Of Princely Fawns and Dark Magicks (short story)

 Of Princely Fawns and Dark Magicks

Deer reader, I implore you to listen to my tale.  It is one of horror and grief, of immorality and dark magicks.  It is something that has changed me, and this world, forever, and in ways that may not yet be apparent.  It is a warning.  A curse.  I promise, deer reader, that my tale is the whole and sane truth, as fantastical as it may seem, and I have refrained from any embellishment of the events that I will divulge in the following paragraphs.

I beseech you to take heed.

My tale begins on a cold and wet October evening, and I must admit that it was far later than any respectable gentleman would consider acceptable or appropriate.  Forgive me, I will not explain my lateness; I am aware of the rumours surrounding my private life, and they are neither relevant nor important to my tale, and whatever the tabloids would have you believe about my personal relationship with the disgraced Sir Reginald Winthorpe, I stress it has no bearing on the events of that night.  I will only concede that he was somewhat responsible for my lateness and my dishevelled appearance.

I was in a hurry to get back to my lodgings that night.  The rain was only a cold mist, though I could observe a storm maturing in the distance, black ominous clouds boiling above the forest just outside the city.  I hadn’t had the forethought to carry my umbrella, only my cane, and I didn’t relish the thought of being caught out in the expected deluge.

The streets were quiet, strangely forlorn of their usual clientele.  I didn’t consider this too odd; I surmised that the ruffians, dolly mops and mollys, and those undesirables that often dressed the roadside, had sought shelter from the coming storm.  Hindsight makes me wonder if the true reason was the sinister destiny that was to cast its shadow over that night.

It had sauntered out of the shadows, the beast, and into the dim lamplight, with seemingly no intent to shock me, yet shocked I had been.

I’d struck out at the thing with my cane, hitting down at its skull with deadly force beget by my fright.  Unfounded fright, it seemed.  The innocent fawn died instantly.

I won’t torment you, deer reader, with a morbid description of the pained bleat it emitted with its dying breath, or the terrified glaze in its eyes as the spark of life extinguished.  I won’t tell you how its small body collapsed to the floor like a marionette with its strings slashed.  There was no blood, but the dent in its crown left no doubt as to its fate.

I had killed it.

One does not expect a young deer, nor an adult deer, to be wandering the streets, particularly at night.  I had never expected to cross paths with one in this city; I had only ever encountered them on summer constitutionals in the countryside, and even then, it was a rare occurrence.  I’d seen foxes and rats trawling the streets at night, but never deer.

That is the excuse I tell myself to this day for why I did what I did.  For why I dispatched the poor creature in my momentary fear.

There is no excuse for the deplorable actions I undertook afterward.

At this point I need to pause my tale and provide some context to my life and background, which may go someways to explaining my motivations.  Though, in truth, I cannot tell you why I did it, for even I did not really understand; I may only be lying to myself to ease my troubled conscience.

As a child my mother would read to me every night.  Fairy stories.  Stories of transformation, of other worlds just beyond our own, of immortals and magic.  Spirits hiding in nature, watching us, judging us worthy of heaven.  Or unworthy.  Perhaps that is why I sought out the macabre.  Perhaps not.  I had not been immune to sin even before that night, and I never would be again.

I never stopped believing in those stories.

My favourite of my mother’s fables, that I often fondly recall since her passing, was that of a fairy prince that had been transformed into a fawn, cursed by his father to learn humility.  Though it is only through love that he returns to his true form.  This tale struck close to my heart because my own father had been distant and angry during my childhood and barely acknowledged me even on his deathbed.  He’d always been ashamed of me and what I became.  My father took that shame to his grave.

It was the story of the fawn that came to mind as I stood in the gloomy street on that wet autumn evening and stared down at the corpse of the innocent beast.

I felt overwhelming remorse at my actions.

I have mentioned, deer reader, that I had not been immune to sin, but it may surprise you to hear that I have previously employed use of a hag and her dark magicks.  I fear my life would be far more scandalous than the simple sordid rumours about myself and Sir Reginald, if not for her occult assistance, without which it is likely I would be telling you this story as I turn the crank in jail.

I understand that ‘hag’ often conjures up a crooked crone, but I assure you that she was anything but.  My hag was a beautiful young maiden, though wise beyond her years.  I still remember the knowing look in her eyes, as if she knew what I required of her that night, as I stood on the threshold of her home at the edge of the city, soaked through, for the rain had picked up as the storm approached, holding the beaten creature in my arms and holding back my tears.

I’d watched in awe and anticipation, warming and drying myself near her fireplace, as she cast sorcerous spells and hellish hexes over the corpse, as she poured thaumaturgical tinctures down its throat, rubbed ungodly unguents into its skin.  She’d warned me that there were no guarantees, that not every soul could return from the void, but I’d gripped tight to hope, even as the storm, perhaps an omen of what was to come, reached the city and thundered and roared above our heads.

Her efforts, deer reader, were for naught.

I paid my dues and departed into the tumultuous night, holding the dead fawn, whose life had been cut short by my rash actions, tight against my chest as I faced the wind and the rain.  The heavens poured.  Lightning graced the skies, heralded by thunder.  My grief consumed me as much as the storm enveloped me and my deceased charge.

I wandered for I didn’t know how long, trudged through the squall, freezing and wet, until I found myself at the edge of the forest where I’d first seen the black clouds that now devoured the firmament above.

I knew what I needed to do.  I would bury the poor beast, deep in the forest, return it to whence it came.

I recall being somewhat grateful for the cover of the trees, sheltered from the wind and rain, as I walked my dark fated path.  The storm raged above the canopy, crashing a syncopated rhythm through the flora; it deafened me, forced me to dwell on only my own thoughts, my guilt, my memories of fables about the princely fawn and of the reality of my wanton killing of the deer in the streets of the city.

I’d wanted nothing more than to be washed of my sins, or at least of the sin I’d committed against nature this night, to lay this child to rest and pray for its entry to heaven, but, deer reader, my goodly intentions paved an inevitable path.

I’d tripped, caught my foot against a stray branch or stone, and the dead little deer had been freed from my arms.  I’d found my balance quickly, my hands bracing against a nearby tree, but the fawn had not been so lucky.  I’d inadvertently thrown the creature across the forest floor, its limp body splashing into the muddy ground ahead.

I’d cried out in anguish, my words overwhelmed by the cacophony of the storm.

The unfortunate creature deserved more than being left out in the rain alone, and I fully intended to continue my task.  Something stopped me, deer reader.  Perhaps some sixth sense.  Perhaps my soaked skin restricted my muscles.  Perhaps a ghostly hand gripped my heart and saved me.

The body of the baby deer twitched.  Then its legs kicked out against the muddy forest floor.

I wondered, for a moment, if it had been my imagination, a trick of the gloomy light, hallucinations of my tired brain, but no.  Remember, deer reader, that I told you that I would tell you the whole and sane truth.

It lived.

The fawn, formerly deceased by my own hand, clambered unsteadily to its feet as if it were a newborn.  I watched, stuck to the spot, rain still breaching the leaves overhead, thunder rolling, occasional flashes of lightning illuminating the deer and its caved in skull.

I want to say that I felt some elation in that moment, joy that the animal was alive, glee at my guilt resolved; I tried to force the feeling into my heart, but only an ominous sense of dread gripped my gut.

The fawn was staring at me, one eye distorted by the concave head.  It stood defiantly in the rain, unblinking, unmoving, knowing what I did, accusing me of its murder and the depraved dark acts I’d subjected to its vulnerable body in my attempt at atonement.  This beast was no prince in disguise.

It was a devil.

Thunder rumbled above us.  Me and it, both frozen against the night.  Me, in terror, and it, like a predator deliberating its prey.  I wanted to run, wanted to retreat to the safety of the city, but I could not will myself to move.

Lightning shimmered in the creature’s eyes, and I will swear, deer reader, on my beloved mother’s grave that the glaring pupils lit up with a supernatural crimson glow in that moment.

Then, the fawn bleat a blood-curdling malevolent cry against the storm, against my presence and my actions that dark night, and disappeared into the forest with an uneasy gallop.

I never saw the damnable beast again, despite my every effort, and despite its curse that followed me this past decade.  Those close to me died, sporadically over the years, each death sudden and unexplained.  Even my precious Sir Reginald Winthorpe had succumbed.  You might accuse me of seeing patterns where there are none, of self-fulfilling prophecies, or of madness brought about by my guilt.  But none could explain how each friend, each family member, my lover, had been found collapsed in the forest, their crowns crushed, like the very beast I’d attacked on that cold and wet October evening.

I know, deep in my soul, that it will come for me soon.

And so, deer reader, while I still live to tell you of my terrible tale, I entreat you to take note, to never act rashly against the creatures of this Earth, to never invoke unnatural dark magicks; one may find a prince, or one may find a devil.  And if you ever see a ghastly deer, with its skull battered and bashed, and red glowing eyes, I bid that you run.

The End

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The Toll (short story)

 

The Toll

(Random 2-word prompt- pavement, toll)

 

                “How much?!”  Flower threw his hands in the air in frustration.  He could feel the heat in his face radiating to his ears.  “But you just let the two people in front of me pass for free!”

The tall burly man crossed his arms tighter, then growled a noise that indicated he didn’t care.  He seemed to grow, muscles bulging in his shirt, his large body blocking access to the bridge even more so than before.  He glared down at Flower, his small head tucked between two engorged shoulders.

“Come on!” pleaded Flower.  It was cold in the shadow of the man, the bright morning sun trapped behind that large back.  “I just want to get home!  I’ve never had to pay a toll before!”

“It’s new,” grumbled the guard.  “Pay up.”

Flower sighed, blowing air through his nostrils as if he were a dragon.  “I haven’t got enough; I’ve only got a few coins on me.”

“Not my problem.”

“Urgh, can’t I just owe you?”

The big man shook his head, frowning.

Flower looked down at his feet.  He considered making a run for it, trying to dart around the guard and sprinting across the bridge, but he knew he stood no chance.  He was only small, and the big burly guard would catch him and grind him to a pulp in seconds.  He didn’t fancy being pulped; he already felt drained enough this morning and his innards would make a weak jam.

He turned to walk away, but…

“How much you got?” gruffed the guard.

Hope.  Flower smiled at the man; he reached into his pocket and held his coins out on his palm.  “Four coins,” he said.  “Is that okay to pass?  Will you take it?”

The big guard laughed.  “It’s not for me dummy.”  His arms unfurled, and a thumb swung to his left.  “Head down the steps to the river; the ferryman will take you across for a couple of coins.”

“The ferryman?”  Flower had never heard of any ferry crossing the river before, though there’d never been a man stopping people crossing the bridge before either.

“The ferryman,” repeated the guard, his grimace returning, joined by a condescending tone in his voice.  “Down the steps.  Two coins.”  He refolded his arms and become the imposing stoic statue once more.  “Fuck off.”

Flower didn’t say thanks; he shook his head and sighed, then headed out of the large man’s shadow and toward the steps.

The stairway was bereft of the dazzling morning sunlight, yet it still retained some heat; it was humid, sticky.  He tried not to slip on the stones as he descended into the misty gloom below the bridge.  Flower lost sight of the pavement above.

It had been quiet up there, it was early, and he’d only seen the guard and two other people; down here, it was quieter.  Too quiet.  The mist thickened with each step.  He could hear the lapping of the shore, slow and steady, like a whisper.  He could hear his boots crunch against the gravel.  He could hear his chest wheeze through the damp air.  There was nothing else to hear.  No birds singing.  No crickets chirping.  Nothing.  It was as if the misty waters had sucked away all the usual noises of the riverbank.

A shadow emerged from the grey clouds.  It was tall, taller than the guard, but thinner.  Much thinner.  It wore black robes, tattered, hooded.  Flower could see no face beneath the cowl.  The wooden boat washed up against the shore with nary a sound.

“Are you the ferryman?”  He gulped.  There was no reply.  “Ferrywoman?  Ferryperson?”  Flower took a step toward the river, then pointed up.  “The guard told me there’d be a ferryman… that you’d take me across the river for a couple of coins.”

The hooded figure looked up, then back at Flower.  It nodded a slow and deliberate nod.

“Uh… okay,” said Flower.  He hesitated closer, glanced around, then stepped onto the ferryman’s boat.  It wobbled in the water.

A bony and open hand extended out to him, and Flower hurriedly placed two coins on its palm.  The skin was cold and dry, the antithesis of the muggy air.  The hand withdrew back within the black robes, and the tall figure nodded it’s slow and deliberate nod once more.

Flower sat down.  “Er… th… th… thank you,” he stuttered.  He wasn’t sure whether he was happy to finally be heading home or scared shitless by whatever was happening down here under the bridge.

Flower smiled at the ferryman, who leant onto the long pole it carried and pushed off into the river.

“It’s… uh… a lovely morning, isn’t it?”  The thick mist had consumed the air, and he could no longer see the shore behind him, or the blue skies above.  It was grey and swampy.  He wondered if the glorious morning continued without them.

The ferryman said nothing.  The skiff continued gliding through the water.

“Do you get many people down here?” babbled Flower.  His nerves shook the words from his mouth in a jabber of syllables.  “I expect so; the river is lovely in the summer.”

The silence continued.  So did the boat.  The only sound was the swish of the disturbed river as they moved.

“It’s warm, isn’t it?” he said.  Flower flapped his hands in his face, an unsuccessful action to cool his sweating body.  The humidity was starting to get to him; the misty clouds closing in, sticking to his skin, moisture refusing to leave him.  “Aren’t you warm in that cloak?  It looks like it’s made of a thick wool.”

Again, he was met with no reply from the gangly ferryman.  The wooden boat answered instead, creaking as it rocked along the waters, moving ever forward for what seemed forever.  He wondered if he’d made a mistake; would they ever reach the other shore?  He’d jumped into a boat with a stranger.

“Uh…”  The silence felt even more palpable now; it was as thick as the muggy mist, and almost as slick.  Flower’s words would just slip right off, ignored by the taciturn ferryman.  He wanted to say something, but his voice would be futile.

He was lost on the river, deep in the mist, with a tall and cloaked figure.

And then the skiff hit the shore, wooden hull scraping against the stones, screeching and rasping.  They came to halt.  Flower was saved.

He stood.  “Th… thanks again.”

The slender, towering ferryman reached out an icy hand and touched his shoulder, freezing Flower to the spot.  The cloaked man leant close, and, in a gravelly voice that stank of the grave, whispered two chilling words into his ear, words so cold that they curdled Flower’s blood.  He didn’t know what to say, how to respond, but he watched as the ferryman straightened, lifted his bony finger up and back towards the bridge, and pointed through the thick mist to where the burly guard had blocked his passage.

The ferryman laughed, a rattling hiss emanating from within the folds of the black cowl, and turned back to Flower.

He saw the reality within the hood.

Flower ran, jumping from the boat, racing up the steps from the river.  He ran and ran, didn’t stop until he was safely within his home.

He knew that tomorrow, the ferryman would be gone, and that he’d never need to pay a toll to cross the bridge ever again.

The End.

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Flower and the Dragon (short story)

Flower and the Dragon

(Random 2-word prompt- dragon, quiet)

 

            The dragon wasn’t quiet; it snored.  A deep and sonorous rattling wheeze.  Syncopated.  But Flower was still careful.  He only dared to move when the room was filled with the cacophonous snorts of the sleeping dragon.

            Flower managed to roll from the comfy bed to his feet, the floor was cold against his bare soles, without disturbing the six-foot scaly creature that he’d lay next to all night.  Never again.  Never.          

            Of course, the sleeping man wasn’t really a dragon, just a bit of a monster.  He’d had a short fuse.  Snapping and barking at the waitress.  Blowing up at the chef, who’d been kind enough to come over to the table after the dragon had complained about his food.  He’d chatted with his mouth full, chewed agape.  Chain smoked through the meal and screamed at anyone who’d asked him to smoke outside instead.  The man had been inconsiderate and abrasive.   Flower had been mortified last night, the whole night.

            This morning, he was full of regret.

            ‘Dragon’ had felt like a very apt internal nickname for the man, and Flower had forgotten the man’s real name.  He was handsome, but cruel.  Muscular.  Penny-pinching and greedy.  He hadn’t even left a tip for the staff, though Flower had snuck a little extra to the waitress on the way out.  And as for the man’s scales?  He clearly didn’t moisturise.

            Flower hastily pulled on his underwear just as the latest snore disguised his movement.  He retrieved his trousers and shoes during the next.  Found his shirt draped over a lamp during the third gurgling rattle.  He dressed himself with each consecutive thunderous crackle from the man’s throat, almost tripping over his own leg while trying to squeeze back into his shoes while he stood.  He stumbled forward and caught himself, just in time.  He’d almost crashed into the bedside cabinet.

            The snoring stopped.

            Flower froze.

            His head crept along the axis of his neck, his eyes tiptoed over his shoulder, and he snuck a glance at the slumbering monster.  Its prostrate form was sprawled, tangled in the duvet it’d hogged all night.  Flower studied the dragon, trying to work out if he’d woken it, but his terror was lessened by the return of the unmelodious raucous snuffling.

            He sighed.  He’d been holding his breath.

            Sunlight had begun to slither in through the edges of the curtains, and Flower slinked along the line it left across the floorboards.  He headed for the door.  Escape was in reach.

            He stole another look at the dragon.

Still sleeping.

Still snoring.

Flower smiled to himself.

He was almost there.

He reached out for the handle of the door, wrapped his fingers around the metal, slowly turned the mechanism.  The hinges whispered as they moved, and Flower was careful not to elicit squeals by moving too fast, rushing; he didn’t want to cause any premature arousal of the sleeping creature.  The door opened in crawling degrees, inch by second.  It came toward him.  He took a step back as the empty hall came into view.

Yes!

Flower raised his foot, a final step into freedom, and…

He realised the voluble death rattle of the dragon had ceased.  He heard the click of a lighter instead.

“Where are you going?”  The monster breathed its smoke and ash, filling the room with its grey and noxious clouds.  “Stay.”

“I… er…”  Flower faced the foe, fighting back the cough already tickling his tonsils.  “I’ve got work,” he said.  He didn’t but…

The dragon made a face.  “Aww, spoilsport!”  The man sucked on his cigarette and exhaled more billowing fumes into the small space.  “You owe me,” he sneered with a wink.  “I paid for dinner.”

Flower started to say something but stopped himself.  He just wanted to leave, not argue; he didn’t want to face the wrath of a dragon.

“Oh come on,” moaned the man, feigning an exaggerated frown.  “Please?”  And when Flower shook his head in response, he threw his arms up in frustration and sighed almost as loudly as he’d snored.

And that action, casting his hands into the air with a lit cigarette betwixt his fingers, would have been a boon as a dragon, but was a curse as a human.  A spark from the tip of the cig flicked free and floated, drifted down, a patient plummet, until it reached its destination and fulfilled its blazing destiny.

Flower was surprised by just how quickly the flames caught, how quickly the dragon screamed and leapt from the fiery duvet, the red-hot breath of the fire expanding along the rest of the bed in an instant.  The naked creature, expelled from its nest, fell forward through the thick smoke that was already subsuming the feeble smoke from its cigarette.  Flower caught the bare man in his arms.

“We gotta go,” coughed Flower.  The bedroom was already half consumed by the fire, though the grey sludge swelling in the space blurred and obscured the orange and red rage.  It was getting hard to see anything, hard to breathe.

Flower dragged the nude man into the hall, exposed scaly skin pressed against his clothes; the man didn’t object, just let himself be carried.  The smoke chased them.  So did the fire.  They hurried to the exit, burst through the front door, and out into the street.

He dropped the man to the floor against a shop window opposite, then took off his shirt so his charge could at least cover his dignity.

“Oh my god,” cried the dragon.  “My… my… house!”

It was already fully enveloped in flames.  Fire and fumes poured from every egress, licked at the bricks, tickled the tiles on the roof.

“This… is… your fault,” growled the creature.  He pointed at Flower, his fingers still clinging to the now spent cigarette that he’d been smoking.  “If… if… if you’d come back to…”

“No,” snapped Flower.  “We’d be dead.”  There was a crowd of gawking pedestrians beginning to gather, splitting their attention between the scorching house and the partially nude arguing pair.  “Both of us would be dead.”

“But…”

“I’m going home,” he sighed.

And Flower left, ignoring the man’s tears and protestations, surviving the dragon whose breath had been its own downfall, and decided that it was the last time he ever went on a blind date.  It had been an awful night; Flower hadn’t even managed to pilfer the dragon’s horde…

The End.

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Coined (short story)

 

Coined

(Random 2-word prompt- change, queue)

 

                Flower counted the coins on his palm, shifting them around with his finger, counting them over and over, despite the meagre value.  He’d scrounged together just enough change to get what he needed, what he wanted.  Biscuits.

                The queue shuffled forward.  He moved with it.

                It was the Silver Jubilee and today, and today only, the little shop on the hill was selling its famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.  Flower was determined to get one pack, though he cared little for the monarchy; there was little in his life that brought him joy and he felt entitled to a treat.  The shop itself was still several metres away, and the long line of people stretched back from its doorway and all the way down the street.  Flower had been here since 5am, and it had been a long queue then.  It was now 11am, and even longer.  But at least he’d finally reached the shop’s window; he could see the queue snaking around the aisles inside, exhausted people shedding their fatigue to reveal fresh excitement beneath.

                Flower yawned, then checked again that he had enough money in his hand.  Yep.

                Someone tutted behind him.  “There’ll be nothing left by the time we get there,” scowled the woman.  She was obviously waiting for a response from him, and when he didn’t reply, she nudged him with her purse and cleared her throat.  “They’ll be sold out soon.”

                Flower turned to look at the woman for the first time since she’d joined the queue; he’d been tired and focused on what was ahead so hadn’t looked around when she’d appeared shortly after him this morning.  She was tall and bulky.  Haughty.  Her white blouse and pencil skirt were neat and unadorned.  Only a single brooch added decoration to her plain, neat clothing.

                “I said: ‘they’ll be sold out,’” she repeated.  Her strained and frowning face was counterbalanced by a tight bun of hair on her head, each pulling against one another.

                “I’m sure they won’t,” he said as he flashed her a curt smile.  He returned to facing forward; he wasn’t in the mood to engage with her complaints.

                The woman harrumphed.

                The queue inched along, then stopped.

                “At least we’re moving,” sighed the woman.  “You’d think they’d bring in extra staff to handle things on a day like today.”

                Flower ignored her.

                “It’s truly ridiculous.”

                He didn’t reply, but she continued complaining anyway, possessed by some strange energy she’d lacked all morning.  Perhaps the proximity to their shared goal had inspired her, now that she could see inside the store.  Or maybe she was lonely.  Flower didn’t care.  He let her buzz on, blocked out her voice, while he checked the money on his palm once more.

                He slid the coins over the lines on his hand, shifting them over his life line, across his heart line, then down the fate line, letting his money read his fortune.  He counted as he circled them along his skin.

                Something bumped his shoulder.  An aggressive action that startled him into focus.  It was the woman’s purse again.  She was saying something about the queue, and as he turned to face her, the purse swung at him again.  The sudden jolt knocked every coin, every scavenged penny, the last of his change, everything he had, out of his hand and all over the paved ground.

                It clattered and clinked as Flower swore blue curses into the cold morning air.

                “Serves you right for not paying attention,” snooted the tall woman.

                The coins came to a rest in a pattern like splattered blood; most of the coins were close together, but some had scattered outward.

                Flower glared at the woman.

                “The queue’s moved,” she said, as she looked down her nose at him.  And it had, the queue had edge forward.  There was a small gap in front between him and the next person.  “Move along.”

                He didn’t deign to offer her a response.  He didn’t even shuffle forward with the queue.  She could wait.  Instead, he moved slow as he crouched down to collect every single coin he’d dropped, she’d caused him to drop.  One by one.  Slowly.  Oh, she could wait.  The woman tutted at every coin he placed in his palm; she was red faced and angry, arms crossed, and glowering.  Good.  She deserved it.

                It felt like an age had passed before he’d collected every coin, every coin except one.

                One coin had fallen precariously out of reach.  Flower stretched for it, extending his arm as far he could.

                But it was no good.

                The woman scoffed.

                Flower had started the day with just enough money to buy one pack of the famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.  Now, he was one coin short.  He considered for a moment maybe abandoning the lone coin, sacrificing it for the sake of appeasing the horrid woman behind him in the queue, and then somehow maybe blagging his way into buying a pack of the biscuits while short on cash.  Maybe he could offer to bring the rest another day; the shop keeper knew who he was, where he lived.  Maybe he would pay them back.  Maybe.

                Too many maybes.

                He didn’t have any choice but to rescue the lost coin, but he couldn’t leave the queue; the woman would take his place in an instant.

                Flower wasn’t the nimblest of people, nor was he the supplest.  Flower was short and inflexible.  He dropped from a crouch to his knees.

                “What are you doing?”  The woman folded her arms over her neat white blouse.  “You’re holding up the queue.”

                Flower placed his hands on the ground, then used them to walk his upper body across the paving slabs, keeping his feet firmly planted in the queue.  It wasn’t easy and it hurt.  His palms grazed the rough ground, his weak muscles strained under his own bodyweight, his spine ached, and his toes cramped in his shoes as he stretched his body as far as he could.

                “You look a fool,” condescended his aggressor.  He knew she was staring at him, probably half the queue was, but he couldn’t care, wouldn’t let himself care; these biscuits were worth his dignity, and he needed all his change to get them.

                With a swift one-handed press-up, he grabbed the coin with his momentarily free hand.

                Success!

                Flower fell over.  His balance had been betrayed by his meagre strength; he hadn’t been able to keep himself propped up on one arm and seize his prey at the same time.  His body collapsed against the floor.  Ow.

                He could hear the woman laughing as he lay there.  It was a luxuriant cackle, filled with privilege and arrogance.  And there he was, pathetically prostrate, poor enough to scrabble along the dirty street to pinch every penny he could muster together.

                Flower wasn’t going to let her win.

                He rolled onto his back, careful to keep his feet in the queue (which had moved forward again, though the woman hadn’t noticed yet), then sat up.

                She was still laughing, a taller figure from this perspective, and he could see right up her nostrils.  Ew.

                He scooted across the floor on his bum and made his way back into his position.  He stood, facing the woman.  He waited until she’d stopped screeching, her expression changing to a disappointed and disapproving gaze, and then poked his tongue out at her before turning away and marching into place behind the next person ahead of him.

                Flower grinned as she gasped in shock at his rudeness.  He suppressed a giggle.

                Her imposing stature was soon right behind him again in the queue.  She didn’t say anything.  Neither did he.  But he could feel the hot waves of antagonism emanating from the tall woman, and he got the feeling she was waiting for any misstep, any slight error, before she pounced on his frail little body and delivered an onslaught of snooty insults and frivolous attacks on his character.

The queue moved.

Flower counted his coins again, checked he definitely had the correct amount, and ignored the condescending snort from over his shoulder.

The queue kept moving, and they entered the shop, following the snaking line that slithered around the aisles.  It wouldn’t be long, and he’d have his famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.  He gripped his money tight in his fist.

The woman had remained quiet and seething.  She should be excited about the treats ahead, like Flower was, like everyone else in the queue was.  Instead, she was wholly focused on her internal drama about Flower and his mere presence seemed to incense her.  He almost felt sorry for her.

The line shuffled along, getting closer and closer.

The clock struck noon when Flower finally made it to the counter.

“Yes?” said the young lady at the till.  She looked tired and exhausted.

“One pack of the coronation biscuits, please,” said Flower.  He handed over his collection of scrounged coins.  He ignored the imposing woman behind him; she was standing just a little too close and he could feel her looking down her nose and over his shoulder.

The server counted the money.  “You’re a little short,” she said.

“What?”  Flower knew his foe was grinning.  “I… er…”

“Oh,” continued the lady, “hang on, there was a penny hiding underneath this one.”  She held up the coin with a smile.  “You’re lucky on two counts.”  She rung up the sale and retrieved a paper bag from the shelf behind her.  “You’ve got the last pack of famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.”  The server handed them to Flower.  “Thank you!  Enjoy!”

For a moment, his mouth hung open in shock, and as the atmosphere thickened so thick you could cut it with a knife, he felt a smirk creeping up at the edges of his lips and spreading up his cheeks; he suspected his enemy’s lips were heading in the opposite direction to his.

“Next please,” called the young server.

Flower turned on the spot, poked out his tongue once more at the haughty, tall woman, then flounced through the aisles of the shop and out the door, ignoring the unfounded protestations buzzing from behind him.

Flower was going to enjoy these biscuits far more than he’d expected.              

The End.

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Secret Ingredient (short story)

 

Secret Ingredient

(Random 2-word prompt- pie, tiptoe)

 

                Flower had been waiting over an hour for the last of the lights to turn off in Old Man Grundle’s farmhouse.  He’d been waiting… hiding in the cold under the shadows of the hedgerows for far too long.  It’d been late when he’d arrived, and he thought he’d be in the clear to get what he came for quickly and quietly, without detection, but he hadn’t expected the old farmer to stay up so late.  It was weird; it was now well past midnight, and the farmer was usually in bed by the time he got here.  Or he had been every night for the last ten days or so.

                Flower stretched his legs and straightened out; he’d begun to cramp up while crouching in his hiding place.  He made one final sweep of the empty lane to make sure he was truly alone, and that no-one had followed him.  Not that anyone in their right mind would’ve waited around for an hour in the dark and chilly night, pressed against a thorny hedge, spikes digging into their back, leaves tickling their ears and neck, and he was pretty sure he’d been accosted by a bug or two.  No, he was alone.  He drew his jacket in closer against the chill.  And of course, anyone following him wouldn’t’ve known what he came here for.  Even Old Man Grundle didn’t know what was hidden on his own property.

                The secret ingredient.

                Flower scurried towards the farmhouse, breaching the grounds via a broken fence, then staying low as he crossed the small front garden.  He stepped over and around turnip shoots, meandered around pumpkin vines, and tried not to trip over the cabbages.  It was quiet.  That kind of silence you get in the depths of night when life sleeps and death stalks.  There were predators lurking, waiting.  Owls.  Foxes.  Badgers.  And him, a hunter of ingredients.

                He’d been asked, of course, what made his fruit pies so delicious, so moreish, but he only replied with a tap on his nose and a wink.  He’d only been sharing the pies with his friends and coworkers for a week, but they couldn’t get enough.

                Flower reached the pebble-dashed wall of the farmhouse, and pressed himself close, staying in its shadow, hiding from the full moon.  He tiptoed alongside, following the edge, fingering the stones as he moved.  He paused at the corner.  A hinge creaked somewhere, a door or window, above his head.  He kept still, then slowly drifted his gaze upwards…

                He couldn’t let anyone down; he had to keep bringing them pies.

                An unsecured window shutter on the first floor swayed in the breeze.  Intermittently, the wind tickled it just enough for it to titter and snicker.  Hmph.  It was laughing at him for thinking he’d been discovered by Old Man Grundle.  Flower sighed.  He was safe to proceed.

It had been a Sunday morning almost two weeks ago when the mysterious old woman had accosted him the market.  She’d grabbed his arm while he’d been looking at the baking supplies, glared into his eyes and whispered the secret.  He hadn’t believed her.  She’d insisted.  He still didn’t believe her, but he’d assuaged her with false affirmations.

                Flower breached the corner and edged his body along the wall to the back of the farmhouse, stepping over and around a few plant pots that’d been haphazardly arranged in the shadows, some empty, some not, but all seemed uncared for.  To his left, were fields of corn and barley, but ahead, just on the other side of the koi pond, was a small wood, and where the secret ingredient appeared every night.  Something felt off this time, not just the old farmer’s lateness, something else.  He skirted the pond, ignoring the laughing shutter behind him.  It felt like something was going to go wrong, but maybe that was just his nerves; trespassing on someone’s property was always a little scary, especially on Grundle’s farm; the old man was known for his ‘ask questions later’ attitude.  Flower hurried into the safety of the trees.

He wasn’t sure what’d compelled him to check out what the old woman had told him.  Boredom.  Curiosity.  Stupidity.  It didn’t matter.  He’d kept the first fruit pie for himself, and it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.  He’d come back every night since.

                Flower looked back at the farmhouse from the shelter of the woods; its lights were still out, no signs of life from within, and only the creaking shutter paid him any mind.  He moved deeper into the forest.  He could smell moss and damp.  His boots squelched through the mud, and leaves rustled as he moved further and further from Old Man Grundle’s farmhouse.

                The old woman had given him only one warning; go alone, or the magic will cease.

                A sweet aroma cut through the earthy air, as the trees began to thin out, almost as if the foliage were giving reverence to the small miracle in the clearing in the woods.  Even the plants along the ground gave way, leaving only the dry earth.  Flower stepped lightly forward.  The smell was different every night, but always saccharine and delicious; yesterday’s scent had been flowery and delicate, tonight’s was fruity and tangy.  Flower almost enjoyed the smelling more than the eating.

                He paused.

                There it was, the secret ingredient, bathed in a halo of moonlight, out of place in the forest, but waiting to be seized.  And Flower would seize it again this night.  He took a tentative step closer.  He didn’t want to disturb the dirt, ruin the wonderous ingredient in the centre of the glade.  Another step closer.  And another.  He stopped.  A creak cried out in the cold air behind him, a distant giggle… the window shutter again, though it sounded louder, bigger, this time.

                Flower inched closer to the secret ingredient.  He crouched to collect it… and froze.

                He wasn’t alone.  He had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, as he heard a hurried rustle of leaves as footsteps rushed through the trees.  He knew who it was.  The hammer of a gun clicked by his ear.

                “You’re trespassing.”

                He swallowed hard; he didn’t know what to say.  He couldn’t move.

                “Turn around,” said Old Man Grundle.

                He didn’t.

                “I said ‘turn around,’” repeated the farmer.

                Flower’s head orbited the gun’s muzzle, slow, careful, away from his secret quarry; he didn’t want to startle the man into a premature discharge.  He smiled awkwardly as he faced his discoverer.

                “Flower?!”  Old Man Grundle lowered the gun.  “What on earth are you doing here?  It’s the middle of the night.”

                Flower shrugged as he stood; he didn’t want to reveal the secret of the pies.  He couldn’t reveal it.  It might be too late.  He was eager to turn back around and look directly at the ingredient.

                “Lost, are we?”

                “I… er… I thought I…” mumbled Flower, “I saw a kitten run into the woods.”  The old woman’s warning was playing in his head.  “I must’ve been mistaken.”  He was no longer alone.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

                “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you, dummy.”  The old man laughed.  “You shouldn’t go chasing imaginary cats onto other people’s property.”

                “I know I know,” he said.  “Sorry, I should probably get going…”  He wondered what he was going to do about the secret ingredient.  Was it still there?  Could he somehow wait and come back even later, in the early hours of the morning?

                “Come and join me for a nightcap first,” said Old Man Grundle.  “It’s a cold night and you look frozen half to death.  Some whiskey’ll warm you right up.”

                Flower nodded.  He’d been out in this cold for hours.  Too long.  Maybe it was time to give up.

                “Come along, my friend.”  The farmer placed a hand on his shoulder and led him away.  “You can tell me how to make those tasty pies of yours.”

                Flower glanced back.

                The secret ingredient was gone forever; only a halo of empty moonlight coated the earth of the clearing.

The End.

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Foggy Flower (short story)

 

Foggy Flower

(Random 2-word prompt- inspector, grounds)

 

                The mist was thick and cold.  So was he.  Cold, that is.  His clothes were soaked with a penetrating and perpetual damp that sank right down to his bones.  Flower shivered, his breath caught by the icy air, condensing around his lips with every exhale.

                His torch did very little to help his visibility in the dark of the night; it’s narrow beam only caught misty grey walls closing in on him… and yet, he could still somehow feel the wide-open castle grounds around him.  It was both claustrophobic and agoraphobic.  He felt vulnerable.

                Flower kept walking, a quick pace; he wanted to get home.  His dull footsteps, and their accompanied syncopated echo, were the only sound of life in the gardens, though a gentle breeze tussled the bushes intermittently too.

                He’d heard that ghosts haunted the castle grounds; George, the old guard, had regaled him with terrifying tales and supernatural stories all evening, and those eerie yarns had spooked him.

                Flower’s torch flickered.

                George had told him of headless knights stalking the paths, vengeful wailing maidens in white dresses with slit wrists creeping through the bougainvillea.  He’d spun fables of gruesome beasts hiding under the hedgerows, creatures with long red claws and creepy grins, waiting to grab unsuspecting victims by their ankles and pull them into their lair.  He’d told Flower about the evil witches and warlocks who, hundreds of years ago, used these grounds for their dark rituals and blood sacrifices, and who, while being tortured and burnt at the stake, swore a cursed revenge in their afterlife as spirits.

                His torch flickered again.  And again.

George had told Flower that the witches and warlocks could still sometimes be heard, crying out their pained curses in the middle of the night, casting malevolent spells on those with fear in their hearts.

Of course, Flower didn’t believe any of those fictional fables…

The torch died, and Flower came to a sudden stop, the echo of his footsteps following suit almost immediately.  The walls of grey mist were replaced with walls of blind darkness in an instant.  There was nowhere to go.  He couldn’t see anything in front of him.  He shuddered in the cold.  His clothes deepened the icy feeling on his skin, sodden by the damp air, and goosebumps stalked up his arms.

The wind crept around him, and the flora of the gardens whispered secrets to it.  Flower’s heart quickened, so did his breathing.  He was alone, hoped he was alone, in the quiet dark.  He began to see the grey of the mist as his eyes adjusted to the dark; it did little to improve his vision.  He looked at his feet; he could just about make out the path.

And then, a high-pitched cry in the distance broke the silence of the night.  The whinny of a horse in the castle stables.  Or was it a witch, a warlock, cursing him?  Was it a gruesome beast in the hedgerows?  Or a wailing maiden?

The silence retuned just as quickly as it’d been disturbed.

And…

Flower broke in a run, boots thumping against the stone path, eyes straining in the dark.  He ran and he ran and he ran.  He could feel it behind him.  Something was there, following.  It echoed his steps, chased him through the fog.  His legs strained to move faster.  His heart thrummed hard.  He ran.  His lungs struggled.  He tried not to scream, but fearful utterances escaped his lips.

A rock or a branch caught his foot.  He cried out as he fell, his body slammed into the dewy grass, his face collided with the earth.  He was winded and hurt.

                He didn’t move, couldn’t move.  He shivered in the dirt, but not from the cold.

                The pursuing footsteps came to halt, and Flower could sense the presence standing over him.  He could hear it wheeze and groan; it gurgled a death rattle.

                The supernatural creature was about to pounce.

                “Flower?” came a breathless, yet familiar voice.

                Flower twisted onto his back and looked up into a light that now shone on his prone body.

                “You forgot your keys,” wheezed George the guard, pointing his torch down at the man.  He tossed the keys to Flower.  “Why did you have to run so fast?  Silly bugger.  I could barely keep up.”

The End.

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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.

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