What They Don't Know Will Hurt Her

I'm throwing some mainstream flash at you today.  Here's my latest Flash! Friday entry: "What They Don't Know Will Hurt Her."

Oncifer Fought a Frosty Foe (Vlog)

This post replaces yesterday's post.  I decided (not at all because I didn't realize that there was actually another Sunday in December...) to push my vlog up a week in celebration of Christmas.  Here's the link to this story in its comment form.

Merry Christmas, all.

Consequences

This 100-worder is based on a true story.

     Why did I do that?  I was stupid.  Thump.  Now my head hurts too.  Funny, my fist feels fine.  I smile slightly.

     The walk down to the office is rather tedious.  I’m fine with that.  I want the time.  I’d rather delay being scoffed at by Principal Roberts.  Boy can he tell you off.  Not that I’d really know.  I’m a first-timer.

     Beside me is the person that knows my situation best, Gregory Orwell.  There’s a little mark on his right cheek.  I think you can figure out how he got that.  Well, it’s time.  I trudge into the office.

Another Night-Light Night

     Light faded outside Melinda’s window.  The moon edged just above the horizon of trees.  A narrow moonbeam illuminated a patch of her pink carpet, the rest shrouded in darkness.  She blinked a few times, eyelids starting to get heavy despite how much she wanted to stay awake.  The owls would be out any minute now.  This was the only time of day she could hear her “pet” owl, Holly.

     A single hoot emerged, breaking the silent night.  Two more joined it, their calls gruffer, the first almost singsong.  Melinda smiled.  She could pick out Holly’s hoot from the others.

     The owls’ tempo rose, a flurry of sweet sound.  From time to time the flap of a wing or the rustling of leaves managed to edge its way to her ear. 

     She closed her eyes tight, said a prayer, and bid her owl a “good night”.  A smile drew across her face.  Then she heard a different sort of noise, a low rumbling growl.  She drew her covers close.

     “A midnight snack, perhaps,” she thought she heard.  Her heart skipped a beat.  Breath caught in her throat.  She tried to scream, but it came out as a whimper.

     “I am so very hungry,” came the voice.  Her mouth went dry.  She gulped hard, easing the knot in her windpipe.  The rumbling returned and she managed a piercing yell.

     Footsteps thundered from the hallway.  Her door opened, letting in a triangle of light.  “What’s the matter?” her father asked, adjusting his nightcap.

     “I heard a monster,” said Melinda.  “Under my bed.”

     Her father nodded, rubbing his eyes.  “Monsters, of course.  Let me take care of them for you.”

     Melinda’s eyes widened.  “But it’ll eat you,” she said.  “It said it was very hungry.”

     “It did?” said her father.  He picked up a purple flashlight from atop Melinda’s dresser.  “Come over here.”

     Melinda paused a moment, her pulse still fast.  She dropped down out of bed and moved to her father as fast as she could.

     “There, no more monsters,” her father said, pulling up a corner of her comforter to shine the light in.  “This flashlight scared them away.”

     “Thank you, Daddy,” said Melinda.  She stepped back into bed as her father turned to leave.  “Before you go, could you please plug in my night-light, one last time?”

     “I thought you said you didn’t need a night-light anymore?”  Her father cocked his head a little to the side, switching out the flashlight for a tiara-shaped night-light.

     “Oh, I don’t need it,” said Melinda.  Her owl hooted outside.  “I’m just afraid Holly will get scared.”

M is for My Country

     Those dogs.  Those filthy, mangy dogs.  They slaughtered all of them.  Men, women, children, burned and cut down.  My country.  Tears stream down my lucid face. 
     I left them.  The survivors of the sentry guard and militia were backed up to the door of my manor.  I watched them from my grand windows, Linus the sentry leader ran through by a bayonet as he shielded a young boy, Friar George’s brother Vernon shot in the arm and later innards, blood spurting from his pale lips.  Most of them I knew by name.
     My protectors, wife, and daughter made for the back door.  “I shan’t let ye perish, m’Lord,” declared Martin, the leader of my personal guard.  I was hauled away, but I didn’t resist.  I heard the cries of my people as I left them to die.
     We rushed to a small boat in the wharf.  Martin assisted my family into the boat before he and my five other guardsmen got to work at the ropes.  After the vessel was released from the docks they jumped in and went for the oars, wind too slight for the single sail.  I couldn’t see the last of my countrymen perish.  That didn’t matter.  The screaming was evidence enough.
     I surveyed what was left of the populace of my dear home.  My wife Mary, cheeks like spiced milk, gown of green satin.  My daughter Sophia, charcoal braids framing a round face, cheekbones high and regal.  Randulf, the oldest and most trusted of my guard.  Norman and Orson, brothers possessing incredible strength and loyalty.  Lenard, former sentry leader and strategist.  Hieni, a dark-skinned captive from the west, highly knowledgeable of flora and fauna.  Martin, man of amazing speed with the sabre, accuracy of the musket, and cultivation of the mind.  Perhaps the finest soldiers in all of Hannon, or former Hannon as it soon shall be.
     I snap back to attention as we exit the harbor.  The occasional sobs from Mary and Sophia have ceased, Sophia drifting to sleep in her mother’s arms and Mary peering blankly at the slight waves of the sea.  They are still in shock, I’m sure.  Sympathy isn’t Mary’s strong-suit, but she is far from cold-hearted.  I realize now that I sheltered Sophia too much.  She will never truly understand this event.  She may not live much longer anyway.  A new round of tears slides down my face.
     “Have you a plan, Lenard?” I ask.
     “Aye, m’Lord.  We’ll find a small island for the night and then continue to Jeri.  The Jerians have always looked kindly toward us, even if our requests for an alliance were dismissed,” he replied.
     “Splendid.  You may ease, men, the Yirmans won’t bother looking for small ships escaping.  They’re quite a superstitious nation, as far as the ocean is concerned.”
     My men half their oaring pace.  They will continue for as long as I request; Norman and Orson alone could row for hours.  The sun will set soon, however.  The first sight of land will be our heading.
     A few minutes later, I spot a speck in the distance.  “Steer right, men.  I see some land.  We shall rebuild our great country.”

G is for Great Man

            “Greetings, sir,” said the butler, stretching one gloved hand out to shake Vladimir’s.  Vlad took it firmly and strode through the threshold.  He smiled.
            The room he entered was vast, stretching the entire width of the manor and at least twenty paces deep.  A crystal chandelier dangled from the centermost point of the mahogany-paneled ceiling, sending a cascade of light down upon the shimmering dresses and pastel suits of the guests.  Vladimir blinked at the contrasting brightness, coming in from a cold, dark December night.
            A pack of people danced in the western side of the room.  Six violinists played a lively, yet elegant, tune.  There was no sign of the party’s host.
            The eastern side of the room held a much more boisterous air.  A long bar sat against the back wall, staffed by young girls pouring only the most carbonated champagnes.  One woman swayed as she tried to migrate to the other wing.  Vladimir caught her before she could fall.
            “I’m sorry,” said a vested man hardly old enough to drink.  He hurried over and took the woman from Vladimir.  “My mother is a little too fond of the bottle.”
            “It is all well,” Vlad said, stroking the corners of his thick mustache.  “Quite a gala, do you not say?”
            “Yes, I must say so, Mister…?”
            “Vladimir Sedov.”
            “Bradley Morse,” the man said, taking Vlad’s hand in a weak grip.  “How do you know our host?”
            “He was an old business partner of mine.  Great man, brilliant.  By the way, have you seen him?”
            “Upstairs, in the billiards room.  He has a nice break for an old guy,” said Bradley.  “No offense,” he added at the last moment.
            Vlad began walking toward the staircase in the rightmost corner of the room.  “Great man,” he whispered.  “Too great.”  The Sig beneath his shirt felt cold.  His heart beat hot.

A is for Arson

     The sky opened up above me.  One droplet of water struck the sleeve of my flannel.  The rain grew colder and thicker by the step as I strode along my sidewalk.  Not the best conditions.
     A bus stop materialized as I rounded a corner.  Its black cage of a sanctuary would do well to keep out the storm.  I took a seat on one of the benches beside a young girl and her mother.  The girl smiled up at me.  My lips curled in response.  They’re oh so naïve at that age.
     The bus paused, its engine stuttering just a tad.  I motioned for my bench mates to board first, with a tip of my ball cap, and came on myself.  My wallet felt heavy as I drew out a five and handed it to the driver.  “Keep the change,” I said with a grin.
     I strolled almost to the back and grabbed onto a strap hanging from the ceiling.  The bus lurched forward.  My heart fluttered.  Almost time.

*    *   *

     The house before me looked a lot like a miniature barn.  The tin roof formed a simple peak with no gables.  The main construction was wood, painted a garish red.  There weren’t any windows, at least not on this side of the house.  The front door looked hand-crafted from some dark maple.
     I double-checked the address in my smartphone.  Everything matched.  Time to get to work.
     I wrapped on the door three times.  No reply.  Twice more.  Nothing.  Good.
     The lock clicked nearly the moment I plunged my pick into it.  I stepped inside.  There were shoes everywhere, some sitting on metal racks, the rest thrown haphazardly.  A perfect fire hazard.  Chuckle.  So soon?
     I scanned the room for an outlet.  No need to make this any less “natural” than it needs to be.  I found one against the right wall.  A lone Nike Air sat beneath it.
     I slipped my hand into my right pocket and pulled out a plastic case.  Inside were a dozen metal instruments.  I took out a short metal rod like a toothpick.  From the other pocket I drew out a green rubber glove.  Slipped it on.  Took a euphoric breath.
     I jabbed the metal rod into the outlet and set the other side down on one of the shoe laces.  It took only a moment for the spark.  Then smoke.  Then flame.  I blew life into the fire.  It blew cash into my pocket.  Mission accomplished.

Snail Mail (Part 1)

     Lombar drew his broadsword from its enamel sheath.  With one stroke he silenced his employer’s whimpering horse, its leg jutting out at an obscene angle, bone poking out through tangled tendons.  Lombar’s face was straight and cold.  He took a blood-stained cloth from a pocket on his sheath and wiped his sword clean.  While replacing it, he removed the small saddlebag from the dead horse’s middle and strapped it to his waist.  He took a few steps toward his employer, Master Ulrich, a limp form on the wet grass.  Ulrich’s chest pulsed despite two clearly broken ribs.  Light steam billowed from his mouth in a choppy stream.
     The metal tube containing the message Ulrich was delivering remained in his grasp.  Lombar’s brow furrowed.  He shrugged and attempted to pry it away to no avail.  “Master Ulrich?” he said, expecting no response.  Several moments passed without a sound.
     Lombar hoisted him over his shoulder.  He began marching forward, continuing along the dirt path they had been traveling on.  The weight caused him to sway, yet he didn’t falter.  His boots were highly worn and rugged, walking something natural for him.  Rarely had he been allowed a horse for his duties.  Over the years his legs had hardened into steel to compensate.
     He began to whistle a tune he had learned from a traveling minstrel he had guarded.  The solemnness of the song seemed to fit the occasion.  A few birds were singing a countering tone, but other than that it was silent.  A corn field sprung up to Lombar’s left as he walked.  His right was devoid of anything but boggy grassland.  This was practically nowhere to anyone who wasn’t a simple farmer or field hand.  “I suppose that I mayn’t be choosy,” Lombar mumbled with a mysteriously light and formal accent.
     The crisp blue sky was shifting to purple by the time the road bled into a sturdier village lane.  Buildings sprawled out over a surprisingly large tract of land.  A handful of people milled around working or playing on doorsteps outside, most of them refusing to give Lombar even a glance.  Lombar trounced around through the settlement, his eyes flitting.  They stopped when they had fallen upon a multi-floor building, a sign above the threshold proclaiming it as “The Lonely Dove”.
     Lombar entered the inn’s battered door and grimaced, the floor-boards squeaking like foul city rats.  It wasn’t difficult to tell who the innkeeper was, an apron and bulging middle as good as heraldry.  “How fair thee, mister?” Lombar called out.
     The innkeeper set down his tankard and turned, clearly taken aback.  “Doing well, I suppose.  I suspect you hail from afar?” he replied.
     “Aye, from Yorkshire.  My client, this here fellow,” he pointed to Ulrich, “was knocked a-leery off his mount an hour off.  Pray tellest me you hath an open room for the night?”
     “I do, rough gentleman.  A penny for a Yorkie, and chargeless if you have any stories to recount.  You seem the type, at least.”
     The innkeeper guided Lombar upstairs to a small room.  Two cots sat against the wall, an oil lamp the only other furnishing.  He placed Ulrich onto one of them, inspected his broken ribs, and returned downstairs, the smell of ale overpowering.
     “What part of Yorkshire are you from?” the innkeeper asked.
     “From York itself,” Lombar replied.
     The innkeeper nodded.  “And you were a bodyguard there?”
     Lombar turned his eyes down.  “I was the master guard of York Castle.”
     The innkeeper’s eyes bulged slightly.  “What brought you to this profession?” the innkeeper asked as they reentered the barroom.  He added, “Let me get you a drink,” and filled a tankard with amber-hued ale.
     Lombar took a long draw.  “The keep hath been turned to a prison.”
     “That’s unfortunate,” the innkeeper said.  “Did you find much excitement there, in its time?”
     “Aye, I found more than enough.”
     “Do continue, guardsman,” a man at the bar broke in.
     Lombar gave the man a slight scowl.  “It was the night of All Hallows, some ten years past…”

Fantasy Writing Yahoo Group 2-24-13 Prompt

Prompt: On an old atlas you find a continent that you never saw before.

            “How queer,” Roger mumbled.  He traced a finger around the non-fractal shoreline of some “Pinovya” object marring his nineteenth century atlas.  “That ad promised an untarnished 1868 atlas.  My gracious, if this is untarnished...”  Roger scowled.  “Where is that paper?”

            The room was a maze of artifacts.  A supposed replica of the Holy Grail lay sideways on a hand-carved French table.  Dusty tomes spread across nearly every surface.  Roger stumbled around, eyes darting.  There.

            Roger swiped his phone from a pocket of his corduroy blazer and dialed the number.  After three rings, a gruff voice emerged.  “Hello.”

            “Hi, this is Roger Derry.  I bought the atlas you advertised in the Post and find some inaccuracies in your description.”

            “And by that you mean what, my boy?”

            “It had an eighth continent marked in.  It’s clearly been tarnished, despite your promises of the converse.”

            “That’s no mistake.  Pinovya is quite real.”

            “A whole continent that no one’s heard of?  That’s absurd.”  Roger pulled his laptop from an Ottoman foot-rest and punched the word into Google.  Two results.

            “I’m sorry, my boy.  America’s Got Talent is coming on.  Trust me, that atlas is as original as my right hip.”  He added in a mumble, “although I can’t speak for the left one.”

            Roger dropped the phone beside him on his oddly ordinary loveseat.  Two results on Google?  Is it possible...?

            The first link opened up a dark home page.  The heading read: The Real Myth-Land of Pinovya.  Roger scrolled down, a bead of sweat dampening his mouse.  A few grainy, captioned photographs displayed a lush jungle.  The animals were like nothing Roger had ever seen before.  A few had two sets of wings, despite their feathered bodies.  One lay snug against a tree, its mane entangled around a horn.  Its hooves were cloven.

            Roger shook his head as he went backward to click the other link.  This time, a blog popped up on the screen.  On the right sidebar an old man was pictured.  Roger’s hometown blazed below it.

            The latest post was titled “My Last”.  Roger gulped hard.  The words seemed to dance around in his head.  “They’ve never believed me.”  “I’ve seen it.”  “A square island smack-dab in the middle of the Pacific.”  “I don’t know if I’d believe myself if I didn’t know.”  “And yet it’s true.”

            The last six sentences made Roger’s heart drop.  He read aloud, “It pains me to have to pass along with my secret.  I sold the atlas.  That’s the best I could do.  It’s beautiful.  The most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.  Such a pity.”

            Roger closed his laptop.  “Could it be…?” he murmured.

Jasper, the Anorexic Penguin

     Roaring winds swept across the tundra, whipping snow across Jasper’s beak. He raised one dainty flipper to shield his face. Waddling away, he headed toward a glacial hill to stay out of the wind. His depressed belly was numb and painless for the first time in weeks. It wasn’t that Jasper had no way of getting food, fish were overabundant in the area and he was very near a patch of ocean filled with fish, Jasper was just odd. He was an anorexic penguin.
     When Jasper at last removed himself from the wind, huffing and puffing away, he threw himself to the ground. Soon he was snoring softly.
     Waking a few hours later, he gasped. In the dark ocean water beside him was a gargantuan leopard seal! He squawked and set to hobbling away. Alas, the seal snatched Jasper’s feet in its maw and slammed him against the surface of a nearby pool. Jasper's bones cracks. His flesh tore into several dozen dozen pieces, floating only a moment before entering the mouth of the victorious predator. Farewell, Jasper, the anorexic penguin.