An Old Dog's Trick

A holographic matrix, light-bending technology and even more arcane technological methods made the XIS-25 the first plane that would be invisible, not only to electronics, but even to the naked eye.

As an old fighter jock turned test pilot, Fortescue wasn’t sure he liked the idea. There was no artistry, no skill to flying it. It was the harbinger of a new age in which he didn’t belong. Or was it?

Setting the craft into a steep dive over the volcanic glass hills, he wondered how long it would take them to find invisible wreckage against such a stark background.

Artistic Expression

Like the great masters of the Renaissance, Fleur considered himself to be no less of an artist, no less a creator of timeless beauty and no less a conduit of creative force. Unlike those worthies, he did not express his soul through the medium of crude pigments smeared upon rough and vulgar squares of cloth.

For Fleur, every constructed edifice of any sort served as the potential canvas for his genius; genius that he applied through the inspired ministrations of his most beloved instrument: fire.

An artisan of flame, Fleur possessed the knowledge to create it in any of the hues of the rainbow, through the mere introduction of chemical magic: strontium chloride for red, sodium chloride for yellow, copper sulfate for green, copper chloride for blue…these and dozens more were his to command.

He trailed the calcium chloride out and set the match to it, reveling in the orgy of apricot and cantaloupe, of carrot and coral, of peach and tangerine and so many more that were the wondrous nuances, the subtle shadings, the delightful permutations of his most favored of flames: orange. 

Predator Denied

Shal Khar entered the icy river hungrily. This morning, the grizzled predator desired fish. Tensed for the kill, his concentration was unexpectedly shattered.

“Hey, old dude! Get outta the trough! We all gotta drink from that y’know.”

Shal Khar glared at the young tiger. Sighing, he slowly stepped out. Another day of life in captivity began. 

Reminders

They seemed so natural lying on the stony cobbles of the farmhouse walk, as if there was no more fitting place to be. There was the foolish stuffed bear I’d given her on our first date. She’d said it wasn’t the price but the precious that made it matter to her so much.

In its moth-eaten paw was the flower. Wildflowers had always been her favorites. It could have been the selfsame one I’d placed in her hair as they closed the coffin that day.

She was forever gone, yes, but she’d left me these reminders she would always care. 

Like A Big Girl

You’ll find monsters where you least expect them. This is one of the ageless truisms that have existed for as long as there have been those to compose such things.

Submitted for your consideration is Miss Emilia Faye Carstairs. She is three and one half feet of sheer cute and adorable. Blessed with flaxen hair and cornflower blue eyes, this dimpled darling serves to satisfy this truism most accurately.

Emilia was the newest student of Ms. Stephenson’s morning kindergarten class at Springview Academy. Her mother had decided she must start now and not next year as she’d planned.

The problem was, Emilia simply did not belong amongst the others. The majority were acquainted with each other prior to beginning school. She was an outsider, an interloper, that most-dreaded of pariahs: “the new kid”. To Emilia, as with nearly any child her age, there was absolutely no worse thing to be than THAT.

Neither Ms. Stephenson nor her mother understood. Mommy told Emilia she must be a big girl and work through her problems.

Today, Emilia determined would be the end of the bullying. Within her Hello Kitty lunchbox were surprises for her classmates AND her teacher. Emilia could scarcely wait to unveil them but knew she must wait.

When crafts was over, Emilia stood in line with the others as they retrieved their lunchboxes. She sat at the same table as Tommy and Suzie and a few of her other tormenters. She ignored their snickers and jibes and unpacked her lunch.

Last of all was her thermos. She’d filled it, herself, full of the stuff Daddy used to run the mower. She carefully unscrewed the top and set it aside. In her other hand was a match taken from the kitchen drawer at home. She knew this would work. She’d seen it on that police show mommy was watching one night.

With a sweep of her small arm, she liberally doused the children. Before they could react, she struck the match the way she’d seen Daddy do on countless chilly winter nights. With an angelic smile, she tossed it amidst the squealing children.

Startled squeals became screams of agony as flames leaped up to engulf the students. Emilia slowly backed away. She wanted to make sure Ms. Stephenson had an unobstructed view of the situation. The horrified teacher ran for the small fire extinguisher.

Emilia exited the classroom, closing the door behind her. She reached under her blazer and removed the jump rope that had been in her lunchbox. Using a knot she’d learned from her Uncle Bert, she quickly tied it around the doorknob. She pulled the rope very tight and tied it to a water pipe that ran up the wall.

Convinced the door would not open without someone on her side helping, Emlia ignored the commotion inside the classroom and walked out of the school. She just KNEW Mommy would be so proud of her for working out her own problems like a big girl ought to. 

Power Undesired

Lianasa’s tone was both harsh and concerned.  “No witch can teach you what you desire, child. It is men’s magic and is magic most foul. Power it offers, aye, but at a price. It warps the mind, the body, the very soul of those who succumb to it. Do not do this!” The girl left her.

She sat in a submissive pose, hands bound by silken cord and her mouth taped. The mage had demanded such before he would begin.

“The wonders of the Wild Magic shall I show you, sweet one, shall I teach you. Let your eager eyes see through me and witness the origins of true Power.”

As the images and their force flooded into the young witch, she knew she had erred most grievously. Her bulging eyes burst in response and a wail of unending terror ripped the tape asunder. She screamed for a very long time before she, mercifully, died.

Demands Of State

Her Imperial Highness, Princess Antonia Sofia Fluffiella Espinoza di Calico y Tabby, was not a very happy little kitten. She was a princess and being a princess should be much less pomp and ceremony and duty and far more fun and dollies and tea parties. That was simply how things should be, she sniffled with disapproval.

For instance, while she wished for nothing more than to play with her basket of wooden human-parts making fanciful little creations, some ill-tempered personage kept rapping on her chamber doors. This was unaccountably rude and must cease.

She was a princess and, as such, should have the authority to deal with such rudeness most promptly and brutally. Would Daddy let her have a beheading or merely chuckle at the notion? She must track down the Justiciar later that morning and clarify her royal punishing powers. It could be important, after all.

With a contented purr of satisfaction, she realized the potential intruder had ceased their insipid knocking. Her happiness was short-lived as, with a jangle of keys, the door to her playroom was unlocked and flung open. The stunned princess was opening her mouth to object, when The Evil One shuffled slowly into the room, accompanied by two Guardsmen.

The Evil One was, in point of fact, the Royal Governess, Madame Sealpoint. Dressed in voluminous black robes, she inclined her grizzled, triangular head in a pose of mock respect.

“Apologies, beloved Highness, for unseemly entrance. Lessons we have scheduled, as surely you knows. When no response was I getting, I fear worst and fetch help. As all seems well, will dismiss them and begin we can. Today we practicing of curtsies and bows…again.” Her voice dripped solicitous sarcasm.

The Princess scowled at the old woman with undisguised fury. Yes, a beheading it must be. 

Social Conventions

Miranda stared at the formal dining room with poorly-concealed disgust. The heavy oaken table and chairs lent the room a stern and stolid ambience. She didn’t really care for the furnishings but she’d not been consulted on them. Her dear husband, Edmond had made that decision, as with so many others, both confidently and unilaterally.

He was of the belief that the furnishings in a man’s home should be a reflection of the man himself. Frowning, Miranda thought he had managed that with his usual misguided aplomb. Where he saw strength, solidity and dependability, she saw stodgy, outdated and pretentious. All the more regrettable, she mused, that Edmond would be constitutionally incapable of understanding how her impressions of the room could possibly differ from his so widely. Edmond was, if many things, certainly not a man given to understanding others on a personal level.

She wasn’t sure what she disliked most about these formal dinners. There were so very many disagreeable aspects that selecting a single one seemed an insurmountable task.  Was it the actual nuts-and-bolts of preparing and serving dinner for twelve? No, that was not it. Edmond employed sufficient staff to make such matters easily manageable. The banalities of food preparation, table service and such would be taken care of with little ado.

Perhaps it was the social intrigue of the seating? That was, certainly, a requirement fraught with peril. Edmond’s seat would, as always, be at the head of the table. She would occupy her usual place at the table’s foot. That left a minefield of ten seats to assign. Her husband’s protégé, Charles, would be seated to his right. That was a necessary given. With a sigh, she imagined it a given that the seat across from Charles would, yet again, remain empty. Though he consistently maintained he would be bringing a companion to these affairs, he had never managed to do so. She had every reason to believe the awkward lad was as queer as a three-dollar bill but kept her suspicions to herself. Edmond had an unaccountable fondness for Charles and would have been quite angry at the mere suggestion of such. With an uncharacteristic giggle, she wondered if Edmond was quite aware of Charles’ proclivities and availing himself of such. The mental image was priceless!

Shaking off the untoward thought, she set to the remaining eight seats. William Hansen, Edmond’s financial manager, had been with him for the better part of 30 years. What had not been with William for anywhere near that time was the bleached-blonde bimbo he had dumped his wife Constance for. Miranda thought the young tart too vapid and brainless to form any lasting opinion of. The insipid cutesy banter between her and William, though, was enough to put anyone off their feed and so she saw fit to place them as far away from her as the table allowed.

That made the process considerably easier from that point on. Nearest to her would be Cedric and Amelia Trask. Cedric was Edmond’s Chief Operations Officer. He was a small, beady-eyed little man of no particular interest to anyone but his wife. That Amelia had been in the same sorority as Constance made it simply expedient to allow as much space as possible between her and William. Amelia observed all the required social proprieties but her loathing of William was clearly evident to all.

Two seats remained and those would be filled by Edmond’s chief investor, Ernesto Saladino and his wife, Maria. They were a greasy, noveau-riche couple who were barely a generation out of the barrios of whatever Third-World pesthole they’d come from. Their command of the English language was so poor she doubted anyone would care where the couple was seated anyway.

She wondered what Edmond would think if he knew that she was fully aware of the reason for tonight’s soiree. Under attack from both the Securities and Exchange Commission and the Federal Trade Commission, Edmond intended to divest all of his holdings as quickly as possible and run like a scalded cat to the nearest country that offered refuge by virtue of a strict policy of non-extradition. The purpose for the dinner was to give those of his inner circle both something of a heads-up and to inform them of his impromptu version of a severance package for them.

She imagined he would be livid to know how intimately aware she was of his business dealings. By no means a foolish woman, Miranda had taken steps many years ago to ensure her own interests would be protected. So, while there would be much weeping and wailing in this room tonight, none of it would be hers. She allowed herself a delighted smile at what she did have planned to make this evening’s get-together an extra special night.

As the dishes were cleared and coffee and desserts had been served, Edmond launched into the unfortunate news he had to share with his inner clique. As Miranda had expected the tumult and uproar were both immediate and quite intense. As voices rose and fingers were pointed, she dabbed her lips with a napkin and slipped quietly out of the room.

Exiting the house via the east French doors, she strolled across the verdant lawn to a spot she had selected some days prior. From her vantage point atop a low mound, she had a clear view of the formal dining room. She withdrew a pack of cigarettes and a slim gold lighter from her small clutch and lit up. She sucked in the smoke, savoring its harsh tickle at the back of her throat. Edmond hated when she smoked. There were a great many things Edmond hated, but they would very soon be matters of little import to her.

She reached again into the clutch and withdrew the wafer-thin remote control unit. With an exaggerated wave to the house and its squabbling occupants, she depressed the unit’s single button. As one, the eleven small explosive charges she’d placed beneath the dining chairs detonated. A tremendous gout of flame tore the entire side of the house away in a shower of glass, wood, stone and bodies.

Miranda placed the unit back from whence it had come and, this time, withdrew her cell phone. She confirmed her flight details before calling Stefan. He was already en route to meet her and before dawn would be sharing space in the island home she’d purchased the year before. With the funds she’d been siphoning from Edmond’s business over the last 15 years, she and her boy toy could enjoy a very comfortable life far away from the demands of proper society and social conventions.

Of Moths And McNuggets

“Can you see her, George, can you? Did she get our order, George? I don’t think she got our order, George.”

“Benny, will you shut up? She got our order. They’re just really busy. I’m tryin’ to get her attention now.”

“Did you go to the right window, George? She said the second window and I don’t think this is the second window, George.”

“It’s the second window, Benny. You always order the 20-piece McNuggets and they never got that many ready, so we gotta wait.”

“Mmm, tell me again about the McNuggets, George. Tell me?”

“Aww, Benny. Not now!!”

Different Job Descriptions

As night fell, Father Timothy Flynn found himself in what could only be described as a “distressed” neighborhood. Fatigue and naiveté ensured he never saw the small man with the large gun until it was too late.

The man’s hands shook but his voice was firm, demanding the priest’s money and valise. Overcome with fear, the cleric resorted to his only defense. He prayed. Time seemed to stop and the outside world was distant as he whispered the words.

Timothy’s eyes shot wide as the whir of wings broke the silence. The man, if man he were, was tall and well-muscled and exuded an air of confidence and supreme power. His powerful black wings were spread wide seeming to make him blend into the night. The smile on his face seemed more predatory than reassuring.

His voice was calm, “Your prayers have been heard.” He turned toward the would-be thief and, without ado; the immense silver sword in his hands dispensed final, terminal justice.

He turned back to the priest who had fallen to his knees, retching. Father Timothy looked up, his face red with sorrow and righteous indignation. “How dare you? He is a God of love and compassion and forgiveness. How DARE you?!”

The angel replied, with a snort, “The name’s Abbadon, padre. My job description’s a bit different than yours is, y’know? Look it up some time. Have a blessed day, now.”

Father Timothy continued looking to the heavens long after the angel was gone from sight.

Not With A Bang

With the final enhancements brought online, the Autonomous Neural Interface Network (ANIN) was born. Physical attendance at public venues was no longer necessary and quickly came to be accepted as both risky and gauche. Why subject oneself to the annoyances of transportation, admission lines, and the very real possibility that the patron next to you might be carrying one of a host of nasty and particularly virulent pathogens currently plaguing society, when viable technological alternatives existed?

From a secure bunker in an unspecified location, Ekaterina Yaroslava, child prodigy and piano virtuoso, took her place to begin the first virtual concert of her much-anticipated ANIN World Tour. Transmitted directly to the cerebral cortices of her millions of adoring fans, the music was infinitely preferable to the total, all-consuming silence that had become the world outside of their own minds. 

Transition

The bridge was a sturdily-built affair with strong planking mated to tubular steel rails. Chain-link fencing added further to the bridge’s pervasive impression of solidity and safety.

Nevertheless, Pietro was powerless to explain the dread he felt.

Charon’s deep voice called out to him, “Anytime today, boy, anytime. Oh, and don’t forget your coin, dammit!”

This was written for the 55 Word Challenge hosted by my darling wife, Lisa . Stop in and try your hand at it. It's fast, fun & there are always prizes!

Mistrunners' Quest

Chelek Vart, captain of the mistrunner Delisantorios, cast a critical eye down-beam of the prow.

“Ensign Tresk, make our speed full stop and maintain, make fast the mooring lines and summon first and third teams to stations.

“Aye, Captain. Be we goin’ down for a look see then?”

Vart valued his mate much but brooked no discussion of his orders.

“She’s no Valiants’ Pride, Tresk, but she’s worth a look, so see to my orders and bump gums on your time, not mine.




Author's Note: Anyone who has read my blog, knows I am a wicked fan of short/micro-fiction. This is my first attempt at a challenge called Five Sentence Fiction, sponsored by the talented Lillie McFerrin. Please, support her and her efforts to expand our creative outlets. 

An Ill Wind Blows

Dragged from his bed and herded aboard a stinking truck, he was deposited at this place called Dachau. He’d been deemed an undesirable element…a political dissident. This was the most absurd lunacy he’d ever encountered. He lectured on French Impressionists, not political sciences! Surely, some mistake had been made!

His eyes were drawn to a leaf, skewered on the cruel wire of the high fence. Buffeted by the cold November wind, its crackle seemed oddly loud. Much like him, the life had been leeched from it, leaving only a desiccated memory behind. Much like it, he was powerless to leave. 

Getting The Beat Down

I can’t believe she’s gone! I don’t know if the bitch likes getting beaten silly or whether she thinks I suddenly developed amnesia but she actually left the house without my permission…again.

I’m left with no choice but to express to her the depth of my displeasure in a more memorable way than last time. You’d think a broken nose and an eye so swollen shut she was running into stuff for a week would suffice but it seems not.

I really don’t ask all that much from her. Cook my food, wash my clothes, clean my house and be available when I require a bit of “stress relief”. That’s it in a nutshell. I mean, from time to time, there’s some stuff added on; but in essence that’s it.

She gets the sweet end of the deal: broadband, deluxe cable, her computer, and that’s just the tip of the freakin’ iceberg. She can shop online for damned near anything and it comes straight here. In exchange, ALL I asked is…don’t be out and about running with those worthless slutty friends of hers.

She doesn’t have the gray matter, apparently, to differentiate between the stuff that’s important and the crap those femi-Nazi bitches tell her she’s “entitled” to. I suppose what works for them works but then it seems their men (those that aren’t too bull-dyke to even get a man) are willing to let them wander around willy-nilly with no guidance and no direction.

If women were smart enough or capable enough to fend for themselves without a strong male hand to guide them that would be just fine. But they aren’t and we all know it. If left to their own devices they wind up as whores or crack heads or worse. I’ve seen it more times than I care to remember. I call it the “unnatural order of things”. When they are allowed the freedom to do as they wish and don’t get a bit of discipline or direction, well they just end up dicking things up sooner or later. It’s just a sad, unavoidable fact of life. Plain and simple, I say.

Well, I guess it will be time for a little remedial learning a la closed fist whenever the stupid wench sees fit to drag her fat ass home. She best be having the time of her life because I am pretty damned sure by the time I get done with her, she ain’t going to be in any shape to try leaving the house for a damned long time to come.

Oh good, silly bitch didn’t lose her mind entirely. It looks like she was sensible enough to leave me something to eat. Oven timer shows it ought to be about done any second. Wonder what the hell she made ‘cause I sure as hell don’t smell any food cooking.

Huh? What the freak? An oxygen bottle?!? What the hell’s THAT doing in the oven? And who the hell…aww…no way man…she wouldn’t…how the?

BOOOOM!!