A Drift of Quills for May 2020

Queen of months, supremely fair,
Cloth'd with garments rich and rare,
None in beauty can compare
With thee, sweet May ...
— Peter Burn (from "Ode to May")

(More here.)

Yes, it is sweet May, and we Quills are ready with more flash fiction for you.
I got to choose the picture-prompt this time around. Take a look:

This photo is from the incredible works of Russian Photographer, Margarita Kareva. For me, it conjures all sorts of thoughts beginning with, "Are you mad?!" The bear looks gentle enough and all, but in truth, I would not trust it. (Go ahead, call me "chicken." I can take it.)

I am anxious to see what my fellow Quills have come up with, but first, here's my story, which came in under my self-imposed 1000-word limit (at 986, including the title, to be precise). For fun, I chose to use the old-fashioned, "Once Upon a Time," opening. Here goes!

Is It Really You?
by Patricia Reding
​Copyright Patricia Reding 2021

Once upon a time, frightening memories haunted the lovely Gilda Bolt. For some time, she found them too fearful to face, but eventually, she grew weary of spending one restless night after another. And thus she surmised that she must do something. She must admit her past transgressions, offer her apologies, and if possible, make amends. Moreover, she must do so post haste.

On awakening one cold morning, Gilda donned her slippers before heading to her kitchen. Mere coals remained in the range, so she fed it some well-dried oak. Stepping back, she momentarily allowed the flames to mesmerize her as they licked at the logs’ edges. 

While her fire grew, Gilda collected ingredients in a saucepan she set on the burner: oats, milk, water, salt, and a dash of cinnamon. Soon, the mixture came to a boil and as Gilda soaked in the heat, it gradually thickened. 

“Mmmm,” she inhaled its sweet scent.

Gilda dished her oatmeal into a bowl, drizzled honey over it, and then sat in her long lost father’s old and none-too-comfortable kitchen chair, to eat. Sadly, having missed dinner the evening before, she was so hungry that she tasted her breakfast too soon.

“Oooh! Oooh! Hot, hot, hot!” she cried as she dropped her spoon to grab a nearby pitcher of water for a drink. Then, sighing, she glanced out the window to find snow falling.

Today is the day, she determined. Today I shall journey into the forest, face my past, and hopefully, put my guilt aside for all time. It is time. I needs must dress in layers and brave the cold, but go, I shall.

Gilda checked her closet, took her time to find her warmest skirt and sweater, and dressed. Then she returned to the kitchen, cautioning herself against further stalling. 

She took a mouthful of her oatmeal, and then dropped her spoon once more.  

“Now it’s too cold?” She sighed. “Well, that’s what I get for taking so long to decide what to wear,” she muttered. She returned her oatmeal back to the pot, reheated it, then sat once more to eat.

“Mmmm,” she practically moaned in contentment, “just right.” 

Finally through with her breakfast, Gilda retrieved her boots from their perch near the front door. This time, she decided she would forgo use of her father’s hard old chair, as it had been bad enough to breakfast there. Instead, she headed to her mother’s well-worn reading rocker. Unfortunately, when she sat, she sunk in so deeply that she was unable to get her boots on. 

She pulled herself back up and headed for the only other chair she owned.

“Ahhh! This is better,” she said. 

After donning her boots, Gilda returned to the front door where her outdoor gear hung on a nearby hook. She put on her warmest coat—a long red one—and accessorized with a matching fur scarf and hat. After glancing into a mirror and finding the results satisfactory, she set off.

It was a cold day, but not a terribly blustery one, and for that, Gilda was grateful. Still, she had a long way to go. 

Hours later, as midday came and went, and as she tired, Gilda found herself daydreaming about taking a nap on returning home. She smiled, grateful that she’d finally rid herself of her father’s old straw mattress. After years of wear, it had become too compacted. She tried her mother’s down one after that, but like Mumsy’s chair, it was far too soft for Gilda’s comfort. And so, for the first time ever, Gilda had purchased a new mattress for herself. Ever since, on days like this, she found herself grateful to have a warm bed to return to—one that was just right for her. 

As she neared her destination, Gilda’s thoughts wandered back to that day, so many years ago. I was just a child, she thought. Still, I should have known better. I should never have trespassed, never have taken or used what belonged to another. 

In that precise instant, Gilda came to a halt, as before her stood a massive bear, and behind him, the cottage she had been seeking.

“Who dares trespass?” the bear growled.

Initially, Gilda struggled to find words, but eventually she said, her voice shaking, “I do, kind bear.”

“We bears are not keen to trust others, he said, “as strangers have treated us poorly in the past. What brings you here?”

Gilda looked closely at the bear. Her eyes narrowed. Then, This could be it, she thought. This could be my moment. I’ve come for just this! 

“Well?” the bear prodded.

“I— That is— Excuse me kind bear, but have you lived here long?” She pointed at the cottage.

The bear growled. “Since I was just a wee one, yes.”

As Gilda took in a deep and cleansing breath of frosty air, she stood tall with gathered courage. Then, “I thought so!” she said. “You see, I’ve come to apologize for having trespassed into your home some years ago. I believe you were just a wee baby bear at the time, but perhaps you remember me? I ate your food and I made myself to home. I tried your chairs and your beds. Why, I even napped! Then, when you and your Papa and Mama returned, I ran away in fear. But now I’ve grown, you see, and I want to apologize for having trespassed. It was wrong of me. Ever since, I have suffered the pangs of guilt. But today, I am taking responsibility for my actions.” She paused, then added, “Do you remember me at all? Of course, my hair is longer now, and it is darker, and I—”

The bear moved closer, interrupting her story. He reached his paws out to her, leaned in, and sniffed. Then, “Goldilocks,” he said, “is it really you?”
​

Well, that was fun!

I imagine you may have known what was coming from early on. But I wonder, did you catch it in the first line? You see, the name of the character, Gilda Bolt, may have given me away, as "Gilda" is a name of English origin meaning "covered with gold." Meanwhile, the word "bolt" is a synonym for "lock." 

If you enjoyed my tale, please share the link to this page with your friends.

Finally, Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has s flash fiction tale to share with us. Take it away, Robin!

Only One Truth
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2021

The still air echoed the calm before a storm. Yeysharov Valamyr paused atop a ridge, leaning on his spear while he caught his breath. He’d been at this too long already. Rumor placed the witch in this area, but he’d found no sign.

​He gripped the haft of his spear, the other hand going to his protective charms. One touching the skin of his chest, one on either wrist, and five more worked into his thick fur collar. The other men mocked his caution, but they feared him, too. And well they should—they’d seen the results of the witch’s curse…

Thank you, Robin!

Would you like to share your story using our prompt? We'd love to read it.

Thank you for stopping by. Do check in again soon!

Parker Broaddus, author if A Hero's Curse, is on hiatus this time around!