Ganymeder

“Calico” has been removed, pending publication with Raging Aardvark Publications and Ether Books.The ebook will be freely available through the website, and relevant links will be provided, as soon as they are ready. The release is timed to coincide with (Inter)national Flash Fiction Day.

Polite comments, critical or otherwise, are appreciated. An audio version of the story will available on my podcast, My Writing Niche, this Sunday. Thank you, and have a lovely week.

*image courtesy of the Library of Congress via Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

Play or download episode *here*

Welcome to My Writing Niche, a podcast for new writers. I’ll read my latest piece of flash fiction, Carnal Nature, and talk a little about my current projects.

Also, if you are interested, my review of the short story series Lost Tribe of the Sith by John Jackson Miller is up at the Functional Nerds website.

Thank you, as always, for your time. Polite feedback is both welcomed and appreciated. Have a lovely week.

**image courtesy of hiddedevries via Flicker.

***Slow Burn from the album Blues Sampler courtesy of Kevin MacLeod via Creative Commons Attribution license. More of his music can be found at FreeMusicArchive.org or at http://incompetech.com.

Play or download episode *here*

Welcome to My Writing Niche, a podcast for new writers. I’ll read my latest piece of flash fiction, Rumplestilkstin, and talk a little about my current projects.

Thank you, as always, for your time. Polite feedback is both welcomed and appreciated. Have a lovely week.

**image courtesy of hiddedevries via Flicker.

***Slow Burn from the album Blues Sampler courtesy of Kevin MacLeod via Creative Commons Attribution license. More of his music can be found at FreeMusicArchive.org or at http://incompetech.com.

Rumplestilkstin

The Queen had but one bright spot in her life, and soon he would be gone forever.

As a young girl, her father had lied and bragged that she could spin straw into gold. The greedy King had overheard his subject’s drunken boast, and imprisoned the girl with one command – Spin gold by morning or die. The Queen remembered how she had sat at the spindle and wept bitterly for the life she would never lead.

But then the creature, a little man of light and shadow, had appeared from nowhere – like a miracle. He seemed to pity her misfortune and offered to aid her in her need. How could she know how high his price would be? How could she choose to do anything but live?

The creature had spun the straw throughout that night so many years ago. His fingers flew, and soon the cold gleam of gold replaced the musty straw. The air tasted of metal. Before the sun rose again, the little man had disappeared without a word.

The Queen still remembered the King’s delight with the night’s work. Instead of taking her life, the cruel King had taken her hand in marriage – an act he soon repented when he found she had no gift for gold. Over the years, he made her suffer for wasting his life on a common maid.

And yet, after years of pain, she had given birth to the child – the bright shining sun around which her life revolved. The King almost forgave her…

But then the little man returned.

The Queen wept bitterly as the gnarled little man snatched the squalling bundle from her arms. She turned her face into her husband’s chest, heaving great sobs at the loss of her beloved child.

“In three days’ time,” said the little man, his eyes filling with tears, “if you guess my name… I will return the child to you.”

The silent King wrapped his wife in his arms. His eyes shot daggers at the dwarfish figure scurrying into the shadows. All too soon, the child’s screams died with distance.

Once home, the little man removed his hood and hushed the child in his arms. “There, there,” he cooed, producing a bright golden rattle. The babe’s eyes lit up, and soon the creature’s cottage reverberated with the sound of childish laughter. The creature treated the child well, fed him sweets and all nature of good things for three days. Then he returned to the queen.

“Do you know my name?” he asked. His name was a secret, shrouded in mystery; and he did not fear her answer.

But then, he did not know of her spies. He did not how they had heard him sing the child to sleep, sing his own name – in the security of his home – as he promised to care for the child as his very own.

Now the moment for truth had come.

The Queen glanced once at the harsh face of her husband, again at the little man cradling her child in his arms, and answered, “No.” She washed the infant’s face with her tears when she kissed him one last time.

The little man turned and walked from the castle, humming a tune for the child. The Queen returned to her gilded prison, secure in the knowledge that at least her child was free.

The end

*image courtesy Cornell University Library via Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

Captain P

When he’d first been exposed to the toxin, the doctors’ incredulity matched his own.

Perry had never been extraordinary in any way. In fact, his coworkers might have described him as ‘easily forgettable’ if they had given him any thought whatsoever. Work related accidents were an infrequent occurrence in his profession, but then he rarely took his students on a tour of the local research facility. However, his natural clumsiness, a toxicologist’s workstation, and a student’s poorly placed whoopee cushion inevitably led to disaster.

He survived.

Whether or not tragedy was averted depends largely on your point of view.

To his doctors’ amazement, his internal physiology evolved to incorporate the new chemical, though his outward appearance remained the same. His physicians tested him repeatedly. However, he had never been wealthy, and his increasing hospital bills soon forced his doctors to discharge him.

Perry returned to his meager apartment, relieved at the prospect of resuming his normal routine. However, he soon faced an angry landlord and puzzled plumbers as the result of his recent near-death experience became alarmingly clear. Faced with eviction, he returned to the hospital and demanded that something be done.

Fate, however, was not kind. The very day he returned ‘for further testing,’ a distraught mental patient took Perry hostage along with several of the hospital’s staff. At the point of a gun, they were herded into a first floor storeroom and locked inside. It seemed hopeless.

Perry’s doctor nudged him. When the patient shook his head, the physician shot him a meaningful glare, which he resented.

“Alright, FINE,” he said, and unzipped.

Everyone stood safely behind him and watched, in fascinated horror, as he created an exit. Soon, despite their shock, the sound of nearby gunfire convinced the hostages to flee through the freshly smoking hole in the hospital’s side. They had escaped the mad gunman, though the trauma of the escape itself would remain with many for the rest of their lives.

Perry had finally managed to become unforgettable.

With mixed feelings, he took the reward money (along with custom-made undergarments, courtesy of the hospital). The mayor managed to keep the details discreetly out of the papers.

#

Perry bid the contractor goodbye and stepped into his new log cabin. The view from his modest home was spectacular, here at the summit of Schmidt Mountain. From the front window, he surveyed the countryside, imagining himself master of all he saw. Luckily, the State Park Service – whose property he overlooked- couldn’t read his thoughts. It would have disturbed even the most hardened bureaucrat.

The reward money had allowed him the financial freedom to live in near isolation – near enough to avoid the penury from nonstop plumbing bills; yet his condition had proved as much a blessing as a curse. That’s what he told himself as he scanned the headlines of the newspaper neatly pinned to the wall of his newly installed outhouse.

He crumpled the latest headline with one hand while shaking himself dry with the other. Then he tossed it into the steaming hole and wondered what his Superhero name should be. Somehow, “The Urinator” didn’t have quite the right ring to it.

-

*This story was inspired by one of our weekly D&D sessions, where we frequently spend large amounts of time debating Superhero abilities.

**If you are interested, I also have a review of ‘Ender’s Game’ up at the Functional Nerds website.

**image courtesy of Bigfoto.com

A Little Bit of Sugar

Grandma smelled.

She didn’t smell like cookies or fresh baked bread, but rather a sour combination of old lady, body odor, and Bengay. Billy could barely stand to set foot inside the old woman’s trailer, but his parents insisted that he do odd jobs for her as part of his weekly chores. He sat and watched Grandma Moira lower herself into the lazyboy in the tiny living room. The wallpaper had long ago faded to the sepia of old photographs.

“So, how’s your mom and dad?”

Billy shrugged. He preferred not to get into discussions with the old woman. She tended to wax nostalgic at the oddest things, and avoiding conversation meant he finished sooner. “What would you like me to do, Grandma?” He stood up. “Wash dishes? Vacuum the floor?”

The old woman stared up at him with dark, moist eyes. The skin of her face sagged under the weight of eighty years, yet intelligence still lingered in the depths of those eyes.

“Not just yet, Billy,” she said, nodding at the couch. “Why not sit and keep an old woman company?”

Billy looked uncertain, but she insisted. “Just for a few minutes.”

He sat.

“I know you’ve probably got better things to do, but-”

“Grandma, I-”

“Now, now,” she said. “Don’t bother denying it. You’re young, and it’s perfectly natural that you’d want to spend time with other kids your age, not hanging out with an old woman.” She looked at the floor.

Billy squirmed, sinking further into the plush, faded fabric of the couch.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking of Mr. Tinkles,” said Grandma Moira. “He hasn’t been by in several days. You haven’t seen him; have you?”

“No,” said Billy, struggling to lift himself from the cushions partially swallowing him.

“That’s too bad,” said Grandma. “I thought maybe you might have passed him on the way here.”

“Why ask me?” said Bobby. “I just came over to help.”

“Well, of course you did,” said Grandma, in her most soothing tone. “You’re a good boy. Why else would you spend all this time with me?”

Because my parents make me, thought Billy, but he bit his tongue.

“Well,” said Grandma, slapping her hands on her lap and hoisting herself out of the bulky chair. “You might as well get started on those dishes, and then you can go play with your friends.”

Billy almost leaped off of the couch, except the suction from the cushions prevented it.

“You might as well have this,” said Grandma Moira, offering him a rose-colored candydish, “so you can throw it in with the other dishes.”

The boy reached for the last piece of candy, but hesitated.

“Oh, go on,” said Grandma Moira. “It’s just a little bit of sugar.”

The boy grabbed the candy – a small, rainbow-colored pebble – and tossed it in his mouth. It dissolved instantly.

Grandma’s eyes hardened, two bright specks of coal in a face like fading paper. She pushed the boy back onto the couch, and he fell – as limp as a ragdoll. “It’s your own fault, you know,” she said.

Billy’s eyes remained fixed upon the terrifying figure that towered before him.

“I didn’t want to resort to this, Billy, but you left me little choice.”

His eyes widened.

“What really happened to Mr. Tinkles?”

The boy felt his mouth open, the words pouring out before he could stop them. “I ran him over on Tuesday with the riding lawnmower.”

Grandma Moira pursed her lips, considering. “Was it quick?”

“No.” The word was out before Billy knew he was speaking.

She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned heavily on her cane, its gnarled wood supporting her weight. “Poor Mr. Tinkles,” she murmured. “You were the best familiar I’ve ever had.”

Billy’s jaw slackened.

The old woman slumped once again into the overstuffed chair, contemplating her worn slippers. After a few minutes, she seemed to remember the boy’s presence.

“Oh, yes,” she said, directing another piercing stare at the boy. “Worried I cast a spell on you; aren’t you, boy?”

Billy cringed, digging himself further into the sofa cushions.

The old woman cackled. “Don’t worry, boy. I did no such thing.”

Billy wanted to run, but his strength had already fled.

“I drugged you instead,” said the old woman, getting up and retrieving the empty candydish. “Witches dabble with herbs anyway,” she droned on, picking bits of trash off the table. “You might say pharmacology is an interest of mine.” She hobbled over to the garbage can and threw away the trash. “Though, the candy coating was a nice touch.”

Billy struggled to extricate himself from the cushions, but they held him firmly. He would not escape.

“No, boy. You’ll find yourself extremely open to suggestion for the next few hours,” said Grandma Moira. She stretched, cracking the muscles in her back. “Which is why I’m calling your parents, and you’ll confess to them what you did to my cat.” She snatched the receiver from the cradle of the old-fashioned phone.

Billy sagged, and the old woman cackled again. “To my kind, boy, spells are prayers.” She fixed him with another steely stare. “And I wouldn’t waste my prayers on you.”

THE END

*This flash was inspired by the writing prompt That’s not candy in Grandma’s candy dish, taken from Eric J. Krause’s Writing Spot. Thanks, Eric!

**image courtesy of George Eastman House via Flickr. No known copyright restrictions.

Though I’ve been reading #FridayFlash fiction every week, I have cut down on the amount I’ve participated. Frankly, I really miss it. I’ve been writing, revising, and submitting my work regularly, but I’ve missed my weekly submissions to the community itself. Here is my small contribution for this week.

Creation Myth

In the beginning

male and female were One,

united by rings of flesh,

two hearts

doubled again,

yet still

it yearned for more.

Its divine being

split apart -

Creation from Destruction.

Becoming two

they joined again,

yet still

created more-

A holy coccoon

burst with new life

which burrowed well and deep

into cool, dark soil-

filling the earth

with air and life

from which all must spring

Not least the worm,

cast in the image

of its maker,

greatest and least

first and last

uniting all

within itself

-

Thank you for your time. I appreciate any polite feedback you care to offer.

Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

Lonestar peered into the mirror, coifing his thick layered mane. Not rakish enough, he thought, mussing the chestnut mass. He looked again. The five o’clock shadow gave him that ‘Han Solo’ look – casual ladykiller.

Red was one hell of a fox, but another prey was on his mind. He loved older women, and Grandma really cooked. That’s why he liked Mrs. Robinson; she smelled like cookies.

The moon called.

His sharp-toothed grin widened. Old ladies were sweet, but terribly hard on the teeth. Granny was small though; so tonight he’d swallow the body whole-

and save on dental floss.

-

Many thanks to Maria Kelly who challenged me on Twitter to write my first drabble. This story is actually a prequel to Red Riding Hood Revised, a Friday Flash I wrote last year. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

As always, polite feedback, critical or otherwise, is welcomed and appreciated. Thank you.

Stardust to Dust

The box floated through the inky void.

When it finally hit the atmosphere of the shining blue sphere, the heat from its descent incinerated the box and its contents, dispersing both across the planet’s surface. For days, death rained down upon the Earth – though its inhabitants did not know it.

The plants grew. The herbivores ate the plants, other animals ate the herbivores, the humans ate all – and all breathed the air. The sun shone down, basking them in a warmth they would soon cease to enjoy.

Soon, all sought refuge from the light. Even the moon’s cold glare made them wince. Infected humans sought refuge in their box-like homes, self-sealed coffins of brick and wood with curtains drawn and lights extinguished. Their companion animals buried themselves in covers or cages. All life, no matter how small, retreated from Apollo’s bright glare. Even the bees ceased their never-ending quest for nectar.

The plants shrivelled, turned black, and died. Without food, all who walked, flew, or crawled soon died; then turned upon each other. As their brains decayed, ties of family or friendship were forgotten; and one overwhelming need consumed them.

Food.

#

“The ship’s trajectory shows this the most likely course. If we find evidence of your grandfather’s funeral, you’ll regret it.”

“But he always wanted to have his body left to space! It was his dying wish!”

“There’s a bloody good reason no one’s allowed to commit a body to space near inhabited planets. If there’s biological contamination, let it be on your head.”

“Are you sure this is where Grandolph landed?” asked the passenger.

The look the commander gave him would have withered a lesser gelatinous-lifeform, but Grok merely shrugged.

“Come on! We’re out in the middle of nowhere. Who would be this far out?”

THE END…?

My Internet connection promises to be spotty this weekend, so I thought I’d polish up this little flash to keep my blog warm until Sunday. My flash posts have been infrequent due to other projects, so any polite comments are welcomed and appreciated.

*image courtesy of tonynetone via Flickr. Some rights reserved.