Recycling

When they finally discovered her body, animals and the elements had reduced it to nothing more than a collection of bones loosely held together by sinewy strands of ligaments. It would take them weeks to identify her.

I knew.

It wasn’t the first time one of my girls had been found, but the cops hadn’t yet realized the bodies were connected. They’d figure it out.

The first one was a surprise: a neighbor girl selling some kind of cookies for a school trip. I invited her in and showed her my playroom. I hadn’t planned on actually trying out my toys on a person, but there she was so I decided it was time to take things to the next level.

After that it was easy. Their delicious screams filled my sound-proof room. Their blood was sweet and warm. And when I was done, I was responsible. I am an environmentalist, you know, so I made sure to return them back to nature.

I didn’t count on that last one though. How she got loose I’ll never know. She showed me how much my toys really hurt. I hope they dispose of my body properly. I am, after all, biodegradable.

Word Count: 200

[This is my entry into the Flash Fiction Challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner by Roger Shipp. Write a story based on a photo prompt and introductory sentence in 200 words or less.]

~V

 

Aqua Lung

Photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“Tara! Where have you been? And where’s your sister?”

” We were just playing on the rocks by the water, Mommy,” replied Tara.

“Where’s Tricia?”

“She’s playing ‘fish’,” replied the young girl.

“What are you talking about?” asked her mother.

“I told her that people can breathe underwater like fishes and she said they couldn’t so I held her under the water to show her.”

“What? Oh my God!” yelled their mother, running towards the rocky shore.

“It’s ok, Mommy. She’s still floating there!” Tara yelled after her mother.

She grinned. It was nice to finally prove her sister wrong.

Word Count: 99

[This is my entry into this weeks Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Use the photo prompt to create a short story in 100 words or less. The title is not a reference to the fantastic album by Jethro Tull but rather a subtle play on words as well as a nod to the SCUBA device.]

~V

 

 

 

 

Anachronism

Emily Porter was a tomboy. Her mother knew it. She spent her days outside with her best friend Sammy Watkins getting dirt-covered, scratched and scraped and would always return home with some strange wriggling thing in her pocket.

“You’re just a force to be reckoned with,” her father would always say.

Emily’s favorite place to play was by the oddly shaped rock formations in the field next to the Thompson farm. She and Sammy spent afternoons gathering special tokens for their “Injun Medicine Bags”.

“Look, Sammy. A piece of a hawk’s feather,” exclaimed Emily brightly as she popped it into her bag.

“Spirit of the Hawk!” laughed Sammy. “Now let’s hide them in the secret hole. We have to promise to ONLY take them out if we really need their magic,”

“Cross my heart,” promised Emily.

* * *

“What are you doing, dear?”

“Playing Minecraft on my iPad, gramma Em. Wanna play?” replied Julia.

“No thank you dear. I’m not good with those electronic things,” said Emily.

She hoped they’d arrive soon. At 94, her body couldn’t take car rides like it once did.

“Are you sure this is it?” asked Roger, as he steered the sedan onto a dirt road.

“Those are the directions,” replied Maggie, holding up her phone.

“I think we’re here, grandma!” said Trevor. “You should have Instagram, so you could post about this,” he said to Emily. “Heh… Insta… GRAM! Get it?” He chuckled.

Emily smiled, pretending to understand the joke.

Roger wheeled her across the bumpy field of grass to the odd looking rock formations. Memories of better days came back to her. The images were clearer to her than what her failing sight often revealed these days.

“Help me up, please, will you Roger?” she asked.

When she got close to a particular section of rock, she reached her gnarled arthritic hand inside a hole the size of a grapefruit. Her fingers found the soft leather bag inside.

“What’s that gramma Em?” asked Julia.

“Just something I’ve been wanting for quite some time now. It’s magic.”

“Wow, ya hear that dad. Gramma has a magic bag!”

Roger smiled and gently shook his head at his daughter as if to say “Not really”. Despite her cataracts, Emily caught his  gesture out of the corner of her eye.

That night as she lay in bed, waiting for her pain meds to kick in so she could fall asleep, she clutched the bag to her heart and closed her eyes.

“Spirit of the Hawk.” she whispered.

In her minds eye, she was carried aloft by a large, majestic bird. Her tired earthly body left behind.

She was free.

[This is my entry into the Flash Fiction Challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner by Roger Shipp. Write a story based on a photo prompt and introductory sentence in 200 words or less.

I went generously over the word limit today. I felt as though cutting back the story to meet the word constraint would have crippled the spirit of the tale and my first loyalty is always to the story. My apologies.

I dedicate this story to my grandmother, Helen Dickinson. May the Spirit of the Hawk always watch over her.]

~V

Night Caller

My phone rang. Without turning on the lamp on my nightstand I fumbled bleary-eyed for that flat, rectangle piece of electronic wizardry we now call “telephone”.

Squinting, I stared at the lighted screen. Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“57 seconds,” croaked a strange, gravely voice.

“What?”

“That’s how long you have to live,” rasped the voice again.

“Who the fuck is this?” I yelled, quickly coming awake.

“You’re dreaming but in 57 seconds you’ll wake up and then you’ll die,” the ominous voice told me.

“That’s bullshit! Who is this? What do you want?”

“I want to watch you die,” the voice replied.

“You sick fuck, don’t ever call me again!”

I tapped the red button on my phone, disconnecting the call. I knew I shouldn’t let some prank caller rattle me like that but something about that voice left me feeling cold.

“Great, now it’ll take me an hour to fall back…”

My phone rang.

I looked at the screen but it was dark. The sound wasn’t coming from the device in my hand. I could hear the same ring tone that I use on my phone, but I couldn’t locate the source. It seemed to be emanating from all around me. It was almost as if…

I woke up. Looking over at my phone on my nightstand I saw it was ringing. How freaky! I must have heard it while I was sleeping and dreamed I answered it. Thank God it was only a dream. That voice was creepy as Hell.

Wondering who was calling me in the middle of the night, I grabbed the phone and looked at the screen. Unknown number.

“Whoever this is, you’d better have a damn good reason for calling this late,” I said groggily.

“It’s been 57 seconds,” said the gravely voice. “Turn around.”

I screamed.

~V

[This was my first attempt at writing something “creepy” (something that makes your skin crawl vs just a “scary” story. After letting it sit for about a week, I am hesitant to post it because I don’t think it’s very good. Still, I can’t expect to knock it out of the park on my first try. I’ll keep working on this specific genre.]

Grandmonster

“I’m hungry,” complained my young niece Stevi.

“Yeah, I know,” I chuckled. “You’ve told me twice already. I’ve almost got your sandwich ready.”

She sat at the table in my kitchen along with my elderly grandmother.

“What are you coloring, dear?” asked my grandma.

Stevi looked up from her Disney Princess coloring book and gazed brightly at the old woman.

“It’s Belle, from Beauty and the Beast,” she replied as though everyone should know that.

“You’re doing a great job coloring,” said my grandma. “You haven’t colored outside the lines once.”

“Of course not, grandma. I’m not a baby, you know.” she explained.

Stevi was six going on thirty. It wasn’t just that she was bright. Her bubbly personality and supreme confidence that the world was her oyster, made for a child some might call precocious, but family knew better. Stevi was special in a way that made people realize she was going to do something amazing with her life.

“Ok, here you are. One cheese sandwich with corn chips,” I said as I set the plate in front of her.

Stevi reluctantly set her coloring book to the side. Once she started working on her “art” she didn’t like to stop, but she was famished (or so she kept saying) so she pushed the book away and grabbed the sandwich.

“What kind of cheese is this?” she asked. “It’s got orange on the outside.”

“It’s Muenster cheese,” I answered.

A Haunting Visit

PHOTO PROMPT – © J Hardy Carroll

David couldn’t remember the first time he saw her ghost, but it was always in the same place: the cemetery behind the old church.  Sarah looked just as he remembered. Her long, flowing blonde hair cascaded down over the white, gossamer dress she wore. He missed her more than words could express but seeing her appear each week gave him comfort.

Sarah Walters knelt before the grave. She never missed her weekly visits. Tears flowed as she placed the fresh flowers upon the ground. Through blurry eyes she read the words on the stone: David Walters – Beloved Husband – Born 1967. Died 2015.

~V

Word Count: 100

[This is my entry into this weeks Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Use the photo prompt to create a short story in 100 words or less.]

The Broken Bell

Photo by Pricelessjoy.co

The church bell sounded, sending it’s clear toll across the small town. It called the faithful to worship. It was a sound that meant nothing to Andre. Not any longer. Once, his soul had thrilled at the metallic ring. It beckoned him to his favorite place, and in the pews of the house of God, he communed with his Creator. He loved the Lord and felt loved in return, until the day that what mattered most to him was taken.

It was in that church he said goodbye to his young son. His small, frail body laid out in the casket with the cross in the background. His son died and on the day of his funeral, Andre’s faith died too. He buried his child but his grief remained.

Now, as others flocked to that small building on the hill, Andre sat alone. The bell in his heart was broken.

[This is my entry this week into the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge. A photo prompt is given and writers are encouraged to create a short story of 150 words or less.]

~V

Witness at a Funeral

Mary wanted to cry as she listened to the pastor give his eulogy, but she couldn’t. It was not because the words did not move her, they did. He spoke eloquently of the deceased and of how all things pass unto God. His words were stirring but not a tear fell from her eye. When the father of the deceased stood up before the gathered mourners his voice broke with grief and pain and she wanted to wrap her arms around him and tell him it was ok. But she remained still and let him speak.