Flash Fiction: Sticky Black Stuff

I submitted this story to Adhoc Fiction last week. It didn't make it, so I thought I'd share it with you instead.

The challenge was to write a complete story in 150 words. I hope you like it!

"What are you doing, brother?" the man asked his sibling at the dinner table. "Experimenting with gravity?"

"No,” replied the boy. “I'm learning about friction." He tilted the dinner plate ever so slightly, watching the glass on top of it, and the sticky black liquid inside tilt, but not spill.

“As it relates to gravity, you mean. Anyway, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Mom’ll be mad if you spill.”

A clap of thunder startled the two brothers, causing the younger to lose concentration, and tilt the plate a hair further than he’d intended.

The glass slipped off the plate, and shattered on the floor, causing the sticky black soft drink to run everywhere.

“What on EARTH is going on in here? Now I’m going to have to wash this whole floor!”

Uh oh. Mom.

Later, the man stood over his brother’s bed, watching him rub his backside.

Tales from Virdura: Runt Wizard

Young Solon stared stoically ahead as two of his tormentors held him down, and a third ripped off his shirt from behind.

He gritted his teeth as the thin reed stung his naked back. And a second time. And a third.
Solon vowed that he would not cry out. He was the son of the Royal Wizard, and he would carry himself as such.

Three other children danced around him, snorting like pigs and calling him names.

“Foolborn runt!” they chanted. “Where is your all-powerful magic now?”

The mocking continued, and the lashings went on. Seven now, and Solon could feel blood trickling down his back. He focused on the smell of the boys’ sweat, mixed in with the dust of the dry, arid field they were in. Despite himself, a single tear ran down his left cheek.

“Oh, he’s a cry-baby now too, eh?” said one of the boys. “Pathetic bastard son of a useless mage.”

Something inside Solon snapped. His eyes shot open, and under his breath, he began reciting an old incantation.

Another thwack of the reed.

“What’s he doing now, do you think?”

“Speaking gibberish. I think we may have beaten him a little too hard, boys.”

While his tormentors laughed, nobody noticed the storm clouds gathering overhead. Nobody paid any attention to the flash of lightning, and clap of thunder indicating how close it was.

Above a boy’s head (the one who had insulted Solon’s father), the sky crackled, and a blue bolt began to take shape, high up in the clouds.

“Stop!”

The lightning bolt dissipated, and the clouds began to clear. Only then did the boys look up, noticing the sudden sunlight pouring down on them.

The boy who had been holding the switch turned.

“It’s the Royal Wizard. Run everyone!”

Within the space of a few heartbeats, everyone was gone. Everyone, that is, except Solon, who was lying face-down in the dust.

His father walked up to him, knelt down and gently grabbed his upper arm.

“Come, my son. It is all right now. They have gone.”

Solon allowed this father to help him to his feet, wincing at the pain in his back. The old man produced a handkerchief out of a pocket in his robe and gently dabbed his son’s cheek, drying up his tears.

“My son,” said the old man, as he looked down at his boy’s eyes and smiled sweetly. “I am sorry that you had to go through that. We wizards have always had a difficult time fitting in with our peers.”

“But father, why? I just want to be a normal child.”

“Because we are different, my son. And people are afraid of people who are different.”

“They didn’t look very afraid to me!” said Solon. His voice broke a little in anger as he said it, and his hands balled into fists.

“Solon, calm down.” Said his father, curtly.

Solon took a step back, shocked at the sudden change in his father’s tone.

The old man sighed, deliberately softened his tone, and continued: “You showed great resilience today, and for that I am proud of you. But you almost did something unthinkable. Something that you would’ve regretted for the rest of your life."

Solon snapped at his father, his voice now a high pitch. “And what would’ve been wrong with that? I just wanted to teach them all a lesson. I wasn’t going to kill anyone. What was the harm in a little lightning storm?”

“But you could have killed people, boy. Perhaps even yourself! I have told you how dangerous and unpredictable magic can be. You are still young, and don’t know how to use it properly. But even I, with all my years of training and practice, would balk at attempting what you were trying to do. It is simply too dangerous. Magic should…”

“Magic should only be performed in a calm, private environment, surrounded by the proper tomes and the proper focus,” finished Solon, reciting the mantra that had been drummed into his head since before he could talk.

Solon’s father smiled. He looked at his son, put both hands on his shoulders, and said, “My son, you are going to make a great wizard, one day. Greater perhaps than even I. But I fear you still have a lot to learn.”

Tales from Virdura: Wolves

William walked into the kitchen just as Kathryn was serving breakfast. He kissed his wife Kathryn on the cheek and sat down, hanging his head in shame.

“What's wrong, papa?” Jeremy, the eldest son.

This made William feel even worse. He was not the children's father. Their real father, Marcus, had been an evil, abusive man who had tried to frame him for killing the children's favourite cow. That had been a year ago. He couldn't believe it had been that long since he had stood in the queen's court, facing allegations that he had had no idea about.

He sighed. “Wolves, my boy,” he said. “I have been up for many hours before dawn protecting our stock, trying to ward them away. They have taken three of our cattle this week, and I fear it may be a losing battle.”

Kathryn bent down and placed a plate of bacon and eggs on the table in front of William. “Have you considered going to Jacob with this? I really think we ought.”

“Jacob's the constable of Virdura Castle, my love. And there's been no crime. I wouldn't want to waste his time; besides, what does he know about wolves?”

Kathryn sat down at the table, and began eating her own breakfast, when there was a knock on the door.

William rose to his feet and opened it. In the doorway stood Jacob, holding his hat in his hands against his chest, looking very concerned.

“Constable, what seems to be the problem?”

“There's been an accident, sir,” said Jacob. “Young Master Thomas, from the farm opposite yours. He has been mauled by a wolf, on your property. He has been rushed to the healer.”

“Oh dear,” said William. “That's terrible! Is he going to be all right?”

“It seems so, sir,” replied the constable. “But it could have been worse. Those wolves on your property are becoming a real nuisance. You should really consider doing something about them.”

***

"Be vigilant, boy," said William to Jeremy. "These wolves could attack at any moment."

The moon was high in the night sky, and the two could hear night-larks in the distance. Jeremy brandished his pitchfork.

"Don't worry, papa. We'll get them. No wolf is going to take any more of our cows. As I live and breathe, I promise you that.

William smiled and ruffled Jeremy's hair. Brave young boy, he thought. First his cow is murdered by his own father, and now the wolves. He's had a hard life.

“It is strange though,” continued Jeremy. “I've never heard of wolves stealing cows before. Sheep, yes. But never cows.”

As William was about to respond, he heard a snarling sound from behind him. He turned, just in time for a snow-white wolf to leap into him, knocking him to the ground.

Jeremy screamed as William tried to fight off the wolf with his arms. The animal's jaws locked around William's forearm, and the blood flowed. The boy took courage, and charged at the wolf, pitchfork in hand. He ran the beast through.

The wolf yelped and then fell silent; Jeremy followed through with the pitchfork, pushing the beast off of William. The man sat up and cradled his arm. The blood seeped through his fingers and onto the ground.

“Papa, are you all right?” said Jeremy. “We need to get you to a healer!”

“I'll be fine, son,” said William. “Wolves always hunt in packs. The others must be close.”

***

Fully two hours later, there was still no sign of any other wolves, which William found strange. What was also strange was the fact that he was beginning to feel very sleepy.

“You're very pale, papa,” said Jeremy. “I think we should go to the healer.”

“I'll be fine,” said William. “I just need to... lie down... for...”

“Papa!” Jeremy screamed. But no response came from William. The boy got up, and ran as fast as he could for the healer.”

***

William opened his eyes, slowly. He looked down at his arm, and saw a clean white bandage on it. Looking up, he saw Kathryn and Jeremy, smiling down at him.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You're at the healer's,” replied Kathryn. “You gave us quite a scare. Jeremy said you passed out.”

The memory started rushing back. “It's thanks to Jeremy that I'm still alive,” he said. “The boy killed a wolf, all by himself!”

Jeremy blushed. “It was nothing,” he said.

“We searched every inch of the farm,” said Jacob, stepping forward. “We found no other wolves. It seemed as though that one was hunting alone.”

“Strange,” said William. “They always hunt in packs.”

“Indeed,” said Jacob. “Perhaps the one that you saw was a loner, but you'd best keep an eye open anyway.”

“Yes,” said William. “Or perhaps it wasn't a wolf at all.”

* Image from Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/photos/dmuth/8176793116/

Tales from Virdura: Kathryn's Saviour

Kathryn sat on the front steps of their family's small farm, just outside Virdura Castle. She was staring wistfully at Marcus, working in the fields of the neighbouring farm. He was far away, but she could still see the cords of his bulging neck muscles as he bent down and dragged the hoe through the soil.

“Mama,” she said as an older woman walked up behind her and put her hand of Kathryn's shoulder, “One day, I'm going to marry that man.”

Kathryn's mother looked down at her and smiled. “That's nice, dear,” she said, “but right now, we should get back to work. Your father will be back from the fields soon, and he will want his afternoon meal.”

***

Kathryn and her mother, Iris, were standing at the fire, stirring a pot of gruel, when David stormed in.

“What's for lunch?” He sat down at the kitchen table and banged his fists onto the surface, growling like a bear. Kathryn cringed at the noise, and rubbed her hands together nervously.

“Gruel, dear,” said Iris, “and please stop making so much noise. You're scaring our daughter.”

David got up and screamed at his wife. “Well, she should grow a backbone, then!” In a flash, he was towering over Kathryn, holding her wrist in his hand. He twisted hard.

Kathryn screamed and pulled her hand away. She cowered in the corner, nursing her wrist.

David slapped her through the face. “Stop your snivelling, girl! You're never going to make it in this world if all you do is cry.”

His daughter stood up and scurried away into the adjoining room. David and Iris ate their meal in silence, while listening to the soft weeping coming through the open doorway.

***

The next day, Kathryn was leaning against the wooden log fence separating their farms. Once again, she was watching Marcus tilling his field, shirtless. She dreamt of the day when this muscle-bound man would sweep her up in his arms, and take her away from her abusive father. They would have children together, and she would love them and care for them, and they would never know the horror that she had to endure. Marcus would never beat them they way her father beat her. Of that, she was sure.

She was brought out of her reverie by the sound of someone calling.
“Hey, you there!”

She looked up, and saw Marcus standing, some distance away, waving at her.

Kathryn's heart leapt up into her throat. This man, the man she had loved from a distance for so long, had noticed her! Sheepishly, she waved back.

Marcus trotted up to Kathryn. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Marcus, what's yours?”

With that, Kathryn burst into tears.

***

That day, Kathryn told Marcus everything about her father and his abuses. She learnt that Marcus had been beaten by his father, too, but that one day, he had fought back, and beaten his father so badly that the man had to be sent to the healer. Marcus' father had never laid a hand on him again.

Over the coming weeks, Kathryn and Marcus would become closer and closer, sharing every detail of themselves and their lives. Kathryn even confessed to him how she had felt about him all those months. She had been desperately afraid that he wouldn't feel the same way, but he had.

She was happier than she'd ever been, and the day that the couple decided to tell Kathryn's parents about their engagement was a happy one indeed.

***

“Papa,” said Kathryn one day, after their evening meal. Marcus had joined them for the meal, and she clutched his hand for reassurance. “Papa, Marcus and I are getting married.”

Iris was overjoyed. She leapt up from her seat and wrapped her arms around her daughter. She sobbed, as she exclaimed how happy she was for her daughter.

David's reaction was a bit different. He, too, shot up from his chair, a dark glaze appearing over his eyes. “No daughter of mine will be getting married to a man like this!” He lunched forward, and it looked as though he was going to punch Kathryn in the face.

Marcus reacted instantly. He reached behind his waist, and grabbed the small knife that he always carried, out of its sheath. He stepped between Kathryn and her father, and plunged it into his chest. The man stopped in his tracks, clutched at the handle of the knife, and crumpled to the floor.

Iris immediately dropped to the floor and began stroking her husband's cheek. David spluttered a few times, and then fell silent.

Kathryn's mother stood up, faced her daughter, and slapped her through the face. Tears were streaming down her own cheeks, as she screamed at her daughter and her new fiancé.

“What have you done?” She continued to pound her daughter's chest as she continued. “Get out! Get out, and don't ever come back! I never want to see the two of you again as long as I live.”

Seeing that there was no arguing with Kathryn's mother, Marcus grabbed his beloved's hand and pulled her out the door.

They ran, as far as their feet could carry them.

Iris never saw her daughter again.

---

If you'd like to find out what became of Kathryn and Marcus, read my fantasy short story, A Petition to Magic.

(Image from Wikimedia Commons)

Tales from Virdura: Pretty Pilfered Things

The short, skinny, balding man smiled, showing many gaps in his yellowed teeth. He chuckled as he held up the bright blue jewel; the sound was something between a horse’s whinny and a hippopotamus’ grunt.

“See here?” he said to his friends. “I told you so – the treasure of Artheros is ours! And nobody will ever be any the wiser. Now, wasn’t it worth all the spelunking, Sam?”

A man to his left clapped him on the back, then reached into the bag on the ground and pulled out his own stone, a translucent yellow one. “That’s for sure, Jack. Our only problem now is how to spend it.”

Enthusiastic nods and agreeable noises erupted from the seven other people sitting around in the circle. A silence fell upon with group, punctuated by satisfying sighs as people took various jewels and gemstones in their hands and admired them.

After a while, another man spoke. “Tell you what, though,” he said. “there is one among us who doesn’t deserve but a single stone.” He turned to face one of his peers, a small man sitting silently in the corner. Pointing at the man, he said “Martin. What did you do to help us win this treasure? Why, when that giant spider attacked, you cowered behind me, that’s all you did!”

At that, Martin leapt to his feet and exclaimed in a voice far louder than his stature would suggest, “I did not cower, Devon! I was using my superior intellect, and waiting for a chance to sneak around the spider and claim the treasure. And I did, didn’t I? I could’ve carried it out again too, and you’d have been none the wiser, you were too busy wasting your time with the spider.”

Devon, the man who had accused Martin, drew his sword and pointed it at Martin’s throat. “You take that back!” he said.

All at once, the entire company was on their feet, standing in a circle around Martin and Devon. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” they chanted.

But before the fighting could commence, a loud voice was heard from outside their cave. “Jack the Pilferer! You are under arrest, by order of the Queen of Virdura. We suggest you come quietly, or we will come in and get you. And in case you haven’t noticed, that bag you claimed from Antheros is full of nothing but worthless glass baubles.”

***

A young boy looked away from the scene, up at his father, and giggled. “That was funny, Father!”

The boy’s father looked down at his son and smiled lovingly. “Yes, it was. But it’s also quite serious. You see, Solon, one day, you will perform these divinations as well. You will serve the next queen of this fine kingdom, as I do today, and as your grandfather did before me. It’s a big responsibility, not to be taken lightly.”

Solon looked up at his father in awe. “Really, Father? I get to help catch rotten crooks like Jack the Pilferer?”

His father laughed a hearty laugh. “Yes, indeed, my son. That, and a great deal more.”

Tales from Viruda: The Demise of Lucy

© Copyright Evelyn Simak and licensed
for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

William awoke to the sound of incessant screaming and banging on his front door.

“Mr William, please. Come quick!”

It was the voice of Jeremy, son of Marcus, his next door neighbour.

Looking through the window, William could see that it was still dark outside, although he judged that dawn wasn't far off. He climbed out of bed, stuck his feet into a pair of slippers, and hurried to his front door.

When he opened it, he saw the boy standing there. He had calmed down a little by this point, but was still snivelling, and rubbing his eyes.

“Jeremy, what's wrong?” asked William.

“It's Lucy, sir. Our poor cow. Papa killed him this morning, and I miss her so much. I don't know what to do!”

William was stunned. He knew the family well. Marcus and Cathryn had three sons, of which Jeremy was the oldest. While William was well known for being an abusive father and husband, William didn't think he would ever have killed Lucy; the cow was the childrens' pet, and they loved her dearly. Besides, Lucy had been their only cow, and they needed her for milk. He knew that they'd been trying to find a mate for her and hadn't had much success. Perhaps they had gotten tired of waiting, but it still didn't make any sense.

William sighed and said, “All right, Jeremy. Calm down. Now tell me, why would your father do such a thing?”

“Papa was hungry,” said Jeremy. “He said he wanted meat to eat. Mama told him that we could slaughter a pig instead. He got angry and yelled at her, and he hit her. He said that he was tired of pork, and wanted beef for a change. Then he went out to the barn and got an axe. We tried to stop him.” Jeremy pointed to his left eye, showing a large bruise. William was surprised that he hadn't noticed it before; Jeremy's eye was almost swollen shut.

William held the boy tightly to himself, as Jeremy went on. “There was so much blood, Mr William, and we didn't want to see. Papa made us watch; he said it would turn us into men.”

As Jeremy sobbed and squeezed William tightly, William spoke. “There, there,” he said. “I'm sorry, Jeremy. There's nothing that can be done about it, now. I need to attend to my animals today. Will you help me?”

“No thanks, Mr William,” said Jeremy, and sniffed. “I need to get home. Papa will be angry if I'm not at breakfast.” He turned slowly, and walked away, leaving William staring after him, quietly shaking his head.

***

During the course of that week, William continued to tend his farm, as usual. He did not see Jeremy again, but occasionally heard the unmistakable sound of Marcus screaming at his “stupid boy” for doing something he shouldn't, or not doing something that he should. William's heart was heavy, and he wished that one day, something could be done for those boys and their mother, to take them away from their abusive father.

One morning, as he was working in the fields, he heard a voice, “William, a Virduran farmer!”

William looked around, and saw a tall man with broad shoulders, wearing the uniform of the queen's guard.

As the man got closer, William stood up straight. “Yes? What is it?”

“Come with me,” said the guard. “Your presence has been requested in the throne room at Castle Virdura. You have been accused to stealing your neighbour's cow.”

To find out what happens next, please read the fantasy short story, A Petition to Magic.

Tales from Virdura: At the Queen's Command

Author's Note: The events in this story take place immediately prior to those in APetition to Magic. If you'd like to know what happens next after reading this, then please consider purchasing a copy of that book.

Queen Tricia sat opposite her Royal Wizard Solon, in the castle dining hall. It was late afternoon, and harsh sun was streaming through the huge bay window. Solon watched motes of dust dancing in the light.

“Solon,” she said, “I am getting on in years, and Princess Celeste has come of age. The time will soon come when she will have to take over as queen of Virdura. I cannot bear the thought of the kingdom falling into ruin after I am gone, and I therefore need you to divine the future for me. Tell me, great wizard, will my darling daughter make a favourable queen?”

“Your Majesty,” replied Solon, “young Celeste is a wonderful girl, with a good head on her shoulders. I don't need a spell to tell me that she will make a fine queen, one day!”

The queen smiled, and waved her hand. “Thank you for your kind words. Just the same, I would like to be sure, so that if there are any problems, they can be addressed sooner rather than later.”

Solon sighed. “Yes, Your Highness. But you are aware of how risky magic can be, and I would never be able to forgive myself if something happened to your only daughter. So I must ask you, are you certain that you would like me to do this?”

“Yes, dear wizard, I am aware of the risks,” replied the queen. “You will just have to make sure that nothing does happen to my darling daughter. Please, retire to your tower, and don't come back until you know the truth.”

***

Solon stood in his tower, considering the strangely coloured liquids in strangely shaped receptacles. The great tome sat on his table, open to the page of the spell he was to cast. He read the first few lines from the spell, then reached up and took two full jars off the shelf, along with an empty one. Taking a deep breath, he began to chant, while slowly pouring the contents of the two jars into the third.

After thirty minutes of chanting, a sweat was beginning to break out on Solon's forehead. The concentration required of him was massive. Suddenly, he stopped. In his chanting, he had just pronounced one of the syllables of his spell incorrectly!

For a second, there was silence. Then, a scream could be heard from somewhere in the castle grounds–Solon thought it was the throne room.

Fearing the worst, he threw open the door to his tower, and stormed down the stairs towards the throne room.

***

Solon arrived in the throne room to see a group of people huddled over the throne, talking heatedly to each other. When they saw him, they parted to make way for him.

There, sitting on the throne, was Queen Tricia. Her head slumped forward, her hand lying limply over the arm rest.

Solon raced to her side, and grabbed her wrist.

“What is he doing?” muttered someone.

“Something magical,” replied another. “Let him work.”

After holding her wrist for a few seconds, Solon stepped away. His voice was breaking, and he was shaking, when he announced, “Our beloved Queen Tricia has passed on. I believe that she has suffered a heart attack.”

The crowd gasped. Some people fainted. Others began to sob and wail inconsolably, tears streaming down their cheeks.

Solon, who knew the truth, turned and slank away. Never again, he thought to himself. I will never cast another spell, as long as I live.

Tales from Virdura: The Captain's Heir

“Where is Clyde?” asked Sheriff Camden Maynard, over Helena's screams, which were emanating from the adjoining room. “He should be here for the birth of his child.”

“Still on the lake,” replied Davina. “The Sail's not back yet.”

“Damn and blast!” said the Sheriff. “They should have been back an hour ago. In the name of princess Tricia, he's going to miss it!”

Abruptly, the woman's screaming stopped. Davina and Sheriff Maynard looked at each other in silence, with expressions of horror on their faces. Moments later, a new scream erupted. It was not the scream of a woman, however, but that of a baby.

The door to the room was thrown open, and the midwife stormed out. “Where is that fool, Clyde?” she asked. “He's just missed the most important moment in his entire life, I'll wager: the birth of his son!”

Just then, Clyde came bursting through the door, huffing and puffing. “Sheriff Maynard,” he spluttered, “You need to come quickly. And bring as many men as you can. We've just caught the biggest fish I've ever seen.”

Knowing Clyde's propensity for tall tales, the Sheriff waved him away with a chuckle. “Clyde, I'm sure that whatever you and your crew have can wait. You need to go and see your wife, and your new son.”

“What?” said Clyde, and took a step backwards. Then he composed himself, and went on. “Well, yes, that's wonderful. I'm sure she's beautiful... I'm sure he's beautiful. But Sheriff, if you don't come quickly, this monster's going to sink the ship!”

Sheriff Maynard sighed, and followed Clyde out the door.

***

Maynard whistled when he saw the fish, resting on the deck of The Carrington Sail, the village's only fishing boat. The fish was as long as nearly five people, lying head to toe. And Clyde hadn't been exaggerating about the weight, either; the water level was right up the side of the boat, and some of it was even seeping onto the deck. The ship was indeed slowly sinking.

“Do you believe me now?” asked Clyde. “If we can get that thing to shore, it will feed the entire village for a year. If we don't, then it might be the last fish we ever catch.”

Maynard screamed for as many people as possible to get onto the boat, and help to get the fish, but it quickly became apparent that they weren't going to bring it ashore in one piece. He gave the order for the men to start hacking away at it, with knives, swords, saws, and whatever other implements were at hand. After nearly an hour of work, over twenty people had finally carried the last of the fish onto the shore.

“And now,” said the Sheriff to Clyde, as they were admiring their handiwork, “you have another matter to attend to.”

***

When Clyde and the Sheriff arrived back at Clyde's home, Davina was still standing in the living area, waiting for them. She gave Clyde a reproachful look.

“Your wife is inside, with the midwife, and your child,” she said. “She almost died giving birth to your son, and she's not happy with you for not being there to support her. Best you go in, now.”

Clyde's excitement and smile disappeared as the gravity of what Davina was saying sunk in. He could have lost his wife, that day. Without another word, he opened the door and walked in.

***

Clyde walked into the room, prepared for a tongue-lashing from his wife. “My love,” he said, “we almost lost The Sail tod-”

He was cut short when she looked up at him, beaming from ear to ear. In her arms, she was holding the most beautiful baby boy that he had ever seen.

Upon seeing that face, and the baby boy in his wife's arms, he immediately rushed to her side and clasped her hand in his.

“Oh, my dear!” he exclaimed. “You're beautiful. He's beautiful. We saved The Sail today, as I said, and one day, that boat will be his. My dear, sweet, beautiful Albert. What do you think of that?”

Image: http://campadmin.itamtam.co.kr/web/uploads/camp/pic_src/201410/baby-20939_640.jpg

Tales from Virdura: Jarvis' Bounty

Tobin crouched behind the rock and watched his quarry. Jarvis had crept up behind the local blacksmith a week before, and brutally slit his throat. The Virdua Castle city guard had caught up with him after a witness had come forward, but he had evaded them.

Now, it was Tobin's job to find him and bring him in. The local constabulary had promised one hundred gold pieces for his capture. Tobin, the Bounty Hunter was not about to let him slip away.

Tobin needed to get closer. He darted out from behind the rock, and quickly hid behind a tree, no more than twenty metres from his prey.

Hearing a rustle in the bushes, Jarvis' head darted towards the source of the disturbance. He got up from the log he was sitting on, drew his sword, and turned towards the tree.

“Who's there?” he asked. “Come out, come out, whereever you are!”

Tobin drew his own sword, and stepped out from behind the tree.

“I've come to take you in, Jarvis,” he said. “Best you come quietly, so no more blood needs to be shed.”

“Hello, Tobin,” said Jarvis, and a sneer formed on his face. “You'll never take me alive. Unlike you, I'm not afraid to shed blood.”

With that, Jarvis let out a mighty cry. Sword raised, he lunged towards Tobin, meaning to split his skull in two. Tobin ducked, and held his sword out above his head to parry the blow. Jarvis' sword struck his. The sound of steel upon steel rang in Tobin's ears, and he felt the force of the blow vibrate down his arm.

Tobin deflected Jarvis' blade, then lunged forward, striking for Jarvis' chest. Jarvis jumped back just in time, and the bounty hunter's sword sung through the air, centimetres from his prey's tunic.

But Tobin was the better fighter and, allowing the momentum to carry him forward, he swung again at Jarvis' sword-arm. The sword sliced a deep cut in Jarvis' bicep, and he dropped his weapon.

Jarvis clutched his arm and glared at Tobin. Tobin raised his sword and pressed the tip of the blade lightly against Jarvis' neck.

“See, Jarvis?” said Tobin, “I'm not afraid of shedding blood, either. And as I said, I'm here to take you in.” His chest was heaving from the exertion, but Jarvis did not appear to be phased.

Jarvis flicked his wrist, and a dagger which had been hidden in his sleeve appeared in his hand. He made to lunge it into Tobin's side, but the bounty hunter was too quick for him. The instant that Jarvis moved, Tobin pressed his sword straight through Jarvis' throat. Jarvis gurgled and sputtered blood, and dropped the dagger he was holding.

“No matter,” said Tobin. “Dead or alive, I'll still claim my bounty from you.”

***

“I'm sorry, Tobin,” said Jacob, constable of the queen's guard in Virdura castle, as he shook his head. “It's a new law, from Queen Celeste herself. The city no longer pays bounties for dead criminals. You were to bring him in alive, that was your mandate. You should feel lucky that I don't have you up on murder charges!”

Tobin sighed. Perhaps it was time for him to take a break. He had heard some travellers talking in the tavern the week before, about a village called Carrington. A nice calm place, by all accounts, on the banks of the Ten Mile Lake. It should be lovely this time of year.

Yes, thought Tobin, as he walked out of the constable's office empty handed. That's where I'll go. Carrington. I just need a Sabbatical, that's all.

The Christmas Bird

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“Isn't it ridiculous?” said Sylvia.

“What?” asked Candice, who was standing beside her, staring into the window of the pet shop.

“Those stupid snow motifs painted on the window, and Father Christmas standing there, dressed in his red suit with white fur. If he were really here, he'd die of the heat. This is Joburg, you know, and it's the middle of summer. When have you ever known it to snow in Joburg in December?”

“You're probably right,” replied Candice, and chuckled, “It reminds me a little of that Ed Jordan song. Still, I think you might be over-thinking it. You should just enjoy the season. Hey,” she continued, pointing at a bright green parrot she spied inside the shop, “look at that parrot. Isn't he cute? Let's go inside, I want to take a closer look.”

***

Sylvia squealed with delight when the parrot squawked “Hello, pretty lady!”

“You're right,” she said to Candice, “he is adorable! I wonder how much he costs?”

But Candice wasn't listening. She was staring into the bird's eyes, mesmerised.

Hello, Candice.

“Did you hear that?” said Candice. “He just said, 'Hello, Candice'!”

“No he didn't,” replied Sylvia, “He said 'Hello, pretty lady'. Are you all right?” She pressed the back of her hand against Candice's forehead.

She can't hear me, Candice. Please don't tell her what I'm saying. She will think you're crazy. If you buy me, I'll make you rich. You'll never have to work again.

Candice shook her head and brushed Sylvia's hand away. She was hypnotised, under the parrot's spell, but she understood what he was saying.

“You're right,” she said, and chuckled nervously. “I just got carried away. I guess he just spoke to me, in a different way. Oh, Sylvia, I just have to have him!”

“I'd love to as well, but I don't think it would work at my place. I have cats. Find out how much he costs. If you buy him, and keep him in your flat, promise me I can come visit him whenever I want?”

***

Candice carried the cage with the parrot inside, and placed him on the mantel, next to the Christmas tree that she had set up the night before.

“Now, what should I name you?”

My name is Petronus.

“All right then, Petronus.” Candice was suddenly feeling very sure of herself, after the initial shock of Petronus speaking to her, back at the pet shop. “You made me a promise, of what you would do if I brought you home.”

Check your bank balance, online.

Candice walked over to the computer, opened her Internet browser, and logged into her banking website. She checked her balance, and saw an amount ending in more zeroes than she could count. She clapped her hands together, and was just about to thank the parrot, when there came a knock at the door.

Your dinner guest has arrived.

***

Candice opened the door to find Sylvia standing there, holding a bottle of wine. Before Candice could greet her, Sylvia pushed her way past into the flat.

“Oh, he's gorgeous!” she said, upon seeing the parrot. “What did you decide to call him?”

“Thank you,” said Candice. “His name is Petronus.”

“That's a funny name for a parrot!”

“It's weird, Syl. He just... spoke to me, and I knew that's what I had to call him. Anyway, put that wine on the table, and come look here. I want to show you something on my bank.”

Sylvia stared at the screen, showing Candice's bank balance. “How the hell-”

Before she could finish her question, Sylvia doubled over in pain, the palms of her hands pressing into her eyes. She screamed.

“Sylvia? What's wrong?” screamed Candice. She was able to pry Sylvia's hands away from her eyes, and, staring into them, she saw that they were balls of pure red.

“My eyes! They're burning, and I can't see!” sobbed Sylvia.

By this time, Sylvia was rolling around on the floor, and blood had begun to seep from her eyes and down her cheeks.

Candice was frantic. She fell onto the floor on top of Sylvia, trying to calm her, but unsure of what to do. After a few moments, Sylvia stopped sobbing. She stopped moving, too, and the blood stopped running down her face. Candice checked, and found that she had stopped breathing.

As Candice lay over Sylvia's lifeless form, sobbing, she began to feel cold.

Why did you do that, Candice?

“Do what?” she said, through her tears, and looked at the parrot. But something to the left of Petronus caught her eye. The Christmas tree, sitting next to him on the mantel, had a thin layer of white atop its branches. Snow?

The temperature was dropping fast. Candice hugged her arms and rubbed them with her hands to keep warm. She glanced at the window; it was frosting over. On the floor, the blood from Sylvia's eyes was frozen on her cheeks.

Candice started to weep. The tears froze on her face as soon as they left her eyes. She looked up at the parrot on the mantel, and mouthed the word “Why?”

I promised you. You'll never have to work again.

The Witch of Wellington

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In the small town of Wellington, South Africa, there lives a witch. She looks to be in her early sixties, but she has lived in her small house for as long as anyone can remember. She’s a friendly witch, though: grown-ups come to her all the time for advice on their problems. But for reasons nobody can explain, children are scared of her.

***

“I am not scared!” exclaimed Sally, “I just don’t see any reason why I need to visit the witch right now. Mom says she’s just an old woman, who doesn’t deserve to be pestered by us.”

“Chicken!” chanted the other children, and they began dancing around her with their hands on their hips and their elbows bent, making clucking noises.

Sally sighed. She was the same age as her friends, but for some reason it always felt as though she were more mature than they were.

“You can call me chicken as much as you like,” she said. “I see no reason to bother the poor woman.”

Timmy picked up the soccer ball they were playing with, and drop-kicked it over the old woman’s fence, into her yard.

“Well, there’s a reason now!” he said. “Go knock on her door and ask if we can have our ball back.”

“Maybe,” said Sally. “But now you have to go and ask for it back!”

Ben, who’d been standing next to Timmy with an amused expression on his face, said, “She’s right, Timmy. You kicked it. You fetch it.”

Sally smirked as Timmy’s face went momentarily white. His voice broke, ever so slightly, as he spoke. “Well, I’m not scared either,” he said. “We’ll see how chicken you really are, when I come back with the ball.”

With that, Timmy marched up to the witch’s front door, and rang the bell. It seemed to take forever for the door to open, and Sally wondered if Timmy would go through with it, or lose his nerve and run.

Eventually, the door did open, and the old woman stood inside it. “Yes?” she said. “How can I help you?”

Her glasses were perched low on her nose, and she stared at Timmy over the top of the frame. Timmy took one look into those eyes, and he did run. He turned around, and bolted back to Ben and Sally as fast as his young feet could carry him. Smiling, the witch stepped back inside, and quietly shut the door.

When Timmy returned to his friends, they were unable to control their laughter.

“Who’s the chicken now?” said Sally. “If you can’t handle it, I’ll go talk to her. I’ll go get the ball back.”

Sally walked calmly and confidently up to the witch’s door. She had no fear—witch or no, the woman was a person, just like anybody else. What reason should anyone have to be afraid of her?

When she got to the door, Sally rang the bell. A few moments later, the door opened. The old woman smiled warmly at Sally and said, “Why, hello little girl! What can I do for you?”

Not losing her confidence, Sally replied. “Excuse me, Ma’am,” she said, “but one of my friends accidentally kicked our ball into your yard. May I get it back, please?”

“Yes, I know,” replied the witch, “but there was nothing accidental about it.” She sighed, and continued, “Very well, come inside.”

The woman led Sally through her house (which looked like any normal-looking house would be expected to look) and into the back yard. Sally found the ball, thanked the woman, and was about to leave, when the woman stopped her.

“Just a second, Sally,” she said.

“H-how do you know my name?” gasped Sally.

“Never mind that, Sally,” returned the witch, “but I heard the way that horrid Timmy spoke to you. When you get back, you be sure to give him a message for me, okay?”

“Umm, okay.”

“You tell Timmy for me, that if he wants to act like a pig, he should look like one, too.”

Sally smiled sheepishly, then nodded and scurried away.

***

“You were gone a long time,” said Ben, when Sally returned, with the ball under her arm. “How did it go?”

“It went fine,” said Sally. “She's just a nice old lady, like I said. Nothing to be afraid of.” Then, turning to Timmy, she added, “But she did give me a message for you, Timmy.”

Timmy stared at her. “If it's about me running away...”

“It's not about that. She said I should tell you, if you want to act like a pig, you should look like one, too.”

“Yeah,” said Timmy, “and what does that mean?”

Sally's eyes went wide, as she stared into Timmy's face. His nose began flattening before her eyes, and then growing a deep shade of pink. His nostrils grew larger. His ears elongated into diamond-shaped tips on the sides of his head.

Ben looked behind Timmy, and saw a short, curly tail sprout out through his pants.

Timmy watched the two staring at him. “What?” he said.

^{Image: © Copyright Peter Facey and licensed for reuse under the Create Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic licence}

Telepathic Link

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Here's a free story for you, all about a game show designed specifically for telepaths. It also happens to be my one hundredth post on this blog. Congratulations to me!

I hope you enjoy it!

Sebastian sat in the crowd, his mouth hanging open. Dumbstruck, he looked around at the other audience members. Most were clapping enthusiastically, and a few were whistling. Some were even on their feet, screaming at what was going on, on stage.

He looked down at the small arena in the centre of the studio. The quiz master, Karl Snopes, was turning on a small rotating pedestal, with ten contestants standing in a circle, at podiums, around him. He faced each contestant in turn, they looked at each other for about three seconds, and then the cheering erupted as he moved on to the next contestant.

Sebastian looked to his left. His date, Lisa, had a big smile on her face. She, like the others, was applauding. Occasionally she let out a hilarious laugh. He nudged her, then when she looked at him, he asked in a low whisper “What’s going on here?”

Lisa just stared at him for a few seconds. He continued to look at her, expectantly. Finally, she spoke. “What do you mean, Baz? And why are you using your voice? Are you okay?”

“What do you mean, ‘why are you using your voice’? How else would I speak?”

“With your mind, silly! Come on, you love this show,” exclaimed Lisa, “you thought me all about it at dinner last week. I couldn’t believe how happy you were when I thought you that I’d gotten tickets!”

“What's wrong with you, Lisa? Communicating with our minds? There's no such thing. If this is some weird way of you breaking up with me, it's really sick. I'm going home!”

As Sebastian stood up to leave, Lisa grabbed his arm. “It's not. I'm really worried about you. But okay, let's just go.”

Sebastian looked at her, exasperated. He shrugged and walked off, towing Lisa along by her arm.

The two walked through the winding passageways that led to the entrance door of the studio, not saying a word. Sebastian was incredulous. He couldn't believe what Lisa was telling him. He didn't want to be around her, but they were here in his car, and he couldn't very well let her walk home.

Closer to the exit, they began to hear thunder, and then the deafening sound of rain on the building's metal roof. Lisa shivered when they approached the door, and a cold wind assaulted them down the passageway.

“Wait here,” said Sebastian when they got to the door. “I'll bring the car around. No sense in us both getting wet.”

***

Lisa squeezed his arm affectionately and smiled. “You do still care,” she thought. Then she sighed as Sebastian walked out into the rain, giving no indication that he had heard her.

She watched Sebastian get closer to the car. The rain showed no sign of abating. In fact, it became more violent, as the wind howled and the thunder boomed. She saw flashes of lightening in the sky, getting closer together.

Just as Sebastian was approaching the car, and had removed his keys from his pocket, Lisa witnessed a blinding flash. A split second later, she heard a deafening clap, so loud that it made her cup the sides of her head with her hands.

When the ringing in her ears had stopped, she looked over and saw Sebastian lying on the ground. She panicked and ran towards him, and as she got closer she began to smell a faint burning spell. Realising what had happened, she began to run faster.

She dropped to her haunches when she reached him and started shaking him. “Oh please, Sebastian, please be all right!” she thought.

After a few moments of fervent shaking, Sebastian opened his eyes. Staring straight into hers, he thought, “Lisa? Lisa, I can hear you!”

Lisa hugged Sebastian closer to her chest, and kissed his head over and over, tears streaming down her face.

^{Image: IBy Lyoha123 (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons}

An Automatic Decision

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This month's story came from a philosophical question that my brother asked me a few weeks ago, about self-driving cars.

Suppose a self-driving car is driving on a narrow mountain pass, and suddenly perceives a child running across the road. It has only two options:

1. Plow down the child, and protect the occupant, or
2. Careen down the barrier, saving the child, but killing the occupant

His two part question: what should the car do, and who should be allowed to make that decision?

This story is my attempt to answer that question. I hope you like it!

"'...Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.'"^* Rev Kev read out loud. "What do you think, car? Is that too cheesy?"

The car gave its answer in a typical non-emotional voice, "I would not know, sir."

"Oh, for goodness sake! Call me Kevin. Better yet, call me Rev Kev; everyone else does."

"Very well, Rev Kev," returned the car, mechanically.

Kevin sighed. "On second thought, just call me Kevin."

The good Reverend was preparing to meet with a dear old lady from his congregation, Mrs Carlisle. The poor woman had been diagnosed with terminal, inoperable brain cancer the week before, and Kevin hoped to offer her some comfort.

Rev Kev continued to read his Bible and mutter out loud as the car wound up the narrow mountain pass leading up to Mrs Carlisle's house. At one point, he looked up and said a silent prayer that there would be no-one else on the road; over-taking, or moving over to allow another car to pass, would be impossible.

***

Ten year-old Jimmy Cox giggled as he ran from the mountain, over the narrow road, and excitedly grabbed hold of the railing that protected against the almost fifty-metre drop to the rocks below. Mommy had told him countless times not to play on the road, but the excitement and adrenaline rush was too much to resist. After almost vaulting himself over the railing for the tenth time in the last half-hour, he turned and began running back towards the mountain.

***

Rev Kev's car rounded a sharp bend, and he looked up from his Bible.

“Oh God, please no!” he screamed as he saw a young boy running across the road, directly in front of the car.

Time stopped.

Kevin watched as the child was frozen in mid-run, his left foot in the air behind him in an impossible standing position, his right planted on the ground with the toe on the road and the heel in the air. He looked at the speedometer of the car: sixty kilometres per hour, but they weren't moving.

“W-what's going on here?”

“What would you have me do, sir?” asked in the car in that mechanical, emotionless voice. At least, he thought it was the car; perhaps it was God, answering his prayer.

“What do you mean, car? Please, would you explain to me what exactly this is?”

“If I follow my programming, sir, I would protect my occupant above all else. That boy would die. Your God has given you a choice. To save the boy, I would have to turn and drive through the barrier, sending us onto the rocks below.”

“No,” muttered Kevin. His face was white as a sheet, and he was shaking; still trying to come to terms with what was happening. “There must be another way! What about turning towards the mountain instead? Or just applying brakes really hard?”

“The boy is less than twenty metres from us, sir, and we are driving at sixty kilometres per hour.” Kevin could have sworn he heard an exasperated tone in the car's robotic voice. “Either of those options would cause us to spin uncontrollably, and we would strike the child. If we hit the mountain, you would likely die, but the child would almost certainly die in either case.”

Kevin's mouth hung open. Was he really being forced to make such a choice? But perhaps, he reasoned, he should rather thank God for giving him a choice that precious few people would be given.

“Well,” he stammered. He hooked his finger under his collar (which had suddenly become very tight), and pulled it away from his neck. “I have lived a full life. I gave that life to God and His Son many years ago. I have no regrets, and I know where I am going when I die. I do not know where that boy's beliefs lie, or that of his family's.

“I'm ready, car. Take me to be with the Lord.”

“Very well, sir.”

The car's speedometer returned to life, and the needle bounced erratically. The boy turned in mid-step, saw the car speeding towards him, screamed and fell on his face. Rev Kev heard the screeching of the car's tyres as it jolted to the right and crashed through the barrier.

As the car fell to the jagged rocks below, Kevin heard a voice in his head, much kinder than the car's had been: “Well done, my good and faithful servant. Tonight, you will be with Me in Paradise.”

Image: "MUTCD R2-1". Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:MUTCD_R2-1.svg#mediaviewer/File:MUTCD_R2-1.svg

^* Deuteronomy 31:6

The Thing in the Window

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Last month, I enjoyed writing about being in the wrong bathroom so much that I decided to try another prompt from the same website. This one's called The Open Window, and it goes like this:

You had that dream again. The one where the beast with the drooping hands and wicked fangs stares you down from your window. Except the windows open this time—and you’re awake! What happens next?

Once again, the prompt asked for a response in no more than 500 words. I've been writing a little bit of horror lately, first with Billy's Zombie, and then with a short story called Under the Sheets that I entered into a flash fiction contest (which my newsletter subscribers know all about). With that in mind, I thought, how hard could it be? Here goes:

Mary's mouth hung open. She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. She wanted to slam the window shut, but her arm wouldn't move. She wanted to turn and run, as far away from her room as possible. But she didn't know where to go. The thing would be in the room and upon her before she reached the door. Besides, her feet wouldn't have been able to move if she tried. She was frozen in fear.

“Hello, Mary.”

Mary swallowed hard. “H-how do you know my name?”

“Oh, we've met many times before. In your dreams, night after night. It's good to finally meet you in person.”

As she stared at the beast, with saliva dripping off its fangs, she suddenly knew who it was. “Marty? Is that you?”

The thing threw its head back and emitted a deep, slow laugh. “Marty is the name your subconscious gave me, child. My name is Ciz'que.”

Although still frightened, Mary was beginning to regain her senses somewhat. She knew this creature from her dreams, although she knew him as Marty. He was frightening then, but not overtly hostile, and she felt that if she could defeat him in her sleep, she could defeat him here, in the real world.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“My name, child—my true name—means 'Bringer of Souls'. I want your soul.”

Mary thought about this a moment, then snapped, “Well, you can't have it!”

Ciz'que seemed to take a step back, apparently shocked at the audacity of this child. After a moment, he brought his head through the open window, stopping centimetres from Mary's face. Mary's gaze met his, and she found herself unable to move or speak, transfixed by the creature's glowing yellow eyes.

The beast opened its gigantic maw and breathed hot, fetid breath into Mary's face. The stench was terrible, unlike anything Mary had ever experienced before. But as she was no longer entranced by Ciz'que's eyes, Mary was able to think quickly. She reached out her left hand and felt for the letter opener that she knew lay on her writing desk. Finding it just within arms reach, she grabbed it and plunged it into Ciz'que's open maw.

The creature screamed and stepped back. It swiped out at Mary's face with a heavy claw, running three deep gashes along her cheek, causing her to crash to the floor. Ciz'que reached into his mouth, removed the letter opener and examined it. Blood dripped off the blade. He tossed it away, and leapt all the way through into the room.

Ciz’que's massive frame covered Mary on the floor, and once again she found herself unable to move.

“And now,” he said, “your soul.”

Ciz’que’s yellow orb-eyes filled Mary’s consciousness. Nothing else existed for her. She opened her mouth to scream—a whooshing sound came out instead. And with it, out streamed a long, black trail. The last thing Mary was aware of was her soul being pulled from her body.

What did you think of this story? Loved it? Hated it? I'd love to know! Tell me in the comments below.

Oh, and if you'd like to visit my All Books page, and check out the rest of my writing, I'd be exceedingly grateful!

_{Image: "Lady Gaga withThe Fame Monster" by John Robert Charlton - [1]. Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Lady_Gaga_withThe_Fame_Monster.jpg#mediaviewer/File:Lady_Gaga_withThe_Fame_Monster.jpg}

Ever Been in the Wrong Bathroom?

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While I was looking for a cool writing exercise to do this month, I came across this one, on WritersDigest.com:

You head into the bathroom at work, walk into a stall and close the door. Moments later, as you leave the stall, you notice two people standing there and there’s one major problem: They are of the opposite sex. On the spot, you make up an excuse as to why you are in their bathroom.

The prompt called for a response of 500 words or less. I thought it sounded like a really fun challenge, and my mind immediately started racing with cool ideas. Many of them were rather risqué though, so the challenge was going to be coming up with something safe for work! Here goes:

I pulled up my pants, turned, and pressed down on the toilet handle. The water rushed satisfyingly from the cistern into the bowl. As I placed my hand on the lock, I heard voices. While this would normally not be a problem, I noticed with horror that they were women's voices!

Oh crap, I thought (and excuse the pun), I must have turned right instead of left! At four in the afternoon, it had been a long day, and I must not have been thinking clearly.

I decided that maybe if I kept completely quiet, they wouldn't notice me.

“Sarah? Is that you?”

It was Lucy, one of the sales ladies. She was probably with Marie. They must have arrived back at the office late, after visiting a client.

“No, it-it's John,” I stammered, realising that the jig was up and I'd only make a bigger fool of myself if I kept quiet now.

This time, Marie answered. “John? My word, what are you doing in the ladies' bathroom? Get out here!”

Slowly, I turned the lock on the door, pulled it open, and stepped out. I could feel my face hot with embarrassment, certain that I was blushing. The women had their hands on their hips, staring at me expectantly with smirks on their faces, obviously trying hard not to burst out in fits of uncontrollable laughter.

“Well?” said Lucy.

Well, indeed. What was I to say? Should I tell the truth, that I'd just been on auto-pilot and entered the wrong door? No, I decided—that would just expose me to more ridicule. I had to think quick.

“I-I thought there was nobody left in the office,” I said. “There is no toilet paper in the men's, and I figured there'd be no harm in using some of yours. I'm really sorry!” I was slowly turning towards the exit, wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible (I could wash my hands next door, in the right bathroom), but also not wanting to appear rude by running away.

“Shoo-wee!” exclaimed Marie. “John, don't you spray when you finish? What on earth have you been eating?”

I'm sure my face turned an even deeper shade of red than it already had been. Mumbling an apology, I turned back toward the stall and reached in to grab the can of air-freshener. The women laughed as I lifted it in the air and pressed the nozzle down for three seconds.

After they had composed themselves, Lucy replied, “What do you mean there's no toilet paper? I saw Tabs going into both bathrooms at lunch time, with toilet rolls under her arms. She must've put paper in there, then. Why do you men use so much paper?”

I smiled nervously. “Yeah, I'm sorry,” I said. “I guess we do.” I walked closer to the exit, and turned expectantly towards the two, waiting for an indication that I could go.

“John?” said Lucy. “Aren't you even going to wash your hands?”

So, what would your reaction have been? Let me know in the comments below.

Oh, and if you liked this story, and want to read more of my writing, click here to find out about all the books that I've published, and maybe pick one or two of them up!

12 Things to do Without Power

Welcome to the writing prompt for June 2014. You know, I enjoyed last month's prompt so much, that I thought I'd go back to the same site as last month to get this one.

So, once again, this month's prompt comes from creative writing prompts . com (It's prompt #7 on their homepage), and it goes like this:

Electricity is a recent discovery. Think of 12 things to do when there's no power.

This prompt actually turned out to be very appropriate, because we've had quite a few power failures lately. On Thursday night, our power went off at home, and didn't come back on until early Saturday morning. On Sunday, the power was out for about 10 minutes, and even today at work, it went out at around 15:30 and stayed off for 20 minutes. Eskom is really struggling to keep up with the winter demand, it seems.

Anyway, on to the prompt. It's actually not as easy as it sounds, but let me think....

1. If it's daylight, you could always read a book, so long as you read a print copy, because a tablet or e-reader would require power, and thereby break the rules. If you need a bit of inspiration for what to read, check out My Books!
2. If the weather is warm, how about lounging around outside?
3. Take a swim, if you have a pool, or visit a public pool, or a friend who has one.
4. Take a nice relaxing stroll through nature.
5. How about riding a bike? When last did you do that?
6. It's fun to make a fire (outside, please!) sometimes. Just sit around it and chat, or cook your dinner on it. Either way.
7. Instead of phoning, texting, or hopping on social media, go visit a friend in person. Talk.
8. Go fishing.
9. While you're at the water, skim stones.
10. Speaking of throwing things into the water, if you're near a bridge over a stream, stand in the middle of the bridge and drop leaves or twigs into the water. Run to the other side of the bridge, and see if you can spot them.
11. Write. "But how?" you ask, "There's no computer!" Ah, young grasshopper, what do you think people used before computers were invented? No, I'm not talking about a typewriter. Stop over-complicating, you probably don't have one of those. What I'm sure you do have is a pen or pencil, and some paper. It's an amazingly freeing experience.
12. Finally, when the sun sets, the obvious suggestion springs to mind. If you have a partner, or perhaps even if you don't....

I have to tell you, the first four came easy. As did the last one, but I wanted to keep it until last. But the others? I really had to rack my brains! And I'm sure some of these can be construed as duplicates of each other, and you could of course do two or more of them at the same time.

So what are your suggestions for things to do when there's no power? I'd love to know; comment and tell me!

On My Radio

This month's prompt is not so much writing practice (although all writing counts as writing practice) as memory practice. It comes from Creative Writing Prompts.com, and goes like this:

Close your eyes briefly. Think of one object that's in the room and focus on it. Without opening your eyes, recall as much detail as you can about it. After three minutes or so, open your eyes and write about that object without looking at it.

I chose the radio on my desk:

I have a TEAC portable radio on my desk, which I like to listen to while I work. It's quite small, perhaps a ruler's length across, about half as high, and less than ten centimetres thick. On the left hand side of the front is a large circle containing the speaker, which takes up about half of the face. Slightly smaller than the speaker, on the right, is the tuning dial (it's analogue). Near the bottom of the radio, between the speaker and the tuning dial is the combination volume control/power knob. A long metal antenna sticks out of the top, on the right hand side, but it's currently held in place by cello-tape.

On the right hand side, along the width, are two jacks, one for my headphones (which I keep permanently plugged in, as I'm in an open-plan office), and an auxiliary out.

At the back, on the right hand side, is the figure of eight power jack and the battery casing (although there isn't a battery in it, as I keep it plugged in).

And now, let me turn to look at my radio, and see if I described it accurately. What do you think?

Well, I did pretty well, I think. I forgot about the power LED, and I could have described the labels on the volume/power knob. Other than that, I think I got everything!

You should really try this prompt sometime. How about doing it now, in the comments below? Tell me about an object that's in the room with you, right now!

Cartoon Survival Guide

This month's writing prompt comes from Reddit, and it goes like this:

A real human living in a cartoon world creates a How-To guide on staying alive

Seems like an interesting concept, right? I mean, I loved Who Framed Roger Rabbit, the story about Eddie Valiant, the private eye who investigates the murder of Roger Rabbit's wife, and subsequent framing of Roger for the deed. If you haven't seen the movie yet, I strongly recommend that you give it a watch.

Anyway, that's not what this story is about, but I thought it would be fun to imagine what advice someone would give, who's been stuck on an island full of cartoon characters for years. Well, that man has written a book, and here's an excerpt:

DON'T PANIC

So, you've been marooned on Toon Island, have you? Things seem without hope? Well, don't despair, Freddy's here! Oh, make no mistake, son. I've been on this island since before you were born, just look at my beard! Stick with me, and you'll be fine.

But you didn't come here to learn all about me; you came here to learn how to survive in this zany unforgiving place. So let's get to it. Before we begi-WATCH OUT FOR THAT ANVIL!

Phew! That was a close one! Okay, so I guess we should talk about falling objects. Lots of things fall out of the sky in this place, all the time. It could be anything really, but anvils—like that one—and pianos seem to be the most common. Sometimes Toons throw them or drop them off cliffs, but other times they just appear out of thin air. And they're always falling on Toon's heads. Sometimes they knock teeth out, or their eyeballs pop out of their heads, but they just shake themselves off like wet dogs, and everything's right as rain again.

That's another important thing to remember, son: Toons can't die. And they think you can't, either, so they'll drop a great big piano on your head just for kicks or to play some kind of "innocent" practical joke. The idea that someone could actually die and never come back is completely beyond their reckoning.

It's this inability for Toons to die, that's the biggest problem on this whole damn island. You might get shot with a hunting rifle or have one of those ridiculous big black bombs thrown at you. Some particularly violent Toons (mostly cats and mice) will literally hack off each others' limbs with swords and knives. If you're a Toon, you'll end up with a big gaping hole in your chest, or covered in soot, or squirting blood from your shoulder, and one of those quick dog-shakes will put you right back together again. But if that happens to you or I, son, we're deader than a doornail, and we ain't never coming back!

Okay, okay, whoa. Yes, I've made my point. I'll stop scaring you now. Just don't forget, okay? This stuff is important!

So what's next? Oh, right, food. What can you eat? Well, first of all, Toons don't need to eat, near as I can tell. They're immortal, as I say, so that seems to make sense. I know of this rabbit, lives over the rise there, who likes to munch on carrots all day, but it doesn't seem to affect him much if he doesn't eat them. He's always chastising this other Toon, who walks around with a big old fashioned musket gun and claims to eat rabbits, but I've never seem him eat any.

Fruits and vegetables seem to be fine to eat. They look much the same as they do where we're from, just much more brightly coloured, with this same glossy sheen that everything has in this world. Don't eat anything with eyes, mouths, arms, or legs, though. And don't eat any Toon animals. They can't die, remember? They'll burst through your stomach, and you'll be a goner!

Sleep? Hah! What's sleep? Sleeping characters are the most favourite characters for Toons to play their practical jokes on, and don't forget, they don't know that you can die. I haven't slept in years. not properly. Which is one of the reasons I'm so glad you're here, kiddo; one of us can sleep while the other keeps watch.

Well, I can see that I've really got you shaking in your boots, now! He he he. No, really, it's not so bad, once you get used to it. Can be kind of fun, actually. Hey, we're not going anywhere, right? I mean, nobody knows how to get off this blasted island, after all. We may as well make the most of it. Just stick with me, remember everything I've told you, and let me know if you're ever unsure of anything!

Now, let's go find something to eat. I'm starving!

Did you like this little story? If you did, I'd appreciate it if you'd use the social sharing links below to share this post far and wide. You can also tell me your thoughts in the comments below.

Oh, and if you want to read a bit more of my writing, click on the All Books link, to find out where you can buy one of my stories.

Until next month, happy reading!

Stopping Through

This month's prompt comes from Creative Prompts and Exercises. It's entitled "Stopping Through", and it goes like this:

Motels are frequently depicted in novels, TV, and film. This week, write a scene that takes place in a motel. Perhaps it's a seedy, roadside fleabag; a clean, well-maintained establishment with a dark history; or simply a familiar setting for a dramatic turning point in your narrative. You can weave it into a short story or use it as a starting point for a new piece. It can be inspired by your own experience or entirely imagined.

The moment I read this, I was really excited because I knew exactly what I wanted to write. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Jesse sat on the bed of the small motel room, gun trained on the door. In the distance, he heard the voices of the couple he was interested in. Janie and Mark were coming down the hallway to the room, giggling. If Jesse closed his eyes, he could just imagine them walking hand in hand, eagerly anticipating their first night as a married couple.

But he wasn't about to close his eyes. Not after tracking that two-timing spy all the way from Cape Town to Johannesburg, and back again. No, Jesse wasn't going to miss one minute of seeing Janie squirm. He almost felt sorry for her new husband. Poor Mark didn't know who he'd gotten himself (quite literally) into bed with.

When the door opened, it was Mark who saw Jesse first. He was backing his new bride through the open door, with his lips locked onto hers and his hands clenched onto the back of her blouse, ready to pull it up over her head. As soon as he saw Jesse, he automatically pushed Janie away and to the side, as his jaw fell open.

“Mark, whats-” began Janie, before she spun around and saw her old partner, sitting there with a gun pointed at her chest.

“Hello, my old friend,” said Jesse with a smirk. “I see you've found a new play-thing. Does he have any idea who you are?”

“Leave him alone,” commanded Janie, now that she had regained some of her composure.

“Oh, I have no intention of bringing him to any harm,” replied Jesse, but as he said it he picked up a silencer from the bed beside him and began screwing it onto his pistol, “if you give me what I want.” He pointed the gun slowly at Mark, and said quietly “Close the door.”

Mark complied, his hands shaking. Turning around again, he managed to squeak, “Janie, what's going on here? Who is this man?”

“Yes,” said Jesse. “Tell him, Janie. Tell him exactly who I am, and exactly what's going on here. But first,” he trained the gun on Mark's leg, “tell me where my diamonds are!”

“I don't know what you're talking about!” snapped Janie.

Without saying a word, Jesse casually pulled the trigger. Mark screamed, and crumbled to the floor, sobbing and clutching his left leg, just above the knee. Blood seeped through his fingers. Janie was on the floor next to him in an instant, gripping Mark's hand and cooing to him. She turned and glared at Jesse: “You monster!”

“Oh, don't pretend you care about him,” said Jesse. “It wasn't too long ago that we were sharing a bed. You took my diamonds and left me high and dry, and three weeks later I hear you're in Joburg and engaged. Now,” he took aim at Mark's head this time, “I'm not going to ask again: where... are... my... diamonds?”

Don't forget, you can find out more about my writing, and maybe purchase a book or two, by clicking on My Books.

The image used for this post comes from Flickr. It's an image entitled Newcastle Hotel Room by user Rob Davies.

Writing Prompts: He hadn’t seen her since the day they left High School

This month's writing prompt comes from Writing Prompts 101. It's the second writing prompt example on that page.

I thought it sounded like a really cool concept, and as soon as I read it, my imagination started running wild. So, I just started typing, and didn't stop!

Here goes:

John was running a grimy cloth over the empty bar. It was 12:30, and the afternoon was starting out pretty slow. The bar should be filling up pretty good by now, but other than a young couple sitting at a table in the corner, it wasn't happening. He wondered where everyone was.

It was so quiet in the place that you could hear a pin drop. Or the door opening. John looked up at the entrance excitedly, pleased at the prospect of a customer. Nothing could've prepared him for who he saw. At first, he didn't recognise her, but after a few seconds, it dawned on him. It was Cathy. She'd changed quite a bit in the ten years since he'd last seen her. She was a lot heavier now, and her eyes had a depressed look to them, but there was no mistaking that face. He wondered if she would know who he was.

Cathy shuffled up to the bar, and plonked herself on a stool. As John approached, she barked her order at him without looking up.

"Whiskey. Neat."

"Cathy?" asked John, "Don't you remember me?"

Cathy looked up from the bar with bleary eyes. She lazily inspected John's face, then responded, "Look, mate. I don't know who you are, and I don't care. Just give me my drink, okay? I'm not in the mood."

John signed and poured her a shot of whiskey. Maybe she honestly didn't remember him, but maybe she didn't want to admit that she did. She seemed to be in a bad way, after all, and maybe she was embarrassed or something.

Cathy downed her whiskey in one gulp, slapped the glass down on the bar, and barked, "Another."

John calmly re-filled her glass, and asked. "You sure you should be drinking so much? Don't you have a job to get to when lunch-hour ends?"

"Not any more," replied Cathy before slamming back her second shot. "My stupid boss just fired me. So who did you say you were again? How do you know my name?"

"We were in Matric together," replied John. "Do you really not remember? I was one of the kids always making trouble in the back of maths class. We used to tease you for being such a nerd." Then he added, "I'm... sorry about that."

Cathy studied John's face for a moment, the recognition finally appeared in her eyes. "Yeah well," she said, "I didn't much like you in school, and I haven't spoken to you in ten years. I'm not much in the mood for talking, so just give me another whiskey, will you?"

What do you think? Is this a concept that you'd like me to explore further, and maybe build a complete story around it? I'd love to hear from you if it is!

In the meantime, if you enjoy my writing, you can check out my other books, and maybe buy one, at my My Books page.

By the way, the image came from Ewan Munro's Flickr page. You can find the original here.