Flash! Fiction Friday! Jeanne d’Arc

Rose lineup Flash Fiction

It’s Friday again – which means it’s time for the weekly dose of Flash on one of my favorite Flash Fiction sites.  I had 2 ideas buzzing around in my head over the photo prompt – a painting of Jeanne d’Arc (Joan of Arc, to us Westerners over on this side of the pond) created in the 17th century – so rather than beat myself up over choosing one or the other idea to pursue…I did ’em both.

Enjoy!

Heavenly Desire

156 words

Personalvapes@gmail.com

“You know what I ask,” Michael whispers seductively in my ear, his hot breath tickling its way down the back of my neck. “You know you want to.”

His velvety, angelic voice sends a frisson down my spine.  His soft-spoken request is the brush of downy wings tickling every hair on my body to stand erect, rigid, eager to give in to the raging desire pulsing through my soul. I can feel the desire…the want…slide down the length of my body to pool in my chest.

The sibilant hiss of my pulse pounding in my ears chants “Yess, yesssss, yessssss,” in time with my wildly beating heart as this ache of desire threatens to consume me in the heat of its crescendo.

The Archangel requests I give my life for King, for God, for the greater good as the wailing trumpets herald in a new day of flame and retribution.

Today, I die for my country.
OR!!!!!!!!

Museum of the Damned

159 words

personalvapes@gmail.com

“This late 19th century painting by Eugene Thirion is a classic example of French Political Art…” the tour guide’s bright, vibrant voice dropped away as Sylvia gaped, mesmerized, at the sweeping whorls and splashes of pigment, carefully arranged to suggest human forms, within the gilt frame.

She stared harder as the design shifted, slowly spiraling, distorting the figures into a maelstrom of swiftly-spinning color which sucked at her sanity, tugged at her soul.

“I burn,” hissed a sculptural voice, echoing from the whirlpool to Sylvia’s ears.  “I saved them all, and they burned me for my efforts.”

Completely ensnared, Sylvia reached for the roiling vortex even as it stretched toward her, knowing, but not caring, that the touch meant madness, fire, death, damnation.

An icy hand clamped on her shoulder, painfully forcing her knees to impact the cool mosaic floors of the museum.

“Don’t stare at them, my dear,” chirped the tour guide, “You wake the damned that way.”

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