Flower’s Final Night (short story)

 

Flower’s Final Night

(Random 2-word prompt- free, cellar)

 

                Flower scraped his spoon against the grouting between the damp stones, an attempt to wear down the cement and loosen an exit.  Grinding and grating echoed in the cell, metal against grit, and his effort sung an accompaniment in his wheezing breaths.  Rust and dust on his lungs, he coughed, then continued with his never-ending task.

                “It won’t work, you know,” muttered the old man who was chained to the opposite wall.  “Plenty have tried, none have succeeded.”  He smacked his dry lips together.  “Seen ‘em all come and go.”

                Flower ignored him.  The digging was the only thing keeping him warm in this cold dungeon.  And sane.  He needed hope.  He was going to be beheaded tomorrow.

                “You just gotta accept your fate,” continued the man.  His emaciated grimy body had its dignity concealed only by a scraggly grey beard that stretched from his chin to his knees.  Moonlight, from the grate on the ceiling, cast shadowy lines on his already lined and aged face.  “Pray to whatever gods you believe in while you can.”

                Flower paused.  “What if I don’t believe in any?”

                “Well, you’re fucked then, ain’t cha?”

                Flower rolled his eyes, then returned to his task.  He traced a line with the tip of the spoon along the underside of the stone he’d been working on.  He’d barely got anywhere since he’d started several hours ago, and the scraping and scratching was becoming irritating.  He knew he was annoying his cellmate; he was annoying himself.  He had blisters forming on his fingers.  His knuckles were chapped and cracked.  Bleeding.  So were his lips.  The constant dust dried the air, sucked the moisture from his skin despite the dampness in the cell, and it hurt.  But he carried on.

                “Please stop.”  The old prisoner groaned.  “You’re giving me a headache.”

                “I can’t,” said Flower.  “Felix needs me.”

                “Felix?  Felix?! Is that your lover?”

                “No.”  Flower sighed.  “He’s my cat.”

                The old man cackled; it was loud and witchy, gurgly and high pitched.  It echoed against the walls of the small chamber, bounced from stone to stone.  It vibrated in Flower’s ears.  And when the discordance died down, he was disappointed to discover that it hadn’t shaken any of the stones loose and freed them both.  Or even just him.

                “He’s only a kitten,” said Flower, still scraping away at the wall.  “I’ve got a life to go back to.  It’s messy, but it’s mine.”  He stopped and turned around.  The old prisoner was staring at him, wide-eyed and incredulous, wrinkles furrowed in deep trenches on his forehead and rippling along his bald dome.  “Why are you here?  What did you do?”

                “What did you do?”

                “Murdered the King apparently.”  Flower shrugged.  “I didn’t, but the Queen...”

                “Bah, who cares about that rancid old cow!”  The old man cackled his disturbing cackle once more.  “She stole that throne!”  His voice dropped to a whisper.  “There was a good King in charge about fifty years ago, a patient and just King.  And not that dead one you killed; a living King who looked after everyone and put the country first.  But she… she!  She!!  She usurped the throne from him.”

                “Her brother?  He was King first, right?”

                The shackled prisoner shrugged.  As much as it was possible to shrug with his arms chained up.

                Flower studied the man’s features; there was something familiar about his face.  “I heard he was just as bad as her,” he said, keeping his eyes on the man.  “Worse, in fact.”

                “No!  No!  No!”  The old man barked and screamed, face reddening, beard frazzling in anger, his eyes were fiery pinpoints of rage at Flower’s insult.  “No!  That’s not true!  Liar!  No, no, no!”  Spittle whipped from his lips in frothy ropes, dripped down his chin, stuck to his whiskers.  “No!!!  No!”  The man struggled against his chains, rattled his manacles.  “Lies!  All lies!”  He tried to get up, tried to break free, tried to reach for Flower, but the strength of the metal rings holding him and the weakness of the man’s withered frame guarded Flower from harm.  “No, you filthy liar!  Liar!  It’s not true!  No!”  The old prisoner’s strength waned, and his voice waned with it.  “No.  No!  No, no no…”  Shouts become whispers.  Bellows become murmurs.  “No.  Liar… liar…”  And the man’s head dropped to his chest.  His body hung limp.

                Flower tried not to make his sigh of relief too obvious or too loud but sighed he did.  He’d worried for a moment that his cellmate was going to break free of his chains and strangle him dead, which may or may not be a better way to go than his beheading tomorrow.  But at least he now knew why the old man was here, and who he really was.

                He leant back against the wall and looked up through the grating.  The sky was clear, and stars, tucked within the dark firmament, winked at him conspiratorially.  The moon sat in the centre, full and luminous.  Flower studied its features, the craters and cracks across its surface, and wished he was there instead of here; there was no way he was going to escape by digging at the stones.  It was futile.  The moon was beautiful and free, roaming the heavens amongst its kin; Flower watched as a shooting star scratched across its pocked face… which was odd.

                A black shadow appeared at the edge of the opening above.  A black and white shape.

                “Felix!”

                “Not him again,” mumbled the old man.  “You talk about your boring old cat too much.”

                “No,” said Flower.  He reached out his hand and twiddled his fingers at the cat.  “Look, he’s come to see me.  Aww!  What a good boy!”

                His cellmate grumbled something under his breath, but Flower ignored it.

                Felix meowed; it was a sad meow, as if the kitten was unhappy with being abandoned.

                “I’m sorry, lovely,” crooned Flower; he wiped his eye with the back of his dusty hand.  “Daddy’s not coming home to take care of you.”  His voice cracked against his will.  “Felix…”

                “Argh, shut up.”  The other prisoner’s chains rattled.  “Bloody cry-baby.”

                “Shut up yourself, you insipid bitter turd!”

                Felix meowed; it almost sounded like the cat was laughing in response to Flower’s retort.

                Suddenly the sky lit up.  A dazzling white light consumed everything, evaporated every shadow, obliterated the gloom.  Flower covered his eyes.  Buzzing filled his ears, and the luminance penetrated every fibre of his being.  He could see it through his hands, through his eyelids.  It burned into his brain.  He could hear the old man screaming through the hum.

                And everything went dark.  The light disappeared as quickly as it came, but the old man’s horrified screams continued.

                “Quiet!”  Flower blinked through the afterimages flashing in his sight, and as his vision cleared, he realised it wasn’t just the light that had disappeared.

                So had the ceiling; the naked night sky glared down at them.   The wall had disappeared too, the same wall he’d been digging into, blistering his fingers against, for hours.  It was gone.  Vanished.

                Freedom.

                The old man must’ve realised the same thing because his cries turned to laughter, then giggles, and silence.  He was still chained to the opposite wall.

                Flower felt something press up against his leg.  “Felix.”  He picked up the purring fluffball and held him to his chest.  “Felix, my baby.”  He kissed the top of his head.  “You’re safe.”  The kitten’s vibrations were soothing, comforting.  Warm.  “Daddy’s here, Felix, Daddy’s here.”

                He looked to the missing structure.  It hadn’t collapsed; there was no debris on the floor, no loose stones, or dust.  The edges were straight cuts, as if a hole had been created with no thought to the material.  Flower hadn’t seen anything like it.

                A figure stepped into the cell.

                “What…?”  Flower’s mouth dropped open.

                A tall green man, or at least he assumed it was a man, dressed in a silver jumpsuit had joined them in the open dungeon.  The visitor had a bulbous and veiny bald head, bulging big eyes, no nose, and a slit where its mouth should be.  It studied the people in the room, looked up and down at the old man, who was glaring back, and then turned to Flower and spoke in a flat, monotone voice, “Zerq comes from the stars to offer you friendship.”

                “The stars?” said Flower.  “And who’s Zerq?”

                The creature tapped its chest with its three-fingered hand.  “Zerq and his people have watched your planet for eons from our home, Xerton, using our quantum telescopy.  We would like to offer you a chance to come with us.  A new life amongst the stars, where you can learn about us, and we can learn more about you.”

                The old prisoner guffawed.  “Ha!  You’ve got to be kidding me!  A new life in the stars?!  What a fucking joke!”  His chains rattled and shook as continued to laugh.  “And space aliens?  Right this moment as this fella here,” he nodded to Flower, “is about to be beheaded in the morning with no chance of escape?  It doesn’t make any sense.  Ha ha.  Convenient!  I wouldn’t come with you if you promised me all the riches in the world!  Or the universe for that matter!  Ha!”

                “Zerq was not talking to you,” said the creature.

                “Oh.”

                Flower raised an eyebrow.  “You want to save me?  Take me away from here?”

                “No,” said Zerq.  He pointed, with a long spindly finger, to Felix, who was watching the new arrival with curiosity.  “Zerq was talking to the superior lifeform.”

                Felix meowed in response.

                “Yes?”  The alien’s eyes narrowed as he spoke directly to the kitten.  “Are you sure?”

                Felix nuzzled up into Flower’s neck, then mewed.

                “Zerq understands.”  The green man nodded.  “The offer is available to all present.  Zerq would like to know if you want to accept a new life in the stars.”

                Flower could feel Felix’s intense purrs vibrating against his body and realised that he didn’t have a choice.  If he stayed here, he’d be dead in the morning, and his kitten would be alone.  His only choice was life or death.

                “O… okay,” he stuttered.  He chose life.  “I’ll come with you.”

                 “And your friend?” said Zerq.

                “Bah!”  The old man shook his head.  “No chance!”

                Flower looked to his temporary cellmate.  “Are you sure?  You’ve been chained up in this dungeon all this time and you want to stay?”

                “Yes.”

                “Really?”

                “Yes, really.”  The man’s eyes held defiance.  “I ain’t moving.”

                “Then it is decided,” said Zerq.  His lipless mouth strained into the smallest smile Flower had ever seen.  “Welcome to the stars.”

                Everything went white, a brilliance flooded what remained of the cell.  The world evaporated.  There was a moment of weightlessness, and then Flower felt ground beneath his feet, and he was somewhere else.  He held Felix close, and as the light cleared, the endless sea of the universe, filled with new possibilities and new experiences, a star for each, opened up before his eyes.

He’d chosen life.

The End?  The Beginning.

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The Haunting of Flower (short story)

 

The Haunting of Flower

(Random 2-word prompt- maid, resign)

 

                “I quit!”  Flower threw down his tools.  “I’ve had enough; I can’t take it anymore.”

                He was talking to an empty room in the Queen’s chambers.  He’d been roped in to clean her suite, dusting mostly, but he’d been misled by just how big her private quarters were, just how many rooms there were, and just how dusty they’d become.  He’d heard she was prone to temper tantrums, especially since the King had gone missing last year; she got rid of every maid who crossed her.  Got rid.  Not fired or sacked.  But beheaded.

                Flower wiped the sweat from his brow and picked up the cloth and feather duster he’d abandoned.

                The palace always paid well.  They were desperate; he thought he’d never work here again after the first time he’d worked for the Queen, and he’d been lucky enough not to get beheaded the last time he was here.  That fiasco with the ants had caused quite the stir.

                He adjusted the fabric he’d tied around his mouth to protect himself from the dust, then returned to sweeping away the grime from atop the dresser.  He danced the feathers around the perfume bottles and hairbrushes, around the lipstick, over the wooden veneer of the table, and up the sides of the mirror.

                It always smelled nice in here, and a strong, sweet, peppermint aroma permeated everything.  It reminded Flower of cosy winters, curled up by a fire with a minty hot chocolate.  It was his favourite scent, and lessened the burden of the chore.

                He wasn’t alone.

                He heard his words whispered back to him; it was quiet, almost under their breath, but he heard someone repeat, “I can’t take it anymore.”  He paused, straining his ears.  Maybe it was an echo, somehow delayed.  Maybe he’d imagined it.  He was tired and hungry, and it’d been a long morning.

                Flower shook his head, let out a small laugh, a little embarrassed by his midday scaries, and chalked up the murmuring to his empty belly.  He continued sweeping the furniture.

                A whispering susurrus crept back into his ears, and he tried to ignore it.

                “I can’t take it anymore.”

                “I’ve had enough.”

                It wasn’t his voice; it was a woman’s voice.

                “I hate you.”

                “Die.”

                And then a man’s.

                “No.”

                “Stop.”

                “I didn’t mean it.”

                “Please, no.”

                He couldn’t make out everything, the words talked over each other, overlapped and interrupted, hissed and muttered in a quiet cacophony.  A shadow fell over Flower’s shoulder, a chill breeze on his ear.  He couldn’t move, arm stuck in place with the duster just above the counter; he couldn’t turn away from the dresser and he couldn’t face whatever loomed.  Fear froze him.  His throat dried, tightened, and he pulled away his claustrophobic face covering so he could suck in oxygen.  Goosebumps rippled up his arms and scampered down his spine.  Pressure squeezed the air, thick with the susurrant dissonance; it closed in on him, gripped him, gripped his lungs, his heart.  He sweat cold sweat.  He gasped.

                One of the voices screamed bloody murder.

                And the whispering ceased, the shadow dissipated, the air cleared, lightened.

                Flower took a breath of minted air and sighed into the silence.

                He was alone again.

                He scanned the area; the foyer was empty, apart from the dust, and the bedroom door and walk-in wardrobe door were both shut tight.  He’d been told it was forbidden to enter either, to only dust the foyer and other rooms of the Queen’s private quarters.  Across from where he stood, the door into the hallway was wide open.  He wandered over, the peppermint perfume of the chamber lessening, and looked out into the passage and saw nothing but sunlight snaking over and under the muntins of the windows, casting itself onto the garish carpet and highlighting its tawdry patterns.  Paintings of the Queen’s tart ancestors watched the room, stoic and taciturn; it wasn’t them that’d haunted him moments ago.

                He turned back to the foyer.

                Something moved in his periphery, a slight sinister shudder in the corner near the wardrobe.  Flower took a few tentative steps closer.  A small table held a purple vase that wasn’t quite as central as he’d left it when he dusted it earlier.  He slunk closer, not taking his unblinking eyes off the curvaceous ornament.

                It moved.

                The vase moved.

                It rocked forward barely a millimetre, but it moved.

                The room was still, with no breeze or draft, and Flower certainly hadn’t disturbed the air as he shuffled forward.  Was there something in the vase?  A rat?  The castle was known to have a pest problem.  Or was there something more ominous at play?

                He peered inside and found it empty.

                Strange.

                He shivered, suddenly cold near the vase.  There was a patch of frozen atmosphere filling a meagre space, and when he stepped back the temperature was normal, warm and comfortable.  But in the corner near the walk-in wardrobe door, it was as if the air was nervous and tense.  Sharp and jittery.  He felt it too.  He glared at the ornament.

                Nothing.

                It was still.

                Then, the vase flew from its stand.  He dodged as it sailed across the room and slammed, smashed, exploded against the wall.  Pieces ricocheted, attacked.  A porcelain shard drew blood, and Flower pressed his hand to his wet cheek, his fingers staining red.

                “I can’t take it anymore.”  The whispers returned.  “Stop.  No.  Please don’t.  No.  No.  Stop it.  I didn’t mean it.  I take it back.  Stop.  Stop.  Stop.”  And then a meagre.  “Help.”

                Silence.

                There was something different about the whisper this time; he heard its direction clearly.  The words came from inside the walk-in wardrobe, and he realised the minty aroma of the Queen’s chambers was stronger here too, as if the ghostly voice and the scent both came from within.

                Flower reached for the handle… and hesitated.

                He’d been told the wardrobe was off limits; he wasn’t allowed in there or the bedroom.  There would be consequences.

                His curiosity got the better of him.

                It was locked.

                Of course it would be.  Of course it would be locked.

                But the valet had given him the skeleton key, just for him to get into the Queen’s apartments and clean, but it should work on every… ah, yes.  The lock clunked with the turn of the key.

                As the door creaked open on its hinges, the stink hit him like a hammer to the face.  His eyes watered, his nose and throat burned.  What had been a pleasant wafting aroma of sweet peppermint was now a thick wall of sickly sharpness.

                Flower pulled his face covering back over his mouth.

                It didn’t help.

                He waded through the stench into the pristine wardrobe.  He was greeted by a rainbow plethora of silks and satins, brocades and fringes, patterns and ornamentation.  Dresses, hats, shoes, all blurred in his teary eyes.  He staggered, his head pounding from the reeking room.

                “Help,” hissed the whisper again.  It came from the other side of the room, from within a closet between two racks of dresses.

                Flower wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, teetered closer, moving around the green pouffe in the centre of the room, and across the tasteless and tacky carpet to the cubbyhole.  The minty stench was almost unbearable here; a putridness crept up underneath the sickly thickness in the air.

                “Help,” muttered a shadow to his right.

There was no-one there when he looked.

                His heart was pounding between his straining lungs.  He needed to know what was inside the closet, an irresistible urge gripping him and pulling him closer and closer, as if somehow opening the door and looking inside would clear the air of this vile stink and resolve the unresolved… whatever that was.

                His hand reached for the handle, almost as if someone else had grabbed it and guided it.  He was no longer in control of his actions.  Fate, destiny, whatever had manifested around him, conducted his actions.

                The door opened.

                The fetid peppermint slammed into him like a brick to the face, and he almost fell to his knees.  He retched, trying not to vomit on an empty stomach, coughing and hacking, tears running down his face.  His lungs burned.

                Flower pushed through it, blinking hard, trying to steady his breaths, calm himself, stay standing, and as his vision lucidified, and he adjusted to the fiery menthol air, he was met by a white leather trunk.

                He knew that whatever horrors he’d been drawn to would be hidden inside.

                Flower opened the trunk.

                “Oh shit.”  The words left his lips almost as fast as the realisation of what he was looking at within the trunk reached his brain.

                It was filled with salt.

                Mostly salt.

                Peeking out at him through the white powder, body entombed, was a familiar and almost mummified face.  There was no mistaking that the dried-out husk of a body buried in the salt and hidden in the trunk, was the missing King.  The dead face stared back at Flower.

                He didn’t know what to do.  He couldn’t take his eyes off the corpse, couldn’t move.  The putrid peppermint drowned him, and it no longer hid the stink of decay that washed over his remaining senses.

                “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

                There would be consequences if he was found here, rummaging around in the Queen’s closet, looming over the dead King.

                And those consequences appeared as a sudden shadow in the doorway of the wardrobe.  A shadow flanked by two others.

It was the killer and her guards.

                “Regicide!” screamed the Queen.  “Off with his head!”

                And Flower, despite his protestations, was hauled away to the dungeons to await his doomed fate.

                He was grateful to no longer suffer the stench of peppermint.

                It was his favourite scent never more.

To be continued…

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