Flash Fiction #4: February with a Twist

This week, I'm participating in "February with a Twist" a project +Becket Moorby has organized through the +Flash Fiction Project on Google+.  These pieces are supposed to feature a twist of some kind. Thanks for reading!

 

Image courtesy of Growinnc via an attribution license on Flickr Creative Commons (Attribution Link)

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Elaine walked into the shop with a purposeful stride. It looked like one of those little curio shops common on beach-town streets. She expected to find balls made of colorful blown glass, fish-themed art by a local artist, tin signs with sayings that seem clever if you've never seen them before. Usually, these shops were a good place to pick up a "I thought of you on my vacation" present for her mother, a tee shirt or a mug with the name of the town and some flowers maybe. The Georgia O'Keeffe quote on the door made her hope the shop might swing more towards arty than kitschy. 

Elaine was two full strides into the shop before she looked up and saw the young woman seated on a platform. She was sitting on a stool, with her ankles primly crossed. This struck Elaine as strange, given that she was otherwise nude. The woman waved and smiled.

"The door, darlin.'" 

Elaine jumped. "What?"

"The door. Maggie's getting chilled. Close the door and come inside." Elaine obeyed, then peered into the darker recesses of the shop in search of the voice. There was waft of smoke from behind the counter. Maggie didn't know whether to walk out or ask for a light. It had been more than a decade since she'd someone smoking in a public place. She hesitated in the doorway.

"Do you draw?" The voice was scratchy, dark, more suggestive of bars and backrooms than of art shops or tourist-bilking. Something in the voice made her feel warm.

"Not for years," Elaine admitted, surprised at the wistfulness in her tone. "I was just looking for a gift, for my mother, before I have to go back home."

The woman stood, pushing a sketch pad across the counter with work-worn hands in fingerless gloves. "You know, a mother always likes to get something her children have made."

Elaine brushed her fingers across the pad, then looked back at the model, now curved around herself in a pose reminiscent of a Degas painting. "Do you have an extra pencil?"

Flash Fiction #3: February with a Twist

This week, I'm participating in "February with a Twist" a project +Becket Moorby has organized through the +Flash Fiction Project on Google+.  These pieces are supposed to feature a twist of some kind. Thanks for reading!

 

Image courtesy of Life in Pictures via Flickr Creative Commons (attribution link)

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That's her, there in the bottom right. Yeah, the little one. I know. Cute, huh? Funny to think about now, I mean, after what's happened. 

She had the entire staff wrapped around her tiny little fingers.  A good number of the students, too. I mean, usually kids know. They have a sort of vibe for these things. They feel the undercurrents and hear the false notes that slide right under the radar of adults. But she was good. Smooth. Most people never suspected. Heck, I didn't suspect until it was too late.

Yeah, that's me, right down in front clowning with my best friend. That's when I still had both arms. Probably one of the last days that I had two arms, actually.When was this taken? May? Jeez. It might just have been days after this picture. It happened at the May picnic.

I don't know why she hated me. I can't remember any particular incident. I didn't best her at anything. We hardly spoke. I didn't pick on her. I didn't break her heart or beat up her brother or kick her dog or even cheat off of her homework.

I knew she hated me though. It was this palpable thing. Her breathing changed if I came into her view, growing louder, like she had to force the breath through her nose. Her eyes seemed like burning coals. It was creepy.

Still, when she came up behind me on the playground after the last kid had gone and stood there watching me swing, it didn't occur to me that I was in danger. I turned my head to look at her and the rock came down on my head. They found me hours later, dangling from the swingset by one arm tangled in the chains of the swing. They did what they could for me, but, that was the end of my career as a violinist. 

No, I don't play the violin, you dolt. It was a joke.

So, am I surprised to hear about the incidents? What do you think?

Flash Fiction With a Twist #2

This week, I'm participating in "February with a Twist" a project +Becket Moorby has organized through the +Flash Fiction Project on Google+.  These pieces are supposed to feature a twist of some kind. Thanks for reading!

Image courtesy of Lisa Quinn2 on Flickr Creative Commons (attribution link)

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With Any Luck

She staged the scene so carefully. She wasn't very good at this really, but she wanted to try to make something nice, hoping for a bit of luck. One red rose lying on the table, champagne icing in the snowbank just outside the door, soft sultry music playing low enough that they'd be able to talk. Her dress wasn't new, but it still looked new and he'd never seen her wear it before. It was soft and feminine. It fit her well, emphasizing the smallness of her waist compared to the fullness of her hips. She felt pretty. It was about as perfect as she could afford.

If he had only come to the door with a paper heart-shaped box of chocolates and a smile, it might have ended differently. She didn't really think it would have been happily ever after, but it might have been a very nice evening. There could have been kisses and that happy breathless feeling and resistance overcome without too much struggle. He'd have gotten lucky. There could have been laughter over small buttons. Some good times to remember later, when things turned bad.

Of course, he'd arrived drunk and laughed at her not-really-champagne in its golden paper. Just her luck. He'd smelled of smoke and sweat and something greasy. His shirt was stained. The good looking ones were always so awful. He said she looked like a Sunday school teacher in her dress.

With any luck, when the ambulance arrived, she could sell the story of his sliding in a wet spot on the floor and hitting his head on the coffee table. With any luck, no one would notice that the dent in his head matched the bottom of the bottle she was drinking from now.

February with a Twist: A New Flash Fiction Project

Image courtesy of gordon.milligan on Flickr Creative Commons (attribution link)

 

This week, I'm participating in "February with a Twist" a project +Becket Moorby has organized through the +Flash Fiction Project on Google+.  The last round was fun for me and got me writing. I'm hoping to get over a hump in my current novel by letting my brain splash about in other pieces this week. Thanks for reading!

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He loved to watch her, running in the sunshine. Her favorite golden yellow jacket shown like the rays of light originated in her instead of the clear autumn sky. He was keeping a watchful eye, like any good father would, but giving her some space to run, to feel free. Her arms spread wide as she ran like she wanted to hug the entire park. She was beautiful. His heart felt full to exploding with the beauty of her.

She spotted him on the bridge and smiled shyly, covering her mouth with her hands. He waved with just his fingertips. One more quick look around. No one was looking their way.

He grabbed her up with one arm, clamping his other hand over her sweet little mouth. He turned on his heel and walked towards his van as quickly as he could without looking suspicious, carefully not turning back when he heard her father call out, the panic rising in his voice with each repetition. "Kara? Kara? Kara?"

Milestones Are Heavy in a Mother's Heart

It's been a month of big steps for my daughters. The oldest turned thirteen. It's official now, that "teen" at the end of her number. The youngest lost her first baby tooth.  Milestones all around. They're both happy and excited, as they should be. It's me who has issues. I'm so not ready for this.

I didn't want them to stay babies. I'm proud of the way they are growing and know that they will be fabulous and successful women someday. But, especially for my oldest, who just turned thirteen, but looks sixteen, it's starting to feel like every step she takes is a step closer to stepping out on her own. She's going to be great. She's already amazing and she's only going to get more amazing.

Maybe I should've done something to stunt her growth.

Starting out, thirteen years ago, in the parenting racket, eighteen years sounded like a very long time. Certainly long enough to impart what little I know about the world and give my daughters the leg-up they'll need to make it. "It goes fast," a friend with grown children told me. "Savor this time when they are small," another advised. 

I shook it off, of course, as the young always do those with more experience. I've always hated it when people told me "You'll understand when you're older" or any version of that advice.  When parents would tell me that I would understand someday when I was a parent, I regarded it as shortcoming on their part. They lacked the articulation to explain. Or they underestimated my ability to understand.

Of course, they were right. No matter how articulate a person is when they explain, or how insightful and intelligent the listener, you have to walk this walk to understand it.

All this angst over my girls is definitely out of left field. I myself am a very "in the moment" kind of girl. When high school friends on the socials go on about stuff that happened twenty and more years ago, I'm always amazed at the detail they remember. Once I've already lived it, I move on, for the most part, looking for the next leg of this adventure.   I'm the same as a parent. I don't spend hours waxing nostalgic over diapers and ankle chubs. I enjoy my girls for who they are right now and look forward to who they will become. 

Maybe this is why they are called milestones. For the weight of them.

Flash Fiction #7

This week, I'm participating in the Flash Fiction Project founded by +Becket Moorby. Each day, there's an image for inspiration and we all write a piece.

I've haven't quite succeeded in "a piece a day," but I'm getting there! It really has been fun to create all these short pieces.

Today's image is:

Image courtesy of jam343 via Flickr Creative Commons (Attribution Link)

Hannah was the first to scent the child outside the cabin. The others told her that she was imagining things, that there was nothing that succulent for miles around. Besides, they'd already had the snack. The bones were still stacked neatly beside the fire. 

Nan, who acted as caretaker of the cabin, living in the abandoned mining town most of the year, reminded them that she had personally chased off the last backwoods homesteaders three winters ago. It had been pretty dull since then.  Dull, but safe. After what happened to Eloise, you couldn't be too careful.

The coven gathered back around the fire, chanting and tossing small items into it.  Hannah's senses settled back down and she had just pulled her concentration back to the work at hand, when they all  stopped. Hannah chanted alone a second or two before she noticed the silence. "What?" she asked, annoyed.

Nan raised a finger to her lips. Hannah cocked her head, waiting.  Then she heard it too, a soft snuffling sound. Sad child. It was unmistakable. It was delicious. She cackled, then covered her mouth. How embarrassing--to actually cackle. The others were listening intently to the sobbing outside the cabin. Maybe they hadn't heard. 

Nan gestured with her head at the door. She was right. What were they waiting for? From the sound, the child was practically on their doorstep. Hannah could almost taste it. She grabbed her broom from the rack as they stepped into the night. 

The child was huddled under a tree, a beam of moonlight shining on her long golden hair.  She wore a white gown and no shoes. Her feet were filthy and the gown was streaked with mud. She looked up at them with big blue eyes full of tears and said, "I can't find my Mommy!"

Hannah concentrated a moment and cast a glamor over herself, something mom-ish she hoped, though not like her own mother, of course. That would send the child screaming into the night. "Oh, you poor dear. Come inside, honey. We'll get you some nice cocoa and see if we can get a message to your mother." The child hesitated. "Come on, love, you'll catch your death out here!" The girl stood on wobbly legs that still bulged at the ankles in rolls of baby fat. Hannah licked her lips. 

Once inside, the coven circled around the girl and began the incantation to bind her to the spot. The child looked around the room quickly, but there would be no exit for her. The women brought the circle in tighter.  Hannah's stomach growled in anticipation.

Hannah was the first to sense it when the change began to happen. She stopped in mid-syllable, eyes darting wildly to the door. The child smiled, and with the smallest gesture of her hand slammed the door closed from the center of the room.  There was a kind of bulge in the air around the girl and the glamor fell away from her. A tall thin woman with black eyes stood where the child had been. Eloise?

"Well met, Sisters," she said, her hair blowing in a wind that affected no other part of the room. "You worked so hard to save me, didn't you?" The accusation was clear. All of them bowed their heads.  "Well, I'm home now. No thanks to you." Eloise spread her arms wide and grinned, the grin you didn't want to be on the receiving end of.  And then cabin was alight in flame. 

Flash Fiction #6

This week, I'm participating in the Flash Fiction Project founded by +Becket Moorby. Each day, there's an image for inspiration and we all write a piece. I'm excited about participating just for the promise that I will, indeed, write something every day. 

Today's image is:

Image courtesy of jenny downing via Flickr Creative Commons (Attribution Link)

 Here's my piece: Element of Surprise

Obviously she wasn't dragged. There were her footprints, long toed and slightly clawed. They moved steadily in a column. She was either a willing member of this party, or had decided not to resist.

They must have her flanked by the big girls--Thunderfeet. The footprints are wide and close set, pressed deeply into the sand.  He wasn't sure what they were, exactly, but they were tanks.  Hard to kill. He'd need some serious firepower and some luck. It would be like killing a polar bear. What doesn't kill it, pisses it off. And there were two. He missed Angelique. They used to do this sort of thing together. "You want the one on the left or the right?" Famous last words. May the Spirit Guard her Soul.

There must be a robot of some sort with them, too.  Something with a narrow track. That meant that they already knew he was coming. Downwind makes no difference to heat sensors and long range tracking. There would be no element of surprise.

Moreso than the robot, though, he was worried about the tiny holes in the sand. Those tracks came later and were intermixed among all the other tracks. There were a lot of them. Someone else was tracking them, too. He suspected their intentions were even less honorable than his. If it was who he thought it was, none of them were coming out of this alive.

If he could get her back, he was planning to sell her back to her family.  The Thunderfeet group probably wanted her for a breeding camp. It would kill her eventually, but she'd be treated well enough till then.  The Slashers probably didn't know or care who she was. They just liked to get at what was inside, to pull apart the soft things and study the pieces. 

Suddenly, he stopped. His entire body tensed. He whirled, just in time to dodge the first blade. The tracks must circle around up ahead. Damn he missed Angelique. No one had his back this time. Maybe he could surprise her in the afterworld.