Pretty Lives

She buttoned the Maltese into a pink coat and grabbed the leash, studded with diamonds.  “Here, Nell.”  She handed the maid a roll of plastic bags.

He pulled the Lamborghini to the curb and disembarked.  “Get the bags, Jason.”  He pointed to the Maltese.  “Look at that,” he said.  “That woman is making a complete spectacle of herself.”

Nell and Jason locked eyes.   The two, she with a small plastic bag neatly tied, he with a month’s worth of luggage, smiled at one another before arranging their faces again so as not to disrupt the smooth surface of pretty lives.

This was written in response to this week’s Velvet Verbosity prompt. The word was spectacle.

Fragile

Agnes shuffled across Main Street to visit her husband.  “Brought you some flowers, dear.  I’m afraid these are from the IGA.  The tulips won’t come out and the daffodils popped up early and died in the frost, fragile things.” She set her offering, a small bouquet of yellow roses, against the headstone which bore the unremarkable inscription: Nicholas Mansfield: 1924-2001. Agnes had always regretted not putting more onto the headstone. But a smooth piece of granite couldn’t contain all the details that made up her husband’s life. And so, she’d left them out, much to the chagrin of her children.

For more on Agnes, Click here.

This post was written in response to Velvet Verbosity’s weekly prompt: Fragile in 100 words.  This is a bit more of an old novel that I’ve put away for awhile.

Thriftless

“Your sentences meander.”  He withdrew a red pen and slashed out a paragraph.
“But…”
“You are thriftless with your words.”  He looked at her from over his reading glasses.  “You must learn to be precise.”
“I…”
He raised his eyebrows.  “For one so verbose on paper, you seem to have little to say now.”
“You’re fired.”  She snatched the manuscript from his desk; fled from his office.
Later, she picked up the phone; called her editor.  “Look, I’m sorry.”  She paused to light her cigarette.
“Concise,” he said.  “I like that.  May I assume I’ve been rehired?”
“Yes,” she replied.   

I’m glad to see Velvet Verbosity’s back! This week’s 100 word challenge was: Thriftless.

Omen

The crow lay upon her neighbor’s frosty lawn, a frozen bundle of feathers and bones.  Its legs were curled up beneath its body.  Its dark eyes stared at nothing.  She briefly wondered whether the bird was dead when it fell from the sky, landing with a thump among the bright Christmas decorations littering the lawn. 
She shook her head.  A dead bird falling from the sky portended nothing.  No, she reassured herself, she didn’t believe in omens.  She refused to extract meaning from the random events of life. 
She really ought to have looked both ways before crossing the street. 

This was written in response to Velvet Verbosity’s 100 word challenge.  This week’s word was “bundle.”