Run.

 Flash fiction self-challenge. Prompt = “Run.”

"Run." 

As soon as he heard the word, his body jerked softly, adrenaline kicking in instantly, held in check only by conscious effort. The more basic, primal part of his brain chafed, desperate to obey the instruction but he stood his ground. 

"I refuse.” He squared his shoulders, lifting his chin and glaring down his nose. 

"Fool." 

He laughed "The fool is one who is afraid of the likes of you." He glanced again, arrogant, defiant, sure. He shrugged. 

"You should run." 

His face straightened, the look of amusement disappearing, replaced by sharp annoyance. "You are nothing of import. I am in charge here. I give commands. I do not obey. I will not run" 

"Then die." 

As the next wave crashed into him, the sand shifting beneath his feet, launching him face down in the craggy rocks of the shore, he finally did obey.

The chasm of the selves

 That lost, detached, adrift feeling you get when the foundation upon which you relied for certain truths reveals itself to be significantly less structurally-sound than had long been presumed.

How does one honour their own truth and yet simultaneously keep the promises made to never destroy another?

R E S P E C T

To whom this very much concerns, 

I will be fine.

That's something you need to not only know but to comprehend: to fully, wholly, and in all other ways ... to know… I. will. be. fine. 

You have chosen me as your pariah, your outcast, the target of your distaste, your rage, your ire, your judgement, your inner-pain, your insecurities. You have made it more and more obvious over the years that we've known each other. 

You're spending less and less energy in attempting to hide your obvious contempt, the disgust you feel toward me. 

Deliberately manipulating events to ensure my exclusion is one thing but when you make it clear, beyond any remote chance of confusion, that your own entertainment is more important than my life, you have decided and made it known to me, to everyone involved, that you are literally willing to risk my actual life instead of making a small, relatively simple change that wouldn't negatively impact anything or anyone.

And you know what? 

I'll be fine. 

I have survived magnitudes worse than you…

and I have thrived. 

My “favourite” part is that, in spite of everything, you have now asked a favour of me. 

Except, we both know it’s not a favour, don't we? 

We both know there will be no reciprocity in this - or anything we share. There never has been and there never will be because you. do. not. respect me. 

I give and you take. You ask and I give and you take. You expect and I give and you take. 

And, as much as I will actually enjoy doing this most-recent “favour”, as I have every time I've performed it in the past, it will be the last “favour” I do for you. 

I accept that you do not respect me but let me make this perfectly clear here:

I. Respect. Me. 

I cannot control how you feel about me. I cannot control what you say about me. 

I control who has use of me and you ... you are not worthy of such a lofty privilege.

I am through letting you use me. I am through enabling you your blatant disrespect of me.

Sincerely, 

Over it and over you. 

A week in the life …

 Monday

An allergic (thankfully, mild!) reaction when “oat milk” unexpectedly contains pea protein. 

Gorgeous local plant life. 

“I’ll draw the monster’s head, Grandma will draw its body, and you draw the monster from the body down!”

Tuesday

Craft time: Celebrating messes. 

Hot chocolate o’clock. Firm family favourite.

With a pampering mani-pedi, it was a good afternoon, indeed!

Wednesday

Headed to the spa to be marinaded and tenderised. 

Tenderising interrupted by a team member needing emergency help. 

Thursday

Back again for a scan and the results (which came 4 hours later). 

Potentially-lethal cross-contamination / why it’s beneficial to get to lunch early. 

More gorgeous local plant life. 

Unwinding with “adult” beverages like the teenagers at heart that we are. (Glass contains Archers and lemonade.)

Any day with glitter is a good day.

Friday

Heading home today, sky matching the overall mood.

Saturday

Unfortunately, it was my turn. 

Being severely allergic to milk, choosing “vegan” menu options isn’t necessarily the best choice when you’re even more allergic to peas. Oops. (See also: Monday, above.)

What if …

What if I said to you that I love you ... 

What if I told you all the things your tired, aching soul yearns to hear... all the things that would warm and relax and soothe your pains, your sorrows... 

What if I welcomed you into my arms, into my embrace... so that you may know comfort, so that you may know ease and adoration... 

What if I made space for you beside me, nestled with me in the very centre of my world... 

What if I created the home you've always wanted... always knew you deserved... 

What if we faced the highs and lows, the confluences and confusions of the Universe together... side by side... strengthened, supported, symbiotic in our ways, in our selves... 

What if I opened myself to you so that you may find shelter, growth, freedom...

What if I said to you that I love you.

Tile 19

Tile 19

While I sat and waited, I counted the tiles in the ceiling. Suspended on the day the system was conceived, judging by how dirty and sagging this one presented, I kept getting distracted from my counting by Tile 19. The layered effect of multiple rust-coloured water stains indicated that, at some time in its history, this space may have been an office. The kind with a typing pool and a too-handsy but-he’s-harmless-really, "Oh, that's just Bob. You get used to him and learn to ignore him," boss who smoked too much and swore too much and winked suggestively every time he called his secretary into his space to take dictation. 

Tile 19 seemed to stare back at me, emboldened by, even belligerent in the self importance of having borne witness to scenes and conversations over the years that likely wouldn't be believed. 

If these tiles could talk. 

One corner of Tile 19 was particularly fascinating. There, the darkest layer of staining, almost as dark as old blood, caused me to look to the floor directly beneath, expecting to find corresponding damage or evidence of what must surely have been dripping from the ceiling at one time. 

A chill ran down my spine as I considered what the building now housed in this modern Western word, a supposedly enlightened or "woke" society and then how much worse it may actually have been. 

Back Then. Before. When it was A Different Time and it was socially encouraged to treat others badly. 

The floor revealed nothing, however. Relatively new linoleum tiles covered the room. Hard- wearing, easy-to-clean, functional, reliable. 

Seeping outward, away from the darkest stain, the next layer, at least as dark as dried tobacco leaves, was shaped almost like a butterfly. The abject absurdity of something as beautiful and delicate and natural as a butterfly being present or even represented in this space caused me to actually chuckle to myself. The sound startled my fellow occupants in the otherwise silent room, just as the wall-mounted speakers announced, "four hundred seven!" 

I glanced at the Turn-O- Matic ticket stub clenched in my balled fist and sighed. 

604. 

I looked up and re-started my tile counting. When I got to Tile 19, someone started screaming. I sighed again, my fist tightening around the ticket. 

You won’t need your notebook today