Saturday, February 1, 2014
THE KILL #flashfiction
(The plan that has emerged: Weekly bursts of microfiction, copyrighted but open for inspection, as +JIHADI (novel by Brandon Toropov) makes its phased, maddeningly slow tour of elite slush piles. A sample chapter for JIHADI can be found here. The piece below was chosen as one of the top four at +Siobhan Muir's site yesterday.)
"You have to bring the right tool for the kill." Not the inscription I would have chosen for the inside of a wedding ring, but indulging Emily was now my weakness.
She’d told me, weeks ago and in deference to my loathing of the outdoors, that it was all a metaphor, that engraving. The saying probably had some intricate family history, deriving from their various free-from survivalist competitions. Emily’s late father had made quite a name for himself in this field.
"A metaphor for what, exactly, dear?" I was whispering in her ear on the night of our rehearsal dinner, a little embarrassed at not having pressed the point earlier. Our courtship had been brief.
"WHAT's a metaphor for WHAT, Bookworm?" Emily’s green eyes gleamed. Her lean face was flushed, her tight red former-jockette-curls shorn nearly to baldness in anticipation of our journey to the banks of the Amazon. Insects or something.
"The engraving," I whispered.
"I said that was a METAPHOR?" Shouting over the music.
She laughed, again too loud.
"WHATEVER, BOOKWORM" she bellowed, and downed a half-glass of deep red wine.
Never seen her inebriated.
I took a deep breath, steadied the sudden trembling in my hands.
"What's the name of the hotel we'll be staying in, down in Colombia, dear?"
"WHAT hotel? Mm. Wait. I remember what it was a metaphor for. Sex. It was a metaphor for sex."
Her laugh rang out again, the laugh of a woman comfortable beneath the moon.
Copyright (c) 2014 Brandon Toropov, all rights reserved. Do not reproduce. You are welcome to link to this post.