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.

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. 

The Villain of the Story

The dung landed in front of me with a wet plop. I turned my head, and as expected, saw the sneering face of the urchin who had been following us for the last few days. Before I could stop her, Yoli picked the dung up and flung it right back at the urchin. It hit the child square in the face.

“Yeah, well… you only hit me because you’re good at throwing,” she screeched, before diving back into the undergrowth.

Yoli’s face went from satisfied, to confused, to moody. I gave her the space of a few seconds before I spoke.

“That didn’t feel as good as you thought it would, did it?” 

Yoli scrunched up her face. “No. But she’s been annoying us for days, mistress. And what kind of comeback was that? Good at throwing? I ought to be, as a squire of the Kingsguard.”

“We do prefer that our squires have good aim, yes,” I said.

Yoli glared at the bushes, then slumped. “Good aim against another trained fighter, not some little kid.”

“Did you see what she has wrapped around her arm?” I asked.

“A piece of the enemy’s uniform,” Yoli said.

“A piece of the uniform that could have been her father’s, her brother’s, or someone else she loved. We’re the villains in her story.”

“How can that be? They’ve tortured innocents, put children to death. Mistress, they wouldn’t even respect you as a fighter.”

“Their respect isn’t as important to me as my respect for myself. Tell me, Squire Yoli, how is your self-respect at this moment?”

She looked at the ground. “Not good.”

“Why?”

“Because I picked a fight with a dumb, and obviously sad, little kid. And that’s not who I want to be.”

“Save that aim for an actual opponent when we find one. It might keep your hands cleaner,” I said, smiling. “Let’s find a creek and get them washed off.”

“She’s going to keep throwing shit at us you know,” Yoli said.

“Then it’s a good thing that we train our squires to dodge as well.”

“I’m fast enough for that,” Yoli said. “She really does have terrible aim.”

Photo by Ricardo Cruz on Unsplash

Song Choice: Good Riddance by Green Day

This piece of flash fiction was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt given at Poets and Storytellers United: Hit Me with Your Best Shot. 

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.

The Best That Can Be Hoped For

The commander’s body was displayed with all the pomp the citizens of the town could afford, and then some. On the first two days, wailers arrived promptly at dawn, not leaving their post outside the chapel until the sun set. They were there too on the third, although that day was set aside for select people to pay their last respects before burial the next morning.

Even the wailers paused to bow when Lady Allegra came to the chapel to say her farewells. The solemn commander’s ward was a familiar figure to them all. They shuffled aside, with their eyes on the ground to let her pass.

“Please,” she said in a quivering whisper that carried to the furthest honor guard in the room. “I’d like to be alone with him, one last time.”

The head guard nodded, and they all filed out.

Allegra leaned over the casket, the shaky note in her whisper all gone now. “I have never wished harder for the existence of an afterlife, just so that I’d have the satisfaction of knowing you are suffering in it.”

She took in the sight of the cruel face, knowing its mouth would never scream at her again, and the hands, which would never strike her for forgetting a lesson. Then she gave a satisfied sigh. “I wish I was the one responsible for your condition, but I’ll thank time and the diseases you fostered with your vices for doing their job. However, I will be responsible for the remaking of this city, you can count on that. My alliances have been in place well before your first wheeze. Everything you’ve created will come undone. This city will heal.

You always preached about forgiveness being healing, along with other things you obviously didn’t really believe. But I think I will work on forgiving someone. Myself. For not forgiving you. I don’t know if I ever will, but I don’t think I have to in order to do what needs doing. I’m looking forward to the first day I don’t have to think about you. That will be enough.”

And with that she left, the body in the chapel behind her and a new day in front.

Photo by Maxime Gauthier on Unsplash

Song Choice: Look Back in Anger by David Bowie

Liner Notes for This Groove: This short fiction was created for Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scriblings #19. I'll be taking one (maybe two) weeks off for a break after this. LOL, I was going to take off anyway as my husband and I had plans to go off and do something fun for our 25th anniversary. But even though we'll be celebrating at home, I'll still be taking my break.

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.

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.

Hunger Pains

There was no question—his mews were less robust than his brothers’ and sisters’ from the moment he was born. And now they had gotten even fainter. None of the litter had opened their eyes yet but Mayra knew that one would not get the chance, even if she didn't intervene. She looked down at the pitifully undersized creature.

 A patched tabby strutted into the alley where Mayra and her brood lay. Lyla gave her a contemptuous look as she got closer.

“You haven’t done away with it yet?” Lyla scoffed.

Mayra didn’t look up. She continued to look at the small kitten, wishing things had been different, wishing he was as strong as the others.

Small white paws…dark fur…white patch on the throat…dark nose…Mayra tried to fix in her mind every detail about him she could.

“Oh move out of the way. I’ll do it if you won’t. It’s a shame to waste food, even if he won’t make much of a meal.”

Mayra hissed at Lyla. “I’ll do it.”

I don’t know if I can care for the others, or myself for that matter, Mayra thought. She had a hard time finding much to eat lately, even with Helia’s help, and worried if she could make enough milk for all the kittens. She had hoped for a miracle. Sometimes she’d daydream about one of the two-leggeds taking her and her children into a warm home. But she had found nothing more comforting from them than glass bottles thrown her way.

There was going to be no miracle. Nothing would help the small one now. She knew that this would give her food she desperately needed and buy the rest of her children just a bit more time. But her heart still ached. It would be crueler to let him linger like this.

Mayra opened her mouth and in a few seconds it was done.

“There now. It wasn’t that hard. You first time brood carriers, always so dramatic. You actually have tears right now! I’ve eaten at least 4 of my own kittens and it never bothered me once. They were actually quite tasty. If it wasn’t such a strain to bear the little beasts, I might have another litter, just for the chance to taste one again.”

Mayra hissed and spat again. Lyla raised her paw to strike.

“All right over there, Mayra?”

A scarred pit bull loped over to the two cats. She barred her teeth at Lyla. “You wouldn’t be thinking of hurting a new mother, would you, Lyla?”

Lyla turned tail and fled. Helia gave a snort in her direction. “I never did like Lyla all that much. She bothers you again, I won’t feel bad about taking a nice big bite out of her backside. Oh, I almost forgot. I got something for you.” Helia ran to the front of the alley and came back again, bearing a large mouse. She wagged her tail excitedly, dropping it at Mayra’s paws. “This is nothing. There’s a whole warehouse full of ‘em. When you and your babies can move, I’ll take you to it. The two-leggeds would probably love having some good mousers. Maybe they’ll need a guard dog too. I already had plenty. This one is for you.”

Mayra ate, grateful for the extra food. She tried not to think that this was the first time her belly felt full in a while. “Thank you Helia. I don’t know why you’re so kind to me.”

“Already told you. You look like the cat from the place I was before. She was the only good thing about that place and the only reason I made it out.” Helia noticed there was one less kitten curling up to Mayra to nurse. She licked the cat tenderly, deciding not to bring it up unless Mayra did. “It’s been a busy day. I don’t know about you, but I could use a bit of rest.” Helia placed herself in front of Mayra, and lay down.

…

Mayra picked her head up drowsily. There was something in the sound of the wind that woke her. She sniffed the air. Beside her, several kittens shifted restlessly in their sleep, squirming more closely against each other. A faint whine came from Helia, but she still slept. Blinking, she looked more closely at the shadows near a stack of slowly rotting cardboard boxes. 

Mayra never had trouble distinguishing objects in shadow before, but instead of the broken glass, mildewed rags and other assorted city trash she was used to seeing, all she could make out was an inky haze pooling around the boxes. As she watched, all of the shadows seemed to take on the same velvety darkness. Mayra shook her head as if that might clear her vision, but the shadows started to congeal into shapes with no relation to their surroundings. 

A legion of small, fragile figures could be made out, some of which occasionally shifted back to the formlessness of the larger shadow before coalescing into a tiny feline form again.

“Mama” came a tiny mew and dozens of equally high pitched mews of “Mama” followed after.

Mayra hung her head, “I am sorry, little one. You should have been born to a mother on a comfortable farm somewhere, with kind, big two-leggeds to bottle-feed you and kind, small two-leggeds to adore you. I am sorry I wasn't enough to save you.”

“We know,” answered dozens of tiny mews. “You cried Mama. Only Mamas cry. Not everyone cries for us.” The words repeated again and again like ripples across a pond.

Mayra blinked, “We? Us? There was only one kitten I…” She turned to look at the rest of her babies. They were all still there, still asleep and moving fitfully. “Who are you?”

“Ones who could not survive. Lost and found ones. We have each other. But we still need a Mama.”

“Why?”

“Feed us Mama. We are so hungry. Please feed us.” The small echoing mews filled the alley.

“I don’t know how. I wish I did. You’d still be alive if I knew how.”

“Feed us Mama! Feed us!” came the insistent mews, rising ever higher in pitch and volume. “We’re so hungry!”

“I don’t know how!” Mayra screamed.

“Whoa, Mayra. Hun, you alright?” Mayra felt a large wet tongue on her side. She opened her eyes and saw Helia’s worried face. One of her kittens started to mew and she flinched. It was a perfectly normal and healthy mew of a hungry kitten. She trembled and gave it a tentative lick. The kitten was warm and solid. Mayra moved to start to nurse her and the others started to move closer.

She looked at Helia. “Just a nightmare. I guess I knew the little ones needed to eat now.”

When Mayra was finished nursing her children Helia got up to leave. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to go to warehouse and get us some food. It’s going to be all right Mayra. Just a couple of days and we’ll all go together.”

Not too long after Helia left, Lyla came into the alley, followed by two cats Mayra didn’t know. “I know Helia’s gone. She won’t be back for a while.”

The fur bristled on Mayra’ back. “What do you want Lyla?”

“Breakfast.”

The three cats started towards Mayra. She hissed at them. All I need to do is hold out until Helia comes back, she thought. I can do that.

But even if she had been well-fed and not weak from giving birth three days ago, Mayra was small and young. The two cats with Lyla were strong and well used to scuffling with bigger opponents. After the first few blows, Mayra was dizzy. The world started blur in front of her. As she fell, she could hear the kittens crying behind her.

I can’t feed you, she thought. And as soon as I’m gone they will eat you.

“We’re hungry Mama,” came dozens of little mews.

“Little ones, I wish you could eat them,” she whispered.

Immediately the shadows from the alley gathered and a sea of small, indistinct shadows crashed over Lyla and her friends. Myra heard their pained yowls but couldn’t see anything besides the forms in shadows pouncing over and over again. Eventually the yowls stopped and even the mass of shadows stopped moving. One small figure came away from the larger body of shadows, and dropped a bit of meat in front of Mayra.

“For you Mama.”

“Thank you sweetheart,” Mayra answered. 

Photo by Ricardo Tamayo on Unsplash

Song Choice: Baby Mine from the movie Dumbo

Liner Notes for this Groove: This is a slightly updated version of a story I wrote awhile ago. It just felt right bringing it out again this time of year. It also feels cool revisiting some of my older work after the amazing time I had at the Nerdtino Expo. (More about that later, I promise!)

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.