A collection of flash fiction created during the weekly Livestream event on Butterflies from B's on YouTube.
Every week I select a prompt and we exercise our brains by writing a brand new story that can start a new story or even generate ideas for y...
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Three days passed in a slow fog, dissipating as Rushabo emerged skin glistening like a newborn. She filled her lungs with cool air, burning as it popped each areole with an infusion of life-giving oxygen.
With every transformation, pain reigned supreme, sometimes overwhelming every other sense until equilibrium was restored. Each tweak had to heal, each growth drawn from the fog or returned to it bore its price. For Ihara, she was willing to do it.
It took twice as long to heal from the smarting that repeated rejection brought out and took great effort to remind herself that she did this for them. For both of them despite what Ihara might think when she finally found out.
A loud rapping on the door jerked her from her painful thoughts. No one had called ahead. She raised herself off the floor and wrapped a silk robe around her smarting skin, turning on the fan to dissipate the fog of this transformation.
Wide nostrils sandwiched by hooded eyes attempted to see through the peephole in the door. Rushabo sighed.
"Captain," she said, infusing the single word with excitement she didn't feel.
He looked past her to the room beyond, stretching his neck for a hopeful glance at the secrets she kept inside.
"You didn't answer my call today." He sounded hurt.
"I've been unwell."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The entire building knew he was sweet on her, interrogating neighbours about the last time they'd seen her, or whether she had a pet that needed walking. One of the elderly women who lived in the apartment opposite hers thought the Captain was creepy and warned her. Rushabo could take care of herself.
"Captain?"
His blank stare twitched with the desire to sink to the part in her robe where her thigh peeked through. She covered it and he sputtered and coughed back from the fantasy that had rendered him mute.
"I... um. I... um. Would you like to visit the museum with me?" He choked.
"Let's talk about it later," she said, batting eyebrows and attempting her nearest imitation of a demure female. The clock was ticking and Ihara would now be on the prowl, seeking some way to assuage her disappointment from the last relationship. The Captain needed to go.
"And you'll let me know?"
"Without a doubt."
"Don't forget," he called over his shoulder, a renewed skip in his step. He'd be waiting forever.
Rushabo closed the door on his infectious cheer. This was a time of mourning loss and planning something different. A pile of books sat on the counter filled with the details of the current transformation and observations she'd had as Ihara pulled away. It had happened seven times and though her resolve got stronger with each rejection, it devastated her to think that she'd failed once again at the one reason she'd been allowed to do.
She'd watch Ihara wrestle with warring emotions. The pain of telling someone who cares that there is no reciprocity, and yet drowning in the aching desire to find enduring love. Theirs was a destiny written in the stars and if it took the rest of her borrowed time to show it...
There was an iteration of Ihara's type that she hadn't tried yet, something that went against her nature and grated on her nerves; the soft femme teetering on stilettos who watched the world race by from the darkness of thick, store-bought eyelashes.
The black silk settled on her new figure, loose enough at the drooping collar to reveal
