Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge: 200 words, part 2

Written for the 2nd part of Chuck Wendig's 5 week flash fiction challenge on Terrible Minds.  Basically, one picks 200 words written by someone else for last  week's challenge, then adds their own 200 words to the mix.  Below, the story beginning I chose by Fatma Alici, and following that, the 200 words I added.


Another shot glass slammed down as Toops flashed her big, black eyes at me.  “Are you going to black out.”  Her tone as dry as the desert planet we had left.

“I never black out. “  I grinned motioning for another shot.  “I’m only resting my eyes.”

 Toops rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.   “Yeah, I believe you, Lancer.  I really do.”  Her scarred fingers pushed her still full glass back and forth across the metal bar top.  “Didn’t you say we have a man coming in to offer us a job?

“You handle all the contracts.  I’m your simple minded muscle.”  I winked at her.  “Me big man.  Me hit things hard.”  The burning fire scalded my throat as I took another shot.

Her hand snapped out faster than my eye could follow.  Those strong fingers crushed mine into my palm.  “Do not call for another shot.  I swear I will break your fingers right now.”

A hearty chuckle rumbled up my throat.  “Alright, alright boss lady.”

My fingers were released.  “We are partners.”

“You say that now, but once the client gets here you’ll change your tune.”  She couldn’t deny it.  It was true.

---

The mark joined us not too long after that. I know they're supposed to be clients, but I can't help thinking of them as marks. Lancer likes to think of us as noble ruffians, taking on jobs to help the weak and disenfranchised. Truth is, we take on the jobs that pay the most. Sometimes that means we take the client for a bit of a ride.

Lancer was right about one thing: when the client arrives, I play boss. Pretty much have to; no one would buy me as the hired muscle – at least no one with all their bits in tact. Marks are always weary of a girl without a purpose. They'll buy me as the brains, but not the brawn.

Lancer brought this one in. I let him do that once in a while because it makes him feel like we're equal partners. More importantly, it makes the marks think that I'm hot stuff. They're so lucky to get me, I send one of my peons first to see if they're worthwhile instead of going myself. Doesn't always work, but when it does, it's a much bigger payday.

Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge

Wrote this for Chuck Wendig's most recent flash fiction challenge on Terrible Minds.

Blurred, crystalline shapes whined into view.

Rebecca blinked, but otherwise kept still while she assessed the damage. The glass had exploded inward, which bothered her less because it had knocked her down, and more because exploded inward was a contradiction. She didn't like that.

Her habit had protected her ears and God had protected her eyes. Her hands hadn't been so well looked after.

She put a cautious, bleeding hand on a pile of glass cubes, another on bare concrete, and started to push herself up. For the first and – she hoped – only time, she was glad Mother Superior insisted on those ugly, thick-soled shoes. Her stilettos never would have gained traction.

A hand appeared in front of her. She took it without questioning its origin. It was strong, warm, masculine. She was happy to allow the man to help her stand, to accept her glasses as he handed them back. For a second, Rebecca let herself believe she might escape. She put her glasses on.

She started, which startled the man. His one hand hung awkwardly in the air, as if he was still waiting for her to take her glasses; the other rested on his gun.

Flash Fiction Challenge - Human Found Dead

Well...

Here we are then.  I haven't actually written anything since...um...NaNoWriMo 2011. It's been a while.  I claim a combination of writer's block and getting on with life...  So, I'm out of practice.  You have my apologies for the roughness of what follows...though, since it's supposed to be hard-boiled, that might actually work in my favour...

Anyway.  Challenge was 1000 words, and after bouncing up and down, I managed 998. I'm actually intrigued enough with this to write a whole short story...first time I'd ever done a hard-boiled anything, and I think I kinda like it...

Anyway, it's a hard-boiled urban fantasy, with (hopefully) a theme of Love Demands Sacrifice, so...lemmie know how I did.

.~.~.~.

Human Found Dead

I was at Grimm's when he started running his mouth.  Normally I let drunks ramble and ignore them, but tonight I'd come to wash the blood out of my thoughts with whiskey, not listen to his whining.  So, I give him a not-too friendly warning.

“Look, friend,” I said, interrupting him.  “A little free advice:  You've got about five minutes before someone in here decides to take your hide.  I suggest you use it well.”

“They won't kill me.”

I shook my head.  Humans.  They're never willing to believe any of us wear their skin – or used to, rather.  It's been banned, though that don't stop the traditionalists, and the traditionalists drink at Grimm's.

“For your own good, tell your story and scram – before someone kills you to dye their hat.”

“I thought you guys were cracking down on the Red Cap gangs.”

He was actually giving me attitude, after the sob story he'd just been telling anyone who'd listen?  I gave him a look.  This idiot just didn't realize on whose turf he was being an ass.  I could feel the assorted eyes of the other patrons on us, staring from the shadows.  Out in mainstream society or not, the fae don't like humans drinking in their bars.  Especially the annoying humans.

“Fine, fine.”  He turned sullen and swallowed what was left of his drink.  He had a face like the backside of a barn door, grey and unloved.

In spite of myself, I was curious.  This guy was a real, true-blooded human, and you don't get a lot of those in Grimm's.  I figured he probably had an hour tops before he was somebody's dinner, and I wanted to know why he wanted to die so bad he'd risk being human in a fairy bar.  Guess I felt bad for the poor sucker, so I signaled the barman for another round.  Least I could do, if he was going die of Terminal Stupidity.

Besides, maybe it'd take my mind of my own troubles for a time.

“What happened to him?”

“Hmm?”

“This friend you've been going on about.  What happened to him?”

“I...I dunno.  We grew apart.  I grew up, and...”  He squirmed.  “There was this girl.”

I nodded.  Nothing new there.

“She...well, eventually she left me for a six foot QB who beat her and knocked her up on Prom night.”

“And your friend?”

“I tried to find the way back, but...”  He downed his drink.  “This was before the Boundaries fell, you understand.  I couldn't find it.  We used to do everything together.  Sailed up and down the coast...he was so fierce that even the pirates backed off.  Doesn't matter,” he added bitterly.  “He's coming for me now, and there's nowhere left to run.”

I didn't say anything else.  Didn't ask him how he knew. I just bought us another round of drinks.

.~.~.~.

She has hair like untouched snow and eyes so dark they go on forever, and at 3 A.M she handed me a cup of coffee to mask the scent of whiskey on my breath.  I'd only slept for an hour tops, and was still in yesterday's clothes.  I was rumpled and smelly, but she was pristine; cool and crisp like fresh linen.  Even here, surrounded by blood and filth, Aderyn smelled like flowers.

“Barman found him.”  She has a voice like a warm fire on a cold night, and is so gentle with me it hurts.  “He said you might know something about it.”

I looked around.  I hate that she sees this shit, but she chose it – gotta help those who can't help themselves – and as she told me in the beginning, I can't take that from her.

The morning paper will have few of the details, none of the gore in a story as flat and flaccid as a rentboy at noon.  They'll leave out the splashes of dark red against brown bricks and the black puddles of lifeblood on asphalt; the smell like raw steak, and the multiple chalk outlines around what was left of that poor bastard.  They'll leave out the rank stench of bile from where the rookie yacked, and the piss-and-filth-and-garbage reek of the dumpster they found him behind.  The damp air and the eye-pounding strobe lights on the marked cars.  They'll tidy it up for their readers with three words:  Human Found Dead...

“He was a human drinking in a fairy bar,” I said.  It should be all the explanation anyone needs.  Not that that would make it better for the human cops, when we called them in.

“What do you make of this, then?”  I looked where she pointed, up at the words scratched with bloody efficiency into the brick.  “'Honah Lee'.  Could be a person.”

“Maybe.”  I filled her in on what I knew; it wasn't a lot.

“He have a name?”

I shook my head.  No names, not in Grimm's.

“Looks like his friend caught up to him, though.”

When they found the head, the mouth was stuffed with strings and wax, and there were two scales, emerald green and glowing, on his eyes.   Pennies for Charon.

I looked up at Aderyn as a nameless tech handed me a wallet.

“Jean Papier,” I told her, reading the name off the license, and had to hide the hitch in my breath.

Aderyn had taken the Change so she could walk upright like the rest of us, given up her life in the forests to wade hip deep into the scum of the Earth and make things a little brighter.  I'd marry her if she'd have me, but unicorns don't really go for elfin types.  Especially elfin cops with drinking problems.

She reached out, but not to pull me out of my personal darkness.

I handed her the wallet.


NB: I've fixed a few awkward phrases/grammar errors since putting this up and linking it to terribleminds.  Infinite do-overs and take-backs, yeah?  Well, I'm usin' 'em. :)

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.

Speaking of Chuck Wendig...

Well, we weren't, but I was poking around on his blog to day (it's awesome...I'm putting it in the links to the left because he's hilarious and brilliant and a free-lance writer and a figure worth learning from)...

Anyway, he's doing a Flash Fiction thing. Details HERE, but basically, he wants 1000 or less words of vacation-oriented horror stories...by which I mean, monsters and shite, not "my plane was THREE HOURS LATE and all I had to eat was these horrible peanuts and then the kid next to me wee'd himself and rolled in it". Whole other genre, that.

I figured it was right up our collective alley. We should all do it. He wants them by the 11th of Feb-October.

Best part: He's going to put them on his blog, as is, which means (you guessed it): Exposure! Fame! Fortune! Someone in "The Business" might read it!

Also, prizes may be involved. But, apparently, us Canucks will have to pay the shipping if we win.