I just started writing flash fic. And when I mean “just” I mean this is my second attempt at it. (My first attempt is being featured on someone else’s blog, due out around Feb. 17th. More on that later!) For now, enjoy this one. It’s sort of a sister-piece as it was born of the same picture writing prompt (which, since it ties into the one submitted for the blog, I will have to refrain from posting at this time–sorry).
“Godmother” by Rebecca R. Pierce
Everyone waited for the old woman to die. “Aunt Gertrude” sat in the corner, dressed like a widow to her own funeral, seemingly oblivious to all that grovelling. They smiled, as if all she needed was a little encouragement. They knelt at her feet, sucking up, so she’d leave them a fortune in her will–it was nauseating. I averted my gaze.
“Trudy, come say hello to your Godmother,” my dad called out.
Heaving a long-suffering sigh, I walked over. She always seemed particularly fond of us girls and me, especially. I hoped for once she wouldn’t touch my hair or stroke my cheek while telling me how pretty I was. It creeped us all out, like we were being caressed by a spider.
“Give your aunt a kiss.” My dad yanked me down to my knees.
I almost fell but she steadied me. Her delicate, twig-like fingers were surprisingly strong. She smelled like a long-dead tarantula. I made a face and tried to jerk away but she pulled me close, studying me.
Behind her widow’s veil, her pupils dilated, swallowing the rest of her eyes. Her lashes extended, looking like cockroach legs, wiggling and kicking in place. My scream was paralyzed in my throat. A chill dropped down my spine like cold venom invading blood. Her fingers tapped on my arm, drawing my attention to the little spiky black hairs that prickled in and out of my skin.
“Oh, always my favorite–the fairest of them all!” she hissed.
My vision blurred as charcoal-colored smoke billowed out of her as delicate as a web. It dove over and into me. The room spun, I felt hot and dizzy. A kiss brushed my cheek.
Sitting in her chair, in her corner, looking at the world through her widow’s veil, I stared–at my own face–smiling back at me. My hands flew to touch my own but I gawked at the sight of my hands, mottled with age, gnarled and twisted with arthritis. Looking down I saw the dress I wore was my godmother’s.
She nodded at my dad. “You will be well-compensated.”
“Do you prefer to be called Gertrude now?” he inquired.
“Trudy,” my namesake replied. “It’s best to keep up with the times.”
I gasped, unable to breathe. My hand clutched at my chest because my heart stopped beating. Everyone smiled at me in encouragement.
It was the moment they’d all been waiting for.