The Long Road Home

 For Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds flash fiction challenge, Death is on the Table...

Buttoncup put a paw on the rock face to steady himself. The pain in his chest was getting more intense, shooting down the length of his left arm. He considered going back—but back to what? Candy Cloud wasn't what it used to be—and he'd be damned if he was going to let them ship him off to The Cottage. No, there was one place left for him to go and he was going, come Hell or—he coughed, hard, and blood sprayed into his matted yellow fur.

He stood as straight as he could, turned and continued up the dirt path. There was a rush of cold wind and, of course, mist. There was a time when Buttoncup had liked the mist. That was before it got so cold, before the damp would seep deep into his bones and stay there for days—it was when he was young.

A task like this should have belonged to Clovershield or Copperclock; they were the warriors, but they were long gone now. He was the only one left. He started counting them in his head, as if ticking off a list. Mopwatch had died in the mines and Sweettart had gone trying to avenge him during the rebellion. Clovershield had walked this same path years ago and fallen to his death during a storm. Copperclock had hauled up in The Cottage with only gin and old books for company.

 

The Cottage: the windows were shaped like hearts and the only people who ever came to visit were naughty children in need of a lesson from a wizened elder. And soon, even they stopped coming. Buttoncup shuddered to think of Grandmother Goose, how they'd found her, and worse, how long it had taken before they did.

Nookworm had died defending the library from sugar ants and Snugboat had, eventually, rusted out.

There had been more, so many more, but Buttoncup stopped counting. He could hear thunder. He was getting close now. He allowed himself one more rest, drew one more stabbing breath, and turned the corner, mindful the sheer drop to his right. Thundercloud Castle loomed enormous, its rolling grey base flickering with the occasional crackling lightning bolt.

Security on the castle had never been great. There had been times – countless times – when Buttoncup, Sweettart, Mopwatch and Cottondandy had snuck in for a bit of mischief, just to give Unjust and the Baddies a taste of his their own medicine.

The Baddies were gone too; the sugar ants had seen to that. They had been replaced with a red velvet rope, a metal box with a slit in the top and a sign that read, Suggested Donation cc2.00. The sign was covered in cobwebs. No one came here anymore. Sooner or later, everything got forgotten. Everything and everyone.

Buttoncup was disappointed. There had been no guards to kill, trip up or outsmart. Even on this, his last heroic quest, he couldn't be bothered to step over that damned velvet rope; he had unclipped it from its brass pole and let it fall to the ground. And now, when he should be charging up the stairs, he found himself sitting on them, struggling to catch his breath. The pain was almost unbearable, it felt like someone was standing on his chest in a sauna, like any moment could be his last.

Old images flickered across his memory. He wondered if Mopwatch had ever known—certainly Sweettart had known—how Copperclock felt about her, how her choosing Mopwatch had eaten him up inside—but had Mopwatch known? And Cottondandy. Buttoncup had known he wasn't her first choice, or even her second. But he thanked his lucky stars every day that Copperclock and Clovershield were beyond her reach. She did, too, in the end. That was the last thing she said to him – I'm glad it was you. Buttoncup closed his eyes. He could almost see her, almost pick out her sweet, sugary scent.

Thunder always sounded louder from inside the castle. It jerked Buttoncup out of his revelry, forced him to his feet. He climbed, wheezing, to the top of the staircase. With every step, every stab of pain that felt like a red hot poker being rammed through his chest, Buttoncup reminded himself, it was Unjust's fault. Unjust had ruined everything, made Skyland unstable—and when the sugar ants came, the Snugglebuns had been desperate. They'd given up Candy Cloud, they'd worked in the sugar mines, they'd watched their home be carried away, one grain at a time. They'd sold their souls. Someone had to pay.

At the top of the stairs was the throne room. Buttoncup knew that once he entered, he wouldn't be coming out; in fact, he had every chance of being struck by horizontal lightning as he entered – and he accepted this with perfect unconcern. But he also knew—he was determined—that if he died in Thundercloud Castle, Unjust would die with him. Buttoncup was the last of the Snugglebuns; this was his duty.

The door squeaked open – a sound more tragic than ominous. He steeled himself, stepped over the threshold. The room was deserted. Buttoncup clutched his chest and hit the ground with a thud.

“Who's there?” Unjust limped out of the shadows, his steps as slow and unsteady as the voice from beneath his cowl. “I know there's someone there. There's nothing worth taking.”

“I've come to kill you,” Buttoncup groaned, trying to pull himself forward.

Unjust chuckled. “Buttoncup? It's nice to hear a familiar voice. Forgive me, I can't see anything now.”

“You're blind?” It wasn't fair. Unjust could have at least tried to be threatening.

“As a bat.” Unjust shuffled forward. “I was hoping someone would come. You know, before the end.”

Suddenly, the past didn't matter. They were mortal enemies and they would die together.

“When they find our bones,” Buttoncup ventured, “do you suppose they'll think—”

“One can hope,” Unjust answered. “One can hope.”

Flash Pulp, Baby

I wrote this in response to the Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challange, Baby Pulp. My first attempt at pulp fiction. Enjoy.

Let Sleeping Babes Lie.

The question wasn't where the girl had got the kid – that was easy enough to guess. The question was, where had she kept it? Where, on that narrow, perfectly proportioned body, had she stored the damn thing?

Red satin. I close my eyes and all I see is red satin. It clung to her like a drop sheet on a stiff, showing off what it was put there to cover up.

The kid was still pink, tiny and wrinkled, its eyes barely open. She had it wrapped in a white flannelette; I don't think it had ever been dressed.

The girl was a force of nature. In this business, you have to have a secretary, pretty and perky or deadly no-nonsense. Gladys is an ice queen. She has this stare that can make a crook turn tale or a welch pay up. It sends grown men weeping to their mothers. And no one sees me without an appointment. But the girl wouldn't take no for an answer. She sat in the anteroom, in that red satin gown, clutching her baby and staring right back at Gladys until curiosity got the better of me and I went out to have a look.

Gladys glared daggers at me without adjusting her gaze and the girl stood to greet me.

Red satin,unwrinkled and sweat-free – miraculous, in the stale, damp heat of the office – swirled around her feet, while the baby slept in her arms.

“Dix, this is Miss—”

“I've got money,” she interrupted.

“I can see that,” I told her. Although, in that dress, where she had the money was also a mystery. “What do you want?”

She glanced down at the baby in her arms.

“Oh no,” I told her, before she had the chance to ask. “Lady, I'm a P.I., not a nursemaid.”

She squared her perfect shoulders and her desperate little girl demeanour melted away with the heat. “How much do you want?”

“It isn't about the money. I'm not a goddamn—” I caught the look on Gladys' face. It was a look that clearly said, You're two weeks behind in my pay, Dix. You'll be a nursemaid and you'll damn well like it.

I looked a the girl. There was nothing for it. “Why don't you step into my office?”

My office was cool – relatively cool. Gladys prefers to keep the reception hall unconditioned, frigid in the winter and sweltering throughout the summer. I think she does it to keep people on edge. I don't question her methods; that area is entirely her domain. I have a desk fan and a slow, lazy ceiling fan, so my office is an icebox in comparison.

The girl followed me in, breathed the familiar sigh of someone no longer at risk of melting, and burst into tears. She handed me the kid wordlessly and I had to take it; I think she would have dropped it if I hadn't. She stepped back and collapsed into a seat without turning or slowing her sobs.

I leaned against my desk and watched her cry – and only felt mildly lecherous for noticing the way the air from the fan beside me made her her nipples harden under her red satin gown.

The crying didn't last long, and thank God. As nice as the view was, dames crying is one thing I can't handle for more than a few minutes. I think if the baby had started in, I would have chucked it out the window.

When it was over, the girl looked up at me, calm and collected, every bit of her perfect and in place, except for her eye makeup, which had run down her face. She leaned back in her chair.

“I've got people after me,” she said. “How much do you want?”

The baby cooed and squirmed in my arms. I gave it back to its mother. “For how long?”

“Just until tomorrow night. After that, it won't matter.”

“You planning on getting yourself killed?”

She shrugged “Maybe. If I do, the kid will looked after. How much do you want?”

It's good to have a number in your head, in case the question ever comes up. In my experience, it almost never does. “My standard rate is five hundred a day.”

She didn't react. Just asked, “Five hundred?”

“Plus expenses,” I added. It came out a little more hurried than I'd intended.

“So, a thousand will cover it?”

“A day?” A thousand a day? Yeah, I could get used to that.

She sighed a long, tired sigh, one that was too old to have any business coming out of a skinny, freckle-faced girl like her. “Of course.”

“That will do,” I said, struggling to sound like it was my regular fee.

“Good.”

I was expecting her to reach into her brassier for the money – Except, of course, she wasn't wearing one. So where—

The girl unwound the first layer of flannel from the kid and pulled out a wad of cash the size of a brick. She carefully peeled two bills off the top, then shoved the rest into its makeshift pocket and wrapped it back up.

She handed me my two thousand and with the same hand, pulled my pocket square out of my vest and used it to dab her eyes.

She didn't say another word. She handed me the kid, leaned over me to kiss its forehead and walked out.

I stood in the doorway and watched her leave, the crimson fabric of her backless gown swishing just below the dimples in her back, not a single wrinkle or drop of perspiration to be seen.

I watched out the window and waited until she was in a cab before I unwrapped the kid. That brick of money was gone – and damn it, so was my gun.

At Night

An albino Father Christmas stood on the end table and at night, it came to life. It jumped down, plastic censer swinging from a cardboard-present clutching hand, and moved around the lobby. It went on the computer and changed the reservations, it looked at Internet porn. It chased the mice.

In the morning, it went back, replaced its taffeta hat and waited for the guests. When they touched it, reaching for a dining guide or filling out a comment card, or because its beard looked so soft, it took a piece of their soul and at night, it ate it.


By the way, I wrote the soul-stealing bit before I read Rhiannon's story, which just proves that we're a) very alike and b) very crazy. I would have posted it earlier, but in keeping with the brand new DevCo tradition of posting terrifying holiday art, I wanted to find a picture to go with it.

Ecksmas Prompt: Man of Snow

This is proof positive that I'm bugnuts, by the way. Enjoy! And happy Solstice Rites Of Your Choosing!

~~~

When he woke, he was blind and cold and deaf and could not scream. He couldn’t move, either, but he could feel their hands.
Sensation returned first to his arms; his fingers felt cold and brittle.
Sight returned, then smell. The world was shades of grey, but he could see it and was thankful, even if it did smell of carrots.
They stuck a corncob pipe where his mouth was supposed to go, before they gave him the hat and scarf. It didn’t charm him; he was as cold as death.
They wanted holly-jolly laughter. Instead, he took their souls.

EDIT: I tried putting the damn picture at the end. It won't let me. I blame the shitty computer. And I'm totally adding this after the story's been up for a few moments. Hah! Also, there are waaaaay too many pics of creepy snowmen out there. They're coming for us.

I'm not sure if this counts as a prompt

I was thinking, as a kind of Christmas challenge, it would be cool if we each tried to write a 100 word Xmas story before midnight on Christmas. Neil Gaiman's Nicholas Was is proof that it can be done, but I know everyone is busy around the holidays, so no worries if you've got other things on the go. 'Twas just a thought.

If you wanted to make yours a horror story, I found some inspiration for you. Good lord, that guy is horrifying. Combined with the semi-scary classical Xmas music I'm obliged to listen to at work, I may just have nightmares tonight (or tomorrow, or whenever I sleep next).

Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to wish everyone a Happy Solstice and a Merry Christmas /Winter Holiday of Your Choosing and a Happy New Year. Joys of the season to you :)

Volantynys - A Valentine's Day Story

I shouldn't be here – and I don't know why I agreed to this, I really don't. I was lonely, I guess, but I've always been lonely and it's never driven me to anything this awful, anything this degrading.

But whatever. I'm here now.

I'm here, at the mouth of Hell. It's bright inside, too bright, but too dim, too, like the light can't make up its mind. And there's this hum, a thousand conversations loud enough to heard, too quiet to comprehend. It's horrible. Deep breath, as we pass over the threshold.

He takes my coat. He does everything he's supposed to and it makes him that much worse. I can't help hating him.

The other him is just a glimmer across the room. I thought I saw him sitting at a table there, but maybe not. Maybe it was wishful thinking.

Property management, veterinary assistance and I'm ready to kill myself. I'm considering faking a headache, a phone call, anything but my continuing interest in this conversation.

He raises his glass to me. Not him but the other him. The him that I'm actually paying attention to. He's more than a glimmer now. A glimmer and a half, then gone again.

The economy. Politics. The politics of the economy. I have to go to the bathroom. Excuse me.

It's not such a bad place. The floor is well maintained, the walls are rich, the music isn't unbearable. The snippets of conversation I can make out are infinitely more interesting t

han the ones I've been having, but not enough to grab my full attention. And, I'm about to pass the other him's table. Hymn. In my mind, that's how I'll tell the difference. Him and Hymn.

He isn't there. He isn't anywhere. My glimmer and a half is gone. I'm contemplating slipping out through the kitchen. I'm contemplating walking out the front door, right past him, letting him know

I'm leaving. Being bold.

No. I'll go into the bathroom, I'll powder my nose, and I'll return for something stimulating about the political economy of property management and veterinary assistance. I'm a coward.

He grabs my arm, hard. Hymn. He's wearing a mask, white china. Black lips trailing red blood. A heart on his cheek, like it's a tear.

He shoves me into the wall, harder. My breath catches in my throat, my heel catches on the baseboard and I'm completely unwilling to struggle free. I'm his.

He whispers to me. His voice is dark gravel pouring over hot breath. I nearly melt. My whole body is trembling as I nod my assent and return

to Him.

Is everything OK? I have to go. The only conversation worth having. I grab my coat and I'm gone.

He follows me out. He follows me into an alley, calling my name. I'm telling him to leave, but he won't listen. What's going on? I wish I knew.

There he is, my Hymn, my mask, my silver blade, my single tear.

Who is this guy? Why do you care? He's not you; that alone would be enough.

He whispers again, my black lips, my red blood. He tells me what to do.

We're the last thing he sees, on his back in an alley, my blade buried up to the hilt in his chest.

We step over him, his hand low on my back, his eyes high on my legs – my stilettos clicking on wet pavement and broken glass.

I love this Hymn; makes my heart sing.