The Curb – 5 Minute Fiction

He sits on the curb. His shoes scrape the black-top underneath them. In his hand he holds a worn and bent ace of spades. The design on the back is flaking off from constantly being handled.

Several cars drive by, nearly in slow motion, the drivers glancing at him sitting on the curb.

Foot steps approach, painted toes and a flowing dress.

He notices her and squeezes the card harder into its familiar bended shape.

She reaches her hand down, he reaches his up with his empty hand, and grabs tightly.

To Chase Something, Which Can’t Be Caught

She sits, he watches. She doesn’t notice, yet they are only feet away from each other.

He’s taking her in. Remembering every part of her for later, later when he’s alone. It’s not bad intentions, they are normal. He can’t stop them, not with her anyway.

She moves, he watches. She breezes past, he can smell her scent…honeysuckle. He’ll save that memory for later too.

She returns, he watches. Wishing she would sit a little closer than before, she does, but doesn’t notice his heart beats a slight bit faster.

He wishes, just for a second he could freeze it all, with no one watching, judging, or throwing a punch. He could place his lips on her neck, his arms around her and just melt.

Red Balloon and the Lollipop

The hooves hit the dirt, clouds of dust blossomed.

The little boy in overalls, with the red balloon watched, sucking on his lollipop.

The horse kicked and bucked again, clouds rose higher. The little boy squinted as the dust made its way over to him.

The horse came at him quick and the little boy let go of his balloon, took off, dropping his lollipop. Suddenly the horse stopped, his hoof on the lollipop.

The horse lower his head, sniffed, then began licking the lollipop. The little boy safe inside his home, looked out the window, seeing his red balloon drift further away.

The boy looked up at the red balloon then back at the horse licking his lollipop, wondering what he missed more.

My Own Poison

I don’t need to drink from a vial, there is no need. The poison is inside already, running though my veins. It mixes with in my blood, but only at certain times.

Reasons why and when it mixes are never the same or very clear. Some are longer doses, some shorter.

But it’s always there, waiting for me to slip up, however it might come about. I think the poison has a smiley face…not like Mr. Yuk at all. I think it gets great joy out of mixing within me. I think I’ve become rather fond of my own poison.

I Love You

I LOVE YOU…I swear, actually I swear a lot at you, is that why you can’t tell that I LOVE YOU?

I LOVE YOU…I promise, actually I’ve broken promises, is that why you can’t tell that I LOVE YOU?

I LOVE YOU…I insist, really I do, does it not sound like I mean it when I say it, is that why you can’t tell that I LOVE YOU?

I LOVE YOU…I honestly do, actually I wasn’t always honest, is that why you can’t tell that I LOVE YOU?

Whether you believe that I LOVE YOU or you don’t, it won’t change…

Whether you believe that I LOVE YOU even if you don’t see it, it won’t change…

Whether you stay or you go…it won’t change…I’ll always LOVE YOU.

View from the Floor

It’s rather comfortable down here, with my head resting gently against the carpet. I thought it would be painful, but it is more peaceful than anything I’ve ever felt before.

I can hear the dogs walking around me, the cats, closing in, although I can’t move a hand to pet them. In fact, I think the Polly got out of her cage and is flapping around.

The blood begins to puddle something fierce as I feel more and more of it flowing from the hole in my head and the one in my arm. Yes, even at this, I messed up and missed.

I didn’t think to do this in the kitchen on the linoleum like a smart person. Or put towels down at least. I hope that this doesn’t piss him off more, having to clean up the mess I made.

My view is different down here. It gives a new perspective to life, as well as the fact that I, apparently, failed doing a good job at vacuuming.

The view from the floor is a big paw, then several more; someone is licking at my head. Then I notice the legs of the couch, the floorboards, beaten and banged up, full of nicks. The blood, running slowly down over my eyes.

Stars

The brand new 1952 Riviera had blown a tire. At my age, and being a woman and all, I didn’t have a clue as to what I might do to change it.

My shoes were not meant to be walked for long distances in, but I had no choice.

Looking only up at the stars, I walked. I figured if my eyes met the road I would be sure to realize I had too far to go.

The stars didn’t twinkle like they did when Daddy would sing the song. He was always so loving, rocking me back and forth on the porch swing for all those years.

The stars didn’t shine bright like they seemed to when I wished on them about Mama.

Tonight they were just stars. Probably already burnt out, we just didn’t know it yet.

I continued walking, my shoes gently slapping the pavement, the moon and stars above, and the noise of a car coming in the distance.

The Problem

“I’m having a problem,” he said.

She waiting for more description, but it didn’t come.

“Can you solve your problem with a hammer?” she asked.

“It’d be awful messy,” he informed her.

“Can you solve your problem with a piece of candy?” she inquired.

“I would have to share,” he said. A frown appeared.

“Can you solve your problem with yelling and screaming?” she asked.

“One would think,” he said, shaking his head.

“Well I simply give up. I can’t help you solve your problem I guess,” she said and started to turn around.

He stopped her, placed his hand on her shoulder, and gently turned her back around. Pulling her close, he hugged her with all the strength of a hammer, with all the love of a sweet piece of candy, and with all the emotion of yelling and screaming.

***5 minute fiction extra*** What age is this couple???

Million Hearts in the Valley of Death

The stack of red is rather high, but I toss mine in anyway. A few others slide down, like unstable tomatoes piled high at the grocery store. I’ve arrived sooner than one would’ve anticipated, but it looks like I’m not alone. A steady line of men and women slowly walk up to the pile and drop their hearts in, some more angry than others. Over time I can no longer see mine.

The wind hits the dust and we all cover our eyes, getting only glimpses of the sand caressing over the red pile. When the wind has passed and it’s calm once again, there are miles of small mounds covered in a dusting of sand.

“Where do we go now?” I ask a man to my right, rethinking the question…”What do we do now?”

The man laughs. “We go home and start all over again.”

(This is my first 5 mintue fiction story…more to come I’m sure. Hence the name…it’s something that I write in under 5 minutes)