Fiction Friday - Dead Eyes

She sat, staring at the computer screen, willing it to work. Her mind was a blank. Literally, since the incident. Now, alone in her room, it was up to her to figure things out. Everything. How does this device work? 

No one knew where Paige had been for the past week, but when she returned to the boarding house, clean, rested, well dressed, and made up as if for a big night out, everyone assumed she'd gone to a spa and had a makeover of some kind.

Of the seven people living there, only Mrs. Winchell, the boarding house owner,  harbored doubts.

"Have you ever seen Paige look so nice? She's stunning!" she said to Kit, the boarder in the room across from Paige.

"Exactly!" Kit was young and attractive herself, and had often encouraged Paige to take more effort over her appearance. "She finally went out and did something just for her. Or maybe not just for her." Kit's eyebrows waggled over her coffee cup. 

"It doesn't take a week to buy some clothes and put on a little make up," countered Mrs. Winchell.

Kit shrugged. "Coulda been a resort trip. A prize or something!" Kit rose to put her cup on the sideboard. She was quickly bored when the conversation wasn't about her. She left for the day, leaving Mrs. Winchell alone with her thoughts.

It was the eyes. Running a boarding house for the past ten years, Mrs. Winchell had learned how to read people. Paige had kind, innocent eyes and was staying here while she started her new job in town. Just until she saved enough for her own place, she'd said. But since her return two days ago, her eyes looked dead. There was no emotion in them, even when she smiled in her polite "Good morning, Mrs. Winchell," way.

Up in her room, Paige walked away from the device she couldn't remember. She knew her routine and had to go to work. There was a place. It was in her memory. She knew she needed to go there. She didn't remember why. Maybe someone there would tell her. She walked downstairs with her immaculately made-up face and stylish business clothes.

At the foot of the stairs, she turned into the front room toward Mrs. Winchell. "Good morning, Mrs. Winchell," she said with a dead smile.

Mrs. Winchell gave a skeptical nod. "'Morning to you, Paige. Off to work?"

"Yes, work. Good-bye!" Paige kept the same dead smile as she turned to leave with stiff steps.

"Like a robot, now," muttered Mrs. Winchell as she started clearing away the morning's coffee service. Something had happened to Paige, and no one, including Paige, seemed to know what it was.

It's FICTION FRIDAY!

Every Friday I write a new flash fiction piece. If you have a writing prompt you'd like to see turned into a story, just leave it in a comment.

Fiction Friday - My Fair Gentleman

Genevieve reread the email as she drank her morning coffee: Don't you think it's time you brought him out into polite society? her sister was inquiring, above an e-vite to her daughter's production of Nutcracker Suite. She glanced across at Erich's browline showing above the Wall Street Journal. Was he ready for the ballet?

Instead of clicking Yes No or Unsure, she texted her sister: Why don't you come over tonight? 

Genevieve had met Erich outside a club. She and her cute, trendy friends had gotten into the club, while Erich - "K-Dab" to the buddies he was with - had been left outside the velvet rope. The girls had been talking and joking with the guys while they were outside, and she really thought he had something. 

Inside, after bouncing around to the thumping beat for a while, she confessed when they took a drink break, "I kinda miss K-Dab."

"What? That doofy guy outside? Are you insane?"

"Ugh. Sweetie, he can barely put a sentence together."

"Still, he was cute. Don't judge a hottie by his choice of slang. If he wasn't talking like a street-thug, you wouldn't think I was insane," Genevieve was suddenly on the defensive. For a guy she didn't really know.

"And if he wore clothes that didn't look third-hand."

"And if he looked employable." Cara was in HR. Judging employ-ability was her forte.

"That's it. I'm gonna get him in here. For all you know, he is employed," she shot at Cara. 

Minutes later he joined the trio in the VIP booth, paid for by Tiff, who made big bucks in the finance markets and liked to splurge when partying.

"Cara, Tiff, this is Erich," said Genevieve, already triumphant at having a reasonable name to present for the heretofore known "K-Dab".

"Erich. Join us," Said Tiff, waving to one end of the couch. "What's your poison?"

"Uh, 's'cool, y'know, beer, whatevs..." He looked and sounded totally out of place. The girls were trendy and educated, scornful of his street-style, and baffled by Genevieve's inexplicable attraction.

"It's not an attraction," she asserted after they'd left the club and Erich had rejoined his cronies in the street outside the club. "It's a fascination with the possibilities! Don't you see?"

"No."

"Never! Possibilities? He has possibilities to join a crime ring."

"Just because you think he talks too street. Let me fix that. What would you say?" They could tell that Professor Genevieve the linguist was serious. Cara and Tiff exchanged a smirk.

"We'll pay all expenses for a makeover, if you can train him to be a cultured human being instead of a thug."

He started living in Genevieve's guest room, learned better grammar, read literature, and after one month Cara and Tiff took him shopping. They returned impressed with his behavior, except for the moment he started chatting with an old pal they'd come across.

"Keep him away from those guys, or this whole thing will be a waste."

Here it was another month later, and Genevieve's sister was pushing her to show her progress. She looked at the evite. The ballet was two weeks away.

After her sister agreed to bring the family over that night to meet him, Genevieve said, "Erich, we'll have guests tonight. Be prepared." He lowered the paper, stared at her wide-eyed, gave a nod, and continued reading. She had trained him well, she thought. On their own. Could he handle random polite conversation without bringing up all the repulsive habits behind him? She'd soon find out.

The evening went swimmingly. He made good friends with Genevieve's niece, which made missing her ballet performance impossible. He was ready.

Two weeks later, Genevieve woke up without the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Without any sounds of newspaper crinkling. He was gone. He proved himself at the ballet the night before, and cut out that night. 

He had seemed to appreciate the life he was learning to live, but now he disappeared without a trace. 

The apartment seemed empty. 

She'd grown accustomed to his face.

It's FICTION FRIDAY!

Clearly, today's story was inspired by "My Fair Lady" which  was the first musical I learned by heart. When I watched it recently, I started thinking of role reversal...

Every Friday I write a new flash fiction piece. If you have a writing prompt you'd like to see turned into a story, just leave it in a comment.

Fiction Friday - Heat Advisory

"Somebody help me!" the sunbathing beauty called out. 

Except that she didn't really call out. Her mouth wouldn't make the movements as her lips fused together.

As the infernal heat from an overzealous sun worked its magic, her body melted into the chaise underneath her.

After the heat-advisory part of the day passed and everyone else came out, nobody noticed her melted body. Some pointed to the oddly colorful chair with an abstract painting of a sunbather on it, but it was too grotesque to sit on.

The hotel staff disposed of it the following day, same as always. There was always one fool who ignored the heat advisory.

It's FICTION FRIDAY!

That's it for today. Short and not-so-sweet. We have been around 100° every day for the past few weeks and I'm melting. Typing takes too much energy. But have no fear: I'll be back.

Every Friday I write a new flash fiction piece. If you have a writing prompt you'd like to see turned into a story, just leave it in a comment.

Fiction Friday - Breaking Curfew

Quenby made her way to the basement of the apartment building. She took the stairway, not the elevator. Her rubber-soled shoes made no noise to disturb the silence of the night. Every night was silent, now.

In the basement, she passed by the laundry room - one dryer was still humming. Oops. Someone was going to have wrinkled clothes to collect in the morning. They should've started their load earlier. 

The locked doors to tenant storage were black holes in a blackened hallway. She didn't even use a penlight to light her way through the cumbersome darkness. It wasn't necessary for someone who knew every step like the body of a long-time lover.

Quenby loved the night.

Especially now. The curfews imposed on what population remained made the night quiet. 

Mysterious and quiet. 

Mysterious, quiet... and dangerous.

Quenby was under curfew too, but being out in the silence of the night was a drug. By now she was addicted. Getting caught would be a tragedy. Unforgivable. But she had to go out.

She pressed the basement door open an inch into the dark alley. The darkness was lighter out here with the stars above. Inhaling the cool night air, she smiled and slipped her body out a narrow opening, taping over the latch so she could get back in after her illegal walk. 

It was just a walk. She wasn't up to any trouble, just testing herself. How well could she hide in her black clothes, dark hair, dark hat, with her hood pulled up. Could she dodge the patrols? Hide from the few other night-seekers?

Two hours later, having traversed far and wide through the silent, half-vacated city, Quenby returned to the door in the alley. She'd done it again. She'd spotted three other night-seekers, but didn't think they saw her. Two patrols had passed near her, but she'd heard them and found cover in time.

With the elation of success and the sudden loss of the pre-nightwalk adrenaline, Quenby slept well. As usual. Tomorrow night she'd do the same.

It's FICTION FRIDAY!

Every Friday I write a new flash fiction piece. Today's story was inspired by the below prompt from Writers Write:

If you have a writing prompt you'd like to see turned into a story, just leave it in a comment.

Fiction Friday - Don't Look Too Close

Marion put the heavy vase back on the table, her thirst sated. She smacked her lips a couple times just to hear the wetness on her lips, teeth and tongue. A sigh escaped and she turned down the hall. The flowers lay on the table where she'd lain them on entering the old house and seeing the vase.

It had been too long. How long? Marion had no idea. The old wood panels of her huge Victorian house were faded with dust, but for the table in the center hall. The table that had held a heavy, cut-glass vase full of fresh wild flowers. 

Fresh? No, a few days old at least. Not that Marion had noticed. Her thirst drove her to distraction.

"Why am I so thirsty?" The thought crossed her mind as a simple question mark without words. She had no answers.

Her steps took her down the well-worn floorboards to the kitchen. Water.

The faucet creaked, but nothing came out. Why not? Too many questions.

Marion looked around at the faded wallpaper beyond the breakfast table. Had it always looked like that? Where was everyone? "Hello?" Her voice creaked out as a rasp.

Marion looked down at herself for the first time. Her clothes were faded like the wallpaper. That seemed wrong, too. Marion always took good care of her clothes. So why was her dress faded and - was that a rip? Tugging the fabric of her dress to and fro, she could see that the hem was ragged and there were random holes down the front of her dress.

"Why am I wearing a dress, anyway? Wait -" Marion asked the question out loud then stopped to think. She didn't recall coming into the house, or where she had come from. "This is stupid. I'm going to change," she told herself, and went back out to the hallway to take the main stairs up to her bedroom. Jeans. She wanted jeans.

At the top of the stairs, in the center of the hall, was a mirror over a side table. Marion saw herself as she crested the stairs and her jaw fell open.

Chunks of flesh were missing from her face and neck. She had seen without watching as her hands lifted the vase and played with her skirt, but now she turned her forearms back and forth and could see how the skin had shrunk back and pruned on itself. Her nails looked longer and dirty.

Stepping closer to the mirror to get a better look, her hands went up to her neck and touched a line of blotchy red bruising still visible across the part of her neck that was whole.

"Oh that's right," she stated with the slow dawning of realization. "I'm dead." And she watched her mirror image fade into a ghostly white vapor.

It's FICTION FRIDAY!

Every Friday I write a new flash fiction piece. If you have a writing prompt you'd like to see turned into a story, just leave it in a comment.

Fiction Friday - Angelique

(An alternate side of last week's story.)

Angelique couldn't move.

Angelique couldn't even open her eyes.

Angelique was strapped down and sedated.

The chaos of her mind had been tamed by the drug, and she'd fallen into a dreamy sleep. It happened often enough. Sleep was a respite from the fighting voices and moods that tried to take over her thoughts and actions in every waking minute. But this was a deeper sleep induced by a strong sedative.

As her gurney rolled with occasional rattles and squeaks through hallways, and dropped in the elevator to the main floor of the New World Psychiatric Center, Angelique dreamed she was flying. She floated through space until she landed on a boat. The boat was in the middle of an endless sea and the gentle rocking met the squeaks and squawks of seagulls soaring in the sky above her.

As Angelique and five other patients lay in repose in the lobotomorium, their caregivers had a final discussion confirming their choices. Dr. James had no qualms about her status. "Angelique's behavior is erratic. She has posed a danger to herself and to others on more than one occasion. She started a fight in the cafeteria just the other day."

As was common in these kinds of organizational meetings, one person was the designated "Devil's Advocate" - there to ask the hard questions that were uncomfortable to ask or answer.

"Is 'starting a fight' a reason to take this action?" the D.A. asked in his usual matter-of-fact way.

"Violence, especially repetitive violence, and inciting others to violence, is a good reason to take this action, yes," responded Dr. James. "This was just the most recent fight that has broken out in her wake. She has not responded well to other treatments during the course of her eight months here. We only use this course as a last resort, and that's why I have recommended this patient."

No one in the room would ever say the word "lobotomy".

Another doctor, not the D.A., posed the key question: "You have exhausted other efforts at rehabilitation?"

"We have. Drugs, counseling, art therapy, music and movement therapies, even electric shock. She is not just unresponsive, but often openly hostile to the doctors and interns administering treatment." Every head around the table nodded in approval and the D.A. made a note on his pad. They moved on to the next doctor in attendance.

Angelique's ship was stalled in still waters. There was no movement, no calling of the birds. The boat she was on was empty. She was alone. It was terrifying to be so alone in the middle of a watery expanse she could do nothing about. Her heartbeat increased as in her dream Angelique raced around the - was it a yacht? - opening doors and crying out for anyone to hear, but hearing only her own voice echoing back.

After a time, noises of doors and footsteps calmed her. Someone was there, and that was better than the isolation.

Up above, in the conference room, food had been ordered and the curtain pulled back on a two-way mirror so the doctors could watch their patients being treated by their students, who were beginning to arrive. This was for two reasons: First, the students still required supervision in order to get their grade. Second, knowing they had to watch the procedure was meant as a deterrent to a doctor's careless prescription of this drastic action.

The doctors poured drinks and filled their plates as they chose, some nibbling, some piling on their favorite foods. In The Tank below, the students were arriving and checking out their patients and instruments, not talking much. One doctor nodded in approval at the focus of his student. In the conference room, they couldn't hear the murmur of spectators arriving beyond the glass wall, and they'd only see a corner of the bleachers after the curtain was opened. The announcer was on their time schedule, so they didn't require any audio, just watched a countdown clock on the wall above their viewing window.

As Owen positioned himself against her gurney, Angelique felt the slight movement and thought the boat might get moving again soon. Her breathing calmed and heart-rate settled once more.

The curtain opened with a sustained "Sssshhhhhck" which Angelique's brain registered as an attempt to start the boat's engine. Short bursts of cheers and applause for the students turned into noises from an island that suddenly popped up in the midst of the vast, empty sea.

There was a brief silence, then Angelique felt piercing pressure behind her eye and her dream-self screamed in horror before falling overboard to the roar of a crowd cheering.

The dream ended. Angelique's brain was functioning, but there were no visions, no emotions, and nothing mattered.

It's FICTION FRIDAY!

Every Friday I write a new flash fiction piece. If you have a writing prompt you'd like to see turned into a story, just leave it in a comment.

This story is the patient's perspective from last week's post, You can visit it here to see how I came up with that idea.

Fiction Friday - The Lobotomotorium

Angelique couldn't move.

Angelique couldn't even open her eyes.

Angelique was strapped down and sedated. 

The orderly took his time pushing her gurney down the hall and hit the button to activate the automatic doors to "The Tank".  

The Tank was a large, sterile room with three walls of smooth tiles and one larger, curved wall of glass, lined with tiers of bleachers looking in. On the other side of the glass the orderly saw two volunteers cleaning the bleachers, preparing them for the day's big show. He pushed Angelique's gurney into position at the end of a row of five other, similar gurneys. All bore strapped down, unconscious people who wouldn't leave this place the same person who entered it.

If only they knew.

Lobotomies were frowned upon, and certainly the New World Psychiatric Center did not admit to performing them. But they were an educational facility among other things. And historically, lobotomies were common practice. Avant Garde, even, in their day. So it was important that students understand the procedure.

Teaching the history of psychiatric treatment was one thing, but the students took it further. Now it was a contest. A race.

It had started years ago, when two students found they'd both be doing their first lobotomies the following day. They connived to schedule them at the same time, each student devising conflicts until the only time available was identical. They'd shared the lobotomorium, two instructors supervising each one, so it was a tame affair. But when they all left The Tank, the students knew who had won.

Now, with a new department head who appreciated "a little good-spirited competition" the events happened quarterly. Sometimes with two patients, sometimes four, and occasionally like now, six. It was a race. Fastest successful lobotomy won.

The orderly crossed to the giant window and pulled the heavy curtain closed. Then he left the cold lobotomotorium and went to change into casual clothes. He had front row seats for the year-end final. Staff were allowed to book tickets first, in appreciation of their hard work keeping the facility operational.

Back in his civvies, no longer an orderly, Don grabbed a snack in the cafeteria and listened to the gossip. Most people were favoring Ambrose or Patty in this round, but it sounded like Owen might be a dark horse. Don placed his bet with Ty, the cafeteria cashier. Betting wasn't allowed, so naturally everyone did it. 

An hour later, Don was taking his seat, a small bag of popcorn in hand, and Penelope at his side. He was amazed she'd agreed to join him, based on her known stance of never dating coworkers. Probably his great seats made the difference. 

The stadium seating filled up and voices surrounded them until a whine and whistle crackled through the massive speakers. "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the FINAL TEST!" A cheer rose up and anticipation was palpable. "Today we have six advanced students competing for the honor of Senior Lobotomotoriate and a chance to offer the closing speech at the leaving day ceremony." Another round of applause. It was a high honor.

"Please welcome..." The giant green curtain that Don had closed was pulled back by two young assistants to reveal each participant standing in front of their gurneys, ready to bow on cue. "Owen Leake!" Owen gave a quick bow, his face stone. He would be lobotomizing Angelique, Don noted absently. Applause, cheers. "Patty Montgomery!" She graced the crowd with a smile before nodding. Louder applause. "Sabrina O'Shea!" Don thought this girl looked the most nervous of all of them. No wonder Ty gave her poor odds . "Terry Quick!" Another unknown received obligatory applause, before the announcer named the expected winner. "And Ambrose Montague!" The crowd went wild for him. Partly in anticipation of winning bets, and partly because he was good looking and popular.

"Participants, take your posts!"

This was it. Don was scanning the six gurneys at once, not wanting to miss anything. He was so focused it came as a jolt when Penelope gripped his hand. Tightly. He looked at her and saw the same eagerness in her eyes. They grinned at each other, squeezed hands, and turned back to the games. Who would win? He realized he didn't even know who she supported.

"On your marks..." Six students raised their silver orbitoclasts in preparation. "Get set..." Six would-be doctors bent over their gurneys and aimed the tool - was Sabrina's hand shaking? "Go!" There was no explanation of what needed to happen, no discussion of each step. That's what lecture classes were for. Six students performed their duties quickly and neatly (most of them) and as expected Ambrose and Patty lifted their tools up first, almost at the same second.

"IT'S A PHOTO FINISH!" The crowd went wild. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please wait while we consult the recording. Participants may relax." 

The talk in the stadium was a low rumble. Might it be a tie? What were the odds on that? Ty wasn't there to ask. He never watched the event; just waited for the final verdict and the replays later that day. It took about two minutes of waiting. The students in The Tank were sitting on folded chairs. Sabrina looked devastated, her head in her hands, and Owen put a hand on her shoulder, trying to console her.

Then the speakers popped to life again. "Your attention please!" All talking ceased. "After careful consideration of the recording, it is clear that Patty Montgomery is your new Lobotomotoriate!" The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, but Don heard an "Awww" from Penelope and realized she must have lost money on her bet. He grinned at her. "I won!" He had backed Patty.

In The Tank, Patty was surrounded with pats on the back and hand shakes from her comrades. 

Don rose to escort Penelope to the reception. Another orderly would remove the patients. His workday was done.

As they left the stadium and joined the trail of spectators, Penelope asked, "I wonder how bad Sabrina did. She looked really shaken. Did you see?" 

Don had seen that. If she botched it too badly he'd have some work to do in his shift at the crematorium tomorrow.

It's FICTION FRIDAY!

Every Friday I write a new flash fiction piece. If you have a writing prompt you'd like to see turned into a story, just leave it in a comment.

This story actually came from my husband Brett, who was discussing what word you might use to name a place to have a lobotomy. Or maybe he just mispronounced laboratory and the conversation ensued. But it was just a chat at home that sparked an idea!