Imaginary Flight vol. 1

By Blaire Boston

Five short stories about life from an alternative perspective. A woman with several alter-egos makes her way through life. A mother must sacrifice her children to an unseen entity. Another mother falls in love with a man who turns out to be too familiar. A man is obsessed with delicious desserts. Two sisters are challenged by love and hate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crest Ink Publishing LLC
• Release date: Oct 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733479615

Blaire Boston

Blaire Boston is an author and graphic designer. Her works include Imaginary Flight short story collections, and the upcoming novels Endure, King and Prized. Alongside this first collection, Blaire has also launched a website, CrestInk.com, where you may view more of her works and join the Crest Ink BookClub + Newsletter. She’d love to see you there :)

Book preview

Blaire Boston

Imaginary Flight

5 Short Stories, vol. 1

First published by Crest Ink Publishing LLC 2019

Copyright © 2019 by Blaire Boston

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Blaire Boston asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-73347-961-5

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

Publisher Logo

Dedicated to Shelley, Bea, Diane, Monica,

Nancy, June, Crystal, Sandra, Betty,

Gwendolyn, Rosetta, Virginia, and Brenda…

the women who taught me what I know.

Contents

Dotrice

Coin

Pathos

Parfait (a prose-etry story)

Dog, Love (a prose-etry story)

Acknowledgement

Reviews Wanted :)

About the Author

1

Dotrice

Dotrice Aguire lay down low on her bed. Her head, heavy and full of cloudy nothingness, dripped over the side so that her cheek could touch the window, feel it, press against it. She found comfort in its coldness; it made her feel. All day, she waited for nightfall, nurturing herself with her memories of the night before and the night before that. She was sensitive to the void that enveloped her and penetrated her mind. She drank it up, through the mouth, the eyes, the skin, all over.

She’d come a long way, moving through the speckled crowds outside; she’d hurried through the drizzle of rain that rushed her more than a storm would have.

Once she entered her efficiency, there was quiet—sweet, warm with sunshine. The umbrella fell to the floor. She hadn’t opened the thing. Absently, she rubbed her hands together; she wrung them. Fumbling, she moved over to the stove. It was 6 o’clock. Night was falling.

Pressing her thumb into her aching fingers, and then squeezing her whole fist, she went to the sink and then washed her hands one at a time…furiously.

The cover of the night did not strike as hard as it does in the deep autumn. Softly, drowsily, the June night smoothed over like a creamy dessert peach. Dotrice’s mouth watered for the chill outside.

Her eyes were hard, like cherries about to be bitten; only, they were dry and bulging. Bowing her head, she sniffed and let out a small cough that was enough to scratch her throat just once. She rolled her hair and rubbed her face.

She got into bed. That soft place was cool, too; the evening air that lightly brushed in through the window set it that way. Dotrice had pushed her bed—that was only just a mattress and box spring—up against the large, extended window in anticipation of that summer night air. She generated heat so easily that she wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if not for it. Looking up at the sky above, at the inky clouds the color of indigo, she watched as they passed by the moon cradled in the atmosphere awaiting and outnumbered by the emblazoned stars.

* * *

Her grandmother’s name was Beatrice. They said, Bee–trice, instead of Bee–Ah–trice. Her grandmother had a closet made of wood.

Dotrice stood in front of her closet, looking for something to wear. There were colors of tomato‑red, green like a kiwi, and blue like indigo or navy. She closed her eyes and opened them. She rubbed her face. It was too hard. Slamming the door shut, she went into the kitchen. Someone was inside her. An eruption occurred that she quenched with milk. It was raw, fresh milk that she let drip down her chin before wiping it away. Then, it was back to the closet. Determined, she waited a moment, and this time, her face was like dough, pliable; she could contort to look like anyone, anything. She could go anywhere. Her eyes were now black. Looking in the mirror, they were a different shape than before.

The small, etched hands chose a pink dress. Dotrice was going to see her mother. She needed to look pretty.

Feeling the edges of her closet, she could remember her grandmother’s. It smelled warm and sweet like amber. It smelled like resin in there. When she was small, she receded into grayness, then obscurity when the door closed—her little feet crumpled, curled, legs bent at the knee. Her hands could feel the carpet and the base of the closet. It was gray, duck‑gray. The fibers were short and rough—not meant to be walked on, just meant to cover the cement underneath. She couldn’t see anything from down there, looking up.

In her closet, a book fell. It was an album. It was full of remembrances. So, she picked it up, holding it, feeling its smoothness, sturdiness. Of all the things she took from her father’s home, she wanted this album. With care, she had collected clippings as well as ribbons, awards from school, and a picture.

The picture is what caught her. Almost absently, she turned right to its page. There was a lump in her stomach—right in the abdomen. She lifted the photo