Ruby Johnson hung the mirror near the front door. A special mirror that showed man’s true nature. But only on the first reflection. After that it showed up meaningless different colours like a mood ring.
Her husband’s image had glowed a brilliant white. So she married him. Her friend Nina, a dull purplish-gray. That friendship didn’t last. Now its latest revelation perplexed her.
Her son, who had till now been too short to be reflected in the mirror, turned it to a chalky black speckled with red. She did what any mother would do. She smashed the mirror to smithereens.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who is the fairest of us all?” What an awesome image this week. Thanks to Nathan Sowers courtesy of Dawn Miller.
I wish I had this mirror. Wonder if it would make navigating through life easier? Unless it tells you a truth you’d rather not believe in.
The last thing Jinaka told me before the golden blade of the demon warrior’s sword plunged into his back, piercing through his abdomen, was to take the map to the city of Kunto.
Before I could catch him, he had thrust the bag and its sacred contents into my outstretched hands.
I ran, cowardly and guiltily. I looked back over my shoulder just as the demon towered over Jinaka, sword raised high. After fifteen years, my mentor was gone and independence weighed heavily on me.
Ahead the first lantern shimmered. One thousand more lit the way to Kunto.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Thanks to Carla Bicomong for this week’s shimmering prompt. Click the blue frog icon to read more flash fiction.
*** For some reason the comments were turned off on this post. Which I have now turned back on. 🙂
I turned to God to escape you.
To cure what I perceived was an illness of my heart
And in that turning to God
I saw your name
Surrounded by praises of His name
In a faithful song of fate and destiny
And what I thought was an escape,
Became an exit from a door of my mind
Into a spiritual realm of my heart,
And His heart
Deeply entangled with you.
The three of us entwined in a heartaching love
So painful that I broke.
And continue to break
In waves of pain and joy
Causing me to question who am I
And where do I truly belong
I kept company with Rumi, Shams and Al-Ghazzali
But still it brought me back to you
Just like Shams heard Rumi’s name,
So I saw your name attached to His.
Shams understood and followed
Whereas I followed but do not understand
All I know is I am forever changed
Stripped bare to my soul
And all I see is this longing for you
That is entwined with Him
There is no escape
For if I turn to God in utterance of faith
I see you too
Based on stories of divine love popularised by Rumi and Shams. And the lesser known legend of Zulaikha, the King’s wife, who fell hopelessly in love with the Prophet Yusuf. The legend has it that her love for Yusuf led her to a more divine love for God. And that her love for Yusuf was a veil that hid the divine love
Amarah tore her eyes away from David’s face. Focus! She shook fantasy images out of her head. Under the lamplight they studied the crime scene photo’s for the hundredth time.
“We’re missing something.” David pondered.
“The victim was alone. Husband’s alibi is watertight.”
“From all those tissues and drinks, it looks like she was upset.”
“We know they argued.”
“Yeah, still..” Amarah stared at the photo. Her intuition poked at something. She picked up the photo of the body. No lipstick. “There’s lipstick on some of those cigarette butts.”
“Another woman was there that night. An unidentified woman.”
Wowee! I struggled with this week’s prompt. Wrote one story, deleted the whole thing. After repetitive attempts, this is the final piece. If it’s not up to scratch, I may have over-thought everything. What an awesome prompt, (courtesy of Yvette Prior) it really conjured up so many possibilities that it was difficult to settle on just one.
Found my old teen scrapbook, in which I wrote prose and drew pictures, as a pastime. This is seventeen years old! Wrote that at a time when ironically, I had given up on love. (Sad at such a young age). One could dream anyway, right? The poem in the middle reads:
“When the warming arms of the
Misty morning sun
Gently stretch into the
I’ll wake up to you.“
Man, I was a sucker for romance. But life changes that along the way.
Along with my scrapbook, were my sketchbooks. From at least thirteen years ago. I used to draw female forms a lot. Faces. Hands. Then tried male forms, one of which was sketching Enrique from a cd cover. Back when I used to be a fan of his. Another thing that changed along the way to the present moment. Not so much a fan anymore.
There’s even an attempt at charcoal, long since abandoned.
I haven’t drawn in years. SO I really enjoyed finding these again. What makes it even more poignant, is that lately I’ve been feeling lost. And these took me right back to a place I thought I had long forgotten.
Do you still have your childhood or teen scrapbooks, sketchbooks, stories?
Andersen found mowing the lawn unexpectedly therapeutic. At first he loathed it. Now he found it strangely satisfying to see it cleanly cut. A car pulled up at the house opposite. A tall man emerged. Andersen smiled, waved at his neighbour. It had only been a few months but he knew him so well already.
He waited till he closed his front door. Then Andersen lit a cigarette, eyeing the plumbing van on the street.
Swat teams emerged in stealth mode from the van, surrounding his neighbour’s house.
Oh yes, Andersen loved the satisfaction of a job well done.
Grass to marijuana to drugs to human trafficking or other crime syndicates. That was my thought process for an undercover agent story 😉
Nancy loved pottering about with Mum. Today they were planting flowers. Or they would once Mum found her garden tools.
“It’s as if they crawl off on their own.” she muttered to herself digging through piles of junk in their garden shed.
“Maybe the gnomes came to borrow them.” mused Nancy.
Mum mumbled something about gnomes and arses.
Cinnamon sticks poked out off one shelf, catching Nancy’s eye.
“See! The gnomes replace what they borrow with cinnamon sticks.”
“Flip! so this is where I stuffed these bloody cinnamon sticks. Maybe I should check the spice cupboard for my garden tools.”
My very first instinct was to write some grisly murder / thriller. Images of leaves, dried twigs and wintry scenes has this effect on me. I pushed myself to find something different, stretch my creative muscles a bit. Get the rusty cogwheels turning. There’s a bundle of twigs on the makeshift shelving that look like cinnamon sticks. (Left on image). And I went with that!
Hope you enjoy the break from my dark side. Anyone who is a busy parent juggling work (housework or career or both), fitness habits, hobbies, child-rearing will know that feeling of confusion upon discovering misplaced items. And I doubt that Mum will find her tools in the spice cupboard. That would be too easy.
Write a story in 100 words or less, and join Friday Fictioneers. Hosted by our friend Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click the icon to read more flash fiction in different genres.