Clever, Finish, Silky

Leslie sat at the intersection, leaned back and watched the semis blow by on the divided highway.

She couldn’t help feeling somewhere between smug and clever. Anderson didn’t have a chance. She reached back between the seats and touched the heavy briefcase. And now it’s all mine. ‘

Leslie smirked and lifted a glass of whiskey from the cupholder. It went down smooth, smoky and silky and lit a fire inside. So fine.

Another trio of semis zoomed past. She signed and looked both ways. There just wasn’t any way to get on the road here. As soon as one group of trucks passed, another came along, driving too fast to let her in. There wasn’t enough space to step on it and get started, let alone get up to speed.

She caught a reflection in the windshield and glanced over her shoulder. A dark-colored Acura was approaching from the rear. Someone else who went the wrong way. Leslie sighed and leaned back, adjusting the rearview – and froze.

The driver of the Acura was – what was it? He? She? The other car stopped not a foot from her bumper and she risked another glimpse into the mirror.

From the neck down, it could have been any businessperson – no, a woman, she decided. It was wearing a grey suit, closed at the neck, with pearls draped around its neck.  But from the neck up, it was a horror, jaundiced, warty skin, reddish eyes and a loose, wet mouth like a crooked line drawn by a child, stretched in a twisted mockery of a smile.

Leslie reached over and touched the power lock control  All four door locks clicked shut.  Not that the other driver showed any evidence of getting out of the car,  but Leslie believed in safety first.  She eased up on the brake and moved toward the main road. The traffic pattern held – there was no break in the semis and she cursed the luck that put her on this little podunk road and not at an intersection with a traffic light.

With no warning, there was a thud and the car jerked. Startled, she slammed on the brakes. Leslie saw smoke that had to be coming from the churning tires of the Acura behind her, and she panicked as her car inched slowly toward the highway. She pushed the gear shift into ‘park’. The car kept moving. She yanked frantically on the hand brake to no effect. The tip of the hood was nearly over the white line and a double FedEx tractor trailer was coming, too close to have any hope of stopping.

Leslie grappled with the door handle before remembering she’d locked the door. She flipped the lock. Nothing. Jammed.  Oh, dear God, jammed. She tried opening the power windows, one window after another. Nothing.

Oh, why didn’t I spend the money on one of those hammers.  She pounded hysterically on the window as the car moved forward in a sudden lurch. A few more inches and she would be far enough out for one of the trucks to make very small pieces of herself and her car.

She turned around and looked at the driver of the car behind her. The red eyes were glowing with a manic glee and the bizarre grin stretched from ear to ear. She heard the engine of the Acura rev to an impossible pitch and her car leaped forward, straight in the path of a semi and its horrified driver.

At the finish, she had just enough time to reach back with a mixture of terror ands apathy to once again touch the case that had meant so much just a few moments before.

So here in this fluid moment of time
well wishes all around but not yours
conspicuous by its absence
And this is enough

You were an inadvertant pickpocket
Stole this small part of me
you didn’t know and didn’t want it
No collector of bagatelles

I’ll return the favor – filch it back
In the interests of security
Behind this facade, lock it away
Never to be taken again.

For her – Ghost, by him
She sat through “Under Siege”
And they giggled over jokes
No one else would get.

Yesterday, he came home
Slammed the door and
Swore at her for fifteen minutes.

When he watched Steven Segal
She sat crying in the bedroom
Singing “Unchained Melody” between sobs.

The cat scattered the deck; cards tossed across the floor
It’s okay – I was cheating anyway
Nothing holds my interest tonight
Not my thoughts or the quiet jazz on the speakers

I would like to not think of you
For my only considerations to be of
Silly games and my plans for tomorrow
Not of signing on and not finding you there

It’s not like I don’t have friends – good ones, too.
They are kind, but I want more than that.
I want what you will not give me
It hurts, and for tonight, I wish I didn’t care.

Still, none of us knew what to make of this bush, new to us, sprung up almost overnight.  The berries hung from the bushes, shaped like glistening red tears, nearly clear, with a single shimmering seed visible. Susha, a girl I thought to be afraid of nothing and willing to dare almost anything, reached out a tentative hand and nearly touched one of the ruby temptations, but jerked her hand back and put it behind her, as if she feared being burned.

“Are they hot, Susha?” Little Pitar inquired in his gentle voice. Poor Pitar. His elder brother, Martu, was the britad of his father’s pride and could do no wrong. He used his position to make the little one’s life miserable. We had all seen the bruises that were evidence, though strangely, they were invisible to our parents, who feared Martu’s father and his influence with our ground lord.

“Are they hot?” Martu mocked him. “I doubt it.” He elbowed his way through us and snatched a berry off the bush, tossing it down his throat before anyone could stop him.  Not that we would, of course.

His head jerked twice, for all the world like a hen pecking at grass seed. Then he coughed, once, twice, three times.  The third time, a tongue of flame passed between his lips and singed the stand of sweetstrips in front of him.

There was silence for a moment. Anthe, the great friend of my childhood, looked at me in amazement.  “Did you see that, Mak?  Did I?” his bright blue eyes wide.

“We did.”

When nothing more happened to Martu, some of the others went ahead and took a single berry each.  One after the other, they spouted fire, except for Susha, who merely coughed up a tiny cloud of smoke and then laughed as it spread itself thin on the breeze.

“No more! This is my bush!” Martu stood between us all. “Mine!”

He wasn’t that much bigger than the rest of us, but we all knew where he stood and where we did. No one wanted to bring trouble down on his or her parents, and Martu was trouble. Turning his back on us, the bully grabbed handfuls of the berry from the bush and crammed them down like Long John after the fast.

At first, it was amusing to see him spouting flames from his nose and mouth, and in one memorable spurt, from his nethers. Hands were stuffed in mouths to stifle the giggles Martu would never have forgiven.

“Martu, what’s on your hand?” Anthe’s voice was puzzled.

“What?” But then we all saw it. Martu’s hand – both hands, actually, were slowly turning a strange dark green, a weirdly familiar color, and scaly –

As one, we stepped back.  Every one of us knew what he was becoming, even if we didn’t understand how. The skin of the last Fyrbeast to menace the village was wrapped around the chimney of the Broderhall. Every child knew the story of Karne Stronghand and how he brought the fyrbeast down with a well-shot arrow, but only after many sevendays of death and damage to animals and crops.  Now, we were about to have another such among us.

Martu’s head snapped back and his face merged together, elongated.  His voice changed from the cries of a human child to a frightening alien bellow.  Two bumps appeared on his back and began to tear his shirt.

“What do we do?” Suddenly, all were looking to me, as the eldest. It was a responsibility I didn’t want.

“Do it now, Mak, while they can still see it’s him, see how he changed.” Anthe was grappling at my belt, for the hatchet I never went without.

“Do it!” “Yes, you must!” The cries went up from every side. Martu’s eyes, the only truly human part of him left, pleaded with me, whether for saving from the horrible change or for the mercy he had never shown anyone else, least of all his younger brother.

For myself, I thought that the bully might enjoy ravaging our village and any other he came across once he adapted to being a fyrbeast. I took the hatchet from Anthe and swung it twice.  The girls turned away and were sick.  Some of the boys, too.

It took us an hour to drag what was left of Martu back to the village. His father raved and swore, but in the end it was plain as the Guide Star what had been in the process of happening.  It took nearly a sevenday and delayed the harvest, but the men went into the fields and forests in pairs and brought back every one of these new bushes they could find.

We had a bonfire with them the following night. Every sound brought anxious glances to the skies. We had destroyed all we found – but who knew if all were gone? Or who might have found them and eaten?

About 3 years ago, I started writing again. Initially, it was fanfiction for the 1960s series Combat!  Then I stumbled on a new (to me) thing called “Flash Fiction”.  That’s the idea that you can write an entire story in 1000 words or less.  This was followed by the discovery of a hashtag (I believe I can give Tony Noland credit for pointing it out to me) on Twitter called “#FridayFlash”.  People write flash fic and post it on their blogs. Then they post tweets about it (and now can also publicize it on the eponymous Facebook group). I enjoyed this a lot — I’m something of a minimalist when it comes to writing and the very short form suited me.

Jon Strother, who started the whole megillah of #FridayFlash, collected a number of the best of the stories that are posted back a couple of years ago.  It was enough of a success that he’s done it again, with the help of Jody Cleghorn, another member of the club, and has produced a new book called Best of Friday Flash 2.  I’m pleased and honored to say they found my story Boarding Call worthy of inclusion alongside some very fine writers whose work I have enjoyed reading over the past couple of years.

You can find the book here, if you’d like to order it:  Best of Friday Flash 2.  I hope you will, not only for me, but for all us authors who are finding our voices and sharing our work out here.  It can be hard to be heard — the Internet has so many voices — but I know the people here who contributed their work deserve the effort.  Let the good work continue.

This year, I’m hoping to get up enough energy to write “The Greening”.  I’m basing my novel on “When the Sky was Blue” — a flash fic I wrote earlier this year, and a followup I did, Waste Not, Want Not.  It may seem like a stretch, to get 50K (or more) words out of a couple of flash pieces (1,000 words or less).  But I think I have pieced together a workable plot.  I’ll find out when I get started, I guess, although I have a lot of it thought out — more than I did 2 years ago, and I finished then.

We’ll see what happens! Wish me luck!

The tears on my face mirrored

in the rain on the window

This isn’t how it was supposed to be

Not what I was building towards

My life crumbling inside my heart wearing down

Like the bones like my health like me

Waiting to hear from you

Please don’t go away

I’ve had enough cut out of me

I can’t bear to lose you, too.

[A/N:  Thanks to Maria Kelly for the picture prompt! (www.mariakellyauthor.com)]

Emily reached the top of the rise and stopped, wiping her brow and fumbling for the canteen at her hip. I could walk forever, she thought, if it keeps me away from the keyboard.  She’d been used to cranking out stories almost as easily as McDonald’s made hamburgers – although I hope the stories were of higher quality than their food.

Lately though, every idea took major effort to bring to the surface. Emily estimated that she had somewhere between 25 and 50 “half-stories” on her USB drive, concepts that had seemed wonderful at first glance, but which petered out halfway through, inspiration drained away almost before she knew it.

A breeze moved across the meadow below her, the wind turning the grasses silver as they passed.  It brought a faint smell of mown hay to her, reminding her of a childhood spent on the farm below, far away from the city that was her life now.  I’m depressed – that’s what’s wrong. I thought I wanted to live away from here.  I didn’t realize that a city life isn’t who I am. But I don’t know if I can ever come back.

She tugged the jacket tied around her waist loose, and turned to drop it on the ground, preparing to sit for a bit and think, when the wind moved the trees behind her.

Emily froze for a moment.  I didn’t see that, did I? The wind blew again, and this time she was sure.  The jacket fell, unheeded, as she moved cautiously toward the thing she had seen.

When she reached the spot, she moved the low-hanging branches.  Sure enough, there, sitting in a small clearing behind the stand of aspens, was a stone statue.  Of a – well, she wasn’t sure what to call it.  A troll, maybe?  She smiled, thinking of Tolkien. Turned to stone by daylight, I suppose.  Emily walked around it.  This is a pretty good sculpture, she thought, very detailed and realistic.

Once in front of it again, she studied the face.

“Idea?”

Emily stumbled backwards in shock.  “You did not just talk to me!” She shook her head.  Okay, I’m worse off than I thought.

“You want idea?”

The statue’s lips didn’t move, but for a moment, the eyes seemed to shift, focus, and take her in.

No, that’s just the light. Statues don’t SEE.

“You want idea? Feed me.”  This time, the eyes definitely moved. There was no question.

Emily poised to run.  Remember what trolls eat? You!

“Not that feed,” she heard. “Not flesh.”

The troll’s eyes seemed to flash, and a look of deliberation, which made her very uncomfortable, settled in them.

“Feed me. Best thing in you. Little thing, little idea. Better thing, better idea.”

The best of me? “B-but. The best part of me is writing. If I give you that, what’s the point –“

“No. Best part. Remember!”

As though they had been pulled from her head and flung onto a screen in front of her, she watched her memories unroll.  August nights, lying on the lawn, serenaded by cicadas, watching the stars. Walking on winter days, the air clear and crisp, the frozen meadow crunching under her feet.  Running down the hill with friends, laughing in the rainstorm, full of life and joy. Autumn, beloved Autumn – the color of leaves strewn across hills like a carelessly dropped afghan. Good things, cherished things, what she dreamed of and held onto when living in a one-bedroom apartment in the middle of a big city where there was no real silence and no tranquility. My sanity,  she thought desperately.  How can I live without that?

“Idea.”

Briefly, tantalizingly, she saw a novel, an idea, as insubstantial as those she sometimes had on the brink of sleep.  An incredible concept, a novel that would move people, that would be discussed and remembered long after she was gone. It vanished suddenly and she was left with a few small fragments, just enough to tempt.

“Want idea? Give best.”

Emily teetered back and forth – the moment stretched on forever. Then she decided.

***

“Ms. Weeden?” The bookstore owner reached out an eager hand. “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to have you in our shop.  Your book – I can’t begin to tell you how it moved me!”

Emily made a valiant attempt to smile. “Thank you truly.”

“Where did you get the idea?”

“Oh, where does any author get their ideas?”

They chatted briefly and then she settled in, in another small bookstore in another small town.

The publisher’s rep who had arranged the book tour found Emily easily distracted.  Anyone else would be happy with such amazing success.   However, Emily, he thought, was never quite focused on the book. She was distracted as if she kept watching for something she couldn’t quite see and listening to something just out of her hearing.  Then he remembered something he’d meant to ask.

“This is the part of the country you came from, isn’t it? Was your town like this?”

For a moment, Emily was still.  Then she smiled at him, but he thought it didn’t reach her eyes, which looked a bit blank. “Do you know, I can’t remember.”

She locked the apartment and headed out, pulling her cart behind her. Lisa wanted to get to the marché before it got too busy, get what she needed for today so she could return and finish writing the story she’d been working on.

The streets were relatively quiet and she made good time. Lisa greeted the security guard, who swung the door open and held it so she could bring the cart in without banging it on the door. She waved to those she knew as she passed.

“Bella, when are you going to leave Philippe and run away with me?” Fratello, one of the vendors at the corner spice stand, called out to her as she passed. Lisa exchanged smiles with Fratello’s long-suffering wife, Antonia.

“How do you put up with him?”

“Ah, we can’t all be lucky like you!”

“Hey!” Fratello gave her a look of mock hurt. “That’s not what you said to me last night!” He squeezed his wife in an enormous hug and she pretended to swat him.

Lisa laughed and kept going.  The speakers overhead kicked into life and she recognized the opening sounds of Aznavour’s “For Me, Formidable”.  She sang as she passed Stephane and Philippe’s stand:

                “You are the one, for me, for me, for me, formidable…”

Stephane looked up from where he was placing loaves in the case and grinned.

                “You are my love, very, very, very, véritable …”

From behind her, Philippe’s voice joined in.

“Et je voudrais pouvoir un jour enfin te le dire,
Te l’écrire
Dans la langue de Shakespeare…”

She turned toward her husband and he swung her around, dancing with her in time to the exuberant music. Around them, the marché was starting to wake up, vendors unpacking trucks and putting vegetables, meat and other products on display. The couple danced on, the smiles of those around them unnoticed, as Philippe continued singing alone.

“Darling, I love you, love you, Darling, I want you … you are the one for me, for me, for me, formidable…”

He kissed her heartily as the song ended, but instead of walking back to help Stephane, he cupped her face in his hands, his expression serious.

“Philippe? I’m so sorry –”

“I love you so…” he interrupted, softly, hardly more than a whisper.

Lisa answered him silently, her love showing without a word. “Forgive me?”

“Of course. Need you ask?”

“Let’s always dance together.”

His eyes smiled back. “Always, ma chérie.” He winked. “I think it’s a good thing the boys are away.”

A moment later, Lisa moved down the aisle, cheeks pink, Philippe’s kiss on her lips, hugging his whispered promise to her heart.

[A/N: This is the continuation of "Cherries", two Three-Word Wednesday pieces and "An afternoon with mon Papa".  My hope is to write 3 to 5 more stories and create an e-book]