Modern/Realistic – The Word Worker

Purgatory

https://pixabay.com/photos/theater-bratislava-old-town-6066228/

The harsh brightness of the midday square angered him. Even the fountain stood dead before the theater, colorful banners hanging breezeless above it, hallmarks of the latest empty dance of gauze and orchestral cacophony. Sweat beaded in the furrow above his eyebrows, daring him to mop it away with the napkin crushed in his grip.

He reached for the bottle again, the gesture oddly aimless, groping. Why were his eyes glaring at him from that warped sky? The artificial moon above reflected gables stung his cheeks like seaspray. The street dimmed through dusky glass belied its stillness, demanded the bustle of crowds and music and life. He shook his fist at it for its twisted pretense.

It should remain empty, an exoskeletal tomb for what was. What morbidity to lash himself with this scene, this memory. Not even ghosts remained to share a toast. Only frozen heat to layer dust on old chalices.

The clang of a solitary coin met the pavement, pulled from his pocket with the price of the wine. He let it spin to stillness in his wake, payment over a dry river.

Checkers

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He sat down across from old Fred, legs dangling even in the spindly little chair, and watched the old man with owlish eyes. As if his gaze exerted some sort of force, Fred raised his hat brim enough to peer under it at the boy. “Well?”

“How ’bout a game?” The boy leaned back and hooked his fingers through his overalls the way he’d seen the grizzled hangers-on at the store do many times.

“Aren’t you a mite young, Squirt?” Fred surveyed him as if he were a used car on the lot next door. “Yore head barely tops the table sittin’ up straight.”

‘Squirt’ merely shrugged and crossed his legs, staring off into nothing. He picked up a checker and spun it between his thumb and finger, shifting the gum in his mouth from one cheek to the other with his tongue and mock spitting into the dust by the porch.

Fred chuckled and sat up, adjusting his hat. “Well, might as well see what you’re made of, at that.” He cleared the board. “Don’t you be thinkin’ I’ll go easy on you, though. Man acts like a player he’s gotta prove his worth.”

The boy sat up and propped both elbows on the table, slapping his checker against the squares with a loud clack. His face serious, he adjusted the ball cap on his own towhead. “Black or white?”

Blog Thursday Prompt: The Kettle

“It’s not my fault! The kettle began it!”

“Please, do go on. How exactly did the kettle begin it?”

“Weelll… it just sat there so… so… sitty!”

“I see. It was ‘sitty.’ And the problem with that is what, exactly?”

“Sitting is just so boring! How could it just not do anything?”

“So, you decided to make it do something.”

“Everything needs a little nudge now and then. All I did was fill it up with water.”

“Mm-hmm. And the kettle appreciated that, did it? Got up and danced a jig, I’m sure.”

“No! It just sat there drooling out its spout! Disgusting! I turned the stove on to dry it out.”

“- – -“

“What?! It started grumbling at me, and it just kept getting louder and louder. I told it to calm down but then it started screaming at me and smoke came out of the spout!”

“Imagine that. So you thought…”

“Obviously it needed some private time to adjust its attitude so I covered it with a towel.”

“Naturally it reacted well.”

“I guess it was dryer than I thought. You do always say where there’s smoke there’s fire.”

“I wish I could deny that.”

“Well, obviously I couldn’t let the kettle burn the house down, so I blew on it as hard as I could. Candles have much better attitudes, by the way.”

“I see. And that’s when you finally called me?”

“Yeah! That kettle needs to go to jail for arson! That’ll teach it what happens when it’s boring and stubborn.”

“I have a better idea.”

“What?”

“Stay away from the kettle.”

Candles

https://pixabay.com/photos/black-blow-burning-candle-creepy-2941843/

The dried up, decomposing vines brushed her skin, tendrils of the darkness that protected what was left of her soul and crushed the breath from her lungs all at once. The candles in front of her flickered, pitiful against even the promise of wind in a trembling leaf at the edge of vision. Only three. How had three broken candles been all she had to offer for a shattered life?

Hot wax rearranged itself drop by drop into the shape of glass cups, insulation to prevent fire. As if she wasn’t already burning, endlessly unconsumed but raw. As if it had been her skin stolen from her instead of… instead. How many days since she had been able to breathe? A week? Two?

Orange globes peeking from a sea of green. Teeming life. Life on the edge of death; the smell of rot was more appropriate. Death for death. Orange flickered with the flame, mocking, demanding. Only three candles.

People did light candles for death, didn’t they? The trembling leaf released its hold, a moth fluttering to burn, disintegrated, forgotten. No. Never that. How can a chasm be forgotten? There should be stars. If there weren’t enough candles there should at least be stars. Where were the stars? Grieving. Maybe they would die, too; that would be fitting. Stars dying for loss of her Star.

Goosebumps rose under her fingers. Vines whispered. Flames guttered and fell. Only three broken candles.

The House

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She trailed her fingers along the wooden bannister, stepping carefully to avoid tripping over the litter of decay. The air smelled faintly musty, but the open front door lit up the foyer with clear sunlight. She turned and grinned at her companions.

Chuck groaned. “I know that look,” he told the real estate agent with a dramatic droop. “Honey, did you have to pick the dump?”

“Don’t call it a dump!” she pleaded, laughing. “Look at the lines; it’s a beautiful old house!” She gestured to the agent standing just inside the door. “Tell him how special it is.”

“A historical gem, really,” the woman agreed in a tone just a little too bright. “A bit closed off for modern tastes, of course, but a few walls could easily be removed.” She stepped gingerly over scattered glass from a broken window, forgetting to hide a grimace.

Honey followed her, peering into the dim interior of the front room. “Look, Chuck, there’s a fireplace! Oh, let’s go upstairs; I bet every room has one!”

He sighed but let her take his hand and pull him up the creaking steps. “Central heating was invented for a reason, Honey. Do you intend to have a fire in the baby’s room? And it’s gonna take a fortune to fix everything wrong with this place!”

She squealed with delight from two steps above him. “Look at the wood floors, babe! Can’t you just see them all polished up?”

He looked back at the agent once again waiting at the front door. “Are you sure there are no ghosts in this old place?” he asked with a rye grin.

She clicked her pen and opened a notebook, standing a little straighter than she already was. “Shall we start the paperwork now?”

The Row

https://pixabay.com/photos/house-green-grass-iceland-village-4811590/

The Grand Experiment, the village council called it. Marigold sniffed; Mayor Belfast always did tend toward the dramatic. Bunch of nonsense, in her opinion. What folk were thinking electing that bunch of nincompoops she would never know.

Six months they had wasted building the stupid things. A whole row of cottages made entirely of turf. Except the hare-brained idiots hadn’t been able to figure out how to hold up a roof made of dirt, so modern eaves of wood painted black stuck out like a sore thumb. Glass windows had been the next logical step, but only in the wooden sections. That looked well! She rolled her eyes.

The entire town had come out for the unveiling; the result had been underwhelming. Marigold really didn’t know what that sorry excuse for a mayor had expected, trying to talk up walls and floors made of dirt like they were the golden streets themselves. The tour had been a disaster from start to finish. The only person remotely interested in living in one of those fake caves was crazy old Miss Hartskell. The council had finally been forced to accept her application to recoup the cost to the town.

Since then that batty old witch had taken over the row with strays, plants, and incomprehensible handicrafts. No one bothered to argue; it wasn’t like the cottages were in demand. And even Marigold had to admit that from the main road they looked like pretty green hills nestled in an old Grove. Too bad she had to pass it on her way to work at the town hall every day.

“Rain before noon, Marigold!” Marj Hartskell waved delighted lyrics as she delivered her forecast through a cascade of tumbled curls. “Morning, Marj,” Marigold called back through the open car window. Potty old hag. “See you at tea time as usual. For goodness sake, don’t bring any wildlife!”

The Proposal

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“Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?”

“Connor!” Emily leaned over the rail, her voice hushed but quivering with laughter. “What do you think you’re doing? They’ll kick us out!”

“Not if the bridge troll eats them first!” Connor growled, then coughed as his vocal cords protested. He ducked out from under the boards and hopped up to sit on the warm stone beside the bridge.

Emily propped on the rail, elbows stiff, and tried to glare at him, but he leaned over and planted a kiss on her lips. She laughed softly and fisted the front of his shirt, shaking him slightly. “What if I was the big Billy goat gruff?”

“That would be disappointing,” he said, shifting his weight and grabbing her hand as if to keep himself from falling. “Because this wouldn’t fit a gruff old goat.” He held her hand tightly, running his thumb over her fingers with quieter expression, then with a sudden strangled throat clearing shoved the ring over her knuckle. “It looks pretty good on you, though.” He gave a nervous chuckle and glanced sideways with an almost pleading grin.

Her breath hissed inward and she stared at her hand for an eternal fifteen seconds. Then a blush suffused her cheeks and she touched the tiny sparkle resting on her finger with tender awe. Agreement came in a whisper as her forehead met his, but the quick rise and fall of his shoulders registered full comprehension.

“Come along, we’ll see the bridge later,” a passerby urged her child with a knowing smile. “Those two might be there for a little while. We’ll give them their privacy. “

The Beach

https://pixabay.com/photos/beach-coconut-tree-white-sand-sea-612553/

“Saul, wait!” Lily laughed breathlessly as her bare feet slung sand behind her. “I lost my sandals and the sand is on fire!”

“Not as hot as the boardwalk,” her brother yelped, dancing on his toes from sand to board and back again. “Hurry up, it’s too hot to be out of the water!”

“Well, you’re the one who just had to come all the way down here,” Lily grumbled. “We could have just swum in the pool, you know.”

“Yeah, but who wants to do that when the whole big ocean is waiting?” Saul reached the shade of the dock and jumped to swing from the beams. “Just look at it! Have you ever seen color like that?”

“Yeah, yesterday, when we came for swim.” Lily sniffed and attempted to imitate a flamingo while examining the soles of her feet. “Now that we’re here at the ‘whole big ocean’, are you getting in or not?”

“Come on, Lily, I thought girls were supposed to be romantic.” He dropped to the weathered boards and perched on the railing beside the steps she was about to descend. “It glows on its own, don’t you think? There’s magic in it! Maybe it’ll turn us into denizens of the deep, doomed to ride the waves for all eternity.” He struck a dramatic pose.

Lily rolled her eyes. “Waves aren’t in the deep, idiot.” She shoved him so that his balance on the railing failed and darted down the steps into the brilliant water. “Catch me if you can, you big sea monster!”

Dry

Color surrounded her, the brilliant yellows and reds and greens of summer in the garden. The sky glared blue overhead, and she glared back at its near cloudless face. Her hand closed around the nearest white spray, twisting involuntarily, the crushed petals releasing their nauseatingly sweet scent as they fell from her fingers.

She took a shuddering breath, her chest aching as if with vacuum. The fountain nearby was as dry as her eyes; she resented it’s deathly emptiness. Perhaps the red that surrounded it was the remains of the bloody tears of its untimely end, an irrevocable stain on the land. She pressed her fists into her eyes until they ached, silently screaming for a single drop of relief.

A hand touched her shoulder and she flinched. “It’s going to be alright,” someone said, and the hand caressed the black of her sleeve like flame licking at tempered steel. Her arms fell nerveless to her sides and she walked away without a word.

The Garden

I wasn’t feeling inspired, so as I often do I asked my kids what story they saw. Today’s flash fiction is therefore brought to you by twelve-year-old Sarah (edited and embellished by me).

Becky, Malcolm, and Josephine were emotionally broken people, so broken that they were sent to an asylum for healing. While there, the three became friends and wandered the grounds together every day. They stumbled upon an old, forgotten garden, weed-choked and wild.

The three were drawn to the garden, and asked the director for fertilizer, seeds, and tools to reclaim the overgrown plot. They spent every free moment in the garden, hoeing and pruning, clearing vines and saplings, fertilizing neglected soil, and planting new flowers. As time passed and their garden thrived, they found that they, too, had healed.

The three called everyone at the asylum to see the fruits of their labor, and everyone found peace and comfort in its beauty. Becky, Malcolm, and Josephine passed the work to their fellow patients and returned to their homes, where they lived freely and happily for the rest of their lives.