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 to 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.

Read the first Flower story

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.

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 ant 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.  He 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’d 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 movements.

                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 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 no more.

To be continued…

Read the final Flower story

The Washing Machine has Frozen! (short story)

  

The Washing Machine has Frozen!

(Random 2-word prompt- laundry, frozen)

 

                Flower turned the dial to the correct program and hit ‘start.’

                The ancient and decaying washing machine clunked into life, its archaic pump chugged and rattled, and water whooshed from inside as it filled.

                Flower sighed and collapsed into a sweaty heap on the communal seating in the centre of the laundrette; he’d spent the last hour running loads for the big guy, his boss.  This was the last one, underwear, and it was urgently needed by tomorrow.  Everything seemed to be urgent with the big guy, though Flower didn’t understand the reason this time; the big guy had demanded that every piece of clothing had to be clean and ready for a nudist retreat in the forest.  A nudist retreat.  Flower rolled his eyes at the thought, and wondered if nudism required constant undressing, then wrapped his jacket tighter around himself.  It was getting cold in the laundrette.

                He was alone.  It was the middle of the night.  It was quiet, except for the swishing and chugging from the device in front of him.  He hadn’t realised how much work it would be, moving around laundry between baskets, washing machines, tumble dryers, and baskets again.  He was cold and exhausted, but at least he was getting paid.  Still, this wasn’t how most people spent their Saturday nights.  He was sat watching an antiquated contraption struggle with its most basic functions instead of going out.  Not that he had anywhere to go.  Or anyone to go with.  And he needed the money.

                Flower shivered.  It was strange to be this cold on a summer’s night, even this late.  He got to his feet and walked over to the thermostat.  The air con was off, but the temperature was dropping drastically.  It plummeted toward zero.  Flower had never experienced weather like this in the middle of the warmest season.  Was it a freak storm?  A sudden cold front?  The weatherperson hadn’t predicted anything like this, though when did they get anything right?  It was so cold!  And so quickly!  Within the short distance from the bench to the thermostat, it’d gone from cool to frozen.  He could see his breath.  He squinted at the controls and tapped some buttons to try and get the heating running.  It didn’t work; the gadget failed.  Cheap old rubbish.  It would probably be the death of him.

                Frozen to death in a crummy laundrette with someone else’s washing.

                Not the worst way to die, but not the best either.

                He wrapped his arms around himself and rubbed his chest.  His jacket was thin, not made for winter weather, and he only wore shorts and a t-shirt otherwise.  He jumped up and down on the spot, trying to get his blood pumping, and watched as the windows turned white with frost.

                A grinding, screeching discordant symphony filled the air in a sudden instant, and the room fell silent.  The washing machine had stopped, frozen by the cold.  Icy leaves and tendrils crept along the floor and up and over the rows of machines; cold vines embraced the baskets of clean washing he’d left stacked on top.

“No,” he whispered into the wispy atmosphere.  The big guy would be mad.  Flower could do nothing but stare as his evening of work, and his pay, was undone by the cold.

The bell rung as the door to the laundrette opened.

A great, hulking, hairy beast ducked itself in through the doorway, grazing and shuddering the wooden jambs with icy white-blue fur, and filled the room with its presence.  It brought the cold with it.  It was a massive hirsute abomination made of brawny muscle and ice, with a chest almost as wide as the creature was tall, and thighs wider and rounder than Flower.  Its arms were long and ape-like; pendulous giant hands swung from thick wrists.  It carried something.  A basket?

“Sorry,” boomed the Yeti with a voice as deep as the valleys of the tallest mountains.  “I’ll be in and out as quickly as I can.”

Flower just stood there, shivering, mouth agape.

The hairy creature ambled to one of the washing machines that’d finished its cycle long before Flower had arrived at the launderette.  The Yeti flashed Flower an awkward smile, then used one of it big hands to delicately open the machine.  It retrieved its clothing, a cylindrical chunk of ice filled with fabrics, and placed the block into the basket it’d brought with it.

“I hate when that happens,” said the monster as it closed the machine door.  It glanced over to Flower’s frozen laundry.  “Don’t worry, it’ll unfreeze once I’m gone.”

Flower couldn’t help wondering why the naked Yeti needed clothes, just like his boss and the nudist retreat.  The creature didn’t leave much to the imagination, and its white-blue hair clearly didn’t cover everything.  Flower realised he was staring at its prominent popsicle.  He looked away.

“Have a good evening,” rumbled the Yeti, offence in its tone, and it squeezed its vast shaggy mass through the exit and out into the night.  The bell rung as the door slammed shut.

As promised, the cold retreated and the warmth returned.  The ice melted and evaporated.  A winter night restored to summer.  The ancient and decaying washing machine clunked back into life and swished and chugged once more.  The final load continued.

Flower threw himself onto the bench, glad of the heat’s advance and that his work was almost done, despite the interruption.  His boss, the big guy, Bigfoot, would be very upset if his underwear wasn’t clean.  Especially his socks.

The End.

Next Flower story

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 a 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.

Next Flower story

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.

Next Flower story

 

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.

 Next Flower story