Like I’ve said during my Friday posts: I’ve been busy at work planning for Summer Reading. What does that mean? It means I don’t have a lot of time to write–at least, not write chapters in my current stories that I think are up to the quality they should be. And yet it is story day on the schedule, so… quite a dilemma. But then I thought it might be fun to try my hand at some “flash fiction.” It would be a good writing exercise for me and still (hopefully) provide an enjoyable read. So I found a prompt and challenged myself to write that story in only 500 words or less.
As per the prompt, I decided to head back to Todd Everett the crazy world of spies and prophecies. To read the first story in the Forthcoming series, start here.
Prompt: Write a “sneak peek” of a story that you haven’t worked on in a while.
It wasn’t simply raining–torrents were lashing against the window, streaking along the glass like clear snakes across black sand. The view outside the window was dark. The trees that surrounded the small house were invisible to the storm outside–the only evidence that they even existed were the sounds of branches thrashing in the wind. Nothing could be seen save for the reflection of the man staring fervently at the glass. He was a rough man, with a beard as coarse as the thoughts racing through his mind.
Henbane eyed his reflection, though he was hardly taking any notice of it. He numbly realized that his blonde tresses were longer than he liked; some of the bristles were actually beginning to resemble hair.
But time had been a precious commodity lately, and personal grooming was among the lowest of his priorities. The highest priority, however, was the cell phone placed carefully on the table in front of him. He refused to look at it, unsure of what sort of news he was really wanting–he knew what he was expecting.
And what he was expecting would surely be a good report.
For Cyrus, at least.
Henbane turned his head slightly. The image in the window copied the action, displaying the black patch that was placed over his eye. Golden thread was finely woven into the material, but the elegance of the fabric did not detract from what it hid–a gaping hole where his eye used to be. Henbane’s jaw clenched at the memory.
Losing an eye was dramatic. But a person was supposed to lose it because a bomb exploded, sending shards of glass into the retina. Or a stray bullet struck the iris. Heck, Henbane would’ve even settled for a bee-bee gun accident.
He glowered, his fingers tightening reflexively into a fist. It wasn’t the injury itself, it was how he’d gotten it–a pen shoved right into the socket. Not dramatic at all. Not spectacular. In fact, it was comedic.
Henbane didn’t do comedic.
But, of course, there are some people that laugh at everything. People who make jokes to hide their insecurities.
Henbane thought this made those insecurities all the more visible; it was like putting a building in front of a neon sign–it might be concealed, but the sign’s light can still be seen, flashing dangerously below the surface.
Henbane preferred fighting–there was no way anyone could doubt how he was feeling if his fist was connecting with someone’s jaw.
He grinned. Some people only feigned control over their emotions–and by “some people” he meant the exact person responsible for his missing eye. Henbane breathed deeply. That certain person (he thought each syllable with venom) had slipped past him too many times. His luck was bound to wear out soon.
Henbane would make certain of that.
Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021