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.