Category: fiction

  • On bounty

    “You saw the bounties, dinja?”

    I took my time looking up.

    That ragamuffin had been quiet as a sceaducat padding her way through and behind rangy scrub, mustering courage to speak out. Spooky quiet. I might have missed it had I been ranging like most folk do through here.

    But I’d heard her all the same. And I had a mystique cultivated to protect, so I drew out the minutes in a yarn stretched taut to lend it further credence, showing her all brim on my widehat until my eyes slow-locked onto hers.

    She’d be the pretty type some day, that much was clear. But now she was more Jack than Jane and all gangly-limbed. Those eyes would eventually kill at fifty stride, if the storms didn’t take them first. Or some reaver.

    She earned my respect right off, staying silent like she was. Said her bit, expected answers. Weren’t gonna beg for nothing.

    “Bounties?”

    (more…)

  • Drone of ice

    I drone of ice. Crystal. Pale luminescence.

    I show him how I shuttercock the gun to skate the lake in tin flechette under a neon sky, dancing somewhere between Nijinsky and ictus rigor, near both wolf and dog on the Betweens.

    In a word, I say: They cannot see me.

    In yet more: They cannot hear me, save for the hollow of my entrance.

    And: They cannot taste me, for their screams.

    Explaining: They all have sharp ends, just as I will have a sharp end. It is the only way we can be. When you waltz with knives and cold eyes blue, everything becomes razor cuts through the gloom.

    “And you never tire of this?” he asks, knowing the answer.

    Of course I do.

    I shrug. But I know nothing else. I only know the northern cold.

    An exchange. As agreed, fifteen in advance. To hold me, to unspring my aching need. There was crimson spilled the last time, the time they thought to give me mere seed instead of what we had agreed.

    Word travels, as they say.

    “Fifty more when it is complete?”

    I stare. He knows. I have no desire to bleed him for more. Yet anyway. Perhaps later. In his mistress’s boudoir, as I smoke his expensive cigars.

    He does not know it, but he is lucky.

    Ahh. Now he sees, coughs. Chair screech, standing back from my obsidian eyes empty.

    “Em. Hum. Contact me when you have done the deed.”

    I knappedflint smile. Only a smile.

    It is already done, this job. Before we met. For joy. But he can wait for that news. Make him wonder.

    He stumbleleaves, does not even finish his drink, does not count the jack he leaves on the table for the tab for all his hurrying. Out the door, letting in winter.

    I am tired. Yet, I have pride.

    I am drone of ice.

  • Dead Letter Office [fragment]

    I started this a while back for Jolene Rice’s story prompts and never got around to finishing it. This particular list included: a key that nobody else has, a bumper sticker offers excellent advice, a slow poke, and an oddities collector.

    This time, I was going to eschew my normal fantasy/noir/horror inclinations and lean fairly straight, non-genre storytelling. I do that on occasion. When I do, chances are there are still hints of some kinds of odd in the tale, but the world’s chocked full of odd kinds of tales.

    Anyway, it seemed a shame to let a not-terrible beginning to a story molder in a draft folder, so I decided to share it in the story’s unfinished state.

    All apologies offered in advance.

    Bonus points if you can figure out the inspiration which informs the tone of the planned story.

      There was a traffic jam on the kudzu-lined gravel road leading into Gideon. There were already at least three cars lined up behind whatever was obstructing the road around the canopy of vines hanging down from telephone wires and what-all the greenery could find for support to cling to.

      (more…)

    1. Forfeit

      Here’s another short bit of fiction based on writing prompts from Jolene Rice. They are the following four items with the only rule being that you cannot kill off your main character

      1. attacked by squirrels
      2. what nobody wants to talk about
      3. mascot for a professional team
      4. animal psychic

      Apologies offered in advance.

      I do lost cats, mostly. Colic in horses if the vet’s backed up. Twice a year somebody’s parrot stops talking and I sit with it for an hour and tell the family what they already know, which is that the parrot wishes they would ask for more than “Polly wants a cracker.” One, in particular, had a secret habit of shouting “Fucking hell!” whenever the house was empty, it told me. Practiced it all day long, most days, by his reckoning.

      (more…)

    2. Dawnstar

      He goes to Dawnstar’s back room to listen to the speakers. Got a lifetime full access to all the courses from back when they still sold such things. Tomorrow night, they have a guest speaking on certain secrets who might be able to help illuminate passages in a certain book he keeps on his person for the past month.

      Consider me squared up on the debt to your grandmother. Forget who I am. I never want to hear from you again.

      Dawnstar.

      She checked the timestamp. The email was sent yesterday. Tonight, then. An accounting.

      “Coffee?”

      She did not look up from her laptop, but continued staring at the screen, an absent-minded wave of her hand — long, lean fingers made longer by fingernails at the fringe of staying a sensible length and painted matte black — a universal gesture in cafes around the world that said, “Fill her up.”

      She considered typing a response that would remind the recipient that they did not get to dictate the terms of the balance of their debt, but decided against it. It would just land on empty ears in the dustbin with other spam.

      She made a mental note to remedy that with an in-person visit after her business had concluded.

      Last week, she would have taken in the scenery as her server refreshed the coffee in her cup, watched the hip-wiggle as the young woman walked away. She had done it enough over the past few weeks since arriving in the city, taking up residence in the overpriced rental rising above the already-broad Mississippi.

      She was worth it. And that delightful rear end was given the backseat in her mind as she pondered how to catch the fraud who had absconded with her family’s secrets and probably was responsible for the murder of her grandmother. He had an alibi, of course — they always did. But that did not mean he was not responsible.

      The stains left behind, the lingering smell of brimstone detectable to her nose — it was all she needed to know to put Marcus Kane, or whatever his name was, at the scene.

      And he had finally made a mistake. Eagerness to unlock those secrets from the written word were a regular part of the downfall of people like Kane. They were intemperate by nature, something she had counted on since she came back to reclaim what was her birthright.

      She sipped at her coffee, black as sin.

      He would regret his life’s choices by the end of the weekend. He just did not know it yet.

      But now she had the information she needed to begin.

    3. Reunion

      Participating in Jolene’s (Chico’s Mom) prompts where the only real rule is that you can’t kill off the main character. Oh, and use the four prompts provided:

      1. not so Good Samaritan
      2. vampire
      3. reunited
      4. pills

      Here is my humble offering below.

      Vladimir opened the heavy wooden door on the third knock, as though he’d been expecting this all along. Which, of course, he had been — for eleven years.

      “Aldric.” With warmth, arms outstretched. That slight lisp that came with elongated canines. “Come in, come in. You’ll catch your death.”

      (more…)

    4. Notice of Discrepancy II

      The chime promised fresh coffee. Reconstituted, and pleased to be.

      The grog was hair-of-the-dog strong — except there’d been no dog, and no drink. Just the memories, still settling, the way a hangover settles. This wasn’t a rub-your-eyes morning. Ellison sat on the edge of the bed and let the coffee burn his throat into submission anyway, as if the body’s problem were anywhere near the throat.

      He put on yesterday’s clothes, scratched his ribs, and tried to shake the memories loose. Both the scheduled and the recurring.

      The chime dropped all cheer and turned to chide. Ellison checked his watch. Half past fourteen. Late on the skip again, and his boss was past words now, moving to the file itself.

      He made a gesture for the chime’s eye. Late, and logged as such. It had decided his fate beforehand.

      Feedback, then office chatter, the voice punching through it.

      you’re late ell. again. and it looks like you haven’t done your paperwork on the jacobs write-off.

      i came in late from the skip. i’ll get to it.

      get to it now, accounting is already breathing down my neck about their assets. and…

      The and hung there, unfinished, and Ellison winced into the gap. Then the voice came back.

      it looks like recovery went tits up as well. can you remind me what i’m paying you for, ell? burning assets and dropped recoveries? that in your job profile? or did they change it?

      Ellison did not reply. It was not on-plan.

      get to that paperwork. london office asks about their asset at sixteen, and i need something to tell them. gimme a preview in case they call sooner.

      Ellison shrugged for the eye. It was logged. Brook did not care about performative gestures, but it was better to have a shrug on file. The chime rewarded Ellison with a happy ding.

      he was an idiot.

      Brook waited until Ellison could not wait anymore.

      he skipped out of shadow. the target took offense. he died for it.

      no one checked for an eye?

      Ellison thought about it. And then made it a second time.

      we scanned. nil. oldtown, though. there were windows.

      It was Brook’s turn to pause.

      fuckin’ limeys. all cock, empty cranium. gimme that report, stat.

      A last screech of feedback, and the line died. Ellison sat with a punch-list gone long and that dog barking in his head.

      So he did the only sensible thing: He lit up.

      It was logged.

      Note: These “Notice of Discrepancy” titled posts are an attempt to step well outside my comfort zone when it comes to narrative framing. I have strict rules that I’ve established for myself that I follow on these pieces, although it may often seem scattershot. I apologize in advance if something doesn’t work as intended. It is still an interesting experiment, regardless of the ultimate success.

    5. Notice of Discrepancy I

      He lit a cigarette. The small fire agreed to live for a while, the way everything here did — provisionally, and watching the door. Flick ash and raindrop. A siren screamed the alley red and blue. He stepped back into the dark and joined his cigarette in its watching.

      Some doors wait. This one had been threshold patient all night, and he found he could match it — let the hours stand open beside him, going nowhere, the way the rain kept not quite falling.

      goddammit.

      Jacobs back already, the sandwich arriving before he did.

      nothing?

      Ellison let the cigarette do his talking for him in drag and exhale.

      new mexico…

      Mouth full to bursting, the syllables shoving past it.

      the desert is supposed to be dry, innit?

      arizona.

      howzat?

      arizona. flagstaff. as in: not desert.

      Deli-paper crinkle as it skittered to the corner. A belch announcing that dinner was done.

      thought arizona was all desert. you yanks canna make up your mind.

      Ellison let the wet pavement and cigarette answer in hiss.

      Jacobs opened his mouth to say something. No cards left.

      He did, however, sport a new hole in his forehead.

      The door had wearied of staying shut. Someone stepped through, did the necessary thing, and the alley went back to being an alley.

      I’m trying out something new, uncertain if I will continue adding to it. We’ll have to see if it still feels good when I get around to writing more.

      Assuming I do.

      There is a lot of very carefully designed structure in this piece and I hope that it not only holds, but lands right as well. I’m purposefully writing in an uncomfortable style for me to see what happens when I do. The framing rules I used are easy to hit “fail-states” with — underdone, they seem weak; played too freely and they seem excessive in short order.

      Thanks for reading.

    6. Grave situation

      Flash fiction using Jolene’s prompt. Rules: Must use all four of the following and not kill your main character:

      1. This time it’s bound to work
      2. what is that smell?
      3. mortician
      4. toy maker

      “Gah! What’s that smell?”

      The shoveling did not stop. Nor did the speaker.

      “Gah! I say, Nate — What’s that smell?”

      “It’s called ‘death’, Jeff. I could go into the chemistry of putrescine, cadaverine and butyric acid but I’m afraid it would all go over your head and we’d still me forced to hear your heavy panting and repeated ‘Gah’ utterances because you have absolutely no respect for science.”

      “Why didn’t you just say ‘science’? That’s all I needed to know. Not those ‘ines and acids.”

      (more…)

    7. Heads will roll

      For Jolene Rice’s Storytime prompt.

      Must include the following:

      1. person who laughs at inappropriate times
      2. butcher
      3. wishes come true
      4. shhhh!

      When you are the Queen they let you laugh at inappropriate times.

      “Off with her head,” followed by a mad cackle. Or three. And then they say: “Oh, it’s just the Queen being a Queen,” and they join in once they realise there are consequences involved to not joining in the reverie.

      Then everyone is laughing.

      And it becomes less inappropriate to laugh because of reasons.

      The last one had the audacity to call Us a butcher. How very droll. And still, We made his head roll. Because when you are the Queen, they let you order someone’s head removed on whimsy. The laughter was nervous, but all courtiers laughed the same.

      When you are the Queen, people tend to laugh when you do. And rhyme when it suits a Queen to rhyme, too.

      One of Our subjects said, “I wish I wouldn’t hear my Queen laugh when she beheaded someone.”

      “Shhhh,” We said. “Your wishes have come true.”

      He smiled.

      “Off with his head,” We said.

      And We held Our laughter until his head dropped into the basket. Then We let peel a mad cackle or three.