Elizabethan Theatre

I’ve been on FridayFlash hiatus for a few weeks due to a variety of excuses, but I’m back for at least this week with a quick Easter story.  Hope you enjoy!

THE EASTER HARE

The children woke early and woke their parents, too.  Part of having children is rising much earlier than necessary on at least two days out of the year, and this day was Easter.

Barely awake and hastily dressed, the adults were dragged outside by miniature hands on their sleeves.  But as soon as they crossed the threshold into the cool, crisp air, an odd crunching sound found their ears.  The children stopped in their tracks, nearly sending their parents tumbling over them.  Now alert, they looked out over the yard.

It should have sparkled with foil-wrapped chocolates and candy-colored eggs.  That was the deal.  It was How Things Worked.

And admittedly, there were in fact eggs. Hundreds of them, perhaps. But these were not Easter eggs. No, they weren’t even hard-boiled, and they certainly weren’t chocolate. The brown and white shells, some in tact and others not, littered the yard.  Egg yolk colored the tree leaves, and the viscous white dripped from the branches.  And even though the air was cool, the sun was beginning to warm the surfaces, and a putrid smell was just barely beginning to rise from the yard.  Tears filled the children’s eyes, and thoughts of teenage hooligans rampaged in their parents’ minds.

Before anyone could take action, though, a flash of white sped through the yard.

“Hey!” cried the little girl.

The flash became a fluffy, white rabbit, and it looked at her with sad eyes.  “I’m too late,” he muttered.

“What happened?” asked the girl’s brother.  Though he was not quite two years older, he put a protective arm around his little sister.

The rabbit grimaced, and then he scowled.  “My idiot half brother,” he spat.  “That’s what happened.”

“You have a brother?” the children’s mother asked.

“I’m a rabbit. Of course I have a brother. Six hundred and seventy-three, to be exact, and another twelve-hundred and eight half-brothers.  And don’t even get me started on my sisters.”

“Are they all Easter bunnies?” the father asked.

The rabbit rolled his eyes.  “Of course not.”

“Oh,” the father said, simply.  “Then, which one did this?”

Fury flashed in the rabbit’s eyes as he spoke: “The March Hare.”

“The March Hare?” asked the mother, incredulous.

“Yes, The March Hare, and thank heavens there’s only one of him!”  The rabbit approached the family now, and they huddled a little closer together.  This was not the Easter Bunny the television specials and Hallmark cards had told them about.  The rabbit put out his paws, as if expecting payment for something.  But then, with a pop, two baskets, filled with the most beautifully painted eggs and decadent-looking chocolates the family had ever seen, appeared out of thin air.  “Take these,” he said.  “Sorry about the hunt.”

The rabbit turned around and surveyed the yard.  His ears went straight up and then bent forward at a right angle, sending a beam of light over the yard.  In an instant, the errant eggs were gone, and thankfully so was the smell.  The rabbit screwed up his arms, prepared to dash away, but the little girl ran forward.  Surprised, the rabbit stared at the little girl, and, surprised at herself, the little girl stared back at the rabbit.  Finally, she threw her arms around his neck.

“Happy Easter,” she said.  “And thanks.”

She let go and went back to join her family.  The rabbit very nearly smiled.  “You’re welcome. And Happy Easter to you, too.”  And then, with a last curt nod in their direction, he was gone.

The children looked at each other, and their parents did the same, and then the boy — so wise beyond his years, as children often are before they grow up — voiced what they all were thinking: “This is the best Easter ever!”

© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty

This story started out as a short scene for a one-page screenplay contest last  year.  It’s been sitting on my computer for more than a year, seen by only a handful of people, and I figured it was time to give it a new life.   Please enjoy.

THE COBBLER’S REWARD

A wizened little man sat hunched over a cobbler’s bench, hammering away at the heel of a well-worn boot.  He wore a scowl and an old, grubby coat that might once have been green.  Between hammers, he glanced up at the security camera that remained fixed on him, and, with each glance, his scowl deepened.  Today of all days, this was not where he belonged.

Outside the shoe repair shop, the parade was just beginning.  A boy on the cusp of eight stood beside his mother, who was tending to his curly- and golden-haired sisters.  They were two and four, and they were everything.  The music was growing louder, and the boy watched as his mother directed the girls’ gazes toward the marching band.  They both clapped in delight at the sight of the instruments moving in unison, and their mother — and anyone who happened to spot them — clapped in delight as well.  How cute they were.  The boy rolled his eyes, and, having lost interest in the never-changing parade two years ago, he slipped away.

He walked down the sidewalk, glancing in all the windows.  The furniture stores held no interest for him.  The candy shop would have had he remembered to bring a bit of his meager allowance.  The candle shop made him sneeze.  He would have passed by the shoe repair shop without a second glance if it weren’t for the sight of the gnarled old man, barely much taller than himself, staring out the window as if he were caught in a prison cell.  He was startled, and, though he’d never admit it, a little scared by the sight.  But then the man looked at him, and his dead eyes came to life with a twinkle.  The tiniest motion of the man’s hand beckoned the boy inside.  So, inside the boy went.

With a twitch of his head, he invited the boy closer, and, always the curious type, the boy approached.  Only when the old man leaned toward him, as if to tell him a secret, did he stop.  Suddenly, a litany of after-school specials and school assemblies ran through his mind, and he wondered if he was doing the right thing.

“Do you know what I am?” asked the old man.

The boy looked him over and then shook his head.

“I’m a leprechaun,” he whispered.

The boy raised a skeptical eyebrow.  He was young, but he was no dummy.  “Prove it,” he replied.

The old man waved his hand, and without explanation, there was suddenly a bright green, golf-ball sized emerald sitting in his palm.  The boy gawped, and any notion that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time vanished.

“I’m a prisoner here,” the old man explained, his expression suddenly urgent.  “If you help me escape, you’ll be rewarded.”

The boy’s eyes shot to the emerald.  The old man, realizing the implication, pulled it back protectively only to receive a stern look from the boy.  The old man, clenched his jaw, sighed heavily, looked longingly at his emerald, and then even more longingly outside.

“Oh, all right,” he said, looking none too happy about it.

The boy beamed.

“See those shoes?” the old man asked, eyeing a pair of high-fashion high heels that no one in the small town would ever consider walking around in.  They were the only shoes in the store that bore the accessory of an anti-theft device.  The boy saw them immediately; they were hard to miss.  “Take them.”

The look of surprise on the boy’s face was not unexpected, but the old man had been playing at this game much longer.  He moved the emerald into the light, and he watched the boy’s inner struggle with a hint of glee as the sunshine played in the facets of the jewel.  The boy grimaced and met the old man’s eyes, and the old man knew he had won.

Without another word, the boy dashed to the shoes, grabbed them, and sprinted out the door.  At the sound of the alarm, a fat man barreled out from the back room, giving pointless chase down the street.

The old man stood, and for the first time in a very long time, he smiled.  He walked over to the security camera, gave it a wink, and then shut it off.  When the fat man returned without his prized shoes, he found he had also lost his prized cobbler.

Outside, having escaped into an alley way, the boy leaned against a brick wall to catch his breath. He’d discarded the shoes in a dumpster a block back, just in case.  He wouldn’t know the term for another five or six years, but he understood plausible deniability like an old pro. As his breath finally slowed, it occurred to him that he and the old man had never settled terms on how he was to receive his reward.  He stood up and for the first time experienced the unsettling feeling that he had been swindled.

The sound of shoes crunching against the pavement caught his attention, and he looked up.  At the other end of the alley was none other than the old man, standing straighter and looking more spritely than the boy would have thought possible.

“Hey, what about my reward?” the kid called out.

The old man grinned and began walking away from the boy.  Not about to give up without a fight, the boy took a step to run after him, but got no further than that due to a suddenly odd weight in his pocket.  He reached into it, and, when his hand emerged, it held the emerald — solid, real, and more beautiful in the open air than he could have imagined.  The boy smiled and looked up to find the old man, but the old man was nowhere to be seen.

© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty

This week’s installment is a little Valentine’s-themed story that I’d eventually like to turn into a short film script (and then a short film, natch).  I wanted to do something similar in tone to Neil Gaiman’s “Harlequin Valentine,” which is the best Valentine’s-themed story in the history of the written word.  (It’s available to listen to for free here, in case you haven’t experienced it — but read mine first, please, because it’ll pale in comparison to the master!)  Hope you enjoy.

LOVE IN LOVE

The dress had to be perfect. Everything was riding on it.

She examined the fabric of the little burgundy number she was wearing.  Too thin and it would show every bump and dimple she hated about herself.  Too thick and it would hide every line and curve she loved.  Her eyes poured over the places she liked and loathed.  The fabric, she decided, would do.

Her eyes traveled to the hemline.  Too high and it would make her look like a Halloween Catholic school girl.  Too low and she’d look like an everyday Catholic school marm.  She raised on her tiptoes, and then she stood flat-footed.  She pulled up a stool and sat down, crossing her legs at the ankles and then at the knees.  She stood back up, twirled, all the while keeping her eyes glued to the place where the burgundy met the peach of her skin.  She stopped and looked at herself straight on.  The hemline, she decided, would do.

In all her focus, she nearly missed the flash of gold dart behind her in the mirror.  She turned around just in time to see an old man throw aside his cane, take his equally-decrepit wife in his arms, and kiss her passionately.  The woman’s brow furrowed.  She took one more quick look in the mirror, ripped the tag off, and stomped to the cash register to pay.  She couldn’t chance going home to change.  She was wearing this baby out of the store.

As the cashier handed the woman her receipt, a bolt of gold flew over her shoulder, whisking her hair forward.  Before her eyes, the cashier, a dowdy matron who could be pretty if she tried, clasped her hand to her heart.  She turned to look across the way to the cologne department, where, after another barely noticed flash of gold, a balding man turned to face her.  The woman watched in annoyance as the two left their stations and met in the aisle, embracing as if they were star-crossed lovers who’d finally sorted the constellations.  The woman scowled.  She did a little mental geometry, calculating where the darts of gold had originated.  And then she set off at a pace somewhere between catwalk and slight jog.

Down the street she went.  Another spark of gold to her left, and another match made.  She picked up her pace.  To her right now, two lovers reunited with tears of joy.  She looked ahead, and there she spotted a tall man in a white suit.  He saw her, too.  And then he turned and disappeared into the rush-hour crowd.  She ran after him, thoughts of grace replaced by the heat of the chase, ignoring the shooting pain from her heels to her knees and praying that her brand-new, blown-paycheck heels could hold their own.

She followed the flashes of gold like they were yellow bricks, and they led her to another glimpse of white.  She refused to blink, breaking into a sprint now.  She gained, and finally, just as the man in white was releasing two golden, heart-tipped arrows from his bow, she caught him.  She made to grab for his arm, but he was too fast.  Pointed straight at her chest was a dark, pewter-colored arrow.  The woman froze.  The tip of this arrow was heart-shaped, too, but down the middle of it ran an ominous, lightning bolt of a crack.  Her eyes ran along the silver shaft to the crow-feathered fletching, and then up the arm of the man and finally into his steely eyes.

“You can’t,” she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper.  “I’m in love with you.”

She saw the pity in his expression.  The bowstring loosened, if only by an inch.  “You can’t be in love with Love,” he said.

She shook her head and moved toward him again.  The bowstring went taught, even more so than before.  “I’m sorry,” he said, and something in his eyes made her believe he meant it.  Before she could cry out, there was a leaden arrow in her heart.

And then he was gone.

The woman walked the dark streets, the sun having retired hours ago.  The sky opened up and let loose the rain it had been threatening for days.  Still miles from her apartment, and the cabs of the city filled with Valentines both new and old, the woman sat down on the curb and stared at the rainwater washing the pavement of its debris.  She heard footsteps, but she couldn’t summon the passion to look up.

It was only when the splash of red passed into her vision that she looked up.  A well-dressed man, soaked to the bone, walked down the street, a dozen red roses dangling facedown from his hand.  She looked at him curiously.  And then he turned and returned her expression.  He retraced his steps and offered his hand to help her up.  She accepted.  He held out the roses, and she accepted those, too.  And as they looked at each other, whatever heartbreak had befallen them that night was suddenly forgotten.

Neither suspected or noticed a thing when a man in an unblemished white suit passed them by with nothing more than a nod of his head and a wistful look in his eye.

© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty