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“So,” said the relationship counsellor brightly. “Mx and Mx Interrobang. How have things been going since your last appointment?”
“Oh, please call us ? and !,” said !.
It gave a small smile.
“Well, you know. We’ve been taking things one day at a time. Some people still don’t accept us being together, which is difficult. Sometimes they can’t even remember our married name.”
“But you continue to feel passionately about this relationship…?” said the counsellor.
“Oh, yes! Absolutely!” ! hesitated. “Though… sometimes I think ? doesn’t feel the same way.”
? stared at !. “That is not fair! You know I want to be with you!”
“Do you? Do you really?”
! sighed.
“It’s just… Every time I look at you, it looks like you’re questioning everything.”
“Oh, please call us ? and !,” said !.
It gave a small smile.
“Well, you know. We’ve been taking things one day at a time. Some people still don’t accept us being together, which is difficult. Sometimes they can’t even remember our married name.”
“But you continue to feel passionately about this relationship…?” said the counsellor.
“Oh, yes! Absolutely!” ! hesitated. “Though… sometimes I think ? doesn’t feel the same way.”
? stared at !. “That is not fair! You know I want to be with you!”
“Do you? Do you really?”
! sighed.
“It’s just… Every time I look at you, it looks like you’re questioning everything.”
Literature
sweaterse
when you've a love
in repose,
all quiets
are woven together.
all worries and
worships and
weathering
kept, cared,
covered.
every summer
warms, every winter
draws closer.
and the silences
sweeter than
heaven.
Literature
A Confluence of Time
October 4th, 2012.
Matthew Lyman stepped outside of the Quik-N'-Easy where he had so disgracefully worked for the last two-and-a-half years. It was early evening, and he was halfway through his afternoon shift. He absentmindedly reached into the pocket of his red and yellow jacket, searching fruitlessly for a pack of cigarettes that were not there. Confused, he scowled and began chastising himself for his forgetfulness. He turned to reenter the dingy, poorly-lit convenience store; running his left hand through his short, dark, unkempt hair; before remembering that he had not forgotten his cigarettes — he had quit two weeks ago, and
Literature
The Resurrectionist
Ilya stands with her wrist arched, a paintbrush poised in the long thin fingers of her left hand. They are artist's fingers, pianist's fingers, the lithe, dextrous, steady fingers of the surgeon. Not even the faintest tremor is evident as she stands to contemplate the work before her, perfectly still... so still that she seems to be chiseled from stone, a work of art herself, not a living creature. Her long dark hair falls waist length down her back in a torrent of curls. A surgical mask is strapped across her face; the faint contraction of the mesh with each intake of breath is the only indication of life.
The whole cold, sterile, harshly l
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120 words.
Written for Flash Fiction Month 2017: Day 23.
And this did start off being inspired by the optional theme: delirium... But I took quite a detour ^^
Written for Flash Fiction Month 2017: Day 23.
And this did start off being inspired by the optional theme: delirium... But I took quite a detour ^^
© 2017 - 2024 SCFrankles
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That ending line cracked me up 