Flash Fiction: Lightning

For a change, I thought I’d post something I wrote for my critique group. The prompt was lightning.

A flash of white light burst from above.

Silently, I counted—one, two, three—before the expected rumble vibrated across the sky. “It won’t be long before it’s right above us,” I murmured.

I stared at my opponent. Another bolt hit, bathing his face in an ethereal glow, and highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones and imperious nose.

He stared back. His eyes nothing but dark, empty pools.

Who would make the first move?

The glow of the fire, lit to ward off the evening chill, cast both golden light and eerie shadows that danced over us. The wood crackled and popped as it burned.

I assessed his face, looking for a sign that he would strike.

Another bolt cut through the darkness. Seconds later the rumble followed; a deep, booming growl from the devil himself. Had he hurled it from the pits of hell while he revelled in our enmity?

I looked at the weapons in my hand. They would beat my adversary. Unless he was hiding something.

This attempt at mind games was pointless. We knew each other too well. I was familiar with every tick, every sign of discomfort, every tell that may give away his intentions. Yet now, he wore an impenetrable mask: no twitch, no smirk, no scratch of the nose to allow me into his mind.

The space between us stretched to a gaping chasm.

I schooled my features to match his. If he could be cooler than ice, so could I. Was it the electricity in the air that heightened the tension between us? Had I pushed him too far with this latest challenge? I knew I could be insensitive—my bluntness often pushed others away—but not him. He’d been there for me through thick and thin until my sardonic remarks became impossible to ignore. Now we sat on opposite sides, waiting for one of us to buckle to the pressure and fold.

The sporadic flashes of light and booming thunder had become a distant grumble, replaced by the pelt of rain as the heavens opened.

“What have you got?” I asked.

“You, first.” He looked up beneath his dark lashes. Was that a tiny twitch of his lips?

For the first time, my confidence faltered. What did he have up his sleeve? It was too late for second thoughts; I made my move. “A straight flush.” I smiled as he looked at the splayed cards, their shiny laminate surface shimmering in the firelight. “Beat that.”

“Oh, I intend to.” He flicked his card, one by one, onto the bleached pine tabletop. “A royal flush.”

I gaped at the ten, jack, queen, and king. “I don’t believe it!”

A wide smile spread across his face. “That’s what you get for suggesting my poker skills are substandard.” He stood and thrust his arms above his head. “Who’s the man?” he hollered. “I’m the man.”

Harsh yellow lights flickered on and eradicated the gloom. We both squinted in the artificial illumination as our eyes adjusted. The TV burst back to life, filling the void with the shouts of a braying crowd.

He turned to look at the screen. “Great, at least I get to watch the end of the game.” He picked up his bottle of beer and sauntered over to the couch.

“No way! I demand a rematch!” I stood, blocking his view of the TV with my hands on my hips. “Where did you get those cards?”

He took a swig of the almost empty bottle. “Are you suggesting I cheated?” he asked, and raised a sardonic brow.

I bit my lip and refused to answer.

He snorted and returned to the dining table. After he gathered up the cards, he shuffled the deck with haughty languor. “You want to get whipped again? Bring it on!”