Dark Lady
06-30-2009, 11:11 AM
I thought I might as well try submitting something I've written on here. Would be nice to get some feedback on my writing as I'd like to get the novel I'm currently working on published some day.
This is a piece of flash fiction I wrote when I did Creative Writing as part of my English Literature degree. I wasn't sure whether to put it in here or the 'Short Story' sub-forum but since it's not really a short story I thought I'd go for here.
The formatting has gone a bit dodgy from copying and pasting and I've put in an asterisk or two where there weren't any before but didn't want to be told off for naughty language.
And it comes back to him in flashes. Unfamiliar eyes boring into his. A short black skirt. His hand going up that short black sk…NO! Oh no! Buttons on a strange top. Taking longer than usual to fumble with the bra clasp because it wasn’t the usual bra clasp. And then. And then…
Sh*t. Sh*t.
Jane.
She is beside him. She is sleeping peacefully. Peaceful in her ignorance. A wisp of hair has fallen over her face, obscuring it. He wants to brush it away. To brush it away and kiss her on the cheek and hold her. Tightly. Forever.
But he can’t. He can’t because of the eyes and skirt and buttons and bra of last night. He can’t because he has betrayed her and if it wasn’t for her ignorance she would be so hurt. So very hurt because he has that power over her just like she has it over him, but he has abused the power.
She moans quietly in her sleep and all he can do is stare. At the wisp of hair that covers the perfect face that he might have lost forever. And he can’t even touch her one last time because he is tainted with the sweat from the skin under the bra and skirt.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs quietly. To her? To himself?
And tears threaten. He tries to swallow the lump of guilt in his throat away and almost gags. He feels sick but can’t move. He can’t turn away from that wisp of hair because he might never see it again.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, but this time it sticks on the lump in his throat and turns into a sob.
“Hmm?”
She stirs.
He slowly comes into focus. Sitting next to her. Looking at her and-
Something’s wrong but in her drowsy state everything’s taking a long time to make sense. There’s some hair in her eye. She brings a sluggish hand up to brush it aside.
Tears streak his face. What’s wrong? She sits up and the question is on her lips when his words finally penetrate. “I’m so sorry.”
A horrible feeling creeps over her. It starts by numbing her feet and legs. It tightens between her legs. It attacks her stomach, turning it to jelly. It sneaks up and constricts her throat. It pounds through her head and stops her from thinking. That terrible thought is stopped just on the edge of forming and she sits stock still staring at the tiny streams on his face.
With the thought stopped before it is properly processed she has time to notice certain little things. To commit them to memory for painful occasions sometime in the future. How dark his eyes are; the fact that his right ear is ever so slightly higher than his left; the way his lip trembles; and…and the faded red smudge on his neck that doesn’t match her lipstick.
Finally the thought hits.
Sh*t. Sh*t.
This is a piece of flash fiction I wrote when I did Creative Writing as part of my English Literature degree. I wasn't sure whether to put it in here or the 'Short Story' sub-forum but since it's not really a short story I thought I'd go for here.
The formatting has gone a bit dodgy from copying and pasting and I've put in an asterisk or two where there weren't any before but didn't want to be told off for naughty language.
And it comes back to him in flashes. Unfamiliar eyes boring into his. A short black skirt. His hand going up that short black sk…NO! Oh no! Buttons on a strange top. Taking longer than usual to fumble with the bra clasp because it wasn’t the usual bra clasp. And then. And then…
Sh*t. Sh*t.
Jane.
She is beside him. She is sleeping peacefully. Peaceful in her ignorance. A wisp of hair has fallen over her face, obscuring it. He wants to brush it away. To brush it away and kiss her on the cheek and hold her. Tightly. Forever.
But he can’t. He can’t because of the eyes and skirt and buttons and bra of last night. He can’t because he has betrayed her and if it wasn’t for her ignorance she would be so hurt. So very hurt because he has that power over her just like she has it over him, but he has abused the power.
She moans quietly in her sleep and all he can do is stare. At the wisp of hair that covers the perfect face that he might have lost forever. And he can’t even touch her one last time because he is tainted with the sweat from the skin under the bra and skirt.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs quietly. To her? To himself?
And tears threaten. He tries to swallow the lump of guilt in his throat away and almost gags. He feels sick but can’t move. He can’t turn away from that wisp of hair because he might never see it again.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, but this time it sticks on the lump in his throat and turns into a sob.
“Hmm?”
She stirs.
He slowly comes into focus. Sitting next to her. Looking at her and-
Something’s wrong but in her drowsy state everything’s taking a long time to make sense. There’s some hair in her eye. She brings a sluggish hand up to brush it aside.
Tears streak his face. What’s wrong? She sits up and the question is on her lips when his words finally penetrate. “I’m so sorry.”
A horrible feeling creeps over her. It starts by numbing her feet and legs. It tightens between her legs. It attacks her stomach, turning it to jelly. It sneaks up and constricts her throat. It pounds through her head and stops her from thinking. That terrible thought is stopped just on the edge of forming and she sits stock still staring at the tiny streams on his face.
With the thought stopped before it is properly processed she has time to notice certain little things. To commit them to memory for painful occasions sometime in the future. How dark his eyes are; the fact that his right ear is ever so slightly higher than his left; the way his lip trembles; and…and the faded red smudge on his neck that doesn’t match her lipstick.
Finally the thought hits.
Sh*t. Sh*t.