Ain’t No Lloyd Dobler

He felt like an idiot, standing in the rain, dripping wet in her front yard. He was soaked right through and his perfectly picked out clothes were now clinging to his body in a seriously unflattering way.

He was miserable.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time, but now here he was, drenched, cold, embarrassed, with the distinct possibility of being electrocuted. WHAT. A. MORON.

The music played on above his head, his arms aching from holding them up in the air. It didn’t even look like she was home. He probably should have checked that.

As the water ran into his eyes he shook his head, causing his hair to slap him violently in the face. Okay, that’s it, I’m done, he thought as he noticed how his feet squelched uncomfortably inside his boots.

Suddenly the front door opened.

“What are you doing?” she yelled from the shelter of the house.

“Being romantic,” he yelled back.

“What?”

It dawned on him that the rain was so heavy she couldn’t hear a damn thing. He pulled down the boombox and turned it off, splashing through puddles as he ran to the house.

“I was being romantic,” he said, breathing heavily. He pointed at the boombox and held up a soggy Peter Gabriel CD. “Say Anything!”

“Idiot,” she said.

(c) Amy Hutton

The Pyre

I watch as they place the wood carefully and add a flame, faces lit by the glow, as embers lift gently on the breeze and the smell of pine fills the air.

I feel the warmth on my skin as the fire grows, the two girls on either side of me wail and moan, drowning out the soft crackle of the wood.

The townspeople are on their knees praying to some god they believe allows this act of brutality.

As the flames reach around my body, I feel power swell in my gut. It won’t be long now.

I hear the girls beside me gurgle as they plead. The crackling of the wood now mixed with the sizzling of their skin. The stench rising amongst small sparks.

As I feel the ropes around my body burn and drop away, I slowly step down from my pyre and walk through the flames to stand before the prostrate mass, naked as my creator intended.

Imagine their shock as I lift my arms and call the fire behind me. It engulfs them before they even know what’s happened. Their words to their god becoming screams for mercy. Why do they look so surprised? Did not they think me a witch?

As I reach the forest, I feel the coolness caress my skin where their feeble flames were only moments earlier. I walk slowly towards town. There are more who will pay for tonight’s comedy.

(c) Amy Hutton