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.

***

Flash Fiction Friday

If you feel like enjoying a little smut, stop on by my Sand Castles blog. Karen and Sky enjoy an easygoing romp until angst rears its head.

Blue Sky

Flash Fiction Friday

Late Night Programming

“I think I should have an affair,” I blurted, five minutes before my session ended. Scrutinized, my therapist awaiting more, I continued recklessly. “I need someone energetic. Attentive. Sexy. I want a man who’ll wake up alongside me and give me physical distraction from these nightmares.”

“You’ve had another one?”

Knowing Dr. Samuels didn’t refer to some young stud, I nodded. I hadn’t planned on telling her. The ongoing themes being helplessness and futility, the subjects of my dreams ranged widely. The good doctor seemed to enjoy hearing them.

“Tell me about it, Karen. My next appointment cancelled, so we have time.”

Aha. I picked up my water glass and took a sip before settling back more comfortably in the overstuffed chair. Her white-noise generators reminded me disturbingly of my husband’s C-pap machine.

“I saw the usual jumble of imagery, confusion of place and time.”

“That disorientation is part of your powerlessness manifesting. Tell me the underlying story.”

“Some character my brain manufactured invited me out to dinner at some distant, fancy resort. Two someones, in fact, who both struck me as day-job acquaintances.”

“Why would you want to go, then, since you’re no longer fond of travel? Were they men or women?”

The psychologist seemed to sit straighter at that. Good grief. She probably anticipated a raunchy tale, even though my dream-sex only ended in frustration these days. Was this the closest she got to the real thing? I certainly understood, in that case. My answer would deflate her libidinous hopes, though, for she knows as well as anyone that I only go for men.

“Women.”

“Go on,” she urged mildly, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs.

“Well, one of them planned to drive separately so that she could swim afterward and stay at the lake as long as she liked. The other gal and I understood the truth but didn’t call her one the ruse,” I said, pausing when the doctor shifted in her seat. “She had a not-so-secret lover near that resort.”

“Interesting. Do either of these women have names?”

“No. They almost never do. These women are ultimately the victims.”

“I see. So the dreams continue to have deadly endings.”

“More often than not, these days.” That used to be rather rare and often part of the solution, such as killing terrorists or home invaders. A few times, I committed righteous murder as another person defending herself or himself from aliens. Sometimes I battled zombies, movie-quality entertainment almost. “Last week, some little girl in a wheelchair died and I was at fault. She forgave me with her last breath. Then I woke.”

“It still bothers you.”

“The fact my mind would conjure such a thing? Yeah. I know it’s not real when the lights come on.”

“Understood. Let’s move forward. Where were you last night?”

“At my childhood home, though the scenery quickly warped.”

“That seems to be a recurrent locale of late.”

“Yeah,” I lamented, “less fun than outer space or a Post Apocalyptic wasteland. And the first thing that I remember clearly, I couldn’t find a usable bathroom and privacy to get cleaned up. It’s odd, seeing as I’m so much younger than my brothers and sisters. A free bathroom was never an issue growing up.”

“It’s another take on the obstructions you perceive in your life. You have a basic need that can’t be fulfilled. Did you end up in a maze?”

“Of sorts.” She caught on fast. I had to give her credit. “The usual motif of a crowded house became interspersed with tight places and decrepit, primitive bathrooms off dingy halls. At one point I had to crawl over a table where my cousin sat with food and wine.”

“Have you noticed that you often include food and alcohol in some manner? I think you feel a bit out of control with them.”

“You think?” I countered, uncomfortably shifting my overweight self on the cushion and taking another drink of water. “We’ve talked about how I need to cut back on my drinking, and overeating only arises after I’ve had too much. The dreams come either way any more, but they seem less intense. I didn’t drink last night.”

Intuitively, she asked, “Who did you see besides your cousin?”

“Lots of dead aunts, uncles, and my paternal grandmother. They all wanted to hug and kiss me, waylaying me further when I finally thought I could leave with my associates.”

“Not friends.”

“No, though I felt understandably horrified when some strangers at the family gathering kidnapped them.” I paused and she simply grimaced, unsurprised by the turn of unconsciously derived events. “That’s when things got really weird. The people involved treated it like some kind of game, stuffing the ladies in a trunk to take a joy ride. I had a surreal view of the car careening madly through snowdrifts before it disappeared from sight. Of course, my mind conjured horrible scenarios for the endangered women before I jerked awake.” I skipped the part about the cold sweat.

“What else went on at the house after the girls vanished?”

“You know me too well,” I admitted mildly. “I manhandled a couple of the guests who assisted the kidnapping, randomly shoving and pushing when they got in my face.”

Her mechanical pencil scratched like a mouse caught in a trap. I didn’t know what else to say. The lead clawed what must have been a deep line beneath her writing, telling me Dr. Samuels prepared to say something she knew I wouldn’t like. I remembered one particularly lonely night as a little girl. A broken mouse dragged the trap the length of my closet door in tiny, pained increments.

“You know I can’t condone an affair, Karen. And you’re smart enough to understand this would only harm you. You would hurt your husband, yourself by default, and probably anyone else you brought into your life under such deceitful conditions.”

“Yes, of course. Everything you say makes sense.”

“You don’t need a sex addiction on top of everything else,” she added, making me snort.

We both knew the sort of material I wrote for a living. What can I say? Sex sells. And while I wanted to buy into the false promise of a shallow affair, I could not.

Rising with purse in hand, I promised, “I’ll be good.”

“Don’t go that far. Just keep the infidelity in your imagination and bring it out in your stories. Maybe you can even use some elements from this dream.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I retorted ruefully, wondering if I should offer her popcorn next time.

I shut the door. It cut off her amusement, laughter lost under the breathy whir of those damnable noise cancelling devices.

“Same time, same channel,” I muttered, wishing I could stop comparing myself to a rerun.

~the end~

Next Friday, Karen breaks her promise in a sequel that will be posted on my erotica blog. I hope you’ll check out “The Sky’s the Limit” on Sand Castles. And tell me what you think! We writer’s adore feedback.

Flash Fiction Friday

Come on over for an X-rated read if you are in the mood and over eighteen. But be warned, there is explicit male/male interaction. Read if you dare.

Sand Castles

Flash Fiction Friday

The Dojo

Approach from any angle showed off the new building’s alien shape amongst indigenous domes. This planet had never before seen ancient Japanese architecture. The brilliantly engineered outer surface resembled rice paper. Each wall appeared impossibly delicate, amusing the locals. Most watched Michael’s design constructed with dubiously nictitating membranes.

Just like gawkers back on earth, neighborhood K’ Dell had gathered soon after the first big storm kicked off the He’ Keck season. Those expecting a vacant lot scattered with debris found disappointment. And as the disappointed onlookers left the scene, only one figure remained behind – the being who’d headed construction.

Michael thought of the city’s chief building engineer with bemused fondness. Were they friends or was the human simply convenient entertainment? Michael didn’t know. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling to the former Corporate Stress Reliever, just eerily odd considering he didn’t think their anatomies were compatible for intimacy. Certainly, their minds were not upon preliminary introduction, but the young man sensed progress toward understanding.

He put his hand on the cool, solid surface that fooled the eye. Then he realized he stood illegally on the religious runes required by national law. Looking around with chagrin and a thrill of fear, Michael stepped back to the ped-belt.

The constant conveyance had taken getting used to. In fact, he had not yet completely succeeded.

An inelegant hop to the door made his lover laugh. He grinned even as his cheeks reddened. Simon would always have that affect on him, he hoped, whatever soil they called home.

“I’ve been waiting for you. I didn’t want to see what they’ve done inside before you did. The outside is certainly beautiful, though it doesn’t outshine you.”

“Are you getting sentimental on me, Simon?”

“Yes, if you call this sentimental,” he retorted, pulling Michael into a kiss that met surprising resistance.

“We shouldn’t do this here. There are eyes everywhere,” Michael warned nervously.

He had gotten frighteningly close to serving jail time shortly after their initial arrival. Patting a K’ Dellian child on the head seemed totally innocuous and yet had caused an immediate uproar. Lip locking his partner could never be mistaken for innocent. And Michael didn’t want the pleasure of visiting the local constabulary ever again. Being checked for internal and external contaminants once, coming through planetary customs, had been more than enough. The invasive procedure did not top his tourist’s list of things to do in K’ Rack.

Then again, this building testified that he and Simon were not merely visiting.

The larger man obligingly grabbed his young lover and pulled him bodily into the foyer. As often happened, their alien DNA failed to trigger the auto closure and Michael started to bare his teeth in annoyance. Before he completed the grimace, Simon smacked an oddly placed rune and the door obeyed, sliding silently to shut out the pearlescent fog. A few final tendrils clung to them and Michael, still enchanted by their resilience, would have touched a ghostly finger but for his bewilderment.

“How did you do that? What did you do?”

“I had an override hidden in the wall design. You’re not the only one who befriended Sam.”

“Sam? Oh! You mean “S’ Amknud?”

“Yeah, Sam,” Simon repeated defiantly, a touch of self-ridicule lacing his tone.

“You need to try harder with the local dialect. Otherwise, you’ll never impress anyone in the business community.”

“I was hoping to live off of your earnings here,” Simon proclaimed with a wave toward the inner doors.

“Don’t try to sweet talk me. You know I want you to believe in my dream. But if you don’t start trying to pronounce names correctly, I’ll… I’ll.”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll tell everyone I meet to call you ‘Mr. X’,” Michael hooted, mockingly twisting his neck so that red-gold waves swung over his shoulder.

“Oh,” Simon croaked, snatching a curl, “you haven’t called me that in too long.”

“Well, let’s check out the dojo proper and we’ll see what we can do about that when we get home. I’m not even sure we’re supposed to be touching in the foyer. It’s considered public space, ergo, government property.”

“How long does it take to get over a plague scare? I thought that happened a thousand earth years ago?”

“And since when do you know of religious fervor to fade entirely? It’s a theocratic state. We’re lucky to be considered people and not C’ Hattle here.”

“Now, that word I can handle. It sounds so much like cattle,” Simon ruminated.

Michael turned to open the door. He couldn’t bear another moment of waiting, even with Simon’s amusing banter. His gasp echoed over his shoulder.

“Well, brand me with an ‘S’ and call me surprised.”

Ignoring the absurd twist on a local colloquialism, Michael almost squealed. The work had gone better than he’d imagined.
S’ Amknud improved the design, knowing better how to place the skylights for optimum use of the distant sun’s rays.

A door had been left open upon the inner courtyard so that the first thing he saw when his eyes adjusted to the bright turned out to be the bamboo fountain. Simon had balked at the cost, which had been formidable even compared to the precious glass overhead. Now the former lawyer clapped congratulations upon Michael’s back.

“You’ll have the Japanese immigrants lined up for this, Michael. It’s a wonderful conglomeration of elements.”

The newly accredited business owner smiled and took a step to see how the rest of the garden appeared. The other three outer corridors could wait. He wanted to see his favorite part, first. Then he froze, suspicious.

“This isn’t the flooring I ordered. What am I walking on?”

“Plasti-wood with a sprayed foam underlay. I had it smuggled in. Sam was happy to learn the technique and helped authorities turn a blind eye. That K’ Dell knows what’s best for his city. K’ Rack needs to bend some if they want to fully reap the benefits of the human refugees. The rest of the country will see how we work together to revolutionize and reinvigorate this smog-bowl of a valley. Then it’s only a matter of time before the Zemberlands follow suit, I think. But that’s a whole other language for earth techs to crack. We’ll take this one step at a time. Anyway, other nations will begin opening their doors and…”

“Whoa, Mr. X! Slow down and back up.”

“What?”

“Don’t you see? You want to become a diplomat; you’ve got to work on your pronunciation.”

“I don’t want that kind of oral lesson,” Simon intimated.

“Well, I don’t want a lesson on planetary
zoo-geo-dynamographics, or whatever you call it. I am, however, thrilled to hear such enthusiasm.”

“How about flattery?”

“I’m always happy to hear that.”

“Then understand the real reason I got this flooring. It wasn’t to gain some kind of oddball leverage with a local engineer, chief or not.”

“No?”

“No. I didn’t want you to beat up those pretty feet on inadequate padding. And you and your students shouldn’t be allowed to get thirsty, either. Look over there.”

“A water cooler! Oh, Simon, you shouldn’t have!”

“I know,” he replied, indulgently rolling his eyes.

Ceremoniously hung per K’ Dell administrative edict, imported martial arts equipment received blessing from a K’ Dellian priestess. Wall mounts installed according to regional requirements would have to do whether or not they matched Michael’s aesthetic taste. That was all fine by him.

Excited, Michael gave into the urge to tumble across the floor. While the impulse had a childish basis, his moves displayed discipline and training. He came upright, balanced on his heels, and bounced instantly on his toes to reach overhead. He picked the fighting staff his athletic performance had aimed for. The fact the racks hung almost too high made his feat even more estimable.

Following rules handed down from elders neighboring his family’s South African plantation, he ignored K’ Dellian dogma, shed his ingrained New York persona, and bowed. Rising, he saw Simon’s eyes sparkling.

“Want to spar?”

~the end~

Flash Fiction Friday

Yesterday I wrote a fun exercise for a workshop. The idea is to "convince" the reader that a fantasy figure exists by using mundane details. It seemed like an amusing tidbit to share for a quick read to celebrate the end of the week.

An original character of mine, a bit of a playboy, inspired research into Dionysis. Hence, that god is my character for this purpose. I hope you enjoy the brief cameo...

Dionysus inhaled deeply. Leaves crackling under his bare feet spiced each breath of air. The sun warmed his bare back and a breeze stirred his long hair. He heard a snarl from the trees as his leopards fought over scraps of their kill and he stopped walking.

Feline antics weren’t the reason for his pause. He heard a woman’s voice. One of his maenids called out from the top of Aventine Hill. He didn’t know if she meant it as summons but he decided to return and see. At any rate, the bacchanalia continued to rage from the night before. Whether he joined in the revelry or just watched his women, Dionysus knew his presence would honor them.

If he found a little pleasure in their activities, all the better. Only fools and pontiffs turned down a good time. Dionysus considered himself neither. He turned without further debate and began to retrace his steps up the path. He climbed as swiftly as his fleet-footed descent. Knowing that the cats would tend to a lengthy cleaning after their meal, he grinned and quickened his pace.

Plump, curving lips tightened with a hiss when a twig snapped under his slender foot, a jagged end stabbing his heel. He raised his knee, left arm outstretched for balance, and turned the injured limb using his free hand. Balancing his ankle on his right knee and inspecting the torn skin, he decided that one of his followers should cleanse the wound. Surely a kiss would lessen the sting.

Tomorrow he would begin his journey to Thebes. It would be good to see his satyrs again after his long and arduous travels through Asia. Today, however, he would devote attention to his adoring Roman maenads.

Flash Fiction Friday

The Gift

Unaccustomed, Michael Blanc found solar heat weighed his every step. A lean, sharply defined shadow pulled almost physically at the heels of his trendy platform soles. The shoes were also practical, distancing his tender feet from the earth’s scorching surface. Gratefully, he hadn’t descended from the skyway since that day Simon orchestrated capture of Anthony Greer’s killer.

Had it really been over a year? With a flutter in his chest, Michael realized he’d been wearing Simon’s corporate symbol nearly that long. Glancing fondly at the ring adorning his finger, Michael knew his late, beloved Anthony would be pleased for him.

Priceless, the tasteful iron jewelry didn’t reflect the dangerous rays of the sun; nor did the expensive cloth of Michael’s sable suit. A wide-brimmed fedora, every bit as dark, helped protect his face. He’d worn no color in public except iron and obsidian for years.

Today, that changed. Michael had been forced to commit a severe fashion offense among his social peers – he actually wore tan! The tacky silk scarf wrapped his hair and loosely muffled fair features beneath protective glasses. He fiddled with it continuously, disdainful of the concession.

Actually, Michael wouldn’t have conceded if Simon hadn’t laid out the article with a pointed request. Despite the temperature, chills marched up his arms at remembering the words scrawled in the angular script of that center of his world, his Mr. X.

Wear it for me. No argument, Michael. You will protect that perfect skin.
Love, X

Love-struck, Michael reluctantly heeded and now walked along with soft fabric tickling his lips. He wondered again why he’d received this request. The fact he walked instead of riding only made it all the more mysterious. The war required a lot of fuel, certainly, but his paramour was the most prominent attorney in New York!

He didn’t even know his destination. The directions cryptically excluded all but street names and the turns he was to take. Well, that and a notation to get in line when he reached the crowd.

“Crowd,” Michael muttered under his breath. “A line?! If anybody else had asked this I’d tell them to get sunburned. It better be good.”

Then again, perhaps he’d be meeting a secret off-world shuttle! That would definitely be good. But Michael knew the unlikelihood. Politico or not, Simon Montague hadn’t been able to book a single seat, let alone two. Not one flight had come available in a month of calling in favors. And the small space-worthy craft weren’t exactly crowd appropriate. All the same, he couldn’t resist dreaming.

Rounding the final turn listed on his instructions, he found his hopes withered in the unrelenting sun. Crowd definitely described the chaotically milling citizens. The end of a line, however, was nowhere to be found. Michael hoped he’d wake from this nightmare at any moment. Here before his disbelieving eyes were folks from every economic and social echelon.

He saw white-robed people by the dozens, sexless under their ugly peasant apparel. Among the obvious poorest, he couldn’t even determine gender by their weathered features. Those individuals marginally more fortunate wore safety gear over their caftans. The occasional hint of gender in undernourished physiques only made the figures more repulsive to the privileged Michael Blanc.

Against his will, Michael’s stride slowed. He didn’t want to go near the unfortunates, as if their wrinkles and inevitable skin cancers were contagious. Seeking a group of black-suited men and women, he wished to insulate himself anonymously in their midst.

Where was Simon? Of course, he might not have arrived yet. The busy man’s message promised only his inevitable appearance, not a time. Schedules were what others rearranged to accommodate powerful entities such as Simon.

A uniformed military officer appeared suddenly and barked at the gathered group. Michael resisted the urge to jump, though he was sure his gray/green eyes bulged a little.

“You ‘robes’ step to my left, ‘suits’ line up to my right. Let’s go, people! I want to get out of this sun-blasted city.”

A wealthy man addressed Michael with panicky concern, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you get one of these? It told me nothing but where and when to come. I don’t think they’re planning to hand out flight coupons. Do you?”

The man waved an ominous document, fancy parchment bearing the official seal of the Governor of New York. Michael shook his head and stepped back, distancing himself from the order. Wildly he searched for escape.

‘This can’t be good. Perhaps Simon made a mistake,’ he thought desperately.

Simon didn’t make mistakes. Michael, feeling dizzy, took another step and prepared to turn. Only athletic grace saved him when he knocked blindly into another man. Large hands clasped his upper arms. Turned in the strong grip, he nearly attacked his captor with practiced fight skills before Simon’s nearly black eyes swam into focus above a white-pinstriped, brown scarf.

“It’s okay, Michael. Don’t be afraid.”

“What’s going on? I want to go home,” Michael demanded, regretting the childish tone.

“We will. Soon. I promise. We just need to turn in your ring, first.”

“What?! You can’t be serious! When you gave this to me you said never to take it off, Simon.”

Unwillingly led by Simon’s steady gait and set mouth, Michael found himself facing the soldier. Horrified eyes recognized bolt cutters in the fellow’s hands.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Montague,” the officer assured Simon past his shoulder. “We won’t harm him. This is just in case some folks can’t remove their jewelry.”

“But…”

“Perhaps I will need the cutters,” the man said, oddly amused. “Mr. Montague?”

“Of course not! He wouldn’t cut your finger, just the iron, Michael. But give him the ring. It’s to support the war effort. I have to set a good example for the rest of New York. Would you rather donate blood like the less fortunate?”

“What? No! But…”

“Now. No argument. Here. Put this on in its place. It matches your eyes better, anyway.”

Smiling, Simon cupped Michael’s hanging jaw. His other palm opened upward to offer a ring of tiny, interlocking emeralds. Without another word Michael slipped off the band inscribed boldly with the letters “SM”. The new ring didn't need those initials to proclaim ownership and it fit his slender finger much like his heart in Simon's hands.

“See, Michael? I always take care of what is mine.”

~the end~

It's Friday! Time for a quick fix of fantasy.

Kitsune

Sudden brightness tickled Kama’s nose and the sun forced a sneeze from her slender snout. Feeling a tug upon one of her seven tails, she lashed it good-naturedly. Tsuki wrinkled his tiny muzzle around the mouthful of her fur with mock ferocity.

Bounding from the dark den, older sister Shumi imitated their mother with a perfect miniature of the vixen’s sneeze. Kama proudly admired the female kit. Her girl-child already sported two tails. Was that the start of a third? Shumi just might take after her very wise father. Tori had gained the full compliment of nine far ahead of adulthood. Why couldn’t his daughter?

Tsuni yelped, obviously noting his mother’s admiration of older Shumi. Without a doubt, his playful call begged for Kama’s notice. She felt a surge of guilt and looked toward her young son. Single-tailed and simple, her boy deserved no less love or approval.

Kama watched Tsuni dart between clusters of wildflowers. Her eyes were newly appraising. Diminutive paws were sure, Tsuni’s flight swift and agile.

The rueful mother fox took on a playful stance. As she prepared for the chase, a figure on the horizon stopped her. A sharp call to her kits sent them scurrying for home.

A mysterious man approached, the unfriendly wind carrying all useful scent away from Kama and her babies. Did he mean them harm? Or had he come out of respect? Before she could decide on a course of action, the unmistakable fan of Tori’s tails thrilled her to the core. The rejoicing vixen leapt to welcome her Reynard, the unexpected return bittersweet.

Tori was home. But for how long?

Their Lord Inari didn’t often dismiss his kitsune servants short of five decades. Nor did he normally grant temporary leave for these vital messengers. Yet here stood her beloved Tori in the flesh, resplendent in this particular human form, and far short of completing fifty years.

Standing upright, she reached delicate fingers toward his strong face. Kama spoke the only thought she could voice.

“How?”

“I have wonderful news, dearest Kama. Inari has sent me to begin training our little Tsuki. He is to be Inari’s right hand in a mere thousand years.”

With that most unanticipated blessing ringing in her ears, Kama watched the large fox run toward his children. Her husband’s golden fur shone, gilded to brilliance by the spring rays.

~the end~

Flash Fiction Mini Ficlets

Today a talented acquaintance told me of an interesting contest. A clever gal is offering prizes for her favorite short story from contributors.

Did I say short? Try 40 words. The theme is "seize the day". I thought I'd share what this challenge inspired.

But first, here's the link if you'd care to give it a try: Head Above Water

My three stories follow. I hope you enjoy these untitled snippets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.

The stuttering boy’s vocal exercise ran through the nervous man’s mind like a mantra. He could do this. He knew his presentation. He needed the promotion.

_________________

Rain again. Walking along, drenched, he missed the weather of his mountain village, thunderstorms rumbling through snow-filled valleys. Why had he ever left? Then he looked at the sign announcing his art exhibit. Maybe rain wasn’t so bad after all.

_________________

“Let’s see,” she said aloud to herself. “Pickled eggs, fried chicken, potato chips, chocolate truffles, and wine. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Let’s hope they’re right.”

Sarah lifted the picnic basket, shoulders squared.

Flash Fiction Friday

The Barter

“Are you listening to me? Or are you just waiting for your turn to speak?”

Varton turned his head with a scowl. He wouldn’t even honor that with a reply. Bester knew better.

Better, best. Had he been anyone else, Varton would have laughed at the pun.

“Hand me the Shimadzu.”

Bester huffed. Sure, the HPLC analysis was important. And Var knew his stuff when it came to selecting the best chromatographer for the job. He lost his train of thought, though, just as he’d expected. They’d been using the Phenomenex and he had to sort through the contents of the shelf to find the Japanese model.

“Here. Now, where was I?”

“You’d just gotten Teradezara’s number when you realized that your girlfriend saw the whole thing.”

“Oh, right. You were listening.”

Varton grunted. Practiced fingers turned on the helium valve.

“Anyway, there I was. Shana looked like you could cook a Terzian egg on her forehead. So I told her Tera had asked for the name of Shana’s hairdresser. It instantly changed her tune, let me tell you.”

“Read that.”

“Is that right?”

“So you’re seeing what I’m seeing? Time to call in the diggers,” Varton rumbled. “Soon you’ll be able to afford Terzian eggs for Shana, Teradezara, and any of your other conquests.”

Bester’s silence told more about the magnitude of their find than Varton’s flippant remark. Not many things left the tech speechless. Impossible riches on the planet below proved to be one. He wouldn’t be complaining about share percentages for the haul from now on. They’d be set for life when they returned home, especially with annuities compounding during cryo-sleep.

The first diggers the corporation sent were manned. That decision proved to be a tragic mistake and each employee’s speculative earnings increased to absurd proportions. In addition, the bereaved families would be awarded a stipend for their loss.

If, that is, the company could find a way to mine the rich veins of Planet 37926.

Or, as they were being asked to call it, 010010. And the humans quickly learned not to shorten the “zero” to “oh”. A major oversight costing nearly a hundred lives did not need to be compounded.

The first misstep had been taken by early surveyors, who’d indulged in foolish shortcuts. These statisticians had assumed the evidence of some ancient civilization was strictly that – ancient. That had always translated to abandonment. At least it had in the past. Nobody knew to check for nonorganic life forms. No digital or radio signal or heat signature alerted anyone.

Formal negotiations began at once. The Prime, who had no use for Tantun, nevertheless expected to be richly compensated for those resources. They did have a use for water, which had long ago evaporated from the planet’s surface. By the Prime’s estimation, three hundred twenty-one more of the invading organic life forms would yield what they needed to rebuild their world.

Varton and Bester decided all Prime looked alike. For all intents and purposes they not only shared appearance but were literally interchangeable. Address one, address the entire population of 010010. The two lowly techs also agreed that they’d rather be poor the rest of their priceless little lives than hand over walking, breathing beings meant to save lives in a medical emergency.

It was a no-brainer, Bester kept repeating as a mantra. Varton voted to leave. Unfortunately, the ship’s CEO did not preside over a democracy and the company’s bottom line trumped compassion. Cloning units cranked into high gear and the price was met in just under one Standard Galactic month. Superstition ran rampant through the men and women watching mirror likenesses march to their doom.

Mining didn’t take much beyond another month, even with the discontented rumblings of those doing the work. They wanted out of that sector of space as soon as humanly possible. Everyone on board the commercial vessel was exceedingly glad to leave 010010 and its frighteningly alien inhabitants far behind.

Three years later, with her crew waking from stasis, the George Washington V arrived home. The storage capacity nearly exceeded legal limits, every nook and cranny laden with valuable Tantun.

Groggy and stunned to silence, the five hundred nineteen souls on board looked at nothing. Where earth had once spun they found only a void. An ominous electronic blip appeared on the radar, setting off alarms that echoed all through the metal halls of the lightly armed trawler.

“Crap, Bester,” said Varton.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

~the end~

Flash Fiction Friday

Woodsworth’s Bad Day

Woodsworth looked up at the sky and assessed the probability of rain. There were clouds, not unexpectedly, but they appeared thin compared to recent days. He decided it would be worth the risk of getting wet to crawl out of this hole he’d dug for himself.

Seasonal Affective Disorder had kept his head down far too long. Even his home had felt damp and close. Maybe if he got some fresh air his winter blues would abate a little. It wouldn’t hurt to try. And who could say he wouldn’t run into a chatty neighbor while out and about? That would be a welcome change of pace from the perpetual solitude.

In fact, wasn’t that “Muddy” Jackson sticking his head out just down the way? Woodsworth hadn’t had a chance to catch up with that old so-and-so since late summer. He felt kind of guilty, truth be told. “Muddy” had been in an accident before the first leaves fell and remained housebound ever since, apparently until just now. He should have visited. The eccentric character looked warily about as if afraid the hit and run perpetrator might still be lurking.

Perhaps they could spend a few minutes shooting the breeze to bolster each other’s spirits. Soon enough, bad weather was sure to send Woodsworth scurrying back to earth. He never had liked winter. Just seeing “Muddy” notice him and wave in response cheered the younger fellow. Woodsworth happily quickened his pace.

A friendly face would be just the tonic for a weary soul. When that kindly expression changed to horror, all Woodsworth could do was look up. He’d foolishly exposed himself before another glance at the sky.

Was it a crow? Perhaps the very one that had very nearly eaten “Muddy”? The damage had been bad, that beak doing almost more damage than the aged worm could regenerate from. Woodsworth braced himself and hoped to be so lucky. But the soft soil inches away was at his back and he didn’t see so much as a leaf under which he could try and hide.

*splat*

The driver of the sedan parked and started to reach for his umbrella. He laughed upon realizing his error. For the first time in days he didn’t need to dodge the blasted rain.

Wrinkling his nose, he barely avoided stepping on a flattened worm. Why did the little buggers always seem to litter the pavement at this time of year? Whatever the reason, it sure didn’t seem good for the health of that poor wriggler.

~the end~

Author’s note: I hope you enjoyed my silly ficlet, based on the sight of a parking lot after days of rain.

Flash Fiction Friday

TIME

Nineteen-year-old Shelley Foster should not have even been allowed into this nightclub, not on New Year’s Eve. The sign was clearly posted outside the door. Four years older, Ray Watts did what he could to please his fiery vixen. Hence he’d given in, telling himself that there would be no trouble as long as she didn’t drink. He suspected that the bouncer had knowingly overlooked her lack of ID simply because she was gorgeous.

The doorman’s policy was time-honored. Beautiful people were good for business. Promote drink specials on “ladies’ night” and single men would flock to the joint. The guys would spend a fortune on liquid courage in hopes of successfully approaching the fairer sex.

And Shelley certainly qualified as fair. Her dress, a white clinging sheath, shimmered in the strobing lights. A long fringe accentuating the low V-neck matched the angled hem of her skirt. The strands were never still as she danced, writhing and twirling with pure joy. Ray enjoyed the sensual moves they shared. Yet he battled mixed feelings of pride, desire, and insecurity; he could see every man in the place unapologetically gawking. She saw, too; of this he had no doubt. His girl ate up this kind of attention.

It was an inevitable plight. Whenever he took her dancing a little voice in the back of his mind warned that, this time, she wouldn’t be leaving with him.

Roy ignored the voice and begged Shelley for a rest from the constant bump and grind. He wanted to save energy for later, not wear himself out dancing. She refused, snorting softly at his argument and shooing him off as she continued to dance. Needing to catch his breath and wet his whistle, Ray ordered a beer. He didn’t care for alcohol, disapproved of its affects, but felt out-of-place ordering another plain cola. He’d raised the bartender’s brows once, already.

The DJ played up to Shelley’s boundless enthusiasm, searching out some song that would make her stop. He hadn’t found it yet. Then the young man saw the other guy’s face light up. He had an idea, apparently. Ray secretly cheered him on. Anything to get all that shining skin and flowing hair out of the spotlight would make him one very happy dude.

He’d begun to get agitated with his lack of confidence. He realized that blue eyes had turned stormy when he caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Ray hid his anger and tried to laugh at a patron’s crude compliment. The jerk was drunk, leering at Ray’s girl. He wanted to punch him in the face. Happy Shelley, on the other hand, fit in just fine with the New Year’s revelers. She always fit in.

The drum beat faded and Shelley froze, clearly anticipating a challenge. Her chest heaving, the bright smile widened to display the fang-like eyeteeth that first attracted Ray to the underage girl four years earlier.

Discordant, familiar chimes filled the smoky room to announce a track from Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” album. Shelley laughed, voluptuous hips swaying as she strutted toward Ray.

Finally, he thought. Even she can’t dance to “Time”.

She took the glass from his hand and tilted the amber liquid toward painted lips. Their shade matched her nails, all twenty. Shelley drained the beer and, grabbing Ray by the wrist, led him toward the center of the empty floor.

“Time”, Ray recalled, had been danceable after all. He shook his head and toasted to 2010 with a roomful of friends. His wife looked at him, curiosity sparkling in her eyes, as he took a sip of ginger ale.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing, Janie. Just wondering where the time goes.”

Flash Fiction Friday

The Flight of Rac’na

The birds rose in a wave and the little boy stopped, attention rapt. They looked more like a giant wing than their individual counterparts. Beautiful, yes; also annoying for the delay they were causing. What was it about flocks? Rac’na couldn’t understand why they fascinated her little brother so. He would never fly.

“Come on, Ef’nel. We’re going to be late to class if you keep stopping to gawk at the sky like a baby.”

“I’m not a baby, Rac! And what do you care, anyway? You hate your teacher.”

“It’s not Sha T’lata I hate,” she replied crossly.

“Well, I really like Sha Vrock and I still don’t care if we’re late. It’s not every day the birds flock so close to the school,” he persisted. “You’re no fun, anymore.”

“You’re right, Ef. I’m sorry. I know how much you adore them.”

“Thanks, Rac,” the boy replied in pleased surprise.

She didn’t often concede to his whims; when she did it was heartfelt. Rac’na really did love the kid. He deserved better than her constant grumpiness of late. The thing annoying her was not him but the scholastic setback she faced at Tellnek Village. While she missed big city excitement with her sophisticated friends, needlessly repeating infantile lessons stung the worst.

The young sorceress should have had her first flight by now. At that thought Rac’na turned her golden eyes up to the sky. A piece of her heavy heart lifted at an inspired notion. Perhaps if she applied herself they would accelerate her to the next class level. Even in this backwater town her family’s proud matriarchy should have plenty of influence. Her father had simply been too busy establishing trade to think of it. She smiled toward the heavens for the first time in a long while.

“Who’s gawking now, baby?”

His tease shook loose the last of a lingering torpor. Poisonous vexation slipped away like water off feathers. Swatting her little brother’s arm, Rac’na giggled uncharacteristically. She decided in the moment to become that fun and silly sister he used to know. Her first flight could be delayed for another year for all she cared. Ef’nel would never be eleven cycles old again. She needed to enjoy his youth before her hormones matured and they were separated by more than age.

Often, transition to full-flight status temporarily mutated a simple girl into a terror to her kin. Was solemn and moody how Rac’na wanted to be remembered after she and her sibling were forbidden contact?

The answer was a resounding no. Sometimes the young woman’s actions during the manic phase created an impossible rift on their own. She would do her best to safeguard against that. Rac’na swerved from their path, letting whim guide swift, lightened steps. She called for him to chase her and darted toward a nearby park.

As she ran, Rac’na heard her brother’s cry of excitement and alarm. Why did his voice seem so scared? Why would it be muffled?

“Ef?” She turned to look back and screamed, “Ef’nel!”

“Rac! Save me!”

With horror, Rac’na realized that these weren’t the harmless flock they’d thought themselves to be admiring. These birds were the fierce flesh-eaters. These were Naroc. What were they doing this close to civilization? It didn’t matter at the moment.

Before the girl could imagine a plan to help him, she felt her feet lifting from the gravel walkway. Rac’na looked down and realized that she didn’t need spells to reach the sky. Her love for her brother had done that. She soared, ecstatic in her newfound ability. Raging hormones guided her vicious beak and dagger-like talons.

The Naroc who failed to escape fell before her terrible wrath. Red speckled her snow-white plumage as she settled to the ground. Where once had been a sinister congregation was now nothing but gore and feathers. Ef’nel lifted one huge quill in awe. Then, ecstatically, the young boy raced behind his sister’s straight flight for home.

A woman now, Rac’na was still his big sis. He could hardly wait for the praise of Sha Vrock and his classmates. First, though, he looked forward to a grand celebration. Ef’nel hoped to stuff himself on Rac’s honeyed brittle. Her joyful song promised him all he could eat.

~the end~

Author's note: I saw starlings flocking on my drive home one day. The next thing I knew, Rac'na came into existence to fight them off. Please let me know what you thought of my whimsical tale. And happy Friday!

Flash Fiction Friday

Who Says You Can Never Go Home Again?

Michael raised the numbered panel with the hope that Simon wouldn’t notice. He kept his hand low, hopefully out of sight from the refreshment table. He had promised not to buy any more art, reluctantly agreeing to bid on nothing but furniture.

Simon did have a valid point, as a few months prior Michael had been forced to rotate the pieces hanging in their apartment. Otherwise, the walls became too cluttered. And those in storage were admittedly taking over the spare room already. But something in the pastoral piece really spoke to him. “Farm Girl with Rake” was just too tempting. He’d make it up to his man later, when and if he won lot 26.

Though the field beyond the youth didn’t look anything like his childhood home in South Africa, the serene expression on her face brought those happy days very much to mind. And suddenly he knew why. The young woman looked almost exactly like his late mother.

Granted, what he could see of her hair lacked the metallic sheen. But the sky appeared cloudy and the bonnet covering her head kept the upswept locks mostly hidden. So that could be her shade, the same copper curling from beneath the brim of Michael’s fedora.

More importantly, the subject’s sweet face displayed the strong Dutch heritage his Mama’s had shown. Embarrassingly, the unexpected recognition made his eyes sting.

“Do I hear ¥35,000,000? Thank you, sir. ¥40,000,000?”

Vision blurring, Michael blindly lifted his paddle to bid against his unknown rival. He pretended to have something in his eye, though he knew Simon would never be fooled if he saw.

An unexpected competitive side emerged as the figure soared to a ridiculously high sum of yen. And still he bid, and still the total grew.

“¥95,000,000? Wonderful. Your generosity is appreciated, sir.”

At this rate Michael feared he would be serving Simon nothing but rice and noodles for dinner. Then again, he reminded himself proudly, Simon’s firm ran their own hydroponics gardens. What was he worried about? Well, other than potentially ticking off the love of his life.

Where was Simon? Though rapidfire, the bidding war had continued to the point he surely should have finished his tea by now. But the fundraiser’s sponsor still hadn’t returned to his reserved seat. Michael wondered if the man had stepped into the outer hall to take an important call or something. He’d better come back soon or Michael’s personal savings would be forfeit. All he’d need to do was give his patented “Stop right now, Michael” look to end this.

He saw the dark suit come into his peripheral vision first. Michael looked up and dropped his numbered sign contritely. The face didn’t display the telltale glower. Instead, strong features had softened lovingly and Simon held the victorious paddle aloft and faced the auctioneer.

“Sold! For ¥95,000,000.”

“Let’s go home, Michael. I know just the place to hang it.”

~the end~

Author's Note: This was inspired by a lovely painting of a young girl carrying a primitive rake. A talented acquaintance of a friend captured true beauty in the old-fashioned, pastoral scene. This ficlet features characters from a science fiction tale and was my contribution to the picture prompt challenge on our Artist's Retreat. I hope you enjoyed it.

Flash Fiction Friday

Christmas Balls

The stainless steel bucket clattered to the table on top of the Christmas cards he’d promised to help write. Was this my gift? Golf balls! What was he thinking?

“Merry Christmas, baby!”

“Another bid to get me to join you on the course,” I griped. “You have really outdone yourself, Sean.”

I didn’t understand why he was so insistent that I play the dumb sport. Most guys clamber to get away from the girls. My boyfriend thinks we should be attached at the hip.

He had no hope of making me give up that rare free-time alone. Those afternoons he did go out with the guys were precious, the few times I could blast industrial music and read or write to my heart’s content.

“Don’t be mad,” he begged with that adorable pout tugging out his full bottom lip. “I’ll help you finish addressing the envelopes as soon as you open your gift.”

It looked pretty “open” to me all ready. At least he’d saved money, obviously having collected this assorted lot from the public course he frequented.

“I don’t know," I protested, objection softening. “These need to go out tomorrow or they’ll be late. We really don’t have time for you to tell me the virtues of every one. I can see you worked hard gathering them and I do find it sweet, babe. It’s just a bad time.”

Every time was bad these days, truth be told. We clashed over money at every turn.

“Okay,” he seemingly yielded. “You’re going to make this difficult. Can’t you be like most girls and figure out there’s more than meets the eye? Maybe I’ve hidden something inside.”

“Like what?”

“You’re supposed to want to look and find out. The present is sort of a two-parter. Or par two, if you will.”

“Ha, ha, very funny.” I continued to complain, “So what’s the first part? That you have my first day’s supply to get me through a game?”

“No, silly. These are for me, actually. No more spending our money on new. Promise,” he stated disarmingly.

“Oh.”

“So. Dig in! There’s a secret hidden inside.”

“Okay. Okay,” I couldn’t help replying with a laugh.

He really did irritate me sometimes. Equally, I couldn’t see living without him. Despite myself, I grew vaguely intrigued.

Maybe he put a nice pen set at the bottom. Or could it be a reservation to that writing seminar I’d had to forgo for silly things like, oh, rent?

No. That was not possible. He’d been laid off from real, steady employment for longer than either of us cared to consider.

He surprised me by adding something else to the tabletop. He had a stack of egg cartons. What was this?

“You can put these in as you pull them out of the bucket. That way there won’t be my crap lying all over the place,” he suggested comically. “I know how you hate that.”

“You are a clever boy. Have I ever told you that?”

“Only every time I make you grind your teeth in ecstasy,” he taunted.

With a lurid eye roll I pulled out the first of many dimpled spheres. Sean hinted that I needed to look at each with a little bit of interest.

“Every one? There must be dozens!”

“Don’t worry. It’ll be obvious, but the secret is actually part of one of them. I had Ralph mix them up before we poured them in from a box. That way we’re both in suspense.

“Okay,” I assented.

Glancing at each in turn, I soon filled up the first carton. Halfway through the second, a seam through the middle made apparent this object's difference.

I held it up triumphantly, wondering what could possible be contained within. Not a ring, I hoped. He should know we couldn’t afford a wedding.

Even a small one seemed unobtainable done the way my mother would approve. I shook the orb, relieved at a lack of metallic rattle.

“Open it.”

“Okay.”

He admitted to additional assistance from Ralph. His buddy had used his woodworking tools in a most unorthodox manner to drill out the center. The halves came apart much like a ring box and I held my breath.

Inside was a wadded scrap of paper. What in the world was this?

“Read it.”

Scanning the tiny print, I easily read over the crinkled surface. A squeal escaped my lips.

“You got the job! The one you’ve been losing sleep over!”

“Yes,” he concurred slyly. “And after you get back from your writing seminar next spring we can be married, if you’ll have me.”

From a pocket he held a purple box of velvet. This one had a very prominent stamp from a local jeweler.

“Yes,” I answered, rising to kiss him.

~the end~

Flash Fiction Friday

This is a brief follow-on the my ficlet "Unflinching" though I like to think it stands alone. I hope you enjoy whether you read the original or not...

Flinching

I look at the summoning court clerk with heavily lidded eyes. I try to look bored. My brother is dead. So what? I have no reason to lie or in any way act like I loved the guy. Hell, everyone in our platoon hates him. I mean, used to hate him. Sometimes I still can’t believe he’s dead. Sometimes I still can’t believe I killed the SOB. I can still hear the last words he said to me.

“Just promise you’ll kill the rest of these piece-of-shit Martian bugs, T…,” he stuttered at the end as he died, unable to say my name.

Tazz. I always hated the rhyming nickname, saddled on me by a drill instructor when Razz and I were in boot camp together on Earth. We had our moments. But boot camp days ended a long time ago. And from that fateful day on Mars soil I became T. Just plain T. Our new leader decided it the moment he heard the initial stammered from a dead man’s lips. I suppose I could have done worse for a tag. I could be dead as a result of many follow-on campaigns. But dead or alive, right now I need to focus and try to relax.

Why is the army even bothering with this? We’re at war! The weapon that killed Razz was bug technology, so I’m not really a suspect. I concentrate on breathing, feeling sort of disconnected from my body as I walk to the interrogation chair. The seat is still warm from the last occupant. My pal Comet, acting the opposite of what his name suggests, sat in this one spot for over an hour defending the simple truth that none of our soldiers had seen the shooter. Nobody had witnessed the fatal attack on our former commander.

I can do no less. After all, we’re brothers in arms. And if the truth gets out we’ll all be in a world of hurt. Though I looked through the scope that day and pulled the trigger, we all signed the death warrant. I’d simply been the poor jerk who drew the short straw. Any one of us could have been assigned the task and every one of us to a man would have followed through.

“Sergeant McMillan,” the woman barks, “is it true that you stood by your brother as his life slipped away?”

Why’d she have to put it like that? I square my jaw and blink slowly, trying even harder to look nonchalant. “Yeah,” I drawl.

“In fact, you were there for several minutes before his last breath. Isn’t that right? Records state that you didn’t radio for help. Is that true? You were that certain he was doomed. Tell us about how you came to that conclusion, Sergeant McMillan.”

“He died trying to say my name,” I answer, clearing my throat. The sound echoes in the chamber, a quiet space despite a crowd of coconspirators and superiors. “T was all he managed to get out before he died or I’d probably still be known as Tazz.”

“And what was he trying to say?”

“Objection,” her lawfully appointed opponent booms so that I jump. “This is irrelevant to proceedings. It’s a private moment between a decorated war hero and his dying brother.”

Lieutenant Smith had been hand chosen to stand before this tribunal because he’s lawful and tenacious. He is not, however, impartial. The only other besides me who knows details of Smith's identity is my current commander, who stepped into the combat boots of Razz McMillan that day two years ago. Razz’s first wife, Sharleen, is survived by a baby brother Razz never had the pleasure of meeting. Sharleen had been abused physically and mentally before big, bad Razz found religion and a new wife. Whatever. I always doubted the religion bit.

But I can’t help but glumly recall the look on Becka’s face when she called me after hearing about Razz. He had been pretty good to his new family, apparently. But I can’t think about that now. I keep my gaze like flint on the female officer appraising me.

“Next case,” the presiding general announces.

Dismissed, I rise stiffly from the chair. My muscles don’t want to work right, as if I’ve been trapped in that chair for hours instead of a few minutes. My too-tight dress shoes, once property of Ray “Razz” McMillan, click loudly as I stride steadily from the military hearing room on Earth.

I'm on Earth. It's surreal. Most of us spacer grunts never get invited back. Razz would be proud, whatever the reason.

Reaching the hall, I barely acknowledge the congratulatory men gathering in the hall. It seems we’ve been cleared of any possible charges. The fervent investigations of this current regime won’t touch us. I expect we'll be leaving Earth's atmo by this time tomorrow. I'm glad. There are too many memories here.

I keep moving toward the nearest public bathroom. Breakfast, it seems, wants to come back up. Just keep walking, Tazz.

The end

Friday Flash Fiction

Unflinching

As battlefields go it wasn’t so different from any through the centuries. Heavy rain fell, had fallen for hours, mixing blood and mud into gory sludge. Tazz stood over his brother with arms crossed, legs spread for balance or fatigue would take him to his knees beside the dying man.

“You didn’t flinch,” Razz noted approvingly. “It’s about time you fight like a man instead of a frightened little girl.”

There was a reason for the nickname, the elder McDyver brother notoriously hard on his sibling. In fact, Razz had been slated for death long before by his whole platoon. Tazz, saddled with the rhyming name thanks to a smartass drill sergeant, had simply drawn the short straw the week before.

“I finally had a worthy target,” Tazz countered after a long moment. ‘What else should I suspect? Of course he’ll be a smartass to the end,’ he thought to himself.

Razz blinked the rainwater from his eyes, wincing as if even that hurt. Perhaps it did. Tazz doubted he could feel much of anything, though. He wished the smarmy son-of-a-bitch would die, already.

His head was the only thing that he could move, now. Vision graying, Razz figured his time was just about up. Simply sorry he wouldn’t see his wife again, the man didn’t fret over the cause of his demise. He’d never expected to die in a rocking chair. Friendly fire or not, one bullet was as good as the next. The ever-demanding man prided himself on not having tried to stuff his guts back in. Something about his brother’s eyes had told him help would not be summoned before credit for the shot had been taken.

“Just promise you’ll kill the rest of these piece-of-shit Martian bugs, T…,” the dead man said with his last breath.

Another soldier approached, the unexpected hand on Tazz’s shoulder not quite making him jump. ‘Razz would be proud,’ he thought angrily. ‘Unflinching. I’m finally becoming like him.’

“Come on, T. There’s nothing more to see here,” the new platoon leader asserted.

“What did you call me?”

“T, man; I called you T. I heard Razz. It’s your new name. Now come on. We got to hump our gear over the next hill. There’s bugs to squash.”

The end

Flash Friday

More Than Meets the Eye - Rated PG

“Wow!”

I couldn’t help myself, the wheelchair-bound man hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he could run as wolf. I couldn’t imagine how his animal form enjoyed complete motor function while his human shape remained crippled. For that matter, I knew someone who had grown back a severed limb after lycanthropy infection, which made me wonder why Howler couldn’t heal similarly. Granted, his accident had been the decade prior. There just seemed to be something more to his situation.

Though I’d only known him for a few hours, he’d shared a lot of himself. This candidness and Howler’s intrepid nature had charmed me into his bed like some kind of spell. At least that’s what I told myself. It made me feel a little better about being so easy. I’d only discovered an interest in the same sex recently and took pride in being a one-man guy, even if it was technically an open relationship.

I thought about Howler’s expressed attitude toward disability. The boy, Seth, had been born healthy to a rich family: the first-born, his parents’ golden child. By his own account they’d rallied around him as opposed to treating him like a dirty secret, determined Seth could still have a fulfilling life. The young man had instead turned his back on any help that money offered, forsaken his heritage, and abandoned all his father’s plans for a beloved son. They’d lost contact with Seth long before the werewolf attack transformed him into Howler.

The only thing he’d accepted from them had been the van. He was independent, not stupid. His battered vehicle wore the thousands of hard miles more heavily than its owner. Howler thrived on his nomadic lifestyle.

It was as if his studied devil-may-care attitude not only stemmed from his injuries, the injuries themselves had created the completely intrepid person I was quickly growing to admire. This beautiful wolf before me represented almost a split personality, I decided. I’d heard of people who looked differently and had varied physical strengths depending on which personality prevailed at the time. How was this any different? Mind over matter.

The dark creature growled impatiently. I couldn’t blame him. If I enjoyed running as wolf, how much more desirous was the freedom when the man couldn’t even stand unaided? But my desire would force him to wait at least another moment. I stroked his flank, my hand nearly vanishing in the plush coat. Pawing the ground communicated more plainly than words. Ignoring the message, I rubbed my cheek in the ruff at his neck. I trailed my hand down his chest to toy with the lighter patch there.

We were nuts to transform right beside the hotel. But if he already had how could I back out? Besides, there were deer on these dunes. And I wanted meat for breakfast.

He turned his head and nipped my elbow playfully. I thought of what square teeth had done to my neck and shoulder earlier, the remembered sensation making me shiver in the cool morning air. Fangs pinched again and I laughed.

“All right. You win. One four-legged Ryan coming right up.”

I’d sort out where all this might lead after our run. What werewolf didn’t think better on a full stomach?

The end