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.

April's Theme

In case you missed it, KT's story was Human, a story about a robot. And it was SAD. Grab the tissues if you're an emotional reader.

Mireyah's story, Bleeding Green, was totally badass (as all Mireyah's stories are!)

Ashelynn's story, In The Dark, and Jenna's story, Heartbreak Beat, were both inspired by songs.

And now, April's theme!

with the four elements!

If you get a story idea of magic, link it in a comment! We'll love to read it. :) 

Human

Warmth. From her hands, resting on my solid cheeks. Metal. Not human. I can see it in her eyes.

I try to speak, but nothing but gurgled noises comes out. The sound of a computer. That’s what I am. A wretched computer. Created, not born.

But, apparently everything that is created is given a soul. She gave me my metal skin, and my robot brain. And, somehow, she gave me a heart.

She reaches behind me to adjust a monitor. Her hair falls, brushing my shoulder plate. She whispers, “Dokie, why aren’t you moving?”

She pulls back, her palms rounding over my so-called face again. Her lips are pulled down in a frown, her eyes dark, but curious. Even so sad, she is beautiful.

I can say her name – she programmed me to. “Ev-ah-lin.”

Her frown turns to a smile. “What is it, Dokie?”

I think of all I want to say, try to speak, and more gurgled noises come out. Her smile disappears, and she yanks at a cord behind me again. She hums as she works. I wish I could hum too. Like Evelyn, music is wonderful.

Finally she gets off her knees and walks to a computer on the other side of the room. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, typing codes to make me run properly. She stares at the screen and stuffs her hands into the pocket of her white lab coat. With a sigh, she blows her bangs out of her eyes. I want to comfort her, but she still has to program me with more things to say. And I sometimes doubt that will happen.

The door opens and a tall man walks in. She smiles briefly at him, and he glances towards me. His voice is low. “Robot not working?”

“Won’t move,” she says sadly. She cares about me. I know it.

The man walks over to me and pats my head. He speaks to Evelyn again, “What have you tried doing?”

“I tried adjusting those cords behind him. And I’ve tried manually writing the code for movement, but Dokie won’t move.”

“Perhaps we should try shutting it down?” the man suggests.

“Reboot?” Evelyn asks.

“If it’s not moving at all,” the man sighs, “I’m not sure how much good a reboot will do.”
“But he said my name!” Evelyn argues.

The man walks away from me, and runs a hand through his black hair. I wish I had hair. I wish I had fingers. He sighs again. “Evelyn, it’s a robot, not a person.”

Evelyn frowns when he says this, and it makes me happier that she does. “Mark, he’s got a programmed personality!”

Mark walks closer to her, pressing her palm over the left of his chest. “But it doesn’t have a beating heart, or a brain. Why care so much?”

Liar. I have a heart. So I don’t have a bloodstream or muscle tissue, but I said it before, and I’ll say it again – somehow everything created has a soul. And my soul heart doesn’t need a pulse to say it’s alive.

Evelyn walks back over to me and drags a finger between my ‘eyes’. She leans down, close enough for a kiss. I’ve never felt more…alive. Human. “Dokie is my life’s work, Mark. He’s been my project for the past five years – why shouldn’t I care?”

“You’re a scientist, not a dreamer. Don’t dwell on foolish things. We can program a new one. Come here.”

Evelyn turns and walks towards Mark. Her hands fly up, agitated. “Mark, the project managers are coming this week. They can’t see a broken robot!”

That’s what I am. Broken.

Mark frowns and lays an arm over her delicate, narrow shoulders. I feel a twinge inside of me, as if one of my pieces is snapping in half. Right in the middle of my torso. Where a heart would be. If only Evelyn knew that my soul’s alive, swimming under my metal skin. If only I could reach out and…

He touches her, his hand to her cheek and bends closer. His voice is low. “They can’t see a broken one, but we can shut it down temporarily. And then start the new program.”

Oh, no. That couldn’t happen. I hear these stories – whispers from other stuck robot souls – once you’re shut down, it’s so long to your soul too. With that new start comes a new life, a new heart.

Evelyn nods solemnly. Mark speaks, “I’ll get the switch in the other room. Turn the lights off.”

And, more painful than before, Mark leans down and kisses her firmly on the lips. I hear a screeching sound, as if my entire metal frame is ripping to shreds.

Mark leaves to find the switch to shut me down. Forever. Although, with that kiss… I am already shut down.

Evelyn’s heels click as she walks back over to me. She crouches, her eyes level to mine. She puts her hands on either side of my face. Warmth. I’m brought back to several minutes ago, when her hands were there before. I need to speak.

“Oh, Dokie, I’ll miss you…” Evelyn sighs.

“Powering down!” comes Mark’s call from the other room. Evelyn turns her head to his direction, yelling back.

And then she turns her head back to me, her dark ponytail swinging over her shoulders. She speaks quickly, leaning in, “Oh, say my name again before you go.”

I can do more than that. Stiffly, I lift my arms up and wrap them around her, bringing her into an embrace. My robotic voices comes out. “Ev-ah-lin.”

Her eyes widen and she whispers, “You can move?”

I tighten my arms around her. I wish I could feel how soft she looks.

She starts to call out, “Stop!”

But it’s too late.

I was never a broken robot. Only a broken soul. A broken soul in love.

In The Dark

This story is inspired by Gone by Matt Nathanson! I like his music. I think you should too. Listen to Gone while reading my story, okay? OKAY. :D p.s. I know the formatting is messed up. There's only so much time I can spend with blogger before I'm so frustrated I'm cussing between words.

It’s not because I’m a private person.

Or because I like to be alone.

All of our happy moments happened here, our feet dangling in the water as the sun warmed our back. My fingers would dig into the soil, shifting through the centuries old dirt, finding new treasures. Smooth, rough, round, lumpy, plain, colored. They were all beautiful rocks and I kept them in the box Joe gave me.

He kissed me here, too. Our first kiss ever, and whenever I close my eyes, I can feel his lisps brushing across mine, my heart pitter-pattering. It was the feeling of freedom, that I could do anything, when he kissed me.

I can still smell summer, freshly mowed grass and barbecue smoke rising from the condo complex across the river. The warmth from the sun disappearing and the water tickling my numb feet as it turned colder, night growing near.

His touch on my lower back, each finger making my stomach do somersaults. He’d rub my back and my stomach would flip flop again and again. Then his hand would rest on my legs, and I would suddenly notice the little prickly hairs from not shaving.

Those summer nights were perfect. We would sit on the bank, toes dipping into the water and our lips moving together. Each touch brought us closer.  

When I open my eyes, all I see is snow; dirty snow on the ground, silent snow falling from the sky. Everywhere is snow.

Everything warm I remember is gone: his touch, his love, the sun, the laughter. Happiness is replaced with sadness.

When summer was gone, so was the Joe I knew. Winter brought along a scarier Joe.

I touch the bruise forming on my cheek and blink back tears.