Micro Fiction Monday: Saturday Mornings

Saturday mornings can be divided into one of two categories: either they are the Holy Grail of the weekend, or they are the spawns of Satan’s children. There is no in between.

The morning falls under the latter when I’m pulled from sleep by shrill beeping, with fewer hours spent in dreamland than I would have liked. When the commute nearly puts me to sleep, and the day feels like it should be over before it’s hardly even begun.

The former appears in the peak of summer, when the sun begins to shine through the trees, but the coolness of night still lingers in the air. When the dew clings to the grass and sticks to my feet, and returning to bed is the last thing on my mind. Without the fog of fatigue clouding my brain, the colours around me are more vibrant, shocking, beautiful.  The cold is welcome, not resented.

Put simply, Saturday mornings are infinitely more enjoyable when you have nowhere to be, nothing to do, and at least eight hours of sleep under your pillow.

Micro Fiction Monday: Nightmare

She knew of the palace chef before she met him. To eat what he made was like a dream come true—he was famous around the world for his wonderful pies. She didn't ask a single question, didn't think to wonder what the ingredients might be, before gracefully shoving a forkful into her mouth.

It was apple.

Immediately, she was back in that cottage, being tempted by everything she had ever hoped for. She could taste the bittersweet juice, that vague twinge of pain at the back of her throat, before the poison took control and sent her tumbling to the ground. Her last thought was of him—her wish, her dream, her biggest desire.

She awoke to the soft brush of his lips against hers. He gave her his breath, renewed her life, brought her back from the dead. In the end, she had gotten all she had ever wanted. The apple, it seems, had done everything the witch said it would.

But that twinge remained every time she took a bite, and that fear of eternal sleep kept her awake for far longer than it should have. Her new life, her dream, was now a living nightmare.

Death was not the witch’s punishment—it was waking up after.

Just a Dream (Micro-Fiction Monday)

She awoke with a start; heart pounding, sweat dabbing at her forehead, breath coming out in short, uneven gasps. It was just a dream, she thought. It’s always just a dream.

It was never just a dream.

It was 2:16 in the morning. Across town, young adults were still partying. Even if the pounding beat of the clubs died down and the bouncers kicked them out, they would carry on, the smell of alcohol following them faithfully around town. In her own neighbourhood, the streets were quiet. Filled with families and elderly couples, each house had turned in for the night. The lights were dark, the inhabitants sleeping and dreaming peacefully.

Partiers and dreamers. Neither act really appealed to her. So instead, she walked.

She walked down the stairs; past her worn mother, asleep on the couch. She walked out the door; a shiver voiced her skin’s complaints at the sudden change in temperature. She hadn’t thought to grab a coat.

She walked down the street, past her sleeping neighbours in their silent houses, past the deserted parks and darkened store windows. She walked until her skin felt tight and stiff from the cold, until her feet started to complain, until dreaming finally started to appeal to her. She walked until her legs gave out, sending her spiraling downwards. The ground was like liquid; she sunk beneath it as she fell, the cold earth swallowing her. The ground was alive; it reached up, closed itself around her neck, too eager and impatient for her to sink naturally. It had to pull her down itself.

She awoke with a start; heart pounded, sweat dabbing at her forehead, breath coming out in short gasps. It was just a dream.

It was never just a dream for her.

~~

Until later,

- Justyne