To wind up the week, we have some short fiction for your reading enjoyment. Please click below to check out this week’s contributions:
Tag: Flash Fiction
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Flash Fiction Fridays!
Each Friday, the writers of the Writer’s Retreat reflect on their favorite flash fiction ficlets created over the course of the week, or sometimes even farther back, or maybe even something brand-spanking new. While we never know quite what we’ll share, we can guarantee that it will entertain! Join us!
A. Catherine Noon: “Succession”
Darla M. Sands: “More Than Meets the Eye”
Lucius Antony: “The First Assignment”
From the Journal of Shawn Talric concerning the Dar’ny’uil InsurrectionI wanted action, how foolish.
After a year of training, they gave me my first assignment. After learning to use my new powers, they told me to ride a train to the destination. Not only was I to ride a train, but I was also only suppose to apprehend a rogue who was not expected to put up much resistance.
I played with lightning in my hands as I sat in the almost empty cargo car of the train. I thought about the day this all started and that woman, Jamie, who tried to keep me away from Ibarra and failed.
As I thought of the possibilities of what would’ve happened if she had succeeded, I felt a familiar pull, and mental sensation.
He was outside.
There was a flash of light from my body as I transported outside, in front of the rogue who had felt me coming, and waited for me.
He had dark hair and blue eyes that twinkled like the sea at sunset. His loose clothing was a better choice for the hot, arid climate than my leather coat, but I didn’t choose the setting.
“You’re new. What’s your name?” he asked. His voice was coarse, probably from years of heavy smoking.
“Ibarra sent me. I’m supposed to take you back to New York.”
“Tell Ibarra to go fuck himself.”
He turned away from me. In another small flash of green light I appeared in front of him, the ground beneath my feet black and sizzling. I lifted my hand and conducted some lightning with it, threatening him.
“Tell him yourself,” I replied.
He changed his form: his skin melting off of his body to reveal a pure white form with a blue aura surrounding him. His pupils and irises disappeared and his hair became unruly and changed to same shade of blue as his aura.
He attacked first, throwing a fireball. I extended my hand, forming a shield of nearly pure energy to protect myself. The fire dissipated against my shield, and retaliated with striking at him with lightning from my left hand.
I noticed his disappearance in the same instant that his foot connected with the back of my neck. I fell to the ground as a sharp, searing pain racked my body. I cut off the sensation of pain, a handy trick I had learned during my training, and caught his fist in my palm.
I saw the skin on my hand begin to crack and break off, revealing the same pure white, luminescent skin and green aura. I began to encase his arm in ice while he struggled to free himself from my grip. He forcible cut his own arm off at the elbow, and flew into the air.
At a safe distance, he held out his good arm and shot three sharp crags of ice in my direction. I played into scheme and created a shield to protect myself. His attacks shattered and I retaliated with a wave of white fire. He emerged from the attack unscathed; I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t know how.
He landed, and I started to feel sick. It had started with a slight headache as I was freezing his arm, and had escalated to a migraine and a terrible contortion within my stomach. He started laughing and walking towards me as my vision started to blur.
I fell to my knees and retched. My skin and hair slowly dimmed and faded to their normal complexion, and my aura had disappeared completely. My breath came in heaves and my sweat dripped onto the ground below.
“Young fool!” he laughed as he powered down. “You used too much energy, and now you’re completely helpless. Killing you would leave a bad taste in my mouth, just leave me alone. And tell Ibarra to do the same.”
He turned his back and I shot him. They could fix him when I get back to headquarters.
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My Secret LIfe as an Author
My Secret Life as an Author
Hello, my name is Stacey Harlowe. That’s me, in the white SUV idling behind you in the long line of cars waiting to drop off kids at Emerson Elementary this morning. I’m just another soccer mom stationed in suburbia U.S.A. I’m a touch overweight (who isn’t?) and wear the standard uniform issued to all women with children; Capri pants and a polo shirt. I blend in nicely with the rest of you if I do say so myself.
But that is where the similarity ends. I have a secret identity, a disguise that I put on once the children have left for the day. I am a writer of erotic fiction. That’s right, the bodice ripping historical romances that you see on the shelf at the supermarket. I write for ‘Betsy’s Boudoir’, a successful publishing company that specializes in erotica for women. And I make a pretty good living at it.
The world at large believes that I spend my days at my home computer, processing insurance claims. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. I am busy putting my innocent heroines into dangerous situations that will ultimately lead them to love and plenty of hot sex with the man of their dreams. Oh, yes, and a happily ever after ending, can’t forget that part.
The sexual tension is always thick, the word choices explicit and the plot points often laughable, but when my books hit the shelves at Barnes and Noble that doesn’t seem to matter. They sell like hotcakes.
My disguise is necessary to keep my ‘normal’ life secure. I am positive that my services as Sunday School teacher for the three year olds would no longer be needed if my real employment were known. And do you think I’d be up for election to the PTA presidency for the fourth time in a row if the word got out where my paycheck comes from? I think not.
I can just imagine the look of surprise and horror that would come over your face if your neighbor, the minister, broke the news that Stacey Harlowe from down the block writes ‘pornography’.
“But my children play with her kids,” you stammer. “They’ve been to her house for birthday parties and Girl Scout meetings! She just seems so…normal.”
Well, here’s the deal—I AM normal. I’m just like you in every way except for my job description. So before you make any moral judgments about me, answer this question truthfully. Have you ever read a romance novel? Odds are good that you have and it might even have been one of mine. Someone buys them…and it’s probably you.
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Flash Friday
The Element of Fire
Evelyn ran down the steps of the Church, where she had been praying for Hugo. She dashed along the cobbled lane towards their home, heart pumping, lungs heaving and muscles burning with the exertion. He was home! Dear God! He was home at last! She would find him, throw herself into his arms and her fears would fade. After weeks of worry and sleep filled with a profusion of nightmares, she could finally reassure herself that he was in one piece.
“He is upstairs my Lady, awaiting your arrival. Impatiently I might venture to add.” Claire, the cook, chuckled as Evelyn sped past her.
“Yes, Claire, the Vicar told me soldiers had ridden by. I knew it was him, I just knew it!” she laughed as she took the stairs in an eager rush.
The passage way seemed so long and she was in a hurry to get to him. Thoughts flashed through her mind of another long walk down this passage. Her wedding night! Her Baptism by Fire! Hugo had allowed no argument or embarrassment to keep her from experiencing the fullness of their union.
At last, their door! Evelyn stepped into their bedroom and was shocked at the sight before her. Hugo was covered in dust and mud, his hair was disheveled and his face bore the pallor of an exhausted man. She let out a moan and ran across the room to where he stood staring into the fire place. His eyes solemn and transfixed on the writhing flames and smoke performing their exotic dance. He looked up as she came hurtling towards him, love softening his eyes.
“Hugo!” she threw herself at him, entwined her arms around his neck as her lips sought his with desperation. The kiss was wild and wet with tears. Relief speared her, he was whole. “I was so afraid for you.” she cried into his mouth as the kiss broke.
“Ev, I am safe love, no damage done. See, touch me.” She felt him shudder as her fingers roamed across the front of his uniform. “Yes, flesh and blood, not a ghost. Don’t cry, not now. I need your sweet smile and the sound of your laughter to drive away my dark mood. I need you.” he drew her back into his arms, his hold strong enough to elicit a gasp from her.
“Hugo, come, sit in the chair with me. Talk to me, please. Perhaps, with the telling of it all, this lingering darkness you feel will be cast out.”
“I want to sit here and hold you, take your warmth into me. I want to forget the ugliness. Images of the battle bombard my mind day and night, I feel soiled and sick of heart.” Her head rested on his shoulder as her hand stroked up and down his arm, her finger finding and gently tracing the outline of the still healing scar on his forearm.
“Tell me about it, it will help.” She cuddled closer, hoping she could erase the stain of war, but unsure of how to go about it. “Have you eaten, are you hungry?”
“Claire, brought up bread and cheese, but I have no appetite.” His grip tightened on her back as he brought her face up to his. “I don’t mean to be so bleak, but when I am not with you it eats at me. The futility of this useless war weighs heavily on me. It is so hard to keep my perspective. I am finding it harder and harder to understand why I do this. Help me, Ev.”
“Hugo, you have always fought with honor because you believed it was your duty. Do you not believe in that duty anymore? I would be glad, very glad if you decided not to go away to fight again. It would not lessen my opinion of you, you know that don’t you? You have nothing to prove to me, nothing at all. I love you.” An undeniable hope that he was done with war and death, rose up in her.
“I was committed to this war, but I am no longer filled with the flush of pride for soldiering. I can no longer tell you that I like what I do, that I am that same young man who once would give all to his country. I am questioning what I once believed to be the absolute truth. Who is this enemy I kill? What sin has he committed that I must slaughter him? These questions haunt me.” He leaned his face against her head and let her presence soothe him as nothing else could.
“Take me to bed, Hugo, I want to hold you. I don’t know how to advise you but I have comfort for you whilst you consider these things. Come love, let us idle away a few hours in each others arms and pretend the world has disappeared. Pretend all is as it should be. Pretend that man does not wreak havoc upon himself. That innocence still prevails.”
Smiling for his benefit, Evelyn led him to their bed and undressed him slowly. Deliberately lingering at the places she knew would illicit groans of approval from him. She watched his eyes cloud, his breath catch and his mouth relax and her heart leaped for joy. Her intention being, that they would escape into the heat of their passion.
While Evelyn lay sprawled across their bed sleeping, Hugo rested his head on his arm as he leaned against the mantle piece; his stance tense. Decision made, he picked up the letter of Commission, bent down and dropped the document into the fire with cold, unsteady fingers. The edges of the paper turned brown immediately, sending smoke spiraling up and out the chimney into the cold night air. As the fire engulfed the remnants of the document, soft murmurs brought Hugo back to the moment. He turned to the women on the bed, his wife, his love. His future!
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The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 8
The Night Is A Harsh Mistress
by A. Catherine NoonChapter 8
Rachel sighed. She’d taken a break at a Borders just around the corner from the 7-Eleven. It had been fun to zone out and people-watch for a while, but eventually she got bored and wandered toward the exit, through the New Releases. As she approached the door, a quick footstep nearby was her only warning before a man jostled her.“Hey!” she blurted.
“I’m so sorry,” a familiar voice said.
Rachel looked up into the handsome face of the man with the Porsche. That’s right, he’d said his name was Steve. Steve had clear green eyes, just like twin peridots.
“Oh!” she blurted out loud. Great, Raych. Real smooth.
“Well, if it isn’t Sara! Fancy meeting you here!” he said, eyes twinkling.
“We just keep bumping into each other,” Rachel said with only a trace of grumpiness. He had sharp elbows.
He sobered. “Can I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”
Rachel hesitated. She glanced out the door at the waiting parking lot, and her empty car. She made up her mind and nodded. “Sure.”
He smiled again, flashing very white teeth, and she wondered if he, like Viktor, had them whitened, or if they were naturally that clean. He seemed unfazed by her scrutiny.
She got a Chai and he ordered a triple espresso. She blinked. Must be tired, or he had a high tolerance for caffeine. Given how high-energy he was, she wasn’t really surprised.
“So. What are you doing at Borders in the middle of the day?” he asked when they sat at a table near the window.
She studied him. “I just needed a break,” she hedged finally. “You know how it is.”
He chuckled and took a sip of his drink. “Indeed. I was here getting a present for my mother.”
He said it with no trace of embarrassment and Rachel was impressed. If it was a line, he was playing it well. He gets gifts for his mother, does he? Did he think that would impress her?
Grudgingly, she had to admit it did, at least a little. “That’s nice of you.”
He shrugged. “We’ll see. It depends what I buy.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “True.”
“I mean, she probably wouldn’t like a book on the history of cars, I don’t think.”
Rachel grinned at him. “Probably not.”
He grinned back, his face easy and open. His hair was styled neatly over his ears, just brushing his collar. A light brown, almost blonde, it made him seem younger than the wrinkles at his eyes implied he was. He took a sip of his espresso and studied her.
“You didn’t get anything?” he asked after a moment.
She shrugged. “Nothing really caught my eye.”
“What do you like to read?”
“James Clavell, some of Leon Uris, that kind of thing.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Really? Did you read Mitla Pass?”
She nodded, warming to him in spite of herself. “I thought it was one of Uris’s best. What did you think?”
A half hour passed like lightening and then he set his now empty cup on the table a little regretfully. “I do need to get that gift for my mother. But, meet me for dinner?”
She blinked. “Dinner?”
“You know, after lunch but before bed?”
She felt herself blush and deliberately ignored the concept of ‘bed.’ “Dinner is good,” she mumbled.
“Okay. Tomorrow at, say, seven?”
“Sure.”
“Where shall I pick you up?”
She made a split-second decision. “Let’s meet there. How about Georgetti’s?”
He brightened. “That sounds good.”
They separated near where they’d begun, next to the New Releases. She floated out to her car. It felt like she’d had a triple espresso. The week was looking up.
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King Cassioux
Mark sat at his computer silently studying the image on the screen. Cassioux, the character on the cover, had defeated evil and claimed the kingdom. He should be triumphant, even if he did have to sacrifice the woman. Women were a dime a dozen, he’d find another. He sighed as he pushed away from the desk, stood and crossed to the window. The problem was, he wouldn’t find another woman like Amy.
As he watched out the window a woman walked out of the shop across the street and looked up at him. They both just stood there and stared for a moment before she grabbed her keys and got in the car. His book was finished, and it would definitely be a best seller. So why did he feel like Cassioux and he had both lost? The women. They just didn’t understand that it had to be this way. He couldn’t settle down with Amy any more than Cassioux could make Quardidra his queen.
His computer beeped, signaling a new email. He walked over and seeing it was from his brother, he opened it immediately only to regret it. The nosey bastard wanted to know why the hell he’d let Amy get away. Why? Because he wasn’t ready for love and marriage and all that goopy shit he knew she deserved. It wasn’t for him, plain and simple. She needed some nice, considerate, town leader type guy to set up house with. The kind that would remember to bring her flowers on her birthday and take her to all those stupid town functions she loved so damn much. Not him, a roaming jackass more comfortable holed up in a hotel with his laptop than, well, anything really. She’d thank him one day. Really. Right?
He put his head in his hands and groaned. The thought of her with someone else damn near killed him. Hell, even if he thought he could try to be what she needed, she probably wouldn’t take him back now. He’d made sure of that days ago. She was sweet as could be, and it was hard to get her mad at you, but once she was mad…
He felt his jaw where she’d slugged him. He still couldn’t believe his sweet little Amy had that good of a punch, or that she’d used it on him. On second thought, a woman like that could probably handle a roaming jackass like himself just fine. He should at least give her a chance, right? He replied to his brothers email and left.
Bro,
Sorry, can’t talk. Gotta go get my woman back.
-M
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The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 6, by A. Catherine Noon
Rachel hung up the phone with the client she’d successfully served. The man sounded angry but vindicated. He agreed to her final payment with no argument and said he’d mail it right away.
She glanced at the Greene file yet again but reached passed it to “Lawson, Carter and Marie.” Carter Lawson owned an accounting firm downtown and believed Marie cheated on him with his partner, Peter Henkle. Henkle was both a lawyer and an accountant and slippery as hell. She’d so far failed to find him do anything in public that wasn’t above-board. Rachel was almost willing to believe his innocence if it weren’t for Mrs. Lawson.
Marie Lawson made Rachel cringe. A statuesque blonde, her outfits were always perfect and the jewelry just-so. She spent Mr. Lawson’s money like water, shopping in all the best boutiques and lunching at restaurants Rachel couldn’t afford to walk into, much less order from. Just being rich didn’t make her a bad person, but Rachel admitted privately that she would be happy to find something wrong with Marie Lawson.
Rachel locked her office, set the plastic “Will Return” sign for three o’clock, and went down to her car. Today was the day Mrs. Lawson went to the Spa for her weekly appointment. Rachel intended to catch up with her before she left but as she turned onto Main near Fourth the traffic stopped dead.
She craned her neck out of the window and could just barely see the side of a taxi jackknifed against a parked car.
“Can you see anything?” a voice hollered from next to her.
She looked over to the Porsche next to her. The man seemed to be in his late twenties, early thirties, dressed in a long-sleeved navy t-shirt and dark sunglasses. “Looks like a cab got in an accident,” Rachel told him. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere.”
He swore softly, words Rachel couldn’t quite catch, and opened the door to the Porsche. It seemed to Rachel he stood about six feet tall. His jeans were clean and fresh-looking. He stepped away from his car a foot or so and then threw his hands up. “Dammit!” He looked over and saw her looking at him and his expression softened. “I think traffic is completely blocked.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
He studied her a moment and then leaned against his car. “Will you be late?”
“Late for what?” she asked suspiciously.
“Any appointments,” he answered like that should have been obvious.
‘No, I just like to sit in traffic for fun,’ she thought, but didn’t say. “Yes, I was hoping to get somewhere. But I don’t think it’s going to happen.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m Steve,” he announced.
Rachel blinked. “I’m Sara,” she responded.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Nice to meet you, Sara.”
They made small talk for a few more minutes until sirens sounded from behind them. Steve had to get back into the Porsche and move it up onto the sidewalk to let the ambulance through and by the time all the hubbub concluded he had gone.
Rachel suppressed a spurt of disappointment and continued on to the Spa. Steve was attractive and hadn’t been wearing a wedding band. Too bad she hadn’t even had a chance to exchange business cards, especially since she hadn’t given him her real name. Oh well, never could be too careful.
Maybe she could catch Mrs. Dawson on the way out. She pulled up behind the Valet line to wait.
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MAY FLASH FICTION CARNIVAL
MAY FLASH FICTION CARNIVALDISGUISES
Thank you to our three loyal participants in this month’s Flash Fiction Carnival:
The Wrong Kind of Fantasy – Susan Helene GottfriedDagget – Unhinged
The Russian Jades, Chapter 2 – A. Catherine Noon
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Flash Friday the Fifth
Every Friday, we will post links to a collection of flash pieces written by our contributing Authors and guests. They may be related to the same prompt, they may be randomly assembled, they will always be enjoyable.
This week, we have a collection of submissions to the FFC April 2008 Edition. This month’s theme is THE ELEMENTS: Earth, Water, Fire, Air.
Eaton Bennett
The Element of Fire: Hugo, an Officer in the King’s army, has serious doubts with his chosen career as a soldier. Life changing decisions are very difficult to make, but when Hugo sees what has to be done his courage does not fail him….Andi King
Muse: For the Flash Fiction Carnival, a 693 word story using the elements: earth, air, water, fire (spirit).
A. Catherine Noon
Elementary: One for each of the elements: Air, Fire, Water, Earth, and Spirit.Kathleen Oxley
Reacquaintance: A witch renews her connection with each of the elements.Liz
The Power of the Eclipse
A priestess banished from her temple finds a new source of power. -
The Planter Box
The Planter Box by Evilynne
For the Flash Fiction Carnival April Topic-Elements
Angie stood over her kitchen table and dug into the fragrant, cool potting soil that filled her gaily painted planter box. It was soothing, dark and full of fertile promise. Beside the box stood a small flat of assorted plants, waiting to be transplanted into their new home. The marigolds, petunias and bachelor buttons were just small green sprouts right now but would soon burst into bright and cheerful colors.
She had bought the flowers to brighten up her spartan accommodations. After all, it was still an apartment, not yet a home. The place was small, with bare walls and the floor was still cluttered with half filled boxes holding odds and ends of her old life. It looked unsettled and lonely, like she was.
Lonely- even thinking about the word affected her. Unbidden, tears began to form and fell in heavy drops onto the dirt below her. Damn it! She had promised herself that she was done crying over her divorce, but it was a promise she couldn’t seem to keep.
Angry at herself, she pulled off her gardening gloves and sat down. Reaching for a towel she held it to her face and began to cry in earnest. Her shoulders shook with the force of her emotions as she set her elbows on the table and sobbed inconsolably as she gave in to her grief.
Leaving Sean had been the right thing to do, but that didn’t make doing it any easier. Finding him in their bed with her friend, Terri, had been the last straw and had left her consumed with anger. She had wrapped herself in that emotion and worn it like a suit of armor, protecting herself from the pain that resulted from ripping him completely and utterly out of her life.
When the divorce was final she had removed that outer layer of shielding and was overwhelmed by the emotions she had kept tightly under wraps: betrayal, bitterness and rejection. They had all been difficult to deal with in their own way. They had torn through her psyche like a storm, leaving a tattered and frayed soul in their wake. All that had been left was an oppressive sadness that left her empty, vacant and hollowed out inside.
Despite her inner turmoil, Angie was struggling to rebuild her life. The planter box was a personal symbol of her fresh start. It was meant to show hope and a belief that things would get better. And yet here she was, crying, again, when she should be focusing on the promises of the future, not the pains of the past. She needed to act, to do something that would make her feel more in control of her own destiny. She took a deep breath and forced herself to get back to work.
Putting on the gloves again purposefully, she stood and reached for one of the delicate seedlings on the table and shook it free from its plastic container. Through her tear filled eyes the tiny green plant in her palm looked as fragile as she felt. With her free hand she made a space in the welcoming soil and placed her tender charge gently inside before covering its roots and tamping the soil down around them carefully. Teardrops fell onto its leaves, making them glisten in the early morning sun.
One by one she tucked each plant into its new home and watered them with her sorrows. Soon the container held a fledgling forest of new life that promised to bloom once its roots became more secure. In a few weeks there would be gorgeous hues of yellow, pink, and purple blossoms to contrast with the deep greens of the leaves and brown of the soil.
All they needed was some time before they would be able to stand tall and show off their inner strength and beauty.She hoped the same could be said of her.