Dog Eat Dog (Flash Frenzy)

Photo by Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass Round 15)


Dog Eat Dog

The streets are silent as his paws trot, searching for amblers to befriend.  He is lonely again.  Wants to play.  He makes friends easily, given half a chance – a brief grin and deal done, if he’s lucky.  Though there are fewer bodies out and about than there used to be.  The parks and open spaces are empty, unoccupied, in the fading light.  Sign of the times.  Dinner time now, which might explain things.  His jaws are salivating with the thought, lolling tongue dripping.  Fresh meat!  He is hungry too; needs a friend to help him out, for the night.  Tomorrow he can try someone else.  That’s the deal.  How it works.  His routine is practised now, having run it through once or twice.  Maybe a couple more times than that, truth to tell.

He does it when he needs to.  If he needs to.  He needs to a lot.  The only way to keep from stringy and starving.  He looks for the young ‘uns.  That’s what he needs.  The younger the better.  The older ones are hard – made so by their experiences; times passing.  Brittle.  Unyielding.  No good to him or for him.  He knows that.  Those he steers clear of.  They mostly ignore him, anyway, non-receptive to his gambolling and grimaces.  Sometimes they group together; something he skirts warily.  Outnumbered means captured.  He likes giving them the run around.  Has no desire to give it up.  Not now.  Not ever.  Stay several steps ahead, that’s the plan!   

He looks for slow shufflers; those he can catch up to.  The guaranteed meal.  They are the ones he can use his grin on.  Sticks to known pathways; clear entrances and exits.  Avoids the back alleys and housing; it smells strange there.  Off.

It is hard to track how long has passed since the beginning.  The thing which brought them down.  The people; his previous owners.  They lay everywhere, for a while.  Didn’t want to play; before they rose.   No desire to then, either.  None, save to feed.  Two can play at that though.  They taste good enough, the young ‘uns.  At least, he’s suffered no ill effects he knows of yet. 

(360 words)

Comment

Another piece of flash fiction written for The Angry Hourglass "Flash Frenzy" flash fiction challenge.  The photo prompt is shown above.  This one became a post apocalyptic take on zombies and flesh eating dogs from a fairly innocuous looking photo...  Clue in the title, maybe! ;)

Hostale Takeover (VisDare)

Photo Source (via the VisDare challenge)


Hostale Takeover

The signs were subtle, at first.  Until Theo looked closely.  That was when she saw.  The charcoal claws pointing away from and emerging from the wooden framework of the door.  She put a finger to them, scratching back and forth.  No change.  Wetting a tip slightly, she tried again.  Still nothing.  At first, she dismissed it as a random quirk; the interplay of light with shadow.  She knew even then she could not convince herself; completely or at all.  Still, she slept, which had been her aim.  The morning after, the paws reaching forth were longer.  Marginally.  Curled forwards, with direction.  Theo shivered.  She thought she knew where they came from now.  Crossing to the bookshelves, she flicked through the selected hefty volume.  Sure enough, she spotted space amongst the typescript of the tale.  The tail was coming.  Following the fur and fangs.  Focused fiction.  One aim.  Capture and corner.

(150 words)

Comment

Deliberate typo in the title, which hopefully makes sense once you've read the story.  The word prompt for this week was "cornered".

The Calling (Flash! Friday)

Photo - Mill Creek Watershed 1949.  Public domain photo by Helmut Buechner (via Flash! Friday Vol 2-18)

The Calling

It is blinding; the light around her.  Brilliant white cushioning she struggles through, clogging her feet.  Kate knows she must be there.  Somewhere.  The reason is buried deep beneath the sludge.  She may find it before the end.

They call her home. She hears them, in the distance; knows she has strayed from her path.  Distracted by crystal facets; the graupel reflective of the world she knows   A myriad spectrum filling her vision – symmetry she must battle through.  She is late.  She knows it.  They tell her, in whispers.

Kate is saturated by it.  Precipitation clings to her; weighting her down.  Snow seeking to weld her to the floor; molecules attempting supercooling anew.  She must not form their nucleus.  Must break through the intricate barrier.  Beyond.

They need her.  Want her.  Her name.  Her summons.  She longs to answer.

The clusters break momentarily.  Kate strikes forth; wanderer with purpose.  Compass set.  Their love her guide.  Belatedly safe from threatening storm.

(160 words)

Comment

Did a bit of research for this one on snowflakes to keep the terminology (hopefully!) accurate.  Whilst it's deliberately a little ambiguous, I'd envisaged a scenario involving a bed ridden patient (whether by coma, illness or close to death, is subject to your own interpretation or spin on things) being talked to by her family.  In this instance, she hears their voices... 

The photo prompt is shown above.  The word prompt involved a missed appointment.  I interpreted that obliquely in my reference to Kate as being "late" in her return to consciousness.

Bite (MWBB)

I need to leave her.  Before it’s too late.  Perhaps it already is.  Perhaps I know that, really.  Heather was gone tonight when I woke, darkness surrounding me.  Pitch.  I reached for her and she wasn’t there - the sheets which should have held her warmth cold, no dint indicating she had been there recently.  We fell asleep together, curled around each other, my hand caressing the puckered scab at her shoulder – the ridges already healing; indentations becoming less distinct.  Somehow, she has managed to move from me; to evade any conversation over why she strolls the night.  A new burgeoning, burning light behind her eyes.  Signalling the inevitable.  What will come.  The becoming.  Beckoning heat.  Neither of us has managed to say the words.  Not yet.  Not until the inevitable.  Until it falls apart.  Maybe not even then.

I remember the night too well.  The one which matters most.  To us.  She stumbled through the door, hair tangled about her shoulders, clumped with dirt, leaves; remnants of congealed blood.  Jacket lost, top frayed.  God alone knew how she had made it home that way.  Her fingers left smudge marks against the wood and wallpaper; streaks of mud, mixed with the aftermath of what had gone before.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said.  Still, she refused to meet my eyes.  That told me enough.  “They just grazed the skin.  Hardly anything, really.”

“What? They? What?”  The words refused to collate; to form solid sentences.  “I – what?”

“The teeth.”  Her lips quivered slightly, unshed tears beneath her lids.  “Should have just phoned a taxi, I guess.  Stupid.”  There was a brief lift beneath the words before the slump.  Literal and figurative, as Heather used the wall as her prop.  The paper would need replacing – sooner rather than later, if it wasn’t to act as reminder.  I would see to it, I told myself.  Without fuss. 

“I heard it coming.”  A tremble in her voice.  “I wish I hadn’t.”

I thought that was the worst.  Then.  Now I know better.

It crept upon us slowly.  The realisation.  That there would be consequences.  Darkness made her restless.  She tossed and turned a lot.  To be expected.  Her temperature ran high – not dangerously so.  The GP administered injections to prevent against lingering infection, the fear of fever.  We thought that the end of things, save for the delicate ridged scar gracing her shoulder.  The preternaturally quick to heal, lasting reminder.

Night taught us better, as insomnia gave way to wilful wandering.  Too little, way too late.  Nothing could have prevented it.  I think I knew that first night; knew without knowing.  The moon’s crescendo towards apex.  Waxing.  Could scarcely fail to notice the night Heather came home, the cool of after hours amongst her locks, the taste of copper on her lips as I kissed her a welcome.  Reddened by something over than natural high colour, though that was there too.  Heightened above normality.  Heat in her gaze; amber in her eye, once chocolate in colour.  I purposefully forgot copper that night; concentrated instead on amber and gold.

Try as I might, I should have – must have – realised matters would reach their climax.  Moon full, white above, no avoiding the merciless light.  Her gaze burns through me, fever pitch, on her return.  Flames fanned by whatever went before.  Tonight I see the evidence stained across the white enamel of her teeth, cherry red matching grin accompanying it.  Breath rich with the scent of others.  Information I did not need access to. 

No more avoiding.  Secrets will out, one way or another – especially those which have been open for a while.  Tonight they may consume us.   Or one will be consumed.   

Even seeing her this way, it’s hard not to want what we had; what went before the now.   I feel myself falling, plunging deep towards the dark.  Pull myself back from the brink.  Barely.  I know her name.  Sadly, much as I try to delude myself, it’s no longer Heather.  It is the other.

We face off.  Now’s the time.  Fight or flight.  Focused versus fearful.  Predator.  Prey.  Now.  Teeth reach towards me, to administer a final lover’s caress.  To bite.

Comment

Another Mid-Week-Blues-Buster piece.  This one uses Tito & Tarantula's "After Dark" as it's inspiration.  It came in second place for the week's challenge, which I hadn't really expected and made a nice surprise. :)

The Day The Puppets Danced (Flash Frenzy)

Photo Source - TheShakes72 via The Angry Hourglass Flash Frenzy challenge


The Day The Puppets Danced

Yeye tinkered.  It wasn’t a serious addiction, as far as we, the family, could tell.  Until it was.  We had gotten used to his new-fangled “devices”.  Sometimes they even came in useful.  With time’s passing, they grew more intricate.  Diagrams of increasing complexity on scraps strung about the house; scrawls captured late at night.  They made sense to him, at least.  It wasn’t until the plans which reinvented, yet simplified, looming that the province – and, indeed, those closest to him – looked less than askance and with something gravitating towards respect at our introverted elder.  He relied on his gadgets to speak for themselves, continuing to vary and experiment.  We presumed he knew to what end.  Knew better now than to interfere.  Yeye would come to his conclusions in his own time.  Practically.

Even so, the commission surprised us.  That the Emperor should make such a request.  Questioned whether it could be done.  Yeye seemed unfazed, as far we could tell for someone of so few words.  At least, there was no change in his expression on surveying the request.  Perhaps he saw it as one more challenge.  Certainly, there would be no refusal.  He would take on the task.  To make the puppets dance.

It was known to all that the Emperor had a theatre of puppets; motionless, frozen in place, scene by scene.  What he demanded was simple in concept, complex in potential execution.  He demanded to know if they could be made to move.  He wished for the ingenious.  To see them dance.  The wish took wings amongst the populace.  Then, all waited to see if Yeye completed the command.

We, his family, watched with wondering eyes, as wood was fashioned into horizontal rotating wheel powered by, as far as we could detect, unseen water.  Thus dawned the day the puppets danced.  Amongst the array of figures, a flautist accompanied a full choir, as others danced in time.  Men beat drums behind them, whilst government officials went about their business in alternate scenes.  A myriad of differing variations, with all in constant motion.  We danced with them in delight, scarcely able to help ourselves.  The Emperor simply smiled.

(360 words)

Comment

This one owes its origins to the Chinese mechanical engineer Ma Jun who really did use a water wheel to power and operate a large mechanical puppet theatre for the Emperor Ming of Wei - and, of course, the picture prompt courtesy of @TheShakes72 credited above! 

Relics (VisDare)

Photo Source (via the VisDare challenge)

Relics

They all knew the story; wanted to beat the odds.  Earn a relic of their own.  The ultimate prize.  Honour’s older sister already had hers – and didn’t she just know about it already!  It wasn’t worth trying to cheat and swing things her way by asking how she’d done it.  That would go down in infamy – forever.  It looked so easy – reaching the key.  All you had to do was reach into the effigy’s body cavity.  In theory.  Some had tried.  Some had lost a finger doing so.  Others a hand.  You just never knew what would happen until you tried.  Honour was understandably reticent.  She spent time studying her.  Mother; maiden.  Grey cloaked crone.  Seeking to understand her.  Perhaps to understand herself.  To find that metaphorical key.  She lost track of the hours.  Finally, the day she had it.  The day the effigy smiled infinitesimally.  Honour reached out, forwards…

Comment

The word prompt this week was "protective".  I think my take on this was implied, as opposed to overt.  This seems to be set in an alternate universe where relics are prized above a number of other things.  Interesting concept...

Non-Covert Experiments (VisDare)

Photo Source (via VisDare)


Non-Covert Experiments

Alexander hurried along, hat pulled low across his brow – ostensibly as cover against the driving wind and snow.  In reality, to hide his consternation.  It had all gone wrong; horribly, badly so.  How could he have miscalculated so critically?  So horrifically.  He blamed himself, despite the informed consent.  Had they really foreseen this kind of consequence?  The silk brim covered his eyes and yet he could not stop himself seeing it, again.  Imprinted behind his eyes, on his mind.  Guilt enforced, indelibly.  Marked upon him, as she was now scarred by the searing heat from the misadventure.  Blown gasket, full force steam, escaped from pumping pistons.  He had heard the scream.  Too late, too late!  Careful checks and balances, so wrongly weighed.  A minor miscalculation, in theory.  The practice, so different. 

They were to change the ways of the world with their invention.  Instead, he had simply changed hers.  Incontrovertibly.  

Comment

This week's word was "covert".  As ever, I switched this up.  Steampunk - sort of.  Possibly a longer story here, all things considered.  Research involved trawling the internet archives for Victoriana, top hat materials and timelines for advances in steam invention and scientific theory.  Plus - suitable names for Victorian males.  Quite a lot for such a short piece and far too much to fit into 150 words!