A Drift of Quills for February 2020

Hello, all!

This month we Quills are back to one of our favorite types of posts. That is, we will share some new flash fiction tales with you. (Here is a quick link to a page identifying where you can find our prior stories.)

This time, P.S. Broaddus, aka Parker, author of A Hero's Curse, chose the picture for which we each created a story. Entitled Learning to Fly, it is the work of Adrian Baluta, found on ArtStation. When I first saw the pic, the word "whimsey" came to mind. You'll see how I made use of it. In the meantime, let's see what Parker and Robin have for us ...  

Parker? Off you go! 

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Welcome to Sky
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2020

"My dad could eat your dad."

"Not if he can't catch him first."

"He's one of the best fliers we have!"

"He still can't outfly my dad. No cat can outfly a bird."

"Bet I could outfly you."

"Not a chance."

The nestling and the kitten eyed each other. The kitten broke the terse silence. "I'm Starbucks. I was named after-"

"I'm Boeing!" The nestling interrupted. "I was named after the fastest flying machines of the old gods."

Starbucks huffed. "As I was saying before you interrupted me, I was named after the elite fuel of the old gods."

(Readers, be sure to following the link for the rest of Parker's story.)

How about you, Robin? I can't wait to see where your flash fiction tale takes us.

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Learning to Fly
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2020

Striped Chasca, Seventeenth of the beloved and revered Fluffy, picked her way delicately down the garden path. She held her ears up, chin at a haughty angle, and let only the very tip of her tail twitch—just the way she’d seen the senior members of the clan do. Every dozen steps or so, she paused to preen, using the opportunity to sneak backward glances at her magnificent wings.

(Again, readers, be sure to follow the link for the rest of Robin's story.)

Thank you so much, Robin. 

​​And now, it's my turn. Coming in at 970+ words, title and all ...

Huckleberry's Whimsey Day
by Patricia Reding
​Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

His muscles aching and his wings tattered, Huckleberry tumbled through the air, his four legs akimbo, before finally righting himself. Looking down, he spotted a branch below, largely clear of brush. He aimed for it, confident that like all kittens, he would indeed land on his feet.

Keeping his knees loose, his paws touched. He bounced up, and then aimed yet again for another, even clearer branch, just below. On arrival, he teetered. Regaining his balance, he heaved in a deep breath in an effort to still his wildly beating heart. All the while, he contemplated on how his panic had added to his difficulties motoring through the air, which in turn, had resulting in his landing here—quite less than gracefully.

He glanced skyward, noting that the storm that brewed above the treetops had not yet made it to the ground, even as nearby leaves began to dance and to chatter. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought, so he’d best make it to the ground before the full fury of the tempest reigned down on him.

Turning away from the furious, roiling skies—skies that seemed to reflect his present mood—Huckleberry pulled his goggles up over his forehead. Then, “Oh, hello,” he mewed on realizing he was not alone.

“Hello, yourself,” chirped a ruffled-feathered sparrow, in response. 

“I’m Huckleberry,” the kitten said.

“And I am Whimsey. Are you okay?”

“As best I can be under the circumstances, I suppose,” Huckleberry replied, “which isn’t saying much.”

“But you made it down safely. So that is something to be grateful for. Right?”

The kitten frowned. “Look, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to get down before the storm makes its way here, into these trees.” He stepped past the bird.

“Wait!”

Huckleberry turned back, a scowl tattling on his impatience.  

​“I wondered if you might help me. You see, I was out for a joy-fly, when I got caught up in that storm.” Whimsey spread out a wing, showing a series of broken feathers. “I’m afraid it slammed me into these trees and, as you see, I’ve injured my wing and also— Well, it seems I’ve sprained an ankle.”

“Hmmm. But what can I do?”

“Well, you see, my nest is a distance from here and I'm unable to fly. Given this storm, I might be safer down on the ground at the present. Still, it is a long way down for me and in my present state I wondered . . . Might I hitch a ride with you?”

Huckleberry shrugged. Then, “Fine,” he mewed. “Hop up.” 

Minutes later, Huckleberry’s feet met the soft moss that carpeted the forest floor. Sensing the storm was only seconds behind now, he made a quick inventory of his surroundings.

There! he thought, upon noting a hollowed out log just ahead. He made a mad dash for it, scooted inside, spun around, and then crouched down to watch.

Whimsey hopped from the kitten’s back, wincing from the pain that shot up his ankle on his landing. Then he turned to his savior. “I cannot thank you enough!” he exclaimed.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The sparrow cocked his head. “What happened to you up there?”

Huckleberry shook his head. “My day started out fairly acceptably—for a change. I was happy, even, I guess. So I decided to take to the skies. My take-off off went fine, but then, there I was, cruising along, when I found myself pondering on my problems . . . The storm came in, adding to my difficulties. I wasn’t prepared . . .  and my motor gave out. That’s all.”

“Your motor?”

​“My purr.” Huckleberry sighed. “You see, I purr when I’m happy. When my problems weigh down on me, I’m unable to sustain that and then— Well, you get the picture.”

Whimsey sat quietly for a long minute, looking out at the rain that now beat down, mercilessly. Finally, he turned back. Then, “Are you so injured that you could not fly back home if you could still purr?” he asked.

“Oh, no. These tatters you see? They’re nothing compared to some damages my gear has suffered in the past. 

“So then,” Whimsey began, “you are injured and your gear less than perfect, and yet—”

The kitten covered his ears and responded sharply, “I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want to hear it!”

“And yet,” the sparrow continued, “you are here . . . safe. You are whole. You are alive. You can mend. Your tattered wings won’t hold you back from returning home. There are so many things—”

“To be grateful for. Yes. Yes, I know.” Huckleberry sighed, then turned back to face Whimsey. “You are right about all of those things, but I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a funk. Still, I suppose I might eventually find my way out of this mess.” He paused. “So, yes, I appreciate your friendly reminder of how I’m to do that—of how I’m to find my purr again.”

Whimsey sidled nearer. “May I lie next to you, to warm up? I don’t know how long this storm will last. Likely until tomorrow morning, at least, and I’ve got quite a chill.”

“Sure,” Huckleberry said. He lifted a paw to make room for his new friend to draw nearer. Then, “I suggest we get some rest, then,” he said.

“I quite agree. And you just wait. Things will look better soon. Joy comes in the morning, you know.”

Whimsey snuggled in close and kept quiet. Finally, when he was sure the kitten slept, he nuzzled even nearer him, then whispered in his ear, “You are not alone. All will be well.” With that, the little sparrow closed his eyes to rest.

With morning, sounds of raindrops falling from the trees above . . . 

And of birdsong . . . 

​And of a joyful purring . . . filled the air.