roshiwrites

[roshiwrites]

[roshiwrites]

Cecilia Bustamante, from a poem featured in Woman who has sprouted Wings; poems by contemporary Latin American Women Poets

[roshiwrites]

Oscar Wilde, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Oscar Wilde

[roshiwrites]

Oscar Wilde, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Oscar Wilde

[roshiwrites]

from the archives

night and day content warning: sex original source material: can you figure it out? No copyright infringement intended

The bar was full, hazy from cigarette smoke and buzzing with chatter.  Bits and pieces of conversation meshed together, forming a cacophony of voices.  The clink of glass could be heard behind the counter as the bartender poured shots and mixed drinks.  There was a band playing, the brass pulling all the sound together in the room.

That was when I saw her.  She had just walked down the stairs into the bar, fingers trailing on the rail like a lover’s skin.  Her blonde hair was styled in the usual way that all the girls did these days, short and combed into perfect waves.  Her lips were painted a deep red, parted slightly as she surveyed the room, taking in her surroundings.  Her dress was short, shorter than most dames’ in the room and that’s when I knew.

This girl was fast, and she was going to be mine tonight.

I waited until she reached the bar, sitting prim and proper.  Her hands moved deftly as she pulled a cigarette case out of her handbag.  This was my moment.  Quickly, I crossed the few feet of distance, pulling out my book of matches as I did.  She had just brought the cigarette up to her lips when I was at her side, brandishing an unlit match.

“Need a light?” I asked, moving to ignite the matchstick.

She turned to look at me, eyes sweeping me up and down.  A small smile crept onto her red lips and she nodded.  Returning her smile, I obliged then shook out the match when she pulled the cigarette away from her lips.

“Thanks,” she replied, expelling a smooth stream of smoke.  Tendrils swept around her hand as the paper and tobacco continued to burn.

“Don’t mention it,” I replied, putting away my matches.  “Haven’t seen you around here before; you new in town?”  I helped myself to the seat beside her, leaning in close.  She smelled like cinnamon.

The dame nodded her head.  “You could say that.”  She gestured to the bartender and a water appeared at her elbow.

“Let me buy you a drink.”  I took a chance and leaned even closer.  “Fancy lady like you probably likes a cocktail?”

The woman shook her head gently.  “Alcohol is bad for my legs,” she commented, sipping her water.  Lipstick stuck to the glass as she pulled it away from her lips.

This response puzzled me.  I waited a moment until she’d set her glass back on the counter.  “Do they swell?” I asked, glancing down at her legs for emphasis.

She looked up at me, hazel eyes twinkling in the dim light.  “No, they spread.”  A matter-of-fact smirk twisted her lips.

I was momentarily taken aback by her answer.  Then a mischievous smile crept over my face and I flashed my teeth at her.  “Wouldn’t want that, now would we?”  I leaned in closer once more, still grinning.

The woman slid down from her stool, stubbing out the butt of her cigarette.  “Not this early.  Dance with me.”  She didn’t so much ask as pull me off the barstool and after her amidst other dancing couples.  The band had just finished a faster song, segueing into a slow-tempoed one.

We danced for what felt like hours, but really could have been only a few songs.  As we walked back to the bar, her hand in mine, I watched the sway of her hips, marveling at just how well they could move to the tunes.  I wouldn’t be forgetting that anytime soon.

“How about that drink?” the woman asked as she perched back up on the barstool, lips pursed expectantly.

This was what I’d been waiting for all night.  I leaned in close, my lips near her ear, and hoped this worked.  “I have a bottle of brandy with our names on it just around the corner.”  I paused, waited for only a moment; then, “Come back to mine?”

She was quiet, didn’t move.  Seconds dragged on for a short eternity before she leaned back and smirked.  “Lead the way.”

-----

When she had said alcohol made her legs spread, she hadn’t been kidding.  We’d made it halfway through the bottle, talking and giggling before she’d leaned over and kissed me.  Her lips were warm and pliant against mine, moving in what could only be described as a well-practiced kiss.  It wasn’t long before we made it to my room and her dress somehow made its way to the floor, hiding under my pinstriped suit.

“Oh, God!” she cried out as my tongue worked against her pearl, circling and flicking back and forth.  “Just like that!”

Never one to deny a woman what she wanted, I kept at it.  I licked up her slit with the flat of my tongue, nose buried in her sparse curls.  My lips suckled at her folds, pulling them into my mouth as she keened in pleasure.

“Oh, I’m...” she gasped as my tongue swirled around her clit.  I hummed against her in approval and that seemed to send her over her edge as she cried out again, legs quivering on either side of my face.

I reached down between my legs, palming myself to take the edge off for the moment.  Her gasps were music to my ears as I used my other hand to lightly rub against her center, easing her down from her orgasm.  When her breathing had evened out somewhat, I kissed my way up her body, lips lingering in any place that made her squirm or whine.  Finding out what a girl liked was not for amateurs.

By the time I made it up to her lips, she was already ready to go again.  A sly smile was on her lips as she reached between us, fingers curling around my erection.  I sucked in a breath, body going rigid under her touch.  Hers were skilled fingers; clearly she knew what men liked.

“Condom?” she asked after she’d stroked my cock for a few more moments, ensuring I was ready and raring to go.

I nodded, swallowing heavily.  “Nightstand, in the drawer,” I answered, voice shaking only slightly.

I rolled off of her then encircled my cock again, lightly stroking as she dug around for a few moments.  I closed my eyes, imagining what it would be like with this woman.  I didn’t often bring dames home the first night - especially not if I didn’t even know their names - but there was just something about her that had called out to me.  Clearly she’d felt it too, if our current situation meant anything.

When I opened my eyes again, it was to see her long fingers caressing my cock before rolling the condom on.  The sight of her red tipped nails around my erection made me even harder.  I watched, completely enraptured as she climbed over me, straddling my hips.  She brought one finger to her lips, the color now smeared; the tip disappeared into her mouth.  The sight was sexy as hell.

As she lowered herself onto my cock, I groaned as her heat surrounded me.  She moved slowly, almost too slowly, until she was fully seated on me.  We both moaned lowly as she began to undulate her hips back and forth.  I reached forward, gripping her thighs and guiding her movements as she rode me.

She was quick to come again, crying out as she did.  Her quivering almost pulled me over the edge with her, but I wasn’t done with her yet.  A gentleman should show a lady a good time, but a man showed a woman an even greater one.

Before she even had time to come down from the feeling, I shifted us, flipping so I pressed her into the mattress.  She looked up at me, eyes twinkling naughtily.  I thrust forward roughly and she gasped, fingers instantly digging into my shoulders as I set a punishing rhythm.  I pushed up on my elbows, watching as her breasts bounced with each thrust.  My eyes eventually traveled up to her face.

Red lips were parted, occasionally being worried with white teeth.  Eyelids were heavy over hazel orbs.  Pink tinged her cheeks, flushing down her neck and chest.  She looked absolutely wrecked and it was positively sexy.

This woman had a mouth on her in bed.  Between gasps and cries, expletives and general naughtiness exuded from her lips; I’d never been more turned on by hearing a woman talk.

“I’m gonna come,” I ground out as my pace began to falter slightly.  I could feel the tension, already built up and ready to blow.

Carefully, I reached a hand between us, searching out her clit, rubbing it when I found it.  Once more, she came with a cry, louder than before.  This time, the quivering of her walls brought me with her.  I gasped as I came, harder than I had in a long time.  Stars shot in front of my eyes and I thought maybe she’d hit me in the head with something until my vision cleared.

Spent, I collapsed on top of her for a few moments before rolling off to one side.  We both groaned at the loss of connection; I was already missing the feel of her around me.  Quickly, I disposed of the used condom then pulled her close, tucking her head under my chin.

We lay there in silence together, listening to the sound of the street outside as cars drove by and people chattered on their way home.  I don’t know how much time passed before she finally moved, tilting her head back to look up at me.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the situation: asking each other’s names after probably the most mind-blowing sex I’d had in years.  “John Smith,” I answered, stroking her back with one hand.  She shivered under my touch.  “What’s yours?”

She tucked her head under my chin again; I kissed her hair tenderly.  Her fingers played in the sprinkling of hair on my chest, nails lightly grazing my skin.  “Rose.  My name is Rose.”

[roshiwrites]

from the archives

content warning: mercy killing original source material: Final fantasy XIV No copyright infringement, Yoshida-sama

The moment J’roshi pushes the curtain aside, she’s assaulted with that sickly sweet stench of sick, that smell only those whose body was given up manifested as they seemed to start putrefying from the inside. It’s like a wave crashing into her, and for a moment the Miqo’te has to remain standing in the doorway so she might strengthen her resolve. She swallows, hard, and immediately regrets it as the sharp smell of illness assaults her senses.

“It seems hell hath finally frozen over,” says the figure in the bed. She hadn’t even realized he was awake - let alone still alive. His eyes were almost closed with the heaviness of his lids; for a moment, J’roshi sees it again, the charming, boyish looks with the way the low light of the oil lamp casts the shadows of his eyelashes upon his cheeks. There’s a pang in her chest, something slow building like unto a dagger being lazily slid between her ribs.

As the Miqo’te approaches the cot, she gives a strained smile. “So it does seem,” she replies softly, coming to a halt when her thighs press against the edge of the bed. “Should they be thanking us, I wonder? Or cursing us like a desert dweller in their first freeze?”

This draws a laugh from the man, a laugh that quickly turns to something less pleasant; his once lithe body was wracked with the near violent motion. Seeing him this way, where a laugh sent him into fits of coughing and hacking; this was the twist of the knife. Where had all the vibrancy gone? This man who had been brighter than the sun itself, brighter even than Light in her mind now lay dying on a dingy cot in some city too big to even care that one of the truest souls was soon departing its body.

“You look good,” she comments after a few moments of tense silence, and for now she’s successful in hiding the utter devastation in her voice.

Her comment makes him scoff, and he shakes his head at her. “Fuck off...” He gives her a look of long-suffering, of someone who has received entirely too many platitudes and placating phrases to fill a normal lifespan, nevermind one cut short by disease.

The Miqo’te continues, though; she shakes her head at him, lips curling into the wryest of grins. “No, truly. You look spectacular, all things considered.” There was the hook. The shit-eating smirk remains on her features, lips staying twisted until they part around her continued speech, “I would ask who did your hair, but I’ve a feeling you’ll take that one to your grave, won’t you, my friend?” Dark gallows humor: the way they all coped with living in this world where any day could easily be your last with one wrong move or word.

“Well, when you put it that way...” He rolls his eyes at her; for another moment, J’roshi is able to see him again, the vivacious spirit in that singular action. This was the next twist of the knife. “So, if all things be considered, you look like shite.”

She only shrugs at the dig that wasn’t even truly a dig, as it was the truth. As soon as she’d received word, she’d dropped everything immediately to make the journey halfway across the continent using a method of travel that left her feeling - and being - absolutely sick. It was the urgency of the missive that prompted it, however, and it had read as thus:

‘Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient come all the same.’

The bastard, cheeky even on his deathbed.

“I didn’t know who else to write.” His words are hollow, haunted no doubt by the life they both led in this dark world in which they dwelled, even thrived at one point in time, where to have close connections was to point an arrow at weakness, and weakness was to be exploited. “I would apologize if I’ve interrupted your whoring, but I would hate my last words to be a lie.” He begins to chuckle, though even that is too much for him and once more he begins to hack and cough.

“Since when have I ever minded an interruption from you?” she teases, at last resting her hand on the bed beside his.

Almost immediately his fingers squeeze around hers, clutching her with a surprising strength for someone so ill. J’roshi gasps, immediately threading her fingers around his. “...thankfully never,” he replies, voice weakened and hoarse from the fit though incredibly relieved for the contact. “The town physicians assure me that their medicines will help; if they do not delay things entirely, then at least...they will make them more bearable.” His features twist into a grotesque mask for a moment, the anger she knew him for in the wrinkles around his lips.

“So they wish to either make you well enough again to leave their town, or at least ease your passing as quickly as possible? How humane,” is her derisive response. The Miqo’te isn’t shy in her words, the drops of venom wrapped around them spoken loudly enough for the nearby townsfolk to hear...

“Chivalrous of them, I know.”

Mismatched eyes soften on his features, once so devastatingly handsome and now a mere husk of his former self. Disease had ruined this man; disease and likely too many brushes with poisons of all kinds. He had once been one of the most resilient people she’d known...

“Chivalry is dead. You know this as well as I.” J’roshi shakes her head, then gives him an expectant look, as though saying with her brows, ‘Well, I’m waiting,’ one arching up in mock impatience.

He’s quiet for a long time, his breathing barely audible. He’s quiet for so long that she wonders if he’s slipped away already, his last words not being anything terribly dramatic - just as he’d predicted. Moments pass and J’roshi is about to check for his pulse when he speaks, his voice low as though attempting to keep a secret. “I do so hope I may beg one last chivalrous deed of you...”

Immediately, the color drains from her face in a sickening rush. So he hadn’t forgotten that vow made hastily in the heat of the moment made those years ago. She, of course, had not forgotten. Never a slave to her emotions, J’roshi finds herself now struggling with the sudden wave of them.

“No. No, I can’t do that.” Her hair brushes her shoulders when she shakes her head, reeling back as though to step away would be to better deny the demand.

His fingers squeeze around hers, surprisingly strong with how frail he looked. “You can...you promised...”

“No.” Her voice cracks slightly, and she’s still shaking her head. She wants to leave; she should have known this was what he’d wanted of her; why else reach out with such urgency after so many years gone between them?

“J’roshi--”

He stops abruptly, his voice cut off not by her words but by her expression. 

When she looks at him, her features are without pity, without sympathy. There’s no placid smile, nor lies told all too often to the dying spilling from her lips. There isn’t even anger in her usually calm demeanor.

In its place was a look of devastation, one that nearly matched his own.

“I don’t want to live like this...if you could even call this living...” He pauses, shaking his head and the slight amount of hair left on his head brushes the rough cotton of the pillow casing. “This isn’t living. This is suffering.” For a long moment, he stares dead ahead at the wall, his gaze seeing but unseeing, and she knows he’s right. “Please, J’roshi...”

J’roshi shuts her eyes when she feels the searing pain in her throat. She tries to catch her breath, and can’t, the muscles tight around the lump forming there. Rather than squeezing his hand, her jaw tightens and the muscles jump with the tension - she would do better to break her own teeth than to cause him more pain.

More suffering.

He was right, godsdamn him! This wasn’t living, not even close. There he lay, now succumb to illness, an invalid as far as their world was concerned. Her world, no longer his.

His request plays over in her mind; had she had an imperfect memory, this would not be anything she would soon forget, if ever. The tremble of his jaw, lips pulling downward as he tries not to lose his composure there in his last moments, for they would be. The look in his eyes is more than enough. What she saw then was a ghost, a shadow of such a glorious spirit, escaping a wasted body...

Slowly, she nods.

She hears his sob break free of his lips then, and to her it’s the sound of a dying man grasping for the last vestiges of his once fulfilling life. He would die here, and now, on his own terms, at the hands of a friend; what more could one of them ask for?

It’s all a flurry of movement then. She’s leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead, the final tender action to soothe him into death. Then she’s lifting the pillow from beneath his head and his body falls to the cot. She presses the pillow to his face, then leans in as though to hold him one last time. Arms go around his body, pulling him tight against her chest. His own hands grasp at her, his body reacting to the violence even though his mind was surrendered. It truly felt like one final embrace.

She hears his sobs through the pillow. It mixes with her own as she holds him tighter still, though she tries not to cry. The Miqo’te doesn’t count the passing moments. Just as she won’t feel the way he squeezes her one last time for the rest of her life, and hears his final breath released at last.

J’roshi straightens, lifting his broken and feeble body to replace the pillow beneath his head. Others may have attempted to avoid looking at his face, the twisted horror in his features...features that she memorizes before setting them to something resembling comfortable.

“...goodbye, my friend...”

[roshiwrites]

You Look Pretty

You look pretty standing in my doorway in your oversized cardigan. The yarn is bright and appropriately colored for autumn in its mustard yellow. I smile at you, and my heart begins to race as I step aside for you to enter my home.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” you say as you pass the threshold. “It means a lot that you’d want to speak with me.” I hear your unspoken comment, the gentle, ‘considering the circumstances,’ that you don’t say. You give me a bashful curve of your lips, though, and once again I can feel my heart skip a beat. I catch the gentle look in your dark eyes and I return your smile with one of my own.

As you move into the foyer, I cast my gaze out on the street, up and down, before I close the door behind you. Paranoia dictates that I lock it before I turn to you and say, “Is that alright? That I lock the door?”

You’re still smiling kindly as you turn back to face me, and I watch your pretty eyes flick past me to the door before you nod quickly. “Of course. It’s your home.” I can see in the twist of your lips that you’re a little uncomfortable, but I know you won’t say anything about it, because…

“Tea, coffee?” I offer to you as we leave the foyer. Something to break the silence.

Your smile relaxes at the mundane offering and you nod the full head of auburn hair at me. “Coffee, if you don’t mind.” You look at me sympathetically - or is that your empathy? - and grip your folio a little closer to your chest.

My heart does a little flip-flop as I watch, so I turn away before you see my budding blush. “Certainly, no trouble,” I say back to you with forced confidence. “We can start in the kitchen.”

I lead you through the sitting room, the lighting soft and inviting and warm, and then into the kitchen. Your heels click-clack on the tile floor, and I shiver a little. You notice, giving me a caring expression. “Cold? It is a little chilly today.” You make innocent small talk to ward off the silence.

“A little,” I lie, then gesture to the barstool for you to sit. Only once you’ve perched up on the stool do I turn to prepare the coffee. As soon as my back is to you, your visage enters my mind and I can see clearly the curve of your face, the fall of autumnal red hair cascading down your shoulders. “That cardigan looks so pretty on you; where did you get it?” Something else innocent and innocuous to keep the silence from growing.

Your answer comes with a hint of surprise as if you weren’t expecting me to ask such a question, but you answer in any case. “Oh, thank you. It was my grandmother’s before she passed away. My mother didn’t want it, so I took it while we went through her things.”

The warm aroma of brewing coffee makes my senses tingle. Methodically, I move to retrieve mugs, cream, sugar, and honey and set them in the center of the bar island. “Well, it suits you,” I boldly say, turning around to the pot.

Drip, drip, drip. I focus on the steady sound of coffee brewing for a moment. It’s enough right now. “Biscuits?” I ask over my shoulder, casually. Too casually maybe, but you don’t seem to notice. You just nod your assent as you set up your space on the counter, offering an affirmative with the action. I can imagine your red hair bouncing.

I fetch the biscuits, a plain assortment of cookies from the cheapest shopping mart because they taste like my childhood. By the time I have them arranged neatly on a plate, you’re waiting patiently for me - or the cookies, so I hastily deliver them to you.

Your face lights up with joy unexpectedly at the cookies. “Oh, these are the best cookies,” you tell me, not having to feign your confidence. “My grandmother would bring some like these over from Denmark, in that tin?”

Your friendliness, while also unexpected, is welcome, and I offer you a smile. “How sweet,” I reply because I don’t know what else to say.

The coffee pot beeps its completion then, and I smile gratefully for the timing. “Room for cream?” I ask you over my shoulder, hoping to catch just a glimpse of your hair as it falls over your shoulder with your nod.

“Please.”

When I return with the coffee, I set it before you. You reach for it at the same time, and our fingers brush. My heart pounds in my chest but I remain collected as I offer a smile I hope is apologetic enough for the awkward contact. To hide my anxious swallow, I reach for a cookie and then take a little bite.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” you ask me, already retrieving your tape recorder, so certain I’ll be acquiescent.

With my coffee now the way I like it - a little bit of cream, a little bit of sugar - I turn back to you before eyeing the recorder. “I think it would be good for posterity,” I say after a few brief moments of thought. After all, this is something you’ll want to remember.

You smile, causing my heart to give the slightest flutters, and I think that maybe you’ll be the one. Maybe.

The rustle of your notes brings me back to the moment with you. A well-worn notebook rests beside your recorder, and I glimpse your neat, flourishing penmanship–so old world in our modern society of everything digitized. For a moment, I’m captivated by the swirling cursive letters–just different enough to see your flair in them. How unique.

When you notice me staring at the pages, you apologize. “Sorry, I take a lot of notes on top of the recording.”

I blink, then put a smile on my face. “Oh, it’s quite alright,” I assure you. “I take a lot of notes for my work, too; I must be very meticulous.”

There’s a sudden snap when you press the button to record, which is followed by the soft hiss of analog. I’m astounded by how quaint it is, and how picturesque an image you present: a Danish grandmother’s sweater, cheap cookies, and a bona fide tape recorder.

“What do you do for work?” you ask me as your first question. “Since you mention it, that is.” Is that a blush forming on your cheeks? I think it is. Just the slightest of rosy hues on the very top of your sharp cheekbones.

“I’m in finance,” I explain, and it’s true. “The firm I’m with has me sign an NDA, unfortunately, so there’s only so much I can mention. Just know that I am very, very good with numbers.” It’s the most I’ve spoken as an answer since you’ve arrived, and you look oh so interested in what I have to say. 

The soft scratch of your pen against paper accompanies the hissing of the recorder for a moment as you notate something I said. In this day and age, most journalists would easily have a writing tablet for notes and recording alike. Yet you’re different.

“If you could say one thing about your job, then, what would it be?” I’m surprised by your respect for the non-disclosure agreement clause, so I feign a moment of thought. Instead of thinking, however, I watch you as your head lifts and bouncy red curls frame your pale face.

I blink. There’s a blush forming on my cheeks again, so I put on another smile for you. “Well, there is only one other thing that’s certain, and that’s death,” I say easily. Too easily, maybe, because your hand pauses for a moment, just a tiny moment.

When you look up at me, I’m afraid that I’ve said the wrong thing. But then I see your smile, and the triumphant little look in your eyes. “Ah, I see. So it will be busy season for you in a few months, after the new year.” It’s innocuous, and I’m impressed that you figured it out so quickly.

“That’s right,” I agree, then take a quick sip of my coffee.

You take this opportunity to ask another question, this time unrelated to my job. “Where are you from? Did you grow up in this area?” 

There’s something about you that puts me at ease; maybe it’s the congenial way you question me. Maybe it’s the way I imagine your curls enclosing the sides of your face when I close my eyes for a moment, pretending to draw back my memory to answer your question. “No, I’m not from here. I grew up in a little town in Louisiana. It’s hardly on the map,” I explain when I open my eyes, and my gaze settles on your green one.

“Can you tell me what it’s called?” you press lightly, and it really feels like we’re having a simple conversation.

Shaking my head at your question, I also smile, and easily hedge around it. “Afraid not.”

We go back and forth this way with simple questions, and you make it feel so natural, and very unlike an interview. I can tell you’re about to ask me about it when you fall silent, reviewing your handwritten notes on your paper.

“Do you mind if I ask you about it?” Your voice is soft, and this time it’s definitely sympathy in your tone that I perceive.

I lift my free hand to gesture vaguely in the air, then say, “Not at all. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

You smile at me, nodding in acquiescence, then say, “What was it like?”

This displeases me. “What was what like?” I return softly because I want you to say the words, the ugly words.

“The attack.” You say this easier than I thought you might, considering the circumstances.

I wet a lip with my tongue when I hear you say it, and nod. “The attack,” I repeat, then continue, “was…frightening.” How to elaborate on such an experience?

“Can you give me a little more detail?” you prompt, and your willingness for it soothes me.

Nodding, I say, “I can. I just…don’t want to frighten you.” There’s hesitance in my voice, but I emphasize my words correctly to make you feel like I’m too considerate and too sensitive.

I watch your throat as you swallow, and my heart thuds in my chest. I find myself mimicking you, and then you silently encourage me.

I tell you, then, because you look like you really want to know. I tell you in great vivid detail the luring technique used, and how susceptible most women are to it. You nod thoughtfully at that, making a note. I continue to tell you about the struggle, leaving out no sordid feature for your growing morbid curiosity.

Words are far from failing me as I recount in explicit detail the way the acid sounds as it drips, sizzling on the metal catch below it before evaporating quickly. As I speak, you shiver, and I smile again.

“Cold, dear?” I ask simply.

When you look up at me, you look confused because I’ve just broken a spell on you, woven with my words. Then you blink and shake your head. “No, just…listening,” you say softly, then go for another sip of your rapidly cooling coffee. “You were talking about the acid. Is that…what was used?”

Your prompt makes me smile, so eager for the macabre. “Yes, it was,” I answer, and offer my scarred hands for your perusal. Burn marks score my flesh, healed over in new pink skin. This time when you shiver, I don’t ask. I know.

Your next question makes me smile, a dark twisted expression that mars my otherwise pretty lips. “How did you get away?”

“I didn’t,” I answer you, and you look shocked for a few moments.

“Do you mean…that the attack will always be with you?” you ask intuitively.

I waste no time in answering you, still smiling. “Wouldn’t it stay with you?”

You begin to consider; I can see the thoughtful cast of your gaze as you regard me in a new light. I wonder, do you see it now? The luring technique which works so well, disarming you with a smile and a blush.

Then you’re shaking your head, blinking, and I can tell you’re dismissing the notion as preposterous. But there is a ‘what if’ lingering in your eyes as you regard me. “I suppose so,” you reply thoughtfully.

Silence buds. You sip your coffee quietly, and I take up another cookie. Then, genius strikes.

“Why don’t we move into the sitting room?” My suggestion comes easily. I distinctly do not offer to refill our coffees, not yet.

When you nod, I am transfixed by how your hair moves around your eyes and sharp cheeks. It reaches past your shoulders, wild and riotous, and for a fleeting moment, I want to feel it beneath my slender fingers.

“Sure, let’s.” Your smile breaks the spell you cast on me - or bewitches me further. The shape of your lips reminds me of a cupid’s bow, and painted like one, too. Everything about you screams ‘timeless’ and I want to keep it forever.

I lead you back into the sitting room because I fear what might happen should I follow you, instead. We sit across from each other; you set your tape recorder, still quietly sibilating, on the table between us. “Where were we?” I ask, wondering what you noted last.

Your gaze stays on me for a few extra moments before flickering rapidly down to your scribbled notes. “Ah,” you begin, filling in the silence you’re creating with your voice, “You had just said the attack would never leave you.” Your voice starts strong when you speak, then slowly softens into a murmur by the end. 

“Of course.”

I lead us back into the mire of the attack, and the subsequent escape. You hang on to every word, yet you don’t look up from your notes as you furiously put your thoughts to paper. Once more, I weave a spell around you with my voice, a soft note here, a blush there to punctuate a statement. You ask questions conversationally yet with great importance, and a great need to understand the answers I give.

When your hand slows while I’m still speaking, I pause too, and ask, “More coffee?” with a smile.

It takes you a moment to respond, but you do with a stammered, “Yeah, err, y-yes, please.”

“No problem.” I take our cups to the kitchen. I listen to your mobile when it rings, and I’m grateful for the distraction it creates.

Your ringtone gives me pause, though, as it’s some jazzy little number played on the French horn. The enigma continues.

By the time you finish your conversation, I’ve finished my preparations. The coffee mugs remain on the counter as I return, holding a rag in one hand. You are so ensconced in your thoughts that you don’t know I’ve come up behind you. You have no idea what’s coming next.

And truthfully, neither do I.

There’s a sacred silence then, something untouchable. And then I know: I’m going to let you go. I can see that my decision has long since been made, and I won’t change my mind. Do you realize this? You begin to turn, and I lower my hands. You start when you see me, looking at me with wide eyes that lock with my gaze. At that moment, there’s a realization in your expression. You know.

A smile curls softly onto my lips, and I know this one is pretty; I’ve practiced it plenty. Slowly, you return the smile because you’re nice, and the nervousness is evident in the corners of your lips twitching upward. It looks like you want to speak–but what will you say to me? Will you accuse me? Or will you beg for mercy in hopes of appealing to my supposed better nature, if such a thing exists?

I can practically taste your apprehension at this moment. Had I truly been a cold-blooded reptile, my tongue would have appeared in the form of a small flick to sample the sensations in the air.

I’m no reptile, though. You seem to sense this. Now you’re the one to wet her lips with a hesitant swipe of that pink muscle. A clear mammalian response. Slowly, you meet my gaze once more. I see fear, unease, and pleading, but most of all, I see acceptance.

This takes me aback at first. So few are as accepting as you are at this moment. Of course, no one else has come this far.

In many ways, you are my first all over again.

Memories sweep through my mind of her, but her face is replaced with yours. It’s your red hair I see falling in cascades; your dark green eyes gleaming before the acid hits them, your screams echoing in the palace of my mind. But there’s no begging. No pleas to stop, no cries for mercy. Not with you.

You understand. You see me.

Visions of us - of you - flash before my eyes before fading into reality.

You stare at me, frozen in place while I control my breathing, my thoughts.

“Go.” I utter this to you first, then, continue. “The interview is over.”

My voice must be like a starting gun for you. At once, you’re in motion, but your movements are deliberate as you collect your things. It’s almost like you’re waiting for me to change my mind. Like you want me to change my mind.

I don’t.

I watch as you place your last item in your bag. You rise to your feet and not once as you move to the door do you turn to find it. Your gaze stays glued to mine and for a moment I feel something again. I recognize in you the beauty the rest of the world lacks.

You reach the locked door. Your panic begins to build, I can tell by the way you tug at the handle, the way your breath picks up as you begin to feel trapped.

When you hear my footsteps slowly moving towards you, you freeze in your anxiety, like an animal caught in the bright headlights of a car. As I finally reach you at the door, I can hear your hard breaths. Your back stays toward me, which would have made my job easier, had I decided to kill you.

Instead, I reach around your body to flick the locks undone. You stop breathing. I smile.

Crisp fall air greets us as I open the door for you. Instead of running, you take one step forward, then another before you’re out of my immediate reach. It’s only then that you turn to face me one last time with a bewildered expression on your features and a question on your lips. I just continue to smile at you, lifting a hand to shoo you away, then wave in a friendly manner.

A delicious shudder visibly wracks your body, but then you turn. You take slow, purposeful steps down the path and I watch as you make it to your car.

It’s only when you’ve driven away do I close the door on your departure, your memory.

You’re the one who got away.

[roshiwrites]

from the archives

Content warning: language, kidnapping

Original source material: Bioshock Infinite

No copywrite infringement intended

Footsteps echoed in the parking garage; that’s how empty it was that evening.  It was well past closing time, but Elizabeth had nearly been done with her project and was loathe to leave it that way for the entire weekend.  After a few extra hours plugged in, the paper was finished and she would be able to sleep that night.

“Damn.”  Elizabeth pulled her hand from her purse, inspecting the tip of her finger.  Something had jabbed her as she’d been fishing for her keys.  It had probably a pen or an eyeliner pencil stub.  A second search for the keys turned up victorious.  They jingled as she sorted them out for her car key.

Spontaneously, the keys jumped out of her fingers and Elizabeth stooped to grab them.  As she did, she heard something strange.  Footsteps echoed behind her for another step or two.  Suspicious but not wanting to give off anything, she scooped up her keys, quickly pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket, and dialed.  The phone rang for a few moments; she walked slowly toward her car, listening intently to the area around her.  When she finally heard the gruff answer, she breathed a slight sigh of relief.

“Hey, Booker.”  She hadn’t called her father by his name for years, probably since her mother had died.  “Just wanted to let you know I’m just about to leave the office.”  She was almost at her car now.  Hopefully, if there was someone actually following her, knowing that she’d called someone to inform them of her whereabouts would discourage them.

There was a clank in the background of the call and Elizabeth feared that Booker was in the kitchen.  “Would you mind picking up Chinese on the way home?”  There was a pause.  “I burned dinner.”

Elizabeth bit her lip.  “I’ll call for delivery.  I really want to just head straight home, ya know?”

“Sure, sure.”  He had never been good on the phone.  “Well, see you soon.”

“See you,” she agreed and hung up her phone.  Elizabeth was at her car now, keys in hand.  She was just fitting the keys into the lock when she heard the footsteps rush up behind her.

Ready, Elizabeth whipped around with the sharpest key in her hand, her other one rooting in her purse for the military-grade pepper spray Booker had given her on her sixteenth birthday.

The man was tall with dark hair and pale, unblemished skin.  At least, it was unblemished until she raked a key across his cheek; she could feel the flesh ripping under the notches of her sharpest key.  That seemed only to trip him up briefly.  It was only a second before she felt the sting of a backhand on her face.  “Bitch!” he shouted at her.

By now, Elizabeth’s hand had found the pepper spray.  They shook as she turned the dial, opening it.  She whipped her head around to see and sprayed.  The man cursed more as he balled his fists against his eyes, already red from the solution.

Still shaking, Elizabeth turned to get into her car and drive off as quickly as possible.  She hadn’t seen or heard the van until it came around the corner, tires screeching.  Moving ever faster, Elizabeth locked all of her doors and put the car in reverse, hoping to get out of her spot before the van blocked her in.  Her heart was racing, beating against her chest so quickly she knew it was going to be sore later.

She wasn’t fast enough.  Before she’d even moved the car an inch, the van was blocking her in and two masked men jumped out of the sliding door of the van as it screeched to a halt.  She did the only thing she could think to do; she hit redial on her cell phone and prayed that her father would answer.

Glass shattered and showered over her as they smashed her windows.  Elizabeth screamed, buckling her seat belt to buy herself more time.

“Get her out of the car, quick!”  The shout came from the van.

Hands groped at her.  There was a knife slicing the seatbelt from her body.  Elizabeth batted at the hands, not caring if she sliced her fingers on the knife; she just wanted them to leave her alone.  Before she could do anything else about it, strong arms were yanking her out of the seat.

“Let me go!” she screamed, fighting as much as she could.  She flailed her arms, kicked her legs, anything she could do to try to throw the man off balance.  “No!  Let me go!”  As soon as her feet touched the ground, she tried to push her weight back onto the man; she might stand a chance if she ran toward the stairs.

“Just knock the bitch out!”  It was the man she’d hit with the pepper spray and her keys.  He was still holding his face, but from the van now.

It seemed like no amount of struggling she did made any difference.  The man who had her was strong, all muscle under his clothes.  He didn’t even seem fazed when she kicked backward at him.  The only thing that made him grunt was when she reached up to rake her nails against his mask, hoping to get an eye.  When she slammed her head back on his shoulder, that only served to make her dizzy, her head instantly hurting.  Her limbs felt heavy suddenly, but her heart was still racing, her brain still sending signals to move, to get away.

She was still screaming at the man as she shoved her into the van.  Hands grabbed her wrists, binding them together too tightly with a zip tie.  The last thing she remembered was looking up into the eyes of the man who had shoved her in the van, right before he pressed a cloth against her nose.

In her car, there was silence.  Elizabeth’s mobile was still lit up.  After a few seconds passed and the van had screeched out of the parking garage, a small voice from the speaker filled the silence.

“Shit.”

The call disconnected.

[roshiwrites]

helianthus maximiliano

The lights look pretty on your face when we pass under the lit canopies leading into the garden welcome center. Young adults welcome us in, smiling at us in that saccharine-sweet way customer service representatives have, but my eyes are only for you as dark shadows creep along your pale features. You look away from me to thank them, but it’s only for a moment before our hands are joined and we walk past them onto the warmly lit terrace outdoors.

Warm air brushes our faces as we step out, picking up the long strands of messy hair loose from your clip. I smile at something so simple, continuing to watch you as we make our way along the potted plant exhibit.

“You know, the plants are around us,” you say with a smile as you notice I’m still watching you.

I smile, but eventually, I look away to admire the plants that don’t come close to rivaling your beauty. Sure, they’re lovely, but they aren’t you.

Container plants line our way through the twisting path, myriad colors and scents overwhelming our senses.

The coming night is warm around us on this late summer evening. You wanted to visit the garden before they closed for the season, and we’d finally had a night off of work together. Your shifts at the hospital are hard on both of us, and my position at the column means my mornings are early.

We rarely see each other - so why wouldn’t I look at you instead of the flowers?

“Where do you want to go first?” I ask you when we reach a fork in the path. “Left is the children’s garden–” there’s a certain amount of desire lacking in my voice, as neither of us really want to be around children on our day off “–or ahead is the butterfly garden.” You choose the butterfly garden, and for that I’m grateful. 

We continue straight along the path, walking hand in slender hand. Late afternoon draws lazily toward evening, and the sun tracks across the sky in its slow journey through the heavens. When we arrive at the butterfly garden, a family smiles at us. You wave to them as we shuffle around each other, and soon we’re in the greenhouse which plays home to hundreds of butterflies.

“I wonder what it’s like earlier in the day,” you say in wonder as you approach the butterfly bush. Most of the butterflies are hiding, but a few are visible clinging to the netted roof. “What is this plant called?” you ask me, lifting a long cone of small purple flowers. 

I approach so I can peer at the square stems. “Buddleja,” I tell you after a moment. “Butterfly bush. You can imagine why it’s called that.” My column is on plants, and you love quizzing me.

You hum in awe before delicately releasing the flower stem to continue your journey through the butterfly house. It’s small, but there’s a path winding through from one side to the other, lined with plants tall and short. 

We don’t spend too long in the butterfly house. A storm is starting to roll in, which is not unusual in the late summer. The temperature begins to drop, dark clouds form in the sky, and the wind picks up just enough that I can feel it through the screened building.

“Come on,” I say to you as we reach the other end where another screen door waits for us. “There’s a path I want to show you.”

You exit with me, the wind swirling around us as the trees dance in the heavy breeze. There’s a path to our right, leading through a field of sunflowers and back the way we came originally.

As we enter the field, a warm, almost nutty scent fills the air. Sweet, light, and a little creamy, rather unusual for a flower. You inhale deeply of one then proclaim, “It smells like white chocolate! What are these?”

I smile at you, reaching up to brush my fingers along the pale yellow petals and pull one close so I, too, can smell it. You’re right, of course; it smells like chocolate, sweet instead of bitter. It takes me a moment to identify this type of sunflower, but eventually, I say, “Helianthus Maximiliano, or the Maximilian Sunflower.”

“They’re beautiful,” you say.

“You’re beautiful,” I say, looking straight past the flowers and directly at you.

You blush, wind brushing loose strands of hair in front of your face, and I reach out to brush them back behind an ear. “Let’s go home before we’re caught in the storm,” I suggest softly.

[roshiwrites]

writing prompt: 2.16.25

As you’re browsing through a rack of sweaters, someone approaches you and says, “I need you to listen to me very carefully.” 

—————————————————

The words take me aback at first. Who is this person and why are they suddenly talking to me? I take half a step back, but they reach for my arm and hold it in a firm, but not painful grip.

“You’re about to be taken. I can’t tell you by whom, when, or why. But it’s important that you are. The city depends on it.”

With that, they’re gone, casually walking away and leaving me in stunned disbelief. The sound of a shrieking infant startles me back to lucidity and I yell, “Wait!” But they’ve already gone, this mysterious individual melting into the crowd of other busy shoppers.

A few people look at me when I yell, trying to see if there’s some sort of disturbance apart from the one I’m making. I blush at so many eyes on me, then mumble something like, “Never mind,” to anybody close enough before I return to my browsing.

That had been beyond creepy. Who does that, goes up to strangers, and tells them they’re about to be taken? Is it some sort of prank? It has to be. I shake my head, sighing somewhat as I push the encounter away from my mind. It isn’t hard. It was so quick; still, I can feel the weight of their hand on my arm if I think about it.

I finish browsing, taking a few items off the rack to try them on in the fitting room. At first, nervousness courses through me as I walk around the busy department store, the would-be warning of that stranger flashing back into my memory. But it’s preposterous. Who could take me in such a busy environment?

Trying on the clothes leaves me with two piles of ‘yes’ and ‘no’. I don’t like maybes. Within another minute, I decide on my selections, before cleaning up after myself; someone has to do it, and I’m currently making the mess.

It’s a short trip to the check-out counter, my chosen garments draped over my arm. The line is noticeably long, too, but that’s what I get for shopping around a holiday sale season. It moves steadily, though, so kudos to those clerks working the registers.

As I arrive at the register, the memory from earlier is entirely forgotten regarding the weird warning, I’m so focused on my transaction. When I remove my card from my wallet to pay, I feel a presence behind me, tall and oppressive.

“There you are,” comes an unfamiliar voice in a most familiar manner. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Ice runs down my spine.

Before I have a second to react, I feel something stiff and quite solid pressed against my lower back, right over my kidney. Inexplicably, I know it’s a gun. I stand ramrod still, frozen in my transaction before the clerk seems to notice what they interpret likely as hesitation.

“Is everything alright?” the too-young, bubble-gum blonde girl asks.

I open my mouth to speak, to say that yes there is a problem, but they speak up instead, whoever has this gun to my back. “Oh, yes, everything is fine,” he says, and I’m struck by how soft his voice is. “She just wandered off and I finally found her, spending all of our hard-won money.”

Who is this? What do they want? The warning comes back to my mind.

“You’re going to be taken. It’s important that you are.”

It’s happening, I think to myself. It’s happening and a total stranger told me that I needed to be taken, because the entire city, a metropolis, depends on it. How the fuck could a metropolis depend on random kidnapping?