the phone resting upon his bedside table. Shifting slightly, he raised his head and opened one eye to see the time. "SHIT, Fuck, Mother fucker!!" It was well past the time for his alarm to sound. It was well past the time he was supposed to head out the door for the job he loathed, but secretly needed more than it needed him. It was well past the time to get rid of the sleeping form lying next to him.

"Hey, " he barked, grabbing the girl by the shoulder and shaking her awake. "You gotta get out of here. I'm late for work. " He launched out of bed, grabbing underwear that were lying in a pile of shed clothing from the night before. A quick sniff test assured that they would work another day. Moving like a madman, he grabbed a clean shirt, pants, shoes, and belt in a fervor, not noticing that the lovely lady he had met in the bar last night had not moved a muscle. Pulling on his garments, he tripped as he tried to put both feet into his pants at the same time. Behind the red that was clouding his vision as he let out a stream of more obscenities, he heard a sound. A light sound, a sound filled with humor and the dredges of sleep from which the maker of the noise had just been torn. He looked over at the rumpled bed, and at the blonde woman who was laughing at him now, full out and with such delight that he caught himself smiling, just a little. His eyes followed hers down his torso to a pair of bright pink boy shorts with a rainbow emblazoned on each side.

Pants around his ankles, looking now into the eyes of a girl he barely knew whose underpants were hugging his hips, he began to chuckle. Then to laugh as the girl, breathless, uttered, "I'm going to pee myself...I can't..." He thought about the job he needed that didn't need him. He thought about the angry phone call he would surely receive from a boss who couldn't care less whether he was hurt, injured, or in trouble. He realized that he had a choice. A choice between sucking up to his boss and then working all day or staying in bed with this girl who could laugh and make everything right with the world.

He picked up his phone, sent a quick e-mail, and sat on the bed. "If you give me back my underpants, I'll get out of your hair, "she whispered as he looked into the blue eyes that he didn't remember being that blue, with the haze of alcohol and dancing blurring his vision. "I think I'll keep them. " He smiled. "What do you wanna do today, Samantha?" Surprised, she grabbed his hand and slyly said, "You remembered my name!"

"Yeah...good thing for me that it's written in your underwear."