Rain Of Despair

He watched the clouds roll in, trying his best to appreciate their natural beauty. They seemed to have been layered across the sky by the hand of Mother Nature like so much cumulonimbal filo dough. Unfortunately, he doubted there was any delectably sweet filling within that metaphorical dough…only rain.

He liked rain, all things considered, except when it held the imminent promise of falling with unfettered abandon on the first party he’d be hosting as a junior associate of Harcourt, Dukes, Frances and Keene. With a reluctant sigh, he admitted an outdoor venue might not have been so very wise.

This story was written for the weekly Friday Fictioneers photo prompt.

Once Upon a Regicide

The dwarves tramped happily along, singing for the first time in a very long time. The evil queen, Regina, had been vanquished, order was restored to the storybook kingdom and they were safe to return to their forest home. 

As they marched and sang, Dopey broke off and said, “You know, I really feel quite badly about all of this. I mean, I know we always spoke of her as ‘The Evil Queen did this’ or ‘The Evil Queen did that’ and that seems rather unfair, doesn’t it? In all those years of hiding and living in mortal fear, well, I never stood up for her a single time. And, now, that all just seems very wrong. I never stood up for her.” There was a tone of sadness and deep regret in his voice.

The other dwarves broke line, gathering about. Their faces held looks of neither sadness nor regret but of stunned disbelief. All looked stunned with the exception of Grumpy, who looked…well…grumpy.

He gave Dopey a swat to the back of his head that was, somehow, more loving than angry, if such is possible.

“You really ARE dopey. Of course you never stood up for her. Nobody stood up for her and you know why? Because she really WAS evil, you dummy. That’s why we called her ‘The Evil Queen’! Now, if you’re done being dopey, can we please just get home?”

Dopey shrugged and rejoined the others in line, marching and singing as befitted the occasion. 


This story was written for the Thursday Threads flash prompt: I never stood up for her.

Going Out On Top

Casey “The Cannon” Carmichael was one pitch away from guaranteeing he would go out of the game a winner and, inevitably, into the Hall of Fame.

Full count against the toughest hitter in the league and his arm was gone. There was only one way to finish this game off. 

Calling a time out, he retrieved his spare glove from the dugout before returning to the mound. He wound up and delivered, hoping his timing was right. 

It was the first and only time in any umpire’s career he got to call a pitch neither strike nor foul, but “grenade!” 

This story was written for the final BlogFlash2012 prompt: Winning.

Facing Consequences

The world into which she’d been born was one where conformity was no longer something as cavalier as, merely, trying to conduct oneself in keeping with the accepted societal norms. Failure to live within acceptable parameters was cause for far more than muted sighs and derisive shakes of the head by those of the mainstream, it was cause for prosecution and, inevitably, for appropriate punishment. 

Body dysmorphia, rampant depression and escalating teen suicide rates had been the root causes for the Facial Uniformity Strictures. No longer were students expected to simply dress in similar fashion; standard-issue masks guaranteed none would have cause to either laud or lament the quality of the face they’d been born with. 

She’d discarded her mask that morning knowing there’d be dire consequences, yet not caring so long as she enjoyed one last opportunity to feel the warmth of the morning sunlight on her uncovered face before the enforcers took her away forever. 


This story was written for the weekly Five Sentence Fiction prompt: Faces.

Immortality Stinks

So, you think immortality would be wonderful to have? Well, then you don’t have any business thinking at all. You just tell me, what’s so damned wonderful about watching everyone you ever loved, ever cared for…hell, even your mortal enemies, grow old, wither and die while you keep right on going? Not a damned thing!


This story was written for the 55 Word Challenge hosted by my wife Lisa

Waters Of Mercy

Steeping to the water’s edge, the doctor strove to appear more confident than he felt. The survivors not only thirsted for water but, metaphorically, hungered for hope. He prayed he might offer such. 

The military bio-toxins were tailored to be virulent but also non-persistent.  The water flowing and pooling in the aqueduct might well be potable.

His test kit beeped and he stifled a groan. Anyone who drank here would die, that was certain. He mused whether it would be a kinder end than what the future offered.

At length, he abandoned his moral compunctions, waving them forward to drink.


This story was written for Visual Dare 20: Cascade

False Faces

Robert surveyed the crowd in the Savoy ballroom, recalling a memory from a literature class in college. 

Masquerade (noun): a social gathering of persons wearing masks and often fantastic costumes. He snorted at how deliciously appropriate a characterization that was for this evening.

Stella, as was her norm, wore a dress intended for a woman of younger years and fewer pounds. Derrick chatted amiably as if everyone didn’t know his wife had kicked him out weeks ago. Noting the beckoning wave of his superior, a known pederast, he donned his own metaphorical masque and went over to exchange social pleasantries. 


This story was written for BlogFlash2012, Day 29: Masquerade

Pickle Jars And Power

Estella had a glass jar full of secrets. She kept it inside of a shoe box in the darkest corner of her bedroom closet, lest they escape. The sources of her secrets were every bit as closely-guarded a mystery as the secrets themselves. The old woman had told her she must never, ever reveal her ability to anyone lest they become jealous of her. 

She suspected there was more to it than that but didn’t willingly question Mama Delilah. If you questioned or doubted her, she sent you away and never again would offer you her special oatmeal cookies nor the wisdom contained within her wrinkled, old head.

Estella knew that Mrs. Rodriguez was doing naughty things with the milkman, Dave. She knew Mr. Johnson had a box in his garage where he kept pictures of things no person ought to do to another person. She knew Reverend Stephen had no right to be telling anyone how they ought to behave given his clandestine carryings-on.

Estella knew all of these things and she stored each one away in an old glass pickle jar just the way Mama Delilah had taught her to. She knew, because Mama had told her, that knowledge is power and that power can, sometimes, be a handy thing to have when you need it.

Estella had a glass jar full of secrets she would treasure and covet and protect until the time was right for her to open it up and take the power she deserved. She only hoped Mama Delilah couldn’t see into her secret jar to learn how many of Estella’s secrets came from her and how very, very much Estella looked forward to using those secrets.

Truth be told, she didn’t really like oatmeal cookies and, though she’d asked Mama to make some other kind, she never had. Mama would be sorry for that someday. But, for now, that would remain Estella’s secret. 

This story was written for the weekly Five Minute Fiction prompt: Estella had a jar full of secrets.

Divergent Flows

Jared rolled over, wrapping his remaining arm securely around Celia; wondering if today he would find the strength to leave her. 

She could never understand he’d lost more than his leg and the better part of an arm to that roadside bomb. He’d lost his ambition, his drive, his very ability to function beyond the day he’d been made, forever, less a man.

They’d lost their bond, the very confluence defining them as two lone streams flowing to become one. While her’s still flowed into an ocean of endless possibilities, his now only emptied into a sea of endless despair. 

Fairy Tale Vengeance

Stewart winced as Kristen bounded into the room, brimming with excitement. All he wanted was to drink beer and watch the game. Instead, it seemed, he’d have to listen to her latest dumb-assed story.

“So, what do you think?” she squealed.

“You made the main character a prince turned into a damned frog?!? Once Upon A Time is one thing but nobody reads freakin’ fairy tales anymore.” He snorted with disgust. 

Crestfallen, Kristen whirled about and spoke the words of transformation. Stewart croaked at her mournfully from his recliner. She was SO tired of him not supporting her creative endeavors.

This story was written for #BlogFlash2012, Day 28: Frog

The Stuff Of History

As the vanguard of Edward’s cavalry crested the hills to the west, Seamus turned to his grandfather.

“I canna help but wonder...will men still talk of this day when I’m as old as you? Will our deeds be the stuff of legend?”

“Oh, better than that, lad. We shall be the stuff of history.”

“Well, but isn’t it all the same?” he asked with confusion.

“Nae, lad. Legends are things mighta happened but likely did not. History is the things truly happened that no man can gainsay or deny. Our victory here today shall deserve to be not legend but history.”


This story was written for BlogFlash2012, Daqyh 27: History

Lucky Dog

I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve had my fair share of one night stands. That’s always just worked better than getting’ tied down but I never forget a woman. That’s what was so weird about her. 

She slid right up with a drink SHE bought ME and that was that. I don’t recollect what we talked about but no sooner did I finish my drink and call for another and…she was…gone. It was like she never existed. I didn’t see her anywhere and no way she walked out that fast. Or did she?

Well, there I am all confused and shit when this weird little dude plops down right where she just was. He was bald as an egg with thick glasses and a foot shorter than me. He gave off a really creepy vibe and I was definitely going home…until, he started talkin’.

“Amazing. You appear unaffected. Well, a bit disoriented but still in possession of all of your faculties, eh? Amazing.”

All I could do was nod. From the way his face lit up you’d have thought I just confirmed I was an alien.

“There’s only one possible explanation. You’ve never had a single serious, long-term committed relationship in your entire life, have you? I know, theoretically, such men exist but to actually meet one! No high school sweetheart, college live-in, no summer fling…none of that. It simply HAS to be so. That is the case, yes?”

Again, little dude was freakin’ me and no words would come, only another nod.

“You don’t know how lucky you are, sir. You simply have no idea. I’ve been tracking her for nearly twelve years and have never found an anomaly like you. She’s not human, you know? No, nothing of the sort; though she wears the disguise well enough I suppose.”

“My best guess is she’s a succubus or some sort of related being. Suffice to say, she’s the ultimate sexual predator. She reaches into a man’s mind and does…things to it. She draws out the memory of that one special woman who made all the buttons click in your life but that got away. She becomes her so fully, so completely you’d do anything to spend just one night…one hour with her. Of course, in the morning you’d be dead and she’d move on. That’s how it always goes.”

“But you don’t HAVE such a memory. It’s the only conceivable explanation. She reached inside of you and came out with an empty hand. She had no choice but to dissolve your memory of her entirely and look for other…prey. Oh, I’m sure that must have really irked her. She’s not fed since Racine and that was nearly three days ago. Well, sir, you’ll understand if I have to dash. Simply amazing!” With a clap on my shoulder he was off into the night.

I had several more very strong drinks before heading home…alone. If you think I had commitment issues before then how do you think I feel now?!?

This story was written for Friday Night Write based upon a song by Nash

Absurdity Defined

Blind Wu sat in the marketplace, carving a doll. The rustle of silken robes alerted him to the potential customer.

“How is it a man with no eyes presumes to create art? It is absurd!” 

Never pausing Wu answered, “Is that truly so? My ears hear the cries of hungry children. My mouth tastes the dust of dying fields. My nose can scent sadness and sickness and despair. While you can hear and taste and smell these things and even see them, yet still can find naught better to do than annoy an old blind man…now that is absurd, eh?”

This story was written for BlogFlash2012, Day 26: Seeing.

Vault Cleaning: Displacement Anxiety

Bernadette shifted slightly trying to find a more comfortable position. The soft murmur of the waves and the strident cries of the gulls mingled opposed each other but created an unexpected calming effect overall. It was a thoroughly relaxing setting until the strong ocean breeze had kicked up and the sand began to pepper her bare skin with its stinging caress. A frown creased Bernadette’s brow and with a sudden realization she cried out, “Sand?!?”

         

Sitting bolt upright, she was surprised to find herself not on the beach but securely between the sheets of her Murphy bed in her small studio apartment. Fumbling on the nightstand beside her, she located the pill bottle there and fumbled it open with shaking hands. Concentrating, she calmed the tremors and took two of the small shiny capsules in her palm. She placed them into her mouth and followed them with short swallows from the nearby water glass.  Within minutes her body had relaxed again and she sank back down beneath the top sheet. It was happening all over again…happening as it had nearly every night for the last two weeks.

As she drifted in a drug-induced haze she heard the voice of Dr. Streicher as if he were right there with her on the day that she had finally been released. 

“Now Bernadette, I can not stress strongly enough just how important it is for you to follow your post-release treatment regimen. The medications will make your life more manageable only if you continue taking them every single day, as prescribed.”

“Yeah. I get it. Take all my pills. I’m not a kid you know?”

“I realize that, of course, Bernadette and that brings me to my greatest concern of all. You have been with us here for nearly 17 years. All but a few brief years of your entire life has been under the controlled conditions at Brookwood. I greatly fear that you will be highly susceptible to a condition known as Displacement Anxiety.”

“Great…another condition? What the blazes is Displacement Anxiety?!?”

“Calmness Bernadette..calmness. Displacement Anxiety is a syndrome first documented in individuals recently made homeless. A traumatic change in living conditions can be quite severe.”

“Describe severe.”

“Sleepiness or insomnia…either or both. You may experience loss of appetite, severe mood swings and panic attacks. In the worst known cases the subjects even experienced hallucinations…auditory, visual…very disturbing indeed.”

“That sounds lovely. I thought that’s what all of the freakin’ pills were for? What’s the point of me taking them if I’m gonna be crazy anyway?”

“Bernadette! Crazy, as you know, is NOT a word we acknowledge here at Brookwood. Of course, the medications are essential and WILL make your transition easier and, most likely, prevent any problems. BUT..I can not strongly enough express my very real concerns for your well being. You know we have come to think of you as part of our Brookwood family.”

“Right. Okay. But you’re NOT my family. They all died in the fire that wound my mentally-damaged ass up here in the first place. Right?

“You need not be cruel or vulgar Bernadette. While it is, of course, true that we are not your biological relations, family is not always about biology. I want you to know that I will never stop caring about you or for you. If you EVER need my help or simply just someone to talk to, I will always be available to you.”

Bernadette rolled over on her side and waited for sleep to reclaim her. The pills always took care of that fairly quickly. Although she was not a religious woman she whispered a silent prayer. Please…don’t let it be that Displacement Anxiety jazz. Yes, she had been having some small issues with sleep and her appetite was a bit off but that kinda stuff happens for no special reason right?  With a sigh, she drifted back to sleep.

She awoke to her jangling alarm and quickly prepared herself for the day ahead. As she turned the door knob to leave, she allowed herself a quick look back at the small apartment. At Brookwood she often worried that someone had been in her room as she slept. Old habits die hard, she mused, as she looked and saw nothing out of place. She stepped out the door and in to…knee-deep white powder.

The door to her apartment had vanished and she stood shivering in a harsh cold…where was she? All about her people in parkas and snow suits laughed and strolled. Many had skis or snowboards in hand and so this must be some kind of resort?? Disbelieving, Bernadette’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her breathing became labored and she felt she must be hyperventilating. She closed her eyes tightly and willed it all to please, please go away.

When she began to feel calmer, she hazarded a peek through veiled lids and saw…the front steps leading down to the sidewalk and her bus stop.

It can’t be happening she muttered to herself over and over as the bus rumbled on its way toward her job. Was this really happening or was she finally sliding right off the edge into a Displacement Anxiety wasteland?

This is the third story recycled for Vault cleaning. It was originally posted July 8, 2011. As a side note, the photo has been added since at the time of the original post, I was only able to blog from my not-so-smart phone and didn't have the option to add pictures. 

Ingratitude's Cost

She stood in the moonlit clearing and tried to appear at ease. She was not. He’d told her he would meet her at the first hour past sundown. Though she could not know for certain, she had no doubt it was far later than that now.

She would accept much from him, but not this. Such burning nonchalance…such abject disinterest from those she’d turned was unthinkable. While she fostered no formal pack, demanded no ritual obeisance, there were certain accepted proprieties.

He should make at least some token showing of gratitude for having been blessed with the powers of the Wolven. Instead, he flaunted his strength and ignored her warnings of restraint.

When, finally, he appeared his clothes were torn and he smelt of blood and the sweat of the hunt. Reaching for the silver blade beneath her cloak, it was her time for nonchalance as she prepared to punish him for his reckless disobedience.

This story was written for the Saurday/Sunday Tails weekly flash contest.

The Color Of Monster

“Blue”, he said with a derisive sniff, “Blue, indeed.”

“Oh, give it a rest. I said I was sorry. Isn’t that enough?” 

“It is not. It is, most certainly, not. When referring to me, in future, blue will simply not be tolerated. Call me cerulean, perhaps. Also acceptable would be azure, beryl, cobalt or navy. I would also condone teal or even turquoise. But blue? I think not.”

“You know, I have other imaginary friends I could call if this upsets you so much.”

“Is that a threat?”, he growled.

It was going to be a long day of play.

This story was written for BlogFlash2012 Day 25: Blue.

The Blackstone Rings: Terminal Transit Event

The Terminal Transit Event or TTE was a phenomenon first observed during the unmanned probe phase of the Explorer Program. For reasons yet to be determined, on two separate occasions a Ring had gone permanently dormant following an otherwise unremarkable transit. No further activation of a window had ever happened from either Ring.

In 42 months of manned missions, three more TTE's had been documented. Ironically, with so many possible hazards to contend with, TTE's were no more or less feared than any other threat.

At that moment, for the pilot of Explorer CCV it was the only hazard that mattered anymore. His mind slowly absorbed the reality that the doorway home was forever closed to him. That his sanity remained following that realization was a mute tribute to the thorough nature of the physcological testing all potential Explorers underwent.

Belasco's eyes locked on his chronometer, formulating a plan. There might not be time, he saw, but no other option remained.


This story was written for the Science Fiction Fantasy Saturday Snippet forum and is from my work in progress The Blackstone Rings: Legends Of The Explorer Corps. While it is brief and without full context, I hope it is still enjoyable reading. 

Speaker To Trees

In the language of the People his name meant Speaker to Trees. He was the tenth in his line called so. To him was given the responsibility of communing with the forests that gave the People much of what they required.

Walking the path home, he recalled the knowledge the forest had yielded up to him this day. The Ash Tree King spoke of beetles coming soon and asked no wood be taken from his children until they could recover.

Assuring the King of his understanding, he’d smiled to hear the old monarch’s joy in the rustling of His branches.

This story was written for BlogFlash2012, Day 24: In The Woods.

Defense Of Home

For fifteen generations, men had cleared, tilled and planted these lands. They’d built homes and they’d built lives here on the furthest edges of the Fringe.

Today, they would defend those homes to the last drop of their blood. As the mist rolled in over the low hills to the east; swords cleared sheathes, axes were unlimbered and the straps of armor were checked and tightened.

They were a hearty people much accustomed to hardship and travail. If the Fae King would have these lands from them, he would pay dearly for every inch of it. This they had vowed.

This story was written for the Friday Fictioneers weekly prompt hosted by Madison Woods. The photo inspiration is provided courtesy of Maggie Duncan

Rail Yard Regrets

Now, “Why didn’t I take up my friends on the ride home?” you might ask. Simple answer. Ain’t easy getting’ on in years and sure as hell ain’t easy when the damned State decides you ought not to drive no more. So, call it jest plain ole stubborn pride. Besides, weren’t that long a walk if’fn ya cut ‘crost the rail yards and that were how I went. 

Didn’t see ‘em till were damned near too late. She were a pretty little thing, pale as a snowflake. Well she was down on that cold, hard ground and the two of ‘em was havin’ they way with her somethin’ fierce.

I musta kicked me a can or somethin’, cause they stopped of a sudden. She seen me first and, in her eyes, were a look damned near broke my heart. Pleadin’…beggin’…don’t rightly know, to this day, what to call it. They seen me, too, and weren’t nothin’ but harm, plain and simple, on they minds.

Well, I may not git around like I used to, but I knew me them rail yards good an’ I run fer all I was worth till I lost them fools. Now, I read in the papers ‘bout them findin’ her body and 'bout not findin’ nobody to blame fer it. That were ten years gone by now. I never stood up fer her. Weren’t no hero or nothin’ to do me a fool thing like that. But anybody offer now? I’ll takes me a ride.

A Warming Trend

Amelia sat in the corner of the Senior Center’s main hall and tried not to feel completely ridiculous. She was 78 years old, had been widowed for nearly five years and had not gone out to any sort of social function as a single woman since Herbert had passed. She was, quite simply, far too old and set in her ways to be gallivanting about like some giddy schoolgirl at her first cotillion. 

She heard his voice before she saw him and her heart fluttered in her chest, “May I have this dance, madame?” Looking up into the kindest, deepest blue eyes she’d ever seen before, Amelia felt her cheeks redden and realized, perhaps, there might still be a dance or two left in her old bones. 


This story was written for the weekly Five Sentence Fiction prompt: Blush. 

Recipe For Disaster

Surveying the devastation he’d wrought upon his kitchen, Thomas wondered if trying to make a meal from scratch had been such a smart idea. 

He was sweating like a pig, wondering if he should have waited until after the food was done to get dressed up. No, the soup still wasn’t quite right and he couldn’t just leave it unattended.

Stirring it, he leaned forward to check the aroma. It had an odd smell coming from it, which he determined was his tie slowly melting away on the burner. This would certainly be a dinner date to remember, he groaned.

This story was written for BlogFlash2012 Day 23: Cooking

Burning with Enthusiasm

She kindled the blue-white flame on her palm and shoved her hand toward her mother. “See, mom? I got it under control. I can hold it just like this for as long as I want!” 

Her mother sighed, “I’m certain the fifteen previous generations of water mages in our family would NOT be so delighted.”


This story was written for the 55 Word Challenge

The Long Way Down

“Brah, if you jump, that’s a LONG way down. Ya can’t do that...over a girl!” 

 “Naw, I can’t, dude. Which is why yer gonna push me. If I don’t see it comin’... c’mon, it’ll work.”

After what Sylvia had done, it was the only way. But, was killing himself gonna change anything? No! She really wasn’t worth it.

He turned to tell Dave never mind and, instinctively, sidestepped his friend running straight at him. Dave enjoyed a perfect Wyle E. Coyote moment as he hung suspended in mid-air before plunging downward.

All Jake could think to say was, “Oops.”

Unauthorized Rest And Relaxation

Imperial Scouts Zerl and Tregg stood aboard the Xaldoran flagship. Specifically, they stood in the command cabin of the Supreme Fleetlord, himself. This was hardly the first time they’d been here, but it might very well be the last. 

The Fleetlord growled as he viewed the image on his command console. 

"I don't even care to hear explanations. It's one thing to expend lasers burning asinine patterns into fields. But a...what IS that?!...a Buick dropped on them is beyond idiocy! Our agents are scrambling to discredit this but it won't be easy. Shore leave is officially cancelled as of NOW!"

This story was written for BlogFlash2012 Day 22: On Holiday

The Parsifal Quest

The figure lying in repose on the narrow bench was of both indeterminate age and ethnicity. Clothed in coarse sackcloth, his exposed skin was paper-dry and browned with age. He had, seemingly, lain here for centuries untold. Or had he?

Finn eyed the body with a jaundiced gaze before speaking, “Give over, Gaius. I’ve not come to watch you feign a death we both know to be a lie. Up, man!”

The body moved, ever so slightly, a single eyelid opening. “Finn? As I live and breathe, it’s Finn! Why the last time we crossed paths must be –“

“We both know you neither live nor breathe. I’ve precious little time to waste on small talk. You possess information that I shortly will, as well. Tell me and tell me now, Gaius. Where is the Parsifal Necklace?”

Moving with ponderous slowness, the figure rose. “And why should I tell you a damned thing, Finn? Go and leave me as you found me…at peace. There’s precious little you can do to threaten me.”

Finn stepped closer to the animated corpse, placing a hand on his shoulder. “As usual, Gaius, you are wrong.” 

In one fluid motion, Finn drew the dagger, plunging it in to the hilt. He smiled as both of the man’s eyes shot wide open and he gasped with pain.”

“Yes, Gaius, the Fang of Osiris. Tell me what I ask and you may go back to your…rest. Hurry, you know you’ve not much time.”

“Versailles…Ceremonial gardens…northwest corner…beneath the hedges. Finn…mercy?” Each word came with agonizing slowness.

Finn ripped upward with the dagger, opening the man from gut to chin. Organs spilled out and Gaius coughed black bile. Letting the body fall to the dusty ground, Finn left the crypt. If he hurried, he might still make the late flight to Paris.

Night Moves

Zed sat, waiting for the last daylight to fade. This far out in the boonies, there were no artificial lights and night came fast once the sun dropped behind the hills to the west.

A wise man said it was foolish to fear the night. One need only fear the things in the night. Having spent the better part of his adult life as one of those things, Zed appreciated that logic.

As full night fell, Zed ghosted from cover, confident anyone who got in his way tonight would hear no bump but die never knowing what hit them at all.

This story was written for BlogFlash2012 Day 21: Night.

Bridges

If I hadn’t opened the door that day, both in a physical and a metaphysical sense, I’m still at a loss to say what difference it would have made in my life. I can only say he did his best to try and make things right and I guess there’s something to be said for that.

He looked old…”weight-of-the-world-on-you” old. To be fair, he WAS old but there wasn’t any reason for him to look that used up. 

When he spoke, his voice had a rasping buzz that set my teeth on edge. “Well, son, you gonna let me in or spend all day gawpin'?”

He asked the question in a rhetorical fashion and yet it took me a long time to compose an answer. Should I let him into my home? He’d thought nothing of walking out of OUR home when I was six and never coming back. Through the smeared-glass window of Time, I looked back on that day with the same feelings of loss and betrayal I’d felt then.

In the end, I could only step aside and gesture him in, a non-committal grunt being the closest to words I could come. It seems strange to me, in retrospect, I hadn’t noticed the small oxygen tank. It clanked, softly, as he wheeled it in behind him. Reaching to his side, he drew the mask from his belt and inhaled as deeply as he could. I remember thinking it certainly wasn’t a very deep breath.

I saw him seated on the couch and brought him the water he asked for. His hands shook and more wound up on him than in him but it seemed to help. He fumbled, distractedly, in his pockets before removing a crumpled pack of Camels. He was searching, I imagine, for his lighter when I took his arm. A frown and a shake of my head seemed sufficient. He grinned, sheepishly, and stowed them back in his pocket.

A part of me remembered that grin and it recalled good times. Still another part could have gone the rest of my days never having seen it again.

“Sorry about that, buddy. You’d think since the damned things are gonna put me six feet under I’d quit. Doesn’t seem much point to now, eh?”

So, that was why he’d come. He wanted to die with a clear conscience. In the end, I sat and let him talk. I suppose there was too much water under the bridge…too many bridges burned or some mixed metaphor or another for there to be any reconciliation but I let him talk.

He left that day much as he had so many years before. He was gone from my life but not from my heart or my mind. Some days I still think of him but not so many as I think he’d hoped, in the end, I would. Still, if it made his final moments in this life a little easier, I suppose I did owe him that much.

Game Over, Man!

"Our arrangement was: we get your soul and you get to be 'the most memorable linebacker in the history of football'. 100 sacks in a single season, three quarterbacks permanently disabled and - "

"Yeah, but cause of them lawsuits and all, the owners let me go. Won't no other team touch me. My whole career is over, see? Over!"

"What could be more memorable than THAT? One awesome season...never played ever again? It's the stuff of legends."

The big man was still pleading his case, loudly, as he was led out the door and straight to the fiery pits of Hell.


This story was written for BlogFlash2012 Day 20: Sports

A Lunchtime Treat

Jacob wished he still had his watch. It had been his grandfather’s and had been the young man’s most prized possession. Such things as keepsakes and memories were of little importance to the Nazi pig who had taken it right off his wrist. The curfews, the checkpoints, the random searches were all part and parcel of the debasing rituals commonplace since the occupation. 

To make up time, he cut through the tulip fields, pushing his bicycle along. He prayed he would be in time. The factory changed shifts every day at noon and, say what you would of the soldiers, they followed procedures dutifully.

As part of their inspection of the incoming workers, the guards would plunder the men’s lunches for treats or contraband. He smiled, imagining the surprised look of the soldier who would open his basket today when he realized that, in so doing, he had pulled the pin of the grenade within.

Beautiful Princess Dreams

Angelica was having a good day in comparison to what she’d experienced of late. Though the drugs she’d been taking were reported to have a “low incidence of side effects”, it was unfortunate for her to have experienced the worst of them. Her joints were so painfully swollen most days that she could only lie or sit, as still as possible, and try to wait it out. She tried so very hard to be brave, but it was not so easy sometimes.

She’d grown terribly weak and thin since, it seemed, nearly anything she tried to eat did not agree with her. If it wasn’t a stomach ache or intense waves of nausea, she couldn’t keep the food down at all. They tried to keep a civil tone about themselves in front of her, but she knew it was a source of friction to her parents.

“Damn it, Francince, if she wants a Happy Meal, I think the poor thing deserves one. Lord knows she’s got precious little to be happy about.”

“But you know as well as I do, if she tries to eat that much salt and grease she’ll be up all night with the runs and, likely, vomit until she has to spend a night at the hospital getting rehydrated.”

They didn’t know she heard them but she did. It wasn’t easy for a five-year old little girl to cope with being so very ill, but the unhappiness it caused her mommy and daddy threatened to break her little heart. She promised herself she would do better. She promised herself she would get strong and well and then she would be just like every other girl and her parents wouldn’t have to argue and worry and try to find the money for her pills and…and…well, she would try.

Today was all about trying. Dr. Meliankos was sending her to see, what he called, “a very special specialist” who would be trying new ways to make her healthy. Dr. Reed had his own hospital! He must be a very, very good doctor if he had his own hospital, right? She just knew he would be the one to make all the pain and the bleeding and the sick tummy and make it all go away once and for all.

Since she was in such a fine mood and seemed free of the worst of her persistent issues, mommy and daddy had said it was alright for the pretty nurse to take her on a tour of the wonderful gardens and let her get a little sunshine while they spoke to the doctor. Angelica thought it a grand idea and scarce noticed when her parents went into the office. She was too busy listening to the nurse describe all of the very colorful flowers and things the gardens had.

She had hardly gotten to see even the smallest part of them when a man who looked like her Uncle David, kinda, came over to speak to the nurse. With little explanation given, she found herself back inside and wheeled straight to Dr. Reed’s office. The nurse knocked and, upon being told, wheeled Angelica into the room.

Angelica knew instantly that she must have done something very bad or wrong. Were her test results not good? She had been concentrating so very, very hard on getting better,. Was she not trying hard enough? She knew that something wasn’t right because she could see that mommy had been crying. Daddy’s face was so very stern and he barely smiled at her when she was brought in. So concerned was she with her parent’s distress that she’d not even noticed the doctor.

He was the tallest man she had ever seen and he was quite old…old like her grandpa. He had almost no hair and the top of his head was so shiny she nearly giggled at it. He had the bluest eyes she had ever seen and a smile that was so warm and friendly she could see why he had his own hospital. Why, he must be the most fantastic doctor ever with a smile like that and such big hands and…her thoughts were all awhirl.

His voice was deep and rumbly like a big old bear’s must be. “Well and you must be Angelica. I’ve heard an awful lot about you, young lady. Your parents have been telling me about all the nasty symptoms you’ve been experiencing and how you have done such a fine, fine job of dealing with them. I am very proud of you, young miss…very proud indeed.”

Angelica smiled. He had a funny way of talking and she knew he was probably from some other place than America. She didn’t mind. He was the special specialist and he would make everything all better. She barely noticed he’d been speaking again.

“…mommy and daddy have asked me to speak to you about something, Angelica and so I need you to listen very carefully to what I’m going to tell you. If there is anything you don’t understand, why you just pipe up and tell me just what it might be, okay?” She nodded happily.

“Alright then. I know you have been very sick for what seems like a very long time and that you have done everything you have been told will make it easier for us. But, my dear little one, I am afraid that I have some news for you that is not so good. Can you try to listen to what that is before you ask me questions, yes?” Again, Angelica nodded.

“Excellent. Now you have been told what your illness is and what it means I know long ago. I, also, know that my fine colleague Dr. Meliankos has used every trick in his bag to help you but not had as much luck as we wish for. That is why he sent you to see me. Well, you know we had to take more of your blood and we look at it and we check how it looks, yes? Good. I am most sorry to have to tell you this, little angel, but it is not getting better…will not be getting better. Though it is not common, medicine does not always have the answers to questions. What I am trying to say…what you need to know is…”, he faltered before continuing, “You are going to be getting much, much more sick very soon Angelica. But this time, there will be….nothing…we can do to help you very much. When the pain gets to be bad, then we can give you magical medicine that will let you sleep most peacefully. But, this time when you go to sleep, little one, you will not be waking up from it.” His blue, blue eyes were moist with tears.

“Then…then…will I be like Sleeping Beauty and sleep and sleep and sleep until a brave, handsome prince comes to rescue me?”

She heard her mommy sobbing and Dr. Reed turned away from her for a moment. She thought she must have, perhaps, asked the wrong question. When he turned back, his eyes were less wet and his smile was as wide as could be. “Yes, Angelica, you will be just like Sleeping Beauty…a magical princess in a land without pills or pain or any of that. Just like Sleeping Beauty.”

Angelica was so happy to think she would be just like one of the princesses in her big storybook that mommy read to her from, that she never noticed how quiet her parents were during the long ride home. She was very tired when they got home and barely managed to swallow a few spoonfuls of soup before she fell soundly asleep. It was the most peaceful night’s rest she’d had in quite some time.

Daddy made much more noise than usual when he came home the next day. He came straight to her room, his arms loaded down with books and pictures.

“Hey, sweetie. How’s my girl, today? Boy, has Daddy got a surprise for you. Look at these!”  He spread a bunch of photos on her bed and began pointing. “It’s a place called Fairytale Fun Park. Would you like to go to someplace called Fairytale Fun Park? See the castle? It’s a real, honest-to-gosh castle they moved stone by stone all the way across the ocean. It’s a motel now and you get a room in the castle just like in the stories. And they have musical shows and games to play and see…see? They have lots and lots of really cool rides. Roller coasters and spinning tea cups and well…just look at it all. Wouldn’t it be grand if we just took as couple of days or wait…wait…we can go for a whole darned week. Would you like that Princess Angelica? Would you?”

She was so awestruck by, not only the pictures but Daddy’s excitement, that all she could do was nod her head so hard it started to make her headache return. She settled back on her pillows and gave him a wan smile. “That sounds wonderful Daddy. But I think I need to take a nap. Is that okay Daddy? I’m very tired.”

“Well, of course it is sweetie. You get some rest and Daddy will go talk to mommy about our adventure.”

She knew she hadn’t been asleep for very long when she heard her parents voices talking very loudly.

“Oh for God’s sake, Stewart! What the hell were you thinking? You know Dr. Reed said she’s hanging by a thread right now and you bring this up to her? It’s out of the question and you damned well know it. I know you’ve been doing your own version of medicating lately…a lot…but have you seen our freaking bills? If we don’t find some kind of program to help us out and I mean fast, we’re gonna be living in a cardboard box under the overpass. Where the hell did you think we were gonna get the damned money for something like this? As usual, you didn’t think. I’m tired of being the one that has to do all the hard stuff while you drink yourself silly every night. I can’t take this anymore.”

“For God’s sake, yourself, Francine! Our daughter is laying upstairs dying. Dying! She’s not gonna get any better. I get that. But, do you? Whether it’s today or tomorrow or next-the-hell friggin’ week, our only child is going to die! If I have to sell crack on the street corner, give blowjobs to Eskimos or sell my soul to the fiery-assed demons of the Pit, my daughter is gonna die with a smile on her face and one last good memory in her heart. So, no, I didn’t think this to infinity and beyond like you do, Francine. All I thought about is my daughter and making her happy. It’s all I think about. It’s all I’ve ever thought about is making you two happy. Excuse the beejezus out of me for even trying!”

“Oh don’t make this my fault, too, you pathetic drunk! You know I spend 16…20 hours a DAY doing everything I can for her. Christ, I quit my job and walked out on my pension plan to stay home with her, so don’t you..”

Angelica squirmed down under the covers and pulled a pillow as tightly around her head as her frail, little arms would manage. She cried and she cried and she cried, wishing only that she had the magical medicine right then and there so that she could be like just like Sleeping Beauty and never have to wake up ever, ever again but only surrender to the irresistible pull of magical princess dreams.


This story was written for the Daily Picspiration blogsite where I am a bi-weekly contributor.