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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