Hotel

It was a different place every time. He drove three hours or more, looking for a hotel he hadn't already been to. He was ashamed of what he did, but couldn’t stop. Same story, every time.

Mess up the bed, call for room service. And then just watch the maid.

 

Still writing for that top secret 55 word thing. Shhhhh.

Red

It started with crayons. She’d use up the one colour and ask for a new box. Then her toothbrush. Pillows. Wallpaper. Schoolbag. Lunchbox.

Then her wardrobe. Shoes. Dresses. Lipstick.

At ten, she found a razor. Her mother screamed when she found her, but she grinned. “So much red!” she squealed.

 

(Ssh. Secretly taking part in this 55 fiction thing.)

Anything You Want

You can have anything you want. That's what everyone says. Anything you want. How often do they mean it, though?

More than anything in my life, I have clung on to my ideals. No, that's inaccurate. I should say I've clung on to my idealism. I've always thought of it as holding on to my innocence, retaining that eight year old child in my head.

I have been called a lot of things for it. Naïve. Childish. Stupid. You just don't know how the world works, they said. No, I know how the world works. I know all too well how it takes any semblance of innocence and systematically wrings it out of you. And it does this obviously at first. It bombards you with this knowledge. With most people, that is enough. They crumble, all too easily.

But if you can weather it, that's when life gets smart. It gets subtle. From corners you'd never expect, it sneaks up on you with a chisel and hammer and politely chips away at you. At those little weak junctions, those keystones.

But I don't want to submit. This one's too close to home. Too much a part of me. You can't take this.

So, to life, and to 'them', I say this: You can have anything you like. Anything. Except this.