Friday Flash Fiction: Melt

The wind is quiet, but I can hear the branches scratching against the window screens. We wait, silently, hoping that they'll think no one is in here. That's the advantage of human brains over brains made of snow – they're not that bright.

"Snowpocalypse!" the news media deemed the snow and ice that blanketed the city. With a ratio of about one snowplow to every million people, that's pretty much how it ended up. That first day, with the snow soft and only starting to get its hard layer of ice, the kids got out and engaged in that ritual that they'd only heard of from their Northern cousins: making snowmen. Some went all-out authentic with coal eyes and carrot noses, and others got more creative. One odd commonality: Mardi Gras beads. Whether it was a snow drag queen (that was in Midtown, I'm sure) or a snow bunny in Decatur, they wore beads.

"What did they show to get those?" my husband asked after we'd passed our third festive snow creature on a careful walk around the neighborhood.

"I don't know," I replied and righted myself after an almost-fall. "It sure puts a different meaning to the old phrase, 'colder than a witch's tits.'"

"Most witches I know are pretty hot," he said with a wink.

After the third day of no school and minimal openings except for bars and lightly staffed restaurants, the natives got restless, and not just the parents with small children. The weather would "warm up" to around freezing or a little higher, then hard freeze again at night. The snowmen and creatures mimicked the appearance of Hollywood starlets on crash diets, thinning out in odd places, and then getting their hard shells at night. A traditional snowman on Ponce de Leon Avenue took on an insectoid look as its head, thorax, and abdomen melted and flattened. The snow bunny's ears drooped, and its eyes grew big and skeletal.

It was that fourth night that we heard the noise the first time, a "scratch scratch scraaaaape!" on the neighbor's window. We peered out our dining room and saw it, the snow insect, its branch legs barely able to hold it up. Its beads swayed and sparkled in the light from the streetlamp.

"There must have been some magic," I started to sing under my breath, but my husband grabbed my wrist. The ice bug ambled toward our house, and we ducked into the kitchen, barely breathing as it repeated its scratching query on the screen.

The telephone rang, and the noise outside stopped. We let the machine take the call, and it was our neighbor from down the street:

"I just saw a zombie snow bunny with Mardi Gras beads!"

The next day, of course, hordes took to the streets to find and destroy the creatures, but they were nowhere to be found. I suspected that they were hiding in the woods, and my suspicions were confirmed that night when we saw them again, this time with sturdier branch legs.

By the fifth day, the ice had mostly melted off the sidewalks, although the roads were still bad, and the usual contingent of joggers and health nuts who consider five miles to be an "easy run" had taken to the streets again. We saw one of our neighbors, Michael Magee, on his usual route. He'd usually run up and down the streets of the neighborhood five times. After the third time, he disappeared.

"Honey?" I asked. "Did you see Michael go by recently?"

"Nope." We called our neighbor down the street, and she bundled up and joined us in front of our house. We retraced his route and found a thickly wooded empty lot where the snow and ice had been disturbed in a path running from the sidewalk to the trees. Blood stained the snow and dripped down the edges of jagged pieces of ice that had been torn up during the scuffle.

"Oh, gods!" my neighbor said with one mitten over her mouth. "We have to call 911!"

"Or the Ghostbusters," my husband added.

The police, of course, were not much help and warned us to stay inside. We went back home, cranked the heat up as far as it would go, and armed ourselves with a hair dryer and crème brulée torch. Not that they would do much good against a creature that could take down a healthy, full-grown man.

So here we sit, sweating and silent, as the creatures scratch at the windows. I feel it's only a matter of time before they figure out how to take down the power supply to the house, and food supplies are getting low, so we hope that the predictions of the imminent Great Thaw are true. Although I don't call myself a witch, I can feel the wild energy swirling outside, driving the clink of beads and scraping of branches. They say Mardi Gras brings out the wild side of people. Snowmen and ice creatures must feel the same.

There must have been some magic…

Yes, that was a snow bunny we saw on Sycamore when we could finally walk to downtown Decatur that Wednesday. Pretty much all of this story up to the creatures coming to life is true. If someone can explain why people decided to put beads on their snowmen, please do so – it was a very strange trend. The idea of them coming to life was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend about what the snowmen turned into as they melted and refroze. They did look pretty freaky.

Oh, since this is my first foray back into #fridayflash in a few months, here's a bunch of goodies from the case of temptation at Alon's bakery:

The Great Chocolate Conspiracy Part 10

Welcome to The Great Chocolate Conspiracy!

Chocolate Digestive biscuits have disappeared from the shelves right across the eastern seaboard of the USA, and now the shortage has spread to London. Detective Chief Inspector Sam Adamson and his international team of investigators from the Metropolitan Police's Confectionery Crimes Unit (CCU) have been tasked to solve the mystery.

This is the tenth installment of a multi-part flash fiction story that originated during a chat between the authors on Twitter. You can read how it all began here. (Links to all the installments will be added to the author list as they are posted)

The next installment will appear on Friday, November 12th at Angie Capozello (aka @techtigger)'s Techtigger's Soapbox, and you can keep up on developments in the meantime by following the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter.

---
"Sacramento?" The name of the city burst from Juniper's lips the moment she and Marier left the debriefing room. "Why are we going to California?"

Marier slowly unwrapped the chocolate bar. She seemed lost for a moment in the crinkle of the plastic wrapping, and she took a long whiff and a small bite before answering.

"Think, Juniper. Why would Adamson be splitting us up, especially now when we're so close?"

The Italian agent took a bite, and she raised her eyebrows. "He doesn't intend for us to go anywhere! But who's he trying to throw off? And why?"

Before Marier could answer, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

"Excuse me, agents?" Marier turned to see a tall woman in her thirties with chin-length curly hair the color of an old penny. She wore a lab coat and glasses.

"Yes…?"

"I'm Doctor Dominic, the liaison between the Intelligence Communication and Super Powers Departments..." She smiled and shook her head. "Sorry, I can't say that with a straight face. You know – mind control, subliminal messaging, telepathy, those sorts of things. Chief Henderson wanted me to talk with Agent Bronyaur about his dream, and he mentioned that you two were in close proximity when he'd had it. Would you mind coming with me?" She tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't a question."

"I would rather not." Marier looked at the sealed door to the debriefing room.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice."

The next thing Marier knew, she followed Doctor Dominic down the hall and into an elevator. "Wait a minute. Did you just subliminalize me?"

"Me?" The doctor's facial expression was the picture of innocence. "I'm afraid that's against my ethical code."

Marier and Juniper exchanged glances. However, when they reached the exam room on the minus twenty-fourth floor, they realized they weren't the ones who needed help.

"Is all this necessary?" Agent Bronyaur asked. He looked at the Velcro cuffs a large male nurse had just fastened around his wrists and ankles. He had electrodes fixed to his head and face. Agent La Paglia hovered, but each time she tried to reach him, the nurse blocked her way.

"Don't worry, Agent Bronyaur," the doctor said. "It's because you're the extra intuitive and sensitive one in the group who had the dream."

He leaned back with a grin. "Really?"

Doctor Dominic winked at Marier and Juniper before she measured a clear liquid into a syringe. "I'm going to have to put you under to achieve a steady alpha state so you can revisit your dream and communicate with us simultaneously. When you come out of it, you may become disoriented, and I can't risk you harming yourself or us. Ladies, if you will please stand back."

"You're not going to hurt him, are you?" asked Marier.

"Of course not! I'm just going to give him a little sodium thiopental, or truth serum, to make sure he doesn't hold back on us. Don't worry," she assured Bronyaur, "it won't hurt. In fact, people say it's quite pleasant. Now take a deep breath, and Nurse Brutus will start the i.v."

Marier watched the doctor and nurse, and although she couldn't verify the liquids, she could hear Bronyaur's breaths become deep and even.

"There, now," the doctor said. "Agent Bronyaur, can you hear me?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Say yes, please."

"Yes, please."

She smiled. "Okay, then. I want you to go back to this morning, when you got on the airplane, just before your dream. What were you thinking about?"

"Mmmmm, thong panties… Hot pink…"

Doctor Dominic raised her eyebrows. "Thong panties?"

Marier blushed and saw that Juniper had turned a similar shade of red. "He, ah, had to do some packing for us. We left in a hurry, you see."

"I'm sure. Now, Agent, I want you to go back to that dream state, the one you were in on the plane. What do you see?"

"SUV's. Big, black ones. And a short, fat Sheriff with a handlebar moustache."

Dominic scribbled the notes on a pad and watched the agent's brain waves on a computer screen. "What happens next?"

"There's an office, but it looks more like a basement. A lab. An explosion… Blood… Chocolate…"

"Okay, let's go back to the SUV's that picked you up. I want you to tell me the distances and turns."

"We go twenty feet, right out of the airport…"

Marier watched, open-mouth, as the doctor took Bronyaur back through the dream and extracted every last detail. By the end of it, they were all sweating.

Or maybe the air had cut off.

"Doctor, there's something wrong!" Marier stepped forward.

"No, he'll be fine. It looks like the villains have provided a map, whether intentionally or inadvertently." She rubbed her eyes. "I wish I could tell you more, but I didn't get coffee this morning, and I've got a splitting headache. I'll run the information through the analyzer, which will plug it into algorithms in the UK's and United States' databases."

"I meant with the climate control." Marier gestured to the vent, which was no longer blowing cold air.

"You're right – we should be getting more air." Dominic moved quickly, measuring out more clear liquid from a different vial. "I'm going to bring Agent Bronyaur out of his trance with a mild stimulant."

"Mmmm, thongs…"

She pushed the liquid into the i.v. Bronyaur gasped and struggled against the restraints.

"Wait, I see her! Motley was directing everyone in the dream! It wasn't a store – it was a lab!" He opened his eyes, and the nurse released the restraints.

"And she's up there with Adamson!" Marier, Juniper, and LaPaglia ran out of the room, followed by a rubber-legged Bronyaur.

Marier fidgeted in front of the elevator. Every time she closed her eyes to blink, she saw the crumpled body of DCI Adamson just after the explosion that injured his leg. I'm not failing you again!

The building shook, and everything went dark.

Friday Flash Fiction: Confession

I've gone back and forth about posting this one for
a couple of weeks. It falls squarely in the category of "things I wish I'd had the guts to do in high school." Feedback, as always, is welcome.

Confession

Victoria was in danger of turning into that most hideous of beasts: The Perfect Child. Her natural intelligence had predisposed her to PC standing, and here she was at fifteen, ostracized for being a "smart kid." The way she saw it, she had two main problems: her mother and her religion teacher, Mrs. Bead.

Oh, yes, Victoria counted down the days until she could get her driver's license because her mother refused to take her anywhere if it would conflict with a Bible study, lay missionary meeting, or any of the other myriad activities that the Catholic cult (Cc) her mother had joined demanded of her time. Any complaints were met by, "You don’t want to be the reason I'm going to confession!" Consequently, Victoria ended up with during-school only activities only unless her father, who traveled frequently (more so since Mom had joined the Cc), could pick her up.

Then there was her "Religion and Morality" teacher Mrs. Bead. The woman with the uncanny resemblance to the Wicked Witch of the West minus green skin had a penchant for telling the class they'd be damned, usually preceded by a "lookit!" Apparently Mrs. Bead felt herself to be exempt from such a fate, particularly since she delighted in sharing her and her husband's sexual exploits with the class as excuses for failing to grade their papers the night before. Not that sexual congress among married people was sinful, but rubbing it in the faces of your hormone-hyped sophomore Morality class? Cruel, especially because no boy would touch Victoria because "her mother was a nun, and she wouldn't do anything, anyway."

Victoria's opportunity to escape PC status occurred at the nexus of the clash between the two forces of Mrs. Bead and her mother. When she'd gotten out of the car that morning, her mother had told her, "I have a meeting at the Monastery at four today, so come straight out after school. No delaying, or I'll be so upset I'll have to go to Confession, and you'll be grounded for a month!"

The cute guy in the saxophone section in the band had actually approached Victoria at lunch the day before, so being grounded was out of the question. She needed that chance to fail her Morality homework and have to go to confession!

By the end of Morality class, Mrs. Bead had, miraculously, run out of things to taunt them about. She had resorted to the generally ineffective "Peer Pressure" method of discipline and control:

"You may work on your homework, but if anyone makes a sound, the whole class will have to stay after school for fifteen minutes!"

Victoria took out a book. The rest of the class started out quiet, but soon whispering emerged. It spawned giggling, which grew to laughing, taunting, and finally...

"That's it!" Bead shouted. "You're all staying after, and if anyone says anything, it's going to be another fifteen minutes!"

With her mother's threat echoing in her head, Victoria raised her hand.

Bead glared at her. "Not. A. Word."

Victoria's stomach tightened. Then her heart pounded between her tonsils, and she tasted something sour at the back of her mouth. This wasn't fair! She hadn't done anything, and now she'd be grounded for a month! She glared at Bead, who calmly surveyed the now silent classroom and ignored the dirty looks from all sides.

"That's it!" Victoria's voice sounded high pitched, and squeaky even to her, but she stood. No spotlight shown on her, but the surprised looks of everyone including Mrs. Bead warmed her neck and cheeks. "My mother told me not to be late, and whatever punishment you give out, it's not going to be worse than what she'll do to me."

Bead opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Victoria continued.

"Oh, and in case you're wondering if I care about punishing the rest of the class, yeah, I do. More than they obviously cared about punishing me. What you have to realize is that they don't give a rat's ass about how their actions affect me. I'm a nobody, just one of the smart kids that no one sees beyond the GPA on the honor roll board. So, sorry y'all have to stay to 3:30, but my mother is waiting, and keeping us all here because of the actions of a few is patently ridiculous!"

She grabbed her book bag and walked out of the class with hasty but deliberate steps -- no point in tripping and ruining the moment. She heard a single clap, and then a few more, like fat raindrops on the edge of a thunderstorm. Then applause rained down, and a few cheers rolled through the noise. Everyone grabbed their bags and marched out after her. She smiled, but she was breathing too hard to respond to the murmured congratulations. Oh, there'd be hell to pay the next day, maybe that night after her parents got a call from the Principal, but for the moment, she relished being the Not Perfect Child. Maybe the cute band guy would hear about it and call her...

"How was your day?" her mother asked when Victoria got into the car, only a few minutes after three.

"It was good, but I think I may have to go to confession.

Oh, I almost forgot the dessert. Since I waffled on posting this, it's a Belgian waffle with Nutella sauce and whipped cream:

Friday Flash Fiction: First Date

I read a novel excerpt as short story recently on the Narrative Magazine site that impressed me so much I thought I'd try something similar. This is from my completed (revision in progress) novel A Perfect Man. I'll add some more commentary to the end. If you're interested in more flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.

First Date:

"Chardonnay and Brie. Chicks'll be impressed every time!"

Albie's words echoed through Seth's head while he shopped, and since Julie wouldn't arrive for another half hour, he stopped by the wine and cheese shop next to the grocery store. If Albie had been married twice, he must have some knowledge of women, right?

Seth gasped at the array of Chardonnay – American, French, Australian, and even Macedonian – priced from eight to eighty dollars. Finally he grabbed one of the cheaper ones from the chilled case and went to the cheese cooler, where the brie selection overwhelmed him with double and triple cream, wine or whiskey flavoring, or chewy bits like dried fruit or herbs. He bought the only one he could afford, a basic double cream. He made it back to his place at 5:45 and found Julie waiting in front of his door.

"I got done early, so I figured I'd come over. Do you need help with your groceries?" she asked.

"Um, sure." He tried to cover the logo on the plastic wine and cheese bag by hugging it to his chest and felt the soft squish underneath his bicep – the Brie! Shit! The Chardonnay seemed to have been chilled to near-frozen, at least to his left nipple.

She grabbed the other grocery bags and shut the trunk for him. He followed her up the stairs, noting how her rear end swayed beneath the grey fabric of her skirt. The black heels showed off her legs nicely. He imagined her kicking the heels off and freeing her hair from its ponytail.

Julie put the bags in the kitchen and sat at his dining room table. She looked out the window at the small houses on the bluff across the street. "This isn't bad. It'll be pretty when the leaves change."

"I think so, too." Seth mentally kicked himself for not saying something more intelligent.

Julie unfastened the ankle straps on her shoes, stretched her legs, and wiggled her toes. "Man, I'm tired! Those heels are killer."

"I don't know how you women stand those," Seth said. "I bet I know what would help."

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"I'll be right back."

He debated offering her a foot massage, but instead went into the kitchen to retrieve the Brie and wine. Let her loosen up first. He didn't have a fancy wooden board or cheese knives, so he put the Brie on a blue plastic cutting board with a paring knife. At least he had wine glasses, although he preferred beer.

"Can I help with anything?" Julie asked. Before he could respond, he saw her looking at him from where she leaned against the door frame. She had unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse, and he could see the full curves of her breasts through the gap in her shirt. Her hair hung like a gold silk scarf over her head and shoulders.

"Brie?" he asked. His voice cracked. "I've got wine, too. A Chardonnay. It's, ummm…" He grabbed the bottle and looked. "A California. Napa Valley. I hear they're good."

"Great, I'm starving!" She put one hand on her flat stomach. "I didn't eat lunch today."

"Please, help yourself. I'll pour the wine."

"Do you have any bread or crackers to go with it?" she asked. "If not, that's okay."

Shit! Crackers! He looked through the pantry shelves and found some Saltines he'd brought with him from Atlanta. One of the sleeves was unopened, and he hoped they weren't stale. He put a few on the plastic cutting board with the slightly flattened cheese and turned to open the wine.

The counter seemed too small, the glasses too big. He imagined the wine bottle slipping and knocking the glasses into the sink or on the floor. The little pull-tab on the cork foil broke off when he got a good grip on it with his shaking hands.

He heard her chewing, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Was she watching him make a fool of himself? He set the butterfly corkscrew on top of the bottle, allowing the end to puncture the foil covering on the cork. He twisted the key and removed the cork through the foil, which flared out in jagged edges that he tore off. Triumph! He poured two glasses and turned to give one to Julie with a bow.

"Wine, milady?"

A drop of blood spattered on the white linoleum.

"Seth, omigod!" Julie pulled Seth's right arm so that he bled into the sink from the deep gash on his right thumb. He held the counter's edge with his left hand and bit the inside of his cheeks so he wouldn't throw up or pass out. Pain and humiliation warred in his chest while Julie ran water over it, but he got control and cleaned it as best he could with some antibacterial soap. She folded a dry paper towel to act as a temporary bandage.

"That looks pretty deep," she said. "Maybe you should get stitches."

"I…" The thought of a needle piercing his skin made Seth's stomach flip again. "I'm not sure I need stitches. Let me just sit for a second."

"Whoa, I've got you." Julie guided him to the couch. She took his shoes off and helped him lie down with his knees higher than his heart. The rushing sound in his ears subsided, and he wondered if she'd been a Girl Scout. Did they have naughty badges?

"Do you need anything else?" she asked.

He tried to say no, but his tongue felt like a piece of heavy, raw meat in his mouth. He looked at his injured thumb and saw that the blood had seeped through the bandage in a straight line. Damn! It throbbed with the heartbeat he could feel in the middle of his head.

"I think you're right," he said. "I think I need stitches." With that decided, he stood, and everything went black.

Author's note:

Before anyone asks, yes, I've cut myself on wine foil, although not to the point I needed stitches.

Here's the beginnings of the query blurb for the novel:

MFA student Karen is seeking the perfect man, both for herself and to star as the male lead in her novella project for Romance Class. Her classmate Seth can't seem to please the women in his life, and even his muse has deserted him. After he dreams he's in Karen's project and writes it from the male POV, the professor makes them work together. This horrifies Karen, who wants to win the best novella competition prize: dinner with her favorite author. Together they find that art may imitate life, but life can be infinitely stranger.

The genre is Romance. Yeah, I got 40,000 words into it, and nothing strange had happened yet! Comments on excerpt and query blurb are welcome.

Friday Flash Fiction: The Agency -- A Wish and a Dragon

I'm lucky to live in a place where new restaurants open frequently, and many of them last. Since you first met Thomas Forrest and Raven, Thomas has been emancipated (click here for that story), and they're about to open a pub at the edge of the River Styx. For more Friday Flash Fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.

"All set for the soft opening!" Thomas Forrest gave the Russian Blue granite bar a final swipe with the damp but soft cloth. The bar rumbled under his hand – purring? He shook his head; he'd never get used to Magic Stone™. Although its slogan "Find out just how magical it is!" had intrigued him at first, it usually meant there was some sort of nasty surprise waiting. He only hoped it wouldn't hack up a stoneball on opening night.

"Good, good." Mr. Raven smiled and emerged from the office. He still wore his long, feathered cloak and black nail polish, but Thomas understood that his new boss' attire was more parody of supervillain than fashion sense. "A good night will ensure we have enough to cover the first mortgage payment on this place, although I still cannot believe we acquired it at such a reasonable price. Any responses to the bartender ad yet?"

"No, although I can't imagine why."

"Nor can I. You really outdid yourself with the decorating."

"Thank you, sir." Thomas looked around. The dark blue-gray granite bar top seemed to grow out of the hammered metal base. Purple- and red-cushioned booths lined the walls under diamond-paned windows open to the wooded parking lot and broom stand. At once modern and magical, it was the place he'd always dreamed of managing.

Something appeared at the end of the bar with a Pop! Thomas and Raven approached it carefully, a plastic bowl-shaped container filled with murky water. A dark gray face with whiskers peered over the edge.

"I got your bartender right here!"

"Bert!" Mr. Raven held out his hands like he was going to embrace the – catfish? "How was your assignment on the Other Side?"

"Eh, the usual. Saved the girl, got the demon, got fried in the end."

Raven winced. "Again? I hope the pay was at least decent."

"Lousy. Four chicken biscuits and a wish." The fish splashed some water from its container, and Thomas had to wipe the bar again. It hissed.

"There, there," Thomas wondered if it would eat fish.

Raven raised his eyebrows. "A wish? That's different."

"New HR policy. Budget's tight, so they've gotten cheap. You should see the fine print on it."

"A-hem!" Thomas cleared his throat. "I don't believe we've met." He held out his hand and remembered the fish probably couldn't shake it.

"Yeah, I'm Bert, sometimes minion to Archangel Raphael."

Thomas arched an eyebrow. "How were you a minion? You can't even give foot massages!"

Bert looked at Raven. "Who's this punk?"

"He is the manager of this public house, recently minion to the Witch Jeanette."

"Oh, you got a used minion, huh?"

"I prefer the term pre-owned, I mean, emancipated!" Thomas took a deep breath. "And how could you be a bartender? You can't even mix drinks!"

"Telekinesis, buddy."

Raven arched an eyebrow. "As much as I admire your abilities, Bert, I don't know that this would work. You still need to be able to move around behind the bar to take orders."

Bert opened his mouth to respond, or maybe to take a breath, but a flash of lightning and sulfur smell made them all gag. A dark figure slithered through the door. The emergency candles flared to life, and all six eyes turned to the five-foot-tall lizard in the middle of the room.

"Evening, gents!" It said in a sibilant voice. "Nice place you have here." Nictitating membranes slid horizontally across its black eyes when it blinked. The hair at the back of Thomas' neck stood – this strange green creature had some strong magic behind it.

"We're not open yet," said Raven.

"I'm aware of that. Who's in charge here?"

Thomas pointed a finger and Bert a fin at Raven.

"This here public house is in the territory of the dragons. That means we need certain, shall we say, assurances to protect you from our hungry brethren and associates."

"You mean extortion fees." Raven's voice was flat.

"However you want to call it." The lizard handed Raven an envelope. The human opened it, and both his eyebrows lifted.

"This is impossible!"

"Ah, but that's the deal with the land, guv'nor. The spell says: 'When patrons are served by human hands, a dragon's fees protect the land.'"

"Wait a second…" Thomas stepped forward and steeled himself against the small dragon's gaze. "Your spell says human hands. What about a fish's?"

"Fish don't have hands."

"But Bert has a wish." Thomas looked at the catfish. "Would H.R. be amenable to it?"

"Helluva way to waste a wish," Bert grumbled, but he subsided when he saw the look of despair on Raven's face.

"Then do it."

Bert closed his eyes and whispered the spell: "Payment be due for helping the divine, magical forces grant this wish of mine."

Thomas felt the power gather in the room. The dragon watched without expression.

"I wish to be able to take the form of a human at will without losing my magical creature identity."

The fish seemed to inflate from the inside and burst his container. He grew and unfolded into a short, stocky man with thick beard that disappeared into his chest hair. His bulky forearms were also covered in thick, wiry black hair, but Thomas could see anchor tattoos on them. Bert the bartender wore black pants and a white shirt with sleeves rolled above the elbow.

"Your loophole is noted, but be sure that the Master Dragons will not be satisfied for long." The large lizard disappeared, and the lights flickered on.

"Great thinking, Thomas!" Raven clapped him on the shoulder. "And thank you, Bert! I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you used your wish to help me out."

"Is it too soon to ask for a raise?"

Thomas sighed and wiped the spilled water off the bar, which stayed strangely quiet.

"Hey, newbie!" The new bartender called to him. "Why don't you get in the kitchen and make us some chicken biscuits?"

Friday Flash Fiction: The Agency

The idea for this one came out of a conversation I had last weekend with a friend who asked what I wanted in a minion. Yes, I love my friends. If you know of any minions looking for work, please direct them my way. I promise I'll be nice to them as long as they behave.

This week has been insane with regard to work and getting ready for vacation, so I apologize to those whose #FridayFlash stories I didn't get to read and comment on yet from last week. I'm going to try to catch up soon.

The Agency

"What are you looking for in a minion?" Forrest raised his eyebrows and invited the individual across from him to impress him with something witty, clever, and original.

Instead, the dour man with the black lipstick and fingernails and raven feathers woven in his long, stringy hair said, "Unquestioning obedience."

"I've heard that before." Forrest added a cheerful upswing to "that" in his tone to make it sound less flippant. "Let me see what I can do to find you the perfect one. Will this assistant need to have any special skills?"

"Some rudimentary chemistry knowledge and a love of Edgar Allen Poe, Mary Shelley, and Bram Stoker." He shifted in his seat, and his long, charcoal-colored robe rustled.

"Ah, the classics!" Forrest tapped on his black (of course) keyboard and picked at a piece of feather that had drifted to land on his grey sweater vest while the profiles loaded. The Minion Placement Agency had a policy that their employees were never to look more threatening than the clients.

This particular client raised his eyebrows and inclined his head. Forrest surmised that he lacked a sense of humor, so that was noted in his profile. That would greatly reduce the intelligence quotient of whoever was placed with him. Smart minions needed someone who could joke with them.

"This will just take a few moments, Mr. Raven," Forrest said. "Could I have someone fetch you some coffee?"

"Yes. Black. Decaf."

Forrest nodded to Jeanine, the secretary who hovered nearby. Really, she was his boss, but they had to put on appearances. For female clients, they'd trade places, and Jeanine would even whip him a little.

"One coffee!" She smiled and handed the cobalt mug to Mr. Raven.

"It's decaf, right?"

"Oh, I forgot. It will take me a moment to brew a fresh pot. Is that okay?"

"No, Jeanine, it is NOT okay." Forrest rose to his feet and held his breath so that his face would turn red faster. "What kind of impression are you giving this gentleman of our organization? You can't even fetch coffee!"

"Really, it's okay, I can wait," Mr. Raven said.

"No, it is unacceptable! You're fired, young lady! I cannot deal with this gross incompetence."

"No, don't do that!' Mr. Raven stood to block Jeanine, who cowered away from Forrest's purported rage. "It's not her fault. You're being too hard on her!"

"Well, if it's okay with you, Mr. Raven," Forrest said and took a deep breath. The computer crowed to let him know it was done searching. "Ah, here we go. I'm sorry, we don't have anyone with the skills you're looking for right now." He smiled and mopped his brow with a white handkerchief. "Please forgive my outburst. We'll keep your requirements on file and let you know if we have someone come in who'd be a good fit for you."

After Mr. Raven left, Jeanine looked at Forrest and said, "Unquestioning obedience, my ass."

Forrest nodded. He noted Mr. Raven's reaction in the profile. "He was just a big old softy at heart. It's nice to know that whoever he gets will be going to a good home."

"Stop being so sentimental, Forrest. Run the search for real, and then fetch me a bagel."

"Yes, ma'am." Once again, Forrest hoped his profile would pop up as a match, but he knew he was too smart to be happy with Mr. Raven, who still lacked a sense of humor no matter how kind he would be. Forrest wouldn't be able to switch minionhood that easily, at least not this minute, but there was a Lady Sinestra coming in later...

Friday Flash Fiction: We Love Yankees

I thought I was stuck for #FridayFlash this week, but then I remembered this Southern Gothic tale I'd written for a writing group a few years ago. It's funny how experience changes your writing, especially over the span of years. That might make a good blog post at some point, so I'll just say now that I'm glad to have mostly kicked the "as" habit. For more flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter.

We Love Yankees

The First Primitive Church of the Holy Redeemer had the prettiest garden in Sleepy Hills, Georgia. That’s what Missy Smythe thought as she walked down Main Street, camera in hand, looking for local color she could capture and bring back to her studio.

“You look like a young lady who’s going somewhere.” The pleasant drawl belonged to a tall man, grey-haired, with glasses, who knelt behind a hydrangea with a fist full of weeds. The plant had balls of flowers bigger than Missy's head, each one a brilliant shade of pink or blue. Bees buzzed around them.

Missy smiled. “I don’t know about going,” she said, “I’m just trying to get home." She’d had a fight with her boyfriend Beau at the Country Bear Jamboree in Disney World, and he'd canceled her ticket and left her there. After renting a car and heading up I-75, she took a random exit in South Georgia just to drive in the shade, and here she was, walking down Main Street with dwindling hopes of finding a coffee shop with something frozen.

The man took off one of his leather gardening gloves. “I’m Rick,” he said and held his hand out, “the pastor.”

“I’m Missy. I’m just passing through.” She shook his hand. It seemed cool in spite of the day's heat.

“Well now, Missy, no one just 'passes through' Sleepy Hills. Why don’t you come to the Church tonight? We’re having a covered dish, and we’d love to have you.”

“A what?”

“A covered dish, when everyone brings something. But you’d be our guest.”

“Oh, a potluck! That’s what we call them at home.”

“And where’s home for you?”

“Connecticut.”

The corners of Rick’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “We love Yankees around here. We even use Yankee fertilizer on our garden.”

“It’s lovely.” Missy tilted up a crimson hibiscus flower as big as a dinner plate. “I’ve never seen flowers so big! Or bright.”

“It’s the perfect place for them to grow, here in front of the house of God.”

Missy released the flower and with her friendliest smile excused herself. She wasn’t in the mood to talk about God today. In fact, she’d been having sinful thoughts about what to do to Beau when she got back home. Maybe she'd stay a while, make him worry about her…

Main Street brought her into town, where she found an old-fashioned Confectionary Shop. The smell of freshly baked bread lured her in.

“May I help you?” asked a petite woman, her hair a helmet of gray curls frosted with the flour that hung in the air. The white lace curtains in the windows blocked out more light that Missy would've thought possible. The cookies and cakes slumbered inside the glass cases like lumpy gremlins. A large black fly bumped against the inside of the window with a buzz-thunk.

“I think so. Do you know where I might find a hotel?”

The woman cocked her head. “Are you new in town, honey?”

“Just passing through. Pastor Rick invited me to a covered dish tonight at the church, and I need a place to stay.”

The woman smiled. “Well, then, you’ll likely be staying at the church.”

“Oh, do they have a guest house?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

Missy watched the flour motes drift in the dim sunlight streaming through the windows. “He didn’t say anything about it.”

“You’ll probably be invited to later. Most Yankees are.”

“Really?”

“And I’ll even bake some of my special cookies for the occasion. We like Yankees here.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Missy felt a droplet of sweat trickle down the back of her neck. The air that swirled the flour didn’t touch the oven-like heat of the store.

“Can I get you something, honey?”

Missy shook her head. The air pressed her eardrums and shot fingers of pain through her temples. “I think I’ll go now.”

“Take a cookie, dear.”

Missy reached for her purse, but the woman shook her head. “Welcome to Sleepy Hills.”

Back in the full sunlight of the sidewalk, Missy took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm the raised hair on the back of her neck and arms. Something wasn’t right about this place. But they liked Yankees, so she kept walking and munched on the cookie, which tasted of ginger and something else she couldn’t place.

Missy walked back to where she thought she’d parked, but the rental wasn’t there.

A deep breath, then another. Stranded in a weird Southern town with nothing but her camera and her purse. Check that. Her camera. She’d lost her purse. She walked back the way she came, but she didn’t see it, and the Confectionary Store was closed. She couldn’t even find a pay phone. Finally, she went back to the church and knocked on the door.

The wooden door of the church, pitted and scarred from a hundred years of humid summers and dry winters, swung in.

“Hello?” she called. No answer. The air, cool and inviting, drew her in. She found a pew and decided to wait until Pastor Rick re-appeared. Someone couldn't just disappear forever, right?

The late afternoon light streamed through the stained glass windows and colored Missy, the pews, and the flagstone floor of the church in splotches of crimson, green, and gold. She reached for her camera, but her clumsy fingers wouldn’t work. The colors ran into each other, mixing and melting until a black vortex sucked them in. It, too, faded with the buzz-thunk of a fly against the window.

~~~

Pastor Rick found Missy slumped against the corner of the pew and gave her a shake. Nothing. The girl’s shoulder felt cool.

“Well, Miss Ida May, we have another one.”

Ida May, flour still in her curls, shook her head. “Poor dear, the heat must’ve gotten to her.”

They exchanged a knowing smile.

“What should we do?”

“I’m sure she’ll be comfortable resting for eternity in your garden.”

“True. Yankees do make the best fertilizer.”

Friday Flash Fiction: A Balance of Souls

Vampires are interesting because they're conflicted, and I've gotten tired of the whiny ones. They're not my usual thing, but I guess every spec fic writer has to do a vampire story at one point, so I consider this to be my "getting them out of my system" tale. Comments welcome, as always! For more flash fiction, search the #fridayflash hashtag on Twitter

A Balance of Souls

Elizabeth fled to the orchard. She ignored the cries of her nurse behind her, "Lady, stop! Please, Lady, listen to your mother!" At sixteen, Elizabeth was too old to listen to her mother, especially when she had such horrible things to say.

Once sure she had outrun the elderly nursemaid, Elizabeth slumped against a gnarled trunk. Nurse never came into the orchard after dusk, and the sun would set any minute. The dying light of the day gilded the west side of the trees and cast dark shadows to the east.

Once she caught her breath, she yawned. Every night for the past month, she'd woken to see a figure standing at the foot of her bed. The apparition itself wouldn't have bothered her so much – perhaps it was her guardian angel, or the day's patron saint – but for the smells of blood and gunpowder. It reminded her of when her father and brothers would go hunting and come back bloody and reeking of death. Sleep had become hard to find.

What would be worse, she wondered, to be lost to the dark creatures that hunted in the orchard at night, or to be sent to the Convent of Perpetual Sorrow? Wasn't there a third choice?

"Your father lost everything when his cargo ship sank last month," her mother had told her that afternoon. "We have nothing for a dowry or education. Mother Margaret will accept you into the convent with this." She held out a gold Rosary with pearl Hail Mary beads and diamond and ruby decade beads.

If only they had sold the Rosary, they would have had enough, but it had been her great-grandmother's.

"But Eric's parents have plenty of money! They won't care if I don't have a dowry."

That's when her mother had taken Elizabeth's face in her cold, dry hands. "Eric was killed in the war, Elizabeth. A month ago. They just found out."

Tears slipped down Elizabeth's cheeks, and she slid to the ground. She didn't remember the rest of the conversation or running out of the house, only when her feet had met the dirt path to the orchard where she and Eric had courted under Nurse's watchful eye.

She raised her hand to wipe her eyes. She heard clinking and saw that she held great-grandmother's Rosary. Her mother must have handed it to her before she told her about Eric.

The pearl beads slipped through Elizabeth's fingers. "I'm lost. Hail Mary, the Lord is with you, help me find my way…"

A tall figure stepped out of the shadows between two large trees, and Elizabeth shrieked, then looked closer. She rolled to her knees, breathless at the sight of the face she thought she'd never see again. "Eric? You were killed in battle."

"So they say." He lifted her chin with cold fingers. She could barely make out his face in the waning light. Yes, it was him, but there was something strange...

"They said you were dead. They gave your sword and gun to your father." She rose to her feet and stumbled before she regained them. The Rosary clinked and swung with her drunken motions. "I… I can't marry you. There's no money for a dowry."

"Even if there was, it's too late for that," he said. "Things have changed. I've changed."

She felt her mouth press into the thin line that was her mother's disapproving expression. "What do you mean, you've changed? Your parents have plenty of money! And they'll be happy to see you."

He shook his head. "Not like this. I came to say goodbye, Elizabeth."

She touched his cheek. It was so cold! He lit a match, and she saw in the seconds between when the flame flared and faded that he had changed. His skin, always pale, now was white, and his sad smile showed her…fangs. Nurse had been right! Vampires did hunt in the orchard after dark.

She gasped and stepped back, crossing herself with the Rosary. "Who did this to you?"

"It was a creature, a man dressed like a looter, who crossed the lines after the battle. He found me. He asked if I wanted to die. I said no, and that's when he did it. If I had known…"

"Have you killed anyone?" she asked. "Oh, Eric, your soul! You'll go to Hell!"

"No, only animals." He looked away. "But time grows short. I feel the thirst."

"Stay with me tonight," she said, remembering Nurse's stories. She came up with a plan to save him. "You can be gone in the morning. And I shall go into the convent and pray for your soul."

He nodded. They talked all night of their childhoods, and the plans that they had made for when he got back from the war. Elizabeth saw the sky lightening to the East.

"I want to come with you," she said.

"What?" He looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"Let me join you. There's no life for me here, and I'll die in the convent!"

"Are you sure?"

She nodded and offered her neck, the spot where he had often stolen kisses. She gasped when she felt his fangs slide through her skin, and she let him drain her as she kept one eye on the sky.

"Now you," he said. He bit a pair of holes in his wrist and held it to her mouth. She turned her head away.

"Elizabeth, drink!"

Her vision swam, each breath an effort. "No."

"But you said…"

"I'm saving your soul, Eric," she said. "Wait for me, my love." The rim of the sun peeked over the horizon and shone through the spaces between the leaves. She closed her eyes so as not to see him burn, but she heard and smelled it, the popping and sizzling, blood and gunpowder. She curled her fingers around the Rosary and prayed, "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now at the hour of our death…"

Friday Flash Fiction: S.O.B.

Now that Always a Bridesmaid is over, I'm going to return to self-contained stories for my Friday Flash contributions. I'll be starting a new serial for The Penny Dreadful within the next month once I get some groundwork laid, but I plan to keep the serial separate from Friday Flash. Stay tuned!

I've never written anything in second person P.O.V. before, so feedback is welcome as to whether this one worked.

Friday Flash: S.O.B.

I just had a perfect evening out with my wife and daughter, and now you're going to jump out from behind that dumpster and point a gun at us? Damnit, yes, Jenny, you told me not to take this shortcut to the car!

Yes, I know you want my wallet and my wife's purse. Go ahead and hand it over, Jenny. I told you to upload those pictures of little Tommy to the computer from your phone. Now what pocket did I put that wallet in?

There's no reason to yell. As you can see, we're being quite cooperative.

I couldn't help but notice that your hand shook slightly when you took Jenny's purse, and I see the corner of your eye twitching. I'm a neurologist – that's a nerve doctor, you know – and I've seen those signs before. Yes, yes, I'll make the explanation quick. I understand you have credit cards and identities to steal.

Well, those nervous twitches could be early signs of a stroke or pulmonary embolism, where a clot dislodges from a blood vessel and then re-lodges in the lungs or brain, which blocks the blood from where it needs to go. Tell me, are you feeling a little tight in your chest? I see the gun is trembling – would that be from a sudden pain in your right shoulder? Your breathing sounds labored. We call that S.O.B., or Shortness of Breath in the medical world. Yes, it's a little medical humor to set you at ease. It wouldn't do for you to stroke out after such a good haul, now, would it?

What if I told you that you look just like the guy we treated in the E.R. yesterday? He'd come in with a lovely P.E. That's the clot in the lungs. I've heard it's quite a painful way to go, like suffocating on land. Is your throat feeling a little sore? That could be another early sign, especially if your breath is short.

My, that's a nasty wheeze you've developed! Go on, back away into the shadows. Seems your date with the Grim Reaper is coming sooner than you've expected. You're blinking rapidly – vision's swimming, is it? And that wheeze is much worse. Your heart must be going a million beats a minute. Don't worry, I've never heard of it exploding in someone's chest – yet. Go on and have a seat. We won't bother you.

Maybe you should let me take your pulse. You'll have to put the gun aside first. Yes, let me feel on either side of your neck. There!

Okay, Jenny, I found the carotid arteries and knocked him out. You can get your purse and call the cops on your cell phone. I've got my wallet. They don't call me Doctor Vulcan Death Grip for nothing, even if I am a psychologist!