Flash Fiction: FOOD FOR LOBO

In my hometown, a very elderly lady, bent almost double by osteoporosis, sells small bags of shortbread cookies every day. Watching her make a sale gave me the idea for this story. (Booger I just made up.)

FOOD FOR LOBO

            I didn't catch Booger teasing Lobo, tied across the street, until the night the power went out because of the wind storm and the heat made it difficult for me to sleep, even when I took another two of my red pills. Booger came up to where Lobo, a pit bull/mastiff mutt, was chained. Booger was dangling a long piece of rope in his hand and started whipping the dog with it. Lobo went crazy, snarling and foaming at the mouth, yanking at his chain so hard that he sometimes flipped over backward with a thud. Booger laughed like a maniac, like he did when he was 6 and started becoming the bully he was, a laugh that sounded crazy and silly and at the same time. He beat that dog for a good 15 minutes and when he left, Lobo was left spent, his neck and mouth bleeding. Lobo couldn't bark, but his wounds spoke volumes about what he felt.

            Booger came up almost every night. Lobo would get wild when he sensed Booger was near, pulling hard against the chain. Some nights, Booger would just stand there, a few feet out of Lobo's snarling reach, the long piece of rope dangling, unused. On other nights, Booger would beat the dog horribly, snapping the rope with his lanky arm's strength. A few times he tied a big knot at the end of the rope. On those nights, Lobo bled a lot. His drunken owner never saw anything, just slopping the food and water in the dog's bowls and staggered away to get drunk again or sleep.

            I'm 94. I live alone, have no car, no phone, no kin, no visitors except for the Meals on Wheels woman who acts like delivering food once a week is penance for wearing too much make-up. I couldn't call the police, nor ask anyone to do it for me. The people near me were afraid of Booger, many of them old and frail as me. To rat out Booger was to ask to be hurt. Or killed.

            Once a month, I'd dress up warm and take a very slow walk to Findlay's Groceries, four blocks and two hours away. I did it to buy my own food with a budget that could barely keep a body and soul together, even one as thin as mine. A stock boy once asked me if I had a lot of cats. I lied. That's why I bought my own food: fewer questions that way.

            My long walk was nearing an end, the light bags now heavy in my rolling walker's basket. I could see the door to my house and Lobo, across the street, lying in the shade. Suddenly, water drenched me head to toe. A big black car, music thundering from it fit to wake the dead, drove away, Booger at the wheel, his arm thrust out the window and the middle finger rising above it.

            I took a chill that lasted almost a week. I thought I'd die, what with no one to care and the Meals on Wheels woman knocking once and leaving the food on the doorstep, where I found it four days later. That same day, before the chill could stop me, I walked again to Findlay's. Bless his heart, Greg Findlay actually came out to see if I was okay, senile maybe, for making a trip back so soon. No, I said, I want ground beef. Two pounds.

            He actually looked very sad. Rather than waste a word, I opened my purse and showed him the crisp tenner I had saved for a rainy day long ago. He pursed his lips, got the ground beef himself and even got his manager to give me a ride back. I didn't say no, because my legs were aching something fierce and my head was fit to burst.

            It took me an hour to thaw the beef well and roll chunks of it into meatballs. My hands weren't as good as they used to be, but a ball is a ball. With the sun going down and my heart hammering to break a rib, I walked across the street. Towards Lobo.

            I tossed him a couple of meatballs and went away. I did that every day, getting closer to Lobo until I gave him the last two standing right next to him. Then he waited patiently as my feeble hands sawed at the thick leather collar he wore, tears of rage at my weakness splashing his matted fur and the fear that I'd faint and be found out. I lost what little strength I had left and had to leave. I had to take four of my red pills because the pain was awful. I was sobbing from the effort. But I was awake and smiling when Booger got the smile ripped off his face by Lobo. I swear I heard that mutt howl with glee.

Flash Fiction: DEBOARDING PASS

The final image of this story was crystal-clear in my mind and the last half of it went by in a writing blur. That may have been the fastest writing I did over the 60 stories.

DEBOARDING PASS

            “Can you help me?” The air hostess’ words barely masked fear.

            The pilot and co-pilot exchanged quizzical looks. A 777 pretty much flies itself, but the regs make it clear that the cockpit is sacrosanct. “What’s going on?” asked the co-pilot, whose shirt bore an embroidered Lewis above the pocket.

            The hostess swallowed hard. “We have a situation with a passenger. He’s—he’s acting strange.”

            Lewis looked at the pilot, whose shirt read McKinnon. “Doug, it’s your call. I can go now.”

            McKinnon swiveled in his seat. “Nancy, what’s happening? Is the guy armed?”

            She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. And he isn’t threatening the passengers. But he says…” She wrung her hands and swallowed hard again. “He says that he’s going to cause everybody on the plane to die.”

            The two men were agog. “A terrorist?”

            Nancy almost moaned. “No! I don’t think he’s a terrorist. But he’s back there, in 22B, sweating a lot and saying something about some change coming too early.” She twisted her face into an anguished grimace.

            “Lew, check him out. I’m notifying Logan and have them patch us through to the FBI.” As Lewis nodded, McKinnon added “Keep it as quiet as possible. And be careful.”

            “Roger.” Lewis unclipped his headset and followed Nancy through the quiet plane back to coach, where 22B was. It was almost midnight and most of the sixty-seven passengers were asleep or plugged into some device.

            The man in 22B looked like he’d finished a strenuous workout. His face was horribly flushed and sheened with sweat. The man’s eyes were open wide and he was gulping breaths. His hands clutched the armrests as if to anchor himself against a storm. His eyes darted up at Lewis and Nancy, but he made no gesture or effort to speak with them.

            Lewis squatted near the man. “Hi. I’m Commander Phil Lewis. Are you feeling ill, sir?”

            The man shook his head tightly. “No! Please. Land this plane now! I don’t want anyone to die because of me!”

            Lewis was about to assure the man everything was okay when suddenly, the man…faded. Like a movie scene where an actor becomes opaque and you can see through him to the background… Nancy gasped and Lewis sensed her fear. “Steady,” he said to her. And to himself.

            The man leaned forward slowly, groaning, as if a severe pain were wracking his innards. His hands never left the armrests, white-knuckled claws about to snap. “Do you need medical attention?” Lewis heard his voice tighten and the hair on his neck begin to rise.

            “No! I just need… to get out… of here. Now!” The man raised his head. His eyes…were blank. Gone. Two holes of blackness that quickly filled with glimpses of a beyond no one could imagine. Nancy stifled a scream a second too late.

            Lewis stood up and grabbed Nancy by the shoulders. “Tell Mason we need to land now! Get Lorena to help you calm the passengers. Get them calmed down! Go!” He gave her a brisk push towards the cockpit. She almost ran in her desire to get away from them.

            A wretched groan made Lewis turn and what he saw almost made him scream. The man was no longer in his seat. He had—somehow—become stuck passing through the floor, his arms clutching at the seats around him while his legs were…somewhere unseen. The man’s chest was trapped by the floor and he could barely speak. “It’s about to happen! Hurry! Oh god, please hurry!” The man’s voice was raw with fear.

            Just before the plane was destroyed, Lewis saw over there, the place seen only through the man’s eyes, the world where orange and gray violence melded, where brown was the color of death and where a nightmarish length of limb and claw grabbed a man and tore this world completely apart.

Excerpt: Working Title -- JEWELS

Like most writers, I think, I have plenty of ideas for stories and novels. Some of them have been wandering my mind for years. Here's one of them, a fantasy novel series (to be) in a world where magic is tied to the physical world, as much a resource as gold or iron ore. This scene, currently an early chapter of Book One, comes just after we discover how the three main characters feel about their lives. Obviously, that life is about to change drastically.


                                Excerpt from the novel JEWELS

            To call it a castle would have been generosity. A large circle of massive stones enclosed two long squat buildings, made of heavy gray bricks and thick brown mortar. Built upon a small hill, the castle had one entrance, a large wooden gate striated with iron bars.  The gates' wooden surface showed ancient scars of attempted entries.

            One of the buildings housed horses, grafens and even a mule, along with two large kitchens, a deep well and a shallow one, a forge, a small hayloft and a granary. A staircase next to the deep well led to a cellar where salted meats and bitter ale were kept cool.

            It also housed one chained man, now broken, his putrefying tongue strapped tightly across his eyes.

            The other building had a large hall, with heavy wooden tables and massive chairs. Along the walls were torches, now lit and glaring brightly in the fading light. The tables were blackened from decades of spills and sweat, and blood. The chairs loomed large, each one the work of an artisan now long dead. No two chairs were alike, and the depressions of many a seated hour were deep. Along the walls lay dozens of cords of firewood, neatly stacked. Though the day was slightly warm, the eight massive windows were shuttered.

            The rest of the building held rooms, of various sizes, over 100 in all. Some rooms had fireplaces, others held washstands, still others were graced with a small reflecting pool, or a tiny garden. Beds were simple, sturdy affairs of planks and legs, chairs were scattered amongst many a bench and the only common feature to all was a red cord, attached to a hidden rope high above the ceiling, where rats and lice thrived without limit. Why the ropes had never been gnawed through was a mystery no one ever thought to explore.

            The meeting hall, with tables set for a small feast, was beginning to hear voices. Sashes of many hues adorned the visitors, many men and few women. All had been summoned, and though reluctant to leave their wanderings and other homes, the summons had brought more than expected.

            The kitchen maids and servants bustled about, their faces tight with fear, saying nothing and praying to whatever gods they now believed in that this day should end. Heavy cauldrons of stewing meat and steaming porridge were stirred thickly, with great effort. The heat covered every chore with a blanket, but could not vanquish the deep cold felt by them all.

            The meeting hall filled quickly, as the visitors were rushed there by anxious servants. Names were repeated, friendships renewed and the heady feeling of belonging infused the hall. One or two glanced about them, seeking familiar faces, and frowning slightly when they were as yet unrevealed.

            A name surfaced, like a petal’s whisper against the skin: Mohg. The name meant nothing to so many, but to the few who knew it, it caused concern. Mohg had spurned The Baltok and all it stood for. Its ten members were called “feeble” and “fools”. Mohg was a magemaster of great ability, but no sense of proportion, of humility or generosity. Magemasters needed these things to be able to help and survive. The Baltok guided and most followed their reason.

            But Mohg? A member of The Baltok? Rather a griffin guard a lamb! Mohg?

            Word and rumor spread. The hall filled, and experienced visitors scrambled for chairs nearest the servants’ entrances, for when laden with steaming plates, they dispensed most of in the first several plates.

            And still the name Mohg rode the air.

            A sharp bell sounded, then again. Voices quieted and chairs scraped back and forth as the visitors gathered themselves. The lone table near the main entrance was strangely empty, its ten chairs devoid of face or body. The Bartok was not one to stand on too much ceremony, and their absence caused some discomfort.

            Another bell sounded and servants rushed in, their arms filled with platters of meat, bread, vegetables and pots of boiling stews and soups. With frenzied gestures, the food was placed on the tables, ladles slopping into heavy bowls and causing angry retorts. More servants rushed in to serve heavy red wines and place custards amongst the crowded tables. Small protests became shouts as food was spilled, feet were stepped on and hot liquids stained robes, sashes and burned skin. Within minutes, the hall was in a muted uproar and with the final plate dropped heavily atop another, the last servant ran out of the hall, closing the door with a long furtive glance at the assembled magemasters.

            Several minutes passed before the meal could be called genteel, as plates and platters and bowls were rearranged, food apportioned properly and the various mishaps corrected enough to allow for tranquil eating. The food itself was well-prepared, as expected, but heavy in texture, to some overly-spiced, and the red wine was sharp, metallic in its cool heaviness.

            Without a sound, the servants’ doors closed, and iron bars dropped into place. Shuttered windows were barred, one by one, by silent clever fingers.

            The meal was well underway when the main door opened slowly. Only a few noticed as a steely-eyed man with aquiline features, wearing long black and gray robes, no sash, stepped up to The Bartok’s table and placed his hands lightly on its rough-hewn surface, as if taking possession. He remained quiet, statue-like, as the magemasters gave him their undivided attention. A minute passed, and though broken by murmurs, nothing happened.

            Then a red-sashed master, her hair graying though her skin remained smooth called out: “Where are The Bartok?”

            The silent man cast his eyes over the tables and plates, as if caressing them. “You know better than I.”

            The deep, cold voice surprised some and chilled others. But his eyes…his eyes...

            “The food!” screamed one master, shoving himself away from the table and collapsing to the pitiless stone floor. Shock, pure numbing shock held the others frozen until the reality of such monstrosity slammed into their mind. Convulsive reactions swept through the magemasters, gasping, wretching, choking, screaming, moaning, yelling, cursing, some inflicting wounds on their faces as they clawed at their mouths, others trying desperately to seize a weapon.

            At the very height of the convulsion, the man turned, a serene smile making him darkly handsome. He grabbed a torch and with careful hand, lit a pile of firewood to the left of the main entrance, then turned and did the same on the other side. Flames of angry red and yellow streaked from pile to pile, racing around the room as if hellbent to escape. The suddenness of the rushing flames whooshed air across the stricken mages, and only a few could adjust to the new threat. Before they could think of what to do, the man in the black and gray robe stepped outside the hall and with precise motions, closed the huge door, barring it shut. Muted screams pounded the walls and the shutters trembled desperately as the firewood, and the leather skins of fireoil contained within, turned the hall into a vast roasting chamber. Within minutes, the final screams died out, the shutters lay still and the walls crackled with the force of heat, despair and magic destroyed within.

            Deep in the cellar, the last member of The Bartok heard the screams and tears flowed with foul slime down his mutilated cheeks.

Flash Fiction: SEE BOBBY LAUGH

From Thirty Stories, also appearing in Yesteryear Fiction, I wrote this one with the intention of surprising my then-fiancé. As luck would have it, while she was reading the anthology manuscript, I walked in on her reading this story. I did surprise her. She married me anyway. (Whew!)

SEE BOBBY LAUGH

            Bobby raced through the piney woods, shrieking in laughter. His feet pounded the pine needle carpet , rat-tat-tat, as he made his escape. Behind him, scattered shouts urged him to an even greater effort.

            The game started out as Tag, with the Benson twins, Kelly, her sister Mary Jo and roly-poly Melvin getting the jump on a summer day. By the third go-around, the four Vincent kids had joined in and Team-Tag was the game, though the teams seemed to change every other moment, mainly to keep Melvin on the other side.

            When lunch rolled around, old Mrs. Harper had handed out like a million hot dogs to the growing pack of kids, telling them she was leaving for Florida the next day and she was making sure they’d never forget her. Because their mouths were stuffed with meat by-products, fleshy bread and ketchup, no one told her she’d be cheered for being gone.

            With a “Wait at least an hour before doing anything strenuous,” the kid tribe, now joined by Benny, Lars and Christine from over by the old Harper store, started a fast game of Prisoner, with Bobby chosen as the first one. Bobby was fast, but not so fast that Kelly or Lars couldn’t catch him. And he was fun to chase because he started laughing as he ran and usually ended up laughing so hard he’d pretty much collapse and be caught. They always caught him because Bobby always laughed.

            After the joke of having Melvin be Prisoner and caught within ten seconds of leaving Jail, Bobby was picked again, although Mary Jo, the freckled whiner that she was, wanted to be picked Prisoner at least once. Bobby laughed and when the rest started laughing, he took off.

            The wind raced past his ears and his lungs heaved as he sped through the trees, kicking a pine cone. He looked behind him and saw Kelly, pigtails flying, racing past the big walnut stump he’d jumped a few seconds before. He laughed. He couldn’t help it. Running was fun!

            Over to the left, Lars was zipping through trees like the football player he was, avoiding the unmoving trees like they were Carson Junior War Eagles. The Panther star was on Bobby’s trail and Bobby just laughed harder.

            An abrupt cut left Lars behind the kudzu bog, that swampy bit of the woods where the trees had become vine-covered poles. Hidden, Bobby changed direction, running closer to Kelly. He laughed and was delighted to hear her laugh, too.

            Kelly almost grabbed him, her tanned arm a streak that Bobby barely avoided. He twisted to the side, almost crashed into a gnarly pine tree and giggled his way back up to speed. “Over here!” shouted Kelly and Bobby laughed short and hard, breathing deep for a major-league sprint.

            Taking the soft rise on slick pine needles, Bobby saw the old walnut stump ahead. Almost six feet wide and two feet high, it sat like a flat-topped frog in the woods, the bark all craggy and mossy and wet even in the hottest summer day. Bobby knew he needed to run faster, before Lars caught up with them. He giggled, laughed and giggled again as he turned to see how close Kelly was.

            Very close! Her pretty face was set in a frown of effort, but her eyes were shiny with glee. Her pigtails bounced and her long legs pumped easily, closing ground.

            Nearing the stump, Bobby laughed, the musical trill that made chasing him so much fun for the kids. Mouth open in delight, he soared over the stump, then slowed to a stop.

            A smiling Kelly ran close to the old walnut stump and jumped.

            The huge scaly claw whipped up from the stump and slammed around Kelly, crushing her in an instant. The claw retracted like a whip into the stump, slime drops spraying at Bobby’s feet.

            Laughing, Bobby turned to race through the woods. He’d be caught, he knew. After looking for Kelly, the kids wouldn’t play for a while, but one day Bobby would laugh and the kids would laugh and they’d chase him again through the piney woods. Next time, the stump would catch Lars.

            And then, nobody would catch Bobby again, no matter how much he laughed.

Flash Fiction: HAUL THROUGH IDAHO

Back in 2008, I wanted to get back to writing fiction and I proposed doing so by creating 30 stories limited each to one standard page. Basically, no more than 750 words on average. I wrote everywhere, on my netbook, but long stretches of other work meant it took me several months to finish them. This was one of the first to see the light of day, on Yesteryear Fiction. It also forms part of my first e-book, Thirty Stories, available on SmashWords.

HAUL THROUGH IDAHO

            “I was in my truck, see? The same truck I’ve been haulin’ ‘cross the lower forty-eight since that wacko Carter was muckin’ up the White House. Now, you gotta remember I don’t do no drugs like most of the haulers out there. Don’t need ‘em. I can get by with two, three hours of sleep a night for as long as it takes me to drag a load from Hartford to San Josie. So I never done drugs and I wasn’t doin’ no drugs that night. God’s truth.

            So there I was, rakin’ up the I-90 in Idaho at an easy eighy-five, my chirper keepin’ Smokey off my ass, when I come up to Kellogg, you know, like the cereal people. That always kills me. It was just past one a.m. and I was cruisin’, man, just cruisin’, maybe me and four-five other cars on the whole damn highway. I had my mind set on pullin’ into Mullan in about fifteen minutes and maybe grab a piece off that waitress that worked in the Blue Barn. She was damn fine lookin’ and loved it when I stopped in late at night ‘cause her old man worked the late shift at the morgue. He was one of those muck-scrapers, you know, the guys that get called out to pick up stiffs. Loved his job, the freak.

            So I’m lickin’ my chops, if you know what I mean, and maybe dreamin’ a bit when I suddenly see the road has changed. Now you gotta remember I been drivin’ that road for damn near thirty years, back when Wallace had that freakin’ stop light up there that made you hack the gears for no freakin’ reason. Putzes forced the highway to go around the town, the peckerheads. So I know that road, okay? I know it well. And what I saw that night, well I tell you, that wasn’t no I-90.

            First off, the road itself was made of stone. I shit you not. It was stone, like what you see in them planetary pictures of Mars or whatever. Not that it was red, no, it was more like gray or maybe blue-gray. And it had some cracks in it, some of them fairly wide, but they ran across the road, so my tires just plunked ‘em.

            I saw the guard rails were gone, too, like they’d been taken away while I was thinkin’ of Betty Mae. She sure could make a man feel good, if you treated her right. I did that, you know. The fog came down and around me and my truck like someone had done thrown a blanket over us all. It was thick, like cotton, not wavy-wispy like fog normally is and it came up so sudden it was like someone threw a goddamn switch. I looked down and saw I was doin’ 60 and I figgered 30 would be better and I’d still get to see Betty Mae in about a half hour.

            But the road and the fog had other ideas. First I felt some tremors, like my hauler was blowing a tire or was throwin’ a piston, but I knew it couldn’t be none of those ‘cause I always kept that big mother in perfect condition. Hell, never lost a day for no repairs and I been drivin’ since Ford pardoned Nixon, the two bastards. Put damn near three million miles on that thing and it never let me down. And that night, it saved my life, I know that, ‘cause if my big one had blown somethin’, I’d be tellin’ you this here story as a ghost.

            The tremors, they were getting stronger, like somethin’ was comin’ closer. I got down to 30 and was about to shift to second when…Hell, it’s been over twenty years and I still don’t know what that shit was. It had a head, I know that, ‘cause I saw somethin’ like eyes and a long mouth, like a possum or armadillo, but with fangs along the side. It came at me from my right and I thought it was comin’ right at me, so I yanked that bullhorn of mine, the one with the double-battery that could squawk the chrome off a bumper. yellin’ and screamin’ like a madman, I downshifted and floored the pedal and the hell with fog or nothin’. I hauled my ass so hard out there I slid past Mullan and had to double back.

            Found out the next day from the other haulers there was a ten-car smashup just past Kellogg. Everybody dead. Happened about the time I was drivin’ that stone road past a beast from hell. Best part was that Betty Mae left that freaky old man of hers and went haulin’ with me the very next day. You gotta remember, I always treated her right. And I didn’t drive down I-90 in Idaho no more until they built that overpass past Wallace. No sense in making my big rig haul ass that hard twice in a lifetime, right?”