The Perfectionist

I have to start with May the 4th be with you! This week’s six sentence story prompt by girlontheedge was CONTROL, and it got weird. What started with a perfectionist researcher being interrupted turned a little strange, and well it’s up to you if you want to interpret this as horror/fantasy or take it as a metaphor.


The sounds of Bach’s Cello Suite No 1 came from a waterproof speaker mounted high in the corner of the lab, the only deviation in an otherwise textbook set-up.

The lab equipment was all stored as precisely as if it were a demo rather than a working lab, and the few samples being worked on were set up on an immaculate bench top, all labelled with perfectly legible capital letters, all spaced exactly one inch apart.

The scientist working on them also appeared picture ready, with nary a hair out of place as she methodically reviewed her data, making notations in her lab book with a precise print that almost looked typed, and only when she was sure that every detail had been captured did she move onto the next step in her procedure.

Then HE stepped into the lab, him in his open toed shoes, stopping the music, waving his hands as if he wasn’t surrounded by fragile equipment, and all hell broke loose when he finally made contact, her sense of control shattering along with the glassware.

She turned, snarling, her hair bursting from it’s tie as the strands turned to snakes ready to devour their prey, claws escaping through the tips of her gloves, and he barely had a chance to widen his eyes in horror before it was all over.

Three hours later the lab was back to it’s impeccable state, Bach’s Cello Suite No 1 drifted from the recently sterilised speaker as she stepped inside, freshly showered in a new lab-coat and gloves, she was ready to resume her work without interruption, and the only attention she gave to the now bulging biohazard bag was a note in her lab book to have it scheduled for removal when she was finished for the day.


Side note, going forward theses are moving to Wednesday’s and the Short Stories will be moving to Friday’s.

You Can’t Go Home Again Part 4 – Conclusion

If you are confused, where part 3 is, please go back and check my Sunday late posting. This is a six sentence story concluding my Faerie stories You Can’t Go Home Again. It also managed to get the word dotage in, which has been stuck in my head for 3 months.


It took years, but Grace eventually learned to be happy in this new time, with a small job, then a GED, and then in the strangest of twists, the written word. Though she never wrote with the speed and fluidity expected of her, she spent her spare hours writing of the Fae, singing their praises to be more honest, and when her social worker found one of her pieces, things exploded from there.

Her work was called spectacularly detailed, marvelously realistic, and she could never explain how she came up with it, or the darkness she had left out. Soon she was old, three score and 5 years had passed, and she was more of this time than she was of another, but her sister still weighed heavily on her mind.

She realized in her dotage that this was her punishment, for rejecting the hospitality offered to her, and she could only hope that the fair folk would accept her attempt at redemption, as she walked into the forest, to a place she hadn’t seen in so very long.

She stepped into the circle, a crone bearing books, and out of it a starving maiden, joyous, and so Grace returned to her sister, knowing that their were far worse things that could happen than going hungry.

Flight

Okay, this one is a little bit monster, a little based on an episode of criminal minds that included gypsies. Summary would be a supernatural family flees town when the secret is revealed, before they can get caught by angry people bearing pitch forks. Yup, its a weird one.


Before I could stop it, the blood from my cut fell and I watched it drop towards the table as if in slow motion. I started to run as soon as I knew I couldn’t catch it, not waiting for the gasps I knew would soon come as it hit the table and began to burn its way through.

“Jamie, whats wrong?”

I looked up to see my sister there, concerned, and I held up my arm to show her. “It hit the table.” I gasped out, and her face went blank, and then hard.

She grabbed my arm, and had me in the car and out of the parking lot before my friends had left the building. My blood was eating through the door frame as I couldn’t put enough pressure to stop the bleeding ,and I tried to focus on that instead of my sister barking updates at my parents. By the time we hit the highway I could see my parents car barreling down the middle lane, and we tucked in behind them.

We drove in silence for an hour, going nearly double the limit, and slowly my blood began to clot. When we pulled off the highway we didn’t slow, and quickly ended up at an RV park off of a dirt road. My parents didn’t chastise me, only cleaned and dressed the wound, covering it in salve to neutralize the corrosive effects.

My mother helped me strip] down and clean ]off. My long hair was chopped off, I was given glasses and a baseball cap, and an athletic outfit that was so far from my own style that I didn’t’ recognize it at first. The rest of my family had changed too, Dad’s beard was gone, my sister’s hair was in curls, and all of them were in matching track suits. It was abhorrent.

The car started on fire with a whoosh, as all out belongings were tossed in. We stayed long enough to make sure everything with my blood on it had burned, and then we got in the back of my uncle’s minivan. I wanted to ask when he showed up, but I was too ashamed, it was my carelessness that had caused this, after three long years.

“It’s not your fault.” My mothers voice startled me from my reverie. I looked up at her, and she continued. “It was an accident dear, it happens to all all of us.”

“We still had to leave because of me.” I sulked.

My mother was not one to beat around the bush. “Yes, we did. Did you want to leave?” She asked and I shook my head.

“Did you try your best?” She asked, and I nodded.

“That’s all we can do sweetie, try our best. Sometimes, sometimes our best isn’t good enough, and I wished you didn’t have to know that yet, but that’s life. I just need you to know is that your best is always good enough for me. I love you, you know that right?”

I nodded, but she wouldn’t let it go. “Right?”

“Ya, Mum, I know.” I mumbled.

“Good! Now get some rest, it’s going to be a long couple of days, and I am going to need you sharp if they catch up with us.” She grinned, and the sun reflected from her teeth, emphasizing the point.

I leaned back in my seat and tried to relax, hoping they didn’t catch up with us. I hated killing people.

The Forbidden Fruit

Okay, so even I have to admit I am not sure what the inspiration for this was. Something of a deal with death going on here, took me a while to figure out where the pomegranates combined with that. Side note, surprisingly large amount of info on pomegranates on google, apparently there is speculations that they were eating pomegranates in Eden and not apples, hence the title.


selective color photography of pomegranate

The scent of pomegranates lay heavy on the air, and I knew that I was in trouble. That first bite all those years ago had brought me vigor, the taste of a life renewed, but this was different. There would be no salvation for me, from the moment the tangy juice exploded in my mouth my life was extended, but there was a price to pay, and it was time to pay it.


I pulled out my pen and stationery, the good stuff I had kept for years and never found an occasion for, and I wrote out my goodbyes. When my letters were complete, I placed them carefully on the kitchen table so that they would be found by those who would come looking for me, few as they were. I shed my clothes, the last vestiges of my old life with them, and donned the robes I had sworn to wear, and walked barefoot into the dark of night, never to be seen or heard from again.