Only The Young

The picture that inspired this story is here.

Only the young can say… they’re free to fly away… sharing the same desires… burning like wildfire…

The song like a whisper on my lips, I sing, “Only the young -.”

I’m interrupted by a thick hand on my shoulder. Startled, my feet stop swinging off the ledge, and I turn. James, brown leather jacket and all, is kneeling behind me. His hand falls off my shoulder and he smiles.

“James!” I exclaim. “I thought you’d left.”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“Not yet,” he says again, looking away from me. He’s looking out at the city, with all its secrets, lies, doors, and windows.

He’s looking at the future. I know because I was, too.

I shake my head, throwing my dark bangs to the side. With futures so unclear, I want to be able to see. I need to be able to see. See where James is going with his music, see if my father gets sent to prison, see how many times I will fall victim to all these little things.

Suddenly, I feel weak.

“James,” I say softly, turning towards him again.

The warmth of his right hand meets my cheek, and he laughs. His hand slides past my jaw, pushing my limp hair back from neck, and he leans. Before his lips can touch my neck, I whisper, “Is it safe?”

“Don’t you remember?” he asks, pulling away.

Our third date. The night he brought me out on this ledge and we watched all the cars pass by below. We tried to look at stars through city lights and haze. We tiptoed on the edge, scared to fall, but scared to be safe. And we kissed for the first time. Held hands and became inseperable.

But it’s not night now. It’s a year later and there’s been many kisses. And we’ve walked this ledge so many times that walking has become safe. Where’s the danger now?

It’s in tomorrow, in the unknown days.

A tear slips from my eye, and I force a smile. “Of course I remember.”

James pushes forward again, wrapping a strong arm around my shoulders, his lips pressed to my cheek, to that tear. When we fall back together and hit concrete, his lips are on mine. I can taste the salt.

His hand is cradling my neck so gently, and his arm his holding me to him with such strength. Everything seems impossible.

I break from his kiss just the slightest bit and look up. It doesn’t matter where I am, the blue sky always looks the same. Whether I’m lying with James in a field, or on a ledge, it’s still wide and blue.

It’ll look the same wherever I am, wherever James is. We’ll see the same sky and remember. I close my eyes again, whispering, “You’ll never let me fall?”

“Never.”

I kiss him again, opening my mouth with a gasp against his as his knee nudges my leg off the ledge.

With his kiss, I’m free to fly. 

Grace

The picture that inspired this story is here.

The wind rustled the ends of her hair, lifting it in a way that if the wind was stronger, she’d fly away, up over the roof tops and city people staring at her. She could fly away from anything that pained her and land in a place of happiness. Renew herself. Crack out of the shell of the girl that once was and emerge as a beautiful butterfly.

Grace. She’d rename herself Grace. The way it sounded coming from her mouth, so elegant, made her smile. She’d be elegant. She’d be kind and loved by all.

Grace tipped her head back, staring up at the blue, blue sky. Maybe if she stared at it she wouldn’t see the ground racing to meet her. Wouldn’t hear the crunch of her bones; the squish of blood pouring from her. The snap of her life gone as she hit pavement.

She sat down, dangling her legs over the edge. It felt freeing—daring—to be half over the ledge. One slip and whoosh. Goodbye.

“What are you doing out here?” A boy leaned out of the window, staring at her in utter amazement and frightfulness. His hair was blond and messy, like he rolled out of bed. His eyes blue, like the sky, and sleepiness was mixed with the other emotions.

“Reevaluating.”

He slid out of the window and sat next to her. “Why?” He smelled like cinnamon. She wanted to bury her face in his jacket. But that wouldn’t be very graceful, and she intended on acting like her new name.

She tilted her head at him. Parted her cracked, pink lips. They still looked soft. “Because life is hell.”

“Jumping will be hell, too.”

She didn’t skip a beat. “Not unless you let yourself go while falling. You won’t feel a thing.”
He stared at her for a long time; from her dyed black hair and red roots to the combat boots she wore under the plaid skirt. He guessed she was an artist struggling to make it in the big, bad world. He held up his hands, dry, but covered in paint. He smiled.

“It isn’t that bad, you know.” He leaned forward, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. He whispered, “I hope you haven’t let yourself go,” and pressed his lips to her cheek. She gasped, turning her head toward his. Their breath mingled, then their lips and tongues. Wave after wave of emotion crashed inside her and he pressed her down on the ledge, one leg of hers still dangling; they stayed like that for a few minutes, hands tangled in hair while their mouths danced. He pulled her into the studio apartment with him.

“Toby,” he said, his lips brushing hers as he talked. She felt solid with floor under her feet. Walls under her touch as he pushed her into the corner. Ceiling overhead. Safe. The shell of the girl was broken; out came a new girl. A new butterfly.

“Grace.”

Picture Prompt

Leah Clifford, author of A TOUCH MORTAL, has been running After Midnight writing contests. She tweeted a picture of this last week and asked for stories under 500 words. So Kaitlin and I (Ashelynn) entered. Since both stories are around 500 words, we're going to post them to different posts. Enjoy!

Guest Story: Orange Tulips by Laina

Today's short story is from Laina, one of our other critique partners who doesn't normally write short stories. It's a gorgeous story--very short--and very depressing. Enjoy! 

“I miss you.”

            I know.

            “I still don’t understand why you left with him.”

            I know that, too.

            “Were you cheating on me?”

            No.

            “Were you going to?”

            Maybe. I don’t know. I’d like to think I wouldn’t have, but we’ll never know now, will we? And that’s probably a good thing.

            “I never even saw you drink before.”

            I know. It wasn’t the first time, but it wasn’t a regular occurrence either. And I was angry that you blew me off to go out with your friends, so I went out with mine and  I was angry that I thought you were pulling away and I was… I was angry about a lot of things. Most, if not all, of them were my fault.

            “You know I would have come gotten you if you called me, right?”

            Yeah, of course I do, but I didn’t want to see you. You were pretty much the last person I wanted to see.

            “If you didn’t want to see me, you should have gotten a cab.”

            I know. Getting into a car with someone who’d been drinking was the stupidest thing I ever did.

            “I’m sorry I haven’t come and seen you before.”

            It’s okay. I don’t hang around here a lot either. If you haven’t noticed, there’s not a whole lot going on.

            “It’s not that I don’t miss you. I miss you more than you know. But…”

            Babe, I know. I really do. It makes you sad. Trust me, I don’t want you to be sad.

            “I still love you.”

            Me too.

            Kneeling down, he sets the flowers gently on my grave. Tulips, my favourites, and orange, the colour I wore on the day I died. The last time he saw me. I hop off the headstone and bend down to kiss his cheek, even though neither of us can feel it anymore.

            “Goodbye.”

            Goodbye.

about the author: 

Laina can be found at her book review blog, Twitter, and Facebook. She has a short story, Zombie Girl, published in the Zombie Survival Crew anthology Undead Is Not an Option. 

Small Updates?

Hey, lovely followers!

Jenna (Jennifer White) has left the blog for now. Lately she seems to be busy working on her book and other exciting life things (heading off to college soon!).

Mireyah is shifting hours at work next month and hopes to get back to writing a lot more! She's also going to be attending The Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers' Conference this September.

Ashelynn and Kaitlin have both been writing away on their current WIPs and might just have some short stories in the works!

So, stay tuned. We'll have some more exciting stuff up soon!

<3

Wicked Blood

This story includes blood and gruesome events. I (the author) advise people with weak stomachs to not read this unless they desperately want to. Thanks!

music: In The End -- Linkin Park

The fairy lifted its head, its mouth covered in blood. It blinked and cocked its head before placing one of its long claw-like fingers in its mouth and sucked at it. It smiled, showing pointy teeth, and dug into the deer’s carcass. It took out the heart and made a bloody mess as it ate it.

The girl had frozen when she stumbled upon the eating site. Everybody knew a fairy attacked when it was disturbed while eating. It was why she stopped, rocks digging into her bare feet, the wind whipping her nightgown around, her tears clinging to her cheeks.

From weheartit.com

Maybe she wanted to die when she took a step and another one until she was standing in front of the carcass and the fairy.

Her life was hard at home. Ever since her sister died from a fairy attack, her parents can’t stand to look at her, or talk to her. The silence made her insane. Her only companion the ticking of the clock and the silence. Always the silence.

She crouched in the dead leaves coated in the deer’s blood and stared into the fairy’s black eyes. They continued to stare at each other as she reached into the body and pulled out an organ; she didn’t know what it was, but she still took a bite out of it. Blood and other liquids ran down her chin and neck, staining her nightie.

She ate the whole thing, never blinking, always staring into the empty abyss of the fairy’s eyes.

She wiped a hand across her mouth. The fairy opened its mouth. “You shouldn’t have done that.” The fairy’s voice was low and gravely, not what she expected. She didn’t think the fairy could talk and not so well. Its lips pulled away from its teeth when it talked, the teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

It attacked her. It flew across the deer, its claws sinking into her shoulders and its teeth into her throat. Her mouth was opened, but no sound came out. The fairy had already ripped out her throat. Her eyes stared upwards, into the moon.

More fairies came and they dug their nails into her skin, pulling away layer and layer while they ate it like chips. Blood ran and they licked at it. A few giggled. A few traced their nails around her remaining skin before plunging in.

Her life didn’t end until the main fairy yanked out her heart and ate it.

She didn’t scream, not even once, but she had a smile plastered on her face when she died.

Auditorium

A little note first: You've probably noticed we didn't post any stories in April, nor any stories relating to April's theme. Life problems have been prominent for all four of us, prohibiting some new stories. We're also going to go with a more rolling process - when we have a story to post, it'll be posted. Themes won't always be there.

That being said... Here's a story from Kaitlin:

Auditorium

I sit quietly. Alone. In the dark. A ghost light stands at center stage, but it doesn’t help lead my way.

I tap my heel on the ground, the clap resounding throughout the auditorium. Perfection. My muse is alive, reborn through the stillness of a frozen theater. I pull out my notebook and begin to write.

Not far down the page, the click of a door sounds from behind me. I snap my notebook shut, spinning to see an intruder.

He walks silently, the flat bottoms of his shoes refusing to make a sound. So unlike mine. He walks with his hands deep in his pockets, his head ducked low.

When he looks up, he catches my eye. My hand rolls into a fist against my notebook, crushing my pen. Such audacity he has to scare away my muse.

He continues walking until he is by me seat. He sits next to me. I freeze.

His hair is blonde and his eyes are silver and his foot is touching mine, brushing it ever so slightly. What’s he doing?

He glances to the ghost light and then back to me. “Do you know what ghost lights are for?”

I nod.

He smiles slightly. “Do you perform?”

I stare at the stage, slowly inching my notebook away from him. I whisper, “I write.”

“That’s a great thing,” he says back. His voice is like a promise. It’s smooth, quiet, and doesn’t seem to end. It’s always there, seeping into your mind and soul.

“And you?” I say as a shiver runs down my spine. His foot, than his leg, had brushed mine again.

“I performed.”

Performed? Past tense?

I flash a curious glance at him. He doesn’t notice, only stares back at the ghost light. He sighs, “I’ve seen you here often.”

He knows. He knows I come in the theater to write. My stomach churns. I’m not used to people talking to me, telling me I’m not invisible. Especially not boys with little smiles and wide, blue eyes. I stay silent.

His voice softens a little. “I think you’re beautiful.”

My spine shoots straight. No, boys never said that. I avoid looking at him. “I’ve never seen you before…”

He hesitates, “I… I don’t always come out.”

I turn to look at him, opening my mouth to respond. But, instead he’s leaned in close. He presses his lips, soft and thin, against mine. I close my eyes.

And then his whisper of a kiss disappears and we’re looking into each other’s eyes. He pulls my hand into his. “I want to give you this.”

I stare down at my hand, a perfect little penny pressed into my palm. The year 2007. Four years ago.

He whispers, cold breath tickling my spine, “That’s the year I died.”

My head shoots up, ready to give him another curious look.

But he’s gone.