So I'm considering entering a short story contest -- to any who've read any of my previous flash (esp if you've any experience with this sort of thing...), favourites? Thoughts? Recommendations? They can be expanded/developed a bit as the contest word count is higher than for flash... No guidelines or genres stated.
And now back to our regularly scheduled program:
----
Flash Fiction 23: City Meets Country
The snow fell gently as she looked at her vehicle in disgust. The stunning beauty of the large flakes and the perfect quiet of the scene seemed to heap insult upon injury. The teenage girl kicked the tire in futile frustration and muttered language that her grandmother would’ve washed her mouth out with soap for. It was bad enough she had to spend winter break in the country with her grandparents when all her friends were going to Florida, but now this.
In the distance she heard the guttural sounds of a diesel engine; shortly a truck that had seen better days before she’d been born pulled past her and stopped. Anxiety over years of warnings about strangers warred with hope that this person might be able to help – or at least have a cell phone whose battery wasn’t dead.
The young man got out of the truck and smiled kindly, “What can I do to help?”
“Know anything about cars?” she asked, hopefully.
“You see what I drive?” he asked with a grin.
“It died,” she explained, informatively. Realizing a bit more information might be required she added that it had been driving fine, she had stopped at the intersection and when she tried to start again it went a few feet and then sputtered to a stop.
Within minutes he had his truck turned around and hooked up to hers. They heard another car approaching and watched as a second truck pulled up. A window rolled down, “truck die again Jake?” the passenger asked teasingly.
“Yes Ma’am, this young lady kindly stopped to give me a hand.”
“Well now dear, that was very nice of you.” The woman commented before turning serious, “you ok here on your own with Jake?” Jake somehow didn’t seem the least bit offended by the comment.
“I’m fine,” she told her, hoping she was right, “thank you though.”
“Alright then,” she said as she rolled up her window and the unseen driver drove away.
“Try it now,” Jake told her. Sure enough when she turned the key, it zoomed back to life.
“You’ll be ok as long as you don’t have to stop,” he told her. “Are you going far?” She thanked him profusely and told him not to worry, she wasn’t going far. “I’ll just follow you, to make sure you make it ok,” he told her.
Years of warnings surfaced again; was it really a good idea to let him follow her to where she was going? What if he was some sort of psycho? But then, if he’d wanted to harm her, he probably would’ve already done so. Right? But she quickly realized that either way, there was no way she could stop him. Thanking him again, she got in her car and drove off, being careful not to actually stop at any of the intersections she came to – fortunately there was only her car and the pickup on the road.
When she got to her grandparent’s farm and pulled in the lane, the pickup slowed and then with a quick honk of the horn was gone. And for just a moment, she wished he'd come back.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Flash Fiction #22 - Cassandra's Story
Labels:
#fridayflash,
Magical Realism
3
comments
Her fingers flying she typed her memoir of things that hadn't technically happened yet. They thought she was crazy; she hoped they were right. But just in case they weren't, she wanted a record.
Writing in past tense, for in her mind the horrific chain of events had already unfolded, she wrote of the ice war between Canada and Iceland that would change the shape of the world forever.
"No wonder they think I'm crazy," she mutter to herself, "two of the world's supporting cast causing a global catastrophe? Never going to happen." But in her heart, she feared she wasn't crazy.
She wrote of spies and super-spies, those determined to save the world and those determined to exploit it. She named names. And times. And dates -- where she could remember them. History of war had never interested her, but suddenly she wished she had a head for dates. It could be important some day.
She wrote of the large corporation slowly and quietly buying up large portions of each country, and she wrote of the lone environmentalist trying to stop them. Her daughter. Who had less interest in the environment than her pet cat. And who thought she was crazy.
Lastly she wrote of the one who saw it all happening from a distance, as though watching a horrific play. And how the key players couldn't afford an audience. And she hoped she was crazy.
She heard the unmistakable click of a revolver behind her, and as she instinctively hit send her last thought was "I wish I really was crazy; just this once."
Writing in past tense, for in her mind the horrific chain of events had already unfolded, she wrote of the ice war between Canada and Iceland that would change the shape of the world forever.
"No wonder they think I'm crazy," she mutter to herself, "two of the world's supporting cast causing a global catastrophe? Never going to happen." But in her heart, she feared she wasn't crazy.
She wrote of spies and super-spies, those determined to save the world and those determined to exploit it. She named names. And times. And dates -- where she could remember them. History of war had never interested her, but suddenly she wished she had a head for dates. It could be important some day.
She wrote of the large corporation slowly and quietly buying up large portions of each country, and she wrote of the lone environmentalist trying to stop them. Her daughter. Who had less interest in the environment than her pet cat. And who thought she was crazy.
Lastly she wrote of the one who saw it all happening from a distance, as though watching a horrific play. And how the key players couldn't afford an audience. And she hoped she was crazy.
She heard the unmistakable click of a revolver behind her, and as she instinctively hit send her last thought was "I wish I really was crazy; just this once."
Friday, January 15, 2010
Flash Fiction #21: What the Kookaburra Saw
Labels:
#fridayflash,
Magical Realism
2
comments
I was walking by the pet store with my fiancée when I heard the kookaburra's mocking laugh and was instantly reminded the day my mother first told me I was a witch.
"We have to talk," she informed me. At thirteen, I'd already long since learned to fear those words, although in this case I'd been fully expecting her to tell me she was getting remarried. Again. I didn't remember my real father, and I'd had seven stepfathers already so I wasn't particularly concerned anymore. The various fathers would come and go, but in the end it was always going to be just Mom and me.
We were on vacation, enjoying every minute of our stay on the Sunshine Coast of Australia. Sitting on our rented veranda overlooking the ocean as the sun set behind us, the bird in the garden laughed at my mother’s statement. Perhaps he knew what was coming; I certainly didn't.
"I'm a witch," she told me. Short, simple and to the point. Always. "And so are you," she added. I didn't have a clue how to respond to that. Really, what was I supposed to think when my perfectly normal if endearingly flaky mother announced that she was a witch? The bird repeated his shrill laugh.
"It runs through the women in our family," she continued as though we were discussing a unique hair colour, "you'll probably start to discover your skills in the next couple years, and I just wanted you to be aware. Grandma never told me and finding out was... well... a bit of a shock to say the least." I wondered idly if she had just revealed to me the source of animosity between her and her mother. My mother was looking at me for a response, but what could I say?
"Skills?" I asked, choosing the simplest thing I could think of.
"Most of us have a smattering of all the skills, but everyone I know is particularly strong in one. Grandma was a telepath, although she'd never acknowledge it. Aunt Ally is both an empath and a healer -- she can literally feel what other people feel, and has the ability to heal both physical and emotional problems. Hers is a powerful but very difficult skill to live with. My skill is magic. Old-fashioned magic."
"Magic?" I asked, with a level of scorn and doubt only teenagers are capable of. Usually I would've been in serious trouble for speaking to my mother that way, but with a strange half smile she let it go. I shivered as the wind picked up and the kookaburra laughed.
"Watch," she said, and blowing gently across the palm of her hand, a flame suddenly lit. She tossed it to the wind, and we watched it swirl around, this one little flame being lifted, swirled and dropped much like a fall leaf. She held out her hand and the flame returned to it like a trained bird and vanished at the same moment the wind died.
She looked at me and I carefully kept my face blank, determined to display the apathy required for my age. She raised her arms and seconds later was sitting on the roof, her feet dangling over the side. She tilted her head to the side and suddenly I was beside her, and all attempts at indifference were abandoned. I clutched the edge of the roof and looked at my mother with a mix of fear and awe. And suddenly I had a million questions.
She laughed delightedly at my enthusiasm, thrilled to finally be able to share with me that which set her apart from the rest of the world. We spoke through the night, sitting on that roof-top on the other side of the world. And as the sun rose in front of us and the Kookaburra sounded his cheerful twitter again, this time I felt I could laugh with him.
"We have to talk," she informed me. At thirteen, I'd already long since learned to fear those words, although in this case I'd been fully expecting her to tell me she was getting remarried. Again. I didn't remember my real father, and I'd had seven stepfathers already so I wasn't particularly concerned anymore. The various fathers would come and go, but in the end it was always going to be just Mom and me.
We were on vacation, enjoying every minute of our stay on the Sunshine Coast of Australia. Sitting on our rented veranda overlooking the ocean as the sun set behind us, the bird in the garden laughed at my mother’s statement. Perhaps he knew what was coming; I certainly didn't.
"I'm a witch," she told me. Short, simple and to the point. Always. "And so are you," she added. I didn't have a clue how to respond to that. Really, what was I supposed to think when my perfectly normal if endearingly flaky mother announced that she was a witch? The bird repeated his shrill laugh.
"It runs through the women in our family," she continued as though we were discussing a unique hair colour, "you'll probably start to discover your skills in the next couple years, and I just wanted you to be aware. Grandma never told me and finding out was... well... a bit of a shock to say the least." I wondered idly if she had just revealed to me the source of animosity between her and her mother. My mother was looking at me for a response, but what could I say?
"Skills?" I asked, choosing the simplest thing I could think of.
"Most of us have a smattering of all the skills, but everyone I know is particularly strong in one. Grandma was a telepath, although she'd never acknowledge it. Aunt Ally is both an empath and a healer -- she can literally feel what other people feel, and has the ability to heal both physical and emotional problems. Hers is a powerful but very difficult skill to live with. My skill is magic. Old-fashioned magic."
"Magic?" I asked, with a level of scorn and doubt only teenagers are capable of. Usually I would've been in serious trouble for speaking to my mother that way, but with a strange half smile she let it go. I shivered as the wind picked up and the kookaburra laughed.
"Watch," she said, and blowing gently across the palm of her hand, a flame suddenly lit. She tossed it to the wind, and we watched it swirl around, this one little flame being lifted, swirled and dropped much like a fall leaf. She held out her hand and the flame returned to it like a trained bird and vanished at the same moment the wind died.
She looked at me and I carefully kept my face blank, determined to display the apathy required for my age. She raised her arms and seconds later was sitting on the roof, her feet dangling over the side. She tilted her head to the side and suddenly I was beside her, and all attempts at indifference were abandoned. I clutched the edge of the roof and looked at my mother with a mix of fear and awe. And suddenly I had a million questions.
She laughed delightedly at my enthusiasm, thrilled to finally be able to share with me that which set her apart from the rest of the world. We spoke through the night, sitting on that roof-top on the other side of the world. And as the sun rose in front of us and the Kookaburra sounded his cheerful twitter again, this time I felt I could laugh with him.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Flash Fiction 20: Variations of the Truth
Labels:
#fridayflash,
Slice of Life
5
comments
Awwww there’s one fewer “Truly Intelligent Person” in the world today. So very sad :(
Anyway – today’s challenge was one first put to me by one of the more interesting profs I had in my undergrad years. “Write your paper without using any form of ‘to be’.” I remember that being quite the challenge, so thought I see if I could make legible, enjoyable fiction following that same rule. Let me know if I pulled it off :) And then, if you’re looking for a challenge, try it yourself! I actually found it easier in fiction than academia, but I also have several more years of writing experience now too so that *might* make a difference.
Thanks for reading!
----------------------
Variations of the Truth
"Don't even ask," I told my coworker as I hobbled into the room. She looked at me with a laugh and raised eyebrows.
"Marc told me to go jump off a cliff, so I went base jumping," I told her straight faced; a perfectly logical explanation. In somebody else’s world perhaps. "Didn't land well." I finished.
"So I see," she said, knowing the details as I’d described them didn’t likely occur in precisely that fashion, but willing to play the game that amused us both.
But Jamie, poor Jamie, the third person in our now three-person business, still didn't understand the games Ally and I played and had the disturbing tendency to take us seriously. "Carrie! You could’ve died! What happened?"
"Well," I started, unable to resist the challenge and sticking as close to the truth as I possibly could under the circumstances, " a bunch of us hiked up the steps carved into Baker Hill; everybody else seemed so cheerful about it, but to me it seemed just like a workout."
Jamie looked at me knowingly, "who do you jump with?" he asked.
"The others didn't jump," I clarified, "they came from some exercise club. I just happened to run into them on the trek up. They had planned on doing some yoga type exercises at the top, then I guess hiking back down. I watched the start of the yoga, but since I really don’t care for it I continued off by myself. A thick coating of mud covered the rest of the path to the point it resembled an obstacle course -- I had to jump from rock to rock, and even slipped off one particularly nasty one; I should definitely have considered that a sign to stop."
"Oh Carrie, you had a sign like that and you didn't go back?" Ally tried to play along but it came out sounding false, at least to my ears. She could never pull off surprise parties either, for the same reason. I turned slightly so Jamie couldn't see me roll my eyes at her.
"Anyways, I got my chute all set and took a running leap off the face, but I misjudged the distance and landed just a little short. Not so badly as to do any serious damage, thankfully, but I sprained my ankle and now I have to hobble about on these." I finished, waving a crutch in the air.
At that Ally lost it entirely, laughing so hard tears ran down her face. Really, I didn't think my story seemed *that* funny, and Jamie looked utterly appalled at her behaviour.
"Sorry Care, but I just figured out what happened. You told the truth!”
“And that’s funny?” I asked, playing my role well.
“I can picture every single movement of it. Because I've done it! Including the flying leap that landed short. However, I followed the instructions. And that made all the difference."
"Instructions?" Jamie asked dubiously, finally cluing in to the fact that perhaps the details of my story lacked a little accuracy.
Jamie looked at me curiously while Ally tried to contain herself enough to explain. I simply shrugged, trying my best to look as though I had no idea whatsoever what she thought.
"The instructions," she started, still giggling, "at the start of the obstacle course state very clearly 'Do not jump on the wii balance board'. Carrie clearly missed that rule."
I looked at Jamie, somewhat apologetically. "She's right," I told him with a shrug.
He looked at me silently for a moment, trying to decided whether he felt angry at being played. "Next time Carrie," Jamie started with his frustration evident in his voice, "if you're going to jump off a cliff, find a cliff -- you clearly need a longer time to get your feet under you!"
"Now shall we get to work ladies?" Jamie asked, with half a smile indicating he had accepted his role as audience-participant with good grace. Perhaps he would fit in after all.
Anyway – today’s challenge was one first put to me by one of the more interesting profs I had in my undergrad years. “Write your paper without using any form of ‘to be’.” I remember that being quite the challenge, so thought I see if I could make legible, enjoyable fiction following that same rule. Let me know if I pulled it off :) And then, if you’re looking for a challenge, try it yourself! I actually found it easier in fiction than academia, but I also have several more years of writing experience now too so that *might* make a difference.
Thanks for reading!
----------------------
Variations of the Truth
"Don't even ask," I told my coworker as I hobbled into the room. She looked at me with a laugh and raised eyebrows.
"Marc told me to go jump off a cliff, so I went base jumping," I told her straight faced; a perfectly logical explanation. In somebody else’s world perhaps. "Didn't land well." I finished.
"So I see," she said, knowing the details as I’d described them didn’t likely occur in precisely that fashion, but willing to play the game that amused us both.
But Jamie, poor Jamie, the third person in our now three-person business, still didn't understand the games Ally and I played and had the disturbing tendency to take us seriously. "Carrie! You could’ve died! What happened?"
"Well," I started, unable to resist the challenge and sticking as close to the truth as I possibly could under the circumstances, " a bunch of us hiked up the steps carved into Baker Hill; everybody else seemed so cheerful about it, but to me it seemed just like a workout."
Jamie looked at me knowingly, "who do you jump with?" he asked.
"The others didn't jump," I clarified, "they came from some exercise club. I just happened to run into them on the trek up. They had planned on doing some yoga type exercises at the top, then I guess hiking back down. I watched the start of the yoga, but since I really don’t care for it I continued off by myself. A thick coating of mud covered the rest of the path to the point it resembled an obstacle course -- I had to jump from rock to rock, and even slipped off one particularly nasty one; I should definitely have considered that a sign to stop."
"Oh Carrie, you had a sign like that and you didn't go back?" Ally tried to play along but it came out sounding false, at least to my ears. She could never pull off surprise parties either, for the same reason. I turned slightly so Jamie couldn't see me roll my eyes at her.
"Anyways, I got my chute all set and took a running leap off the face, but I misjudged the distance and landed just a little short. Not so badly as to do any serious damage, thankfully, but I sprained my ankle and now I have to hobble about on these." I finished, waving a crutch in the air.
At that Ally lost it entirely, laughing so hard tears ran down her face. Really, I didn't think my story seemed *that* funny, and Jamie looked utterly appalled at her behaviour.
"Sorry Care, but I just figured out what happened. You told the truth!”
“And that’s funny?” I asked, playing my role well.
“I can picture every single movement of it. Because I've done it! Including the flying leap that landed short. However, I followed the instructions. And that made all the difference."
"Instructions?" Jamie asked dubiously, finally cluing in to the fact that perhaps the details of my story lacked a little accuracy.
Jamie looked at me curiously while Ally tried to contain herself enough to explain. I simply shrugged, trying my best to look as though I had no idea whatsoever what she thought.
"The instructions," she started, still giggling, "at the start of the obstacle course state very clearly 'Do not jump on the wii balance board'. Carrie clearly missed that rule."
I looked at Jamie, somewhat apologetically. "She's right," I told him with a shrug.
He looked at me silently for a moment, trying to decided whether he felt angry at being played. "Next time Carrie," Jamie started with his frustration evident in his voice, "if you're going to jump off a cliff, find a cliff -- you clearly need a longer time to get your feet under you!"
"Now shall we get to work ladies?" Jamie asked, with half a smile indicating he had accepted his role as audience-participant with good grace. Perhaps he would fit in after all.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Flash Fiction 19 – An Average Life
Labels:
#fridayflash,
Magical Realism
6
comments
Ok so I pushed the word count a bit with this one. I even know what sections I *should* cut – but I’m rather attached to them, so they’re staying :) I hope you’ll read and enjoy anyways!
For those who've been here before -- what do you think of the new template? Server where the old images were hosted disappeared so I had to start over. Lesson learned!
Wishing you and your loved ones a fresh year of magic and miracles!
-----
An Average Life
It was New Year’s Eve. I was 25 years old and the world was mine for the taking. And I was alone.
The snow fell softly outside my window, lit by the vibrant lights of a town that was not mine. I was here to study history. Learning about a time that fascinated me, in the culture that arose out of it. I was an ok student, eager to learn and with grades strong enough to get into grad school. Barely. I’d been in the second round of acceptances and I knew it. Somebody else had had to decline in order for me to have a spot. Maybe several sombodies. But I was in – the hard part was over. And while I rarely had anything brilliant to say, I knew enough to keep my mouth shut and avoid revealing my ignorance. Through that, I came to be known as the quiet girl, but one who was worth listening to when she spoke. Yeah, I was surprised at that too; happy, but surprised.
I was afraid to leave the academic world. For while I was merely average here, I was afraid of being far less out there. My abilities were no match for my dreams. So when the opportunity to do post-grad work in France arose, I took it. I would never have gotten in had my peers applied; fortunately for me, the medieval studies department is run by academics, not marketing whizzes and nobody else knew about it.
So this is how I came to be alone, far from home, on New Year’s Eve. I didn’t have any friends – only acquaintances of the smile and nod variety. Theoretically we were working together; realistically all hoping to be the first to find and publish. Publish or perish – rule one of the academic world. Publish documents nobody outside would ever read or care less about, yet it all seemed critically important to those on the inside. And the few of us who saw it for the game it was? Well it was a game we chose to play, so we too followed the rules. After all, being average here was still pretty good – and there was never any shortage of intelligent conversation to eavesdrop on.
I sat up till midnight – even though it was just another night – watching the snow fall and contemplating life as it was, as it had been, and as it would be. Or could be. Maybe. The clock struck twelve, and I heard a knock at the door. I stared at it in disbelief – as though puzzling about it would reveal who was on the other side.
Convincing myself I had misheard, nonetheless I went and opened it. And was surprised at the crushing level of disappointment when there was nobody there. A knock at midnight. Right. Not in my world. Blinking back the tears of heartache that threatened to come, I almost missed the little package resting off to the side. Almost.
I picked up the wrapped box – although the wrapping was unlike any paper I’d ever seen. Almost metallic, it reflected the light in ways that made the paper appear to be made of liquid. There was a card attached and I opened it as I stepped back into my apartment.
“A lost soul,” I translated as I read, for it was written in a dialect of old French that few would be able to comprehend today, “sometimes, cannot find its place until its place is ready to be found.” Ok so that was weird.
I started to open the package, and as I did the strange wrapping fell away and disappeared. No, that’s not quite right – it’s more like it soaked into the carpet, much like spilt water. I could see where it went, but I couldn’t pick it up again, and after a few moments it faded, until all that could be seen was my ratty old carpet.
I looked at the box a little apprehensively after the mysterious vanishing paper trick, but excitement won out over caution and I opened it to reveal a necklace. A pendant, beautiful in its simplicity, appeared to be of Celtic origin. The chain it was on looked like silver but was so fine it felt like a piece of tinsel.
I picked the pendant up gently. It felt warm in my hands, and though it appeared tarnished, it was highly reflective, presenting a distorted view of my apartment. Ever so carefully, I tested the weight of it on the chain it came with. It seemed to hold. I did it up around my neck to find it fit just right.
I wandered to look in the mirror, tracing the unusual shape with my baby finger, as one might caress the scars of a loved one. The heat of the pendant on my chest warmed me straight through and the sensual tracing became hypnotic as the reflection in the mirror changed.
My apartment slowly disappeared from the mirror while I watched. It showed my walls becoming forests; my dying plants took on new life; my couch became a lake and the coffee table its beach. It was nighttime and my overhead light transformed into a moon. High above, yes, and yet so much closer and larger than I had ever seen it.
Gradually my reflection faded too – replaced by what, I couldn’t tell. The reflection was dulled until all that remained was the vision of the pendant. And with a blink, it was gone.
I looked around to find myself in a world that I almost knew. The colours were straight out of my dreams; close to normal but far more vibrant and alive.
I looked into the lake my couch had become and saw the moonlight reflected. A lightening bug danced out in front of me. There seemed to be a pattern to his movements, but at first I could not discern what it was; eventually I recognized the same script that was on the card.
“What do you want to see?” the little creature spelled out. My hand reached of its own accord toward the moonlit water while I pondered the question.
In a flash I was taken back to the time when the language of the lightening bug was the common tongue. The times I’d read and dreamed about became real, and I quickly learned that nothing I’d read or dreamed had come close.
I sat for months watching the years go by. I lived the lives of kings and peasants. I loved and I lost. I found disturbing similarities between their lives and ours, and differences so vast it astonished me that one culture sprang from the other.
But then, one day, something triggered a thought of home and the vision on the lake changed dramatically. I saw my own life, from the outside. I saw what had been, what was, and what could be. And I no longer felt so lost.
My eyes were scratchy, as though I’d left my contacts in too long. I was back in my apartment and my baby finger was still tracing the pattern of the necklace, which was no longer there.
I’d learned enough about the culture I’d come to study to write papers that would send the academic world spinning, and might even interest the outside world. And write them I did – but it would take several years to find enough proof so that I could publish. Suddenly my studies had focus and passion and no longer seemed like a game. And once out there, my papers held up to all peer reviews. Of course I couldn’t exactly reveal my sources, but by then I had others to back me up.
From this I found the life I’d been looking for. Making history come alive for others as it had for me. And while I never did leave the academic world, within it I found friends, family and a home. An average life, perhaps, but one worth living.
For those who've been here before -- what do you think of the new template? Server where the old images were hosted disappeared so I had to start over. Lesson learned!
Wishing you and your loved ones a fresh year of magic and miracles!
-----
An Average Life
It was New Year’s Eve. I was 25 years old and the world was mine for the taking. And I was alone.
The snow fell softly outside my window, lit by the vibrant lights of a town that was not mine. I was here to study history. Learning about a time that fascinated me, in the culture that arose out of it. I was an ok student, eager to learn and with grades strong enough to get into grad school. Barely. I’d been in the second round of acceptances and I knew it. Somebody else had had to decline in order for me to have a spot. Maybe several sombodies. But I was in – the hard part was over. And while I rarely had anything brilliant to say, I knew enough to keep my mouth shut and avoid revealing my ignorance. Through that, I came to be known as the quiet girl, but one who was worth listening to when she spoke. Yeah, I was surprised at that too; happy, but surprised.
I was afraid to leave the academic world. For while I was merely average here, I was afraid of being far less out there. My abilities were no match for my dreams. So when the opportunity to do post-grad work in France arose, I took it. I would never have gotten in had my peers applied; fortunately for me, the medieval studies department is run by academics, not marketing whizzes and nobody else knew about it.
So this is how I came to be alone, far from home, on New Year’s Eve. I didn’t have any friends – only acquaintances of the smile and nod variety. Theoretically we were working together; realistically all hoping to be the first to find and publish. Publish or perish – rule one of the academic world. Publish documents nobody outside would ever read or care less about, yet it all seemed critically important to those on the inside. And the few of us who saw it for the game it was? Well it was a game we chose to play, so we too followed the rules. After all, being average here was still pretty good – and there was never any shortage of intelligent conversation to eavesdrop on.
I sat up till midnight – even though it was just another night – watching the snow fall and contemplating life as it was, as it had been, and as it would be. Or could be. Maybe. The clock struck twelve, and I heard a knock at the door. I stared at it in disbelief – as though puzzling about it would reveal who was on the other side.
Convincing myself I had misheard, nonetheless I went and opened it. And was surprised at the crushing level of disappointment when there was nobody there. A knock at midnight. Right. Not in my world. Blinking back the tears of heartache that threatened to come, I almost missed the little package resting off to the side. Almost.
I picked up the wrapped box – although the wrapping was unlike any paper I’d ever seen. Almost metallic, it reflected the light in ways that made the paper appear to be made of liquid. There was a card attached and I opened it as I stepped back into my apartment.
“A lost soul,” I translated as I read, for it was written in a dialect of old French that few would be able to comprehend today, “sometimes, cannot find its place until its place is ready to be found.” Ok so that was weird.
I started to open the package, and as I did the strange wrapping fell away and disappeared. No, that’s not quite right – it’s more like it soaked into the carpet, much like spilt water. I could see where it went, but I couldn’t pick it up again, and after a few moments it faded, until all that could be seen was my ratty old carpet.
I looked at the box a little apprehensively after the mysterious vanishing paper trick, but excitement won out over caution and I opened it to reveal a necklace. A pendant, beautiful in its simplicity, appeared to be of Celtic origin. The chain it was on looked like silver but was so fine it felt like a piece of tinsel.
I picked the pendant up gently. It felt warm in my hands, and though it appeared tarnished, it was highly reflective, presenting a distorted view of my apartment. Ever so carefully, I tested the weight of it on the chain it came with. It seemed to hold. I did it up around my neck to find it fit just right.
I wandered to look in the mirror, tracing the unusual shape with my baby finger, as one might caress the scars of a loved one. The heat of the pendant on my chest warmed me straight through and the sensual tracing became hypnotic as the reflection in the mirror changed.
My apartment slowly disappeared from the mirror while I watched. It showed my walls becoming forests; my dying plants took on new life; my couch became a lake and the coffee table its beach. It was nighttime and my overhead light transformed into a moon. High above, yes, and yet so much closer and larger than I had ever seen it.
Gradually my reflection faded too – replaced by what, I couldn’t tell. The reflection was dulled until all that remained was the vision of the pendant. And with a blink, it was gone.
I looked around to find myself in a world that I almost knew. The colours were straight out of my dreams; close to normal but far more vibrant and alive.
I looked into the lake my couch had become and saw the moonlight reflected. A lightening bug danced out in front of me. There seemed to be a pattern to his movements, but at first I could not discern what it was; eventually I recognized the same script that was on the card.
“What do you want to see?” the little creature spelled out. My hand reached of its own accord toward the moonlit water while I pondered the question.
In a flash I was taken back to the time when the language of the lightening bug was the common tongue. The times I’d read and dreamed about became real, and I quickly learned that nothing I’d read or dreamed had come close.
I sat for months watching the years go by. I lived the lives of kings and peasants. I loved and I lost. I found disturbing similarities between their lives and ours, and differences so vast it astonished me that one culture sprang from the other.
But then, one day, something triggered a thought of home and the vision on the lake changed dramatically. I saw my own life, from the outside. I saw what had been, what was, and what could be. And I no longer felt so lost.
My eyes were scratchy, as though I’d left my contacts in too long. I was back in my apartment and my baby finger was still tracing the pattern of the necklace, which was no longer there.
I’d learned enough about the culture I’d come to study to write papers that would send the academic world spinning, and might even interest the outside world. And write them I did – but it would take several years to find enough proof so that I could publish. Suddenly my studies had focus and passion and no longer seemed like a game. And once out there, my papers held up to all peer reviews. Of course I couldn’t exactly reveal my sources, but by then I had others to back me up.
From this I found the life I’d been looking for. Making history come alive for others as it had for me. And while I never did leave the academic world, within it I found friends, family and a home. An average life, perhaps, but one worth living.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Flash Fiction 18: The Christmas Gift
Labels:
#fridayflash,
Slice of Life
3
comments
For those of you interested in the horse side of things, a good Christmas story (not mine :) on the GRS Blog.
Merry Christmas all - and an amazing new year!
Thanks for reading!
Cheers,
Laur
------
The Christmas Gift:
I watched as my brother, this year's Santa, handed her the gift I had chosen; I'd been looking forward to this moment since I'd found it in June. She was my best friend, and keeping it a secret so long had been incredibly difficult -- I'd had to force myself to forget all about it so that I wouldn't slip up. Fortunately I'd remembered in time to wrap it; if only I could apply that skill to exams!
But I’d have to be patient a while longer yet. My mother put the gift aside. She had a small pile growing, since she preferred to watch us unwrap our gifts to opening her own. And she had no idea that that box contained something special. I waited, feigning excitement over my own gifts while watching her open the others. A scarf, some books, jewelry. Nothing like what I'd found.
Finally she had my gift in hand. She unwrapped it mindlessly, far more interested in my brother's reaction to his new skis. He'd been so disappointed when they hadn't appeared under the tree, but accepted that they just couldn't afford them; it made it all the more wonderful when he opened the little box that told him where he could find his real gift in the basement. I could understand why she wanted to see that; I wanted to see it too.
But now he had his skis and Dad was bouncing for the opportunity to play with his new gadget. And finally she opened the box in front of her. The last gift of the day. She pulled it out and there was a moment's hesitation before she realized what it was.
She looked at me. The room was chaos, but between us there was silence. She had tears in her eyes, which was not the reaction I'd anticipated. I'd thought I'd found the perfect music box; just the style she'd seemed to prefer. Her collection was extensive, but they were similar -- this one combined the best traits of all of them. Or so I'd thought.
"Where did you find this?" she asked. Her whispered voice inaudible in the noisy room, but her eyes making the question clear. I went and sat next to her on the couch rapidly explaining about the little flee market I'd found in Port Elgin and how it was buried at the bottom of a box in a random corner of an antiques booth. And I knew it wasn't really antique but I thought it would go so well with her collection. And I really thought she'd like it. And did she notice the detail in the silver? and what did she think of... Well I was speaking way too fast and in circles, but I was confused and worried that my perfect gift that I'd kept secret for so long had somehow upset her.
"Come with me,” she said, rising. I followed, curious. "Girl moment," she told my dad with a smile when he questioned our departure.
She led me up to the master bathroom and opened the jewelry box I'd seen a million times growing up. From it she retrieved a tiny key; the type you'd see on a young girl's diary. She sat down on the edge of the tub and I went beside her, a million questions on the tip of my tongue and somehow enough strength not to ask them. She opened the lid of the music box and winding the knob on the base caused the dancers to swirl around to the sound of Haydn’s Cello Concerto. She watched it, mesmerized. And somehow I refrained from interrupting.
She held the box up, with two fingers of each hand supporting the base and her middle fingers running along the detailing on the side, as though she were feeling for something. Suddenly the music stopped and the dancers froze. Her right hand had moved but the left had not. She fiddled for a moment and with a click the left side gave. She smiled and gave me a look that reminded me of an excited young girl about to share a secret. Nothing appeared to have changed on the box, but clearly a latch had been released as she was able to slide the front face off. Behind that was a keyhole. To which my mother held the key.
I looked to her for an explanation, but none was to be had. I had the feeling my presence had been forgotten. I peered over her shoulder excitedly as she opened the little drawer. There was a penny, what looked like a felt four-leaf clover, a pair of children's earrings, some beads, and a little card. She picked up the card gingerly and held it to her heart with her eyes closed and memories written on her face.
Returning to the moment she gave me a smile and a one-armed hug and then showed me the card that meant so much to her. Written in a distinctive scrawl I recognized as having belonged to my grandmother who had passed so many years ago, I read:
A penny for wealth,
A clover for luck,
And all my love for always.
-- Mum
Merry Christmas all - and an amazing new year!
Thanks for reading!
Cheers,
Laur
------
The Christmas Gift:
I watched as my brother, this year's Santa, handed her the gift I had chosen; I'd been looking forward to this moment since I'd found it in June. She was my best friend, and keeping it a secret so long had been incredibly difficult -- I'd had to force myself to forget all about it so that I wouldn't slip up. Fortunately I'd remembered in time to wrap it; if only I could apply that skill to exams!
But I’d have to be patient a while longer yet. My mother put the gift aside. She had a small pile growing, since she preferred to watch us unwrap our gifts to opening her own. And she had no idea that that box contained something special. I waited, feigning excitement over my own gifts while watching her open the others. A scarf, some books, jewelry. Nothing like what I'd found.
Finally she had my gift in hand. She unwrapped it mindlessly, far more interested in my brother's reaction to his new skis. He'd been so disappointed when they hadn't appeared under the tree, but accepted that they just couldn't afford them; it made it all the more wonderful when he opened the little box that told him where he could find his real gift in the basement. I could understand why she wanted to see that; I wanted to see it too.
But now he had his skis and Dad was bouncing for the opportunity to play with his new gadget. And finally she opened the box in front of her. The last gift of the day. She pulled it out and there was a moment's hesitation before she realized what it was.
She looked at me. The room was chaos, but between us there was silence. She had tears in her eyes, which was not the reaction I'd anticipated. I'd thought I'd found the perfect music box; just the style she'd seemed to prefer. Her collection was extensive, but they were similar -- this one combined the best traits of all of them. Or so I'd thought.
"Where did you find this?" she asked. Her whispered voice inaudible in the noisy room, but her eyes making the question clear. I went and sat next to her on the couch rapidly explaining about the little flee market I'd found in Port Elgin and how it was buried at the bottom of a box in a random corner of an antiques booth. And I knew it wasn't really antique but I thought it would go so well with her collection. And I really thought she'd like it. And did she notice the detail in the silver? and what did she think of... Well I was speaking way too fast and in circles, but I was confused and worried that my perfect gift that I'd kept secret for so long had somehow upset her.
"Come with me,” she said, rising. I followed, curious. "Girl moment," she told my dad with a smile when he questioned our departure.
She led me up to the master bathroom and opened the jewelry box I'd seen a million times growing up. From it she retrieved a tiny key; the type you'd see on a young girl's diary. She sat down on the edge of the tub and I went beside her, a million questions on the tip of my tongue and somehow enough strength not to ask them. She opened the lid of the music box and winding the knob on the base caused the dancers to swirl around to the sound of Haydn’s Cello Concerto. She watched it, mesmerized. And somehow I refrained from interrupting.
She held the box up, with two fingers of each hand supporting the base and her middle fingers running along the detailing on the side, as though she were feeling for something. Suddenly the music stopped and the dancers froze. Her right hand had moved but the left had not. She fiddled for a moment and with a click the left side gave. She smiled and gave me a look that reminded me of an excited young girl about to share a secret. Nothing appeared to have changed on the box, but clearly a latch had been released as she was able to slide the front face off. Behind that was a keyhole. To which my mother held the key.
I looked to her for an explanation, but none was to be had. I had the feeling my presence had been forgotten. I peered over her shoulder excitedly as she opened the little drawer. There was a penny, what looked like a felt four-leaf clover, a pair of children's earrings, some beads, and a little card. She picked up the card gingerly and held it to her heart with her eyes closed and memories written on her face.
Returning to the moment she gave me a smile and a one-armed hug and then showed me the card that meant so much to her. Written in a distinctive scrawl I recognized as having belonged to my grandmother who had passed so many years ago, I read:
A penny for wealth,
A clover for luck,
And all my love for always.
-- Mum
Friday, December 18, 2009
Flash Fiction 17: A Christmas Tradition
Labels:
#fridayflash,
Slice of Life
5
comments
Cutting it close on timing tonight! Hope you enjoy this one. Let me know your thoughts!
Cheers,
Laur
-------------------------
A Christmas Tradition
Resigned, she looked at the big white flakes obscuring the view out the airport window. It was Christmas-eve and the blizzard had delayed all flights. Indefinitely. It was starting to sound as though Santa might be the only one flying that night. Amanda half listened to the conversations around her. All people excited about reaching their destinations.
Amanda, conversely, couldn't care less where she ended up, she just wanted to get away. It was hard, too hard, to be home at Christmas.
Her parents and siblings tried their best, but their eyes conveyed the worry their forced smiles couldn't hide. And her nieces and nephews picked up on the tension, despite the best efforts of the adults. The eldest child had been only three when Alicia and Jeremy died; none of them remembered their bubbly older cousin or the uncle who always told the best jokes. And Amanda remembered them all too well.
She shook her head, physically drawing herself from the memories of her daughter and husband that even five years later had the power to devastate her. Palm trees and pina coladas. That's where her thoughts should be focused. She envisioned herself lying on the beach, soaking up the sun, and having lascivious thoughts about the cabana boy. It didn't even make her feel guilty, since she would've done the same even were Jeremy with her.
"Hi, I'm Jake," the little boy introduced himself, interrupting her wandering thoughts, "and this is my iPet, Monster," he announced quickly flashing his handheld video game towards Amanda.
"Really?" she asked, "What kind of pet is Monster?"
Jake rolled his eyes dramatically, "he's a t-rex," he informed her with the tone of an exasperated teacher. "He's only the most ferocious dinosaur ever!"
"Ferocious?" Amanda asked, "How old are you?" she questioned the precocious child, no longer having to feign interest.
"I'm five and a half," he announced importantly, "but Grandma says I'm really an adult in a little body. She won't let me go to the store by myself though. If I were really an adult I could." He gave her a look clearly requesting a reasonable explanation to that.
"Yes you're right, but I don't think you get to do adult things until you're an adult in an adult body," she tried to appeal to his logic and was rewarded with a brilliant smile. "So Mr. Adult Jake, why do you have a ferocious pet? Wouldn't you rather have one you can play with? This one could eat you!"
"No he can't, he's just a game." Jake told her, the child's literalness making her smile, "and besides, he has to help me take over the world -- you just can't do that with a chihuahua."
Laughing, Amanda questioned him: "Have you ever met a chihuahua? Little but nasty creatures. Could absolutely take on the world and win," she attempted to defend the breed she felt Darwin should take care of.
"Yes, but Monster can just step on one, and that's it. Not even hard to beat."
"Jake!" An adult voice with mixed tones of anger and fear interrupted, "You were supposed to stay put, what are you doing?" and directed at Amanda, "I'm so sorry, I had to take his sister in the washroom and he ran out while I was with her," he explained with a look at the boy that was supposed to be a glare but had too much love in it to be intimidating. A young girl stood slightly behind him, one hand in his, the other thumb in her mouth.
"It's no problem," Amanda assured him, a little surprised to realize she meant it. "He was just explaining the relative merits of a pet t-rex over a chihuahua."
"Yeah Uncle Matt, she needed to meet Monster. And I didn't go far - I could still see the washroom -- that's close enough. Besides there was nobody for me to talk to in there and girls always take so long," he said making both adults laugh as he stuck out his tongue at his little sister.
"Jake," the boy's uncle started seriously, kneeling down in front of him, "it's very important that you stay with me, even when it's boring. Ok?" Jake nodded. "Promise me?" the little boy rolled his eyes for Amanda's sake, but agreed.
"Now to settle this other issue," he started and Jake looked at him expectantly, "everybody knows a chihuahua will win out over a t-rex any day." This was greeted with instant groans and protestations, while he introduced himself in an aside to Amanda. "Jake you've met, and this is my niece Alexa. Lexi." Lexi took her thumb out of her mouth and shyly offered her hand to Amanda, never letting go of her uncle. Amanda shook it solemnly, introducing herself at the same time. "My sister's kids; I'm taking them to their grandparents for the holiday. She has to work and didn't want them to miss out."
"So where are you off to?" Matt asked conversationally.
"Warmth and pina coladas." Amanda answered with a look that suggested that topic be dropped. He seemed willing to let it go, and she was grateful for it.
Somehow Christmas-eve in the airport was not so hard when spent with the captivating family. The storm became impressive rather than a frustration as Matt kept them entertained with somewhat exaggerated, she hoped!, stories of storms past. As evening rolled into night and the airport patrons resigned themselves to the fact that they'd be spending Christmas Eve in the airport, even the most excited children fell asleep.
They spent the night quietly chatting while the children slept. Somehow Matt got her to speak of Alicia and Jeremy, even though she never told anybody about them. And somehow he directed her to the positive; she found herself telling him stories that made her laugh, and reliving memories that left her feeling truly happy for the first time since the accident.
Christmas day dawned white but clear, and sure enough flights were rescheduled and passengers ushered on as quickly as the airlines could manage. Matt and kids entreated Amanda to join them for Christmas, but still overwhelmed by the night before, Amanda retreated rapidly, claiming a tradition of beach Christmases that could not be broken.
Several hours later, Amanda was lying on the beach, listening to the waves roll up towards her feet, sipping occasionally on her pina colada, and amusing herself with the fanciful idea that Matt was her Santa Clause, giving her the ability to live again. She was even considering that just possibly next year, she'd spend the holiday with her family when she heard the voice.
"I'd really rather not have Christmas dinner alone tonight; would you be willing to join me?" And as Matt settled into the beach chair next to hers, a new Christmas tradition was born.
Cheers,
Laur
-------------------------
A Christmas Tradition
Resigned, she looked at the big white flakes obscuring the view out the airport window. It was Christmas-eve and the blizzard had delayed all flights. Indefinitely. It was starting to sound as though Santa might be the only one flying that night. Amanda half listened to the conversations around her. All people excited about reaching their destinations.
Amanda, conversely, couldn't care less where she ended up, she just wanted to get away. It was hard, too hard, to be home at Christmas.
Her parents and siblings tried their best, but their eyes conveyed the worry their forced smiles couldn't hide. And her nieces and nephews picked up on the tension, despite the best efforts of the adults. The eldest child had been only three when Alicia and Jeremy died; none of them remembered their bubbly older cousin or the uncle who always told the best jokes. And Amanda remembered them all too well.
She shook her head, physically drawing herself from the memories of her daughter and husband that even five years later had the power to devastate her. Palm trees and pina coladas. That's where her thoughts should be focused. She envisioned herself lying on the beach, soaking up the sun, and having lascivious thoughts about the cabana boy. It didn't even make her feel guilty, since she would've done the same even were Jeremy with her.
"Hi, I'm Jake," the little boy introduced himself, interrupting her wandering thoughts, "and this is my iPet, Monster," he announced quickly flashing his handheld video game towards Amanda.
"Really?" she asked, "What kind of pet is Monster?"
Jake rolled his eyes dramatically, "he's a t-rex," he informed her with the tone of an exasperated teacher. "He's only the most ferocious dinosaur ever!"
"Ferocious?" Amanda asked, "How old are you?" she questioned the precocious child, no longer having to feign interest.
"I'm five and a half," he announced importantly, "but Grandma says I'm really an adult in a little body. She won't let me go to the store by myself though. If I were really an adult I could." He gave her a look clearly requesting a reasonable explanation to that.
"Yes you're right, but I don't think you get to do adult things until you're an adult in an adult body," she tried to appeal to his logic and was rewarded with a brilliant smile. "So Mr. Adult Jake, why do you have a ferocious pet? Wouldn't you rather have one you can play with? This one could eat you!"
"No he can't, he's just a game." Jake told her, the child's literalness making her smile, "and besides, he has to help me take over the world -- you just can't do that with a chihuahua."
Laughing, Amanda questioned him: "Have you ever met a chihuahua? Little but nasty creatures. Could absolutely take on the world and win," she attempted to defend the breed she felt Darwin should take care of.
"Yes, but Monster can just step on one, and that's it. Not even hard to beat."
"Jake!" An adult voice with mixed tones of anger and fear interrupted, "You were supposed to stay put, what are you doing?" and directed at Amanda, "I'm so sorry, I had to take his sister in the washroom and he ran out while I was with her," he explained with a look at the boy that was supposed to be a glare but had too much love in it to be intimidating. A young girl stood slightly behind him, one hand in his, the other thumb in her mouth.
"It's no problem," Amanda assured him, a little surprised to realize she meant it. "He was just explaining the relative merits of a pet t-rex over a chihuahua."
"Yeah Uncle Matt, she needed to meet Monster. And I didn't go far - I could still see the washroom -- that's close enough. Besides there was nobody for me to talk to in there and girls always take so long," he said making both adults laugh as he stuck out his tongue at his little sister.
"Jake," the boy's uncle started seriously, kneeling down in front of him, "it's very important that you stay with me, even when it's boring. Ok?" Jake nodded. "Promise me?" the little boy rolled his eyes for Amanda's sake, but agreed.
"Now to settle this other issue," he started and Jake looked at him expectantly, "everybody knows a chihuahua will win out over a t-rex any day." This was greeted with instant groans and protestations, while he introduced himself in an aside to Amanda. "Jake you've met, and this is my niece Alexa. Lexi." Lexi took her thumb out of her mouth and shyly offered her hand to Amanda, never letting go of her uncle. Amanda shook it solemnly, introducing herself at the same time. "My sister's kids; I'm taking them to their grandparents for the holiday. She has to work and didn't want them to miss out."
"So where are you off to?" Matt asked conversationally.
"Warmth and pina coladas." Amanda answered with a look that suggested that topic be dropped. He seemed willing to let it go, and she was grateful for it.
Somehow Christmas-eve in the airport was not so hard when spent with the captivating family. The storm became impressive rather than a frustration as Matt kept them entertained with somewhat exaggerated, she hoped!, stories of storms past. As evening rolled into night and the airport patrons resigned themselves to the fact that they'd be spending Christmas Eve in the airport, even the most excited children fell asleep.
They spent the night quietly chatting while the children slept. Somehow Matt got her to speak of Alicia and Jeremy, even though she never told anybody about them. And somehow he directed her to the positive; she found herself telling him stories that made her laugh, and reliving memories that left her feeling truly happy for the first time since the accident.
Christmas day dawned white but clear, and sure enough flights were rescheduled and passengers ushered on as quickly as the airlines could manage. Matt and kids entreated Amanda to join them for Christmas, but still overwhelmed by the night before, Amanda retreated rapidly, claiming a tradition of beach Christmases that could not be broken.
Several hours later, Amanda was lying on the beach, listening to the waves roll up towards her feet, sipping occasionally on her pina colada, and amusing herself with the fanciful idea that Matt was her Santa Clause, giving her the ability to live again. She was even considering that just possibly next year, she'd spend the holiday with her family when she heard the voice.
"I'd really rather not have Christmas dinner alone tonight; would you be willing to join me?" And as Matt settled into the beach chair next to hers, a new Christmas tradition was born.
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