Flash Fiction Fun

8/13/2018

Recently, I met an amazing young woman, Veronica Clay, who it so happens, is quite the writer! We chatted briefly about flash fiction—finding ways to tell BIG stories with few words, and thought we might do some flash fiction writing together. (See the side post.)

A short time later, Reyna, another terrific and talented young woman who I've known since she was born (and who it so happens, is friends with Veronica), decided she would like to join us.

Together we three decided we would choose a single pic, and then each of us would write a story using it for inspiration.

The simply gorgeous pic we chose, entitled, Maori Pirate Princess, is provided, below. You can find more information about it, here. Of course, I never make things easy, so I decided to tell a story about the subject of this artwork as though she was not a pirate. Below is my offering. I hope you enjoy it!

Having received permission from both Veronica Clay and Reyna Myvett, their stories are also set out, below. They are fabulous!

Throwback Awakening
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

Standing near the communal bonfire, twisted tendrils of acrid smoke surrounded me, irritating my throat, stinging my eyes, and making me cough.

My heart raced as I watched the elders change their places. Soon, they encircled me. All the while they clapped their hands to their thighs in a steady rhythm. The eerie wailing of a wooden flute joined their percussive mix.

Earlier, I had begged mother to tell me about the ritual event, but she just spouted the same word she used whenever she didn’t want to discuss something with me: “Throwback.” Although I’d tried, repeatedly, to get her to explain, she’d refused. Each time she struggled to hold back tears and then changed the subject, behaving as though she’d already said too much.

But I’m pretty sure I know what she meant.

Mother used the word to describe me because I am like those of our clan’s long ago days. I know that much from paintings on the walls of our village buildings. I look like those ancients—but I differ from everyone around me. My skin is darker. Across one cheek and the bridge of my nose, runs what appears to be a jagged scar—although Mother insists it, and a similar circular marking on my left cheek just below my eye, is a birthmark. Self-conscious, I wear a bandana over that part of my face to cover the area as best I can. A bronze tattoo runs from my chin down my neck. I have a vague memory, like a dream, of getting it. I don’t suppose I was even three summers old at the time . . . Also, my eyes are a deep walnut color—not the warmer tones of a spring fawn like the other villagers. And . . . I see things—unexplainable things—that they do not. Then of course, my body type is— Well, Mother calls me “sturdy.”

In short, I am different. And everyone knows it.

I remained standing, motionless, my eyes downcast, when quite unexpectedly, the cadenced clapping and odd melancholy fluting, ceased. Only the crackling fire sounded out.

Not a soul moved.

The smoke, having settled closer to the earth, leveled out at about knee-height. It swirled and billowed around me.

Gasping with anticipation—or perhaps it was fear—I looked up as the ring of adults suddenly broke open. Then from outside of it, a single hooded figure approached. I couldn’t tell by its body size, the width of its stance, or the length of its stride, whether it was a man or a woman, but soon enough his—or her—gloved hand stretched my way, palm up.

Eyeing the figure, unsure, I reached out, seeking direction. Upon perceiving a single quick nod, I placed my hand in the one before me.

Instantly, the clapping resumed.

After the figure guided me outside the circle of adults, we walked on, leaving the gathering behind. Soon we reached a building at the edge of the river. As directed, I stepped inside first. Then I turned back just as my guide removed the hood that had covered her face. Yes, I could see her now for what she was. But the surprise was not in discovering her gender. Rather, it was in observing that she looked so very like me.

Dropping hard into a nearby chair, I gasped, staring.

“What?” she asked.

“Ahhh—”

“I am Aytama,” she said.

Still, I stared. Never before had I seen anyone I resembled. Then, “I’m Codee,” I muttered.

“Yes.”

“What is this all about? Who are you? Why am I here?” I threw questions out without pausing for answers.

“I have come for you. As a Throwback, it is time you took your place.”

My head cocked, I repeated her. “A Throwback.”

“Yes. You understand.”

“Ahhh . . . no, I’m afraid I do not.”

Staring at me, her eyes narrowed.

“My mother has used the term, but she’s never explained it to me.”

Aytama sighed. “Yes, I suppose I might have expected that of Damira. I think she never came to grips with your situation.” She shook her head. “Well then, what do you think it means?”

“Well . . . I assume it means that I’m somehow cursed, that I’m to be some sort of outcast—that I’m unworthy of—”

Aytama rapped her knuckles against the side of my head and scoffed.

“Ouch!” I cried.

“Be not daft,” she scolded.

I glared at her, wincing, rubbing the spot she’d struck. “Well, what am I to think? I know I look like our village ancestors, but I’m different from all those around me—and they avoid me. So, I assume I am something lesser, or something—”

“Tssssk!” Once more, she knuckled the side of my head, this time more forcefully. “What is the matter with you? Do you think that one’s likeness to others makes them equal? Better? Superior, even? Goodness, I would have expected Damira to have taught you better than that!”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said, scowling.

Aytama watched me carefully, as though assessing the veracity of my words. Then, “Codee,” she said, “our people have suffered over the past generations, following war, famine and disease. Along the way, they lost their strength. But you— You are not cursed, you are blessed. You are a Throwback. That mark you bear identified you as one, at birth. You have the physical, mental, and spiritual powers of our forebears. Like other Throwback children, you were raised in your village so you could learn the ways of our people.”

Aytama sat in the chair opposite mine, folded her hands, and set them in her lap. “You are not inferior to those around you, Codee,” she continued. “If anything, you have a superior calling. Our people have great need of you.” She patted her chest. “I have need of you, for I am old, as you can see.”

It was true. Aytama was old. Even the birthmark across her cheek that so resembled mine, and the copper tattoo at her chin—again, like mine—drooped with her wrinkled skin.

“I have waited for you to come of age,” she said. “I have not much time left and if you are to be of any value to our people, you have a great deal to learn before taking my place. So together, we will journey to the forest home of the Throwbacks. There, all your questions will be answered. There, you will learn all you need to know so that you may be of service to our people.” Pausing, she took in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and then continued. “But first, you must agree to put childish things aside.”

“Leave here!” I cried. “B—but what of Mother?”

“What of her?”

I pulled back. “Well . . . I didn’t get to tell her any of this.”

“Your mother has known from the moment of your birth, child. I assume it is why she never told you. She could not face that I would return one day to take you from her.”

“Return? When—”

“Was I here last? On your naming day, of course.”

Aytama picked up a carafe of water from the table at her side. She poured two cups. Handing one to me, she said, “Codee, you were born to help your people, to bring them wisdom in the years to come. A great force will aid you in your endeavor. But you will not be able to perform your duties faithfully if you cannot leave some things behind. Do you think you can you do that?”

“What must I leave?”

“Your home. Your mother. Your . . . immature and fruitless thoughts—first among which is that you are lacking in some way. You, girl, are exactly as your Maker intended you to be. You would be incapable of seeing to your calling if you were anything else.” She paused for effect. Then, “Can you do that?” she asked again. “Can you leave your childish beliefs behind?”

Somehow I knew as I gazed deeply into Aytama’s eyes, that everything she told me was true. I had a purpose—and it was one I was anxious to pursue.

“Well?” she prodded.

A faint flash of a possible future danced before my eyes. Then, “Yes, Aytama,” I said, nodding, “I am ready.”

Well, there you have it! Now, are you ready? Veronica Clay's story, follows . . .

Midnight Marauder
by Veronica Clay
Copyright Veronica Clay 2018

Josmund tied the stained apron around his waist as the back door of the pub swung open, pouring warm light into the dark evening.

“Hurry up! Yer late,” the cook called.

As soon as Josmund stepped inside, he reached for the tankards of ale and pitcher on the back counter.

“Thirteen,” the cook said groggily, having tested the ale himself one too many times.

“Thanks Briggs, you’re a life saver.” Josmund grinned over his shoulder as he left the kitchen for the front counter.

In his fourteen years of work in the pub, Josmund had only been late twice, once when he forgot his apron, the other when his mother caught the bird fever. Had he known that was her last day under the sky’s eye, he would have stayed home, but he was only eleven then.

“What held ya today?” Ryan, a bus boy, called.

“There’s a new ship on the dock,” said Josmund amusedly. “One I ain’t ever seen before.”

Ryan grinned, “That’s what’s got everybody buzzing. She’s here!”

Before Josmund could ask who or what, Ryan disappeared in the swells of thirsty sailors, thieves, and mongrels, but Josmund wasn’t concerned. He knew he would have all the information he needed soon enough.

Taking three tankards to a table of old, sea-weathered fishermen, he heard one croak, “Aye, ’olds only 23 men and the cap’n. ’S why she’s so swift on the seas. No man e’er saw ’er comin’.”

It was the ship Josmund had found himself gazing at for a time too long. She was sleek and tall with four pale, folded sails. But what caught his attention was the wood, dark as tar in the torchlight of the pier.

“Midnight Marauder,” a grizzly-haired drunkard called out from table fourteen. “Ne’er saw ’n quite like ’er,” he mumbled to his slumped companion. Josmund topped off the man’s tankard and removed the empty plates before moving on.

“A dangerous ’n, that cap’n is,” a raspy voice whispered as Josmund grabbed more finished plates from the next table. “…Soiled three merchant ships in a fortnight. ’Course they couldn’t hold it all—just let ’em sink.”

“’S a shame,” a gruff voice replied.

Upon returning to the kitchen, Josmund threw the scraps out the back door for the hounds before grabbing the soups and bread for tables six and seven.

“Ya ’ear ’bout the cap’n?” the cook called.

“Not yet,” Josmund replied, “only that his vessel’s called The Midnight Marauder.”

The fat, grease covered cook grinned. “Careful, boy. Cap’n’s a she.”

Refusing to believe the cook’s outlandish claim, and wanting to hear the truth from the sailors for himself, Josmund hurried back out to the floor. Listening more carefully, he ignored the crooning of the sailors’ songs, their cacophonous laughter, and the bettors’ cajoling for “more time.” Finally, a low and speculating tone sounded out.

“I heard she’s a half-breed,” a wiry cabin boy in tattered clothes murmured. “Mum was a West Indies slave on some French ship.”

Josmund’s ears perked up at this as the boy’s older drinking mate replied, “Aye boy, you ought know yer ships better. The Adelaide was the best of its kind, ’til it was caught in the storm and dashed to pieces on the reef!”

After dishing out soup and bread to the men at tables six and seven, Josmund began clearing the long tables where a crew of eight had just been sitting. Nearby, six men sat huddled, as though trading secrets, though their drunkenness made them loud.

Among them, a bald man with a stump for a leg cried, “’Er father was the cap’n hisself! When they wrecked on that craggy island, only ’e and the babe survived—they ’adn’t chained ’er up yet—”

’Er wrists were too small, woulda slip’d right through!” a dimwitted looking oaf interjected to the irritation of the first man.

“I woulda kil’t ’er,” a scrawny sailor sneered in a nasally voice. “Let ’er drown like ’er mother!”

“He woulda!” the bald man exclaimed. “But she was the only heir ’e ever sired. ’Course, ’e didn’t really want ’er, but ’e thought God might spare ’im if ’e spared the child. Swore ’e’d even raise the mutt if ’e got off that blasted island.”

“How’d they survive?” a young lad with wide eyes asked the storyteller.

“They say the babe’s cry was ’eard. ’S why the cap’n—”

“Josmund!” Ryan called, “Table three needs refills!”

“Got it!” he replied. He abandoned his eavesdropping and grabbed a nearby pitcher to fill at the cask in the corner.

While there, a sniveling, common thief whispered to his companion, “…Scar’s up half ’er face from a fight with three crewmen. They say she lost an eye, but they lost their lives—all three throats slit by the same blade.”

Josmund wanted to listen longer but knew he had to get back to the kitchen. He quickly refilled the men’s drinks, snatched straggling dishes and empty tankards strewn across the floor along the way, and collected his next orders.

“Eleven and nine!” the cook called.

Josmund left the kitchen with his new orders and swung by the bar. As he was grabbing the specialty drinks, the bartender called after him, “No more for table two ’til Eric pays his tabs! I don’t wanna hear any more of that scum’s excuses!”

Simply nodding, Josmund went on his way, light on his feet among the traipsing and staggering guests, careful to step over the snoring man on the ground. Rowdy laughter and a string of curses filled the air, but he focused on the conversations of those who had only drunk half their ale.

One man drawled “…Tattooed herself with the symbols of her people, snake lookin’ marks, but only half of ’em. Can’t imagine why…”

At table five, an ancient fisherman missing all his teeth gummed, “Killed the captain herself and took the ship. O’ course a few crewmen mutinied, but she finished ’em off like some sort of siren.”

Refraining from chuckling so as not to start a fight, Josmund could only shake his head at the sailors’ tales. After years of practice, he had learned to sift myth from truth, but tonight seemed especially full of fishermen fantasies. Indeed, as the evening progressed, the rumors only grew stronger, with each story building off the one before.

In the wee hours of morning, the gossip dwindled to a murmur. By the fireplace, one pirate played a worn fiddle, while another sang of a heartbroken sailor and his lover. The flickering lights of the fireplace and lanterns danced on the walls, mesmerizing watchers. While most of the pub’s inhabitants had been lulled into a drunken stupor, Josmund still heard the occasional whisper of the mysterious captain.

“Eh, boy,” the bartender gestured, “Come ’ere.”

Curious as to why he didn’t call out like usual, Josmund drew near the counter, ready for his instructions.

“There’s a guest in twenty-three—didn’t want to be disturbed ’til now. See to ’em,” he said gruffly. “And be careful,” he added.

Josmund glanced at the back end of the room, a place people went to for privacy. Bringing a pitcher with him, he stood outside the curtains, thick layers of sheer that allowed guests to see out without allowing for onlookers to see in. The inhabitant pulled back the curtain, a signal for him to enter.

A single candle lit the room, so all Josmund could make out was a lone figure leaning on the table. As his eyes adjusted, he sucked in a sharp breath. Before him sat the rumored captain of The Midnight Marauder.True to the tales, she was a half-breed with scars on her face and a snakelike tattoo twisting from her chin to her throat. Wrapped around her dreadlocks and across her face, an ornate strip of cloth hid her left eye.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she smirked, her voice low and melodic. “All the tales are true. Well…except the one about the mutiny—”

Pausing, she set her gaze on Josmund, candlelight glinting in her eye, “There were four men.”

I absolutely LOVE Veronia's story. What do you think? Please do, share your thoughts!

Finally, I have something for you from 14-year old Reyna Myvett. Once again, I was blown away by the creativity of this young writer! Take it away, Reyna!

The Last Renegade
by Reyna Myvett
Copyright Reyna Myvett 2018

I reached for the last pouch of gold, trying not to make a sound. The smells of sweat and excessive cheap cologne filled the murky air in Beliel’s bedroom where he laid, deep in slumber. His raucous, gargled snores were deafening compared to my quiet steps, but he is a light sleeper, so any stumble onto a weathered floorboard could rouse him.

I slipped the pouch into my bag, adding it to the abundant pile of expensive trinkets and riches I had collected. I knew that when Beliel awakened he would be quite bewildered, but that he would soon realize that the “attendant” he hired had stolen everything of value that he owned.

Feeling no remorse, I snuck out the window, ready to run off to the docks. I thought I was safe until I heard its ear-piercing shriek as I closed it. I looked through it long enough to realize that Beliel had arisen, and that he knew exactly what I had done.

He roared thunderously behind me as I ran, slipping through alleyways and dark streets. I didn’t stop running even when I saw my ship, The Crimson Cutlass, in front of me.

The ship started pulling away from the dock as I grew closer. My feet pounding against the hard ground, I leapt from the end of the wooden platform and reached for a rope hanging from the ship. As soon as my hands gripped it, I started climbing.

I hauled myself to a standing position onto the ship where the rest of my crew waited. There, as I stood tall, I tipped my bag of riches over. Its contents slid down the steps. The sound of gold clinking blended in with loud footsteps as my shipmates rushed to collect a small part of the treasure.

“Welcome back, Captain.” my second in command, Ileas, said, bowing to me. Then, as he led me towards my room for a debriefing, a deafening shout sounded out.

“Wren, you’re back!”

A small girl tackled me to the ground. I laughed as her arms wrapped my waist.

“Oh, Ottie, I missed you! The past week hasn’t been the same without your constant nagging!” I tickled her and her melodious laugh filled the air. I pulled Ottie up with me, and then dusted myself off. Ottie was like family to me. In truth, she and the crew were the only family I knew. I had rescued her when she was little, just as Ileas’ father had rescued me.

“Oh, Wren, please tell me all about your trip! Where did you stay? How much did you steal? Are they coming after you? Did you get to fight anyone?” Ottie fired rapid questions at me.
I crouched down to meet her, face-to-face. “Ottie, how about I tell you all about it over dinner, alright?” I asked.

“Yes! Just make sure you don’t leave anything out!” She ran off before I could say any more.

Laughing to myself as I stood back up and then walked up the wooden steps to my room. There, Ileas waited for me. I threw my doublet and empty bag on the bed, then slumped into a chair tired from a good day's work.

“I’ve just got word on a proposition,” Ileas said.

“Oh, come on, I just got back. Can’t you give me at least a few da—”

“I think you’ll be very interested in this one, Captain.” Ileas had an intriguing look about him.

“Alright.”

“It’s in the Kingdom of Imidian, your birthplace, Captain. The current ruler, King Baron, is a tyrant. He takes all the money from his people, leaving them with nothing. He even makes slaves of their children. But you can’t just steal from him. You need to kill him—and also, his only heir—if you will truly free the people. They need someone to save them and, Captain, I think that someone, is you.”

“Don’t you think assassination is a little . . . well, excessive? I’m a renegade, a captain. I may be a thief, but I’m no murderer.” I felt extremely unsure about Ileas’ suggestion. I had never killed anyone before. The mere thought made me sick to my stomach. I shook my head in disagreement.

“Oh come on, Wren!” Ileas slammed his fists on the table.

I looked at him in shock. His sudden outburst disturbed me. Then his fists loosened and he dropped them back to his sides.

“I— I’m sorry, Captain, but think of the crew. This could be our way to show the people who we truly are. We could show them that we aren’t just thieves and criminals. We can save them! Wren, we’ve been best mates ever since my father found you. Do you really think I would lead you astray?”

Contemplating Ileas’ words, I paced the room. I tried to find a flaw, but could not. Something felt amiss in the way he tried to persuade me, but his words seemed truthful. Finally, I came to a conclusion.

“When do I leave?”

↞•↠

Breaking into the Imidian Palace was easy. Remaining unnoticed, however, was proving quite difficult. I slipped in and out of dark hallways as voices neared me. I looked around, then quickly hid in a narrow space between two cabinets.

Gazing out into the dark hallway, I made out two figures in conversation. Their words grew louder. Finally, I could understand what they said.

“I don’t understand why Father won’t let me outside of the palace!”

“Princess Rose, you know your father already lost your sister. He doesn’t want to lose you as well,” the guard answered.

“But Maxwell, the pirates haven’t attacked in years! Who knows if they’re even alive any more? Lila was taken twenty-four years ago. I’m sure those buccaneers are long gone by now! Please let me go, even if it’s just for a little while. I deserve to see my people.”

“I’m sorry Princess, but I cannot do that. After your sister was taken, the King forbade me from letting you out of the Palace.”

At that moment, the two stepped into a spot of light. When I saw the face of the girl who I presumed was the Princess, my heart stopped.

We were identical. Not only in the way her dark brown eyes deepened when she talked about a passion of hers, just like my lone one did, or the way her full lips broke into a deep scowl whenever anyone disagreed with her, which mirrored my own, but by virtue of the deciding factor—the Mark. The Princess bore a mark that stretched from her chin, down her neck, and then continued onto her shoulder. From there, the deep red satin gown that she wore hid the remainder. It was the same mark that I had. It was the same mark that only the heirs of the same bloodline bore. It was the same mark that Ileas’ father said was completely unique to me.

As she walked on by, her sweet vanilla fragrance filling the hallway, my heart pounded in my chest.

When the Princess and her guard continued on their way, my knees buckled. I fell to the floor. I had surmised that something was wrong when Ileas had told me about the mission, but when I saw her face, I knew for certain. Suddenly everything connected. A realization struck me. Ileas had lied to me. I knew that his father had an ongoing rivalry with the Imidians, but I could never have imagined he had gone this far.

I jumped up, then chased the fading voices of the Princess and her guard. I didn’t realize how far they had gone until I reached what looked like a throne room. Four golden pillars held up its high ceiling. Its satin curtains, of crimson, mimicked the color of blood. Although the room was impressive, the mood within it was more overpowering than any adornment could mask. This was a room of suffering.

At the front stood a man I knew to be King Baron. He bowed in response to his daughter’s curtsy.

Without warning, I felt a force push me into the middle of the room.

“Your Majesty, we’ve been tailing this one,” the guard behind me announced. “She followed the princess here.”

I kept my head down as footsteps approached me. Then a soft hand gripped my chin and lifted it up. The moment my eyes met the King’s, he staggered back. Tears fell down his weathered face, which showed signs of worry and exhaustion in its deep wrinkles.

“Father, who is she?” The princess looked at the King in confusion, but his eyes never left my own.

My heart stopped when finally, he spoke.

“Lila, is it really you?”

Reyna delivered an amazing story, don't you agree? Let me know your thoughts!

0 Comments