Several years ago I took more than a few creative writing courses in college, where they ask you to step out of your comfort zone and go to places you wouldn’t normally visit. That was difficult to do at first because I didn’t want people who read the stories thinking I was the person I was writing about. Plus, it’s just not my nature to go there. I normally like light and funny. So it was a little intimidating at first.
I remember a young women in class who wrote a story about being the victim of spousal abuse. When she was done she showed it to her husband who became very upset because he didn’t want her discussing it in class and have anyone think he was that kind of person. It took some serious explaining on her part to get her husband to understand.
But one of the things I came to enjoy most about creative writing is that it allows your imagination to wander freely, if you let it. Even to those places that are dark. You don’t have to be that person, you just have to allow your mind to create a scenario that lets you play with those thoughts. Then it becomes fun.
So…..as a warning, this is short, (micro fiction), but dark story. So if you don’t like dark, please feel free to walk away. I’ll understand.
It felt heavier and much colder than she remembered. Her palm slid slowly over the carved detail of the handle as her fingers danced impatiently along the curved edges. She placed it on her lap and studied the shape, flipping the latch up and down until she wasn’t sure what was safe. It didn’t matter. Today was his birthday and he loved surprises.
She put on his favorite dress and fixed her hair up high. He liked it that way. He said it made her eyes shine real pretty. As if her eyes had anything to do with anything.
She picked up the gun and looked into the barrel, closing one eye and searching for life in its darkness. She thought about her friends, what they would say and who would be standing in this space tomorrow.
She was glad she remembered to leave the cleaning supplies on the kitchen counter.
She raised the edge of the barrel to her lips, letting her tongue lick the tip before sliding it into her mouth. When she removed it, she rubbed the wet coolness against her cheek. She wondered if it would hurt when it was over.
She heard his car door close in the driveway, grinned and stood up quickly out of habit.
He walked in and moved his eyes over her slowly, expectantly. “My favorite dress, ” he said smiling. “You remembered.”
She raised the gun under her chin with the barrel pointing up. “How could I forget,” she whispered.