Some more Fiction

Here are two very short stories I worked on for my class.

__________

champagne.

A sea of green helmets rolls over the landscape like a wave of destruction. Pulsing, pulling everything down as it goes by. This single entity of men is consumed with fighting, flowing, living, dying as one. Listen closely; you can hear their heartbeats. He hurts. He fears. He loves. He starts. He stops. This pounding echoes in their heads because wet heavy boots sink deep into the mud. With the glint of guns, is this garrison just a game? The pounding echoes.
Look there- a man breaks from group breaking the rhythm. A single smile spreads across his cracked dirty face. Anonymous, supposedly. The lone figure runs away from it all to the safe sanctuary of home. He’s broken away from the all-consuming monster of authority. That’s when the bullet hits him, plummeting deep into the flesh of his lower back. He is falling like rag doll to the hard ground. The ground is no man’s friend. Tides of consciousness and pain wash over his mind, balancing him on the brink. The smile strains to stay as the free blood pools out, seeping into the mud, staining it with hard earned liberty. The uniform is now matted with dark blood while he lies dying, life leaking from his core. His eyes can no longer focus on the gray morning. Another shot is fired into the mud man, the sound resonating in the cold atmosphere. Waves of human machines march on, forgetting the smiling, dying man.
His eyes are like champagne, they sparkle, bubble over, and in the morning all that’s left is a hollow, splitting headache. Rain


________

What I am about to tell you is a lie.
I don’t love her anymore. I’ve been staring at my blank computer screen for 38 minutes. My soy latte has grown cold. The thought of her face no longer lingers in my mind. The sound of her laugh no longer plays on repeat. She isn’t a part of my life. I am happily heartbroken.
Was it yesterday? A year ago? This year has been caught in still frames and pictures in my mind. Images of rekindled love, broken hearts, injuries, smiles, and second chances spin through my head. I don’t care. It’s a pleasant sort of pain.
Seated here at the gratitude café, it all feels so slow.
I was eleven when I first told her I loved her. All she said was “I know, silly boy”. Even then she was a beautiful disaster. She was the only girl who wasn’t afraid to dance in the pouring rain. She makes me feel alive, or she did.
But none of this is true. This is not reality.
Across the café a couple shares a mug of hot chocolate. I see a chance, a dance, a romance. Endless opportunities reflected in his dark rimmed glasses. I used to be him. The girl doesn’t believe in love, I can tell from her lopsided smile. He doesn’t know that yet, he is far too mesmerized by the little green flakes in those big eyes. And she just likes those dark curls. I just know.
I’d write love stories if there was a girl worth writing for. I’d write my story for her. Childhood best friends, in love with her for 15 years, she left. Dropping me to shatter on the floor as she fled. Doesn’t seem so romantic now. Good thing this never happened. Now she’s gone, I don’t want to write. Now love stories seem ridiculous. Silly games from when I was a boy. My soft skinned inspiration left me to grow dusty on the shelf next to old Josh Ritter CDs.
The whole time I just kept sipping her sweet lemonade laced with love and lies.
The couple across the café finished their hot chocolate. Now they sing the tune of goodbye, dance the rhythm of farewell. I laugh at them, gleefully grieving. It’s all marvelously masochistic.
My soy latte is now icy because I don’t love her anymore.
Truth be told, I’m not a very good liar.