Advent Ghosts 2025: To Face Unafraid the Plans that We Made

Here in Chicago the snowfall from the last three weeks is all but melted but the Christmas lights are up, the wreaths are hanging on front doors and inflatables keep blowing down from the gusty winter winds. It's the holiday season and that means it's Advent Ghosts time.

Loren Eaton who blogs at I Saw Lightning Fall invites bloggers and creative writers to contribute vignettes for his Advent Ghosts celebration. It's a Flash Fiction Challenge but with a word limit set at exactly 100. No more, no less. The only other rule is that we write in homage to the Victorian tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas time. Be it old-fashioned, chain rattling specters or visions of bloody horror each writer makes up his or her own mind how to interpret that rule.

Here's my contribution inspired by our nationwide menace worse than any winter storm.

To Face Unafraid the Plans that We Made

When the whistle blew, she went into action. It was December, the perfect time.

A Bruja had cursed Esperanza punishing her cold hearted, cruel self transforming her into a wintry Midas with a frozen touch. But isn’t it possible to turn the curse into a blessing, she thought.

And now the neighborhood was a veritable sculpture garden of literal ICE men. Her neighbors were wishing for a white Christmas that would blanket these ICE men with glistening snow. But Esperanza secretly desired a rise in temperature.

She smiled when she checked the weather. For tonight, the evening forecast was rain.

Source: StockCake 

Advent Ghosts 2022: A Star, A Star Dancing in the Night

The houses, apartment buildings and yard are ablaze with Chistmas lights and absurd holiday inflatables. It's the dawn of the holiday season and that means it's Advent Ghosts time. Loren Eaton who blogs at I Saw Lightning Fall invites bloggers and creative writers to dabble in a yuletide drabble for his Advent Ghosts celebration. What's a drabble? It's a Flash Fiction Challenge of sorts but with a word limit set at exactly 100. No more, no less.  The only other rule is that we write in homage to the Victorian tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas time.  Be it old-fashioned, chain rattling specters or more terrifying visions of bloody horror each writer makes up his or her own mind how to interpret that rule. 

This year I was inspired by two terms:  fairy lights and chasing lights.

What if they were taken literally?

"A Star, A Star Dancing in the Night"

Someone had decorated a Christmas tree with blinding lights in the lot where trees were sold. Reverse vandalism? It’s always something. Better than another stolen baby Jesus.

He’d heard of chasing lights but these were moving. Actually moving, not twinkling or blinking. Moving in and out of the branches, hovering around then plunging in.  One took shape, an arm?  A tiny arm with an even tinier finger beckoned and a chorus of whispers commanded, “Come hither.” And he obeyed. Entranced by the light and succumbed by their glamour he disappeared in the boughs becoming one with them and the light.

Advent Ghosts 2021: "Who Comes This Night, This Wintry Night?"

There may be no snow on the ground in Chicago, but the Christmas lights are up, the wreaths are hanging on front doors and the sidewalks are bustling with frantic shoppers. It's the holiday season and that means it's Advent Ghosts time. Loren Eaton who blogs at I Saw Lightning Fall invites bloggers and creative writers to contribute vignettes for his Advent Ghosts celebration. It's a Flash Fiction Challenge of sorts but with a word limit set at exactly 100. No more, no less.  The only other rule is that we write in homage to the Victorian tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas time.  Be it old-fashioned, chain rattling specters or more terrifying visions of bloody horror each writer makes up his or her own mind how to interpret that rule. 

Here's my contribution inspired by vengeful, angry gods of the forest at wintertime. 

Who Comes This Night, This Wintry Night?

No one was going to spoil his Christmas hunt. He was keen on bagging a ten pointer, heard there was a stag worthy of a mounted trophy. Hoof marks in the snow! Easy tracking now.

Through the fog he saw antlers. No stag’s head beneath those horns. A sardonic grin on an eerily handsome human face. Powerful arms swung out and struck down the rifle.

“Peace on Earth, Hunter.”

A flock of starlings took flight. Their shrill calls drowned out a human scream in the forest.

Cernunnos made his way back through the wood satisfied with another Winter Solstice sacrifice.

Advent Ghosts 2020: A Pair of Ghostly Vignettes

Once again we find ourselves in the week before Christmas and Loren Eaton of I Saw Lighting Fall has invited various writers to contribute their frissons of ghostly yuletide frights and visitations from beyond.  The catch?  Each micro story is a drabble consisting of precisely 100 words. No more, no less. And each must be a ghost story or an eerie tale or a twisted Roald Dahl story with a nasty surprise.  However they take shape, whether it be a traditional ghost story with an uncanny spirit or a tale of gruesome horror, they have all manifested themselves today, December 19. Here are my two contributions.  Not as nasty I usually whip up, but given these days when many loved ones have slipped away from omnipresent illness and disappeared into the ether I thought perhaps these were more suitable and slightly more hopeful.

 

   "If Only in My Dreams"

This was her favorite. Every year they saved it for last and placed it at the apex of the tree. Not a traditional star, but a glass blown dog -- long ears, comical Santa hat and sad-happy eyes. This year she’d go it alone.  Uncle Sebastian was another casualty of the ubiquitous virus.

Sudden movement distracted her from her reminiscence. The ornament left her fingers and was guided to the treetop.  In disbelief she stepped up, reached out for the floating dog, felt a warm touch.  Her hand and one unseen were placing the ornament as they did every year.

"Mark Ye Well the Song We Sing"

So what if he couldn’t see the Christmas lights anymore.  More like light pollution than Christmas spirit.  Vision going, going, soon to be gone… But his hearing was sharp and keen as ever.  Music saved him.  The carolers were approaching.  He opened the door to get the full effect.  Hazy shapes, no faces discernible.  But the sound, oh the sound.  Harmony, melody, true song.  He felt like inviting them in.  Were they even clothed?  They could do with a Irish coffee with plenty of whiskey.  Sound faded, hazy visions melted like ice and not even a footprint was left behind.

Advent Ghosts 2019: And Since We Have No Place to Go

Each year at this time Loren Eaton who writes at his blog I Saw Lightning Fall invites creative writers to challenge themselves with the micro short story called a drabble. One hundred words -- no more, no less. The only other rules are that each story must have a Christmas theme and must be in the ghost story tradition.  Some take the traditional Victorian road paved with eerie frissons and visited by wispy ghosts, others travel down the darker, bloodier pathways of contemporary horror. My contribution is like a quick trip to the world of Rod Serling style nightmares with a suitably old time Christmas music soundtrack. 

"And Since We Have No Place to Go..."

In the past they never saw each other at Christmas time. Such a shame. He claimed he hated winter, that he was afraid of snowstorms inevitably altering his travel plans, fearful of missing his much anticipated return flight. How could a son be so ungrateful? But she fixed that, changed his attitude permanently. And now she can see him anytime of the year. For him it would always be winter. One more furious shaking of the snow globe. She smiled wickedly watching miniature tantrums. These were blizzards worthy of dread. Dean Martin’s singing was the added punishment. "Let it snow…!"

Advent Ghosts 2018: Bring Me Flesh & Bring Me Wine

Another holiday season, another Advent Ghosts Day. Loren Eaton who blogs at I Saw Lightning Fall invites writers to dabble in a yuletide drabble each year at this time. It's his way to help honor the Victorian tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas time and also bringing together the blogging and writing community. Drabble? That's a short short story, a micro story I'd call it, of exactly 100 words. No more, no less. Below is my contribution for this wintry ghostly time of year -- a bit of holiday terror, a bit of #MeToo.

"Bring Me Flesh & Bring Me Wine"

“Naughty or nice?”

“Step aside, Chad.”

“Where’s your Christmas spirit? Check it out.” He pointed to the sprig of mistletoe above his head.

She stared him down, sized him up and decided her quick method would work best.

“You want a holiday treat?” She grabbed him by his hair, planted her lips on his and using supernatural strength deeply inhaled with hurricane velocity. Chad was sucked into her mouth, disappearing inside her. No need to bite or chew with this one. She wiped her mouth with Kleenex, made her way to the bar. A sudden feast makes a girl thirsty.

Advent Ghosts 2015: Two Short Short Ghost Tales

Each year at this time Loren Eaton who writes at his blog I Saw Lightning Fall invites creative writers to challenge themselves with the micro short story called a drabble. One hundred words -- no more, no less. The only other rules are that each story must have a Christmas theme and must be in the ghost story tradition.  Some take the traditional Victorian road paved with eerie frissons and visited by wispy ghosts, others travel down the darker, bloodier pathways of contemporary horror.  I whipped up two frothy concoctions this year. One intended to make you smile, the other to chill your heart. Be sure to check out at Loren's blog where he is gathering all the links leading to other stories throughout the holiday blogosphere.

The Fire Is Slowly Dying

Christmas Eve and he was flat on his back unable to move. So damn hot. It's December! Makes no sense. He tried to focus. Three silver buttons pushed into his chest. Where were his clothes? His skin was turning golden brown in this heat. All around him that sickly aroma. Sugary, spicy.  Not cologne, more like…a bakery? Ahead of him was a door with a large window and a gigantic face looked at him. A gigantic smiling girl. An alarm, the door opened, then a bellowing voice: "Don't burn yourself! Use the oven mitt. Mmm, don't they look tasty?"

*     *     *

Figure Eight

Every year he returned to watch her skate. The pond was wild, dangerous. She found inspiration outside, surrounded by birch trees and chirping sparrows. She was free. Today she was doing what she did every Christmas Day. Tracing the numeric pattern with studied practice, etching the symbol of her future. No cracking or splintering of the ice so many years ago, no plunging into freezing water.

When she was done she vanished. Not quickly, more like a slow fade as wintry fog surrounded her and took her back. Back into infinity. The symbol she traced when turned on its side.

Advent Ghosts 2014: Eyes Full of Tinsel and Fire

Another holiday season, another Advent Ghosts Day. Loren Eaton who blogs at I Saw Lightning Fall invites writers to dabble in a yuletide drabble each year at this time. It's his way to help honor the Victorian tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas time and also bringing together the blogging and writing community. Drabble? That's a short short story, a micro story I'd call it, of exactly 100 words. No more, no less. Below is my contribution for this wintry ghostly time of year. It's a twofold tribute to Victorian ghost stories and the cautionary tales that warn children to behave themselves...or else.

"Eyes Full of Tinsel and Fire"

The little boy placed the Yule log on the andirons along with kindling, struck a match and set the log ablaze.  He sat there transfixed by the crackling and popping sounds and the dance of the yellow and orange flames.  It was his private fire, his alone.

Then an explosive pop and the log split in two. Smoke poured into the room like a carpet of soot unfurling. Out of the smoke a scaly clawed hand was reaching for something.

And a scratchy snarling voice cried out from the hearth, "Playing with matches again? Here's your coal, you naughty boy!"


For more Christmas themed drabbles please visit Loren's blog where he has collected the links to all the participants' blogs. There are also a few stories posted here for those who don't have blogs. They make for quite a variety of chilling holiday visions and events.

FLASH FICTION: Come Like Shadows, So Depart!

Better late than never. Yvette at "in so many words..." issued a Flash Fiction Challenge to come up with a short short story inspired by one of three paintings she found. The stories were to have been posted yesterday, September 14. We took a sudden trip and I was away from the computer all day. Didn't have a chance to upload my story along with the painting. But enough excuses... Without further ado, here is my contribution.

Come Like Shadows

Sorcery’s a bitch. Especially when you’re an amateur like me. My mistake was being too curious, too ambitious, not patient enough. What’s that piece of advice your schoolteachers always direct at the impatient, hyperactive students in the class – take your time and you’ll make less mistakes. Haste makes waste, right? In my case haste made a monkey of my girlfriend. Literally.

She was a sucker for strange jewelry. That’s really what started all the trouble. Never satisfied with a diamond ring or stud earrings or a simple necklace. No, not Amelia. To her a tennis bracelet was literally just that – a bracelet made up of a fine gold mesh tennis net with charms shaped liked rackets and balls. I’m surprised she didn’t want the umpire sitting in his chair as well as a couple of ball boys. She was always adding to her collection and the more bizarre the better. She was attracted to Egyptians bangles with carved hieroglyphs, amulets inspired by medieval mythological creatures and brooches shaped like dragonflies. Insects were really big with her for a couple of months. Somehow they became more alluring less alien once they were bejeweled and bedazzled. But when she got hooked on endangered species inspired jewelry I really had to put an end to it.

And why sorcery? Surely there was a simpler way to get her off her eccentric jewelry addiction. Well, you see I sort of was responsible for that too. OK, I was responsible for that. Let me own up to the whole mess right now. She never paid me any attention and I made her like me. But as usual with my adventures in potion making I improvised and the whole thing backfired. What started out as an attraction potion took on a different dimension because of my ad libbing with the formula as well as Amelia’s unpredictable behavior. I was supposed to hand her the charmed object and a say a certain phrase but no -- Amelia couldn't wait. We're a lot alike that way -- impatient and demanding. She grabbed it out of my hand and well, now I not only have a devoted girlfriend I have devoted girlfriend who demands that I give her odd pieces of jewelry. And to counteract an unnatural behavior like this, one that isn’t of her choosing, I have to resort to more magic. So I started more experimenting. Before I could find the solution to that mistake another one occurred.

To be honest she brought it on herself. Yes, she did. She barged right into my alchemy lab after one of our hedonistic nights on the town. She was more than a little tipsy on those foo foo cocktails she loves more than her gaudy jewelry. You know those concoctions with flavored vodka. Geez, whatever happened to a good ol’ fashioned Old Fashioned or a plain gin and tonic? But I digress... Her eyes headed straight for a transmogrification figurine I was working on for one of my irritating neighbors. She chittered and screamed like a friggin' monkey and I was ready to turn her into one. Amelia sees that golden figurine shaped like a monkey and she had to have it. Right up her alley, right? Endangered species and "cute as a puppy" like she says all the time. Before I could knock the cursed thing out of her hand I watched as her human shadow morphed into the shape and form of a capuchin monkey. Tail growing out of her designer gown and Amelia disappearing into the fabric till she was chattering and screeching like my annoying neighbor next door. There she was wailing and clawing at her dress trying to figure out what the hell just happened to her. And me wishing I could just chain her to an organ grinder like some prop in a 1930s screwball comedy. My life had become a screwball comedy. All thanks to my inept attempts at black magic. I looked at this absurd picture of me and Amelia and saw exactly the opposite. It was Amelia who really made a monkey out of me. And not for the first time.

Yeah sorcery’s a bitch. What kills me is it took me six months to get all the proper ingredients for that charm. And now it’s going to take me another half a year to get another batch of the same stuff. You know how I had to rack my brains to come up with a clever way to record the sound of a cat’s footsteps? It involved a xylophone and a super sensitive reel-to-reel tape recorder. A reel to reel! P.S. That was harder to find than the damn xylophone. I may have to cut corners again and to hell with the consequences.

Aw, who am I kidding? I learned my lesson the hard way. Now I’m burdened with trying to gather up all the ingredients needed to turn Amelia back into a normal jewelry addicted young woman before her appetite for tropical fruits transforms my home into a subsidiary warehouse for Chiquita and Dole. Without the aid of sorcery. This time I'm following the directions to the letter. No improvising. No substitutes. No ad libbing. 100% genuine ingredients and no cheating whatsoever this time.

Which reminds me, now that you be heard this whole crazy story –

You don’t happen to know where I might find a genuine witch’s mummy, do you?

Advent Ghosts 2013: "The World in Solemn Stillness Lay"

Each year at this wintry holiday time Loren Eaton who blogs at I Saw Lightning Fall invites bloggers and creative writers to contribute vignettes for his Advent Ghosts celebration. It's a Flash Fiction Challenge of sorts but with a word limit set at exactly 100. No more, no less. It's also his community tribute to the Victorian tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas time. This year I was lucky enough to be invited to participate. Here's my contribution. It's inspired by a well known M.R. James story.

"The World in Solemn Stillness Lay"

Yesterday there was a light in the window of the steeple.  Now it was out.

Yesterday, a blanket of snow untouched before the church. Now there were footprints.

Yesterday, carolers singing near the pine trees. Now they were gone.

Was it digital trickery? The picture must alter over time, he thought. Some clever technological magic. But it was a woodcut on handmade paper colored with inks, not a photo. An old fashioned Christmas card, an old fashioned image. He wasn't frightened, just mystified.

Then he looked at the floor and saw the puddle and a trail of tiny scarlet footprints.

For more chilling vignettes of a mere one hundred words please visit Loren's blog where he has gathered all the links from the participating writer's various blogs. Wishing a very merry Christmas to all you wonderful people out there in the dark.

FLASH FICTION: A Taste of Temptation

Here's another of Patti Abbot's Flash Fiction Challenges. This time the idea came from her perusing an old newspaper and being intrigued by the headline "Michigan Man's Taste Gets Him into Trouble." We were to write a story of about 1000 words inspired by the headline and could if we wanted to change the state from Michigan to anywhere else. I guess mine would be better suited for Oregon, but I stuck with the one in the headline. Not that the setting really matters for my tale.

For more stories on the theme visit Patti's blog page here where some stories have been posted along with links to stories on other blogs.

A Taste of Temptation
Shall I tall you a tale of forbidden fruit? Oh, no metaphors for you, my friend. This is juicy, ripe and literal. So modern yet still so Old Testament. There may be no snakes and no stand-in for Eve but you do get a tree and fruit. But not an apple. Even if the tale is set in Michigan. Not cherries either. Patience, my friend. You will soon know. This is a tree that holds out one sole piece of fruit, the most tempting delicious fruit that you can hardly blame the poor man.

This man –- with the preposterous name of Jarvis Angelica -– considered himself the consummate gourmand. An explorer not of countries and cities but of international cuisine. Restaurateurs clamored for his attention and his highly developed palate. Jarvis’ taste buds were the envy of the foodies, his pronouncements of a cheese sample, for instance, were anticipated as would be the final verdict in a sensational murder trial. Jarvis tasted and passed judgment. A condemnation might ruin a produce seller, a retailer, a chef or the restaurant itself. But his praise often reaching states of ecstasy was a reward worth waiting for. Business always increased, doubling or even tripling profits. Jarvis’ taste was mighty and powerful.

His adventures in food were not solely confined to the table, however. In fact, he more preferred hunting down the raw ingredients that resulted in five star dishes served in Zagat rated eateries. If word reached him of an unsurpassed wine he needed to see, smell and taste the grapes. If he was told of a heavenly dessert of unmatched decadence he wanted to find the trees that bore the fruit, pick one, and taste it right off the branch.

A pear tart would be his undoing. The signature dessert at a little known bistro only insider foodies knew of and supposedly kept secret. No underground cult sensation would be kept from reaching Jarvis for long. If the secret had anything to do with food he could ferret it out better than the best truffle pig in search of mycophiliac wonders. Yes, in a pear tart Jarvis met his match.

Through his network of restaurant worker spies (the kitchen prep staff were his best informers) he soon learned of which orchard supplied the pears for the fabulous dessert and from there he obtained the exact location of the trees that were reserved as the private supply to the bistro’s pastry chef. Any attempt to cajole and flatter, however, fell on unimpressionable ears. Jarvis was barred from visiting the orchard. No one but employees were allowed on the premises.

But rules meant nothing to Jarvis. Once on his quest he was unstoppable, an indefatigable hunter who needed his trophy. His senses fueled him. The promise of fragrant bouquets, the fervent excitement of touching, feeling, groping those pears, and ending in taste sensations one could surely drown in, all culminated into one superhuman power that kept him going. He was going to pick one of those pears himself if he had to climb the highest branch and set it free from its arboreal prison.

Never mind how exactly he got into the orchard. Bribery of a low paid security guard no doubt. The fact is he infiltrated the portion of the orchard that was like a Fort Knox of golden fruit. Equipped only with a flashlight and a pair of heavy duty, fleece lined, gardening gloves he made his way to the select trees.

Imagine his surprise when he saw them stripped bare. Not only were the trees barren of the prize pears none could be found on the ground beneath. It was impossible, yet his eyes did not lie. The harvest was complete. Stubbornly he refused to believe he had been too late. Passing his flashlight over the tops of the branches, muttering a string of foul curses, he was determined to find the last remaining pear. Surely a few were overlooked, maybe one not yet ripe enough allowed a day or so to reach piquant flavor. And then he saw it. One lone pear ignominiously abandoned on the uppermost twigs. He had to have it.

Now athleticism was never Jarvis’ forte. Before you imagine him to be some portly cliché of a glutton let me assure you he had a trim and handsome figure. Good eating will do that for you. But for running, cycling, working out of any fashion Jarvis had no time. The ascent into the tree to reach that treasured pear would be perhaps his greatest challenge. He inhaled to prepare himself and caught on the wafting night breezes the perfume of fruit like none he had smelled before. That was impetus enough.

Grabbing the nearest branch he surprised himself with the execution of a expert flip worthy of any Olympic gymnast. Soon he was making his way through a maze-like cage of gnarled limbs and torturous pricking twigs. The scent of the fruit leading him ever upwards. Just a few more feet, an arm’s length away. Jarvis plucked the pear and held it gingerly in his hand.

Now most of us would pocket that pear and make our way safely back to earth before eating it. Not Jarvis. He was entranced. He and the pear were as one, alone in the universe. The tree ceased to exist. He took in the aroma, fondled its shape, caught the gleam of its skin in the waning moonlight, then took a bite. A light exploded. Jarvis traveled out of himself and was transported to pear Nirvana. It was delectable, dream-like, he savored the mouthful and sank his teeth into the fruit once more.

Then a voice cried out, “What the hell are you doing up there?”

Jarvis startled by the sound, realizing that the explosion of light was not an ecstatic response to the unique flavor of the pear but a powerful searchlight held by some invisible man below, turned suddenly and lost his balance. He came crashing out of pear Nirvana, tumbling through the pricking twigs, scraping his designer suit on the rough bark of the branches and landed with a painful thud on the sodden ground.

The security guard (a more officious and tough one from a different part of the orchard) came over to investigate. He knelt beside Jarvis and asked if he was all right. He was curious to find out why this well dressed guy was in a pear tree at 2:30 in the morning. While officious and unbribable he was also kind and wanted to know if Jarvis was injured.

All he heard was one word from the orchard’s trespasser. “Divine.” And with the last brief taste still lingering on his lips and quiet smile on his face Jarvis Angelica took one last trip to pear Nirvana and never returned.

FLASH FICTION: The Terrible Thing at the Edge of the Lake

Yvette who blogs at "In so many words..." offered up a Flash Fiction Challenge for today.  Participants were to write a brief story about what's going on in the painting by Mario Cooper shown at the left. The picture was used to illustrate a story in one of the many magazines for which Cooper often did artwork. Writers were to ignore the original story (I don't even know what it was) and make up their own tale of why the young man in the swimsuit and the woman in the flouncy dress were locking the door.

Mine is a very strange blend of psychological and material horror. Today also happens to be Gay Pride Day in Chicago and I believe I was visited by the ghost of a certain playwright whom I have always admired. So here's a tribute to him. Apologies to the man for borrowing one of his characters and quoting a few of his lines. I secretly think might see the humor in it all.

*     *     *

The Terrible Thing at the Edge of the Lake

Why they called it a summerhouse was a mystery to her. It was barely more than a single room, sparsely furnished with a tiny fireplace in the corner as its sole source of heat. Far too small for a house, you could barely call it a cabin. A shack really. But a cozy shack someone transformed into a private retreat here tucked away in the woods just a few yards from the shoreline of Moon Lake. The casino was only a ten minute walk through the neglected path and polka music was drifting from the ballroom. She glided to its syncopated rhythm thinking to herself. She came here for an escape, to meditate, quietly summoning the courage she needed. In her mind she carefully constructed the sentences, choosing the words carefully, trying not to make it as hurtful as she knew it was going to be.

The door burst open. A rugged young man drenched from head to toe in a tight fitting swimsuit that showed off his athletic build came rushing in. He was startled when he saw her dancing with herself.

"Huh? What are you doing here?"

"Oh Allan, you've been swimming. Come here by the fire."

"Allan? You've got the wrong guy." He headed for a small bureau, opened a drawer and pulled out a towel and began drying himself.

"You know what's going on out there?"

"Dancing, gambling, drinking, laughing. They're all too gay for me. Such a sad night this is. The loss of love is always sad."

He stared at her and smirked. Drunk. Sure as hell she's drunk. Dancing with herself in this shack.

"Someone said a guy fell in the lake. I jumped in and pulled him out. His throat was torn open, his head's a bloody mess. Looks like some kind of animal got him."

"Allan, I know all your secrets. There's no use covering them up with romantic tales."

The music stopped by now. Sounds of a crowd replaced the lilting jaunty melody. A woman screamed.

"Listen, I'm not Allan, lady. I told you that. What are you doing here? This is for the lifeguards only."

"I saw you with him. Caught you in flagrante delicto. Disgusting it was. No… that's not right. You. You disgust me! Yes. That's it."

She paused, took her scarf from her neck, and draped the lampshade. The light in the room softened and was tinged with the colors of roses and lilacs that made up the printed pattern. She started to sway to a melody only she could hear.

"Say… Do you know something about that kid out there?"

"A boy. Only a boy. And so beautiful."

"Well, I wouldn't call him a boy. Looked to be early twenties. I don't know about beautiful either. His face was pretty much gone. And there were weird footprints around the shore edge, too. Some kind of animal attack, I'm sure. But never seen any prints like those."

Another scream. This time not a woman's. Something bestial. Something from the abyss.

"What the--?" He ran to the door and threw the bolt. Grabbed the only piece of furniture, an overstuffed armchair, and shoved it against the doorway.

"Don't be frightened, Allan. You are what you are. A temptation to everyone, both women and men."

"Stop calling me Allan. Didn't you hear that? That thing by the lake out there?"

"Je suis la Dame aux Camellias. Vous etes --Armand?" She smiled at him. "Do you speak French?"

"Cripes! I'm stuck in this shack with a kook. We've gotta get outta here. There's a way out through the basement I think. Come with me, lady."

"Call me Blanche, please. After all, we're husband and wife, Allan." She was at the other window seemingly ignoring him and the threat at the door. She looked out into the cloud covered sky. "I've been looking for the Pleiades tonight -- the Seven Sisters -- but those girls are not out tonight."

A shot. Then another and another. More screams and shooting. Once more that terrible unearthly cry echoed in the woods, closer this time. Footsteps crunching in the pine needles strewn in the pathway to the door of the shack. Scratching at the door. A pair of gleaming eyes peering in the window.

"God Almighty!"

The window burst in a shattering of glass. A hairy clawed arm intruded into the space. The young man who wasn't Allan grabbed a log from the pile near the fireplace and beat furiously at the arm, claws digging into the wood, then his wrist. He let loose with an excruciating wail of pain.

"Help me! Blanche! Help!"

She stood in place with a look of concentrated effort. Thinking of the lack of stars in the night sky, thinking of the right words for Allan. She watched as the young man who wasn't Allan was dragged out of the window frame screaming for his life, screaming for Blanche.

"Sometimes -- there's God -- so quickly," she whispered.

The music started up again. Blanche unbolted the door and made her way back to the ballroom. She resolved to have one last dance with Allan. She would abandon him there with the choice words she just composed. He was never really hers. And it was all so disgusting. She cocked her head and caught that haunting tune again. She started to cry. That melody -- that lively polka of the Varsouviana -- would never sound the same to her after tonight.

FLASH FICTION: Manual Transmission

Another Flash Fiction Challenge dreamed up by Patti Abbott.  Inspired by the appearance of an unmarked white van on her street and the strange man who lived in it she asked bloggers and writers to concoct their own story about a man in a white van.  Below is mine.

More stories and links to other writers who participated can be found here. Scroll down to the bottom of the page to find the links.

MANUAL TRANSMISSION

I opened the notebook, consulted my stopwatch, and jotted down the time. The white van was across the street again. Same weird license plate -- DARKO -- which I guessed was his unusual African name, nothing to do with that cult movie I'd seen years ago. From the looks of the guy it suited him. Out of state (Arizona plates), and probably out of the country, too. We didn't have too many black families in my white bread New England town. I'd been studying him for weeks now but only knew a portion of what he was up to.

2:37 PM Thursday, January 16

Three minutes earlier than last week. Today DARKO driver was not wearing his usual unseasonable attire of T-shirt, fleece and jeans. He was dressed in dark blue coveralls, boots and one of those goofy winter hats with the flaps and strings that make guys look like they have pigtails. Couldn't catch me dead in one of those. Looks like the winter weather was finally affecting his Arizonan or African blood. It was a break in his routine. I wasn't taking it as an omen or anything like that. That was a mistake on my part.

This was the routine: DARKO driver would open up the back of the van, go inside. He'd take about four and half minutes inside. Then he'd come out with a plain cardboard box as white as his unmarked van and get on a bicycle and ride off down the street. He'd be gone for nearly half a hour --sometimes a bit more, sometimes a little less -- but on the average I had calculated he was gone 27.5 minutes.

Something else different happened that day. DARKO driver was having trouble locking the van doors on the back. I smiled. Let's see him get out of this one. He had to spend an additional six minutes and eighteen seconds fiddling with the catch before finally giving up. He went to he passenger side door out of view of my binoculars. Less than thirty seconds he was back with a bungee cord that he wrapped around the handles of the rear doors. Clever bugger. Prepared just like a boy scout. But that's not gonna stop me, DARKO driver. Get a move on now. You're behind schedule.

I watched him mount this bike and ride away. Gone for the next 27 to 33.5 minutes.

I put down the binocs, zeroed out the stopwatch, and set the alarm on the watch for twenty seven minutes, DARKO driver's minimum average time. After marking the total time spent in this week's tasks, and capping my fountain pen I put the stopwatch in my pocket, grabbed my back pack with all my supplies and made my way downstairs and outside. Time for my own weekly tasks.

Before removing the bungee cord I noted how DARKO driver had arranged it on the handles so I could duplicate it when I left again. Had to make it appear no one was here. This was so much easier than picking the lock. I guess my repeated break-ins with my hand-fashioned skeleton keys finally took their toll on the ancient van. 1980 something I was guessing. Cars weren't really my thing. Neither were locks. I'm an art lover. And DARKO driver had some very interesting pieces inside his anonymous white van.

That old van had been fashioned into a mobile warehouse. Built-in cabinets and shelves lined both walls holding an awesome collection of imported artifacts and handcrafted objects from exotic lands. I had learned through dogged internet research that he was housing work of ancient Peruvians and Mexicans; aboriginal art of New Guinea and New Zealand; ritual masks from Tibet, Bali and Indonesia; and a variety of figures representing the gods and goddesses from Yoruba mythology. Africa, Asia, Oceania and South America. It was astounding to see so many cultures from four continents in one place. The sights sent me reeling each time I entered the van. Apparently DARKO driver had been delivering pieces in my neighborhood every week for the past three months.

I made my selection quickly and wrapped it lovingly in the polyester airline blanket I used to protect it in transit before putting the wad in my backpack. As I was about to hop out and meticulously reattach the bungee cord I was startled by an unfamiliar sound.

"Hello, my friend. A little shopping today?" DARKO driver was blocking my exit. I froze and couldn't say anything. I gestured like I usually do.

"Wotsamatter? You don't speak sarcasm?"

No, I don't speak at all, smart guy. But signing seemed lost on him. I don't expect fluency in ASL from your average person, but most intelligent people recognize the language of the deaf and the speechless when they see it. I wasn't deaf only aphasic from a neurological trauma. I never really recovered the power of speech but my hands worked well and I learned ASL. Despite all my toil in learning my new language I found myself more and more resorting to primitive signs and gestures when I met the insensitive and ignorant. So I gave him one of my Sad Sack gestures. Feel pity for me, DARKO driver and let me go. Why the hell did you come back anyway?

"Don't tell me you're mute?" He broke up laughing. "Don't tell me-- I'm a bit of a comedian today, aren't I? Wotcha got there, my friend?"

He grabbed my backpack and opened it. He pulled out the blanket and as gingerly as I had wrapped the object removed what I had chosen as today's booty.

"Very nice. Balinese. Used in ritual dance. You have sophisticated taste."

I nodded. I signed again to let me pass. Maybe if I was lucky I could muster up some kind of BBC historical drama empathy from him. Those Victorians sure loved to lavish pity and sympathy on cripples, orphans and social outcasts. I did my best sad puppy eyes and prayed he had a smidgen of goodness in his sarcastic overalled body.

"Tell you what. You keep it. While you're at it, help yourself to another."

My puppy eyes widened in astonishment. His fluency in sarcasm was getting to be too much. He couldn't be serious.

"Aha! you can hear me. Not deaf just speech impaired, eh?"

And there was the sympathy. The use of "speech impaired" is always a good sign.

"Go on then. Anything. Take one more, my friend."

I had almost completed my collection of one example for each culture. I was still missing a few pieces from Africa and Asia. There was no way I could choose by settling on one single item.

"Too difficult? How 'bout I make it easier?"

He went to one of the cabinets in the back and unlocked a drawer. This one had a lock I had failed to master. I had never got inside. What treasures lay within that specially secured area? The drawers were felt lined with a variety of what appeared to be authentic idols older than anything displayed openly on the shelves and racks. He handed me a strange figure with large hands held up against its ears. The expression on its round face was a mixture of wonder and surprise. Or it could be whistling, I guess. I loved it. So bizarre and the carving in the stone was a marvel to behold.

"Take it. You two have something in common. This is a mute god from a little known South Pacific cult. A mute god who sings and tells stories. Kinda weird, yes? Mythology is filled with contradictions and paradoxes."

It looked to be me that the figure was listening not talking. I took my cue from the object. Just listen and you'll get out of here safe. I kept chanting to myself a mantra of protection. Just listen. Listen. You'll be OK. In listening I followed his command. I took the small idol in my hand.

Then he grabbed my wrists and held them tight. DARKO driver looked down at my hands studying them, admiring them. He pulled me closer to him. I could smell a pungent but not offensive cologne. His breath was tinged with spearmint. I found myself looking into his deep brown eyes in the dim light of the van. He smiled. It seemed he really did think of me as a friend. If only he'd loosen his tight grip.

"Hands. So useful. You use them to speak. I use them to create. I made quite a few of the objects here, you know. I'm a bit of an artist and a bit of a con man." One more tug closer to him. I could see the pores in his mocha colored skin. He lowered his voice to a throaty purr. "I find you anywhere near this van again I will make sure you are permanently speechless."

That'll scare the hell out of any mute person. I gulped and nodded.

He finally released me. "Enjoy your gifts. Now… Vamoose!"

I kept my daily vigil with notebook, binoculars and stopwatch for a few days afterwards, but the white van never returned to my street that winter. I dreamed of DARKO driver for while, too. They weren't nightmares. Surprisingly, I got over the initial fright of being trapped and caught in his hands quickly. It was just that I couldn't get his words out of my head. His calling me friend, I believed, was truly the recognition of us as compatriots. We were both admirers of beauty. I liked to recall his being part artist and part con man. I imagined the kind of people he had fooled with his replicas of ancient artifacts. I also thought about his talk about hands, their usefulness, what I like to call the manual transmission of both speech and artistry. I made up an entire life for DARKO driver.

And I remembered how I was indebted to the idol for teaching me to listen. I still listen to it. On still nights when the only sounds I hear are faint sirens and night noises of invisible animals I turn to look at the stone idol on my bedside table and the figure speaks to me. He tells the story of DARKO driver, of his talent and speech, of his minty breath and perfumed skin, of his hands and the magic they create and the terror they instill.

FLASH FICTION: The Dream of a Golden Mantled Tamarin

Here's another Flash Fiction Challenge sponsored by Patti Abbott. Write a short story on the theme of "A Day at the Zoo." For more zoo stories covering a wide variety of moods, genres, and styles see the list posted at her blog.

The Dream of a Golden Mantled Tamarin

The polar bear was walking in circles again. The mountain lion was pacing. The South American tapir family was sleeping as usual. And the golden mantled tamarin was staring intently at the little girl. She was here again accompanied by the young woman with the strangely dyed hair making her look something like an odd species of tamarin herself. All that was missing were the bushy whiskers. The tamarin was perched quietly on an upper branch with its tail wrapped securely around the tree to keep it steady. It was still and good at listening. This is what it heard.

"Let's go look at the penguins now."

"That place stinks."

"You told me they make you laugh. I think they're funny. Come on, these primates are boring. And I don't want to accidentally see one masturbating like we did last time we were here."

"They're sad. Everything is sad here. All the people are smiling and laughing but the animals look so sad. Or they're doing crazy things like the mountain lion we passed a minute ago or the polar bear that is always walking in circles."

"It's their form of exercise."

"That's stupid. You think I'm dumb because I'm nine. I know the difference between exercise and crazy. The polar bear is like that homeless guy we passed by the 7-11 who keeps scratching his head and screaming at invisible people. They're all sad or angry or something."

"Animals don't have feelings, Sasha."

The tamarin chattered loudly at that insulting remark.

"How do you know?"

"People have feelings. Animals just... They just... live."

"Then they should be happy. Who wants to be sad just living?"

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

The tamarin peered intently at the young woman.

"Animals just live. They eat, sleep and mate. That's it. No feelings involved."

"If they mate then they get pregnant and if that happens then they have kids -- baby animals, I mean. Cubs, fawns, fledglings, whatever. And they take care of them. That's love, right?"

"Fledglings?"

"Little birds."

"You are smart."

"You didn't say anything about love. Are you pretending you don't hear me again?"

"I always hear you."

"But sometimes you don't listen. My mom says there's a big difference."

She made a noise of irritation then lowered her voice to a dulcet tone she perfected. She learned to master this hypnotizing tone when she wanted to make her point to the child. "Animals don't have feelings, Sasha. They are much less complex than people."

Very loud chattering started coming from the glass enclosed cage in front of them.

"Damn that thing is noisy! What I'm trying to explain to you-- Everyone is always anthropomorphizing animals. I blame Walt Disney for all of this."

"Anthro-po what?"

"Making animals seem like people. Like calling paws hands or seeing smiles in their expression when they're just chewing food or panting. And the worst of it is when people say they have feelings. The bear is not sad or mad or crazy because he walks in circles. It's just... a bear trying to get himself dry after swimming."

"I bet the polar bear is mad that you're calling him all wet."

"Oh please."

"I think all the animals hate being here. They wish they could have babies in the wild and catch their own food and be away from all these people."

"See you're doing it right now. Animals can't wish! They don't have the capacity to imagine. They live in the present and only the present without any concern of the future. Only people can imagine."

By now the entire cage of tamarins had exploded into a cacophony of dissent.

"Animals imagine people in cages being fed by animal keepers. That what I think."

The little girl was a psychic, the tamarin thought. Either that or a reincarnated ancestor.

"I think we need to leave."

"Hey! What's your favorite animal?"

The noise stopped. The tamarin uncurled its tail, climbed down from its perch and placed its paws on the glass, once again peering intently at the young woman. It listened and dreamed of a response. I dare you. I dare you, it thought.

"Favorite--? Why are you--"

"Just tell me your favorite animal."

"OK. It's a...um... There! That's it right there. Looking at us now."

The girl read the sign next to the enclosure. "Golden mantled tamarin. South America: Peru, Ecuador, Colombia. Near Threatened due to habitat loss."

"Yes, the golden mantled tamarin. It's so strange. Right now it appeals to me."

"Now would you want to be like that?"

"Huh?"

"In that glass cage with that guy coming in to feed you and wash your home with that giant hose and have all these people staring at you everyday."

She laughed a high pitched titter. "It would sure beat having to watch you and deal with your parents who pay me my miserable salary as a 21st century Mary Poppins."

"You're a smart aleck. I bet that's not even your favorite animal. And you'd never last a day here."

The tamarin seemed to be grinning at them now. Oh keep going, keep going.

"I bet I would. Be a snap. No worrying about a thing. Instead of being the caretaker I'd be taken care of. What a lovely role reversal. I'd bask in it."

"Liar! I wish you were in a cage for a day. You'd hate it."

"Not nice, Sasha. Let's go. Your Mom will be home soon."

"I wish you were a tamarin for life! Then you'd see what I mean."

*  *  *

"How was the day at the zoo?"

"They have a new tamarin."

"A new what?"

"A new golden mantled tamarin. It's near threatened. That's like two steps away from endangered."

"Oh."

"This one has very funny hair. And another thing. It was the most angry animal in the zoo that day."

"Sasha. Animals don't have feelings."

"Whatever you say, Mom."


©J. F. Norris, April 2012