Uprooted - One Carrot's Tale of Woe

I recall my youth like it was yesterday. Surrounded by family and friends, I felt that carefree summer would last forever.

It all ended so abruptly. That final day further stands out as one of the hottest any of us had experienced. A light breeze teased my hair as I half dozed under the golden sun.

The air stilled. Even the insects fell silent. Hearing a distant rumble, my sister and I shared a nervous glance. The earth began to quake. All hell broke loose.

Swirling soil blinded me. An unbearable roar drowned out her cries as our world was torn apart. I lost consciousness.

Rough jostling would occasionally awaken me. That same dizzying commotion always dragged me back under.

My senses returned. I lay among strangers. Immobile, we couldn’t communicate. The unnatural sky offered no warmth. Somehow worse, we had all been shorn of our feathery locks.

When the endless sensation of motion finally ended we found ourselves part of a twisted menagerie. Darkness fell for impossible lengths of time. Unpredictable blinding flashes interrupted our restless slumber.

My familiar comrades began disappearing, most by twos and threes. Now they are gone and I no longer recognize any of my fellow captives.

Orange skinned people arrive and leave just as fast. Some are so young it breaks my heart yet again, especially when they have retained their glorious green mane. I guess that’s my vestigial vanity talking. Regardless, none recognize me. Who can blame them?

I wouldn’t recognize my dear sister if she looked like I do today. Age has left me shriveled, with strange wart-like protrusions further marring my complexion. I imagine soon I’ll be no bigger than a seedling.

Shuffled to the bottom of our enclosure, at least I can hide from the light and get some proper rest. Maybe I’ll even dream.

To sleep, perchance to dream…

-

A Raw Bit of Prose

Sorceror's Bane

“I refuse to entertain your claim,” wheezed the old man.

“Say what you will,” refuted the proud mother. “After all, she has your eyes.”

“Nonsense.”

Willem leaned forward, gathering his heavy robes about knobby feet so as not to trip, and stood squaring bony shoulders. The child looked up, cherubic and unblinking.

“Hello, Father,” she chirped.

“What is your name, girl?”

“Willamina.”

“Ah, clever Hester. Naming your spawn thus may convince superstitious villagers, but a rose by any other name… Well.” He chuckled. “At least she’s no shrinking violet.”

Willamina, still wide eyed, muttered an alien phrase. Caught halfway between guttural throat singing and a mournful hum, her voice trailed off into reedy echoes. They faded as if swallowed by the hall’s ancient shadows. Cornflower blue eyes rolled back in the brunette’s petite face.

The mage’s thin chest welled. He bellowed a startled expletive. Hestor cackled at Willem slapping his hands over his ears.

“Too late,” Hestor taunted.

Willamina blinked three times and clapped her hands once. Coming out of her obvious trance, she winked one rheumy brown eye.

It was the last thing Willem saw. The last thing he heard was a childish titter lacing Hestor’s repeated prediction.

“I told you, my dearest mentor and betrayer, she has your eyes.”

-

The Amazing Story Generator - A Prompt Ficlet

A friend of mine posed a challenge using "The Amazing Story Generator: Mix-And-Match Creative Writing Prompts" by Jason Sacher. The book has every page divided into three segments. You flip each randomly to create a three part sentence. This is what dear A. Catherine Noon shared on Coffeetime Romance forum:

1. Ignoring the advice of friends,
2: a temperamental sculptor
3: is tormented by vengeful spirits.

And here is my story (sorry it's a little long at 707 words):


The Sculptor

“We failed. It won’t burn. Pamela and I told you, Ian, you never should have painted that.” She pointed without looking at the lurid murder scene.

Ian turned to face his two guests, shadows under his eyes like bruises, almost darker than the brunette coif spiked by restless fingers. His furtive gaze darted from one sister to the other, then fell to the floor. Ian shook his head and threw out his long arms. “I thought if I painted it the scene would get out of my head.”

“And it did,” Pamela replied.

“At least partly,” her sister Patricia added.

“Like we warned you.”

“Is this another I told you so, Pamela? That doesn’t help me.” Their sad eyes met, the sisters holding hands like mourners seated for a funeral. Ian stopped pacing and folded to his tattered daybed across from the small couch. Both women saw how his fingers bunched the denim upon his thighs. “How do I get rid of them?”

“We don’t know,” they said in unison. After a pause, Patricia continued, “But I have an idea.”

“Patty!”

“Ian’s right, Pam. Our words aren’t helping him.”

“They would have,” Ian grunted, “if I’d heeded them originally. I won’t ask you to endanger yourselves.”

One of Ian’s early works tilted from a nearby shelf. The movement barely registered to anyone before the bust flew like a marble arrow toward Pamela’s head. She ducked with a squeal.

“Too late,” Pamela opined with a shaky laugh. “I guess you should tell him your idea now, Patricia.”

Silence and wide eyes were the only reply for long moments. Then, Patricia gave her proposal. Ian sat in stunned silence, noting Pamela’s agitation in the way she tugged on the tassels of her shawl.

One week later…

Ian never sculpted a full scene, before, let alone used color. He was a classicist, after all, and this endeavor took him out of his comfort zone of traditional stone media. The sisters walked around the one-half scaled scene composed of papier-mâché.

“It’s eerie,” Pamela breathed.

“You really captured the painting,” Patricia agreed. “How did you get it done so quickly?”

Sprawled on the little sofa, Ian squinted at each in turn. “You think they’ve let me sleep?”

Dropping his head back, he didn’t like the expression on Pamela’s face. He couldn’t read Patricia’s. Fatigue won over both fear and fascination. He closed his eyes, sighing.

“So they do want to move into the sculpture. That’s good!” Patricia enthused. “Then we’ll destroy it!”

Ian’s eyes flew open. Before he could voice his confusion, Pamela protested for him.

“That didn't work before, Patty. Why would now be any different? We already agreed to try a psychic shield around this three dimensional rendition.”

“A shield would have to be reconstructed on a regular basis,” Patricia said, waving her hand. “Ian would be back in danger as soon as something happened and we let it lapse. I’ve found an ancient spell we can use that will work.”

“Then I sculpted this for nothing,” Ian huffed, then sat straighter, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

Patricia tilted her head, hands across her heart. “You’ve had it rough.” Standing, she continued. “And no, this wasn’t for nothing. The painting was their entrance to the living world and the sculpture is their exit. We’ll cast the spell over both.”

In the desert, Ian thought the supernatural flames looked just like those for cooking on his grandmother’s gas stove. But the fuel, mostly incantations with some smelly physical components Ian didn’t try to identify, became exhausted long before the cold light extinguished. Of the art, there remained no sign. Sand turned to weirdly shaped glass, much of it shades of crimson and carmine.

Celebration was muted. The sisters trudged toward Ian’s Volkswagon Beetle. With an ever artistic eye, the sculptor palmed some of the small, more colorful chunks. Only much later would he recognize miniature fragments of the murder scene he painted one fateful day.

The ghosts left him in peace, no longer so much as screaming at him through sleepless nights. While he regretted never figuring out exactly how the spirits returned, let alone their identities or purpose, Ian kept the glass chunks until the end of his days.

-

One Week - An Autobiographical Ficlet About Blessings

One Week

A recent Monday began with a dreaded medical checkup. Not fun, but necessary. I entered the hospital nervously, as much over dealing with people as regarding the procedure itself.

The technician acted professional, upbeat, and friendly. Only when I mentioned something personal did I learn that her demeanor hid sleep wrecking nervousness concerning her profession. For the first time in ages, I hugged a stranger and the social anxiety plaguing my morning faded far away. I certainly don't have to worry about any life endangering mistakes.

Days later I found myself approached by a former colleague at the local gym. He shared delightful news about his son and the fact that he happily remarried a few months back. There was a catch, though. His very ill wife remains in an intensive care unit after months of unsuccessful treatment. She may not live.

I practically rejoiced now over the inconvenience of a preventive medical test. My little family safely awaited me at home. And lifting weights took on renewed meaning. I am healthy and strong.

The next afternoon I stood by my vegetable garden, thrilled to see beet seedlings. Thinning them to one out of three, I was startled by a neighbor approaching. He lives several doors down in the opposite direction.

I heard the lady of the house say his name and wondered again at his appearance without hearing the rest. He replied without turning, words I still did not catch, then she approached. A warm clasp met my arm before she spoke.

"I believe someone broke into our house."

Stunned in this quiet suburban neighborhood's sunshine flooded afternoon, I heard our neighbor confirm her suspicion. Police officers arrived in two squad cards shortly thereafter. At least nobody got harmed, including the family dog.

I left the daughter's sobbing canine reunion in respectful silence. No longer did our rising home security bill seem such a burden.

-

It's easy to wallow in minor misfortune or discontent, then one need only watch the news to learn how much worse life can be. How often does the fact strike close to home for you?

-

A Mid-Week Ficlet

 Fading Rose

“It’s like a slow collapse of words,” Rose said, looking at the kitchen table.

I worried that Alzheimer’s once again befuddled my friend. Deciding it best to say nothing, I did not even try puzzling out her intended meaning. It seemed kinder to simply leave my hands  blanketing hers and give her thoughts a chance to regroup.

“That probably doesn’t make any sense,” she confessed after pausing, “but that’s how I feel. My thoughts have always seemed clear, a speech spelled out on notecards. But now those conversational snippets form a tremulous house of cards. And somebody left a window open so that they scatter in the wind before I can reorganize them.”

Her rueful chuckle pierced my heart. Rose’s gentle humor and artistic poise were the first traits to fade when she had a bad day. This, here and now, was about as good as things got. Mindful of arthritic knuckles, I gave the gentlest squeeze. My vision blurred. I blinked rapidly hoping she wouldn’t notice and cleared my throat.

“Your mother once told me that you spoke poetry before most kids say ‘mama’ or ‘dada’, Rose.”

Seeing her headshake made me regret bringing up poetry, her greatest love and the first skill she lost to this thieving disease. Her eyes met mine, though, and twinkled with mirth rather than pain’s bitter liquid.

“Mama always liked you, Myrna, from the day your family moved next door. You were ten, weren’t you? And so precocious.”

I grinned unabashedly now. Not only did she recall that time correctly but her praise brought back fond memories of her twenty-something self treating me like a little sister.

“You always stood up for me when I got into trouble. Like the countless times I got stuck in your father’s oak tree or when I pushed that bully Mark in the playground once. He left me alone after that, at least.”

“Oh, child,” she huffed, sliding one hand from beneath mine to hide a delicate smirk.

We spent the next hour recalling stories from joint family lore. I left her napping on the window seat overlooking her riotous flower garden. Only dots of white here and there betrayed mild neglect – invasive bindweed seeds blown in from somewhere.

Locking her front door behind me, I imagined her grown children busily tending their own gardens. Their visits were either spent reminiscing like we enjoyed today or driving to Rose’s numerous medical appointments. With that thought I vowed to eradicate the pesky little vines over the summer.

Days later I sadly learned that task would be falling to the realtor Alice’s daughter Maggie, ten years my junior, hired to sell the home she and her brothers inherited. I think half our town witnessed my eulogy.

-

Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge - Day Five...

Parked

Scrolling through the images on my new camera, I thank Virgil for the delightful gift. He grins and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“I’m enjoying it, too. This is so much better than when we had to wait days to see how the photos turned out.”

“And I can snap away without the dread of wasted film,” I add.

He points to the image of a resting dragonfly. “Did you just take that?”

“Yes. A field beyond the campground is teaming with insects.”

“What are we waiting for, then?” he asks, folding his newspaper. “I’ve been sitting on my behind entirely too much this trip.”

I haven’t complained because seeing him relax so completely has been wonderful. But if I were to be completely honest with him or myself, this sedentary side of him got a bit dull this third day of camping. I’m ready for a little adventure.

“I have a better idea. Why don’t we go into town and rent some bikes?”

Usually I’m the one happiest setting a sedate pace on foot. My suggestion clearly delights my guy. I just hope [i]my[/i] behind doesn’t regret this departure from the norm.

An hour later, I think I’m doing pretty well. We’ve ridden past some really neat historical buildings. Even better, Virgil points to an ice cream stand.

“What do you say, Gladys? Ready for a break? I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

I’m almost off the bike before it coasts to a stop beside the shop’s cluster of picnic tables. Virgil laughs. I tell him to purchase another of whatever he decides to get just as long as he makes mine smaller. It’s not often that our tastes are not in accord.

And this is not one of those times. A scoop of pistachio ice cream on a waffle cone tastes great, a cooling treat after our exertion. Virgil groans when it’s time to pedal on our way.

“Want to head back to the rental shop? You look ready for a nap.”

“I should work off some of those calories,” he says, “but yeah. Let’s go.”

“Just one second.”

A teenager walking by is kind enough to take our picture as we pose before the bicycles. Then I'm ready to park myself by our tent until time to light a fire and start dinner.

***

Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge - Day Four...

Trailed

“This is nice,” I say, patting Virgil’s knee.

He grunts in a way that tells me my intrepid man is dissatisfied just sitting around the campsite. I take a deep breath. Dare I ask what he’d rather be doing? Dare I not?

I don’t want the dear man bored. Life is too short. And I’d much rather get off my backside than have him insist on going back to work. His father worked until the day he died and I want more for us. Besides, Virgil’s mother made me promise to someday make my husband retire and do the things of which she’d always dreamed.

Like camping for days at a time.

“You want to go for a walk?” I ask. “Or maybe take a drive?”

His face lights up, visibly erasing a decade off his age. I can’t help chuckling. The years have flown by, with plenty of amusing adventures sprinkled in despite his busy career.

“What?”

“I’m just remembering the time we got lost in that reserve.”

“Geez, how long ago was that?”

Standing, he stretches his arms toward the sky. I can hear those shoulders pop from here.

“Ten years. Can you believe it?”

His gaping expression is comical. I don’t laugh. The man’s eyebrows have grown into a thicket while the hair on his head recedes further every year, yet I still see the features of the teenager who stole my heart. I used to go blocks out of my way to intercept his walk home from school when the year between our ages saw him still in junior high when I started high school.

“Well, time moves on,” he opines. “And on that note, we have plenty of daylight left for a hike if we get going.”

I try not to groan, gathering myself from the comfortable seat. The exercise will be good for me. It only takes me a few minutes to gather some things.

“We’re going for a stroll, not an overnight excursion,” he teases.

It probably is overkill to take the first aid kit, but my mother’s voice always tells me a person can’t be too careful. Unfortunately, I’m so busy stocking my little backpack for unforeseen calamities that I forget my cellular phone. And Virgil didn’t even remember to bring his along on this camping trip.

We have a repeat of the decade before, getting lost for hours longer than we planned to be gone. But we do find our way to the road before dark. And I thought to take trail mix, so we didn’t even go hungry.

As I lay in my sleeping bag later that night, I imagine us laughing about this in another ten years.

***

Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge - Day Three...

"Beached"

I walked the shoreline while the sun rose, enjoying the quiet. It’s nice to just stand here now with the surf washing around my ankles. Virgil will be joining me soon, I hope.

Always considering him a morning person, I find it surprising that he seems to need more time to get motivated when we come here. Perhaps he just gets into a slower vacation groove. That’s fine by me. As long as we’re both relaxed and having fun, it’s all good.

“Gladys,” he calls, and I turn with a wave and a smile.

The corners of my lips fall slightly when I realize he’s carrying a surfboard across the sand. What in the dickens? He’s too old for that kind of nonsense. And I don’t feel like spending holiday time at the local hospital.

His eyes track over my expression. Instead of looking chagrined, he beams at me, his grin widening.

“Just kidding,” he says upon reaching me. “There are predators in these waters! But you’ll never guess who the board belongs to.”

I don’t get the chance to try. As if Virgil’s renewed laughter is a cue, the young couple we met back home a few weeks ago crests the stairs over the dune. Rick matches Virgil’s amusement. His young bride, Susan, rolls her eyes in sympathy toward me. We’ve both married a couple of jokers. She gestures for me to come closer.

“I’ve got coffee and muffins up here,” Susan calls. “Why don’t you join me?”

That’s all the invitation I need. My husband takes my hand and we start up the steps. He politely declines Susan’s offer, though, saying he wants to stay at the top of the stairs to watch Rick surf. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s planning to stay on a lookout for sharks.

My husband’s thoughtfulness warms my heart, though I soon become engrossed in conversation with the younger woman. She tells me that they delayed their honeymoon because of Rick’s job.

“But now I don’t mind so much. How neat to have found you here!”

I agree with her. We make plans to go souvenir shopping later in the day. For some reason, I find myself telling her about Virgil’s surprisingly languorous morning routine. Of course it beats talking about the shark attacks the area has been recently seeing.

“The only days he gets moving early are when we’ve made specific plans. It’s odd.”

“No, it’s not. We found Virgil up here by the pool and Rick asked why he wasn’t with you.”

“Oh?”

“He said he enjoys watching you, Gladys. Just don’t tell him I tattled.”

I won't. Thanking her for breakfast, I ask to borrow some of her sunscreen. Virgil's bald patch could use some protection.

***

Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge - Day Two...

Title: Treed

“You’re not serious,” I say to my husband, pointing upward. “We’re in no shape to climb that.”

“Sure we are,” he offers. “That couple just did it.”

He nods toward a pair barely out of their teens. They smile at his wayward enthusiasm. The gal looks at me and offers a thumbs up sign. I’m not sure if she is being sarcastic or just hiding pity. I feel a tug on my arm.

“Come on, honey.”

The young man holds up his camera. “If you make it to the top, I’ll take a picture of the two of you as proof.”

“You’re not going to want to stand around that long,” I reply, “though maybe you could wait here long enough to call an ambulance.”

Everyone laughs but me. Now my husband scoops my hand in his calloused palm. It’s my signal to stop arguing. Taking a deep breath, I turn toward his goal.

Looking up again I must admit that the very structure of this so-called tree tower is striking. Cedar shingles appear red-gold in the sunlight. But I would much rather admire it from here. Nonetheless, I take my first upward step.

We reach the first landing without too much gasping and moaning. Soon, though, my knees start to twinge. My man turns to look when I pull my hand free, his pace being just a little too fast for me. I lean against the rail and try to not to wheeze.

“Do you need to stop?”

“Just let me rest a moment.”

It really does rejuvenate me, though my joints soon begin popping upon each stair. Halfway up, he calls a halt. My dear hubby wipes sweat from his forehead and the motion causes his brows to spike in beetled disarray. I’d poke fun if I could catch my breath.

“You were right, Gladys.” He waves to the couple, telling them not to bother waiting. “We’re coming down, anyway.”

“Pose for me there,” the young fellow urges. “I can Photoshop you at the top from my computer.”

To my surprise, we end up exchanging email addresses. The picture turns out fine, if falsified. Our new friends made out better when we buy a state-of-the-art blender for their wedding three weeks later.

***

Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge - Accepted! Day One...

Thank you for the nomination to the Five Photos, Five Stores Challenge, Joan! I look forward to playing along. Your Joan Somers Design blog is a delight, by the way. So here is my first ficlet.

Title: Beached

“Where are you going? We shouldn’t leave the path,” I warn to my husband’s back. “You’ll fall in the river.”

Looking over his shoulder, he says, “No I won’t. Come see.”

My stubborn man, continuing to pick his way through the undergrowth, almost immediately disappears from view. After a pause at least no splash sounds, so I glance both directions for right of way before following him off the bike trail. I dressed for a paved stroll, not a wooded hike, and am cautious not to let my bare calves brush against the taller weeds.

I can’t help but roll my eyes. The last thing either of us needs is a tick infestation.

The incline turns out to be more gradual than I expected. Several paces bring me easily to his side. Instead of looking at the nearby rushing river, he points down.

Very clear in the mud I see raccoon tracks. I stoop to get a closer look at the fainter marks shaped almost like arrows with truncated shafts.

“See those claw tips? Those signs are from the cranes,” he explains, the birds being this area’s namesake.

I stand, smiling. “This is neat.”

“And it’s perfectly safe just like I said. In fact, we’re clearly still on the beaten path.”

I swat his shoulder. He gives me a comical flinch. Then bushy eyebrows bounce nearly into his receding hairline.

“How about we go skinny dipping?”

“How about we get on with our walk,” I retort, turning to grab a branch for support on my return.

“Spoil sport,” he mutters, following close behind.

***

Now, here are the rules:
1) Post a photo each day for five consecutive days.
2) Attach a story to the photo. It can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, or a short paragraph. It’s entirely up to the individual.
3) Nominate another blogger to carry on the challenge. Your nominee is free to accept or decline the invitation.

And here are my two nominees:

Keith, the wonderful flash fiction writer of the Keith's Ramblings blog.

Drusilla Barron, who inspires me mightily with her Loved As If blog.

-

Long Overdue, a Post for a Friday Flash Fiction

A Word of Advice

One more ring sounded and then her answering machine clicked on.

“Lori, pick up.  I know you’re there.  I can see your car parked out here on the street.”

Flash Fiction - A Short Story Packed into One Chapter

First Date

Marko crooned in stooping to pet the cat, earning him points in Frank’s book. Thumb and forefinger formed an “O” to swipe the circumference of the upright tail to the end. The tip flip flopped encouragingly.

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“What’s her name?” Marko asked, petting her behind the ears so that she purred.

“Miss Whiskers,” Frank said, feeling his face flush slightly. “My sister and I were kids when we named her.”

“It’s cute. What do you call her for short?”

“It used to be Missy but now I’m more likely to call her Whiskey. It fits her better; she’s a no fuss cat.”

“And she responds to any of the three?”

“Are you kidding? She’s a cat. She’ll respond to a plate of food. The rest of the attention she gives me is icing on the cake.”

Marko stood, swiping long hair from his neck. A grin lit his angular face, softening attractively sharp features to make him look younger than his professed twenty-four. Frank suddenly thought he looked better than any old cake, even one with his favorite butter cream frosting.

“Your bio mentioned two cats.”

“Bigelow is a big fraidy cat. He hides the moment the doorbell rings.”

“Bigelow?”

“He’s huge. Has been since I got him from the shelter. They just called him Big Boy.”

“I hope I can meet him later. Maybe after the movie he’ll be willing to greet me without the doorbell to scare him.”

Frank couldn’t believe he’d heard right. Marko acted awfully sure of this first date. Their eyes met over the silence. Standing about the same height as Frank, Marko seemed to suddenly realize what he said by the slight widening of his eyes.

“Uh, shall we go? We’ll have time to get snacks and watch all the previews if we leave now.”

“Sounds good. We might not catch a cab right away, anyway.”

“I told the driver to wait.”

Frank liked that Marko showed no ulterior motive in agreeing to meet at his apartment. He tested his first dates that way, and most never survived to a second. They usually pushed intimacy too fast for Frank’s comfort

He shut the door soundly on that thought and locked it just as surely as he did the physical door to his New York apartment. He might have needed a shoehorn to move in but it served well as home for the three “people”, as Frank liked to think of his feline buddies.

“Your place is nice,” Marko praised belatedly.

Following on his thought about the size, Frank almost laughed. Instead, he managed to thank the other man with only a slightly self deprecating comment.

“It’s tiny, but it’s home.”

“Who needs a big place when you’re young, anyway? I have a shoebox, myself. I’d rather spend my money on living than a place to sleep my life away.”

“I like the way you think.”

They exchanged good humor at that, their chuckles echoing in the elevator they entered. The pair already knew what movie to see, having decided while communicating through the gay dating website.

Plans changed when they agreed that the movie stunk. The conclusion occurred to Frank early on but Marko spoke up first.

“You’re an old movie buff. What about watching a classic instead of this 3D mess?”

Plan B took shape by the time they returned to Frank’s place. Soon they munched popcorn and sipped beer over a romantic comedy from the forties.

“Better?”

“Much,” Frank agreed.

The clean-cut brunette’s agreement grew when Marko’s hand brushed his in the popcorn bowl. An on-screen kiss led to an admirable imitation on the couch with Marko taking the initiative. He turned Frank, whose fingers tangled in shaggy blond locks. Frank tugged lightly until their lips parted.

“Too fast?” Marko breathed.

“I don’t know.”

“Then let’s just relax and watch the DVD.”

“Okay,” Frank answered.

The coiled heat in Frank’s abdomen protested a shift to again face front from the sofa. Reaching for his beer, he saw Bigelow chose that moment to walk in front of the television.

“Hey, boy!”

The Maine Coon mix trotted to Marko’s outstretched hand. Bigelow sniffed, then batted his forehead against the back of Mark’s knuckles, a sure sign of acceptance.

“I think he likes me,” Marko enthused.

“I’ve never seen anyone allowed to touch him on the first visit.”

“Technically, it’s my second.”

“Oh, yeah,” Frank mumbled. “I guess it is.”

“You’re really cute when you blush. What if I told you I’d like to spend the night and make more of you blush?”

“I’d say we’re definitely rushing things, then.”

“All right. Let’s finish the movie and I’ll go.”

“Really? I don’t mean to be a jerk.”

“Hey, you’re just being honest. I respect that.”

After the closing scene, Marko stuck to his promise. Frank saw him off with a chaste kiss and plans to go out the following day. Nothing specific set other than where to meet, not even a time, Frank found himself unable to sleep.

The doorbell rang about forty-five minutes later. Wide awake, Frank walked to the door in his boxers figuring his neighbor just wanted to talk about her boyfriend trouble. He never should have started offering an ear at all hours. Instead, Marko stood in the doorway with a box of donuts.

“Hey, Frank. I figure it’s tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind.” To the unasked question, he answered, “My uncle owns the pastry shop around the corner. These were just made for the morning rush.”

“They smell like heaven. I don’t know, though. I’m dressed for bed and everything.”

“Perfect,” Marko growled. “Oh, yeah, there’s that red face. Come on, let me in. I won’t go any farther than you want. We can even watch another movie if you like.”

Frank nodded, smiling. Bigelow liked the man, after all, which said a lot. And the donuts would help keep his inner werewolf at bay. It wasn’t meat but, with any luck, Marko would survive the night so they could enjoy getting to know one another.

Mostly, anyway.

-

Key to My Heart - Chapter One

Kyle surprised me by running out of the apartment building at my heels. He actually panted lightly from the strain of running. Then he held up his hand and I saw what made him chase me.

Flash Fiction - A Short Story Packed into One Chapter

Marmalade Jam

Sometimes, bitter can change to sweet. You just have to open yourself to life’s possibilities.

Carol put down her book and looked at her hands. The fingers were straight and strong, but the skin looked thin and fragile.

“Marmalade, how did I get so old? I was an old bitty before you were a kitten.”

The cat blinked sleepy golden eyes and nodded her regal, orange head to honor her mistress. The fat tail bounced languidly against the carpet. Any lover of felines would recognize a happy, healthy cat. Carol smiled.

Trying to get back into her reading, Carol realized what was nagging her. She put the book down again and stretched.

“You’re probably hungry, aren’t you? Let’s get you some canned food, Marm.”

She rose without so much as a wince, grateful for the martial arts class that kept her limber. Carol had realized a long time ago that it was never too late to start anything. While she might never be a black belt, she felt better nearing eighty than at forty.

“What’ll it be? Do you want ocean whitefish or chicken medley? I swear, your food sounds better than some of the stuff I ate before my writing took off.”

Carol listened to the sound of the surf through the open window as she held two cans of cat food down for Marmalade’s interested inspection. Whichever one ended up being marked with a cheek would be the cat’s dinner.

“Chicken it is.”

A knock at her door straightened Carol from her task with a start. She couldn’t imagine who would be calling. Setting the empty can on the counter, she whirled toward the sound. From the end of the hall she made out a compact figure.

“I’ll be right there.”

A young man’s voice called, “Mom?”

Now Carol had been a lot of things in her life but a mother wasn’t one of them. Intrigued, she picked up her pace. Now she could make out a duffel bag being swung upon the narrow shoulder. She unlocked and opened the door.

“This is Mrs. Youngblood,” she announced. “Carol Youngblood. Can I help you?”

“Oh. This isn’t the Negalis residence?”

He was obviously of Asian descent, with effeminate Japanese features and friendly brown eyes. Carol didn’t recognize the name.

“I’m sorry. I’ve lived here about a year but don’t know who owned the house before. I got it anonymously through a broker.”

Just then, an orange streak flew out the door. Alarmed, the young man looked at her.

“Is that your cat?”

“Yes! And he shouldn’t be outside! He doesn’t have any of his shots for that, let alone flea prevention treatment.”

“I’m Hiro,” the young man said. “Let me get him for you.”

He dropped his bag and darted off her porch. The cat made a beeline for the neighbor’s sandbox with Hiro hot on his trail.

Hiro never did catch the cat. Instead, he tripped over a child’s toy and landed in a heap. Carol resisted the urge to laugh, not certain if he was really hurt. She raced to the groaning man’s side.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m… how did you get here so fast?”

“I ran. You could have been seriously injured.”

“You’re not even out of breath,” he panted.

“This was nothing compared to my classes. Sensei Yamamoto works his students, even us old folks, very hard.”

“You’re in martial arts?”

Nodding, she helped Hiro stand and together they made it back to her home. A quick phone call to her attorney would solve the mystery of what happened to Hiro’s family. In the meantime, he’d dusted himself off and found himself facing her blunt questions.

“What happened with your family? Did you have a falling out? Forgive me if I’m being forward. I’ve learned that life is too short to do anything short of getting to the point.”

“That’s okay. It’s refreshing, Mrs. Younglbood.”

“Please, call me Carol, Hiro.” A scratch at the back door interrupted her. “Excuse me but it seems my wayward cat has made her way home.” She introduced Marmalade, who entered and resumed eating at her food bowl as if nothing had happened.

“Does that happen a lot?” Hiro asked, laughing.

“Honestly, no. I think someone wanted us to meet in more than passing.”

“Someone?”

“God, for lack of a better name. Would you still be here if you hadn’t just about been knocked senseless?”

“No. I’d be looking for someplace to stay. But… Why?”

“You look like you need a friend.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Then tell me about your family. Say what you were considering before we were so rudely interrupted,” she continued, giving Marmalade a mock angry look.

“They kicked me out when they learned that I’m gay. Well, Dad did.”

“Oh? I’m so sorry. And they moved without telling you?”

“They didn’t know where to find me, but then I read in the newspaper that my father died.”

“That’s horrible! We need to get you home. How about some tea?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

Within an hour, Carol learned where Hiro’s family had moved. Before he left, impressed by her agility, the amused Asian American arranged to accompany her to her next karate class and fill out an application.

“I think I’ll be staying, Carol, thanks to you and Marmalade.”

“And I think you’re the inspiration for my next story. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You’re a writer?”

“CW Youngblood, at your service.”

“I’ve read all your books!”

“Then let me pour another cup of tea and we’ll drink to Marmalade.”

Seventeen

Day seventeen. I feel like something is about to happen, for good or ill. The number seventeen must mean something.

Flash Fiction Friday

This was inspired by a picture prompt, and I thought I'd share the image and the results. I hope you enjoy the brief read...

Distant Drumming

Waukeen gulped a few swallows of water, conscious of conserving the precious fluid. He had been at the drum nonstop through two moon rises. He couldn’t say exactly how many hours passed, but his formerly smooth scalp badly needed shaved.

As son of Chief Wauk, he lamented that more than the gnawing hunger or numbing fatigue. Word of encroaching war took precedence over ritual grooming.

His fingers holding the flask felt odd clutching something other than the bamboo bachi. He’d had these sticks since he was a boy, and always held them the exact same way, the grain familiar as his own fingerprints. Any other grip lacked the sharp sound needed to carry. Other, more decorative sticks waited at home, and he retained hope of returning soon for a victorious, celebratory performance.

He listened for a long moment, then repeated the rhythm precisely. When he finished, Waukeen waited for his brethren across the southern valley to relay the message to the next drummer. Then Waukeen would receive a new communiqué. The length of each passage, the pauses in between, were specific rules handed down from a generation so distant that none alive new who decided them.

The system worked, and that was enough. News of distant happenings, good or bad word simultaneously translated in Waukeen’s village, occupied those dedicated to the service. Musicianship was Waukeen’s gift to the Forest People. He mused for a moment on the sad message he’d imparted the year before, when his mother died in childbirth. Waukeen shook his head, refusing to be distracted by old sorrow. If war came, he’d have more grief than he could stomach.

A twig snapped in the trees at his back. Too exhausted for more than a faint prickle of adrenaline, he relaxed upon hearing the voice of his clan-sister, Eilakarn. She was much more welcome than a tiger or baboon.

“My mother sends her regards, Waukeen.” When he nodded tiredly, she said, “I see your water is holding out. I have brought fresh, as well as food from Eila’s kitchen.”

“I can’t take time to eat! I thank you for the thoughtfulness, though, and apologize for my harsh tone. I know you’ve walked far on my behalf.”

“We are all tense. And you must be exhausted. As for the food, you will eat. I even brought your favorite.”

He could smell the dumplings now, rice flour wrappers filled with minced elk meat and wolfberries. His stomach growled and she laughed. With the next messenger still completing his staccato phrase, Waukeen enjoyed the moment. The pair could have been embarking on a carefree summer swim for the joyful sound of her laughter.

“I’m glad you’re amused.”

“Well, your belly sounded like a bear.”

“Wait. I must listen.”

She folded silently to his side as the eerie sound of a lone Taiko carried from the north. The musical words were a mystery to Eilakarn, and barely understood by Waukeen. He knew the message said something about their warmonger neighbors, the Roon, but that went without saying. As the last beat echoed, his hands took over from instinct. He felt his clan-sister’s eyes on him and sensed heat rising in his cheeks.

Waukeen had successfully ignored the fact that her witness to his drumming was taboo. Only married women were allowed to attend performances by men. The driving music was considered too passionate for virginal ears, the body movements of drumming too sensual. Performing the music, on the other hand, was said to release sexual tension. For his part, Waukeen looked forward to the day he could watch a woman play.

As his latest finishing note reverberated, he set down both sticks and picked up his water. Eilakarn took his free hand in hers. She turned it palm up and traced the calluses, smiling boldly. A shiver travelled down the young man’s spine.

“What news have I been relaying?”

“First, eat,” she ordered happily, releasing his limb and opening her basket.

He didn’t wonder at her mood, simply grateful for the lightness of it. And the smells of the food dispelled any lingering dread. The dumplings were specially made, smaller than normal, so that he could chew and swallow quickly. The gesture struck him as both sad and thoughtful.

“Eila has outdone herself,” he remarked, mouth watering at the offering.

When Eilakarn didn’t reply, he looked up. Her long, dark hair framed a beaming smile.

“What is it?”

“Our warriors turned back the Roon. The battle is over. Your father is well and on his way back. When he returns, we can be married.”

“These messages have been honoring the fallen.”

“Yes, Waukeen. First our men, and then the Roon. You should soon be done and we can go home together.”

As she snagged a morsel and popped it in his mouth, Eilakarn leaned forward for a kiss. Her lips felt warm and very soft. He regretted the slight scratchiness of his chin whiskers against her silky cheek.

Against her mouth, he repeated, “And we can be married.”

She sat back, giggling, and rubbed his head. “After you have a bath and a shave!”

Michael and the Fantastical Flying Feline

Today’s ficlet is a complete bit of silliness. I found inspiration from a great set of parameters that Mahlee Ashwynne has proposed for a story challenge on Romance Divas. If you’ve never checked RD out, it’s a fun place where writers (professional and aspiring) nurture, challenge, and educate one another.

It’s a great challenge, Mahlee! I hope someone can take up the gauntlet soon. In the meantime, while currently out of the running to be challenged, I couldn’t resist playing with her interesting criteria, which I’ll paraphrase here:

Your characters are in a heated argument at a cat show over a hairless sphinx. Why, when, and where are left up to the author. Who wins the argument and how? Included items: a swimming pool, pistachio ice cream in a cone, gold glitter, and a tattoo of Tutankhamen.

Michael and the Fantastical Flying Feline

“It’s not an alien,” Simon insisted, peering at the hairless animal from the distant side aisle. “It’s a cat, Michael, just like all the others at the show, if uglier.”

“I know what it’s supposed to be. I also know that so-called cat is no purebred sphinx.”

“Fine, Michael,” Simon conceded, throwing up his hands. “It’s not a cat. Now can we move on to the refreshment stands? I’m starting to get hungry.”

“I can’t! I need to watch it.”

“You what? I don’t appreciate this petty, childish game. It’s not like you.”

“That’s because I’m not playing, Simon. I think that creature is up to something. Someone needs to keep an eye out. And if you think I’m dumb, what can I say that anyone else will believe?”

“I don’t think you’re dumb, just exasperating.” Simon groaned. “For the sake of argument, let’s say the beast is not just an innocent mammal. What would an alien be doing here? And what has you so convinced?”

“I believe the ambassador that disappeared last night is likely already dead at the hands of the Zerellian Consortium. One of the member worlds is populated by sentient beings that look like that ‘cat’. When they fly, they shed this,” Michael murmured, showing gold glitter on his palm. “I swiped this off its table.”

“Now it’s a fantastical flying feline?”

Ignoring the interruption, Michael continued, “This glittery stuff is what I saw sprinkled around the swimming pool yesterday before police arrived. It looks like the exact same material they found when Senator Bracken disappeared a year ago. One minute, he was at a party talking to the host. The next, the host turned away and Bracken was gone. From eyewitness accounts, police sketch artists ended up with the spitting image for that wrinkled freak. I saw it all on a vid-file last week.”

“You watch too much of that true-crime crap. And anyway, why would the alien still be here? Why not fly away for good? It makes no sense.”

“It does if the job isn’t done. Ambassador Strom took up the anti-Zerellian cause from Bracken but he’s not the only one here that agrees. You happen to be another. Look, I know you think I’m silly.”

“Well, tell me something more. Give me proof that I’m in danger.”

“I don’t have proof or we wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Calm down, Michael. Tell me what else you saw by the pool. You didn’t see a flying cat, I take it.”

“Well, I did think it odd that the pistachio ice cream cone Ambassador Strom had been eating ended up shattered all over the concrete.”

“He probably threw unwanted leftovers toward a trashcan and missed. There, one mystery solved. Stranger would be that cat having a tattoo of Tutankhamen on its backside.”

“Very funny. I think Strom dropped the food while being dragged into the sky. Never mind. I know that look,” Michael sighed. “Forget I said anything.”

At that moment, Simon laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder. The dark eyes flashed in such a way that Michael tracked his gaze to where the subtle gesture indicated.

“Isn’t that the interstellar police? They’re coming right this way,” Simon muttered.

“Simon! Down!”

Not waiting for Simon to comply, Michael felled the older man with a martial arts maneuver. He would apologize later, after they walked away from this adventure.

Twinkling gold showered upon the pair as reptilian wings folded over the back of the airborne homunculus. Where the limbs came from was anyone’s guess. Michael didn’t try. Oversized paws opened into clawed hands as the dreadful little monster dove repeatedly upon the fallen businessman and his horrified lover. Michael shielded Simon as best he could, too focused upon fighting off attack to hear the shots fired over his head.

Michael remained on his knees, half leaning over Simon, whom he’d kept pressed to the floor. The failed assassin flapped one leathery wing, black foam forming on the bifurcated lip as bulbous eyes glazed over. Despite his anticipation, Michael felt utterly discombobulated after the endorphin rush.

“What just happened?”

“I think you officially became my hero.”

-

Michael and the Fantastical Flying Feline

Today’s ficlet is a complete bit of silliness. I found inspiration from a great set of parameters that Mahlee Ashwynne has proposed for a story challenge on Romance Divas. If you’ve never checked RD out, it’s a fun place where writers (professional and aspiring) nurture, challenge, and educate one another.

It’s a great challenge, Mahlee! I hope someone can take up the gauntlet soon. In the meantime, while currently out of the running to participate for points, I couldn’t resist playing with her interesting criteria, which I’ll paraphrase here:

Your characters are in a heated argument at a cat show over a hairless sphinx. Why, when, and where are left up to the author. Who wins the argument and how? Included items: a swimming pool, pistachio ice cream in a cone, gold glitter, and a tattoo of Tutankhamun.

Michael and the Fantastical Flying Feline

“It’s not an alien,” Simon insisted, peering at the hairless animal from the distant side aisle. “It’s a cat, Michael, just like all the others at the show, if uglier.”

“I know what it’s supposed to be. I also know that so-called cat is no purebred sphinx.”

“Fine, Michael,” Simon conceded, throwing up his hands. “It’s not a cat. Now can we move on to the refreshment stands? I’m starting to get hungry.”

“I can’t! I need to watch it.”

“You what? I don’t appreciate this petty, childish game. It’s not like you.”

“That’s because I’m not playing, Simon. I think that creature is up to something. Someone needs to keep an eye out. And if you think I’m dumb, what can I say that anyone else will believe?”

“I don’t think you’re dumb, just exasperating.” Simon groaned. “For the sake of argument, let’s say the beast is not just an innocent mammal. What would an alien be doing here? And what has you so convinced?”

“I believe the ambassador that disappeared last night is likely already dead at the hands of the Zerellian Consortium. One of the member worlds is populated by sentient beings that look like that ‘cat’. When they fly, they shed this,” Michael murmured, showing gold glitter on his palm. “I swiped this off its table.”

“Now it’s a fantastical flying feline?”

Ignoring the interruption, Michael continued, “This glittery stuff is what I saw sprinkled around the swimming pool yesterday before police arrived. It looks like the exact same material they found when Senator Bracken disappeared a year ago. One minute, he was at a party talking to the host. The next, the host turned away and Bracken was gone. From eyewitness accounts, police sketch artists ended up with the spitting image for that wrinkled freak. I saw it all on a vid-file last week.”

“You watch too much of that true-crime crap. And anyway, why would the alien still be here? Why not fly away for good? It makes no sense.”

“It does if the job isn’t done. Ambassador Strom took up the anti-Zerellian cause from Bracken but he’s not the only one here that agrees. You happen to be another. Look, I know you think I’m silly.”

“Well, tell me something more. Give me proof that I’m in danger.”

“I don’t have proof or we wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Calm down, Michael. Tell me what else you saw by the pool. You didn’t see a flying cat, I take it.”

“Well, I did think it odd that the pistachio ice cream cone Ambassador Strom had been eating ended up shattered all over the concrete.”

“He probably threw unwanted leftovers toward a trashcan and missed. There, one mystery solved. Stranger would be that cat having a tattoo of Tutankhamun on its backside.”

“Very funny. I think Strom dropped the food while being dragged into the sky. Never mind. I know that look,” Michael sighed. “Forget I said anything.”

At that moment, Simon laid a hand on Michael’s shoulder. The dark eyes flashed in such a way that Michael tracked his gaze to where the subtle gesture indicated.

“Isn’t that the interstellar police? They’re coming right this way,” Simon muttered.

“Simon! Down!”

Not waiting for Simon to comply, Michael felled the older man with a martial arts maneuver. He would apologize later, after they walked away from this adventure.

Twinkling gold showered upon the pair as reptilian wings folded over the back of the airborne homunculus. Where the limbs came from was anyone’s guess. Michael didn’t try. Oversized paws opened into clawed hands as the dreadful little monster dove repeatedly upon the fallen businessman and his horrified lover. Michael shielded Simon as best he could, too focused upon fighting off attack to hear the shots fired over his head.

Michael remained on his knees, half leaning over Simon, whom he’d kept pressed to the floor. The failed assassin flapped one leathery wing, black foam forming on the bifurcated lip as bulbous eyes glazed over. Despite his anticipation, Michael felt utterly discombobulated after the endorphin rush.

“What just happened?”

“I think you officially became my hero.”