Family - #FridayFlash Fiction

He held the massive head between his hands and crooned, softly. "Tonight will be the last, I promise you. Just one more. Then you'll never have to go in the ring again." The scarred and heavily muscled body wriggled with puppyish glee.


*****
"Blood in, blood out, bro. We was family, took you in, raised you up, had your back. Now you turn on us, squeal like a stuck pig, think you can walk away. Nah, you ain't walkin'. And you sure don't deserve to wear our name."

He felt the concrete pressing into his spine, knees on his joints, pain blooming in red and white flowers. Just another beating, one he would survive; and the loss of his prized jacket and colors another memento of a bad decision made when he was a kid. It had seemed the best way to survive, back then. His "real" family had been practically useless, this gang "family" parasitic and opportunistic. No such thing as family, really; born alone, suffer alone, die alone. He watched JJ approach with a chunk of wood wrapped in something. So, the clubbing would continue.

He felt JJ place a finger on his chest and trace the outline of his tattoo. "No right to wear this. I'm gonna sand that mother off."
*****

Cold rivulets trickled under him, legions of scurrying things rushed over him, by turns he shook and writhed, soundlessly forming words stolen by the air. Often there was a blessed nothing; sometimes there was comforting warmth by him, and gradually his wits reformed themselves into some semblance of order. Broken macadam, prickly grass, thunder from cars on the overpass above, a body lying beside him. The dog twitched and rose unsteadily to its feet. There was blood and one ear partially torn off.

"You look like I feel Bro," he managed from parched lips. The dog whimpered, and licked his cheek.
*****

"You work too hard. All these extra shifts. Go home to your girlfriend, or go find one. Drink a couple of cool ones. Hey, you wanna go bowling? Bunch of us go every Friday night you know. Hell, you don't even have to be any good. Ralph ended up on his keester last week. You been here on the force for what, four years now? Time to really join the brotherhood, man."

"No thanks. I got stuff to do. You know, paperwork, laundry. The neighbors are gonna call the cops about the smell soon."

The other man guffawed. "I hear you man. OK, the option's always open. But lone wolf types don't last long around here."

"I got a partner already. But I'll let you know if there's an opening." He grinned crookedly.
*****

He tossed his uniform on the chair and exchanged his service revolver and holster for a Glock in his waistband. Just in case, of course. A brindled pit bull danced at his heels, desperate to go outside. He checked through a sheaf of papers one more time, memorizing details, then set them alight and dropped them in the sink.

"Let's go."
*****

Sergeant Ralph Meltzer happened to run into a fellow officer and his dog on Elm Avenue. "They've got a body over on 33rd. Another nickel and dime thug, looks like one of their fighting dogs turned on him. Second one in a month. But we busted that dog ring four years ago, and there's no sign of kennels. The neighbors are all rollin' their eyes and blathering about voodoo and chupa somethin' or other."

The officer reached inside his shirt and scratched his chest thoughtfully. "Maybe his old lady did it. You know how those gang chicks can be."

Meltzer grinned. "That's all women, once they get riled. Maybe you've got the right idea. Just a man and his dog."

"All the family I need." The officer reached down and scratched the dog's long-healed ear.

The dog whimpered and licked his cheek.

Where the Wind Blows - Flash Fiction

 

Farmer and sons during dust storm Oklahoma. Photo: FSA. 

                                                  Public domain via wikimedia commons.

"The wind blows where it will, and you  hear the sound of it, but you do not know whence it comes or whither it goes..."
                             John 3:8

It never seemed as though they had much, and yet when it came time to take their lives with them, even not enough was too much.

Beds and food, water and tools.

Can I take my books? If he takes his books, then I can take my toy horse. No, only God's book. Whichever toys will fit in your pocket. Marbles, a tin wind-up mouse with sparkling eyes. What about the dogs. Wishbone can go, he hunts. Good to have him as pertection. Smoky stays with the old man down the road. Ain't got more than a season left in him, one more mouth to feed.

Wishbone, hearing his name, thumps his tail with an apologetic grin and then belly crawls under the 27 Hudson and flops down in the marginally cooler dust. Smoky has already taken his rightful place in the trace of mud under the pump. The few scraggly chickens by the shed set up a ruckus; a shadow streaks by and disappears up the stone step and into the sagging house. The cats, never ones to be completely subjugated by man or nature, have been skulking about and eying the proceedings. When the people move on, cats will hunt the mice which nibble the seed from the vegetation which will grow between the floorboards. Doors will drift open, the wind will scour the walls, the dust will find every nook and niche and settle gently into a dunescape. Left in the kitchen are the cracked plates from back east, the dainty christening cup from England, the paperweight brought all the way from Chicago's World Fair. A flyspecked picture of Jesus torn from a calendar smiles benignly above the iron stove.

The wind, which has scoured everything else in the great Dust Bowl down to bare bones, has stripped its inhabitants as well. Fields of wheat, taller than a man, great steel tractors thrumming in solitary parades across the land, the hope of stout sons and well-fed wives; the Promise of Tomorrow, all suffocated under the multi-hued clouds endlessly rolling over them. Black from Kansas, gray from Colorado, red from right here in Oklahoma. Hello neighbor.

The wind blows, burying and exhuming. Fanning the wildfire and blowing out the lantern. Bringing the storm and one day heralding the rain.

Ma, in her bleached Mother Hubbard, she of loving and infinite patience, wedges the last of the bundles into the cramped back seat. Of all the things left behind, it is the tiny body of her firstborn, asleep in the family plot, which tugs at her the most. Only the name, painstakingly spelled out in the family Bible, can go with them.

Down the road to the east the suitcase farmers, of vulturistic and infinite patience, await the start of an auction. They will buy at rock bottom, hold the land, sell the rest. One day the rains will return and Europe will be needing wheat again. Look what the War did for prices. Might even be another one. Wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Down the road to the west Rev. Poley readies the sacraments for the few left to attend services tomorrow. Behold, I have smitten my hand at thy dishonest gain which thou hast made.

Down the road to the south a gray stubbled farmer rocks on his front porch. In 1888 mercury froze solid in Minnesota thermometers, ice crystals clogged ears and noses, even the film on eyeballs thickened. Children caught in the blizzard died in schoolhouses, in fields, in barns. Four feet of snow, drifts as high as fifteen, and when the spring thaw came bodies of people and livestock bloomed in macabre unison with crocuses and snowdrops. Lord, if ever I can be warm again. And so 48 years later he is uncomplaining.  Thermometers stuck in the ground read 151F. The rest of the family pulled up stakes and left for California, not without cajoling and pleading, father and son finally blowing like bulls and pointing shotguns at each other in mutual fear and admiration at the others gumption. But he will not leave the land, he belongs to it, is too old to move on and start over. There's a keg of salted pork and tinned beans in the storeroom, sorghum and coffee, flour and lard and soap. Son and father had grasped hands, cleared throats, stood back. Ain't got more than a season left in me, one more mouth to feed. Well then, we'll send for you when we make it, Pa. Anyways, yer too ornery to die anytime soon.

Soon he'll have the old dog to keep him company. And the preacher, who's vowed to stay, nearby to give him a proper burial. Nothing fancy, just wrapped in the quilt his long-dead wife had sewn with her beautifully gnarled hands.  Drop me in a hole deep enough to keep the coyotes and cats out. He stands creakily, feels to see if his fly is buttoned, pours a little water from a tin cup over his head and rinses the dust from his eyes. The groaning door echoes his joints as he steps into the kitchen and sits down at the table. Opening the Bible to a random page, he laboriously copies a text; he will follow its lead. Yesterday's is still on the table, already curling at the edges. Psalms 119:35 Thy word is a lamp unto my feet. In curling script after he has written  the lantern on the table is the same one used to find William doring the blizard. It saw the black colt with the star born. It was by my Violet when she passed.

Today's reads Nehemiah 7. And I found the book of the genealogy of those who came up at the first...

And so today he will write the names of his forefathers, and his family, and how he came to be here. The slip of paper will be rolled and placed into a Mason jar, one of hundreds once filled with bounty but now waiting expectantly for something other than dusty air.

Screw the lid down tight. Carry it carefully back to the rapidly emptying store room. Place it with the others, a glass pyramid, preserves of another kind. Shuffle across the floorboards as dust eddies mark the slow passage. Lie down on the left side of a mattress which still bears the faint imprint of another on the right. Close gritty eyes and and trust that they will open again. Listen to the one unfailing companion.

The wind has always blown, will continue to blow. What we take with us is one story. What we leave behind, another.

_______
This is one in a series of short stories and vignettes set during the Dust Bowl years. Other include  Rain's Gonna Come and What Follows the Plow

Dr. Rathberger's Clinic For Exotic Animals - #FridayFlash Fiction

Nigel Rathberger slipped on his white jacket and pondered, not for the first time that day, whether he'd made a mistake trading old women with corpulent cats and yapping dogs for the menagerie which paraded into his clinic each morning. Take, for example, the creature peacefully lying on the table and its anxious young owner.

"Can you help him, please? I don't want Sparky to die."

"He doesn't look too badly off. Let's have a look, shall we? Tell me why you think he might be ill."

"He eats a lot but then he groans and carries on something awful. You can see he's kind of blown up. And he doesn't play anymore. He just wants to sit on his heat rock. Oh, and his scales aren't pretty like they used to be."

Nigel had noticed that the usually iridescent scales had gone opaque.

"Well, let me put a bit of tape around his jaws - I know you said he's very gentle, but animals of any sort can be a bit snappish when distressed." Tape in place, he gently rolled back an armored eyelid. "Nictitating membrane looks fine. Eyes are clear. That's a good sign."  He palpated Sparky's abdomen. "Ah."

"You found something?"

Nigel cleared his throat. "I'll have to make a rather uncomfortable exploration, but I suspect that Sparky is not a him, but rather a her. And pregnant I might add. Let me see if she has any eggs."

"But he...she hasn't been out of the house."

"Yes, well, there have been rare instances of both Bearded and Komodo dragons becoming pregnant through asexual reproduction. I haven't seen it in this species though. We might have a very special event here."

After a thorough examination which confirmed the news, Nigel had the owner remove the tape from its snout and place his pet on the floor. "Walk her a few steps."

Sparky tried to dig her claws into the tile floor, straining backward against the leash. A sudden loud gurgle from the animal's inwards made them all jump.

Nigel snapped his fingers. "I'll wager there's something else making her uncomfortable." He withdrew a bottle from the cabinet and scattered what looked like rancid meat chunks on the floor. "Activated charcoal disguised in canned dog food. A tried and true method for relieving upset stomach and...er...gas in animals."

Sparky snapped up a few of the morsels, tilted her head up, and swallowed. Her tongue flicked out and she looked into space thoughtfully. They waited. Another wet gurgle echoed through the room; Sparky regarded her nether region with what could only be regarded as surprised dismay.

They waited.

"It's not wor..."

WHOOSH!

Sparky belched a stream of flame which curled the paint from the door as a similar extrusion shot out the rear, setting the veterinarian's pant leg on fire. Swearing, he dropped his trousers and flung them into the sink as a suffocating miasma filled the air.


"Everything alright in there?" came an anxious voice as Lily, the receptionist, peeked into the room.

"Yes, yes, PERFECTLY ALRIGHT. Just GLORIOUS I'd say. Absolutely WONDERFUL. I ENJOY taking my pants off during office visits and NEARLY HAVING MY WILLY CRISPED. Please go back to eating your lunch or answering the phone or applying for jobs where your BRILLIANT POWERS OF OBSERVATION WILL BE PUT TO BETTER USE."

Lily clucked her tongue and angrily tapped her way back down the hall.

The client slipped out after her, the now much-relieved Sparky at a running crawl behind.

Nigel set about putting the exam room to rights, opening the window, outfitting himself with a fresh pair of surgical scrubs, and running a still shaking hand through his hair. From outside he could hear the distinct sounds of hoof beats and a set of very large wings flapping. For crissake, a gryphon AND a unicorn scheduled on the same afternoon? Lily was absolutely going to get the sack.

Yesteryear's patient list of farting Bulldogs, sneezing kittens and a neurotic parrot was looking better and better each day.

Weightless - #FridayFlash

"Wow. How did you get so fat eating salads? You must really pig out after school."

The pyric words had curdled the already churning contents of her stomach. Hundreds of eyes had followed and marked her rush to the bathroom; she still felt their judgement tattooed on her back. Eric had been among them, Eric with his lithe body and shock of blonde hair which he continually flicked from his eyes. His T.M.B. was still archived on her phone. Sorry. It's not working out. She knew the reason.


Now it was gone, and she felt not only thinner, but oddly weightless. The money she'd saved up could go toward new clothes, makeup, fitness classes. They'd stop whispering and staring. She's get Eric back, too.

Cold rain was sheeting down, plastering her dress to her legs. Just as well; it would be far worse to do it on a warm, starlit night. She slid the door of the dumpster open, dropped the forlorn bundle in amongst the spilth and dashed back to the chiaroscuro of neon signs, oily puddles and shadows on Main Street.

She would always look at children of a certain age, and wonder.

Run from the Zombies! (Or With Them) - October 2013 Event - Nonfiction

Mark your calendar for October 19, 2013. What's more fun than a 5K run? How about a 5K Zombie Run? Runners will wear flag belts and try to make it to the town square while being pursued by the undead who are trying to snatch their flags (and brains). You can register as a runner for $45 or as a zombie for $20. For more info visit the website Dawn Of the Lititz Dead...... or their Facebook Page

The run is taking place in the town of Lititz (recently voted coolest small town in America) located in beautiful Lancaster County, PA, USA. Sponsors include internationally known Clair Global which handles sound, lighting and staging for major concerts and had its beginnings in Lititz and Tait Towers, designers of cutting edge staging and lighting effects.

Tired and thirsty after that run? Stop in at the Bull's Head Pub for cask conditioned ale and sausage rolls.

Need knew threads? There are plenty of boutiques along main street, as well as Uncle Funky's Thrift and Vintage.

If werewolves are more your thing...well, I can't help you there. But if WOLVES are your thing, then check out the Wolf Sanctuary of PA in Lititz. October 19th and 20th are included in Wolf Awareness Week. Check out their site for events. There's also a Bed and Breakfast on site, but limited space of course so book NOW!

Lancaster is widely known for its vibrant Pennsylvania Dutch communities and family entertainment sites as well as its burgeoning art scene. Make a weekend of it; survive the Zombie Run on Saturday Oct. 19 and then spend Sunday at the nearby Strasburg Steam Railroad which has scheduled a Great Train Robbery. The Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire will be open and provides entertainment for the whole family, or see the Woman In Black at the Fulton Theater , built in 1852 and considered the oldest continuously operating theatre in the nation. (Order tickets ahead of time.)

There's also plenty of outlet shopping, hotels, restaurants, museums, and art galleries in nearby Lancaster. (Most are 30-40 minutes or less from Lititz.) You might also choose one of the many attractions spotlighting the Amish community. To plan your trip, please visit the Pennsylvania Dutch Country Site. One reminder: businesses owned or run by members of the Anabaptist sects - Amish and Mennonite - are usually closed on Sundays.

I haven't made up my mind as to whether I'll be a runner or a zombie, but since I tend to be rather slow...I guess the choice is obvious.

This exciting ad was brought to you by the Flash Fiction Blog. If you're new here, please feel free to peruse the site, where you'll find short stories, non-fiction articles and microfiction (but, sadly, no zombie stories). Don't see a comment box? Try refreshing the page. There seems to be an issue with comments appearing for some, but not others, and I have yet to find a solution. Sometimes refreshing does work.

"Please Give Me A 5 Star Review" - #FridayFlash

Morning rush, we're shorthanded and every customer has a special order. I can see them shuffling, huffing, eye-rolling and muttering. One surreptitiously - or so he thinks - holds up his LifeFone. Reading my badge and knocking a few points off, no doubt. The woman in front, her skin's tan exceeding her handbag's, wrists clanging with aurelian fandango, purses her lips at the scent of failure obviously emanating from me.

"That's not what I ordered. I distinctly said without ketchup." Turning to the people behind her, she loudly asks for God's help in dealing with "these people who can't perform a simple task. Probably up half the night with 3 brats from 3 different fathers."

I don't have kids but I did have 3 different "fathers" and so perhaps she has some shred of psychic ability. What she does have is a LifeFone, which she wields like a crucifix. At this rate, by the time my shift is over I'll be lucky to have 1 or 2 stars, enough to get paid the bare minimum.

I apologize profusely, admire her blouse, produce the gift card I'd gotten from my boyfriend Giorgio, and offer it to her for her “trouble”. She grudgingly accepts it and drops it into the cavernous maw of her alligator bag. 

"I'll give you one, little girl, because you seem to at least be making some effort. Unlike most of you people." Her eyes slide to Giorgio, who is slowly dragging an overflowing trash bag to the door. I want to tell her that he lost part of his foot by snatching a child out of harm's way (which earned him so many stars that we could eat and pay the rent for almost a year) but it felt safer to distract her evil stare from him.

"Yes ma'am. I do try, ma'am. Thank you so much for coming in today, and I hope to see you again." She holds up the gadget and I feel my badge tingle as a star is added to my rating.

Barring anymore censorious customers, I'll earn enough this week to keep the electricity on for another month. There's talk that the next generation of Lifefones will live up to their name. Trying to weed us out by means of poverty is simply taking too long.

Which leaves buying a lottery ticket and keeping my eye out for for places where fools rush in.

How To Publish A Short Story Collection: Tips For Getting Agents’ And Editors’ Attention For Your Short Stories (From Writer's Relief)

 Thanks to Writers Relief for permission to  copy and post this article.

At Writer’s Relief, we’re approached by countless writers every year who want help submitting their short story collections to literary agents. The short story is an exciting literary form that many writers have mastered, but few writers truly understand how to get a collection of short stories published.
It takes talent and practice to make short stories work. Some novelists begin their careers with stories and work their way up to longer forms (novels or memoirs). Other writers prefer to work in the short form and eventually find themselves with a stack of stories inches high, wondering, “Why not turn my short stories into a collection?”
Short stories are becoming increasingly popular, not only because they are mini works of art, but also because busy people have shorter attention spans. There are hundreds of literary magazines and journals looking to publish individual stories (and Writer’s Relief keeps tabs on all of them), but finding a home for a collection of short stories is no easy task.
Major publishers want novels because they sell, and they infrequently consider novellas or collections of short stories. Short story collections are harder to place because editors are unwilling to take chances on unknown writers; unless you’re Alice Munro or William Faulkner, you will find it considerably more difficult to sell your work.
Before you protest about the number of successful anthologies on the market, be aware that anthologies are generally collections of stories by a number of different authors—collections appealing to those who are looking for a particular theme or subject matter. Anthologies of work by a single, unknown author are very difficult to sell.
Many writers get frustrated and end up self-publishing their work, especially if they’re simply looking for limited quantities to give to family and friends. But for a writer looking to sell a decent number of books and see his or her collection at the major bookstores, the marketing process can be a nightmare. When you self-publish, you are responsible for nearly all the marketing and publicity efforts.
Don’t let us thoroughly discourage you from trying to get your short story collection published—there are some things you can do to increase your chances.
Publish selected works. It’s easier to sell a collection if you’ve had at least a few short stories previously published in reputable literary journals. Submit individual stories to quality magazines on a regular basis, and with each publication credit, your credibility will increase.
At Writer’s Relief we highly recommend that writers build their credits first rather than approach literary agents with a group of unpublished stories. National exposure in quality magazines is key to attracting an agent’s attention.
Theme. It also helps if the stories have a common theme or subject to tie them together. James Herriot was a country vet, not an aspiring author, but his collection of stories had a cohesive theme, and the series is still popular today.
Go for a novel. Some agents recommend scrapping the whole idea of a collection and refashioning it into a novel. They might also recommend selling the collection as part of a two-book deal, with the story collection designed to generate interest in the second book, which would be an actual novel.
Enter as many short story writing competitions as possible. An award-winning story can land a publishing deal. It can also boost a writer’s self-confidence—always a bonus.
Consider small presses. There are far more small presses than big publishing houses, and they tend to specialize in niche marketing. They also tend to publish out of love for the genre and may be more receptive to a short story collection if they love the quality of your work.
Get a literary agent. If you have an agent, your chances of selling a collection are better than for unagented writers. To be a writer who gets an agent for a short story collection, you’ll need a strong bio. Also it may help in your query letter to mention that you have a novel in the works.
Get schooled. Short story collections are far easier to sell when their authors have top-notch credentials: publication credits in quality magazines, awards, grants. Graduating from a quality MFA program is a plus as well.
To learn more, check out How To Write A Query Letter For A Short Story Collection. We help writers submit their individual stories for publication because we’ve found it’s the best way to help writers improve their bios (so that they can be competitive when approaching literary agents). If you would like Writer’s Relief to help you submit your individual short stories for publication, or if you would like us to consider working with you on a collection, give us a call!

This article has been reprinted with the permission of Writer’s Relief, an author’s submission service that has been helping creative writers make submissions since 1994. Their work is highly recommended in the writing community, and there are TONS of freebies, publishing leads, and writers resources on their website. Check it out!

Book Spine Poetry

Estrella Azul of Friday Flash created some "book spine poetry" and challenged others to try and create their own. The idea is to stack some books and create a poem using the titles. So here is my attempt, and if you'd like to view Estrella's and links to other samples, go here.  (I don't have a particularly large library, and many are textbooks, but I gave it a shot.)

A murder in Paradise,
in the valley of mist.
Self incrimination
in my blood,
a traitor to memory.

Look again.

A secret gift, to break the silence;
the airmen speak.

A Spoke In the Gears - #FridayFlash #Steampunk

  Lord Tyndale hooked one sausage finger in his cravat and sighed. Steam was a godsend in many respects; he'd grown up when the majority of London homes were heated by fireplaces, not much of an advance from those savages in the Colonies, and he had never quite gotten the damp cold out of his bones. These urchins were blessed with comfort in a well-appointed workshop with equatorial heat. Too much so, he suspected; inventions had fallen off lately, and that would never do. Just last week, the Pennyfarthing Shop had launched both a steam velocipede and a steam aeroplane based on the Henson Stringfellow model. The Prince Consort had even paid them a visit.

     A black-haired child sat with tongue protruding in concentration, fixing a fleck of gold in place. Tyndale scrutinized the object. It was a finely wrought armature of silver in the shape of a rearing horse. From its ivory hooves to its glistening obsidian eyes, from the hundreds of gears interlocked and enmeshed so as to form metallic tissue to its proudly flagged tail, it was every inch a possible masterpiece. The boy looked up eagerly and remembered to slide his tongue back into its cavern.  Surely the Master would finally be pleased and allow him his freedom.

     He waited. Lord Tyndale sighed, looked up at the rafters in theatrical despair, and then nudged the boy with his foot. "Well, start it up, Walsh, er Wade...whatever you're called."

     "Wes, M'Lord. And...it doesn't start."

     "Ah, you need more time. Perhaps you can continue after the others leave. At least have the kindness to explain what it will do. A nefarious instrument for the War Board? An ornamental steering device for the new class of airships? We can certainly sell a few to those pompous Transit Captains."

     "It doesn't do anything."

     Tyndale wished he had his own relief valve as he felt the pressure rise in his chest. "Yes, yes, idiot child, I understand that it is currently not functional. But what WILL it do?"

     Wes picked at a bloodied cuticle on his index finger. "It won't do anything, sir. Ever. It's...it's...to look at, sir. Because it's beautiful. It's...Art."

     The shrieking whistle of the man they had to call Master reverberated through the workshop, down the steam and smoke shrouded alleyways, and might have shifted the Pride of Mayfair off course had she been any lower in the atmosphere.

     "So you fasten a few cogs to some wire and call it art. Art is beauty WITH FUNCTION! THERE MUST BE A PURPOSE! WITHOUT PURPOSE WE, AND EVERYTHING AROUND US, ARE USELESS!"
   
      He swept the majestic equine to the floor, mopped his brow, and struggled to regain his composure. Casting about for something, anything, of worth, he settled upon two shadowy figures in an opposite corner.

     "Briggs, tell me you've got something to salvage my integrity. Something...ahhh. Yes."

     The apprentice had swept a piece of canvas away, revealing a human-like object seated beside the worktable.

     "A clockworker. Wonderful. But far too delicate to work the mines or the looms, for that matter. It will need to be twice as substantial."

     Nathanial Briggs, already halfway toward a Class A freedom certificate, smirked at Wes and then adopted a suitably pious attitude.

     "M'Lord, it was built for the express purpose of replacing the striking matchgirls over at Bryant and May. Think of it, sir:  we would be saving thousands of women and children from fossy jaw and cruel working conditions by using these instead."

     Tyndale thought he might suffer an apoplectic fit. "You think that they will purchase mechanicals when they can hire otherwise useless human beings at a pittance? And what of the masses who will be turned out to starve in the streets? Great Machine in the sky, are you all without vision? Without a concept of consequences?"

     While he was speaking, Tyndale had been idly stroking the copper forelimb of the clockworker. Now this was art, beauty with function. It was both graceful and elegant, with smooth sweeping curves and a faint sheen of fine oil; it even seemed to exhale a warm metallic scent which tickled his aristocratic nostrils. There was just the hint of a breast, sloping gently down to a narrow waist...

     That evening the man known to some as the Master, to others as the fabulously wealthy Lord Tyndale, was seen hurrying through the streets with a cloth-draped object. To some, it looked like it might even have been a dead body, but no one questioned such things in the streets of London after dark.

     Several months later, the unfortunate young artist called Wes found himself sitting on a bench aboard the Aether Steam Transit Company's airship Pride of Mayfair, headed for penal servitude in the Colonies. The man chained next to him cleared his throat. Wes thought he looked vaguely familiar.

     "What's the sentence, lad?"

     "Ten years. Deliberately and willfully wasting company funds on work of no particular value. Courtesy of Lord Tyndale. You?"

     The man roared with laughter.  "Lifetime banishment for surgical malfeasance. A certain wealthy Lord had an embarrassing mishap with a clockwork mechanical. And though we've advanced to the point of various gear- and piston-driven limbs, even the best inventors in our world have yet to create a working prosthetic for certain parts of a man's anatomy. He's managed to get me out of the country so that word doesn't spread of his lack of function."

     Wes grinned. "Perhaps we could work together in the Colonies. I believe that we could create some remarkable devices together."

     "And adventures, lad. We'll have adventures. Dr. Robert Liston." He smiled ruefully as he tried to extend his hand but was brought up short by his chain.

     "Wesley Broward. At your service."


This is my very first attempt (and a bit rushed this week) at Steampunk flash fiction. Gentle critique is always welcome.

    

     

    

    
    
    

    

    

Cowboy From Queens - #FridayFlash Fiction

Texas cowboy by Stanley L. Wood (1866-1928), English illustrator

Jacob, sweating on the stoop, was dreaming of ice cold lemonade and cowboys when the bull ran down 51st Ave.  Sweating because Queens, NY in 1939 was a sweltering brick oven enduring an early heat wave, on the stoop because he was deemed too fat, too slow, too odd to play stickball with the other boys. Dreaming of cowboys because his father had run off out West to join the ranks of the fabled riders.

At least that's what his Mum had said, what he'd shared with the boys, what he clutched in his heart like a bedraggled toy from childhood.
_____________________

Inspired by a 1939 NY Times story - "Fair Steer Escapes and Dashes 2 Miles; Roped By Cowboy After Its Race Through Corona". The steer bolted through the fair, through the World's Fair Boulevard gate into Queens, crossed Grand Central Parkway Extension, up 111th St., finally being lassoed at 46th Ave and 108th street. 

Jacob will witness the wild chase in the streets of New York, come face to face with a real life cowboy - and take a step on the path to manhood. 

The full text of the story was originally posted here; however, the organization World Reader in conjunction with ReadWave requested the use of the full story as part of its literacy program to provide free stories in digital format for children in developing countries.

Stranger - #FridayFlash Fiction

     Dead of night, and I climb through a cottony mass of half-formed thoughts and half-dissolved dreams into consciousness. Heat weighs heavily on me, and overhead the blades of the ceiling fan revolve sluggishly. I shift slightly, and turn my head; with a jolt, I realize that there is a stranger lying next to me.

     I inch my way out of the tangled sheets and, setting my feet carefully on the cool floor, make my way over to the doorway. A floorboard squeaks and I quickly shift my weight and move closer to the wall. A sigh, and then his slow, even breathing resumes. I sigh as well, and tiptoe out of the room.

     The caliginous bedroom gives way to a living room awash in moonlight. I draw the curtains and sink into the depths of an overstuffed chair. How did I come to be here, and what do I do now? The answers, it would seem, are all around me.

     A trophy perdures on the bookcase, shrouded with dust; textbooks as well, unthumbed as the day they stood on the seller's shelf. A blue smock with a garish badge is tossed in a corner, along with a black pair of shoes whose scuffed toes have been covered by black magic marker. A man's jacket is thrown carelessly over the back of a beat up sofa, which crouches beneath the picture of a grinning young couple posed on a sugar white beach. All eerie in its vague familiarity.

     I remember that I met him last night after work. That there were awkward pauses and silences, and that we spoke to each other oh so carefully. That we peeled away the layers, and that in exploring each other we explored ourselves as well. A dangerous thing, but necessary; unspoken becomes unnerving becomes undoing.

     Dawn breaks, and I wearily make my way back. He is still sleeping, and I slide quietly into bed and lie there, studying him. The slope of his shoulders, the fine golden hairs on his arm, the nape of his neck, somehow delicate even on so large a man. Strange, and yet comfortingly recognizable. He stirs, stretches, and turns his head towards me; the morning light catches the autumn flecks of green and gold and brown in his eyes. He looks at me somberly for a moment.

     “Happy Anniversary,” he says, and smiles.

      In the full light of day, I smile as well.

     “Happy Anniversary,” I reply.

The Martyr Of Fourteenth Street

The room had been kept as she left it. She was never coming back, and Rose painstakingly maintained the shrine as she always had, wiping away each speck of dust from the dresser top and the swimming trophies, carefully repositioning the stuffed pony and the folded pyjamas, pressing down ever-so-slightly on the pillow bearing the last imprint of the beloved head.

Thomas, leaning in the doorway, curled his lip in disgust and walked away, lowering his silent bulk into the faded armchair and opening his paper - snap! - while he waited for dinner to be served. Rose began to set the table, hesitating at the place where her daughter used to sit, and allowing a silent tear to roll down her cheek. Her husband did not notice, of course, and so she sniffed audibly.

"Forchrissake woman, would you stop this nonsense? She's married, not dead!"

"Do you know that she's asked me not to come around for a week? That I am not to call her unless it is a DIRE emergency? Her own mother, treated like a pestering sales representative?"

Thomas snorted. "You give the girl no peace. Always dropping by, taking food as if she can't cook, offering advice she's no need of, mocking her husband's profession, chipping away at their marriage. You're lucky they haven't moved to the other coast. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if that were in the works."

Rose whirled, and the cold Spam on the platter slithered over the edge and plopped on the floor. "What do you know that you're not telling me? Conspiring, always conspiring against me.  I've devoted my life to raising a beautiful child and waiting on you hand and foot, and all I've gotten is heartbreak. I could have been a journalist, you know, traveling the world. It would be MY name you'd be seeing in that damned newspaper you're forever hiding behind."

He eyed the evening's entree on the floor. "Indeed, you've taken marvelous care of me. Kept me at arm's length unless you needed money for some new scheme to make our daughter famous. I might as well have been an ATM standing in the corner. Devoted your life to the child, assuredly, to the point where she married the first fool who offered to get her out of here.  Well, I've had enough of it. I'm leaving you, Rose. I'm not so hard a man as to drag you through a long drawn-out legal proceeding; you'll have the house, a car, and a bit to live on. But I deserve someone who will offer me at least a little warmth and companionship in my golden years."

"You mean you've found some young tart I suppose," Rose sighed. "Of course I'm worn out with tending to everyone else's needs. My poor body is exhausted from childbearing, cooking and scrubbing. Never a thought for myself. Giving up career, fame, a pension. It's just like you to think only of yourself. Well, go on then. I'll live out my days as a lonely old woman."

As she slowly bent her plump body to clean up the floor, a thought struck her. She would soon be..a...a...divorcee. Shunned by the community as a failure, a cast-off. People would whisper, and snicker, and follow her with their nasty judgmental eyes. Oh, and what of her daughter? To have divorced parents! Why everyone knew that children from broken homes turned to crime, to drink, to drugs.

"This will hardly do for dinner," she said in the sweetest of tones. "I'll make you a lovely stew from scratch. I've been so morose lately, but I shall fix things. Go and enjoy your paper, and I'll call you when it's ready."

Yes, she decided, better to be a grieving widow. Then the world would recognize her sacrifices, her suffering. They would not dare to turn their backs on her again.

One Side Of the World To the Other: Walking From Beijing To London - Nonfiction

Beijing zoo. Photographed and placed in public domain by  Daderot via Wikimedia Commons.

"My name is Michael Lee Johnson. I’m 28 years of age and I am from Widnes, Cheshire, in the north-west of England.

On Friday July 26th 2013 at 2:15pm, I will be quitting my day-job and boarding a flight from London to Beijing with the intention of never returning back to the United Kingdom by anything else other than by foot.

Upon arrival in Beijing and after a good nights sleep, I will then begin my journey home (on my own)." *

Sounds like a great book, right? It hasn't been written yet, but it will be - just as soon as Michael completes his journey. And you can follow along on his incredible freedom walk. He'll be recording his epic trek for a documentary, as well as plotting his location on Google maps and (hopefully) streaming some video as conditions and technology permit. 

The trip will be wholly on foot, and he'll be facing just about every sort of climate condition and terrain imaginable.

"The route that I presumed would be the best and most safest, will take me from Beijing into Northern & Western China, right through Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and possibly Turkmenistan, across Iran, Armenia and then back home through Europe to London, England. 15,000 km, thirteen hours by plane and between 3 to 5 years on foot." *

As someone who seldom steps out of the "comfort zone", I can't even imagine undertaking a journey of this magnitude. But Michael views it as more than just an epic hike. To him, it is a freedom walk - freedom from job constraints, deadlines, the endless demands of tightly structured days.

Of course, trouble - and danger - may very well lie along his path.

"Who knows what may happen along my journey? And you know what… I really don’t care! Why? Because life’s too short. We only have our memories at the end of the day, so I’m making some good ones. It’s all or nothing in my eyes, life or death. I think life is what you make it, so I’m making it what I want… I’m bringing my dreams to life, and letting the whole world dream with me." *

So if you want to dream along - and help him along - you can find more information at Michael Lee Johnson or by following him on Twitter as @mljonfoot


*all passages in quotes are by express permission of Michael Lee Johnson, and reprinted from his website.

 

Heilige Nacht, Holy Night - A Christmas Flash

1914 Christmas Truce. German soldiers of the 134th Saxon Regiment with British soldiers of Royal Warwickshire Regiment in No Man's Land. Photo by UK Govt. now in public domain.
HMSO has declared that the expiry of Crown Copyrights applies worldwide.

As we were unpacking the decorations for our first Christmas together, Tim picked a blue cylinder out of the box and proferred it with raised eyebrows.

"Really? A decorated gun shell for Christmas? Does Stuttgart have some meaning I'm not aware of?"

I cradled the object in my hand. "Yes, it does. My great-grandfather treasured this; he said it was the one gift he'd gotten that held the true meaning of Christmas. There's a story behind it. Let me show you what he wrote at the Home before he died."

We'd been in the trenches for three months. You can't imagine the sort of cold that sinks into your bones when you're living in the mud, exposed for days and nights on end. And the shelling! It was enough to drive you right round the bend sometimes. It was early on, and we still talked about the war as though it would end in a matter of months.

For some of us, it was our first time away from home. We were men, fighting a war, and we were boys, missing our families and the comforts of a warm fire and a Christmas tree. While we saved bits of paper and labels from tins to make chains, and scavenged branches to erect sad little trees on the parapets - this was before the land had been shelled into complete barrenness - I also thought about those poor blokes lying dead a few hundred feet away.

We had not been forgotten, of course; many received packages from family, as well as Princess Mary boxes* with a greeting from King George V. 'May God protect you and bring you safe home.' It's a bit of a paradox, I suppose, that those reminders brought both happiness and sorrow, as they made 'home' seem a place imagined in a long ago life.

That Christmas Eve we shared food and token gifts amongst ourselves, and were just posting the new watch when a familiar tune floated through the air. We were, you see, so close to the enemy trenches that we could hear each other quite well in the icy air. The melody was Oh Christmas Tree, although the words were in German; my friend Joe took up the tune immediately, and before long we were all singing together. The Germans began to sing more loudly, and before long our side was belting it out in a sort of good-natured competition. When the song ended, there was shouting from both sides; not the bloodcurdling yells of 'going over the top', but cries of guten nacht, hello, Merry Christmas, and some ribbing among the men about their respective musical talents.

Eventually I fell asleep, and was roused at 4 to stand watch. There was a lot of movement over in the enemy trenches, and to my surprise a figure slowly materialized on a far parapet. A German soldier was holding up some sort of stick with a cloth attached. 

'You not shooting. We not shooting', he called. Another figure appeared next to him. Slowly, they began to walk toward the No Man's Land which was between us.

Joe was awake as well, and I pointed at the Germans. 'You think it's a trap?'

He booted his chum Lionel awake. "Hey, what do make of this?"

Lionel peered over the top as well. "Hell, they're probably just as cold, lonely and miserable as we are. I'll slip out and you two keep an eye peeled." And with that, Lionel slithered out, first lying there, then rising to his knees with his hands in the air. 'Guten tag! Guten tag! Gesundheit!'

So we approached each other, as word spread and more men on both sides left the relative safety of the trenches for the wide open land between. We called to each other, in our own languages, in the broken bits that we knew of the other's, and in the universal signs of smiles and outstretched, weaponless hands. We met, not as soldiers but as men, brothers for a short time engaged in that most sacred yet bitter task, which no one should have to perform on Christmas Eve.

We buried our dead.

The ground was frozen like iron, and though we struggled and swore the burial was also done with humility and tenderness. Though we could have used the boots and overcoats, there were none who saw fit to take them. We extracted from their pockets the papers and letters, photos and mementos from those they'd left behind. I saw one German soldier holding a picture in his hand; and he showed it to me, his eyes unabashedly wet. 'Kind'. He reached into his own pocket and produced a similar photo; the children bore a remarkable resemblance. 

On an impulse, I produced a tin with a few cigarettes in it. He opened it and removed one, then handed it back. 'No, for you,' I answered, gesturing that he should take the entire thing. Somehow, I wanted to give a gift, a real gift, springing from nothing but goodwill. I wanted it to feel like Christmas. With a smile, he accepted it and rummaged around. 'You,' he said as he produced a small painted gun shell. He flipped up the top - it had been made into a lighter - and the flame danced in the night. 'You,' he said again, placing it in my hand and closing my fingers on it.

Both sides were waking and stirring as first light broke on the horizon. The strains of Silent Night/Stille Nacht floated gently over the battlefield. Heilige Nacht/Holy Night. 

Never has the phrase 'Peace on earth, goodwill to men', meant more than in the midst of a terrible war when men sent to hate and kill reached out to each other in peace and friendship.

Together, Tim and I used that gift from long ago to light the candles on the table.

Merry Christmas.
_______________________________________________

* "Princess Mary boxes" were metal boxes engraved with an outline of Princess Mary and filled with chocolates and candies, cigarettes, a picture of Princess Mary and George V's greeting to the troops.

While this is a fictional story, there are many accounts of the WW1 Christmas truce of 1914 which occurred spontaneously at various points on the front lines.




 

Invisible Quilt - An Old Post

During this holiday season, there are many who are facing pain, grief, and loneliness. So I have chosen to re-post Invisible Quilt, a piece which was written a few months  ago for a close friend in time of need. Happy Christmas to all who have been blessed, and I wish peace, strength and healing for those who need it.

I have a gift for you, my friend, one which I hope will remain with you always.  Something that will keep you warm during the cold dark days, though the corners may grow threadbare and the down become thin from hugging it so much.

It is made from squares of memory whose half-forgotten patterns come alive the more you remember;  familiar patterns of joy and sorrow, vestiges of old spills, geometric shards of dreams and laughter.  The delicate, even stitches of time hold it together, and though many may eventually pull free there is nothing which will make it completely unravel.

You cannot see it but I hope that you can feel it;  the invisible quilt of love and friendship wrapping itself around you.

May it warm and protect both you, and yours, forever.

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