The Blue Forest

It was autumn in the blue forest.  The trees stood nearly bare, limbs outstretched like spindly arms trying to touch the sky.  Crimson leaves carpeted the floor, a breeze occasionally lifting one to dance around the cobalt trunk of its most recent home.  Quieter now, the chatter of summer long gone as squirrels found burrows and sparrows migrated south for warmer weather.  Hungry wolves slunk silently through the shadows, looking for one last meal before laying down in the warmth of their den.  Soon, skies would turn gray and snow would fall, smothering the colors in a blanket of white, and the blue forest would wait, on ice, until the spring thaw.

*****

I found this picture today on Pinterest (I don't want to post it on here for copyright reasons).  It stuck with me, and I thought I just had to write about it.

Malpractice

The orderly pushes me down the hall on the gurney, jogging as fast as protocol will allow.  Twin doors swing open ahead of us like the gates of heaven to let us pass unhindered.  He swerves to miss a nurse that absentmindedly crosses his path.

"Move."

She presses up against the wall as we brush past her.

The orderly stops in front of a door where another nurse, this one dressed in surgical gear, is waiting.  She takes over and wheels me into the room.

I don't remember much about the accident, but judging from the amount of blood covering me, it must have been bad.  A dull ache in my arm hints that it is probably broken.  I can't move, so I think that I might have broken my neck or back or both as well.

A masked surgeon waits at the head of the stainless steel table, scalpel in hand, and I look up into his eyes when I am transferred onto the slab.  He looks like he knows what he's doing.  I think I'm in good hands.

A nurse pulls away what's left of my blouse, leaving my stomach and chest exposed.  She swabs away the blood with wet cotton, and I catch the acrid smell of alcohol.  I wait for the anesthesiologist to put the mask over my mouth and nose, anxious that the unendurable pain might finally end.

The surgeon reaches forward and his scalpel pierces my skin as he deftly draws a line from the top of my sternum to my pelvis.  I try to scream, but my mouth remains closed, immovable, and the only echo is inside my head.  Tears seep out of my eyes.  Can't he see the tears in my eyes?

He's digging through my organs, pulling up my kidneys and they look so small in his hands.  He lays one aside and with a snip severs the other.  He turns to an orderly standing next to him, and I now see that the orderly is holding a cooler.  The surgeon gently places my kidney in the corner, then returns to the forgotten one.  A quick, burning snip and it, too, joins its partner.

The orderly races off as the doctor returns his attention to me.  One by one, he harvests my liver, my lungs, and something I don't even recognize.  Now he's wielding a saw, cutting through my sternum, bone dust wafting in the air.  He slowly spreads the two halves and secures them with a retractor.  I feel like I am being torn apart.

"Lara.  Come with me."

I don't know how, because my neck won't move, but I look over my shoulder to see Papa there.  I remember him giving me piggy back rides and sneaking me soda pop before dinner.  But that was a long, long time ago.

"But I'm not dead yet." I look back to the surgeon who now has my beating heart in his hands.

"I know," he says.  "But you will be."

***

Today's prompt: Write about your greatest fear.

An Unexpected Storm

Lena had always loved the rain. Showers at any time were an invitation to kick off her shoes, run outside, and dance.

So she didn't try to escape the sudden, torrential downpour, though lightning lit the black sky and thunder shook her bones. She stood perfectly still until her t-shirt was drenched and her shivering could have been from the cold.

The rain washed the blood from her legs, washed his stink from her skin, and when she opened her mouth to catch a few drops on her tongue, it washed away his taste.

She wished it would rain forever.

June Gloom

Another gray day. The sky darkened with low-hanging clouds, but no rain, no lightning to break the monotony of the gray. There was a heaviness in the air that settled into Tammy's bones. She sat in the big armchair, Springer squawking from the T.V., a wine glass in one hand and a near-empty bottle in the other.

She'd lost count of how many days she'd sat like this. Her cat, Mixen, jumped up into her lap and rubbed his head against Tammy's arm. She must've remembered to feed the cat; otherwise he'd be whining and spitting at her. Well, at least that was one thing she could do right. Tammy pushed the mewling ball of fur onto the floor.

I should do something, she thought. Something. Grab a bite to eat. Take a shower. Maybe a little yoga. She could use a few endorphins. She peered into the smoky bottle, watched the red liquid swirl around and up the sides. Maybe there were a few more endorphins in there. She replenished her glass. At least she was using a glass. That was the difference between being drunk and being a drunk.

She threw her head back and chugged the remaining wine. Then she put down the glass and the bottle and stood up. She stepped over the piles of dirty dishes and clothes that littered the floor. She grabbed her purse and set of keys and went outside, not bothering to lock the door behind her.

She knew she shouldn't be driving, so she took the side streets and drove at a crawl. Kids would be at school. Safe. Safe from her. The rest? Well, more people died from car accidents than anything else. They knew they were taking their chances when they ventured out that day.

She arrived at her destination without incident and parked a little too far away from the curb. She slipped off her sandals, leaving them on the floor of the car. She popped the trunk. She dropped her keys in her purse, then threw it into the trunk before bringing the lid down with a snap.

The wind whipped at her hair, raising goosebumps on her arms, and she tasted salt when she licked her suddenly dry lips. The sand felt soft and tickled her bare feet. She walked toward the angry, pounding waves, the roar in her ears growing.

She walked into the water and felt the icy waves lap around her ankles, splashing up against her calves, making her jeans cling heavily to her legs. She braced herself and pushed out further, turned her back against the breakers so they sprayed her back and drenched her hair.

When she was waist deep, she dove under a huge, threatening wave, and felt the undulations as the water frothed above her. It was a soft, rocking motion, and maybe it was just then, at that very moment, that she truly decided to go through with it. She wanted to be rocked in the ocean.

She began swimming away from the shore with strong strokes. She was a good swimmer. She'd be able to get pretty far. But she wasn't a great swimmer. She counted on that.

*****

Today's prompt:  Weave a story which uses this cliche – “Drown your sorrows."
To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.

No Good Deed...

The gray, stooped man stood at the corner of the intersection. His mahogany cane with the ivory handle trembled in his hands as he reached out as if to enter the crosswalk. He pulled back as a car whizzed by uncomfortably close. He peered back and forth, trying to catch the eye of one of the drivers to see if they'd let him cross. Heads turned away from him and seemed not to notice he was there.

A cluster of teen boys approached, laughing and talking a little too loudly.  A boy in a red t-shirt and backwards baseball cap pushed the shortest of his friends who yelled as he reeled close to the passing traffic.  The short boy retaliated with a punch to the shoulder.

The old man looked desperately for a path across the street before the boys could arrive.  Finding none, he shrunk back, away from the road and into the corner under the shade of a tree.

The boys seemed too occupied to notice him, and the old man breathed a sigh of relief.  The small sound caught the attention of one of the boys.  Taller than the rest, he had the awkwardness of his age.  He was quieter than the others, too.  The old man sucked in his breath and waited.

The kid smiled and shuffled over to him.

"Do you need to cross?"

The old man nodded his head.  The boy stepped into the cross walk and beckoned to the gentleman when the traffic paused for him.  The boy's friends bounded across the street quickly and walked on, not noticing that he lingered behind them.  The old man shuffled as quickly as he could, the teen walking in a slow saunter next to him until they reached the other side.

"See ya, dude."  The kid started to jog to catch up with his friends.

"Wait."  The young man stopped, then looked around with knitted brows.  In place of the old man stood a tall, dark-haired man in jeans.  The cane in his hand had been replaced with a gnarly, twisted wand.  The man approached the boy.

"Don't look so surprised.  You know that there are magical creatures that walk amongst us."

The boy's eyes widened, and the man chuckled.

"Look, I appreciate that you helped me out.  I'd like to give you a wish."

"A wish?"

"Sure, anything you want."  The man waited, wondering, trying to guess the wish based on the little bit he knew about this boy.  Would he ask for world peace?  Or a million dollars?  Maybe just a new game system, he thought with a wry smile.

The boy shrugged.

"OK.  I want a fish."

"Excuse me?"  The man didn't think he'd heard him properly.  The boy flashed him a sheepish grin.

"Yeah, well, I've always wanted a pet, but our landlord wouldn't allow it.  We live in a small apartment.  I don't think he'd mind if I had a fish."

The man shook his head incredulously.  He nodded, then turned on his heel and walked wordlessly away.  When the boy arrived home, he'd find a new aquarium on his desk with coral, wavy green plants, and a few exotic fish swimming around.  The man decided he'd throw in a year's supply of fish food, although that was technically against the rules, since the boy didn't officially wish for it.

But hey, he liked the kid.

*****

Wow.  I am really rusty!  The inner editor was going crazy as I wrote this one.  Still, it feels good to get back into Fiction Friday again.

Today's prompt:  Use the images on the dice for inspiration.  The images were a cane, a magic wand, and a fish. 

To play along, visit Write Anything's Fiction Friday at their new website here.

Lullaby

Esther felt a wave of exhaustion settle into her bones as she shuffled her way through hugs and good-byes to the door.  Her son, Edward, ushered her outside and helped her into the car.  Another Christmas dinner come and gone, another year of loneliness spanned ahead of her.

He kissed her forehead at the door.

"Sure you'll be all right, Ma?" he asked.

She was in remarkably good shape for her age.  Spry, she would say, of both mind and body in spite of her 93 years on this planet.  It was the reason they let her stay in her home -- in their home -- by herself.

"Shush, son, I'm just fine.  Ready for a little sleep, though."  She smiled up at him and patted his cheek before going inside.

She went through the motions of getting ready for bed: changed into her flannel nightgown, brushed her teeth, took her meds.  She turned out the light, too tired for reading tonight, and climbed into bed.

Sobs overtook her, racked her body.  She missed him so much.  He was her best friend.  Twenty years gone, and still she missed him, still reached for him across the bed, still expected to see him sitting on Janey's couch, bouncing a grandbaby on his lap.

She wore herself out, quieted, and a strange peace settled over her.  She couldn't sleep now, but that was all right.  She had plenty of time to sleep.  She wouldn't be getting up again. 

It wasn't really suicide, right?  After all, they stopped feeding that Terry Schiavo lady so she could pass on, and no one thought that was murder.  She wondered if it had really been painless for that woman, like the doctors said.  Terry couldn't rightly tell them otherwise, now could she?  Esther hoped that when the time came, if it did hurt, and she faltered, that she'd be too weak by then to do anything about it.

God would forgive her.  He'd have to.  He'd have to let her in, have to let her through those pearly gates.  He had to let her find him.

*****

Today's prompt: 

Use this sentiment or theme for your story “I miss my best friend”.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday, here.

Ironic note -- as I post this, Brahm's "Lullaby" is playing on my stereo.  Cosmically fitting, I think!

Yearning

The night was beautiful, the stars sparkling with an intensity you never see in town.  As I leaned back in my camping chair, I saw a shooting star flash across the sky.  I automatically made a wish, then chuckled at myself.  Years of wishes on stars that never came true, and I was still as superstitious as ever.

I leaned in closer to the campfire, rubbing my hands to warm them.  I picked up the bag of marshmallows and fitted two of them on the hanger at my side.  I supposed a couple more wouldn't hurt.  I'd certainly burn off the extra calories on my hike back down the mountain in the morning.

A rustle in the woods behind my camp caught my attention.  I loved the little creatures that visited at night, racoons and opossum and once a small fox.  I picked up my flashlight and shined it in the direction of the sound, hoping to catch sight of my visitor.  The beam illuminated two bright green eyes staring intently at me.

I froze, mesmerized.  I held still, afraid to frighten it off, and my heart accelerated a little with excitement.  Whatever this animal was, I'd never encountered it before.  I couldn't wait to tell my students about it on Monday. 

The animal moved towards me.  As it approached, I realized it was much bigger than the visitors I had been used to, and the first primal hint of concern throbbed in the back of my head.  It moved lithely, slowly, with grace and purpose.  Its furry head and strong shoulders came into view, and it stopped for a moment, considering me.  I wanted to move closer, to see if I could get close enough to touch, to wrap my arms around its neck, place my cheek against its chest and feel the beating of its heart.

A deep growl from its throat broke the spell, and I became aware of how precarious a situation I was in.  I stood up quickly, brandishing the now flaming marshmallows, and yelled like a maniac.  The big cat bounded off into the woods, disappearing from my view.  My heart sank, and I wished I could bound away with him.

*****

Today's prompt:  For some extra fun each month, we are utilizing  ”Story Starter” die. Look at each face of the dice, ponder on its significance to a character, setting or plot you may have bubbling away.. now write – using these as your inspiration.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

The Spat

I paced the living room floor, periodically peering out the window, watching the black turn to a lightening gray. Still, the Easter Bunny hadn't arrived. The kids would be up soon, spilling in with sleepy excitement, looking for their baskets. Dang, even if he got there soon, I wouldn't have enough time to hide the baskets.

I knew the Easter Bunny didn't have a magic sleigh like Santa to carry him from house to house in the blink of an eye. Instead, he relied on the sheer volume of his family to get the job done. Maybe our house had been delegated to one of the young uns. They were cute and shy, but sometimes they got lost. But I'd never had to wait this long before.

I heard a sound and whirled around. The Easter Bunny himself stood before me, looking haggard and apologetic.

"Dude, what happened?" I asked. "The sun is almost up."

"I know, I'm sorry.” He handed me the baskets in his hand. “It's just that last fall, I forgot my wife's birthday..."

I shrugged and looked at him quizzically. "That happens..."

"and went to a bar with the guys instead..." he continued. I winced.

"I guess I kissed a waitress and got lipstick in my fur..."

By this time I was shaking my head, knowing the story couldn't end well.

"and didn't get home until after three."

I cupped my balls protectively.

"Ouch." I patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. "So she..."

"Cut me off. No sex for a month."

I shook my head in pity, then furrowed my brow.

"But that was last fall." I did the math in my head, understanding finally dawning on me.

"Yep. That's why we're short-handed this year."

*****

Today's prompt:  Why was Easter Bunny held up with deliveries this year?

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Mixed Signals

"That's why I hate blind dates," Sheila said.
"Oh, come on, it couldn't have been that bad," Debbie said.
Sheila cocked an eyebrow.

"Dude, you rock," Rob said.
"Didn't I tell you?" James said.  "And to think you said you hated blind dates.  Good thing I didn't listen to you."
"All right, you were right.  Don't get used to it.

"I thought you said he was good-looking," Sheila said.
"He is.  At least, I think so."
"Don't you think you could have mentioned that he was so short?  I wore heels -- my spiked heels.  I towered over him.  It was like dating a Munchkin."

"Dude, she was so hot," Rob said.
"Yeah, I told you, didn't I?"
"I love blondes.  And those long legs that never stop?  It was like going out with a model."

"You must have had something in common," said Debbie.  "I mean, he's an architect, you're an artist."
"You would think.  When I asked him about his work, he talked for an hour about the city planner fighting with him, something about the size of his acroterion...?"
"What the hell is an acroterion?" Debbie asked, starting to giggle.
Sheila snorted and had to set her water glass down.
"I still have no idea."

"She was smart, too," Rob said.  "She asked me about my work, and she totally got it."

"He didn't just talk about work all night, did he?" Debbie asked.
"No.  Oh, no.  That would have made the night merely boring.  There was the city planner story, something about football, a conversation with his accountant, recounted word for word.  The guy jumped from topic to topic like a crazed Yorkshire terrier."

"She was a good listener, too," Rob said.  "I could tell she was really into me."
"You sure she isn't just after your money?" James elbowed him in the ribs.
"I'm sure it doesn't hurt," Rob said with a wink.

"The worst part," said Sheila, "was that he didn't even leave a tip for the waiter."
"You're kidding."
"Serious.  The cheap bastard.  After we said good-night, I had to sneak back in and leave a twenty."

"I wish we hadn't driven separate cars.  I'd have loved to take her home," said Rob.
"Think you could've gotten some?" James asked.
Rob gave a half shrug with a smug grin that belied his uncertain gesture.  James shoved him.
"Dude."  Rob burst out laughing.

"I'm so glad we drove separate cars," said Sheila.  "Can you imagine if he knew where I lived?"
She shuddered.

"When are you going to ask her out again?" James asked.
"I thought I'd wait a couple a days, play it cool.  Probably call on Thursday."

"What are you going to do if he calls?" asked Debbie.
"Ugh.  I don't know.  Maybe I'll just change my phone number."

*****

I combined two different prompts today: "Leggo your ego" and "He jumped from topic to topic like a crazed Yorkshire terrier."

Great Cats

Sophie Hedley opened the door to the cage and stepped inside. She was greeted by a half purr, half growl. Samson came forward and stretched at her feet, his giant paws spread, his front legs rigid, his rear in the air. His mouth gaped in a yawn that showed his razor sharp teeth.

"Good morning, baby," she said, reaching out to scratch behind his ears. Samson moved his head against her hand, arching in delight, encouraging more. He rolled to his back, and Sophie laughed.

"All right, all right. So you want a tummy rub, do you?"

She knelt beside the great cat and scratched his tummy, working up to his powerful chest, watching his head loll back and his legs go limp. When she finished, he rolled onto his stomach and sat up on his forearms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his orange and black fur. She felt his breath rise and fall, and her own breathing mimicked his rhythm. She slid her hands down his back, past his shoulders, over his haunches, feeling the sinewy muscles. She placed her cheek against his chest and listened to the strong beat of his heart. Her own heart quickened. She felt so alive.

After a few minutes, she reluctantly stood up and backed to the door of the cage. Samson swatted at her lightly, and she lost her balance, almost falling over.

"Hey, I'll be back. You know I will. I always do." She closed the door behind her and clicked the lock.

Every morning, Sophie had to get her Samson fix before heading off to her job at the Department of Motor Vehicles. It was the only way she could stand it. The place was a crypt of dead-end lives, both the people in the cubicles around her and those lined in front of them. The mindless waiting brought out the worst in people; they rarely smiled, and often raged about the smallest mistakes, never taking responsibility for the things they could have prevented themselves. The hours dragged until closing time, and then while her co-workers made their way to bars or warring spouses, she eagerly returned to her Samson.

She'd had him since he was a kitten. Fate had brought them together. One day, she'd seen a classified ad in the newspaper. A tiger from a traveling circus had given birth to two kittens, and the owner was selling them. Sophie's father had left the family to -- seriously -- join a circus when she was eight years old. She often thought of him working with the big cats, and she believed she inherited her love of animals from him. Finding the kitten seemed like a cosmic gift from her dad.

Samson loved her in a way that no one else could. He never disappointed her, never took her for granted, never demanded anything more than her time and tummy rubs. Sophie broke off her relationship with her boyfriend and stopped going out for drinks with her friends. She had few visitors; Samson made people uncomfortable, everyone but Sophie.

Sophie's mother worried about her, warned her that Samson was a wild animal at heart, and that something bad would happen. Sophie soothed her mother's concerns and promised her Samson would never do something like that.

***

David, the supervisor at the DMV, called Mrs. Hedley. Sophie hadn't been in to work for three days. It wasn't like her to not call. He had left several messages for her, but she wasn't returning his calls. He thought she should know. Mrs. Hedley hung up and dialed 911.

The police car pulled into the driveway and two uniformed officers got out. They walked to the front door and knocked, waited for an answer. When none came, they canvassed the perimeter of the home. They spotted the enclosure in the backyard and approached. A magnificent Bengal tiger paced back and forth, spitting and hissing when it saw them. It stopped and bared its teeth with a loud, menacing growl. There, underneath its protective feet, lay a woman's body, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle but otherwise untouched.

*****

Today's prompt:  "Looks can be deceiving."   My kids love watching the show Fatal Attractions, where crazy people keep dangerous animals and think nothing could possibly go wrong.  That was my inspiration for today.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

And welcome, A to Zers!

Fun with Flash Fiction

If you've thumbed through my blog, you've probably notice that I enjoy writing flash fiction.  Here are some of the benefits I've discovered from it.

1. Warm-up. Like a singer who sings scales before a big performance, writing flash fiction is a way to get your creative juices flowing, to prime the pump. There is a great deal of freedom that comes when I turn off my inner editor and follow an idea wherever it leads me just for a little while. I find that creativity spills over into my novel writing.

2. Scene crafting. The length of flash fiction (under 1,000 words) is identical to the length of a typical scene. Like a good story, a good scene should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Writing flash fiction gives me practice in writing impactful scenes.

3. Story mining. Flash fiction prompts have led me to ideas that I never would have come up with on my own. Sometimes I stumble upon an idea or a character that is just begging to be expanded into a novel. I began writing with one good story idea; I now have six waiting in the wings, and I expect more to come.

4. Marketing. I've noticed many indie authors have compiled their best flash fiction and offered the collection as an inexpensive or free e-book. This is brilliant! What a great way to hook a potential reader who isn't quite ready to pay more for a new author's book.

5. Resume padding. Flash fiction is the perfect size for submitting to contests, magazines, and online publications. Even if it's not accepted right away, the feedback is invaluable.

If you're ready to get your feet wet, you can find a weekly writing prompt at Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday. 

April Fools

Dahlia was a wallflower.  Not because she was homely; quite the contrary, on the rare occasion that she lifted her eyes to meet your gaze and smiled, she looked surprisingly beautiful.  Dahlia simply got lost in the crowd of well-painted, lightly clad attention-seekers vying for boys' attention.

Dahlia sat at her usual location next to the table with the punch bowl.  She had a cup of pink sugar water in her hands.  She tapped her foot to the beat of the music, and from beneath veiled eyes, she surveyed the lively room around her.  Boys with sweat stains under the arms of their t-shirts, girls with wet tendrils on their brow, both with glittering eyes as they gyrated within acceptable limits, yelling to talk above the thumping music, and laughing, lots of smiles and laughing.  Watching was next best to being one of the participants.

Along the perimeter huddled groups of pre- and post-dancers, those waiting, working up their courage to approach someone who may or may not welcome their advances.  They arranged themselves in order of likelihood; rarely did a guy of questionable popularity approach the group of pretty girls.  That would be social suicide.

Dahlia watched as Kevin, the star quarterback and ASB president, broke from the group and made his way towards her.  She assumed he was thirsty and waited for him to reach for a cup.  He surprised her when he stopped in front of her.

"Would you like to dance?"

She looked around automatically, although she knew there was no one else behind her or by her side.  She set her cup beneath her chair with shaking hands.

"Um, sure."

She stood and followed him to the dance floor, where he cleared a path through writhing couples.  He stopped and turned to her, leaned in, and she had to strain to hear what he said next.

"Well, I wouldn't."

He turned on his heel and left, walked back to his friends who greeted him with high fives and heads thrown back in laughter.  Burning seeped into Dahlia's face and down her neck as she felt eyes turn on her.  She ducked her head and pushed her way off the dance floor.

She didn't see Aaron break away from Kevin's group, and she didn't hear his footsteps as he ran towards her.  She felt someone grab her hand, and she looked up with desperate, pleading eyes.  Please, just let me go.

"Hey," he said.  "Dance with me."

He slipped an arm around her waist and kept her hand firmly in his, not letting her pull away.  He guided her back to the place of humiliation and began to dance close to her.  He talked, keeping up a stream of idle chatter that she couldn't hear, but it didn't matter.  When the song ended, he whispered in her ear.

"You look beautiful tonight."

She scanned his face to see if he was lying.  He smiled and lifted her hand, still in his, to his lips and kissed it.  He walked her back to her place next to the refreshment table.

"Thank you for dancing with me," he said.

Dahlia waited, watched him walk away, and then slipped out the door of the gym, unnoticed.

*****

As always, my flash fiction is unedited.  I didn't work off a prompt today but wrote from a true story from my teen years.

Welcome, A to Z-ers!  I'll be visiting your blogs soon.

Revision

My piece today is doing double duty:  I've revised my entry from the Hone Your Skills Blogfest using the wonderful suggestions I received, and amazingly, it fits with the prompt for Fiction Friday!  Let me know if you think this reads better.

Righting Wrong

I stood on the round metallic teleportation device in the middle of the room.  My eyes fixed on the only other person there. The old man busied himself with the console before him. He reached to push a button on the upper level, and the sleeve of his lab coat slid back revealing black ink tattooed digits. Faded, but indelible.

"When you enter, you should arrive in the southwest corner," he said.  "The oval table will be to your right.  He will be sitting at the head of it, of course."

Nervous perspiration broke out in tiny droplets on my upper lip.  I brought my arm up and wiped it away on my sleeve.  Fear tightened my throat, and I knew my voice would crack if I tried to speak.

"You will have only a few seconds before their surprise turns to action.  You must act quickly."

I steadied my voice.

"Should I have my gun drawn already?"

"No.  That would raise alarms immediately.  Let them see you and wonder first."

He paused, staring at his hands, unmoving. I knew he had thought this through many times, reliving it throughout the long nights leading up to this moment. Or maybe preliving it is a better word. He returned his attention to the console and made a few final adjustments.

"August 16, 1939. Are you ready?"

I placed my hand on the butt of the gun tucked inside the front of my jeans and closed my eyes.

I nodded.

My stomach lurched. Was I screaming? No, it couldn't be me, because I couldn't breathe. A high-pitched screech filled my ears, and my knees buckled. Tears squeezed from beneath my lids. And then it stopped.

I opened my eyes to see the scene exactly as the old man had described it.  I crouched in the southwest corner of the room.  The oval table was to my right.  He sat at the head of it.  His impeccable black hair, parted down the right, gleamed, the broom bristle mustache twitched under his nose.  His uniform was crisp, and he held his hat casually in his left hand.  The swastika band was blood red around his left bicep.  He threw his head back and laughed, disconcerting me.  I had never seen more than a frown turning his lips down at the corners.

The men became aware of my presence incrementally, as if in slow motion.  Expressions turned from surprise to confusion to concern as I removed the gun from its hiding place and trained the sights on the laughing man.  I pulled the trigger and blood erupted from the clean white shirt beneath his jacket.  The smile faded from his lips as I pumped three more shots into his chest. 

All fell silent for a millisecond, and then a buzzing roar filled my ears.  The gun dropped from my fingers, bouncing innocuously at my feet with a clatter against the hard wood floor.  The man nearest to my right tackled me, pushing me to the ground next to it.

I waited for the crack that would signal the bullet meant for me.  It didn't come.  Two burly men rolled me onto my stomach, wrenched my arms behind me, and I felt cold metal handcuffs coil around my wrists.  They hauled me to my feet, and I stood to face these men, his cronies and accomplices.  They stared back at me in horror, as if I were the butcher of millions instead of the man bleeding lifelessly at their feet.

The two large men flanked me, hurried me out of the building and into a waiting car.  We drove for miles, and as I stared at the passing German landscape, I wondered what would happen next.  A dark dank cell?  Torture?  Encampment and a cyanide shower? 

We passed through a large wrought-iron gate and came to a stop behind a dirty gray building. I was yanked from the car and propelled forward. Once inside, we walked down a dark corridor, turned left and passed several rooms before coming to a stop. The taller of the two stepped in front of me, and I heard the jingle of keys. He moved aside, and the other shoved me into the middle of a small cell.  Turning me around, he removed the cuffs from my wrists.  I heard the door shut behind me with a click.

The room was sparse but comfortable, a blanketed twin bed in the corner, a small desk and wooden chair against the wall.  A few books, a pad of paper, and a pen were stacked on the desk.  Behind a privacy screen were a toilet and a sink protruding from the wall.  And in the corner opposite the bed was a TV.

A TV?  I blinked back the surprise.  My confusion grew when I found a remote control on top.  I picked it up, pushed a button, and watched images, color images, spilling from the screen.

Somber announcers with tears in their eyes.  Mourners gathering on the stairs of the building I had been taken from, not just blond-haired, blue-eyed mourners, but brown and black mixed in.  A sea of flowers growing like a garden at the top, flowing down the steps like a waterfall.  Similar displays at German embassies in foreign countries.  Interviews with dignitaries from all around the world, in languages I couldn't understand, and then Franklin D. Roosevelt.

"The American people join our hearts to the great people of Germany and share their sorrow during this horrendous moment in history.  We honor this man who has done so much to further peace and prosperity in the world.  We vow to continue his fight against the very thing that took his life: blind hatred enforced by violence.  We will not stop or falter until every weapon has been safely buried in the ground.  Even in these darkest moments, his legacy shines before us, a beacon to follow, and he will go down in history as the greatest man ever born."

Dear God, what have I done?

*****

Today's prompt:  The one thing your character regrets learning the most is…… 

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Painted Ladies

It was a hot, dusty day, the kind of day that Tumbleweed was named for.  Most people stayed home and kept to the shade.  Not many visitors were in the First Chance Saloon, just a few of the regulars sipping their beers and playing a game of cards.  Old Sam, the colored man, played a melancholy kind of tune, not the usual toe-tapper he was best known for.

The doors opened, and the piano stopped playing.  All eyes turned to the figure in the doorway.

He wasn't from these parts, that was for sure.  Seemed a little too clean, if you know what I mean; his shirt had nary a wrinkle, and there weren't any patches on his jeans.  He glanced around the room, seemed to take us all in while dismissing us at the same time, and then made his way up to the bar.

"Gimme a Tanglefoot," he said.  The bartender lifted a brow and gave him a quick once over.

"Ain't got that in these parts, sir.  Think a little Red Eye'll do ya fine?"

The man nodded, took the glass of whiskey and threw it back with one gulp.  He waved to the bartender for another.  The bartender shot a glance at Miss Kitty fanning herself in the back corner of the bar.  She rolled her eyes and pushed herself off her stool and sauntered up to the man.

"Howdy, stranger.  Ya'll in town for long?"

He didn't look at her when he replied.

"Long enough, I suppose."

"You must be tired after traveling in this heat.  What do you say to some real refreshment?"

He threw back his whiskey, his third, set the glass on the counter, and turned to Miss Kitty, tipping his hat.

"I'd be much obliged, ma'am.  That sounds very hospitable of you."

Miss Kitty led him to her back corner where the rest of us were waiting.

Funny thing about an ugly whore.  They keep you furthest back where the shadows are darkest, because powder and rouge can only do so much.  You don't get chosen so often, and you're always worried when you do, because it's usually the mean ones that'll choose ya.  Miss Kitty won't let a man hit her pretty girls, but she figures with the ugly ones, a few bruises don't make no difference. 

So I was real surprised when the man pointed at me.  I don't know, just something about him didn't strike me as mean.  If Miss Kitty seemed surprised, too, she didn't show it, although Miss Alice had to stifle a gasp.  Miss Kitty beckoned me, and I led the way upstairs, swaying my hips real nice for the fellow, and meaning it this time.

With the door closed behind us, I stripped down to my petticoat and corset, and arranged myself alluringly on the bed.  He took off his gun belt and set it on the dressing table, but that was all.  He sat on the edge of the bed, hardly looking at me.

"Do you ever get...people... who just want to talk?" he asked.

Well, yeah, that was something that happened to ugly whores, too.  I felt a little deflated.

"Sure.  Sometimes."

"It's all right, ya think?"

Something in the way he said it made me feel a little sorry for him, like he was carrying a great sadness.  I patted his arm.

"Why, sure, it's all right."

He let out a big sigh and slowly, haltingly, began his story.

"My pa was a horrible, mean man.  Made his own corn whiskey and finished off a whole jug every day and every night.  Had a terrible temper.  He only took it out on us boys, though, never raised a hand to my ma or my sister.

"He spent a lotta time in the saloons, loved to play cards but wasn't very good at it.  He lost an awful lot of money, and sometimes we went hungry because he'd stopped at the saloon instead of the merchant.  Ma never said anything, though.  I didn't know why.

"One day he came home and told my sister to pack her bags.  He'd gotten himself into a world of trouble at the saloon and owed the owner more money than he could ever hope to earn in a lifetime.  'It's either you or the house,' he told her.

"She cried and cried while she packed up, but Ma kept reassuring her.  'You're a petty girl,' she said, 'you're gonna do just fine.  You'll get to wear pretty things, and least it ain't gonna be your pa anymore.'

"I didn't understand," he said with a helpless shrug.  "By the time I did, I came to town, looking for her, but she was gone.  The bartender at the saloon said she just up and left one day, making everyone real mad, but they didn't come after pa because she'd done a real good job while she was there.

"I'm still looking for her."  He stared at his hands for the longest time.

"I chose you because you have pretty eyes," he said, turning to look at me for the first time.  "They look real kind, ma'am."

I blushed.

"I just thought, maybe, if you ever see her?  If she comes by looking for work, you know?  You can tell her that pa's dead now, and her brother is looking for her.  Her name is Annabelle."

I nodded my head, knowing I'd never see that girl, and if I did, she wouldn't be Annabelle anymore.  No one goes by their real name, their Christian name, their pig tails and freckles and crown of daisies name.

He took my hand and held it for awhile, then he stood up and put his gun belt back on.  He left a couple of bills on the dressing table before leaving the room.

*****

Today's prompt:  Set your story in the 1880s, in a mid west, tumbleweed town. The doors of the bar open, the piano stops playing and all eyes are drawn to the figure in the doorway…… Now keep going.

My first  attempt at a Western!  I balked at first, but I'm glad I did it.  It's rough draft, unedited, of course.

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Above My Pay Grade

I'd taken her under my wing.  But that all changed when I found out she made more money than me. 

She.  Lydia Moulter, the new girl Mr. Robeson hired right out of high school with no college degree or work experience.  I tried to show her the ropes, help her get her feet wet.  But she's not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, you know what I mean?  She still files Cathy Friendly before Martin Freeman, for goodness sakes.  And her margins?  She leaves them at 3/4" when clearly a proper business letter needs to be formatted to 1". 

I cut her some slack.  I didn't complain that I was working twice as hard as she, making sure we got to the bottom of the in box by the end of the day.  I figured she'd catch on, eventually.

Friday was her first pay day.  I guess they didn't teach Office Decorum 101 in high school, because she squealed when she saw the amount.  She waved the pay stub in front of my face.

"This is so cool!  Now I can get those boots out of lay away."

She shoved the paper into her purse and clapped her hands, then went back to her game of Minesweeper on the computer.

I narrowed my eyes and seethed.  Really?  I had to know.  What was it about this girl that made her worth that much more than me?

I watched her like a hawk.  And by the end of the week, I noticed a pattern.  Every day at 11 am sharp, she walked into Mr. Robeson's office.  The door shut behind her, and then Mr. Robeson closed the blinds.  She stayed in there for twenty minutes.  And then she came out with the strangest expression on her face.  Not exactly happy; more like a hint of disgust.

I was outraged.  In this day and age?  I was not going to stand for it -- I could not allow that poor thing to be taken advantage of a moment longer.

I stormed into Mr. Robeson's office, not bothering to close the door behind me.

"How dare you?"

He looked up from the monthly report he was perusing and met my eye.  He frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I beg your pardon?"

I lowered my voice to a hiss.

"That girl.  I know why you hired her, and I know why you pay her more money than me."

"Oh, do you, now?"

A twinkle appeared in his eyes, and I wanted to slap his arrogant face.

"Did you know that Miss Moulter is my niece?"

It was my turn to look bewildered.

"Um, no, I didn't... but why does she come in here every day..."

I stared at him in horror.  He quickly waved my unspoken theory away.

"No, no, it's not what you think.  Did you know that the company provides each of its division heads with a personal assistant?  Someone to run errands for them, like picking up dry cleaning or bringing coffee.  In addition to her regular duties, Lydia is my personal assistant."

"But I've never seen her bring you coffee, or lunch, or anything else for that matter."

"Right.  Perhaps I can show you what I require of my personal assistant.  And then, if you're still unsatisfied with the pay discrepancy, maybe you'll consider sharing the post with her."

He stood and closed the door behind me, leaving us alone together.  He walked to the office window and with a twist of his wrist closed the blinds.  I held my breath.  He returned to his desk, sat down, and took off his shoes.

"I've had podiatric problems for years.  My doctor has given me a prescription for the latest bout of issues, but it needs to be rubbed in to be effective.  As you can see," he indicated his rotund and protruding belly, "I have a difficult time following those instructions myself."

He reached with effort to pull off his socks.  He stretched his feet in my direction.

"Would you care to..."

He had bunions on both feet, and the skin was red and splotchy, occasionally dotted with warts.  His toenails were yellowed and cracking from some kind of fungus.  I tasted bitter bile at the back of my throat and swallowed hard to curb my gag reflex.

"Your niece is doing a fine job, sir."

I turned and left his office.  I could hear a soft chuckle behind me.

*****

I wasn't getting into the prompt for Fiction Friday today (sorry Dr. Seuss!), so I went rogue and found a random story prompt generator online.  This week's prompt:  That all changed when I found out she made more money than me.

My Funny Valentine

David turned his key in the front door, opened it, and quietly made his way into the dark hallway.  A solitary light came from deep inside the house. He dropped his briefcase and overcoat in the hall closet, loosened his tie, and started toward the gleam.  As he was passing through the living room, the table in the shadows of the dining room caught his eye.

Piss.

Two places had been set with their good china, cloth napkins, and sparkling crystal goblets.  Jenny had never done more than get him a card before, and after three months of her withholding sex, he really hadn't expected this.

He heard a shuffle and turned.  Jenny stood in the doorway of the room, wearing her terry cloth robe and fuzzy pink slippers.  Even with the light behind her, he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.  He shrugged helplessly.

"I'm so sorry.  I had no idea.  Work has been so busy, and I stayed late to try to get caught up.  I completely forgot it was Valentine's Day."

That was a lie.  He hadn't forgotten at all.  He'd simply chosen to spend the evening banging Phoebe, his secretary, on the suede couch in his office than enduring the cold silence of the woman he'd married.

"I know how busy you've been.  It's OK," Jenny said without looking at him.

That, too, was a lie.  It was not OK.  He could almost see her mentally taking out a three by five card and writing "2-14-2011: Missed Valentine's Day dinner" in bright red ink.  It would be filed away in that endless card catalog of hurts and mistakes that she had kept over the last 12 years.

She moved toward the table and picked up a covered platter.

"I could heat it up for you," she said as she walked into the adjoining kitchen.

"No, no, that's OK.  I had take-out at the office."

Now that was true.  He had ordered a three-course meal from Avanti Ristorante delivered to his office, complete with antipasto, crab-stuffed chicken over angel hair pasta, crusty bread and olive oil, and tiramisu for dessert, all served with the house champagne.  Phoebe had gotten tipsy, and then a little bit whiny.

"When are you going to leave your wife?" she'd asked him as he walked her to her car.

"Soon," he'd promised, then kissed her good-bye and watched her drive away.

Jenny came back into the dining room and began clearing the table.

"I can help with dishes," he offered.

She waved him away with a tired smile.  She was in full-martyr mode now.

"I'll just set them in the sink and do them tomorrow.  They didn't really get dirty."

He picked up the goblets and followed her, added them to the rest of the untouched dishes, and turned to leave. 

She reached out and caught his arm.  It was the first time they had touched, that they had been close enough to touch, in months.  Her hand trembled with uncertainty.

"Happy Valentine's Day," she said and finally looked up at him.

He held her eye, fell into those bottomless ebony pools and saw the jagged cuts and tears that he had caused.  Another lie.  He'd never leave her.  He'd always stay.  It was his penance.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

*****

K, this wasn't my favorite.  I guess I'm not a comfortable cynic! 

Today's prompt:

Its late on Feb 14th. Your character has just realised that they have forgotten Valentines Day and the affiliated expectations surrounding it. What excuse or reason are they going to give to their partner?

To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

The Cure

Dr. Jonathon Randall was merely twenty-nine years old when he watched his wife pass through agonizing torment and from his life forever.  She left him with a chubby two-year old daughter who had her mother's eyes and her mother's smile.  Seeing the child sent waves of pain shooting through him, and so he hired a nanny and threw himself into his work.

He initially determined that he would find a cure for cancer, but he soon found that that was not sufficient.  He had to find a way to eradicate all disease, anything that could threaten to take his daughter, his second great love, away from him.

Dr. Randall was a brilliant geneticist, and his work progressed quickly.  First he learned how to catalog individual genes in the human genome.  Then he focused on perfecting splicing techniques.  His breakthrough led to a patent on designer genes, and he marketed the technology to a chain of fertility clinics.  He made a fortune off of parents who carried home from the hospital babies with beautiful blond hair and blue eyes, who were more likely to win spelling bees and make captain of the football team.

He used the money to further finance his research.  He expanded his laboratory and hired an army of the most brilliant young minds to assist him.  He learned how to identify defective genes, and he developed the technique for replacing them.  He focused his attention on the code for immunity, and through many experiments learned how to create a super-immune individual.

But that would only help the rising generation, the new babies of parents who could afford the enormous expense of genetic manipulation.  His own beloved daughter still caught colds and flus and once, walking pneumonia.

He stumbled upon the answer while he was recruiting at the International Conference for Young Scientists in Alexandria, Egypt.  One impressive young man, fresh out of grad school and still working on his doctorate, had given a fascinating presentation on the potential of retroviruses.  With their ability to invade and insert their own DNA into host cells, they were the perfect vehicle for transferring engineered genetic material into anyone, anyone at all.  Dr. Randall offered the lad a six-figure salary on the spot, and arranged to have him begin working at the lab the following Monday.

It worked.  After several more years, Dr. Randall had created a super-bug, a retrovirus that contained the ability to alter a person's DNA so that they would be resistant disease.  He had done it.  But as Dr. Randall held the triumph in his shaking his hands, he finally looked up from his work and discovered that his daughter was now a stranger to him, and humanity was no longer worth saving.

*****

Today's prompt: 

“My Million Dollar Idea”
Identify a problem or issue – either in your everyday life or community. What product or service could ease this?
Let your imagination go crazy. If you had access to all the resources you needed, what would your million dollar idea be? Just remember, alot of the advances in science came about from writers ‘crazy’ ideas and asking “what if?”

This was very fun for me, getting back in the swing of things after our horrific move!  And, just as a teaser, this is part of my story that started with "Iced."  You can read my previous excerpts here, and here, and here.

And don't forget, this is the last day to enter Cathryn's giveaway for a free copy of her debut novel, The Demise of the Soccer Moms, and a free Kindle!  Visit her blog for details at Suburban Noir.

The Magic Feather

Jackson woke to a hard shove against his shoulder.  Harris towered over him -- well, maybe not towered, but from Jackson's angle lying on the floor, the midget looked a lot taller than his 3 foot 6 height.  Harris grabbed his shoulder and shook him again, though Jackson noted it wasn't with as much strength as you would expect from someone wearing a strong man costume.  The thought made him chuckle, which he immediately regretted as pain shot through his temple with the movement.

"Man, are you OK?" Harris asked.

"Huh?" Jackson asked.  He looked down at himself, saw that his baggy pink pants were smudged with dust and his polka dot frilled shirt had a tear along the elbow.  He tried to sit up, and his muscles screamed at the effort.  It took a moment for him to get his bearings, then his eyes lit up and he grabbed Harris by the strap of his tank.

"I was flying, wasn't I?  I did it!"

Harris frowned and tried to pull back, but Jackson clung to him tighter.

"You must have hit your head pretty hard."

Jackson shook his head vehemently.

"No, no, I remember, I did it.  I flew.  Just like in the story."

He looked around and saw the fake burning building, the clowns dressed as firemen crowded behind Harris.  He pulled his hand up to his face, but it was empty.  He pushed Harris aside and began searching on the ground.

"I dropped it.  That must be why I fell.  I was doing just fine until I dropped it.  It's got to be around here somewhere."

Harris scratched his head.  He turned to the crowd of people behind him and shrugged.  He turned back to Jackson and tried to get him to sit back down.

"Now, now, why don't you just stay put until the ambulance gets here, all right?  The doctors are going to want to take a look at you."

Jackson waved him off and continued searching.  Something caught his eye, a hint of black on the dirt surface.  He reached for it and waved it triumphantly at Harris as a siren filled the air, growing louder with proximity.

"See?  Proof."  He held a black crow's feather in his hand.  The medical technicians came running towards him, and he showed his prize to them.  They eased him back to a sitting position and began examining him.  Jackson smiled at them and tucked his treasure into his pocket. 

"I'll need this for next time," he said as they led him to the ambulance.  "I just got to remember to not let go."

*****

This week's prompt:  Your character wakes in a circus tent. They are wearing baggy pink pants and a polka dot frilled shirt. A midget in a strong man outfit is shaking them awake asking if they are alright.


To play along, visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday.

A Woman's Job Is Never Done

The members of the Justice League gathered around the commissioner's old walnut desk. They looked at each other, curious to know why they had been called in for duty the night before Christmas.

"Thank you all for coming," the commissioner said. "I know you'd all rather be spending time with your families right now. But this is an emergency."

He paused to give weight to his announcement.

"Santa Claus has been kidnapped."

Several groans rifled through the crowd of super heroes. Wonder Woman rolled her eyes. Of course. Some nut job always targeted Santa this time of year. She remembered slapping the cuffs on a middle-aged man who was apprehended before he could do any damage last year.

"Legos," he had spat at a flustered Santa. "I asked you for Legos."

The red splotches on the jolly old elf's cheeks were not exactly rosy.

"Look, it was a typo. And you can still build with Lincoln Logs."

She had led the man away, still muttering. Sheesh.

Batman took her arm, startling her out of her memory. He led her out of ear shot of the rest.

"You know we're going to need someone to cover Christmas, don't you?"

"No way, not me." She shook her head. "Why do I always get stuck with this kind of crap?"

"You're the only one here with any real super powers, besides Superman. And you know his ego isn't going to let him skip out on all the good fighting stuff."

She glanced over at Superman where he stood with his arms folded, his hands underneath his biceps pushing against them to make them look bigger. Why did he do that? Everyone already knew he was the strongest man in the world.

"Besides, you've already got transportation. Nice and roomy. You won't even need to figure out how to drive the sleigh."

"And what about sliding down the chimney? You don't think that being an Amazon might make that difficult?" She squinted and a sly smile lifted her lips. "Don't you think Robin would be a better choice?"

"Nice try. You forgot about the elves. We'll throw in a couple to help you out. Whatta ya say? Will you do it?" He smiled at her with all his Bruce Wayne charm. She sighed and dropped her head.

"All right, all right. But you owe me one."

"I know." He winked at her, then walked over to the commissioner to whisper the good news.

*****

This week's prompt:

Santa Claus has been kidnapped only hours before he is set to start his Christmas deliveries. Whilst the other superheros rescue and punish the offenders, it is up to one Superhero to undertake Santa's role this Christmas. Who will it be? How will they go?

Want to play along? Visit Write Anything's [Fiction] Friday here.

Wild Things

It was my favorite time of year to be hiking in Yellowstone -- fall, when the leaves turned brilliant colors, the days were cooler but the nights not yet freezing, and the tourists packed their broods into station wagons and left the surroundings littered but quiet.  The stillness in the air enticed the wild things to come back out of hiding and return to their normal habits.  Sometimes I'd pass another seasoned naturalist on the trail, and we'd nod, but mostly it was just me and blue skies and birds, squirrels, elk, deer, and a few big horn sheep.

I made good time, five to six miles before stopping for lunch, and then another leisurely four this afternoon.  When the temperatures started cooling and the sun darted in and out of trees closer to the horizon, I knew I needed to look for a place to camp for the night.  I liked to settle in and then listen to the awakening of the nocturnals.  I wandered off the main trail and found a nice clearing under a few trees, the ground fairly even and free of rocks and shrubs.  I shrugged off my backpack and popped up my one man tent, then scouted around for wood to use for a fire.

By the time night fell, I had a warm, blazing fire.  I heated some of the water from my canteen and poured it into my styrofoam cup of soup.  I settled myself against the trunk of the nearest tree.  I stirred my soup, took a spoonful, blew on it, and slurped a long, salty wet noodle into my mouth.  Not exactly gourmet, but it reminded me of my college years, and it suited the mood of the evening -- young, free, and just a little out of touch with reality. 

I finished the noodles and threw my head back to drain the last of the liquid from the cup when I noticed a large black feather falling from the tree.  It landed beside me.  I picked it up.  It was sticky.  I brought it near the fire so I could see better.  Deep maroon, still almost black unless the light from the flames glinted just right.  Blood? 

The feather looked too big to be from a duck or woodpecker.  I worried it might be from a falcon, or worse, a bald eagle.  Curious, I fished my flashlight from my backpack and shined it up into the tree I had been leaning against.  The faint beam landed on a dark, feathered body, wings splayed and head tilted askew.  It was a big bird, but probably not an eagle; more likely, just a hawk.  Looked like the predator had become prey.

The light illuminated something else on a branch a little further up the tree.  A deer, or at least what was left of a deer.  Its legs dangled lifelessly, its head flung backwards, exposing the ripped, hollowed underbelly and a few pieces of flesh still clinging to the fur.

A deer?  In a tree?  I'd heard of leopards doing that with their prey, but this was Wyoming, not the Serengeti.  I shined my light back and forth, along the branches, and then dropped it with a clatter at my feet.  I fell to my knees, groping around in the dark, desperate to find it again, while reason fought against what I thought I had just seen.  A human hand, glistening white, dangling from a branch.

I heard a deep-throated growl and froze.  I shifted my head to see two yellow eyes towering above me.  So this is what it was like for Steve Irwin and that guy who lived with the grizzlies.  The last thought flashing through my mind: what was that guy's name?

*****

Today's prompt:

In most parts of the world, Halloween is celebrated – in some form or another – this weekend. Your challenge this week is to write a horror scene (or something horrific) using a wet noodle, a styrofoam cup and a feather.