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 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

Of Princely Fawns and Dark Magicks (short story)

 Of Princely Fawns and Dark Magicks

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

I beseech you to take heed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had killed it.

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

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

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

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

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

I never stopped believing in those stories.

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

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

I felt overwhelming remorse at my actions.

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

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

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

Her efforts, deer reader, were for naught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It lived.

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

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

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

It was a devil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End