If she puts the stitch where it should be, the serial killer will keep walking unseen down the alley, and his prey will die under his knife.
The victim has much to live for. The man slips. He falls. His victim runs. She lives
Fate intervenes.
Friday Flash Fiction |
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Pictures sewn together by the Eternals keep history moving forward. Forever, the ancient beings sit on their stone stools. With needle and thread, they form the past, present and future. One of them looks down at the tapestry in front of her and hesitates. A footstep hangs in the air, caught outside the continuum.
If she puts the stitch where it should be, the serial killer will keep walking unseen down the alley, and his prey will die under his knife. The victim has much to live for. The man slips. He falls. His victim runs. She lives Fate intervenes. Lot 183 was last, a 1965 Royal Machnagar, displayed on a high pedestal carrying a reserve price of £512,000.
Every whisky in the sale was a premium bottle, much sought-after by connoisseurs like Sir James Lester. But they had little chance against super-rich Mafiosi, Chinese businessmen, Russian oligarchs, and a Saudi oil sheikh who was particularly obsessive about whisky. Lot 183 was eventually knocked down at over £1 million. Then the disaster happened. Who was to blame? Lester's dog? Who allowed the dog into the saleroom? Or was it just the sheikh's misfortune? The only real winners were the lawyers. We grew up together, me and her. I spent my whole early childhood at her house. I remember running home from school to have tea parties with fresh baked cookies and the plastic china set. Early summer was her favorite. The long awaited escape from school, playing till dusk, and the dandelions. Oh how she loved to squeeze her eyes shut, make a wish, and blow the fuzz out into the open air. We were best friends, me and her. To bad she grew up and blew me away like dandelion fuzz. To bad I was just her imaginary friend.
Hello. My name is Leroy. As you can see from my picture, I am quite a handsome fellow with a shiny black coat and green eyes. How old am I, you ask. Well, I am fourteen. For those of you who devote themselves to the pursuit of knowledge, it equals 72 in human years. I am playful, affectionate, and I love my hugs and kisses. Sorry, I hear my name being called. It is time for me to go. My dinner and a special treat awaits me. Bye. Leroy I am starving! My cries have bought no help. I attack the barrier again, it appears my one chance of deliverance. The noise is deafening,still I persevere adding my cries to the cacophony. I am desperate to be rescued, without food I will die.
The wire rips a little, I can see previous attempts at freedom have occured, lifting my voice the noise level intensifies. I will be rescued! A shadowy form appears his eyes stare into mine, he is screaming, I work to decipher his words…. “Get down for God's sake and use the bloody cat door!” She’s with me still.
There’s that crease she gets above her nose when she moans about crumbs in the kitchen. She shivers, and flicks her head against the sun that pierces the curtains. A lifetime ago, our wedding was beauty; silk and laughter. The later birth, a pulsing, bloody terror. I held Thomas until he drifted away. Held her closer. We were nothing, she’d say. Our suffering of no account. To me, it was everything. It consumed. Love, you were right. You are everything. Did she feel my thoughts? Distant eyes on mine, she breathes. Again, love. Please. Again. Please. Halloween came early this year and Avery didn’t know what to wear. It wasn’t actually Halloween, which never changed dates like those floating holidays – she could never understand why some holidays were always the same date and others floated around like marshmallows on a pool of liquid chocolate.
It might as well have been Halloween and she hadn’t gotten a costume because tonight was her first formal event, the first time she’d actually be considered a grown-up, grown up enough to attend and grown up enough to wear an evening gown. Tonight she was going to dinner with her father. It was a wet November Saturday morning, all too familiar in Cardiff. However, Jack stood with the choir as a colossal ship approached the Docks. The horn blared and gigantic chains anchored the mighty vessel. Slavery briefly flickered in his mind and he also imagined ghosts from exotic locations long ago.
They sang traditional Welsh songs such as Calon Lan in the gloomy air as bedraggled passengers rushed to the waiting coaches. One lady stood and applauded though, wiping a tear from her eyes. "That was beautiful," she stated and his hangover was forgotten. The strike, at last, was over. The battle fought, won or lost; the workers disagreed. However, it was held universally that they were going back to work.
Four months they stood outside that factory. Month one they were strong, two they waned, three they were weak, and by the time four came they were ready to talk. Corporate’s representative was a well-dressed man. He slicked his hair back but he didn’t wear a suit. He talked them down, first the leaders and then the masses. People gave up big dreams to gain a little. ‘And wasn’t he charming,’ they said. I have been preparing for what feels like my whole life. It will make or break my career, credibility, possibly future. My father’s voice drilling vehemently to get it right. It’s bad enough fearing speaking in front of a crowd, let alone a crowd who aren’t going to believe you. Shaking from a sleepless night and now a blistering headache to contend with. Remember the speech. Don’t think about strangers staring at you. I swallow the Tylenol, take extra for good effect and look down at the pill case. No, oh no. That was not Tylenol. Those were sleeping pills.
Sundays, I washed my Mazda.
My car is white with black interior. I rinsed it, then turned the dial to soap and gave it a good scrubbing. As the timer counted down, I hurried to deposit more quarters. I gave it a final power rinse, then wiped it with a rag. I pulled out of the bay, vacuumed the interior, and dried the car under the sun. My once dirty car was now clean. A thing of beauty. A miracle. As pure as a saint. I knew it was temporary, but for a few days, at least, I felt complete. There was a knock. It was Marta from next door holding a plate of cookies so fresh from the oven I could smell the sweetness of the chocolate chips even before I opened the door. “Here,” she said with a smile. “I baked them this morning to say ‘Thank you’ for feeding Daisy last week.” “Oh,” I said, “It wasn’t any trouble, but you didn’t need to bake cookies.” Marta frowned. “Then I guess I’ll just take them home for Robert to eat.” “You don’t need to do that, either, “I winked. “Come in and I’ll fix some coffee.”
It’s a warm autumn afternoon, and her aunt has left for a churchwomen’s meeting. Out the back door, Judith skips across the expansive lawn, her white dress swinging in the breeze.
Beyond the garden and behind the guesthouse, she embraces her gentlemen callers. As always, the three are attentive company. And, with tea, talk and dancing, they help lighten Judith’s sadness over the death of her brother two years earlier. That evening, after her bedroom door is locked, Judith holds close G.I. Joe, Spider-Man and Captain America. And worries if this is the night her aunt once again summons Boogeyman. Audrey was proud. Her mom gave her the job of being the family mole.
“I’m giving you this assignment because I know you can handle it,” mom said. “I won’t let you down,” Audrey replied. In the next few months, Audrey paid strict attention to her siblings. She made sure they weren’t mistreated and that their children were well-behaved. Her job was to keep the family on the straight and narrow. Audrey would report monthly to her mother and give status reports. Little did Audrey know, however, that her mother had employed a second family mole to watch over her. “No--it’s missing!”
Frank panicked. He scoured his desk, looking frantically. How was he ever supposed to complete his assignment without it? However, it was nowhere to be found. He took a deep breath. “OK. Retrace your steps. Where was it last?” He closed his eyes. He’d been working at his desk like usual. Later he went outside for some fresh air. Then, since it was so beautiful out ... “Ah-ha!” He rushed to his back porch, and sure enough, his laptop was right there. He sighed in relief. But now? “A Friday Flash Fiction topic? The searches just never end.” I feel the ‘black dog’ of terrible and reasonless depression stalking me. The hopelessness, spiralling down into the darkness of my own mind.
I pull the bedcovers over my head to hide from the world, but someone’s tugging at them. Go away! Leave me alone! The tugging continues, exasperated I fling back the covers and come face to face with my own black dog. ’Taz, my darling boy.’ I say, ruffling his fur. He leaps onto the bed, licks my face making me smile. He snuggles close, bringing light into my darkness. Another black dog, but this one saved me. Joe was the disgruntled, retiring superintendent of a construction company. He felt he’d been mistreated throughout the years. Now his boss, the owner, tells him he’ll be leaving on an extended European vacation.
“I want you to build one last house for me. Build it of the highest quality,” he said, as he handed Joe the blueprints. Joe decided he would build it as cheaply as possible. The owner returned and Joe handed him the keys. The owner handed them back and said, “This is my retirement gift to you. I hope you have many wonderful years living in it.” I turn on my computer and select emails.
I see straight away my inbox is empty. I try not to be disappointed- but I am. It has been a month since I sent him the email. I re-read my words - wish I could change them. What would I say? He will never reply and I turn off my computer. It is over a month before I turn on my computer and my inbox holds one new email. Shaking I open it - and I delete it. Maybe I think it would have been better if he had never replied. A new author is a profoundly strange creation. Take this one:
He tries to write. So he sits down, at his desk (a natural environment) and readies himself, only to avoid all work. He procrastinates until the day is over, and promises to write again tomorrow. Such evasion of proliferation would be suicidal in another species. Yet it is part of the nature of all new authors. All of them undergo a great test; they either overcome such behaviour or succumb to it. Those who overcome, often go on to great things. Those who do not, we usually forget. He lay writhing in pain. His last night, he had no doubt.
Jack, the monkey whose antics at street corners had provided both of them with their daily bread after he lost his strength to work, stood chained at an arm’s length. His only worry now was Jack. He sighed in relief when his fumbling hands succeeded, after many attempts, in taking the chain off Jack. When the van sped away with the body in the morning, Jack, sitting among the foliage of a nearby tree, followed it with moist eyes. Your visitors are expected this afternoon. A quick shower, then make a cake.
Alas, as warm water trickles over your shoulders inspiration comes – a story, a good, must-get-it-down one. You quickly dry yourself, roll on deodorant, puff talc all over the floor, pull on your clothes. Housework, visitors, story. The words tumble over and over in your mind. Housework, visitors, story. Priorities? Priorities? You hang up the towel and race down the passage… Well, this is no choose-your-own-adventure story. The answer is clear. There is only ONE answer. You turn on the computer… The jungle is waiting for you. It’s arms are open wide. Imagine the sights, the smells, the sounds, and the experiences. The jungle can give you everything. It can fulfill all of your desires. Just walk in, but be careful, you might get lost. It’s watching you. It can anticipate your every move. She’s always listening, tracking your thoughts. “Welcome”, she whispers to you. You enter. You explore her for a good while, but why leave? She has more to offer. You grow tireless. When you try to escape, she asks, “ Would you like to upgrade to Amazon Prime”?
One by one lights turned on. Dinner smells from restaurants overrode fragrant ginger blooming outside my hotel. When the door of a nearby music hall swung open, elated voices pierced the city’s sultry air. A shadowy figure exited, subtle like the oozing of powdered sugar from beignets unto fingertips. A musician? Too dark to tell. The ensemble last night played Dixieland like there was no tomorrow. Room pulsed. Young and old swayed to the beat. Like the rest, I found myself tapping the old wooden floor with my feet. Experience destined to memory. To accompany my departure from New Orleans.
I smile at the children at my door, as they stuff their mouth’s full of candy: gum-balls, twizzlers, tootsie rolls; all disappear down their plump throats.
A woman of my age needs to watch what she eats, but I always have time for the children in my neighourhood. I’ll be going out for dinner later on. I do this anually, and it’s something I look forward to. I watch the sun set. Young laughter echoes through shadow lit streets. I run my tounge over the fangs that protrude over my lower lip. Children are so sweet, and it’s feeding time. When I was a kid, we had a 1962 Rambler. It was black with a red interior and a steering wheel that looked like it belonged on a bus. No seat belts. Sitting in back was like sitting on your sofa if your sofa was upholstered in stiff vinyl. It sounded like a truck. The tailpipe spewed blue clouds of exhaust.
Last spring, I bought a new car. It’s a hybrid. Lots of features. I’m still trying to figure out how to operate it. It’s usually quiet, but sometimes an alarm sounds. I don’t know why or what to do. |
"Classic"
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