Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Perfectionist

A perfectionist. A timer, and a task. Who thought this would be a good idea? He was already partially unhinged from yesterday, the remnants of that event remained closer than he himself believed. And I'm trapped with him? Trapped, perhaps not, but at least my chances were better off with him than without him.

Don't mistake my insistence to stay as romance. He heard me, I know he did. But the need to respond was dilute, at best. We need to find a way out, I pressed the topic, why not throw stress into the mix? That brought sweat to his brow.

I know was his only response. My lips parted to fill the air and ease my mind. Me, worried? And I'm not even the mortal in this situation. I don't think that last bit was aloud, I could never be sure around him. Not like it mattered, I was--by now--overly familiar with lonely dialogues.

Something wafted from his dark huddled form. It wasn't the mist of these caverns. It was something less natural than that. Or perhaps more so.

Almost. That one word was remarkably terrifying. It was controlled, as everything about him was, but it wasn't as lucid as every other verbal gem he had offered me. What did he mean? Almost there? Almost complete? Almost insane...?

Those like me were unable to do what he now did--but among his kind, we were denied little. And a chance like this, a chance for home, was worth their sacrifices of blood and sweat. But, I shouldn't have wondered, would there be tears once I left?

It wasn't the earth that heaved, it was the air that bellowed. He had changed something, and my mind couldn't recognize it. But, within me, something more innate remembered what would happen next.

I braced myself.

More writing by this author

Blogs on This Site