You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss...

I got in my romantic mood tonight, after watching Casablanca. So I wrote a little flash fiction, barely 500 words long. Just a little riff. And it has nothing to do with Bogart or Bergman, I just really love that movie. If you haven't seen it, believe me when I say that you must.

BUS STOP

“We’ll always have Paris”, a dead man once said and became immortal. Sitting on that cold bus stop, the meaning of the words grabs you by the throat.

The buses come and go, come and go. You don’t care now. The one she was on, is far gone. Now you just look at them come and go, come and go.

“We’ll always have Paris,” you mutter as you’re sitting there, for the third time ever. Third time’s the charm, they say. Not this time.

Brush off the rest of the people. You two were alone, both times. Brush off the sun too. It was late.
Last passenger of the fleeing night.

She’s not there now obviously; now she’s too far away and beyond reach. Perhaps that was the magic. But then again, her ghost is right by your side, the memory of her aroma, more vivid than anything else around.

You two, sitting on the cold bench in the dark, while the city reveled in the distance.

So, what do you see?

Her face, of course. Who could forget beauty when it stared at them in the face? Her eyes, half-hidden behind strands of amber. Do you remember what you said?

“In your eyes I see the icy sea.”

She smiled. What did she say?

“Do they look so cold to you, then?”

Yes. She only had to look at you once; you took a plunge and were lost in the frost.

They also looked cold the second time. Her tears were snowflakes.

A bus is coming. Will she leave? Not yet.

While you are still sitting there, looking at her ghost – your ghosts – buses come and go in an endless loop. One of them took her away, twice.

The first time, she went straight to the back and waved through the window. Her hand was freezing but her smile said she didn’t care.

That smile was saying “I’ll see you soon.”

The second time, she rushed to the back once more. She waved; this time her fingers were tucked in her new gloves. She smiled.

That smile was saying “I’ll see you again.”

What was it that you told her, when the day eventually turned into night? When that stranger with the saddest eyes you ever beheld–and that was enough– became Her, what did you say, when her bus was almost in front of you?

“I’ll kiss you now, and you decide if I’m going to miss or not.”

She didn’t answer. Not with words.

And after that longest and shortest week of your lives finally came at an end in the headlights of a bus, you said the same, trying to remain jovial like a cursed jester.

“I’ll kiss you now, and you decide if I’m going to miss or not.”

Did she answer this time? She did.

She said, “Please, don’t miss.”

Consta... " I'll be home in a week ^^ " ...ntine

The internet works again! (plus a flashfic for you peeps)

It's been a while, I know... Life happened and also at some point, the blog, like an unforgiving mistress, stopped uploading. Oh well.

Been in Edinburgh for a month now and I'm totally in love with it...

As usual, when you have dozens of things to say, you can't choose from where to start... I'll just give you a little flash fiction I scribbled down during class yesterday and typed an hour ago. Hope ye like.

***

COLLECTOR

I have been following this particular gentleman for quite some time now.

It may seem out of place to you, as to why I should be on this fellow’s trail all this time, what with me being so busy after all, so I must explain.

He, just like me, is a hunter and a collector of valuables. I always had a fascination of the “chase”, that passion to grasp that which is considered one-of-a-kind or priceless. Over the years I have become exceptionally good at this sort of sport, and so did this man in front of me.

He hasn’t seen me yet.

His usually composed demeanor is gone at the moment as he is walking briskly down the road. The briefcase he holds in his sweaty palm is banging loudly on his expensive suit. That constant thud sounds like a scream to his ears; it’s saying: “I – have – an – awful – lot – of – money – inside – me!”

His eyes dart around. A street full of people, all of them out to get him.

But I walk among them and he hasn’t seen me yet.

I see now that I am not alone on his trail. Others – far less competent than yours truly in the stalking business – are following him.
Some are themselves collectors, some are paid by such.
Some are standing on the right side of the law, some on the wrong.

This comes as no surprise to me. All these years of meticulous work towards the pursuit of his passion have collected him lots of enemies, if you forgive my wordplay.

It doesn’t really matter. It’s all part of the game. And this particular player has finally grown impatient. He has now blown his cover, forsaken the network of contacts at his disposal and now runs towards the precious find. I would like to know what Van Gogh would say if he knew that one of his lost paintings would be the prize of this “race”. Well, thought lost for ages to be precise, and the people who now hold it would like it to remain that way.

Does he truly care about the painting itself? I think not. To him, priceless and worthless are the same but he would probably run behind an ox cart if he felt others would consider it worthy. It is the pursuit which is important to him. I must respect him for that, even if I can see the feebleness of his present actions and this is why I wouldn’t miss this occasion.

He still is cunning though. Just a few well-timed turns in the streets and the others have completely lost his trail.

Pity for the man that the knives don’t aim for his back but for his heart.

We have now reached the rendezvous point. An empty parking lot. How original. It used to be inns and basements once. Cloaks and daggers were replaced by suits and silenced guns.

Oh well, one must go with the times.

He hasn’t seen me yet, but more importantly he hasn’t seen the handgun in the pocket of the smiling woman in front of him. She holds the painting in her other hand. Or more precisely, an empty cylinder that supposedly holds the artifact within.

Not long now. I have to prepare my scythe. Rather obsolete as I understand, but then again it has always served its purpose. Diligence is the mark of a good collector, be it a collection of paintings, souls or even stamps. A collector must never be careless and even though this gentleman was, I won’t be.

Ah, now he sees me.

***

Consta... "still hasn't seen a ghost" ...ntine