Flash Fiction written by Stefanie Gilmour
The Story
I fumble the keys, slick metal slipping through sweaty fingers, as I dart a glance back over my shoulder. They always move faster than I anticipate. The keys plummet to the pavement beside the car door. My shriek of frustration is accompanied by the thuds and moans of the horde slamming against the windows. I need to put as much distance as possible between myself and the building. It’s time for Plan B. I turn my back on the monsters and the bomb I planted not five minutes prior. My legs are awkward at first as I force my adrenaline-soaked body into a run. A sudden explosion booms behind me. It propels me forward off my feet with a wave of hot air and debris. The watch, not as accurate as I’d hoped, sounds its alarm…beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.
The bedroom is dark and cold. I hate mornings. And Mondays. I’m told I should be thankful. So why can’t I get out of bed? I should be thankful I sing and dance in this city, something I’ve always dreamed since childhood. I’m not existing from paycheck to paycheck like so many others. No waiting tables for me. I survive on jazz hands. But the critics are killing me. They advise me to lose weight. My legs aren’t long enough, and my movements aren’t graceful enough. My partner and I lack synergy. They can’t believe he’s still performing with me. Afterall, I’m older now. They advise me to gain weight. A crashing and crunching noise sounds as the garbage truck empties the dumpster below my window. The diesel engine rumbles and the truck backs away…beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.
The bedroom is dark and cold. I hate mornings. And Mondays. I’m told I should be thankful. So why can’t I get out of bed? It’s disheartening when you believe you succeeded; you escaped the bedcovers! You’ve won the first battle of the day. Then you wake up. You find yourself still anchored to the bed. Cats!!! Why can’t we be like cats? They relax throughout their lives, and never regret a single nap. I’d be, I am, a large orange cat. My contentment rumbles in my chest as I lounge on the toasty tiles of the kitchen floor. My person hums to herself, also at ease. She glides around the kitchen in a dance as she cooks for her loved ones. The kitchen smells delicious. I’m safe and warm here. My person floats over to the stove when the timer sings…beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep.
The bedroom is dark and cold. I hate mornings. And Mondays.
Photo by Daria Shevtsova from Pexels