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

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.

The Jungle of Long Island

Mrs. Gray, they said, didn’t play the field well. This was unfortunate, as the Felines maintained that summer in the Hamptons should be a spectacular jest.

When Mr. Gray began busying himself in the City, they welcomed Mrs. Gray into their pack. She didn’t do much besides toddle behind them, though, and definitely not with their poise and alluring swagger.

They were fools, those who mistook these cougars for delicate kittens, lounging in their high-cut swimming stripes, meticulous curls licked into place. More than one gentleman would fall prey throughout these golden days.

It was an irony that Mrs. Gray–of all of the Felines–had been accused of indiscretions. When Mr. Gray arrived at the mansion in a possessive rage, like a typical pawn, she didn’t discern who was really behind the damning missive. Her brutal stabbing was simply a triumphant checkmate in a game of societal entertainment.


Written for Flash! Friday flash fiction

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

Stay Behind the Glass

Baxville strapped her twin pistols into her shoulder harness, whistling for her hounds. They tore from behind the Westward Factory, which was taller than night itself, but less illustrious than the competition–Southbend Incorporate–sitting pristinely on the corner.

The Hound of BakersvillesWithin seconds, sulfur and wet appreciative tongues descended on Baxville, but she pushed her adoring canines aside, striding across the fog- laden street, crimson under the Westward’s lighting. Baxville thudded on Southbend’s chiseled grand entrance like she was representing hell itself. “Lyon, we are going to duel this out once and for all!”

A girl in a white waistcoat peered through an angled window.

Baxville continued, “Your granddaddy cheated on that deal. You know it! Southbend is mine!”

“Well your daddy cheated on his wife, coming to the sweeter side.” The impeccable duchess smiled back coldly.

Baxville growled and her dogs assaulted the window; Lyon could be seen falling back–hard–onto the checkered tile. While Lyon recovered inside, Baxville pulled out a pistol and aimed at her own mirrored reflection.

Lyon was still muffled behind the glass: “Just because I get your inheritance too, doesn’t mean you get mine.”

“If you only knew what came with Westward,” Baxville sneered, “then you wouldn’t be so keen to take all.”

Lyon glared. “Oh, I know what comes with Westward: irrationality, daddy’s bones and loads of money.”

As always, Baxville fired at the diamond glass with a resounding crack, then turned back towards the factory, the Westward’s hounds behind her. Baxville only performed this defeating ritual hoping to force her half-sister’s salvation.


This was written for Flash! Friday Fiction

The Last Trip Down Beach Lane

This short story was prompted by the following image:

Old Woman. CC2.0 photo by Giorgio Grande.
Old Woman. CC2.0 photo by Giorgio Grande.

Mademoiselle Villeneuve and her companion creaked, shuffling down the cobblestone towards the end of the road. One step, one roll. One drop mirroring past beginnings in Mademoiselle’s eye.

“Félicitations pour ton diplôme! Bonne chance dans le monde!” echoed behind them as she threw her cap in the wind, riding towards the future.

Sunbeams cast wickers of flame on the coastal path, a golden gleam to guide them. One step, one roll. One shared memory of love from the heart.

She sat on the blue bars giggling, flying towards the moon. He dragged his feet on this same beach lane, slowing them just enough so he could kiss her neck.

Mademoiselle’s clog skimmed sand, choking the grout, and their bony frames shuttered. One step, one roll. One more movement reminding them they were now broken and bald.

They carried meager paychecks together, then wine and bouquets. They skidded from uncounted fights; pedaled towards countless friendships. Children, then grandchildren twirling their wheels.

Mademoiselle and her partner had arrived. She held to his frame so tightly as they stood one last time gazing at their shore.

Peeling off her wig and clothes, she rested them and her beloved bicycle against the junkyard’s gates. Then without a backward glance, Mademoiselle Villeneuve maneuvered through sand to surf, burying her bruised body under the salty sea.


This was originally written for Flash! Friday flash fiction contest

The Bastard’s New Job

This story was prompted by the following image:

Coliseum in Rome. CC2.0 photo by Vlad.
Coliseum in Rome. CC2.0 photo by Vlad.

 

 

Lezzone appeared, his bruised body an ‘X’ in the frame. He didn’t know it, but I’d already teleported directly behind him.

“Beat you again!” I barked, rubbing my swollen eye.

Startled, Lezzone almost toppled out of the elemental zone pod, which would have been ironic, even somewhat unfortunate. Down below was the space-continuum, a dizzying, never-ending cycle through the worlds–hell itself–and where his mam resided.

Lezzone moved from the wall he’d clutched, swiping at me, but I just ducked, laughed, and called behind me, “We have to clock in at 532 hours.” Scowling, Lezzone shouldered past me, and was the first to reach the cleaning room. He threw me a SpaceSuck; then grabbed one for himself.

It was his fault we were assigned to come this agonizingly close, even if Lezzone blamed me. If I told our Grams we’d finally been to the Eternal City, she’d call it a bluff–like the old days when an fighter would land, but never leave the airport before flying onward.

If Lezzone hadn’t opened his fat mouth about my mam like that! Now we had to come daily to sweep this god-forsaken place without leaving its stone walls.

Even so, I’d teleport to 134340 if I knew it could make me feel legit.


Written for Flash! Friday flash fiction

Compare E.S. Johnston’s story, My Boss, “Handsome Johnny”, written with the same prompt

 

My Boss, “Handsome Johnny”

This poetic story was prompted by the following image:

Coliseum in Rome. CC2.0 photo by Vlad.
Coliseum in Rome. CC2.0 photo by Vlad.

Whisking me off my sensible feet, Mr. Roselli took me out to play–

So giddy–I didn’t know he even felt that way!

This morning he called at eight, arrived at three,

Thrusting brusquely past our janitor to get to me.

My top button suddenly felt too tight,

My shy smile grew wide; inside I soared like a kite.

Just yesterday I was well-coiffed, pinned-down,

But in his penthouse my hair was ruffled under Sinatra’s soothing sound.

“It’s Secretary Day!” Roselli cried with glee,

He moved the years of imaginary employee’s flowers to pass me a key.

My trembling hands, forever smelling of our office soap,

Inched to open his envelope.

My blood rushed as I squelched my dreams,

Although my heart-wrenching wanderlust burst at the seams!

Hopefully glancing at my board, pinned with snapshots from afar,

I was distracted by the window framing his car.

Crestfallen, instantly my nerves were grating,

While he cooed, “My dove, why are you waiting?”

A relic from his travels, a scratched postcard from ancient Rome,

Scribbled on the back it said “Just call before visiting my home!”

Nuzzling my neck, he pressed the key into my palm.

I glared at the Marilyn Monroe in his Maserati, centering my raging calm.


Written for Flash! Friday flash fiction

Compare A.Ravenel Clay’s story, The Bastard’s New Job, written with the same prompt

On Her Own Two Feet

This following story was written based on the following image as a prompt:

Jeanne d’Arc, 1876. Painting by Eugène Thirion. Public Domain.
Jeanne d’Arc, 1876. Painting by Eugène Thirion. Public Domain.

 

The stone might be dusting her toes, but Joan can stand on her own through a little dirt.

What I’m concerned about it whether she war away the sticks and stones. Can she fight off heartbreak? A friend’s betrayal? Cruel laughter or an enemy disguised as her boyfriend?

She was always a tender reed, an unlit wick in my arms. I’d wonder how one so thirsty–needy–could be one so strong. She used to giggle adorably when I’d use our lamb skin to hide my face. Even then, with a chubby grasp on the leather, she wasn’t scared when her protector was out of sight.

Pigtails and arrows, swimming holes and swords; braver than I, but I’d hold her to comfort while enveloped in the dark.

Despite the plague, despite the wars, she was her own but she was everyone’s–especially mine.

Then one day, my fragile girl flew away.  Joan handle the world, I’m just not sure I can.

 

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

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.