Muted Medieval Equity

“Every time you visit, I’m undone.”

“I don’t want you to be bewitched. I want to speak at the Table! And do stop stroking my ear–you know I despise it.”

“But I love the way it curves up into a point.”

“Sir, the counsel? Please, be my escort?”

“Oh, don’t put your coat on. Although you’re ravishing in scarlet, the more ivory skin to espy, the better.”

“Now you are just being vulgar.”

“Have I ever mentioned I love your rosebud lips?”

“Stop stalling! My poetry is what you love, and that is all. Now I’m out of patience.”

“I don’t believe it. You could never be anything less than perfect.”

“Please, I must rest my case. We need justice.”

“Your other striking virtues will cause the knights to drool more than your lovely logic.”

“What’s the point of being fae if my womanhood leaves me unheard?”

“Yet I ask, why be the Enchantress, unless to enchant us?”


Written For Flash! Friday Flash Fiction

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Procrustean Homage

A late morning brilliance glimmered off his wings–A World War II bomber, its broken hull rewound outside time, repaired into strength defined.

 

The ace swooped low, approaching from the side; his attack narrowly missing the fountain’s spray and the top-hats of harried penguin- men.

 

But the streetwise urchins still held the fort, despite it being erected by neutral parties.

 

He warbled in harmony with the vibrating engine, revving its power. His proud mama had prepared him from day one for this. He’d already begun the victory song.

 

Zooming again, he plummeted straight for the square. The Sky Warrior aimed true. Ladies shrieked, felines’ pelts burned, and the pigeons shrilled, clamoring from their prime scrap-squirreling territory.
Advancing up the steps, the young ace somberly clawed the family name onto the memorial. Then rightfully taking his place mirroring the commemorative statue, the Sky Warrior stretched wide his wings, demanding veneration.

A Misguided Spade

Caspious was digging his weapon of choice into the earth. “Are you at war with those buggers again?” Istar teased, looking past him, her angelic figure sauntering up the path.

“Aren’t I always fighting one vile enemy or another?” Caspious spat at the ground. But when he faced her, Caspious softened adoringly; innocently. “I hope you get used this . . . er, to me I mean.”

He was tan, scientific and kind. Istar sighed. If only he was a smidgen more . . . obliging. When Caspious cared, his royal magic pierced all barriers; everything he caressed bloomed.

Everything not hidden by her facade, at least.  

Istar scanned the treeline nervously. She couldn’t delay. “Sweet, the Syscans, surely you’ve heard. Without assistance they’ll die. Although they’re few, however distant and lowly, they’re still your subjects! You’re needed now!” I need you now! But that last sentence never actually left Istar’s tongue.

Caspious was glad he turned from her mesmerizing eyes, resenting that Istar had opened this Pandora’s Box again. It had almost been their honeymoon’s undoing months ago. Wait–that was only months ago, right?

The Heir shelved his lovely bride’s humming into its own compartment, focusing on the soil sifting through his fingers. He crunched what was left in his palm, imagining it was the worms he despised.

Istar watched Caspious wane as she pleaded one last time. Maybe if he knew the truth of her past, he would reconsider his indifference.

As Caspious often said (one of his gardening maxims), “One can’t unhinge the fly from the web.” And neither could she release her tongue from its curse, so frigidly bestowed on her, when torn from her family, discharged to the Castle by the Syscan Reds.

The Reds had spent their patience.

In a rare moment of honesty, Istar breathed “I love you,” startling Capious from his vegetation. But then she turned away quickly, hearing only the thump, rather than seeing his head roll too, as it joined his trowel on the garden plot.


Written for Flash! Friday Fiction

Syzygy Enchantment; Syzygy Eclipse

The story was prompted by the following image:

Spying, 1972. CC3 photo by Daniel Teoli Jr.
Spying, 1972. CC3 photo by Daniel Teoli Jr.

 

“Boop, boopity-bloop,” my nails rattled, clutching the box while I jerked, gripping tightly to control this stone and my hopes in it.

“Don’t you mean ‘Beep, beepity-bleep?’ ” Harold asked, concerned.

“‘Boop’ works just as well as ‘beep.'”

“Are you sure?” Harold’s unibrow rose a smidgen.  You could call us brothers–thanks to our rabid family dynamics–so I knew he was nervous.

“It will work,” I assured, my faith living. We couldn’t keep living these monthly nights of terror.

Harold whimpered, “What if the Uncles find out?”

“Shut your chops so I can concentrate!” Relenting, I added, “We’ll bring something home from the butcher’s.”

Harold wrapped his fur-streaked arms around himself, rocking, waiting. I beeped and booped the incantation on the lycanthropy amulet.

Finally we heard the roar, that hopeful promise brewing. A flash banished the dusk while the city heedlessly moved around us. Searching for the russet moon, I tensely reached for Harold’s paws, but instead our smooth, calm palms collided, curse-free.

 

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This story was written for Flash! Friday flash fiction contest.

Searing Seperation

Red Sunset. CC2.0 photo by Petteri Sulonen.
Red Sunset. CC2.0 photo by Petteri Sulonen.

Eyes void and watery, the woman lay frozen on the slab of scorched granite stretching the darkened forest floor. The white coats surrounding her reflected the night sky–blindingly–while they awaited instructions. Taking in the familiar scene, the surgeon commenced with a sharp command that pierced the chilled air like a knife:

“Scalpel?”

It was passed.

“Saw?”

The patient’s fever rose.

“Ready?” They gently gripped the pale flesh. Then, with the expert’s grim nod, from clavicle to navel, they cracked the laceration, divorcing the the woman’s body into two equal parts.

It should’ve gaped black, even with the moonlight. But it roared red, yellow–even cerulean! “Quick, the damper!” The surgeon ordered, but the device sucked oxygen hopelessly as the hellfire raged.

“What is it?”

The surgeon stared, transfixed by the flame-entwined spires piercing through the heart’s pyre. She’d lived this inferno of anguish.

“This, my coats, is despair–charring, purifying despair.”

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Written for Flash! Friday Fiction

Halo-Shoe Narrative #3427

The following story is inspired by this image:

Typhoon Maid Thursday. CC photo by Shuji Moriwaki.
Typhoon Maid Thursday. CC photo by Shuji Moriwaki.

 

Halo-Shoe Narrative #3427

 

There wasn’t ever the sweet grass prairie when she dislodged her aviators. Dee always found herself somewhere fantastical: a foreign landscape, some pounding club, or a colonist’s ballroom. She’d sigh, hike-up her stockings, and embrace the plot.

 

This time wasn’t any different; she stood proud on a mute slab’s edge. Relieved, she wasn’t scared of this cement. An expert judge, Dee already knew here was too idyllic to be another futuristic dystopian.

 

Instead, her attention was silently screaming at the rope swinging with dead-weight. Not again. Dee hated bringing calamity with her. But she ceased premature blame-casting, for who knew when he’d jumped the brink?

 

Story commenced; she nudged her toe at the coil, hoping to uncover a clue. No reason to keep her shoes clean, for the scarlet sequin-sparkle had shed-off literally ages ago.

 

On cue, her aching companion flared–that gut-wrenching longing–for her blasted, world-warped, clicking heels take her to where Em’s apple pie is served with cheddar:

 

Home.

 


Read E. S. Johnston’s story based on the same image here.

Colossus Stymied

St Kilda, Scotland. CC photo by Neil Wilkie
St Kilda, Scotland. CC photo by Neil Wilkie

Colossus Stymied

Princess be rollin’ down my hill again.

I laugh, ‘cuz Princess gives me tickles when she goes a-hillin’.

I call her Stellalina. We’uns need to be a’namin’ the princesses. But the others say I be a baby, cryin’ on, making pets out nuthin’ but fleas.

I sing, “It don’t matter what they say, I be layin’ here all day–  Stella’ be my Special!”

Princess be tired.  Princess be hiding in Molehole when she be tired, tossin’, turnin’, and givin’ me the itches. But I don’t want to scratch or she be dead. No more Stellalina.

My sweat coils in thick steam down towards Molehole. I hope it be fresh– I want Stellanlina to love my luscious expanse and stay.

I might just be a giant carcass of land. But if I ever pry-up from my stone prison, I’d still carry this little’un with me, trompin’ worlds. And if she like, I’d let her go a’hillin’ and giggin’ whenever she want.

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This was written for Flash! Friday Fiction–Vol 2 – 39