Something New, Saving for Later

I posted a little series of snippets and flash fiction pieces...gosh...a year ago, or so. They're part of something I've always wanted to work on. There's this story that keeps coming back around. Some things just take a little longer to ferment. But one of these days, I'll get it written.

 

 

There were two men coming down the road, one half-a-head taller than the other. Long, drab brown coats marked them neither Confederate nor Yankee. The slender shapes of rifles sprouted over their shoulders. The wind brought the sound of their footfalls tunneling down the path. And one of them was whistling.

A rustle in the long grass beyond the porch drew her attention. It was Annabel, skinny and sun-browned as an Indian boy, her little ash wood short bow slung over one shoulder as she belly crawled through the stalks.

”Anna!” Rees hissed. ” Come back inside.”

Annabel ignored her. ”There's strangers coming,” she whispered, and crawled toward the road.

I should never have let Henry give her that, she thought, heart pounding wildly as the men drew closer. She could make out faces now, the hints of them. Narrow cheeks scruffy with beard and the strong ridges of noses. The taller one was dark-headed, and sharp-featured. The other not blonde and not redheaded, but between, and wore his hair to his shoulders. It was the tall one who whistled. ”Dixie.”

”Rees,” Lainey's voice called from the doorway. ”What are -”

”Hush. Go back inside.”

The men were close, now. The tall one wore his beard short, his hair a thick dark cap that curled over the shells of his ears. Under black brows, his eyes were round and bright...and skipping up to her. His companion was older, she saw. Perhaps forty. There were lines on his face. He watched her too, his gaze a hot, fixed thing from down the length of the lane, and Rees shivered.

”Rees -”

”Go inside, Lainey. Now. And close the door.”

 

Snippet

I'm piecing together a story I want to work on in little scrap parts. Not true flash fiction, but it's a good exercise.

 

A thousand possible futures she lived in her mind while the grass lapped around her. The horses – their riders – came closer, the muffled tattoo of hooves across the field a vibration beneath her. “Go with them,” he’d told her, “they will be kinder to you than my master.” But as the sun seared the backs of her eyelids, all she could see was his face, and none of those futures were ones she wanted. The horses came and then were gone again, the echo of their departure long fading. Whatever pain awaited her now, at least she’d chosen it. At least it had been her decision.

Survival

The apple was small and withered, but when she bit into it, a trickle of juice ran down her chin and the green skin snapped beneath her teeth. She found a black piece of rot and dug it out with dirty, ragged fingernails, and kept eating. She’d forgotten the names she’d always wanted to give to her children, the color of her favorite dress, the things her mother had told her about proper manners. All that existed was food, and shelter, listening and living. All she knew was survival.

Beautiful

I've become quite addicted to these flash fiction drabbles or whatever you can call them. They're all connected, by the way.

Beautiful

He was far more tired than she was, but he insisted on walking. Lainey wrapped her fingers in the chestnut gelding’s mane and swayed along with the animal’s gait, her eyes trained on the tattered brown cloak that swirled around Caleb’s ankles as he walked. His hair, the same red-brown as that of his horse’s, was beaded with crystal drops of mist. When he half-turned his head to ask if she was hungry, his breath was a plume of smoke. His cheeks were patched with stubble and smudged with dirt. She had not thought him handsome that first day, back in the village, but now, when she stared into his eyes that were the same color as a forest pond at twilight, she wanted nothing more than to drown.

Flash Fiction: The Fire

In the firelight, her porcelain face was a mask of shifting shadows. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her fingers were clenched so tight she dug furrows in her long skirt. Her eyes that had been so dazzlingly open before were hard now, focused, sharp as a blade as she stared at the flames. In some long, forgotten part of his soul, he dredged up sympathy for her.

“They don’t like the fire, do they?” she asked.

“No. Some even less than others.”

“Good.” He might have seen a tear glistening crystal on her cheek, but she dashed it away. “I’ve decided I love fire.”

100 Words: Continuation From Yesterday

He took a deep breath and held it, reaching out with all his senses to touch every part of his surroundings. The bark of the tree biting into his back. The crackly litter of leaves under his boots. The cool air that came rolling up along with a mist from the creek. The small body that huddled, shivering, next to him. He counted four men as he listened to the footsteps leave the stony bank of the creek and start up the hill.

“Friends of yours?” she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek. Her voice quivered with fright.

“No.”

100 Words: More, Even Cheesier Flash Fiction

The Wait

Night crept in on soft, padded feet. It made no sound, but as the darkness pressed in around them, circling like hungry, silent wolves, it brought with it a dread so fierce it caught his breath in his throat. As the last of the light winked out, he saw the white of her tattered dress fluttering around her feet. And then everything was black. And then he heard the sounds: the splashes down the hill at the creek. They were coming for them, slowly, because they knew their prey would not run. “Come here,” he told her. She did, and together they waited.

100 Words: Flash Fiction

There are several definitions of flash fiction. Some forms are really strict in word count. Stories can be comprised of as few as 55 words to as many as 1,000 words. But regardless, it's essentially a short story with some kind of plot. The flash fiction I've read raises more questions about the characters than it answers, but it's a really cool form of storytelling. This is my first attempt - it is bad, sorry - so don't judge too harshly. I turned mine into a 100 word challenge and I'm using a character from a story I want to write at some point in the future.

Clouds

Clouds. His mother had loved clouds. She’d told him, when he was a round-faced little boy, four, with dirty feet and torn clothes, that clouds were sky ships, sailing through an ocean of blue just like the real ships plowed through blue, foamy seas. She’d pulled him up in her lap and told him the stories. Her apron had smelled like the thick, caked soap she used to wash clothes. But that had been before…and this was after. He was a man now and he had no mother, no memories, and he didn’t look at clouds. Daydreams were not allowed.