Don’t Blink

Welcome to this week’s six-sentence story, based on the word of the week, SECOND, and oh my, this one is not for the faint of heart. This one has trigger warnings a plenty, and while there is nothing explicit in the story at all, there are implications a plenty, the least of which is that the narrator was a victim of a crime, and how far you take this, is really up to you. I suggest you read the tags if you are triggered by ANY kind of crime or assault, because again, there are implications a plenty here. For those who choose to go on, I hope you find this interesting.

Blink, he was gone, it was over, it would never be over, it had changed nothing, it had changed everything, and she lay stunned, alone, unable to do anything, even cry.

Blink, she was surrounded by people, all asking questions that she couldn’t answer, not knowing what had happened, how long ago, or why, and she allowed herself to be guided into the ambulance, flinching from the bright lights and screaming siren.

Blink, the fabric of the hospital gown was rough against her skin, but nowhere near as abrasive as the cloth cleaning the sticky blood from her forehead, and she stared uncomprehendingly at the officer by the door, holding her clothes in a a clear plastic bag labelled evidence.

Blink, there were more of them here now, voices overlapping to form a sea of sound from which she could not pick the words, and she wished she could remember something about what happened, but they told her it was Thursday, not Tuesday, scoffing at her unreliability.

Blink, she walked down to the cab wearing gift shop pajamas, since she knew no one who could bring her clothes, and she clutched the voucher in her hands, along with the cards for the detective, the counsellor, the hospital follow-up appointment, hoping someone would be there to let her into the dorm because she didn’t have her keys.

Blink, she answered the door, listening as they told her that the case had gone cold, no leads, no cameras, no descriptions, and she forced herself to keep her eyes open, even as they began to burn, because she knew now what could happen in second it took to blink her eyes.


Rustling in the Dark

Hello Hello and welcome to Write piece under 300 words about someone who realizes too late what is about to happen. Follow our narrator of no specific gender as they go home and realize that there is someone in the house…

I knew that Tom wasn’t supposed to be home, and his car wasn’t in the driveway, which is why I hesitated in unlocking the door.  I could hear a rustling sound within, a hushed whisper, and I wondered if it was too late to run.

It was dark now, the moon new, and the cul de sac, surprisingly absent of the usual door lights that would give them entire place a dim glow.  I know that some of them have to be home, if I ran, if I yelled, would they even look, or would they ignore me the way they did the day I screamed bloody murder after walking into the spider web between my car and fence.

Every instinct told me to flee, there was someone inside, and that they felt the need to hide it said everything.  The sound of my phone ringing betrayed my presence, and I could barely hear it over the sound of my heart pounding in my chest.

I shifted my keys to between my fingers, braced myself for the fight, and opened the door, knowing at once what was going on, but too late to do anything to stop the assault.

I was overwhelmed by the bright lights, the roaring noise, and it took me a moment longer than it should have to decipher the screams.


The Reddest of Flags

So this week I fell off the posting wagon between finals, final assignments, work, NaNoWriMo, renovations, and an upcoming visitor, I forgot to edit my Friday work, and forgot to schedule this, my six sentence story based on the word valet. Follow our non-specific narrator as they drive up to a place that is out of there league, and realize that this is no ordinary dinner.

I knew that a mistake had been made the second I pulled up to the restaurant, which was far more fancy than he had let on.  The complementary valet parking stood out like a giant red flag, warning me that there was danger within and I should have turned around right then and there.

I walked into the place, glad I had dressed up, but not meeting the income level to wear clothes that would pass muster in a place like this, so I held my head up and did my superhero walk, because confidence covers a multitude of sins.

I sat down at the table, waiting for him and when the pre-paid champagne was offered I figured out what was going on, turned it down, and I asked for directions to the bathroom.

I sat hyperventilating in the stall, and the text that said he was running 20 minutes late was like a blessing, the out that I had been waiting for. 

I slipped out the front, palming a 50$ to the host at the front door to say I hadn’t arrived, retrieved my car and sped out before I could be spotted, sending a text about a last minute emergency, and making a plan on how I was going to break up with Mike, because tonight I discovered that this was not a man I wanted to marry.

The Unraveling Thread

Hello Hello, today’s six-sentence story is based on the word of the week, THREAD.  I took this one a little metaphorically, with the idea of it being the thread of someone’s argument.  It got weirdly preachy, and it is sort of a outsider POV of someone delivering an epic anti-vax rant.  This is delivered from the POV of a pro-vax narrator, and if that isn’t your jam, I would ask that you please stop reading rather than flaming my comment section.

One of my core beliefs is warning instead of censors, which is why in many of my pieces you will see references to tags for things that might upset people, or trigger them.  While I love feedback, I do always request that you consider what you are about to read and follow the basic rule of “Don’t like it, don’t read it,” or the social media equivalent, “curate your own experience.”   For those of you still interested, take a look at this weeks six, on the thread of the argument.

On the surface the story made sense, but even as he spewed his vitriol if you started to follow the thread back to it’s origin, to the flimsy web of conspiracy propped up by a single study paid to say what they wanted to, you would realize that all It would take is one good fact tugging on it to have the whole thing unravel.

He spoke of the consent of children, that he was afraid of needles, but no one cared, and he ignored how much his mother did care, how much it hurt her to watch him scream in terror, but remembering the screams of her own mother when she was told that the polio had moved to her sister’s lungs, and it wouldn’t be long now.

He stood saying that he had mumps, measles, chicken pox, all of it, he was just fine, they had pox parties back in his day, but he doesn’t remember that Timothy Green from special Ed was in his 1st grade class, top of it, before the party, and just because those were the best options they had at the time, didn’t make them great ones.  He doesn’t remember his mother worrying about how badly he had the mumps, more so than she worried about his sister, that the fact he “got around” so much in his younger days without consequence, might have less to do with luck, and more to do with why his ex-wife got pregnant a month into her new relationship, after years of trying with him before the divorce.

He brandishes the scar for smallpox, saying that his body was permanently disfigured, when he was only a child, along with his 5 siblings, even though he had never known anyone with smallpox, as if that mark wasn’t the reason he didn’t know anyone with smallpox, and that without it, they would likely have numbered 4 instead of 6.

Then he wound up his rant with the rise in autism, the last great proof, citing data 20 years old, before the vaccination rate and autism rates diverged, before it was common knowledge that there was just one study, and he delivered it all with the conviction of a man who had never had a child, never watched one die slowly from something spread that didn’t have to be, a man who had never once followed the thread of his own story back to its faulty sources.