Getting Dumped

“We need to talk.”

Those four words could only mean two things, and as Nicolas knew for certain that his girlfriend had gotten her period only a few days earlier, she was definitely about to dump him.

Relief washed through him.

He’d been meaning to break it off with her for almost a week now, but they’d hardly spent any time alone together since he made the decision, and he could certainly not dump her in front of an audience. Now, however, it seemed like he didn’t have to dump her at all.

“Sure,” he said, striving to look appropriately glum. It felt like he was at the funeral of someone he hadn’t particularly cared for.

Continue reading Getting Dumped

Dandelion Girl

A/N: A sonnet called Dandelion Girl. 


If you were a flower you’d be the dandelion.

It’s not that you’re not beautiful.

It’s not that you’re not wanted.

Nor that I don’t think you unusual.


But you are no feeble rose.

Who needs me to thrive.

If I did not want you, you’d still live.

And if I were to leave, you’d still strive.


You are the dandelion of flowers,

And that’s why I love you.

Your strength, your will to live,

Through concrete you grew.


And I’m wondering, my dandelion girl, if you might love me too.

And we will be two dandelions entwined, the same and yet new.


 

Last Words

A/N: If any of you guys haven’t checked out the most common regrets in life, you might want to do so now. It’s quite thought-provoking. Anyway, here’s my little story centring around it. 


It was hard to believe that the frail man lying in bed had once been one of the most feared and respected men in business. By now his skin appeared like parchment, stretched out over feeble bones, and his once booming voice was reduced to the softest whisper.

Around the bed his family was gathered, looking at the man with tears in their eyes. For them he wasn’t a feared business man. For them he was their brother, father, grandfather. Family.

“Alice,” the man whispered, and his daughter hurriedly sat down besides him so that she wouldn’t have to worry about missing what she expected might very well be his last words.

“Yes, father,” she said to the man whom she’d adored despite his regular absence throughout her life. She wondered what he would say. Would he apologize for the times work had come first? Would he tell her that he loved her one last time? Would this be his goodbye?

“Alice,” the man repeated, before sighing ever so softly, looking around at the tearful faces surrounding him.

“I wish I’d spent more time in the office,” he said, and with these last words his eyes fell shut, never to open again.


Liberty

A/N: And somehow it’s Saturday, and I haven’t posted by Friday post yet… oops. 

Anyway, I tried to make one of those poems where you circle words on a page of text in order to create a poem (forgot the name for it). The text chosen was one of the pages from my 20-page analysis of Jane Eyre. Enjoy!


Quickly!

Gain liberty!

Delightful, is it not?

Predict the future and change it.

Be careful and sensible.

While simultaneously act.

Seek a new life.

Be the future.


Hero


He’d always assumed that if he ever got superpowers, he’d be a hero.

And he did become one. For years, actually. At least he tried to be, but people didn’t seem to be half as thankful as he thought that they ought.

No matter how many lives he saved, they always complained. He’d allowed one person to die, saving twenty other. Someone had been hurt when he’d carried them out of a burning building. The cost of the damages of his fights against crime was much too high.

Why couldn’t he fight evil without wrecking the town as he did so? He should look at the numbers, should he. Then he would realise how expensive it was to fix a town. Much more expensive than a funeral or two.

No matter what he did, people were always complaining.

And so he decided that there really wasn’t any point in being a hero.

No, he thought as he slowly put on the mask, relishing in the anonymity it gave him. Being a hero is overrated.

This way he didn’t have to worry about people getting angry, or breaking stuff. He could do all the stuff he wanted. He could have fun.

He could enjoy his abilities for the first time since he’d gotten them.

Yes, he thought. Being the villain is going to be so much more fun.


 

The Interpretation of Dreams


Her scream was muffled by the gloved hand.

“Shut up, bitch!” he hissed at her.

Crying, she tried to shove at him, but he didn’t even seem to notice, let alone care.

Then she saw the knife. He lifted it high up, before slicing it downwards, and she screamed into his hand as the searing pain hit her.

Then she woke up, gasping for air.

“Are you okay, darling?” a tired, but concerned voice asked next to her.

She looked to the side, seeing the face of the man who’d tried to murder her.

“Just a bad dream, sweetheart,” she told him. “Nothing to worry about.”

Except that her husband kept killing her, night after night, and perhaps that was something to worry about.


Lack of Update

Hi everyone!

I’m sorry I haven’t been able to publish anything this weekend, but as an apology I include a link to an awesome story called Four Walls

It’s written by Fae Mallory, a published author of romance.

Though it’s technically a fanfiction of Once Upon a Time, it’s really an original story in its own right, and you don’t need to know anything about OUAT to enjoy it.

“A dying Mr. Gold is determined not to let his fortune fall into the hands of his greedy relatives after his death.”

And so he decides to marry his maid. 

Enjoy!


 

Thornhill

A/N: Okay, today’s post, which is a flash fiction, was originally a challenge! 

Nothing was allowed to actually happen, I had to mostly just describe the weather, and the narrator had to be omniscient. And yet it had to be entertaining. Let me know if you think I succeeded!


It was a horrendously beautiful day.

The roses had bloomed over the night, and the garden was now heavy with the sweet scent of them. The sun was shining above the people of Thornhill, too brilliant and clear and smug not to sentient, but everyone down there thought it lovely. Self-satisfied bastard.

The lady’s maid hoped that the lady would take a walk in the garden, so that she herself could enjoy the same sunshine.

The stable boy was grinning from ear to ear, hardly able to think of anything better than the warm feeling of the sun on his bare face.

The butler thought it a bit too bright, but it was merely the amount of alcohol that he’d consumed the previous day that made him any sort of sensible.

It was a horrendously beautiful day, and it would only become better from now on.

How dreadful.

The Sandstorm

There was a sandstorm coming in.

Nikki saw it coming with an odd calmness. They’d checked the weather reports. It wasn’t the season for them. And yet there it was, and they couldn’t have more than a minute or so before it hit.

Looking over at her colleagues, she saw the panic in their faces before she felt it herself. Watching Christian cover his face with a scarf, she hurried to do the same, making sure her entire face was covered. Sandstorms weren’t vital as long as you kept the sand out of your lungs, and the important thing to remember was to stay calm.

Except the closer the storm got, the harder it became to remember what she’d once read in a textbook.

And then it hit, and Nikki was blind.

Continue reading The Sandstorm

Harold Gets Visitor

A/N: Just a (hopefully) funny flash fiction 🙂


It was one of those instances where a gasp just wasn’t enough.

Still I gasped.

I suppose I should have screamed, looking back. A gasp seems oddly anticlimactic, but I’d never been the screaming sort anyway. That was more Darren’s kind of thing, but Darren wasn’t there.

And so I gasped, and they gasped, and for a few short seconds we could only stare at each other in silence.

Perhaps it was a good thing that I didn’t scream. When one got visitors, screaming hardly seemed polite, and these visitors had sure come a long way.

“Hello,” I said. Or at least I think I said it. I heard the word, and I rather thought I’d felt my mouth forming them.

“Hello,” one of them said in return, but it didn’t sound like a greeting. It sounded like he – she? It? – was merely repeating what I’d said. Tasting the word.

“I’m Harold,” I told them. “And would you mind terribly to get your spaceship out of my backyard? You’re ruining my petunias.”