Envy – Post 3

The entries for this round are simply amazing.  Grab yourself a coke-cola, as they say here in the South, and enjoy these offerings:

From Lindsey at rewindrevise:

A Burning Envy

It was just passed ten o’clock in the morning and already Rupert had suffered a bit lip, two stolen cars, and a face plant after the smelly derriere of his sister pinned him to the Cheerio-laden floor. Rupert was hungry, tired, but most of all Rupert was fed up with his twin sister. She paraded her elder twin status around like the Queen of Sheba. It wasn’t his fault that she had been born two minutes ahead of him. Even in the womb, she had dominated keeping him at the bottom until game time where she flipped her head down and pushed past her brother. It was no surprise to Rupert that as their first year and half of life had dawdled by, she had grown bigger and stronger than him, often usurping all of the good milk, leaving Rupert with remnants of her spittle to deal with. But this time Charlotte had gone too far. This time she would not get away with stealing another one of his goddamn toys even if his afternoon snack depended on it.

Thinking back, Rupert couldn’t remember the first time she had done it. It had just always been a part of their dynamic. If he had a binky, she wanted it. If he had a stuffy, she cried for it from her mound of stuffed bunnies and teddys. When they were young, these disputes were often diffused by a clever distraction from their mother, a toss up in the air from their father or a belly blaster kiss from Grammy. But as soon as those legs were up and moving, Charlotte was a force to be reckoned with. It didn’t help Rupert’s case that it took him a whole month later to learn to walk. But those four weeks afforded Rupert the gift of time, a greatly-appreciated lesson in strategy.

For Christmas, Santa had given Rupert two Hotwheels cars. Charlotte had gotten a doll she subsequently tortured. But whenever Rupert began to play with the cars, Charlotte, in her spongy diaper and head full of red curls, would come bounding over. She would rip the cars from his hands yelling, “Mine!” Rupert didn’t know why he cried. He didn’t know if they were tears of frustration, fear, or simply disappointment that he would have to go through life associated with this bitch. Maybe they were tears of embarrassment at his mother’s reaction. “Don’t let your sister do that to you! Go and get your toy!” she would say all the while standing by teaching Rupert a lesson he did not appreciate. But Rupert knew he would have his revenge, and so, he waited and plotted until the day when the heat from the patio left a blurry horizon.

While Charlotte was singing along to some stupid puppet, Rupert pushed his car through the gate to the back yard. He watched its shiny metal coat bake in the sun turning into a well-disguised ember. When their mother began to heat their afternoon bottles, Rupert positioned himself close to the gate at the open door. As their mother released the gate, Rupert ran to his Hotwheels grabbing the attention of Charlotte. Charlotte quickly dropped her naked doll chasing Rupert outside. As Rupert bent down to pick up the scalding toy, Charlotte muscled her way in front of him and grabbed the car with both hands, screaming, “Mine!” It was in that moment, with Charlotte’s first tears as she looked down at the deceitful toy burning her hand, that Rupert was able to enjoy being the smaller, but the brighter of a pair of twins.

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From Sean at The Equiatic Bind:

Hand of Glory

Dear Clementine,

It was a delight to receive your letter as you know you are my favourite of my many granddaughters.

I was dismayed to learn of your recent strife with that Evelyn Lee. She was always a trouble maker even when you were both very young and now you tell me that she has bought a piece of jewelry that makes you jealous.

Oh my poor sweet peach of a girl.

The nerve of the girl to wear something that makes you covet her. She has no idea how well this emerald brooch would suit you. You with your black hair and green eyes. I imagine she wears it as well as a hobo wears a Rolex watch. As they used to say in my day you can’t polish a turd. And that’s exactly what that Lee girl is, a turd.

Now you wanted to know what was the best way to deal with this rudeness. How does one handle being forced to envy another’s good fortune?

One option is to kill her but then what would be the point. If you killed her to possess the brooch then you would be denied the joy of watching her envy as you paraded through the town wearing it. Oh, there is no feeling like seeing the look in the eyes of an enemy who covets your belongings or your luck. As you know your grandfather, my second husband, was engaged to my college roommate but I stole him away and married him. I neither loved him nor cared for him but I bore him three children just for spite. The look on her face when she saw us together was like bathing in ambrosia. If that feeling could be bottled and drank then I would forsake water and gin and I would always have a bottle in my good hand.

Your second option is to buy yourself a similar brooch but that is weakness and I will write no more about such folly.

The third option is the best. Steal the brooch. How grandmamma? I hear you say. I will tell you. Child, do you know of the Hand of Glory? It is the thieves best friend. First you take a hand, severed from its arm, and you dip it in wax until it is covered. Then you insert wicks in the ends of the fingers and the thumb. You go to the Lee estate in the dead of night and light the wicks. As long as the wicks burn all the locks in the house will be unlatched and every resident will be paralysed in their beds. They may wake but they cannot move. You take the Hand and go to Evelyn’s room and while she lays there unable to move you can go through her belongings until you find the brooch (and anything else you desire) and then place the hand on her bedside table and leave. The locks will relock and the residents restored to movement only once the wicks gutter and die.

Finding a hand is easy. Go to the cemetery or to the hospital and the morgue. Or if you become more desperate simply look to the end of your arm.

Write again soon my dear, it’s always a pleasure to hear how you are.

Love and hugs,

Grandmamma.
xxx

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And an offering from Isadora at From the Mind of Isadora:

A light breeze coming through the open window blows the curtains up and down like soft waves against the shore. Gazing at him lying next to me, his calm breathing is an equal match to that rhythm. Moments before our bodies were in a rhapsody of high notes. I close my eyes. I can see his body glistening with sweat. His fingers entwined in mine, while the droplets fall from his fiery heat filled body, sending me his message of rapture. Quivering in our ecstasy, we meld into an afterglow. His musk fills my senses. I am secure once more in his passionate love. All of my fears and insecurities disappear as I lie here in euphoria.

Then, why do I have those feelings sometimes? We’ve been married seven years.

The first time I felt doubt about his love was at my Gallery Opening. We’d been married just short of a year. Invitations had been sent out for everyone to attend the grand opening. I had been told the gallery was going to take me to new places in the art world. It had been so much pressure. My mind had been in constant worry mode during the final two weeks of preparation. There were so many things to pull together. Hiring the party planner had been genius. It had given me the capability to do what I needed to do with my artwork. But, I had doubted her competence. It was just like me to worry about everything even the jobs I had delegated. Of course, I had worried for nothing. Everything looked elegant and well-designed when I arrived. The black tie and formal wear were an added touch I had resisted at first. Now, it was the highlight of my gala. A few of my art collectors had commented that everyone was going to envy me because I had raised the bar so high. Somehow, their words didn’t feel like compliments. By the end of the evening, I found it alarming that people would envy me.

Later in the evening, I noticed a tall, dark haired, broad shaped woman making her way through the crowd towards me. The beaded silk, twenties style, gown she wore slithered as she walked. She introduced herself. She told me her name was Tammy. Her high pitched voice was childlike. My thoughts were she needed a speech therapist. I needed more champagne. How could I be thinking these awful thoughts about someone I just met? Exhaustion must be setting in.

“I’ve been chatting with your husband,” she gloated.

“I’m happy you had the opportunity to meet him Tammy,” I replied through a terse smile.

There was a wicked delight in her tone when she spoke. I could tell she had more to say.

She continued sarcastically, “He’s quite the charming man. He’s very handsome and sexy hot. I plan to steal him from you.”

I grinned tightly.

Then she said, “I have a way with men. They can never resist me. I’d keep a tight watch on him.”

I managed a nervous giggle. I hated her. Her words were making me feel insecure and fragile. I excused myself for a glass of champagne.

I was suffocating, I needed air. I grabbed the glass of champagne and headed out to the veranda. The night was peaceful. An odd quiet permeated the air in Manhattan Harbor. Recalling her disparaging remark caused me to recoil. I could feel her wretched envy; her evil green eyes blazing through me. It was obvious, she needed a man. But, mine was not up for grabs.
 

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3 Comments

Filed under 7 Deadly Sins Writing Contest

3 responses to “Envy – Post 3

  1. Gosh, so many good stories. The hand is just plain creepy!

  2. There were a lot of great stories and it’s difficult to call out so many, but I have my two favorites; Lindsey’s “A Burning Envy,” was so humorous and delightful at the end, and Pegoleg’s “New Car” grabbed my attention. “The Hand” was a bit strange, but I just couldn’t get my head around it’s meaning really.

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