Very Short Stories
Fast Fiction
Another Day
She got up slowly, unhappily. Mornings were not her best time. She shuffled across the linoleum floor in the kitchen to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup. No milk, no sugar, that was too much like hard work.
The post on the floor by the front door was stacking up, beginning to trap balls of dust. She ignored it and sat on the sofa, tucking her robe tighter around her as she flicked through the channels looking for something to catch her eye. Nothing did.
The clock ticked.
As the winter sun dropped below the horizon, she got up off the sofa and walked to the bar. A bottle of gin, a fruit glass. No need for mixers or slices of fruit or even ice. She moved back to the sofa and drank it. When the bottle was half empty (it had never been half full, for her) she screwed the lid on and put it back behind the bar.
Moving slowly, unsteadily, she head for the bedroom. The old robe fell to the floor as she crawled into bed and closed her eyes. It would take a while but sleep would come. She made sure not to drink so much gin that she ended up unconscious, passed out on the sofa. This was important to her, meant she was still in control.
Sleep did come, the late rising sun found her breathing deeply, at peace. She'd made it through another day.
A Hole in the Bed
Half asleep, I realise there is a hole in the bed.
I reach my arm out but there is nothing there, just endless space. I wonder what would happen if I fell in.
Slowly, regretfully I drag myself up into consciousness and look around. He's gone. Only tussled sheets remain where he had been, already cool to the touch.
I stretch myself out, warming his spot. I imagine to myself I am filling the hole, making the bed safe again for my dreams. My arms around his pillow, I take advantage of the luxury of a double bed all to myself.
Miles Away
She stares into his eyes.
She sees her own reflection and wonders if that is how he sees her. Small, insignificant. She feels herself drowning in the brown depths of his eyes, searching for more. Something to hold onto. She searches through the endless portals to his soul, desperately hoping to see herself, some sign of how he feels about her.
He blinks.
"Don't look at me like that."
She turns away.
"Was I looking at you? Sorry, I was miles away."
Nightmare
I dreamt he was there.
Arms around me: safe, secure, protected, treasured.
An anchor.
I twist and turn, frightened to lean on a rock that may crumble.
Frightened of not just enjoying the reprieve, but needing it.
I sit in the garden, alone, content. The tree branches sink down to the ground with fruit 3 times the normal size. I think, "I have made this so," and become frightened again.
Frightened of becoming stable rather than the star shooting through the sky: a bright flash of light and it's gone.
If I am cured, will I be boring?
The bedsheets wind about me as I fret about questions that never see the light of day.
I am sat in the drivers seat. I hit the brakes over and over, they don't work. I try to tell someone, but they won't listen. Slowly, inexorably, the car creeps forward. I watch in slow motion as his car crumples under the impact.
My fear turns towards him. How do I tell him, how do I explain I wasn't trying to destroy what was his. How do I convince him it wasn't my fault, wasn't intentional.
How do I convince myself?
I move again and this time shake myself into full consciousness as I realise I am so twisted into the sheet that I can't move. I breathe in and out slowly as I extricate myself from them. I shift my body against his, carefully, not to wake him but just to gain the reassurance of his warmth.
I drift back into sleep vowing to forget.
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