Friday Fiction

I have a lot of unused plots sitting around or just random bits and pieces of writing that I’ve either started and never finished or just not had time to work on.  “Friday Fiction” sounded like a fabulous way to clean off some of the clutter on my desk.  Some of its bad, some of its okay and some of it’s just plain weird.  Consider yourself properly warned.  Most will be older writings, but this scene was actually written the night before last when I couldn’t sleep and storms rolled in just in time for a funeral.

The storm awoke her from a fitful sleep, the crash of lightning and booming of thunder colliding in her mind with such seamless effort that it took several minutes for her to realize she was no longer dreaming.  Grabbing the most worn out of her terry cloth robes, she slinked it on, curling herself into the fabric so it could help hug her discontent away.

The chill of the hardwoods caught her off guard, temporarily making her forget that they were in the last days of a record heat setting summer.  Ludicrous, she though, that she could be chilled when the temperature gauge on the porch was registering over 100 before the sun even rose.  The day would be filled with these moments, she realized.  Moments where time and memories collide, where hate and love intertwine.  Where her mind would rattle from one derisory scene to the next despite (or perhaps because of) the way the stars never aligned in her favor.

“I’m going to bury you today,” she mumbled to the empty kitchen.  I haven’t seen you in a decade, she thought.  Never cared to see you again in my life and yet I am going to get dressed up in black and stand by your grave and listen to the lies people tell about you.

She exhaled and loosened her grip on the cupboard door, tugging it open and pulling out the beaten up French press hidden from view by the over-sized burnt orange Cusinart mixer.  Like her sobering memories, the press hadn’t seen the light of day in years.  She grimaced as she put water on to heat, the cast iron kettle clanking loudly against the porcelain as she took her frustrations out.

“I should have killed you fifteen years ago when I had the chance.”

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