These Things of Fall

October is my best month, Miki reminded herself, trying to forget the ways that fall was the worst. Her heart thudded as she crossed the graveyard with slow, measured steps that kept pace with the rhyme she repeated whenever she was nervous.

These things of fall make me feel tall

Apples, pumpkins – I love them all

These things of fall make me feel tall

Hot tea, bonfires –I love them all

“How many fall things have you added to that rhyme?” asked Mrs. Donahue as she got up from her morning chore of shaking her head at the condition of the floral arrangements on the graves.

Miki let out a deep breath at the sound of her voice and relaxed her grip on her backpack’s straps. “31 so far.”

“Reverse 13. That’s quite lucky.”

“I know,” Miki beamed.

Mrs. Donahue looked at the position of the sun and looked back at Miki. “You may be pushing your luck if you don’t quicken your pace. Won’t you be late?”

Miki retightened her grip. “I’ve worked out the timing. Even if I’m late it won’t be by much.”

“Not by much is usually too much for principals, unless things have changed since my day. You wouldn’t be trying to come in late enough times to get your privileges revoked, especially ones that involve public speaking?”

“I didn’t ask for it! I just wanted to submit a piece to the school’s lit magazine. If I knew I’d be reading it in front of the school I wouldn’t have done it. It’s going to be a disaster.” Miki pictured the mixture of bored looks and sneers in the school auditorium as she read.

“What if it isn’t?”

“I have 16 years of experience that say otherwise.”

“Maybe. But that’s not much when there’s a lot of life ahead of you. Would it help to have some friendly faces there?” Mrs. Donahue motioned behind her.

“It would,” Miki said.   

“Done. Hurry along now. And do tell that groundskeeper to weed this end of the graveyard.”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Donahue faded back into her grave.

Miki left, continuing to sing.

These things of fall make me feel tall

Odd friends who believe in me—I love you all

Art by Sunshine Shelle from her 29 Faces Series in Feb 2015
Follow her on Instagram for more of her delightful art.

Song Choice: Get By With A Little Help From My Friends covered by Peace Conspiracy and Meja 

This flash fiction piece was created for Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose: In October...

Keep Away

The overripe fruit burst under her finger in a splatter of pulp. Ilva curled up like a bug at the sound, counting to 10 before she lifted her head.

The field was still the same—vines heavy with rotting fruit, their sticky smell, and the quiet undisturbed by even the sound of a fly. Ilva looked at the meager collection of fruit in her basket. It had to be enough.

The plop of a fat raindrop on her hand startled her again. But this time she smiled, looking up at the darkening clouds. Heavy rain would muffle the sound of conversation. Taking it as a good sign, she scurried back to the crumbling building that served as her latest home.

Ilva, along with several others, made it in before it really came down. The tense lines around everyone’s mouths eased the longer it went on. Except the Keeper’s. She had her usual sorrowful expression on her old-young face.

Ilva hated her eyes. They always looked seconds away from tears. But what she hated most was the Keeper’s cheeks, plump from eating the best of everyone’s harvest.  When she asked Pa about it, he shook her until Ma stepped in.

It was her turn to take the best from each basket and feed the Keeper. Ilva grabbed what she could and walked to where she sat. Her fingers brushed up against a fruit spotty with mold. Before she could think about it, Ilva popped the rotten fruit into the Keeper’s mouth.

Let her see what it’s like, she thought.

The Keeper began screaming when Ilva turned away. Someone ran to the Keeper and shook her hard enough to crack her head on the side of the wall. But it was too late. The luck keeping them safe fled along with her life. The Finders had certainly heard the noise. And they would be coming.

Photo by Del Barrett on Unsplash

Song Choice: In Hiding by Pearl Jam

This flash fiction was created for Poets United's Pantry of Prose. This month's theme is gothic stories.

Something True

Later she wondered how the needle came to her in the first place. Surely something that powerful would never have been tossed in the trash. Was it an accident? Still, she had never heard of any Legitimus wielding power like this. The theory that made her smile was that maybe it was a combination of the needle and some spark in her, something more powerful than even a Legitmus could wield.

She found it on a cold night, rummaging through the trash. Shouts of ‘Mendacium’ were accompanied by the usual hurled objects and she fled, taking what she salvaged, none of them big enough for a blanket. Then she saw the needle. A pull on a ragged edge got her the thread she needed to stitch the bits together. The resulting blanket was the warmest she’d ever felt.

Next she tried making it into a coat. It was more beautiful than the blanket. She wasn’t surprised when a Legitimus accosted her, demanding to know how trash like her had such a thing.

That’s when the true power revealed itself. A portion that was part of an animal pelt tingled. When she struck back it was with a lion’s paw, leaving a bloody claw mark on his chest. She didn’t remember too much afterwards, but when it was over she sewed in new bits of cloth and bone. Those made her stronger too.

After that, she started frequenting the fight arenas. There was no shortage of cloth and bone there. She wept over the discarded corpses, but took the choicest scraps—skulls, wings—even an ogre’s eye and a lion’s head to match that first piece.

She knew when Legitimus mothers whispered to their children about a monster they were talking about her. Good. She understood there had always been fear behind their contempt. But now here was something true for them to fear.

Emperor of the Dawn
Quincy Washington
Used with Permission

Song Choice: Dirty Paws by Monsters and Men

This flash fiction piece was created for Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads' Art Flash 55 and Poets United's Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero. 

Starting Over

Emilio’s hair was thinner than Rina remembered, but he still had Papi’s smile.

“Will you be in town long, hermanita?” he asked as they stood outside the funeral home.

“Just until the burial. You know how it is owning a business. Thanks again for the loan.”

“Please, I’m happy to help family. You seem happier owning a coffee shop than you did in an office. And much happier single than married to that cheating sinverguenza.”

Rina smiled. “Thanks for having my back. That’s more than some people did.”

“Speaking of which…”

“No, don’t bring up Angi, Emilio. Mami’s death was hard on all of us with Papi being gone less than a year. Her trying to spin my marriage problems as trivial next to one mediocre college grade was bullshit.”

“That was a long time ago. She’s married with a child now. Look.” He took out his phone and showed her a picture of Angi’s family. “Anna should know her aunt.”

Rina saw the concern in his eyes. “Is everything OK with them, Emilio?”

“Angi and Fernando are fine. It’s just—Anna reminds me a little of you when you were young.”

Ah, the Gutierrez gift for understatement. Rina couldn’t resist pushing. “In what way?”

Emilio reddened. He darted a look back at the funeral home. “Magdalena Fuentes helped when you were having a hard time.”

“According to Angi she’s why I got ‘spooky’.”

“You were always spooky,” Emilio whispered. “But you’re family. Anna needs someone like you.  Please think about it.”

Rina sighed, but promised.

When Rina returned to her hotel room, Magdalena’s ghost was waiting for her. “You're far from home, Rina.”

“That’s the reoccurring theme of my life.”

“So is finding ways across improbable divides. Call your sister.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, but Angi’s alive and I’m dead. Call.”

Rina picked up her phone and dialed.

Chernobog and Belobog by Anarh1a

Song Choice: Family is Family by Katie Musgrave

Liner Notes for this Groove: This short story was created for Art Flash 55 over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads.  The image of Life and Death in balance made me think of Rina, a character that appears in my short story collection, The Trouble with Wanting and Other Not Quite Faerie Tales. Rina has always had to live with an internal balance between the two. Sometimes that pushed her family away, and sometimes, like in this case, it helps her find her way home. More about her and her gift can be found in the the short story, "Her Homesick Spirit", in my collection. I am also linking it to Pantry of Prose, Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero at Poets United.  

The Cuteness of Corg (Resistance was Futile)

Figures, I thought, staring at the door. He’d use my love of anime to get me to face up to my worst fear. “Well, let’s get this over with,” I said.

Eric attempted to rope in his giddiness, but his glee came out in his voice. “I swear we’ll leave if you get too uncomfortable. It’s not like we’re getting a dog today. What’re the chances there’s a corgi here?” He held the door open for me to walk into the dog rescue center.

When we first started dating, I thought the differences in our religions would be one of the hardest obstacles to overcome. Nope. Eric was a dog lover. A raised-one-from-a-pup, had-wholesome-adventures-together, hard-core, unabashed dog lover.

Me? Well, a neighbor dog jumped on me when I was 4. I knew now that the face licking meant he was happy to see me, not taking a taste test. But you couldn’t tell 4-year-old me that. Since then, I had a hard time not running in the other direction, screaming as if Cerberus himself were about to drag me into the netherworld, if I saw so much as a chihuahua.  

But Eric was persistent. I got to be comfortable with a dog walking on the same street as me. When I said the dog on the anime Cowboy Bebop looked cute, he claimed victory, researching that type of dog and extolling their virtues with all the zeal of an infomercial spokesman.

I walked through the doors, ready to bolt if it became too much. And there, in a cage right in front of me was a tiny corgi pup, shivering next to a St. Bernard. The attendant put her on my lap, we both looked at each other and stopped shaking.

“We are not leaving here without her,” I said.

“What are we naming her?” Eric grinned.

“Faye Valentine, like the anime.”

This was my Faye. We had twelve really great years together. 

Thanks for making a dog lover, sweet girl.

Song Choice: Tank from the anime series Cowboy Bebop

Liner Notes for this Groove: This non-fiction prose piece was created for Pantry of Prose over at Poets United.

Diva's Second Act

It took three days for Ai to realize she was a prisoner not a guest. She spent the first day on the shelf trying to shake off the despondency of leaving her friends behind in the attic. What she wouldn’t give to hear Yoshi-kun describe how he lit up a spring festival again. Even Matsu-san’s stuffy war stories would have been welcome, though they always happened during a storm. But what else could one expect from a general’s umbrella?

The second was spent trying to hear any traces of grace in the insensate notes played by children on other instruments. Even the accomplished geisha Hatsuko was a novice once, Ai told herself as she observed them from behind her glass case.

A month later, she could bear it no longer. No one noticed her. No one would ever play her again. Ai swooned. Her neck clicked against her cell.

“What’s this?” Mrs. Tanaka said turning towards the back wall of the music studio.

“Would you believe it?” Trina said. She motioned towards the old shamisen. “I found it with other junk in a client’s attic. They said I could keep it. I thought it looked pretty good there.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Tanaka said, touching the case. “No bachi. Still lovely though. May I take her out?”

“Sure,” Trina replied. “Even if you break it, it didn’t cost me a dime.”

Mrs. Tanaka reached in. She heard the soft sigh with the first pluck of the string. “How much do you want for her?”

Trina regretted saying she got it for free. She probably could have asked for more. Still, it was money she didn’t have before. She laughed as they shook hands. “You know, sometimes I think this thing is a bit of a diva. It’s always falling over.”

 You don’t know the half of it, Mrs. Tanaka thought, cradling the shami-shōrō.

Ai smiled.

Shamichouro-Kotofurunushi-Biwabokuboku illustration by Matt Meyer

curator of one of the most informative and beautiful sites devoted to yokai lore, yokai.com 

as well as author of two amazing books, The Night Parade of  One Hundred Demons: a field guide to Japanese Yokai

and  The Hour of Meeting Evil Spirits: an Encyclopedia of Mononoke and Magic.

Liner Notes for this Groove:

A shamisen is a traditional Japanese stringed instrument. A bachi is a flat, ice scraper shaped object used to play a shamisen. It's a little like a guitar pick in function. A shami-shōrō is a shamisen once owned by a virtuoso player that has attained sentience.

This short fiction was composed as a response for Magaly Guerrero’s prompt Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero:A Pantry of Prose over at Poets United. The poem it was based on was Lament of a Shami-Shoro.

Song Choice: Let Me Dance for You from A Chorus Line