Tongue Tied

You look at me, but you don’t see me. You don’t know me. You don’t remember me. To you, I am a stranger. Your blue eyes fill with fear when I approach. When I touch your hand, you pull away with a gasp. I’m overwhelmed just looking at you. An avalanche of memories overtakes me in a way I both welcome and resist. Sometimes, the memories are catalogued and coherent, sometimes they are fragments and pieces that seem torn out of a random chapter in our story. They are beautiful and marred. They hurt to recount, but I can’t help it. I have to. Because you don’t. You don’t remember when our fingers first brushed in the library, your nose buried in some brilliant tome about the laws of physics, mine in a Tom Clancy novel. You don’t remember how beautiful you looked when you blushed at the contact. You don’t remember when I asked you to marry me, and I nervously stumbled through it and you couldn’t believe that I got choked up. You don’t remember your laughing resp...

This house was alive. It seemed sentient. Breathing. Thinking. Feeling. Plotting something dark. Penny tried to remember this house from her childhood, when her Grandparents had filled it with warmth and the smell of just-baked cookies, when laughter echoed through the halls instead of the hollow silence that seemed to scream at her now. As a child, the soaring ceilings and paneled walls had seemed charming and magnificent, a wonderful place for her imagination to create fairy tales, a castle where she could pretend she was a princess in distress awaiting her prince. She wondered if it was her imagination now that made the old Victorian seem threatening instead of welcoming. The beam of her flashlight traveled the walls, catching glints of cobwebs and dust. The house had been vacant for nearly a decade. Her grandparents had willed it to her mother when they died, but for some reason, Penny’s mom swore she’d never step foot in this house after their deaths. Penny re...

Just feeling like some midsummer flash fiction. 300 words. You know the drill. I’m not a fool. I know the odds are against me. I know that at the end of this day, my blood will soak the earth beneath my feet. My eyes will be shuttered. My heart silent. Today is a day of death and destruction, most likely my own. But I’m still here, gripping my weapon, my fingers moist and my breathing shallow. I wouldn’t say I’m not afraid. I’m definitely afraid.  Terrified, even. But not of death. Death I can handle. But I fear living in a world controlled by these monsters. I’ve been a soldier all my life. I have stood on many battlefields and watched countless men die, some by my own hand. Yet, I know that today is not like any other war I’ve encountered. For the monsters we’re facing aren’t the flesh and blood of man, but the slithery steel of something unknown. We don’t know how to kill them, not really. We aren’t even sure they can be killed. We don’t know if our weapo...

They had grown comfortable. Arrogant. Unkind. And now they were paying for it. Emotion stalled thickly in his throat as he watched his son pack his belongings in the brown duffle bag. This boy was barely out of school, yet his country considered him man enough to fight a war. A war he didn’t start, but rather inherited. He thought back to the days of his own youth, to the time when the trouble started brewing. He remembered how every citizen seemed angry and frustrated, half of them one way and the other half the opposite way. He recalled how civil debate had started to become civil unrest. He tried to pinpoint when it had happened. When disagreement had turned to war. When had they stopped seeing their fellow countrymen as valuable people? When had being on the opposite side of the political spectrum reduced a person’s worth in their eyes? When did they lose respect, civility, the ability to disagree maturely? When had political dogma become more important th...

I knew I wasn’t alone, even before I saw her face staring back at me. I’d felt her eyes boring into me as I walked through the warehouse. I’d heard her sigh all around me, the unnatural breath of something unfamiliar. I’d felt the chill of her on my skin, a tingling sensation alerting me that something was different here. So it really wasn’t that surprising when I turned to find her standing not three feet away from me. But I still gasped. Her blond hair lay in strings around her pixie face. She was a pretty girl, probably only ten or eleven. She wore faded jeans and a tee shirt sporting the peace symbol. If it wasn’t for the cut of those jeans, I’d have never known she wasn’t from this time. An untrained eye would have thought she was a ghost. But I knew better. I knew her presence here wasn’t because she was a lost soul tied to this place. She wasn’t haunting me. She was, of course, dead in my time, but that didn’t make her a ghost. I knew she wouldn’t s...

For Marissa ****************************************** She sees him everywhere. When she’s folding laundry, and she notices that his clothes are absent. When she’s picking up toys and she wonders if he would have liked to play with them. When she’s strapping the kids in the car and sees his empty seat. She couldn’t have imagined before that her heart could break so many times in a single day. Every day. How difficult it would be to navigate the ever present grief. Even when she’s not looking for reminders, they’re there. Like when a friend has a new baby or she hears a song on the radio or a familiar verse is mentioned during a sermon. It’s like her heart is instantly there, in those moments of fear, suffering, longing and desperation. She doesn’t have to try to remember. Some things are always there, just underneath the surface, easily erupting. There are days when she can’t believe she’s able to get out of bed. But she knows she is not alone. She knows every moment had a purpose. Ev...

It’s sort of sad how this doesn’t make her sad anymore. She steps blithely through the crime scene and catches the familiar sound of glass crunching beneath her boots. It should disturb her that she associates the taste of coffee with gruesome scenes of homicide. It should make her never want to drink the bitter brew. But here she is, downing her second cup this morning. Her mind goes into auto mode, sorting and cataloguing the details before her. She takes stock of the body, the wounds, the shell casings littering the area, the direction of the glass from the broken window. It isn’t hard for her to piece together what happened here, to imagine what sort of evidence the M.E. will find. She’s already mentally formed a crude sketch of the killer; not an actual face yet, but a profile. His habits, his history, his methods, even his motives. Nothing ever surprises her anymore. Well, almost nothing. “I see you’ve already got one.” She turns to see her partner smiling behind her, clutching t...

“You can see him now, Mr. Richards.” The young nurse motions toward the closed ICU door. Joe wipes his moist palms against the thighs of his jeans and stands slowly. This is it , he thinks, running a weary hand through his hair. This is the last time I’ll see my father alive . With shaky fingers, Joe pushes open the large door and is greeted by that signature hospital smell, a medley of antiseptic and the odor of illness, of a body failing at life. He forces himself to look at the form of his father in the bed, barely recognizable after losing 30 pounds. Wires spider web around his gaunt face as machines proclaim his heartbeats with an alarmingly slow cadence. The whoosh of the respirator pushing air into weary lungs forces a burning lump into Joe’s throat. He knows his father can’t speak to him. He doubts he will even open his eyes, let alone be conscious of their final meeting here today. Joe senses that whatever it was that made his father the man he has known all his life has alrea...

I don't know if this qualifies as flash fiction, but it's creative writing and it's 500 words. So, I'll take it. ***************** It seemed so harmless. The fruit wasn’t as delicious as some of the others she had tasted. It was crisp and cool, but more tangy than sweet. She suddenly realized she preferred sweet, but she took another bite anyway. It was pretty fruit, after all. And new. And she felt sort of….funny eating it. An icy thrill shot through her, an unfamiliar feeling that had a sort of edge to it. She didn’t know if she liked it or not. It was pleasant at first, but suddenly she had the urge to look over her shoulder. She felt watched. Nervous. Exposed. He approached her, and she cast her eyes away from his. A tingling laced up her back. She glanced around for the serpent, finding him gone. It was just her. By the forbidden tree. Holding the half eaten fruit. She could find no explanation that seemed satisfactory for what she had done. And in an instant, she ...

“And there were in the same country shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night…” He listened to the childish voice carefully read over the words of the familiar story. Snow fell gently outside the windows, making the dim morning light slightly darker. It was barely seven a.m., but he couldn’t blame the kids for waking up with shrieks and laughter before the sun had even risen. It was Christmas morning, after all. The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled as the little family sat snugly around the fire. He looked into the faces of each of his children, their hair still tousled from sleep, their little feet warmly clad in plush slippers. His eldest, now eight years old, diligently read from the Luke 2 passage, while his younger son and toddler daughter listened intently, their eyes shining in anticipation. For a moment, his heart wavered as he gazed at his children, a mingling of overwhelming love and thankfulness washing over him. How had he ever gone through a day without notic...

A chill swept through her and her eyes shot open. The dark ceiling loomed above her. She stared at the dingy whiteness for a moment, trying to find her bearings. She lay still, not stirring the sheets on her bed, her mind racing. What had awakened her with such a jolt? Finally, she noticed she wasn ’t breathing and exhaled as she tried to relax. There had been a voice. A man. Saying her name. Had she dreamed that? A dog barked down the street, and she jumped at the noise, then rolled her eyes at herself. Forcing a calm she did not feel, she pulled the sheets to her chin and willed herself to close her eyes. She had been so jumpy since it happened. Almost three months had passed since the accident. Most of the time, she was just so grateful that she was still alive. Paralyzed, but not deceased. A better fate than some of the others on the bus that day. For the millionth time, she replayed the events in her head. The gentle rumble of the bus suddenly changing to screeching tires. People...

The door of the bar rang out an annoying jingle announcing his arrival. The tinkling sound threatened to awaken the migraine he‘d been ignoring all night. He stamped the snow from his boots and bellied up to the bar. “Hey, there.” The bartender gave him a nod. “Haven’t seen you in awhile. Is it that time of year already?” Taking off his hat, he exhaled. “Yep. Busy season too.” “Take a load off. The usual?” The bartender was already filling a glass with his favorite drink. He gave a nod of thanks and accepted the frosty mug. “Rough night?” “You wouldn’t believe it. This storm coming through makes things ten times harder. Can’t take a snow day though. People expect my work to get done even if the post office closes.” “Guess you can’t exactly call off in your position, huh.” He chuckled. “Can you imagine the chaos? Not to mention the nagging I’d get from the misses.” “All over now though. What are your plans for vacation?” “We’re thinking somewhere tropical this year. Any ideas?” “I hear...

“Remember when they were babies? All cute and soft.” “And they were quiet as long as we held them.” “Yeah…that was nice.” “Woah, watch out. Almost took a lego to the head there.” “It’s okay, I’ve got good reflexes.” “Remember when we could leave the house at nine to go see a movie?” “And not worry that we had to rush home because the babysitter was probably locked in the bathroom suffering post traumatic stress disorder. I should give Kaitlyn’s mother a call and see how she’s doing.” “I don’t think they’ll be taking our calls for awhile.” “Probably not. At least not until her hair grows back.” “Is there any milk left?” “Did you check the fridge?” “That was my first line of reasoning.” “Try the pantry.” “The pantry?” “Yeah.” “Why on earth would the milk be in the--hey, there it is.” “Told you. Has it gone bad?” “Eh, not quite room temperature. We’ll survive.” “There are clean sippy cups in the dishwasher.” “Do you smell that?” “Oh no. No, no, no, no! WHERE DOES POOPY GO?” “I think he’s ...

She looked down at her trembling hand, the weapon she grasped suddenly seeming to weigh fifty pounds. She hadn’t signed up for this. It had always seemed so easy for her. She’d been at the top of her class in the academy. Honors and the approval of superiors had never been unreachable goals. She’d fostered an attitude of courage and a work ethic that others in her class admired, if not begrudgingly. She’d been bent on proving that a woman could do as well as a man in law enforcement. She believed that with all her heart. At least she had up until about thirty seconds ago. The body of the man lay crumpled on the ground not ten feet away. Blood pounded in her ears, still ringing from the sound of the shot. She noticed her breathing had become heavy and worked to control it. The effects of the adrenaline coursing through her body made her head spin. The suspect was barely out of his teens. Hardly more than a boy. In an instant, she thought of all the things she didn’t want to consider. S...

“So…what do you think?” It was a simple question. One he shouldn’t have trouble answering. A simple word would have been sufficient. Yet, his mind seemed as dry as his mouth. He wished he could tell her the truth. He imagined himself opening his mouth and pouring out all the sentiments that had been residing in his heart for years. He’d always had such a struggle speaking his personal thoughts. He gazed at her, wondering if he had ever seen anything more beautiful. He didn’t know much about fabrics or varying cuts of dresses. Nor did he have any idea what it was called when her hair was pinned up like that, soft curls cascading around her face. All he knew was that she was the most stunning bride he’d ever seen. He imagined her walking down the aisle toward him today, the veil covering her sweet face as she smiled, a bouquet of yellow tulips (her favorite, he knew) in her hand. The music would fade from his hearing, the guests would disappear from his vision. All other conscious tho...

It wasn’t the first time he’d been shoved into his locker door. Or found hateful notes taped to it. Or been punched. Or ridiculed. Or secluded. The force of the shove sent him flying, knocking his head into the door and making him see stars. Pain shot outward from the point of impact. He didn’t really feel the pain in his heart anymore. Everyone hated him. No one at this school seemed to care about him. Bullies abused him. Teachers sympathized, but did nothing. He had no friends. Even his parents didn’t know what to do with him now. He knew coming out would be difficult, but he never realized how devastating it would be. He rubbed the knot on the back of his head as he sat on the ground beneath his locker. Students walked by. Some glanced at him. Some didn’t. No one cared. He was beginning to lose faith in humanity. So much for everyone being equal. Suddenly, a well-manicured hand appeared in front of his face, the delicate fingers reaching out to him. He looked up to see a girl with ...

William held the sword tightly at an angle poised to kill. Anger coursed through his blood at the sight of the miserable man cowering before him, sweat glistening on his forehead and fear shining in his eyes. Never before had William ever considered killing a man. Never had he felt such wrath toward another human. His life had been marked by gentleness. His brothers had often teased him that there wasn’t a vengeful bone in his body. It had never bothered him that he wasn’t a man prone to fits of temper. Prudence and maturity had always been his prized characteristics. Until this filthy traitor had arrived. William had welcomed him. Shared his table with him. Allowed him to become a confidant in his family’s affairs. “William…” the coward plead. “Let’s be reasonable.” William sneered. “What would you have me reconsider, Marlow? What have you to say that could possibly lessen my anger?” Marlow inched back from the sword. “I am your friend.” “You are not my friend!” William shouted, his v...

She did her best to blend in. She slipped into the chapel without a sound and chose a seat in the back corner, hoping she was hidden from view by the vast flower arrangement nearby. She shouldn’t be here. She was infringing. But when she heard he’d be here, she couldn’t help herself. She had to see him one last time. She tried not to think about how long it had been since they’d parted ways. Since he’d confessed his undying love for her. Since she’d turned him down. Not a day passed when she didn’t think of the fervency in his eyes, or the sadness that filled them when he realized she didn’t love him. At least, she had been pretty sure she didn’t love him. After all, he didn’t really fit into the plans she had for her life. He was a homebody. She yearned for travel. He was an insurance salesman. She longed for adventure. He wanted a quiet country home. She needed the sounds of the city. But as time went by, she doubted her decision. And he’d moved on. Chosen another. She caught a gli...

She had been waiting for him. She hated being here. Hospitals always reminded her of sadness. For some reason, the dark memories seemed to trump whatever happy memories occurred there. Births were overshadowed by deaths. The smells and the sounds made her wish for release. She knew it wouldn’t be long. She couldn’t speak, and though she barely opened her eyes, she could sense those surrounding her. Her daughters, her granddaughters, holding her hand, combing her hair and talking to her. She loved that they were with her, these dear women whom she cherished. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful for their presence. But she could not leave without seeing him one last time. She thought of the men she had lost, the wounds in her heart that hurt her still, even on her dying day. She thought of her husband, and her heart quickened to think of being reunited with him soon. They hadn’t always had an easy life or made all the right choices. But they had always loved each other. She thought of h...

The knot in her stomach pinched almost as much as her Sunday shoes. On the outside, no one could have guessed the secrets she hid. She was shiny and clean. Her skirt length was acceptable. She wasn ’t wearing too much makeup. She smiled sweetly at the other churchgoers when she took her seat with her family. Her black leather Bible (in the only acceptable version, of course) had her name embossed in gold. She looked at her name now, shiny and glittery, in lovely script. It felt like a lie. Why should her name look so lovely when her heart was so ugly? Shame filled her at the thought of her secrets. She would go to her grave with those secrets. Even if she were to marry, she doubted she would even tell her spouse. She was good at hiding, at pretending to be sweetly naïve . Why should anyone see her differently? But she knew she couldn ’t fool God. She shifted at the thought. She’d been in this church her whole life. She knew all the stories, all the verses, all the truths of Jesus’ lov...