Understanding my purpose, realising my destiny is a bizarre freedom.
I am still accepted into the lives of others every day, day after day.
They see nothing new, because they only see what they want to see.
I pity them, for their world is so narrow.
I pity them.
Here is my latest entry into the lovely Lillie’s Five Sentence Fiction, where she has provided this gorgeous photo for us as this week’s inspiration. Please do visit here to read, read, read some more! No two pieces will be the same…
My twin sister Lucy was the exact opposite to me in her approach to life – it’s like she was sprinkled with glittering fairy dust when she was a baby, whilst I just had dust chucked in my face.
She only had to smile and she got the boyfriend, the engagement ring, the wedding, the perfect children – everything has been handed to her on a plate.
But now, well, it’s become plain that my somewhat pessimistic approach to life has finally paid off, although please understand that I don’t find any satisfaction in vindication – honestly.
They warned us that the new species of magnolia had mutated, that poison lurked in its pollen and on no account should we even think about sniffing the flowers and their glorious, alluring scent.
She couldn’t believe that something so beautiful could be a killer – those were her very, last words.
Here’s my latest entry into VisDare this week, the prompt run by the lovely Angela. I have no idea where I got this tale of sinister tale of envy from… I’m not even feeling particularly dark today! Please do pop over to her blog and read the other submissions – no two will be alike!
“Why are we here, Papa? It’s so very quiet, like it’s Sunday or something.”
The man stares at his teenage daughter, his heart aching to see the ghost of Sarah lingering in her quizzical expression. He fingers the scar running along his jaw, a nervous habit he knows only too well.
“Did you and Mama work here, during the war?”
Bless her, she is as sharp as her mother, he thinks, his heart breaking slowly. He can’t believe it makes no noise in doing so, is incredulous that there is no pool of blood dripping onto the cobbles at his feet in witness to what is about to happen.
It has been ten years, since Sarah died here, in the road, outside this small magasin.
‘Not died,’ he thinks, correcting the lie he had been telling himself for a decade. ‘Killed. By me.’
He hopes his daughter is as strong as his mother had been. She will need to be, once she knows the truth.
Here’s my latest entry to Magpie Tales. I couldn’t quite leave my trilogy behind, so thought I would write a kind of post-script. You can read the other stories in order here, here, and here, if you like!
I hope you enjoy it – and please do visit Magpie Tales for more poetry and prose!