Poetic Justice

For The Light and Shade Challenge.

"Poetic Justice"

“The thing is, she has to fall in love with you! Because that’s what I decided must happen!” Elizabeth shouted, as she pecked away at her keyboard.

Zane had rebelled one too many times.

“I listened to your reasoning,” she went on. “I cared enough to let you speak your piece, but it just won’t do! You will let her fall in love with you, and you will stay and love her back, just as I’d planned!”

The problem wasn’t that Zane didn’t love Marie, because he did. He loved every hair on her head, every fleck in her eye. The problem was that he was trying to run away from her, trying to keep his secret from her, hoping Elizabeth wouldn’t reveal it.

Their story was much deeper than Marie realized, but he feared the day she found that out. She’d always just assumed she’d met him at the bar one night—just a random joining of fates. But Zane knew that’d not been their first meeting. He couldn’t deny himself the chance to get to know her—really know her. They’d become so close lately, and he didn’t want to let that go, but it was time for him to leave.

He wished so badly Elizabeth would let him go, or just leave his secret in the shadows so they could be together. But he knew how she worked all too well; she’d keep all those pertinent little details to herself until just the right moment, when she’d cram them all down Marie’s throat in one violent, emotional helping.

He cringed.

What would Marie do? Would she run away and never come back? Of course she would…

Elizabeth was a control freak; everything had to happen exactly like she wanted it to. The second he tried to make a turn—a turn for a route he wanted to take—she’d throw in the towel and disappear for two days, gathering her literary artillery. She had her moments—moments when she’d give in to him—like, when he’d been about to shoot that disgusting bastard outside the bar that night, and she’d realized that he wasn’t a killer after all, and allowed him to just kick his ass, instead. Nonetheless, she irked him, like a pesky little piece of dust under his eyelid.

The words sped across the screen, as she continued ranting, the letters appearing quickly. There wouldn’t be room for rebutting from him anymore; she’d just say everything as quickly as she could and that would be that!

Marie found every seed Elizabeth had planted. She’d followed every breadcrumb, just like she was supposed to. She rounded the corner, eyes blazing. “It was you, wasn’t it?” she seethed, tears already streaming down her face. “I knew your voice was familiar!”

Zane recoiled at the sound of her pain. He didn’t know if he could hear her say it…or if he could admit it.

He wouldn’t have to. She knew.

“You abducted me, didn’t you? It was you!”

His face contorted and his insides knotted. He’d hate Elizabeth for the rest of his life for doing this! “Marie, please,” he pleaded. “You don’t understand. I can explain everything. I swear!”

She slapped his hand away, the flames in her gaze daring him to touch her again. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say, Zane! That was the most horrifying time of my life! It scarred me, ruined me! And all this time, it was you!”

Zane reached for her again, not knowing what else to do. “He was going to kill me!” he reasoned. “I was just following orders! If I hadn’t taken you, he would’ve killed me, Marie! I let you go! I let you go, and I beat the hell out of his crony when he came after you. Doesn’t that count for something?”

She ignored his question. “You let me have feelings for you, knowing what you did! You let me think I met you at the bar! But you knew you’d met me before!” The words were muffled under her sobs.

“I’m so sorry! I fell for you, Marie. I had to find you, so I went looking for you.” He’d dropped to his knees, crying, begging for her mercy.

Her face had turned more serious than hurt. Her eyes glazed over, and her hands clenched into fists at her side. “You’re not who I thought you were. You abducted me from my home, Zane. You kept a mask over my face for a week! How could you do something like that?”

He got to his feet, and she let him take her hands this time. “Marie, please, try and understand why I did it. I love you…”

Her chin quivered, shattering his composure. “I could never love someone who did what you did. You belong in jail.”

More than his poise broke this time; every part of him broke. All he’d wanted was to leave before things got serious, before she had more than just feelings for him. He’d wanted to leave before she found out. Then, he’d have to live with what he did, and Marie never would’ve had to know.

Elizabeth tagged on a stern period, ending the sentence and the chapter. She dusted her hands together, just for a dramatic effect (such a long chapter warranted something dramatic). She let out a satisfied sigh as she fell against the back of the chair. “Oh, Zane! You rebellious character, you,” she said, grinning. “You’ll get your happy ending. Don’t worry.”

922 Words

crjennings1988@yahoo.com

Once for Nostalgia

September 14, 2014 Written for The Light and Shade Challenge. 

Inspired by a quote from Doctor Who: "There's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes."

"Once for Nostalgia"

The wind was steady, a consistent stream of chill, perfectly contrasting the sun's heat. I listened to everything: the kids' gleeful laughter, the shaking autumn leaves, and the thudding little sneakers against the pesky wood chips I remembered picking out of my shoes.

The rubber strap of the swing was not nearly as comfortable at fifty-seven. I couldn’t bend my knees to fly higher, like I used to, and the thin chains weren’t easy for an old man’s arthritic fingers to grasp, but there was so much there to appreciate, fifty years wiser—a different view through the same eyes.

C.R. Jennings
crjennings1988@yahoo.com
100 Words

The Waters of the Oasis

          I wrote this for a flash fiction challenge, but I wasn't able to post the whole story due to the word count.  I read it after already submitting it and just felt like it fell short.  So, here's the whole short story.  Maybe it is more fulfilling.

Photo By Ashwin Rao

“The Waters of the Oasis”

Every movement hurt more than the previous, shifting his broken bones, igniting his pain.  Galloping was too much, but he couldn’t stop; he was almost there, and he wouldn’t slow down now.  The wind felt icy against his clammy, sweat-sheened face and neck as the horse sped on at the speed of deadly venom. 

The Oasis was bigger than the stories made it seem; he’d thought it to be easier—run in, jar the precious liquid, and get back.  He wasn’t expecting a battle, or to have to search a dense forest for such an unspecific thing. 

The waterfall roaring in his ears made it difficult for him to think clearly, the night made it even more difficult for him to see, and the pain didn’t make anything easier.  He was beginning to lose hope.  He would die before he found it, he was certain.

He searched through the trunks of the dozens of surrounding trees, trying to spot it, hoping it would stand out, but everything looked the same through his blurry, fading vision.  Under the tree, I will be.  If you dare, stir the waters, and I’ll be there, he remembered the riddle.  But there were hundreds of trees.  They all looked the same… how was he supposed to know which tree? 

He was dizzy now.  The thin air made it harder to breathe.  He lay over onto the horse’s rough, matted mane, not able to support himself any longer.  He knew he wouldn’t make it, but he’d try until his last breath; he wouldn’t die having given up.

He tried to keep his eyes open, but his consciousness was slipping quickly.  Straight ahead, there was a darker tree, a sick-looking tree, close enough that he could see its grey bark, and limp branches.  Its boughs were startlingly bare, and its trunk appeared weaker than even he was, and brittle… more brittle than the autumn leaves it lacked.  Jet, the horse with the appropriate name, galloped straight for the ancient-looking tree, stopping in front of it deliberately, stamping his hoof at its base. 

“Jet,” he sputtered out, gasping for another breath, “we have to keep going.  Please.  It’ll to be too late.”

The horse’s protest was loud and demanding, as he stamped his hoof harder this time at the base of the old, dying tree. 

“Jet, please,” he coughed out, losing the strength to hold on any longer. 

Jet danced, stamping and huffing, knocking him from his back.  He hit the unforgiving ground with a groan, and tried to lift his cheek from a thick, sticky puddle.  The water was warm, like candle wax, and he felt it begin to bubble under his skin.  He tried to move out of it, but Jet nudged him back into it with a scoff and stamped the ground again. 

He raised a shaking hand to his cheek and smoothed the water from his dirty skin.  Could it be? he thought, a small tinge of hope returning to his heart.  Could this sick, lifeless tree harbor the healing water?

He mustered his strength and pulled the small jar from his satchel.  He dipped it into the murky, shallow water, filling it and returned the lid as tightly as he could.  He slid the filled jar into the bag around Jet’s thick neck and slapped him, sending him off.  The ground pounded under him as he watched Jet gallop away—the fastest horse in the land.  Jet would make it back to her in time.  The healing water would cure sickness.  Deadly wounds, no, but it would cure her sickness.  He could see the happiness returning to her eyes, and it made him smile as he lay staring into the pitiful limbs of the sacred tree.  He’d die soon, he knew, but he only wanted to save her.

--C.R. Jennings

In the Angel's Touch / Unfinished Business

I wrote this for this week's Light and Shade Challenge.

Photo Courtesy of the Light and Shade Challenge

"In the Angel's Touch / Unfinished Business"

     The oak was the largest she'd ever seen, she always thought.  It was beautiful and wise-looking; its branches were spindly, and its trunk twisted upward into the boughs in such an intriguing way.
     The bench beneath its shade was such a comforting spot--one she visited often.  She sat quietly, alone, staring across the well-tended, fenced-in yard.  The birds' song and the wisp of peaceful wind were the only sounds surrounding her.

     "It's peaceful, isn't it?" he said, interrupting her daydreaming.  She didn't bother looking over at him; she kept her gaze on the wind-bent flowers, her thoughts on the calming rustle of the leaves above her.  

     "Do you know why they call this the Angel Yard, Lucy?" he questioned softly.  

     A quiet sigh was the only acknowledgment she'd offer--a subtle raise of her chest and shoulders.  

     "Well," he continued cheerfully, "some say that they can feel a presence here, the embrace of their loved ones passed."  

     Lucy's heart slowed, feeling heavier.  

     "Some say, they've talked to them, even seen them."

     She sighed, heavier this time, wishing that were true.  "You know I don't believe in things like that," she said dryly.  She could feel him staring at her, but wouldn't look over; she didn't have to; she knew his reaction to her disbelief all too well.  "Only the weak believe that way," she added, "those who can't deal with life and its reality."

     His voice was sad sounding, a hopelessness plaguing it.  "Yet you've seen it so many times with your own beautiful eyes."  He reached out carefully and rested his hand softly atop hers.  She flinched inwardly, not allowing him to notice.  

     She said simply, "I see what my heart wants me to see, nothing more."  Nowadays, her voice was a dead, monotonous sort of drone, not at all oozing with the buzzing sweetness it used to.

     "Faith is for everyone, Lucy," he reminded her.  "Even the stubborn."  He squeezed her hand tighter, as if he could convince her with just a touch.  "Some seek proof but never find it, but you... proof came straight to you; you didn't have to look.  Your proof is right here."  He pulled her hand into his lap, his fingers stroking hers, desperate to make his point.  

     "You're just a figment of my own desperate desires."

     "You don't believe that."

     "I do," Lucy argued.  "The mind is a very powerful thing."

     It was quiet again, only for a moment before he spoke softly into her ear.  "I love you, Lucy."

     He smiled sadly at her internal struggle with her faith; he'd seen that confusion in her eyes so many times before.  He'd always known he'd found Lucy for a reason.  He was always her strength and he knew how hard it'd been for her since he'd gone. 

      She sucked in a composing breath, tears welled in her eyes, chest tight, and she finally looked at him.  She squeezed his fingers in hers, and a smile full of freedom and relief replaced her pain... and his too as he faded away.


--C.R.JENNINGS

The Spark

I wrote this for The Light and Shade Challenge :)

"The Spark"

          A spark.  If only she saw it.
          I watched her every move, spinning, twirling across the floor.  Her spirit as free as her hair, every strand rippling about as she moved easily to the haunting indie song that poured from the speakers.  Her pain was expressed in her precise moves, and her struggle reflected in her eyes, but I could always feel the stoic courage radiating from her soul.
          I'd never even spoken to her, yet I felt I knew her.  Her eyes had only ever met mine once, and I'm not even sure if she noticed it, but I will never forget it.  It's such a consuming feeling; a distracting feeling; one that I knew all too well.  It took my breath, dried my throat, and froze every muscle in my body.
          The spark grew every time I watched her telling her story on the floor.  A spark.  That's what I wanted her to feel.  But I was only a seat in her audience; how could I ever show her my soul, like she had showed me hers?
          My heart was splintered from the many times I'd walked across love's raw planks, bare-footed, trusting.  I had become afraid of that spark, afraid of what it could do to me, afraid of how it could be ripped away from me, leaving me torn beyond my control.
          The music met its abrupt end, and she fell to her knees, out of breath, an intense look in her eyes.  I stared back into her gaze, realizing that her stare... her eyes were on me, and my chest was heaving as much as hers.  
          How would it destroy me this time?
          I looked over at her smiling face, remembering every day that had come with every wrinkle, every memory.  She bent down to twirl Marie, laughing.  She danced more carefully now, but her hair was just as long and just as free, only without the rich browns it used to be; the strands were as silvered as the Mockingbird.
          She tugged Marie to her hip, kissing her cheek.  I just stared, until those same hazel eyes found mine.  They glimmered, just as they always had, glowing and sparkling in light and love.  There it was... the spark.


--C.R. JENNINGS
  374 words

Out of Ink

I wrote this for the Light and Shade Challenge.  It's the first time I've been able to sit down and do this new challenge, and I'm excited to be a part of a new writing community :) So, thanks!

          "Out of Ink"

          My pen has been sentenced to death.
          I thought admitting it would give my muse the kick in the rear it needed, but no. It's hardwired stubbornness is infallible. It'll let me continue climbing carelessly until the weight of my impatience has snapped every branch of inspiration.
          An unmoving pen to the audacious page--ink blots exposing the many times I've pressed its felt tip to the still-blank paper, but the words remain dormant, teasing me, testing me...daring me.
          Yet another page covered in a deafening silence.





crjennings1988@yahoo.com

My entry for this week's Trifextra Challenge!  

"The Cast"

He'd betrayed all who live in the light. 

My soul coagulated, as I stood in his gaze for what I knew would be the last time.

"Goodbye, Heylel," I breathed as he descended.

Peephole

Hello again!!  Here's my latest Trifecta Writing Challenge   I hope you enjoy it :)

"Peephole"

I stared so hard my eyes were burning from the dryness.  My nostrils flared, and I felt the rough lump of shock scrape down my throat and shoot through my stomach. 

My trembling hand gripped the knob, but I couldn’t move.

Manicured fingers pressed into the skin of his neck, moving into his hair.  The adulterous embrace was fish eyed through the lens, his lust warped through the small, circular opening. 

His betrayal swallowed me whole, depositing me into a dark, destructive place, where my vice came face-to-face with his lies and deceit—things I should’ve seen before but was blind sighted by the happy-hazel shade of his honey-flecked irises and the melodic hum of his voice. 

Manipulate… that’s all he’d done for a year was manipulate me. 

My fingers tightened around the knob, my chest tight with anxiety, begging me to fling the door open and confront his knavery. 

Suddenly, sapience washed over me, stealing my vindictive thoughts and replacing them with a solid reminder of the reality outside of my emotions. 

My now-steady fingers lifted, turned the deadbolt, and flipped the light switch toward the floor.   

Words:  188

crjennings1988@gmail.com