Well Wished (short story)

 

Well Wished

(Random 2-word prompt- divorce, shaft)

 

                Flower had expected wishing wells to be found in the centre of some beautiful and floriated forest, surrounded by nature, with sunlight streaming through the canopy onto the deep greens of verdant leaves and vibrant, colourful petals.

                Quaint.

                He’d expected wishing wells to be small and ornate.  Uniform grey stones arranged in a neat circle, with stiff wooden struts holding up a tiled roof.  And a winch dangling a bucket.

                A classic design.

                He hadn’t expected the well to be a lopsided hole surrounded by misshapen and broken bricks, with no roof, and situated around the back of an abandoned factory.  The place was far from quaint.  Everything here was brown.  Drab.  Dusty.  A desert.  Nothing grew here.  The ground had been poisoned and forsaken, left for the sun and wind to weather and wither away any signs of life.

                Flower slunk towards the wishing well, coins jingling expectantly in his pockets, watched only by the multiple smashed windows, its eyes, of the looming wall of the factory.  He was alone.  This place felt like it would be perfect for a murder of crows or an unkindness of ravens, maybe even a wake of vultures, but there was no life here, not even a faint caw or croak in the distance.  Only the wind sang.  It whispered around the factory as it embraced the derelict walls, rattled the busted windows and doors, and hummed a dirge through whatever discarded equipment lay within.

                He shivered.  It was cold, despite the sun beating down on the back of his neck, burning.  For a moment, a perfume of cooked flesh hit his nostrils, but it was only his imagination; his nose craved something other than the dull, earthy aroma of the dirt behind the factory.  And then another scent snuck up on his senses, crept in under the dirt, the scent of the stagnant water at the bottom the well.  It wasn’t strong, but enough to quease his stomach.  Or was that just nerves?

                Flower leant over the collapsed and disordered wall of the well and stared into the deep void.  He couldn’t see the bottom.  The sunlight had reached partway down, but had lost its nerve and given in to the shadows, which were deeper and darker than they had any right to be.

                He wondered if this was the right wishing well, with its misshapen hole and ominous demeanour.  Hmm.  It was just his nerves playing tricks.  This was definitely the right place.

                He reached into his pocket and retrieved a coin.  He paused, fingering the rim, running his thumb over the embossed face of the Queen.  It was now or never.

                Flower thought hard about his wish and flipped the coin into the well.

                It seemed to take forever to hit the water at the bottom; he strained his ears against the bustling wind until he heard a distant and quiet splash.  Then, he waited.

                Flower had expected wishes to come true with a delicate tinkle, a fizz of sparkles, then fade into existence.  Something magical.

                His wish appeared with a sudden and loud ‘pop.’

                Pop!

                But it wasn’t his wish.

                A chocolate cupcake, with a thick smattering of buttercream on top, materialised into his hand.  It looked delicious.

                He stared at it, confused and hungry, the wind whipping around him, the sun glaring down, and wondered if he should…

                He did.  Flower ate the cupcake.  It started with a bite, but the taste was so moreish, so flavourful, so satiating, that he couldn’t stop himself.  He wolfed down the rest of the cake, chewed and savoured the moist sponge, the fatty sweet topping, the sumptuous chocolate chips.  The cupcake had been the tastiest cupcake he’d ever eaten; it’d been full of riches.

                It wasn’t what he’d wished for.

                Flower decided to try again.

                He retrieved another coin from his pocket, he didn’t have many, and tossed it into the well along with his freshly thought wish.

                Pop!

                It was another chocolate cupcake.  He glared at the small treat in his hand, wondering why his wish still hadn’t been granted.  He sighed.  It looked just as delectable as the first.  His mouth watered… and he scarfed it down with the same eagerness.  It was just as tasty and rich.

                He wished again, flipping another coin into the pit, and a third cupcake popped into existence.  Hmm.  He shouldn’t, but…

Flower indulged half of the delicious sweet before he was forced to give up; he was beginning to feel sick, and as flavoursome and rich as the cakes were, three cakes were too much flavour, too much richness, too sweet and fatty for his stomach to handle.

He sat on the edge of the well, on the broken bricks, and cradled his belly in his arms.

Urgh.

This wasn’t what he’d expected.

Flower tried again.  And again.  And again.  Over and over.  Each time he wished, each time a loud pop, and each time he received a chocolate cupcake.  And before he knew it, his pockets were empty of coins.

He screamed his frustrations into the cold and dusty desert, shouted at the old, abandoned factory, screamed at the misshapen hole; only the whispering wind replied.  No matter how hard he’d tried, how hard he’d wished, he never got what he wanted.  Only cupcakes.

Flower stood up and threw one of the cakes into the well.

“Why?!” he cried out.  “Why?!!”

He’d wasted his time, his money, his wishes.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to walk away, but something stopped him.  He paused.  His fingers had brushed against metal, something small and round in his pocket.  Something he’d missed.

Another coin.

His last.

He couldn’t handle anymore cupcakes, but…

Flower gripped his last coin in his fist, closed his eyes, and wished his final wish.  He tossed the coin in the cursed void.  He wished away his wishes, and not just his; he wished away every wish the damned well had ever granted.

                He listened for the distant splash of the coin, then walked away.

                A delicate tinkle rung out, and the air filled with glittering sprinkles that fizzed and danced.  The factory faded into nothing.  Trees sprouted.  Grass grew.  Vibrant and colourful flowers blossomed.  The brown and dusty earth gave way to verdant greens.  The scents of nature floated through the air.  Birds sang.  Life returned.

                And in the centre of the fresh forest, stood a neat circle of grey stones with two wooden supports holding up a tiled roof.  And there was a winch, and a bucket.

                And no cupcakes.

The End.

Next Flower Story (coming soon)

Flower-stein’s Monster (short story)

 

Flower-stein’s Monster

(Random 2-word prompt- toss, specimen)

 

                Thunder boomed.  Lightning crackled across the gloomy clouds, and lit up his small, dingy room.  The sounds of the storm were short and sudden respites from the torrent of rain that hammered against the walls and roof of the castle, and a distraction from the howling winds that roared through the forest and found their way into all the cracks and cavities of the large stone building.

                “Gwhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”

                The manic laughter filled the lonely and empty halls.  It echoed against decrepit paintings, rotted furniture, and neglected rooms.  Candles flickered at its touch… or maybe that was the wind.  It was the call of a crazed and genius mind.

                It continued.

                Flower thought that the Doctor didn’t know when to stop; the laugh always lasted longer than it had any right to.  He stood up and closed the book he’d been squinting through; it was too cold and too dark to read, and he’d persisted as long as he could, struggled through the anticipation of tonight’s coming events.  And now was the moment he’d been waiting for… almost.  The Doctor would be calling for him any second now.

                The laugh continued, and then a breathless voice called out: “F…F… Flower!  Flower!  I’ve done it!  Ha hahaha!  The time is now!”  He heard the Doctor break into a coughing fit as he headed out and up the steps to the tower.  “Come hither and help me change the very definition of life itself!  Gwhahaha!”

                “Doctor Smithenstein.”  Flower bowed his head to the tall and skinny man as he entered the lab.  The Doctor was hunched and bald, only a few scraggly white hairs poked from his scalp; his body bore decades of wear and tear from late nights in the lab where he’d focused on a singular purpose, his life squandered away like the fortunes he’d inherited.  He was as decayed as this old castle.  It remained to be seen if it was all worth it.

                “Ah Flower,” he said with a dramatic flourish of his rubber-gloved hand.  His white coat, a little too small on his bony frame, strained against the movement.  “Ready the switches, open the circuits, and release the chemical mix!”  He laughed his maniacal laugh.  “The storm is nearing its apex!  We must be ready!”

                “Yes sir.”  Flower hurried to the large haphazard machine pressed up against the left wall; it’d been put together from all sorts of things, found things and reclaimed things, and the recycled LEDs and bicycle lights blinked and flickered, an old ship wheel turned and pulled ropes attached to several car wheels, churning a spectrum of coloured liquids in vials and containers of various sources and sizes.  Flower flicked a row of switches, each different, and mechanisms whirred into life behind the recycled metal chassis.

                “Gwhahahaha!”  The Doctor ducked beneath the cloth covered table, the table where the small specimen had been lain, and adjusted the wires and pipes.

                Flower opened the circuits, pulling the big lever on the side of the device, ducking from the sparks, and moved to the other side ready to release the chemicals.

                The storm raged above, and the clouds, visible through the skylight, thundered and roared.  Rain beat against the glass in sheets.  Lightning flashed, and for a second the dim lab was lit by more than just candles and flickering lights.

                Flower opened the valve on the first pipe and a glass milk bottle emptied its thick red liquid.  He opened a second.  Yellow liquid drained from an Erlenmeyer flask.  And a third.  Green from an upturned vodka bottle.  Fourth, purple from a glass orb.  Fifth, sixth, seventh, and so on, all colours all from different containers.  Liquids poured and mixed into a vat near the Doctor and his specimen, and a huge metal arm stirred and blended the concoction.

                Doctor Smithenstein laughed as he stood.  “Gwahahahaha!”  Did he ever stop laughing? “The time is at hand!” he exclaimed.  “Flower, raise the lightning rod!”

                Flower shuffled across the room, and he watched as the Doctor filled a large syringe with the chemical mixture from the vat.  He placed his hands on the crank and began to wind it as the scientist worked under the sheet on the small creature; blood would be replaced by the chemicals, electrodes connected to its neck.  Flower wound the handle.  It was hard work.  The long metal pole rose higher and higher as he sweat and strained, the skylight opening on cue, as rain drenched him and the stone floor around him.  The storm was getting worse, as expected.  Thunder quickened, lightning arced.  The rod locked into place and Flower stood back.

                “And now, we wait,” grinned the Doctor.  He stared up at the night sky, eager anticipation upon his brow.

                Nothing happened.  Flower watched as Doctor Smithenstein became more and more anxious as the minutes ticked by and more nothing happened; the scientist wrung his hands in the candlelight, struggled to hold his grin, cast regular furtive glances at the dead specimen hidden under the cloth on the table.  The weather was as angry as ever; it had to happen soon!

                And it did!

                Lightning struck the rod with a loud zap, the room flashed with a bright light… and everything went dark, candles blown out by the storm.

The room smelt of blood, or was it just the aroma of electricity?  Thunder rocked overhead, and the only other sounds he could hear were the thrash of the rain and the thrum of his heart.  He held his breath; he didn’t know what to expect.

And then the maniacal laugh broke what remained of the silence.

                “Gwhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”  The Doctor’s face was lit by a small flame, a match.  “I’ve done it!  Life!  I’ve created new life!”

                Flower moved around the room, relighting the candles as the laugh continued, bringing dim light back to the damp lab.  The scientist’s arms remained raised in triumph as the assistant approached the table, ready to see the results of the Doctor’s experiment.

                “Flower,” said Doctor Smithenstein, eyes charged with lightning.  “Remove the sheet, and let us see what magnificence my brilliant mind has wrought.”

                Flower did as he was ordered, whipping away the fabric with the theatrical embellishment expected of him.

                “Oh.”  The Doctor’s shoulders dropped, his hunch hunched lower, and a frown fell down his face.

                On the lab’s table lay the specimen.  Dead.  It had been dead to begin with.  Roadkill.  Flower had felt sorry for it, and that’s why he’d brought its corpse to the Doctor, for a new life, but somehow the baby deer looked even deader than it had been before, with metal bolts in its neck, and stiches on its head and limbs.  It had been enhanced by science and technology, and had been failed by it too.

                The poor creature remained dead.

                Doctor Smithenstein cried out, hand to his forehead like a betrayed lover, and he fell to his knees and sobbed.  “F… Flower… I’m useless.”

                “No sir.”  Flower couldn’t stop looking at the corpse on the table.  Poor thing.

                “Toss the specimen,” bawled the Doctor.  “And take the rest of the night off; I… I… need to be alone.”  He placed his head in his rubber-gloved hands and broke down in further tears.

                Flower knew better than to stay, especially when his boss was in this sort of mood.  He quickly scooped up the dead specimen in his arms, holding the cold baby deer close to his chest, and headed out of the lab and down the tower steps.

                He could hear the Doctor’s manic crying, no longer a laugh, echo through the lonely and empty halls and amongst the sounds of the storm, as he descended further and further down the stone steps.  He felt a little guilty for bringing the deer to the Doctor.  And though it had been dead already, he’d allowed its corpse to be desecrated and mutilated in the hopes that science could resurrect a young creature whose life had been cut short.

                Flower would bury it in the forest; he couldn’t just toss it away like Doctor Smithenstein had suggested.  It deserved better.

                He held the specimen… the baby deer…  tight against himself as he unlatched the door and crept out into the squally night.

                The rain and wind hit him hard, soaking him through as he fought his way into the cover of the trees.  He was cold, freezing.  His boots squelched through the mud, and he struggled to see a clear path.

                Flower tripped in the dark, catching his foot against a stray branch, and the deer fell from his arms.  Its small limp body rolled across the ground before coming to a halt.

                “Noooo!”  He stretched out his arm to the body, but it was just out of reach.  He crawled along the muck toward it.  The little thing deserved more than being left in the rain alone.

                The baby deer twitched.

                Flower stopped in his tracks, rain pouring down his face; he wiped water from his eyes.  Had he imagined it?

                The baby deer’s legs kicked against the forest floor.

                Flower’s jaw dropped.  He could taste the mud, the rain, the electricity in the air.  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing; the Doctor’s experiment had been a success.

                It lived.

                The specimen, the formerly dead creature, clambered unsteadily to its feet.  It appeared to tower over Flower’s prone body, despite its diminutive size.  The baby deer stood proud.  Alive.  Thunder and lightning careened overheard, and for a moment, the bolts and metal stitches glinted in the sudden illumination.

                “You’re alive!”  Flower laughed, fighting the urge to mimic the Doctor’s manic cackles.  “You’re alive!  You’re really alive!”

                At moments like this, he knew what he was expected to do, what he’d been employed to do; he’d need to recapture the specimen and return it to the lab.  But his heart won out.  He couldn’t do what was expected; he had to do what was right.

                “Go,” he said.  He gestured at the baby deer to move.  “Run, run away from here.  Go.  Now!”

                The creature stared at him with a deep intelligence.

                “Go!  Just go!”

                The deer ran.  It stopped several metres away and looked back at Flower.

                Thunder.  Lightning lit up the sky.

                It stood there, and he felt a sudden unease.

                The specimen’s eyes glowed red and it shrieked a blood-curdling cry against the storm.  It disappeared into the night, and Flower’s empathy transformed to terrified regret.

The End.

Next Flower Story

Puss in Drawers (short story)

 

Puss in Drawers

(Random 2-word prompt- concern, drawer)

 

                Someone hammered on the front door, and it shook on its hinges.

                “Urgh.”  He buried his head in his pillows, wrapping the duvet tighter around his body.  He’d been dreaming about carousels and eggs and wasn’t ready to move just yet.  It was too early, whatever time it was.

                The hammering returned, but louder and more forceful.

“Urrrggghhh.”  Flower rolled out of bed and crashed to the floor.  It was cold, and it hurt.  “Just a second,” he croaked, or at least tried to; it squeaked out of his throat less like a live frog and more like a dead one.  He spluttered and coughed, forcing out the night’s gunk.  He tried again.  “Two minutes!”  The frog was alive, but on life support.

Sandpaper scraped his nose, and his eyes shot open to see Felix licking his face.  He couldn’t help but smile at the tiny black and white kitten, especially as he’d seemingly abandoned his usual mischievous ways and was being uncommonly loving.

His visitor hammered on the door of his tiny studio apartment once more, and Flower wondered who…

“Shit!”  He jumped to his feet.  The landlord!  “Shit, shit, shit!”  And he wasn’t allowed pets.  “Give me a moment,” he called.  “I’ve just woken.”

Felix mewled loudly.  The cat was hungry; so was Flower.  And he needed to hide Felix ASAP.

His brain worked quicker than he’d expected for this time in the morning, and he managed to kill two birds with one stone… or was it one cat with two stones?  Not that he would ever hurt Felix; Felix was the only good thing in Flower’s life, and he was determined to keep him safe.  And hidden.  He dished up some cat biscuits for the kitten, along with some water, then, after relocating the contents of his sock drawer haphazardly under his bed, he placed the bowls into the drawer.  Felix hopped in and went straight for the food.  He purred.

Cat breakfast.

Flower’s breakfast would have to wait.

The door knocked again.

“Coming,” he called, before turning back to the little cat.  He whispered: “I need you to stay quiet, okay?”  Felix ignored him.  “Please?  Just stay here, okay.  Daddy is not supposed to have you.”  He gripped the handle.  “Sorry, sorry.”  Flower closed the drawer.  “Sorry Felix.”

The kitten sounded content, quiet, no objections from within the chest of drawers.

With hands on his hips, he sighed relief.

Flower headed for his front door; it was only a couple of steps from the bed, and he reached it in less than a second.  He unlatched the lock, and it squealed open on rusted hinges.

The landlord, a tall lanky man with greasy hair, loomed over him.

“Mister Flower,” he growled, pronouncing every syllable between his plastic white teeth.  “Where are your clothes?”

“Shit, sorry Mr Houndsworth.”  He covered his dignity with his hands, “give me a moment,” and slammed the door in the man’s face.

In all the sleepy confusion, and the rush to hide Felix, he’d forgotten something very important.  His dignity.  Oh dear.  Flower threw on some trousers and a shirt and returned to the door.

“Come in, come in.”  He ushered the landlord inside.  It wasn’t a large apartment, just one room with a bed and a kitchen, then a small bathroom off to the side.  He hadn’t tidied up in a few days, he’d been busy, and he’d left dishes in the sink and bits and bobs all over the room.  “Sorry for the mess.”  He wasn’t sorry, but he felt like it was something he should say.  “I had a late night at the restaurant.”

“Just what is it that you do, Mister Flower?”  The landlord hunched closer, his voice full of connotations, and pointed at the shorter man.  “You seem to have a different job every time I speak to you.”

He ignored the question.  “Would you like a coffee?  Or tea?”  He thought it best not to give an answer to Houndsworth; he wouldn’t like what he heard and frankly, it was none of his business.  “How about some water?”

“No, I won’t keep you long Mister Flower.”  His shifty eyes darted around the room, scanning everything, every unwashed plate, every odd sock, every dusty shelf.  “Incidentally, I heard a couple of strange noises while I waited.  Sounded almost like… a cat?  But of course, it couldn’t be a cat, could it, Mister Flower, because pets are not allowed.”

“Uh, it’s just… um… one of the cupboard hinges.”  Flower laughed nervously.  “Like the front door.  It just needs a bit of oil.  Squeaks something terrible.”  He laughed again.

“Which one?  I’ll get my handyman on it right away.”

“No!  Umm.  No,” he said.  “No need to trouble yourself.  I’m sure I’ve got something to fix it somewhere.”  Flower grinned.  “Not to worry.”

Houndsworth’s eyes narrowed.  “If you’re sure…”

“Yes, quite sure.  Very sure.  Certain, in fact.”

Felix meowed from within the drawer.

“What was that?”

“Oh, did I say cupboard? I meant floorboard.”  Flower jiggled his foot up and down; he let out a squeak from the side of his mouth and prayed the landlord didn’t notice his poor imitation.  “See?”  He squeaked again.  “Just needs a little TLC.”

“Hmmm,” murmured the landlord.   “If you say so, Mister Flower.”  He entwined his fingers.  “Any other issues I need to be made aware of?”

“Not that I can think of.”  This visit needed to be over.  Now.  “I’ll call you if anything comes up...  promise.”  He didn’t really understand the purpose of these inspections anyway; it wasn’t as if landlords didn’t find a way out of giving back the deposit at the end of the rental term.  And yet, he still complied with the silly contract… mostly.  Felix was going to stay here with him no matter what, contract be damned.

“What’s that?”  Mr Houndsworth extended a bony finger to the kitchen counter.  “Is that…?”

“Cat food…”  Flower grabbed the packet and hugged it to his chest.  “Yep, it’s cat food.”  He didn’t know what compelled him to do what he did next, maybe desperation, maybe stupidity, but he shoved his hand into the packet, grabbed a fist full of the biscuits and threw them into his mouth.  “My cat food,” he garbled as the dry biscuits soaked up all the moisture in his mouth.  “Yum, so tasty.”  The pellets were a little bland on his tongue, but a strong meaty aroma permeated up the back of his nostrils; he tried not to gag as he chewed on the saliva-drenched chow.

The landlord’s mouth dropped open in reply, an eyebrow raising as if the man’s jaw was on a seesaw with his forehead.

Flower forced himself to swallow.  “Want some?” he croaked.  He struggled to keep it down.

“What… I… No.”  Mr Houndsworth’s face turned green.  “Excuse me…I… I need to…” He darted into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

The noises from within the other room triggered a response in Flower and he vomited into his own kitchen sink, dirtying the unwashed dishes further.  He swilled his mouth with water.  Several times.  But couldn’t get the taste from his tongue, and some soggy chunks persisted between his teeth.  Urgh.

Felix was worth it.

He took the opportunity to check on the little kitten, while Houndsworth was occupied, and slid open the drawer.  The cat was asleep and safe, the vile food he’d been given consumed; he stirred at his owner’s presence.  Felix meowed.  He wanted attention.

“Just a little longer,” whispered Flower.  He pet the kitten behind the ear.  “And then you can come out.  Promise.”

The cat raised its nose, sniffing the air; Felix could obviously smell the cat food on Flower’s breath.  He couldn’t help but laugh in reply.

“It’s okay, Daddy’s not gonna steal your food,” he said.  He kissed Felix on top of his head.  “I just had a little taste, that’s all.”  It was a taste he would never forget.  He tickled the kitten under the chin.  “Be a good boy, yeah?”

Flower closed the drawer, slowly and carefully, and just in time to hear the toilet flush.  He moved to the centre of the room, hands behind his back and fought the urge to whistle nonchalantly.

Mr Houndsworth lurched back into the room, shoulders hunched, and face drawn.  His eyes narrowed, and he glared down his nose at the short man.  “Mister Flower,” he intoned, “are you sure don’t have a cat here?  There is something suspicious going on.”

“No sir.”

“Then why do you…”  The landlord put his hand to his mouth and swallowed hard.  “…why do you eat…?”

“The cat food?”  Flower forced a grin; he could still feel the stuff in his teeth.  “I’ve liked it since I was a kid,” he lied.  “Can’t get enough.”

“Hmmm.”  The tall man’s brow furrowed.

“You don’t believe me?”  Flower’s stomach swirled.  “I… I could eat some more.  If you want me to?”  He heard something thump in his chest of drawers and found himself suddenly sweating; he could sense that Felix was about to go on a mischievous rampage and get him caught out.

Houndsworth sighed.  “No,” he snapped.  “But if I find that you’ve been lying to me, I will…”

“I would never!”  Flower needed to get rid of the other man immediately.  “Is that all?  I’m sorry, Mr Houndsworth, but I need to get on with my day.”

“Fine.”  The man begun to turn to leave but…

“Wait!”  Flower noticed something by the front door, something that wasn’t meant to be there.

“What is it?”  The landlord paused.

“I… I…”  A small black and white furball had escaped his prison and was sat next to the door frame.  Felix was cleaning himself, unbothered, with one eye watching the drama unfold.  “Can you take a look at the cupboard door for me?  The one I told you was squeaking?  I think it might be the hinge.”

“I thought you said it was…”

“While I’ve got you here.”  Flower grabbed Houndsworth and pulled the tall man down to the unit beneath the kitchen sink.  He flung open the doors.  “It’s this one here; it doesn’t seem to be on correctly.”  He pointed at one of the hinges; it didn’t matter which one.  “If you could just take a quick look?”

Flower peered over the landlord’s arched back and checked on the kitten.

Shit.

Felix had gone.

Flower’s eyes frantically scanned his apartment, searching over and around the messy floors and surfaces.  Where was he hiding?  What was he doing?  If Houndsworth saw him, Flower would be in big trouble!  Maybe he’d imagined Felix by the front door, maybe he was still safely back in the drawer.  Maybe.  Probably not.

He didn’t notice the landlord had been speaking to him.

“Pardon?” he said.

“I said it all looks fine to me, Mister Flower.  It’s not even squeaking.”

“Oh.”  Where was that damn kitten?  “Thanks.”

Mr Houndsworth unfolded upwards, and Flower heard the man’s joints click and clack as he straightened out and faced him.  “Anything else?” he snarled.

“No sir.”  And then he saw it.  His mischievous little beast was tight-roping along the edge of the sink behind Mr Houndsworth’s back.  If the cat had emerged just a few seconds earlier, he would’ve been caught just as the landlord stood.  “I… er… can’t think of anything.”  He took hold of the lanky man’s arm and yanked him to front door.  “Let me see you out.”

“Hey, watch it, Mister Flower!”  He shook off the short man.  “I don’t need an escort.”

Flower stepped in front of the be-kittened sink just as the landlord turned toward him; the view was blocked.  “Apologies.”

“You’re acting very strange, Mister Flower.”  Mr Houndsworth’s eyes narrowed, something they’d done quite a lot since he’d arrived; perhaps the man needed glasses.  His expression was accompanied by a frown.  “But everything appears to be in order.”

“I’m just tired,” he replied.  “Arrrgghhh!” Needles clawed into his back, climbing and clinging to his shirt, pricking the skin beneath.  Felix!  “Just cramp, urgh.”  He gritted his teeth.  The kitten might be cute, but he was being a bastard right now.  “I’m… ok.”  He wasn’t.

“Hmmm.”  Flower didn’t think Houndsworth’s face could scrunch up anymore, but it did.  “If you say so, Mister Flower.”  His features unclenched.

Flower nodded.  Felix continued to crawl, centimetre by centimetre, and he could feel his eye twitch as he tried to hide the pain.

“Don’t forget about your rent on Saturday.”  The landlord opened the front door and stepped outside into the hall.  “I don’t want you to get behind again.”

“Mmhmm.”  Felix had reached his shoulder blades; it would only be a couple of seconds before he breached his shoulders and emerged in full view of Houndsworth.

“Understood?”

“Mmhmm,” Flower repeated; fur tickled the back of his neck.  “See you… Sat… urday.”  He closed the door in Mr Houndsworth’s face, cutting off the landlord’s farewells.

The ordeal was over… until next month’s inspection.

Flower let out a long sigh.  He reached behind him, gently removed Felix from his shirt and hugged the little black and white kitten close to his chest.

“Good boy.”  He planted several kisses on top of Felix’s head; the cat meowed with each one.  “You’re safe now.”

“Mister Flower,” called a suspicious voice from outside.  Shit.  The landlord, he was still just beyond the door and must’ve heard everything.  “Was that a cat?”

Felix meowed a reply... it was a squeaky floorboard.

The End.

Next Flower Story

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

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