Alliances

 “Can I learn to sword fight?” Anna asked.

“Sure!”

“No.”

“Why?” Yuuki asked.

He looked at Ajani. Last week, Yuuki would have thought the African fae’s agreement was an attempt to access Anna’s human energy. Now, he knew Ajani was enthralled by anything to do with sword play.

“I’m a sword blerd—OK, a blerd in general,” Ajani admitted to Yuuki while trying to convince him to watch another human movie.

Yuuki looked at Rina. Anna’s aunt still didn’t trust him. He could feel it the moment she threw an energetic shield around her niece. It was a powerful one, easily able to stop a lesser fae and slow down a powerful one, if it meant her harm.

Ajani reached out to touch Anna on her nose. “Boop,” he said.

Anna giggled.

Yuuki ruffled the child’s hair. “Your wards are as strong as ever Rina-san, but as you can see there is no intent to harm Anna. Anna-chan, I still want to know why. The truth now. It’s only fair since I’m sworn to tell you the truth. You promised to never ask me to do something I’m not comfortable with, and I’m not comfortable without the truth.”

“The sword fight you had in Philly sounded cool,” Anna said.

“It was,” Ajani agreed.

“And learning magic with Titi Rina was cool,” Anna added. “I guess, it’s just, you’re both cool.”

Something in the way she held her head sparked Yuuki’s memory. I want to be just like you, big brother, Giichi had said. The pain blindsided him for a moment. He looked at Rina’s anxious expression.

“Fine, on two conditions. Firstly, promise me you won’t go out seeking fights. Second, your aunt must approve.”

“Please, Titi Rina. Pleeeease.”

“We can discuss things privately if you’d like,” Yuuki said to Rina.

“I’d expect the same level of honesty you have with Anna. At minimum.”

Clever, he thought. But not unexpected. A proper witch had to be.

Yuuki bowed, his three fox tails swishing. “Of course.”

“I get to help too,” Ajani said.

“If we come to an agreement,” Yuuki and Rina said at the same time.

 Rina smiled.

Alliances have been built on less, Yuuki thought. This was a start.

Photo by Ricardo Cruz on Unsplash

Song Choice: Sometimes You Can't Make It on Your Own by U2

Liner Notes for this Groove: This bit of flash fiction is linked to the Friday Writings at Poets and Storytellers United.

No Shame

Valeria was alone. No one was here to see if she turned back. She flipped the switch on her sky skiff. The sail extended with a whoosh as the base lit up.  The familiar hum told her everything was working fine. She had done a good job rebuilding it.

She could power it off now. She could loan it to another rider so they could make the flight down the mountain and scavenge food or old tech from the cloud covered valleys below. Plenty of potential riders recently passed the qualifying tests, just as Valeria once did.

“There’s no shame in being a shaper,” Marco had said in a tone designed to needle her. But he had a point. Without shapers, there’d be no sky craft, and no way of getting the things they desperately needed. The other shapers also had been nothing but kind to her. It helped that Valeria had become quite skilled at building and fixing skiffs.

“There’s no shame in falling,” the head shaper had said. And that was true too. Better and more experienced riders had fallen during the sudden storms that popped out over the valley. A better one had the last time Valeria had gone wind-riding.

At that thought, the tears came again, just as Valeria knew they would. There’s no shame in tears, Marisol would have said.  

Valeria looked out at the sky around her, clothed in the purples and pinks of dawn. There was no pride in keeping from doing something you loved either. Marisol never let anything or anyone keep her away from the thrill of the sky.  

She could continue with the shapers. Valeria had made a place among them. But there was nothing to say a shaper couldn’t be a rider too.

Valeria wiped her eyes to get a clear look at the sky she adored. She felt the anticipation of being in the air eat the last bit of her fear and most of her sadness. In one quick move, Valeria got on the skiff and pushed off from the mountain. And then she flew.

Photo by Cody Board on Unsplash

Song Choice: Back from the Dead by Halestorm

Liner Notes for This Groove: This piece of flash fiction was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, The Last Time.

Way Station

It was never meant to be permanent. But as Madame Veritas said, few things were, notable exceptions aside.

Sandra didn’t know how long she’d been at what the others called “the way station”. She only knew that she had been standing on the train platform with heartache behind her and heartache in front of her. When she saw the wind move the branches of a willow tree to reveal a hazy looking patch near its trunk, Sandra didn’t hesitate. She had been reared on tales of Narnia, and just enough of her heart remained alive enough to whisper, go look.

She did. Then she was here.

Not everyone who found their way here stayed long. She had seen people who managed just one nervous glance around the place before they went back the way they came. But then there were the ones who arrived with looks of both wonder and relief on their faces. They, like her, remained.

They found things to keep them busy, ways to help Madame Veritas and each other. The peace of the place made it easy to find a rhythm between work and rest. But no one could stay forever and eventually they all took one last walk with her before leaving.

The pull to go on that walk finally came to Sandra. It was kin to the impulse that made her go to the willow in the first place.

“Ready to return?” Madame Veritas asked.

“No,” Sandra said. “I betrayed the two people I love best. They have no idea of who I really am.”

“Do you know who you are?”

“I know myself better than I did before I came here,” Sandra said.

“That’s a good place to start,” said Madame Veritas.

“Is it good enough?”

“That’s up to you.”

They walked through the garden in silence. Sandra had spent many hours here learning how to bring out the best in her favorite flowers. She gathered a few seeds before looking at Madame Veritas and saying, “Yes, it will be enough.”

She walked out from under the branches of the willow to find everything was the same as when she left.

Not everything, she thought, holding her seeds. That will be enough.

Photo by Gonzalo Facello on Unsplash

Song Choice: Integrity Blues by Jimmy Eat World

Liner Notes For This Groove: This flash fiction piece was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, On My Way. 

Moth and Firefly

Shayla had noticed Lisbet before the woman who ran the dairy farm told her to go mentor the new girl so she could learn how things were done. Shayla had apologized profusely when she realized Madame had only done it so that Shayla could provide distraction while Madame tried to seduce Lisbet’s beau.

“Don’t worry,” Lisbet said. “I was about done with him anyway. She’s welcome to him and his diseases.”

It wasn’t long after that they found they had a shared interest – magic.

“What can you do?” Lisbet asked.

“This.” And in a blink Shayla cast an illusion that blurred her edges so that unless you knew where to look, your eyes would slide over her. “And you?”

“This.” Lisbet said, casting a small orb of glowing light.

The witch trials were coming up. They had both secretly wanted to go for several years now, but it was only upon meeting each other that they decided to do it.

“Nothing stopping us from going as a team,” Lisbet said. Shayla agreed.

They whispered back and forth during the orientation session about what they thought the trials might be. Shayla was sure the witches were dropping hints in their words. A serious faced witch interrupted them to ask for their names.

“I’m Moth. She’s Firefly,” Shayla said.

The witch went away muttering something that sounded like “not likely to hug bears but still silly.”

“It was a little silly,” Shayla agreed later that night in the woods. “But names have power, and I didn’t want to share mine right away. Not until I was sure we’d pass.”

“We will. We’ve got 6 out of the 7 things we need to find with plenty of time left. Why those names?”

“Based on our powers,” Shayla answered. “And one time Madame compared me to a moth because I was a pest.”

“Shows what she knows,” Lisbet said. “We need your magic now.”

Shayla’s magic covered them both as a bear wandered through the clearing, ignoring them.

“My turn,” Lisbet said. Her orb illuminated a mushroom, the last item on the list. “We make a great team.”

“That we do,” said Shayla, following Lisbet back to the cottage and their future.

Photo by Taylor Smith on Unsplash

Song Choice: We Are Going to Be Friends by the White Stripes

Liner Notes for This Groove: This piece of flash fiction was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Butterflies and Moths. It was also inspired by the short story I wrote a couple of weeks ago, Witch Trials, just to see if I could find more to say.

Witch Trials

The moon had moved as far as the second highest branch of the oak tree. Melli sighed as she ruffled Gorgon’s fur.

“Soon, baby,” she cooed at the beast.

“Not soon enough,” fretted Gladys as she stirred the cauldron. “I want to know now if any make it through. Last year we didn’t have any.”

Cara set several bundles of herbs on the table. “None’s fine by me. I’d rather be sure they’re suitable than let just anyone in.” Several of the other women in the room nodded.

Melli laughed. “I can’t decide which ones are worse, those who faint at the first twig they step on or the ones who try to snuggle a bear?”

“That only happened once,” said Gladys. “Gorgon and I were able to whisk her off before anything bad happened.  It didn’t take much effort working the charm of forgetting on her.”

“It’s always easy on the daft ones,” Cara said. The room exploded in cackles.

Melli agreed with both Cara and Gladys. It was always a happy day when they welcomed a new witch to their ranks, but she didn’t know what was in the minds of some of the applicants. The forgetfulness charm meant some had tried more than once, but if they weren’t just the right sort of bold mixed with a generous dollop of sense, they would never be happy living this life.

“Still, I think we’ll have at least two new ones to welcome,” Gladys said.

This time Cara smiled. “The two chatterboxes? Yes. I heard them discussing how they might deal with some of the things they might encounter. They sounded sensible at least. I’ve never seen two that decided to team up before.”

The moon was just touching that top branch now. “It’s time to check on them,” Melli said.

The ladies grabbed their brooms or shapeshifted depending on their preference. The local dryads hadn’t raised an alarm, so no candidate was in danger of anything greater than embarrassment. Melli did hope those two girls did make it through. They were spirited enough not to shiver in the dark and sharp enough to know it’d be helpful to go together. Those seemed like promising signs to her.

Photo by Miriam Espacio on Unsplash

Song Choice: Which Witch by Florence and the Machine

This flash fiction was inspired by the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, Waiting. 

A Serving of Nightshade

Well this looks like my lucky day, thought Adira as the room came into focus.

She was in the drawing room of her ex-fiancé’s townhome. Lord Bradley sat in his favorite chair, sipping a glass of wine, and watching her.

“I’m sorry, Adira,” he said. “But I thought this would be more comfortable for you than a cellar in Cheapside.”

“Very thoughtful,” she said, as she smoothed her hair back towards the untidy bun held by her favorite hair stick. “But it might have been nicer to have left me near the opera house.”

He made a tut-tut noise. “And left you at the mercy of Nightshade? That would have been rude.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Let me tell you a story,” he said, refilling his glass. “There was a naïve girl, whose romantic notions made her an easy mark for Nightshade, a notorious criminal who has become something of a hero to gullible young women and a nuisance to my guild’s interests. She unwisely agreed to be a lookout for one of his capers. Thankfully, a concerned friend was there to intercede before she had to face serious consequences.”

“Charming,” she said, stretching out her hands and fingers. “But what’s the price for his intercession?”

“Information. Everything you know about Nightshade’s organization, including the contact you were supposed to meet tonight.”

“And if I don’t?”

“It’s my duty to turn you in to the constables. Considering the trouble Nightshade has caused, that cellar is going to seem nice in comparison,” Bradley said.

“So you haven’t told the authorities yet?”

“Of course not. Adira, I can protect you. If you cooperate.”

Adira looked down at her lap. “I don’t want to go to jail. What if I told you I know who Nightshade is?”

He jumped out his chair. “Really? Who?”

“Me.” Adira pulled her hair stick free and threw it at his throat. It hit its mark. As he tried pulling it out, Adira picked up the bottle of wine and cracked it over his head.

“I have a story for you,” she said. “There once was an unscrupulous and overconfident man who wouldn’t shut up. So I fixed that. The end.”

Photo by Tyler Nix on Unsplash

Song Choice: Gives You Hell by All American Rejects

Liner Notes for This Groove: This bit of flash fiction was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United, Two Into One Shall Go. I went with embedded narrative. 

To Satisfy the Dead

This latest bone was by far the noisiest on Bira’s rosary. Even the other bones had woken from their silence to complain about it. If it didn’t shut up soon, she’d miss her chance at spilling the blood that would satisfy it.

“This night air is too damp,” it whined. “There’s bound to be mosquitoes. Put me back in your pocket.”

“I’ve explained this before. I need to hold you in my hand and see you so I’ll know when I’m close to your killer.”

The bone turned chilly and blue when Bira approached the tavern. Its chatter would have drawn too much attention if she entered. So Bira had to settle for climbing up to the tavern’s roof and keeping an eye on anyone leaving.

 

The abbess warned her that some targets presented unusual challenges, but Bira didn’t expect the bones to give her problems. They’d all been eager for retribution. Bira thought she’d be able to gather enough bones for a full rosary and initiation into the order in no time.

“If murder was all there was to it, we’d run out of room,” the abbess said. “Not everyone called to us is suitable for our work. We strive to satisfy the dead, not ourselves.”

 

“This damp makes me ill,” the bone wailed. At that, the other bones grumbled back that it was already dead.

“Would you all be quiet,” Bira hissed, nervous they’d be heard. “I can wear you around my neck, but you need to be touching my skin so I can feel when you get colder.”

Bira expected the usual complaints about lack of propriety in resting on what the bone called ‘intimate areas’ but it merely harrumphed. She put the rosary on and waited.

Moments later, the bone turned icy when a lanky man exited. Bira was on him in an instant and it was done.

“Wait,” the bone cried out as Bira was about to touch it to the blood.

“Whatever for?”

“I don’t want to be silent. Please. I can be better.”

“Getting their blood doesn’t keep the others from talking,” Bira said. “It just makes them happy.”

“I’d be happiest talking.”  

“Then talk. Just not while I’m working. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Photo by Joshua Fuller on Unsplash

Song Choice: Heads Will Roll by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs

This flash fiction was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, About Those Bones. 

Testing the Foundation

It would hold. She was sure of it.

Mattea forced herself to take three deep breaths. She started going over her makeshift shelter, testing every joint and connection one more time while ignoring the bile-green color spreading over Evoris’s sky.

Some had liked to say it was a miracle she had gotten into the academy, let alone be chosen for one of the teams actually exploring the terran-like worlds. Mattea herself might admit that her surviving the crash that killed the rest of the crew could qualify as miraculous. But she had worked hard and learned well. Those lessons and her determination made for a rock-solid foundation, one she hoped was enough to ensure she’d built a shelter strong enough to make it through the rapidly approaching storm.

Mattea was inside before the full fury of it hit. The howling winds were unlike anything she’d ever heard before, but the shelter held. She allowed herself to give into her drowsiness once the storm’s cacophony died down. 

She’d told herself she’d make it through the night. Tomorrow morning she’d start comparing what she learned about Evoris in the academy to what was really there. And what she could work with until a rescue ship came. She hoped.

Photo by Nikolas Noonan on Unsplash

Song Choice: Have You Ever Seen the Rain by Creedence Clearwater Revival

This flash fiction was created for the prompt given over at Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribbling prompt, Foundation. 

No Exceptions

The mood of the encampment shifted as a scout brought in a whimpering Regarian. Jena flinched inwardly, but the healer in her stayed professional. “Is it the parasite?” she asked as the scout helped him onto a cot.

He pulled off his boot. The all-too familiar silvery growth enveloped most of the Regarian’s foot but the lack of smell told Jena it was still possible to save him.

“Please,” he whimpered. “Don’t let me die.”

Jena sighed. “You’ll have to follow our rules. That includes regular usufruit consumption.”

He wrinkled his nose but nodded. “Do I have to swear loyalty?”

“No, but if you don’t cooperate with the medicinal regimen you’ll have to leave. No exceptions.”

Another healer handed him a bowl full of mush made from the pungent fruit. Jena touched her bracelet and turned away. What would Joya say if she could see her treating a Regarian?

It didn’t matter. She hadn’t seen her sister in months, not since she refused to touch the fruit.

“Do what you want, little sis,” Joya had said. “But getting us to eat that nasty fruit is all part of a plot to make us weak.”

“That makes no sense. People have eaten the fruit long before the silver-death. Just not that much of it.”

“If you buy into that Regarian fiction about the silver-death, it just lets them know you’re easier to control,” Joya scoffed.

“The silver-death doesn’t care if you’re Regarian or Dyronese. Think, Joya! If the fruit doesn’t work, the worst that will happen is we’ve eaten smelly fruit and have bad gas. Think of what you risk by not eating it.”

“I risk nothing. I have my strength and the strength of our ancestors. Don’t worry, sis. I’ll leave without a fuss. And when I return, I’ll have stories of battles, and a new bracelet for you.”

Neither Jena nor the other healers showed a sign of the silver death, despite treating dozens of patients with them. The fruit purged all but the direst cases of growth. She hoped she’d see Joya at the end of all this. But for now, she had her wits and her ancestors' instincts of survival. That was, hopefully, enough.

Photo by Jed Owen on Unsplash

Song Choice: Stay Alive from Hamilton

This flash fiction piece was created as a response to the prompt given for Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings post, Writing as a Metaphor for Living. The words I used were mood, plot, and fiction.

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.

Not So Small Hero

Koji looked at the assorted items he’d gathered and hoped it was enough. He’d never attempted magic before. Pushing down the feeling of panic that was threatening to burble out of his stomach and into his throat, he shouted the words to finish the rite.

Koji blinked and looked around him. Where was the powerful kami the ritual should have summoned? He hung his head, about to limp away, until he heard a tiny cough followed by a slurping noise. He looked down. Sitting in front of him was a tiny yokai with a bird’s beak and three fish tails drinking a bowl of tea. It gazed up at him with its large eyes. He could not decide if it was more adorable or grotesque. Either way, he knew he should still be polite.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” she trilled. “Would you care for some tea?”

“No, thank you. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I was hoping to summon someone, er, bigger.”

She blinked at him again. “Why?”

 Koji flushed and looked away. “I had hoped they could train me. To be a strong warrior, like my brother was.”

“I wouldn’t be much help there. Are you sure that’s what you wanted?”

“Yes! He saved so many, like a hero in a story. I want to be one too, even though—”

“Oh, I see now. I can help you.”

“You can teach me to fight?” Koji’s eyes widened.

“No,” she said. “I’ll help you save lives.”

“How?”

“I’ll give you knowledge.”

“How will that help?”

“Have you heard people wishing they could go back to such and such time to do something that would have made a situation better? The moment to act is now. I’ll tell you what actions to take. But they will be simple, not the stuff of stories. You’ll get no praise or reward from anyplace other than your heart. Will that do?”

Koji thought of his brother and nodded. She told him of a coming plague and how to stay safe. When she finished, she gave him her tea bowl, which grew to fit his hands.

“Share the knowledge as you would share tea,” she said before disappearing.

"Thank you," he replied.

Liner Notes for This Groove: This short story was created for Poetry and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings #13: All the Small Things. It was inspired by an Atlas Obscura article about a healing spirit known as Amabie. You can also find out more about Amabie at Yokai.com After reading about her, I couldn't help by try my hand at drawing her too.

Song Choice: The Next Right Thing from Frozen II

Alice and the Not-Rose

“Contagion,” screeched the Red Queen as she pointed to the odd flower. “Who betrayed me?”

Her retinue of cards threw themselves at her feet, jabbering apologies. “Shall I pull it out, my Queen?” one asked.

“Pull? One of my precious roses? Off with his head!”

As the rest of the cards dragged the questioner away, Alice looked at the flower again. Remembering it was important to curtsy first, she asked, “Majesty, I don’t understand. You said this flower was a contagion, but you don’t want it pulled.”

The Queen rolled her eyes. “No rose of mine could be a contagion, you simple child. It’s been contaminated! Who did it? That gardener? I never trusted her.”

“Majesty, are you sure this is a rose?”

“I am surrounded by fools,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Child, where are we standing now?”

“Your rose garden.”

“And what grows in rose gardens?”

“Roses?”

“Precisely. Therefore, this is a rose that must have been infected into forgetting itself.”

“Is it possible that a different sort of flower had been planted?”

The Queen turned an angry red. “Are you saying I am mistaken about what grows in my garden? Only roses are planted and only roses grow here! Something infected it.” The Queen started examining the earth around the flower, then noticed the book Alice held. “What were you doing here?”

“Reading a book about flowers from around the world. See, there are sunflowers, orchids, lilies…”

The Queen reared back. “You did this! You gave my poor rose ideas of being something else.”

Alice was fairly sure that wasn’t how things worked. She watched dumbfounded as the Queen put a large pot over the flower. “Now it’s protected. Get out or I’ll have your head!”

Alice left, but returned later that evening. She lifted the pot, then dug up the flower. Using the pot to carry it out, she took it to the Cheshire Cat’s woods where she replanted it.

“There. I’m really not certain what sort of flower you are,” Alice said. “But you were hardy enough to survive this afternoon. You’ll be happier here.”

The flower said nothing but released a sweet fragrance. Taking that as a good sign, Alice left.

The Red Queen by Mark Tonelli

Song Choice: Painting the Roses Red from Alice in Wonderland

This piece of flash fiction was created for Poets and Storytellers United Weekly Scribblings #9: Contagion.

Saturday Morning Strawberries

Although logic told her it was only a few feet away, Stacia’s bedroom door may as well have been on Mars as far as she was concerned. She had been staring at it for over an hour now. She thought about getting up to shower at least twice, but the most she had managed to do was scratch the side of her neck.

Her stomach growled. She barked out a laugh, more startled than amused. Such an ordinary noise felt so strange in the silence.

That means I’m hungry, she said to herself. Though she didn’t feel enthused about the idea of eating.

Eat, she told herself more forcefully this time. It can be anything. It can be something small. Just eat.

After her stomach insisted again, Stacia got up, lumbered towards the door and left her bedroom. The sight of her cluttered living room almost made her turn around. But it was easier just to keep going in the same direction.

Stacia opened the door of the fridge. The small bud of victory she felt from making it this far was swallowed up as she took in everything inside. It doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to be anything that’s a lot of work, she reminded herself. Her eyes fell on a container of strawberries.

She pulled the plastic container out, closed the door, and sat of the kitchen floor. Not bothering to wash them she grabbed the nearest strawberry and took a bite. Stacia thought back to how when she was a kid her mom would set out a bowl of condensed milk for her to dip strawberries into on Saturday mornings. She made herself eat the second strawberry more slowly. There might be condensed milk in the pantry.

I can do this. Stacia got up, still holding the berries, and grabbed a can opener along with the can of condensed milk. She went to the couch and looked at how far she had come. The bedroom door still looked miles away. But now she had strawberries and condensed milk, and she knew she’d be able to find a favorite cartoon or two on a streaming service. That was enough.

Photo by Esther Wilhelmsson on Unsplash

Song Choice: Breathe Me by Sia

This flash fiction piece was created for Weekly Scribblings #8 on Poets and Storytellers United, Red Fruit Rendition.

Sea in a Bottle

Zizi regarded the space yet to be filled in her basket then looked at the sea. What could she use to hold it in? She pulled out the half full bottle of water from her coat pocket. It was getting late in the afternoon and she had things to do at home. She wouldn’t finish the water.

She walked to a nearby shrub and shared her water with it before continuing down the steps, towards the spot where the freshwater stream met the sea. Once Zizi was satisfied she had enough water, she walked back.

She spread out all the things she gathered on her work bench at home. With a cup of tea in hand, Zizi started dividing up them into piles she thought would work together. She’d hold something up to her ear every now and then or stroke it with her hand before deciding where to place it. At the end she had sorted everything except the water.

She laughed. It was a bit of a silly impulse to have gathered it. She’d never used water in one of her jars before. Maybe she’d keep it for her personal collection. She went to find another jar to transfer it to, when she saw the box of random treasures a friend had given her. A bit of sea glass, a tiny sand dollar, a small jar…yes, she could make this work.

Zizi just finished arranging her display on the vending table when a woman from another table came over.

“These are so beautiful,” she said. “I’m Jenna, by the way.”

“I’m Zizi. Thanks.”

Jenna picked up the jar with the seawater, sand dollar, and sea glass. She immediately got an image of herself as a teen, visiting the shore with her mother. They had both played hooky from school and work that day. It was a blast. Jenna still missed her so much.

Zizi saw the look on Jenna’s face. “I never know why I make the things I do, but I know when they’ve found a home. Care to work out a trade,” she asked, nodding towards Jenna’s table.

“Oh yes,” Jenna said, with the sea’s scent and her mother’s smile still lingering in her mind.

Photo by Mohamed Ahsan on Unsplash

Song Choice: Time in A Bottle by Jim Croce

This piece of flash fiction was created for Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings #3: Salt-Water Poetry.

Hour of the Ox

The oni considered the figure in white as she wobbled out of the mists, heading for the sacred tree.

“That one has the look of ‘he’s done me wrong for the last time’ on her face,” he said right before popping a glutinous rice ball the same shade of white as her robes into his mouth. He chewed it slowly. “What do you think, Fumihiro?”

“I think you had better share the mochi, Eiji,” Fumihiro said. His red, clawed hand pulled out several of the sweet treats from the bowl and gobbled them up.

Eiji did nothing to stop his elder brother from taking the mochi. He was used to it. Eiji wrinkled his snout. “I think there are toenails in that doll she’s carrying.”

Fumihiro sniffed the air. “Yes, that smells about right. She must be very close to her target.”

“Of course she is. You have to be close to someone to hate them this much,” Eiji said, looking at his brother. “And you truly have to hate someone to risk being out during the hour of the ox to cast a curse.”

The brothers watched as the woman balanced on her single pronged sandals and hammered a nail through the straw doll she brought with her, impaling it onto the sacred tree.

“Nice form,” Eiji said, nodding. “And she’s well prepared. She not only has the dagger and the mirror, she’s managed to keep the trivet with lit candles balanced on her head this whole time. There’s something to be said for doing things properly.”

“I guess,” Fumihiro said. He looked away from the woman and sucked on the ends of his matted hair, hoping to find any crumbs left from the mochi there. Finding none, he moved on to investigate his loin cloth for other traces of food.

Eiji leaned forward, tapping a claw on his red chin. He considered the woman, now screaming her desire to have her faithless lover’s heart devoured by jealousy. “There is something to be said about bad form though.”

“And what’s that?”

“Itadekimasu,”^* Eiji said, flashing his fangs in the moonlight.

*Itadekimasu = “Let's eat”

This flash fiction piece was created for my prompt over at Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings: Myth-placed.

Ushi no Koku Mairi by Matthew Meyer
Find more of his marvelous mythology work at Yokai.com 

Liner Notes for this Groove: Oni are a legendary ogre-like creatures in Japanese mythology. The only thing they like better than sweet rice balls (mochi) is human flesh. The cursing ritual described in the story has a basis in Japanese mythology. The ushi no koku mairi is a notorious spell, requiring several components to do correctly. It must be performed between 1 and 3 a.m., called the Hour of the Ox. This is the time when the border between the world of the living and dead is thinnest, and it is also the time when evil spirits have the most power.

Song Choice: I Put a Spell on You by Screaming Jay Hawkins

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. 

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.

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