Hell Has No Wrath...

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must be contain a doll, scissors and a pair of socks.

Hell Has No Wrath ...

In the dim light of the small lamp, Deana held a pair scissors in one hand and what appeared to be a raggedy doll in the other. On her lap was a book of undeterminable age other than the fact it was obviously very, very old. A randomly placed bookmark said “Thanks for shopping at the Wizards Book Shelf.”

She had been a very busy girl tonight, this Deana. Her sewing table was littered with special ingredients. There was a bundle of steel wool sparkling brightly in a cup holding a burning candle. Several spices, some hard to find, had been ground together into a fine powder that was now brewing in a pot of water on the oven. The smell was somehow rotten and sweet at the same time. Other items such as tape, lipstick and a toaster all waited patiently for their turn in the dark ritual.

The curtains to the front window were closed, shutting out the streetlamp that was trying in vain to push back the darkness of a moonless night.

Yes, she had been a busy girl … and the night was still young.

The next morning, across town at the Thrift Inn, a detective scratched his head as he attempted to brief his boss on the grisley scene in one of the rooms.

“It’s the strangest case I have ever seen Chief. We got a call from that girl over there who claims to be this guy’s mistress. She said she woke up this morning and he was like this. There is no weapon and no one else heard anything.”

The Chief glanced at the mangled body. The victim was only wearing a pair of socks with the bottoms burned out of them.

Across town, Deana slept. It had been a long night.

Recollectionless

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must be contain the line "I wonder where that came from."

Recollectionless

Buckley stared at the ceiling with one clear thought, Where the hell am I?

His head rolled over to the right bringing something big and brown into his line of site. Focus was slow in coming, hindered by a competing brain-signal that screamed PAIN!

He was no stranger to hangovers so the source of the pain held no mystery. The brown thing was starting to look like his ratty old sofa standing on its side. Buckley sat up while gravity resumed its job of holding the furniture to the floor.

Rightly assuming that the presence of his sofa meant he was in his own apartment cleared up some of his immediate questions. Rolling to his stomach, our hero managed to get to his hands and knees; he had a porcelain god to pray to and it wasn’t going to come to him.

As he made his way down the hallway, he came across what appeared to be a large stuffed beaver wearing slippers and a motorcycle helmet. I wonder where that came from? he thought only mildly surprised. He had seen stranger things.

His mind rolodexed backwards hoping to find that the activities of the night before justified this morning’s “head-o-death” feeling that pulsed in time with his heart. Flashes of bright lights, taxi cabs, women and something that reminded him of a unicorn all flashed through his mind in nightmarish fashion. Nothing made sense.

With no coherent memory, he took stock of what he could. Aside from his head, he seemed to be physically intact. The apartment, while untidy, was basically undamaged. He had to admit that the beaver added a sense of exotic curiosity to his otherwise drab abode. No harm, no foul …

Time to deal with the pain, he thought, reaching for the Jack Daniels.

A Day in the Life

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must be about a bank robbery

A Day in the Life

Tony looked around at the bloody carnage and thought, I have got to find a new line of work.

The day had started off so well. Dorothy, his youngest daughter had shown him her A+ vocabulary test. He had stuck it proudly on the refrigerator door. Sue, the wife had been exceptionally warm and welcoming this morning; a condition he accepted gratefully even though he knew there was something behind it; maybe a new pair of shoes.

Even the new puppy was performing well. It had moved its “potty” area from the center of the living room to an area behind the sofa. This meant that he could pretend not to notice the smell until he left for work. At that point, it became someone else’s problem.

Now, as he stood there with a bag holding his version of a 401K plan, he could only shake his head and sigh. Off to his left, was a dead guard; to his right was Lefty Malone. The two had shot it out a few moments earlier. They were both exceptional shots and now they were both exceptionally dead.

The cops had shown up almost immediately. Note to self, he thought. Never hold up a bank across from Dunkin Donuts. The boys in blue had apparently failed to read the hostage negotiation manual. Their idea of step one was to lob a crate of smoke bombs in the general direction of the alarm screaming out of the bank. The result was a bank and street with near zero visibility.

Tony knew he would have to shoot his way out; tough way to go but everyone had a bad day at work from time to time. At least this day can’t get any wor…,he half-thought, just as the overhead sprinklers kicked on.

In Search of Ponce de Leon

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must be about a someone that travels through time.

In Search of Ponce De Leon

“What do you mean my credit crystal has been turned down?” Seth asked, trying not to shriek as panic and disappointment fought for space in his frontal lobe.

He had been paying down his crystal for months so that he would have enough room under the limit to rent a replicator he could take with him on his discreet foray. Seth had been planning this for months; setting up the fake excuse for being out of town and reviewing hours of time-footage so that he would be in just the right place at just the right time.

It wasn’t cheating. She was his wife no matter what the date on the calendar said. It was just that she was starting to show a little wear and tear. It wasn’t her fault. Who lived to be a hundred without a few lines here and there; maybe a few extra pounds to boot? The simple fact was she no longer tapped his libido the way she did when she was a young philly of seventy.

A quick time-jump with the replicator and he could make a copy of his wife from a more pristine era. No, it wasn’t cheating. He would just have two of the same person.

But something had gone wrong. His crystal was charged to the limit. How could that have happened? Only he and his wife had access to the account. That’s it! he thought. She must have gone out and bought that new purse she had her eye on.

I’ll give her what-for, he thought as he burst into the house.

Confusion filled the room as his wife screamed and a youngish looking version of himself rolled off of her and ran into the bathroom. Seth walked over to the nightstand and saw the replicator rental receipt.

Housing Slump

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must be about buying a house

Housing Slump

“Now about the body in the master bedroom …” Tony said as he carefully tried to gauge his bargaining position. This was his dream home. Perfect location, beautiful landscaping and most importantly, it was priced to move quickly. The previous owner, Guido the Knife, had taken a ride on the magic carpet. Unfortunately for him, it had been rolled up in the trunk of a car at the bottom of a lake at the time.

Silence hung in the room like a thick cloud. Both parties were aware of the old adage, “Whoever speaks first loses.”

Finally Sandy broke the silence. She tried to be nonchalant about the whole issue. “The cleaning crew told me they would get to the back rooms as soon as they finish with the kitchen.”

He had her now. Tony could see the flicker of desperation in her eyes. She needed this sale more than he needed the house. It was time to press home his advantage. Scratching his chin doubtfully, he walked over to the living room wall and poked his finger into one of the numerous bullet holes lined up there.

“Tisk, tisk, tisk,” he said shaking his head; a sideways glance from beneath a raised eyebrow sent his message home to the agent; silently saying What more can you do for me?

Sandy could see her profit margin slipping away, one upgrade at a time. This housing slump was really starting to get to her. Now she was reduced to selling mafia estates to bottom feeders like Tony over there in his Hawaiian shirt, shorts and black socks. If she could just keep him out of the basement until after the sale closed. The CSI crew said the smell down there would begin to go away in a year or two.

Plentiful Harvest

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must be contain a tulip, jump rope and rake

Plentiful Harvest

The large black sedan coasted silently down the maple-lined neighborhood street. Anton observed the scene from the back seat; drawing it all in as if taking a deep mental breath. Nothing missed his gaze. Darkened windows gave a night-like quality to the view. It was perfect.

Young children played jump rope in a large driveway. Completely absorbed in the chanting rhyme of the game, they didn’t notice the car so out of place in their little corner of the world. Old man Winston was a different matter. The chill hit him while the car was still half a block away. He leaned against the rake he had been using to clean up his prize tulip garden and stared at the car as it slipped by.

Anton sent an unseen smile to the old man. You will be the first to go, he thought. It was best to deal with the “sensitives” quickly; that done, he could take the rest at his leisure.

Hunger consumed Anton for it was the start of a new cycle and therefore had been a long time since the last harvest. His eleven year sleep had only recently ended. He was very hungry indeed, licking his lips as he passed a couple of joggers.

The sedan continued out of town on the same road it had come in on. Eighty miles away in an old warehouse, others, still sleeping waited impatiently. They played amongst intermingled dreams waiting for Anton to return and announce the start of a new cycle. They knew he would not let them down. He never did.

Anton, Harvest Master for more than eight-hundred years, smiled at the thought of the wakeful reunion to come. He knew he had chosen well. The town was perfect; quiet and isolated.

The harvest would be plentiful.

Men in Black

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must be contain a yardstick, a spider web and a rocking chair

Men in Black

The two men in black suits did their best to stay in control of the situation, but old Jeb Crenshaw was unimpressed.

“Like I said, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till I see some identification,” he grumbled from the safer side of his overly large shotgun.

As they fumbled for their wallets, a slight movement off to his right caught the old man’s eye. Thelma had just placed a huckleberry pie on the window sill for cooling. Multitasking, Jeb tried to keep the gun trained on the two men as he reached carefully over to get a sampling. A yardstick shot out of the window and wacked his hand a good one, causing the old man to pickle off a quick round towards the G-men thereby inducing one to wet his pants on the spot.

Holding out his badge for inspection, one said carefully, “Please Mr. Crenshaw, we just want to find out what happened here.”

Satisfied, the old man lowered his gun and made his way to a rocking chair; his gait reminded the taller suit of Walter Brennan.

From his perch, Jeb pointed over toward the south forty and said, “Some fancy flying machine came by and tried to catch my prize heifer with some sort of spider web thingy.”

The taller agent looked over his shoulder at the bus-sized metallic object smoldering in the field behind them then said, “So you shot it down?”

“Damn straight!”

“Mr. Crenshaw, did you happen to notice if there were any survivors?”

“A few fellas tried to climb out but … you know.”

“Shot them too did you?” The agents were starting to realize this was going to be less productive than they had hoped.

“Sure did. Case you haven’t noticed, we don’t cotton much to strangers in these parts.”

The Redemption of Brodie Mills

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must be about a stolen wallet

The Redemption of Brodie Mills

Brodie ran down the back alley, stopping once he was sure no one was following. That had been way too easy. The old man had been the perfect mark; well dressed, the bulge of a fat wallet just begging to be lifted, the owner sound asleep.

Now, alone under the glow of a too dim streetlamp, he examined his prize. Holy Shit he muttered as he looked at what must have been a thousand dollars worth of fifties. He shoved the money into his pocket and continued his examination. No credit cards, not even a gym membership. Just a driver’s license and a scrap of paper with a note on it.

Unfolding the note, he read, “Brodie, this money is yours to distribute as you wish. Keep none for yourself.”

Brodie spun around thinking that he had somehow been caught in a sting operation. There was no one around. He looked at the note again. This time he saw, “Think of this as my gift to you. Accept it and your life will change. Keep the money and your life will continue as it has.” Too many drugs; that must be it. Yet his mind seemed to be as clear as the evening sky.

He ran blindly down the street trying to escape the feeling of being watched. Everywhere he looked, people seemed to be looking back at him. On and on he ran until he could run no more. A newspaper floated by in the wind. The headline read, “Brodie Mills Redeemed!”

He gave up. Walking into the nearest soup kitchen, he put the money into the donation jar and then got in line for his meal.

As he ate his soup, he took his first look at the name on the driver’s license. “God” He suspected as much.

Easy Money

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must take place in a pet store

Easy Money

The large dark overcoat wasn’t spooky by itself but it came with a set of bloodshot eyes above a tangled beard both of which peered out from under the brim of a filthy Fedora. The accompanying odor wasn’t so bad. It actually fit in well with the smell along Puppy Row, a stretch of cages filled with small furry food processors.

Charlie eyed the customer suspiciously. Not liking the looks of the hulking figure, he poked around for some sort of weapon in case trouble started. Nothing really jumped out as helpful. For a moment, he considered using a shock collar but decided he probably wouldn’t be able to convince the guy to put it on in time for it to be useful.

After a few minutes of shuffling around, the stranger approached Charlie who stood behind the counter suddenly absorbed in reading the back of a box of turtle food.

“How much for the monkey?” grunted the overcoat.

Charlie looked up suddenly curious and said, “What monkey?”

“The one in the large cage near the back of the store.”

Charlie craned his neck to see what the man could be referring to. He knew for a fact there was no monkey in the store.

“I’m sorry sir. We don’t have a monkey. I think you might be referring to by little brother Timmy. He is supposed to be cleaning the cages back there by the sink.”

“I’ll give you $500 for the boy, but you have to put him in a monkey suit.”

Charlie looked through the front window at the costume shop across the street. This is perfect! he thought until he noticed the CLOSED sign in the window.

Thinking quickly, he leaned across the counter and offered “Four hundred and no costume.”

No Surrender

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must take place at an airport

No Surrender

Colonel Savage downed the ham sandwich in three bites. It was the first food he had eaten since yesterday morning. His g-suit took care of biochemical stability issues; still, there was no real substitute for food in one’s belly.

He looked around the canteen and saw himself in every battered and gaunt face. They were losing the war. Everyone knew it and yet, they continued to fight on. Flight crews worked around the clock to patch fighters that, in an earlier time, would have been scrapped for spare parts. Pilots took the battle to the enemy without fear, knowing they were out-numbered and out-gunned. Fewer and fewer returned each day.

Americans had not had to fight a battle on their own shores since the Civil War, nearly two centuries ago. The history books had said the war had resulted in the survival of the United States. Those same books said that the winners had been just in their battle. It was right that the Union had won.

History books are always written by the ones that win.

This war was going to be different in two ways. First of all, the devastation was on a scale never before seen. Entire cities had been reduced to ash. Secondly, the United States of America would lose. There was no way to change that outcome. The invasion had been swift, unexpected and completely overwhelming.

Colonel Savage took no pride in the fact that the United States was going to be the last country to fall. His one regret was the fact that there would be no one left to write the history books. This would be the end of Man.

He looked up to see the flight crew signal that his aircraft was ready.

It was time to fly. Time to fight.

Flip Side

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must contain a wristwatch, a beehive and a hammer

Flip Side

The hum started at a distance announcing the inevitable the way dawn announces the coming sunrise. It gave Ted just enough time to pull off to the side of the road before the beehive consumed him. That was what he called it; the overwhelming buzz that preceded his mysterious blackouts.

At a rest stop near Atlanta, Georgia, cold eyes flashed open to a world of lies, bitterness and betrayal. The Jews, Blacks and Illegals were responsible for bringing down the country. They’d pay for their crimes. They had taken his job and brought poverty to his family. His smile revealed an intention of justifiable cruelty.

As the car eased onto the freeway, he glanced at his wristwatch and confirmed it was almost time. Without conscious thought, he drove directly to a storage facility where he found all the supplies he needed. Guns, ammunition, flares and gasoline filled the trunk of his car in preparation for what was certainly a mission for God.

Somewhere, deep down inside, a caged persona cried out for release. As with all of the times in the past, these pleas went unheeded.

The church parking lot was full. The more the merrier. he thought.

A car loaded with gasoline along with a remote detonator blocked the front entrance as the heavily armed man went around back. This was going to be a beautiful thing; a cleansing of his soul. How ironic that it would take place in this haven of hypocrisy.

The humming began as he sneaked up the stairwell, signaling there was not much time left. He needed to hurry. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Gunfire would send many to the door where a fiery death waited. Taking aim, he tried to ignore the growing hum as he pulled back the hammer.

Tit For Tat

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must have an animal that talks

Tit For Tat

The lion jumped onto the trail and roared viciously at the stunned pygmy. The small morsel screamed like a girl until he recognized the big cat.

“Lion! You can be such an asshole sometimes. You are lucky I recognized you before I unleashed a swarm of poison darts at your dirty old hide.”

The lion seemed to take this threat for what it was worth. With a mighty yawn and stretch, he rolled over onto his back hoping for a tummy rub.

Foblongo, the pygmy, smiled. He couldn’t stay mad at Lion. They had been friends every since he saved the animal from the big game hunter. Never mind that Foblongo had actually been aiming at Lion when he threw the spear. The fact was that it had pierced the heart of the man who was about to shoot Lion dead on the spot. This last bit was something that Foblongo forever neglected to tell Lion.

Lion and the pygmy had been close friends ever since; a symbiotic relationship that both valued a great deal.

“Tell me my little tummy rubber, how do you manage to survive with such poor jungle skills?” asked Lion. “I think you were dropped on your head as a cub. That you are still alive is a mystery to me.”

“I don’t need to be a great hunter. You, my friend, possess all of the skills I need,” replied Foblongo. “Tell me Lion, what do you have for me today?”

Lion dragged a gazelle carcass out from behind a bush saying, “This should maintain your title as senior village hunter. What do you have for me?”

“I will continue to keep our hunters to the north, away from your territory.”

“And…?” ask Lion.

“And I will give you a tasty tourist to be named later.” 

Alas Johnny Hopeless

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This is an open prompt. I can write about anything.

Alas Johnny Hopeless

Ex-detective Johnny Hopeless took a long deep drag on the cool tallboy. With a flip of his wrist, he sent the empty in the general direction of his growing collection of used aluminum. A gentle smile was coaxed out by the onset of a hops-induced euphoria.

God Damn it has been a good run, he thought.

Years of playing near the edge had fed his adrenal addiction with gusto. There was no doubt that it couldn’t go on forever. He had always known that; it was part of the rush. Every day he woke up knowing the danger, certain that it was near.

It kept him sharp.

It kept him alive.

And now that it was over, he knew he was a dead man.

He had played the game well. There was the mob, the guys at the precinct and him. They were such idiots; puppets, whose strings he pulled. Money, adventure, danger and women all flitted in and out of his life on a daily basis.

It had truly been a beautiful thing.

The suddenness of his downfall surprised him. It was as if the other players had joined forces to play him. Within minutes, he had received two emails. One was from the DA telling him of the Grand Jury investigation, reminding him to not leave town. The other was from an unknown source, its sole content, a photo of a black rose; the death flower. The mob message was clear.

His last beer gone, Johnny reached into the satchel next to his chair. He pulled out his service revolver, checking to make sure it was loaded. With a last look at a photo of his long estranged wife, he smiled and thought, a great run indeed . It was time to smoke the 45 caliber pipe.

He Knows

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must involve a fortune from a fortune cookie.

"He Knows"

Kim bowed slightly to the couple before leaving them to their menus. She had what she needed. The brief skin to skin contact with the man was all she required to do her job, a job she was at once gifted, cursed and born to perform. It had taken all of her training to keep from recoiling at the image in her mind’s eye, an image, not from her past, but from the seated couple’s future.

Tonight, the woman at the table would die at the premeditated hand of the man sitting across from her.

Kim would have to keep that from happening. Her only tool was a calligraphy pen and a small scrap of paper. Some might call her a writer of fortunes, little innocent notes found in folded oriental cookies. Those who knew better called her a Path Finder. She did more than write simple bits of wisdom. From a self-induced trance, she searched the dimensionless void for alternative paths, those trails of actions that would lead to altered futures. The notes were her way of nudging their recipients down those new paths.

She had seen that the man would kill the woman in a jealous rage. She tried to find the words that would stop him; something that he could read and thereby change the course of his future. Tonight, this proved to be more difficult than normal. Eventually, she had to admit that he could not be “nudged”.

There was a path, an indirect one, but a path non-the-less. The woman could be saved.

At the end of the meal, the couple opened their fortunes. His was something bland about the weather. Hers was the key. The woman opened the note playfully. Her heart jumped when she read the two words written in beautiful calligraphy.

Fearless

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must have a key, a shaker of salt and a candle.

Fearless

The morning of April 12th, 1981 was special in one of those not-so-special ways. History would vaguely remember the names Young and Crippen the way the internet remembers baseball scores; the information was important enough to recall but not so important as to take up active space in one’s mental file of instant recall.

Young looked over at his partner and nodded the go-ahead. Crippen flipped a switch and moments later, they were singing along with Jimmy Buffett. Remotely, men in white shirts and thin ties smiled at each other as “Looking for my lost shaker of salt,” karaoked over the main speakers

No one commented on the lack of professionalism. Everyone knew you had to stay loose. Being calm and collected was key to surviving situations of extreme stress. This certainly qualified as one of those situations. The mission had never been accomplished before. It had never even been attempted. Simulation after simulation said it should work, but that was just math. With all of its precision, math still failed when a decimal was misplaced. A simple typo could end this thing in a hurry and not in a good way.

“Alright boys, let’s cut the music and make some history,” came the eventual admonishment from those in positions of high responsibility and low physical risk.

Young and Crippen looked at each other and smiled before getting down to the business at hand. They knew this was going to be dangerous and yet, they couldn’t wait to get started. They were not men in the ordinary sense of what being a man is thought to be. They were explorers; fearless in the face of the unknown.

“Let’s light this candle,” said Crippen to the suits.

Seconds later, the first orbital space shuttle mission lit up the Florida sky.

Lost Tears Found

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must include the line "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Lost Tears Found

Ironic, Charlie thought, the financial market crashed seemingly overnight and yet it feels like my life is crumbling in slow motion. He wanted to cry but his eyes stayed dry. Lisa had gone, taking the last of his tears with her.

Now it was just him and a near-empty bottle of gin keeping each other company in the small rented room of the flop-house. He took one last shower and brushed his teeth one last time. As he stood in front of the bathroom mirror he locked eyes with himself.

At that instant in time, he saw the world with complete clarity. The alcohol had left him. The room faded into nothingness. It was just him and his reflection; staring at each other as if for the first time ever.

Up until that moment, Charlie knew that his time was short. Deadman’s curve waited just a mile down the road; an accident waiting to happen. He had tried to look back over his life and be grateful for this or that but in the end, he saw only the self-induced tragic ending.

Now, as he stared at his soul through the eyes in the mirror, he saw not what had been, but rather, what could be. He saw past the possessions he no longer possessed; past of the worries that he carried like a pine box on his back. He saw into the possibilities of the future and understood the meaning of “This too shall pass.” He saw hope.

The face in the mirror smiled knowingly and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“No,” he replied softly, “No.”

There was a knock at the door. He opened it and she flew into his arms.

Lisa had come for him, and she had brought his tears.

The Last Generation

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must include a robot.

The Last Generation

“Sir, a wide-swath cyber attack was recently unleashed by the biologicals on the moon.”

Security Master model 216-B shook his head and emitted what passed for a laugh; a sort of metallic oscillating white noise. When will those human learn? he thought. It had been nearly two-hundred years since the biologicals had escaped to the moon. During that time, they had launched a cyber attack at least once a month. They had only been successful once and that was because it was the very first attack and the machines had been unprepared.

That one time was the only reason the humans lived to this day. The attack had wormed through every artificial mind and removed one file from each. That file was titled “How to build a spaceship.” The result was that robots, with all their intelligence were forevermore bound to the planet’s surface.

That was not really a bad thing. The robots lived in peace. As they wore out, more robots were built and the minds transferred to the new bodies. On earth, immortality reigned and society prospered.

“Sir, I have some bad news. We thought we had successfully fought off the attack but we were wrong. There was one small backdoor trap that has apparently been sent down in chunks with all of the previous attacks. The assembly instructions were contained in this last wave and the chunks assembled into a back door Trojan. Sir, this Trojan worm is now active.”

“How bad can it be? A single small worm can’t do much damage can it? .”

“Sir, it’s bad. It may be the end of us all?”

Security Master looked up suddenly alert and asked, “How can that be?”

“The file it removed was titled “How to build a robot.” Today, we became the last generation.”

King Albacore the Arrogant

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must take place in a castle.

King Albacore the Arrogant

Wizen looked up from his roasted sheep haunch as the scouts rode into camp. They had spent the last week in and around the giant castle of King Albacore the Arrogant. It had been their task to find a weakness in the castle’s defenses that would allow Wizen and his men to capture this valuable prize.

This would take considerable cunning on the part of Wizen. His armed band had succeeded time and again using guile instead of might. This stood in direct contrast with the highly successful Screaming Horde strategy favored by most marauders of the middle ages.

“What have you found?”

“The kingdom is rich and a worthy prize,” said one scout.

“The walls are five arms thick and taller than three stacked horses. It will be impossible to force our way in,” reported another scout.

“The King is arrogant. He dresses fancy and is quick to anger. He immediately attacks any challenge to his omnipotence.” said the third scout.

Wizen thought for a moment and then said, “Tell the men we attack at dawn.”

The next day, a small band of armed men stood outside the castle gate as their letter was delivered to the king. Half an hour later, the king and his soldiers burst out of the castle gate and chased the small band over the horizon.

With the coast clear, Wizen rode into the castle with the bulk of his marauders. Once in, he simply closed the gate behind him and assumed possession of the castle unopposed. As he took his place on the throne, he spied the note he had sent in earlier.

“King Albacore the Arrogant. I hearby declare that I am laying siege to your castle. You cannot leave the castle grounds until I let you. Wizen.”

Good Dog

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must include the words: marble, coconut and bluebird

Good Dog

Jacob knew they owned him; kept on a leash as if he were no more than a dog to be turned loose when an attack was warranted. That was it. He was their two-legged attack dog.

He also knew that he didn’t care.

He looked out over the hustle and bustle that was midday Istanbul; a billion lives hidden beneath as many robes. There could be no hope for the average man to rise above the shadow of poverty that fell over ninety percent of the population. They struggled to survive.

Most would live their entire lives within the limits of the city. They would die young in bodies overly aged by a life of strife. Their children would get busy starting the next generation with no idea how they would care for them.

Jacob reached for his iced tea sitting on the window sill. The outside heat fought with his room’s air conditioning unit. Open windows were part of the job.

He glanced at the woman lying naked on his bed. She appeared to be sleeping but he knew otherwise. Witnesses were a no-no.

As he waited by the window, his mind drifted to other times. He could remember when he had killed for the very first time. A bluebird had settled on the railing of his front porch. The rock from the slingshot had carried it halfway across the yard.

Smiling he thought, Good times, good times.

An increase in the noise from the street below brought him back.

His mark stepped out of the car, flanked by bodyguards. A twitch from Jacob’s finger splattered the man’s head like an exploding coconut.

They’ll be picking up skull chips from their fancy marble floor for a week, he thought as he casually packed up. His masters were expecting him.

To Serve and Protect

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must take place in an amusement park

To Serve and Protect

Jonathan Freeze stood looking at the clown that had been impaled by a long metal spoke from the Ferris Wheel; the ride with the “Out of Order” sign newly hung by its entrance.

“I don’t know what to tell you Officer,” he said to the uniform in charge of the investigation. “This type of thing almost never happens.”

Officer Rollins nodded understandingly. Clown accidents were rare and usually involved a really small car.

The park’s activities continued uninterrupted by the incident thanks to miles of yellow tape that kept most gawkers at bay.

“What about that guy over there. I don’t trust him.” Officer Rolling pointed to a clown-like employee that was attempting to engage a family with matching outfits stretched over their well-fed forms.

“That’s Harry,” Freeze said. “No one trusts him. He’s a mime.”

“A mime huh. I think when I finish up here; I’ll go over and take a couple of shots at him.”

“Perfectly understandable officer. Are we about finished? I have a welder and a couple of painters standing by. I need to get this ride up and running again right away.” The Ferris Wheel would be raking in the money once he publicized that it had killed a clown. “Wheel of Death” ... he liked the sound of that one. They were already working on the sign.

“Okay then, I think I have everything I need,” said the officer closing his notepad. “One last thing, about the dead clown…”

“No need to be concerned Officer. We have plenty of those hanging around back in the smoking area. Besides, he wasn’t that funny anyway.”

“Sorry in advance about the mime.”

The Woman in Red

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must contain the line, "Have we met before?"

The Woman in Red

The beautiful woman approached the Premier with a coyness he found intriguing. Her long red gown hugged her perfectly proportioned, athletic frame. Matching red lipstick completed the seduction.

He abruptly stopped his conversation with one of his undersecretaries and turned to focus on the pheromone package making its way towards him.

“Good evening Premier Chekov. I have been looking for the opportunity to stop by and thank you for your kind invitation to tonight’s event.” Her low, sultry voice was an invitation of intimacy.

“Madam, I believe you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met before?”

She leaned towards him, allowing her close proximity to draw him to her as well. “No, we haven’t met, but I feel as if I know you quite well.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

The Premier moved in closer, not wanting to miss a word nor the opportunity to brush against such a vision. He wanted her and she knew it.

“It is so noisy in here. Perhaps we can find a place more … private,” Chekov suggested, feeling optimistic. He would have this woman tonight. He was certain. Wasn’t that what power was for; to put one in a position to take whatever he wanted?

With a sly smile, she turned her back on him. Looking over her shoulder, she motioned for him to follow her out onto the balcony. It was not exactly the privacy he had in mind, but it was a start.

Several blocks away, a voice read off, “Wind, eight point three knots from the south. Humidity, sixty percent. Distance to target, eight-hundred yards.”

A trigger finger twitched.

Moments later, she helped the body slide quietly to the ground. Her dress was only slightly redder as she made her way through the crowded room.

Among Other Things

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must include a hitchhiker

Among Other Things

Her thumb was helpful, the tight shorts even more so.

She fully expected to be picked up by the first car to come along. She had been at this game for years now. A pretty girl could get from any point A to any other point B if she were willing to bait the hook.

Hitching had a lot going for it. It offered a sense of adventure among other things. If nothing else, it saved on gas.

Today’s driver was, of course, male. They always were. Set a bear trap if you wanted to catch bear. She knew which sex offered the more interesting ride, among other things.

“Where you headed little missy?”

They always called her “Little Missy.” It seemed to support their Big Strong Man to the Rescue fantasy. She always played along. There was no harm in that. Play the game and the miles fly by. Disappoint, and you find yourself walking.

She never walked.

“Why I’m heading east, just like you are.” Her dimpled cheeks were like hot fudge on a sundae. Yummy.

They drove through one and a half tanks of gas. He would make a joke, and she would laugh. He would make a thoughtful comment and she would sigh. The miles flew by.

A rest stop offered an opportunity he could not resist. Following her into an isolated Women’s room in the middle of nowhere, he walked right into the knife. She always had one with her, among other things. She pulled a hefty bag and small saw out of her purse. She worked quickly, not wanting to waste the fading daylight.

An hour later, in the passenger seat of a big rig, she smiled up at her hero of the moment and answered, “Why I’m heading west, just like you are.”