On The Persian Rug – Flash Fiction

tumblr_mxqu06swUg1t5bhezo1_500He found her lying on the Persian rug in the old library. The late afternoon sun shone in through the tall windows creating rectangles of brightness on the old red and gold rug. She lay there in her green sweater and low rise jeans, worn so soft they moulded to her every curve. Her sweater, a bright leaf green, had ridden up revealing the shadowed indentation of her navel and a two-inch strip of smooth and toned abs.

Her dark hair was spread out in a fan around her head; a halo  of night. In her right hand, resting between the curved mountds of her breasts, she clutched her small, black mp3 player. The earbuds were in and she was tapping her tennis shoes in rhythm. Her eyes were closed, but occasionally her velvety lips moved as she lip synced.

He was amused as he watched her, so relaxed, lying flat on the floor. He round an arm chair and sank into the red velvet seat to wait for her to finish out whatever she was listening to. He wasn’t in any hurry. The day was done for him and there was something relaxing and soothing about watching her spread out on the floor.

It was a quarter hour longer till she stopped her toe tapping. He had just settled fully into the seat, readying himself for a nap when she sighed and took the earbuds out and opened her eyes.

She tipped her head back and saw him watching her with a slow grin.

“How long have you been there?” her husky voice asked.

“Not long.”

“Why didn’t you let me know you were here?”

“Because. I like watching you.”

She turned a slight shade of rose pink, but didn’t answer as she tried to gracefully sit up and wrap the wires around her player.

“Shall we go get dinner?” He asked as he grabbed her hand to pull her up.

“Okay,” she replied and they walked out of the old room, her arm tucked into his, leaving the golden rectangles to shift and fade as the sun slowly sank.

“I’m very afraid of dying.” – Flash Fiction

Just a little piece I wrote in today’s writing group. I had the prompt of Bossa Nova, mulberry, and page 157 which in Paul Coelho’s book , The Devil and Miss Prym, gave me the title of the piece.

The atmosphere of the room is smoky and dim as he sits in the worn leather chair sipping a glass of port. The port is aged and thick. Richer than mulberry jam spread on toast. The rich sounds of a bossa nova song come crackling out of the old speakers. The crackle is either from the scratched record or the ancient stereo. Who knows, and nobody cares. The music needs the static to tone down the oppressive beat, the trumpets hitting too high a note here and there.
“I’m very afraid of dying,” he says conversationally, to no one in particular.
The younger man, sitting opposite him sipping his whiskey eyes him with an arched brow.
“You are going philosophical? How much port have you had?” the young man asks. He’s not really young, but forty to his sixty seems practically juvenile.
“Phil, when you get to be my age, you’ll get it,” the man says.
“And what brought this on?” asks Phil.
The man sighs. Even he’s not sure. Maybe he has had too much port. Or maybe seeing his friend go through so many treatments only to waste away until nothing is left but skin and bones and pain and sorry. Till your mind gives up and one day you just don’t wake up.
Phil can’t understand. He’s never had to lose someone. Never hardly been sick.
Just wait till your sixty, thinks the man. Heck, wait till you’re fifty and you can’t get out of bed each morning without everything hurting. No, young people just don’t get it.

 

My parents always talk about how when you reach fifty it’s all down hill.  Boris said he felt it at 48. Honestly, at times I feel like I’m already feeling it, but I am dreading getting older. And other than that, this is just something that came out of the prompts. Nothing more.

Kate

PAD Day 9 – Hide Out

Step back into that faraway corner
right there
tucked back in poetry and plays
just look
It’s darker than the rest of rows
come see
but it’s homey and safe from eyes
that watch
So I can write all undisturbed
so quiet
and read till the clocks shut down
and stop
till she says the library’s closing
up tight
but my place is mine to claim
right there
My spot is only mine to write
for now
Until I need the books to hold
me tight
for my next writing time
just there
No one else uses this place
just see
that it’s for me and only me
to have

I like to write in the library back in the non fiction because I usually don’t get disturbed there. Not that I write there often. In fact, I probably only visit my spot a couple times a year, but I know that whenever I visit, I can have the spot all to myself because it’s very unused. So I like it. It’s kind of funny to have a spot, a hide out that rarely gets used.

But then I have other hide outs….

It’s the summer sun that pulls me out
to webbed and shrouded blueberries
where the dry mulch makes my skin
tingle and electrify up
A whisper of wind in the pines
warm resin scents the air a thick perfume
And I’m supposed to be watering
Or picking those ripe blue balls
but instead I’m scribbling here
or reading on that stump
the whisperings of a Frenchman
in my ear making me sleepy
and so very unmotivated to work
And I could hang my hammock under
the whispering pine trees
living out here always with the summer heat

I take a stack of books and my notebook out to the blueberries to pick… and never get to reading or writing, but I like having the option if I want to. And usually I’m listening to The French Whisperer, having those ASMR tingles going all over my head and practically falling asleep as I pick, or water. It’s rather dangerous, but I don’t get very interrupted out there, so it’s nice. The video below is one of my favorite ones to listen to. And I have this thing for a French accent…

I actually want to create a few more hide outs, but I have yet to find one that I can really hide out in. I need a spot in the shade, by the creek. I need to find one. I really like how Robert, over at Writer’s Digest talked about a hide out in a picture. I recommend reading it HERE

Kate