I'll Be Waiting (Dusk til Dawn)

When Ada collapsed into Nestor’s arms his first thought was that she didn’t look as bad off as the last time. Then he saw she was pressing her hands on a spot in her side, dark and wet with blood.

He scooped her up, being careful with her bruised and scratched wings, and laid her out on the sofa. As he rummaged around in his box of medicine, he shot a look at the clock. It was only 1:00 A.M. Plenty of time left in the night. Plenty of time for her to heal before she had to return.

“Hello, magus,” she whispered

“Hello yourself,” he said bringing the supplies he needed over to her. “It’s been awhile.”

“Has it?” Her smile only showed flashes of a grimace now and then as he worked. “Your magic is strong as always.”

Nestor grunted. He didn’t know why basic first aid worked on her like magic any more than he knew why some nights she fell into his world only to disappear at dawn.

“So serious tonight,” she responded. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Especially with you here to help me.”

“Why do I only see you now when you are in pain? Why won’t you talk to me?” he said slamming the lid of the first aid box.

Her smile fled. “I am at war, magus. There are those who will keep hunting me for these,” she motioned to her draconic wings. “I thought you said you understood.”

Nestor remembered the first time he saw her. She was beautiful, like something out of a legend. He had a hard time thinking of her as cursed or flawed no matter how many times she explained the troubles in her world. Even though on one level he understood all too well.

“I’m sorry. I just miss how we used to talk—before things got worse for you. I know it’s selfish,” he said.

“Maybe I feel selfish, expecting you to always heal me. Maybe I feel selfish asking for more.”

Nestor looked out his window. “Dawn is hours away. Neither of us is going anywhere right now. If you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

Ada breathed deep, then spoke.

Photo by Gustavo Ardon on Unsplash

Song Choice: Dusk Til Dawn by Zayn featuring Sia

This flash fiction was created for the prompt given at today's Weekly Scribblings at Poets and Storytellers United, By Means of Music.

Glow

“I’m tagging out,” Oliver said as soon as Isaac walked in.

“That good, huh?” Isaac put down his bag and went into the kitchen to give his exasperated husband a hug.

“I’ve never seen a kid work so hard to swallow their gift. I couldn’t wait until mine came. I ran around like a maniac shooting sparks for weeks.”

“That sure sounds like you. The maniac part I mean,” Isaac said, dodging the flicked towel that came at him a second later with a laugh. He was happy to see Oliver laughing too. “I’ll go talk to her.”

Isaac knocked on his daughter’s door. “Can I come in?”

At the sound of a muffled yes he walked in. He sat down next to the lump under the blankets.

“Sweetie, can you come out?”

Kira’s popped her head out. Isaac could see why Oliver was so worried. He could almost see completely through her.

“Will I disappear forever?” she asked.

“Not at all. This happens when people try to hold back their gift. Have you been feeling any of the signs?”

Kira cried, “What if it’s lamest gift ever and still have to grow up?” She buried her head against his side.

“Did you know I faded a little too when I started feeling my gift? I won’t lie. There’s a lot that scared me about growing up, but it’s worse keeping a part of yourself buried because you’re afraid.” Isaac breathed out a flower and gave it to Kira.  “Why don’t you try letting it out now? I’ll be right here.”

“Can Pops be here too?”

Oliver poked his head into the room. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

Kira took a deep breath and blew out a small golden orb that lit up the room.

“Light, like me,” Oliver said.

“Breath, like me,” Isaac said.

“But the glow is all mine,” Kira said.

Song Choice: Winter by Tori Amos

Liner notes for this Groove: Still going strong with the blackout project on my Instagram. This short fiction was based on a short poem I created from a page of my galley proof of my book, The Trouble with Wanting and Other Not Quite Faerie Tales. It's linked up with Poets United's Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero.

Glow. Hidden glamour is folly.

The page came from Kindred Steel,

my latest Yuuki story

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

Stolen

Giichi opened the dogu box honoring his brother on the family shrine. Would blasphemy make matcha taste even sweeter? Yuuki would not have shied away from either thievery or blasphemy if it stood between him and a perfect bowl of tea.  His heart thumped as he pulled out a tea scoop. Yuuki had sacrificed himself because Giichi’s failed attempt at stealing dogu refined enough to use with it. The rightful owner caught him in the act, demanding Yuuki’s servitude in exchange for Giichi’s life.

No one was here to thwart his thieving this time. Making a bowl of tea with this particular scoop would be a better way to honor Yuuki than letting it remain unused.

Giichi had been snooping around his brother’s room the first time he held this scoop. As he pulled it out he heard, “Can I help you with something, ototo?” from behind him. Yuuki stood where a flower arrangement had been a moment before. Giichi hadn’t realized that he could change himself into smaller, non-animal objects yet. At 180, Yuuki was young for a kitsune to be able to do that.

“Did you really steal this from a warlord?” Giichi said.

“No, I stole it from a merchant. One of my bowls was from a warlord, but it was a gift,” Yuuki came over to Giichi and took the box. “If you ask nicely I will show all my dogu to you.”

“Please?”

Yuuki arranged the box’s contents in front of Giichi, explaining each’s purpose. Giichi wasn’t very impressed with the tea scoops.

“They’re just bits of curved bamboo,” Giichi said.

“To eyes that rush maybe. That’s why it’s best to ask. You can take the time to appreciate them. Each has a special name, sometimes associated with something seasonal. This one is called Ginpu,” Yuuki said, lifting one.

Giichi studied the scoops. “I like the first one,” he said, picking it up. “What’s its name?”

“Its previous owner didn’t tell me. I suppose I’ll have to think of one.”

“Can I name it?”

“Yes, but put it down carefully. Each tool should be handled like you are saying farewell to a dear friend whom you are unsure of meeting again.”

The next day Yuuki performed a ceremony for Giichi’s amusement, claiming he needed to practice a special form reserved only for royalty. Though he knew nothing of tea etiquette then, Giichi played the part of the noble. He had fidgeted, wolfed down every sweet Yuuki had talked a cousin into preparing, and demanded Yuuki name the scoop “Prince Giichi” even as his affronted cousin rolled his eyes at the inappropriateness of the name.  Still, Yuuki kept the name until the day he was stolen.

Giichi’s mind returned to the present as he made himself a bowl of tea. He handled each tool just as his brother had taught him, and drank. It was exquisite.  He picked up the scoop again.

“When I find you, oniisan, call it whatever you like. But while it’s mine, its name will be Matsuyuuki. Each bowl I prepare with it honors you.” 

Japanese words:

dogu: tools used in Japanese tea ceremony

ototo: little brother

Ginpu: "reading poems in the autumn breeze while moon gazing"

oniisan: big brother

Matsuyuuki: literally "snow covered pine", which is a fine name for a tea scoop, but it is also a play on Yuuki’s name (which means snow) and pine, which oddly enough has a similar double meaning in Japanese and English (both a tree, and to wait or long for something). 

Song Choice:  My Hero by The Foo Fighters

This is some of my dogu.

This short story was created as part of October's Heart Bits With Magaly: Love is Love is Love and Words. Follow the link to see other fun offerings. Long time readers might remember Yuuki from several short stories I've written before. If you are new to the blog and curious as to what actually happened to Giichi's brother, you can read about it here.

Look Alike

The tree would only speak when the sun was at just the right angle to see the face woven into its gnarled bark. Mira waited until she saw into its eyes clearly to ask, “Why can I ask questions only now?”

“It’s when the light makes you look most like a tree,” the oak said.

Song Choice: I Can See Clearly - Johnny Nash

This poem was created as part of the Flash 55 for Verse Escape.

Unnatural Wound

Sophia’s skin pulled tighter over her shoulders and the first tears formed along either side of her spine. It was time. She threw off her pajamas and climbed onto the tree outside her window, making her way to the limb that would give her back the most exposure to the full moon’s light. Finding the branch that held her teeth marks from full moons past, she bit down. Her emerging wings pushed through, widening the tears into gashes. She bit down harder, until a pair of amethyst colored wings fully unfurled themselves.

Relaxing her jaw, Sophia pulled her mouth away from the branch and rested. She opened and closed her wings slowly and let them drink in healing moonlight while her heightened senses picked up the perfume of every flower in her backyard. Once her wings were strong enough, she pushed away from the branches and flew.

Sophia soared over her street, the feel of the wind on her skin wiping away any lingering aches she had. She flew high enough to take in most of her small town in a glance. Her high school was easy to get to, but Sophia decided she didn’t want to waste her time on pranks again. Tonight she wanted to spend every moment in the air. So she did, flying until the moon had gone down behind the hills of the next town over.

Her grin disappeared as soon as her feet touched down at home. Sophia ran her fingers along the edge of a wing. The longest she had kept them was three days, when her parents were away. But tomorrow was a school day. And they grew back every month. So she went to the shed, just as she always did, and grabbed garden sheers to cut her wings off in small enough pieces to bury them in the compost bin. 

Song Choice: You've Got To Hide Your Love Away covered by Eddie Vedder

This short story is part of Magaly Guerrero's and Emily Yardis' Beautiful Freak Fest 2017. Follow the link to meet some more beautifully freaky fun.

Worth the Fight

“Trash!” she shrieked, hurling another rotten fruit in Aiko’s direction.

After a month of this, you’d think her aim would have improved, even a little, Aiko thought as she loosened the hold between the broken china and bent cutlery that made up her body. The pieces of herself rearranged to fit between the gap between the wall and the restaurant’s industrial freezer. They didn’t resume their normal configuration until she got to her nest in the crawlspace in the wall.

Once inside Aiko examined the filleting knife that served as her sword. Satisfied her weapon was as sharp as ever, she laid it down and examined herself. She hadn’t lost too many chips this time, but the crack on her breastplate had gotten bigger. Aiko could swap it out any time she liked, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. It was a gift from the original owner of the restaurant.

Aiko kept the restaurant free from pests, from hobgoblins to roaches, for a decade. Of course she didn’t expect the new owner to salute her, or even sit and share stories and sake with her. But to have her cracks and dents earned through battle mocked! She didn’t have any other place to go, but she refused to linger where she was disrespected.

She was contemplating which of her personal effects to take with her, when she heard a rapping on the wall. Aiko picked up her knife and went out.  Tucked into the space between the freezer and the wall was a paper cup with sake, and a note. “Dear General, please stay.” It was signed by all of the kitchen staff.

Aiko folded the note as tightly as she could and tucked it in the crack of her breastplate. She took the sake home, and placed the paper cup in a place of honor among her things.

Seto-taisho by Matthew Meyer

Find more of his amazing art and fun facts about yokai

at yokcai.com

Song Choice: Woman Warriors by Soldier Hard

Process Note: Aiko is a type of of yokai (Japanese faery creature for lack of a better translation) known as a seto-taishoo, a little soldier made of broken kitchen things. 

This short story was inspired by the prompt given at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: Mythical Prejudice, where we were asked to explore prejudice from the point of view of a mythical creature who is part of our modern world.

Unvanishing

Spaces between can be stretched, like shadows lengthening in the fading day. Strange magic tugs on atoms, bending and pulling objects until they vanish. She does not understand that it is herself she wishes to make gone when she says her words into the waiting air. She only speaks the words, “Make it go,” and mass, neither created nor destroyed, rearranges itself elsewhere. It is simpler to make things disappear instead of feelings.

Easy to banish

a bowl or a trinket, still

the shadows remain.

Song Choice: Smile by Nat King Cole

Photo by Jellico's Stationhouse

This story told in haibun came from a combination of the picture prompt given over at Friday Fictioneers and the prompt from Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads, Physics with Bjorn: Space time and the theory of special relativity. 

Circe

Fred flew towards the sound of her laughter. There was always food left whenever he heard it.

He swooped in through an open window of the boat, and landed on the table. Fred started gobbling the food down as his feet alighted, ignoring the gasping man.

“You bitch,” the man choked, before the arm reaching towards her shrank, growing feathers.

She strolled to the table. Fred stopped eating when she reached for a piece of bread. Instead he chased the new bird out. No matter how many she changed, he was still her first.  Fred flew to her waiting arm.

Photo by Fatima Fakier Deria

Song Choice: Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic by The Police

This short story was inspired by the photo prompt given by Friday Fictioneers. More flash fiction available at the link. 

Memory Pressed Into A Journal

Dear Diary,

I dreamed of her again, but this time she wasn’t screaming.

I wondered if the dreams would return once I saw the sold sign on the old Williams house yesterday. I touched the wrought iron fence to see if I could feel anything besides cold metal. Nothing.

But I did hear hellos from some workmen cleaning things up before the new owners move in. I said hello, talked about the weather. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do. And kept walking.

I know she’ll be back. I just need to find a way to keep her from screaming.

Song Choice: Creep by Radiohead

Gateway, photo by J Hardy Carroll

This poem was inspired by the picture prompt given over at Friday Fictioneers. To see what the other Fictioneers based on this picture, just follow the link.

Beyond the Boundaries

“Get back here!” she said.

Danny looked from his teacher, gripping the boundary rope around what she thought was a simple park exhibit, to the security guard briskly advancing towards him. It didn’t matter. He had made it to the communication cog first.

Danny stroked the spot he knew would activate it. “This is D’ynveh 5. I survived the Rylor expedition but am stranded. Send help!” His words were cut off by the guard pulling him away, but he saw the fine lines of energy light up on the cog’s surface, sending a beacon towards his home world. Danny smiled.

Song Choice: Theme from Invader Zim

Photograph by Jennifer Pendergrass

This bit of Flash Fiction was inspired by the picture prompt given at Friday Fictioners

Unnatural Allies

They waited until the bruise colored sky settled into a uniformly inky color, dark enough to see the stars and dying moon clearly. Then, the rhythmic pecking began.

Every rooster and hen who was able gathered the needed ingredients, then placed them in the appropriate spots for the ritual. The high priest strutted around the perimeter of the circle. He grabbed each ingredient with his beak and dropped them into the bowl in the center. The beat of the pecking sped up as he worked, stopping completely when the last ingredient was added. Then he spoke.

“Oh infernal one, we have gathered herbs and spices pleasing to you to summon you here now. Defend us from the goblins who encroach upon the peace of our coops. Devour that which threatens our happiness!”

A wisp of smoke rose from the center of the bowl, growing larger and thicker, until it took the form of an old goateed man, clad in a crisp white suit, spectacles and a string tie.

“Well,” the demon said, “isn’t this just delicious?” He licked his lips once, then began to feed.

From the hill beyond the wall of the farm, the goblins heard the squawks of terror. They looked at each other, a few of them dropping the bags of seeds they had brought to offer the chickens, in the hopes of establishing an alliance with them.

One shook his head in disgust. “That’s just great. The chicken mages were our best hope for standing up against the trolls. What do we do now?”

The goblin elder looked at the now violently shaking coop. The wind brought the scent of the ritual’s herbs and spices to her wrinkled nose. She had a fairly good idea what had been conjured and why.

“We find other allies. Smarter ones,” she said, turning to walk back into the forest.

Song Choice: Why Can't We Be Friends by War

This story was inspired by the prompt given over at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: Title-Tale, where Magaly asked us to compose a story or poem based on a silly book title she had found. I chose Goblinproofing One’s Chicken Coop: And Other Practical Advice in Our Campaign Against the Fairy Kingdom, by Reginald Bakeley

.

Honored Guest

“Get that thing out of my garden before any of the guests see,” she said in a harsh whisper.

“But mom,” I started.

“Don’t. I’ve worked too hard to orchestrate this. You will remove that thing. You will come back down with your best manners. And you will get into Alexandre Academy.” She turned on her heel to rejoin her party.

I nudged Mephistopheles onto my arm. He’d probably be happier with the other insects in my room, the same way I’d be happier in public school.

“I can always get kicked out,” I told Mephistopheles. He nodded.    

Song Choice:  Reflection from Mulan

Yellow Bug, picture by Shaktiki Sharma

This flash fiction story was inspired by the picture prompt given at Friday Fictioners. 

Recluse

The light came again, shrinking my circle of sanctuary. I shut my sun-scorched eyes and pressed my limbs into the safety of roots and earth, their presence steadying me.

You knew it would come again, and you know it will go again too, I whispered to myself, letting the pain ease before I opened my eyes again.

The light was still there, dimmer than it had been when I was pulled from my dark and tossed among these roots.

“You won’t last,” I hissed. “Night will come. I’ll see without pain, find better shelter and good hunting then. I’ll wait.”

Clouds Above the Trees, photo by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Song Choice: Boris the Spider by The Who

This bit of flash fiction was inspired by the photo prompt given at Friday Fictioneers. 

Cousins

Adi inhaled deeply from the mug of chamomile tea cradled in her hands. Its scent combined with the sigh of snowfall, was the perfect end to dinner.

“Penny for your thoughts, cuz?” Nina said.

“I haven’t had lomo saltado that good in ages.” Adi said, grinning.

“Stick around,” Nina replied, reclining on the couch they had used as a fort a decade ago. “There’s more where that came from.”

“Thank you, for dinner, for letting me stay so I don’t have to drive in this… and for having my back.”

“Someone had to teach that man a lesson. De nada.”

January Snowfall Nighttime, photo by Sarah Potter

Song Choice: Stand By Me performed by Prince Royce 

This bit of flash fiction was inspired by the photo prompt given for Friday Fictioners hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and is also linked to A Dash of Sunny's Prompt Nights: Come Chase Oh Fleeting Thoughts of the Moment.

History Report

Emma started playing with the poison ring on her right hand when she noticed her fidgeting had put several creases in her dress. She spent a lot of time last night picking out the perfect things to wear today and didn’t want anything to spoil them. 

She had chosen to arm herself with the pearl earrings Mother had given her after her first kill, her grandmother’s poison ring, her midnight blue dress with embroidered moon phases on the hem and of course a pin bearing the image of Synestra Nightjoy Dracul. The ache in her scalp from brushing and pulling her blonde hair into a razor sharp part before tying each side up into pigtails had finally abated, but the feeling like a hundred moths beating their wings against the inside of her head was still there.

“Miss DelSangre, it’s your turn,” Miss Garrote said, her smile pulling the bleached parchment of her skin even more tightly across her skull.

Gripping her papers, Emma walked up to the front of the class.  She looked at the picture of Torrance Dracul, mounted in the corner the teacher had claimed for her desk, took a deep breath, and started her presentation.

“My report is on Torrance Dracul, a famous prince from the noble house of Dracul. I know I’m supposed to tell you about all the important things he’s done. But that would be dumb. Besides the book Miss Garrote assigned me to read, I read a couple of others in my Mother’s library and have decided that Torrance Dracul is pretty much a disgrace to vampires everywhere.”

“Miss DelSangre,” her teacher said, glaring, with her pale skin pulling even more tautly, so that her veins stood out like the dark purple netting of a widow's mourning cap across her face.

Emma didn’t bother to glare back, but continued in an even louder voice. “It was his wife, Synestra Nightjoy Dracul, who deserves all of the credit for Torrance Dracul’s most famous deeds. The only thing he deserved was to have his blood drained out in front of a crowd.”

Emma’s delight at the gasps from her class was cut short as Miss Garrote dug her bony fingers into Emma’s arm and dragged her to the principal’s office. She shoved Emma onto the couch outside the office door, and slammed the door behind her as she swept in. The secretary, looked down at Emma from behind her desk, shook her head and went back to typing.

That small motion drained the last of her satisfaction in telling the truth about Synestra, and magnified one hundred times all the unease she had felt before getting up to speak. Not that the secretary had ever been especially nice to her, but she’d never just ignored her either. Her normally jolly principal even looked at Emma sternly when she finally opened her door to let Miss Garrote out and Emma in.

Emma barely remembered the rest of that evening at school, only that she said “yes” and “no” at the spots she knew she should say them until the principal was satisfied enough to let Emma sit on the couch outside her office again.  Eventually Bradford, her Grandmother’s butler, came to pick her up.
Emma clutched and twisted her skirt up in her hands on the ride home. Was Mother so angry that she didn’t want to come for her, so she called Grandmother to get her instead? Was Grandmother so angry she sent Bradford? Emma was afraid to ask, and Bradford didn’t volunteer any information on the drive back home. He silently let her into the house, and drove off again.

Emma ran directly to the great room, found the thickest, fluffiest, most blood red throw blanket there and cocooned herself up in it, not saying anything, until she heard her brother's footsteps walking up the hall.

“There you are,” Xander, face settling on what Emma recognized as his usual I-would-rather-be-tearing-throats-than-talking-to-you scowl. “Where were you? I was supposed to walk you home because Mother and Grandmother are at some sort of event until dinner.”

“I forgot,” Emma whispered. At Xander’s snort she said. “I got sent home from school early. Bradford had to pick me up.”

“You?” Xander arched a pale blonde eyebrow. “Are you sick or something? It’s not like you’d ever be sent home for getting in trouble.”

At that Emma started bawling, telling a flustered Xander about her plans to redeem Synestra Nightjoy Dracul’s good name and how they had gone so wrong.

“I don’t know if you’re brave or just crazy,” Xander said, putting his school bag down and sitting next to his sister. “Old Garrote would pour holy water on herself if the ghost of Torrance Dracul asked her to. Why would you do that in the middle of class?”

“To make sure everyone would hear me. Do you think Mother will be mad?” Emma said, curling further into the shelter of her blanket.

“She never got that mad at me and I’ve done way worse,” Xander said.

“Really?” She said, eyes widening. “But you never do anything wrong.”

“Shows what you know. Don’t you remember a bunch of times I was home before you and Mother said to let me be because I needed to dismember things on my own? It was because I got sent home, for way dumber things.”


“Was it because of a girl?”

“None of your business. Anyway, Torrance Dracul really was a mediocre vampire, just like you said. A rock shoved off the side of the mountain is a more inspired master of darkness than he was. But I would have left out the part about the blood draining though.” Xander paused a moment. “At least in front of Garrote.”

Emma hugged Xander who promptly squirmed away. “You really think Mother won’t be mad?” she said.

“Those were her books about Synestra that you read to write your paper weren’t they? I’ll bet you even get an extra helping of eyeballs at dinner.”

____________

Emma belched as she got off the bus. Both Mother and Father had slid her an extra serving of eyeballs at dinner last night. Even Xander, who ate enough eyeballs and innards for a flock of vampires said he was too full to finish his portion and suggested Emma take it to school with her as a snack. She couldn’t help eating a couple on the bus.

She was trying to decide if she should eat one more or save them for lunch when a girl from her class, Vincenzia, came up to her.

“Emma, I liked what you said yesterday. About Synestra. Where did you get that pin with her on it?” Vincenzia said.

“I made it,” Emma said. “And if you’d like, I’ll make you one too.”

“I’d like one,” said another girl, and several other children started asking for one of their own as well.

“I’ll make enough for all of you,” Emma said, baring her fangs in a broad grin.

Song Choice: One Girl Revolution by Superchick

This short story was created for Holly's Horrorland's Vampire's Day Soiree. Go fly over and enjoy more vampiric delights at the main page.

Leopard in a Cage

Paris, 1941

Etienne limped across the street, grateful for the bite of Paris’ winter wind gnawing on his bones. He could pass off his shivering to the weather, instead of the contents of his coat pocket if questioned by the approaching figures.  They always had questions. Luckily for Etienne, they never asked the right ones. Still, he gripped his pipe tighter.

“Eh, Etienne,” Klaus said, waving a swastika-banded arm at him. “Did you bring us what I asked for?”

“Oui, monsieur,” Etienne said. He handed him the food laden backpack that Klaus’ requested, along with the documents it was his job to deliver.

One of Klaus’s comrades scoffed as he took it. “A lame courier?”

“What do you expect? All the healthy men in Paris are working at the factories for us,” Klaus said, drawing laughter from his comrades. “Besides, Etienne has proven himself loyal, haven’t you?”

Etienne thought of Gustav in his Armée de l'Air uniform before answering, “Oui monsieur.”

“Here,” Klaus said, handing Etienne a small package. “Some tobacco for that pipe of yours, for loyal service.”

Etienne took it, thanking him before heading to his apartment a block away.

He had just reached the door, when Jeanette approached him. “Etienne, do you have chicory to spare?”

Etienne nodded, and spoke the code words. “Of course, as long as you don’t mind a bit of barley in it.”

She followed him in. As soon as the door was closed, Etienne pulled out his pipe, unscrewing it to reveal a hidden compartment and pulled out a small map, which Jeanette tucked into her thick socks. She took a small portion of chicory as well before she left.

Etienne hobbled to his bathroom mirror and stared. He’d have given anything to be the hero his brother was instead of this. He pulled out the tobacco Klaus gifted him and flushed it down the toilet. 

Song Choice: Don't Give Up by Peter Gabriel featuring Kate Bush

This flash fiction was inspired by the prompt given at Imaginary Gardens for Real Toads: Inside the Ink. Magaly asked us to create a short story or poem based around a quote from the last book we had read. My book was Hope in the Dark, by Rebecca Solnit. This story really could be said to be inspired by all of chapter eleven, On the Indirectness of Direct Action. But if I had to choose a line that encapsulated that chapter for me, it would be, "I don't know if the Evergreen kids have become great activists or died in a car crash on their way home, but I know that for them I was a leopard prompting a word or two of the poem of their own lives, as Bob was for me." 

A couple of notes about France during World War II: As you might imagine, food rationing was pretty severe, with the German soldiers commandeering a lot of food for themselves.  It was not uncommon for French citizens to be forced into labor to suit German purposes. Instead of coffee, people made do with chicory blended with toasted barely. Oh and in case you were wondering if pipes with secret compartments were a real thing, they absolutely were.

The Opposite of Indifference

Yuuki yawned, opened his eyes, and again was amused by the pains taken to make the room look more like a guest suite than a hospital. He supposed there must be some initial comfort to the humans who entered here, but looking at the young couple’s tired and strained faces, he imagined whatever soothing effects the pastel print wallpaper or ruffled duvet offered were forgotten hours ago.

He helped himself to a discarded glass of water, hoping it wouldn’t be much longer. Yuuki had never been to a human birth before, even though he had plenty of opportunity. Births were reminders he was still a captive, still bound to a family he detested and who grew to detest him back. Hatred eventually faded to forgetfulness on the humans’ part.

Yuuki could never forget – there was no getting around the oath he swore - though he too had let go of hate, for the most part, decades ago. His oath required him to serve one hundred generations of this family, whether they acknowledged his existence or not. Three centuries to the day he made his promise the newest in the family line was about to make her grand entrance.

“Do you know how many of your kin’s deaths I’m responsible for, small one?” Yuuki said out loud. 

No one in the room noticed, as none had the skill to hear him. Though one nurse must have had a small sensitivity to fae creatures as she gave a tiny shudder and crossed herself after he spoke.

Yuuki smirked under his kitsune’s mask, pleased to see any reaction, even a small one. Being ignored for over a century was demoralizing. If the nurse could truly see him, kimono clad with a sharp toothed smile painted on his fox’s mask, she’d probably run out of the room screaming prayers. So would the young man holding the hand of his laboring wife. It was not an unwise choice when dealing with kitsune.

But fae-blind Fernando had never once in his life seen Yuuki for what he was, and likely never would. Yuuki slumped on a plump chair, resting his face in his hand and addressed an unaware Fernando. “To be fair, I’m responsible for saving a few lives too, as well as helping you look away from your books long enough to find a woman to create this one.” Yuuki nodded towards Angela’s swollen belly. “Fernando you are a good, but sublimely boring and unimaginative man. I don’t hate you, but I certainly won’t miss you. Hopefully your spawn will be somewhat more interesting, though that is hardly a high bar to reach.”

By the fussing of the various hospital staff and yelling coming from Angela, Yuuki realized the time had come at last. A few moments later, what looked like a slimy gore and membrane covered raisin emerged and shrieked her first cries into the world. The staff jumped to clean off most of the mess, and once that was done, laid the child in her mother’s arms.

“God has been good to us Angela,” Fernando said.

Yuuki rolled his eyes behind his mask. “You’d never have met your wife if it wasn’t for me. I’ll let you call me Jesus Christ if you promise to give me some sake every now and again. Or tea. I’ll accept tea,” he said.

“He has. Look at our little princesita  Fernando, our little princess,” Angela said.

“I’m a lucky man," Fernando said, stroking the fuzzy patch of  hair on the baby's head. "I've always felt like I've had more than my fair share of good fortune. But whatever luck or divine grace has guided me to this moment, I wish it all go to our little Ana. May whatever saint or guardian angel that has been watching over me give themselves completely to the care of her. I want nothing else from life.”

Yuuki felt a strange shift at Fernando’s words. He looked from him to the baby girl and realized that his time protecting Fernando had come to an end.

“If you wish for a diaper change, I am not doing it. That is still your parents’ job,” he said, making a horrible face appear on his mask.

The girl child looked up at Yuuki and smiled. Yuuki blinked and waved his hand in front of her. A tiny fist grasped his finger tight.

“You see me,” Yuuki whispered.

“Look at that Fernando,” Angela said. “Our girl is smiling!”

“It’s not a real smile,” one nurse said. “She’s too young for that. It’s likely gas.”

“It’s not gas, you simpleton,” Yuuki said as the nurse walked out of the room. “This girl sees me. After all these years…”

When a plush fox doll appeared among the gifts for Angela and Fernando’s new daughter, no one noticed it among the sea of toys that arrived from family and friends. By the time she could walk, it was a joke among her family that you could offer her the fanciest doll in the world, but the only thing that could calm her was that toy fox. Once she was old enough to talk, Ana practiced most of her new skills babbling to her favorite toy.  The plush fox presided over every tea party Ana held, though she insisted on serving real tea instead of pretending over empty cups.

“Tell me again about the day I was born,” Ana often asked.

“You were covered in blood and guts, not minding it a bit. And you were smiling. That is how I knew we would be friends,” Yuuki always replied.

"Cool," Ana said.

Song Choice: All-American Girl by Carrie Underwood

This blog post is part of May Monster Madness, hosted this year by Little Gothic Horrors, Magaly Guerrero, Holly's Horrorland, Maynard's Horror Movie Diary, and Not This Time, Nayland Smith. Be sure to follow the link and enjoy more monstrous fun with the other party goers. 

Rosemary

The last note sang by the choir floated away under the mid-afternoon sun. People came forward one at a time to throw their handful of dirt over the coffin as it was lowered into the ground. It took a bit of time for everyone assembled to say their goodbyes, but before the afternoon’s blue sky deepened into purple, the last mourner left the graveyard.

She of course still lingered, because she was curious about how these sorts of things went.

At first she had no notion that she was separate. One moment she had been inside, and the next moment she was looking at a heavily lined face, all of the wrinkles looking like runes on weathered parchment. She stayed through the whole process of preparing for burial, fascinated by the small changes she could see were still happening, despite the attempts to have something presentable for viewing. Now at the graveyard, she was able to observe the changes hurrying along now that no one cared how the body looked.

She saw the body which looked frail to begin with, waste away further. Leg muscles that had loved to dance shriveled to nothing as the skin around started to drape like a forlorn spider’s web. The small pooch of her belly collapsed in on itself and a miasma filled the coffin. She was most amused by the changes in her face as the skin pulled tight, tugging the wrinkles into disarray, but her smile stayed much the same.

Even though many dawns had come and gone since they had lain her body in the earth, to her it seemed like all of this happened in one night. And when dawn broke, she and her body were no longer inside a coffin but in a field. At this point, she was kneeling over a skeleton, only thin wisps of hair and tattered dress clothes left beside the bones of her body.

“Oh, you brave beautiful girl,” she murmured to it. “You tried so hard. And you did so well.” She leaned over and gave the bones a kiss on the forehead and was shocked to realize she was still able to speak and feel.

“It’s alright now,” she heard a voice say. She felt dizzy. There was something familiar about the voice, about how when his hair grew too long it’d fall in his eyes, but she ignored it, still staring at her corpse.

“I can’t forget her. What will happen if I do? She was a wife, a mother. I lived a life and all that went into it, every laugh, every tear, made me who I am. I can’t forget!” she said.

There was a feeling of warmth to one side. She realized she had an arm and something had touched it. A voice came again, “You were a beautiful brave girl and you still are. Don’t be scared. Look. Look at her.”

She looked. An unkempt shrub grew near the skull, with some of its evergreen branches supporting it like a pillow. She reached out towards it, plucking a bit off. Its scent enveloped her.

“Rosemary,” she said, stroking its needle like leaves. “I know you. I know your smell.” She breathed in deeply and remembered.

She remembered everything. 

Song Choice: In My Life covered by Lindsey Saunders

This blog post is part of the fabulous Magaly Guerrero's Witches In Fiction 2015: Death Rites and Remembrances blog party. Fly over to the main party page and check out some of the other great posts.

Gossip’s Tree

It wasn’t the biggest or oldest tree in Hawthorne County; nor was it especially ugly or lovely. It grew green in the spring, scarlet in the fall, and in the winter, snow blanketed it along with the rest of the county, in crystalline perfection.

The thing about this tree was that every twilight, the birds of the county would gather there. You’d think with so many, it’d fall under the weight, but it held. Jays would circle it, giving their “all’s well” cries, punctuating the few silent spots between the chatter.

Sometimes people passing it swore they could hear words.

Mr. Smith set up a new scarecrow. 

The Anderson twins skipped school twice this month to go fishing. 

Bethany Peabody has been having guests after dark again.

Sometimes someone would get it in their head, if they climbed it before twilight, if they kept still, they might hear everything the birds said. This was nonsense of course, because most who tried only got white stains on their clothes to show for it. And the others, well, while it was a mostly unremarkable tree, some mornings the person was gone, but you’d find the trunk had interesting new gnarls.

Song choice: Chatty Chatty Mouth by the Gladiators 

Process note: This is a bit of flash fiction with a 200 word limit