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

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

Flower's First Night (short story)

 

Flower’s First Night

(Random 2-word prompt- pudding, security)

               Flower, it was his first night on the job, ran.

               It wasn’t the best start at protecting the Queen’s tarts, and he’d been warned about the ants, but he hadn’t expected them to be that big.  He prayed that this one was the exception; one was already too much to handle.  Not that the confectionary gods ever listened to his pleas.  Nor any other god.

                He’d dropped his sword as soon as he’d seen the creature.  Not on purpose.  He just hadn’t expected the thing to crash through the window like that.  It’d given him a fright.  The colourful stained glass shattered, the dark wooden muntins and stiles folded like paper, and the stones of the walls shook and cracked.  A large brown oval head, garnished with gigantic snapping blood-red mandibles, burst into the corridor, followed by a huge thorax and elongated legs.

                Flower had dropped his sword and ran, not realising until he was around the corner that perhaps the ant’s size was the reason he’d been given a weapon in the first place.  He’d abandoned it, and the vault of sugary tarts he’d sworn to protect, in favour of his own life.  And now the large insect chased him.

He’d expected monsters to scream, but not this one.  It clicked and clacked, chattering loudly like a pair of rulers being slapped against skin.  It grated his senses.  Flower got the impression that it was calling for others, other ants to join the hunt.  Gods forbid that any more of those insects invaded the castle vaults, but there was food here, the royal tarts, and he knew ants had the sweetest tooth.

His boots thumped against the vibrant carpet that ran the lengths of the halls, and he darted by paintings of tart ancestors, saccharine portraitures of treats long forgotten.  The bug was wreaking havoc behind him, destroying priceless artifacts, but he wasn’t here to protect those trinkets, and he had to keep running.  His breaths laboured, he was exhausted, and the ant was swift.  He felt a stitch in his side.  He kept running.  He sucked in oxygen through the pain and his sense of smell objected.  The ant stank.  These passages usually smelled sweet and freshly baked, but the pungent aroma of the giant ant had consumed the air.  Acidic, like vinegar.  Intense.  It made his eyes water.

Flower ran as fast as he could, the ant close behind, clicking and clacking, snapping and clapping its mandibles.  He tried not to scream, to waste his breath, for there was salvation ahead.  If he could reach the doors, if he was fast enough, he’d be able to call for help, sound the alarm for the other guards to tackle the formidable formicidae.

He sprinted, couldn’t stop.  He collided with the door, it winded him, and the hard carpet caught him as he fell.  The door was locked.  He’d expected it to open as normal, but it was firm and resistant.

Flower climbed to his feet.  He wondered for a moment why the ant hadn’t caught him yet, taken his small and frail body between its mandibles and severed his top from his bottom.  He faced the monster.

The large ant towered over him, judging the man with its compound eyes and twitching elbowed antennae.  It was silent, no chitter-chatter.  The creature’s head tilted to the side; Flower sensed an intelligence there, ancient and deadly.

Flower suddenly realised that perhaps this monster was not craving the delicious round tarts of the Queen, with their succulent and sweet fillings encased in rich and flaky pastry, but it desired the savoury meats and crunchy bones of a short little guard on his first night on the job.

He considered banging on the locked door, crying out, but he knew that the giant ant would snatch him up as soon as he turned his back.

There was only one thing for it.

He’d fight.

But he needed something first, and he took a risk.

Flower screamed and ran.  He ducked under the enormous thorax, weaved between long and dangerous legs, dodged around the bulbous abdomen and ran and ran and ran as fast as his legs could take him.

He looked back.  The ant thrashed against stone walls that weren’t wide enough for its enormous bulk as it tried to turn around, breaking the canvases and ornaments adorning them.  Its creepy voice chittered, broke its silence, and was more urgent, angrier than before.  The ant was furious.

The massive monster moved forward, away from him, and it’s padded feet gripped the door and walls in front of it.  It climbed up and over, defying gravity as it reached the ceiling and then traced a spiral path down the wall and back to the level floor.  It faced him now.  Mandibles snapped the air in triumph, and the chase began again.

Flower had a decent lead, and he used his advantage to reach the broken window where the giant ant had first forced its way into the castle.  He frantically searched for his sword, found it amongst broken glass.  Yes!  He gripped it tight and faced down the corridor waiting for the inevitable confrontation with the creature.

He gulped down his fear on a dry throat.

The gigantic ant neared, jaws ready to munch Flower’s body to dust.

He couldn’t do it.

There was no way he could battle this huge creature and win, not on his first night of the job.

Flower scurried to his left, fumbling for the vault’s keys on his belt.  The pungent perfume of the ant was getting more intense, it’s skittering and chittering louder.  It was almost upon him.

He slammed the key into the vault’s lock, yelling and cursing at the gods about his fate, and the door to the delicious tarts clicked open just as the insidious insect reached him.

Flower screamed.

                The creature reared up, its mandibles snapped a hungry message, and Flower darted into the vault before he became its dinner.

                He slammed the door, but the ant was quicker.  It pressed its weight against the vault, fighting against his efforts to get to safety.  Flower pushed back, the entrance ajar, opening and closing as the giant head and jaw tried to squeeze its way in.  Flower’s muscles strained.  He braced his legs, thighs burning with effort and his arms laboured against the metal door of the vault.

                He cried out, a crescendoed battle cry to steel his resolve as he forced all his strength, all his will to live, against the door.  The insect countered with its hunger, but Flower’s need was greater.

                The vault clicked shut and Flower collapsed to his knees.

                He was safe.

                He sighed relief.

                The room was silent.  There was no way the chattering creature was getting in here.  Not through those massive steel doors.  But what next?  He was trapped in here with the beast guarding the only exit.

                Flower stood, and noticed he was no longer able to smell the vinegary stink of the monster; it’d been replaced by the sweet aroma of what he’d been sworn to protect.  The Queen’s tarts.  Their scrumptious and fragrant scent filled his nostrils, and he was suddenly peckish.  He’d used a lot of his stamina against that humungous monster, and it’d been several hours since he’d eaten any dinner.

                Flower eyed the stacks and stacks of tarts, hundreds of sweet treats, that filled the large vault.  Just one little cake wouldn’t do any harm.  One dessert.

                Oh yes.

                His mouth salivated.

                Flower reached for the nearest tart.  It was strawberry.  His favourite.  He took a bite, ignoring the iced lettering on its surface, but he’d soon know why the Queen had locked up her delicious puddings.

                The letters on the tart read, “Eat me,” and his body already felt bigger.  He was expanding and growing after just one bite.  Within moments, he was large enough to tackle the creature outside.

                He just needed to figure out how to get through the door.

The End.

Next Flower Story