Mr. Right

This was another Jimmie prompt inspired by the picture below. I took this, and of course, made it dark and twisted. Please note this contains descriptions of an abusive relationship and may be triggering to some.

On the surface he was perfect. Tall, strong, handsome, with money and personality to spare.  He was a catch by any standard, and I knew he was too good to be true.

My friends brushed my concerns aside.  They told me I was being overly critical.  That I could find the fault in  anyone.  That no one could up to that kind of scrutiny.  That I wouldn’t do any better than this.

  He gave me the courage to quit my job and pursue my art.  I would move into his house, and he would cover for everything. He supported me, and my dreams, where my friends would not. He encouraged me to let them go, and told me I could do better.

 In a matter of months he went from being one person in my life to my whole world.  I started to doubt my misgivings. He was the best friend I had ever had.  The kind of guy I had always dreamed of.

 The facade fell in layers, as he went from compliments, to suggestions for improvements,  to criticisms.  We stopped going on dates, then we stopped going out, and then he locked me in the basement. 

He told me if I wanted to I could go. Then he showed me a wall of tens of thousands of seemingly identical keys. All I had to do was find the right one.  He told me to trust my instincts, and locked the door.  I laughed until I cried.


Ok, so it looks like I am officially doing weekly posts for the Microfiction Mondays, please note that like the short stories this could lapse into biweekly at any time. This microfiction was to base a story in an apartment in the middle of the afternoon. it got dark, fast, and its got a death warning.

The apartment was clean, excessively so.  Everything was perfectly arranged so that it could double as one of the spreads in the neat stack of magazines sitting on the fingerprint free glass top of the coffee table.  The bed was made, the dirty laundry in the hamper, and the breakfast dishes already washed sat drying in the rack by the sink.  The only item out of place was a lone travel mug of coffee on the counter, whose insulation would keep it hot for hours longer than the body in the living room would stay warm.

The Marking of Marks

This was for the final week of The Writer’s Mess challenge, odd celebrations. I chose the picture prompt below, and melded it a little with some good old fashioned parental bribery. Where a mother makes up a special celebration to make sure her daughter succeeds where she did not.

There was never a lot of money at their house. She had enough to eat of course, and a roof over her head. Most people thought they had more than they did, because her grandparents liked to spoil her with toys and clothes bearing labels they could never afforded. She learned young to save her money, and to really think about what she wanted. She had been thinking about this shopping trip for months.

This was the time for her favorite celebration, what her mother called “The Marking of Marks”, and the destination was the local used bookstore. While she lived at the library there were always limits to what she could find. Books though, like all magic, came at a price, especially when you were buying them Her mother wanted her to do well in school, and so it was agreed for each of her 8 classes, she would get 2 books for an A, 1 book for a B, nothing for a C, and lose 2 books for every failing grade. She was proud to say she had never lost a book.

This year was 15 books, with the only blemish on her record the B she received in Gym. They had gone to the bookstore every week since Christmas, and she already knew exactly which books she wanted. This was going to be the best Marking of Marks ever!

Too Much Fun

This one is an ode to those of us who loved the idea of a party, but had issues with the actual practice. Written for this weeks event on The Writer’s Mess, which is Birthday/Birth/Adoption/Death. For prompts I used the picture below, and this week no additional prompts.

Evelyn was not having a good day, which was sad, because it was her birthday. Her mother had made the party perfect, and forced Evelyn into a beautiful dress that a thousand little girls would die for. All Evelyn noticed was that the elastic in the arms was too tight, it was scratchy on her legs when she sat, and when she spun it did not twirl.

It was also overly warm, and was making Evelyn increasingly cranky as the day wore on. By the time the platter of cupcakes came out, Evelyn was done with this whole birthday thing. As the lights lowered and the voices raised Evelyn wanted to cry. All the voices began to scream for her to blow out the candles, and when the balloon popped, Evelyn screamed too.

Notes: FYI, I can practically feel that dress, and turning 35 this week I still will not buy a dress that doesn’t twirl. I do not see the point in it.