It was cold and the skies were clear. After the month he spent going through crash courses on how to teach, he’d learned this much about the school: Cold and clear was its natural state. His grey-green khaki jacket and white fur hood, they weren’t quite cutting it. Any number of teachers could’ve stood out there to point the new students to the dorms. Not that anyone really had to, since everyone should’ve gotten a map in the mail. But dammit, they were supposed to be on their best behavior.
[Copyrighted © July 31 2015, J.M. Blute]
The asylum finally released him in the early part of eighth grade, but… He’d been in for two years taking half-courses. He was far behind his classmates. After school let out for them, his father drove him there in silence. He spent five or six hours there, depending on the day, trying to catch up. Someone came for him when they were ready.
It took him a long time to adjust and even longer to get where he was. In college, working toward a respectable degree, and even holding down a couple friends. No one special. No one could be that close. He stacked journals ever since the end of his stay in psych wards, writing down every dream, every nightmare, every half-seen illusion– They were real. If anyone knew, he’d go back.
[Copyrighted © July 24 2015, J.M. Blute]
The café wasn’t as good as he remembered it. He was indifferent to their affection for the old internet radio, or their antique twenty-second century television. There was nothing appealing about the workers coming in for breakfast, throwing their sweaty caps onto their silverware without hesitation. Derric was here for the frappes, which were little more than chocolate milk served in sloped glasses. The ancient bell rang from the kitchen, and the cook’s shout reached his booth. His organic wheat pancakes would have to be the best he’d ever eaten to make up for the frappe.
“Derric,” his breakfast partner interrupted, digging a fork in her syrup laden waffle, “do you listen to anyone when they speak?”
“We have a more dire issue at hand than your genetic creations,” he reminded her, pointing to his glass. “This has less cubic volume than the plastic cups they used to have here.”
[Copyrighted © July 17 2015, J.M. Blute]
Her fourth husband was late. Not in the same way as the first three, at least not as she knew. There could be no telling until he arrived.
“Milady?” A servant paused with a pitcher held above her crystal goblet. Unlike at the Masten estate, this gentleman could meet her eye without fear.
Their wine was rich, dark, and not her favorite. As her fingers brushed the stem, her son’s hand touched her forearm.
“May I have a taste?” His face was sharp and his skin, tanned, like hers. But his dark green eyes were his father’s. Her second husband loved his wine rich and never went a day without a glass. But he was as tempered with that as he was all things.
Even as sickness took him, he was patient, wise, and calm. She slid the goblet to her child, their hands touching as he reached for the bulb.
He drank all this kingdom would willingly give him. But he would have her love, his siblings, and his own life. The world would be beautiful.
[Copyrighted © July 10 2015, J.M. Blute]
TRIGGER WARNING: Body horror
Dr. John Mellon smiled from behind his imitation wood desk, his pale pink tie and gleaming buttons matching the waiting room atmosphere.
“It’s been a while, Denzil.”
“Three months exactly,” he answered, cleaning out his eyes. That flaky crunchy stuff had been showing up more often lately. Maybe he could ask his real doctor about it sometime, but until… He faced the man and finished his explanation. “Same as last time and all the times before it.”
“And how has it been?” Denzil looked away from the good doctor to the potted plant across the room. The soil might as well’ve been brown dust, but the plant was green as radiation and screaming comfort from beside a stack of glossies on parenting. It persevered for the Greater Good.
John’s leather ergonomic chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Remember the importance of communication, Denzil. Do I need to remind you how your last team disbanded?”
He started at the doctor and blinked once slowly. Raising his left hand as the bone extended from his pointer finger, Denzil answered.
“Bone is stronger than eye tissue, John.”
[Copyrighted © July 2 2015, J.M. Blute]