Head Waiter (short story)

 

Head Waiter

(Random 2-word prompt- inflation, feast)

                “I’ll have the halibut,” he stated, “with the dauphinoise potatoes and asparagus.”  The stern, bespectacled man nodded to his bashful and handsome date opposite.  “He’ll have the beef.”

                “I… er…” stuttered the other man.  “But… I…”

                “He’ll have the beef,” he repeated, with a glare across the table.  “And make sure the halibut is only lightly seared; the last time I came here it was practically burnt.”

                Flower noted down the orders, fish and beef, along with the bruschetta for starters, and moved to head to the kitchen, but a hand grabbed his arm instead.

                “Where the hell is the wine?” snapped the man.  The grip tightened.

Flower couldn’t look the guest in the eyes; instead, he watched as an unconvincing wig wobbled with each syllable on top of the increasingly reddening head.

“I ordered the merlot half an hour ago, and you still haven’t brought it.  I want it immediately, you incompetent fool.”

                Flower nodded and apologised; there was no point talking back.

                “Well?”  The hair shook.  “What are you waiting for?”  He snapped his fingers in the air and Flower scarpered.

                He dropped off the order in the kitchen, making a point of mentioning the ‘lightly seared’ comment to the chef (who didn’t seem at all happy about it), and rushed to the bar.

                The guest had paid through the nose to open the restaurant, just for him and his date, and on a Monday evening.  Flower had been roped in to wait on them.  Urgh.  He shivered.  It was cold in here without any people, and the only heat seemed to be coming from the impatient bespectacled man.  Eyes seared a hole into Flower’s back from across the room; he could feel the beady little eyes willing him to make a mistake.

                Flower snatched a bottle of wine from the cabinet, the glasses were already laid out on the table, and hurried back.

                “Red wine??!”  He slapped the waiter’s hand; the man’s face was more crimson than the drink.  “What is wrong with you?  Are you deaf or something?  I asked for chardonnay.”  The man’s cheeks puffed up, and Flower could see his date shrinking with embarrassment.  “Or are you just stupid?”  He rolled his eyes.  “Don’t answer that,” he spat.  “I know which it is.  Sort it out.”

                “Yes sir.”  Flower didn’t care enough to argue; he knew he’d brought what the guest had asked for.  He darted back to the bar, replaced the red with white wine, and returned.

                “I guess that’ll have to do.”  The bespectacled man frowned, and he slyly adjusted his wig, which had slipped from its position on his big red head.  “I hope for your sake that it’s been chilled.”

                Flower popped the cork, while eyes watched him like prey, and served the wine; he filled the mean guest’s glass first.

                “No, no, no!”  The man waved his hand in the air.  “No, that’s not how it’s done.”  His wig had moved again… no, it didn’t fit; had the man’s head gotten bigger?  “You’re supposed to pour me a sample first, then I tell you if it’s suitable, and then you serve my date, then me.”  He seized the bottle from Flower, and knocked over his full glass of wine in the process.  “Argh, look what you’ve done!  You’re ruining my evening.”

                The alcohol, thankfully, didn’t spill over the guest… but it did spill over Flower, almost as if the bespectacled man had done it on purpose.  His shirt and trousers were drenched; he could feel the alcohol soaking through to his skin, sticking his clothes to his body.  He tried to keep his cool as the man continued to scream at him, and he wondered if this job paid enough for this bullshit.  It didn’t.

                “Sorry sir,” said Flower.  He forced a grin as he frantically tried to mop up the wine with the towel he kept tucked in his back pocket.  “I’ll get this sorted straight away.”

                “Don’t bother.”  The man pulled at his shirt collar; his head was definitely growing, his neck bulging against the fabric.  “You’ve done enough.  Leave the wine, I expect you to comp it.”  He sighed.  “This is a complete disaster.”

                Flower looked to the date, who cringed and shrugged.

                “I’ll be telling your boss about this,” continued the guest.  He removed his glasses from his expanding face and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  “This is ridiculous.  Don’t you know who I am?”

                “Yes sir.”  He didn’t.  “Sorry sir.”  He didn’t care.  “I’ll… er… go and check on your starter; it should be ready.”

                “I should think so!”  The man tutted, his features seeming small against his embiggening head.  His wig was now surrounded by a halo of scalp.  “I shouldn’t have to put up with this!”

                “Sir…,” said Flower.  The bespectacled man was looking quite ill; his beetroot head was now twice as large as it was before, and Flower worried it would pop.  “Are you ok?”

                “What?!  Of course, I’m ok!”  His tiny little eyes glared at Flower.  “I won’t be if you don’t make some haste with our damn food.”  He grunted.  “Useless idiot.”

                Flower nodded, then darted away.

                He tried to bring up the man’s inflating head to the chef but was met with an indifferent shrug.  The waiter nabbed the bruschetta and hurried back to the table, his trousers still wet.  Maybe it was best not to mention the problem to the guest, lest he get shouted at again.  Besides, it was his body, his problem, and certainly not Flower’s.

                “At last,” said the bespectacled man.  He didn’t look up; he was propping his large and angry head in his hands.

                As Flower placed the plates on the table, the man’s date thanked him despite the withering glower from opposite.

                “Leave us.”  The mean guest shifted his gaze to Flower.  “I don’t want you hovering around while we eat; I’ll summon you if I need anything.”

                Flower flashed a big smile and nodded.  He scurried away to hide behind the bar where it was a little safer, and a little warmer; he could feel the spilled wine creeping down his leg and into his socks.  He hoped it would dry before he was ‘summoned.’

                He tidied up behind the bar, keeping himself busy and keeping his eye on the irksome guest and his date.  The pair ate in silence, an angry frown on the giant head throughout; the head in question hadn’t returned to its normal size and neither man seemed concerned about it.  Flower stopped himself from speculating on the nature of their relationship; whatever it was it didn’t seem happy right now.

                The silence didn’t last long.

                Fingers, frantically clicked, beckoned Flower several minutes later, and with nary any problem and only a couple of tart words, he took away their empty plates and brought them a fresh bottle of wine.

Flower’s trousers were still damp.

“Fetch the main course,” demanded the bespectacled guest.  “It better not be as tasteless as the starter.  Vile.”

“But you ate it all.”  Flower couldn’t stop the words leaving his lips.  “The plates were almost licked clean; you must’ve liked it.”

The guest’s gigantic head swung towards him, beady eyes glaring, red face scowling, and the tiny wig vibrating and cooking atop.  “What did you say?” His voice was slow and deliberate, as if he were trying to prevent each syllable from bursting.  “How dare you!  How dare you speak to me like that!”  Fury bubbled out.  “You… you…” the man’s head grew a few more centimetres “you…” his forehead bulged “you condescending…” his nose flattened as his cheeks swelled “you condescending piece of shit!  Who the hell do you...” lips puffed and chin spread “think you are?”  A small fist slammed against the table and his head wobbled on a thin neck.  “I paid a lot of money for tonight and I expect professional behaviour from the staff of this restaurant.  Do you understand?  I pay your goddamn wages!”  His glasses squeezed and stretched against the expanding skin.  “I don’t pay for a rude and incompetent buffoon like you to talk down to me!”

“Sorry sir…”

“I haven’t finished!”  The man shouted, and his head grew bigger again.  “I haven’t finished telling you what a useless pile of garbage you are!”  His scalp strained as it engorged.  “I swear to the gods I’m going to make sure you get fired for this.”

Flower kept quiet.

“Well?” snapped the mean guest.

“Yes sir?”

“Fetch my fucking halibut!”

“Yes sir.”

Flower sped away to the kitchen, and didn’t look back; he could feel the man’s anger, the heat from his expanding head peering into his soul as he ran.

“Please tell me their food is done,” he pleaded to the chef.  “Please!”

The chef nodded, handing over the plates.  Fish and beef.

He sighed with relief; the sooner this night was over, the better.

Flower returned to the table and placed the plates in front of the bespectacled man and his handsome date.  He smiled his smiliest smile.

“Is there anything else I can get you both?” he saccharined.  “More wine?”

He was met with only a silent glare from two piercing sparks within the large head.  The red orb swivelled to the main course on the table and back again.

“Sir?”

“What is this?” said the guest.

“Pan-seared halibut with dauphinoise potatoes and steamed asparagus, sir.”

“Pan-seared?  Pan-seared??!”  His tiny hand seized the fish, and in a tight grip held it up to Flower’s face.  “Does this look merely seared to you?”  He threw the squashed meat back on the plate; veg splattered into the table.  “It’s burnt.  I told you to make sure it wasn’t burnt.  I was very clear, wasn’t I?”

“Yes sir.”

“Lightly seared.  Isn’t that what I said?”

Flower nodded.  “It looks lightly seared to me.”  He knew he’d made another mistake as soon as he’d opened his mouth.  “Sorry, I mean…”

“What?!”  The man’s head swelled.

“Sorry sir, I…”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME??!!”

“I… er…”  He couldn’t look back at the unblinking ire directed at him.  “I… I’m…”  He glanced to the date who shrunk back in his seat.  “Sorry, sir…”

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

“Sir…”  Flower faced the enormous dome, it’s forehead reaching to the ceiling, cheeks stretching out across the table.  “Sir…?”

“I. AM. TALKING.”  The man’s skin creaked against its continuing expansion; veins popped across the surface of his face, and his features contracted into the increasing mass.  “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”  His head swayed, struggling with the weight of its growth; the unconvincing wig fell, a mote of dust from a clear shelf.  “THIS IS THE LAST STRAW!  HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT AGAIN!”  The man’s glasses strained, shattered, and flew across the table; his date ducked.  “THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!!!”

And the once-bespectacled man screamed.  His head inflated, bigger and bigger, growing with each decibel, filling and spreading throughout the room.  His body was consumed.  So was the table.  Flower took a step back.  And then more steps.  The scarlet sphere bloated, swelled.  Face and ears absorbed… and then the table was eaten up, along with the lightly seared halibut and his date’s beef.  Flower lost sight of the date, devoured by the bulk.  The man’s head expanded, pressed against the ceiling, squeezed against the floor.  He continued to scream… and Flower joined in.

The waiter ran, crying out, as he zig-zagged between the empty tables, tables that were fated to be eaten by the ever-growing globe, and he prayed his body wouldn’t be next.  There was nowhere to go.  Nowhere safe.  The heat from the monstrous head cooked his back, closing the gap between it and him.  The man’s angry shriek rang in his ears as he ran.

Flower dived behind the bar.

The head followed.  The corporeal hulk squashed over and around the wooden barrier.  The wood creaked and resisted, bottles cracked, glasses smashed; the swelling head embraced and consumed, but the bar held out.  Skin flowed over and around; Flower’s hiding place shrank smaller and smaller.  The head’s mass pressed against his prostrate body.

And the screaming stopped.

So did the growth.

Flower sighed; it was hot and stagnant in the claustrophobic space.  Cramped.  Dark.  No escape.  He was encased by the meat of the mean guest.  Trapped against the floor.  Entombed.

What a night.

This job really didn’t pay enough for this shit.

He tried to get comfy, shifting his position because he would probably be stuck here for a while, and his hand touched something cold on the floor.  He grabbed it.

Oh.

It was a metal corkscrew.

It was sharp.

Flower had an idea… and it probably wasn’t a good one.

Might even be messy.

He gripped the tool as tight as he could and stabbed…

The End.

Next Flower Story (coming soon)

Flower, Eggs, Milk (short story)

 

Flower, Eggs, Milk

(Random 2-word prompt- egg, wreck)

 

                He needed eggs for the kitchen... for the cook.  Just one tray.  And just a short walk up the street and back.

                It should’ve been easy.  Over easy.

                It should’ve been quick.  Quiche?

                But it had all ended up a bit of a pavlova.

                Mrs Spatchcock was baking tarts for the palace, but Flower had overslept- he’d been up late working at the pier- and he’d scrambled his responsibilities; it was his job to order the ingredients, and he’d messed up.  He’d meant to order a churn of milk and two dozen eggs, but…

                “What on earth am I meant to do with this much milk?”  The cook shouted and screamed, and cracked him round the ear with her palm.  “And one egg?!”

                “Uhm… let me fix it.”  And Flower had whisked away, with a bruise on his head and some coins in his hand, to the sunny side up of town, to the grocer’s, to buy a new tray of eggs… and to escape a beating from the cook.

He ran up the street and bought the goods with haste.

                “Oi! You gotta pay for that!”  The grocer caught him poaching a roll from the counter, he was starving, as he’d left with his arm full of eggs, and he’d tossed a spare coin to the man before he walked out the door with a spring in his step and no longer a care in the world.

                But that coin was devilled; it fell, and it bounced, and it chased Flower outside.  He hummed a tune as he chewed the bread, nonchalant, unaware of the catastrophe that rolled between his feet and took the lead.

                The coin careened down the hill, and swerved left as it hit a loose stone; it rattled to a halt and waited in front of a shop.

                Flower, his bread devoured, whistled and walked.  He could see the door of the kitchens at the bottom of the street, and Mrs Spatchcock in the doorway, arms crossed and face thawing.  The morning was improving, or so he thought…

                Meanwhile, a man in a hat spotted the cursed coin, and ducked to retrieve it, but as he rose up triumphantly, the golden disc aloft in his hand, a woman burst from the shop, blinded by parcels stacked high, and barrelled into him.  The coin flipped from his grasp.

                Ignorant Flower waved to the cook with his free hand; he was almost there.

                The money continued its path through the air; it clinked onto a roof, trundled down the tiles and swung into the guttering.  It sauntered along the half-pipe, swinging to and fro, never quite risking a leap to the ground.  It swirled the entrance to the downpipe, and then clattered into the tube.

                The coin rolled out, wheeling along and between the paving stones, ringing a chaotic tune along its rim before it fell, stuck unfortuitously betwixt two slabs just a few metres in front of Mrs Spatchcock.  It stood up proud on its edge, half in and half out… and unnoticed by the cook, or by Flower.

                And as he neared the kitchens, his toes caught on the coin in just the right place, and his gait faltered and jerked, and the tray of eggs was unleashed from his grasp and into the atmosphere.

                Flower didn’t quite fall, finding his balance just before, but as he stumbled forward, his eyes caught the horror on the cook’s face as the tray flew up and back down.

The eggs smashed all over her frittatas, and she screamed.  It was shock, at first, but evolved into rage.

Flower ran, but Mrs Spatchcock was faster, and she caught him in her grip within seconds.  The buxom cook, bosom sodden with ovum and shells, accosted the short man, who shrank back in terror.

The cook kicked.

Punishment was dealt; Flower fell to the floor, clutching his bruised macarons.

And he realised that it wouldn’t just be the kitchen that needed new eggs…

Ow.

The End.

Next Flower Story

Flower and the Carousel (short story)

 

Flower and the Carousel

(Random 2-word prompt- fair, horror) 

                Flower’s boots thumped against the wooden slats of the pier, tapping a rhythm that disturbed the cold night air.  The pier creaked, objecting not just to his hurried footsteps, but to the swish and swash of the ocean that tickled its wooden toes below him.  The arrhythmic tune both interrupted and heightened the silence, which was deep and sharp, almost dangerous.   His breaths laboured, he was out of shape, trailing vapour from his lips as he moved.

He was almost there.

The carousel had broken again, a late callout, and it was up to Flower to repair it before the Queen’s party tomorrow.

He was alone on the pier, though the stars kept him company, grains of salt scattered across the dark sky, reflected in the ocean.  He could almost smell them, the briny pricks of light.  Some were obscured by elongated grey clouds, misshapen tentacles clinching the firmament, ready to squeeze.  And the moon watched on, emotionless.

Flower shivered.

It ‘d turned chilly, a sudden change from the warm and dry day, and he’d forgotten his jacket.  The cold air crawled up his spine, fingering the vertebrae, reaching into his head and digging its nails into his amygdala.  He was afraid, but he didn’t know why.

He needed to get this done, and quick.

Flower swallowed his urge to run; he approached his target.

The carousel seemed strange tonight; it didn’t look quite like it was supposed to.  An uncanny valley of a merry-go-round.  The red and white conical roof wasn’t quite as pointed as it should be, wasn’t quite as symmetrical or uniform.  The support poles beneath seemed less straight, more… bulbous.  A distorted carousel.

No.

He was tired, it was dark, and his imagination was going wild.  Flower squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force away the inexplicable vision, and blinked.

Was the carousel the same?

He took a step forward.

Something broke the silence.  A loud clicking, syncopated and organic, pierced the cold night air; it was deep and low, at first, but rose and rose in pitch and frequency.  It creaked like a heavy door on ancient hinges, a door opening to what horrors, Flower didn’t know.  And it stopped, almost as suddenly as it’d come.  It echoed in his bones, and he found himself frozen to the spot.

He could still hear the ocean, baying at the shores, biting the struts of the pier.  The wood groaned in response.  But everything was different.  The music of this night was out of tune.

And the salt in the air was stronger; it tingled the hairs in his nose.

His heart was in his throat, his breathing shallow, and he realised he was no longer alone… if he’d even been alone to begin with.

There was someone... something else here.

Flower’s eyes scanned the carousel, searching, probing the shadowy mounts trapped within its cage for something out of place.  Seahorses seemed to rear up in fright.  Sharks shrank away.  A whale opened its gigantic maw to scream.  The petrified sea life, once merry and inviting, wore terrifying faces in the gloom.  Hordes of glass eyes watched Flower from inside the ride.

He gulped down his heart and took another step.

His boot slapped and splashed into a shallow puddle that was creeping its way along the decking.  It was coming from the carousel.

He stopped again.

A pool of water, as wide as the merry-go-round, was spreading out from its mechanical carcass.  Like blood from a wound.  And now that he was a little closer, he realised the whole thing was wet, soaking, the frightened wooden creatures glossy.  Dripping.  He could hear the drips, quiet ticks counting down.

Flower could feel it now, the presence.  Something large and looming.  Hidden in the dark.  Close.

The smell of the sea was strong now, pungent.  He could taste it.

The carousel moved.  Just slightly, and not as it should.  The supports warped, and shifted, the roof shuddered.

And the clicking returned.

Kck kck kck kckckckckckckck.

It vibrated the air.  It shook Flower’s organs.  He wanted to run… but he couldn’t.

Kck kck kck kckckckckckckck.

Kckckckckckckck.

And then he saw it.

Large eyes stared down hungrily at Flower with rectangular pupils.  For a moment, they seemed to float in midair above the carousel, but then the ride transformed.  The roof rippled and morphed, the supporting poles swung up and out, tentacles, and the monster that was hidden in the night, camouflaged against the red and white carousel, revealed itself.

Kckckckckckckck kck kck!

Slimy orange skin emerged from the dark, invisible became visible.  Shape and form rippled into existence, a creature mounted on the roof of the carousel, undisguised and blatant.  It loomed.  Its big eyes, peering out from a bulbous and enormous head, examined Flower, seemingly waiting for something, and he realised his mouth had fallen open in reply, an empty scream trapped inside his throat.  He prayed to survive, but only an eldritch god consumed his thoughts.

Kraken.

A long and thick tentacle, swathed in suckers, whipped up and out, barrelled into his chest, it hurt, and Flower was thrown back.  He hit the deck hard, wind knocked from his lungs, and his body bounced across the wood before scraping to a halt.   He struggled to catch his breath, winded, broken ribs.  Bruised.  He wanted to scream, wanted to run.  He rolled onto his side, and vomited.

Kck kck kck kck kck kck kck.

The colossal cephalopod was still there, waiting, and Flower could do nothing but wait for his death.

The creature’s round head throbbed in and out, eyes narrowed, pupils focussed on him.  Its arms slithered on the wet pier, tracing slow spherical and curved paths, drawing unnatural runes in the puddles.

Flower watched in terror.

And then it screamed, a series of ear-splitting clicks that breached the night air fast and frantic.  Tentacles gripped and clawed at the wooden creatures of the carousel beneath it, ripping and pulling, tearing and rending.  The ride creaked and cracked in agony.  The kraken cried out.

The end was nigh.

Flower closed his eyes.

Silence.

A loud splash.

Salt lingered in his nose, on his tongue.  The screeching call of the monster rung in his ear.  Its cold presence lingered along his spine.  Everything hurt.

He peeked out into the night, and saw nothing but the empty carcass of the carousel.

The kraken had stolen away the seahorses and sharks, and the whale; it had caught its prey, its food, and retreated to the depths.

Flower was alone on the pier, thankfully unappetising.

The End.

Next Flower Story

Flower's First Night (short story)

 

Flower’s First Night

(Random 2-word prompt- pudding, security)

                Flower, it was his first night on the job, ran.

                It wasn’t the best start at protecting the Queen’s tarts, and he’d been warned about the ants, but he hadn’t expected them to be THAT big.  He prayed that this one was the exception; one was already too much to handle.  Not that the confectionary gods ever listened.

                He’d dropped his sword as soon as he’d seen it.  Not on purpose.  He just hadn’t expected the thing to crash through the window like that.  It’d given him a fright.  The colourful stained glass shattered, the dark wooden muntins and stiles folded like paper, and the stones of the walls shook and cracked.  A large brown oval head, garnished with gigantic snapping blood-red mandibles, burst into the corridor, followed by a huge thorax and it’s supporting elongated legs.

                Flower had dropped his sword and ran, not realising until he was around the corner that perhaps the ant’s size was the reason he’d been given a weapon in the first place.  He’d abandoned it, and the vault of sugary tarts he’d sworn to protect, in favour of his own life.  And now the large insect chased him.

Oh dear.

He’d expected monsters to scream, but not this one.  It clicked and clacked, chattering loudly like a pair of rulers being slapped against skin.  It grated his senses.  Flower got the impression that it was calling for others, other ants to join the hunt.  Oh no.  Gods forbid that any more of those insects invaded the castle vaults, but there was food here, the royal tarts, and he knew ants had the sweetest tooth.

His boots thumped against the vibrant carpet that ran the lengths of the halls, and he darted by paintings of tart ancestors, saccharine portraitures of treats long forgotten.  The bug was wreaking havoc behind him, destroying priceless artifacts, but he wasn’t here to protect those trinkets, and he had to keep running.  His breaths laboured, he was exhausted, and the ant was swift.  He felt a stitch in his side.  He kept running.  He sucked in oxygen through the pain, realising that the ant stank, something he’d never noticed before.  These passages usually smelled sweet and freshly baked, but the pungent aroma of the giant ant had consumed the air.  Acidic, like vinegar.  Intense.  It made his eyes water.

Flower ran as fast as he could, the ant close behind him, clicking and clacking, snapping and clapping its mandibles.  He tried not to scream, waste his breath, for there was salvation ahead.  If he could reach the doors, if he was fast enough, he’d be able to call for help, sound the alarm for the other guards to tackle the formidable formicidae.

He collided with the door, it winded him, and the hard carpet caught him as he fell.  Ow!  The door was locked!  Oh dear.

Flower climbed to his feet.  He wondered for a moment why the ant hadn’t caught him yet, taken his small and frail body between its mandibles and severed his top from his bottom.  He faced it.

The large ant towered over him, considering the man with its compound eyes and twitching elbowed antennae.  It was silent, no chitter-chatter.  The creatures head tilted to the side; there was an intelligence there, ancient and deadly.

Flower suddenly realised that perhaps this creature was not craving the delicious round tarts of the Queen, with their succulent and sweet fillings encased in rich and flaky pastry, but it desired the savoury meats and crunchy bones of a short little guard on his first night on the job.

Oh no.

He considered banging on the locked door, crying out, but he knew that the giant ant would have him as soon as he turned his back.

There was only one thing for it.

He’d fight.

But he needed one thing first.

Flower screamed and ran.  He ducked under the enormous thorax, weaved between long and dangerous legs, dodged around the bulbous abdomen and ran and ran and ran as fast as his legs could take him.

He looked back.  The ant thrashed against walls that weren’t wide enough for its enormous bulk to turn around, breaking the canvases and ornaments adorning them.  Its creepy voice chittered, broke its silence, and was more urgent, angrier.  The ant was furious at him.

Uh oh.

The massive monster moved forward, away from him, and it’s padded feet gripped the door and walls in front of it.  It climbed up and over, defying gravity as it reached the ceiling and then traced a spiral path down the wall and back to the level floor.  It faced him.  Mandibles snapped the air in triumph and the chase begun again.

Flower had the lead this time and he used his advantage to reach the broken window where the giant ant had first forced its way into the castle.  He frantically searched for his sword, and found it amongst broken glass.  Yes!  He gripped it tight and faced down the corridor waiting for the inevitable confrontation with the creature.

He gulped down his fear on a dry throat.

The gigantic ant neared, jaws ready to munch Flower’s body to dust.

Oh no, he couldn’t do this.

There was no way he could battle this huge creature and win, not on his first night of the job.

Flower scurried to his left, fumbling for the vault’s keys on his belt.  The pungent perfume of the ant was getting more intense, it’s skittering and chittering louder.  It was almost upon him.

He slammed the key into the vault’s lock, yelling and cursing the gods at his fate, and the door to the delicious tarts clicked open just as the insidious insect reached him.

Flower screamed.

                The creature reared up, its mandibles snapped a hungry message, telling the man he was dinner, and Flower darted into the vault.

                He slammed the door, but the ant was quicker.  It pressed its weight against the vault, fighting against his efforts to get to safety.  He pushed back, the entrance ajar, opening and closing as the giant head and jaw tried to squeeze its way in.  Flower’s muscles strained.  He braced his legs, thighs burning with effort and his arms laboured against the metal door of the vault.

                He cried out, a crescendoed battle cry to steel his resolve as he forced all his strength, all his will to live, against the door.  The insect countered with its hunger, but his need was greater.

                The vault clicked shut and Flower collapsed to his knees.

                He was safe.

                He sighed relief.

                He stood.  The room was silent, there was no way the chattering creature was getting in here.  Not through those massive steel doors.  But what next?  He was trapped in here with the beast guarding the only exit.

                Flower suddenly noticed he was no longer able to smell the vinegary stink of the monster; it’d been replaced by the sweet aroma of what he’d been sworn to protect.  The Queen’s tarts.  Their scrumptious and fragrant scent filled his nostrils, and he was suddenly a little peckish.  He’d used a lot of his stamina against that humungous monster, and it’d been several hours since he’d eaten any dinner.

                Flower eyed the stacks and stacks of tarts, hundreds of sweet treats, that filled the large vault.  Just one little cake wouldn’t do any harm.  One dessert.

                Oh yes.

                His mouth salivated.

                Flower reached for the nearest tart.  It appeared to be strawberry.  His favourite.  He took a bite, ignoring the iced lettering on its surface, but he’d soon know why the Queen had locked up her delicious puddings.

                The letters on the tart read: “Eat me.”

                Oh dear.

                She'd have his head for this.

The End.

Next Flower Story

In His Sights (short story)

 In His Sights

By T. A. Jenkins 

Q33RX steadied the barrel of the gun on the window ledge.  His cybernetic enhancements synchronised his eyesight with the muscles in his hand and arm, and he brought his prey into his sights.  It would be a clean headshot.  No collateral damage.

Nick Calon was going to die tonight.

His target looked happy, surrounded by his friends in the restaurant, a drink in hand.  Laughing.  Smiling.  But that didn’t matter.  Nick Calon had been judged guilty by the Religitron Mainframe and would face justice.  He was the enemy.

The shot was lined up, Calon’s face caught in the crosshairs.  The man smiled, almost directly at the cyborg assassin.

Q33RX stroked the trigger and… hesitated.

Déjà vu?

There was something about that smile.  Nick… Nick Calon’s smile, his face... he’d seen it before.

No.  That wasn’t right.  Of course he’d seen the man’s face before; he knew who he was going to kill.  He’d seen the mission brief.  He’d memorised the face of the man he needed to kill.

He lined up his shot once more.

But why the déjà vu?  Had the interspace teleporter messed up the wiring in his brain?  Like his arm?  He’d fixed that, but he couldn’t fix his brain.

And Calon was still there, smiling.

Q33RX had a mission.

He adjusted his grip on the rifle; the sight had slipped again, and he returned Nick Calon’s head to the crosshairs.

This was it.

Time to carry out the mission.

Time to kill an enemy of the Mainframe.

His finger stalled on the trigger; he couldn’t do it.  It should be easy.  It was his job, his mission.

Why couldn’t he do it?

Was he really that broken?

His hand held a frozen grip on the gun, ready to shoot.

Ready to kill.

This was why he was here, why he’d climbed up through the depths of the space station to get here, now.  He knew who he was going to kill.  Nick Calon had to die, no matter how he smiled, how he laughed with his friends, or how…

No.

Q33RX took a breath, steadied his resolve, and fired.

 

5 hours earlier.

 

It felt like an intake of breath, a gasp, but there’d been no air in the in-between.

Q33RX was there… and now, he was here.

A sudden, unpleasant jolt through spacetime.

It had taken a toll on him.

Colours flashed in his head; his eyes prickled as if a thousand needles had caressed the surface all at once, and his naked body dropped to its hands and knees.  He felt sick.

He’d tried to focus, to tell his cybernetic form to get its act together, but his thoughts weren’t quite in the same place as he was, almost as if they’d been left behind where he’d been and hadn’t caught up.

His stomach convulsed and he retched; he hadn’t been allowed any solid food for the last twenty-four hours and that worsened the cramps in his midriff.

He needed to move, to stand up.

He had a mission to carry out.

His blurred vision was starting to clear, and he found himself staring at a tiled ceramic floor.  It was dark, but he could still make out an alternating black and white pattern sprawling beneath him.  A chessboard floor.

The mission would be simpler than chess; an assassination, his first, but the conversion process had prepared him well.

Cyber-agent Q33RX climbed to his feet.  He was unsteady, still dizzy from the teleportation, and the robotics in his left arm had shorted out through the in-between space.  Easy enough to fix.  Inorganic material wasn’t well suited to instantaneous transport; it bore major risk, but his more human, fleshy exterior was mostly protective of his internal, non-human components.  Mostly.  He was lucky it was only his arm that’d been damaged.  He’d heard some agents had suffered complete neural overload.  They’d seen ghosts.  Gone crazy.  Failed.

He wouldn’t fail.

Q33RX found himself in a closet, abandoned, given the state of the small room.  Dried out rotten mops and decayed brushes huddled together in a corner, and, lurking nearby, a rusted bucket containing a murky and chunky liquid.  A shelving unit leant against the wall to his right, mostly empty, but he could see, amongst some other paraphernalia, the remnants of abandoned cleaning fluids and decayed toilet paper within its carcass.  An old wooden door bowed awkwardly in its jamb before him; it was closed but drastically misshapen.  Dim green light whispered though the glass panel and highlighted the word ‘MAINTAINENCE’ which was printed backwards on the surface.

He’d arrived, as planned, somewhere in the old and neglected central levels of the space station and, like many Earth cities, it had grown over time by building on top of existing structures, quite literally burying the past as the population grew.  Though in this case it had expanded outwards, an inflating sphere of twisted metal, plastic, and flesh.

He looked at his left arm, a limp limb of metal and plastic wrapped in his nude flesh.  The teleport system had only transported him.  No clothes, no weapons.  And until he made his way to the drop point, where a spy had secreted a mission case, he’d only be able to rely on his own cybernetic enhancements.  Right now, he had what he needed for a simple repair.  With his right arm he reached into his mouth and retrieved a small multitool concealed within the cavity in his throat.  He released the blade from the tool and begun to cut into the flesh of his left arm.  It hurt, but he could handle it; he needed both limbs to kill and a little pain was a fair trade off.

He got to work.  He unscrewed a panel just beneath the surface of his skin and dug into the circuits within with the tool.  He had to be quick; he knew the consequences if he failed this mission.  It was all or nothing.  He clipped a wire and swore at a painful spark.  If he didn’t succeed, or if he was detected, the Religitron Mainframe would send another cyber-agent to destroy him and finish the job.  The Mainframe didn’t accept failure.  He disconnected a couple of wires, then reconnected them onto different circuits, causing a surge through his left arm.  That should do it.  He tested every joint and muscle, flexing his fingers and rotating his wrist, extending and retracting his elbow, rolling his shoulder.  Yes, all fixed.

He found an old first aid kit tucked at the back of one the shelves.  The bandages inside were a little decrepit but would be good enough; he used one roll to wipe away the excess blood and wrapped the rest of the bandages tightly around his arm.  It was the first bit of clothing he’d worn since he’d stripped off for the teleporter.  A full set of clothes was his next step, but not because of any sense of modesty; he needed to be able to navigate the higher levels of the space station without drawing any undue attention.  Nudity in public spaces wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

He headed for the exit.  The door handle was a little rusted, and he found he needed to shove hard against the jammed, warped door to open it.  It gave way with a splintered crunch.  Q33RX stepped out of the closet into a desolate corridor beyond.

The space station was huge, a city of cities, and he only had a vague idea where he was within its depths.  The hall was lit by dim green emergency lights, a sign that no power was diverted here, and it’s non-descript walls gave little away.  Not even the station’s homeless came here.  Not even rats.

It was a place for ghosts.

And cyborg assassins.

He could see several doors in the gloomy hall, and it only took a short search to find some old maintenance overalls and a pair of serviceable boots in one of the rooms.  He couldn’t make out their colour; they may have been brown, blue, green, or even pink; it was difficult to see the full spectrum in this emerald light.  Not that it mattered.  Clothes were clothes.  Aside from what he’d needed, there’d been very little else of note to be found; most of rooms contained old computer terminals that were useless without power, or rows and rows of filing cabinets.  Abandoned admin.

As he wandered, he found himself lost, and all he could do was choose a direction and keep going until he found something to clue him in on his location.  He had five hours to complete his mission.  Five hours to kill.

It was an hour later when he was a little less lost; he found a map.  As he approached it, he thought he saw a face staring back at him from the reflective surface; it wasn’t his own, but someone familiar.  A trick of the light.  Shadows.  It disappeared almost as soon as he’d seen it, replaced with his own grim face looking back at him from behind the diagram.

It’d been a ghost, his imagination directing him to his pick-up point.

Another hour passed before Q33RX reached an abandoned office several floors up.  It’d taken much longer than expected to get here; some of the passages had been blocked by debris.  Some had collapsed entirely.  There’d been no direct route.

The office was littered with hundreds of desks, lined in imperfect rows skewed by time, all with broken computer terminals.  Most were cracked open like rancid eggs and stripped of their electronic yokes.  They were dusty and stained.  Useless.  He walked between them, checking the desk numbers, counting along until he reached the one he needed.

Zero-thirty-three.

It was almost indistinguishable from the others, though a fractured chair lay sprawled on its back in front of the terminal.  He kicked it to one side.  There was a filing cabinet under the desk, and he yanked opened the bottom drawer to find a metal box.  The mission case, just as planned.  He lifted it out and placed it on the desk next to the busted computer.

He froze, hearing the click of a trigger behind him.

“Don’t turn around,” said a man.  His voice was deep, smooth, almost comforting.  “I just want to ask you a question.”

“Why?”  He ran a finger along the metal seems of the case; there would be a gun inside.  “Who are you?”  He wasn’t sure if he’d be fast enough to get it before the intruder could fire his own.

“I’m asking the questions.”

“Are you the spy?” said Q33RX.  “Did you leave me this case?”  He wondered if he was talking to a double agent.

“Does it matter?”

“What do you want?”

“I told you; I want to ask you something.”  The voice was coming from his back left, around five metres back.  “About what you’re about to do.”  Q33RX had clocked a doorway near there, one of only a few ways into this office.  “I want you to think about your mission.”

“It’s the only thing I’ve got on my mind,” said Q33RX.  He kept his hand on the metal case, almost willing it open to get the gun.  “I know what I need to do.”

“You should get that arm looked at.”

He didn’t reply.

“Tell me, do you know who you’re going to kill?”

“The enemy,” he snapped.  He considered throwing the box at him, to distract him, skew his gun’s aim, so he could charge at him.  “Everything I need is in here.”

“Do you know who you’re going to kill?”  The man’s voice was sterner this time, pointed.  “Do you?

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

“Who are you?!”  Q33RX screamed, grabbed the metal case, turned on his heel, and threw it at… nothing.  Just an empty doorway.  He, whoever he was, had disappeared.  The box clattered into the room beyond and bounced, echoing from within, the contents rattling and rolling as it settled.

He rushed after it, hoping to catch the stranger, to find out who he was, what he wanted, why he was there, what he meant by his bizarre question.

The room was empty.

A lonely computer terminal was overturned on the floor, no chair, and to its right was the remains of a battered and rusty filing cabinet.  Nearby he found the box he’d weaponised.  He squatted and opened it, ignoring the files and pulling the gun from inside.  He cocked it.  Another quick scan of the room confirmed he was alone.  There was only a sealed-up doorway to another part of the building, but there was no way he’d escaped through there, not without a welding torch.  Besides, it was sealed from the inside.

This was impossible.

Had Q33RX been wrong?  Had the man been somewhere else in the office?  No, this was definitely where the voice had come from.

And who was he?  A spy?  Double agent?  Was he working for the enemy?  Or had he imagined the man?  Another ghost?  Had the whole thing just been a product of damage to his cybernetic brain, damage caused by the teleportation?  Like his arm?

He placed his back against a wall, keeping his eyeline on the open doorway in case the disappearing man returned, and finally looked at the mission files from the box.

Nick Calon.  That’s who file told him he was going to kill.  He didn’t recognise the name, or anything else in the man’s bio.  The cyber-agent hadn’t even been to this space station before, so how could he know who he was going to kill?  The stranger’s question had been nonsense.  He turned the page to the reconnaissance photos.  Nick Calon.  The face was unknown to him.  Another stranger.  No.  Wait.  He…

His arm briefly twinged with a short, sharp pain; he grasped it instinctively, bloodying his hand.  The pain was gone as quickly as it had occurred.

Q33RX refocused his attention.  The mission was all that was important, not the strange man and his confusing words, not the pain in his arm, and not whether he know who he was going to kill.  Nick Calon was going to die.  He spent a few minutes memorising the paperwork and photos, before burning it all with the matches left in the metal case.  No evidence left behind.  There was some extra equipment in the box, some sniper attachments for his gun, and he secreted them within his overalls.

It was time to move.

He had everything he needed.

He was armed.

He knew where to go.

He knew who to assassinate.

Nick Calon was going to die in three hours.

The cyber-agent took another look around the office with its rows of terminals, searching for any sign of his ghostly visitor, but found nothing.  As he’d expected.  If the stranger was a traitor, a double agent, it made no sense.  He hadn’t stopped him.  The man had still left the files, the gun.  If he was working for the enemy, why would he do that?  The stranger had just left him with a cryptic question and gone silent.  What sort of game was being played?

‘Do you know who you’re going to kill?’

He did… now.

Q33RX headed for his next location: a recently empty tower block in the populated upper levels of the space station.  A perfect sniper spot opposite where his target, Nick Calon, would be celebrating a friend’s engagement.

An hour and a half later, and after crawling up and along crumbled passageways and corridors, he emerged from a manhole into an alleyway just off the main concourse of a busy street.  He’d heard the bustle and chaos, the buzz and clamour of the city, almost as soon as he’d started headed upwards.  It’d been getting louder and louder as he neared his goal.  It was deafening now.  The several homeless people he’d passed on the levels just below the surface, and the one or two in the alley, were unfazed by the cacophony.  Desensitised.  Vehicles zoomed through the air above.  Cars chugged along the streets.  Dogs barked.  Sirens and alarms sang intermittently in the distance, and musical genres competed for attention.  People shouted, laughed, and talked.  And even the light boomed; bright and colourful illuminations pierced every corner, a mix of tasteless advertisements and gaudy flashing neon signs.  It was an assault on his senses.

And the smell…

He tried not to think about it; it’d been bad enough picking up its hideous gaseous tendrils as he’d moved from the musty lower depths of the space station and neared the surface, but here it permeated everything.

Q33RX entered the designated tower block through the back door, making sure to disable the security system.  Just because the building was for sale and the estate agent never showed people around on the weekends, didn’t mean he could just break the lock and do whatever he wanted.  He needed to be careful not to jeopardize the mission.

It was quieter inside, the walls protecting him from the discord outside, and he tried to revel in the silence as he rode the elevator to one of the upper floors.  His thoughts filled the quiet.  He needed to focus, to try and ignore the feelings of doubt that crept up his metal spine.

Did he know who he was going to kill?

The ping of the elevator doors took him out of his contemplation, and he quickly made his way to the room where he’d take his shot.

Nick Calon was going to die tonight.

Q33RX readied himself, opening the window and allowing the frenzied sounds of the city to wash over him.

He waited.

And waited.

He kept his target’s face in his mind, trying to concentrate only on the mission, only on killing the enemy.  It was his only purpose right now.

He waited.

And waited.

It was almost time; he’d arrived.

Nick Calon.

The cyber-agent watched his prey greet his friends on the roof of the building opposite and he kept waiting.  He waited as he watched the target eat, drink, and be merry.  Calon looked happy.

He would die happy.

Q33RX steadied the barrel of the gun on the window ledge and brought his prey into his sights.  A clean headshot.  No collateral damage.

Nick Calon had been judged guilty by the Religitron Mainframe and would face justice.  He was the enemy.

The shot was lined up, Calon’s face caught in the crosshairs.  The man smiled, almost directly at the cyborg assassin.

Q33RX stroked the trigger and… hesitated.

Déjà vu?

There was something about that smile.  Nick… Nick Calon’s smile, his face... he’d seen it before.

No.  That wasn’t right.  Of course he’d seen the man’s face before; he’d seen the mission brief.  He’d memorised the face of the man he needed to kill.

He lined up his shot once more.

Did he know who he was going to kill?

He adjusted his grip on the rifle; the sight had slipped again, and he returned Nick Calon’s head to the crosshairs.

This was it.

Time to carry out the mission.

Time to kill an enemy of the Mainframe.

His finger stalled on the trigger; he couldn’t do it.  It should be easy.  It was his job, his mission.

Why couldn’t he do it?

Was he really that broken?

His hand held a frozen grip on the gun, ready to shoot.

Ready to kill.

This was why he was here, why he’d climbed up through the depths of the space station to get here, now.  He knew who he was going to kill, didn’t he?

Nick Calon had to die.  No matter how he smiled, how he laughed with his friends, or how…

No.

Q33RX took a breath, steadied his resolve, and fired.

 

He missed.

 

The bullet shattered several wine glasses and tumblers on the shelves behind the bar; no-one, not even Nick Calon, was harmed.  But the bullet had shattered the happiness.  His prey no longer smiled, no longer laughed; he was scared.  He ducked below the tables, following the lead of the screaming and shouting guests at the restaurant.  What should’ve been a precision hit, became chaos.

Nick Calon was still alive.

The déjà vu was still alive too.

Did he know who he’d tried to kill?

Had that mysterious man, the voice in the depths of the space station, been real?  Or a ghost?  Was his cybernetic brain twisted up in knots from the teleportation?  Neural overload?  No.  What was happening to him?

He leapt to his feet and screamed.  He punched the wall, plaster exploded outward, and his fist went right through.  It didn’t hurt, but he screamed again, punched again.  And again.  And again.

There wasn’t time for this; if he finished the mission, if he killed Nick Calon, maybe these feelings and thoughts would die too.

There was no other way.

Q33RX unscrewed the sniper attachments from his gun, shortening the length, and abandoned them on the floor, before climbing out the window and onto the fire escape.

His vantage point was almost at the top of the building, and his prey was on the large roof plaza of a much shorter building opposite; there was a significant height and gap between them.

The cyber-agent knew what he needed to do.  The raw calculations from the computerised parts of his brain could be accurate, if he could trust them, but it was impossible to know every variable.  The soft, squishy parts of his brain, instinct, would compensate.

He readied his stance, one foot back, one forward; he braced his legs, preparing the cyber enhanced muscles in his thighs and calves.

He eyed his target.

Nick Calon, along with the other people at the event, were still taking cover under the tables.  He could hear sirens in the distance, and it was hard to tell if they were part of the usual melodies of the city or whether they were coming closer.  The traffic, flying cars and transports, continued undeterred, and life surrounding the restaurant continued as if no gun had been fired.  People were too concerned with their own lives and used to the chaos of this place of sin.

Q33RX leapt from the building, jumping into the gaudy illumination and the cacophonic commotion of the city.  His body fell between the flying vehicles, and he felt the whoosh and zip as they zoomed around him.  He thought he’d get hit, get knocked from his path, but either luck or his calculating brain were on his side.

He hit the paved floor of the plaza and rolled, scrambling to his feet, and keeping some of the momentum as he ran.

Someone screamed, a pedestrian, but he ignored her and pushed through anyone in his way.

He kept his focus on Nick Calon.

Did he know who he was going to kill?

He raced toward the restaurant.

Did he know?

He kicked open the door and cocked his gun.

Did he?

As he entered, he saw the food abandoned on tables, drinks spilled, and the guests huddled beneath the furniture.  He heard someone sobbing to his right.  He could feel the fear in the room.  Not that it mattered.  Q33RX kept moving forward.  He needed to complete the mission, to prove to himself that he wasn’t going crazy, to prove he could kill Nick Calon.

For the mission.

For the Religitron Mainframe.

For…

His prey was in his sights.

The cyber-agent grabbed the table and threw it to one side.  Plates and glasses cascaded and flipped from its surface as it smashed against the restaurant’s bar.

He took aim at Nick Calon.

Did he know who he was going to kill?

His finger pressed against the trigger.

“Quinn?” said his prey.  His voice was deep, smooth, almost comforting.

Something changed.

It felt like an intake of breath, a gasp, but there’d been no air in his lungs.

A sudden, uneasy jolt through spacetime.

The words had taken his breath away.

Colours flashed in his head; his skin tingled as if a thousand kisses had caressed its surface all at once, and his body dropped to its hands and knees.  He felt sick.

He knew who he was going to kill.

He tried to focus, to tell his cybernetic form to get its act together, but his thoughts were suddenly in the same place as he was, almost as if they’d been left behind and had finally caught up.

Flickers of moments, forgotten memories, bombarded his brain.  Romantic meals, holding hands in the park, snuggling on the sofa.  Echoes of another life washed over him.  A kiss on the cheek, laughing at the same jokes, playing games together, splashing about and having fun in the seas of a distant planet.  How could he have forgotten so much?  His smile, his eyes… how could he have forgotten?

Those eyes, that smile… they were his home.

“Quinn? Is that really you?” said Nick.

He’d lost everything to the mission.

Wiped away, converted, by the Religitron Mainframe.

His gun clattered to the floor.

“Quinn.”  A hand, a familiar and welcoming hand, touched his.  “It’s okay.”

He looked up with teary eyes; he didn’t realise he’d been crying.  The mysterious stranger, the voice he’d heard in the lower level… it had been no stranger.  Had it been his imagination?  Memories?  A ghost from his past?  His own mind had warned him with a voice he now felt relieved to hear once more.  He blinked through watery eyes to see someone he knew with all his heart.

“Nick,” he said.  “I… I…”

“I know.”  The other man stood, guiding him up at the same time.  Nick grabbed both his hands.  “Quinn, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“I was going to…”

The other man placed his finger on his lips and smiled.  Everything melted away, all the commotion and chaos, all the past and all the future; there was only the present… and the two of them.  And those eyes.  He didn’t want this to end.  He wanted to stay lost in those eyes forever.  Q33RX… no, Quinn… pulled Nick close.  They embraced, bodies and lips meeting for what felt like the first time.  Fireworks flooded his cybernetic heart.  He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten all this.  Forgotten him.

It had been stolen from him.

He was going to take it all back.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” he said as they broke apart.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Nick squeezed his hand, “and you found me.”

“I… I failed my mission.”  He placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder.  “And now we’re both in danger.”

“I know.”

Quinn looked around the restaurant.  Police sirens were growing louder outside, and he could see Nick’s friends and relatives, still hiding under the tables, less scared more nervous.  They’d be okay; they weren’t targets.  But Quinn and Nick needed to flee.  “The Religitron Mainframe will be sending another cyber-agent to finish the job,” he said.  He nodded toward the door that led to the kitchen, and undoubtedly an exit.  He took Nick’s hand.  “Come with me if you want to live.”

As the words left his lips, Quinn knew that he wouldn’t just be saving Nick’s life, but that Nick would also be saving his, to be able to live as he truly was, and with who he was meant to be with.  He wanted to live.

The lovers ran, Quinn holding Nick tight, and he vowed to never lose him, never forget him, ever again.

He was finally home.