Pippa

(Sometimes I write these short pieces to clear my head, break up--dare I say it--writer's block, or to hang out with a character I can't get a handle on. Not sure what to call them, but here's another one.)

Pippa

When she pulled the magic, it was like drawing a thread from a spool: slow, steady, friction warming everything. Pippa gripped the spell’s silver coil and grazed her finger over the surface of her own power. Technically, the world could wait for the enchantment. But for how long?

A rustle sounded in a dark corner of the vacant motel room.

“Quiet, you,” she shouted to the nothingness behind her. Her hair bobbed in front of her face, red ringlets corkscrewing into her vision.

She sidestepped to the window and glanced across the parking lot. Rain tossed itself about in waves, falling into shallow cigarette-littered puddles like pennies in a fountain. The candlelight flickered. The storm’s heart wasn’t far off.

The shuffling came again. A deep whispered voice followed by a hush. “What’s she doing?” it said.

Pippa slid her feet along the baseboards, marking the parameters of the dark, empty room, feeling for the creature her eyes couldn’t see. “None of your damn business, that’s what.” Her fingers went to work, toying with the spell coil again. Once she released the fibers a sequence of events would begin. Sorcerers should calm. Warlocks still. Witches would reign supreme.

“Don’t toy with it,” a growl came from the darkness. “Don’t play with us.”

“Shut up.” Pippa tugged her leather jacket around her shoulders and zipped it tight. “I’ll do as I desire.” She inspected the silver shimmer in her palm. The magic called to be used like a dog holding a leash between his teeth. “It doesn’t control me.”

Grating giggles ripped from the corner before twisting into a gravely hiss. “Then do it.” Panting followed rapid footsteps. “Spellcast. Let us out.”

Only because I want to, she thought. Pippa threw the coil into the air and ran from the abandoned room into the downpour. She slammed the door behind her and snatched the knob to keep it closed.

Vibrations shook the entire structure. Flashes of light exploded outward from inside the tiny room. The knob heated.

“No,” she screamed. Her skin pricked with pain as the metal grew orange. “Stay back.”

High laughter stung her ears. A bang knocked her backward. Her fingers slipped. Nursing her hands, Pippa watched the knob turn. The door squealed open. They were free.

Short Story: Easy Enough



Photo courtesy Boaz Yiftach

He loved to play the game. Pay a visit. Fix the target. Collect the reward. Easy.

Jackson sat up and trimmed his thumb nail with the blade of his hunting knife, the sound etching into the night closer to his ears than the crickets. A snap. He glanced across the open desert. No one else knew he was out here. Well, no human. As he scanned the rocky landscape, distinguishing cactus silhouettes from straggled trees, he caught sight of it—a coyote.

Continuing to drag the blade over his thumb, his eyes stayed on the animal. Jackson’s horse grunted and shifted her feet behind him.

“Be cool,” Jackson said, his voice loaded with the same grit which filled Nevada.

Flash Fiction: The Business of Remembering

Just a bit of flash for you. Not prompted by anything other than trying to condense a character's back story -- for my own good -- who will probably never see the light of day. Sometimes, things like this are the only thing you have left of an entire novel. Writers are weird.

The Business of Remembering

Cynthia remembered standing in the kitchen braiding pigtails when Grandma’s phone rang. She remembered freckles across her mom’s nose. She imagined 747s shattering over the Atlantic, and pictured freckles dissolving into bubbles and plane fragments. Mothers existed in photos. On television children deserved hugs. That wasn’t real life.

She might’ve steadied if her father refused the drink. Years broke him. Empty bottles consumed counter tops. He sent the bullet from temple to temple. No one adopts eight year olds.

Flash Fiction: The 22nd Coming

Thanks to Chris for today’s six word prompt: “Traveler, Cadence, Management, France, Gonads, and Turkish Chocolate Candy.”

The 22nd Coming

Travelers came from all over the world; their footsteps tromped a broken cadence across the desert floor. Men from France, Germany, China, even Venezuela, all to reward him with gifts of jasmine flower garlands, leather sandals, and Turkish chocolate candies in the shape of gonads.

The management team said this would be bigger than the Pitt and Aniston break-up. Sherice squealed about his PR campaign to his agent and wouldn’t let up about the necessity of having a row of seven camels in the background of the photo shoot. If this man from Kenya was going to insist he was not only the son of God, but also the sole heir to the late George Lucas fortune, then nothing could stop them from riding his coattails all the way to the bank.

Flash Fiction: Hindsight

Thanks to Brain for today’s six word prompt: "Velociraptor, Congruent, Plight, Instantaneous, Dirge, and Foolhardy."


Hindsight

The dirge went on. The trumpet sighs carrying over the rain-soaked, bowed heads. Perhaps if they weren’t all so foolhardy none of this would have happened. They could have lived their whole lives never dressed in black, never having ridden in limos with purple flags attached to the hood. The same way they were congruent to going with the flow in the past, today they slosh through the mud in heels, cry out loud, say clichéd phrases reserved for times like these, and talk about how he’ll never be forgotten. Their plight, like the velociraptor and T-rex, was instantaneous. One minute you’re cruising, sixty maybe seventy miles per hour, singing at the top of your lungs, and the next…the car doesn’t make it around the bend. Driving on pavement or grass all feels the same at that speed.

Flash Fiction: The Political Streak

Thanks to Liz for today’s prompt: "Troy Mason is planning to streak at a political fundraiser..."

The Political Streak

Sure, there had been times when he questioned his motives, his upbringing. Hell, he thought the rest of the world might benefit from a little loosening up, but for Troy Mason, these were actions you wanted to do, not that you did. That was…until the 2008 election. Then he started thinking differently.

Today, the archway of red, white, and blue balloons led down an aisle which opened up to a podium draped with a flag. At the podium stood Governor Ficklin, unfolding lies and a toothy smile. If ever there was a man that deserved an interruption, it was Ficklin.

Troy crouched behind a “Heart of America” banner, pulled his shirt over his head, and slipped the elastic band of his sweatpants and boxers down to his ankles. In one motion, he leapt to his feet and tore off down the carpeted aisle, determined to make the evening news.