Words. Words, words, words.
Hamlet and everything.
They just wouldn’t come today, those words. Not the right ones, anyway.
Oh, there were words alright – lots of words. Jumbling together in her head; crashing together like bumper cars at the fair; bubbling up like a screen saver and then floating around, changing colour, gently tapping against each other, jiggling around, vanishing with a swipe of the mouse.
But not the right ones, not the words she needed.
“Never,” she said. She drummed her long, lacquered fingernails on the counter. “Never.”
He leaned his hands on the table and gave her a look.
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“Reason has nothing to do with it.”
“Reason has everything to do with it.” He picked up the bottle and thrust it at her.
She stubbornly shook her head.
“No,” she repeated emphatically. “I will not use artificial vanilla extract.”
Slowly, unnoticed at first, the kettle came to a boil. A soft simmering sound, then bubbling, a gentle blowing; then faster and faster, sharp and shrill, the whistle screamed its message into the air. “I’m seething, roiling, boiling! Get me off the heat! Do it nowwwwwww!”
I knew exactly how it felt.
I dropped my piece of toast, butter-side down.
“What the … ?” I stared. Blinked. Stared again.
But it was really there. Without a doubt. On my pantry shelf there sat an emerald-green dragon, all of four inches long from small smoke-spouting snout to lithe, whipping tail, its scales glittering in the light that fell through the doorway from the kitchen.
“Sssss!” it hissed at me.
“Sssss to you too!” I hissed back at it.
I should have known right there that I wasn’t quite in my right mind – having a hissing contest with a miniature dragon, rather than running screaming from the pantry or at least backing out slowly and carefully and then gently soaking my head in a sinkful of cold water until the hallucinations went away.
There was a knock on the front door.
“I really don’t know,” Liza said.
The clock ticked, slicing the silence into slivers.
“Yeah.” Crystal put her tumbler down on the glass coaster.
Its soft “clink” suddenly irritated Liza. Glass coasters! Stupid, round, pressed-“crystal” things that her Aunt Sue had given her as an engagement present!
What would happen if she picked up the whole stupid stack of the stupid things and sent them hurling into the plate glass of the picture window? One by one – Crash! Smash! Ker-chunk!
But she didn’t.
“Would you like -” No. She couldn’t chuck Aunt Sue’s stupid glass coasters into the front yard through the picture window, but damned if she was going to sit there, politely plying Crystal with iced tea while the woman dissected Liza’s pathetic existence.
“I should get going,” she said. “So if you don’t mind…”
Crystal gaped up at her for a moment, then shut her perfectly lip-sticked mouth with an audible snap.
“I thought you said you didn’t know…”
“Yes, well.” Liza picked up Crystal’s tumbler. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have things to do and places to go.”
She didn’t – but she wasn’t going to tell her cousin that.
It spun silently in a circle, glittering with reflected sunlight, gently swaying in the wind. The tree branches rustled softly above it.
Samara stretched out her hand carefully.
“It’s so beautiful!” she whispered. Her finger reached; moved closer and closer to the sparkling crystal dropping from the main orb; made contact.
A glassy tinkling sound, sweet and sharp, filled the air, and the orb flashed up with a myriad pinpricks of rainbow hues.
Samara snatched back her finger.
“I’d be careful with that if I were you,” her brother said drily.
“Yes, well, you aren’t me, are you!” Samara snapped. Her disappointment sat like a bruise in her chest.
A short fiction fragment that happened on a Friday:
The ring felt heavy, smooth, and cold. It lay on her palm like a dead weight, gleaming up at her dully. How could she have borne this lump of metal on her finger all these years?
“So, you gonna trade it, or what?” the pawn broker’s voice cawed into her thoughts.
She looked up.
“That’s what I came here for, didn’t I.” The ring clicked on the marble surface of the counter.
“Three silver,” cawed the broker.
“No,” she said, all business now. “I’ll take – that.“