Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge. June 22, 2017 prompt:In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that involves a dream. This action could have happened while awake, such as daydreaming, or make up a dream when asleep. Go where the prompt leads as it could be a nightmare or just fond memories or ambition.
This is #2 and fictional, although a very similar theme to the first.
You would never have guessed that I would be the one carrying your banner long after you’d gone. But I’ve always been the one to feel too much and wish too much and dream too much and miss people long after, when others have moved on their faces directed forward. I never knew your dreams, but maybe they’ll interweave with mine and carry on just the same. There will be peace when we’re done.
Mornings when climbing from bed felt literal, the day ahead, a craggy mountain. The hike did not change; it did not grow easier, but understanding crept in, a gray whiskered intruder, stalking shadows, pointing at mortality with a boney finger.
If thoughts are as bad as deeds, then Leah knows she’s karmically going to a really bad place.
Ever since Tony yelled viciously at the children, making Nellie cry body-racking sobs, she’s considered ways to leave him . . . or kill him.
But he’s constantly around, claiming to work from home. He doesn’t trust her. He thinks she’s going to run off with some man. What man? A bloke at the shop?
He watches her all the time, checks her mobile, even hacked into her email. He labels her best friend, Jane, a lesbo because Jane doesn’t react to his “charms.” Did he have some once? He must have. Once. Or she wouldn’t be here.
“Babe, fry me some mushrooms,” he says.
She almost says “no” because neither she nor the children like them. And, then she remembers the article warning about the deathcap mushrooms.
Marisa hates this hallway. When Mr. Santiago, her supervisor, first led her around, he gushed over the honeymoon couples who found the white arches romantic, how they craved the soft lighting he installed.
As she exchanges clean towels for soiled, she hears the familiar raised voice of a woman.
“Randy is gone,” she cries.
Mr. Santiago says the same words he always says: “Perhaps he found married life was not for him.”
“It’s our honeymoon, you idiot.”
As Marisa pushes the laundry hamper down the corridor, she averts her gaze and hums the languid native song of death and protection.