By the Victors

Written for this past week’s Flash!Friday

Warning: Violence

I know all about humanity’s stupidity; I am a historian. Yet, I have fallen all the same.

They came into our home through the backyard. A simple shadow that grew into an entire platoon and by then it was too late. Every warning, every caution to flee, every hole in my own security – they all flashed through my mind as the butt of a gun smashed the sliding glass door. Then they killed my dog and time sped up.

“Get down!” A man in body armor yelled. I could see the blood spilling from my Labrador’s side, his paw shaking in its last movement. His face morphed into my son’s.

“Search the house!”

I struggled against the knee on my back, trying to turn my face towards the soldier as he pressed, cutting off each breath. “My son – daughter –”

He lifted my head by my hair and slammed my face to the ground.

Another shot somewhere down the hall my children slept – my wife. I screamed.

Blood, so much blood and I couldn’t tell if it’s mine or my pup’s or my children or wife’s. My eyes blurred.

A head lowered towards my ear. It hissed like a snake. “Hello Professor, remember me? We’ve come to collect your books. Your version of history just lost the war.”

Riot Police. CC2.0 photo by Thomas Hawk.

Riot Police. CC2.0 photo by Thomas Hawk.

Character: Historian; Conflict: Man v. Society

Leviathans in the Living Room

“Leviathan straight ahead! Charge!”

“We can’t charge, Linus, we’re in sailboats.”

Linus stepped one of his untied sneakers onto couch’s armrest. “Maybe your sailboat can’t charge, but I’m going to flatten them!”

Margaret plucked her thumb from her mouth. “So there is more than one Leviathan?”

The boy sighed, a deep, exasperated sigh that he had learned from their father. “They travel in packs. It’s their strategy. One will hiss and scare us and the other can use its tentacle to grab our spears. ”

Margaret stood on the recliner, balancing her weight as it shook under her feet. After a count of three she jumped from the recliner to the sofa that Linus captained. The recliner wobbled after Margaret, sending a spray of imaginary water over the hilt and onto Linus’ face.

“Hey! We need an army, not a single ship,” he said as he wiped the water off his forehead.

“But I’m scared,” Margaret admitted.

“Well I’ll be dogged if we don’t get this monster!”

“Dogged? Do you want me to get Chuck?”

“We don’t need a chihuahua, Mar! Just grab a spear. It’s coming!”

Linus threw an imaginary spear at the ottoman.

“Did you get it?” Margaret asked.

“We have to hit it with more frequency,” Linus yelled over his shoulder.

Margaret looked around. “Where do I find frequency?”

Linus rolled his eyes, swaying on the arm of the couch from the waves. “Are you trying to annoy me to death?”

Margaret laughed. “If I wanted that, I’d just knock you off the sailboat. Aren’t we under attack?”

“Yes! Now throw the spear.”

The siblings threw their spears towards the pack of Leviathan’s that inhabited the living room rug. After a moment Linus covered his ears and screamed.

“What is it?” Margaret asked, taking careful steps towards her brother.

“The roar of the Leviathan, they make ears ring.”

Margaret immediately covered her own ears as if she too was experiencing tinnitus.

Their eyes met. “The last roar before their final attack.”

Margaret nodded at her brother’s solemn words before grabbing the invisible spear and throwing it towards the rug. “I got it!”

“You did?”

“Look at all its innards falling out.”

Linus, not to be outdone by his sister, threw another spear. He cheered after a moment.

“Mar! We did it!”

They hugged in the middle of the sailboat, swaying back and forth on the couch because of the waves. Linus pulled back. “Now you stay here, I have to swim out there and get their intestines before the blood coagulates.”

Margaret looked towards the bathroom, confused again. “You want me to go get the Colgate?”

Linus groaned and jumped off the couch. Splash!

Wordle asked for a story that included ten of the following words:

Flatten;  CephalicCoagulate; Innards; Frequency; Hiss; Tinnitus; Spear; Spray; Radial;  Leviathan; Dogged

Concert Cure-All

A little something I wrote for #FinishThatThought after finding out a friend decided to give me her Taylor Swift tickets mere hours before the show.

The Challenge asked us to incorporate National Horse Race winners. I chose two names “Charity” and “Cure-All”. This story won the Special Challenge Championship. Without further ado, when excitement and fiction meet:

As they entered the concert, she realized that something extraordinary would have to happen if they were to see the stage at all. Short people had horrible luck.

She could stand on her chair, but the man behind them had already given her the stink-eye for balancing on the seat for only a second. Despite the fact that he was at least six feet tall, he “kindly” asked her to move.

The thing with concerts was that you paid nearly a week’s salary to stare at the back of heads.

Sarah didn’t mind, but Sarah was tall. “Can you see the pretty stage designs?”

I clenched my teeth. “I can’t see anything.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a spoilsport.

The lights dimmed.

“I’m not spoiling anything, I’m stating a fact.”

The crowd cheered, we cheered, swept away by the evening’s momentum. The screams were deafening. Our floor level seats placed us in the center of the excitement as it ricocheted down from the upper levels down towards the stage.

Ladies and Gentleman, please welcome to the stage Charity Cure-all!

“She’s coming out!”

I hopped on the tips of my toes. There will be sound, loud booming sound. I will get my joy from that sound. I tried to psych myself up, at least.

All I saw was the t-shirt of Charity’s face in front of me.

“Oh my god – do you see what she’s wearing?” Sarah asked.


“It’s, oh my god, Jen! Look!”

“I am looking, looking at –”

Then it happened: something extraordinary. The stage started to rise inch by inch, higher and higher until Charity Cure-all could look over her fans from far above ground level.

Charity Cure-all smiled from the edge of the stage, lights bouncing off the sequins from her octopus costume. It felt as if our eyes caught each other’s, she smiled, I screamed. “Let’s get this party started!”

Your End is Near

The shot fired. I saw it from across the field, blasting into her side and ending her movement forever. I watched as the light withdrew from her eyes, the only eyes that ever shined when they glanced upon me. The only eyes I ever loved.

The curl of hatred entered my soul immediately, bringing the mist with it. With each of my haggard breaths the temperature cooled, the sky grayed.

The hunter would not make it out of this wilderness alive. A bolt of lightning fragmented the gray sky with my grief. The wind picked up speed and I pounced.

This week’s Warmup Wednesday challenge: Make your protagonist an animal (real or imagined).

Leash Fen in mist. CC2.0 photo by Andrew Hill.

Grey and Gloomy

He ate paint chips for dinner that night. The dirt beneath his fingernails added an extra bit of taste but his stomach still rumbled around the lead.

Under the flickering lights of the old warehouse, Danny waited for his mother. He had been waiting for a week and a half. He counted each sunrise over the city as he watched the trucks drive in every morning, images of bread and meats on their sides. A feast would be easy to find with a truck like that – his mother was supposed to steal one.

On the opposite site of the city, the prison stood under a grey and gloomy cloud. Danny’s mother stared out the window towards the warehouse on the hill. Her eyes blurred with tears as she scratched her cell walls, waiting.

Written for this past week’s Flash!Friday.


Stumbling out of the library, he noticed blearily that he was missing a chunk of his hair. It probably had to do with the woman chasing him and the grip she now had around blonde curls. He was bleeding too, a trickle from the top of his head down to his chin.

The marble column was cold under his hand. He grabbed it and tried to clear his vision.

“Get back here!” The woman was hell-bent on getting his attention. He didn’t even know her name. He had been sitting in the library, studying for his finals. One minute he was alone and the next he had the woman’s thighs on either side of his legs, straddling him – and not in the good way.

“You’re blood!” She screamed as she ran by the circulation desk. “I need it for my spell. I already have the hair!”

He looked out over the field in front of the library, students sitting on blankets, some threw around a Frisbee. No one noticed the screaming from the library or the sophomore clutching one hand to the marble column and the other to his head.

The door behind him opened and he tensed. He knew it was the woman.

“I have the salt and your hair; now give me your blood.”

“Is this an episode of Supernatural?” He asked through his daze. The woman replied by pressing a vial to the trail of blood.

When she stepped back he could see the lines of age on her forehead, stray white strands falling from her bun. She smiled toothily. “Your blonde hair for my new form, I thank you.”

Then she disappeared, “poof!” right from the spot. He slid down the column, face falling into his hands and wondered if finals had finally turned him insane.

Written for this week’s FinishThatThought.

Puzzle Pieces

We build ourselves piece by piece,

fitting together as needed –

to survive, to thrive, to breathe.

We build ourselves piece by piece,

with sanity and self-preservation –

for dry eyes, for lover’s spats, for compromise.

We build ourselves piece by piece,

link our puzzle next to another’s –

with passion, with attraction, with hope.

We build ourselves piece by piece,

able to deconstruct the whole –

in growth, in adversity, in change.

The Choreographer


One, two, three. One, two, three.

She went through the steps in her mind. The light and smoke tricking her eyes so the vapor danced her choreography. She ordered water because whiskey would dilute her imagination but lit up another, another in a long chain, and let the smoke flutter in and out of beat.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Her exhale turned gracefully into a pirouette. A partner came with her next breath, lifting up the dancing wisp and placing it gently on the wood. The condensation caught in the light, setting the stage and waiting for another wisp of smoke to dance along the bar-top.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

The world of her mind, the beats and steps, played before her as the deafening applause from the theater beyond the bar erupts. Through the doors her previous hallucinations possessed human form with every twirl and leap. But she preferred the smoke.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Baseball Star

“Child! Hush.” Margaret screeched and eyed the stoplight, praying for it to change.
The group laughed.
“Miss! Money?”
“Miss! Food?”
She wished her automobile had windows like her cousin’s.
The miscreants quieted. A growing unease twisted in Margaret’s stomach. Children were never quiet, unless they were scheming.
The sound of wood striking an object broke the silence. “Miss! Here!”
Margaret held her breath, captive in this place. Then, bam, the smack of an orange against her face. Juice trickled down her neck and Margaret couldn’t take it anymore. “Scram! You scoundrels, you wastes of space!”
The boy smiled through dirty teeth. “Miss! You’re wrong. I’m gonna be a baseball star.”

Photo Credit: via CC.

Photo Credit: Cliff via CC.

Written for last weeks Micro Bookends