Flash Fiction

Just Desert

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Pun intended. Years ago, when I was just a college kid, I drove across country with my friend Jon and his sister Cass. We had gone to high school together, and we decided to go on this little adventure together. We stopped at Bryce Canyon in Utah. Utah has amazing scenery–so different from the greenery of the North, a lot red.

Thor's Hammer at Sunset

I  read about the desert. I just knew it was hot during the day and cold during the night. So we pitched our tent, and we went for a hike. Then we came back to our campsite, baking in the 100+ degree heat and complaining about it too. I told my friends it would get cold during the night, so we zipped up the tent and snuggled into our tents and baked like burritos, because the temperature never fell.  You see, even though it’s in the desert, the Bryce Canyon campground is at the bottom of the canyon, and it traps heat. I’ll admit it: I was wrong.

Today’s story, I wrote yesterday for Flash!Friday. The theme needed to revolve around a blunder, like the one I made in Bryce Canyon. And the photo was of a desert. And just a warning, there is some profanity in this post. I mean, I for one would be cursing up a storm if this happened to me!

Mirage
@laurenegreene
208 words

Bloody blunder that’s what it was. Bollocks. I could have sworn, I was signing up for a trip to Mount Desert, Maine. All-inclusive. When I showed up to the airport, I was surprised to see my plane was going to Africa. I mean, who doesn’t look at their tickets? Me, that’s who.

And now, here I am, running down a freaking hill for my life. And it’s hot, dreadfully. They’re chasing me, but they’ve fallen far behind. My marathon days have served me well.  I didn’t even know hills existed in Africa. Who invented this horrid place anyway? A sadistic god content on torching his fallen people, that’s who.

Thank God I packed extra water today. I stop for a minute, look behind me. There’s no trace of the errant tribe; I stumbled upon their sacrifice by mistake, but there’s no way I’m going to be their next victim.

I come to the bottom of the hill, and I’m surprised to see a road off in the distance. Blurry, weathered, but a road. And I hope to fucking God it leads me the hell out of here.

When I get out of this place, I’ll be content if I never see another grain of sand in my life.

Sweet Caroline

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This post isn’t really about the Neil Diamond song, “Sweet Caroline,” but now that you have it in your head, I’ll do you a favor and post the song right here:

Blogging every letter of the alphabet is hard, especially when normally I just post pieces I write for Flash Fiction challenges.  Today, I thought about writing about confidence, but instead I decided to give you “The Last Straw,” in which Caroline is a peripheral character.  I won the Special Challenge over on Finish That Thought for this piece.  The first sentence was provided, and then we had to use at least one emotion/noun combo (e.g. angry waffled).

And although Caroline is a secondary character the story revolves around her. Her mother, the protagonist, makes the right decision for her.

Enjoy!

The Last Straw
@laurenegreene
450 words

This was neither the time nor the place for his antics. Lines were being practiced on the stage. Kids flitted around like anxious butterflies. My daughter sat in the glum corner.

“Where’s your father?”

“He took the happy juice, again,” she said, without looking up at me. “He forgot my costume.”

I sighed. My tired feet weighed a thousand pounds from a double shift. He had one job, to bring Caroline’s costume to school, and he’d failed like he had a dozen times before.

“Is he here?”

“Outside, with Victor. Mom, how can I be Juliet without my costume?”

“Go talk to Ms. Harrison.”

I knew I didn’t have thirty minutes to get up the mountain and back down. Caroline’s eyes were stained red from too many tears as she went to track Ms. Harrison down. A seething bull settled inside me, ready to gore Darnel. I’d given him so many chances, and he kept disappointing me—a record constantly on repeat. And now, he’d shattered our daughter’s dream like he had the cracked window in our lonely bedroom.

Darnel was out on the school’s quad with Victor. He was dancing around, a raving lunatic, and I knew he’d taken more than just happy juice.

“What’s he on?” I asked Victor, as Darnel tried to kick up his heels and belly flopped onto the firm green lawn.

“I’m not sure,” Victor said. “Honestly I’m surprised he even made it here without running off the side of the mountain. Caroline was something else. Mad as a tick. She yelled at him in front of everyone. Told him she wished he was dead. Didn’t faze him one bit either.”

Bones ached, and I shifted my legs trying to find a comfortable position, having stood all day at the diner. Low on tips too, and I needed to pay for Caroline’s senior trip still. I was bone tired of coming home to find Darnel having spent the money on booze and drugs. And the lying. That was the worst of it. He wove tales with a dishonest thread. I couldn’t even catch a glimpse of who he used to be. The man I fell in love with all those years ago—he didn’t exist anymore.

I reached into my pink apron, and I pulled out fifty dollars, a good chunk of the day’s tips.  I settled the money into Victor’s hand and caught his eye.

“Take him down to Bradford. I don’t want to see him again.”

“What’ll you tell Caroline?”

“Leave it up to me.”

I turned my back on Darnell, and walked away from the man I had once known. Caroline wore the color of hope when the curtain rose.

The Great Distractor

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Writing for Flash!Friday today.

1) Use “aspiration” as a theme.

2) Photo Prompt

Whetting Interrupted

Whetting Interrupted, 1894. Public Domain painting by Jose Ferraz de Almeida Junior.

I usually follow the prompt, almost to a tee, but today I didn’t. I used it as a jumping off point. And as a writer/author, I’m all too well aware of distractions that can pull you away from your goals.

The Great Distractor
@laurenegreene
205 words
Sharpen the blade. Akin to sharpening the pencil, in some ways at least. When he met Adele she whetted his appetite. Instead of focusing on his writing, he spent countless hours staring into her blue-gray eyes listening to stories of her youth. He focused on unbuttoning her dresses and rolling around in bed instead of molding his characters.

He had always wanted to be a writer. And by the time he met Adele, he had achieved that goal. But she was a distraction—albeit a pleasant one. After Niels called and told him he’d missed another deadline, he decided writing wasn’t for him. Too much pressure, too much time locked up in a lonely room, away from her soft, pliable body.

She was the one who suggested they get away. Her father had a cabin in the woods. They could spend six months there, and he could focus on his writing again. Walden Pond, he thought. But when they’d arrived there’d been no electricity. He had to write everything out in long form. He had to cut up firewood just to heat the stove. He and Adele stayed under the down comforters snuggled together most days, as his dream of writing slipped further into oblivion.

The Ear

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Today for Mid-Week Blue’s Buster, the song prompt was Gil Scott-Heron’s “Me And The Devil.” How appropriate, since my next book is “The Devil Within” (teasers to come shortly). This prompt took me dark, into the mind of a killer.

The Ear
@laurenegreene
549 words

Clay knew it was wrong. He had a conscience. Contrary to popular belief, most murderers did. He wasn’t an exception. When he’d gone to her house, the painted lips had disgusted him. The swirling vortex of anger slammed into him like a car slamming straight into a brick wall.

He had met her at the park, playing Frisbee. Picnic basket filled to the brim with pork rinds. When he’d seen her face, so innocent, so young, he thought he could be with her. He thought he could change. He imagined kissing her lips, so sweet and full of promise. He imagined rubbing his hands down her body, but somewhere in the back of his mind was that nagging voice of reality: she’s your next victim.

He was standing in the bus line now, and looking down at his hands—blood red in the light. Pick up your life, move everything, start again somewhere else. A rebirth. A resurrection. He was renewed after each kill. He would stand over their bodies and clean them, and in the process he became a newborn babe, a piece of clay waiting to be formed.

When he’d shown up at Georgette’s apartment, he’d expected her to be wearing the same school girl dress she’d had on in the park. But her face was made up like a clown. Red rouge smeared across her cheeks like the sign of the devil. He hadn’t let on the boiling rage he felt. He hid it deep down, as he kissed her cheeks, disgusted by the waxiness coating her lips. He unzipped her immodest dress, a slit up the side showed too much of her leg. She was not who he thought she was.

He pushed himself into her, and then the rage hit, and with one twist of the neck her head lolled to the side like a ragdoll’s. He zipped up his pants, and spit on her face as he did to all of his victims. The knife came out of his back pocket, and with a quick flick of his hand he sliced off an ear.  He went to her kitchen, glancing at pictures of her youth, all smiles next to her friends, hiding the whore she was. The devil takes on many forms.  He found a soft kitchen towel, then he raided her bathroom for soap, and he took a bucket full of water. First, he wiped the lipstick off her mouth, the red of it staining the towel like the blood on the sheet. Then he washed her whole body, careful to scrub behind the remaining ear. She looked peaceful and innocent lying there, the way she was supposed to be in the first place.

When he finished, he wiped off all the fingerprints. He put his token into a Ziploc baggy and slid it into his Jansport book bag.

At home, he removed the ear and he whispered sweet nothings into it. You are perfectly formed.  He slid it into a jar of formaldehyde, and then packed up his belongings, including the thirteen other ears he had hidden in the air duct in the wall.

A new place. A new life. Another Georgette, but maybe this one would be innocent and free from sin, and he wouldn’t have to fill another jar.

The Coffee Tastes Good

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Yesterday, I marked one of my goals off the list for the year: Attend a Writer’s Conference.

11041741_769101929838948_9035685579873691327_n
Photo Credit Goes to Sheri Williams

So far my goal list for the year looks like this:

  • Publish a Book done on January 31st
  • Attend a Writer’s Conference done on February 28th
  • Query an Agent done on January 18th (I think that’s the right date)
  • Publish a Second Book by May In the process with “The Devil Within.” 

2015 has been a great year for my writing, because I made it so. I dreamed it, but more importantly I started living the dream.  Right now, I’m struggling to look at edits on my book and swallow my pride. I’m struggling to make necessary changes so my book can become the best book it can be. Stay tuned, because in the next few days I’m going to show you the photo of where the idea for my book came from!

At the Mid-Winter Writers Conference yesterday, I traveled down the road with a friend, writing companion, and my project manager: Sheri Williams.Sheri is just like she is on the big ole world wide web: funny, easy to talk to, and inspiring. She’s one of the most giving people I’ve ever met, without that little word expectation stuck to her.

I think my favorite workshop was done by Ashley Kitchens, “Say It So They See It.” She used poems by Carl Sandburg and e e cummings (reminded me of my days in Mr. Franek’s class) as examples. She started out showing us a sentence, “The Coffee Tastes Good,” and as she went through the poems we changed it.  Interestingly enough, “painted ladies” are apparently better known as prostitutes than whores (and only Sheri will get that!). By the end the phrase, “Coffee Tastes Good,” had changed dramatically showing us how the coffee tasted instead of telling us. My coffee phrase: Poured in the cup, it calls me to my day. That’s how I feel about coffee, it keeps me going at 4:30 AM. Oh and all that delicious, rich, titillating stuff too.

I also enjoyed Ellen Maze’s workshop, “Plot and Characterization: Bringing Fiction to Life.” She had the best sense of humor. She had a list characterization questions that should be answered on your character, at least your main character, before you start writing. I already do this, to a certain extent, but not as deeply as she does. I’ll use her outline in my next book and see if it helps my characters seem more three-dimensional.

Overall, I thought it was a great conference. I met some amazingly talented people. And we know, thanks to Kathryn Lang that it’s all about relationships. Because really it is. To be a writer, you need to have people supporting you, social media contacts, and people who are willing to spread the word for you. You need people to bounce ideas off of, to say, “Does this fall flat? I was trying to convey this, did you understand the picture I was trying to paint, the feeling, the emotion that came with it?”

You need someone to say the phrase, “The Coffee Tastes Good,” doesn’t convey meaning. What are you trying to say? Conferences are great for that, giving you a whole new way to think about your writing, and giving you a community who can help you in your journey, one who specifically knows what you’re going through.

No Children Allowed

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Having several children of my own, I don’t really sympathize with Mr. Garcia of this story; I’m more in Chelsea’s camp. I wrote this piece of very short fiction for Micro Bookends. Enjoy!

No Children Allowed
@laurenegreene
110 words

Blueberry stains smeared Chelsea’s face as she sat at the top of the marble stairs. The dominoes led a path down to the lobby where Mr. Garcia, the doorman, was standing.

She’d imagined his face at the noise the dominoes would make. He hated children. Children, worse than rats. He mumbled those words under his breath whenever Chelsea came through the lobby gripping her grandmother’s hand. His teeth were yellowed and his face sagged, and he reminded her of a monster.

She knocked the top domino, and a smile spread across her face as she heard Mr. Garcia yell and shout from downstairs. Jack and Jill fell down the hill.

Little Boy Blue

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I think I’m a pretty happy person. But, for some reason writing sad or tragic comes easiest to me. I love the emotionally charged feeling that comes with describing tragic scenes. When I’m reading, I love how an author can make you feel anguish through their use of words. As I’m writing every day now, my description has changed and evolved. I’m finding new ways to convey the feelings in my stories.

For Mid-Week Blues-Buster this week I wrote, “Little Boy Blue.” With the music choice, you’d think I would have picked adult protagonist, but this just came to me, and what do you do? You write what comes.

Here’s the song:

And here’s the story:

Little Boy Blue
621 word count
@laurenegreene

She lay on her back on the floor of the blue room, dirt securely stuck under her tiny fingernails. She stared at the mobile, gently swirling around as the light rays streaming through the window seemed to make it move. The crib sat, empty in the corner. She had peeked into it earlier, looked through the slates to make sure no one was there. Empty. Abandoned.

“Hattie.” Daddy was leaning against the doorjamb, the shadow of a beard had started to creep across his face. “Your mother would be upset if she saw you in here.”

“Where did he go, Daddy?”

But Daddy just shook his head and waited for her to stand up and come to him.

He took her small hand in his and they crept down the hall, passed the room where her mother stifled sobs all day long. Bury your troubles. Hattie didn’t know what had happened. Her brother, chubby cheeks, flailing arms, all smiles, was there one minute and gone the next. An empty nursery—the ghost of the baby haunting their house.

Daddy lifted her to the counter and kissed her cheek, the scratchiness of his five o’clock shadow made her giggle.

“Peanut Butter and Jelly?”

“Mommy usually makes me lunch.”

“Turkey sandwich?”

He pulled out the meat and the bread, slapped mayonnaise on both sides, shook a few chips from the bag, as Hattie scrambled down from the counter and to her seat at the table.

When he put the food in front of her, Hattie wailed, “It’s not right.” She started kicking her feet, a tantrum rising up in her blood like a tsunami ready to destroy anything in its path.

“What’s not right?” Daddy asked.

“Mommy cuts it in triangles. Not a square. I don’t want a square!”

Hattie pouted, pushing her lower lip out, and tears sprang to her eyes.

“Fine,” Daddy said, taking the plate to the counter in a huff. “You just won’t eat. Go to your room.”

Hattie stomped off, but she didn’t go to her room. She ran outside into the backyard instead. She’d put the shovel behind the shed. She pulled it out, and she emptied her pockets: a little pile of treasures lined up. The shovel was hard to manage for her six-year old muscles, but after a few minutes she’d dug a hole, big enough to drop the treasures into and cover up.  She set the shovel down beside her and dug a little bit more with her hands, dirt staining them a dusty black. She put the items into the hole, lined up one by one, next to each other. There were seven filled in holes now. Daddy and Mommy hadn’t noticed them. They’d been too busy crying and hiding away from the world.

She patted down the dirt and felt satisfied. She stood up and started walking towards the shed.

“Hattie.” It was Mommy—red-rimmed eyes and hair askew.  Mommy didn’t look like herself.

Hattie flung the shovel behind her back, but she knew it was too late. She stepped back, and Mommy’s eyes traveled to the holes behind her, half covered, remnants of the past rising to the surface.

“What are you doing, Hattie?”

“Daddy didn’t know the sandwiches were supposed to be triangles!” Hattie shouted, throwing down the shovel and then running for the safety of the house.

Mommy, puzzled, drained of all emotions leaned down into the dirt. Her nightgown swept the ground, picking up dirt as she started digging.

The first thing she pulled out was a teddy bear, soft and blue. Then a rattle. Then a pacifier. Grief threatened to consume her when she pulled out the photo: Daddy, Mommy, Hattie and baby Grayson. Bury your troubles.

The Clown

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I don’t know why, but I’ve always been afraid of clowns. I saw “IT” way too early, and so I blame it on Stephen King a little bit. Write what scares you, is some advice I’ve always heard. Maybe that’s why King writes so much about rats.

Today for Finish That Thought, I wrote a little piece about clowns. It was hard–I was scared the whole time.

The Clown
@laurenegreene
499 words

“Excuse me, but what on earth are you doing up that roof at this time of night?”

I thought it was Petey, but when he turned around I saw the made up face. A putrid smell hit my nostrils, and my stomach turned with nausea. I’d always hated clowns.

I’d been sitting in my office chair, working on the next great novel, the feel of “Q” and “L” beneath my fingertips when I heard something up on the roof. Up on the House Top. Quick, Quick, Quick. But it wasn’t Christmas—snowy white—so I knew it wasn’t Santa Claus.

I blinked, and when I did, he’d come down from the roof. The dreadful smell of rotting fish filled the air around him, and I leaned closer to see a maggot wiggling out of his nose. I had the strongest desire to touch him, but I didn’t. He stood only about four feet tall. The red spots painted precariously against the white makeup adorning his face.  Just a child. But what was a child clown doing on my roof?

He wore one of those pointed hats, with a red ball dangling off of it. You could imagine him in an ancient circus. The white of his costume was stained around the edges. Was that blood near the torn place on his sleeve? I wiped my eyes, because I had to be dreaming. Maybe I’d fallen asleep in the office chair and this nightmare had come to wreak havoc against my coulrophobia.

“Hey mister, want to play?”

The pint-sized clown suddenly was holding two hula hoops. The streetlight shined on the lawn, as I grabbed one from his hand. I placed it over my body and securely on my hips, then I started wiggling, but it kept falling down to the ground, thudding loudly against the grass. The clown laughed, but his hula hoop was spinning around Clown Clip Artfast, even though he wasn’t holding it.

“You’re good at this.”

“Lots of practice in the circus,” the clown said.

I reached out, wanting to touch him again, but he backed away from me.

“Look, no touch—like the bearded woman at the circus. She bit a man’s finger off once,” the boy clown said.

“What are you doing here?”

“You should ask yourself that question.”

I looked around me. The street was dark and silent. The houses all shuttered like eyes closed for sleep. The moon shined, a giant ball sitting in the sky. When I looked back, the clown smiled at me, a sincere grin. I heard the front door squeak open; it needed some WD40.

“Dad, what are you doing out here?” Petey asked

I looked at him. “I was just talking to the clown.” But when I turned back the clown was gone.

“Sleep walking, again. I’ll help you get into bed.”

The smell followed me back into the house, putrid, rotting meat. I knew it wasn’t the last I’d see of him. They always came out at night.

The Fortune Part III

/ legreene515 / 6 Comments

Over on Terrible Minds, I’m taking part in building a collaborative 4-part story. Each week, I choose a story to continue. This week, I chose “The Fortune.”

The first part was by Jwrapa and can be found over at the blog phrasework. I’ll also include both parts below for ease of reading.

The second part was completed by John Freeter.

So here we go.

Part I

Margaret drew the curtain back slowly, taking care not to pull too hard on the thin, slightly musty fabric. The worn beading crinkled beneath her fingers and she took a step inside the tent. She paused a moment for her sight to adjust, blinking back the bright specks of the sundrenched day still lingering in her eyes. Behind her the buzzing of the hurdy-gurdy man she had passed just moments ago mixed with the sharp squeals of a group of children as they ran towards the games of chance on the far midway. She brushed a patch of dust from her skirt as she glanced nervously around the space, taking in the threadbare rugs that lined the floor, their oriental patterns clashing garishly with the many tapestries that hung around the small tent.  Margaret took another step towards the lone wicker chair set up in the center of the room and looked around her.

“A fortune for the lass?”

The voice was quiet and lilting, and she jumped a bit as a man slipped his slim frame into the room from behind one of the larger tapestries. He smiled at her and gestured with a gloved hand towards the chair.

“Uh, yes,” she said quickly, looking back and forth once again. “But isn’t there….”

The man laughed softly, opening his arms to encompass the room as he followed her gaze. “Yes, I know. Not quite what you were expecting.”

He began to pull one gray glove off, finger by finger. “I don’t work with those tricks you’ve read about. No crystals or smoke and nonsense needed.” He moved on to the second glove. “And I am no old gypsy woman, either, sorry to say.”

She laughed nervously, for indeed she had expected it to be like in a book. This man was perfectly average. Middle height, thin, with a brown beard and hair of all one short-trimmed length. He wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that seemed to be slightly off-center. If she had passed him in town that day, she would never have glanced twice.

He had finished removing his gloves and tucked them into a pocket on his waist coat. He gestured to the chair again, and she noted his now bare hands were worn thin and speckled with age spots, his nails brittle and yellow.

“I have only these to work with,” he said. “And if you are still willing, we can begin.”

Margaret paused, meeting his gaze. He had a gentle openness about his face, and she took no fear in it. After a moment, she gathered her skirts and sat on the chair.

He stepped forward to stand behind her. “I will touch your temples, and nothing more. Don’t be afraid, now. It will help if you close your eyes.”

She nodded, resting her hands in her lap and letting her eyes fall shut. His fingers touched her temples lightly, just barely brushing against her skin. She could feel the warmth of them as his coarse skin pressed closer to her head. She stifled another nervous laugh and a thought flitted past. This is nonsense, really.

“Quiet now, luv.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, and it seemed to come from right behind her ears.

She tried to push the thoughts away and breathed in deeply and silently through her nose. As she began to exhale a wave of dizziness passed over her, beginning from points on her temples where he held her and moving swiftly down to deep within her chest. Suddenly her bodice felt tight, a great crush of fabric, and even her sleeves and bootlaces seemed to constrict upon her limbs. She tried to breathe in again but it stuck in her throat and her eyes flew open in panic. She felt as if the air itself was strangling her, pinning her down where she sat.

Just as suddenly, the press was gone. She slumped forward with a loud huff of breath as the man released his grip, falling to her knees from the chair. An anger rose in her as she turned back to the man, ready to rail at him for his poor treatment. But just as she moved she saw that he, too, had fallen to the ground. The rage died in her as quickly as it had appeared. The man was shaking as if with palsy, his hands curled in to themselves as he clutched them to his chest.

“I did not know,” he whispered raggedly, his face turned down to where he gripped his own hands together. “I’m so sorry luv, I never would have…”

At that he finally looked up, and the look of sorrow upon his face seemed to sink into her belly.

“What?” she said. She realized she was whispering as well, so she repeated it louder. “What was that?”

He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “No, no.”

She got up on her knees and reached for him, grabbing his dusty coat by the shoulders. She was angry again, if only to fight the fear that was beginning to grow inside her.

“What did you see?!”

He flinched away from her shout and seemed to gather himself. His trembling slowed and she let go of his coat. “Please tell me.”

He met her eyes once more, the same sorrow still filled his gaze. He reached up to touch her again but pulled his hand back just before her cheek.

“It was your death, luv.” his voice was gentle, calm.

“No,” she said with a shudder. “This is all too silly. You’re just a con man, then, scaring women!” She rose, brushing off her skirts and turned to leave.

“Meg, wait.” He stood as well, reaching towards her.

She stopped, stunned. She had never told him her name.

“Tell me,” he said softly. “How long have you been dead?”

Part II

Meg held onto the tent’s worn curtain, her legs buckling under her. Dead… dead? No. She couldn’t be dead. Meg felt her heart hammering against her chest. The loose strands of long black hair dangling over her face bounced in synch with her heavy breathing. The sunlight bathing her neck warmed her chilled skin. She couldn’t be dead.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Meg said, brushing back her hair, “but if you think you can take me for a fool, then you’re sadly mistaken.”

The man took a step towards her. “It’s all right, luv. I can help you.” He reached out to her with his thin, speckled hands. “Now close your eyes, and try to remem—”

“No!” Meg swatted his hands away. Upon touching them, her chest tightened and she staggered back, overcome by a new wave of dizziness. “Get away from me, you… you charlatan!”

She spun away from him and fled from the tent, back to the bustling fairground. The noise of laughter and conversation aggravated her dizziness. Her vision turned into a swirl of colors, and Meg tripped on her skirts. She threw her arms in front of her as she plunged face-first into the ground, breaking the fall with her palms. Pain shot through her body as she scraped her skin and banged her knees. She knelt on the ground, rubbing her reddened palms. Tears welled in her eyes. She gagged, and barely had time to push her hair away when a thick stream of hot, salty vomit poured from her mouth, drenching her skirts.

Meg wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand. She slowly raised her eyes, dreading the looks of confusion and disgust from the people around her, but no one paid her any mind. Couples strolled by without as much as a glance, and children ran squealing around her as if she was invisible… as if she was ghost.

“Please, for the love of God, someone help me!” Everyone went on their merry way, oblivious to her cries. Meg got to her feet, cold sweat streaming down her face, the taste of salty vomit saturating her mouth. She dashed towards a plump lady in a bright yellow dress, who was shielding herself from the sun with a frilly parasol. Meg grabbed her hands. “Please, madam, you must help me! I… I…”

The woman shivered and closed her parasol. She blinked a few times, touching her temples. The color drained from her skin, becoming as pale as Meg’s hands. An older gentleman walking by gently placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” He asked, his brow furrowed with concern. “You seem a bit peaky.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you. Must’ve been an errant draft.” A reddish hue tinged the woman’s cheeks. “I feel quite better now.”

“Is that so?” the gentleman asked. “Still, I believe something sweet will do you a world of good.” He offered the woman his hand, which she took gladly, and they both strolled away towards one the many vendors dotting the fairground.

Meg looked at her hands. Had they always been so pale? She couldn’t recall. Warm tears fell upon her palms. It can’t be. It can’t. A gloved hand took the tip of her fingers. She slowly turned her eyes towards the fortune teller, regarding her with his honest yet sorrowful expression.

“Come on, Margareth. Let’s go.”

***

Sitting back in the shade of the fortune teller’s tent, Meg sipped on a hot cup of sweet tea. The awful salty taste in her mouth was gone and her trembling had abated. Even her dizziness melted away as the tea’s warmth spread through her body.

“So, luv. How long have you been dead?” The fortune teller twisted the end of his lips into a grin, but his eyes—dark and soulful—remained fixed on her.

“I… I don’t know.” Meg looked down at her teacup, unable to hold eye contact with the fortune teller. “I remember my childhood, growing up in Croydon, quite clearly. Everything else is something of a blur. I don’t understand. It’s all so strange.”

“Yes, I see… it happens sometimes,” the fortune teller said, pacing the room.

Meg set down the tea cup on the carpet. “Sometimes? You mean it’s not the first time you’ve met a… someone like me?”

“Oh, it’s not an everyday occurrence, but a few errant souls have made their way to my humble establishment.” The fortune teller looked at his hands. “Comes with the territory, I guess.”

“What’s your name anyway?” Meg got off her chair and took a few timid steps towards him. “Who are you?”

“The name’s Oliver, and I’m… well, I’m a fortune teller.” Oliver took off his gloves and raised his thin, aged-speckled hands towards her. “I’ll help you, luv. I promise.”

Meg closed her eyes as Oliver laid his bony fingers on her temples. Her chest tightened. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.

“It’s all right, Meg. Just a little longer.”

Oliver’s voice failed to soothe the dreadful feeling. Meg opened her eyes. It was no use. All she could see where thin dots of sunlight, as if through sackcloth. She soon realized she actually was inside a sack as the rough fabric scratched her hands and cheeks. She flailed her arms and legs to free herself, but they’d been bound together. Meg tried to scream, but only managed to gurgle—saltwater pouring into her throat. Her clothes became heavy, drenched with water.

“Just a little more, luv.”

Meg squeezed her eyes shut. The drowning sensation receded. She was sitting down now, but the seat trembled beneath her. She opened her eyes. The tent was gone, and the sun’s rays fell upon her. She rode on a carriage, Dover’s white cliffs to her right, the endless ocean spreading further ahead. A man rode next to her, but it wasn’t Oliver. He was a tall, blond man. She knew that man.

It was her fiancée.

“George?” she whispered. The man turned towards her. A broad smile spread across his face.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it, luv?”

Part III

Her thoughts swirled, and she heard the fortune teller’s voice swimming in her mind, “Stay there. There you will find answers.”

The castle rose up before her, and peasants ran alongside the carriage. George swept his hand knocking them out of the way, even as their shouts for just a sixpence reached Meg’s ears. They passed the castle, where she was sure they were going, and the road twisted to the right.

The carriage stopped in front of a church, and as she walked arm and arm with George she realized she was attending her own wedding—something that had happened in the past, a window to what her world had once been.

“Meg, baby, peace be with you forever,” a bearded man said to her, and he kissed her forehead.

Father, the word resonated within her, even though she was not sure how she knew.

A woman with a sweeping skirt and a dirty apron grabbed her hand. She could see the fortune teller’s eyes staring back at her. She shivered as the woman’s claw-like hand tightened her grip.

“Run, far away girl. There is no happiness for you here. Only fear and DEATH. He is the devil,” she said, pointing a bony finger at George.

She stared at George, his smile filled up his whole face, as he held out his hand for her to join him. Meg broke away from the tight grip of the woman, but her shouts filled her ears.

“DEATH, I say. Horror. Drowning. He—” But the woman’s words were cut off, as someone dragged her away, placing their hand over the woman’s mouth to prevent her screams. Meg stared back at the church scene, and it suddenly swirled away from her, a dream of the past, not something she could change.

She was on a bed in an ornate room. A clocked ticked away on the mantel. Her stomach seized up with pains. She looked down to see she was pregnant and in labor. Women rushed in and out of the room. There was too much blood, she could see it seeping from underneath her staining the mattress. The pain filled her own body, and she thought maybe this would be how she died. She fought to escape the pain but the fortune teller’s voice filled her ears, “Stay there,” his words echoed in her head. The pain in her stomach was overwhelming.

The midwife came to check her, shaking her head as she lay a hand on her stomach.

“This one is gone too.”

“That makes three,” the woman dressed in a green emerald dress spat. George’s mother.

The pains gripped her again and the midwife told Meg to push. She did, the feeling making her shudder, and soon she felt the head emerging. When they pulled the baby out he was completely blue, no life left in him, and she let out a howl of anguish, intense grief filling her soul.

“Boy or girl?” George’s mother asked.

“Boy, number three. The bleeding is heavier this time,” the midwife said. “If I can’t stop it she may never bear another child.”

“Does it matter?  She only births dead boys anyway. I will go tell the Duke. He will not be happy. Get this mess cleaned up, Ursula.”  George’s mother left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Ursula pressed against Meg’s stomach, trying to stop the bleeding.

She grabbed Ursula’s hand and said, “The old woman at the wedding was right.”

“You’ve lost too much blood. You’re delirious,” she said.

“No—the old woman was right.  He’ll kill me Ursula, if I don’t give him a child. It’s all he wants, someone to follow in his footsteps. But my womb,” Meg said, hitting her stomach with her fist and clenching against the pain as a red clot escaped from her traitorous body. “My womb is cursed against me. A black flower, dying and decaying, and it will only issue death not life.”

“It’s silly talk. You will see. You will have a live birth. It will happen,” Ursula said, as she kneaded Meg’s stomach and the blood, an endless river of red, flowed from between Meg’s legs.

At the dinner table, time had passed. Silence permeated the grand room. Candle lights flickered. Meg looked down, and her stomach was big with child again, but there was no movement. The baby has already died, and she knew it but she was keeping it from him. The sound of the forks and knives clattered against the plates in the tomb-like room.

A page came in, and whispered something to George. He slammed his fist down against the wooden table, the plates clattered too loud in Meg’s ears: the sound of her dead child within her womb screaming to be freed from its watery grave.

George’s eyes were dark and full of anger, and she thinks of the hopes and wants of the man who walked down the aisle with her. She placed a hand on her stomach willing the decaying child in her womb to live, an impossible feat. She knows in just a few days or hours her stomach will seize up with contractions and the baby will be expelled. George will be angry. He will come to her room and shout at her, curse her to God and the devil, and he will tell Meg she is a good for nothing wife, one who cannot even produce a child, an heir for him.

As the midwife wrapped up the slight body, died in the womb so long ago that the skin had started sloughing from her tiny body, George burst into the room.

“Another dead baby.” He cackled. His voice was too high pitched. “And to think…I had loved you.”

He slammed the door and walked from the room. His words, “I had loved you,” reverberating in her head reminding her of a time not yet arrived when there is too much water in her mouth, and she is drowning. And the last thing she hears before everything goes black are his words, “I had loved you.”

 

Fly Me To The Moon

/ legreene515 / Leave a comment

I had fun with this one today, and it’s actually put me in the mood to maybe write something more. The prompts came from Flash! Friday. There are a lot of super talented flash writers who write for Flash! Friday, and I love to go out and read what they have to say after I finish my story. So here’s mine:

Fly Me To The Moon
@laurenegreene
210 words

Sitting on the corner of hope and despair, chin resting on her hands, suitcases loaded to the brim beside her, Charlotte looked up at the moon. The clouds passed in front of it, in and out, changing the shadows around her.

She knew Tad was up there, somewhere, bouncing around on the new settlement. She wanted to see him. She looked back at the door behind her, hoping against all hope it wouldn’t open. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought about leaving, and it wouldn’t be the last. She kept telling her mom she wasn’t a child anymore. Twenty-Six years old and married.

“To a spaceman, yar?” Her mother chuckled the words out beside the cigar that was perpetually stuck in her mouth.

Charlotte stared at the moon, imagining Tad hoeing away at a garden in a biodome, stuck in space. She hadn’t heard from him in months.

“Probably screwing some space chick,” her brother had said.

The taxi cab pulled up.

“Where to?”

“Fly me to the moon?”

“Can’t go that far,” the man said, scratching his beard.

“Take me to Plasco Station.”

“You might get a pass,” the driver said. “I heard they were opening it up to civilians again.”

That’s what she’d been hoping to hear.