Revenge

This piece has a particularly humorous story behind it, for it was supposed to be my vignette, but I misunderstood the directions that "it must be from your own life." Therefore, I freaked out that my teacher would think I was some sort of axe murder—which I am certainly not. I later wrote a different vignette—not nearly as exciting in my humble opinion, which is called "Sales. . . Not My Calling." So, enjoy and remember, THIS IS NOT A TRUE STORY!

     My hands felt heavy as steel as I dragged the axe behind me, heading towards the neighbors house. He would never see me coming. I’d sneak into his home while he slumbered, vulnerable to the ferocity of my revenge. “You slept with my wife and now you will pay the price, you bastard,” I repeated to myself under my breath as if it were some sacred mantra.

      I trudged. . .closer and closer. He would never see me coming. I could feel the crimson curtain of rashness close in upon my reason.

      Four years of my life he had looked in me right in the eye as if we were true pals. Ha, what a fool I was to fall victim to his deceptive lies.

      My wife, oh, Daisy, her foolish little head could not help herself. Daisy, so innocent and pure, would never betray me. It was that brute’s damn charm. He lures them toward him with his dark looks and brooding demeanor; all the while, he is anticipating that next day when he can look his “pal” in the eye as if he hadn’t just violated the holy unity of matrimony.

      He thinks he is so clever, but he is foolish to think that I wouldn’t catch on. He will never see me coming. His house looms before me in the dead of night. No movement, the air is still and humid. I can feel the axe slipping from my grip.

      I reach his threshold and my axe scrapes across the floor. The hallway is narrow. The walls seem to close in on me. They’re pushing against me— suffocating me.

      I see him there, sleeping spread eagle across his mattress. He will never see me coming. “For Daisy,” I whisper.

     I raise the axe above my head. . .

Perks of Being an Earring

This short story was pretty fun to write. We were assigned to write a first person narrative from the perspective of something not human. We were to give them a distinctive voice and personality; the example was a dog, but I thought to myself, "Why not an earring?" It was a delight to animate the earring into a sassy self-centered gossip and I found myself laughing to myself as I wrote it. Enjoy!


That’s it, whisper, whisper. I can still hear you; don’t mind me, carry on. Oh, is that so? That is gossip gold! Oh honey, your secret is safe with me. . .

Shimmering golden under the twinkling chandelier, I sway along with Her. I’m gorgeous and I know it; no other jewelry holds a candle to my 24 karats of perfection. Scarlet rubies pulsate from my core seductively luring you towards me not Her. You know you want me.

Tonight is Her Majesty’s Gala, and as predicted, I get to attend, for I am the only earring chic enough for such an event—I’m also the only earring able to detract attention from Her hideous, shapeless, and drab potato sack of a dress. Nonetheless, I can barely contain my excitement, for I thrive off that juicy gossip exchanged in hushed tones directly above me. So close, I can distinguish the gossip’s last meal between exhalations.

We stand before a floor-length mirror; I can’t keep my eyes off my unparalleled beauty! The ride over is short but torturous because She didn’t bother renting a limo for this important event, so we were crammed into the worn cramped backseat of an old taxi whose driver smelled of body odor, hot dogs, and coffee all rolled into a single pungent stench of putridness. After what seemed like forever, I escaped that gas chamber, gasping for the polluted yet refreshing Manhattan night air.

The event was everything I had wished it be and more. After some mingling and small talk, the gossip started flowing and usually I would’ve been wholly content with just that, but tonight I met someone. It was as if we were the only pieces of jewelry in the world; the light bended around him in the most perfect way and he complimented the tuxedo so elegantly. I knew we were from two separate worlds—me being an earring and him a cufflink, but I simply couldn’t help myself. For once in my life, I felt there was a worthy parallel to my elegance.

I lured him towards me and I almost fainted when he winked at me. I had never felt so vulnerable, yet I had never felt so alive either. We shared a mutual passion for gossiping, and we spent the remainder of the night exchanging gossip whenever our unworthy hosts had the minds to converse with each other.

At the gala, I whispered my phone number to him and left him with full confidence that he would call me; however, night after night, I waited alone by the phone and no one called. Hurt, I asked around and found that my handsome cufflinks man was married to a drab old silver bracelet! How could he? Him with all that gorgeous potential, he could have had the most gorgeous wife! Why wouldn’t he choose me? She’s not pretty like me. Why. Why. Why.

Then, suddenly, I heard some chit-chat from the cheap earring tree and I snapped, “What! He’s stupid that’s all! It was a minor lapse of judgment; you guys have nothing on me.”

The other earring giggled and corrected, “He’s not stupid; you are. He is one of the rarities in our world that love people from the inside out not outside in.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, “We are perfect for one another.”

“But you don’t have any substance, mon cherie. All you care about are the zeros on his pricetag, not his heart,” they stated.

“No! You’re wrong!” I screeched as I ran off to drown myself in my sorrow by gossiping some more while the cheap earrings looked lovingly at their genuine husbands, shaking their heads at me. Idiots, they will never be as pretty as me.