The Object of My Attention

Friday is finally here and I'm ready for the weekend. But first, here's my new story prompted by the Flash Fiction challenge over at Terrible Minds. There were two opposing themes to pick from and this is my offering. I think it works. I'm not going to list the themes here so as not to give anything away. I'll post a link to the challenge below along with my choice. I hope you enjoy it. 

The Object of My Attention 

By Michelle Baillargeon

  I’ve been waiting for the perfect time, waiting for the moment when we can be alone together. I’ve been following him around trying to get my courage up to approach him, but he doesn’t know I exist. I keep a note in my purse, when my nerves get the best of me, I pull it out and read it to help me focus.

  He's not hard to find. He’s a handsome, football-playing rich kid, which means he’s usually where the most popular kids hang out. He hasn’t noticed me yet, which kind of hurts, but I’m used to it. People like him have a tendency to look right through people like me; at the moment that works in my favor. When the time is right, I’ll know; my desire will override my nerves and it’ll happen. My palms get sweaty just thinking about it. But, the universe doesn’t respect the timid, it taunts us. And, good things don't always come to those who wait. These are harsh lessons for a high schooler. The people who win, who come out on top, who are happy, are go-getters. I’m not one of those people, yet, but I will be. When the time is right. 

  I’ve been paying enough attention to him that I’ve picked up on his routine. His family’s got money, so he doesn’t have a job. That leaves his afternoons free after school. The first stop for him and his buddies is usually the diner at the edge of town, good food cheap. Afterwards, being jobless and with no direction, they drive around and usually end up at their hangout: a clearing in the woods (fire pit included) near Miller’s Pond. 

  It’s harder for me to follow him there, though. At the diner, I can blend in with the crowd or sit on one of the benches outside. I pretend to do homework; I can get close, but not too close. The nearer I get, the faster my heart beats and the less I’m able to think straight. 

  I haven't been able to figure out how to get near enough to him at the hangout without drawing attention to myself, so I usually just tail him there then head home. My gut tells me the hangout will be the best place for me to get his attention, get him alone for a few moments. Approaching him at school is too nerve wracking. The diner is a no-go, they do everything as a group: enter, eat, leave. I wouldn’t be surprised if they take a leak as a group.

  I’ve got to get him alone, it’s the only way I’ll have the nerve. At times I get overwhelmed and wonder if it’s all worth it. Then I pull out the the note and remind myself why I’m doing this. Courage, girl! I’ve got to at least try or I won’t forgive myself. 

-----

  It’s come to this. I’m standing in the woods, behind a tree, in the dark, like a creeper. The darkness of the evening and the shelter of the woods makes for good cover. Tonight is the night, it’s now or never. I’ve tucked the note into my bra, over my heart, for support. I keep touching it, seeking support, calmness; instead, I’m wiping my palms on my pants and reminding myself to breathe. At least no one knows I’m here, they’re all sitting around the fire joking and drinking. Oblivious. 

  Occasionally, one of them breaks off and heads to the edge of the woods to make room for more beer. I’m far enough from the edge of the woods not to be spotted, but close enough to gain their attention if I want to.

  It’s time, here he comes! I don’t think my heart can beat any faster than it is right now behind this tree. I touch the note once more and it speaks to me, “you can do it!” I take a deep breath and obey. 

  I wait until I hear his fly unzip to step out from behind the tree. A whisper comes out, quieter than I intended, “hey.” 

  He looks up and into the woods, unsure if he’s heard anything over the noise at the fire pit.  

  “Over here,” another whisper, but a little louder this time. I wipe off my palms and clear my throat, “I’m over here.”

  He tends to his zipper again but doesn't leave, he’s heard me. He’s curious and I see the wheels turning in his beer-fueled brain: It’s a girl. His eyes light up in anticipation and search the dark for the source of the female voice. 

  “I’m here, I want you…” my voice cracks and my courage leaves me. I practiced the words I would say over and over, I had them down cold. Damn. 

  Despite my silence, he’s headed my way without even glancing back to his buddies, curious and sure of himself. He’s so close, I can see now just how handsome his is, even in this low light. It’s very disarming up close and I think my heart has actually stopped beating. 

 

  “Who’s there?” He spots me and closes the distance between us. 

  He doesn’t recognize me and I search for the words I practiced. The words I’ve been waiting to say for so long. “I want you…” Breathe, girl, breathe; you’ve got this. “I want you to know, this is for Amy.” Those aren’t the right words, but they’ll do. 

  The mention of Amy’s name triggers a brief moment of recognition that’s followed by confusion. I watch as the light leaves his eyes. He drops to the ground at my feet without a sound. What little light there is reflects off the hilt of my knife, which is protruding from his gut. I am finally able to breathe, it’s done. 

  There’s no need to pull the note out of my bra to remember what it says, I’ve memorized it. The lines repeat in my head: I’m not strong enough to do this anymore. He’s used me and thrown me away. I thought it was love, but it was just a big joke to him. A damn dare! I’ve cried all the tears I can. I can't look Mom in the eye anymore and I can’t raise this baby by myself. I'm sorry.

  I leave him the way he left her. Rest in peace, Amy. 

This short story was based on a prompt from this challenge: Terrible Minds Challenge

(I chose option #1)

Thank you for taking the time to visit my blog and read my story. This is an ongoing learning process for me. If you are so inclined, I would very much appreciate comments and feedback.

 
 

Old Man Smell - Short Story

Happy Friday! That means it's flash fiction time again. This week's prompt was to choose a photograph from a random photo generator and write a short story about it (1,000 words), and post a link to the photo (it's below).

I decided to use a random number generator to help choose my photo, knowing I'd probably waffle on the selection. It didn't go as smoothly as I thought. The first photo was a duck; not feeling inspired, I tried again. Second photo was blue depression glass. Nothing came to me. Third photo - another duck. Fourth photo - blue mason jar. I stopped. Ok, so somebody out there wants me to write about blue glass ducks... I mulled it over for the better part of the week and couldn't come up with anything very different or original after prompts from previous weeks included the Porcelain Cat. Finally, I returned to the random number generator and found a new photo. I stuck to it this time and the link to the photo is below, along with my story. I hope you like it (I'm a smidgen over the word limit). 

Photograph: https://www.flickr.com/photos/drew_makepeace/32991812291/

Chuck Wendig's website and blog and source of much inspiration: terribleminds.com

“Old Man Smell”

by Michelle Baillargeon

Aggie stifled a yawn as she turned into the empty lot. Rider shifted in the passenger seat and opened his eyes as the car slowed and came to a stop. 

“You OK?” he asked her, recognizing at once that this was not their destination. 

“Yeah, I just needed to stop and stretch. Having a hard time keeping my eyes open.” Aggie unbuckled her seatbelt and got out of the car. Rider followed from his side and they both stretched. Aggie rolled her head until she felt a snap in her neck, “that’s better.”

“How much longer until we get there?” Rider looked around; at the end of the lot were two giant, obviously abandoned, buildings. They seemed to be held up by nothing more than rusted metal and weathered plywood. Towering over the site like ancient twin sentinels were two long-dead silos. 

“We’ve still got a few hours to go,” Aggie replied. “I wonder what this place used to be? See any signs?”

They both looked around searching for a sign that would indicate the name or type of business that used to occupy these buildings. There were none, either on the building or at the road side. The only thing nearby was a rickety billboard that asked you to “Eat at Mama’s - Ten Miles Ahead!” It was in the middle of the field across the street which had a promising crop of weeds.  

Rider shrugged his shoulders and walked towards the nearest building, “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in ages.” He approached the window closest to him, which was surprisingly intact, and leaned against it cupping his hands around his eyes so that he could see. “Sawmill is my guess,” he tapped the glass, “there’s some old equipment in there along with a few stray pieces of lumber.”

Aggie followed him to the window peered through the glass, mimicking Rider. “Look at the all light in there,” she dropped one hand from the glass and poked Rider, “think we could get in?” 

She was already imagining the stark black and white photos she’d take: light pouring over the old rusted machinery, the dark shadows lingering at the edges, dust glimmering in the sun rays. 

Aggie backed away from the window to search for a door. She found one at the far right end of the building, padlocked. Undeterred, she decided to circle the building. There had to be another door, or at least a loose board. Encouraged by the thought, she returned to the car and grabbed her camera. 

Aggie looked up to see Rider shaking his head and chuckling, “you’re not serious, are you?” He pointed to the locked door, “they obviously don’t want anyone in there.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not like I want to take anything but pictures. There's no one here and I’ll be quick.” Aggie flashed her best “pretty please” smile at Rider and he knew then that he was going to lose this argument. Better to just humor her and save time. 

Sure enough, there were several missing planks on the back wall of the building and they were able to get in easily. Aggie smiled at their luck while Rider shook his head again and chuckled, “why am I not surprised?” 

“Do you smell that?” Aggie took a deep breath as they worked their way towards the front where they’d seen the equipment. 

“What? Decaying wood, dust, mold?” 

“No. Well, yeah; but not that. Under it,” Aggie responded. 

“Under it? I don’t know what that means,” Rider said, taking a deep breath. “I got nothing.”

“Old man smell,” Aggie said, expecting her friend to understand what she meant. 

“Now you’ve lost me,” Rider stopped and looked at Aggie, waiting for her to explain. 

Aggie removed the lens cap on her camera, and raised it to her eye. She snapped some photos as she spoke. “When I was little, my family would visit relatives on summer vacation and we would always stop at Uncle Charlie’s house.”

She paused to look at her surroundings, she was trying to hurry but she didn’t want to miss anything either. She moved closer to the front where the largest piece of equipment was, Rider followed silently.

“Uncle Charlie was great with us kids, always joking around. He gave the best hugs, too. And he always smelled the same. Always.” She snapped a few more photos and paused. “There it is again; it sure brings me back.”

“So what exactly is Old Man Smell? Bengay?” Rider asked. 

“Well, it wasn’t until I was old enough to go bar hopping that I realized what it was - whiskey. Thinking back, we never saw Uncle Charlie without a highball; I put two and two together.” Aggie handed her camera over to Rider. 

“Now what?” 

“Can you just take a quick one of me standing by this giant saw?” Aggie leaned against the least rusted spot of the machine she could find and smiled at Rider. “Are you sure you can’t smell that?” 

Rider shook his head no, “maybe a wino was here.” He looked around for evidence, raising his eyebrows at Aggie and holding back a laugh, “maybe he’s still here.” 

“Just take it already,” Aggie laughed in spite of herself as Rider took her photo. Just then, a chill swept over her and she absent-mindedly brushed away a fresh batch of goosebumps. 

Aggie and Rider retraced their their steps out of the sawmill and headed back to the car. Aggie took the camera back and paused when they reached the car, she was already previewing the photos on the camera’s playback screen. 

The last photo came up first, she squinted and huffed, “Ride, there’s a glare behind me in this one. Look. I hope they’re not all like that.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.” Rider humored her by looking at the screen. He took the camera from her and enlarged his view, there was no glare. He paused to choose his words. 

“Ag, that’s not glare. That’s…” the right words wouldn’t come. Baby hairs on the back of his neck stood upright. A nervous laugh escaped as he handed the camera back to her and pointed at the screen. “I was right.”

“About what?” She caught the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes; goosebumps reappeared. Aggie looked where he pointed and saw what she’d mistaken for glare: standing beside her, cut in half by the ancient saw blade was a foggy, semi-transparent, disheveled man. He was smiling at the camera with one hand raised in an unmistakable “cheers” gesture. She looked closer, it looked like he was holding a paper bag crumpled around the familiar shape of a bottle. 

It Wants In - Short Story

Hello and thank you for stopping by. 

This week's short story is in response to Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge from a few weeks ago when he had his subscribers submit three word story titles. It was then up to us to choose one of ten selected titles and write a story. You can find his blog here: terribleminds.com

This one is mine. I struggled this week - it put up a fight, but after all the kicking and screaming, I'm glad to have at least met the challenge. It started out in second person POV and I couldn't seem to get out of it, so that was new. The title seemed to go to the dark side, I hope you enjoy my take on it. 

It Wants In
(Title by Mollons)

by Michell Baillargeon

The best part about being alone isn’t just the peace and quiet, it’s being able to do what you want, when you want and not having to answer to anyone. Of course, when you mess up or make a bad decision, you only have yourself to blame. That’s the price you pay, I guess; the compromise for so much freedom. Seems fair. 

People frequently get the wrong idea about living in the “boonies” all alone. You enjoy your own company and are protective of your alone time. You find yourself having to constantly defend your lifestyle. You’re not a hermit, after all. There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely, and you’re not lonely; sometimes it’s just nice not having to deal with people. 

Besides, as you tell your family, you’re not completely alone. You have Benny. A sweet-natured, yellow lab rescued from a shelter in the city. After just a few months, you are the the closest of friends and he’s always at your side.

You’ve invested a lot in being alone, it comforts you. You’ve never been afraid to be alone, it never occurred to you. 

———

You spend the afternoon working in your yard, Benny tags along only leaving your side to chase bunnies. The chase usually begins with a small yip and screeches to a halt as soon as the bunny reaches the edge of the yard. When Benny returns to your side, you wonder if it’s not so much about catching the bunny as much as it is about the chase. Both you and the bunny realize that the edge of the woods acts an invisible fence for Benny; it gives both of you peace of mind. 

Goosebumps appear on your arm and the chill interrupts your focus on chores. You straighten up and stretch against the kinks in your back, a result of being hunched over for most of the afternoon. The sun has moved across the sky when you weren’t looking and you realize there’s not much daylight left. You look back over flower bed you’ve been working on and are happy with the results; weeds have been removed and replaced with several flats of annuals. There are now wonderful burst of color where there were none this morning: yellow, orange, purple and red. 

Wait. Red? You hadn’t purchased any red flowers. The goosebumps reappear on your arms, but this time it’s not from the cool air. You ignore them and look around for Benny, calling him as you approach the end of the flower bed where the red thing is. Curiosity has the better of you, is it a bag or a cloth? It doesn’t look like either. Your steps slow to baby steps and then you pause, still a few feet from the red thing. 

“Benny, come here boy!” Where has he gotten to? You look around the yard and scan the wood’s edge. He’s not there. You call his name again as you take another step closer to the red thing. You feel your heartbeat quicken as fear captures all rational thought. You don't want to look. You don't want to see. It can’t be him.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, pushing back the fear. You have to look, you force yourself. Opening your eyes, you close the final steps to the red thing. At first, all you can see is red. Shiny wet pools of red. Its abstract quality confuses you for a moment, then you realize that it’s blood; but, just blood, no Benny. You have a momentary reprieve until the bloody scene comes into focus. A trail of blood leads to the back of the flower bed. A cold, boney hand clenches at your heart, once again you call to Benny. Nothing. 

Stealing yourself against what you will find, you round the corner of the flower bed. As you approach the back side of the bed, you try to fight off the many images in your mind of what might be back there. You’re trying to convince yourself that it could be anything, anything but what you dread. You’re procrastinating and the sun it setting, if you want to see what it is, you have to do it now while there's still any sunlight left. You try to lighten the mood by telling yourself, “it’s fine, you don’t really want to see what’s back there, anyway.” Reality sinks in, there’s no one else to do it. You take the last step and make the discovery you’ve been dreading. 

Dropping to your knees, you reach out to Benny. He looks up at you with sightless eyes as blood drips from the ragged wound in his neck. The fur around the wound is matted with still more blood. You know he’s gone, but you reach out to him anyway, hoping he feels comforted where ever he is.

———

You’ve been sitting at your kitchen table staring at a cold cup of tea for an hour. Unanswerable questions cycle through your mind. You glance over to the box with Benny in it. You’ve wrapped him gently in an old blanket and, even though it’s been dark for several hours, you’ve positioned the box in front of his favorite widow. The one he loved to look out of and watch for bunnies. You’re going to have to move him soon, you know that; but you want him near for a little bit longer.

A small noise coming from the porch breaks through the fog of your grief. You acknowledge it, and just as quickly disregard it. This is the boonies, there are all kinds of creatures out there every night. You rise and pour the cold tea down the sink drain, deciding something stronger is called for, when you hear the noise again. This time you cock your head towards the sound and really listen. The sound is faint but persistent. The inside door is shut, muffling the sound, but you’re sure - something is scratching at your screen door and it sounds like it wants in. Maybe it’s a squirrel or a…   heck, you don't know. 

The level of persistence has piqued your curiosity, you have to look after all. Standing on tip-toe in order to see out the window, you strain to see what’s making that racket. Between the darkness and the bad angle, all you see is the night; and now the scratching has gotten louder. Not because you’re closer to it, but because what ever it is has doubled its efforts. 

Concern is beginning to outweigh your curiosity, but you have things that need to be done. Your thoughts momentarily turn back to Benny and a lump forms in the pit of your stomach. Yes, there are things to be done and it’s up to you, you alone. There’s that word again. It’s not so comforting now, is it?

The screen door is banging against the doorjamb now; you can tell that the hook is still set in the eye, but not for long. You step back for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of blood pounding through your ears and the goosebumps on your arms. You admonish yourself for being such a sissy, but then you recall poor Benny lying behind the flower bed. Maybe you do have reason to be cautious. 

You remind yourself there are things to be done and this has to be handled first. There’s no one to get rid of your spiders for you and there’s no one to open this door. You've had a moment to calm down when you realize the banging has stopped. You look around for some form of protection and grab a nearby broom, it’ll have to do. 

A deep breath and you switch on the porch light, you listen for any sounds from the porch. Nothing. It’s now or never. You hold the broom in front of you and at once it seems ridiculous and small; but it’s all you have. With your other hand you slowly open the door; just a crack; the broom your first line of defense. You pause for a moment, then open the door wider when nothing happens. 

A hole has been torn in the bottom of the screen and you move quickly cover it with the broom. What the heck? You scan the porch searching for the source of all the commotion and your eyes land on a bunny. A single bunny, nose twitching, inches from the hole in the screen. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. Relief sweeps over you. 

You bend over to get a closer look, all is not right with this bunny (as if all had been right up to this point). It raises its head to return your stare, unafraid. It looks at the hole in the screen, you follow it’s gaze. It wants in. In a heartbeat, he’s up on its haunches and through the hole. In your surprise, the broom is of no consequence and you stumble back, landing on the floor. As the bunny lunges at your jugular, you notice the dried blood on his chin.