#flashstory

To the woman who looked around, wary of surroundings, the noise drowning out her thoughts. I sat just two steps behind her, watched her, as she gave another quick glance to her son, and she gave him a smile, forced if I’d ever seen one. Her eyes moved from side to side, as if surveying and then she swung around to me, as if she could tell I was watching her. Later, I’d comprehend it was only a nervous reflex, another segment of her constant surveillance. But as she turned around, I gained a glimpse of the girl as she saw herself. The jagged streaks of makeup that complimented the narrowing of her eyes, and the blush around her cheeks that occurred more from the weariness of the day than any other concern. The ordeal was unframed, unscripted, the buildup of years of letdowns and the view that what needed to happen never would. She didn’t notice that I noticed the way she rubbed the beautiful starry blue tattoo that graced her arm like it was mark of burden. Nor the way that she watched her son with endless worried eyes, nor the way she played with her hair, waiting for something that wouldn’t come.   I wish I had half the strength she did, or at least enough to go up to her, and tell her that even though she stumbled with her keys, and averted her eyes and hurt so often, that she was doing something right, even if it was just enough to put her hair in a ponytail and get through the day. And I hope that somewhere down the road she stands up and wears her heart on her sleeve, and for once the world doesn’t knock her to the ground and leave further from where she started. And to the little daredevil with the pink and purple scooter, who drove her older brother just a little crazy with her endless chatter. She came up to me and wasn’t even bothered by the idea of talking to someone unknown, letting her chatter flow free, in endless words of children’s cartoons and purple ponies. She gave bright little smiles to everyone who passed, showing them her toothless little smile with white mounds starting to peek out, and she climbed atop everything and shouted to the word of her success from atop the structures. She had no cares and no hurt in her heart, only a skip to her step and the loud ring of her voice, faster than the movement of a hummingbird’s wings. I hope that she someday understands that while the world isn’t a kind place, she never loses the twitter of her voice, or the kind way she greets everyone. I hope that while she learns that everyone is not to be trusted, she keeps the sentiment that everyone deserves a chance at her trust, and that anyone who breaks her trust understand that the hope in her eyes and her ability to make everyone laugh is irreplaceable. I know that the world is not kind, and that the woman with the starry blue tattoo may have well once been the little girl with the tiny white mounds of teeth, and I hope that as our paths crossed, theirs will as well, and that the woman with a need for others will find that she was once the little girl who never stopped trusting like she never stopped talking and once again begin to let others into her heart. I hope that the little girl will meet a woman with a starry blue tattoo and understand that the world knocks you down, and that every day, you still get up face it with your head held high. ​ I hope that the world will begin to learn from the woman of the stars and the girl with the grin and that they will both heal and be healed by a world that never deserved them.

In the 1800s a troupe of actors invested in a floating theatre that sank with all hands. Now on summer evenings, by the rivers and waterways they appear to give performances that creep into the dreams of those sleeping nearby, if there is no audience. #picturewantsastory

The Minotaur was a ship that roamed the seas looking for other boats and then absorbed parts and living crew into the structure of the ship, creating a mad shared mind, driven by the need to gain materials and replenish itself, having forgotten whatever its original voyage was, beyond keep going no matter what.

The 'Wrecking Canary’ Tegan Carthew worked as professional siren and stormcaster. She moved from targeting ships to cars on roads. First she would summon a storm to make driving hard then use her voice to make them swerve off the road. The Flaymouse ladies hired her to make sure that independent operators transporting liquor had nasty accidents #picturewantsastory

King Perseus looked at the sealed casket from his throne. He’d heard about the disappearances, statues appearing on paths, the sounds of snakes hissing. He knew what it meant. The remaining two Gorgons were coming for their sister Medusa’s head. #FairyTaleFlash

In the hidden clinic on the coast, they did what the clients asked for. A means to escape the future tyrannical land. They were made able to survive the cold and pressure, added gills, fins and tails. Then to the beach for the colonies out to sea. As the water and heat rose, the sea became the refuge of freedom.

During the Prohibition gang age, the Flaymouse ladies were the deadliest. Cursed to be half-bat, they transported illegal booze via the air, owning distribution areas. Disputes were settled, with victims found on the street, dead from the impact of the fall.

The Sin Eater, being able to transfer the sins into bread and cake, had opened a very exclusive patisserie where clients tasted the sin in the food. They were horrible but it was the prestige of being able to afford membership that drew them in.