Coined (short story)

 

Coined

(Random 2-word prompt- change, queue)

 

                Flower counted the coins on his palm, shifting them around with his finger, counting them over and over, despite the meagre value.  He’d scrounged together just enough change to get what he needed, what he wanted.  Biscuits.

                The queue shuffled forward.  He moved with it.

                It was the Silver Jubilee and today, and today only, the little shop on the hill was selling its famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.  Flower was determined to get one pack, though he cared little for the monarchy; there was little in his life that brought him joy and he felt entitled to a treat.  The shop itself was still several metres away, and the long line of people stretched back from its doorway and all the way down the street.  Flower had been here since 5am, and it had been a long queue then.  It was now 11am, and even longer.  But at least he’d finally reached the shop’s window; he could see the queue snaking around the aisles inside, exhausted people shedding their fatigue to reveal fresh excitement beneath.

                Flower yawned, then checked again that he had enough money in his hand.  Yep.

                Someone tutted behind him.  “There’ll be nothing left by the time we get there,” scowled the woman.  She was obviously waiting for a response from him, and when he didn’t reply, she nudged him with her purse and cleared her throat.  “They’ll be sold out soon.”

                Flower turned to look at the woman for the first time since she’d joined the queue; he’d been tired and focused on what was ahead so hadn’t looked around when she’d appeared shortly after him this morning.  She was tall and bulky.  Haughty.  Her white blouse and pencil skirt were neat and unadorned.  Only a single brooch added decoration to her plain, neat clothing.

                “I said: ‘they’ll be sold out,’” she repeated.  Her strained and frowning face was counterbalanced by a tight bun of hair on her head, each pulling against one another.

                “I’m sure they won’t,” he said as he flashed her a curt smile.  He returned to facing forward; he wasn’t in the mood to engage with her complaints.

                The woman harrumphed.

                The queue inched along, then stopped.

                “At least we’re moving,” sighed the woman.  “You’d think they’d bring in extra staff to handle things on a day like today.”

                Flower ignored her.

                “It’s truly ridiculous.”

                He didn’t reply, but she continued complaining anyway, possessed by some strange energy she’d lacked all morning.  Perhaps the proximity to their shared goal had inspired her, now that she could see inside the store.  Or maybe she was lonely.  Flower didn’t care.  He let her buzz on, blocked out her voice, while he checked the money on his palm once more.

                He slid the coins over the lines on his hand, shifting them over his life line, across his heart line, then down the fate line, letting his money read his fortune.  He counted as he circled them along his skin.

                Something bumped his shoulder.  An aggressive action that startled him into focus.  It was the woman’s purse again.  She was saying something about the queue, and as he turned to face her, the purse swung at him again.  The sudden jolt knocked every coin, every scavenged penny, the last of his change, everything he had, out of his hand and all over the paved ground.

                It clattered and clinked as Flower swore blue curses into the cold morning air.

                “Serves you right for not paying attention,” snooted the tall woman.

                The coins came to a rest in a pattern like splattered blood; most of the coins were close together, but some had scattered outward.

                Flower glared at the woman.

                “The queue’s moved,” she said, as she looked down her nose at him.  And it had, the queue had edge forward.  There was a small gap in front between him and the next person.  “Move along.”

                He didn’t deign to offer her a response.  He didn’t even shuffle forward with the queue.  She could wait.  Instead, he moved slow as he crouched down to collect every single coin he’d dropped, she’d caused him to drop.  One by one.  Slowly.  Oh, she could wait.  The woman tutted at every coin he placed in his palm; she was red faced and angry, arms crossed, and glowering.  Good.  She deserved it.

                It felt like an age had passed before he’d collected every coin, every coin except one.

                One coin had fallen precariously out of reach.  Flower stretched for it, extending his arm as far he could.

                But it was no good.

                The woman scoffed.

                Flower had started the day with just enough money to buy one pack of the famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.  Now, he was one coin short.  He considered for a moment maybe abandoning the lone coin, sacrificing it for the sake of appeasing the horrid woman behind him in the queue, and then somehow maybe blagging his way into buying a pack of the biscuits while short on cash.  Maybe he could offer to bring the rest another day; the shop keeper knew who he was, where he lived.  Maybe he would pay them back.  Maybe.

                Too many maybes.

                He didn’t have any choice but to rescue the lost coin, but he couldn’t leave the queue; the woman would take his place in an instant.

                Flower wasn’t the nimblest of people, nor was he the supplest.  Flower was short and inflexible.  He dropped from a crouch to his knees.

                “What are you doing?”  The woman folded her arms over her neat white blouse.  “You’re holding up the queue.”

                Flower placed his hands on the ground, then used them to walk his upper body across the paving slabs, keeping his feet firmly planted in the queue.  It wasn’t easy and it hurt.  His palms grazed the rough ground, his weak muscles strained under his own bodyweight, his spine ached, and his toes cramped in his shoes as he stretched his body as far as he could.

                “You look a fool,” condescended his aggressor.  He knew she was staring at him, probably half the queue was, but he couldn’t care, wouldn’t let himself care; these biscuits were worth his dignity, and he needed all his change to get them.

                With a swift one-handed press-up, he grabbed the coin with his momentarily free hand.

                Success!

                Flower fell over.  His balance had been betrayed by his meagre strength; he hadn’t been able to keep himself propped up on one arm and seize his prey at the same time.  His body collapsed against the floor.  Ow.

                He could hear the woman laughing as he lay there.  It was a luxuriant cackle, filled with privilege and arrogance.  And there he was, pathetically prostrate, poor enough to scrabble along the dirty street to pinch every penny he could muster together.

                Flower wasn’t going to let her win.

                He rolled onto his back, careful to keep his feet in the queue (which had moved forward again, though the woman hadn’t noticed yet), then sat up.

                She was still laughing, a taller figure from this perspective, and he could see right up her nostrils.  Ew.

                He scooted across the floor on his bum and made his way back into his position.  He stood, facing the woman.  He waited until she’d stopped screeching, her expression changing to a disappointed and disapproving gaze, and then poked his tongue out at her before turning away and marching into place behind the next person ahead of him.

                Flower grinned as she gasped in shock at his rudeness.  He suppressed a giggle.

                Her imposing stature was soon right behind him again in the queue.  She didn’t say anything.  Neither did he.  But he could feel the hot waves of antagonism emanating from the tall woman, and he got the feeling she was waiting for any misstep, any slight error, before she pounced on his frail little body and delivered an onslaught of snooty insults and frivolous attacks on his character.

The queue moved.

Flower counted his coins again, checked he definitely had the correct amount, and ignored the condescending snort from over his shoulder.

The queue kept moving, and they entered the shop, following the snaking line that slithered around the aisles.  It wouldn’t be long, and he’d have his famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.  He gripped his money tight in his fist.

The woman had remained quiet and seething.  She should be excited about the treats ahead, like Flower was, like everyone else in the queue was.  Instead, she was wholly focused on her internal drama about Flower and his mere presence seemed to incense her.  He almost felt sorry for her.

The line shuffled along, getting closer and closer.

The clock struck noon when Flower finally made it to the counter.

“Yes?” said the young lady at the till.  She looked tired and exhausted.

“One pack of the coronation biscuits, please,” said Flower.  He handed over his collection of scrounged coins.  He ignored the imposing woman behind him; she was standing just a little too close and he could feel her looking down her nose and over his shoulder.

The server counted the money.  “You’re a little short,” she said.

“What?”  Flower knew his foe was grinning.  “I… er…”

“Oh,” continued the lady, “hang on, there was a penny hiding underneath this one.”  She held up the coin with a smile.  “You’re lucky on two counts.”  She rung up the sale and retrieved a paper bag from the shelf behind her.  “You’ve got the last pack of famously delicious extra special coronation biscuits.”  The server handed them to Flower.  “Thank you!  Enjoy!”

For a moment, his mouth hung open in shock, and as the atmosphere thickened so thick you could cut it with a knife, he felt a smirk creeping up at the edges of his lips and spreading up his cheeks; he suspected his enemy’s lips were heading in the opposite direction to his.

“Next please,” called the young server.

Flower turned on the spot, poked out his tongue once more at the haughty, tall woman, then flounced through the aisles of the shop and out the door, ignoring the unfounded protestations buzzing from behind him.

Flower was going to enjoy these biscuits far more than he’d expected.              

The End.

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Secret Ingredient (short story)

 

Secret Ingredient

(Random 2-word prompt- pie, tiptoe)

 

                Flower had been waiting over an hour for the last of the lights to turn off in Old Man Grundle’s farmhouse.  He’d been waiting… hiding in the cold under the shadows of the hedgerows for far too long.  It’d been late when he’d arrived, and he thought he’d be in the clear to get what he came for quickly and quietly, without detection, but he hadn’t expected the old farmer to stay up so late.  It was weird; it was now well past midnight, and the farmer was usually in bed by the time he got here.  Or he had been every night for the last ten days or so.

                Flower stretched his legs and straightened out; he’d begun to cramp up while crouching in his hiding place.  He made one final sweep of the empty lane to make sure he was truly alone, and that no-one had followed him.  Not that anyone in their right mind would’ve waited around for an hour in the dark and chilly night, pressed against a thorny hedge, spikes digging into their back, leaves tickling their ears and neck, and he was pretty sure he’d been accosted by a bug or two.  No, he was alone.  He drew his jacket in closer against the chill.  And of course, anyone following him wouldn’t’ve known what he came here for.  Even Old Man Grundle didn’t know what was hidden on his own property.

                The secret ingredient.

                Flower scurried towards the farmhouse, breaching the grounds via a broken fence, then staying low as he crossed the small front garden.  He stepped over and around turnip shoots, meandered around pumpkin vines, and tried not to trip over the cabbages.  It was quiet.  That kind of silence you get in the depths of night when life sleeps and death stalks.  There were predators lurking, waiting.  Owls.  Foxes.  Badgers.  And him, a hunter of ingredients.

                He’d been asked, of course, what made his fruit pies so delicious, so moreish, but he only replied with a tap on his nose and a wink.  He’d only been sharing the pies with his friends and coworkers for a week, but they couldn’t get enough.

                Flower reached the pebble-dashed wall of the farmhouse, and pressed himself close, staying in its shadow, hiding from the full moon.  He tiptoed alongside, following the edge, fingering the stones as he moved.  He paused at the corner.  A hinge creaked somewhere, a door or window, above his head.  He kept still, then slowly drifted his gaze upwards…

                He couldn’t let anyone down; he had to keep bringing them pies.

                An unsecured window shutter on the first floor swayed in the breeze.  Intermittently, the wind tickled it just enough for it to titter and snicker.  Hmph.  It was laughing at him for thinking he’d been discovered by Old Man Grundle.  Flower sighed.  He was safe to proceed.

It had been a Sunday morning almost two weeks ago when the mysterious old woman had accosted him the market.  She’d grabbed his arm while he’d been looking at the baking supplies, glared into his eyes and whispered the secret.  He hadn’t believed her.  She’d insisted.  He still didn’t believe her, but he’d assuaged her with false affirmations.

                Flower breached the corner and edged his body along the wall to the back of the farmhouse, stepping over and around a few plant pots that’d been haphazardly arranged in the shadows, some empty, some not, but all seemed uncared for.  To his left, were fields of corn and barley, but ahead, just on the other side of the koi pond, was a small wood, and where the secret ingredient appeared every night.  Something felt off this time, not just the old farmer’s lateness, something else.  He skirted the pond, ignoring the laughing shutter behind him.  It felt like something was going to go wrong, but maybe that was just his nerves; trespassing on someone’s property was always a little scary, especially on Grundle’s farm; the old man was known for his ‘ask questions later’ attitude.  Flower hurried into the safety of the trees.

He wasn’t sure what’d compelled him to check out what the old woman had told him.  Boredom.  Curiosity.  Stupidity.  It didn’t matter.  He’d kept the first fruit pie for himself, and it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.  He’d come back every night since.

                Flower looked back at the farmhouse from the shelter of the woods; its lights were still out, no signs of life from within, and only the creaking shutter paid him any mind.  He moved deeper into the forest.  He could smell moss and damp.  His boots squelched through the mud, and leaves rustled as he moved further and further from Old Man Grundle’s farmhouse.

                The old woman had given him only one warning; go alone, or the magic will cease.

                A sweet aroma cut through the earthy air, as the trees began to thin out, almost as if the foliage were giving reverence to the small miracle in the clearing in the woods.  Even the plants along the ground gave way, leaving only the dry earth.  Flower stepped lightly forward.  The smell was different every night, but always saccharine and delicious; yesterday’s scent had been flowery and delicate, tonight’s was fruity and tangy.  Flower almost enjoyed the smelling more than the eating.

                He paused.

                There it was, the secret ingredient, bathed in a halo of moonlight, out of place in the forest, but waiting to be seized.  And Flower would seize it again this night.  He took a tentative step closer.  He didn’t want to disturb the dirt, ruin the wonderous ingredient in the centre of the glade.  Another step closer.  And another.  He stopped.  A creak cried out in the cold air behind him, a distant giggle… the window shutter again, though it sounded louder, bigger, this time.

                Flower inched closer to the secret ingredient.  He crouched to collect it… and froze.

                He wasn’t alone.  He had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, as he heard a hurried rustle of leaves as footsteps rushed through the trees.  He knew who it was.  The hammer of a gun clicked by his ear.

                “You’re trespassing.”

                He swallowed hard; he didn’t know what to say.  He couldn’t move.

                “Turn around,” said Old Man Grundle.

                He didn’t.

                “I said ‘turn around,’” repeated the farmer.

                Flower’s head orbited the gun’s muzzle, slow, careful, away from his secret quarry; he didn’t want to startle the man into a premature discharge.  He smiled awkwardly as he faced his discoverer.

                “Flower?!”  Old Man Grundle lowered the gun.  “What on earth are you doing here?  It’s the middle of the night.”

                Flower shrugged as he stood; he didn’t want to reveal the secret of the pies.  He couldn’t reveal it.  It might be too late.  He was eager to turn back around and look directly at the ingredient.

                “Lost, are we?”

                “I… er… I thought I…” mumbled Flower, “I saw a kitten run into the woods.”  The old woman’s warning was playing in his head.  “I must’ve been mistaken.”  He was no longer alone.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

                “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you, dummy.”  The old man laughed.  “You shouldn’t go chasing imaginary cats onto other people’s property.”

                “I know I know,” he said.  “Sorry, I should probably get going…”  He wondered what he was going to do about the secret ingredient.  Was it still there?  Could he somehow wait and come back even later, in the early hours of the morning?

                “Come and join me for a nightcap first,” said Old Man Grundle.  “It’s a cold night and you look frozen half to death.  Some whiskey’ll warm you right up.”

                Flower nodded.  He’d been out in this cold for hours.  Too long.  Maybe it was time to give up.

                “Come along, my friend.”  The farmer placed a hand on his shoulder and led him away.  “You can tell me how to make those tasty pies of yours.”

                Flower glanced back.

                The secret ingredient was gone forever; only a halo of empty moonlight coated the earth of the clearing.

The End.

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Foggy Flower (short story)

 

Foggy Flower

(Random 2-word prompt- inspector, grounds)

 

                The mist was thick and cold.  So was he.  Cold, that is.  His clothes were soaked with a penetrating and perpetual damp that sank right down to his bones.  Flower shivered, his breath caught by the icy air, condensing around his lips with every exhale.

                His torch did very little to help his visibility in the dark of the night; it’s narrow beam only caught misty grey walls closing in on him… and yet, he could still somehow feel the wide-open castle grounds around him.  It was both claustrophobic and agoraphobic.  He felt vulnerable.

                Flower kept walking, a quick pace; he wanted to get home.  His dull footsteps, and their accompanied syncopated echo, were the only sound of life in the gardens, though a gentle breeze tussled the bushes intermittently too.

                He’d heard that ghosts haunted the castle grounds; George, the old guard, had regaled him with terrifying tales and supernatural stories all evening, and those eerie yarns had spooked him.

                Flower’s torch flickered.

                George had told him of headless knights stalking the paths, vengeful wailing maidens in white dresses with slit wrists creeping through the bougainvillea.  He’d spun fables of gruesome beasts hiding under the hedgerows, creatures with long red claws and creepy grins, waiting to grab unsuspecting victims by their ankles and pull them into their lair.  He’d told Flower about the evil witches and warlocks who, hundreds of years ago, used these grounds for their dark rituals and blood sacrifices, and who, while being tortured and burnt at the stake, swore a cursed revenge in their afterlife as spirits.

                His torch flickered again.  And again.

George had told Flower that the witches and warlocks could still sometimes be heard, crying out their pained curses in the middle of the night, casting malevolent spells on those with fear in their hearts.

Of course, Flower didn’t believe any of those fictional fables…

The torch died, and Flower came to a sudden stop, the echo of his footsteps following suit almost immediately.  The walls of grey mist were replaced with walls of blind darkness in an instant.  There was nowhere to go.  He couldn’t see anything in front of him.  He shuddered in the cold.  His clothes deepened the icy feeling on his skin, sodden by the damp air, and goosebumps stalked up his arms.

The wind crept around him, and the flora of the gardens whispered secrets to it.  Flower’s heart quickened, so did his breathing.  He was alone, hoped he was alone, in the quiet dark.  He began to see the grey of the mist as his eyes adjusted to the dark; it did little to improve his vision.  He looked at his feet; he could just about make out the path.

And then, a high-pitched cry in the distance broke the silence of the night.  The whinny of a horse in the castle stables.  Or was it a witch, a warlock, cursing him?  Was it a gruesome beast in the hedgerows?  Or a wailing maiden?

The silence retuned just as quickly as it’d been disturbed.

And…

Flower broke in a run, boots thumping against the stone path, eyes straining in the dark.  He ran and he ran and he ran.  He could feel it behind him.  Something was there, following.  It echoed his steps, chased him through the fog.  His legs strained to move faster.  His heart thrummed hard.  He ran.  His lungs struggled.  He tried not to scream, but fearful utterances escaped his lips.

A rock or a branch caught his foot.  He cried out as he fell, his body slammed into the dewy grass, his face collided with the earth.  He was winded and hurt.

                He didn’t move, couldn’t move.  He shivered in the dirt, but not from the cold.

                The pursuing footsteps came to halt, and Flower could sense the presence standing over him.  He could hear it wheeze and groan; it gurgled a death rattle.

                The supernatural creature was about to pounce.

                “Flower?” came a breathless, yet familiar voice.

                Flower twisted onto his back and looked up into a light that now shone on his prone body.

                “You forgot your keys,” wheezed George the guard, pointing his torch down at the man.  He tossed the keys to Flower.  “Why did you have to run so fast?  Silly bugger.  I could barely keep up.”

The End.

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Well Wished (short story)

 

Well Wished

(Random 2-word prompt- divorce, shaft)

 

                Flower had expected wishing wells to be found in the centre of some beautiful and floriated forest, surrounded by nature, with sunlight streaming through the canopy onto the deep greens of verdant leaves and vibrant, colourful petals.

                Quaint.

                He’d expected wishing wells to be small and ornate.  Uniform grey stones arranged in a neat circle, with stiff wooden struts holding up a tiled roof.  And a winch dangling a bucket.

                A classic design.

                He hadn’t expected the well to be a lopsided hole surrounded by misshapen and broken bricks, with no roof, and situated around the back of an abandoned factory.  The place was far from quaint.  Everything here was brown.  Drab.  Dusty.  A desert.  Nothing grew here.  The ground had been poisoned and forsaken, left for the sun and wind to weather and wither away any signs of life.

                Flower slunk towards the wishing well, coins jingling expectantly in his pockets, watched only by the multiple smashed windows, its eyes, of the looming wall of the factory.  He was alone.  This place felt like it would be perfect for a murder of crows or an unkindness of ravens, maybe even a wake of vultures, but there was no life here, not even a faint caw or croak in the distance.  Only the wind sang.  It whispered around the factory as it embraced the derelict walls, rattled the busted windows and doors, and hummed a dirge through whatever discarded equipment lay within.

                He shivered.  It was cold, despite the sun beating down on the back of his neck, burning.  For a moment, a perfume of cooked flesh hit his nostrils, but it was only his imagination; his nose craved something other than the dull, earthy aroma of the dirt behind the factory.  And then another scent snuck up on his senses, crept in under the dirt, the scent of the stagnant water at the bottom the well.  It wasn’t strong, but enough to quease his stomach.  Or was that just nerves?

                Flower leant over the collapsed and disordered wall of the well and stared into the deep void.  He couldn’t see the bottom.  The sunlight had reached partway down, but had lost its nerve and given in to the shadows, which were deeper and darker than they had any right to be.

                He wondered if this was the right wishing well, with its misshapen hole and ominous demeanour.  Hmm.  It was just his nerves playing tricks.  This was definitely the right place.

                He reached into his pocket and retrieved a coin.  He paused, fingering the rim, running his thumb over the embossed face of the Queen.  It was now or never.

                Flower thought hard about his wish and flipped the coin into the well.

                It seemed to take forever to hit the water at the bottom; he strained his ears against the bustling wind until he heard a distant and quiet splash.  Then, he waited.

                Flower had expected wishes to come true with a delicate tinkle, a fizz of sparkles, then fade into existence.  Something magical.

                His wish appeared with a sudden and loud ‘pop.’

                Pop!

                But it wasn’t his wish.

                A chocolate cupcake, with a thick smattering of buttercream on top, materialised into his hand.  It looked delicious.

                He stared at it, confused and hungry, the wind whipping around him, the sun glaring down, and wondered if he should…

                He did.  Flower ate the cupcake.  It started with a bite, but the taste was so moreish, so flavourful, so satiating, that he couldn’t stop himself.  He wolfed down the rest of the cake, chewed and savoured the moist sponge, the fatty sweet topping, the sumptuous chocolate chips.  The cupcake had been the tastiest cupcake he’d ever eaten; it’d been full of riches.

                It wasn’t what he’d wished for.

                Flower decided to try again.

                He retrieved another coin from his pocket, he didn’t have many, and tossed it into the well along with his freshly thought wish.

                Pop!

                It was another chocolate cupcake.  He glared at the small treat in his hand, wondering why his wish still hadn’t been granted.  He sighed.  It looked just as delectable as the first.  His mouth watered… and he scarfed it down with the same eagerness.  It was just as tasty and rich.

                He wished again, flipping another coin into the pit, and a third cupcake popped into existence.  Hmm.  He shouldn’t, but…

Flower indulged half of the delicious sweet before he was forced to give up; he was beginning to feel sick, and as flavoursome and rich as the cakes were, three cakes were too much flavour, too much richness, too sweet and fatty for his stomach to handle.

He sat on the edge of the well, on the broken bricks, and cradled his belly in his arms.

Urgh.

This wasn’t what he’d expected.

Flower tried again.  And again.  And again.  Over and over.  Each time he wished, each time a loud pop, and each time he received a chocolate cupcake.  And before he knew it, his pockets were empty of coins.

He screamed his frustrations into the cold and dusty desert, shouted at the old, abandoned factory, screamed at the misshapen hole; only the whispering wind replied.  No matter how hard he’d tried, how hard he’d wished, he never got what he wanted.  Only cupcakes.

Flower stood up and threw one of the cakes into the well.

“Why?!” he cried out.  “Why?!!”

He’d wasted his time, his money, his wishes.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to walk away, but something stopped him.  He paused.  His fingers had brushed against metal, something small and round in his pocket.  Something he’d missed.

Another coin.

His last.

He couldn’t handle anymore cupcakes, but…

Flower gripped his last coin in his fist, closed his eyes, and wished his final wish.  He tossed the coin in the cursed void.  He wished away his wishes, and not just his; he wished away every wish the damned well had ever granted.

                He listened for the distant splash of the coin, then walked away.

                A delicate tinkle rung out, and the air filled with glittering sprinkles that fizzed and danced.  The factory faded into nothing.  Trees sprouted.  Grass grew.  Vibrant and colourful flowers blossomed.  The brown and dusty earth gave way to verdant greens.  The scents of nature floated through the air.  Birds sang.  Life returned.

                And in the centre of the fresh forest, stood a neat circle of grey stones with two wooden supports holding up a tiled roof.  And there was a winch, and a bucket.

                And no cupcakes.

The End.

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Flower-stein’s Monster (short story)

 

Flower-stein’s Monster

(Random 2-word prompt- toss, specimen)

 

                Thunder boomed.  Lightning crackled across the gloomy clouds, and lit up his small, dingy room.  The sounds of the storm were short and sudden respites from the torrent of rain that hammered against the walls and roof of the castle, and a distraction from the howling winds that roared through the forest and found their way into all the cracks and cavities of the large stone building.

                “Gwhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”

                The manic laughter filled the lonely and empty halls.  It echoed against decrepit paintings, rotted furniture, and neglected rooms.  Candles flickered at its touch… or maybe that was the wind.  It was the call of a crazed and genius mind.

                It continued.

                Flower thought that the Doctor didn’t know when to stop; the laugh always lasted longer than it had any right to.  He stood up and closed the book he’d been squinting through; it was too cold and too dark to read, and he’d persisted as long as he could, struggled through the anticipation of tonight’s coming events.  And now was the moment he’d been waiting for… almost.  The Doctor would be calling for him any second now.

                The laugh continued, and then a breathless voice called out: “F…F… Flower!  Flower!  I’ve done it!  Ha hahaha!  The time is now!”  He heard the Doctor break into a coughing fit as he headed out and up the steps to the tower.  “Come hither and help me change the very definition of life itself!  Gwhahaha!”

                “Doctor Smithenstein.”  Flower bowed his head to the tall and skinny man as he entered the lab.  The Doctor was hunched and bald, only a few scraggly white hairs poked from his scalp; his body bore decades of wear and tear from late nights in the lab where he’d focused on a singular purpose, his life squandered away like the fortunes he’d inherited.  He was as decayed as this old castle.  It remained to be seen if it was all worth it.

                “Ah Flower,” he said with a dramatic flourish of his rubber-gloved hand.  His white coat, a little too small on his bony frame, strained against the movement.  “Ready the switches, open the circuits, and release the chemical mix!”  He laughed his maniacal laugh.  “The storm is nearing its apex!  We must be ready!”

                “Yes sir.”  Flower hurried to the large haphazard machine pressed up against the left wall; it’d been put together from all sorts of things, found things and reclaimed things, and the recycled LEDs and bicycle lights blinked and flickered, an old ship wheel turned and pulled ropes attached to several car wheels, churning a spectrum of coloured liquids in vials and containers of various sources and sizes.  Flower flicked a row of switches, each different, and mechanisms whirred into life behind the recycled metal chassis.

                “Gwhahahaha!”  The Doctor ducked beneath the cloth covered table, the table where the small specimen had been lain, and adjusted the wires and pipes.

                Flower opened the circuits, pulling the big lever on the side of the device, ducking from the sparks, and moved to the other side ready to release the chemicals.

                The storm raged above, and the clouds, visible through the skylight, thundered and roared.  Rain beat against the glass in sheets.  Lightning flashed, and for a second the dim lab was lit by more than just candles and flickering lights.

                Flower opened the valve on the first pipe and a glass milk bottle emptied its thick red liquid.  He opened a second.  Yellow liquid drained from an Erlenmeyer flask.  And a third.  Green from an upturned vodka bottle.  Fourth, purple from a glass orb.  Fifth, sixth, seventh, and so on, all colours all from different containers.  Liquids poured and mixed into a vat near the Doctor and his specimen, and a huge metal arm stirred and blended the concoction.

                Doctor Smithenstein laughed as he stood.  “Gwahahahaha!”  Did he ever stop laughing? “The time is at hand!” he exclaimed.  “Flower, raise the lightning rod!”

                Flower shuffled across the room, and he watched as the Doctor filled a large syringe with the chemical mixture from the vat.  He placed his hands on the crank and began to wind it as the scientist worked under the sheet on the small creature; blood would be replaced by the chemicals, electrodes connected to its neck.  Flower wound the handle.  It was hard work.  The long metal pole rose higher and higher as he sweat and strained, the skylight opening on cue, as rain drenched him and the stone floor around him.  The storm was getting worse, as expected.  Thunder quickened, lightning arced.  The rod locked into place and Flower stood back.

                “And now, we wait,” grinned the Doctor.  He stared up at the night sky, eager anticipation upon his brow.

                Nothing happened.  Flower watched as Doctor Smithenstein became more and more anxious as the minutes ticked by and more nothing happened; the scientist wrung his hands in the candlelight, struggled to hold his grin, cast regular furtive glances at the dead specimen hidden under the cloth on the table.  The weather was as angry as ever; it had to happen soon!

                And it did!

                Lightning struck the rod with a loud zap, the room flashed with a bright light… and everything went dark, candles blown out by the storm.

The room smelt of blood, or was it just the aroma of electricity?  Thunder rocked overhead, and the only other sounds he could hear were the thrash of the rain and the thrum of his heart.  He held his breath; he didn’t know what to expect.

And then the maniacal laugh broke what remained of the silence.

                “Gwhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”  The Doctor’s face was lit by a small flame, a match.  “I’ve done it!  Life!  I’ve created new life!”

                Flower moved around the room, relighting the candles as the laugh continued, bringing dim light back to the damp lab.  The scientist’s arms remained raised in triumph as the assistant approached the table, ready to see the results of the Doctor’s experiment.

                “Flower,” said Doctor Smithenstein, eyes charged with lightning.  “Remove the sheet, and let us see what magnificence my brilliant mind has wrought.”

                Flower did as he was ordered, whipping away the fabric with the theatrical embellishment expected of him.

                “Oh.”  The Doctor’s shoulders dropped, his hunch hunched lower, and a frown fell down his face.

                On the lab’s table lay the specimen.  Dead.  It had been dead to begin with.  Roadkill.  Flower had felt sorry for it, and that’s why he’d brought its corpse to the Doctor, for a new life, but somehow the baby deer looked even deader than it had been before, with metal bolts in its neck, and stiches on its head and limbs.  It had been enhanced by science and technology, and had been failed by it too.

                The poor creature remained dead.

                Doctor Smithenstein cried out, hand to his forehead like a betrayed lover, and he fell to his knees and sobbed.  “F… Flower… I’m useless.”

                “No sir.”  Flower couldn’t stop looking at the corpse on the table.  Poor thing.

                “Toss the specimen,” bawled the Doctor.  “And take the rest of the night off; I… I… need to be alone.”  He placed his head in his rubber-gloved hands and broke down in further tears.

                Flower knew better than to stay, especially when his boss was in this sort of mood.  He quickly scooped up the dead specimen in his arms, holding the cold baby deer close to his chest, and headed out of the lab and down the tower steps.

                He could hear the Doctor’s manic crying, no longer a laugh, echo through the lonely and empty halls and amongst the sounds of the storm, as he descended further and further down the stone steps.  He felt a little guilty for bringing the deer to the Doctor.  And though it had been dead already, he’d allowed its corpse to be desecrated and mutilated in the hopes that science could resurrect a young creature whose life had been cut short.

                Flower would bury it in the forest; he couldn’t just toss it away like Doctor Smithenstein had suggested.  It deserved better.

                He held the specimen… the baby deer…  tight against himself as he unlatched the door and crept out into the squally night.

                The rain and wind hit him hard, soaking him through as he fought his way into the cover of the trees.  He was cold, freezing.  His boots squelched through the mud, and he struggled to see a clear path.

                Flower tripped in the dark, catching his foot against a stray branch, and the deer fell from his arms.  Its small limp body rolled across the ground before coming to a halt.

                “Noooo!”  He stretched out his arm to the body, but it was just out of reach.  He crawled along the muck toward it.  The little thing deserved more than being left in the rain alone.

                The baby deer twitched.

                Flower stopped in his tracks, rain pouring down his face; he wiped water from his eyes.  Had he imagined it?

                The baby deer’s legs kicked against the forest floor.

                Flower’s jaw dropped.  He could taste the mud, the rain, the electricity in the air.  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing; the Doctor’s experiment had been a success.

                It lived.

                The specimen, the formerly dead creature, clambered unsteadily to its feet.  It appeared to tower over Flower’s prone body, despite its diminutive size.  The baby deer stood proud.  Alive.  Thunder and lightning careened overheard, and for a moment, the bolts and metal stitches glinted in the sudden illumination.

                “You’re alive!”  Flower laughed, fighting the urge to mimic the Doctor’s manic cackles.  “You’re alive!  You’re really alive!”

                At moments like this, he knew what he was expected to do, what he’d been employed to do; he’d need to recapture the specimen and return it to the lab.  But his heart won out.  He couldn’t do what was expected; he had to do what was right.

                “Go,” he said.  He gestured at the baby deer to move.  “Run, run away from here.  Go.  Now!”

                The creature stared at him with a deep intelligence.

                “Go!  Just go!”

                The deer ran.  It stopped several metres away and looked back at Flower.

                Thunder.  Lightning lit up the sky.

                It stood there, and he felt a sudden unease.

                The specimen’s eyes glowed red and it shrieked a blood-curdling cry against the storm.  It disappeared into the night, and Flower’s empathy transformed to terrified regret.

The End.

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Puss in Drawers (short story)

 

Puss in Drawers

(Random 2-word prompt- concern, drawer)

 

                Someone hammered on the front door, and it shook on its hinges.

                “Urgh.”  He buried his head in his pillows, wrapping the duvet tighter around his body.  He’d been dreaming about carousels and eggs and wasn’t ready to move just yet.  It was too early, whatever time it was.

                The hammering returned, but louder and more forceful.

“Urrrggghhh.”  Flower rolled out of bed and crashed to the floor.  It was cold, and it hurt.  “Just a second,” he croaked, or at least tried to; it squeaked out of his throat less like a live frog and more like a dead one.  He spluttered and coughed, forcing out the night’s gunk.  He tried again.  “Two minutes!”  The frog was alive, but on life support.

Sandpaper scraped his nose, and his eyes shot open to see Felix licking his face.  He couldn’t help but smile at the tiny black and white kitten, especially as he’d seemingly abandoned his usual mischievous ways and was being uncommonly loving.

His visitor hammered on the door of his tiny studio apartment once more, and Flower wondered who…

“Shit!”  He jumped to his feet.  The landlord!  “Shit, shit, shit!”  And he wasn’t allowed pets.  “Give me a moment,” he called.  “I’ve just woken.”

Felix mewled loudly.  The cat was hungry; so was Flower.  And he needed to hide Felix ASAP.

His brain worked quicker than he’d expected for this time in the morning, and he managed to kill two birds with one stone… or was it one cat with two stones?  Not that he would ever hurt Felix; Felix was the only good thing in Flower’s life, and he was determined to keep him safe.  And hidden.  He dished up some cat biscuits for the kitten, along with some water, then, after relocating the contents of his sock drawer haphazardly under his bed, he placed the bowls into the drawer.  Felix hopped in and went straight for the food.  He purred.

Cat breakfast.

Flower’s breakfast would have to wait.

The door knocked again.

“Coming,” he called, before turning back to the little cat.  He whispered: “I need you to stay quiet, okay?”  Felix ignored him.  “Please?  Just stay here, okay.  Daddy is not supposed to have you.”  He gripped the handle.  “Sorry, sorry.”  Flower closed the drawer.  “Sorry Felix.”

The kitten sounded content, quiet, no objections from within the chest of drawers.

With hands on his hips, he sighed relief.

Flower headed for his front door; it was only a couple of steps from the bed, and he reached it in less than a second.  He unlatched the lock, and it squealed open on rusted hinges.

The landlord, a tall lanky man with greasy hair, loomed over him.

“Mister Flower,” he growled, pronouncing every syllable between his plastic white teeth.  “Where are your clothes?”

“Shit, sorry Mr Houndsworth.”  He covered his dignity with his hands, “give me a moment,” and slammed the door in the man’s face.

In all the sleepy confusion, and the rush to hide Felix, he’d forgotten something very important.  His dignity.  Oh dear.  Flower threw on some trousers and a shirt and returned to the door.

“Come in, come in.”  He ushered the landlord inside.  It wasn’t a large apartment, just one room with a bed and a kitchen, then a small bathroom off to the side.  He hadn’t tidied up in a few days, he’d been busy, and he’d left dishes in the sink and bits and bobs all over the room.  “Sorry for the mess.”  He wasn’t sorry, but he felt like it was something he should say.  “I had a late night at the restaurant.”

“Just what is it that you do, Mister Flower?”  The landlord hunched closer, his voice full of connotations, and pointed at the shorter man.  “You seem to have a different job every time I speak to you.”

He ignored the question.  “Would you like a coffee?  Or tea?”  He thought it best not to give an answer to Houndsworth; he wouldn’t like what he heard and frankly, it was none of his business.  “How about some water?”

“No, I won’t keep you long Mister Flower.”  His shifty eyes darted around the room, scanning everything, every unwashed plate, every odd sock, every dusty shelf.  “Incidentally, I heard a couple of strange noises while I waited.  Sounded almost like… a cat?  But of course, it couldn’t be a cat, could it, Mister Flower, because pets are not allowed.”

“Uh, it’s just… um… one of the cupboard hinges.”  Flower laughed nervously.  “Like the front door.  It just needs a bit of oil.  Squeaks something terrible.”  He laughed again.

“Which one?  I’ll get my handyman on it right away.”

“No!  Umm.  No,” he said.  “No need to trouble yourself.  I’m sure I’ve got something to fix it somewhere.”  Flower grinned.  “Not to worry.”

Houndsworth’s eyes narrowed.  “If you’re sure…”

“Yes, quite sure.  Very sure.  Certain, in fact.”

Felix meowed from within the drawer.

“What was that?”

“Oh, did I say cupboard? I meant floorboard.”  Flower jiggled his foot up and down; he let out a squeak from the side of his mouth and prayed the landlord didn’t notice his poor imitation.  “See?”  He squeaked again.  “Just needs a little TLC.”

“Hmmm,” murmured the landlord.   “If you say so, Mister Flower.”  He entwined his fingers.  “Any other issues I need to be made aware of?”

“Not that I can think of.”  This visit needed to be over.  Now.  “I’ll call you if anything comes up...  promise.”  He didn’t really understand the purpose of these inspections anyway; it wasn’t as if landlords didn’t find a way out of giving back the deposit at the end of the rental term.  And yet, he still complied with the silly contract… mostly.  Felix was going to stay here with him no matter what, contract be damned.

“What’s that?”  Mr Houndsworth extended a bony finger to the kitchen counter.  “Is that…?”

“Cat food…”  Flower grabbed the packet and hugged it to his chest.  “Yep, it’s cat food.”  He didn’t know what compelled him to do what he did next, maybe desperation, maybe stupidity, but he shoved his hand into the packet, grabbed a fist full of the biscuits and threw them into his mouth.  “My cat food,” he garbled as the dry biscuits soaked up all the moisture in his mouth.  “Yum, so tasty.”  The pellets were a little bland on his tongue, but a strong meaty aroma permeated up the back of his nostrils; he tried not to gag as he chewed on the saliva-drenched chow.

The landlord’s mouth dropped open in reply, an eyebrow raising as if the man’s jaw was on a seesaw with his forehead.

Flower forced himself to swallow.  “Want some?” he croaked.  He struggled to keep it down.

“What… I… No.”  Mr Houndsworth’s face turned green.  “Excuse me…I… I need to…” He darted into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

The noises from within the other room triggered a response in Flower and he vomited into his own kitchen sink, dirtying the unwashed dishes further.  He swilled his mouth with water.  Several times.  But couldn’t get the taste from his tongue, and some soggy chunks persisted between his teeth.  Urgh.

Felix was worth it.

He took the opportunity to check on the little kitten, while Houndsworth was occupied, and slid open the drawer.  The cat was asleep and safe, the vile food he’d been given consumed; he stirred at his owner’s presence.  Felix meowed.  He wanted attention.

“Just a little longer,” whispered Flower.  He pet the kitten behind the ear.  “And then you can come out.  Promise.”

The cat raised its nose, sniffing the air; Felix could obviously smell the cat food on Flower’s breath.  He couldn’t help but laugh in reply.

“It’s okay, Daddy’s not gonna steal your food,” he said.  He kissed Felix on top of his head.  “I just had a little taste, that’s all.”  It was a taste he would never forget.  He tickled the kitten under the chin.  “Be a good boy, yeah?”

Flower closed the drawer, slowly and carefully, and just in time to hear the toilet flush.  He moved to the centre of the room, hands behind his back and fought the urge to whistle nonchalantly.

Mr Houndsworth lurched back into the room, shoulders hunched, and face drawn.  His eyes narrowed, and he glared down his nose at the short man.  “Mister Flower,” he intoned, “are you sure don’t have a cat here?  There is something suspicious going on.”

“No sir.”

“Then why do you…”  The landlord put his hand to his mouth and swallowed hard.  “…why do you eat…?”

“The cat food?”  Flower forced a grin; he could still feel the stuff in his teeth.  “I’ve liked it since I was a kid,” he lied.  “Can’t get enough.”

“Hmmm.”  The tall man’s brow furrowed.

“You don’t believe me?”  Flower’s stomach swirled.  “I… I could eat some more.  If you want me to?”  He heard something thump in his chest of drawers and found himself suddenly sweating; he could sense that Felix was about to go on a mischievous rampage and get him caught out.

Houndsworth sighed.  “No,” he snapped.  “But if I find that you’ve been lying to me, I will…”

“I would never!”  Flower needed to get rid of the other man immediately.  “Is that all?  I’m sorry, Mr Houndsworth, but I need to get on with my day.”

“Fine.”  The man begun to turn to leave but…

“Wait!”  Flower noticed something by the front door, something that wasn’t meant to be there.

“What is it?”  The landlord paused.

“I… I…”  A small black and white furball had escaped his prison and was sat next to the door frame.  Felix was cleaning himself, unbothered, with one eye watching the drama unfold.  “Can you take a look at the cupboard door for me?  The one I told you was squeaking?  I think it might be the hinge.”

“I thought you said it was…”

“While I’ve got you here.”  Flower grabbed Houndsworth and pulled the tall man down to the unit beneath the kitchen sink.  He flung open the doors.  “It’s this one here; it doesn’t seem to be on correctly.”  He pointed at one of the hinges; it didn’t matter which one.  “If you could just take a quick look?”

Flower peered over the landlord’s arched back and checked on the kitten.

Shit.

Felix had gone.

Flower’s eyes frantically scanned his apartment, searching over and around the messy floors and surfaces.  Where was he hiding?  What was he doing?  If Houndsworth saw him, Flower would be in big trouble!  Maybe he’d imagined Felix by the front door, maybe he was still safely back in the drawer.  Maybe.  Probably not.

He didn’t notice the landlord had been speaking to him.

“Pardon?” he said.

“I said it all looks fine to me, Mister Flower.  It’s not even squeaking.”

“Oh.”  Where was that damn kitten?  “Thanks.”

Mr Houndsworth unfolded upwards, and Flower heard the man’s joints click and clack as he straightened out and faced him.  “Anything else?” he snarled.

“No sir.”  And then he saw it.  His mischievous little beast was tight-roping along the edge of the sink behind Mr Houndsworth’s back.  If the cat had emerged just a few seconds earlier, he would’ve been caught just as the landlord stood.  “I… er… can’t think of anything.”  He took hold of the lanky man’s arm and yanked him to front door.  “Let me see you out.”

“Hey, watch it, Mister Flower!”  He shook off the short man.  “I don’t need an escort.”

Flower stepped in front of the be-kittened sink just as the landlord turned toward him; the view was blocked.  “Apologies.”

“You’re acting very strange, Mister Flower.”  Mr Houndsworth’s eyes narrowed, something they’d done quite a lot since he’d arrived; perhaps the man needed glasses.  His expression was accompanied by a frown.  “But everything appears to be in order.”

“I’m just tired,” he replied.  “Arrrgghhh!” Needles clawed into his back, climbing and clinging to his shirt, pricking the skin beneath.  Felix!  “Just cramp, urgh.”  He gritted his teeth.  The kitten might be cute, but he was being a bastard right now.  “I’m… ok.”  He wasn’t.

“Hmmm.”  Flower didn’t think Houndsworth’s face could scrunch up anymore, but it did.  “If you say so, Mister Flower.”  His features unclenched.

Flower nodded.  Felix continued to crawl, centimetre by centimetre, and he could feel his eye twitch as he tried to hide the pain.

“Don’t forget about your rent on Saturday.”  The landlord opened the front door and stepped outside into the hall.  “I don’t want you to get behind again.”

“Mmhmm.”  Felix had reached his shoulder blades; it would only be a couple of seconds before he breached his shoulders and emerged in full view of Houndsworth.

“Understood?”

“Mmhmm,” Flower repeated; fur tickled the back of his neck.  “See you… Sat… urday.”  He closed the door in Mr Houndsworth’s face, cutting off the landlord’s farewells.

The ordeal was over… until next month’s inspection.

Flower let out a long sigh.  He reached behind him, gently removed Felix from his shirt and hugged the little black and white kitten close to his chest.

“Good boy.”  He planted several kisses on top of Felix’s head; the cat meowed with each one.  “You’re safe now.”

“Mister Flower,” called a suspicious voice from outside.  Shit.  The landlord, he was still just beyond the door and must’ve heard everything.  “Was that a cat?”

Felix meowed a reply... it was a squeaky floorboard.

The End.

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