Tuesday, 23 November 2010

Another One Bites The Dust - a Norse piece of Flash Fiction

The piece you are about to read is actually the introduction part of a short story I am currently writing but I am so happy with it already I thought I simply must share it with you all. Sorry to any Freya fans by the way hehehe Enjoy!

Another One Bites The Dust

She peeled back the plastic, tore out a moist wipe and dragged it around her neck. The coolness of it not dampening the burning frustration of another night of work. Another evening doing a performance she once did to the select few who had paid the ultimate price to see her, only her. She slung the used wipe into the bin beside her dressing table and cringed at the thought of how many common things and people have been able to touch her body, feel her fine skin, and admire her curves. All that desire was now as useless as the moist wipes, only satisfactory for an hour or so, an evening if they were especially good. She winced inside her heart at the memories of the years where lust and sexual dreams would have kept her beauty radiant for decades.
    She opened up her rainbow collection of eye shadows, mascaras and lipsticks. She selected a glittering violet, dabbed the eye pad into it and then pulled one eyelid down ready for application. She paused, the structure of her face awakening old memories of an old man. A man who had been the father she hadn’t been given at birth but filled the position so well. A father who understood her strengths as well as her weaknesses. A man who she hadn’t seen for so many long, lonely years. Just one member of the large family she once belonged to that lay as far apart as the stars. Swallowing back the surge of emotions she painted her eyelids, gave colour to her fading lips and coated the now frequent blemishes on her cheeks in foundation and concealer.
    There was a tapping on her dressing room door.
    “Enter.” She said without looking, eyes focused on the woman in the mirror, her hands running a fine brush through her long dark hair.
    A young man entered, hair as black as hers but in tight, little curls. He shut the door gently and then took up his usual place on her leopard print sofa.
    “Looking fabulous as always.” He said.
    “Just a small stag group tonight. If any take your fancy let me know and of course the girls won’t mark him.”
    He stood up and began looking at her outfits hung on the open wardrobe door. “Being a Las Vegas showgirl tonight are we?” He asked with a grin, playing with the large purple feathers on her head dress.
    She didn’t respond, just kept focusing on the delicate art of painting her nails.
    “Well I’ll let the girls know,”
    “Do that.” She muttered now fiddling with her jewellery, adorning her neck line and ears.
    “Well we wouldn’t want the group to be out of synch in costumes now would we?”
    She replied in silence.
    He strode forwards and leaned directly over her shoulder, meeting her eyes in the mirror. His glazed with anger. Hers gleamed with a hidden strength yet she could not hide the taint of fear at his presence.
    “Remember all I’ve done for you Freya, I’ve given you shelter, wealth and provided admirers for you more or less each night of the week. Without me you would be nothing, just like the others.”
    “I haven’t forgotten.” She whispered her voice breaking.
    “Who looked out for you when everyone else had abandoned or forgotten you, Freya? Who was it?” He snarled quietly into her ear, his smile dissolved into a threatening glare.
    “You, Loki.”
    “Yeah, me, even beloved Father didn’t do this much for you, did he?”
    “No, he didn’t.” Her mascara had begun to trickle down her cheeks, washing away her foundation tear by tear.
    “That’s right. All I ask in return is that you dance for me, Freya. That’s all. Is that too much to ask?”
    “Than for Hel’s sake show me a bit of god damn gratitude!” He banged the table with a thunderous bang, knocking some of her makeup palettes to the mauve carpet floor. “Stop acting like a common prostitute. Be the goddess you used to be. Because I want you at your best and on that stage in fifteen minutes.”
    He whirled out of the room, slamming the door making the few photo frames on her wall shake and tremble. For a moment she sat there in silence, tears slowly dripping through her make-up, a deep pressure threatening to fracture her heart and then the mirror cracked. That was all it took to shatter her will to survive into pieces.

1 comment:

  1. Very interesting! I love your characterization of Loki in this excerpt.


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