This past week I found out six of my flash horror pieces will be included in 365 days of horror, by Pill Hill Press and E/Fiction Magazine accepted a piece. Details forthcoming on when. Now, for this weeks 3WW and #fridayflash.
IN BETWEEN SOUND
Savannah stared at the night sky, in between blades of grass. Rough ground pressed against one cheek. Light pollution glowed along the horizon. A plane's red taillight flashed before the stars. She located the Big Dipper, Orion's Belt, the dots of light against the backdrop of closed eyelids.
Hot ragged air blasted her cheek in time to grunted "whore, you like this, whore" but between, that was where Savannah tried to hide, between the clouds of sick, aside from the onslaught of sweat and rotten attraction; behind a night owl's hoot—no hoots, two times, two times—yes, Savannah could count two because the pause, a long pause between, and in between those two hoots a lifetime could occur so she listened harder and heard the chirps, the cricket chirps but that sound swelled and abated, so crickets took breaths, they had to take breaths, if she could count his breaths, her breaths, cricket breaths she could listen in between and hear the watery swoosh of distant traffic, but even tires rolled there had to be a pause and gap and if she could hear it, maybe, she could muffle the roar of blood over his pounding muscle (it's not a heart, this is not a man it is just a muscle and skin and bones—and don't go there, don't go there, listen) LISTEN and find the silence and if she could just hear the blissful silence, or not hear the silence, not hear anything for a moment, a nanosecond, a lifetime she could hide and if she could hide she could be. Again. She could be again and she could live and continue and after, after she could put this into a tidy little box and hide it in a compartment of her brain, the corner she never visited except late at night, very late at night when she thought she heard nothing but the menacing wisp of soundless screams but that wasn't silence because there was always the refrigerator hum or her jack-hammering heart or her roaring blood flow, her blood was flowing so she had to find the real silence, true silence and listen to nothing and hide inside the non-noise, the absence of sound, so she strained to hear while the rock jabbed her back and he slapped her face in time to the taillight blinks and the searing ramming and the chirping cricket and the smooth roll of tires against asphalt in between one tread roll after—
—after the nothing the crickets chirped and the owl hooted once and the swoosh of traffic rose to the blinking stars that ignored the red eye traversing the sky over her torn blouse and her bleeding back and her bruised cheeks and her raw snatch but she could breath. She could breathe and be again because inside the silence, the blissful nothing she had hid and she had survived the eternity of violation, of violence and inside the silence she hid from that eternity but found infinity and inside infinity she found she could just be. Again.
Savannah heard his footsteps recede. The grass caressed her cheek, the night breeze whispered against her skin and her sobs eclipsed the night.