[FridayFlash] Absolution of an Abomination
Carrie Clevenger did a riddle flash last week, and I’ve decided that this story makes for a nice little riddle, too. Can you guess what the creature is?
ABSOLUTION OF AN ABOMINATION
“WHAT IS THAT?!” the archangel spluttered.
The other archangel stood with his arms crossed, staring at the little abomination that had drawn such a reaction from his colleague. His own reaction had been much the same.
“The one responsible wouldn’t talk. We don’t know if it was a mistake or some sort of cruel joke.”
“Well, either way, we’d better destroy it before the Creator gets an eyeful.”
The second archangel started to walk away, but then paused at the sight of the monster spitting a stream of water from the puddle in which it was playing. He turned back and crossed his own arms. The two could have been twins, arms crossed, heads cocked just slightly to one side.
“Is it just me, or is he… well, sort of cute?”
“Only if you look at him long enough.”
The archangels looked at each other, each searching the other’s eyes for the will to do what needed to be done. Neither found it. They looked back to the
“He’s got fangs,” the first one said.
“Big ones,” said the second, nodding. “Claws, too.”
“Sharp ones,” echoed the first. “He does have wings, though.”
“That’s true. We can use that.”
“And he sure does like water.”
The angels’ eyes met again, and they smiled.
* * * * *
High above the ground, towering over the people who walk below, rests a leathery, eagle-eyed spectator. His claws grip the stones that serve as a monument to something beyond imagination. His teeth, sharp enough to pierce the toughest skin, are bared, waiting. Eyes that find him look away quickly, the shudders that follow a reminder of something savage. Thoughts swirl at the sight of him: why does something so grotesque exist on something so beautiful?
But he is oblivious. The clouds gather above, and, as the skies darken, he feels a thrill of anticipation. Soon, it will rain.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
Did you guess? The answer is here, and you can read more information about his creation and purpose here. Thanks for reading!
[FridayFlash] Seeming is Believing
Noticed one of these this week and found myself grinning back.
SEEMING IS BELIEVING
The child sat on the curb at the corner of two flower-named streets, waiting for her bus. As the snow came down, coating everything in white to contrast the last vestiges of the black night, she fumed. Even at the young age of nine and three-quarters, she had no patience for snow unless it meant a school cancellation. She’d been awfully tired this morning and would have been quite content to remain in bed, dreaming of things that made no sense, rather than dealing with a waking world that, to her, seemed no better.
[FridayFlash] Love in Love
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
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
[FridayFlash] I’ve Got Bills in All the Right Places
I thought I’d go way back into the archives of my life for this week’s episode of FridayFlash. A little background: in 2004, straight out of graduating magna cum laude, three internships under my belt, and a history of nearly all straight-As, I found myself unable to obtain a job in my chosen field. Thus, I found myself in the most humiliating position possible for a 20-something with a sense of entitlement — a cashier in the automotive department at Wal-Mart.
I was there for a mere two weeks before I put in my notice, and I rounded out my stay at five. The silver lining is that I had plenty to write about for my first venture into NaNoWriMo back in 2005. Now, I present to you an updated excerpt from that novel/memoir – a snapshot of a day in my life as a Wal-Mart employee.
I’VE GOT BILLS IN ALL THE RIGHT PLACES
Somewhat inexplicably, the automotive department at Wal-Mart attracts an unusual number of very strange women. Most pass out of memory within a few hours if not minutes, but there was one woman who will be forever burned into my mind barring any sort of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-style brain therapy.
One day, late in the afternoon, nearing both the end of my shift and the end of my service to the Big Blue Sign, a very overweight woman, probably nearing 400 lbs., came up to the counter to pay for some merchandise. I tell you this not to be rude or judgmental, but simply to paint an accurate picture of the situation.
I rang up her merchandise and presented her total, which was less than $2. She began digging around in her sweatpants’ pocket for change, which she handed to me one coin at a time as she found it. Though this was certainly annoying, and while it took all my mental prowess to ignore the disturbing warmth of the coins in my hand, I was mostly unfazed. I’d experienced worse. My discomfort was not enough to prepare me for what was about to play out.
“I think I put a dollar in my bra,” she proclaimed.
My first response to this was confusion. It was followed quickly by horror, as my mind could no longer ignore the body-heated coins in my hands. I tried to convince myself that I was simply having some sort of David Lynch-style nightmare. Surely, I was bound to wake up any second. All hope was shattered, though, as I watched her begin to fondle her own massive and ill-supported breasts.
I began a silent chant to any god that would listen to make that dollar bill so hidden within the depths and folds of femininity before me that it would never be found again — or at least not until after my shift had ended. But her hands only searched more fervently as the intensity of my prayers increased.
I was about to offer a dollar from my own meagerly-supplied wallet in order to prevent having to handle anything that had come out of the crevasse of this woman’s cleavage. But then, as abruptly as the caressing and squishing and prodding had begun, it stopped. We stared at each other for one of those moments that seem impossibly long. Terrible thoughts of her next attempt to find the dollar bill filled my mind — one in particular ending with a sweaty triple-F Maidenform bra flung at my face sent an involuntary shudder through my body. And then, she uttered the most glorious words I’d heard up until that point in my life.
“I must have put it in my billfold,” she resolved.
I laughed, half in relief and half at the absurdity as she pulled a black leather billfold out of her purse. She looked at me if I was touched in the head. I muttered an apology and took her unsullied dollar bill. As she left with her purchases, she spared me one last, curious-annoyed glance as she walked out the door. And I, beaten down and exhausted, could only smile politely back.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
Merry Happy
I’ve wanted to send out a 100-word Christmas story with my Christmas cards for a few years now. This is the first year I’ve gotten around to writing a story. Alas, I did not get around to actually sending Christmas cards. So, I present it here instead, along with my wishes for a lovely Christmas if you celebrate it and a lovely day regardless.
And to make up for the mush, I’ll also share this riveting piece of cinema, created by my sister and myself as a bit of Christmas entertainment for our family.
Charity: A Christmas Story
Here’s a quick bit of short fiction I wrote last year. By the time I finished it, it was too late for a Christmas story, so this one’s been waiting all year for its debut. Hope you enjoy.
CHARITY: A CHRISTMAS STORY
Julie was setting the table when the doorbell rang announcing the arrival of her mother’s first Christmas dinner party guest. She rolled her eyes with typical teenage impertinence as she heard her mother put on her Joyful Hostess Voice to greet Mr. and Mrs. Stanson. Julie adjusted the centerpiece in the middle of the table, remarking in her head how silly it was to have a small, candle-laden winter forest scene blocking everyone’s view and crowding out the food.
Twenty minutes later, Julie; her mother, Martha (wearing a smile so plastic Julie was afraid the candles from the centerpiece might melt it); her stepfather, Steve (for whom Julie had developed a particular distaste); the Stansons (so prim, proper and polite they made your teeth hurt); and Ms. Frostberry (the divorced, busybody neighbor who wormed an invitation to Martha’s party every year) had just sat down for their Christmas dinner when the doorbell rang once more.
“Now, who could that be?” Martha asked with a chuckle.
“Well, whoever it is, they sure do have perfect timing!” Steve retorted. Everyone at the table guffawed with scripted merriment, with the exception of Julie, who smiled as politely as she could force herself to.
“Julie, dear,” Martha said, wiping tears of amusement from the corners of her eyes, “be a doll and answer the door, will you?”
Julie did as requested without complaint, more out of a desire to escape, even if only for a moment, than to please her mother. She tried to look out the window to see who was at the door, but it was fogged up due to the stifling warmth inside the house and the bitter cold outside. With no prior warning, Julie was quite surprised at what she found when she opened the door.
Before her stood a tall, clumsy-looking man in a tattered, dirt-covered suit, and she couldn’t help but note the greenish-yellow tinge to his skin and the sunkenness of his eyes in his head. In fact, she noticed, his eyes were kind of just floating aimlessly in their sockets, not bothering to focus on anything in particular.
“Um, can I help you?” she asked.
“Grrraaargh,” the man replied.
The corners of his mouth stretched back into what Julie assumed was a smile, though she was of the opinion that, due to his apparent lack of dental hygiene, he should avoid such expressions in the future at all costs.
“I’m sorry,” Julie said, trying to maintain some semblance of politeness in spite of her grumbling stomach. “I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
“Grrrraaaaaaaaagh!” he said, this time with slightly more emphasis on the “Gra.”
Julie was in no mood for this sort of game, and, if Ms. Frostberry took all the gravy again this year before she could get to it, Julie was going to be quite put out. She opened her mouth to tell the inarticulate man that he would simply have to go away and come back when her parents were not in the midst of a dinner party, but her mother’s hand on her shoulder stopped her.
“Julie, where are your manners?” Martha said, now playing a slight variation on the Joyful Hostess Voice called Concerned Samaritan. “Invite this poor gentlemen in for goodness’ sake! It’s freezing out there!”
She stepped past Julie and put her hand on the man’s elbow, guiding him inside. Julie noticed the man’s knees appeared to be locked as he clunked into the house. Every movement was jerky and straight-legged, and Julie was growing rather perturbed as he slung slush all over the floor she’d spent an hour mopping earlier that day.
“Now, what can I do for you, sir?” Martha asked.
“Grrraaargh,” the man said once again.
“Oh, you poor dear!” Martha exclaimed. “So cold you can’t even get your words out straight. Why don’t you come have some dinner. We were just having a little Christmas party, but there’s always room for one more!” Martha’s falsetto laugh rang through the entryway, and the man looked a little alarmed at the sound. “Julie, go grab a chair from the closet, dear. He can sit by you.”
“Mom, we only made enough food for six!” Julie said, growing more exasperated.
“Shame on you, Julie!” Martha said in her most horrified tone. And then she shifted directly into her Christmas TV Special Voice: “It’s Christmas, and it’s the time of year to be charitable and have good will toward our fellow man.”
“It’s not Christmas yet,” Julie muttered. “It’s December 16th.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Martha said out the side of her mouth, sounding like her real self for the first time since guests had arrived. “Just do it.”
Julie turned and huffed her way to the closet as her mother led the man into the dining room. She carried the metal folding chair to the table, where he nearly went into a fit at the sight of the man settling stiffly into her chair across from a very curious-looking Ms. Frostberry. Julie, with as sour an expression as she could manage, unfolded the metal chair next to the man and sat down.
“Everyone, this is…?” Martha paused, waiting for her surprise dinner guest to announce his name. When he didn’t fill in the blank (and indeed stared blankly ahead, which Martha thought a bit rude under her extremely charitable circumstances), she was forced to draw attention to her faux pas. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I caught your name, sir.”
The man’s gaze shifted to Martha, and, in answer to her question, he said, “Grrraaargh.”
“Greg, is it?” Martha took the man’s lolling head motion to mean, “Why, yes, my name is Greg, and I’m so pleased that you were able to understand me despite my speech impediment.” She beamed and turned to her guests. “Let’s eat then, shall we?”
The guests began passing around the various dishes on the table, and Julie eyed Ms. Frostberry very carefully as she ladled gravy onto every single thing on her plate. Eyeing the growing ocean with its tiny islands of food sprinkled throughout, Julie had to fight every fiber of her being to stop herself from playing Poseidon and sending a gravy tsunami straight into Ms. Frostberry’s lap.
This train of thought was interrupted only by the passing of Julie’s least-favorite dish from her mother’s hands into her own. “Gross,” she muttered, as she shoved it into Greg’s hands. “I don’t know why you make that every year. No one likes it.”
That notion was immediately proved incorrect as Greg exclaimed, “Braaaaiinnns!” and looked the most animated he had since he’d arrived.
“No, no, Greg,” Martha corrected. “It’s called cervelle de veau.”
Greg gave her a look that resembled one of confusion. “Brains?”
“Well, they are technically brains,” Martha admitted, shaking her head slightly.
“Brains!” And with that, Greg dumped the entire contents of the dish into his mouth, spilling the overflow all over himself, the table, and the floor, as everyone looked on, horrified (except for Julie, who was fighting back snickers and trying to look horrified).
After licking the dish clean with a tongue that was noticeably blacker than that of the average human being, he set the dish down on the table with an unceremonious clatter, leaned back in his chair, clasped his ashen hands on his stomach, and let out a very contented, “Braaaaaiiiinnnnns…”
Julie looked to her mother, whose jaw was hanging open in shock. After a moment, she seemed to recover a bit, and she cleared her throat and continued passing along the now-nearly empty gravy boat to Julie. She took the ladle and pointedly scraped the bottom of the gravy boat, shooting Ms. Frostberry a scolding glance as she managed to dig out about half a ladleful of gravy. Highly dissatisfied with Ms. Frostberry’s willing ignorance of her failed gravy etiquette, Julie passed the boat to Greg.
He grabbed it excitedly from her, but, as soon as he saw the contents, his expression turned to one somewhere between severe disappointment and pain.
“Brains?” he half-growled, half-squeaked, like a dog whose paw has been stepped on.
“I’m afraid there are no more, Greg,” Martha said (and with very little sympathy after his behavior).
“Brains!” he spat out, sending a speck of cervelle de veau across the table onto Ms. Frostberry’s cheek.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, having never been subjected to having brains splattered across her face before.
“Braaiinns!” Greg yelled. He stood and lurched his way over to Ms. Frostberry, where he promptly snapped her neck, dug his teeth into her skull, and began munching on its contents.
Julie’s mother stood and threw her napkin down on the table indignantly. “Now, Greg! I’m sorry to be rude, but this sort of behavior is completely unacceptable!”
Greg responded, but his mouth was quite full, and what came out was even more unintelligible than usual. At that point, Mr. and Mrs. Stanson stood up.
“I’m so sorry, Martha, but I’ve just remembered we have another engagement this evening,” Mrs. Stanson said.
“Oh, please don’t go,” Martha pleaded. “I’m sure we can get this sorted out.”
“I wish we could,” Mrs. Stanson said as Mr. Stanson pulled her toward the front door. “Honestly. We’ll take a rain check, all right?”
The Stansons did not wait for a response and instead flew from the house, punctuating their departure with a slam of the front door. Martha’s shoulders drooped, and she shot an annoyed glance toward Steve who had not come to her rescue and instead was happily wolfing down the mashed potatoes on his plate. Greg looked up from Ms. Frostberry’s nearly empty skull.
“Brains?” he asked.
Martha turned to him. “Greg, it’s been lovely having you here, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to be on your way.”
Julie thought Greg almost looked as if his feelings were hurt.
“Graargh?”
“I’d be happy to put some ham and potatoes in a to-go container for you, if you wish,” Martha offered, taking pity on him.
Greg turned his head to look at Steve. “Brains?” he asked, looking back to Martha.
“Certainly not!” Martha shouted.
Greg looked to Julie. Julie had never been fond of Steve, and so, she just shrugged.
Greg’s mouth twisted into that hideous grin again, and he got up and lurched toward Steve. Steve tried to push Greg away, but it seemed Greg was rather adept at the whole brains-acquisition thing, and, in a matter of seconds, he was shoveling bloody gray matter into his mouth. Martha promptly fainted, and Julie rolled her eyes.
“I suppose you’ll be expecting me to clean up then,” she grumbled at her unconscious mother. She sighed her typical teenage sigh once more and turned to Greg. “Hey, Greg.” He paused in mid-shovel and looked at her. “Would you mind taking that to go? I’ve got a lot of work to do here.”
Greg shrugged and said, “Grargh.”
“Cool,” Julie replied.
Once they’d shoveled Steve’s brains into a plastic container, Julie walked Greg to the door.
“Well, it was great to meet you, Greg,” Julie said perfunctorily. “Enjoy the brains.”
“Graaaarrgh,” Greg said, baring his yellowed teeth again. He gave a little wave, and then he walked in his stiff-legged way down the drive.
Julie closed the door and leaned back against it. “From now on, charity can begin in someone else’s home.” Her sour expression returned, and she trudged back to the kitchen and began clearing dishes.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Search for Santa
After a month off from all non-NaNoWriMo-related writing, I’m ready to get back to business. And that means #fridayflash! Now that it’s December, I present to you a little Christmas story, inspired by an idea my sister gave me this afternoon. I hope you enjoy.
THE SEARCH FOR SANTA
Michael stared out the window as the bus drove him home. Usually one of the rowdiest of the bunch, he was completely oblivious to the furor around him. Today Michael had more serious matters than elementary hijinks on his 10-year-old mind.
The topic at school that day had been “Holiday Traditions Around the World,” and it had always proven popular with the kids leading up to the holiday break. Indeed, this year was no exception, except for Michael, who proved the rule.
As soon as Michael walked through the door, his mother could tell something was wrong. “What happened?” she asked, going to him and helping with his coat in that overly worried sort of way mothers do.
“We talked about Santa today,” Michael said, looking up at her with a grimace that he felt should explain everything.
His mother looked at him as if she’d been expecting this somehow, and she sighed and pulled him into a hug. Michael tolerated the hug for a few seconds and then pulled away. “Why is Santa different everywhere?” he asked.
“What?” his mother replied.
“Mrs. Dunning says he’s called Père Noël in France, and he goes around with Black Pete, and Black Pete gives bad kids coal. But Black Pete doesn’t come here.”
“Well…”
“And in Austria and Germany and some other places he’s called Kris Kringle, and he’s a little angel.”
“That’s because… Um…”
Michael looked at his mother with increasing frustration. “And sometimes he’s called Father Christmas, and sometimes he’s called St. Nicholas, and sometimes he wears all fur, and sometimes he wears all red. He always comes down our chimney, but Ryan says they don’t have a chimney and so he just comes in the front door. And in some places he leaves stuff in shoes. Shoes, Mom!”
His mother simply stood there, mouth opening and closing, but nothing coming out. Michael huffed, grabbed his backpack, and stomped his way into the family office where the computer was located. He sat down and pulled out the sheet of traditions his teacher had given him, the source of all his angst, and placed it next to the keyboard with the precision of a scientist. He would get to the bottom of this mess, with or without his mother’s help.
Hours passed, and his focus never wavered. His mother brought him dinner, but it remained untouched. His father tried to convince him to give up his search, at least for the night, but, having no more answers than his mother, Michael refused him. Darkness fell, and the house grew quiet. Soon only the glow of the computer screen illuminated the room. Finally, fatigue began to gnaw at him, and he allowed himself a yawn. The handout was now covered in notes, none of which had helped shed any light on the situation. If anything, poor Michael was even more inundated than before, as the internet — even one with parental controls on — had much more to say about Santa Claus than any of his peers or teachers.
Michael leaned forward and rested his chin on his crossed arms. His eyes drifted to a picture frame on his father’s desk. It was from three Christmases ago, and his mother put it out every holiday season. In it, almost too big for such a thing, he sat on the lap of a white-bearded man in a red suit — a man whom Michael had thought was Santa — while his parents stood proudly on either side. He’d been so certain in that picture, but now here he was, full of doubts. If Santa had so many names and behaved so differently around the world, perhaps he wasn’t even real at all. He’d heard other kids proclaim this, of course, but he’d always thought them fools. The thought that perhaps he had been the fool all along was enough to bring tears to his heartbroken eyes. He closed them and buried his head in his arms.
Had the tap on his shoulder not been so gentle, he might have screamed. He turned around slowly, ready to admit defeat to whichever parent had come to shuttle him off to bed. But the tap had not come from a parent. In front of his very eyes stood — well, it couldn’t have been anyone else — Santa Claus. Somehow, he looked exactly as Michael would have imagined and also like nothing he’d ever dreamed. Michael opened his mouth to speak, to ask, to cry out in happiness, and then, perhaps, in anger at all the confusion for which this man was obviously responsible. But before he could get a word out, Santa put a finger to his lips.
“Never stop searching,” he heard Santa say.
Michael leapt out of his chair and embraced the jolly old man with all the relief and thankfulness of a child who has just had hope renewed. As much as Michael wanted to beg Santa to stay, for some reason he knew he couldn’t. He watched with both longing and joy as he disappeared into the night, and then he turned back to the computer, his determination to find out as much as he could renewed.
His parents found him asleep the next morning at the computer. Seconds after they had tenderly shaken him awake, he launched into his story, sparing no detail nor enthusiasm. His parents nodded patiently and smiled patronizingly, and even though they never said it, he could tell that they thought it had been nothing more than a dream. But Michael knew better.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] A Succubus’s Worst Nightmare
So, this week, I went for something I’d probably classify as R-rated. (Sorry, Mom!) Just a heads up there for you all. So, that’s that. Thanks for all the fridayflash support from week to week. It’s lovely seeing what everyone thinks, and I’m having a great time reading everyone else’s stuff, too! Be sure to check out all the other fridayflash entries, available by searching #fridayflash on twitter or via J.M. Strother’s weekly reports.
A SUCCUBUS’S WORST NIGHTMARE
They were at it again. She could hear them through the walls. She bounced onto her other side and buried her face in the cushions of the couch, pulling her blanket to her chin. Nope. She could still hear it. The moaning, the grunting, and — worst of all — the giggling. She scowled and grabbed a throw pillow to smush into her face. She considered trying to suffocate herself out of sheer annoyance. No matter how many layers of fabric stood between her ears and open air, she could still hear them.
She threw off the blankets and pillows and stood up. “That’s it!” she yelled. In response, more giggling. She snarled, walked to the wall and yanked the heirloom mirror off the wall. It had been her grandmother’s. But that was beside the point. She ignored her haggard reflection, turned the mirror around, and stomped into the bedroom.
There they were. Going at it, just like every night. His eyes closed with that stupid smile on his face. Bastard. And that thing on top of him! It rode him like one of those dirty, bar-room bucking broncos. Disgusting. Though, the woman had to admit, there was something attractive about the thing, if you liked that sort of style. And judging by the noises he was making, her husband obviously did. It took every ounce of will power she had not to smash the mirror over his face, but that’s not why she’d brought it in here. Frankly, she’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, that the thing would go away on its own, but it had been months. And she was tired.
The woman sighed and held up the mirror. It caught the reflection of the thing, and the thing reveled in it, amping up its performance. Its ecstasy was sickening.
The woman rolled her eyes and set the mirror on the bed, where the thing could still see it — or rather see itself in it. She slipped off the rings from her left hand and stared at them for a minute. She’d never had them fused. She took one last look around the room and sighed. She’d never imagined things ending like this. But any sadness she might have felt was interrupted by a cry of joy from her husband. She was running out of time tonight, and she had no interest in waiting any longer.
She grabbed the thing’s left hand and slipped her rings onto its finger. The rocking of its hips stopped immediately, and, for the first time ever, it looked at her. The woman smiled. The thing slid off the man and looked into the mirror. It seemed confused at first, and then horrified. “Take it away,” it whispered. The woman complied, setting it on the floor beside the bed. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes sparkled, and the well-worn look of a poorly treated wife was gone. In short, she looked free. She looked back at the thing. She almost felt pity as she watched it slide under the covers. She watched it put a hand on the man’s chest only to have him turn over and away from it. It looked at her, distraught. “Please,” it whispered.
“Sorry, honey,” the woman replied. “If you want the milk, you’ve got to buy the cow, too.” And then the sun peaked over the horizon, and through the blinds, and into the room, and the woman disappeared. The thing remained, and a tear slid down its cheek.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] Jack and Jill
There are a number of fascinating Halloween legends out there, and I knew I wanted to write a story about this one. I found the opportunity when, a couple of weeks ago, my sister, inspired by Tim Burton’s sketches from Sweeney Todd, sketched a spooky image of her own. I loved it immediately, and I knew the woman in the picture had a story to tell. This is it.
JACK AND JILL
Jill hadn’t been in Ireland very long. Thus, when she saw the strange man holding what looked like a turnip walking down the road, her only consideration was that she was looking rather gaunt and feeling rather hungry. She needed the money, and if a turnip-loving man had it to offer, then she would happily provide whatever services he requested.
The villagers here didn’t like her, and she couldn’t honestly blame them. The women hated her because their men loved her, and the men hated her because they couldn’t help loving her. Needless to say, she was far from popular. She didn’t let it bother her, though. Whatever troubles she faced here, though, they were far easier to bear than what she’d left behind in England. Her hand instinctively brushed her stomach, and she felt the lump rising in her throat. She’d lost much.
Immediately, she sniffed and straightened herself up. She looked out the window again. Yes, the odd but thankfully handsome man was definitely heading this way. She pulled down her dress and pushed up 
her breasts, and then she opened the door before he could knock. She batted her long-lashed eyes at him, and he smiled back at her. Her eyes flitted to the turnip. Now she could see it was hollowed out, and inside it glowed an ember, brighter than any she’d seen in the admittedly pathetic fires she’d built in her decrepit hut.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked, in a tone somewhere between playful and husky, having not yet figured out what sort of fantasy suited the man’s fancy.
“Indeed, I would, if you’re offering,” he replied, grinning in such a way that Jill couldn’t help but be a little charmed.
She moved aside, just enough for him to enter, but not without brushing her skin as he passed. “I see the fog cleared,” she remarked.
The man swung around. “Finally. And on Halloween night, no less.” His smile only got wider, as if he’d stumbled upon a pot of gold.
“What’s your name, stranger?” she asked, settling on husky.
“The name, my unfortunate beauty, is Jack.” He spotted a kettle on the dwindling fire and motioned to it before she could reply. “May I?”
“Of course,” she said, still a little unsettled by being called unfortunate. She shook it off, though. She had a job to do. “But please. Let me.”
She walked to the kettle, grabbed a mug from a nearby shelf, and poured him a cup of cider.
“It’s almost a shame,” the man mused, more to himself than to Jill.
“What is?”
He turned to face her, and she handed him the mug. He took a sip. “You’re not from here, I take it.”
“Is it that obvious?” she asked, giggling as she once again batting her eyelashes. Perhaps playful was his preference after all.
“Unfortunately so,” he replied.
Again with that word. She felt her brow furrow just for a second, and then she simply smiled at him, wide-eyed. He set down the mug, but not the turnip, and moved toward her. His hand found her neck, and his fingers found her hair, and then, his lips found hers. They were cold, and he tasted like smoke. She pulled away, demurely, just as he began to pull her closer.
“Now, Jack,” she purred, stroking the exposed skin at his collar. “If that’s your business tonight, then we should talk about… compensation.”
Jack moved away, his grin even wider than she would have believed possible. “My dear,” he said. “My poor, unfortunate soul. My business here is utterly finished.”
She stared at him, perplexed. He grabbed the mug of cider and then backed out the door, taking it with him. Jill followed him outside the house without thinking. She peered into the darkness, but the fog had returned. There was no sight of him. It was then that she noticed it: in her hand was the turnip, and the ember inside it was glowing brighter than ever.
“Jack?” she called into the night. But there was no answer. She turned to go back inside only to find the door closed. She tried the handle, but the door had latched, and it would not give. She sighed. As much as she hated the idea, she would have to ask for a neighbor’s help. She walked down the road toward the next home, cursing the man Jack, who had stolen a kiss and been too stingy to pay for it.
When she came to the path leading to her neighbor’s door, she could not force her feet onto it, no matter how hard she tried. She told herself it was fate, or God, or destiny, forcing her onward to the next house. But when she came to it, she could not approach it either. And so she walked on, and on, and on. After a number of hours, or days, or weeks, or perhaps even years, she could no longer remember why she walked. All that remained was a hope that the fog would lift.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Bronze Head
Had to do a little wikipedia hopping to find this week’s inspiration, but I eventually settled on something that felt fitting for the first FridayFlash of October. Hope you all enjoy, and thanks (as always) for reading!
THE BRONZE HEAD
Sylvia had become an expert at spotting diamonds in the rough on the shelves of the town’s thrift store. She had an eye for what things could be rather than what they were. Her friends all eyed her impeccably and uniquely decorated home with envy, and she reveled in it.
The bronze bust had caught her eye immediately. She ran through her mental packet of swatches and immediately settled on a cool blue to cover the ghastly gold. Yes, it would be the perfect finishing touch for her parlor when she was done with it. She rescued it from the shelf and carried it to the register, cradling it as if it were an actual head. She even refused to hand it over to the cashier, instead choosing to show him the price tag. He’d seen weirder behavior, though, and thus he didn’t bat an eye.
A couple of days later, she set to work in her garage, wielding the can of spray paint like a graffiti pro. In mere seconds, the head had a lovely new sheen. “Well, what do you think?” she asked.
“I was partial to the bronze, to be honest, but I suppose I could get used to this.”
She screamed and dropped the can of spray paint. She pressed her hand over her mouth, staring at the head in horror. It stared back, unfazed. She shook her head and walked out into the fresh air. “Paint fumes,” she muttered to herself. “That’s all. Just paint fumes.”
Sylvia returned to the garage, avoiding eye contact with the bust as she picked up the paint can from the floor. She took a deep breath, squared off against the bust, and then looked it in the eye. “You did not just speak,” she told it in no uncertain terms.
It raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing. The paint can clattered to the floor again as she ran into the house. The bust grimaced, its expression suggesting this reaction was not uncommon.
Greg came home several hours later to find his wife sitting on the sofa, staring devotedly at nothing in particular. “Honey?” She looked up at him, as if confused to see him there. “Are you OK?”
She jumped up and grabbed onto him, almost as if she were afraid of falling. “Take it back,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Take it back,” she repeated, with more intensity.
“You’re kind of freaking me out, Sylvie.” She pulled him back to the garage door, opened it, and pointed to the bust. “Didn’t you just buy that?”
“Take it back!” The meekness was gone, but the horror was not.
“Can’t we just throw it away? It wasn’t that expensive, was it?”
She shook her head fervently and backed away, closing the door on him. Greg sighed. He walked over to the bust and picked it up. “You’re awfully sad-looking,” he said, examining the face of the sculpture. “Let’s get you back to Goodwill, I guess.” He stuck the head under his arm and got back in his car.
Ten minutes later, he pulled into a parking spot. He looked over to the bust in the passenger’s seat. “Sorry it didn’t work out,” he said, grabbing it and stepping out of the car. “What’d you do to her anyway?”
“I think I scared her,” the bust answered.
Greg dropped the head onto the pavement, where it landed with a thud, punctuated by the ringing of the hidden metal. Greg bent down and peered at it. He nudged it with his toe. Finally, he shook his head, even chuckling at himself a little. He picked up the bust and dusted off the gravel. The paint was marred where the bust had landed, and the bronze was showing through once again.
No emotion registered on the face of the cashier when Greg walked in with the bust. “We don’t take refunds,” was all he said.
“Um, that’s OK,” Greg said, setting the bust on the counter. “Donation.”
“Did you want a receipt for taxes?”
“No, thanks.” And with that Greg was out the door.
The cashier walked up to the bust. “Back again?”
“So it seems,” it answered.
The cashier picked it up and carried it back to its dust-lined shelf. “You’re not giving up hope, are you?”
The bust seemed to mull over the question for a moment. “No. I suppose not. After all, one person’s trash is another person’s treasure, right?”
“That’s the spirit,” the cashier said, giving it a friendly punch on the chin.
The cashier walked back to the register, and the bust, as it always did, fixed its gaze on the painting on the far wall, waiting once again to catch someone’s eye.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
