Tag: WDYS

I Wait Anyway

Posted in Stories in MonochromeTagged , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Morning doesn’t break so much as it leaks in—thin, hesitant light slipping through the blinds like it’s not sure it belongs here anymore.

I sit at the table in your robe.
Still yours.
Still smells faintly of tobacco and something warm I can’t name without you here to confirm it.

The coffee hums behind me. The house breathes. I don’t.

The pen waits.

My hand doesn’t.

It drifts—slow, instinctive—down to my stomach.

I don’t even remember when I started doing that.

There’s a weight there now. Not heavy. Not yet. Just… present.

Like a quiet truth I can’t outrun.

Dear Darling,

It’s morning. The light’s soft today—the kind you used to stop and notice, like it meant something more than just another day starting.

Coffee’s almost ready. I made pancakes. Syrup already on the plate—you said it soaked in better that way.

I’m wearing that silk gown. The one you never got tired of looking at like it was the first time, every time.

My hand presses against my stomach as I write this.

You don’t know.

You were never going to know.

We made something, and I walked away from it before it had a name.

Before it had a chance.

Things still work. That’s the part I hate. The coffee brews. The light comes in. None of it checks to see if you’re still here.

You would’ve taught this child how to listen.

Not just hear—listen.

Bebop the way it’s supposed to be felt. Not explained. Not dissected. Felt.
Motown like it lives in the spine whether you want it to or not.
The Philly sound… the way you talked about it like it was church without the pews.

I can tell them.

I will.

But it won’t be the same.

I don’t have your patience. Your reverence. The way you respected the silence between notes like it mattered just as much as the sound itself.

I miss the way you sang Big Joe Turner off key—loud, unapologetic, like the room belonged to you and nobody else had a say in it.

You never got it right.

Not once.

And I never told you how much I loved that.

I knew what staying meant.

I just didn’t want to pay for it.

I pause.

My thumb circles slow against my stomach.

There’s nothing there yet. Not really.

But I keep my hand there anyway.

I almost told you.
I didn’t.

I told myself I could do this without you. That it would be easier that way. Cleaner.

My heart didn’t agree.

I stayed quiet anyway.

We said we’d do it backwards.
A girl with your name.
A boy with mine.

I don’t know if I’m allowed to keep that promise without you here.

Do you remember that trip?

The desert. Three of us and a plan that sounded better in your head than it ever had a chance of being.

Everything kept going wrong. Heat. Wind. Something always breaking or running out.

And she just… handled it. Like none of it was ever serious to begin with.

I see it now—clear as anything.

That scorpion. Bigger than it had any business being.

She picked it up like it was nothing and chased you with it.

You ran.
I ran.

She laughed.

I forgot she knew what she was doing.

You always said she understood things most people wouldn’t touch—bugs, venom, all of it.

An entomologist.

I just remember thinking she was out of her mind.

Your sister’s going to be an aunt.

I can see her now—trying to be you.

Picking up your bad habits like they still belong to someone.

Pushing them a little further each time.

Like there’s no one left to tell her where the line was.

Teaching them the wrong things on purpose. Letting them taste what they shouldn’t.

Laughing like rules were just suggestions someone else wrote.

Holding it all together just long enough for nobody to ask questions.

Trying to be you.

And not even knowing it.

I finished another chapter.

It’s sitting here, waiting for you like it used to. I can still see you reading—thumb brushing your beard, twisting that one side longer than the other.

You always said you’d fix it.

You never did.

I miss the way you stood behind me. Quiet. Certain. Like the world could fall apart and you’d still be there, steady as breath.

I try to remember that feeling.

I try to give it to something that’s never going to meet you.

I keep pausing like you’re about to say something. Like I didn’t train myself out of that already.

I’ll write again tomorrow.

I love you.

Never doubt that.

I read it twice.

Not for grammar.

For truth.

My hand stays there longer this time.

The lighter clicks.

Flame blooms.

The paper curls, blackens, disappears in on itself—like it’s trying to take the words back before they settle somewhere permanent.

I drop it into your ashtray.

Your pipe’s still there.

That hand-carved one from Ireland you wouldn’t shut up about. You said it would last forever.

I pick it up.

Turn it over in my hands.

Cold.

I press it gently against my stomach.

I wait anyway.

The smoke rises—thin, quiet.

My hand tightens.

Not a thought. Not yet.

Just something—

wrong.

Author’s Note: This piece was written for Sadje’s What Do You See #335. The image offered quiet, but the story refused it—pulling instead at absence, at the things we leave unsaid, and the consequences that continue long after the moment has passed.

Litany in Black 2

Posted in SplintersTagged , , , , , , , , 14 Comments

Chapter 2

The bed had held her like a warm conspiracy—pillows swallowing her shoulders with their downy weight, linen softened by last night’s restless turns. Lantern light pooled in amber halos on the walls, quivering against damp wood. Four hours of sleep after eighteen-hour days should have grounded her for a week, but her body insisted on rebellion. Awake again, she sat upright, toes grazing the cool floorboards, eyes blinking against the dim glow. The tang of office coffee still clung to her tongue: a bitter echo of burnt midnight oil and water-thin sludge, the kind that left her stomach knotted but kept her nerves humming like exposed wiring.

She dragged a chair across the cabin with deliberate care—the legs scraping in protest—and perched at the balcony’s edge. The night air bit her bare arms, each shiver sharpening her senses. Beyond the railing, the mountains stood silent, dark ridges pressed like secrets into the horizon. The lake lay flat as polished obsidian, mirroring bruised clouds of early dawn. Across the glassy water, an old man in a faded plaid shirt painted the silence. His brush moved in slow, patient arcs, each stroke less about color than stitching the world back together, as if he fought gravity and time with bristles and oil.

“Are you just going to sit there, peeking out the window? That’s rude, you know?” A voice cracked through the quiet like a shot glass on stone. Jonquil’s heart jerked—her pulse thundering behind her ribs. For a moment, she blamed the sleepless haze—too many nights hunched over microfiche, eyes stinging under the sterile hum of library projectors, chasing Frog Creek’s ghosts through brittle ’30s newsprint. Dead ends, coy smiles from locals who treated the story like a campfire riddle.

“Bring some coffee and a glass of water while you’re at it,” the voice added, dry as driftwood.

Her gaze flicked back to the painter. He hadn’t paused, but she was certain the brim of his floppy hat dipped—a slow, knowing nod cast in shadow. Words felt heavy, too sluggish to catch. She slipped off the chair, the floorboards groaning like reluctant witnesses, and padded to the kitchenette. She measured the coffee grounds by instinct, water steaming in two battered mugs. She filled two slender glasses with cool spring water. Even before she carried the tray back, the earthy tang of brewed coffee rose to meet her, promising clarity.

As she stepped into the painting’s quiet domain, the tray trembling slightly in her hands, a thought flared: What the hell am I doing? She set the tray on a rough-hewn table beside the painter and stepped back into the flicker of lantern light.

“What took you so long?” he muttered around a sip, not looking up—then slowly raised his head and found himself staring down the barrel of her .40-caliber Smith & Wesson. The metal gleamed silver in the lamplight.

He froze. Recognition bloomed in his eyes, calm as a breeze off the lake. He tilted his head, then—deliberately—brought the coffee cup to his lips. The steam curled around his weathered face before he met her gaze.

“Jonquil! You old firebrand—you scared the hell out of me!”

Her chest unclenched in one rush of relief, fury, and love warring beneath her ribs. She lowered the gun with a shaky exhale, the weight of it receding like a tide.

“Are you gonna give me a hug,” he drawled, “or should I start feeling offended?”

“Offended, of course,” she muttered, stepping forward.

He rose with a groan of old joints, arms outstretched. His paint-stained palms smelled of turpentine and lake mist. She hesitated a heartbeat—then melted into the solid warmth of his embrace. His arms were rough bark, familiar and unyielding.

They held each other while the mountains bore silent witness. Bug kissed her temple, then eased back to study her face under the brim of his hat.

“Tell me about the writer,” he said, voice low. “Is he writing?”

“I made contact,” Jonquil replied, voice soft with pride. “It’s begun.”

“Good. How long before he’s ready?” Bug asked, tone businesslike as he sipped his coffee.

“I’m not rushing him. He’ll be ready when he’s ready,” she snapped, the heat in her words betraying more than she intended.

Bug spread his paint-stained hands in mock surrender, a crooked smile flickering at his beard’s edge.

“Actually, Uncle…I’m glad you’re here,” she added, calmer now, raising her mug. The coffee was strong, bitter—and it steadied her pulse.

They fell into silence, watching dawn bleed into the sky while the lake held its reflection like a promise.

“Tell me about Frog Creek,” she said finally.

Bug jolted, coffee sloshing against his knuckles. His eyes sharpened, horror and determination flickering in the same breath.

“Don’t ask questions that need answers, Jonquil,” he growled, the words rough as gravel.

She swallowed the last of her coffee without flinching, letting his warning sink deep. A faint smile ghosted across her lips. “That’s it,” she said, each word measured. “We’re getting to it.”

Bug’s jaw flexed, unease rippling beneath weathered skin. The lake’s hush pressed in on them, but between the two of them, the silence crackled.

“Did you make contact personally, or one of your people?” Bug asked.

“My agent in the city,” Jonquil replied, cool and distant as gathered smoke.

Bug’s eyes narrowed. “Not Iris, I hope? That woman’ll have you jumping around barking like a dog for sport!”

Jonquil snorted, a half-laugh. She risked a glance at him, the corner of her mouth twitching with reluctant agreement.

—

In the bookstore’s basement, Iris leaned against a battered jukebox, fingertip tracing dusty chrome. The air was thick with mildew, ink, and the metallic tang of old wiring. Fluorescent bulbs flickered overhead, humming like restless spirits.

“I wonder if this thing still works,” she murmured, voice low. A manicured nail tapped a faded title card: Arnold Layne. A slow smile curled her lips as she mouthed the name, eyes bright.

She pressed a button. A dull click echoed, gears whirring beneath the dust. Vinyl clattered into place.

“Don’t—don’t you dare—” Eli’s voice shredded the gloom. Boots scuffed concrete as he lunged from the shadows, sweat beading his forehead under the dim light.

Iris turned, cool as midnight, watching him approach. She let the speakers crackle to life, a warped guitar riff slicing through the air like a knife.

Eli halted, breath caught in his throat. The sound held him hostage, every nerve taut as a plucked wire.

“Arnold Layne had a strange hobby…” The lyric spilled from the small speakers, tinny and inevitable. Dust motes swirled in the beam of flickering light, drifting like lost memories.

Iris tilted her head, eyes never leaving his face—waiting for the moment the past would snap into focus.

—

On the far side of the lake, Jonquil froze mid-sip. At first she thought it was the scrape of dawn against stone, but then—faint, distorted, impossible—the opening riff of Arnold Layne crawled through the air like static on a dying radio.

Her hand tightened on the mug, knuckles whitening. Goosebumps blossomed along her arms as the melody haunted the silent morning.

“Way too soon, Iris,” she breathed.

Bug’s brush scratched canvas in steady strokes, oblivious—or willfully blind—to the tremor in her voice.

But the song lingered, a ghost bridging two worlds, threading Jonquil’s dread to Eli’s terror. The mountains exhaled around them, and the lake held its breath.

Author’s Note:
My editor called me after I released Litany in Black and simply said, “I want more!” So here’s the next chapter. I drew from Sadje’s WDYS #307 for the scenery and Fandango’s Story Starter #217 for inspiration.

As always, prompts like these push the story into corners I might not explore alone. Noir breathes in silence, in warnings half-heard, in the places where memory and dread overlap. That’s where Jonquil, Bug, Iris, and Eli are circling now.

If you’re new here, Litany in Black is part experiment, part confession: prompts, noir atmosphere, and a little madness stitched into something ongoing. If you’ve been here before, you know the deal—the coffee’s bitter, the ghosts don’t rest, and the story is never safe.

Thanks to Sadje and Fandango for throwing fuel on the fire. And thanks to you for reading, following the litany deeper.

Freshly Made, Just for You

Posted in Dispatches from the Splinters of My MindTagged , , , , , , , , 12 Comments

Dispatches from the Splinters of My Mind

The Hippy Ice Cream Man – Entry VI

The gulls owned the rooftop. They had claimed it long before we arrived, staking their kingdom in feathers and shit, in the low, guttural croaks that echoed like laughter. Their wings tore at the sky when they rose, dragging it open, only to fold it back into silence when they landed again. From where we sat, the sea spread out in every direction, a pewter sheet without reflection, as though it had swallowed the sky whole and kept it hidden.

The castle wasn’t a ruin, not completely. The stones still held their shape, still resisted the erosion of wind and salt, but there was moss clawing at the edges of the turrets, lichen freckling the slate roof. A place caught between being kept alive and being abandoned—much like us, though neither of us wanted to say it out loud.

We sat against the cold wall, the slick tiles beneath us daring us to slip. My legs dangled freely into the air, careless. Hers stayed tucked close, knees pulled in, heels dug hard into the slate as though bracing against gravity itself. That was always the difference between us: I trusted the drop, she feared it. We hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour. Silence was easier, and for a while, we both pretended it was enough.

The gull on the chimney watched us. A single sentinel, yellow eyes sharp and patient, as though waiting to see which one of us would fall first.

When she finally spoke, her voice startled me.
“Why are you always trying to get me to eat ice cream from the hippy ice cream man?”

The words felt too light for this place, too absurd to belong among these stones. They scattered in my chest like startled birds.
“What?”

She smirked, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “You heard me. Every time we’re close to something—like this—” she gestured vaguely at the impossible balance of us on the rooftop, at the thin margin between sitting and falling, “—you start talking about him. That van, his cones, like it’s holy salvation or something.”

I wanted to deny it. Pretend she was imagining things. But the image of the truck rose instantly, absurdly: parked at the seawall below, pastel paint catching the last orange spill of sunlight—music tinkling, distorted and tinny. The words freshly made just for you ” were painted across the side like a promise no one believed. And that small golden rectangle of light from the serving window, glowing like a portal to somewhere better.

“Because,” I said slowly, “that’s the only place left where nothing is asked of you. You hand him a coin, and he gives you sweetness. No questions. No history. Just sugar. Just cold.”

She turned back toward the gull. It hadn’t moved. Neither had the crows on the far chimney, who leaned in as if listening. “You think that’s all I want? To be numbed?”

I didn’t answer. The air had thickened, and even the sea seemed to press closer.

Her voice cracked against the quiet. “Sometimes I think you’d rather eat someone else’s lies than deal with the truth of me.”

I swallowed. My throat was raw from silence. “Maybe. Maybe because the truth of you is heavier than this whole damn castle.”

The gull flapped its wings once, dislodging flecks of stone dust, then settled again. Watching and always watching.

We had been here before. Not this rooftop, not this particular edge of stone and slate, but here—in the place where one of us demanded something the other couldn’t give. It always ended the same: with me retreating into sweetness, her retreating into anger.

I remembered the first time I saw the van. Not here, but further down the coast, years ago. I was walking alone after midnight when I saw its colors under the sodium lamps, too bright for the hour, too hopeful. The man inside was still serving, though there was no one in line. He had his arms crossed, staring at nothing. His face was older than the paint job. I almost walked past, but he caught my eye and tilted his head, and I bought a cone out of guilt.

The first bite had been a revelation. Not because it was good—it wasn’t—but because it was simple. No hidden meanings. No debts. Just a mouthful of something cold that melted away before I could question it. I never forgot that feeling. I wanted it again. I wanted her to have it too.

But she wasn’t built for simplicity.

“You don’t see it, do you?” she said now, pulling her knees tighter. “That ice cream man, your savior, he’s just another ghost. Another liar in pastels. You think his sweetness is freedom, but he’s trapped just like us. Debt, sorrow, God knows what. You want me to believe in him because you’ve already decided you can’t believe in me.”

Her words landed harder than the wind.

I tried to picture the man’s face. His tired smile, the scars along his hands when he passed me the cone. She was right—he wasn’t free. None of us were. And yet, he had given me that moment of quiet, that small reprieve. Couldn’t that be enough?

“You’re probably right,” I said. “But at least his lie tastes better than ours.”

Her face twisted, something between grief and rage. “That’s the problem. You’ll settle for sweetness just because it doesn’t cut as deep. You’ll choose the hippy ice cream man over me every time.”

The gull lifted suddenly, wings beating, filling the air with a violence that wasn’t its own. The crows scattered from the far chimney, black streaks against the sea. For a moment, it felt like the whole rooftop would shake apart under their departure.

When the noise faded, she looked at me again, eyes shadowed, unreadable. “You don’t even realize it, do you? You’re already halfway down there, coin in hand.”

Her words hollowed me out.

I wanted to argue, wanted to tell her she was wrong. But the image rose again: the van humming with light below the seawall, music spilling like a broken memory, waiting for me to step down from these stones and pay the price for one more mouthful of sweetness.

The castle groaned in the wind. The slate shifted beneath us. The sea waited, patient and endless.

We didn’t climb down together.

By the time I finally left the rooftop, she was gone. Whether she had climbed down first or vanished into the stone, I couldn’t say. The gull had returned to the chimney, and it watched me with something like pity.

When I reached the seawall, the van was still there. Lights glowing, window open, music playing. The man inside didn’t speak as I handed him a coin. He just nodded, passed me the cone, and turned away.

The first bite was as cold as always. Sweetness dissolving before it could mean anything.

I stood there in the glow of the hippy ice cream man, alone, licking at something that was never going to save me.

And above, high on the castle rooftop, the gull croaked once more.

Author’s Note:
This story was inspired by Sadje’s What Do You See? #303. I took the provided image as a doorway into something more fractured and unresolved, letting the rooftop and the gulls become the stage for a conversation that had been waiting too long in silence. As always, these Dispatches are fragments—splinters of something larger I don’t pretend to fully understand. They aren’t answers, just echoes.

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #1

Posted in FictionTagged , , , , , , , 16 Comments

FICTION – WDYS #281

Top 5 Ways to Ask a Girl Out: Rule #1
Don’t mention the creepy gnome.

I stood there, just… staring at the thing. A tiny metal gnome? Elf? Goblin? Whatever it was, it was perched on her balcony railing like it owned the place.

Did she put it there? She had to have, right? It’s not like little brass weirdos just wander onto balconies. But still—it felt like it was watching me. Judging me.

I thought about asking her, but no. That would blow up the whole operation. Can’t have her thinking I’m the kind of guy who interrogates her about lawn ornament choices. No, I’m the helpful friend. The guy offering to fix her absolute trainwreck of a car—for free. Out of kindness. Generosity. Totally not because I’m hopelessly into her and grasping at any excuse to spend time together.

God, I’m that guy. The one who offers free labor in the desperate hope of being seen as dateable. I’m one creepy figurine comment away from ruining it all. So I shut up, smile, and pretend like helping her isn’t the highlight of my entire month.

She leaned out the front door, holding two mugs. “Coffee? Or, uh… whatever this is. I might’ve forgotten how coffee works halfway through.”

“Perfect,” I said, taking one. I didn’t even like coffee, but it felt like the right thing to say. Plus, I wasn’t about to reject something she handed me with a smile that made my brain shut down like an overheating laptop.

I took a sip. It was… alarming. Bitter, burnt, and somehow both too hot and lukewarm at the same time.

“Be honest,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s… ambitious,” I offered.

She laughed. Progress.

We stood in silence for a second, both sipping this mysterious bean liquid and pretending it wasn’t a full-on sensory attack. I glanced back at the gnome. It hadn’t moved. Still smug.

“That little guy yours?” I asked, before my brain could stop my mouth.

Why? Why did I do that?

She looked over and grinned. “Oh! Yeah. Found him at a flea market. He looked like he knew secrets, you know? Like he’s seen some things.”

I nodded. “Yeah, like he knows exactly when you’re lying about liking the coffee.”

She snorted, almost spilling hers. “You’re terrible.”

Yes. Yes, I am. But also? Still here. Not banned. Not rejected. Maybe even kind of funny.

The gnome, I swear, winked at me.

Or maybe the coffee was already hitting my brain weird.

Six Word Story -10312023

Posted in ProseTagged , , , , 7 Comments

I’ve never done one of these before, but I enjoy them. I think it has something to do with the brevity of it. The power of less is more. So, true to fashion I will combine a few challenges. Let’s see if I get any of them right.

The picture is courtesy of the Melissa Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge

Love, devotion, sacrifice by any means