Flash Fictions

The Words On Our Arms

This is a story that never got told. Because when sweet honied words spoken in the dead of night turn bitter and sharp on your tongue, the original plot fades away.

The story was supposed to be two far away lovers, colliding at the airport with a passionate kiss as one moves across a country. It was supposed to be watching horror movies while one protects the others from the stage make-up jumping out at the screen. It was supposed to be drowsy late mornings with freshly brewed tea and scrambled eggs.

It was supposed to be good.

But it was one word off of one hundred. One too many arguments. One too many disassociative episodes. One too many chances given.

Change happens. No one really knows if it's good or bad until it's too late. Or maybe it was always that way and a line was just crossed.

I wish our story was written as beautifully as we imagined. Flowing words of elegance across a page, flooding the paper with colorful characters. I loved that story.

The way the story went hurt. The deviation from the plot tore at me, and I know it caused you more than a few paper cuts. Our story was written in blood and tears and mockery.

I no longer love the story I once called mine. The red it was written in faded to rusty brown on my arms, eventually washed to white by time.

The story ended a long time ago. My love followed soon after. But it felt criminal for our story to lack the content we planned. We were supposed to write it together, and I suppose we did. But I didn't want to have write the words alone.

So this is my farewell! A final close to the book of the past almost four years! It's funny how time works like that, innit? So much time to stitch the last thread of binding. All just so I can say...

It's completed.