Flash Me Friday

Today’s flash is based on three pieces I wrote for my writing group, the Northumberland Scribes. We meet twice a month and at each meeting someone suggests a topic for the next meeting. We’re limited to 150 words, which is not as easy as it sounds. The following is an expanded version of three of these prompts that just seemed to flow naturally together – the body in the road; the face in the window; and the shadow at the door.


Triptych

As if expecting her, the white lace curtain on the attic window was already pulled back. She had come up here hoping the view would have some how changed, but no, she hadn’t imagined it. The body was still lying in the road, lit up by the street light like the show piece for an expensive museum collection.

This meant she hadn’t imagined the rest of it either – the screech of tires on the pavement, the grinding crash of the car hitting the body and the thud of the body falling to the pavement; the smell of decaying leaves overpowered by the acrid smell of burning rubber as the car sped away. No, she hadn’t imagined any of it.

Slowly she made her way back down to the kitchen. She stared at the phone for a moment before reaching out, unsurprised when her hand passed right through it. Turning with a sigh, she wondered how long it would be before she was discovered.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Jace was at the donut shop on the corner of 7th and 10th when the call came in. Reluctantly, he left his coffee and half-eaten cruller behind and hurried out into the cool, autumn night.

Flashing blue and red lights strobed through the dark, illuminating the body lying motionless on the road.

“Looks like a hit and run,” one of the officers told him when he arrived.

“Anybody know who she is?” Jace asked, reporter’s notebook flipped open, pen poised to start writing.

“She lived over there,” the officer pointed. “Looks like she got hit crossing the street.”

He glanced over at the crumbling Victorian house. Movement from an upstairs window caught his attention. A face briefly appeared in the attic window, then pulled back again.

“Have the next of kin been informed?”

“No one to inform. She lived in that big old house by herself.”

Jace felt a shiver run up his spine.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The house had always been a dream of his. He’d been out of town the first time it went up for sale; it was snatched up so quickly the ‘For Sale’ sign barely had enough time to go up before it was down again. How had a middle-aged spinster been able to afford it, all on her own?

He went out of his way to be nice to her, to make friends with her. Little did she know he was just pumping her for information, looking for something he could use against her. Too bad she was such a law abiding citizen.

She was alone in the world. No family, no relatives. He bided his time and when the opportunity presented itself, he took it. While the police and the gawkers were huddled around the body in the road, he was busy scrubbing the blood off his fender.

Afterwards, he walked past the house every day, waiting for it to go up for sale again. He ignored the face that sometimes appeared in the window – it was probably just a trick of the light – just as today he ignored the shadow at the door. This was his house now.

Flash Me Friday

It’s the end of the week and I freely admit that I’m running low on creative juice. A couple of the photos I have in my flash prompt archives elicited a flicker of interest, but not really enough to get going on a story. So I posed the question on Facebook: What should I write about?

The lovely Dolly Garland suggested: Write about an employee who turns into a zombie and murders colleagues.

My good friend Pat Davidson suggested: Take Dolly's idea and set it in a place like where we used to work.

And Adam Slade AKA the Newfie Newbie suggested: Ninjas. Eeeeevil ninjas.

So, I pondered these suggestions, and I realized that the zombie theme worked well with my previous employment as a call centre drone, as anyone who’s ever worked in a call centre can tell you. And Ninjas, yeah, I could see Ninjas fitting in. To populate this oh-so-serious story, I drew my characters from both my writing friends and friends I made while working at the call centre. I tried to include as many I could, but there just wasn’t room for you all. :-)

Here’s the result:

Call Centre Zombie Apocalypse

Dolly juggled the two stacked take-out trays of Tim Horton’s coffee she was carrying so she could swipe her pass key through the first of the two security doors. The red light turned to green and she wrestled the door open, then swiped her way through the second security door.

Three steps into the vast cavern of the call centre she stopped abruptly. What the hell?

“Dolly! Hey Dolly, over here!” Amanda waved frantically from several rows down.

With another glance at the black clad figures sitting her regular row, Dolly continued down to where her friends were now sitting and started passing out coffees and lattes, making sure Adam got his extra large steeped tea.

“So who are those guys dressed in black sitting in our row?”

“Dead meat, that’s who!” Kahley said, taking her double double and inhaling the steam.

“I heard they’re Ninjas,” Heidi said as she typed furiously, trying to fill out all the required forms before her call ended.

Dolly looked at Jamie, the calming influence of the group.

“All I know is, it’s Comcast Cable technical support, like us, but it’s a new campaign,” she said, putting her phone on mute. “It’s all very hush hush.”

Leanne slid into her seat and popped the top off her latte. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said, taking a sip. “Those bee-atches are getting paid $10 an hour more than we are.”

There was dead silence in the row as everyone turned to look at her.

Amanda was the first to speak. “Ten. Freaking. Dollars! You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Nope,” Leanne shook her head as she logged into her phone. “And they don’t have to work weekends. Just because they’re Ninjas.”

“No way!” Pat said, ‘accidentally’ losing her call.

“Told you they were Ninjas,” Heidi said smugly.

“There’s only one thing we can do,” Yvonne advised.

Beside her, Sarah nodded solemnly. “Mamma Jo.”

“Mamma Jo,” Amanda agreed.

“Mamma Jo,” Adam said with a slight shiver.

“Who’s Mamma Jo?” Dolly asked. She was the newest member of the team, which was why she was the one sent on the coffee runs.

Pat lowered her voice to answer. “She used to be our supervisor before she was let go under mysterious circumstances. Now she’s a Voodoo priestess.”

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

“You all are sure about this?” Mamma Jo asked. To look at her you would think she was just a regular, motherly type of person. Which, of course, was just the way she wanted it. In reality she was the most powerful Voodoo priestess in all of Ontario.

“They took our row,” Amanda said.

“They’re allowed to wear those black uniforms,” Pat added.

“They’re getting paid more than we are,” Yvonne said grimly.

“Have you seen their shoes?” Sarah asked with a shudder. “Can we say, ewww?”

“All right,” Mamma Jo said. “I’ll help you. But it’s going to cost you. How much have you got?”

The team members looked at each other.

“We were kind of hoping you’d do it for old time’s sake,” Kahley said.

“You think chicken feet and voodoo dolls come cheap? Come back when you’re ready to talk money.”

“You know where we work,” Pat reminded her. “We’re never going to have the money.”

Mamma Jo heaved a sigh. “Tell you what I can do. I can turn the ninja team into zombies. But I’ll need something to focus their zombie rage on. Any ideas?”

Adam grinned his most evil grin. “How about Comcast cable customers?”

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Two weeks later the team, plus Mamma Jo, were camped out on the flat roof top of the building the call centre was housed in. Fortunately, they’d had enough time to lay in supplies, mostly tequila and Zesty Cheese Doritos.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Mamma Jo admitted.

“It’s not your fault,” Yvonne said. “And it’s not like they’re going after everyone, just anyone connected to Comcast.”

“Yeah,” Leanne told her, “If Sarah hadn’t tripped over her new shoes and fallen towards Amanda . . .”

“Who jostled Pat, who nudged Kahley . . . Yeah, yeah. We know. What’s done is done though,” Jamie said.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Sarah whined, sticking her foot out to admire her newest shoe. “You guys are always trying to blame me for everything.”

“I’m kind of disappointed,” Heidi said. “I thought Ninja zombies would be faster than regular zombies.”

“Nothing like getting the life sucked out of you to slow you down,” Adam told her.

“You couldn’t have known you’d lose control of the spell,” Yvonne said, ignoring everyone else in her attempt to soothe Mamma Jo.

“All those innocent lives . . .”

“Innocent my ass,” Kahley said with a snort. “Bunch of lying, cheating, losers, the whole works of them.”

“What happens when they start coming after us?” Heidi asked.

Adam patted his trusty Winchester and grinned his cheeky grin. “Then we start picking them off, one by one.”

Jamie, already three sheets to the wind, held up her mug of tequila. “Let’s hear it for the Call Centre Zombie Apocalypse!”

Everyone raised their mugs. “Cheers!”

This is pretty much what our call centre actually looked like, only the rows weren't quite as long.

Flash Me Friday

The View

It was the view that brought him to this place, high up on the mountain, well above the tree line. The world was literally at his feet, spread out before him like a fine tapestry.

He took his time building his home, he was here to stay and he wanted it perfect. It blended seamlessly into the landscape. You had to really know what you were looking for to be able to find it. The magic he expelled was totally worth it, though it took him several weeks to recover.

Once it was established it took very little magic to maintain the climate inside his home, one that allowed the waterfalls and fountains to run without danger of freezing over and his garden to flourish. He did enjoy his creature comforts.

The other reason he picked this site was its inaccessibility. He was seven hundred and thirty-three years old and he was fed up with being constantly challenged by wizardlings looking to make a name for themselves. It would take a determined person indeed to find him all the way up here.

He lived peaceably for many years, enjoying the company of his cats and the view of the world below. As he was meditating while looking out over his view one day, the answer to a problem he’d had many years ago came to him all at once. He turned from his view in favour of his books, pouring over the dusty tomes to confirm his solution.

When he was finished, having solved his problem, he sighed in satisfaction and turned once again to the tranquillity of his view. Astonishment had him dropping his glass of wine. The fine glass shattered on the stone floor, wine spraying the edge of his robe. Invisible servants silently cleaned up the mess while the wizard stared at what lay before him.

There were intruders on his mountain.

Far below there were crude huts being built. There was the movement of people coming and going, and a flock of sheep dotting the upper hills like clouds in a sky of green. The audacity of it disturbed him on many levels, but in the end he allowed them to stay, at least as long as they came no further than the hills the sheep grazed upon. Though the lights at night were somewhat annoying, they did not impede his view. It was not worth the journey down the mountain to deal with them.

More time passed. The wizard kept an eye on the people below and was not pleased to see them continue to spread upwards. He caused the ground to shake, toppling their crude dwellings, scattering the sheep along the hills. It was a warning, but they did not heed it. Instead they rebuilt their homes and gathered up the sheep once more.

As harvest time approached the wizard cast another spell, this time causing a hail storm to destroy their crops. Although a few of the people left, most of them stayed, gathering what they could from the stricken fields and foraging farther up the mountain. They began cutting timber and floating it down the river to trade for food.

How dare they cut down his trees! The wizard was losing his patience. He cast another spell, and winter arrived with swift deadliness. The wind caused the formation of high ridges of snow which the wizard sent racing towards the settlement in the form of an avalanche.

Though some died the others seemed undeterred. They reinforced their homes using stone and planted their fields anew when the spring came. More timber was cut. While he admired their tenacity, he also had to wonder just what would it take to get rid of these pests?

At last the wizard made the journey down the mountain to the village that seemed to have sprung up over night. In the guise of a traveller, he stopped at the ale house for a pint of cider and found himself sitting at a table with one of the farmers.

“This region has seen much in the way of trouble,” he said. “It is a wonder that you are brave enough to remain.”

“The soil is rich and fertile,” the farmer told him. “Our sheep grow fat on the grass of the hills and timber is in great demand in the cities to the south. It will take more than a little inconvenience to drive us from this land.”

“It is said there is a wizard on this mountain. A great and powerful wizard who is angry that people have chosen to live here.”

The farmer laughed. “Old man, you need to find some other way of spending your time besides weaving fanciful tales. There’s no such thing as wizards.”

“Then there is nothing I can say that will move you from this place?”

“Nothing,” the famer said.

“So be it,” the wizard said, and vanished before the farmer’s eyes.

That night he stood in the tower of his home and drew up magic from the earth around him. Raising his arms high, he cast his spell. A deadly fog slithered down the mountain, filling the valley.

He regretted taking all those lives, but he did try to warn them. The fog would be thorough in its task. When it lifted in the morning, the wizard would once again have an unobstructed view.

Flash Me Friday

Alysha

The thing I like best about Canada Day is that Mama always wants to visit her old home town and we always end up in this big park on the waterfront. There's an arts and crafts show there, and games, and stuff going on at the band shell. Mama keeps the twins and Frankie with her to show off to her friends for awhile and I get to wander around by myself. It's really great.

The best thing about this park is its trees. They're not scraggly and dust covered, like we get in the city, these trees are huge. When I was little I used to think that if you climbed to the top of one you could touch the sky.

I think Mama's artist friend, Gordon, must have been to this park. A lot of his paintings have trees like these in them. He was always sketching stuff. He's the one that showed me how to draw. I like drawing but the paper and stuff is expensive. Gordon used to give me paper sometimes. He's gone now, moved away somewhere.

He did a painting of me once, he turned me into an elf. It was really neat, but it didn't look much like me. I mean, the girl in the painting had my long blonde hair and blue eyes, and she was even dressed in my favourite clothes, my purple Northern Reflections sweatshirt and green leggings, the ones I'm wearing today. But the elf Alysha was a lot prettier than me and I don't think I'm so thin. She was looking out from behind a big tree, like the ones in this park. I wonder whatever happened to that picture?

It's really crowded today, but that's okay. I'm used to crowds. And these crowds are better than city crowds, 'cause at least people here say "Sorry" if they bump into you.

Today I decided to follow the boardwalk from one end to the other. I don't know why they call it a board walk, it's made out of bricks, not boards. Anyway, I've already been up to the harbour end of it, now I'm going to the beach end.

There's a lot of crazy people in the water today. Crazy 'cause Lake Ontario is always freezing, even in the summer. Not that I can swim or anything. Can't afford the lessons. We can't afford a lot of things but we do okay. Better than a lot of people we know. Least Mama's not on Welfare.

Uh, oh. I know that tone. If someone doesn't do something about those kids on the toddler slide, one of them's going to start crying.

I wonder where the parents are? There's a bunch of people standing around talking, and there's a lady in a lawn chair with a whole bunch of stuff around her, but she looks more like she's waiting for someone. I guess it's up to me.

"What's the matter?" I ask, going up to the slide.

The three little kids look at me like I'm nuts or something.

"Maybe I can help."

The little girl in a pink shorts set starts sniffling again. "Jeffy throwed my ball away."

"Did not Lizzie!" the little boy dressed in green piped up.

"Okay," I said quickly before they started up again. "You can't see from up there, but the ball's just rolled under the slide. I'll get it for you."

It had to be the pinkest ball I've ever seen. I guess Lizzie must have a thing for pink, like Barbie.

"There you go," I said, handing it back to Lizzie.

"Would you play with us?" Lizzie asked. She had a real death grip on that ball.

"Well," I looked around to see if any angry parents were in sight. I can't believe no one's keeping an eye on these kids. Maybe people in a small town don't mind their kids playing with strangers.

"I guess I could play for a little bit. Why don't we take turns with the ball?"

I took the ball back from Lizzie and made them sit side by side on the slide. Mama always said that every one has a special talent, and I guess this is mine. I've always been real good with little kids. I've had a lot of practice with Frankie and the twins. I may only be eleven, but Mama's friend Maisie says I'm real grown up for my age.

I tossed the ball real careful to Jeffy, then Lizzie, then to the little girl that wasn't talking.

"Hold your hands out to catch the ball," I reminded Lizzie. She kept letting it bounce off her chest and giggling.

"No," I reminded Jeffy. He kept trying to steal the ball from the others. "It's her turn now."

"You can do it, I know you can." I threw it to Lizzy, who actually caught it. "Way to go, Lizzy!"

If we come here next year, I can bring the twins to this slide. They'll love it. And Frankie can ride the rocket swings.

"Alysha!" Uh, oh. The sound is faint over all the noise, but I'd know it anywhere. That's Mama's voice. I wonder how long she's been calling.

"Sorry, guys,” I tell the kids on the slide. "I've gotta go." I hand the ball back to Lizzie and make tracks. It's not a good idea to keep Mama waiting.

Flash Me Friday

Okay, I confess. This is another flash I previously posted, however in its original form it was only around 350 words and this version is more than double that.

The Quest

They were hers by right of salvage but she was never meant to keep them. It’s not as though she was one of us, she just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I just thought it was safer to let her wear them while the rest of us voted on who was to inherit them.

You have to understand something about the ruby slippers. They were never meant for mere mortals. The only ones who can safely wear them for any length of time are we witches. The chaos that child has created in her world is nothing compared to the chaos she left behind when she took those slippers home with her. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It takes the power of six witches to keep Oz going. It can be done with four, but only if one of the four is wearing the ruby slippers. And it has to be the strongest witch wearing them. Here’s the secret of the ruby slippers – they’re sentient. They have a will of their own and it takes a great deal of power to control them, to bend them to our will.

We were already down to five witches (and one incompetent wizard) when the house landed. It served her right really, if Eastwitch hadn’t been teasing those pesky munchkins, she wouldn’t have been standing there in the first place. And the munchkins! How could they think they deserved the ruby slippers? It’s not as though they’d fit any of them. And between the lot of them they couldn’t raise enough power to swat a fly, there was no way they could have controlled them.

So I pretended the slippers couldn’t leave the child’s feet and then sent her to that fool wizard, who should never have been put in charge of the Emerald City in the first place, thinking he’d keep her out of trouble while we figured out who the new owner was to be. It took us a while to get through the tests and trials, but finally it was decided that the Westwitch was the most powerful witch left and she should have the slippers. The rest of us were a little low on energy, so it seemed easiest to just have the wizard send the girl West.

I don’t know when, exactly, the girl picked up her entourage, but they were pretty unimpressive – a ratty old scarecrow, a rusty tin man, and a mangy lion. The three of them had been a pain in the wizard’s ass for years, which is probably why he sent them along with the girl. That’s where it really all started to fall apart. Instead of telling her to deliver the ruby slippers to their rightful owner, the old coot turned it into some kind of mythic quest. I think he was just upset he’d been left out of the selection process.

The sense of direction of the girl and her friends was abysmal. They seemed to travel every which way but West. And it was like they were magnets for trouble. Didn’t they see the signs for the field of poppies?

Of course Westwitch got impatient, which she usually does, and tried to retrieve the slippers herself, just making matters worse. I tried to intervene but I was too late. The water had already been thrown and the girl was back in the Emerald City. That rumour that I was the one who told her about the power of the slippers? Lies, all lies.

We knew, of course, the moment the slippers left our dimension. The temperature must have dropped about ten degrees. A series earthquakes took care of Westwitch’s castle, which is a shame really, it would have come in handy as a summer getaway.

Since technically it was my fault we lost not one, but two witches – and the ruby slippers – I was the logical choice to retrieve them. Me, who doesn’t have an adventurous bone in her body. I was outfitted with suitable clothing and a tracking device, and here I am.

Now, can anyone tell me the way to Kansas?

Flash Me Friday

For my prompt this week I opened up a book of quotations at random, closed my eyes, and point. The quotation I landed on was this:

One crime has to be concealed by another.
Lucius Annaeus Seneca (4 BC-65) Roman philosopher and playwright.


Crime and Passion

Paul flipped open the laptop. This was the last one and then his debt to Bernie was repaid. He didn’t know where Bernie got all these laptops and he didn’t care. His job was to wipe the hard drives clean so Bernie could sell them.

This one was pink. Who the hell owned a pink lap top? Curiosity filling him, he hit the power button and waited for it to boot up. He half expected the desktop to show a picture of puppies or kittens, but instead the blues and greens of Neversink Pit, Alabama filled the screen, lifted right from the National Geographic site.

He checked the registry. The computer was registered to Shay Donaldson.

“I can’t believe you’re using Internet Explorer still,” he said, opening up the browser to check the browsing history. “Chrome or Firefox would be much more efficient.”

Scrolling through Shay Donaldson’s history he found the usual sites she’d visited on the internet, like Facebook, Twitter, and Google, but then he found a few sites that made him sit up and take notice – Tips For Writing Erotica, Whips and Chains Oh My, Packing the Heat, Writing Erotica Checklist . . .

“My, my, my. You’ve suddenly become a very interesting woman, Shay Donaldson.”

Leaving the browser open, he scrolled over and clicked on the Documents folder on the desktop. There were about two dozen documents, most of them labelled Story One, Story Two, and so on, but the one that stood out for him was labelled, Erotic Short. Paul double-clicked to open the document and then sat back to read.

“Wow,” he said when he’d finished. It was the only word he could muster. The story had been about a man who’d found a woman’s wallet and when he returned it they’d had an instant attraction. She cooked him dinner as a thank you and a few paragraphs later they were having wildly inventive sex. He had to see what the writer of this looked like.

Exiting the document he brought up the browser again and clicked on the link for Shay’s Facebook. Sure enough, she had it set to load automatically. There was her profile picture, and under her info was her phone number.

Without even thinking about it, Paul was reaching for the phone and dialing.

“Hello, is this Shay Donaldson? My name is Paul Winters. The reason I’m calling . . . have you recently lost a lap top?”

* * * * *

“I can’t believe you found my lap top!”

Shay Donaldson was even better looking in person than her picture on Facebook. She was dark-haired and dark-eyed, petite but curved in all the right places. His ideal woman.

“You have no idea what this means to me!” Tears of gratitude filled her eyes.

“There must be something pretty important on there, huh?”

“You . . . you didn’t check out any of files?”

Paul shook his head. “Of course not! I feel as though a lap top is like a person’s diary. Whatever is on there is private. I checked the registry to see who owned it, but that was all, I swear.”

Shay laid her hand on top of his. “I believe you Paul. My novel is on this lap top. It took me over a year to write it and this is the only copy.”

“Wow. It’s a really good thing I found it then.”

“I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“How about having dinner with me some time?” he said promptly. “You can tell me all about this book of yours.”

“Maybe I could cook you dinner. You know, as a thank you,” she suggested shyly.

“I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more.”

Flash Me Friday

Okay, I have to admit I’m cheating a bit this week. This is something I wrote a long time ago and I might even have posted it on my other blog at one time. But I figured, what the heck, at least it’s seasonally appropriate. :-)

the Snow Child

Once upon a time there grew a garden that was so beautiful that even in winter it was a wondrous sight to behold. When the snow fell it covered the trees and bushes in a soft blanket of white so pristine it looked carved from marble. And when the weather changed too rapidly causing ice to form it was transformed into a garden of crystal.

Near the garden was a house, and in the house lived two children, brother and sister, named Damon and Celeste. The house and garden being far from any town or village, they had only each other to play with. However, since it had always been this way, they were quite content with things the way they were.

One day, after a fresh fall of snow, Damon and Celeste decided to go outside to play in the garden. They played tag and threw snowballs, even played hide and seek among the heavily laden fir trees. But it was not long before they ran out of things to do.

"I know," said Celeste. "Why don't we make a snow child?"

"All right," Damon agreed. Damon was always agreeable to whatever Celeste asked of him, she being older than him and he being an agreeable sort.

"It will be much more fun with the three of us," Celeste said.

Together they began to fashion a child out of snow, and because it was Celeste's idea, they decided their snow friend should be a girl too. She had an oval face, with large eyes and a little mouth like a bow. Celeste and Damon were quite talented, it looked just like a real girl.

“She needs some hair,” Celeste said, standing back to observe their handiwork. “She would look too strange without hair.”

Damon thought for a bit. “What about this?” he asked, removing the red woolen scarf from around his neck.

Celeste agreed it was just the thing, and they picked the scarf apart, using the strands of bright red wool to create hair for their friend.

"Now we need to bring her to life," Celeste said, once they were finished.

"How are we supposed to do that?"

“Well," Celeste said slowly, "in the fairy tales, a prince's kiss is usually magic. Maybe you should try giving her a kiss."

So Damon went up to the snow child and kissed her, right on the lips. The children were not at all surprised to see her lips turn red and color suffuse her face. A sudden gust of wind blew from the north and the snow child came to life. She moved, she smiled, and to the great delight of the children she began to play with them.

A while later, the children's father happened by. Though sunny, the day was cold. He decided it was time for the children to go into the house.

"But father," said Celeste. "We don't want to leave our friend just yet."

The father was startled to see a third child in the garden. If it were not for her bright red hair, she would have blended right into the garden with her pale, pale skin and pristine white clothes.

"Well, by all means, your friend is most welcome too," he said, smiling.

The snow child shook her head no.

"Nonsense, my dear," said the father, taking her by the hand. "It's very cold out, your hand is chilled. Come in and get warmed by the fire and then I can take you home."

"But father _" Damon tried to protest.

"Now, Damon," the father replied in a voice that brooked no argument.

Celeste and Damon looked at each other, Celeste biting her bottom lip. The snow child said nothing, only sighed sadly. They went meekly into the house. Celeste and Damon were sent to their rooms to change into dry clothes, and the father took the snow child to the parlor where a fire was burning merrily.

"There you go," he said cheerfully. "You just stand close to the fire to warm up, and Damon and Celeste with be with you in a few minutes."

The snow child stared up at him sadly. Uncomfortable with those big eyes looking at him so silently, the father left the room.

The snow child went over to the window and stared longingly at the magical, white garden. Great, silent tears rolled gently down her cheeks as she began to melt, until all that was left of her was a mound of red woolen threads, and trace of white snow on the wet carpet.

Flash Me Friday

The Chosen

Our people had been nomads, following the herds across the hills and wastelands. We lived in tents of hide that were carried with us, along with what little we possessed. It had been thus for generations, right up until the day we came to the edge of the sea. There we found a new way of life and gave up our wandering ways.

No longer were the tribesmen burnt brown from the sun, no longer did they have the patience to track prey through the desert. Instead their hands and faces became hardened by the sting of the salt air. They became skilled in the ways of nets and canoes. The women learned to dry fish and weave cloth from the beaten reeds of the salt marsh. And so the tribes prospered.

The priests, who were our teachers and also keepers of our records, warned that these changes did not find favour with the gods. The old ways should not be cast so easily aside. But a settled people had no use for gods who seemed always to take, giving nothing in return, and fewer and fewer people heeded the words of the priests. With each generation, the old ways became more distant in memory.

The day that brought the judgment of the gods upon us started much like any other. The men went out in their canoes to cast their nets and the women went to the marshes to gather reeds to beat on the rocks. When the men returned, it was with little to show for their trouble. This was the fifth day the catch was not good. The priests approached Dranin, our chief, for the gods share of the catch but for the first time he refused to give it to them.

“Why should the gods benefit from our hard work while our families starve?” he asked. “These gods of yours are desert gods who know nothing of the ways of the sea and the fisherfolk. Tell them to seek out those who still dwell in the desert. What use are desert gods to fisherfolk?”

Seath, the priest, did not grow angry, but remained calm in the face of Dranin’s words. “The gods are gods over all and must be appeased. They have already grown tired of your miserly ways and chased the fish away from your nets. Spurn them at your own peril.”

But Dranin would not be moved. He had long resented the tradition that expected the best portion of each catch going to the temple for the gods. He had no use for the priests and their gods. Let them catch their own fish.

The people were uneasy. Though many of them not longer paid homage to the temple as their ancestors did, they were still a superstitious lot and the priests were the mouthpieces of the gods. But Dranin was chief and they were used to obeying him.

The next day there was a storm such as the people had never seen before. Black clouds boiled in the sky. High waves pounded the shoreline. Wind and rain lashed at the village. The people shut themselves up in their huts and huddled together in the dark.

The next day the villagers emerged cautiously from their homes. The damage was terrible. Wreckage from several of the canoes littered the shoreline. Nets were ripped and torn, and the communal hut the dried fish was stored in was gone. The salt marsh was churned up, the reeds broken and useless.

Dranin ordered the women and children to scour the shore for what could be salvaged. He and the rest of the men repaired the canoes that were left relatively intact, and then took them out to fish.

Fishing was always good after a storm, but when the canoes returned hours later, the nets were empty. Dranin went to where Seath awaited him on the shore.

“There are no more fish – not for the gods, not for our hungry bellies. I was wrong, and the whole village suffers for it. What can we do to appease the gods?” he asked.

An ordinary man might have gloated at the defeat in the chief’s tone, but Seath was a priest and took no pleasure in the downfall of another. “The gods grow weak on their diet of fish, they need red meat.”

“And where are we to get this meat?” Dranin asked. “There is not one among us who remembers the ways of the hunt, that task belonged to our ancestors.”

Seath looked at him gravely. “Then you must choose from among the people. The sacrifice must be untouched, pure of body and spirit.”

Dranin paled, but bowed his head.

My sister, Jessil was the one Chosen. She was fair and pure, and had just come into her womanhood. A feast, with what little we could gather, was given in her honour. Many gifts were given to her to take with her to the gods.

They dressed her in white and Seath gave her a potion to ease her passing. Then Dranin paddled them both so far out they were just a speck on the horizon. When the canoe returned, only Dranin and Seath were in it.

Within a day the weather cleared and the fish returned. New shoots were seen in the salt marsh, it was only a matter of time before the reeds would be fully grown again. It was declared by the priests that the sacrifice must be made each year. The Chosen one would have a year of plenty – beautiful clothes, the best of the food and drink, and many fine gifts. A great feast would be held in their honour and their name would be remembered for all time.

I can’t wait until it’s my turn.

Flash Me Friday

Storm God

From the empty void it came, seeping into the amorphous world. It had no purpose as such, it was merely a traveller. It had journeyed a great distance and its journey left it weak, scattered. Formless, it surrounded the world it found, drawing strength wherever and however it could.

For a time it rested, recovered, drawing energy passively. Its intelligence was vast and it sought to add to its knowledge but this world was too new, it offered little of consequence. It amused itself, if such a term could be applied to it, by restructuring the world. Land masses were raised, or lowered, with little disbursement of energy. Water filled the gaps between.

Time had no meaning to it. It had been from the beginning and it would still be until the end. It became aware of sparks of creation on the world below, and at first it ignored them. Of what use were such sparks to one so all encompassing? But the sparks continued, expanded, and it learned something new – curiosity.

The sparks were crude, incomplete, yet they gave off an energy that it found intriguing. It tried communicate with them, with wind and rain and lightning, but they lacked the means to understand. Instead they gave it many names, Shri Indra, Tarhunnas, Adad, Ishkur, Hadad, Thor. Such names meant nothing to it.

It continued to gather itself, sometimes hoarding its energy like a miser, sometimes expelling the excess, unmindful of the chaos it created below. This place was not its home and it had little care for any damage done to the surface. The sparks continued to evolve and change, but it had already lost interest in them. They lasted only an instant in time.

As it circled the world it felt a ripple in its being. It became aware of a strangeness, of unnatural constructions crawling on its skin, moving through its essence. It did not like this feeling, the heaviness of the stratosphere, the impurities of the troposphere. It sought the source of the intrusions and turned its attention once more to the sparks of life below.

Unchecked, the sparks had spread like an infestation across the surface. It raised the wind and rain, bleeding its own energy to cleanse the world, but it was spread too thin and could only purify one small section at a time. It tried the reverse, pulling energy instead of using it, and though the world below would shift and fracture it was never enough to deter the sparks. Always, the sparks returned.

The sparks served no purpose. What energy they possessed was insignificant compared to its great reservoir. They were nothing more than an annoyance that appeared each time it rested on a new world

This place was not its home, it never had been, it was never meant to be. The sparks rendered this place impure. It was time to move on. It seethed and boiled with the energy it had achieved and reached out, away from the world below.

Back into the empty void it returned, ready to journey forward, ready to seek a new world. It gave no thought to the world it left behind, no care for the damage its leaving caused to the mesosphere, the thermosphere. Most of all it gave no thought to the sparks of life it was leaving behind.

Flash Me Friday

Final Exam

“Today is your final exam in shapeshifting. Those who pass – yes, Raphael,” the wizard said with a sigh.

The redheaded lad at the end of the row lowered his hand. “What happened to Gordie?”

“Gordie did not pass the last part of the test—”

“But we practiced together and he could turn into a fish real easy.”

“Nevertheless, he—”

“I’m sure going to miss him, he was lots of fun.”

There were a few murmurs of agreement from the other boys.

The wizard’s teeth ground together. “There are three parts to the shapeshifting exam – animal, fish, and fowl.”

Raphael looked like he wanted to say something else, but the boy beside him poked him in the ribs and told him to be quiet.

“Each of the shapes we have studied has its own unique aspects. The animal was easiest, can anyone tell me why?”

Raphael jumped up and down, waving his hand in the air but the wizard called on Alfred instead.

“Because with an animal, all we have to change is our form. With the fish we also had to learn how to breathe underwater and with the fowl we need to learn to fly.”

“Very good, Alfred.”

Raphael shot Alfred a scowl.

“And can anyone tell me why it’s important that we be able to fly when we shapeshift into a bird?”

The boys shuffled in place, looking at each other.

The wizard allowed himself a slight smile. “Perhaps this is something you’ll learn while taking the test.”

He led them to the gorge that bordered the forest. “You must not only be able to transform into the bird of your choice, you must be able to hold the shape and make your way back to the school.”

Again there was murmuring from the boys as they looked at each other.

“Don’t forget, choose wisely. You will not be graded on speed, but you will be graded on clarity of form.”

One by one, the boys approached the edge of the gorge. The first boy chose a robin for his shape. He peeped once and then fearlessly leaped from the edge. Next was a ragged-looking sparrow, followed by a crow. The crow took three tries before he was able to make it into the air. Alfred chose a canary, but was unable to hold the shape.

He turned back into a boy and blushing, asked to be allowed to try again. The wizard nodded and this time Alfred chose the much plainer cowbird. With only a slight hesitation he spread his wings and soared away towards the school.

Raphael couldn’t make up his mind what kind of bird he should become. He wanted to impress the wizard, but in the end he decided play it safe. There was one form he and Gordie had practiced a lot, dreaming of one day carrying messages too and from the battlefield.

He moved slowly to the edge of the gorge and concentrated hard. In seconds he transformed himself into a pigeon. He was so busy congratulating himself on a job well done that he failed to notice the spotted owl swooping down behind him.

Back at the school, the rest of the boys waited for the wizard to return.

“Where’s Raphael?” Alfred asked.

“I’m sorry Alfred, but Raphael didn’t pass the test. Now, you boys go along to lunch. I’ve already eaten.”

Flash Me Friday

The Bluebell Road

Only the desperate sought out the witch in the wood, and Grace was desperate indeed. She had been raised on a farm and had no experience in woodcraft, but still she undertook the journey deep into the heart of the clawthorn woods, keeping vigil by the waterfall for three days and two nights before the witch deigned to grant her an audience.

Grace pleaded her case passionately, if not eloquently, and was heartened when the witch listened without interruption. When Grace finally ran out of words the witch stared at her for several minutes without speaking. She tried not to fidget under that unwavering stare, but she was tired and hungry and the witch seemed to see right through to her soul.

From the mystery surrounding her, Grace had thought the witch would be a more imposing figure. It was surprising how ordinary the she was in appearance; she could have blended in with the people of the village with ease. She was neither young, nor old, face unlined and just a single streak of grey threading through her chestnut hair. But she wore her power around her like a cloak, and that alone was enough to make a smart person wary.

At last the witch held out her hand. Grace felt a surge of hope. She reached into her travel cape and pulled out the small leather pouch that held the total sum of her life’s savings, including what little she’d made from the sale of all her worldly goods. Without hesitation, she placed it in the witch’s palm.

“Look for the bluebell road,” the witch told her. “You will find what you seek at its end.”

“Bluebell road? I’ve never heard of such a place. Where—”

But the witch had already vanished.

Grace searched for a year and a day, travelling from village to village, following up any rumour that might lead to the bluebell road. She slept in stables and barns, and all too often wrapped up in her cloak and huddled at the base of a tree. Sometimes she was able to trade work for a sleeping spot by the fire and a bite of bread for supper at a farm or tavern, but as the weeks slipped by these were harder to come by.

Soon the villagers began to shun her, some even driving her away with stones. Grace gleaned what she could from the forest, sometimes foraging from the edge of a farmer’s field under the cover of darkness. Her clothing became tattered and ragged and there was a hint of madness in her eyes.

When she was taken ill, a compassionate soul left her at the door to an abbey. The nuns nursed her back to a semblance of health but she was still much too thin and the wildness never quite left her gaze. They had nurtured a hope they could persuade her to stay with them, but Grace slipped away from them during the night.

She had been searching for the bluebell road for so long that for a moment she didn’t even recognize it when it appeared before her. She stopped in her tracks, mind still not fully registering what she saw.

Filtered sunlight highlighted the blue carpet beneath the trees. The track led straight ahead, vanishing into the shadows. Grace was frozen in place. Her mind flashed back to the reason she’d begun this journey, to everything she’d given up, everything she’d suffered.

“Look for the bluebell road,” the witch had told her. “You will find what you seek at its end.”

Mind clear at last, Grace lifted her foot and took the first step down the bluebell road.

Flash Me Friday

For my prompt this week I opened up a book of quotations at random, closed my eyes, and point. The quotation I landed on was this:

The "kingdom of Heaven" is a condition of the heart - not something that comes "upon the earth" or "after death." ~ Friedrich Nietzsche


Houses in Heaven

Cindy was dry eyed as she stood outside her mother's house, her house now. It looked exactly the same as always. Loreen's death didn't seem to touch it at all. Unlocking the side door she smiled faintly. Even now she didn't use the front door, the door reserved for special occasions and guests. She couldn't even be sure the lock on it would still turn.

The kitchen still smelled faintly of fresh bread and cinnamon. On baking days the entire house would be redolent with fresh scents - apple and spice, bread and pastry. Cindy hesitated on the threshold, half-expecting Mama to be busy at the stove wearing one of her enormous, white, frilly aprons. Instead, the door burst open behind her and her three boisterous children tumbled into the kitchen.


"Mama, Pauly won't push me on the swing!"

"I'm tired of pushing her!"

"Mama, can we go to heaven?"

"Quiet, all of you," Cindy's voice rose above theirs. "First of all, shoes off in the house, you know better than that."

"But Grandma isn't here, why do we have to take our shoes off?"

"Because I said so! Paul, you three came with me because you promised not to get under foot."

"But Mom ..."

"You three play in the backyard for a bit, then I'll fix lunch."

"What about heaven?"

"After lunch we’ll see."

Cindy smiled as the three raced back out the door. Her smile faded as she looked around the kitchen. Everything was in its proper place, but coated with a thin layer of dust. Mama would have had kittens. Dust was her personal enemy, her nemesis.

"A house never looks unkept if you keep it dusted," she'd say. "It doesn't matter how many newspapers are left on the table or whose toys are lying around. It's dust that makes a house unclean."

Cindy shook off the memory and went back to the car for the boxes. She was only taking a few things, mostly pictures and mementoes. Everything else was to be sold at public auction, for which she would not be staying.

The first thing that greeted her in the living room was her graduation picture on the mantel. Next to it was her wedding portrait.

"You're a woman now," Mama told her that day. "You'll have children of your own someday."

Mama had never doubted, even when it took five years for Cindy to conceive. Loreen told her to have faith, God would know when the time was right for a baby. She was there for the birth of her grandson, laughing and crying right along with Cindy.

A shout from outside had her glancing out the window. Paul had the twins both in the tire swing. He pushed until he could run under the swing, laughing as the girls screamed with delight. He was such a blessing.

Cindy's smile faltered. And to think she'd almost lost him to the carelessness of a drunk driver.
It was a day she'd never forget, the day she opened her door to a white-faced neighbour who told her Paul had been hit by a car. Cindy couldn't remember the frantic race to Paul, but she'd never forget the sight of the still little body, his life leaking slowly out onto the road.

She thought the tears she shed then would never end. She cried at the scene of the accident, she cried in the ambulance, she cried in the waiting room of the hospital. Then Loreen arrived, a tower of strength, and told Cindy to stop crying. Pauly was going to be all right. And Mama never lied, not even when it was what you needed to hear.

Paul Junior recovered but their joy was short-lived. Just after that Paul Senior died. Cindy shed her widow's tears in private, but the floodgates opened wide just after the funeral when she found out she was pregnant again.

Again Loreen came to salve the hurts, to comfort and console. But after the twins were born and Cindy was on her feet she left, saying it was time Cindy learned to walk alone.

Mama had always been a tower of strength, even in the face of Death. She had been diagnosed with cancer three years ago. The best the doctors could offer was a chance of prolonging her life, a cure was out of the question.

Loreen had drawn herself up proudly and said it was God's will and she wasn't going to let some doctor stick her in the geriatric ward in the hospital, just so he could make her last days miserable. She'd die as God willed it, and in her own bed, surrounded by her family.

Though the doctors and even some of the family tried arguing with her, she'd gotten her way in the end. Just as it should be.

She was right of course.

Cindy sighed as she realized she was curled up in her favourite wing chair, clutching her wedding picture. She glanced at her watch. Almost time for lunch and so little had been accomplished.

A light summer breeze wafted in the window as she stood at the counter in the kitchen making sandwiches. Cindy closed her eyes. She could smell freshly cut grass, and a mixed perfume from the garden. Summer beckoned.

"Why not?"

She wrapped up the sandwiches and dug around under the counter for the old plastic picnic bag. Sandwiches, apples, paper plates, an old blanket ... what else? Opening the fridge she discovered a tetra pack of apple flavoured drink boxes.

Hefting the bag over her shoulder, she stepped outside.

"Come on, kids, lunch is ready," she called.

"What're you doing with that old bag?" Paul asked, first to reach her.

"I thought we'd have a picnic."

"In heaven?" Merry asked, ever hopeful.

"In heaven," her mother agreed, smiling.

Heaven was located just up the street. The day after they'd moved into this house, Cindy and her mother went on an exploring walk together. They followed a path just down the street from the house, up a wooded hillside. At the top stretched a broad, flat meadow, covered with sweet peas in full bloom.

They had spun around and around until they were dizzy, and laughing fell into a cloud of blossoms.

"This is heaven!" Cindy declared, and heaven it remained.

Cindy felt her mood lift. Countless bad poems had been composed amidst the flowers of heaven during the angst of her teenaged years. Hundreds of bouquets had been picked, until her mother had pleaded, laughing, for her to stop before people mistook their house for a florist shop.

The children skipped on ahead. The woods were cool and peaceful, filled with the scent of cedar and pine. Cindy started up the hill slowly, savouring the anticipation of the meadow.

"Mama, mama! There's houses in heaven!"

Cindy was just about bowled over by the twins as they raced down the path towards her.

"What are you talking about?"

They began tugging her up the path. "Come see!"

She did indeed see when she got to the top of the hill. All life's pleasure seemed to drain away as she stared at the churned up earth and the framework of several houses.

The fledgling subdivision spread out over the entire meadow. Heaven was pushed back to a small strip of land at the edge of the wooded hill. A large sign in the centre of a bare patch of earth declared: "Welcome to Vistaview Estates".

Debbie tugged at Cindy's sleeve. "Is grandma going to live in one of those houses?"

"What?" Cindy asked, startled.

"You said grandma went to heaven, which house is hers?"

"Oh, baby," Cindy knelt and drew her daughter close.

Small fingers touched her face. "Mama," Merry whispered, "Why are you crying?"

Cindy pulled her other daughter close too. They were still young enough to hold in the security of her arms.

"It's because they're digging up heaven, isn't it?" ten-year-old Paul wisely declared.

"It's because I love you all so much," Cindy said softly.

The girls wriggled in her arms and she let them go. One day, she'd have to let them go for good, just as her mother let her go. But that day was still in the future. Today they had each other, and the sun, and a picnic to devour in what was left of heaven.

"Can we pick flowers after lunch?" Debbie asked.

"Yes," Cindy agreed, "We can. We can go put them on grandma's grave. She'd like that."

"Can we come back again?" Merry asked.

Cindy started to shake her head in denial, then hesitated. Not all changes in life had to be bad, or abrupt.

"We'll come back again in the fall to collect some seeds," she said. "Then in the spring we'll find a spot at home to plant them and make our own heaven."

"Would grandma like that?"

"Yes," Cindy said, smiling. "I think she would."

Flash Me Friday

The Thirteenth Day

“What are you doing?”

Gihar squeaked and just about fell off his perch. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

Meniha shrugged, unrepentant. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so focused on the view that even a clumsy child could approach without you being aware.”

She sighed as she realized she’d already lost his attention again. “What is it you find so fascinating?”

“Down there,” Gihar pointed. “Do you see?”

Meniha peered over his shoulder. “I see the forbidden lands and the wizard’s tower, same as always.”

“Look closer. Do you see them?”

Everything looked the same to her. The same stretch of beach, the same abandoned tower that had withstood gods only knew how many seasons of neglect. She was about to tell Gihar so when she saw them, two forms wheeling gracefully in a circle around the tower.

“What are they?” she asked in wonder.

“I don’t know, but this is the third day they’ve appeared.”

They watched together, in silence, for a time. Meniha finally stirred. “We need to tell the elders about this.”

“No!” Gihar grabbed her arm as she stood to leave. “You can’t tell anyone. Promise me!”

Meniha had known Gihar all her life and never once seen him so desperate. Fear curled in her belly like a snake. There was a wrongness to this that she couldn’t put a name to.

“All right, I promise,” she told him. “I won’t say anything. But you are not the only one who ventures near the forbidden places, the elders will find out eventually.”

She waited for him to say something, but his attention was already back on the strange creatures circling the wizard’s tower. Shaking her head, she made her way slowly back to the village.

The creatures appeared for three more days, and for three more days Gihar crouched in the opening to the forbidden place, a gaping hole left in the forest wall where a tree had been uprooted, Meniha by his side.

Though at first she couldn’t understand Gihar’s fascination with the creatures, Meniha soon became as captivated as he by the sight, perhaps even more so. She wondered what it would be like to stand in sunlight that wasn’t dappled by the leaves. She wondered what it would be like to soar over the vast stretch of water. When she began to wonder just what was in the wizard’s tower, she knew she was in trouble.

On the fourth day they waited in vain for the creatures to appear. They did not appear on the fifth day either, and on the sixth day Meniha waited alone. With the creatures gone, Gihar no longer felt the pull of the forbidden lands. Such was not the case with Meniha.

On the seventh day her obedience to the laws warred with her desire to have a closer look at the wizard’s tower and see what might be in it. Why was it called the wizard’s tower? Why was it so tall and round, unlike their own homes set in the trees? Why was it forbidden to set foot outside of the forest?

The desire to see the wizard’s tower grew stronger with each passing day. On the tenth day Meniha was joined by one of the tribal elders.

“It is said that in the Long Ago there dwelt a wizard in that tower,” he said, standing beside her where she crouched. “A fearsome creature was he. He wielded power over life and death, creation and dissolution. It is said he created our kind.”

That caught her attention. “Truly?” she asked. “What happened to him?”

“It is said he died, as all things must die, and his bones lay bleached by the sun on the top of his tower. We are creatures of the dark forest,” the elder said. “The light is not for us.”

He let his words sink in for a bit and then melted back into the forest, not comfortable even looking out onto the forbidden lands. Meniha was not even aware of his leaving, her focus was once more on the tower.

If she climbed to the top of the tower, would she be able to see the creatures that had circled it so gracefully? Were they more of the wizard’s creatures, come back to their home? Questions and always more questions, and never an answer. If she sought out the answers to her questions would she be punished? Banished? Worse?

On the eleventh day, Gihar came to her. “Come away, please Meniha,” he begged. She paid him no mind. “The wizard’s tower is a cursed place, it has you in its thrall. How can any good come of such a thing?”

Meniha paid him no mind. His words were like gnats, buzzing around her head.

“I curse the day I first came to this place!”

On the thirteen day, Meniha stood, knowing what she had to do. Placing one foot carefully in front of the other, she walked out into the sun.

Flash Me Friday

This picture is of the Neversink Pit in Alabama. It's fascinated me since the first time I saw it, although I don't think I'd like to try descending into it. You can click on it for a larger view.

The Voice of the God

It was beautiful.

She stood on the edge, looking downwards, and her breath caught at its splendour. The sunlight only penetrated a short way of course, but it was enough to make out the moss covered rock, the ferns and flowers clinging tenaciously to the sides.

There was a face in the rock. She could see it quite clearly – it looked like a man’s face, a man with shaggy hair and a drooping moustache. The Wise Man of the Depths. The god who could grant dreams . . . or take them away.

A cool breeze, fragrant with the smell of moss and violets, wafted up from below. The god’s breath. She’d heard of this, but never thought to feel it herself. She shivered as she stood there in her thin white robe, unadorned save for the waterfall of long, blond hair.

The breeze circled the mouth of the god, but gently, softly. If she focused her attention, she could almost see the others who had come before her. They stood in a circle around the rim of the mouth of the god, watching and waiting. Were they waiting for her to succeed, or fail?

Such fancies. She shook her head as though to dislodge the worthy thoughts.

Further down in the mouth she could see the mist. It was said the swirling mist below was made up of the souls of former priests and priestesses, that the god swallowed their spirits, mingling them with his own essence before exhaling them again.

Inside the mouth of the god all was green and damp, while just a few yards behind where she stood the land was ravaged by a drought. This is why she was here. To ask the god to save their land.

Taking a deep breath she moved closer to the edge, peering downwards. A tendril of mist rose up, wreathing her in white, and she shivered again.

Only the purest, the truest of believers could hope to see the images in the mist, to determine what must be done to save what was left of the village. It was no small thing to be able to interpret the words of the god.

To be a Voice was a solitary thing. She had been sequestered for days and now stood alone on the rim. It had been a long time since a Voice had been required; she was too young to remember who had been the last to be honoured or what had happened to them.

Best not to think of such things, she told herself firmly. There was nothing to fear, the god was both kind and wise. The village had been turning to him for answers in times of trouble for generations.

She inched forward again, concentrating on the swirls and eddies below. There was a pattern, she was sure of it. There, just below the surface – was that another face she saw?

Stepping forward just another inch her foot slipped and she fell headlong into the god’s mouth. It happened so fast she didn’t even have time to cry out.

The god had spoken.

Flash Me Friday

Welcome to a new feature, Flash Me Friday. Each Friday I’ll post a new flash fiction piece – sometimes using a picture prompt, sometimes using a word prompt, sometimes just using my imagination.

The prompt for this piece came from the Absolute Write horror forum. In a nutshell, there had to be a preternatural evil involved and your character could only have one sense – sound, touch, taste, or smell. They were not allowed to have sight.


* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *


A Touch of Darkness

She awoke in silent darkness, unable to see, unable to hear, unable to move.

Where was she? How did she get here?

She couldn’t remember.

Sensation returned slowly. Her tongue felt too thick for her dry mouth. Her arms and legs tingled as feeling began to return to them. She was aware that her chest rose and fell as she breathed, but she could see nothing, hear nothing. She could feel, but she couldn’t move.

It was like being in a sensory deprivation tank. Wait . . . how did she know that? What else did she know? Her thought process was jumbled, it was hard to think.

She could tell she was lying on her back, in the dark and the silence. There was a feeling of space around her. A warehouse? A cave? Beneath her was . . . earth. Packed earth. A cave then, or some place underground. But she still had no idea how she got here, unable to move, unable to see, unable to hear.

Holly. Her name . . . her name was Holly. Her memory was starting to return. Her name was Holly and she was a reporter. She’d gone to the park to investigate the strange disappearances that had been going on for several weeks.

There’d been no witnesses to the disappearances. Police were baffled. The hookers and drug dealers faded into the background, unwilling to get involved. No one else was talking. But people were going into the park and not returning.

Mostly she’d interviewed street people. Their stories ranged from government conspiracies to vampires and werewolves. All except that last man, the wino, only he’d been stone cold sober when he told her that what was taking those people was far worse than any government, more ancient than any vampire or werewolf. Then he’d warned her to stay away from the birch grove in the park and she’d laughed . . . until his eyes began to glow.

She shivered in the dark. The old man had done something to her, pulled her in with his eyes. The world around her had spun, faster and faster until her only anchor had been the light of his eyes.

* * * * *

Cool air kissed her skin causing goose flesh to rise, making her aware again. She was naked. Naked and alone in the dark and the silence. Was she alone? Was there something out there watching her? She opened her mouth to speak, but there was no sound. Was her voice stolen, or just her hearing?

She was sure she could feel another presence nearby, maybe she wasn’t alone. Maybe there was more than one – she couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear, there could be thousands of people or creatures staring at her. She could feel their eyes on her. Or maybe it was just her imagination, running in circles.

No, there it was again. The heat of another body, moving, circling her. She could feel the faint vibration of its steps. Did it know she was here? Was it able to see her? She might have whimpered, but she couldn’t be sure.

Her body jerked involuntarily as a tongue rasped across her skin, hot and moist. Human? Animal? She had no way of knowing, could only quiver in fear. Tears leaked from her eyes as the tongue rasped again, this time across her breasts, then again, lower.

Two tongues now, touching her, tasting her fear. No, wait. The second one was dry and scaly, like a reptile. It moved across her skin sinuously, like a snake or a . . . tail. It slithered across her legs and up onto her belly, resting just below her breasts.

The fiery tongue licked the sides of her face, tasting her tears. There was a writhing sensation as something, many unidentifiable somethings, worked their way into her hair, holding her head fast. The tongue rasped across her eyes, its touch abrasive.

Panic set in. She could feel her heart race, threatening to burst out of her chest. Her mouth opened and a scream ripped through her, but there was no sound. Just implacable, utter, silence. She strained against her unseen bonds, but there was no escape.

Why is this happening to me?

It was her last coherent thought before the pain boiled through her and carried her away.