Ganymeder

Thirteen- the 52/250 Flash Quarterly

Thirteen weeks have passed since the 52/250 Flash Challenge began: Thirteen weeks of submitting flash fiction based on themes from the site, thirteen weeks of writing 250 words based on a different prompt each week, thirteen weeks of some GREAT flash fiction.

The time passed pretty quickly, though I often wrote a story early in the week and then tweaked it for the rest of the week until the very last minute. When the editors of the 52/250 Flash site asked for a non fiction bio (life summary or one scene), I was happy to submit one though a little perplexed as to how to approach it. My husband helped me out by suggesting something that happened when we lived in Germany. The bio made it into the Quarterly along with my story, Perfect Vision, which was an editors’ choice. I’m very honored.

So if you want to read some awesome short fiction, please check out Thirteen. You won’t regret it.

*image courtesy of Bigfoto.com

Audio: Working in the Digital Age

Original story text: HERE

This story, Working in the Digital Age, was inspired by the theme Busy at Work for the 52/250 flash challenge.

Tech Stuff:

Since Audioboo decided it doesn’t like me anymore, my very generous tech support helped set up audio on my blog. So from now on I’ll be posting my weekly #SpokenSunday audio on my blog along with any other audio I record.

Also, since new stories for the 52/250 flash challenge now post on Fridays – the same day as #FridayFlash – my #Spoken Sunday stories will be audio versions of my 52/250 stories. Every Sunday I plan to post a new blogpost highlighting this, followed throughout the week by one or two writing prompts or information.

Have a great week!

SANCTUARY

The undead beat upon the door of the church. The sun glared upon their torn and damaged limbs while flowering vines clung to the brick walls of the edifice like dead men’s fingers. Neither daylight, cross, nor holy water detered them from the thick wooden door.

The nearby fae heard the cries of despair with cold, unyielding hearts. The pleas for mercy went unheeded by the pastor and his flock – safe within their brick sanctuary.

The sun’s heat soon sapped the unfortunate souls of all strength. Sensing their desolation, the fairies left the hive, hovered for a moment above their prey, then swooped down for the feast. Shrieks of pain and torment rent the air.

Inside the church, the congregation prayed.

THE END.

I love the idea of having a six minute timer and a prompt that you don’t see until the timer starts. Obviously this doesn’t produce the best prose, but it makes for some great creativity. I plan on rewriting some of my attempts from the Six Minute Story site on my blog to see how I can improve from the raw material I produce there.

The story behind this is pretty short. About three minutes into writing this the phone rang. I felt cheated of my chance, so I picked this as my first rewrite. Also, Monsterbat suggested that fairies would be a scary-but-funny ending. So – thank you, Monsterbat!

*This story is a rewrite of a story I wrote for the Six Minute Story site. The original can be found here. It is licensed through the site under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0.

**Also, please don’t forget to check out the 52/250 Flash Challenge. My newest story there, Working in the Digital Age, was written for the theme ‘Busy at Work.’ I have a lot of trouble writing about things I care about, and so I’m not sure the story comes across very well or if it seems too cliché. But…  Slavery isn’t history.  I’m not being metaphorical. Modern Slaves outnumber the slaves during the Transatlantic Slave Trade, and the majority of them are used in the sex industry. I drew upon that fact as the basis of my story.

*** For more info on modern abolitionism, please check out

Polaris Project

-activist group focusing on sexual slavery (especially of women and children)

Not for sale

-campaign to fight the global slave trade by training people to recognize it in their own backyards

Free the Slaves

-abolitionist organization with information about the modern slave trade, free newsletters, FAQ, and more

As always, feedback is begged for welcome. Thank you for your time.

This week began the first week of 4th grade for my son, Monsterbat.  Mommy things take priority, so I haven’t had time to write something for #FridayFlash. Last night however, as I read a post by the brilliant and talented Jim Bronyaur, a wonderful idea struck me - I’ll repost my original #FridayFlash too as a gauge of my progress over the course of the past year! It’ll be a bit embarrassing because it’s not terribly well written, but that’ll show my progress over the past year… So, Jim, thanks for letting me steal… um, I mean BE INSPIRED BY your idea.

So, below is my very first #Friday Flash, ‘Of Penguins and Men,’ originally posted August 28th of 2009.  I wrote it as a children’s story for my little boy. At the time my writing experience was very limited, and I had absolutely no experience writing flash fiction. So please… be kind.

Of Penguins and Men

Once upon a time, there was a penguin that dreamed of attending a fancy party. Specifically, the fanciest kind of party. The kind where you had to wear black ties and tuxedos. He had seen enough sitcoms to know that tuxedos made people look like penguins, so he thought he’d fit right in. In fact, he’d be the life of the party.

The only problem was that he wasn’t. At a party, that is. He wasn’t able to go to a party, because he was stuck here in these tiny little rooms. Rick kept the fridge stocked, well- the mini fridge anyway, with plenty of raw fish for him to snack on. His bedroom was kept very cool and stocked with the finest television series available on DVD. So, Charlie really felt that he had little to complain about. Still, there must be more to do than sit in a chilly room watching sitcoms and eating raw fish. At the moment he wasn’t sure what, but the party idea seemed like a good place to start.

He needed a black tie. Didn’t everyone call these fancy wear-a-tuxedo parties  “black tie?” That was the one thing he wasn’t equipped with. Tuxedo looking body, sure. Black tie? Nope.

These were the thoughts going through his head as he rummaged through Rick’s closet. Shoe boxes, crates, piles of old clothes and smelly socks went flying. Rick entered the room to a barrage of laundry and airborne clothes hangers. A sock caught him squarely in the eye.

“Anything you need help with, Charlie?” asked Rick, removing the sock and holding it at arm’s length.

“Do you have a black tie?” asked the penguin.

“Um…I don’t think so. Why?”

“Because I need one.”

“Um… guess I have to ask the obvious here. WHY do you need one?”

Charlie looked at him for a moment, shocked. “For a fancy dress party, of course! Why else would I need one?”

“Because you’re becoming a magician? I don’t know. I just work here.”

The cotton and polyester hurricane subsided as Charlie reached the closet’s bottom. “Nothing? Nothing! I can’t believe you haven’t got a black tie. Have you no sense of decorum or style?”

Rick looked at the disheveled room, the soda cans littered on the ground, and his little black and white friend sitting there in Hawaiian shorts. “Clearly not,” he replied.

“Why are we here, Rick?” asked Charlie in shrill, high tones. “Why can’t I leave?”

“What? The room?”

“No… I mean, YES! LEAVE leave. Go outside!”

“Well, you could if you really wanted to. Do you?”

Charlie nodded vehemently. “Is a jellyfish an invertebrate? Of course, I want to go!”

“Well, finish getting dressed then. This place has a strict ‘No shirt, no pants, no entrance policy.’”

Charlie grinned, as much as it’s possible for a talking aquatic bird, and quickly ran to his room for his suit.

Penguins, thought Rick, sometimes there’s simply no reasoning with them.

Within 20 minutes, they both stood on the surface, taking in the sights.

“Happy now?” asked Rick, punching the mike button in his helmet.

The Earth’s reflection made it hard to judge Charlie’s expression through the helmet, but he looked disappointed. His space suit seemed to sag. He started to waddle back to the hatch. Rick stood for another moment, gazing at the blasted planet, shrugged and then followed.

“You didn’t really think there’d be anything to see out there, did you?” asked Rick, removing his helmet and beginning to undress.

“Well, no… not as such,” evaded the penguin.

“I told you, it’s going to take years for us to make it to the colony,” said Rick.

Charlie hung his head.

“But don’t worry! We’ll get there eventually! What about that black-tie idea of yours?”

“Well, your culture is fascinating, really. But truth-be-told, I was getting really BORED just sitting there while you did all that work. I wanted to have a little fun, even if it was just pretend.”

“Well, once we get to your planet, you can have your own fancy dress party. Hey, I’ll introduce you to my family. They should have quarters set up nicely by now.”

“Are you sure? Your technology is so much more primitive; I’m not sure they’d be comfortable with so much unfamiliar machinery. And we don’t have fancy dress parties.”

“Hey, you guys are helping us out, taking us in. The least I can do is help you throw a party. Besides, I’m sure my family will feel more than comfortable. Your people, well- penguins in general, are very hospitable.”

“If only I could repair the FTL drive, we could get there so much sooner, and I wouldn’t be so darned BORED,” whined Charlie.

“Well, do you have the parts?”

“No, I was trying to be cheap and didn’t get spares,” admitted the bird.

“Then sit back, my friend, and enjoy the fish. Want me to replicate some more?”

“No thanks. I’m stuffed. Hey, do you want to watch ‘Stellar Trek’ again?”

“Sure thing,” answered Rick, plopping into another lazyboy and popping open another soda.

“Fizzy bubble drinks,” laughed Charlie. “What’ll you humans think up next?”

They both reclined in their chairs to watch Ruddenburry’s classic show.

The ship flew silently through the great void.

THE END.

*I hope that you enjoyed that. I like to think that I’ve improved a lot in the past year, in large part thanks to #FridayFlash – the brainchild of author J.M. Strothers at Mad Utopia. Friday Flash is a wonderful community, and I’m very grateful for the support and stories available through this wonderful community.

As a direct result of my involvement in #FridayFlash, I now have a story, Hell of a Job,  published in the wonderful Best of Friday Flash Anthology, as well as my story, Doomed, published at Flash Me magazine. I really encourage you to check out both these publications. They are absolutely wonderful. Did I mention they were wonderful?

Also, just a quick reminder – For the theme, Sleep, I posted another story, ‘Morpheus‘ up at the 52/250 flash challenge site.

Update: Click Morpheus to hear this story in audio (for #SpokenSunday) or visit my Audioboo account for my other short audio stories. Due to technical difficulties with Audioboo, I will most likely be posting my audio stories and poems directly from my blog. Thank you for your time.

Middle School

The ‘Do Over’

The mean boys hung around the bicycle rack behind the school. Rachael Wentworth dreaded the inevitable confrontation when she went to retrieve her wheels – the taunts, the jeers, the unending humiliation that came with being the school pariah. Newly christened Rachael ‘Worthless’ by her classmates, the brand followed her throughout the school year.

She slung the heavy backpack over her uniform – hating this school, hating the ugly black and gold plaid she was forced to wear, hating her brown leather moccasins – but most of all hating herself for not standing up to her tormentors. She detested bullies as well as her own cowardice, which made her feel guilty for not standing up for herself. As a Catholic schoolgirl, she was well versed in guilt.

Sister Sarah must be on a roll this week. Rachael’s backpack weighed less than 20 pounds today. She had never actually weighed it, but even on ‘light’ homework days she knew it weighed a hell of a lot. By the time she finished her daily bike ride home, her back ached from the strain.

Puberty had not been kind. Besides an overabundance of acne, greasy hair, and a bad perm, the uniform threw all her least attractive features into sharp relief. Her head down wherever she went, her hair strategically hung over that week’s most obvious blemishes, she slumped her shoulders as she plodded from class to class. Her loneliness bore her down, though her dearest hope – even more than friendship – was simply to be left alone. However, her weakness and desperation attracted bullies like moths to a flame.

She breathed deeply, clutching the key to her bike lock, and turned the corner. She was already untangling the chain before she heard the first taunt. Mike Marachino walked out from behind a tree, followed closely by his minions. He sat on the rack and kicked his legs back and forth beside her head. She tried not to flinch as she pulled the chain from the spokes of her bike.

“Oh, hey guys, look! It’s Worthless. Hey there, Worthless, what’s your hurry?”

Rachael was torn. She wanted to put the chain away, but fumbling with her backpack would mess up her quick getaway. She settled for wrapping it around her palm, which she then used to steer the bike out and away from her persecutors. As she sought to adjust the backpack onto the other shoulder, she felt a clot of earth hit the back of her head.

“Oops,” said Mike.

Something in her broke. Behind the tears that threatened to burst forth from her closed eyes, she felt something inside her swell up, bursting through the wall of her fear and dread. She stopped and opened her eyes.

Before the boys had time to react, she’d turned and swung the heavy backpack in a high arc, catching the three boys across their faces, knocking them to the ground. While two of them lay stunned in the dirt, their leader held his arms up to shield his face from Rachael’s pulverizing blows. She rained her years of shame, regret, and rage upon him in a fury that made her weak frame momentarily strong.

By the time Sister Sarah pulled her off Mike, he resembled a marachino cherry in more than name. The other two boys had run off, avoiding punishment. (She was no tattle tale.)

For the next two weeks, Rachael and Mike both served detention after school. She sat in the same room as her former bully, but from that point on – he was the one who cringed.

She smiled.

Then her mother called her into dinner, breaking her reverie, and her grin faded. She pulled a greasy strand over her face, closed her bedroom door, and left her daydream behind.

THE END.

The above story was inspired by the prompt, If you were writing it, How would your story end?, from the Are You a Healer? site. Sadly, this story is very personal, though the actual writing felt quite liberating. The last paragraph makes the difference between fantasy and something more realistic, so I felt ambivalent about it. I realize the prompt was to ‘rewrite’ something from the past, but it seems like better flash with the additional paragraph.

Today also begins week #14 of the 52|250 challenge with stories inspired by the prompt, I Can’t Wait. This week I decided to do something different by submitting a poem instead of prose. My submission, “2 a.m.” can be found at the 52|250 challenge under the name Catherine Russell. Enjoy!

Also, one quick reminder- Don’t forget to buy your copy of The Best of Friday Flash: Volume One, now available at Smashwords for the extremely reasonable price of $2.99.  When you do, be sure to check out my story, A Hell of a Job, published in the anthology! Many thanks to J.M. Strother, the brilliance behind Friday Flash, for allowing me to be a part of this wonderful project. Having read each of the stories, I can honestly say that this anthology would be one of my all time favorites – even if I’d never heard of Friday Flash. It’s *that* awesome.

As always, I beg for welcome feedback.

*Photo courtesy of Keene and Chesire County (NH) Historical Photos via Flicker.

No known copyright restrictions.

Snow White Retold

From within the crystal coffin, the fair maiden arose from the kiss of her beloved Prince. Vlad had been her intended before the Queen had broken their engagement and betrayed her – by charging the huntsman with bringing back her heart in a wooden box. Fortunately the weak minded were easily led, and he returned with the heart of a deer instead. Her animal minions had guided her to the house of the seven little men.

That day the ravens removed every last vestige of garlic from the premises while other creatures prepared a place for her. When the dwarves returned from their daily toil in the mines, they were seemingly enchanted by her cold white beauty and blood red lips. That evening, she spun her tale of forced exile by her wicked stepmother. With tears in her eyes, she begged them to shelter her.

She sought to win them over with a song. They readily agreed to let her stay if she promised to do the housework and -more importantly- stop singing. Both conditions met, all parties were satisfied. The men had been without a decent maid for months, ever since the Goldi-locks girl had cleaned their house out when she had… well, cleaned their house out. Still they stayed up late with the young princess, exchanging stories and not singing.

The next morning the seven bleary eyed men prepared to toil in the mines once more. As they marched away, they made her promise to not talk to strangers, especially old women bearing apples. As her eyes followed their progress into the woods, the princess – who had never worked a day in her life – resolved to spend the day waiting for her prince to save her from a dreary existence as a common maid.

No sooner had they turned a corner in the path when an old woman approached the cottage and knocked on the door. The princess peeped through a crack, but the hag elbowed her way inside. “Excuse me, young lady,” she said, “but I’m a poor woman with many grandchildren to feed. Would you like to buy an apricot? Pomegranate? Perhaps a kumquat?”

The princess was stunned. “Kumquat? Isn’t that indigenous to… where is this orchard anyway?”

“Oh, that is not important,” said the old woman. “But I need to sell something in order to feed my grandchildren.”

“Why not just give them the fruit?”

“Why not just…? Um, well… there’s taxes, you see. Death and taxes, can’t escape those, can you? And overhead costs, rent, cow dung isn’t cheap these days either…”

“Alright already! If I buy something, will you leave?”

The crone’s smile revealed broken, crooked teeth. From the saleswoman’s basket, the princess chose an apple – partly because its color appealed to her but mostly to annoy the dwarves. She planned to feed them to the prince later anyway – as a wedding present.

“Enjoy the fruit, my dear. It’s my best season yet!”

The princess nodded and waited for the woman to leave. “Why aren’t you leaving?”

“Just making sure you’re satisfied, my dear. I may be poor, but I’m a responsible businesswoman.”

Too bad the Prince didn’t like older women, mused the Princess. The old biddy annoyed her and might otherwise make a nice snack. She rolled her eyes, sighed, raised the apple to her lips…

And collapsed.

When the dwarves returned from work, they found the princess sleeping inside a crystal coffin. “What took you so long?” asked the Queen.

“Well, some of the material components of your spells are harder to get than others,” said Splotchy. “You’re lucky we had that much crystal on hand when we spoke earlier.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” said the beautiful Queen. “Displaying the girl that way is the surest trap we can lay for Vlad. He’s already turned many of my subjects, and to be brutally honest the garlic stench around the castle’s beginning to get to me. Whew!” She held her nose.

Once they’d lugged the crystal coffin to a conspicuously open space, they hid behind a tree and waited for sunset. From the mountain caves beyond the forest, the prince flew to his betrothed, folded his bat wings, and resumed humanoid form. Lifting the heavy lid, he bent over the slumbering princess and woke her to the life of the undead.

From within the crystal coffin, the fair maiden arose from the kiss of her beloved Prince. Their grins, filled with death (and on the Prince’s part a little gristle), revealed sharp incisors. “Oh, my Vlad! How I’ve longed for your return.”

“So have we!” cried the seven dwarves in unison, stepping out from the cover of the woods. The Queen held a cross, paralyzing the pair, while the dwarves rushed upon the duo with wooden stakes. Within moments, all that remained were two piles of dust mixed with clothing of questionable taste.

“So, you’ll sign the contract now?” asked Burpy.

“Of course,” said the Queen. “A deal’s a deal. You helped me protect my subjects – Can’t be Queen without subjects; now can I? So it’s the least I can do. Besides, you guys are the best suppliers in the business.”

“Aw, thanks, Mauve,” said Burpy.

“That’s Queen Mauve,” corrected the Queen, glaring at the dwarf. Burpy hid behind Splotchy, who pushed him away.

The Queen’s face cleared. “But let’s not quibble. My cousin, Agatha, has a lovely house a little deeper into the forest. She’s quite the baker. Her gingerbread is to die for! But I hear she’s expanding into savory dishes. Tell me, boys, would you care to dine on a little roast Hansel?”

The dwarves, stout from their over-fondness of desserts, readily agreed, and they accompanied the Queen into the woods. Moonlighting as vampire hunters was, after all, hungry work.

THE END.

Also, my other short story, ‘Space Camp’, can be found at the 52/250 flash challenge site under the name Catherine Russell. The theme for week #13 of the challenge was (you guessed it!) Space Camp.

‘Snow White Retold’ and ‘Space Camp’ are also available in audio through my account at Audioboo. Because Audioboo recordings must be less than five minutes, I read through ‘Snow White Retold’ a little faster than I would have liked. I did some voices for the characters too, so please – be kind. Hehe.

As always, I beg for welcome feedback! Thank you for your time.

*Photo of Northern Spy Apples available courtesy the Field Museum Library through The Commons via Flicker. No known copyright restrictions.

Opportunity Knocks for Miss Fauxpas

Susan bit the pencil hard as she scribbled notes. She wished she could type instead, but the less time she spent using her desktop – the better. It was only a matter of time before it bit the dust like all her previous electronic purchases: her cell phone, her PDAs, her voice recorder. Larger electronics, like televisions or microwaves, didn’t seem effected by her own personal curse, but desktop computers and smaller devices didn’t stand a chance around her natural body chemistry.

The papers crinkled slightly as she gathered the pages of her manuscript together and stuffed them into a large manila envelope. Perhaps it was for the best. Her friend, Carrie, typed much better than her anyway. In High School, Susan had flunked typing class. Twice. At least with Carrie’s help she stood a chance of getting published. She found stamps, licked, stuck, and headed for the mailbox.

She opened the door to find a man in a black suit with hand poised to knock. They both jumped. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Susan Fauxpas?”

“Yes?”

“Come with me.”

What happened next was so stereotypical that she couldn’t fathom it. Men in black whisked her away in a black van with black tinted windows to an undisclosed location. She awoke – from her drug induced stupor – in a sparse white room furnished with only a steel table and chair. She gritted her teeth.

Another man in black entered carrying a clipboard. “Miss Fauxpas?”

She glowered at him, anger overriding any terror she might have felt.

“Miss Fauxpas, I apologize for the manner of your arrival, but when you hear our proposition I think you’ll agree we need to be careful.”

Resentment welled slowly inside her, but she resolved to say nothing.

“Miss Fauxpas, would you have a look at these photos?” He threw the clipboard onto the table. She reflexively glanced at the board, then cursed her own weakness. But what she saw shocked her.

“You kidnapped me to show me a Snappy Showroom catalog?”

The man in black laughed. “Hey, they told me you were witty. No, of course not. I’m showing you the washing machines IN the catalog.”

“So what? It’s a washing machine. I’d get one myself except for some reason… I mean, except that I usually send my clothes out to be cleaned.”

He nodded. “Yes, I can understand why. This machine operates with a very advanced piece of microtechnology. It wouldn’t work well under the type of stress you’d put it through.”

“What? Are you saying I’m a slob? What does that have to do with…”

“I think you know what I’m saying.”

Susan sighed, blowing long bangs out of her eyes. “Look, I’m nobody. I don’t know what you want. I write manuscripts. I’m trying to break into publishing, but in the meantime the only emotional responses my plays elicit are from my constant rejections. I’ve gotten so many rejection letters I’m thinking of wallpapering my office with them. You know…I’m big on recycling.”

“It’s not your job that interests me, Miss Fauxpas. It’s what you could be doing for us.”

“You? And who the hell are you?”

The man’s grin widened, showing four rows of perfectly white sharp teeth. “We’re the agency that employs people like you. We find people with unusual gifts and ask them to serve their country. With an ability like yours, you could be of uncalculated value to your government, Miss Fauxpas. Are you interested?”

She kept her eyes on his teeth, her mind spinning. “But…what ability? I can’t use a cell phone without breaking it.”

His grin broadened. “Exactly.”

*

The Agency’s scientists determined that the high frequency radio waves her body produced wreaked havoc on any small electronics exposed to them over an extended period of time – something to do with microfractures or some other technobabble. All she knew was that she was forbidden to touch any electronics other than the disposable ones designated for her training. Experiments were conducted to see just how long she could handle different devices before her natural body chemistry caused them to break down. The general consensus seemed to be two weeks of continued use – longer with extremely limited access. That suited Susan just fine.

Her life as an agent began with training, of course: surveillance, martial arts, stealth, even acting lessons. Susan’s cover as a high level technician with top clearance at the Snappy Showroom Headquarters gave her access to crucial technology there – namely the ‘master chip’ that controlled the robotics hidden within their popular washing machines. With one in almost every American home, the situation was extremely sensitive. Working for two weeks in that environment, she’d need her acting lessons.

THE END

Also, my story, Mummies Finally Reveal Secrets, can be found at the 52/250 Flash Challenge site. I wrote it as a faux news article, so even though I’m going to read it for Audioboo, I’m not sure how well it will translate. It was inspired by this week’s writing theme, Allergic Reactions, by Frank Hinton.

The audio for both stories can also be found at my Audioboo account, as well as other great fiction and poetry by a ton of different writers.

As always, I beg for welcome feedback. Thank you for your time!

*Photo courtesy of LSE Library via Flicker. No Known Copyright Restrictions.

Pirates Don’t Play Easy

Archibald Blood picked through his treasure on the Isle of the Crimson Skull and mulled over his prospects. Though accustomed to the crow’s nest on his ship, the nest he now found himself in filled him with a different type of thrill. He peered over the edge, contemplated the blessed ocean, and wondered if he could survive a fall and make it to his ship – or at least out of this blasted nest. The last thing he wanted was to end his life of skulduggery, deceit, and adventure as a pet for giant eaglets.

The treasure had led him here. After the harrowing climb, he’d collapsed into the nest, merely thankful to be alive and not to have been spotted by the bloody beast. However, gratitude soon gave way to despair when the mother bird returned. She had dropped his rope over the edge. Then after nudging him against one of her eggs, she’d trilled happily and flown away.

The giant eagle, by lining her nest with his booty, had caught her real quarry – a plaything for her children. But pirates didn’t play easy. He’d be damned if he’d end his days as nanny to a bunch of squalling brats.

Next to him, several eggs – almost as big as himself – quivered. The irony didn’t escape him as he picked up the biggest diamond in the world and prepared to crack them. Then he’d wait for the mother’s return.

Bloody pigeons.

THE END.

*The above story was inspired by the photo posted Monday, July 19, 2010 at the Clarity of Night blog. While I did not enter their “Uncovered” Short Fiction Contest. I loved the writing prompt. The Clarity of Night blog can be found at http://clarityofnight.blogspot.com

As always, I beg for welcome feedback. Thank you.

**The above photo courtesy of The Library of Congress and Flicker.

The Tank

Week #11′s theme for the 52|250 challenge, Red Meat, really struck a nerve. My vegan stripes show heavily in my submission this week. My story, ‘The Tank‘, appears on the site under the name Catherine Russell.

Also, I’ve created an Audioboo account for my poems and short fiction. I listen to a lot of podcasts when I drive anyway, so I’ve considered recording my stories for quite some time. Though I was hesitant for two reasons: I hate my voice, and I didn’t own any recording equipment. While reason number one’s still valid, Audioboo and Android apps (HiFiCorder) made the second one unimportant. So I decided to give it a go. My Audio version of ‘The Tank‘ can be found at my Audioboo account.

On a more personal note, I’ve been working on more stories and poems. I’ve decided to renew editing my rough draft novel, The Afterlife and Times of William Shakespeare. Until recently, I was undecided if I should continue, but my son (Monsterbat) helped me make up my mind. He asked me to read it as a bedtime story. When I reminded him that I hadn’t finished editing, he insisted that he’d read it himself. He said, “I love that story!” So, instead of reading, I summarized the story before he went to sleep. With motivation like that, how could I possibly not finish it now?

Have a wonderful day.

*If anyone else is interested in participating, all the information can be found on the 52/250 site.

**lightning photo courtesy of bigfoto.com

Fairy-be-gone

Sparkle hovered outside the window to the old house, ear pressed against the pane of glass.

“I’m telling you, Martha, I’m getting rid of that hive first thing tomorrow. Henderson’s has some pesticide that’ll do the job. I’m sick of dealing with the damn fairies.”

His wife hovered over the stove stirring some bubbling liquid with a wooden spoon. Sparkle scowled, both at the conversation and the spoon. Luckily, it didn’t seem inhabited.

“Do you have to kill them, Roy? Maybe it’s just they’re attracted to the wood from the door you replaced. You could maybe buy a different style or something and they might leave on their own.”

“Why should I spend good money when there’s plenty of fresh wood nearby? No, hon, you got a kind heart, but that’s just not sensible.”

“I just don’t want the poor little things to suffer,” said the farmer’s wife.

“Heck, you wouldn’t care if you’d been bit by the little buggers,” said the farmer, “But don’t worry – I’m sure it’s painless.” He kissed his wife on the cheek. “No more stew for me, Martha. Just going to finish up some things in the basement and go to bed. Early day fumigating tomorrow.”

His wife smiled, and the farmer left the room.

Sparkle returned to the barn.

*

“We must act quickly, your Highness,” said the fairy. “The humans plan to annihilate our home tomorrow.”

The fairy Queen pondered this, tiny chin resting in the cup of her hand as she frowned in concentration. Her small throne sparkled and shone within the center of the hornet-like hive. “We’d assumed the humans would think we lived in the nearby trees. This makes matters more serious indeed if they’ve grown impervious to our camoflauge spells.”

“But what of the poison? We may flee, but surely if he sprays that in here…” Sparkle gestured to the wooden rafters, then the barn in general.

The Queen’s face softened. “Not to worry, my lovely minion. Tonight we shall make our move, and she will be safe. We may even manage to save our own home.”

Sparkle relaxed, though she wasn’t sure how they could save the hive itself. The magic of the hive wasn’t powerful enough to protect it, and the entire fairy court combined couldn’t move it by themselves. Nevertheless, she awaited her orders. Once given, Sparkle left to complete her mission.

The fairy Queen was known throughout the woods for her cleverness. Surely she would save them all.

*

Sparkle returned later with the news that the humans had gone to bed. The fairies posted a watch, and they got to work. From the topmost rafters they flew down to the small storage closet where the farmer kept his chemicals. Combining their efforts, they pulled covers off cans of paint remover. Soon paint brushes hovered, dipped, and flew to the farm’s newly replaced door.

They worked by the light of the full moon.

The fairies concentrated their combined magical effort on moving the brushes back and forth over the door’s newly painted surface. When one side was completed covered, they sprayed the hose across its surface. Then rags removed any remaining red paint.

When the door had been completely wiped clean of every ounce of paint, the wood began to shimmer and shift form. Soon, the grains formed into the image of a young girl who gained depth as she stepped out of the wooden boards. She held her nose.

“Thanks, guys,” she said, stepping outside the barn and removing her hand to breathe deeply of the night air. “But did you have to use something with so many fumes? It’s almost as bad as the paint.”

The fairy Queen laughed and said, “Almost, except that it isn’t trapping you. You’re free now, so stop complaining!” The other fairies tittered their agreement.

The dryad looked to the forest. “Do you think my sisters might welcome me when their homes are already full?”

“Perhaps,” answered the Queen. “But now that you are free, we have a more pressing matter. The farmer that imprisoned you plans to destroy our home as well. Will you help?”

“Of course!” answered the dryad. “But what can I do? I’d offer you shelter – except I’m homeless now.”

The Queen nodded. “I know, but I think I know something that will help us both.”  She explained her plan to the dryad, whose face lit up. Their combined magic just might be enough.

*

The next morning found the farmer standing near a suspicious red puddle in front of his new door, freshly stripped of paint. He scratched his head, frowning and muttering to himself. “What the…? Damn fairies. Malicious little creatures…”  He squinted at the rafters, then climbed the ladder to the second level to check out the hive.

It was gone.

Well, whatever happened, at least it saved him the cost of a can of Fairy-be-gone.

*

The dryad knelt before the fairy Queen in the newly relocated hive.

“I accept your fealty, my loyal new subject. The services you’ve rendered this hive have been invaluable. Rise, Chloe. I dub thee ‘fairy-kind.’”

The dryad rose and was instantly surrounded by her new sisters. She might not have had the wings, but she fit into the small hive perfectly.

“What will your dryad sisters think?” asked Sparkle.

Chloe smiled, “They’ll think I found the perfect home. Besides, I can always visit. We’re not that far.”

Chloe waved to her dryad sisters through the farmer’s attic window, and the trees waved in return.

THE END.

*The above story can also be heard via Audioboo.

**Red barn photo taken from jenett.photo through the Creative Commons license.

***The above story was written for the Soft Whispers photo prompt for May 2010. It also appeared in Issue Five of Soft Whispers e-zine.