This is the next-to-the-last part of Always a Bridesmaid. The finale will be released next Tuesday just after my Twitter chat with the Penny Dreadful serial fiction site, where all the parts have links. To see the chat, search #thepennydreadful at 4:00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time on Tuesday, April 27. For more flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter. And don't worry, wine people, I have some things coming up for you as well.
XI. Revelations
"You were a what?" Amber asked.
"An exotic dancer." The air in the room felt thick, the same feeling from when she woke that morning after her teacher had left her with nothing but a warning and a wiped memory.
"You were in the dream last night." Toby brought her back to the present. He held the brownie. "Bert, is this safe to eat?"
"No! You need to put it all in here."
He pinched off a corner and dropped it into the container. "No one likes mint-flavored fish."
"You remember the dream?" Tiffany asked. "And how did you end up with a talking catfish?"
"Is she safe to talk to?" he asked the fish.
"The answer will cost you another piece of brownie." Bert picked the crumb off the surface of the water. "She's a good witch. You saved her life, so as far as I'm concerned, the rest of the brownies are mine, I mean ours."
Toby told them about the mysterious strangers and the truck stop that had vanished in the night, leaving him with nothing but a crick in his neck and a smart-mouthed fish.
"I've heard of this," Tiffany said. She bent down to look at the fish. "He's a guardian spirit."
"Just my luck," Toby said and rolled his eyes.
"So now what?" Amber asked. "We still have a big problem – the wedding!"
"Why?" Toby asked.
"Don't you know? It's her seventh one!"
"Her what?" Toby leaned back against the counter – hard.
Shock's a bitch, Tiffany thought.
"I thought it was her first!"
"Where have you been?" asked Amber.
"In the missionary field. With my parents. We've just been in the States since my dad got sick."
"You're a missionary?" Tiffany took a deep breath so she wouldn't scream in frustration. First, he blew her cover, and now he'd have her burned at the stake!
"My parents were. I went along for the adventures." He shrugged and half-smiled. "If you call parasites adventuresome. They're both elderly, so maybe my Aunt Theresa – Lydia's mom – didn't want to upset them. Her seventh?"
Amber filled him in, and Tiffany watched the girl. It was a story she'd told many times, but there was something about how she said it… Tiffany remembered Amber's tears when the ghost appeared in the kitchen earlier that day.
"Amber, who was Danny? Besides Lydia's first husband?"
Amber picked up one of the pieces of rose quartz that she had been polishing, a heart, and ran her fingers over the smooth curves. "A guy she met in college."
"And what was he to you?"
The black-haired girl's hands shook, and she dropped the heart. It fell to the tile floor and cracked exactly in half. Tiffany picked up the pink teardrops and, for a moment, saw Danny as he had been: tall, green-eyed, and dark-haired. A male version of Amber.
"He was your brother."
Amber ran from the room, and Tiffany started after her. But she paused when she remembered her other guests, and she heard the front door slam.
"Took you long enough to figure that out," Tizz the Brownie muttered from the other room. Tiffany hoped that Toby hadn't heard her. But Bert had.
"Good gravy, witch, how many supernatural critters do you have in this dump? A ghost and now a Brownie?"
"I should go," Toby said. "Or I guess we should. It was nice meeting you, I guess."
"Likewise." She smiled. "Sorry I bespelled you. It was an accident." She led him to the front door, but he didn't leave.
"What are you going to do to help my cousin?" he asked.
Tiffany looked at the pieces of rose quartz heart in her hand. "Eye of newt, wing of bat, something witchy like that."
"Let me know if I can help. We used to play together when we were little."
"I will, although I'm probably going to stay up all night doing useless research and then show up and wing it."
He laughed, and the sound un-knotted the tension in Tiffany's chest. She looked at him again and noticed the little lines at the corners of his eyes. He laughed a lot, or had, she deduced. But something had kept him from it lately.
"Can I ask you something? Since I'm today's queen of awkward revelations, after all."
"Sure."
"What are you running from?"
The expression on his face changed from amused to angry to sad in rapid succession.
"My problems. What else?"
She nodded. "Well, maybe after the wedding, you and I can talk about them."
"I'll think about it."
"And that means no." She watched him drive away.
---
Toby's problems were still on Tiffany's mind the next day. She was so lost in thought that she almost bumped into a guy wearing black shirt and pants as well as a Roman collar.
"Oh! Excuse me, Reverend."
"I'm not a real preacher, I just play one on t.v." The balding man winked at Tiffany. She backed away.
"I think I'm at the wrong wedding."
The town council had decided to encourage people to come out and celebrate the start of spring with a "Love Is in the Air" festival. Tiffany knew about it and had a booth at the main event on Saturday, but she'd missed the part about the mass wedding. She wandered from group to group looking for her bride. She spotted Trent first.
She set the platter of cupcakes and mint brownies on the card table that had a sign on it: "Lydia and Trent's goodies." She couldn't help but look for hottie cousin Toby. Those yummy-looking powdered-sugar covered cookies must have come with him.
"Places, everyone!" A harried young man with a megaphone jogged around the square. The brides and grooms moved toward the middle. The minister who had winked at Tiffany moved to the front of the crowd, shadowed by a cameraman and sound guy with a microphone.
"Not quite what I had imagined."
Tiffany looked up and saw that Toby stood beside her.
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Friday Flash Fiction: Always a Bridesmaid, Part X
Business is good, so blogging time is scarce. Apologies to the wine people for neglecting you, but there will be some notes up soon, I promise! To read the first parts of Always a Bridesmaid, check out the More Fiction section at my web site. For more flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.
Always a Bridesmaid, Part 10: Brownies Take Him Higher
It was late afternoon when Toby pulled into Thicket, the small Georgia town where his cousin Lydia lived. The trip had taken him a couple of extra hours because he'd driven the speed limit. It wouldn't be good to get pulled over with a mouthy bottom-feeder in the passenger seat, and his out-of-state license plate made him juicy game for troopers. His cell phone had rung at one point, but he didn't answer it.
"Who's calling?" Bert asked.
"Probably my mom."
"The caller I.D. screen says Marie."
Toby turned the phone over.
"Fine, I get it that you don't want to talk! Is that why you're driving the linens and cookies across the flipping country instead of using Uncle Sam's Pony Express?"
"The Pony Express stopped running a long time ago."
"You know what I mean." The fish sloshed in his container. "And I'm hungry!"
"Fine." Stopping by a Chick-Fil-A to get chicken biscuits had managed to shut Bert up for a few hours.
"Are we there yet?" The fish swam the tight radius of his plastic to-go container when the truck slowed to town speed.
"Yes," Toby said. "This is Thicket."
"What the hell kind of name is Thicket? Why didn't they just call it Redneck?"
"You watch it," Toby said. "Or these rednecks will have you filleted, breaded, and fried before you can say fish hook."
"Go hook yourself."
"Oh, look, there's a diner! Maybe they need a special."
A heavenly chocolate-mint smell caught Toby's attention and caused him to miss the fish's response. He slowly drove around the square, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It seemed strongest on the west side, so he turned down a side street and found himself outside a two-story brick house with a row of parking spaces in front and a sign that said, "Bride's Best Friend" on the door.
---
"Those smell wonderful!" Amber said.
"It's the mint. I grow it myself. It attracts positive energy and people, or at least it's supposed to." Tiffany pulled the brownies out of the oven and put the pan on a wire rack to cool. "Baking helps me think."
"So, what did you do in Seattle?" Amber leaned back in the chair and crossed her ankles. "I moved from there when I was a kid."
Before Tiffany could make up something "acceptable" like accountant or tax attorney, she heard a knock at the door. "I'll be right back."
"Who could that be?" she wondered. Maybe the postman had a box for her. The little town was safe, but she had requested that all deliveries be made to her personally, especially if they were magickal supplies.
Opening the door gave her little time to think, even less to stifle her reaction, so she stood and stared, open-mouthed like the fish in the plastic takeout container he held under his arm. The "he" in question was the guy from Lydia's dream, the one who had knocked the demon down before it could kill her.
They may have stood looking at each other forever had the fish not sung, "Bow chicka bow bow!"
"Hush, Bert," the guy said.
Tiffany shook her head to clear it, not sure which was more improbable, that this particular guy was standing on her stoop, that the fish had just talked, or that he had responded to it.
"Would you like to come in?" she finally asked.
She held the door open and stood back. He entered with a little smile on his face.
"What smells so good?" he asked. "It's like chocolate mint ice cream." He walked toward the kitchen.
"Brownies, dimwit," said the fish. "You have to pardon him," it said to Tiffany, turning to face her. "He's had a really long day and not much sleep."
"That's okay," she told it. "I haven't, either." First a ghost in her kitchen, and now a talking fish?
"Is everything all right?" Amber came through the bead curtain and almost bumped into Toby. "Oh! Hi!"
"Hi," he said and turned back to Tiffany. "Right. Brownies. I can have one?"
"They're cooling in the kitchen," Tiffany said and motioned for Amber to get out of the way.
"Yeah, witch-lady, you better give him one. He's not gonna come out of the spell otherwise."
Amber's eyes widened when she realized who was speaking.
"Hey, hey, hey!" The fish swam in circles. "A blonde and a brunette! Where's the redhead, ladies? This could be a good time for all."
"Patience," Tiffany muttered. She followed the guy into the kitchen, cut a square from the pan, and put it on a small plate. "It's still hot, so be careful."
He put the fish down on the counter and took the plate as well as the fork she offered him. He shook his head after the first bite.
"A little hot, like you said, and –" He would've dropped the plate if Tiffany hadn't taken it. The fork clattered to the floor. "Where am I?"
Tiffany put the brownie on the counter and scooted to the other side of the island in case he got aggressive. The spell had never worked this well before!
"This is my place of business," she said. "The Bride's Best Friend, a bachelorette party venue."
"How did I get here?" He looked around. "The last thing I remember is driving into town and arguing with…" He glanced at the fish, who was sloshing the water in his container with his efforts to scoot it closer to the brownie.
"They're Magic Mint Brownies!" Amber said. "They attract positive energy and people." She looked the young man over. "I think they worked."
"What's your name?" asked Tiffany. He looked at her for the first time as though seeing her clearly.
"I'm Toby. Hey, I know you!"
She realized too late that this was the cousin from Seattle.
"You're Lacey Chenille, the exotic dancer! I went to a bachelor party, and you were the main attraction!"
Always a Bridesmaid, Part 10: Brownies Take Him Higher
It was late afternoon when Toby pulled into Thicket, the small Georgia town where his cousin Lydia lived. The trip had taken him a couple of extra hours because he'd driven the speed limit. It wouldn't be good to get pulled over with a mouthy bottom-feeder in the passenger seat, and his out-of-state license plate made him juicy game for troopers. His cell phone had rung at one point, but he didn't answer it.
"Who's calling?" Bert asked.
"Probably my mom."
"The caller I.D. screen says Marie."
Toby turned the phone over.
"Fine, I get it that you don't want to talk! Is that why you're driving the linens and cookies across the flipping country instead of using Uncle Sam's Pony Express?"
"The Pony Express stopped running a long time ago."
"You know what I mean." The fish sloshed in his container. "And I'm hungry!"
"Fine." Stopping by a Chick-Fil-A to get chicken biscuits had managed to shut Bert up for a few hours.
"Are we there yet?" The fish swam the tight radius of his plastic to-go container when the truck slowed to town speed.
"Yes," Toby said. "This is Thicket."
"What the hell kind of name is Thicket? Why didn't they just call it Redneck?"
"You watch it," Toby said. "Or these rednecks will have you filleted, breaded, and fried before you can say fish hook."
"Go hook yourself."
"Oh, look, there's a diner! Maybe they need a special."
A heavenly chocolate-mint smell caught Toby's attention and caused him to miss the fish's response. He slowly drove around the square, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It seemed strongest on the west side, so he turned down a side street and found himself outside a two-story brick house with a row of parking spaces in front and a sign that said, "Bride's Best Friend" on the door.
---
"Those smell wonderful!" Amber said.
"It's the mint. I grow it myself. It attracts positive energy and people, or at least it's supposed to." Tiffany pulled the brownies out of the oven and put the pan on a wire rack to cool. "Baking helps me think."
"So, what did you do in Seattle?" Amber leaned back in the chair and crossed her ankles. "I moved from there when I was a kid."
Before Tiffany could make up something "acceptable" like accountant or tax attorney, she heard a knock at the door. "I'll be right back."
"Who could that be?" she wondered. Maybe the postman had a box for her. The little town was safe, but she had requested that all deliveries be made to her personally, especially if they were magickal supplies.
Opening the door gave her little time to think, even less to stifle her reaction, so she stood and stared, open-mouthed like the fish in the plastic takeout container he held under his arm. The "he" in question was the guy from Lydia's dream, the one who had knocked the demon down before it could kill her.
They may have stood looking at each other forever had the fish not sung, "Bow chicka bow bow!"
"Hush, Bert," the guy said.
Tiffany shook her head to clear it, not sure which was more improbable, that this particular guy was standing on her stoop, that the fish had just talked, or that he had responded to it.
"Would you like to come in?" she finally asked.
She held the door open and stood back. He entered with a little smile on his face.
"What smells so good?" he asked. "It's like chocolate mint ice cream." He walked toward the kitchen.
"Brownies, dimwit," said the fish. "You have to pardon him," it said to Tiffany, turning to face her. "He's had a really long day and not much sleep."
"That's okay," she told it. "I haven't, either." First a ghost in her kitchen, and now a talking fish?
"Is everything all right?" Amber came through the bead curtain and almost bumped into Toby. "Oh! Hi!"
"Hi," he said and turned back to Tiffany. "Right. Brownies. I can have one?"
"They're cooling in the kitchen," Tiffany said and motioned for Amber to get out of the way.
"Yeah, witch-lady, you better give him one. He's not gonna come out of the spell otherwise."
Amber's eyes widened when she realized who was speaking.
"Hey, hey, hey!" The fish swam in circles. "A blonde and a brunette! Where's the redhead, ladies? This could be a good time for all."
"Patience," Tiffany muttered. She followed the guy into the kitchen, cut a square from the pan, and put it on a small plate. "It's still hot, so be careful."
He put the fish down on the counter and took the plate as well as the fork she offered him. He shook his head after the first bite.
"A little hot, like you said, and –" He would've dropped the plate if Tiffany hadn't taken it. The fork clattered to the floor. "Where am I?"
Tiffany put the brownie on the counter and scooted to the other side of the island in case he got aggressive. The spell had never worked this well before!
"This is my place of business," she said. "The Bride's Best Friend, a bachelorette party venue."
"How did I get here?" He looked around. "The last thing I remember is driving into town and arguing with…" He glanced at the fish, who was sloshing the water in his container with his efforts to scoot it closer to the brownie.
"They're Magic Mint Brownies!" Amber said. "They attract positive energy and people." She looked the young man over. "I think they worked."
"What's your name?" asked Tiffany. He looked at her for the first time as though seeing her clearly.
"I'm Toby. Hey, I know you!"
She realized too late that this was the cousin from Seattle.
"You're Lacey Chenille, the exotic dancer! I went to a bachelor party, and you were the main attraction!"
Friday, April 9, 2010
Friday Flash Fiction: The Lab Assignment
I need to figure out the rest of Always a Bridesmaid, so here's a microfiction for your entertainment this week.
The Lab Assignment
"I don't get humans," Debtra said. She lowered herself into the chair in Thurston's office and crossed one ankle over her other knee. "The torture they subject themselves to!"
Thurston checked the file on Debtra's Vessel. She should've had one of the easier ones, being physically young and middle-class. He felt sorry for the students who had the elders, the ones who arrived on the dream campus early because their Vessels went to bed so early in the evening. They manifested with all their aches, pains, and complaints. Or the teenagers. They were always late to class. Debtra, his star student, had deserved a break, so he had assigned her to young woman in her twenties, just out of college and starting her career.
"Did you do a tough workout?" he asked.
She shook her head with tears in her eyes.
"Were you attacked? Your manifestation looks okay."
"No, we're fine. It's even worse – she met a guy and decided to re-enter the dating world this weekend."
"That's great!" Thurston slapped his palms on the desk. "That's the kind of sociological experience you're supposed to be getting in this class! Think of the observations you'll make."
Debtra glared at him. "No, it's not!" She leaned forward and winced. "Let me ask you, Professor: have you ever heard of a Brazilian bikini wax?"
The Lab Assignment
"I don't get humans," Debtra said. She lowered herself into the chair in Thurston's office and crossed one ankle over her other knee. "The torture they subject themselves to!"
Thurston checked the file on Debtra's Vessel. She should've had one of the easier ones, being physically young and middle-class. He felt sorry for the students who had the elders, the ones who arrived on the dream campus early because their Vessels went to bed so early in the evening. They manifested with all their aches, pains, and complaints. Or the teenagers. They were always late to class. Debtra, his star student, had deserved a break, so he had assigned her to young woman in her twenties, just out of college and starting her career.
"Did you do a tough workout?" he asked.
She shook her head with tears in her eyes.
"Were you attacked? Your manifestation looks okay."
"No, we're fine. It's even worse – she met a guy and decided to re-enter the dating world this weekend."
"That's great!" Thurston slapped his palms on the desk. "That's the kind of sociological experience you're supposed to be getting in this class! Think of the observations you'll make."
Debtra glared at him. "No, it's not!" She leaned forward and winced. "Let me ask you, Professor: have you ever heard of a Brazilian bikini wax?"
Friday, April 2, 2010
Friday Flash Fiction: Always a Bridesmaid, Part IX
Almost there! I think this one is going to be 12 parts, at the most. For more flash fiction, most of it self-contained, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.
Always a Bridesmaid, Part 9: Collision Course
The bruises from the demon's death-grip had faded by Monday morning, but Tiffany still felt them every time she moved her head or left arm.
She had let Amber stay the night, deeming it safer to keep the girl near her since the demon was angry at the bride's best friend for seeking professional magickal help. Like Tiffany, the black-haired girl had been scared by the events of the night before, but unlike the witch, she was okay with admitting it. Over and over. In a breathless "Omigod, I can't believe it's this bad!" way, which only made Tiffany feel more out of control of the situation. Finally, she turned from the sink to where Amber polished rose quartz crystals at the table.
"What do you think this is?" Tiffany asked. "Some sort of game?"
"No," Amber said. "It just doesn't seem real. Everything's been happening in everyone else's dreams, remember?" She placed the pink sphere she'd been polishing on its clear plastic base and stood. "But if you don't think I'm taking it seriously enough, I can leave."
The girl's reply brought a memory back to Tiffany, of her own teacher, who had told her, "One of the hardest things to do as a teacher is find the student's balance between overconfidence and utter lack of it. The most difficult for the teacher is to be patient."
"No, don’t leave," said Tiffany. "I just remembered something important. And you saved my life last night, even if you didn't realize it at the time." Had she been overconfident? she wondered. Or not confident enough? She tried to remember more of that conversation, but as usual, when she struggled against the spell that had hidden her memories, a little dervish of pain swirled through her head.
"Are you okay?" asked Amber.
"I'm fine, just tired from trying to figure this out. Why did the demon set Lydia up with Trent? It makes no sense! Do you remember how they met?"
"Online, I think. She's a web designer for small businesses, and he wanted her to do his site."
"What kind of work does he do?"
Amber thought for a moment and bit her lip.
"Well?" Tiffany twisted the dish towel into a knot so she wouldn't throw it at the girl. "C'mon, Amber, it could be important. Why are you laughing?"
"Because he's an exterminator!"
Tiffany closed her eyes and slumped against the counter. Why did she bother? But the irony wiggled into her brain, and she couldn't help but smile, then chuckle. She wondered if he went after demons with the insecticide.
"That makes sense. I bet he's a good one."
"Oh, yes, no insect survives the assault of Master Trent, Demon-Slayer and bug killer!" Amber mimed a thrust with an invisible sword. "And he'd be a fine husband for someone else, but Lydia doesn't love him."
"I could tell." Tiffany returned to drying the breakfast dishes and then paused. "He's particularly juicy prey for the demon with all the energy from the animals he's killed. I bet he hasn't shed it, which explains the ego."
"What do you mean?" asked Amber. "What energy?"
"Well, you know how some cultures revere the animals they hunt and have elaborate rituals around it? They're the smart ones. Any time you kill something, you release its energy, and if you're not careful, it can mark you and change you."
"So Trent's covered in bug energy? That's disgusting!"
"And spider and mouse and whatever else he's killed." Tiffany thought. "But why not go after him directly? Why go through Lydia?"
She smelled it again, the rotten egg, whipped cream-spoiling odor of the unhappy ghost. A column of noxious brown smoke materialized in the middle of the kitchen between Tiffany and Amber. The smoke swirled and tightened until it took on the shape of a man, about six feet tall with medium build.
"Back, spirit!" Tiffany yelled and held a wooden spoon like a wand. Not as good as her crystal-tipped one, but it would have to do.
"I mean no harm, Witch," it said in a nasal voice. "I come to warn you!"
Tiffany crossed her arms, but before she could say anything, Amber spoke.
"Danny?" she asked. Tears came to her eyes. "Danny, is that you?"
The apparition nodded.
"You know this guy?" asked Tiffany.
"Yes." Amber tried to take a deep breath, but the spirit's smell made her cough. She finally choked out, "He was Lydia's first husband. A chef."
"So why did you ruin her dessert?" asked Tiffany. So much for professional courtesy!
"An accident."
"You said you had a warning," Amber said, and Tiffany mentally applauded her focus.
"The demon is greedy," the ghost told them. "He wants more than the spirit of another man. He will enslave all the souls he can reach. Only one can stop him, and time grows short."
"Who?" asked Tiffany.
"Not you. Listen to your Brownie, Witch! Stay away from the courthouse square tomorrow!" With that, he vanished, and a cold breeze swept his smell out of the kitchen.
"Well, at least he cleaned up after himself this time," Tiffany said. She tapped the flat of the spoon against her palm and pondered the ghost's warning.
"What are you going to do?" Amber asked.
"What else? I'm going to bake brownies for the wedding tomorrow. Whoever is coming is going to need my help."
"Idiot!" Tizz hissed from the outer room. "Can't you leave well enough alone?"
Amber jumped. "What was that?"
"That was Tizz, the Brownie the ghost was talking about. She's a sort of fairy."
"Shouldn't you listen to her?"
Tiffany sighed. "Probably, but I've had enough of being warned away from things I need to finish. I'm going to see this one through."
"Then let me help!"
"Great! I'll show you where the Magic Mint is so you can wash it and start chopping it. We're baking it into the brownies."
"Are we going to get high?"
Tiffany sighed. Patience…
Always a Bridesmaid, Part 9: Collision Course
The bruises from the demon's death-grip had faded by Monday morning, but Tiffany still felt them every time she moved her head or left arm.
She had let Amber stay the night, deeming it safer to keep the girl near her since the demon was angry at the bride's best friend for seeking professional magickal help. Like Tiffany, the black-haired girl had been scared by the events of the night before, but unlike the witch, she was okay with admitting it. Over and over. In a breathless "Omigod, I can't believe it's this bad!" way, which only made Tiffany feel more out of control of the situation. Finally, she turned from the sink to where Amber polished rose quartz crystals at the table.
"What do you think this is?" Tiffany asked. "Some sort of game?"
"No," Amber said. "It just doesn't seem real. Everything's been happening in everyone else's dreams, remember?" She placed the pink sphere she'd been polishing on its clear plastic base and stood. "But if you don't think I'm taking it seriously enough, I can leave."
The girl's reply brought a memory back to Tiffany, of her own teacher, who had told her, "One of the hardest things to do as a teacher is find the student's balance between overconfidence and utter lack of it. The most difficult for the teacher is to be patient."
"No, don’t leave," said Tiffany. "I just remembered something important. And you saved my life last night, even if you didn't realize it at the time." Had she been overconfident? she wondered. Or not confident enough? She tried to remember more of that conversation, but as usual, when she struggled against the spell that had hidden her memories, a little dervish of pain swirled through her head.
"Are you okay?" asked Amber.
"I'm fine, just tired from trying to figure this out. Why did the demon set Lydia up with Trent? It makes no sense! Do you remember how they met?"
"Online, I think. She's a web designer for small businesses, and he wanted her to do his site."
"What kind of work does he do?"
Amber thought for a moment and bit her lip.
"Well?" Tiffany twisted the dish towel into a knot so she wouldn't throw it at the girl. "C'mon, Amber, it could be important. Why are you laughing?"
"Because he's an exterminator!"
Tiffany closed her eyes and slumped against the counter. Why did she bother? But the irony wiggled into her brain, and she couldn't help but smile, then chuckle. She wondered if he went after demons with the insecticide.
"That makes sense. I bet he's a good one."
"Oh, yes, no insect survives the assault of Master Trent, Demon-Slayer and bug killer!" Amber mimed a thrust with an invisible sword. "And he'd be a fine husband for someone else, but Lydia doesn't love him."
"I could tell." Tiffany returned to drying the breakfast dishes and then paused. "He's particularly juicy prey for the demon with all the energy from the animals he's killed. I bet he hasn't shed it, which explains the ego."
"What do you mean?" asked Amber. "What energy?"
"Well, you know how some cultures revere the animals they hunt and have elaborate rituals around it? They're the smart ones. Any time you kill something, you release its energy, and if you're not careful, it can mark you and change you."
"So Trent's covered in bug energy? That's disgusting!"
"And spider and mouse and whatever else he's killed." Tiffany thought. "But why not go after him directly? Why go through Lydia?"
She smelled it again, the rotten egg, whipped cream-spoiling odor of the unhappy ghost. A column of noxious brown smoke materialized in the middle of the kitchen between Tiffany and Amber. The smoke swirled and tightened until it took on the shape of a man, about six feet tall with medium build.
"Back, spirit!" Tiffany yelled and held a wooden spoon like a wand. Not as good as her crystal-tipped one, but it would have to do.
"I mean no harm, Witch," it said in a nasal voice. "I come to warn you!"
Tiffany crossed her arms, but before she could say anything, Amber spoke.
"Danny?" she asked. Tears came to her eyes. "Danny, is that you?"
The apparition nodded.
"You know this guy?" asked Tiffany.
"Yes." Amber tried to take a deep breath, but the spirit's smell made her cough. She finally choked out, "He was Lydia's first husband. A chef."
"So why did you ruin her dessert?" asked Tiffany. So much for professional courtesy!
"An accident."
"You said you had a warning," Amber said, and Tiffany mentally applauded her focus.
"The demon is greedy," the ghost told them. "He wants more than the spirit of another man. He will enslave all the souls he can reach. Only one can stop him, and time grows short."
"Who?" asked Tiffany.
"Not you. Listen to your Brownie, Witch! Stay away from the courthouse square tomorrow!" With that, he vanished, and a cold breeze swept his smell out of the kitchen.
"Well, at least he cleaned up after himself this time," Tiffany said. She tapped the flat of the spoon against her palm and pondered the ghost's warning.
"What are you going to do?" Amber asked.
"What else? I'm going to bake brownies for the wedding tomorrow. Whoever is coming is going to need my help."
"Idiot!" Tizz hissed from the outer room. "Can't you leave well enough alone?"
Amber jumped. "What was that?"
"That was Tizz, the Brownie the ghost was talking about. She's a sort of fairy."
"Shouldn't you listen to her?"
Tiffany sighed. "Probably, but I've had enough of being warned away from things I need to finish. I'm going to see this one through."
"Then let me help!"
"Great! I'll show you where the Magic Mint is so you can wash it and start chopping it. We're baking it into the brownies."
"Are we going to get high?"
Tiffany sighed. Patience…
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Friday Flash Fiction: Always a Bridesmaid, Part VIII
Still exhausted, but here's the next installment of my Friday Flash serial Always a Bridesmaid. To read the story to this point, check out the More Fiction page on my website. For some great flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter. I've already read a few, and you won't be disappointed.
Always a Bridesmaid, Part 8: No rest for the good
Toby woke just after he shook hands with Lydia. Too bad – he wondered where the hot blond, the one who'd been assaulted by the guy in the tuxedo, went.
He tried to roll to his back, but something blocked him. Ditto when he stretched his legs out. He opened his eyes and found himself curled up in the back seat of his extended cab truck. The boxes that had been back there, the ones with the linens his mother had made for Lydia, were piled high in the driver's and passenger seats and wells.
"What the hell…?" He looked out the window and saw a squat brick building, vending machines, and lots of empty parking spaces around grassy islands. One of them had a brown sign, "Pet Walk – Watch Your Step." There was no sign of the diner, the small bedroom he'd been tucked into, or Raphe. His shoes were on the floor in front of his head, and in the other backseat well, a large brown grocery bag, the top folded over. It moved, and Toby hit his head scrambling away from it.
The bag shook, and wet stains appeared on the side. Toby was trapped. He couldn't get out of the backseat without moving the boxes that were in the passenger seat, but then he'd have to get closer to the thing in the bag.
"You fought a demon in a tux last night," he told himself, although he wasn't sure how he knew it was a demon. "Surely you can handle a thing in a bag."
"Who are you calling a thing in a bag?" Its voice sounded familiar.
"You." Maybe he was still dreaming. "You're the thing in the bag." He almost giggled to release the bubble of tension in his chest.
"And you're the dumb thing staring at it. Now get me out of here! It smells like wet paper sack!"
"I'm still dreaming, that's all." Saying the words out loud made them believable. Toby opened the bag and found a large plastic food container, holes punched in the lid, and inside, a pissed-off bearded catfish. When he saw the fish, Toby almost dropped the whole thing.
"You!" he said.
The fish swam the tight radius he was allowed. "Yeah, yeah, it's me. The bearded catfish. The one you didn't want for dinner."
"I don't eat things that talk to me."
"That's a good policy." The fish stared at him with big eyes, its irises the color of mud. "You're no great catch, either."
"I'm being insulted by takeout," Toby said. He put the fish's container back in the well and managed to move enough boxes to wriggle into the passenger seat, from where he rearranged everything else, including the fish, which got strapped into the seat with the seatbelt so he wouldn't tip over. The catfish, meanwhile, sulked.
"Okay, I'm going to get some coffee. Maybe then I'll wake up." He put his shoes on.
"You're not dreaming, kid."
Toby paused mid-lacing. "What?"
"You're not dreaming. This is all real."
"No it's not." Toby shut the door, pressed the "Lock" button on his remote, and walked into the squat brick building. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin and hoped he didn't look too bedraggled in case any other blonde damsels needed rescuing.
"Welcome to Alabama," said the gray-haired woman behind the counter. Her nametag said "Ruby" and had red rhinestones glued to it.
"Is that where I am?" Toby asked. He saw displays with brochures for attractions from the U.S.S. Alabama to Desoto Caverns to Little River Gorge.
"How long were you on the road yesterday, honey?" She handed him a cup of coffee. It felt warm and solid in his hand, and he started to doubt that he dreamed. His were never this vivid.
"I'm not sure." He took a sip and nearly burned his tongue on the hot, bitter liquid. "Do you have any cream and sugar?"
She handed him two packets, one of each, and shook her head. "You know, taking meth before a long trip is only going to mess with your head later on, dear. You should really be more careful. What would your mother think?"
"I'm not a meth-head," he said and shook the powdered creamer and sugar into his coffee.
"Right, dear. Now why don't you go into the bathroom and make yourself presentable? You don't want the cops pulling you over. They're very strict here."
Toby could only shake his head, but at least the coffee was drinkable now. And his stomach growled. If Michael was going to send him with a bag of stuff, why not biscuits?
The longer he spent in the Welcome Center, which he found out from Ruby was on the Western side of Alabama, the more he believed that he had driven there, parked, and slept in his truck the night before. The talking fish had to have been a hallucination. Ditto the diner. It was just a trick his mind had played on him after he'd watched the lines on the road for hours the past few days. He'd probably get back in the truck and find the container was full of his mother's cookies or something.
But still, he hesitated getting back in the truck even after Ruby had shooed him out when a young couple came in looking for the bathrooms. She had cheerfully offered them some condoms.
"More road trips than rock concerts have bred babies, you know," she told the blushing girl.
Toby didn't even look in the passenger seat when he got in. He put his new "Heart of Dixie" travel mug in the cup holder and started the engine.
"It's about time you got back! I'm starving!"
He jumped. Yes, the fish was still there, and it looked at him through the plastic with its mud-colored eyes.
"By the way, if we're gonna road trip together, my name is Bert. I hear that Alabama has great chicken biscuits!"
Always a Bridesmaid, Part 8: No rest for the good
Toby woke just after he shook hands with Lydia. Too bad – he wondered where the hot blond, the one who'd been assaulted by the guy in the tuxedo, went.
He tried to roll to his back, but something blocked him. Ditto when he stretched his legs out. He opened his eyes and found himself curled up in the back seat of his extended cab truck. The boxes that had been back there, the ones with the linens his mother had made for Lydia, were piled high in the driver's and passenger seats and wells.
"What the hell…?" He looked out the window and saw a squat brick building, vending machines, and lots of empty parking spaces around grassy islands. One of them had a brown sign, "Pet Walk – Watch Your Step." There was no sign of the diner, the small bedroom he'd been tucked into, or Raphe. His shoes were on the floor in front of his head, and in the other backseat well, a large brown grocery bag, the top folded over. It moved, and Toby hit his head scrambling away from it.
The bag shook, and wet stains appeared on the side. Toby was trapped. He couldn't get out of the backseat without moving the boxes that were in the passenger seat, but then he'd have to get closer to the thing in the bag.
"You fought a demon in a tux last night," he told himself, although he wasn't sure how he knew it was a demon. "Surely you can handle a thing in a bag."
"Who are you calling a thing in a bag?" Its voice sounded familiar.
"You." Maybe he was still dreaming. "You're the thing in the bag." He almost giggled to release the bubble of tension in his chest.
"And you're the dumb thing staring at it. Now get me out of here! It smells like wet paper sack!"
"I'm still dreaming, that's all." Saying the words out loud made them believable. Toby opened the bag and found a large plastic food container, holes punched in the lid, and inside, a pissed-off bearded catfish. When he saw the fish, Toby almost dropped the whole thing.
"You!" he said.
The fish swam the tight radius he was allowed. "Yeah, yeah, it's me. The bearded catfish. The one you didn't want for dinner."
"I don't eat things that talk to me."
"That's a good policy." The fish stared at him with big eyes, its irises the color of mud. "You're no great catch, either."
"I'm being insulted by takeout," Toby said. He put the fish's container back in the well and managed to move enough boxes to wriggle into the passenger seat, from where he rearranged everything else, including the fish, which got strapped into the seat with the seatbelt so he wouldn't tip over. The catfish, meanwhile, sulked.
"Okay, I'm going to get some coffee. Maybe then I'll wake up." He put his shoes on.
"You're not dreaming, kid."
Toby paused mid-lacing. "What?"
"You're not dreaming. This is all real."
"No it's not." Toby shut the door, pressed the "Lock" button on his remote, and walked into the squat brick building. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin and hoped he didn't look too bedraggled in case any other blonde damsels needed rescuing.
"Welcome to Alabama," said the gray-haired woman behind the counter. Her nametag said "Ruby" and had red rhinestones glued to it.
"Is that where I am?" Toby asked. He saw displays with brochures for attractions from the U.S.S. Alabama to Desoto Caverns to Little River Gorge.
"How long were you on the road yesterday, honey?" She handed him a cup of coffee. It felt warm and solid in his hand, and he started to doubt that he dreamed. His were never this vivid.
"I'm not sure." He took a sip and nearly burned his tongue on the hot, bitter liquid. "Do you have any cream and sugar?"
She handed him two packets, one of each, and shook her head. "You know, taking meth before a long trip is only going to mess with your head later on, dear. You should really be more careful. What would your mother think?"
"I'm not a meth-head," he said and shook the powdered creamer and sugar into his coffee.
"Right, dear. Now why don't you go into the bathroom and make yourself presentable? You don't want the cops pulling you over. They're very strict here."
Toby could only shake his head, but at least the coffee was drinkable now. And his stomach growled. If Michael was going to send him with a bag of stuff, why not biscuits?
The longer he spent in the Welcome Center, which he found out from Ruby was on the Western side of Alabama, the more he believed that he had driven there, parked, and slept in his truck the night before. The talking fish had to have been a hallucination. Ditto the diner. It was just a trick his mind had played on him after he'd watched the lines on the road for hours the past few days. He'd probably get back in the truck and find the container was full of his mother's cookies or something.
But still, he hesitated getting back in the truck even after Ruby had shooed him out when a young couple came in looking for the bathrooms. She had cheerfully offered them some condoms.
"More road trips than rock concerts have bred babies, you know," she told the blushing girl.
Toby didn't even look in the passenger seat when he got in. He put his new "Heart of Dixie" travel mug in the cup holder and started the engine.
"It's about time you got back! I'm starving!"
He jumped. Yes, the fish was still there, and it looked at him through the plastic with its mud-colored eyes.
"By the way, if we're gonna road trip together, my name is Bert. I hear that Alabama has great chicken biscuits!"
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Friday Flash Fiction: Always a Bridesmaid, Part V
After giving Tiffany a whole section two weeks ago, I felt it was time to return to Toby's part of the adventure. Those of you familiar with obscure (e.g., non-Protestant) apocryphal Bible literature may be starting to get an inkling as to what story this is VERY loosely based on. It's been a long, strange week, so I let my own weirdness run wild here. To read the first four parts, check out the More Fiction section on my web site. For more great short fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on twitter.
V. Catfishy
Toby followed Raphe's low-slung black Camaro for what felt like miles. The rain had softened to mist and then fog, and he couldn't even see the headlights on the other side of the highway. If there were any. His headlights worked, and that was all that mattered. So did Raphe's taillights, two glowing red orbs about twenty feet ahead.
He felt himself going up an incline and saw that they were on the exit. How had he not noticed? Had he been so entranced with the dance of headlight and taillight that he had gone into a fog of his own? He followed the Camaro to a glowing spot in the fog, which ended up being Gabriel's Truck Stop, brightly lit but empty.
"Are they open?" Toby asked after pulling into a parking spot by the front window.
"He is." Raphael stretched, and water beaded off his black leather jacket. In spite of having been out in the cold and rain like Toby, the waves in his short hair hadn't moved.
"He?" Toby followed Raphe to the door, which swung inward with a tinkle of the jingle bells on a string tied to the handle. The place didn't look open – set up like a diner, the room they had entered was lit by the bright light coming from the kithcen.
"Gabriel. He runs this place. Keeps it word of mouth only. That's why you didn't see any advertising on the highway."
"Yep, you never know what's running around out there." Gabriel, a big guy with curly light brown hair and a dimple in his chin, appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He flipped a switch, and Toby had to squint against the sudden light.
"Gabe, this is Toby. Found him just after the last exit with a dead battery." Raphe inclined his head.
Gabriel's eyebrows crawled up his forehead. "Did you, now?" He shook Toby's hand. "Rough night to have car trouble. Or was that truck trouble?"
"Truck," said Toby. "My dad's."
"Where ya headed?" Gabriel motioned for them to take stools at the counter and pushed laminated menus at them. "Special's bearded catfish. Just swam in today."
"Going to Georgia. My cousin's getting married. Mom's sending cookies."
Gabriel raised his eyebrows. "Couldn't you have mailed them?"
Toby felt the back of his neck grow hot. "Yeah. So tell me about the catfish."
Gabe grinned. "I guarantee they're like nothin' you've ever seen. Big, meaty, but with extra whiskers. Some say it helps them be extra perceptive, but it didn't help these guys. I've got 'em in a tank in the back. Wanna see?"
"Sure." If it would keep them off the subject of why he was escorting cookies across the country instead of mailing them, Toby would look at Gabriel's Aunt Edna's knee warts. He followed Gabriel into the spotless kitchen to the back, where a large fish tank stood against the back wall. Only one fish swam in it.
"Where are the rest of them?"
Gabriel shrugged. "Specials run out. This one seemed to be smarter than the rest. I'll leave you for a minute, get started on Raphe's usual, and let you think about it."
Toby bent over and looked through the thick glass at the fish that swam around inside. Sure enough, in addition to its feelers, it had whiskers running along the bottom of its chin and a little way down its ventral side, almost like a thick beard and chest hair.
"A fish with chest hair," Toby muttered to himself. He hoped Gabriel made strong coffee – he'd need it.
"More manly than you'll ever be," a voice said. Toby looked around.
"Who was that?"
"Yeah, yeah, you heard me." Toby looked at the tank, where the voice seemed to be coming from. The fish hovered in the water. Toby bent again so he was eye level with it.
"Okay, Raphe," he said. "Joke time is over."
The fish rolled over and gave Toby a "stupid human" look.
"It's a joke, right?" Toby's voice cracked, but he didn't care. This evening had now reached its pinnacle of weirdness, and he was ready to go. He straightened up and turned away from the tank.
"Aw, man, you're not gonna eat me, are you?" It was the voice again, behind him.
Toby turned back around. "I am not talking to a fish."
The catfish's mouth seemed to move more frequently than its gills, and for a second, Toby was dizzy. "Looks to me like you are, buddy."
Okay, it was the fish. Why was that so hard to believe?
"Because it's a freaking talking fish!" Toby balled his hands into fists. "Do not lose control, do not lose control."
"You okay back there?" asked Gabriel. He peered around a set of wire shelves that held large cans of tomatoes, bags of flour, and huge bottles of olive oil.
"I… I think so." The room spun for a moment, and he stumbled. He reached out to grab for support, and his fingers met the cool, slick surface of the tank. He jerked away and tumbled on to the floor.
"Looks to me like you need somethin' to eat." Gabriel helped him up. "Give me two shakes, and I'll get that fish fried up for you."
"No!" Toby caught his breath. "No, that's okay, I'd rather have a burger."
"Suit yourself." Gabriel helped Toby out to the stool, where Raphe and a cup of coffee waited for him. His head didn't stop spinning until he'd finished his burger and fries.
"You look tired," Gabriel said. "Maybe you should stay the night. I've got rooms in the back for the truckers."
Toby nodded. He'd been talking to a fish, after all. "I think I'd better do that." Gabriel gave him a key and room number. Toby didn't see the look that the other two men exchanged after he walked out to his truck to get the duffel bag with his change of clothes.
V. Catfishy
Toby followed Raphe's low-slung black Camaro for what felt like miles. The rain had softened to mist and then fog, and he couldn't even see the headlights on the other side of the highway. If there were any. His headlights worked, and that was all that mattered. So did Raphe's taillights, two glowing red orbs about twenty feet ahead.
He felt himself going up an incline and saw that they were on the exit. How had he not noticed? Had he been so entranced with the dance of headlight and taillight that he had gone into a fog of his own? He followed the Camaro to a glowing spot in the fog, which ended up being Gabriel's Truck Stop, brightly lit but empty.
"Are they open?" Toby asked after pulling into a parking spot by the front window.
"He is." Raphael stretched, and water beaded off his black leather jacket. In spite of having been out in the cold and rain like Toby, the waves in his short hair hadn't moved.
"He?" Toby followed Raphe to the door, which swung inward with a tinkle of the jingle bells on a string tied to the handle. The place didn't look open – set up like a diner, the room they had entered was lit by the bright light coming from the kithcen.
"Gabriel. He runs this place. Keeps it word of mouth only. That's why you didn't see any advertising on the highway."
"Yep, you never know what's running around out there." Gabriel, a big guy with curly light brown hair and a dimple in his chin, appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He flipped a switch, and Toby had to squint against the sudden light.
"Gabe, this is Toby. Found him just after the last exit with a dead battery." Raphe inclined his head.
Gabriel's eyebrows crawled up his forehead. "Did you, now?" He shook Toby's hand. "Rough night to have car trouble. Or was that truck trouble?"
"Truck," said Toby. "My dad's."
"Where ya headed?" Gabriel motioned for them to take stools at the counter and pushed laminated menus at them. "Special's bearded catfish. Just swam in today."
"Going to Georgia. My cousin's getting married. Mom's sending cookies."
Gabriel raised his eyebrows. "Couldn't you have mailed them?"
Toby felt the back of his neck grow hot. "Yeah. So tell me about the catfish."
Gabe grinned. "I guarantee they're like nothin' you've ever seen. Big, meaty, but with extra whiskers. Some say it helps them be extra perceptive, but it didn't help these guys. I've got 'em in a tank in the back. Wanna see?"
"Sure." If it would keep them off the subject of why he was escorting cookies across the country instead of mailing them, Toby would look at Gabriel's Aunt Edna's knee warts. He followed Gabriel into the spotless kitchen to the back, where a large fish tank stood against the back wall. Only one fish swam in it.
"Where are the rest of them?"
Gabriel shrugged. "Specials run out. This one seemed to be smarter than the rest. I'll leave you for a minute, get started on Raphe's usual, and let you think about it."
Toby bent over and looked through the thick glass at the fish that swam around inside. Sure enough, in addition to its feelers, it had whiskers running along the bottom of its chin and a little way down its ventral side, almost like a thick beard and chest hair.
"A fish with chest hair," Toby muttered to himself. He hoped Gabriel made strong coffee – he'd need it.
"More manly than you'll ever be," a voice said. Toby looked around.
"Who was that?"
"Yeah, yeah, you heard me." Toby looked at the tank, where the voice seemed to be coming from. The fish hovered in the water. Toby bent again so he was eye level with it.
"Okay, Raphe," he said. "Joke time is over."
The fish rolled over and gave Toby a "stupid human" look.
"It's a joke, right?" Toby's voice cracked, but he didn't care. This evening had now reached its pinnacle of weirdness, and he was ready to go. He straightened up and turned away from the tank.
"Aw, man, you're not gonna eat me, are you?" It was the voice again, behind him.
Toby turned back around. "I am not talking to a fish."
The catfish's mouth seemed to move more frequently than its gills, and for a second, Toby was dizzy. "Looks to me like you are, buddy."
Okay, it was the fish. Why was that so hard to believe?
"Because it's a freaking talking fish!" Toby balled his hands into fists. "Do not lose control, do not lose control."
"You okay back there?" asked Gabriel. He peered around a set of wire shelves that held large cans of tomatoes, bags of flour, and huge bottles of olive oil.
"I… I think so." The room spun for a moment, and he stumbled. He reached out to grab for support, and his fingers met the cool, slick surface of the tank. He jerked away and tumbled on to the floor.
"Looks to me like you need somethin' to eat." Gabriel helped him up. "Give me two shakes, and I'll get that fish fried up for you."
"No!" Toby caught his breath. "No, that's okay, I'd rather have a burger."
"Suit yourself." Gabriel helped Toby out to the stool, where Raphe and a cup of coffee waited for him. His head didn't stop spinning until he'd finished his burger and fries.
"You look tired," Gabriel said. "Maybe you should stay the night. I've got rooms in the back for the truckers."
Toby nodded. He'd been talking to a fish, after all. "I think I'd better do that." Gabriel gave him a key and room number. Toby didn't see the look that the other two men exchanged after he walked out to his truck to get the duffel bag with his change of clothes.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Friday Flash Fiction: Always a Bridesmaid, Part IV
Here's part four of "Always a Bridesmaid." For the first three parts, check out the More Fiction! section on my web site. For a list of the week's flash fiction, search the hashtag #fridayflash on Twitter or go to J.M. Strother's Mad Utopia on Saturday morning.
Always a Bridesmaid, Part 4: The Super Scrubber Fiance
Tiffany had looked worse than this, but it had been a while. Like when she was in college doing the walk of shame from the Kappa Something Prick house. But this time she hadn't even gotten to party or hook up with hot, preppy guys!
First, her favorite – and only – hairbrush had broken. On top of that, the cats just wouldn't settle down. Every time she had been just about to drift off, one of them had moved, meowed, kneaded, or stomped over her. Now she stood, dark bags under her eyes, while Lacey and her black twin sister Lexie curled up on the bed, a fuzzy yin-yang of softly snoring comfort.
"Damn cats," she said, but she couldn't blame them. Neither cat would go near the book the brownie had given her.
Tiffany pulled her hair back and smoothed the bumps as best she could, then headed downstairs to finish cleaning the shop. Tizz had washed the dishes, dusted, and mopped, but she didn't use disinfectant products or vacuum. Tiffany placed incense in burners around the room, opened the windows to the brisk morning air, and got to work.
The sound of a truck pulling into the parking spot by the door made her look up from scrubbing the sink. She ran to the front of the shop to peek through the peephole and saw Lydia standing there. Tizz's warning replayed in her brain, but Lydia looked so miserable she couldn't resist opening it.
"Idiot!" The brownie's word hissed in her ear, and Tiffany whirled around, but Tizz was nowhere in sight. She turned back toward the door and nearly swallowed her tongue. Lydia stood beside a truly gorgeous guy: tall, wavy dark blond hair, full lips, and cobalt blue eyes that peered quizzically at her over his tilted Ray-Bans. He wore a black t-shirt with a knight slaying a dragon and the line, "Real Men Slay Demons" underneath.
"Are you okay?" asked Lydia with a frown. "Who were you looking for?"
"Just a slight manifestation of the spirit world." Tiffany held the door open so the others could step inside. "Come in."
"This is Trent," Lydia said. "My fiance."
Trent took his sunglasses off and wrinkled his nose. "Smells like Brownie," he said.
"I was baking yesterday," Tiffany told him.
He shook his head. "No, no, Brownie, like the fairy creature. I can get rid of it for you. They try to be helpful, but their phobia of modern appliances and cleaning methods only make them a nuisance. It's easy, all you have to do is thank them."
Tiffany closed her mouth and clenched her back teeth to keep the first thing that came to mind from escaping. "I like her," she said instead, loudly enough for Tizz to hear. "She's very helpful, and I have no desire to 'get rid of her.'"
Trent shrugged. "Your choice. Besides, I don't usually bother with small game." He walked around and sniffed the air. "Yep, Lydia, your demon was here. He's got that smell. Phew! And one of your past husbands, too." He headed toward the kitchen.
"Hey!" Tiffany called after him. "Who do you think you are, Mister… Supernatural Janitor?" She blushed. Damnit, she'd think of the perfect name for him after they left!
"Just what you said. A Scrubber." He picked up one of her rose quartz statuettes, this one an intricately carved flower. "Your little witchy tricks will only work so far with the real nasty critters. Besides, Azzie likes your type."
"Azzie probably has good taste, whoever that is." She crossed her arms and tried to look stern. "Now tell me what makes you so confident you can handle it. From what I can tell, you don’t even have any magical talent!"
"Don't need it." He grinned, and his perfect teeth irked her. She wanted one flaw to show, just one! "I've been called by a higher power. And Azzie is Asmodeous, Demon of Lust. Somehow he got attached to Lydia."
"And Trent is going to slay him on our wedding night," said Lydia. Trent puffed out his chest in a superhero pose. Or maybe he always did that. Prick.
"Uh, sorry, but you can't slay demons," Tiffany said, and Lydia whipped her head around to look at Trent. "You can only bind them."
Trent's confidence didn't waver. "I know that, but it sounds better to say, "slay them." Either way, I'll make sure he doesn't bother her again. But I just wanted to come by and let you know not to worry about her. I've got it under control."
"Obviously Amber doesn't think so." The words came out of Tiffany's mouth before she could stop them. "And if there's one thing you can't discount, it's how your best friend feels about your marital situation. That's something I know from experience."
"Oh, Amber." Trent waved his hand. "She's just overly anxious. But thanks for your help, anyway."
Tiffany looked at Lydia. "And what do you think?"
Lydia shrugged and looked down. "I trust him."
Her body language said otherwise, Tiffany thought. There was something else, but she couldn't figure it out.
"Where is the wedding?"
"At St. George's church on the square," Lydia said before Trent could stop her. "It's at three on Tuesday."
"I'll be there. I don't have a tea that day. Let me bring some cookies or something."
Lydia smiled. "My cousin from Seattle is bringing Italian wedding cookies, but I'd love some of your chocolate cupcakes. Those were fantastic!"
"Done." Tiffany shook Lydia's hand. "I'll see you then."
After they left, Tiffany looked up Scrubbers. Yep, a New-Age order of Demon Slayers with questionable effectiveness. Tiffany put everything away – she needed to do a dream ritual to figure out who had promised Lydia that she'd be safe with Trent. What was his motive for helping Lydia? Something didn't smell right about this situation, and it was more than ghost- and demon-stench.
Always a Bridesmaid, Part 4: The Super Scrubber Fiance
Tiffany had looked worse than this, but it had been a while. Like when she was in college doing the walk of shame from the Kappa Something Prick house. But this time she hadn't even gotten to party or hook up with hot, preppy guys!
First, her favorite – and only – hairbrush had broken. On top of that, the cats just wouldn't settle down. Every time she had been just about to drift off, one of them had moved, meowed, kneaded, or stomped over her. Now she stood, dark bags under her eyes, while Lacey and her black twin sister Lexie curled up on the bed, a fuzzy yin-yang of softly snoring comfort.
"Damn cats," she said, but she couldn't blame them. Neither cat would go near the book the brownie had given her.
Tiffany pulled her hair back and smoothed the bumps as best she could, then headed downstairs to finish cleaning the shop. Tizz had washed the dishes, dusted, and mopped, but she didn't use disinfectant products or vacuum. Tiffany placed incense in burners around the room, opened the windows to the brisk morning air, and got to work.
The sound of a truck pulling into the parking spot by the door made her look up from scrubbing the sink. She ran to the front of the shop to peek through the peephole and saw Lydia standing there. Tizz's warning replayed in her brain, but Lydia looked so miserable she couldn't resist opening it.
"Idiot!" The brownie's word hissed in her ear, and Tiffany whirled around, but Tizz was nowhere in sight. She turned back toward the door and nearly swallowed her tongue. Lydia stood beside a truly gorgeous guy: tall, wavy dark blond hair, full lips, and cobalt blue eyes that peered quizzically at her over his tilted Ray-Bans. He wore a black t-shirt with a knight slaying a dragon and the line, "Real Men Slay Demons" underneath.
"Are you okay?" asked Lydia with a frown. "Who were you looking for?"
"Just a slight manifestation of the spirit world." Tiffany held the door open so the others could step inside. "Come in."
"This is Trent," Lydia said. "My fiance."
Trent took his sunglasses off and wrinkled his nose. "Smells like Brownie," he said.
"I was baking yesterday," Tiffany told him.
He shook his head. "No, no, Brownie, like the fairy creature. I can get rid of it for you. They try to be helpful, but their phobia of modern appliances and cleaning methods only make them a nuisance. It's easy, all you have to do is thank them."
Tiffany closed her mouth and clenched her back teeth to keep the first thing that came to mind from escaping. "I like her," she said instead, loudly enough for Tizz to hear. "She's very helpful, and I have no desire to 'get rid of her.'"
Trent shrugged. "Your choice. Besides, I don't usually bother with small game." He walked around and sniffed the air. "Yep, Lydia, your demon was here. He's got that smell. Phew! And one of your past husbands, too." He headed toward the kitchen.
"Hey!" Tiffany called after him. "Who do you think you are, Mister… Supernatural Janitor?" She blushed. Damnit, she'd think of the perfect name for him after they left!
"Just what you said. A Scrubber." He picked up one of her rose quartz statuettes, this one an intricately carved flower. "Your little witchy tricks will only work so far with the real nasty critters. Besides, Azzie likes your type."
"Azzie probably has good taste, whoever that is." She crossed her arms and tried to look stern. "Now tell me what makes you so confident you can handle it. From what I can tell, you don’t even have any magical talent!"
"Don't need it." He grinned, and his perfect teeth irked her. She wanted one flaw to show, just one! "I've been called by a higher power. And Azzie is Asmodeous, Demon of Lust. Somehow he got attached to Lydia."
"And Trent is going to slay him on our wedding night," said Lydia. Trent puffed out his chest in a superhero pose. Or maybe he always did that. Prick.
"Uh, sorry, but you can't slay demons," Tiffany said, and Lydia whipped her head around to look at Trent. "You can only bind them."
Trent's confidence didn't waver. "I know that, but it sounds better to say, "slay them." Either way, I'll make sure he doesn't bother her again. But I just wanted to come by and let you know not to worry about her. I've got it under control."
"Obviously Amber doesn't think so." The words came out of Tiffany's mouth before she could stop them. "And if there's one thing you can't discount, it's how your best friend feels about your marital situation. That's something I know from experience."
"Oh, Amber." Trent waved his hand. "She's just overly anxious. But thanks for your help, anyway."
Tiffany looked at Lydia. "And what do you think?"
Lydia shrugged and looked down. "I trust him."
Her body language said otherwise, Tiffany thought. There was something else, but she couldn't figure it out.
"Where is the wedding?"
"At St. George's church on the square," Lydia said before Trent could stop her. "It's at three on Tuesday."
"I'll be there. I don't have a tea that day. Let me bring some cookies or something."
Lydia smiled. "My cousin from Seattle is bringing Italian wedding cookies, but I'd love some of your chocolate cupcakes. Those were fantastic!"
"Done." Tiffany shook Lydia's hand. "I'll see you then."
After they left, Tiffany looked up Scrubbers. Yep, a New-Age order of Demon Slayers with questionable effectiveness. Tiffany put everything away – she needed to do a dream ritual to figure out who had promised Lydia that she'd be safe with Trent. What was his motive for helping Lydia? Something didn't smell right about this situation, and it was more than ghost- and demon-stench.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Friday Flash Fiction: Always a Bridesmaid, Part III
Yep, it's Friday, so I'm getting my Friday Flash in under the wire. To read more great flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter or go to J. M. Strother's Mad Utopia on Saturday morning for a list with title, genre, and author.
This is the third in my serial paranormal mystery story Always a Bridesmaid. It takes place in a bachelorette party tea room, so please be aware that there might be some less than polite objects or topics mentioned. To read the first two parts, visit the More Fiction page on my web site.
Always a Bridesmaid: Part III – Strange Meetings
Tiffany made it through the tea at four o'clock, the dinner at six, and the martini dessert at nine with her mind half on her guests and half on Lydia's problem. Finally, at midnight, everyone had gone, and she and Lacey the cat had the place and a pile of dirty dishes to themselves. Tiffany shook her head and sat at the table instead, her ledger book in front of her, to record the day's charges and payments. If she was finishing up the pitcher of Cosmos she'd made for the last party, well, there was only the cat to scold her.
She had just entered the first invoice when she heard someone in the kitchen. The cat was with her, so that only left one possibility.
"Hello, Tizz."
"Good gravy, Mortal Slut!" The brownie stood with her hands on her hips and looked at the dirty dishes piled on every surface. "What in Celestina's panties have you been getting up to?" Her prominent dark eyes darted from plate to plate, no doubt noticing every bit of icing stuck to the porcelain, never mind the tray of martini glasses.
"What can I say? Business has been good. Your charm helped." She chose her words carefully so as not to accidentally use the "T" word – Thanks. Like most of the faery folk, brownies could be finicky and easily offended. This one had come with an antique dresser that now stood in the main room, the only thing left after a fire had destroyed the manor house it had come from in Ireland. Somehow Tizz had accompanied it, and Tiffany had inherited her when she bought it.
Tizz shook her head. "You're a strange one, helping women to get their marriages off to a good start considering you don't have even the beginnings of a decent home yourself."
Tiffany hid her smile. This was an old conversation. Tizz didn't approve of her background as a stripper and club dancer. She hadn't appeared until Tiffany had moved and set up her new life, and she showed up when she wanted, usually when Tiffany was overwhelmed.
"So, got any sense of what else happened here today?" Tiffany never knew where Tizz hid herself between manifestations.
Tizz waved her hand in front of her face and wrinkled her snub nose. "Phew, yeah, something stinks! I felt something come into my territory, but it wasn't here that long."
"It was a ghost. It spoiled the whipped cream for the punch bowl cake."
"That's not all."
With those words, Tiffany's hair stood on end. "What do you mean?"
"There was something nasty hanging around. That's why I'm here – you need to stay away from that business."
"Really?" Tiffany raised her eyebrows and perched on a counter while Tizz grabbed the pile of dishes closest to the sink with expert movements and started piling them in the dishwasher. "You're using that?"
Tizz paused. "You see? You've got me so worked up, I was going to use that infernal machine that only chips your plates. Yeah, really. There's more to that situation than rotten luck. And you've got some good things coming your way, honey, so just step back."
"I'll think about it."
"Which means you'll humor me now and do it anyway later." Tizz shook her head. "I know your type. Stubborn."
Tiffany laughed. "You're right, as always."
"Fine, then. I'll leave you a book you may find helpful. Now get out of my way. You did a good job messing up my kitchen."
"Yes, ma'am!" Tiffany saluted and went back into the main room. Soon her skin tingled, and she sensed that Tizz worked her magic in the kitchen to the music of clinking glasses and clanging dishes. When all was quiet, Tiffany went back into the kitchen and found everything clean and put away. A book waited on the wooden table that she used for prep, and her hair really stood on end when she saw the title engraved on the cracked leather cover: "Demons for Dummies."
----
Toby wiped his hands on the back of his jeans again. Like that would help figure out why the battery, which should've been good for another year, had pooped out. The cold rain stung the back of his neck, and he blinked water out of his eyes.
"Need a jump?"
Toby squinted into the darkness. A black Camaro idled on the shoulder behind him, and he wondered how he hadn't heard or seen it pull up. Not that the rain let him pay attention to much except the trail of cold water down his spine. The Camaro's driver, a slight man with black hair, moustache, and goatee, stood a few feet away, his eyebrows raised in a helpful expression.
"I need somethin'." He grinned. "If you've got some good cables, that'd be great. Mine are under the boxes in the backseat. He nodded to the extended cab, where his mother's precious linens rode inside.
"They're extra long, so they'll be just what you need. Give me a minute."
In less than a minute, the jumpers had been hooked up, and the truck's engine brought back to life. Toby let it idle while they disconnected and stowed the cables.
"There's a place on the next exit, Gabriel's truck stop," said the stranger. "Tell 'em Raphe sent you, and they'll take good care of you. I know they keep extra batteries and a tester on hand in case of emergencies like this."
"I'm Toby. Let me get dinner for you. It's the least I can do. There's no telling how long I'd've been stuck out here."
Raphe's smile showed even white teeth. "I haven't eaten in a while. See you there."
With that, he got into his Camaro and sped away. Toby eased his truck on to the shoulder and followed him into the darkness.
This is the third in my serial paranormal mystery story Always a Bridesmaid. It takes place in a bachelorette party tea room, so please be aware that there might be some less than polite objects or topics mentioned. To read the first two parts, visit the More Fiction page on my web site.
Always a Bridesmaid: Part III – Strange Meetings
Tiffany made it through the tea at four o'clock, the dinner at six, and the martini dessert at nine with her mind half on her guests and half on Lydia's problem. Finally, at midnight, everyone had gone, and she and Lacey the cat had the place and a pile of dirty dishes to themselves. Tiffany shook her head and sat at the table instead, her ledger book in front of her, to record the day's charges and payments. If she was finishing up the pitcher of Cosmos she'd made for the last party, well, there was only the cat to scold her.
She had just entered the first invoice when she heard someone in the kitchen. The cat was with her, so that only left one possibility.
"Hello, Tizz."
"Good gravy, Mortal Slut!" The brownie stood with her hands on her hips and looked at the dirty dishes piled on every surface. "What in Celestina's panties have you been getting up to?" Her prominent dark eyes darted from plate to plate, no doubt noticing every bit of icing stuck to the porcelain, never mind the tray of martini glasses.
"What can I say? Business has been good. Your charm helped." She chose her words carefully so as not to accidentally use the "T" word – Thanks. Like most of the faery folk, brownies could be finicky and easily offended. This one had come with an antique dresser that now stood in the main room, the only thing left after a fire had destroyed the manor house it had come from in Ireland. Somehow Tizz had accompanied it, and Tiffany had inherited her when she bought it.
Tizz shook her head. "You're a strange one, helping women to get their marriages off to a good start considering you don't have even the beginnings of a decent home yourself."
Tiffany hid her smile. This was an old conversation. Tizz didn't approve of her background as a stripper and club dancer. She hadn't appeared until Tiffany had moved and set up her new life, and she showed up when she wanted, usually when Tiffany was overwhelmed.
"So, got any sense of what else happened here today?" Tiffany never knew where Tizz hid herself between manifestations.
Tizz waved her hand in front of her face and wrinkled her snub nose. "Phew, yeah, something stinks! I felt something come into my territory, but it wasn't here that long."
"It was a ghost. It spoiled the whipped cream for the punch bowl cake."
"That's not all."
With those words, Tiffany's hair stood on end. "What do you mean?"
"There was something nasty hanging around. That's why I'm here – you need to stay away from that business."
"Really?" Tiffany raised her eyebrows and perched on a counter while Tizz grabbed the pile of dishes closest to the sink with expert movements and started piling them in the dishwasher. "You're using that?"
Tizz paused. "You see? You've got me so worked up, I was going to use that infernal machine that only chips your plates. Yeah, really. There's more to that situation than rotten luck. And you've got some good things coming your way, honey, so just step back."
"I'll think about it."
"Which means you'll humor me now and do it anyway later." Tizz shook her head. "I know your type. Stubborn."
Tiffany laughed. "You're right, as always."
"Fine, then. I'll leave you a book you may find helpful. Now get out of my way. You did a good job messing up my kitchen."
"Yes, ma'am!" Tiffany saluted and went back into the main room. Soon her skin tingled, and she sensed that Tizz worked her magic in the kitchen to the music of clinking glasses and clanging dishes. When all was quiet, Tiffany went back into the kitchen and found everything clean and put away. A book waited on the wooden table that she used for prep, and her hair really stood on end when she saw the title engraved on the cracked leather cover: "Demons for Dummies."
----
Toby wiped his hands on the back of his jeans again. Like that would help figure out why the battery, which should've been good for another year, had pooped out. The cold rain stung the back of his neck, and he blinked water out of his eyes.
"Need a jump?"
Toby squinted into the darkness. A black Camaro idled on the shoulder behind him, and he wondered how he hadn't heard or seen it pull up. Not that the rain let him pay attention to much except the trail of cold water down his spine. The Camaro's driver, a slight man with black hair, moustache, and goatee, stood a few feet away, his eyebrows raised in a helpful expression.
"I need somethin'." He grinned. "If you've got some good cables, that'd be great. Mine are under the boxes in the backseat. He nodded to the extended cab, where his mother's precious linens rode inside.
"They're extra long, so they'll be just what you need. Give me a minute."
In less than a minute, the jumpers had been hooked up, and the truck's engine brought back to life. Toby let it idle while they disconnected and stowed the cables.
"There's a place on the next exit, Gabriel's truck stop," said the stranger. "Tell 'em Raphe sent you, and they'll take good care of you. I know they keep extra batteries and a tester on hand in case of emergencies like this."
"I'm Toby. Let me get dinner for you. It's the least I can do. There's no telling how long I'd've been stuck out here."
Raphe's smile showed even white teeth. "I haven't eaten in a while. See you there."
With that, he got into his Camaro and sped away. Toby eased his truck on to the shoulder and followed him into the darkness.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Friday Flash Fiction: Please, Christmas!
One of my Twitter friends once told me that he's never sure whether I'll be tweeting about wine or writing. To me, the two aren't mutually exclusive, although I wrote this one today during breaks between appointments so I could get it done by the wine tasting. I consider it to be a different take on a childhood favorite Christmas special. To find other great examples of flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.
Please, Christmas!
December 17, 2009
Dear Mrs. Thompson,
Thank you for notifying us about a potential case of child abuse and violation of child labor laws. We received your letter and recording on December 1, 2009 and are unable to complete our investigation due to the following circumstances:
1. The recording you sent is of poor quality and therefore cannot be considered the “hard evidence” you claimed it to be. All the technicians could isolate was music, some high-pitched chattering, and a male voice yelling something like, “Melvin!” at irregular intervals. We could not detect any frequencies consistent with children’s voices.
2. Examination of tax and birth records revealed that there are no children at the Seville residence.
3. While keeping wild animals (e.g., chipmunks) as pets is against state law, that is a matter best taken up with Animal Control or the Department of Wildlife Services. The C in our acronym stands for Child, not Chipmunk.
We have forwarded your concerns on to the proper authorities, who will be in touch with more information. Thank you for contacting us, and we hope you have a wonderful holiday season.
Sincerely,
Corinne Matthews
Department of Family and Child Services
“Can you believe this?” Corinne handed the draft of the letter to her supervisor. She rubbed her eyes. “We’re overwhelmed already. Why do we have to deal with these nuts?”
Mark read it over. “Oh yeah, this woman has been writing in every few years since 1958. If there’s any truth to it, those rodents are long dead, or the kids are grown up.”
“Then why did I get stuck with it? We have enough real work to do as it is.” She gestured to the pile of cases on her desk.
He handed the letter back to her and raised his eyebrows. “Consider this my Christmas present to you, Corinne: a friendly reminder to find your sense of humor. If you don’t, you’re gonna burn out in six months. And it’s time for you to leave. Remember, we’re not allowed overtime right now.”
She narrowed her eyes and hoped he felt the heat of her anger on the back of his neck while he walked away. Fine, she’d been fooled. Who knew that government workers would consider themselves jokers? With a sigh, she put on her jacket, clocked out, and walked through the chilly dusk to her car.
Something swirled in the orange glow of the street lamp and drifted to the cars underneath. One stung her nose with wet cold, and she couldn’t help but smile. Snow! Her kids would be so excited! She paused, made sure no one watched her, and turned her face to the sky.
“What the hell?” She took a deep breath and stuck her tongue out, her nose wrinkled against the cold. Her irritability and embarrassment melted with each snowflake that landed on her tongue and face
Mark was right, she decided. She needed to find her sense of humor and let go of her cynicism, at least once out of the office. She’d have plenty of time since, as the newest hire, she would be furloughed between Christmas and New Year. She had been stressed about it, but now she saw it as an opportunity to spend time with her kids while they were out of school. They’d have so much fun if the snow stuck, she thought. She needed to stop playing around and get home to them. They could make hot chocolate and light a fire in the fireplace. Perhaps there would even be holiday specials on t.v.
She didn’t even look back at the office building as she got in the car. The work and worry could wait until tomorrow. Meanwhile, she would look forward to her government-sponsored vacation.
“Please Christmas,” she whispered, “don’t be late!”
Please, Christmas!
December 17, 2009
Dear Mrs. Thompson,
Thank you for notifying us about a potential case of child abuse and violation of child labor laws. We received your letter and recording on December 1, 2009 and are unable to complete our investigation due to the following circumstances:
1. The recording you sent is of poor quality and therefore cannot be considered the “hard evidence” you claimed it to be. All the technicians could isolate was music, some high-pitched chattering, and a male voice yelling something like, “Melvin!” at irregular intervals. We could not detect any frequencies consistent with children’s voices.
2. Examination of tax and birth records revealed that there are no children at the Seville residence.
3. While keeping wild animals (e.g., chipmunks) as pets is against state law, that is a matter best taken up with Animal Control or the Department of Wildlife Services. The C in our acronym stands for Child, not Chipmunk.
We have forwarded your concerns on to the proper authorities, who will be in touch with more information. Thank you for contacting us, and we hope you have a wonderful holiday season.
Sincerely,
Corinne Matthews
Department of Family and Child Services
“Can you believe this?” Corinne handed the draft of the letter to her supervisor. She rubbed her eyes. “We’re overwhelmed already. Why do we have to deal with these nuts?”
Mark read it over. “Oh yeah, this woman has been writing in every few years since 1958. If there’s any truth to it, those rodents are long dead, or the kids are grown up.”
“Then why did I get stuck with it? We have enough real work to do as it is.” She gestured to the pile of cases on her desk.
He handed the letter back to her and raised his eyebrows. “Consider this my Christmas present to you, Corinne: a friendly reminder to find your sense of humor. If you don’t, you’re gonna burn out in six months. And it’s time for you to leave. Remember, we’re not allowed overtime right now.”
She narrowed her eyes and hoped he felt the heat of her anger on the back of his neck while he walked away. Fine, she’d been fooled. Who knew that government workers would consider themselves jokers? With a sigh, she put on her jacket, clocked out, and walked through the chilly dusk to her car.
Something swirled in the orange glow of the street lamp and drifted to the cars underneath. One stung her nose with wet cold, and she couldn’t help but smile. Snow! Her kids would be so excited! She paused, made sure no one watched her, and turned her face to the sky.
“What the hell?” She took a deep breath and stuck her tongue out, her nose wrinkled against the cold. Her irritability and embarrassment melted with each snowflake that landed on her tongue and face
Mark was right, she decided. She needed to find her sense of humor and let go of her cynicism, at least once out of the office. She’d have plenty of time since, as the newest hire, she would be furloughed between Christmas and New Year. She had been stressed about it, but now she saw it as an opportunity to spend time with her kids while they were out of school. They’d have so much fun if the snow stuck, she thought. She needed to stop playing around and get home to them. They could make hot chocolate and light a fire in the fireplace. Perhaps there would even be holiday specials on t.v.
She didn’t even look back at the office building as she got in the car. The work and worry could wait until tomorrow. Meanwhile, she would look forward to her government-sponsored vacation.
“Please Christmas,” she whispered, “don’t be late!”
Friday, December 11, 2009
Friday Flash Fiction: Morning Vespas
There's a great writing community on Twitter, and every week, several of them post flash fiction. This is my contribution for the week. You can find other stories by searching the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.
Morning Vespas
“How long have you been involved with a motorcycle gang, Mrs. Dougherty?”
“Oh, heavens, they’re not motorcycles!” The petite woman twisted her silk scarf between her fingers and looked up at the two men questioning her. “They’re scooters! You boys can’t really think I’m involved with a gang. Tom would never forgive me! He works hard to keep order in this town, and I’d never do anything to disrupt that.”
“Tell that to the unfortunate gentleman in the body bag over there.” The detective inclined his head to the left.
“Well, you know, it really was Louisa Miller’s fault. You see, she wrecked her car, and her husband got her a scooter ‘cause she had less of a chance of hurting anyone else on it, and they get fantastic mileage!”
“And who else is involved?” asked the FBI agent, a tall, thin man with cold, gray eyes.
“Well, there’s Marlene Smith. She got her scooter when it cost her almost a hundred dollars to fill up her Buick. She wasn’t about to give up her part-time job, especially with her husband being just retired and underfoot all the time.”
The detective scribbled on his notepad. “So there are at least three of you. Do you know where the others are?”
“Well, I imagine they’ve gone on to Mass.”
“To where?” asked the agent.
“The six a.m. Mass at the monastery! Why, don’t you boys know about it? It’s beautiful, with the singing and the incense. We’re all up at 4 or 5, anyway, so we ride to church, then go to breakfast. That’s why we call ourselves the Morning Vespas.”
“Morning Vespas.” The detective looked up.
“Officer, why don’t you let me handle this?” asked the FBI agent. “The corner of your mouth is twitching.”
“Oh, you can laugh.” Mrs. Dougherty waved their amusement away. “Our children do. Tom won’t believe that it’s actually led to this, a dead body on a country road at dawn? That would be a good country song, don’t you think?”
“Mrs. Dougherty, just tell us how you got involved with this gentleman.”
“Well, you see, we met the deceased – that is the right term, isn’t it? – at Mass one morning. Seemed like a pleasant enough young man. But then his friend came in, a big brute of a guy, maybe you know who I’m talking about, agent? He had a face that was so scarred up, it would make his own mother shriek.”
“I cannot confirm or deny that I know such an individual. Please, go on. What did the men do?”
“Well, the nice young man dropped his Missalette! He’s probably been going to Mass his whole life, and that bully scared him silly! Well, Marlene was sitting right in front of him and said that the brute asked him where he hid it.”
“Hid what?”
“Well, that’s what we wanted to know. So the next time we saw him, about a week later, we asked him. The poor thing is so thin and pale with those big dark eyes that would make any mother or grandmother just want to take care of him, oh, it just breaks my heart!” She dabbed at the corner of her eyes with the scarf.
“There, now, Mrs. Dougherty, we can’t do anything about that now.” The detective patted her shoulder.
“Right.” She sniffled and took a deep breath. “So we asked him, or Louisa did, she’s so gentle that people just tell her anything, if he had gotten himself in some sort of trouble. He denied it in three languages, and that’s how we knew he needed our help! So Marlene followed him the next time we saw him a week after that.”
“Marlene is…?”
“She’s the one with ‘Kitchen Bitch’ in rhinestones on a pink leather jacket. We all have our nicknames on our jackets that match our Vespas. See?” She turned to show them the back of her yellow leather jacket. “I’m BusyBee.”
“Right.”
“So Marlene followed him downtown, but she lost him.”
“That wasn’t very smart, Mrs. Dougherty.”
“But we just wanted to help the poor boy out!”
“So tell us about this morning.”
“Well, he just showed up on my doorstep looking half scared out of his wits and covered in dirt. He asked if he could come to Mass with me. Of course I told him yes, and he got behind me on my scooter. We were riding along when a big truck appeared out of nowhere and started riding my tail. Then there were these loud pops, and he just tumbled off! I was so scared, but I found this little country lane that was too narrow for the truck and lost them. That’s when I called you boys. Oh, it just breaks my heart! He was always so polite!”
“Can you tell us about the truck?”
“Only that it was big.” Her eyes filled with tears again.
“Okay, Mrs. D., there’s your son. Why don’t you go talk to him while the agent and I finish up here?”
The FBI agent nodded after she had walked away. “Thank you, officer, that’s all I need for now. She’s lucky, but you need to find the others.”
“The timing is too coincidental.” The detective lowered his voice. “That was Maury the Mink on the back of her bike, wasn’t it? There was another murder last night. Sounds like Maury’s conscience was his undoing.”
“I can’t say, but she gave us some interesting facts that will help our investigation, including a link between Maury and Ronaldo. You’ll have to tell her son that she and her friends need to get into the witness protection program ASAP.”
The detective pushed his hands into his pockets. “Mayor Dougherty’s not going to like that.”
“It has to be done.”
“Well, then, agent, since you’re the tough guy here, how about you tell the old lady she’ll have to give up her scooter?”
Morning Vespas
“How long have you been involved with a motorcycle gang, Mrs. Dougherty?”
“Oh, heavens, they’re not motorcycles!” The petite woman twisted her silk scarf between her fingers and looked up at the two men questioning her. “They’re scooters! You boys can’t really think I’m involved with a gang. Tom would never forgive me! He works hard to keep order in this town, and I’d never do anything to disrupt that.”
“Tell that to the unfortunate gentleman in the body bag over there.” The detective inclined his head to the left.
“Well, you know, it really was Louisa Miller’s fault. You see, she wrecked her car, and her husband got her a scooter ‘cause she had less of a chance of hurting anyone else on it, and they get fantastic mileage!”
“And who else is involved?” asked the FBI agent, a tall, thin man with cold, gray eyes.
“Well, there’s Marlene Smith. She got her scooter when it cost her almost a hundred dollars to fill up her Buick. She wasn’t about to give up her part-time job, especially with her husband being just retired and underfoot all the time.”
The detective scribbled on his notepad. “So there are at least three of you. Do you know where the others are?”
“Well, I imagine they’ve gone on to Mass.”
“To where?” asked the agent.
“The six a.m. Mass at the monastery! Why, don’t you boys know about it? It’s beautiful, with the singing and the incense. We’re all up at 4 or 5, anyway, so we ride to church, then go to breakfast. That’s why we call ourselves the Morning Vespas.”
“Morning Vespas.” The detective looked up.
“Officer, why don’t you let me handle this?” asked the FBI agent. “The corner of your mouth is twitching.”
“Oh, you can laugh.” Mrs. Dougherty waved their amusement away. “Our children do. Tom won’t believe that it’s actually led to this, a dead body on a country road at dawn? That would be a good country song, don’t you think?”
“Mrs. Dougherty, just tell us how you got involved with this gentleman.”
“Well, you see, we met the deceased – that is the right term, isn’t it? – at Mass one morning. Seemed like a pleasant enough young man. But then his friend came in, a big brute of a guy, maybe you know who I’m talking about, agent? He had a face that was so scarred up, it would make his own mother shriek.”
“I cannot confirm or deny that I know such an individual. Please, go on. What did the men do?”
“Well, the nice young man dropped his Missalette! He’s probably been going to Mass his whole life, and that bully scared him silly! Well, Marlene was sitting right in front of him and said that the brute asked him where he hid it.”
“Hid what?”
“Well, that’s what we wanted to know. So the next time we saw him, about a week later, we asked him. The poor thing is so thin and pale with those big dark eyes that would make any mother or grandmother just want to take care of him, oh, it just breaks my heart!” She dabbed at the corner of her eyes with the scarf.
“There, now, Mrs. Dougherty, we can’t do anything about that now.” The detective patted her shoulder.
“Right.” She sniffled and took a deep breath. “So we asked him, or Louisa did, she’s so gentle that people just tell her anything, if he had gotten himself in some sort of trouble. He denied it in three languages, and that’s how we knew he needed our help! So Marlene followed him the next time we saw him a week after that.”
“Marlene is…?”
“She’s the one with ‘Kitchen Bitch’ in rhinestones on a pink leather jacket. We all have our nicknames on our jackets that match our Vespas. See?” She turned to show them the back of her yellow leather jacket. “I’m BusyBee.”
“Right.”
“So Marlene followed him downtown, but she lost him.”
“That wasn’t very smart, Mrs. Dougherty.”
“But we just wanted to help the poor boy out!”
“So tell us about this morning.”
“Well, he just showed up on my doorstep looking half scared out of his wits and covered in dirt. He asked if he could come to Mass with me. Of course I told him yes, and he got behind me on my scooter. We were riding along when a big truck appeared out of nowhere and started riding my tail. Then there were these loud pops, and he just tumbled off! I was so scared, but I found this little country lane that was too narrow for the truck and lost them. That’s when I called you boys. Oh, it just breaks my heart! He was always so polite!”
“Can you tell us about the truck?”
“Only that it was big.” Her eyes filled with tears again.
“Okay, Mrs. D., there’s your son. Why don’t you go talk to him while the agent and I finish up here?”
The FBI agent nodded after she had walked away. “Thank you, officer, that’s all I need for now. She’s lucky, but you need to find the others.”
“The timing is too coincidental.” The detective lowered his voice. “That was Maury the Mink on the back of her bike, wasn’t it? There was another murder last night. Sounds like Maury’s conscience was his undoing.”
“I can’t say, but she gave us some interesting facts that will help our investigation, including a link between Maury and Ronaldo. You’ll have to tell her son that she and her friends need to get into the witness protection program ASAP.”
The detective pushed his hands into his pockets. “Mayor Dougherty’s not going to like that.”
“It has to be done.”
“Well, then, agent, since you’re the tough guy here, how about you tell the old lady she’ll have to give up her scooter?”
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday Flash: Tears of a Clown
"Did you say that was flash fiction or flesh fiction?" Hubby asked earlier. I told him flash fiction. So sorry to disappoint...
Here is my Friday Flash piece for the week. This one is for all those kids who took crap for being afraid of clowns.
Tears of a Clown
Charlie stood on the bottom church step, his hands tucked in his pockets, and tried to appear calm. The orange streetlamps had never turned off in the day's damp gloom, and their amorphous halos faded into the leaden sky. Tight knots of people huddled in line for hot cider in the square or a tour of the graveyard, and a mute clown on the church steps entertained children with balloon animals.
He tried not to look to the other side of the square, where his partner in this crazy sting, Margaret of Cornwall, or just Maggie to him, would be melting in and out of groups. Her auburn hair under her smart purple cap made her easy to spot. He was the surprise, the secret. They hoped that whatever prowled the booths and killed people in their dreams would target her, and he would be backup. He shifted to the right for a better view.
"Hey, watch it!" A solid object clattered to the cement, and Charlie almost reached for his gun and blew his cover. He looked down to see that he'd bumped against a long white-tipped metal cane that had been propped against the stone stairs. An old man, whom Charlie had barely noticed, squinted up at him from the bottom step. The guy had a white streak down one of his wizened, prickly cheeks, and the missing teeth in his scowl made him look like a shrunken Jack-O'-Lantern. He ground a piece of chalk into the wet pavement beside a dented red plastic cup.
"I'm sorry, sir," Charlie said. "I'll get that for you."
"You'd better." The old man made lines and squiggles on the sidewalk with the chalk, and Charlie watched, fascinated, as they became the line drawing of a familiar face: his own. Panic rose in his chest. Maggie had told him to watch out for anything unusual or odd. The blind guy shouldn't be able to see him that well, especially not in the half-light. The air around him turned colder, damper, and he shivered. He climbed two steps and looked around for Maggie, but she was nowhere to be seen.
A flash of color caught his eye. The clown, whose blue hair hung in drab ringlets under his shabby red cap, approached. He had a tear painted at the corner of each eye and along his cheeks, and his faded red mouth corners pointed downward in a frown.
"The artist would like a donation." The polite phrasing and wording did nothing to hide the menace in the clown's tone.
Charlie dug through his pockets, but he didn’t have any cash. "I'll bring one tomorrow."
"The festival is over tonight." The clown's voice became a growl that resonated in the center of Charlie's chest. "All over." He reached for Charlie, who stumbled backwards up the steps. His instincts told him not to let the clown touch him. Curse, hex, whatever the thing did to him, it would be swift, invisible, and lethal.
"Hey, Demon!" Maggie called. She stood at the top of the steps, and her long turquoise coat swirled around her. The wind picked up and drove the tiny droplets of water into exposed skin. Thunder boomed overhead, and lightning crackled across the sky as time turned backwards for a moment and then halted, the festival attendees frozen in place.
The clown stopped just inches short of touching Charlie and turned its attention to her.
"You know I've got more of what you want," she teased and batted her eyelashes at it. "Immortal energy, yum yum!"
Charlie wasn't ready for the swiftness of the demon. To the human's eyes, it looked like a blur met Maggie's outstretched boot and rolled down the stairs. It crumpled, faded, and disappeared. He got to her side as quickly as he could and found her doubled over and breathless.
"Phew, that was quite a hit!" she panted. "You got those bullets I gave you?"
He nodded and pulled out his gun.
"Good. This time when he appears, don't do anything until I tell you to. Not a move! Understand?"
"I do. But I’m not going to let you get hurt."
She shook her head. "Trust me. It may look silly, and I've stunned it, but it's a nasty critter. If it gets me, it will only knock me back a few centuries, but it will eat your very essence so that nothing will remain. All trace of you will be erased. Each of those tears on its face? A past victim. Including the blind artist, who became its puppet to lure new victims."
She put her hands on his shoulders and swung him out of the way before the clown reappeared beside them and lunged for her. Charlie stumbled but got his balance and stood with his gun aimed at where they fought. Again, just blurs, her turquoise flashing against the clown's gray and red. They moved too fast for Charlie to get a clear shot.
"Now!" Maggie held the clown in a head lock. It squirmed, and Charlie couldn't get a true aim.
"Damn your little blue boy balls, Charlie, shoot it!"
He aimed as best he could and fired. The clown roared and disappeared. Maggie rubbed her arm where the bullet had gone through the thing's shoulder and grazed her.
"Sonofabitch, that stings!"
Charlie ran to her side and looked at the wound. "You're gonna need stitches."
She stopped him from tracing it with his fingertip. "Demon blood only irritates me. It would poison you." She looked at him through her dark lashes. "And I can't let anything happen to you."
He ran his thumb along her jaw line, and his heart jumped to his throat when she covered his hand with hers and held it there. She must have been more scared than she'd let on.
"I've never kissed an immortal before, especially not one with such a filthy mouth," he said. "Such language!"
"Oh, shut up, Detective."
And he did.
Here is my Friday Flash piece for the week. This one is for all those kids who took crap for being afraid of clowns.
Tears of a Clown
Charlie stood on the bottom church step, his hands tucked in his pockets, and tried to appear calm. The orange streetlamps had never turned off in the day's damp gloom, and their amorphous halos faded into the leaden sky. Tight knots of people huddled in line for hot cider in the square or a tour of the graveyard, and a mute clown on the church steps entertained children with balloon animals.
He tried not to look to the other side of the square, where his partner in this crazy sting, Margaret of Cornwall, or just Maggie to him, would be melting in and out of groups. Her auburn hair under her smart purple cap made her easy to spot. He was the surprise, the secret. They hoped that whatever prowled the booths and killed people in their dreams would target her, and he would be backup. He shifted to the right for a better view.
"Hey, watch it!" A solid object clattered to the cement, and Charlie almost reached for his gun and blew his cover. He looked down to see that he'd bumped against a long white-tipped metal cane that had been propped against the stone stairs. An old man, whom Charlie had barely noticed, squinted up at him from the bottom step. The guy had a white streak down one of his wizened, prickly cheeks, and the missing teeth in his scowl made him look like a shrunken Jack-O'-Lantern. He ground a piece of chalk into the wet pavement beside a dented red plastic cup.
"I'm sorry, sir," Charlie said. "I'll get that for you."
"You'd better." The old man made lines and squiggles on the sidewalk with the chalk, and Charlie watched, fascinated, as they became the line drawing of a familiar face: his own. Panic rose in his chest. Maggie had told him to watch out for anything unusual or odd. The blind guy shouldn't be able to see him that well, especially not in the half-light. The air around him turned colder, damper, and he shivered. He climbed two steps and looked around for Maggie, but she was nowhere to be seen.
A flash of color caught his eye. The clown, whose blue hair hung in drab ringlets under his shabby red cap, approached. He had a tear painted at the corner of each eye and along his cheeks, and his faded red mouth corners pointed downward in a frown.
"The artist would like a donation." The polite phrasing and wording did nothing to hide the menace in the clown's tone.
Charlie dug through his pockets, but he didn’t have any cash. "I'll bring one tomorrow."
"The festival is over tonight." The clown's voice became a growl that resonated in the center of Charlie's chest. "All over." He reached for Charlie, who stumbled backwards up the steps. His instincts told him not to let the clown touch him. Curse, hex, whatever the thing did to him, it would be swift, invisible, and lethal.
"Hey, Demon!" Maggie called. She stood at the top of the steps, and her long turquoise coat swirled around her. The wind picked up and drove the tiny droplets of water into exposed skin. Thunder boomed overhead, and lightning crackled across the sky as time turned backwards for a moment and then halted, the festival attendees frozen in place.
The clown stopped just inches short of touching Charlie and turned its attention to her.
"You know I've got more of what you want," she teased and batted her eyelashes at it. "Immortal energy, yum yum!"
Charlie wasn't ready for the swiftness of the demon. To the human's eyes, it looked like a blur met Maggie's outstretched boot and rolled down the stairs. It crumpled, faded, and disappeared. He got to her side as quickly as he could and found her doubled over and breathless.
"Phew, that was quite a hit!" she panted. "You got those bullets I gave you?"
He nodded and pulled out his gun.
"Good. This time when he appears, don't do anything until I tell you to. Not a move! Understand?"
"I do. But I’m not going to let you get hurt."
She shook her head. "Trust me. It may look silly, and I've stunned it, but it's a nasty critter. If it gets me, it will only knock me back a few centuries, but it will eat your very essence so that nothing will remain. All trace of you will be erased. Each of those tears on its face? A past victim. Including the blind artist, who became its puppet to lure new victims."
She put her hands on his shoulders and swung him out of the way before the clown reappeared beside them and lunged for her. Charlie stumbled but got his balance and stood with his gun aimed at where they fought. Again, just blurs, her turquoise flashing against the clown's gray and red. They moved too fast for Charlie to get a clear shot.
"Now!" Maggie held the clown in a head lock. It squirmed, and Charlie couldn't get a true aim.
"Damn your little blue boy balls, Charlie, shoot it!"
He aimed as best he could and fired. The clown roared and disappeared. Maggie rubbed her arm where the bullet had gone through the thing's shoulder and grazed her.
"Sonofabitch, that stings!"
Charlie ran to her side and looked at the wound. "You're gonna need stitches."
She stopped him from tracing it with his fingertip. "Demon blood only irritates me. It would poison you." She looked at him through her dark lashes. "And I can't let anything happen to you."
He ran his thumb along her jaw line, and his heart jumped to his throat when she covered his hand with hers and held it there. She must have been more scared than she'd let on.
"I've never kissed an immortal before, especially not one with such a filthy mouth," he said. "Such language!"
"Oh, shut up, Detective."
And he did.
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