[Nexus 100] Batch of eight.
037. Sound
Word Count: 131
Foot traffic on the street in front of the café is muffled by its cobbled construction. People stroll under the warm sun. Some chat among themselves. A few wander by talking on cellular phones. Birds chirp as they dive in an out between the vacant tables in search of crumbs.
Across the tree-lined street, vendors call out to the few who will stop to look over their wares. It's too early for the lunch crowd; too late for the breakfast shoppers. The real money will come later with the evening rush. This is just practice.
The teaspoon vibrates softly between her fingers as it is tapped against the saucer underneath her teacup. Eyes closed, Alison has to smile as she takes it all in and she glows even brighter than before.
038. Touch
Word count: 101
Just the faintest rustling of fabric. A tiny nudge in passing. An elbow bumping into a shoulder or a hand brushing a knee. Completely by accident, of course. It wouldn't do to have the guests think otherwise.
They probably do anyway. It isn't hard to guess.
Over her shoulder, she catches his gaze. Blue eyes lock to blue eyes for a long moment across the room. The smile is unnecessary; the wink is overkill. They both know it and it shows in their expressions. Amusement mingled with desire. All from just a single touch.
And the promise of more to come.
043. Square
Word count: 123
Four walls. Probably they were white, once. The color they appear now would never be found in a box of crayons. Nobody does that on purpose. It's the color of neglect, disuse, apathy, and the slow decay of dreams.
On the crusty carpet between her feet -- shod still, because bare skin touching that carpet was just asking for disease -- Alison stared. The one, tiny window breaking up the endless expanse of wall to her right allowed the only light in.
The shape it makes on the floor falls at odd angles to the corners of the room. In her mind's eye she can see a crude, eight pointed star fit between them. Misshapen and faded, as was appropriate for her situation.
050. Spade
Word count: 168
Even just five years ago, if you had handed Alison Blaire a plant of any kind it would have withered on the spot. In self defense, she had joked.
It seemed strange to her, so much later in life, to find herself kneeling in soft earth. The smell of fresh, green, life was all around as she pulled weeds from the vegetable patch behind their castle. Spring had arrived late after a lingering frost. Their small crop was late as a result, but no less lovely.
There were bright red tomatoes hanging heavy on their vines. Cucumbers hid under wide, fuzzy leaves and sweet peppers turned a sunny yellow in contrast.
"Mommy!" A tiny voice shrieked from the other side of the patch. Alison dropped the spade in her hand and looked up sharply for the cause of her daughter's distress.
A smile spread across her face as she watched the twins make their way toward her, giggling and staggering under the weight of two bright purple eggplants.
056. Breakfast
Word count: 130
"Flour," Alison murmured under her breath as she rummaged around in the kitchen area. "Baking powder. Salt."
She discovered two small packages in one cabinet and withdrew them. As she turned to leave the room, she continued reciting to herself. "Milk. Butter. Fry to golden brown."
A series of tunnels served as crude hallways. She knew them by heart, so her distraction didn't hinder her progress. It got her a few odd looks. But, then again, the only human of the bunch often did.
"Syrup and serve," she sighed wistfully as she reached for the doorknob. Inside, her husband was bent over a map that took up the entire four seat table. Her smile was soft as she handed him one of the half stale ration packets.
"Breakfast is served."
077. What?
Word count: 113
It was not the first time she had made the inquiry. Not that she realized it. The one delivering the message had long since lost count. But, still the patient reply was the same.
He's dead.
Can't be. Cannot be dead. She won't believe it. Can't believe it. If he were gone, she would feel it. Feel the huge, cavernous hole in her being that would howl when the wind blew. The vacuum that his loss would create would swallow them all.
If he were dead.
He is not dead. Could not be. And, so… she asks again. Sooner or later, if she asks enough, the right answer will be heard.
"What?"
084. He
Word count: 100
Throughout her life, there had been many men who shaped Alison's view of the world and her view of herself. It began with her father. Carter Blaire raised his daughter alone after his wife left him. He was strict and stubborn. It was a trait he passed along to his willful daughter. Much to his ever increasing chagrin.
In the end, she would realize -- perhaps far too late -- that everything he did was motivated by love and worry for her. For her well being and for her future.
He was her father and he'd done his very best.
090. Home
Word count: 114
There were no deer or antelope. There were puppies that raced up and down stairs to chase after small children, and marmosets that snuck fruit from the bowl on the kitchen table. There were horses that grazed in pastures and fields.
She rarely wore a hat. If she did it was always carefully packed away in the closet afterward. Never hung. Any manner of terrible fate could befall an unsuspecting hat in a household where puppies and small children ran free.
Her heart was there, though. At the moment, he was chasing children, puppies, and marmoset through the castle halls with a fully loaded squirt gun.
He was wearing one of her hats, too.