Stories

April Flash Fiction

Hello Everyone. I'm a little behind on my reading - too much moving and travels - so I decided to post my flash fiction from April instead. I hope you enjoy it. 

Love Kait

Week 1:

His mother had told him to never play with his food.  But what was the point of the hunt if you couldn’t have a little bit of fun?

She stood dripping in white and water. Jano would have passed her if it wasn’t for the dress. He had almost given up for the day, but it was so bright against the rotting ships, only Jesus could have missed it.

Dinner, thought Jano.

They were hungry. No one had appeared in weeks. All the small animals, bunnies or the like, were gone. Killed to extinction after Jano and his pack had made the same washed up appearance as the girl.  

Is it a girl? Jano questioned. Tender, but not much there.

Her first cry was low. Jano had rounded a ship, ghosting across the gap to the next one. It was just enough. Let her know that she wasn’t alone. It sent her circling, whipping at the whistle of the wind between the wooden cracks.

The sun was setting, the world turning from brown to dead orange. If this took much longer Jano would never be able to get the food back. There were new terrors in the dark. Things that even he would never want to meet face to face. If only she had arrived earlier. The games he would have played.

Jano sighed. He came around the bow of another ship, there were plenty on the beach. The girl had stopped, staring out into the water to where Jano assumed was her loss of freedom. She had to know that she would die. But maybe the thought had never come to her before his fangs clamped on her throat.

Week 2:

Food. Once a day it falls, wafting down with the current, drifting slowly till it's snatched mid-drop by awaiting bodies. It's the only time no one hides behind their makeshift hideyholes and dugouts. When you're desperate enough, you'll go out. Starvation can make anyone forget about the Eye.

Except for Max. He waits patiently, sitting behind his brownstone wall, its sides covered in green growth from all the moisture. His stomach grumbles. It's been a few days and waiting any longer will slow him down. The growth tickles his side when he moves. Still, he waits. That's his plan. Waiting. Most go right away, hunger covering fear. Max waits for the last moment, right before everything hits the bottom and is lost.

But today the drop is late.

Why? thinks Max. Is there a motive behind the delay?

Then everything happens in an instant. Food falls down in loads. A frenzy of bodies attack, snatching and darting. They shove each other, desperation fully kicking in.

Max senses it first. The empty sky above. No watching Eye sits hovering, a pool of white and brown. No unseen voice counting out the droves that have appeared.

Now he must go.

The first few pellets are beginning to crash on the pebble floor. Max moves. One bite and then another. It tastes amazing. He can feel the movements from above. Every last one of them must be out, he thinks. But as it's said, nothing good can last forever.

Like a freight train, the presence slams into them all. They can feel it's glare. It hangs there, locking onto the mob assembling. Could they have been fooled? Lulled into comfort by the food? Max, halfway through his third pellet, drops it all and swims faster then he thought possible. He must make it to the brown wall. He has to make it. The Eye can't see him, know that he’s here. His only chance lies in the mass of bodies frantically trying to make their own escape.

Once all the fish vanish from sight, the little girl gives up her counting and goes back to playing with her toys.

Week 3:

Her hands groped across the brick, leaving her fingertips raw. They could track her with a single drop of blood, but she didn’t care. Nothing would matter if she could find it in time.

A scream cut her heart like a knife. They were getting closer. Was she even in the right place?

Growing up she had been told the stories over and over. Their last hope. Freedom only given when all was lost. A door to get them all out. And now the time had come. There was no more hope for her, she was marked. She couldn’t wait for the others. What if there weren’t even others?

The air stirred. She could now hear wings beating. She pushed harder. Brick sliced skin and then gave away. Just a sliver, filled with white glowing light. Digging in, she felt the edge of the crack and tugged; once, twice, three times. Thud. She was too late. One of them had arrived.

No, she thought. With a guttural scream, she pulled feeling the brick edge slice her hands to the bone. Finally, the sliver budged and white light spilled out. The creature shied from it giving her just the second she needed to dive in.

Not knowing what to expect on the other side, she braced for the landing. Soft ground dampened the jolt. She had made it to paradise.

Week 4:

Knock.

Go away.

“Ace are you in here? We need you for the final dress rehearsal.” Karry’s voice floods the small confines of my tour bus. She’s blocking the only way out. I wish there was a place to hide. The cabinets would never fit me and the bathroom is no refuge. Cramped. Smelly.

“Fine Karry.”

Why didn’t I leave for that pizza when I had the chance? And now I know. I squirm under the rigid gaze that has come up the steps to land on me, leather seat giving away my shift of unease.

“Two shows in and I’m already dealing with this?” This being me, something she confirms with a gesture to my slutched, trying to appear calm, body. “The owner wants full dress too. Wants to make sure he’s getting what he paid for.” Her words fall flat at the end, eyes glancing to the locked cabinet fastened where a set of bunk beds used to reside. I don’t follow the glance. I know what’s there, locked tightly. I haven’t determined yet if that’s for my protection or its.

Nothing more needs to be said. I will her to leave, and she does. No surprise. Karry never wants to be in here with it. I want to leave too, but for some reason I’m drawn, never leaving the bus unless the fine woven caplet is resting on my shoulders.

Time to begin the ritual. First stop, the mirror. I’m combed and clean, the usual average man. Not the appearance of the platinum selling, sold out stadium tour rock star that I am. Next is the voice. I always have to check. Just a few notes to know. As usual, they are short, raw and plain out screeching. The point has been made.

The key slides in. It turns like butter. No creaking, no catch, it’s all too easy getting past the confines that enclose the cape. It shimmers even without a drop of light to refract off, looking like a thousand pounds but weighing more like feathers. One, two, three. I’m ready.

This time the mirror tells a different story. I’m the one glowing, if from fame or magic I can never tell. I look like a million dollars, old street clothes replaced with black leather pants and a white t-shirt. It all blends nicely with the shimming gold cape. But now comes the real test. A cough and sputter, will it work again? Deep breath and I go.

Feeding Strays

The world had ended It was as simple as that. No elaborate story or neat little bow to tie it all together. At least that was how Cat liked to look at the situation. Her name was like the world, simple and definite. She was never gifted with a last name since her mother couldn’t see the point. But it worked, a little too well.

Hunger was Cat’s calling card. It was what drove her to keep moving. If one place ran dry then there had to be another. But, since the world had ended, those others were becoming harder to find. Who would have guessed the end of the world would be like this?

Cat was on another day. Food had stopped coming at their last home so they just left. No blame on the owners. They needed to take care of themselves first. It was a comfortable home. Well kept even with the world ending and the owners had been so kind, opening doors wide and letting all of them in. Cat had hated to leave. She could see the signs. The couple were sleeping more and forgetting simple items. Cat and everyone else could move more easily, 80 year-olds not so much.

The sun was setting. The cold felt colder since they had been inside for the change of seasons. Most of the houses they had passed had been dark, lonely and abandoned, all the scraps removed or eaten by other wondering parties. Cat pushed everyone on quickly from those spots. There was no point wallowing and getting discouraged.

One advantage of the dark was you could spot occupied houses much easier. And that was exactly what Cat saw a hundred yards ahead, a brightly lit bungalow. Food.Cat signaled to the others. A quiet nod of her head was all that was needed. A dozen pair of eyes trained on their new destination. Moments later they had arrived.     

The smell of food was apparent. It seemed to cover every surface. Cat felt the group ready to pounce, but they needed to play their cards right. One wrong step and they would get nothing. First, a volunteer would need to go to the door and get the owner's attention, explain the situation. Then one by one, with no signs of aggression, they would walk up.

A quick vote. Cat was picked. Each of them was supposed to take a turn but Cat felt her always came a little too quickly. It was probably because she was the cutest, the one least likely to get shooed away. One of the last few girls in the group too, yet the bravest.

With caution, she moved stealthily. No point in drawing attention till she was sure these people were checked out. There was no crazy blood on the ground or screams. Not like the house before they found their last place. Sam hadn’t survived. By the time they realized the owners were maniac killers, Sam had been snatched. Cat hated to leave him behind but they needed to look out for themselves.

Cat felt safe. Maybe she wasn’t, but the food was getting overwhelming. She made a commotion, soft scratches at the door. It was dead silent. Was there really anyone in the house? Were they too scared to even check the door? Then they were very stupid to set the house ablaze with all the light.

It felt like forever but soon footsteps echoed off the floor. Young feet with a sure step. This was good, Cat thought. Competent hunters to feed them. The door squeaked open. Cat saw the well-oiled leather of upkept boots.

“Well, what have we here?” The voice was husky from years of smoking. “Becka, I think we have a guest for dinner.”

A young woman poked her head into view. She seemed kind. At the sight of Cat her face distorted into a fully defined smile.

“Oh goodness. Exactly what we need to brighten up this place. Bring it in and let me see if Luke is up.”

Cat felt the floor give way to air. She wasn't sure if she was upset from being called it or being picked up.

“What shall we call…” there was a pause as the man carefully inspected Cat’s underside, “her?” He followed Becka into an old farmhouse style kitchen. Becka was reaching into a large box, pulling out a sleepy-eyed boy of about one year old. Cat squirmed, digging nails into flesh. She hoped her friends would her her cries and leave. This was not a home. It was a nightmare.

 

Magical Glasses

I was walking down the sidewalk one day - it was your average weekday kind of jaunt - when I felt a pang upon my head followed by a clattering of metal on concrete. Looking down I beheld a curious sight of gold-rimmed spectacles with tinted glass. As any person would suspect to do, I looked around and around for the source of this suspicious appropriation. No buildings stood above me to warrant a casual drop or fling from such heights, nor was there a soul around me. What was one to assume but that these spectacles came from God? Sure that I was to be the next prophet and these were to be like the arc or burning bush, my own grand talisman of power, I quickly scooped them from their resting place.

For something supposedly coming from God, I expected them to be much heavier. Why were they not pure gold? All biblical stories spoke of great wealth and craftsmanship in God’s objects. I felt gypped of my moment. These glasses could have been purchased from Target, with their cheap gold colored painted scrap metal and plastic lenses. There was no way that I would accept this as my prophetic calling card. But, because I’m a quality neighbor and a fine resident of this city, I tucked those glasses into my jacket pocket with intentions of swiftly dropping them in the next garbage pail that I came upon.

Oh but the story doesn’t stop there. I dare say, I wish it had, for not two steps along the business of my walk, I walked head first - and in a very painful manner, I have the lump to prove it - into the air. When my doctor asked later the cause of my accident - I had to make sure that I wasn’t concussed you see - he didn’t believe that I had simply walked into air. But I tell you I did. When I went to move forward once again, I smashed right into that darn air. Now, I still to this day have no clue how the thought of putting those spectacles on popped into my head, but it sure did. Sometimes I wonder if that was God’s way of saying, “No Sir, you can’t die this day.” So I reached into my pocket and put on those cheap things, but oh, they weren’t cheap anymore, I tell you. Those very spectacles saved my life.

That wasn’t air before me. No. It was this grotesque creature and in his hand was this club that he planned to bludgeon me with. I am not ashamed to admit that I yelped and scurried right out of the way of that flying club and right down the street. I don’t know what God’s intentions are with these here spectacles - now, no you cannot touch them and I won’t be passing them around - but I plan on carrying them with me everywhere. Oh, is it time now. Well good evening to you all. I guess it’s time for my medication.


A white clothed nurse came forward and wheeled the old man from his spot by the window. His imaginary audience stood up as well and shuffled on their way. Once the man and his aid had left the common room, another door from the opposite corner opened. Stooping to clear the door frame, a grey scaled creature walked in, club dragging behind him.     

It's Ok

It’s Ok

Come here, my sweet boy. Be safe and warm in my embrace. Let the silent tears fall down your face. It’s ok.

Let them be your sound. Let them show your hollowed soul and empty heart. It’s ok.

Relax the hands clamped in your hair. It will not help to rip out the pain you feel in your gut. That pain will not budge. It’s ok.

My love, this is normal. This is life. It’s ok.

You are feeling life. The ebb and flow of emotions as we experience all the different facets of existence. It’s ok.

There is nothing wrong with you. As time keeps moving forward, the pain will change again. It’s ok. 

Never hide this side of yourself. Show it to the world. Let them know how you feel. It doesn’t make you less. It’s ok.  

You are braver than a knight. Without walls or armor, you’ll stand upon a field saying, “Look at me, this is who I am”. It’s ok.

You will be loyal, empathetic, loving, strong, courageous, and wise. It’s ok.    

The very men that have walked before you will lay a box at your feet. You will look upon that box, scuff at its four walls, its small cramped interior, and its lid that will shut too tight. It’s ok.

Instead, standing tall, you’ll bare your soul to the world and stand proud. It’s ok.

Know that the souls that follow you will never see that box. Will never be forced to stand on that field and decide between that horrid confinement to the shame, exclusion, and ridicule that you will brave for them. It’s ok.

I’m sorry that you must forge this path. But you are my son. The very first of its kind.

You will always be loved.

And when the day comes and my arms are no longer here to climb into, just know that your heart will always be protected by the shielding of my love.

My Father's Hands

My father’s hands are worn and aging. They can tell the stories of his life. The stories of a father, husband, son, lawbreaker, veteran, student, mechanic, surfer, caretaker, builder, friend, brother, and abuser. I have seen many of these hands; in warm strong embraces from visits too far apart, claps on the back when I achieve greatness, bloody torn versions from so many projects, and anger filled rages leaving holes in walls. As much as they can be gentle they can also be strong, shoving my face into the ground as I hear the horrid words of my disgraceful existence. Then the same hands folded in a begging plea to be forgiven. Today, I cannot hate these hands. These old, worn hands that have loved, brought me into this world, and will one day hold my children. There is fear that they will turn again into those weapons of damage. But they have grown still, flowing through each day grasping, grabbing, expressing, and making new stories. It is said that every seven years our entire bodies are replaced with new cells. I hope that like our bodies, my father’s hands have become replaced. Yes, there are scars and fears but I have grown and found what true love is. My father’s hands have taught me that.

Love

And I looked upon the water asking, "Mother Earth, what can I do for you?"

She lapped her waves upon the shore contemplating what I had asked. "Child," she answered, "no one has paused to ask me question. You can teach your children how to grow, because if they can see something bloom then maybe they won't want to destroy it. You can teach them resilience, because when I have been sucked dry, they will have to find new ways to live. But most of all, you can teach your children and your children's children to love. For if they know what love is, they can surely love me." 

Decisions

Slap.

Heads turn and eyes look to the flat hand pressing against the shellacked tabletop. No one dares to voice their concerns over Derek's sudden outburst, but all question his motives, except for Sandy. She stares at him with the same ferociousness that had just brought his hand down. 

"I don't give a damn what the boss wants, but I sure as hell ain't walking out that door. Let the old man face his own fate. I ain't fighting his battles no more." Derek ends his rant with a grab of his half-filled stein and slowly empties it, keeping his hazel eyes locked with Sandy's blue ones. 

Sandy watches this, not moving even an inch, just taking in every movement that her brother makes. She has experienced this anger before, never backing down, and she isn't going to make this one an exception. 

"Fine. If that's how it's going to be." Her words are icy and they have a small effect on Derek. He lowers his stein softly to the table, his face changing ever so slightly with her words. He was expecting more of a fight. Something that would reveal she was struggle with the decisions too. It wasn't fair that they had to make the choice and change the future. He liked it the way it had been the last thirty years. 

"I'm telling the doctor to take dad off the life support tomorrow." Sandy grabs her jacket off the back of the chair and leaves the bar to make good on her words. 

Smelling in Color

Smelling in Color

What is a word but a collection of sounds.

Hello sounds.

You convey meaning.

What is meaning?

Emotions? Feelings? 

The essence of life itself?

Life, Hope, Love, Passion

*Crying*

The strong emotional sharing of our inner desires.

Overpowering, Overwhelming

Breaking into my inner mind.

Talking over my own thoughts.

Cars, Wind, Neighbors

The tiny breath of my four legged son.

How to list words when I wish we could display in sound.

Better, Stronger, Connection.

Smell.

Smell awakens a part of our consciousness rarely let free.

It's bottled like the very smell itself. 

Have you flown?

I fly from every smell that raises to my faculties.

But not every scent.

We crave the smells of our souls.

If the world smelled pretty would wars end?

I hear this argument outside.

All I sense is shame. 

More shame, judgmental. 

What would that smell like?

Garbage, coal, rank air.

*Pauses to grasp the conscious soul pounding in these words.*

I crave the silence of acres.

Of peace.

Quiet smells like fresh air.

Cool crisp breezes, fresh fruit ripening.

But not flowers.

Those are reserved for something else.

Smells can be anything.

Molded in our minds to be sweet remeberances.