Fiction Friday: [All Beth Could Do]

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[Today's Fiction Friday was a fun exercise I found via Writer's Digest Magazine. The prompt involved writing a story where each sentence begins with the next letter of the alphabet! Cool, right? Here's my go at it. Enjoy!]

Anger had her paralyzed and she knew she would have to fight her way out of the funk. Beth had never been one to shy away from controversy and today would be no different. Changes to the charter had sent a shockwave of anger throughout the women on campus. Declarations were to be formally made by the administration in the quad at three.

Everyone debated whether or not to boycott the mandatory meeting. For Beth, it was a no brainer. Going to the meeting and fighting to get her voice heard would be her chance to make a difference. Her only chance.

If they let them get away with this now, women would be relegated back to the Stone Age. Just meant to be seen and not heard. Kindred spirits would rally behind her, of that she was sure. Like-minded individuals not willing to allow the administration to fill classes based solely on gender. Men weren’t the only ones capable of solving complex scientific problems or performing complicated surgeries. Nothing they could say would justify their decision.

Oasis Corporation had recently become a huge benefactor of the university and it was no secret that their money was made off the misogynistic products they produced. Professors had been fired when they’d spoken out against allowing a company like theirs to sully the integrity of such a prestigious institution of higher education. Quite a few quit on their own when their objections proved useless.

Rallies popped up initially, but many were quickly sated by the upgrades and perks from the influx of money. So many had fallen under their spell then, but there was no way they would sit idly by with something as progress shattering as this. There was no way.

Unified they would not allow the women’s movement to be set back. Vetoing power would be wrested and placed in the students hands.

Walking toward the quad, Beth steeled her resolved, but as she looked around, she knew she wasn’t alone. Xeroxes of the meeting flyer were strewn all over the campus in ripped shreds. Yawping could already be heard from the meeting area, sending a jolt of pride through her body. Zigzagging through the crowd of both men and women, raising their voices in protest, Beth felt pretty confident about the future.

Fiction Friday: [The Last First Date]

in

Mired in the most awkward silence of my life, I regret not concocting some sort of contingency plan. I wanted to. I really did, but my friend, Michelle, talked me out of it by telling me how ridiculous I was being. It’ll be interesting to see if we’re still friends by the end of the night.

After clearing his throat, in the phlegmiest, most disgusting way, my date starts to tell me a story about the time he got struck by lightning. How had he not led with that? In just a few sentences, the question’s answered. For the love of God…how does he make getting struck by lightning sound boring? I feel bad for a second, wondering if the jolt of electricity was what zapped his personality.

Tuning him out, I think about how I should have trusted my instincts and stuck to my ‘no blind dates’ rule. Then, I start to wonder how often LoveMatch gets sued for their misleading commercials. The ones that supposedly feature actual members of their site. This date is the polar opposite of the happy, beautiful people they feature. The ones that lean in toward one another while laughing at each other’s jokes. That stare at each other with googly eyes. Blech. There will most definitely not be a moment where I use any excuse to reach over and touch him.

The only thing getting me through is constantly reminding myself that, this isn’t just my first blind date, it’ll also be my last.

Ugh, I suppose I should try and pay attention…

“…so they said I was lucky to be alive and I told them to go get struck by lightning and then tell me how lucky they feel.”

No one’s more surprised than I am when I laugh. And, despite the fact that I know he hadn’t meant to be funny, he laughs, too. Then, after taking a considerable gulp of wine, he looks directly at me for the first time all night.

Wait, what’s happening?

 Staring into his eyes, I have to admit that they’re beautiful. The nervousness they reflect is actually endearing. I catch a hint of a sparkle as his smile grows. Maybe the commercials were more accurate than I gave them credit for. Maybe it’s just been my bad attitude ruining the date.

Looks like Michelle and I can still be friends.

Then, he clears his throat again.

Nope, friendship’s over.

Fiction Friday: [Toeing the Line]

in

Just the thought of standing too close to the platform edge scared her. She’d heard the stories, although rare, of some demented psycho pushing a fellow commuter onto the tracks. There’s no way to survive getting hit by a New York City subway train. No way.

Across the platform a woman stands so close to the edge that both feet are on the bumpy yellow strip. The yellow strip you’re supposed to stand behind. Behind. How does she not know this?

The sound of the metal beast nearing causes a tightness in her chest and a shortness of her breath. As much as she didn’t want to die via subway collision, she didn’t want to witness it either.

Regardless, she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Away from the calm that never left the woman’s face. Her nonchalance as she teetered on the brink of death. She couldn’t comprehend the woman’s bravery. Couldn’t imagine what it was like not to flinch in the face of danger.

But she wanted to. She wanted to understand. She wanted to know what it was like to live, for one moment, not drowning in fear.

Screeching rocks her back to reality--surrounded by commuters plugging their ears against the grating of wheel to track. She watches as the woman, head aloft, disappears into the crowded car. She’s gone. Lost within the sea of black wool coats and free newspapers.

The intercom crackles above and, through the static, she knows her train will be arriving soon. Heart thumping and mind racing, she makes a decision her mind hasn’t quite registered. The platform vibrates under her feet as the train growls into the station blowing her hair back and away from her face. Startled and confused, she looks down. A sense of hope whirls around her--mixing with the gust from the train--as she finds her right foot firmly planted across the yellow line. 

Fiction Friday: [The Trouble With Caring]

in

Lights from street lamps sparkle and spread into abstract shapes as the rain pours down on the windshield. The urgent squeak of the wipers echo through the car, but do little to help Oliver see the road ahead. It hadn’t rained in weeks and the roads were slick, but he had no time to think about it.

Time was ticking, of the essence and every other cliché related to life or death situations. Slick roads were the least of his concerns.

The message was clear and if he was late, she would die.

He pulls himself closer to the steering wheel and scrunches his neck, hoping to see how far he’s gotten. A beam of light penetrates the curtain of rain and travels across the windshield. The lighthouse.

He’s close.

Vivian had gotten dressed and left for work, as usual, without a word. Their marriage had been slowly disintegrating for years now. And as the kids grew older and left home, it had become a competition of who cared less.

He no longer hid the affair he’d been having with their former nanny—and Vivian invited her for dinner. She started stepping out with the tennis instructor at the clubhouse—and Oliver signed up for lessons with him. The volleying, he knew, had gone on for too long. He’d grown tired of the antics and was ready to file for divorce.

He was surprised when she’d called him that evening, and even more so when she’d left a voicemail, after it had gone unanswered.

She'd had enough and decided to take her life. At 5 ‘clock she was going to jump from the lighthouse. The lighthouse that had once been their special place. She’d only given him the details because she knew he wouldn’t care enough to stop her—their love too far gone.

Oliver had reached the elevator before the message ended, his secretary calling behind him about a meeting in ten.

The message.

Sitting in its cradle, he reaches over to his phone and hits the voicemail button. As Vivian’s voice fills the car, he realizes she’d left a new one.

“Oh, Oliver. I can’t believe you were foolish enough to think I’d let you file for divorce. I haven’t suffered these last years of our marriage to be dragged through the mud and come out with nothing in the end. Now, I don’t want you to worry. I will wear the mask of the grieving widow for the sake of our children. I do need to thank you for them. And the weatherman for an accurate forecast. I can only imagine how recklessly you’re driving through this downpour. Oh…and I also have to thank the makers of the hedge trimmers I used to cut your brakes.”

Before he can react, the car hits a watery patch and hydroplanes. For the briefest of moments, he gets lost in the feeling of weightlessness before trying to right the vehicle. Jerking the wheel back and forth, the car doesn’t respond and his hands grip tighter as it slides across the road until it ends. Tumbling over the embankment, Oliver feels light as a feather.

A revelation fills his mind before he has a chance to truly grasp that these are his last moments.

Vivian has won.

Not only had she led him to his death, she proved that he had, in fact, cared more.