The glory of a good tale is that it is limitless and fluid; a good tale belongs to each reader in its own particular way. – Stephen King
Toying with the idea of confronting him, she settled on a frosty glare. She’d studied demographics on the screen, how he’d likely voted. Both considered themselves patriotic inhabitants, residing in shadows of metallic structures.
“Democracy,” he said, removing his helmet. “I’m entitled to vote Neptune out of the Solar System. We’re independent. Should never have joined those interplanetary bureaucrats.”
“Who do you think funded these?” Her eyes flitted to the web of skyscrapers and bridges, glinting under artificial sunshine panels.
“We’re unshackled.” He gestured to the galaxy. “Our future is brighter.”
“Who knows?” She stared into the dark abyss.
My bridesmaid helps secure the clasp of the gold necklace under my blonde curls.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” I squeeze her hand and admire our reflections, applying a touch more lip gloss.
“How are you feeling?”
“It’s going to be the best day of your life.”
“Am I doing the right thing? I’m too old for all of this.”
“You deserve happiness. Everybody will be thinking that.” She veils me with hairspray.
“We should have chosen a different venue.”
“No, the local pub is the perfect place to celebrate.”
She pours me more Prosecco. We clink glasses.
(Also posted on Drablr.)
From his vantage point he scans the energetic horde, a blur of animated limbs. He is indifferent to the shrieking of the brassy smart-ass posse. He ruthlessly ignores the shy glances of a certain pupil. His buzz begins with the methodical task of seeking out the least confident and physically weakest teenagers.
They’re the targets he monitors closely. He imagines flesh, cold and rigid, cradled within his muscular arms. Lips numb and blue, bruised by his force. Chests examined under his palms. Restrained.
As the lifeguard, he’s never had to use his resuscitation techniques at the swimming pool. Yet.
(I originally posted this drabble on Drablr in July 2015).
I gave him a kiss then let him go to the ferry. “Call me when you get there.”
I stood alone. Left behind on the windswept dock yet again. I imagined the alluring girls waiting at his university. Eager and sophisticated. More worldly wise than wide-eyed islanders like us. He’d assured me that he’d resisted the temptations of the mainland last semester. Swamped with assignments he’d said. No time for the parties.
I watched him wave from the deck and blew him a kiss. “Goodbye my love.”
His response floated across on the wind and spray. “Bye Dad.”
(I originally posted this drabble on Drablr in January 2015).