For this prompt:
Every day, the Raven visits the dove. She wiggles her finger at the dove, smiles at the dove, whistles her song to the dove. She even feeds the dove, opens a window for the dove, lets sunlight hit the dove.
The dove is her possession.
The dove used to walk on two limbs, now he walks on four. The dove wouldn’t stop trying to escape, so she made sure he needed four instead of two. He won’t escape again.
The dove used to be able to pace his cage, but he tried to escape. So he must crouch, his fingers trailing the ground.
The dove refused to eat the bread, so now he must settle for seeds.
The doveDaniel kept squawking and squawking, so the RavenRachel put something special in his water. And she removed his squawking box when he fell unconscious in his tiny cage.
DoveDaniel used to smile and laugh and mock and threaten and abuse. Now he cries when he remembers emotions.
Daniel pecked The Raven’s blood. So The RavenRachel had to peck back.
Rachel told Daniel not to peck her. And so now Rachel’s cage was Daniel’s.
Today is a day that forever joins a birthday and a final journey into one of sad reflection and a fog of melancholy. It’s also a day to remember good memories, however fleeting, and to be grateful for what I had.
Happy father’s day to all the present and future dads, and to the fathers which are no longer with us. May this day be full of happiness, gratitude, lessons, and love.
For this prompt:
Okay, but let’s be clear. The tears weren’t the reason why Rosa sunk her teeth into her boyfriend’s neck, or why she bludgeoned him to death with an angel table statue. The blood red tears- actually, the blood, it was blood– didn’t cause anything. The virus did. The tears were a result of the virus, and the attack was a result of the virus.
Just to be clear.
The illness that had overtaken their Queens community was swift and sudden. People dropping like flies, parents rushing their children to the hospitals, body bags being rolled out of apartments one by one like on a conveyor belt.
Will had figured out before Rosa had that something was terribly wrong. He would, he was the doctor of the two. Rosa was ordered to call out from her hostess job at that restaurant that had just opened and that was a good job, she was sure her boss wouldn’t be pleased but she called out anyway.
Will asked her if she was okay going home and she had said yes. Sure, there were people being a bit hysterical and looking sickly but this was New York, everyone was a bit hysterical and always looking sickly. They paid out of their ass for this experience.
A homeless woman had grabbed her arm as she tried to get on the train after talking to Will, begging for help and Rosa had shoved a five at her, blinking as the woman hacked and coughed on her hand as she took the money. Rosa quickly applied the hand sanitizer and carried on since Will was so insistent she got home.
And so here she was. Alone.
She sat locked in the apartment, watching television and eating. She avoided the news channels because they bummed her out, so a marathon of cable shows it was. Some pot here, some liquor there, it was that boring. Will called every so often, sounding more and more flustered. Finally, he said he was on his way home, not to worry, it was all going to be okay.
Rosa coughed once, twice, sniffing hard and gasping as a sharp prickling went up her nose suddenly. She blinked rapidly, feeling her eyes tear up and why the fuck would she have allergies in the winter? She coughed again, tasting a copper on a tongue and blinking as red filled her vision, catching with a gasp the red drops that fell on her fingers. She breathed hard, trying to stop the prickling feeling, it was starting to hurt.
Will came home about two hours after his last call, talking about how horrible everything was, there were physical attacks happening now. He was so happy to see Rosa, and quickly pulled her to him in a tight hug of someone who was truly and utterly grateful to be home and safe.
She hugged him tight, stifling her breathing. He had thought the redness of her eyes was because she had been crying, the redness of her lips from the cherry bowl on the arm of the couch.
Rosa inhaled deeply, her ears ringing as he continued to murmur words of comfort in her ear. She was so, so hungry. It was making her angry. Her fingers curled into his shoulders, holding him tight against her. Then, she bared her teeth.
For this prompt:
The knocking started at the age of five. Natalie thought it was her mommy, then her dog Bucks being silly but it continued and one day, she suddenly realized that the knocking sound was coming from the mirror.
It was her, right down to her white shorts with the peanut butter stains and the messy ponytail of dark brown hair and the scar on her chin from when she fell as a toddler. Mirror Natalie had grinned when she looked and waved, so being five, she waved back, seeing another friend. Mirror Natalie became a playmate when she was left to her own devices as her mommy and daddy entertained business associates and friends every Friday and Saturday night. They had decided soon after her birth that children were too much work so Natalie had Bucks, her dolls and her reflection.
At ten, Bucks died. Fell right down and died and her mother dryly joked that the dog was so stupid, he must’ve become frightened by his own reflection. Natalie could’ve sworn she saw Bucks’ tale wagging behind Mirror Natalie’s bed a few days later.
Natalie suspected she might be going mad around the age of thirteen and Mirror Natalie still moved about in the mirror. She could never hear her but Mirror Natalie continued to speak at her. Sometimes the pantomiming worked, most of the time it didn’t. She chose not to tell anyone, she was sure her mother would send her to the mental ward her aunt Sonia was at.
At seventeen, Natalie got her first boyfriend and realized her Mirror was now able to travel, showing up in her boyfriend’s bedroom mirror after they’ve had sex for the first time. She was startled but even more so when Mirror Natalie’s head tilted slightly, never breaking her stare as she smiled at Natalie. Mirror Natalie wore a dark red lipstick she wasn’t, her eyes a near-black to her green.
Natalie stops staring at her reflection for long periods.
Her aunt Sonia sits at the Gladesdale Mental Ward, staring right ahead, her gaze blank. Her mother said Sonia died on her eighteenth birthday, they had found her on the floor of her bedroom, croaking hoarsely but never speaking again. Natalie begins to cover the mirrors.
On her eighteenth birthday, Natalie’s boyfriend takes her to the movies because there are no mirrors there. When she goes home, she keeps her head down as she brushes her teeth even as her reflection knocks and knocks. Her shriek when the mirror cracks echoes in the empty house.
The blanket over her full-length mirror blows as she changes, even though the window is closed. There is a sharp knock and she turns, screaming at the sight of her reflection, just an inch from her. She stumbles back as her reflection shoves her hard and instead of hitting the mirror, she goes right through it.
Natalie’s new home is cold and silent, too silent. Bucks barks at her but no sound comes out. She bangs on the mirror but no sound echoes, not as she screams for her mother as she walks into her old room and collects her hair straightener, not as she bangs when her reflection watches television with her old friends.
Natalie starts to think all hope is lost, that no one will never see her. That is, until her reflection meets her gaze while applying her lipstick, and to Natalie’s horror, she winks.
Every Saturday, he insists they go there. They go, she walking and he on the bike he’s still adjusting to. They go and wait, the two of them. They wait until the air gets too windy or too cold or it gets too dark or he gets too hungry to hold out.
For a year, they wait. She knows better but she waits for him, and she waits for him to realize the truth.
Their mother, mama, mommy, had kissed his forehead and her cheek one day and said she’d “be right back” and she had left them with a fridge full of food and drinks. That was a year ago.
And so they wait. She waits because he wants to wait and they wait for the red Dodge Neon to drive up the path to pick them up and cars pass, many of them red, but none stop for them. But he is still hopeful and he wants to wait like they did every Saturday when mother, mama, mommy would come from work.
One day, he turns to her as she puts her shoes on for the wait and says “let’s go to the park instead.”
* * *
At the age of fourteen, she had told her mother with excitement that a fellow student had asked her to be his girlfriend. He was a rather quiet, harmless boy. She was sheltered and said she had to ask her parents if it was all right. He was the first boy to show interest in her beyond being someone from whom to get help on school assignments. She was excited and sought to share this new adventurous step with her mother.
“I guess you’re not as innocent as I thought,” her mother had said at the news.
The response threw her, confused her in its bluntness. Her mother didn’t show happiness over her child growing up or asked for details, her mother- with one sentence- stripped the joy over the event. With one sentence, her mother made her question her own purity even though she had done nothing except exist in this boy’s presence.
With that, the next day she declined the boy’s request of being his girlfriend.
Soon she can’t stop the flinch when the rare man approaches her. She doesn’t wear a purity ring but she might as well have “KEEP AWAY” on her forehead. She equates men with a loss of innocence, a scary path she shouldn’t cross. She becomes almost fearful of interaction and tries to fake an ease but they always notice and go away.
She is obsessed with being clean, showering and washing and washing and washing, refusing to accept just a spot of dirt, nothing will mar her.
Years past and her fearful innocence stays even when harsh realities hit. Less optimistic but still innocent. She gets older and wonders how long she will have to stay innocent, when will she get to grow up.
She gets older and still collects dolls, no longer playing with them but still smoothing their dresses and combing their hair. Her excitement for things is still childlike but the harshness of disappointment and sadness begins to wear away at her eyes. She stays frozen at that fourteen year old level of fearful innocence as to not receive her mother’s judgement, convinced anything else is dark and unacceptable. She stays as frozen as her dolls even if she ages as they remain the same.
Her hands get dirty when she experiments with the dark and she hates that she enjoys it. When she curses for the first time, quietly and swiftly and alone. When she has her first solo orgasm and immediately feels guilty after, biting through her lip until it bleeds out. When she has a sudden moment of anger that terrifies her and she quickly replaces the mirror she has broken. When she strikes her first and only lover, enraged that he took her innocence after too many tender words, too many alluring touches, too many drinks.
She struggles to wash her hands clean of such dirtiness and hopes the guilt disappears like the blood that had stained her hands and dress. She tells herself it was all his fault and she is still innocent and clean. Those words don’t stop her from taking the red nail polish she hid from sight and pouring some on the skirts of her dolls so they matched her dress perfectly.
When she bathes, it is like a baptism, the water ridding her of her darkness and it is like her tape is rewinding. Soon, she’s forgotten her darkness and the man who took her innocence, she dresses nicely again and fixes her hair and looks just like her dolls and when her mother comes to visit, she smiles.