Flash fiction project: one dark story per day, all the way through October, each one based on one normal thing gone wrong. More of this year’s stories here. You can find last year’s stories here, or at Amazon as October Nights.
Normal thing: Writing
I put the pen down, close the notebook, sit back, stretch—my back crackles, I’ve been sitting still for so long—look inside the empty coffee mug in which even the dregs have gone dry, ugh my hand hurts, ahhhhh rub the palm, I have to pee, I pack up the notebook in my bag, stand up, my hips pop, my toes are cold and so are my fingers, this chair, my ass, roll head on neck, loop the bag strap over my shoulder, the bathroom, sweet relief, I feel the cold now, let the water run until it’s hot, wash hands, roll shoulders, back into the main room of the coffee shop, now I can hear the clink of silverware against china, the wail of the steamer on the espresso machine, the bean grinder, I’m hungry again, someone has already picked up my dirty dishes, thanks, an extra buck in the tip jar when it should probably be two, ugh the pinch between my shoulders, done.
My throat is sore. I have been used. I’m not sure what I’ve been used for, but the gods themselves have passed through me, and I feel little pieces of myself falling apart: bones, mostly, and sanity, disintegrating under the skin. Swollen knuckles, sore muscles, bad posture, eyestrain, bitten-down nails, have I been eating chocolate-covered espresso beans without knowing it again? Shit.
I don’t recognize the streets on the way home. It’s dark. I am someone else now; tomorrow when I try to eat breakfast I think, when did I ever like this cereal? Eventually, guiltily, I dump the room-temperature sludge down the sink.
Dark, strange, twisted, and wonderful – #paranormal #horror and #mystery stories from Wonderland Press.