With delicate movement, she lifts the gem from it’s padded case, lets the light from her dimly lit room dance on it’s surface. There’d been nothing she found more addictive than a diamond’s shimmer, a flawless reward only right for her quintessential work.

Around her neck, she felt, had been the only resting place right for such a sublime piece. Her intuition alone, is one trustworthy, and Iris hadn’t been alone in thinking so. Again, she was right, a trait so rarely found in others, yet one among her most prominent qualities. The blue gem seemed to glimmer noticeably more against almond skin, and one assessing her reflection, as she did, would conclude there’s few things more admirable.

Arrogant and conceited as she may seem, her presence was always welcomed. Iris’ proud nature somehow added to her charm and charisma, especially around the right people, and planted resentment extensively into that of jealous hearts, her own mother included. “Have you anything else even slightly comparable?”

Harris stood behind her, and set his palm on her hip, steadily sliding it to her waist. He brushed the lining of her jaw to her chin with his left hand, all as if she’d crack under the slightest pressure. He wanted nothing more, though wouldn’t admit it until he was guaranteed every dime.

“This is your best one yet, no?” He addresses her again, even though she hardly feels that way, his gaze never once leaving the accessory as he speaks. It’s laughable, how oblivious they are, to their own obvious mistakes, so easily blinded by the beauty of wealth in their attempts to deceive the con artist. She was amused, and never found another form of entertainment quite as fascinating.

Iris stops his fingers from reaching the diamond, pressing his hand against her chest. He takes a breath, not subtle enough to miss Iris, and finally locks eyes with her reflection. “You said you weren’t the type to be bothered with material wealth,” she reminded him of his earlier poor attempt at flattery, “That you value sincerity in a person, more than anything else.”

He wondered if it was worth playing genuine and caring, now that he’s where he wanted to be. To Iris, it didn’t matter, she knew him before he said a word to her, but without that knowledge he made the choice to stick to the facade for her sake. In the grand scheme of things, it only made him more pathetic, she doesn’t mind that one bit.

“It’s a beautiful piece, one increasingly difficult to ignore every second it’s on you.”

“Well then, I guess I can’t blame you.” She smiles, reaching to unclip the chain that held the diamond, careful to place it back in it’s case. “But no, not nearly the best. Speaking of, I’ll have Jorge meet with us this evening, make sure you’re caught up with next week’s agenda.”


 Authors Note: This is really just an attempt to force myself out of an extremely stubborn creative block. Not saying it won’t be good, just don’t keep your hopes too high (for anyone who happens to come across this).

(I’d written this a while ago on another account I can’t log back into, just fyi)

I’d woken up to something unusual, a sweet scent I could almost taste, lingering in the air. All else played out as would an ordinary morning, birds pitched chirps echoing through the town, their songs carried by an early breeze, it’s cold I inevitably felt drifting through the crack in my window. It was discomforting, the smell not having been something I expected.

I often tense at the thought of not knowing what’s happening within ten feet of me, which is not a trait to be taken lightly. This specific quality I do not take much pride in, I admit.

This simple sweet scented fragrance hardens the tension in my bones, covers the surface of my skin with goosebumps and affects my being more than it’s welcomed. Deep breaths have almost no success in stabling my quivering hands and I lose a little more control by the second. I pay no mind to the ongoing alarm and rush my feet past the door, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the smell has lead me.

I look around, agitation arousing a fuelled fire before I catch a mountain load of pomegranates stacked to the roof. The hair on my arms stand up in all my vexation, an itch I’d never be able to satisfy crawls under every inch of my skin, the space between my brows inches closer and closer, my head suddenly hit with an amount of pressure that could plummet me down to earth’s core, the blood in my veins races to the pace of my every thought in a mind ever so vigorous, and with my fingers clutched as hard as I’m able, at a speed I’d never think to be capable of reaching, I run with the pile of pink fruits as my target.

I grab them, as much as I can at a time, tearing at the layers, throwing them aimlessly at abnormal strengths, questions upon questions I have only adding to the perturbation. ‘How had they gotten there beyond my knowing?’ Being the most prominent of thoughts.

Among the many voices, pleading for answers and demanding back power, one divergent question sets this voice apart from the rest, but I don’t care to know if it’s real, the frenzied encounter with the mystery pomegranates holds all of my attention at the neck. I will not cease to end this source of my disarrayed state, not until I’ve emptied myself of every drop of exasperation and uncertainty into this sea of bleeding pomegranates.

“What are you doing?” Is the question, I hear for a second time, the one that finally stops my rioting hands. I turn to the direction from where it came, only to find myself face to face with my husband. I’m left inaudible, stained by the remnants of my dismantled enemies. He steps forward, careful not to land in any debris, but failing, and observes in utter incredulity. I can do, or say nothing more than to look at him.

“I’d bought the pomegranates you said you needed for an upcoming event. What is this?”

“You bought them?”

“Yes?!”

“Oh.”

“Do you think this was always the ultimimate reality?”

“What are you saying?”

“Is it true that the world was always going to turn out this way?”

“I guess. I mean, that’s what they teach. When have they ever been wrong?”

“Many, many times. You’ve seen it, human leaders are imperfect, and could be at fault at any given time.”

“The ones you speak of live in the past, when everyone was subject to their selfishness and gullible to their idle promises.”

“But what makes them different to our government now? They could be lying when they say we’ve lost hope, that the world has been destroyed beyond the point of restoration. How could we possibly know that’s true?”

“Back then, lying served a purpose. It benefited them, fulfilled their selfish desires at the time, they lied because they could. They could afford to neglect the survival of half the world, to lable it as a future problem. Look around now. Decease and decay is all you see, it’s your all your future layed right in front of you wherever you go. What good would lying be now?”

“It is wrong to hope things could still change?”

“Yes. People who hope die unsatisfied. Our dismay is the only thing we’re sure of, don’t ruin it with the allusion of hope.”

“Why teach us to survive then? If not to build a better future, for what purpose do we need to exist at all?”

“I’m not so sure. I have a feeling it had to do with leaving our pathetic lives with some dignity. Death is incomprehensible to most people, so living a little bit longer gives us time to make peace with it. They leave it up to us to realise death has become the only salution, and accomodate those who are in denile until then.”

“I can’t find it in me to accept it.”

“You will, better sooner than later.”

“Have you?”