Posted on by Brenna Marie

A History of the Udian War~ Part 2

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When I was small, I found a dilapidated tannery (still working) that had a crumbing side in the alley that one could climb up if you were motivated enough to get off the street. The roof is flat, and over the years I had managed to build an almost snug shelter up there. As I found more Muffins, I had added onto the structure, and now it is a beggar’s version of a rabbit warren. The tannery keeps it warm (and smelly, but I could live with that), it is easily defendable from other rooftoppers, and it is hidden from below. Basically, it was perfect. Unless you had to get up there with a big-ass adult. Who was unconscious. And you had a bad leg. Yup.

Almost to the wall, I find a strip of fabric almost two feet long. The stranger is already half tied on, so I used the cloth to tie his legs so I can let go of him. Experimentally, I swing from side to side and almost fall over when my left knee buckles under the weight. I catch myself on the wall and decided there is nothing for it but to start climbing.

I would never admit this to Tiph, but just between you and me, I almost don’t make it. The climb is long enough that I need all four limbs to get myself up, but with the added weight of the stranger, I get halfway and think I am going to fall. I grit my teeth and keep climbing, focusing on just one more handhold, one more step with my gimp leg, one more handhold… and then the stranger shifts. “Motherffff-“ I am shaking from the strain and I glance up to see how close I am. Three more feet and I will be at the roof. I summon any strength I have left and drag us to the top by shear will power. As I make it over the edge, I feel something in my knee pop and the pain is instant and excruciating. I flop down (that’s all I can do) and struggle to untie the stranger. He is moaning and moving when I finally get him untied and let him plop gently onto the floor next to me. I sit there, trying to breathe and not throw up as I wait for the pain in my knee to subside. It doesn’t. Shit. I give myself five minutes, then I make myself move over to check on the stranger. He has stopped moving and moaning, which is probably bad, but it gives me another minute. The cut on his head isn’t deep, but it looks like he has been hit pretty hard, and it looks infected.

I glance around and was considering my options when I see Bunny, the newest and youngest Muffin, watching me wide-eyed. She is maybe three? I don’t know yet. She’s only been with us for two months and hasn’t said anything yet, just stared at us all while clutching a stuffed rabbit (hence ‘Bunny’ until she can pick her name).

“Hey Bunny,” I say, doing a great job at sounding like this is not an emergency. (I’m serious, I sounded very chill!) “Do you know where my robot leg is?” My robot leg is an outdated and poorly sized metal brace that I am supposed to wear around my left leg to help bear my weight. She nods. “Can you bring it to me?” She turns back to the shelter without saying anything, which I choose to interpret as a yes. A few minutes later, she comes back, dragging it behind her.

I wince as I move my leg to put it on. It’s a barbaric device: it is a metal scaffold that encases most of my leg. It has a bar that goes under my foot and two straps that need to be tightened painfully around my thigh, but with it, I can walk without putting any weight on my knee, which is what I need right now.

After I’ve got myself strapped in, I stand up and grab the stranger under the armpits. I lift him as much as I can and drag him the rest of the way into the shelter. I glance around as I go, looking for Bunny, but she has vanished. In fact, the shelter, which is usually full of Muffins, is deserted, silent, and none of the lights are lit. I should be worried about it, but with the stranger and with my knee, I don’t give it more than a passing thought. I maneuver the stranger over to the sleeping corner, the warmest and most cushioned spot we have. I lay the stranger down and turn to get the lights on.

I light the structure and see Bunny clutching the ratty bag I keep our med supplies in. “Thank you, Bunny,” I say as she hands it to me. “Do you mind helping?” she nods and carefully puts her doll down and crouches with me over the stranger’s head. He is young, a year or two older than me, but in really good health for the lower districts. His skin is dark, and his hair is red, he is tall and muscled: he doesn’t look like he is even from the upper districts. I begin to think he is not from the City at all.

There are people outside the walls. Everyone knows it, but the City is sealed off and no one speaks of what is outside. We know there are people out there, because that is where the Spoiled are sent, presumably, but I think everyone assumes the people out there are a sort of mindless, living dead group, incapable of trying to get back into the City. I know a little bit more, though.

I know that the people outside are healthier than us, but I also know you need to be strong to survive out there. I know your chances of surviving outside the walls as a spoiled are slim to none. I know that sometimes, for reasons I cannot fathom, the people on the outside want to come in.  I am fairly sure the stranger is one of the Outsiders.

I examine the stranger’s wound while Bunny careful cleans it. It’s illegal for anyone except a MedKinght to treat the injured or sick, but down here in the lower districts, it’s a matter of survival to learn. He must’ve been hurt only a few days ago, but there is a bad smell and puss coming from it. I look in the med bag for inspiration, but there is nothing to save him from dying in a few days. I could try to steal something from the Upper District, but I am not even sure if what I need exists. It’s okay, though, I have another trick I can use.

For as long as I remember, if I concentrate, I can feel the life energy in the people around me. I can feel everything that is wrong with them, like dark spots in their energy. If I focus, and if I know how they are supposed to go back together, I can pull out the dark spots and pull their energy back into what it is supposed to be. I can’t do it for everything: when I tried to remove the Spoiling from a Muffin, I passed out for eight days and had a raging headache for over a month. It was so bad I couldn’t see straight. That was the last time I tried to cure something that big. I have never met anyone else who can heal people, although I can’t exactly go around asking “Hey, can you illegally heal people? No? Just me then.”

Right. As Bunny finished washing the stranger’s head, I close my eyes and concentrate. Threads of pulsing blue light weave and tangle together to create the stranger, and there, at his head, is a dark know to be untied. I frown, double checking, but I was right about the stranger being from outside the walls: he doesn’t have any Spoiling at all. Mentally, I reach out and untangle the knot, tugging loose the rotting thread that is the infection. I can feel the wound sealing up, and I hear Bunny gasp a little. I smile, but I keep my eyes closed.

I have dark brown eyes, but when I pull my little trick, they turn the bluest blue and stay like that for a little bit afterwards. When I think my eyes have returned to normal, I look at Bunny. She is excited and gesturing for me to look and the stranger’s perfectly healed head. He doesn’t even have a scar. “Pretty cool, isn’t it, Bunny? You have to keep it a secret though, okay? You can only tell the Muffins.” She nods seriously.

I look back at the stranger, now sleeping. He’ll wake up soon, and I need to tie him up in case he is less than appreciative. I gather some ropes, then hear a small voice behind me. “Um, Derick?” I whip around, and it’s Bunny. “I’m Betty,” she says.

I grin. “Good to meet you, Betty.”

A/n: My writing style will inevitably shift and change as the story goes, since I am still writing it. Please be patient: Once the story is complete, I will edit it to be more cohesive. What do you think so far?

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Posted on by Brenna Marie

A History of the Udian War~ Part 1

“Tell me a story.”

“I don’t know any stories.”

“Everyone knows at least one story: tell me about yourself.”

“My story is depressing and you already know it.”

“I don’t know all of it. In fact, I’ll bet I know less than a fraction.”

“…”

“Come on, you said you trust me: tell me your story.”

“Alright, but it’s long. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“… Well?”

“I- don’t know where to start.”

“Tell me about the City.

“You’ve seen it, you know about it already.”

“Not like you’ve seen it. Tell me the things only you know, tell me what you hate and what you love, tell me about your city.”

“…”

“Please?”

“The city is built on the skeleton of an ancient place with towering structures, according to the legends. It’s an island, but we (the people who live there) aren’t supposed to know that. There are hundreds of tunnels and passageways flooded with water, so most people must have guessed. There is  a huge wall around the city, and none of the ruined buildings are tall enough to see over them. Stories float around speculating what is out there, but only a few of us know. And we only know because we…. Anyway.

Sometime 70ish years ago, the thing happened. Countries everywhere were at war, millions and billions of people just fighting nonstop, and then a group of (supposedly) intelligent people fired 12 weapons to temporarily drug all those people into sleeping, just to stop the fighting. Except it didn’t work and instead we got a global poisoning. Everyone had it, still has it in the City, but it was worse then. Do you know how it works?

We call it the Spoiling, the diseases we all breathe that rots you from the inside out, like spoiled fruit. After years and years, it gets to your brain, and you become a spreader, even more contagious than the air. You stumble around from the pain, carrying the Spoiling to everyone near you, and when other people get it from you, it takes hold of their brains faster too. When the Spoiling was new, all those years ago, it spread to people’s brains in a matter of days. No one knew what it was, but they figured out that contact with the Spoiled spread it even faster, so they built the wall around the city to keep to keep people safe, to separate the ones who are too far gone from the rest of us. It sort of works. Because of the wall, though, there is no wind and the air is dark with pollution. It is always a dusky red in the City.

They have air filtration now, for the rich and important, and the MedKnights can treat your symptoms if you can pay. For the rest of us poor idiots, though, we breathe the Spoiling and count our years. Every Spring there is a mandatory inspection, when the Knights check every City inhabitant to see if we are too infectious yet. There is a mark they put on your right hand if you fail the inspection, and then they throw you out of the City. Or kill you, I guess. They could just be killing them.

Right, so in the City, you have your failing health, and also no food. I don’t know how food gets to the City, but I know it is never enough. People pay a stupid amount to get real food, and the poorer of us just take pills that technically nourish you, but we still look gaunt. If you have no money, which is true for a lot of us, you steal pills and then grind them into dust, taking a little at a time to make them last longer. Everyone is constantly stealing or being mugged, at least in the lower city. Any sign of weakness and ten or more people will try and get your food pills. It’s a hard place to live.”

*

I rush through the main thoroughfare, looking like I have someplace to be. I don’t have someplace to be, but it would be weird if I was here without a destination. This road is empty of shops, homes, or rest points. It’s only features are turnings to other, smaller ways that lead to even smaller ways that eventually become populated with reasonable places to stop and linger. The thoroughfare is designed to help you get to your destination as quickly as possible, and it is filled with people on their way to and from Somewhere Important so I have to look like that to blend in. Blending in is really important to my survival.

That’s not quiet true. I am one of the Soiled, people who are slowly being overcome by the long-term effects of living in this shitty world without access to frequent medical assistance. That’s not quiet true either. Some people have a ridiculously strong immune system and are able to stay clean without medical help, but they are few and far between; a lot fewer and rarer than NatMed wants us to believe. They want us to believe that humanity is evolving, developing a natural immunity to all the toxins in the air. Ha.

Medical assistance is expensive, and only the people who genuinely have Somewhere Important to be can afford the required assistance, plus the air filtration systems (they don’t actually clean everything out of the air, but they clean enough that they can slow the Spoiling by 80%) to have a relatively natural life. Whatever that means.

I do not have any money, nor do I have Somewhere Important to get to, so what am I doing on the main thoroughfare, you ask? Procuring money. Or food. Or a coat. Whatever I can get. People are in such a rush here, you can get crushed trying to pick something up after you’ve dropped it, so most people just curse their loss and keep going. After all, they can replace whatever it was. I move through the crowd, causing people to drop what they are carrying. An elbow here, a sudden swerve here. I don’t pick it up: I’m not suicidal, I’m trying to survive, remember? About 40 steps behind me, though, a loose group of kids follow my dodges and shuffles and hopefully manage to grab what I’ve dropped without too many injuries. I don’t here any shouting or complaining (they are verbal when hurt) so I assume it is going well.

I call them the Scragamuffins, like ragamuffins except scragglier than that. I’m a horrible person, I know. It started out as just me poking fun at them for my own amusement, but then they started calling themselves that, and now they have this strange sense of identity as my Scragamuffins. I should probably have seen it coming. There are eight of them, all orphans, most of them too young to help. Tiph, Nige, and Raspy are the three oldest at 13, 12, and 12, so they are the ones backing me up today. They are insufferable little brats, but they may as well help me feed the others.

We have been collecting things for almost three hours, and it is nearly time to stop. If we keep going any longer, the security people are likely to notice via the cameras they use to watch the thoroughfare. I begin to make my way to the nearest side shoot and trust that the Muffins will follow me. They do. 20 minutes later, they reach me and we all walk away from the thoroughfare without speaking. There are microphones in more locations than there are cameras, so we defer any discussion until we get to the rattier parts of the city. Which might take a minute. Our endeavors have brought us almost to the heart of Capital City, and I can see the rising spires of the palace from here. That’s not so great, since surveillance is heavier here. I lead my little group down the first alley that isn’t a dead-end, and we begin the long journey back to our ‘home’.

Tiph lengthens her stride so she is walking beside me. It isn’t hard for her: she is taller than me already and my knee has begun to bother me. I am not limping yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I don’t try to outpace her. She glances at Nige and Raspy and looks like she wants to say something. I let her stew, because she is beginning to look like an adult, so she has to start learning how to assert herself like one. After a few minutes, she says (quietly) “we got a few cash cards: should we stop to buy food?”

I shake my head. In two weeks Examination season starts, and we will need the money to pay for bills of health. Even in the least governed parts of the city, you need to have a bill of health showing you are still healthy enough to live with the general population: no one will sell or buy from you without one. The air pollution gets in your system, and parts of you start to break down. The older you get, the worse it is, until eventually you become contagious with a viral form of the Spoiling that spreads from your breath. When that happens, NatMed ships you off to a colony for the Spoiled (or they kill you: they say they ship you off, but who really knows). Anyway, we will need as much cash as we can glean if we are going to pay for nine bills of health, and we don’t really have any other option.

Tiph knows all this, as do all the others. Unlike the others, she knows I must be nearing the end of my spoiling. She has been with me the longest, and has seen what happens to other people my age: any year now, I will go to get examined and I will fail the tests. They will ship me away (or kill me) straight from the testing zone, so that will be the last time the Muffins see me. Tiph also knows I have been slowly making sure she knows everything I do, and that the others know to follow her almost more than me. After my last testing, she will be all they have. She has been, in her own subversive way, trying to suggest that I skip the next examination.

“We all have to pay for the bills, Tiph,” I say. “You know there’s no other choice.”

Her face is frowny. She starts to say something else, and I make sure she sees me glance at a camera. It’s not safe to speak here. She shuts her mouth, but I know she’ll continue this conversation as soon as she gets the chance.

We are almost back to our home turf, 20 or so messy blocks from where we sack up. The boys recognize where we are and begin to pick on each other in a jovial way. Tiph squints at the way ahead of us. “Is that a body?” she asks, pointing. I look, but I really can’t see anything. (The spoiling affects all of us differently, and it has been taking my eyesight for years. I have a couple growing blind spots and I am almost blind in dim lighting. It sucks.) I squint, as if that will help, and I hobble closer. (Yes, I am limping now. Another joy of the spoiling: My left leg is going bad from the knee out.)

As we near it, I see that yes, it is a body. I bend down, and while it smells bad, it isn’t a dead sort of smell. I rummage around until I find an arm and follow it to a wrist. The limb is cold, but so am I and I need a pulse to tell if they are dead. I find it: they are alive. “Help me flip them over,” I say. The Muffins roll the body over and we see it is a young man, my age, or maybe a little older. He has red hair and is wearing some seriously stained clothes that look like they were farmer’s work clothes. He has a huge gash over his right eye, probably why he’s out here cold on the cobblestones. I groan internally.

I wish I could leave him here. I really do. But if I leave him here, I will be wondering if he made it for the rest of my life, and I don’t care about strangers enough to expend that sort of energy. Also, the three Muffins are watching me wide-eyed. “Help me get him on my back,” I say. I am going to have to carry this sorry bastard the rest of the way. They help me get him on me piggy-back style, and we tie him on with my sorry thin coat. We start off again, and I am moving even slower than before. I am not very big, strong for my size, but my leg is hating me. Nige and Raspy skip ahead and Tiph keeps pace with me, looking worried.

“Are you gonna make it carrying him like that?” She demands. Cheeky kid.

“I’ll make it,” I even manage not to pant. “I’m not going to be much help at grabbing dinner though: can you wrangle those two and manage it?” I know she can, but she needs to know it too. She nods, and rushes ahead to rally the boys. They head off to a side way that leads to a market, and I know they will steal dinner and not get caught. I focus on getting the rest of the way to our digs, the stranger heavy on my back.

A/n: I have so many almost-books I have been working on since I was little. This one is my favorite and has gone through so many revisions over the years to get here. Comment and tell me what you think!

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Posted on by Brenna Marie

Partial People- Part 1

When the world finally Ended, everyone signed with relief. The events leading to it spanned decades of fear and tension and growing hysteria as worse case scenarios were followed by even worser scenarios. When the world ended, it put a stop to the endless fear and tensions. Nothing more could happen: we unlocked the most terrible achievement, and a few of us were still alive. Not that we wanted to be.

We were left as partial people, damaged and barely functioning. Our planet was scared and destroyed, only the scraggliest remnants of hybrid plants managed to grow on the crust, only the fiercest experimental animals survived what we had done. Clean water does not exist anymore, the air is not really breathable, but we eat the mutant plants and animals, drink the oily water, and cough the putrid air because there is nothing left for us.

Years and years ago, some rich CEO tried to evacuate the planet. We needed a fresh start, she said, a place where we could rebuild the Earth from without dying. Some people said we didn’t deserve to start over, that we shouldn’t be allowed onto another world until we repaired the effects of our sins on this one. I wasn’t sure who I agreed with: I wanted to live, but I did not think I deserved to, as a member of the most destructive species. In the end, it didn’t matter because a high-ranking official somewhere made the choice for us. The evacuation program was scrapped, the CEO disappeared, the people fell silent. We stayed on Earth and we burned with her.

Chemical debris from the bombs infects us all, and before the End, the UN was trying to help the chemical infections become the ‘Next Step in Human Evolution’, or something like that. That’s where I was, when it all stopped. In a cave, in a box, surrounded by technicians in ratty lab coats and soldiers with atomic pistols, waiting for whatever would happen next.  When the end came, they all just walked away and left me, still locked up.

I waited for two days, because I had nothing better to do and I didn’t feel like putting in the effort to leave. Eventually I did. I put my hand to the crack in the door and stopped focusing on holding my position. That’s all it took, a little relaxing of the muscles and suddenly I didn’t have muscles, or skin or bones or anything else you expect a living creature to have. I became sentient water, because that is what the End did to me: made me a compilation of two elements. I oozed out of the box, leaving my jumpsuit and underthings behind. I reformed on the other side of the box, struggling to pull myself back into human-ish shape. That’s what they call contaminants like me: human-ish. As I finished pulling my left arm into being, I heard a low whistle behind me.

A/n: I’m alive! I finished my undergrad degree and I want to work more seriously on my writing. This is a several part story that I am going to work on and update as I go. What do you think so far?

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Posted on by Brenna Marie

Once Upon a Shifting Tale

Once upon a time, there was a magical fountain. That is how the Story starts. I am in the middle of the Queen’s garden, a quiet, secluded place where the mothers and daughters may visit me. I am large and a goddess with flowers in her hair stands in the middle of my pool. She holds a tray and her face looks down to where you might stand to place something on it. Water seeps out of her eyes, and though she is always weeping, her face is not sorrowful; instead, a benevolent smile graces her mouth. My waters are smooth and crystalline, birds come to drink and splash, and sometimes young daughters cool their feet.

The women of the royal line are cursed with infertility, but I, the magical fountain, can save them. All they need to do is place the finest fruit upon my tray before they bed and a child will be conceived. For centuries this has been their tradition. When each daughter first bleeds, the mother brings her to me and begins the Story telling. The magical fountain will save us, they say. And I do, over and over again. One year, a daughter comes who questions the Story. Why must we do this? She asks. The mother explains again, but the daughter is unsatisfied. It doesn’t make sense. It’s just superstition. Years pass, and the daughter weds. She visits me with the women of her line on her wedding night and they hand her a perfect, flawless clementine to place on my tray. She looks at it for a long moment before turning away and leaving the garden, the tradition abandoned. The women are agitated, but I am sure she will be back. Four years later, she is. She wears black and comes raging and wailing. Why won’t you let me have a child? She wails. Do you hate me?  I don’t hate her, but the fruit must be given: that is how the Story goes. She leaves and returns later with a small grapefruit. It is wrinkled and ugly, but it is winter and I know this is the finest she has. She wades through my pool and places it on the tray, tears streaming down her face. She leaves without glancing back.

Sixteen years later, she returns as a mother with her own daughter. Once upon a time, there was a family forced to make offerings to a cruel fountain. That is the wrong Story, but stories are what is told. As the mother changes the telling, I can feel the Story twisting. I feel an urge to splash her, to be the cruel fountain in the Story. No, I am the fountain that saves them, I am good! But it is too late. As the mother continues the Story, the weeping goddess’ mouth shifts into a pout. My waters run less smoothly, and birds do not come near. I grant children only to those who place their offerings with respect and difference. Sometimes I make a daughter try over and over before allowing a child. They fear making me angry.

Years pass, women come and go. The Story is changing again. Mothers whisper it to fearful daughters at a distance, eyeing me the while. Once upon a time, there was an wicked fountain. I am not wicked! I want to tell them, but they cannot hear me. The Story is wrong, but they are making it the truth. I feel my stones shifting, and the goddess’ mouth becomes vindictive and triumphant. I want to be good, I want to save them, but it is too late. Now, I am the wicked fountain and I demand offerings. I curse at them as the mother spins her horrid tale, weaving the new Story: ignorant imbeciles! They do not know the power of their words.

The terrible Story grows. Now not only are the women cursed, but the men too. No child is born to any of them without the most perfect fruit most perfectly prepared. I demand the tenderest clementines, devoid of skin, pith, and seeds. The segments must be arranged in two perfect rows, and woe to the prospective parent who should make a mistake! They do not get second chances from the wicked fountain. Unsurprisingly, the line falters with the difficulty of having a child. Fewer and fewer daughters and sons visit me. They fear to come, they fear to stay away, but mostly they fear me. My waters grow tepid, slow, and odorous; birds stay away, and the weeping goddess no longer weeps, only grins a terrible smile.

Centuries sweep past. I now stand in ancient ruins, trees and thorns growing close on all sides. My pool is dry except for a small puddle of rainfall. No one comes to see me anymore, and I wonder if the line has ended. Don’t they know I will save them? No, that’s not right… I might save them… I will curse them….

The statue’s face is cracked with age, it’s expression forever wiped away as the Story fades into forgetfulness and untelling.

AN: I wrote this for the 2021 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. My prompts were a fairy tale at a fountain with an orange fruit. I like this story much better than Cass & Pent. What do you think of it?

Posted on by Brenna Marie

Cass & Pent

            The moving van pulls up promptly at 2pm. Cass sees it from the register, and even though she has been waiting for it, she still cringes. After 92 years of Hammond & Hammond Shoes, the store has been sold. Cass, her mother, her grandmother, and her great aunt, must move out of the small apartment above the store where she and all the other Hammonds have lived since Great-Grandma Hammond first opened the store. The store had been run by woman to woman, mother to daughter, without any husbands to speak of. Cass’s mother lives in hope that Cass would find a nice young man to settle and keep, but Cass doubts it: her heart is still shattered and she doesn’t have it in her to try again.

            Out of the moving van cab steps a huge woman, easily six feet tall and all curves and muscles. Cass stares as the woman adjusts her company cap and fishes in the cab for a clipboard.

            “Ahem,” says the customer trying to pay.

            Cass snaps back to herself. “Sorry,” she says. “Here you go: receipt in the bag?”

            As the customer leaves, the moving woman steps inside, followed by a scrawny young man trying and failing to grow facial hair. The woman comes up to Cass, smiling just a little, and Cass feels her heart thump harder. This woman is beautiful, with the greenest eyes Cass has ever seen, and a gorgeous bronze completion. She is a towering Greek goddess, and Cass again forgets to stay in the present.

            “I’m Cass,” she blurts, somehow losing all social skills. She can feel her face heating up.

            “Hi,” the woman smiles, “I’m Pent, and this is Jason, we’re with J & R Moving?”

            “Right,” Cass tries to focus. “We’re just moving the stuff upstairs.” Cass glances around to make sure there are no other customers in the store: it is a Wednesday, and they are predictably slow. She gestures to Pent. “Follow me, it’s up this way.” As Cass turns to lead them through the shelves of shoes to the back of the building, she is acutely aware of how she is walking, and because she is thinking about Pent watching her from behind, Cass trips on nothing and lands on her face.

            “Oh god, are you okay?” Pent sounds genuinely concerned as she bends over Cass to help her up.

            “Um, yes, I’m good.” Cass has turned an inhuman shade of red an is acutely aware of Pent’s nearness. She stands up, not letting Pent help her. “Sorry, I’m a klutz.”

            “Yeah, you are,” Jason laughs at her unkindly and Cass wishes the ground would swallow her up.

            “Here,” Pent shoves a clipboard to Jason. “Go start the evaluation.” Her voice is cold and dismissive, and Jason doesn’t answer her. Instead, he takes the clipboard continues to the back of the store.

            “Ignore him,” Pent says. “He’s insecure because I beat him at thumb war like, thirty times this morning.” Cass laughs. “That’s better. Are you really okay though? That was the most dramatic fall I’ve ever seen.”

            “Yeah, I’m alright, I think my dignity might even recover someday.” Pent laughs and Cass feels something in her try to unfurl at the sound, the part of her that wants to love and be loved, the part of her that shattered when he left her. Cass shoves it down to keep herself safe and turns to head back the register at the front of the store. “I’ll let you get back to work,” she says.

            Pent looks a little thrown. “Ah, okay.” Pent heads after Jason, but halfway, she spins around and dashes back over to Cass. “See, here’s the thing: I have two tickets to see this concert, but I can’t find anyone who wants to spend their Sunday night listening to newgrass music with me,” Pent rushes. “What I mean is, do you want to go out with me?”

            Cass winces a little. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea,” she says, not looking at Pent. The second it leaves her mouth, she hates herself for it.

            “Oh, right.” Pent shuffles a little. “Well, I guess I’ll go help Jason.”

            Cass spends the rest of the day mindlessly marking down prices and helping what few customers came to shop. The whole time she berates herself. Why did I say that to Pent? I want to hang out with her! Finally, after closing time, she slowly hauls herself upstairs. The living room is a labyrinth of boxes, packed and labelled. Pent is nowhere to be seen, but Cass can hear her and Jason in the bedrooms, working industriously. Slowly, Cass heads towards them.

            She finds Pent in her mom’s room, wrapping fragile knick-knacks in bubble wrap. “Hi, Pent.”

            “Oh hey,” Pent looks at her and seems to forget what to do with her hands. “Listen, I’m sorry-“

            “About before,” Cass starts. They both stop and Cass says nervously “I just wanted to say I’d really like to go out with you. To listen to the newgrass concert, although I have no idea what it is. I went through a rough break up a year ago, and I guess I’m still a little scared. But I really want to go if the offer still stands?”

            “Of course the offer still stands,” Pent deflates with relief, “I thought you were gonna say I wasn’t your type or something. It would have made this whole job so much worse.”

            “Well,” Cass can feel her face going red, “Give me your number and I can help make it more interesting, at least.”

            Pent laughs. And gives her the number.

I wrote this story for the 2021 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction challenge. My prompt was Romantic Comedy in a shoe store with a moving van. It was hard to write and I am proud of it, even with it’s flaws.

Posted on by Brenna Marie

Red Cliffs

I heft my tiny pack just a bit so it sits more evenly against the small of my back. The straps are small and dig into my shoulders, but that isn’t what bothers me most about it. The pack is small, barely large enough for the first aid kit and single meal inside. It is identical to the packs carried by every man and woman around me, and we aren’t expected to need more. I don’t think they expect us to even eat the meal. We are provided a last meal, but given no chance to eat it.

I was in the front when we loaded the small ferry, meaning I will be the last to disembark. We had been packed together on deck, all fifty of us where only twenty should have stood, for over three hours. Our homeland is a short distance from our current location, only barely out of sight, and yet, I feel a million miles away.

On the shore all around us as far as the eye can see, ships similar to ours are unloading their cargo of uniformed, disposable soldiers. We need to be here, they said. We need to fight, for everything that we love. They won’t tell us who ordered us away from our home, what we are facing, or why. Ours not to question, someone whispered. Ours never to know, a hiss comes back.

We’d had lots of time on the way over to talk. We were not supposed to, but in close quarters like ours, words could be said and not overheard, and so we talked. We steeled ourselves for what was coming by whispering. We were educated, we knew about the horrors of war, in theory at least, and I felt better discussing it with the people around me. We would all die, nearly certainly, we agreed, and I wondered if I should do something about it. Nothing to do, they assured me: everything that can be done, has been done. I know it’s true, but waiting to disembark, I question my seeming maturity of a few minutes past.

I’d wondered, in silence, if perhaps the coward is not so despicable as he seems. In stories and films, they are sometimes given the sort of personality that has the beholder wondering if they could attempt to do better. I was sure I could, if I was brave, and I can be brave. I keep saying that now, I can be brave, I will be brave because I can be brave….

The man in front of me begins to shuffle forward toward the edge of our tiny ship. I am suddenly sad to leave, and the tiny pack jabs my back, reminding me that I will not return. I face forward towards the shore. The sky is dark, filled with clouds darker than any thunderstorm I’ve ever seen. They appear blacker than the most horrible night, and yet, I imagine I can see them roiling above me. The sand in the shore is dark, hard, and almost pebbly. It’s difficult to walk on, when my turn to leave our small haven comes.

In front of us, perhaps half a mile off, is a terribly steep hillside that sheers up, cutting us off from the rest of our country men. I can hear a roar of distant yelling like a fierce battle cry, and my doubts return along with my mantra.

I must be brave, I can be brave, I will be brave because I need to be brave….

The shore teems with thousands of soldiers, all dressed like me, all carrying their own small, jabbing packs, all holding a rifle and shuffling to adjust their helmet straps. We try to stay together, but no one tries to lead us, so we only move forward with the crowd and are soon separated from each other. As I slowly make my way with the rest towards the cliff face, I glance up and see a man standing in a boulder to see above our heads. He is an officer, but he looks so horrified, his eyes glazed as he sweeps through the army. We make eye contact, briefly, and I see that he has been crying. With a leap, he jumps into the fray and joins us on our climb up.

I have reached the bottom of the hill now, and I begin the long, slow climb up. The pebbles slide under all our boots, making the steep climb a battel of two steps forward, one step back. Finally, exhaustedly, I begin to near the top. The yelling is more distinct now, and I try to discern what they are saying. I want to join in when it is my turn, so that I don’t have any more chances to think. I’m scared now, the kind of scared that children feel when they are sure they are not alone in the dark. I force it down, I repeat my mantra, I climb, and try to hear the words in the shouting.

After an hour, I have three men separating me from the top of the ridge, for a ridge it is, I see. It drops away after this, sloping down to the battle field below me. I am being propelled from behind as men continue to climb, but I cannot move now as I realize.

They are not yelling.

They are screaming

Screaming in terror and agony. Screaming as they try to turn around and get back to the boats, empty and departing forever, behind us. Screaming as we realize what should have been clear before. The sky is lit with a terrible red light that leaks over a towering cliff opposite me, and I know, even as I begin shaking with terror, that we did need to come, we need to fight what is hidden in the red light, but I can’t because I am so afraid. I am standing on the cusp of a crescent-shaped bowl, hedged by our armies pouring in and the light shooting up. Below me, hundreds of thousands of men identically equipped are screaming and trying to survive, because that’s what this is now: not a battle, or a war, it’s survival and we are dying.

I turn and madly start trying to claw my way back, but the men facing me are still propelling me forward, pushed by the throng of men still scrambling up the cliff to see this hell. Even as I think it, I am pulled and twisted around by others trying to pass me, and I see it again, that terrible red light, and I know.

That is Hell.

I woke up from a nightmare, and, after a year or more of trying REALLY hard not to think about it, I wrote it down. It seems tame in print, but most things do.

Posted on by Brenna Marie

Footprints in the Snow

20 YRO WOMAN FOUND DEAD! Headlines scream across the front page of the newspaper a man holds across the aisle in the bus. The noise while boarding was incredible, the hype people feel when heading home for Christmas directly corresponding to the decibel measure. The bus is full, and it takes several covert glances to make sure the man hasn’t gotten on. In a sea of frenzied bus riders, he’d stood still, staring, until making eye-contact. Then he smiled a smile so lifeless and devoid of any joy, it was shiver inducing. He looked like a hunter who had just found his prey. The bus could not leave him behind fast enough.

*   *    *    *    *

          Two hours later, the bus reaches home. Except home is where the heart is, and there is no heart here. Papa sits in front of the TV set, he and his armchair forming a solid mass, one starting where the other ends. Mama is drinking, and crying, and shouting to be heard over the news report that has Papa’s attention. ‘Found with her bowels torn out, she is the third on this month. Dubbed the Butcher, police have declined any comment about the situation. Commissioner….’

‘It is your fault!’ Mama screams. She sobs and her mascara runs over her cheeks. She swings into the kitchen, grabs a bottle off the filthy table, and chugs. She ignores any attempt to tell her about tomorrow’s departure. Today is Christmas, and she hasn’t paid any mind the whole holiday. It feels like today will never end.

*   *    *    *    *

          At the bus stop again, so few people around. The air is biting and cruel. The bus is late, and the seat is narrow. Snow begins to fall, glorious and perilous. It is not cold, although there is a fine layer of ice over untreated surfaces. Hairs begin to rise, and on the right, outside the bus shack, stands the man. Same clothes as before, and he is staring. The bus pulls in, and the doors open. He climbs up behind and sits near the back. From behind the driver, even without turning around, his stare and smile can be felt. The temptation to run away at the next bus stop is overwhelming, but the only thing near here is Mama and Papa, and one horrid Christmas is more than enough, thanks.

There are, perhaps, three other people on the bus, though is hard to count them as they come on and off, and even harder without turning around. Finally, the bus arrives at the right stop. Hurrying off, it turns out to be the wrong stop. There is nothing here except a snow-blanketed field. Confused and looking around, the bus is noticeably speeding away from this stop. A bolt of terror strikes: the man is there. He has gotten off at the same time.

There is no one else here. Walking away, not caring where to, just leaving, a stolen glance confirms that he is staring. He smiles. Feet frozen, staring in blank terror, locked in eye-contact, running seems imperative, but impossible. He takes a step forward, and he points the ground nearby. His footsteps leave a deep impression, but they are the only ones. Glancing around in impossibly greater panic, the snow has stopped, and his are the only footprints in the fresh snow leading away from the bus. Glancing up at him, he says, in a voice clear as a bell, but not loud at all: ‘I killed you three days ago’. And he grins, his teeth crooked and overlapping, thin, more of them than there should be, his lips splitting to go further across his face, his mouth now stretching across his cheek bones to his ears. Running. Screaming. Futile, because: killed three days ago, bowels torn out, the third murder this month. I have left no footprints in the snow.

I tried writing a story without pronouns to refer to the subject. I did use one, in the end. What did you think? Bad? Good? Middling? Let me know in the comments if you have a sec!