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.

Getting What You Asked For

This was written for Flashfiction February on my discord server. I went with the 100 word target, and the challenge was dialogue only. In this case I went with the idea of something between a Djinn, Rumplestiltskin, and a Faerie, and getting what you asked for. As many of us know, you have to be VERY clear in your word choice, or else….


“A deal is a deal.”
“Of course, and I will hold up my end.”
“Yet you will not give me what I am owed?”
“I will give you exactly what you are owed Dearie, but not what you asked.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I am bound to the bargain, to the very word of it.”
“But you will not give me what I have asked?”
“No dearie, because what you wish is what you asked.”
“It is, it could be-“
“It very well could be, were I the generous sort.”
“And?”
“Take what I give, and do not test my equanimity.”

Winter Wonderland

Hello, and Happy New Year to All! New Year, Same Me, and just as dark and depressing, sorry if you were expecting something else. I saw the picture below and wrote something disturbing, about a woman out in the cold, knowing she can’t stop moving. It’s just as dark and creepy as it sounds… based on the photo provided by Jimmie.

Please note, starting next week I am doing biweekly posting for the microfiction and short stories. I will alternate weeks. More information to come Wednesday.


She squinted her eyes against the harsh glare of the winter sun, and it seemed wrong to her that it could be so bright and yet, so cold. The snap of a branch startled her into a gasp, that turned into a cough as the deep breath of frigid air burned it’s way into her lungs.

She turned, frantic, but there was no one in sight. She wasn’t being followed, yet. She couldn’t feel her feet anymore, and only the sound of the snow crunching beneath her with each step assured her that she was still moving forward.

She couldn’t say for certain how long she had been going, it felt like hours, and her running had long since slowed to a trudge. She couldn’t stop though, no matter how tired she was. If she stopped, even for a moment, she knew that she would never get going again.

If she was lucky, she would freeze to death, lying alone on a winding forest path. If she wasn’t lucky, he would find her, and she would only dream of getting such a sweet relief. Each new noise, sounding like pursuit, spiked adrenaline though her system and kept her moving. She went on hoping against hope that around the next bend, she would find someone to help her.

Finally, she saw a figure in the distance. Relieved, her legs gave out under her, and she was unconscious before her head hit the frozen earth.

Talisman

Okay, so this was written for the six sentence story prompt of charm, by girlontheedge. I am blaming this one on the fact I am reading The Stand by Stephen King right now, because its strange and a little twisted. It started off as a cute little idea, someone with a good luck charm, a rabbit’s foot, then it was the foot from a real rabbit, and then the guy carrying it got dark, and well, Happy New Year!


He walked into the house with a good luck charm in his pocket that you wouldn’t realize was the actual foot of a rabbit unless you got close enough to see the small rust colored stain on the fur where it was attached to the keychain like all the dollar store knock offs.

He was a superstitious man, even though his job relied far more on precision and skill than luck, but when you were raised by a woman like his grandmother, the superstition never quite left you, even when you knew it was foolish. 

He was a hard man, the type that in another time people would have accepted as a necessary evil, someone who got things done regardless of the costs, but in the here and now, his ruthless efficiency and cold demeanor scared most people when he let down his mask.  Even when it was up, it was like they could sense it, a lingering aura of death following him home in the case for his M82, which he carefully stowed in his attic until his next job.

When he was clean, and clothed, the charm back in his pocket,  he practiced in the mirror until the smile on his face no longer looked plastic, and then he picked up a different case and walked across the road, bracing himself for the noise within.

He stepped through the door, fifteen minutes before midnight, handing over the case of champagne with his apologies to the host, and sat surrounded by the unsuspecting sheep from his neighborhood, one hand in his pocket, fiddling with the rabbit’s foot to make sure he brought only good luck into the New Year.