New Blog

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thewritingwombat.wordpress.com

Ten Little Chapters

The flash fiction challenge this week, which might be my last one for a while if I decide to do Camp NaNoWriMo, was to make a ten chapter story while staying under 1000 words.  Not sure how "Western" jumped into my head, but here ya go:

1

                Penelope rounded the corner a corner in the town of Gulch. Before her stood a man bathed in shadow despite the bright afternoon. Dull blue eyes were the only distinguishable trait on an emotionless face.

                She turned to run.

2

                “My poor Penelope,” Grace wailed. “What happened, doctor?”

                “This is not my area of expertise,” replied John, sounding professional to hide his horror. “It seems looks like she was strangled, but there are no marks on her throat.”

                “But what about the claw marks all over her?”

                “They didn’t break the skin.  I think they’re fingernails, not claws.”

                Grace looked at Dr. John.

                “We need to send for the sheriff.”

3

                Henry entered the town of Gulch atop a silver horse. He went straight to the saloon

                “You’ve had a murder?” he asked to the barkeep after ordering a beer.

                The barkeep pointed Henry toward the end of the bar. He approached a short gentleman in a suit and repeated the statement.

                “Thank God you’ve come, Sheriff,” exclaimed the man. “I’m the doctor who sent for you.”

                He held out his hand.

                “Call me Henry.”

4

                “Are you sure you need to look around Gulch, Sheriff Henry?” John asked as they walked through town.

“Just Henry.”

“What about the body?”

                “You should bury the body,” Henry responded. “I’d rather get the lay of the land.”

                He stopped in front of the cardroom, turned to look back up Main Street.

“Are the hotel and brothel the only two-story buildings in town?”

                “Yes, Sher-, uh, Henry.”

                “What’s that one-story in between?”

“Elks’ Lodge,” John responded.

“That brick building across from the hotel,” he pointed at the bank. “Is it flat roofed?”

                The doctor nodded.

“Triangle ain’t as good as a square,” Henry muttered, “but it’ll do. Now, find out who didn’t show up to work today.  That’ll be your killer.”

5

                “She was strangled,” Doctor John said as they entered his office, “but not by constricting the throat. And there were fingernail scratches all over her body.”

                Grace stood up from the spot where she had kept vigil for two days.

“Other ways to asphyxiate without strangulation,” Henry said, looking at the corpse. “Smoke, for instance. These scratches on her neck probably came from her own fingernails, clawing to get air.”

“Have you ever seen anything like this, Sheriff?” Grace asked.

“I have, and call me Henry.”

“Can we find who did it?”

“We’d better,” Henry moved his eyes between mother and doctor, “and soon.”

 “Doctor,” gasped a young boy, running into the room “William did not show up to the mines today.”

6

William was hungry. He needed more nourishment. When had he last eaten? What had he eaten?

He thought back.  Chicken dinner at the company restaurant, creamed corn and mashed potatoes on the side.  Was that Thursday night? What was today?

But there had been another meal.  The sweet smell of flesh, the smell of smoke, a scream.

He couldn’t remember the taste. It never touched his tongue.  He never chewed, just ingested.

But it filled him. Oh, how it filled him.

He started to salivate.

7

“This is where we make our stand,” Henry said, back outside the cardroom.

“What can I help you with?” John asked.

“Find three people you trust.”

“I trust everyone in this town,” the Doctor responded.

“Not what I meant,” the gruff man responded. “I need brave and reliable, regardless of what happens.”

John nodded understanding.

“We’re going to put them on the two second-floor balconies and the bank roof.  I’ll here to make a fourth corner. When I signal, each of them will throw a net toward him.”

“A net?” Grace broke in. “You’re not going to kill him?”

“No, ma’am. For reasons I can’t go into, he has to be captured.”

“How can you be sure he’ll come this way?” the doctor asked.

“We need some bait,” Henry responded. “What time does school get out?”

8

William staggered down the street, smelling children.  He was hungry, and he needed nourishment.

There was not a cloud in the sky, yet his vision was clouded. He looked to the left and right, barely recognized the jail to one side, saloon to the other. 

When he got to the hotel, he finally saw the four children he had smelled. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized that kids by the whorehouse didn’t make sense. But pushed thoughts aside as he lurched forward in a crippled gait. Saliva poured out of his mouth at the corners.

“Hiya!” he heard from his left and turned to see the accursed Henry standing in the doorway of the cardroom, a net leaving his hand.

It had been a trap. Kids at the whorehouse! He turned around, only to see nets floating through the sky from all directions. He cursed his hunger, cursed Henry. His head darted for any escape.

A woman came out of the Elks Lodge.

Grace? Was that her name?

She raised a revolver and shot.

9

The black mist dissipated out, hovering above the William’s falling body. 

As the town watched, it formed into a single ghostly figure. It turned what counted for its head toward Henry. They looked at each other for a moment that might have been a half-second or might have been a thousand years.

Then the black wraith turned and shot out of town.

Four nets landed on William’s dead body.

“Wish you hadn’t done that, ma’am,” Henry said as he walked toward his horse.

“He killed my Penelope,” Grace shouted toward him. “I couldn’t just let you capture him and let him live in a jail cell, or maybe get released. I know how you sheriffs work!”

“Never said I was the sheriff, ma’am.”

Henry got on his horse, lowered his hat, and headed west. 

10

                Clara rounded a corner in the town of Bridle, ninety miles west of Gulch. Before her stood a man bathed in shadow despite the bright afternoon.

                She screamed.

Something Punk

Chuck's flash fiction challenge this week was "Something Punk" (http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2014/03/14/flash-fiction-challenge-somethingpunk-2/)  My first thought was "Yeah, right," but after reading his description, I figure'd I'd give it a try.  And I think I might have stumbled upon something for Camp NaNoWriMo.  Who knows.

Charles in Charge

“By order of his majesty, King Charles Stuart,” the town crier yelled. “To honor the approaching millennium, an extended Yule commenceth today! For one week, all manorial obligations are suspended! Your gracious Earl hath also decreed that peat shall burn in the Town Square every night until the arrival of Anno Domini Two Thousand!”

Elly cheered with the others in the village square, thoughts focused on the coming week.  He would not step near his baron, his plow, or even his hovel for a week.  Mead and a cheeky lass were all he needed. 

“Verily,” the crier continued, rolling up the scroll he was reading, “Feast, frivol, nay… Party like ‘tis Nineteen Hundred Ninety-and-Nine!”

If only he could tinker with his new seed drill while off the manor. Sharpness wasn’t a problem. The iron was too weak. Heat was needed, he was sure, to make iron into steel.

“What burn hotter than peat?” he asked himself.

“Nice shirt,” came a whisper in his ear, barely audible amongst the crowd. “Be that cotton?”

Elly turned toward the voice, saw a short, surly man standing there.  The man had black matted hair that drooped almost to his eyes, dark eyes that bore into Elly.

“Aye, ‘tis,” responded Elly.

“Cotton be expensive,” the man responded, scratching at his own woolen clothing to emphasize the point. “And time consuming.”

“I devised a contraption,” started Elly.

“A machine?” the man responded.

“Know not that word, good man. It removes cotton seeds. I can trade excess food or peat for raw cotton, make the clothes me’self.”

“Cotton gin?” The man asked, and received a blank stare back. “Ye are a regular Eli Whitney.”

“It’s pronounced Elly,” he responded, getting the same confused stare back from the man.

“Ha’n’t seen ye ‘round.” The man changed the subject.

“Bartholemew’s my baron. ‘Tisn’t often I can make it all the way to the village.”

“Aye, Bartholomew’s almost to another Earldom. Tell me, who was your baron before Bartholomew?”

“His father, Obediah, naturally,” responded Elly, not sure what this stranger with the intense dark eyes was getting at.

“And do you remember when Jonathan became Earl?”

“’Aye. I was eight years old. ‘Twas the last time we’ve had a week off of the manor.”

“And the king?”

“Charles,” answered Elly. “Has always been Charles. At least as far as I can remember.”

He scratched his head, thinking back.

“I’m only in my twentieth year,” he continued. “My father must have had another king, though I do not remember a name.”

“I be twice yer age,” the odd man continued, eyes and head darting in multiple directions while he spoke. “Charles has always been king. Talk to anyone and-“

“Stop! Cromwellite!” Elly turned to see two knights, wearing chainmail emblazoned with the red Cross of St. George superimposed on a field of yellow below the blue-and-white checkerboard pattern of the House of Stuart, barging through a group of peasants.  Pointing in his direction, they began to run. The sound of swords scraping from scabbards scattered the crowd.

“Don’t mention your machine if ye want to avoid the Taser,” the stranger said, turning to run.

“And wood burns hotter than peat. There still be wood in England.”

Before running, he snuck something into Elly’s hand, a clear bag with a piece of paper clearly visible inside. But the bag was not made of any substance he had ever seen, feeling both filmy and slick simultaneously.  The clearness was also unquantifiable, neither opaque nor creamy, but unnaturally see-through. The top was fastened together with inter-locking ridges.

“What’s in the plastic?” a knight asked, sword pointing at Elly’s chest. The other knight raced after the man who had disappeared into the crowd.

“Plastic, sir?” Elly was turning the odd new word over in his mouth when the knight ripped the clear bag from his hand. 

“A cotton shirt and a plastic bag,” the knight addressed Elly. “What have you to say?”

“I,” Elly began, then remembered the stranger’s admonition. “I traded some extra peat for the cotton, sir.”

“What does this say?” The knight held up the bag, allowing Elly to see the writing on the paper inside.

“I know not, sir. I’ve not learned my letters. King and Charles re the only two words I recognize.”

“Yes,” the knight responded, sounding both suspicious and annoyed, “I know it says ‘Who was King before Charles?’ And then it has a meeting time. I need to know what this is at the bottom.”

Elly looked more closely. Underneath the wording were some shapes and symbols. Two circles, one with lines inside, the other with a jagged edge, separated by two triangles facing opposite directions, bordered on either side by a thick line. The entire design was entwined in two leafy vines.

“Maybe a noble crest, sir?” Elly offered.

“This serf’s illiterate,” the second knight said as he returned. “No comprehension in his eyes.”

The first knight grumbled, sheathing his sword and placing the pamphlet in his large coin purse. He then struck Elly in the gut with a gauntleted fist.

“Watch yourself, peasant,” the knight said after Elly crumpled onto the ground.  “We find you anywhere near any Cromwellites again, we might not assume you are such an idiot. You wouldn’t want us investigating where you got this alleged extra peat from.”

“Come,” the second knight said. “Let us find someone who can interpret these symbols.”

As the knights departed, Elly slowly got up on his knees and dusted himself off.  The crowd appeared to be returning to normal, yet everyone avoided coming to close or even looking at him. 

So much the better, he thought.  He had to get out of the village square.  His plans for the Millennium Holiday had just changed.

His tinker’s mind already knew the significance of the symbols.

They made a map.