This past October of 2017, we Quills thought it would be fun to delve into the world of flash fiction. We selected a single picture and then each told our own story for it. We had so much fun with our flash fiction that we decided we'd do it again.
As noted in my October post, there are many types of flash fiction. Operating on the "up to 1000 word" standard, I can attest that my story today falls into the category in that, including the title it comes to exactly 1000 words. I do hope you enjoy it.
First, here's a look at our inspirational picture and my fellow Quills' stories . . . This piece, by JuYoung Ha, can be found here, at the link.
Please drop a comment to let me know what you think!
So, P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, what have you for us this time around?
Parker's story is entitled, "The Myths We Didn't Tell."
Our city was rotting, from the inside out. Any city has a bit of corruption. It's the nature of our world. Everything is fallen. Except the naiads, if you believed the legends borne in the shadow of their sacred mountain, towering above us. But in Trichor we did not believe in myth and legend. Only gold and silver.
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Thank you, Parker!
Robin! Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies! Oh, there you are! It's your turn now!
Robin's story is entitled, "Trapped."
She'd lived for so long in the monster’s dreams that his reality felt false. Too bright on her eyes. Too sharp against her skin. Too pungent in her nostrils. The flames, though, they were the same. They licked at her as they always had. Insatiable. In the dreams they did her no harm. In reality they would consume her.
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What fun! And now, for my offering, entitled, "The Resistance."
They call me stealth. No, not that kind of stealth. Let’s see . . . How can I make this easy to understand?
Oh, I know!
Imagine the largest man you’ve ever seen. You know the one. He has legs the size of a cathedral’s pillars, and biceps like boulders. His neck is reminiscent of a bull’s. He might be a bit—yes, all right, quite a bit—overweight. His middle hangs over his beltline . . . And don’t even start me on what happens when he bends over. Honestly, that is a sight I do not want to think about.
There. Can you picture him? That’s right. He’s the guy the others call, “Tiny.” So . . . that should give you an idea of what I mean when I say they call me “Stealth.” In short, I earned the nickname because I’m anything but.
I stood in the open window frame and looked out. Thanks to the noise I’d made earlier, the guards on duty had quickly lit all the torches and then run off to what they thought was the source of the trouble. Meanwhile, the rest of the gang and I all spread out, each to find his own way out of this fix. In any case, the place is lit up brightly now. So what should have been a quick nighttime entry and snatching of the goods, followed by an equally hasty departure, might as well have been planned for midday.
I looked below and caught off to the castle’s far west end, a horse and rider galloping off. I recognized them instantly as Rusty and his trusted steed, Vellum.
Thank goodness our fearless leader got away!
Finding myself up too high, unable to jump to the ground safely, I shielded my eyes from the direct light of the torch’s flames, and then surveyed the grounds below.
Seconds later, I shook my head in frustration, unable to conceive of an escape route.
I pulled back into the recess of the window, took in a deep breath, and then peeked out again past the edge.
This time, I noted to my right, a tree reaching toward the castle. If I could balance myself and walk along the ledge to the next window, I might be able to jump into its branches. From there I’d be just a few long strides, a somersault, and a jump away from escaping into the night.
From nearby came the sounds of another horse and rider as they took off into the night. I couldn’t tell if it was one of our own.
Until now, the leaders have been willing to give me a little space. They seem to like my youthful enthusiasm and know I have much to learn. But tonight I might have fixed all that. You see, tonight, I wore my new leathers for the first time—and likely, tonight was the last mission they’ll ever allow me to join.
Honestly, I’m not sure what I’d been thinking. I knew I needed dark clothing to remain largely unseen at night. After all, that’s when we of the Resistance do most of our work. But what I hadn’t figured on was the sound that leather makes. You know what I mean, right? That crunchy, squeaky sound that comes when you turn in your saddle? Or in my case a short while ago, the sound it made when potential danger entered the room and I pulled back my bow . . .
Yes, that sound.
So now, on account of my vanity—in wanting not just any dark suit, but rather, a smart new outfit to wear—my comrades and I are in deep trouble. Or to be more blunt, if caught, we’ll be facing the gallows.
“Blast!” I muttered.
Assuming I make it back safely, I expect Rusty will relegate me to some duties at our hideout. As it is, I’d had to beg him to allow me to go along tonight—which he was not wont to do given the catastrophe that followed me the last time . . .
I can see it now. Rusty will have me divvying up the spoils when the gang returns. The very prospect makes my head spin. I’m really not that good with numbers and of course, it’s not like everyone gets an equal share. Oh, no no no! Nothing so easy as that! No . . . shares are determined by a member’s age, rank, experience—and most important of all, on the level of threat each individual assumes on any given mission.
Of course, if Rusty doesn’t have me doing that, he’s sure to find some other dreadfully unpleasant duties to assign to me, like . . . running errands, cleaning up behind the gang, doing the laundry, or better yet, emptying the spittoons and keeping the privies in respectable order. You get the picture.
I glanced down as a wagon pulled up almost directly below me.
“That’s it!” I whispered to myself.
That wagon was my salvation—and lucky for me it was a filled with . . .
Oh no. Say it isn’t so.
No . . . It can’t be. Surely, that’s just food—maybe rotting food . . .
I took in a long, deep breath.
No. I was right the first time. Papa says that’s the smell of money because where there’s manure, there are animals, and where there are animals, there are well-fed folk. But if that’s the smell of money, then I think I might prefer to live destitute.
The operative word here, of course, is the word, “live.”
Recognizing I needed to move if I intended to do that going forward, I prepared to take a leap of faith.
“Steady, Stealth,” I cautioned myself, as I stepped to the ledge. With my toes hanging over, I crouched, swung my arms back and then forward as I followed through with the rest of me . . .