It’s Friday and time for some flash fiction !
Today there are two non-related stories in one post! But they actually do have something in common…hmm.
Dogs bark when diggers dig
“Do we have to do this?”
Rover gave him an angry look. Monroe had been asking pointless questions like this for over an hour now. Rover held his nerves trying not to shout at him:
“Yes, we have to. Now shut up and give me a hand. It’s not going to end sooner if you just stand there, hands in pockets.”
“But…” Monroe’s lazy voice spoke again.
“No objections! What’s wrong with you?! Rover whispered to him through gritted teeth. He was this close to yelling at him.
Monroe sighted, rolled eyes, pulled up the sleeves of his sweaty shirt, grabbed the shovel and started digging again.
The night was black as usual and mostly silent, with a bright moon, shining upon their digging experience.
A dog barked somewhere far, far away, but some fellow canine followed him in that dreadful idea, and then another, and another, and another one, some distant, some closer until all their cries in the night synchronizing into one barking crescendo.
Monroe always thought when dogs bark like this they chitchat on some very controversial topic judging by the woof’s and grows.
The two men didn’t pay any notice to that just continued digging. They had to make sure all those bodies they’ve buried along the years are still deep down in the ground. Rover and Monroe surely didn’t want any guests from the past at their doorstep. With the whole zombie infection running through town right now you never know.
They had to know.
* * *
I know how he feels every time the door gets opened and the cold night air comes into the warm and loud café. It touches his skin with icy tongues; cold fingers run on his back and the wind feels like a frozen kiss on his neck.
I can see him shiver and shake his shoulders to chase the cold away. Then he sips some of the hot chocolate before him, and I can tell it warms his entire body for a second, hot liquid rolling down his throat. But it’s too hot and it burns his tongue, so he squeezes his eyes from the short steaming sensation. He orders a glass of water, hoping it would cool him a bit, and it does but still the taste in his mouth remains somehow flavorless with the next drink of chocolate. It pinches the tip of his tongue. He shakes head ignoring that, and continues to have his conversation with the rest of the people at the table.
Interesting, but he doesn’t notice me staring at him, licking my lips, biting them. He doesn’t feel me like I feel him. He probably can’t.
I hear his heartbeat, pulse after pulse; I feel his warm and sweet breath; the vibration of every thought he has before transforming it to speech. I feel them like my own.
I only come here because of him, two times a week, every Wednesday and Friday, exactly at 20:00 PM. No one knows me, and I know no one. I am only another girl in the café, sitting alone at my corner table with a cup of cold, untouched caramel macchiato.
But it doesn’t matter. I pay no attention to such things like loneliness, or cups left full. And I especially don’t care nor need him to know me or notice me, in order to eat him. I sit here just because I simply like observing my pray, before feeding myself with it.
And oh, how yummy he looks!