First up, the photo . . .
That’s a photo from our first few months in Colorado. At the time, with all our stuff in storage back in Michigan, we lived in an furnished apartment at University Park. It was a convenient place to live because it’s up on a hill, and there are big antennas atop the hill, and you can see them from nearly everywhere. That meant it was easy to find our way home as we went exploring.
Also at the time, there were fewer houses up near the apartment complex (they were building them when we were staying there). I am not sure I could now get to the spot where the above photo was taken.
The photo itself shows two iconic landmarks of the area. Pikes Peak, and Garden of the Gods (the large red rock visible near the center). I’ve mentioned the mountain before, and many people will have heard of GotG (by the way, there are no actual gods there; I checked real good). I still need to do a write up (with plenty of photos) of each. Someday.
And now, the Flash Fiction. This is more along the lines of actual Flash Fiction. Short, and hopefully catchy. By the way . . . I know people might have already noticed, but the stories and photos are not connected. Attracting two different audiences, as it were.
A Good Day, After All
By E. J. D’Alise (Disperser)
Copyright March 2013
She should have worn a dress. Guys like girls in dresses; preferably something short and with a v-neck. Did she even own a dress that still fit?
Julie watched the three boys as they entered the room. The new boy . . . she felt an immediate attraction. She could not put it into words . . . She stopped, and went into that analytical mode everyone found so annoying. It was not his clothes, or his hair, or his build. Sure, all were fine, perhaps even above average.
It was a combination of the look in his face, his attentive eyes, and the way he moved. She contemplated the notion this was nothing more than a physical reaction prompted by drives which, since the beginning of the species, had literally shaped human history.
But no . . . this was not infatuation, not sexual. This was not competing for the alpha male. She genuinely felt as if she knew him, as if she had always known him, as if their lives were meant to be as one.
Then she looked around . . . the gaze of nearly every other girl in the room was tracking the boy as he walked between the tables. Disgusted, both by their reactions and her own, she gathered her things, and headed to the exit.
Just before leaving the room, she glanced back to see the boys stop at the cheerleader’s table. Perfect! What chance did she have? She opened the door with a little more force than necessary, and headed toward the library.
As she walked, she again slipped into her analytical mode. Why was she so upset? She did not even try to meet him. By leaving the room she had removed herself from the competition. Competition; ha! As if she could compete. No way he would even notice her, especially not after the cheerleaders.
She sighed. As usual, she was retreating to be with her only friends. Her books. And yet, she remembered that feeling of intimacy, that feeling of belonging. “That’s stupid!” she thought, “I don’t even know the guy!”
Two football players were walking toward her. She kept her head down, looking just past her shoes. She knew of the boys; they thought they owned the school.
“Hey! Where are you going so fast?” They blocked her way, and moved to do so again when she tried to go around them.
“Please, let me pass.” She kept her eyes low, and tried to sound meek.
“You know, we’ve been watching you, and wondering if there’s anything underneath all them layers that might interest us.” The bigger boy was leaning over, trying to get her to look up at him.
“I just want to get to the libr . . . “ She did not finish the sentence because the other boy grabbed her elbow.
“Leave her alone!”
Julie and the football players turned toward the voice. It was the new boy. He looked flushed, and was obviously angry.
“We were just having some fun,” said one of the players, letting go of her elbow, “we were not going to do anything.” Both players walked toward the boy as the other one continued. “But now it looks like we got us some entertainment.”
They flanked the boy, and one of them smacked him on the back of the head.
“Don’t you know who we . . . . UMPHT!” He did not finish the sentence, his breath knocked out of him by Julie’s foot making contact with his abdomen.
The other player turned just in time to have Julie’s hand hit the side of his head just below the ear. She continued her motion to end up in front of the player still trying to recover his breath. Her knee came up to catch his nose unprotected. He went down yelling.
The other player recovered, and made to move toward Julie. The boy whose name she still did not know grabbed the player’s hand, and did something to the thumb. The player went down on one knee, and the boy drove his elbow to the side of the player’s neck.
Julie and the boy looked at each other as the two players stayed down.
“What are you doing here?” Julie asked.
“I . . . I noticed you in the cafeteria. Uh . . . it felt . . . I mean, it seemed . . . “
Julie helped him out. “. . . as if we already knew each other? Me too.”
Stepping over the one player, she continued. “My name is Julie.” She extended her hand, which he took.
“I’m Dave.” He said, giving her a slight bow. “Let me help you with your books.”
Dave helped her pick up her books, and then they both returned to the players, now precariously standing.
“You bitch! You broke my nos . . . “ Dave’s slap nearly knocked him down. As it was, he staggered backward.
“That’s no way to talk to a lady. Now, here is the deal. We took it easy on you guys. Come after either of us again, and your knees are history.” Dave finished speaking when Julie leaned close to the other player, who was holding his neck. Her voice dropped, but was loud enough for the player to hear “Hurt either of us, and you will be history.”
She turned, and smiled at Dave. This was a good day, after all.
So, here is the thing. Many of my stories contain violence. Perhaps it’s my nature; I look at the world around me, and know many are the targets of bullies, of threats, of people who have no regard for others.
I can’t do much about it in real life, but I can sure let my imagination go when writing fiction.
Another thing . . . I often write from a female perspective. This despite the fact the females of the species are pretty much a mystery to the males of the species, me included.
As such, I would appreciate any comments regarding my depictions of female characters. You see, I fear I am writing them not as true females, but as females acting as males. And I say that with some bravado, as I am not entirely sure what males are supposed to act like. In fact, the only thing I know is how I act, and have yet to figure out what drives others of the human species.
So, in the end, it may not strictly be males or females per se. Just representations of what I imagine humans should be like, even as I admit to not understanding what they’re actually like. Am I explaining myself? Probably not.
Anyway, if you enjoyed reading this story, please tell everyone you know. After all, why deprive your loved ones, your friends, and your work colleagues, of the joy associated with the discovery of these little gems?
BUT . . . If you did not enjoy reading it . . . well, don’t get your nose all out of shape, and please; don’t tell anyone.
I was asked about these little designs. Click on it to read more about them.
Please, if you are considering bestowing me some recognition beyond commenting below, refrain from doing so. I will decline nominations whereby one blogger bestows an award onto another blogger, or group of bloggers. I appreciate the intent behind it, but I would much prefer a comment thanking me for turning you away from a life of crime, religion, or making you a better person in some other way. That would actually mean something to me.
Should you still nominate me, I will strongly suspect you pulled my name at random, and that you are not, in fact, a reader of my blog. If you wish to know more, please read below.
Note: to those who may click on “like”, or rate the post; if you do not personally hear from me, know that I am sincerely appreciative, and I thank you for noticing what I do.
. . . my FP ward . . . chieken shit.