Flash Fiction Train; Round 3, Part 5

Sneaking in at the very last minute with my offering for Kat Avila's Tuesday Flash Fiction Train




Rita stood in the middle of the aisle, eyes squeezed shut. The screams no longer reached her ears and she shuddered in anguish at the result of her rage. The memories had flooded her mind, intermingled with the taunts of the old woman and other passengers. 

She had let it overcome her.

A hand touched her shoulder then stroked her cheek.

“Rita.” 

She ignored the whisper, soft and warm as a summer’s breeze. But Walter would not be shunned.

“Rita, open your eyes. Look at me.”

“Nooo,” she sobbed, “I can’t look! I can’t!”

She could hear the people on the bus again. “What’s wrong with you, girly girl?” it was the screech of the old woman.

Again she heard the soft voice, “Hush now, Lucy. You haven’t walked in her steps. Go still yourself.”

“But…”

“Sit, Lucy.”

As Rita finally opened her eyes, she saw the old woman trudge to an empty seat. The bus moved steadily down the street, the passengers still staring at her, but without the hostility she remembered. There was no blood, no shattered windows. No one screamed.

Rita looked back to Walter, “I thought…I thought I killed them!”

“You almost did.” Walter said, “but you stopped before it became real. You chose life over death.”

“How?”

Walter smiled at her. “Because you are stronger than the coven. They couldn’t control you as easily as they thought.”

“But the memories, the pain.”

“Lies. All of it.”

Rita shook her head in confusion, it had seemed so real. But as she tried to recall the fear and hate, the feelings faded.

“You are free, Rita.” As he turned to go, Walter looked back one more time, “See you in my dreams.” 

Riding the Flash Fiction Train, Round 3/Week 3

I've been regularly joining in at Kat Avila'a Fiction Trials to play a story writing challenge. Check out this week's offerings, then come back to play on the Flash Fiction Train. Here's my offering...

Rita glared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked awful. The cold wasn’t budging and it was just a miracle she made it through the conference call. Thankfully Laura had been on her game and kept the conversation grounded.

A yawn, interrupted by a new bout of coughing brought Rita back to the perusal of her image. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Her nose reddened and tender from the continuous application of tissues. With a sigh she pulled the bottle from the medicine cabinet.

As much as she needed to dampen her symptoms and get a good night’s sleep, Rita was hesitant to dose herself again. The dreams induced by the vile liquid were becoming harder to shake off. The most recent dream had conjured a name for the mystery man. At the thought, Rita’s lips tingled at the memory.

“No.” She spoke to the mirror, “I'm not going to do it!”

She replaced the bottle and shuffled out of the bathroom. Her slippers scuffed the carpet, the small noise causing her head to pound. She dropped onto the couch grabbing the knitted throw from the back. She wrapped herself in its warmth. As long as she stayed upright she kept the drainage from choking her. She closed her eyes and drifted into an unsettled doze.

“You're back! I didn’t think I would see you so soon.” He reached to stroke her cheek.

Rita pulled back, “Who are you? Why do you haunt my sleep?” 

His eyes filled with hurt, “I’m Walter. I’ve always been here for you.”

“Not always. Only if I use that gawd-awful cold medicine.” Rita narrowed her eyes, “which I did not take tonight!”

“No, I’m always here, Rita. You just don’t remember…”

“Oh, I’d remember, just like I remembered last night’s dream.” 

Walter sighed, “It’s not a dream to me, Rita.”

“Really? Then, I think it’s time you explain why that is!”

Blessing of the Garden Gate

My offering for Master Class Monday at EatSleepWrite
The prompt I chose was nonpotable blessings




Twas quiet here, not long ago.  Shadow prevailed and gave cover to ghosts of the despair.  Wraiths of grief wrapped chilled fingers of loneliness around the heart of one left behind.  Neglect squeezed and choked life into submission.

Then she arrived. Her dreams and memories carried in boxes of cluttered life. The man by her side not so sure of this final destination, pulled along by her need to come home.

Life and color slowly return, the man working hard to reclaim a space left to weedy decay. She spends her time splashing color on faded walls. Together they create home.

Warm, golden light now shines from windows once shuttered in despair. The laughter within spills haphazardly into flowerbeds beneath the screened opening as one of the blood resides within again.

The bright Fae of the night climb thorny stems to peek inside.  Wings shimmering with moon glow from a cloudless sky, they raise excited brows and whisper of better times. They've marked the return of Rose and Tulip, old bearded Iris.  They hail the arrival of Lily and Heather.
  
Malevolent ivy retreats in frustration, pushed out by carefully nurtured roots. It slumbers uneasily beneath the color splashed gardens, waiting for the chance to regain a foothold.

Barefoot, careful of the garden sprites, the woman contentedly surveys the work of her spouse. Multiple beds entice butterflies and honey bees. Songbirds settle into the regained peace. 

A vegetable garden flourishes where none have farmed for decades. Fruit trees replace the ones lost through age and neglect. Wild berries welcome eager hands that have grown since picking and stuffing them into giggling faces long ago.

Her gaze follows the spreading limbs of the oak that shaded her childhood. Beneath it an overgrown lilac was a green fortress for herself and her siblings. Trimmed and tidied it still provides a quiet space within to think and to dream. 

On sunny days her man sees the figure of a woman regarding his work. Her grandmother she says. The one who left behind bits of garden hidden amongst the weeds. He raises his brow, but accepts and hopes his efforts are acceptable.

From the corner of her eye she catches glimpses of the Fae. They duck under the ferns and dance around the lilies. Playing chase with the squirrels and flitting about the feeder with hummingbirds. She tells no one she sees them, just smiles to herself.

Flowers follow their season, bloom then fade, replaced by the next, finally relinquishing to colder months. The vegetable garden ripens and gives its bounty to enhance the table through winter. Always some seed or fruit is left behind for wildlife. And Fae.

Snow fall blankets the ground, insulating roots and bulbs. A protective cover of bright white sheltering the promise of spring to come. 

She looks for the tracks in the snow. Rabbit, squirrel, and sometimes prints unfamiliar. Frosty pictures are left on window panes, icy flowers, a reminder that spring is nearby.

With yarn in her lap she waits out the cold. Watching for the early signs, a blush in the undergrowth, tiny buds peeking from the trees. Daffodils pushing through the frost, not waiting for a designated date. 

Soon, the time for faery dances and color will draw her barefoot through the garden gate and all the blessings it holds.

Yes, #amwriting

A question came through my twitter feed a few days ago.  It went like this; "would you keep writing if you knew no one on earth would ever read what you've written?"

I thought about it for a minute.  Then I answered. Yes.

Yes, I would still write.


I hang around the internet with beautiful writing people. Their words inspire me. I'm the unpublished hanger on. I know if can ever connect the vignettes, character studies, and poems, I may have a story.

And I do so want to write a complete and sensible tale. But if I never get it done, it'll be because something grabbed my attention and said "write me."

Because I am a writer. Undisciplined for sure. Scatterbrained at least. But a writer. A weaver of words. With tales to tell and myths to mold.

Because...
When I walk outside and see the leaves turning, fleeing from their branches, words are unleashed in my head.  Scattered nouns and adjectives trying valiantly to create a sentence.

Because...
When things happen around me, my mind runs off in tangents.  Visions of "what ifs" start scrolling behinds my eyes.

My characters are my friends, I see them. I hear them. I smell their surroundings and feel their emotions. 

They give me their stories in fits and starts. Then wander off to have another adventure. Which I'm sure they'll relate as soon as they return.

And when they do, I will write it. Whether or not anyone reads it.

The Awakening

Part 4 of Annag's beginning.  If you haven't already, read parts one, two, and three. 

 Lillian shuffled between the quickly made litter and the defiled clan house, directing the men of MacGoulan in the proper way to secure her human prize, and questioning Sionn.  

"You're familiar with the clan chief's sword, are you not?" she asked.

"Aye, I've seen it"

"Have you found it here?  Did Donnchadh die with his blade, is it with his body?"

Sionn tried to hide his disgust, "I did not search his remains, old woman! You said to burn it all."

Lillian smirked, "Before you light the fire, search for the sword. If you do not find it, search again after the fire has cleaned up the mess. Search every hovel here. Do not think to defy me, Sionn MacGoulan, don't for a minute think this same fate couldn't visit your home." Without waiting for an answer, she left him glaring after her as she returned to the litter that held Annag. 

The hairs rising on Sionn's neck convinced him to follow her commands. He watched as she directed his clansmen to accompany her, carrying the wounded girl with them. 

>>>>>

 Annag’s dreams were ugly and disordered. In them she ran, trying to escape the terror that began as her wedding feast. Trying not to believe Taog, her betrothed had been torn apart in front of her.

           Running from the vision of savaged flesh that had been her mother and the memory of her father being pulled down and slain.

           Fleeing the scream of her young sister before her head was ripped from her body.

          Trying not to see every one of her clansmen dismembered, bloodied.  Dead.

         Screaming herself to muffle the soothing voice that kept repeating, "It will be alright."

More frightening was the beast that walked beside her. A man with a wolf’s snout. Claws at the end of each finger. Together they walked from village to village, clan to clan. In each pace they left blood and death behind.

She raised her hands to wipe the tears from her face only to see claws growing from her own fingers.

She screamed in denial.

“It will be alright,girl.” Again the voice. Soothing. Compelling. Terrifying.

She’d cried out repeatedly in her fevered dreams. And each time that voice, those words “it will be alright’” mocked her.

>>>>>

Annag woke from the nightmare at midday. The sun blazing through the window across from her cot. She felt a strange relief, at least she was alone.

The room smelled of burning herbs and the taste on her tongue mirrored them. She tried to raise her head. Dizziness made that impossible. She could see the sky bleached white by the heat of the day. A wind gusted through the window, its breath drawing the last moisture from her mouth.

She lay back on the pillow, her mind sorting the dreams from reality. The burning pain on her back insisting far more of the nightmare was real than not.

Her solitude was too soon broken. The persistent voice from her dreams broke the silence.

“So, Annag, last of MacClarren, you’ve awoken finally.” Lillian filled the small space.

“Where am I? What has happened? I don’t remember, where is my family, where is Taog?” she asked the last question already knowing the answer.

“You are a guest in my home. For now.” The old woman appraised her. “What do you remember, girl?”

“Attack. By… wolves?” Annag closed her eyes as tears began to form, then opened them quickly as memories of blood and death swam behind her lids.

“Wolves?” Lillian snorted, “You know better, girl. The only wolves in this land are the one’s on two legs. How do you even know the word?”

“I don’t…”

“I do. Men that become beasts, the old stories. Wolf? Not really, just animals from a man’s black heart, made real by old magics.”

Annag tried to deny, she shook her head, “no, they are only tales to frighten children! Such things don’t exist, they cannot…”

“They cannot? Were you not frightened, ‘child’?” Lillian sneered at her. “Your clan is dead. MacClarren is no more. No father, chief. No mother. No precious little sister.” Lillian’s voice that had pretended comfort during the nightmares, threw aside the pretense. “And your MacGoulan boy? Ripped apart.”

“Stop! Stop it!” Annag tried to get up from the cot, Lillian pushed her back with the butt of her staff.

“You stop, girl. Stop puling like a babe. You are alive. And hard work it was to keep you that way.” Lillian eyed her sidelong. “What I really want to know, is how you survived, how you slew a dozen shape shifted men and only have a few scratches to show for it.”

Annag’s memories played in her mind. Her father’s blade. Where was her father’s blade. She almost asked the old woman, then hesitated. She had held the broadsword in her hands, where had it gone? Vague recollections of moonlight glinting on the iron. Surely she’d never left the clan house. But, where was the blade?”

She did not trust this old woman. Her answer was half truth, “My clansmen killed them before they fell themselves. I remember being wounded. I must have fainted, the beasts thought me dead already.”

Lillian weighed the words. “Perhaps. Perhaps that is so. We shall see, yes, we shall see.”

“Sionn! I remember Sionn, I want to speak to him, please.” Annag was ready to leave this place, this woman. She could go to MacGoulan, she had been betrothed.

Lillian laughed, “I think you don’t want to speak to Sionn, or any MacGoulan. The scratches you remember, the one’s healing on your pretty back? They carry… well let’s just say a sickness.”

“What do you mean? Am I dying? The babe, I carry a child!”

“Dead is what you’ll both be if you approach any MacGoulan. Those marks mean the beast is in you now, girl. You’re tainted.”

“No! You're lying, lying!” Annag stood up in spite of the dizziness, she wanted to strike Lillian. Stop the words that resurrected the dream. The dream of walking with the beast at her side, leaving death behind.

Lillian smiled knowingly at Annag. “Am I now?”

Don't be afraid to leave a comment, let me know what you think.  Concrit is welcome!

Meeting in Renewal

An excerpt from a project I've been working with for what seems like forever.  Tara is a character in the story of Katrina's Kitchen.  Will this be part of the whole?  Some of it will.  I like to learn more about the supporting cast in my stories.  This is one of those excercises. 

Tara had been home from work about an hour, her waitress shift at the Kitchen had seemed particularly long today. She usually enjoyed the camaraderie of the townies and the news from the big city brought by the regular commuters. But, today she had only felt anxious. Ready to leave.

After a bowl of microwaved soup and a hot shower, she crawled early into her pajamas. To relax, she had pulled a pile of yarn and a half completed afghan into her lap. The monotonous rhythm of the hook as it formed loops and knots lulled her into a zen like state.

Crochet was still new to her, and seemed out of place in her life. But she had found solace in it. When she’d first come to Renewal eight years before, she had been close to a mental breakdown. She never had figured out why she was drawn there. A little dot on the big Nebraska map. It was a good thing she had, in Renewal she had regained her sanity and learned how to cope with her “gift”.

After a near fatal car accident five years before coming to the little town, she began to hear voices. At first she thought it was similar to ringing in the ears, a residual effect of the injuries. As the voices became clearer, she began to think she was crazy. Then, as she “listened” she realized she was hearing other peoples thoughts.

At first it was kind of fun, then kind of creepy. In time it became overwhelming. She couldn’t turn off the noise. In a crowded room it was as though hundreds of people were trying to carry on hundreds of conversations. It started to be impossible for her to work, go out to eat, or even to the grocery.

To make it worse, no one believed her. The doctors wanted to medicate her. Her family wanted to commit her. She tried a psychic, but all that accomplished was learning that at least this one was a fake, more interested in her coming to work for him to read his clients minds and trick them out of more money.

After a day that left her wanting to rip her ears off, she got into her car and started to drive. Aimlessly she thought. Looking for a place with no people. She had decided to find an isolated lake house or something similar. If she avoided people she might someday sleep again.

Tara had been three weeks on the road when she found herself rolling into the tiny town of Renewal, Nebraska. Main street was the absolute stereotype of small towns everywhere. Farmers in overalls. Pick up trucks. The local diner. A closed theater.

It took a minute or two for her to notice, she didn’t hear the town folk. She did hear one voice, and only one. And it spoke directly to her, “Come on in for a cup of coffee, sweetie. Take a break and we’ll work this out.”

Though her instinct said hit the gas, she was shaking so badly it made much more safety sense to pull into a parking space. As she sat paralyzed by fear, she ventured a look around. Leaned against the door jamb of the diner, looking her way, was a woman.

Tara sat still trying to look anywhere but at the woman in the diner’s doorway. When she ventured a second glance in her direction, the woman smiled and waved, beckoning her to come. Again the voice in her head, “It’s okay, really. I can help. That’s why you're here, right?”

With a giggle that edged on hysterics, Tara rolled down the car window. “Uh, excuse me? Do I know you, ma’am?”

The woman walked toward her car, “Not yet, sweetie, but that’s okay. I make friends fast.” At least this line was not just in Tara’s head. “ And I just made a fresh pot of coffee, no one else is here for me to talk to right now. I could use the company.” She’d reached the car door now. Tara met her eyes, they were light brown and shining with humor. She must've been in her late thirties or early forties. Her black hair was mostly covered by a colorful bandanna, and what she could see was tightly curled..

Finally Tara gathered the courage to open the car door and step out. The woman was a few inches shorter that she was. “I’m Katie Crowe, I own the diner here, Katrina’s Kitchen. But do not, please, call me Katrina. I’m just Katie.” She smiled at Tara again, holding her hand out. Tara gave her hand to Katie, the two stood a moment, then Katie returned her hand. “Lets get to that cup, now. And we’ll chat a while before the dinner crowd shows up.”

Tara followed Katie inside. The diner was brightly lit, the fresh pot of coffee filled the space with its rich smell. Katie poured two mugs and ushered Tara to one of the empty booths. “Thank you.” Tara managed to say. “Um, I'm kind of confused, or ….”

“Hush, people come to see me for lots of reasons. And just like you, they don’t know why they ended up here. I’m not really sure either. “ Katie grinned with honest mirth, “I must have a magnetic personality!”

Tara shyly grinned back, Katie’s good humor was catching. “I get the feeling you know why I’m here even if I don't.” Tara shifted a bit, embarrassed by her situation.

“I get dreams. They give me a heads up when someone is headed my way. They don’t, though, tell me your name. So how about you tell me.” Katie cocked her head, giving Tara the feeling she was settling in for a story. She chuckled to herself. Alrighty, she thought, you want a story, I can give you one.

“My name’s Tara Roman, and I hear people’s thoughts.” She steeled herself for the raised eyebrows or blank stares she had gotten from her family and doctor.

“Well, Tara, I knew you could hear me. And I know you've been bombarded by other’s thought noise for a long time. So I kind of made myself loud enough to block everyone else out.”

“Oh. I wondered about that. I haven’t heard anyone but you since I drove into town.” Tara had gotten over her trepidation in the excitement of Katie’s statement. Maybe, just maybe, this woman could help her. “Can you cure me?”

“You don't need cured, girl. You just need to know how to control your gift.”

That was the beginning of her life in Renewal. Katie told her that she needed something to be louder than the voices. She suggested knitting, but Tara was hopeless. Even after enlisting the help of the town’s resident old lady, Missy McKay, Tara could not get the hang of it.

It was May Harrison that showed her crochet. And Katie taught her to use the stitch counting to focus on her own thoughts instead of letting everyone else’s drown them out. It worked, in time. The more she counted, the fainter the outside voices became. Soon she could tune them out without the stitch counting. She still crocheted though. She loved the feel of the yarn sliding through her fingers. She loved giving her finished projects as gifts. She loved the perfect quiet that happened as she worked.

Until this day. As she counted and began to fall lazily into her yarn trance, she began to repeat a phrase. “It will be alright.” The words meant nothing to Tara, she didn’t even know how long she had been repeating them before she became aware.

She stopped her hook, frowning as she tried to pin point a voice or thought that had triggered the phrase. She had learned to listen when she wanted to, which was seldom. She liked people better when their secrets remained secret. But she had occasionally reached out to trouble minds, to help or comfort. But she found no source for this chant.

She shrugged, and picked up her work, ready to start counting again. The mess she held, though, had no resemblance to the cute teddy bear she’d been making. What should have been a snub button style nose was too long. Becoming a lupine muzzle. The bobbed tail, also elongated into a decidedly doggish look.

“What the hell is this?” she said out loud as she pulled the yarn, hurriedly undoing the disturbing shape that had been forming. She rewound the yarn into a loose ball and picked up her hook to start anew. “One and two and three and four and alright, alright. It’ll be alright.” She stopped mid stitch. “Oh no, no you don’t. Get out of my head!”

Tara threw the yarn and half finished project into her work basket. She spent several minutes controlling her breathing. Still shaken, she got up and started pacing. She went from room to room in her small home, looking for something to explain the repetitive words that were now echoing in her mind.

Finally she gave up, went to her fridge and grabbed a beer. After two more, the voice was much quieter, she fell asleep on the sofa in her living room with all the lights on.

Homecoming

Write at the Merge, Week 17

                               pinhole 970, bridge © Darius Kuzmickas via Flickr
This week we were given two photos from Cam, I was inspired by this one.  



Willa checked the address again.  She drove this route daily, but couldn't place the house she was supposed to show.  

Trees and thick brush lined the road.  Shielding her eyes from the sun's glare, she slowed the car to a crawl as she searched for a mailbox.  The brakes locked with a screech when she finally spotted the tire ruts that passed for a drive way.

Willa eased the car onto the track, navigating potholes and fallen limbs as she followed it into the urban forest.  Leaf laden branches met overhead, casting shadows over the hood of the car.  She'd idled down the path about a quarter of a mile when she spied the bridge ahead.  

At least it pretended to be a bridge.  Wooden planks thrown across tree trunks was a more apt description.  No way was she driving her car across it.  

As the car idled, she pulled the paperwork for the property from her briefcase.  The house should be just beyond the far side of the bridge.  She squinted through the windshield, trying to catch a glimpse of it.

As she scanned the space, a fog rolled up from whatever water source the bridge spanned.  Frustrated, Willa turned the engine off and stepped out onto the dirt road.  She'd have to walk from here.

Her first step on the structure caused it to sway belligerently. There were no rails, Willa threw her arms out for balance as she waited for it to stabilize before resuming her trek.  

While she hesitated, the fog continued to build.  She could barely see the other bank at all now.  Her second step caused a shiver in the wood that ran up her legs and back.  The accompanying creak dried her tongue to the roof of her mouth.  

The planks halfway across faded into the fog, Willa reached out with her mind.  Her gift was generally only active inside the homes she sold, but since the property had seemingly sent the fog as an emissary, perhaps she could sense something from it.

She slid one foot forward, still holding her arms out.  The fog moved toward her steadily.  All she could sense was the physical. Chill, damp air, and the sound of the wooden planks rubbing against the logs and each other.

With a deep breath, and the shallow remains of her determination, Willa slid her other foot forward.  The fog rolled into her, flowed over her body, caressing her with cool moisture as it wrapped about her legs and draped across her shoulders.

Willa froze, the fog continue rolling around her.  Though she couldn't make contact, she felt like she was being sniffed, evaluated. Finally, she risked a careful peek over her shoulder, the few feet she'd traveled were hidden, as was her car.

She faced forward again, and gasped in delight.  The fog now lay behind her.  In front of her, the sun reflected brightly off the gleaming red roof of a modest sized bungalow, just the other side of the bridge.

Willa hurried across the rest of the planking, practically running up the concrete steps to the front door.  She unlocked the door and stepped into a light filled foyer.  She was overwhelmed by a feeling of warmth.

Then the house spoke.  "Welcome, Willa!  Welcome home!"  








  

journey

Trifextra: Week Sixty-Three

This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 of your own words inspired by the following quote from the book you could win in the WBN giveaway. Good luck!

“It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” ― Paulo Coelho, Alchemist

i will chase rainbows after the storm

and leap for stars in the dark

i will race with adventure

and laugh with a full heart

all on the road of my dreams