NaMoDraMo: Drabble 1

“Dat’s day mahsh out dere bebe,” Old Nanette said from her rocking chair, a bowl of snap peas in her lap. She pointed southwest towards the dying day.

I swallowed. I’d come this far, only to be thwarted by darkness.

“You should wait til tomorrow,” Jimbo said. He was leaned up against a porch post, picking at the chipped paint. “Nigel will be here with the dogs.”

Old Nanette rocked and snapped the ends off. She gave me a handful to work on.
“Ya betta have ya pointa finga on dat trigga enough plenti of da black powda fa ya gun.”

Jimbo coughed. “It’s daylight, ain’t nothing going to happen.”

“Bebe, no sunshine gonna save yas from dat. De devil does his best work in broad daylight, cause he wan the world world ta see.”

Freewrite: Hail Mary

The clock struck midnight as Father Vasile wiped Her blood from his chin. He knelt in front of the ikon and prayed for forgiveness before he stumbled back to his musty chamber.

She lay as one in sleep,  raven hair like a satin sheet beneath Her on the altar. In Her hand She clutched a staff of gold. Beside Her, red rivers flowed like wine at a sacred feast.

The clock struck one and She rose.

In his chambers Father Vasile snored.

A Modern Fairytale

Once upon a time there was a lonely Prince who sat on his throne, twiddling his thumbs.

All his life his Father had told him that that some day his Princess would come. She would be strong and independent, driving up in her golden Lexus chariot pulled by many horses.

He had met many lovely princesses, but they either ignored him, put him a companion role, expected him support their bon bon and Kardashian addiction, or WORSE, expected to be treated as equals.

No one had stepped forward to claim his hand. So he gathered his court and began to game.

He no longer noticed the princesses that came to court him, so obsessed was he with outstanding the Fox.

“I don’t need a princess. All they want is my meager inheritance.”  

He never noticed that the princesses stopped coming.

And then ,many years later, it happened.

“Son, we think perhaps it’s time you tried to find your own way in the world.”

“But Father! I’m only 43 winters old!”

The Queen groaned. “I have worts more useful than you. Leave!”

And so the Poor Prince was driven from his dungeon bedroom by his evil step mother.

Would he ever find someone? Would he ever best the archer’s best score of three deer in an hour?

Some stories are just too pathetic to continue.

Drabble: Mercy

“It’s a beautiful day,” she said.

So beautiful that I had to wear protection from the fluorescent sun above her bed.

And then she smiled up at me as if I were an angel.

“Time?” God asked me.

“10 am.”

I took off my metal halo and closed her eyes.

Lupercalia

It was too quiet. Virgilia no longer heard the shrieking of the slave girls, not the quick cracks of the whip. Nothing save a cutting wind blowing in from the Tyrrhenian Sea.

She loosened her red stola and smoothed out the lines on her palla. Virginia would have preferred to wait nude, but he liked to tear off her robes. It was an expensive habit of his, she do not but indulge him. Pity though, she rather liked this set.

She smelled, rather than heard him. A heady mix of frankincense, blood, and his own need. 

Caucus towered over the bed and she shivered, unable to meet his eyes. He was covered in goat’s blood and wore only a wolf headdress. 

They began to chant together.

Virgilia heard the ringing in her ears, and watched, rather than felt her robes being shredded. She felt the whip sting her until her skin was slick. And Cauis knelt before her to clean her wounds with his tongue.  When he stood again, she reached for his cock. He growled.

“The bed is prepared.”

But she was not.

A Little Christmas

When the bell rang  on the last day before winter break all the children stampeded towards the bus and car loops. Well, all but Randy.
She dragged her feet down the main hall and when she reached the end, she braced herself for the cutting wind.
Randy hated the cold. She huffed and her breath swirled away in a cloud.
Small white flakes drifted on the wind, some of the children stuck out their tongue to catch the snow.Randy pulled her ratty coat closer and trudged faster.She hated snow.
On and on she walked, the dead grass slowly giving way to a carpet of white. She slowed down when she got to her street.
“Merry Christmas Randy!” Mr Gentry said as she passed by.
She mumbled in reply and waved.
She HATED Christmas. As she opened the door, she remembered why. The corner closest to the tv was chock full of dust bunnies and there was still the pale outline of her construction paper tree from last year. Above the fireplace hung no stockings, she couldn’t spare any. Her hand-me-down stocking had come apart when she tried to hang it last Friday.

Randy threw her backpack down by the sun bleached sofa.

“Mama, I’m home.”

She was greeted with a shuffling noise.

“Honey, she won’t be back until late,” called her Grandma.

Maybe it was the smell of Ben gay and brownies in the oven, Randy felt hopeful.

Then she remembered two years ago. She woke up to find the Charlie Brown Christmas tree tipped over a a prone form dressed in a Santa suit. She squealed with delight and clamored to help “Santa”. But Santa turned out to be Mama, surly and exhausted after an all night bender. Upon seeing Randy’s tears she became apologetic. Especially after realizing she had spent the money meant for presents on a bender.

Randy could still smell the whiskey on her breath, though it had been the last time she had seen Mama inebriated.

Randy shook her head at the memory and plopped down on the couch to wait for Mama. She wanted to be hopeful. She wanted to LIKE Christmas. But all she had was disappointment and her Grandma’s brownies to comfort her.

Hours passed basking in the aroma of Bengay and Tiger Balm. Still no Mama. Sometime between Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, Randy drifted off into a pleasant slumber, only disturbed slightly by her Grandma throwing a blanket over her. At first Randy thought she may have dreamed it, but she felt a feather soft kiss on her forehead as well.

When she woke early the next morning, Grandma was still there. Randy sat down to breakfast, poking at her eggs.

“Eat up honey.”

Randy struggled to eat. The hope she had felt last night was slowly wearing away. Where was Mama? Had she run away? Was she tired of Randy?

Tears pricked her eyes. Did something happen to Mama?

After breakfast Grandma demanded help with decorating. She put out a ceramic Christmas tree that lit up. Randy brightened when she saw it. It was beautiful and Mama had made it when she was a girl. Randy was proud of her. Then Grandma brought out some lights that were “nearly as old as I am”. They spent an hour untangling the lights, and then another replacing the burned out bulbs. But when Randy finally stepped back, she smiled.

Perhaps she could like Christmas. Then she frowned thinking of her Mama. It still didn’t feel like Christmas without Mama.

Grandma talked her into egg nog and cookies. Then a knitting lesson. Her hands were clumsy and she kept stabbing herself with the needles, but she at last learned to cast on. Then she helped make dinner. Again she feel asleep to the tv. And again she felt a kiss. Now she knew it was real!

But where was Mama? Her Grandma told her finally it was surprise.

“She’s not in jail is she?” Randy had asked.

“A good surprise.”

A week passed in much the same manner, though on Saturday an exhausted Mama had stayed in bed all day. Randy curled up next to her that evening. But in the morning, she was gone again. Randy let a few tears fall before breakfast. Was Mama mad at her?

The night before Christmas came and Randy was surrounded by lights and candles and cookies and ham. She and Grandma had finished their first knitting project: three stockings! Randy was delighted to help fill her Mama’s stocking. She and Grandma retreated to their bedrooms to wrap one or two final presents.

Grandma let her stay up late to “wait for Santa”. As Randy laid on the sofa watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” she found herself sitting up everytime she heard footsteps in the hall. Around 10 o’clock she was close to tears.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. Something tickled her nose and she sneezed and rolled over.

In the morning she woke to find piles of presents! Grandma was in the kitchen cooking. AND THERE WAS MAMA AT THE TABLE!

Randy ran to her and gave her a hug.

“Mama look!”

Mama laughed, her raccoon eyes twinkling back. “Go see what Santa brought!”

Grandma supervised the handing out of presents. She got Mama some clothes and a pretty necklace and tickets to see the Saints play. Grandma got a prayer book, cookbook, sewing materials, etc. Randy had a few toys and clothes.

She stood in the pile of wrapping paper and opened gifts unsure of what to do next.

“Have you unwrapped all your presents?” She nodded.

“Did you get what you asked for from Santa?”

“YEAH!”

“What did you get?” Mama asked, fiddling with her necklace.

“You!” She ran to her Mama and hugged her. “I asked for you.”

And Mama cried, but this time it was tears of joy.

 

 

 

 

Freewrite: To Venus

To Venus I addressed my prayers. Her legs made an altar of billowy porcelain. I knelt in front of my Athena, eyes shining with tears. Her visage blinded me with starlight.
I explored her root chakra, a red aura of life flooding into my lips from her well.
My fingers searched the truth in her core. I was veiled in a yellow pond, the air rent with our cries soon soaked the altar cloth.
When my lips kissed her swollen womb of lust, I felt her love move against me.

I chanted her name over and over as she purified my wand. Oh! To Delphi we soon ascended with her leave.

Amen.

Freewrite: Funny Money

Charleston, South Carolina

July 1876

Ava DeMeritt say in the bay window as her mother flew around the room. She dipped her brush into the red, swirled it around with orange, trying the capture the sunset on canvas.

“You are not to see that boy again? You hear?”

Her lips quirked, her nose twitched. Her brushstrokes were feather light.

“Your mother’s right,” came her father’s faltering voice.

Ida huffed. “Oh don’t listen to this lout. If it wasn’t for you and those God forsaken cards,” she said, waving her hand at the empty room.

Ava glanced at window, contemplating hurtling herself from it.  She focused on the fleeing sun.

“And for God’s sake stop that infernal painting! No man will love you–”

“But Joshua thinks-”

“I said a MAN, not a dreamer.”

“What is a man without his dreams,” Ava wondered. “Is that not what separates us from the lower beasts?”

She closed her eyes against her mother’s fury, fists, shouts. She winced as her mother ripped the unfinished piece from the easel and flung it against the wall.

“Ida, Ida stop, she didn’t mean it!” Her father said. He latched on to the fiery sprite, ushering her to a corner.

The two shuffled out of the room, leaving Ava to her now ruined painting.

“Miss Ava?” Cece asked. “Is you ok?”

“Yes ma’am.”

CeCe walked to the wall and picked up the painting. “Did you see that boy again?”

Ava smiled.

“I done told you Mrs. DeMeritt wasn’t gonna like it.” CeCe shook her finger at Ava, then cracked a grin. “Did he kiss ya?”

“I kissed him!”

“Atta girl!” CeCe laughed and limped over with the painting. “I’m ‘fraid she did a number on this one baby.”

She looked down at Ava.

“Mama wants me to marry a bank account.”

“Ain’t you folks got enough money?”

Ava looked CeCe in the eye. “Daddy lost at cards again.” She gripped the brush harder. “Mama says it’s the Devil’s agent.”

CeCe pretended to faint. “Lord help me Jesus. This might be the first time I agreed with that woman.”

She looked at the painting. “Why don’t you sell your paintings?”

Ava snorted. “I can only copy, not do original paintings. Originality sells.”

“I noticed.” CeCe looked around, then rushed to close the door. She pulled out a dollar bill.

Ava put her hands up. “No, no that’s your’s.”

“Damn right baby. Take a look at this.”

Ava took it gently. “Why? It’s a dollar bill.”

CeCe grinned. “Is it now?”

“Well it looks like any other dollar bill I’ve ever seen.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out one.

She held them both up to the dying sunlight, wishing they hadn’t had to sell those lamps. CeCe waited.

“Son of a gun,” Ava said. “Is this funny money?”

CeCe nodded. “It sure don’t grow on trees. I got a business proposition for you, if you want to.”

Ava shoved the dollar bill back at her. “CeCe you could go to jail for this. The government doesn’t like to be beaten at their own game you know.”

“Guess you want to marry that bank account, huh baby?”

Ava pouted and inspected her bill again.

“I got a brother, I bet he’d teach you. But you better not forget me.” CeCe pointed at the empty room. “I know I’m next.”

Ava picked up her painting and nodded at CeCe.

“I’m all ears.”

A Story Told in Drabbles: Parts 6-10

Part 6

Marjorie shifted the rubble around with her hands, calling out in the darkness.
“Jolie? Jolie!” Her voice was close to giving out now. She coughed.
Her eyes swept over the scene, once, twice, but no hand nor foot could be seen.
“Jolie,” she whispered through tears.
“Marj, I think she’s gone,” Edie said, bouncing a bawling Tavis on her hip. She held up a lantern covered in soot.
They had huddled together in the shelter beneath the barn when the bomb dropped. Hours of digging each other out had followed.
“No. No, we’re going to find her, even if it’s to give her a proper funeral.”
Tavis sniffled, Edie’s stomach growled.
Marjorie stopped. She had made a promise to keep them ALL safe and she had failed.
She coughed and stood up. “Have you found any meat?”
Edie nodded. “The food cellar is intact.”
Marjorie threw her hands up and thanked the Virgin Mary.
“We need wood and pots and water,” she said, ticking them off her fingers. “And oil.”
“Let’s build it close to the barn.”
Marjorie perked up. She could keep looking for Jolie.
Edie looked at her older sister and felt her heart break. Marjorie was trying so hard to be their mother, but she wasn’t a day over 17. She handed a fussy Tavis to Marjorie.
“You get what you can from the pantry.” She pointed to a spot by the apple orchard. “I’ll look around for firewood.”
They built a small fire and Marjorie hung two small hens to roast. She kept her eyes on the debris pile.
Marjorie sat Tavis on her lap and played with him for a bit. After a bit, Edie offered to go for more wood, but when she turned she stopped cold.
“Marj,” she said softly.
“Hmm?”
“There’s a man over there.”

———–

Part 7

Fleming and Captain Kirkham had split up hours ago trying to search for the rest of the troops.
“I imagine they cut through the forest,” Captain Kirkham said. “There’s farms that way, but there’s a temporary camp that way. The General wanted us all to rendezvous after the battle. You take that path by the barbed wire. I’m cutting to the right. If I don’t see anything by dawn I’ll go back to the path. We should sight them by dawn.”
And if we don’t? seemed to be the unasked question. Fleming was ordered to make for the nearest held village approximately 25 miles away.
“God help you,” Captain Kirkham said, and shook Fleming’s hand.
He waited until the private was out of sight before bolting off to the left. He was going home even if branded a coward. He had to see his Sweet Rita one more time.
But by and by, that leg began to howl at him. Kirkham slowed to a limp, then a crawl.
Around 2 AM he cleared the woods and entered the rolling countryside, or what was left of it. There he caught sight of a fire and without regard to his safety, Kirkham made for it.
There upon the scorched earth were two German girls, a blonde and a brunette, and a boy child roasting guinea fowl.
Nothing smelled sweeter to his nostrils. He stepped into the light and the brunette saw him.
She must have alerted the other because the blonde stood up and passed the child to the other.
“Wer sind Sie?” She said.

———–

Part 8

The snow hissed beneath Fleming`s boots. He kept to the designated path for about 300 yards before turning back to see if Captain Kirkham had followed.

He veered to the right, heading towards the temporary headquarters. By now night had folded around the forest, dark and cold. Fleming imaged it was a cloudless night, though he could not see through the blackened tree boughs. It had always been colder on clear evenings.

Daddy had always said clouds were like God`s blankets. Well Fleming didn`t know about GOD, but he could do with a blanket and a stout.

In the distance he heard voices and Fleming threw himself down, and loaded his service pistol.
He thought of the Captain and his “fellow” soldiers when he took out the men.

The Lt cursed at him while Fleming dug into his pockets for tobacco and weapons He spit on the dying man, and stripped him naked.

He made camp late that night, greeted with a rowdy “Hallo Fitz!”

Fleming delighted in their screams as he lobbed his looted grenades.

———–

Part 9

Marjorie nearly choked on her heart as the man stared back at them.
All the months of hiding, scrounging for food seemed for not.
Marjorie turned to her siblings, kissed them both. If God would have no mercy, then perhaps the devil would.
It was then she noticed the man’s gaze shift to her sister Edie.
She shuddered. So it was to be like that.
“Wie sine sie?” She asked.  Who are you?
“A friend.”
Tall, slim, high cheek bones, she could practically see a Union Jack branded on his uniform.
He began to walk their way, with a noticeable limp.
“I mean you no harm. I’m cold.” He pointed at the fire.
Marjorie pointed at the ground, “that’s far enough.”
She signaled to Edie, who kicked the rifle to her. Picking it up, she swallowed her heart down, hoping the gun would still fire and that he couldn’t see her terror.
Edie pulled some meat off the spit and began to divide it up.
The man was looking at Edie again, like he would devour her.
“She’s not on the menu. But I am.”

———–

Part 10

Private Fleming slept for the first time in months. Not the uneasy sleep of a soldier in battle, nor the vigilant sleep of a new mother, but the sleep of a child. He never thought slaughtering so many would bring about such a feeling, that it would be so refreshing.

Gone were the feelings of remorse. He no longer wondered if he would in other circumstances greet his appointed enemies as drinking buddies. No. He was what his country had always dreamed of in a soldier: a killing machine. A tank. Yes, Private Fleming would like to be their tank: untouchable, unflappable about his duty. A tank had no business in dealing with regret, it only dealt in misery and death.

However, tank is a man-machine, and Fleming was a man made into a machine. Someday he feared he would remember that distinction.

But as he dreamed of ploughing the farm and watching his children feed the chickens, Fleming was at ease. Tonight was a respite from guilt and memories.

A Story Told in Drabbles: Parts 1-5

Part 1

The men were singing “Sally Let Your Hair Down” to the stamping of the guns. Flasks passed up and down the ranks, Fleming savored his watered down bourbon. He bounced his feet and blew on his hands, but was too far from the fire.

Fleming patted his chest down, then remembered he was out of rolling paper.

“Here.” Captain Kirkham thrust a lit fag into his hand.

“Cheers.” He held the crumpled cigarette like it was fine china.

Fleming tossed him the flask and was soon under the spell of the first tobacco he’d had in weeks that hadn’t tasted like mud or horse shit. Mud was everywhere. In his hair, on his clothes, in his shoes, underwear. Fleming polished his service rifle with muddy rags and he shaved with rusty mud caked razors. What he wouldn’t give for a little sunshine.

He’d read about monsoon season during his studies, but the private had not expected to endure them in France. It’ll snow soon, he thought. I’ll freeze my socks off but it will be damn sight better than all this rain.

The Captain appeared lost in his own thoughts so Fleming was loath to break the silence. In this manner they sat until the marching orders were issued.

—————–

Captain Kirkham sat next to the private listening to the distant gunners in the waning daylight. The rain had let up and he felt the need to step away from the men a moment. He pulled out a creased photo of his lady and rubbed it between his fingers a minute.

He smoked the fag down to the ashes, just thinking of Sweet Ida with her rosy cheeks and ample bottom. He liked to slap her buns and give them a good squeeze. “Mmm, darling that must be jelly cause jam don’t shake like that.”

If he ever got home he’d make her his for all time. They’d have a couple of little kiddies, maybe he’d buy a little farm. At that last thought, he smiled. He, who’d never been on a horse before the war, he with a farm. What a notion.

A runner brought him the marching orders, and Captain Kirkham stood, heart faltering in his chest. This was it. All of his training in leadership, all of his fears realized. He was to lead a charge at the opposing trenches. Sure , he’d directed a few from the camp headquarters, but they didn’t have enough officers to spare. Captain folded the paper up and gestured to Fleming.

“Get your rifle in order.”

His left foot ached and sang for his attention, but Kirkham had to ignore it now. If he lived, maybe he could get a clean pair of socks or see the medics. He called the men to attention.

“Gentlemen! Now’s the time not for words but for swords, guns, for blood and for tears! Now, draw your weapons and go!”

—————–

Part 3

Marjorie was in the barn when the first blast woke her. Boards, nails, and tack clanked to the ground, covering the trap door. She huddled there with her sisters and nephew.

“Who is it?” Little Jolie asked. She held a copy of His manifesto in her shaking hands.

“I can not tell.” To her ears, all of the guns sounded the same, though she knew that the GM had better technology. Bigger guns, she reasoned. More dead.

Boom! They could hear screaming above the debris crashing down. Then voices shouting in a mixture of German and French.

“Why are they bombing us? Aren’t we their allies?” Edie asked.

She stared at her little sisters and wished they had the childhood she was allowed instead of it being taken from them. They had their lives still, but they lived them in constant fear of their own countrymen. What kind of life was that? Was not death better?

“I don’t think He has any allies, only people who are useful,” said Marjorie. She looked at their gaunt faces, and she reached out to little Tavis. No, she must think of the future.

“Get some sleep, we will be down here for some time.”

—————–

Part 4

The rain formed a curtain between private Fleming and the enemy line. Beyond it he could make out the dark shapes of the guns and men scrambling out of the trenches. They reminded him of a fire ant nest, the workers swarming out to protect the queen. As he advanced, men cried out in anger, fear, and pain.

Fleming found himself cowering behind fallen bodies more than he was firing.
His measly rifle felt no match for the machine guns, and he was saving the grenades. For what, Fleming couldn’t say, he just wanted to get closer and take out as many as possible in a single attack.

The battle reached a crescendo of blasts and screams while the temperature steadily dropped. Fleming huffed on his raw hands and then he heard a hiss. Then he lose consciousness.

He was floating then ,up and away from the blackened earth He prayed to God this was death, but God had a sense of humor.

Fleming came to at twilight, his body quivering under a thin layer of snow and mush. Shots echoed across the field now and then, but the great openness had transformed into a scene from Dante’s Inferno. He could not tell then, who was the victor, and Fleming supposed that victories are meaningless to the dead.

He began to creep towards his target again. Whether he would be greeted by a barrel of ale or gun, Fleming could not say. Both were better than freezing to death.

—————–

Part 5

Captain Kirkham was shivering and thinking about his Sweet Rita again. He’d lost sensation in his leg and had a hole in his shoulder trickling blood.

All around him laid his comrades and his enemies in the muddied snow. If not for the darker boots, he would not have told them apart. He pulled himself up and surveyed the damage.

A thought occurred to him. A treasonous thought, a cowardly thought. Why continue? This wasn’t his war, this wasn’t his land. Sod them all. Captain sat up straighter. He reached for his dog tags and stopped when he heard groaning to his right.

Stealing a rifle from the corpse next to him, Captain limped closer. An enemy soldier lay there writhing, his hands firmly attached to his abdomen. Blood escaped between his interlaced fingers. The man saw Captain Kirkam and began to reach for a weapon. Kirkham could see his intestines.

He pointed at the man’s stomach and to his own eyes. The soldier set down his weapon and shook his head. Captain Kirkham made the sign of the cross and put him out of his misery.

There was no satisfaction in killing his fellow man, but in giving the man an honorable death, he found peace for a few minutes.

It was nightfall when Captain Kirkham reached the enemy trenches, and there he found Fleming passed out. Sleep sounded like a sweet respite now. He would lay down and ask the private where the men were, but for now he settled against the shaking form and closed his eyes.