Elephant Words week #10

More flash fiction from the Elephant Words site, based on the image below. Created within a day or so of the image going up, it could certainly use some fleshing out, but here it is, warts and all.

Maybe someday I'll get back to it, but right now I'm expanding on this one (I've added a couple thousand words of backstory to the initial 850 words and am excited about where I plan to go with it)

Enjoy,
chris

Mars Explorer

By Chris Beckett

A ruddy cloud blew across Jimmy’s vision. Raising his hand instinctively, he took a deep breath, air hissing in his ears as it carried through his spacesuit. Dropping his gloved hand Jimmy turned slowly, absorbing the barren expanse of the Martian landscape. It was just as he’d always imagined.

He took one hesitant step, unsure of the relative gravity, afraid of flying off awkwardly. With the slightest push, he managed to float quite a few feet away from the ship. It was exhilarating. Jimmy pushed off harder, his stomach tingling as he jumped toward the horizon.

“Hey! Where you goin’?” Janey’s signal came over the wireless in the helmet. Jimmy turned to see her standing in the hatchway of the Double-X Rocket ™. Even in the bulky pressure suit, he thought she was beautiful.

Jimmy waved his hand buoyantly, his excitement threatening to overwhelm him. He gave no reply, but knew Janey could see his smile. Turning, he made for a large outcropping about a mile east of the landing.

“Be careful.” Jimmy nodded slightly as he raised his hand in acknowledgement.

Bounding across the flat expanse, Jimmy felt like he was back home in the neighbor’s pool, moving lazily through the soft pull of the water. Looking up, the rough pile of stones barely appeared any closer. He stopped for a quick rest; the exertion coupled with his excitement threatening hyperventilation.

Looking back, Jimmy saw Janey now following him. He could see her head turning left and right as if she were out for an afternoon walk, working to take everything in.

“What are you up to?” he called through the headset.

“Just checkin’ things out. You?”

“Taking a breather on my way to those boulders. Wonder what’s on the other side.”

“More rocks. Haha.”

“Comedian,” came Jimmy’s droll reply.

He got up and moved toward the eastern horizon once more. Before him, the huge stones bounced in his vision, growing slowly bigger with every up/down, up/down. Jimmy worked to keep his mind from racing again, replaying Janey’s remark, more rocks, over and over. So many others had come here looking for that Rosetta stone to explain the mysteries of the universe and only returned with handfuls of dust. He couldn’t let himself get too excited.

A few minutes and Jimmy reached the base of the outcrop. It rose fifty feet into the air, multiple handholds and ledges crossing its jagged face. Janey had picked up her pace and, looking back, he could see she was almost on top of him. He awaited her before beginning his ascent.

“Sucker!” Janey didn’t slow down, taking the first fifteen feet in one leap. It was a second before Jimmy recovered. He pushed off hard, clearing a wide ledge above his head quite easily. Without taking time to firmly plant, he shoved off once more and passed Janey who had reverted to a traditional climbing technique past that initial jump.

Floating through the air, Jimmy watched as Janey panicked and steadied for her own giant leap. He smiled and turned his gaze toward his next foothold.

Landing hard, he pushed off, and the rocks gave way. His face fell toward one large boulder as his arms hit heavily, legs flying out into nothing. The impact shuddered his suit, rippled across his body. Gravity snagged him; he began sliding down the steep face, feet flailing, searching for anything to break his fall.

As he settled into a tiny crevice, Janey passed him, eyeing the summit as she ignored him.

“Hey, a little help,” he called into the speaker.

“Uhn-uh. Not falling for that one,” came her titter.

Jimmy pushed up and bounded after her. Thirty feet from the top he watched her go over. He stopped to gain his bearings a bit.

“AAAAAHHHHH!!” Janey’s screech numbed him. With a single leap, Jimmy was over the summit.

Before Janey was a huge beast, white and hairy, almost four meters high, Jimmy immediately thought - Abominable from Rudolph. Keying his glove console, Jimmy felt his palm warm up as the battery charged, readying the laser housed in the arm of his suit.

“JIMMY!!”

He looked up to see the beast upon him, Janey small in the background lying on her side. His eyes widened as the albino monster raised its arms. Jimmy did the same, but too late. It smashed into the side of his helmet. Jimmy soared fifty feet through the air, skidding over jagged rocks. A small hiss came to his ears. His faceplate was cracked just below his left eye. The readout showed the system working to compensate for the drop in pressure, but it wouldn’t be long.

“Jimmy!” Janey yelled for him again. He tried to raise himself, but his arms were limp, fatigue overcoming him, no air to breathe.

“Jimmy,” her voice more distant than before. He could feel himself going into shock and wondered what would happen to Janey.

“Jimmy.” Fainter still. His eyes rolled as darkness enveloped him. Why couldn’t he save her?

•••

“Jimmy. Supper.” His mother called from the back door. Jimmy opened his eyes, clouds now covered the sun, and he could feel a dampness now clinging to his clothes.

Sighing deeply, Jimmy unlocked his wheels and turned his chair around. Pushing hard, he rolled up over the walkway his dad had constructed last summer for him to “walk” out into the back field. A tear cooled softly on his cheek as he moved toward the house.

Rolling up the ramp, Jimmy made his way into the kitchen. From across the back lawn he could hear Mrs. Parks next door calling her own children to supper.

“Tom. Janey. Hurry up or it’ll get cold.”

And the sound of the door closing behind him rang heavy in his ears.

Elephant Words week #9

More flash fiction from Elephant Words. Inspired by the above image. This is another piece I would like to expand someday. Enjoy.



HOW?
By Chris Beckett


Boots scrape through rough gravel as I walk across the dull gray expanse. The sound echoes softly in my ears, as if from far away, and I wonder again if I should have come here. At the edge of my vision, I spy figures moving in the ruins – the emaciated ghosts of the prisoners that were sent here to their deaths. I squint hard, looking for you both, but the images remain indistinct.

When I inquired as to a guide in the village, nobody would speak with me. I understand better now that cold response. All joy has been leeched from this place, replaced by shadows of the horror that lived here decades earlier. I try to think happy thoughts but find it difficult, able only to consider the bloody history that surrounds me. Shoulders heavy, I plod forward, determined not to give in as I have done so many times before.

The old buildings have crumbled during the intervening years, nobody to take care of them, none willing to observe the decay as it set in. They speak to me – these rotting husks – imparting the atrocities that inhabited this field, and still inhabits it today. Their sullen whispers send shivers through me as a stinging tear forms against my wishes. Clutching at the air, fists flexing without thought, I let the pain wash over me, hoping it won’t follow when I leave.

Again I ask myself, why did I travel all the way out here? What do I hope to accomplish? Am I looking for answers? I don’t know. I’ve avoided this journey for too long and whatever comes of this, it’s important that I find something to close the wounds laying on my soul.

It’s a fool's errand. There is no solace here. No retribution.

I cast my gaze around, taking everything in. Tiny islands of grass vainly spread across the hardened dirt – testaments to the hope found in all life, examples of the futility that defines this place. A pall hangs over this land, a stultifying odor more hinted at than genuine. I close my eyes and see the ashes floating across the winds, mixing with the dirt at my feet, spreading over everything like some gruesome snow flurry. It is this that I smell, that I feel coursing coldly through my veins. It is alive, and it eats at me as I try to work out the contradictions racing through my mind.

It’s years since you died – only months apart as it should have been – and only now do I find the courage to visit this place where you first met. How could you have discovered love in such an ugly place? Did you need to retreat from the horrors, to discover solace and warmth in each other’s arms? Or was it something else, something more mundane that brought you together in this hell? No matter, it happened. A miracle in a sea of filth.

Bending down, I run my fingers over the gnarled wire that seems to grow from the earth. So ruddy, I wonder if it’s rust or what’s left of the blood that flowed so readily here.

I don’t know if you can hear me, but I can feel you in this place. I wanted to tell you I’m a father. It sounds foolish when I consider it, like I’m still playing at being grown up, but it’s true. Dieter Ahrends. I can still hear his breathing in my ear as I rocked him to sleep on my shoulder last night. Every time I look at him I think of you, and I wonder, how can I expect to be a good father?

It wasn’t planned. Truth be told, I didn’t want to be a father. It scared me when Ariana told me, and I thought about leaving. I tried to explain my fears to her, but she just looked at me with those hurt eyes and crushed my heart. I couldn’t leave then.

And now.

I’m glad I stayed. Dieter is . . . amazing – so tiny and delicate, and yet so full of life. How could I not love him? But I wonder if this euphoria will last, or will genetics kick in. Because how can I hope to be a good parent when I now know who you were? It’s almost funny – me, the son of an SS-Gruppenführer and Aufseherin, a good father.

I take a deep breath, my shoulders easing just a little. What I needed to do, I’ve done. My wife waits for me with our son. I look around once more and although the ghosts still haunt my vision, I feel relieved.

I can finally go home.

Elephant Words week #8

I've stated many times that you should check out the Elephant Words site where six authors create new pieces of writing - one a day, on a rotating schedule - based upon that week's image (which goes up Sunday, meaning writer #1 has roughly 24 hours to get his or her piece onto the site. Three years in, they have yet to miss a day.) Here's another offering based upon the image below. It's something a little different. I hope you enjoy.

chris

Tonight I Sleep

I wander aimlessly,

The horizon a blank slate,

My steps nothing but random thoughts.

Remembering little of the past days,

All before me is empty,

A return to the day I was born.

Reaching back, I haunt my memory,

Searching. Frustrated.

Longing for understanding.

A gun, “I can see you.”

A loud crack. I hit the floor;

A haze engulfs me.

Voices carry. A sweet susurrus lapping

At the shores of my consciousness.

I hear its murmur but nothing more.

And then – sharp focus –

My chest tightens and that voice

Returns, “I can see you.”

What does it mean?

How could I know?

And my mind drifts with my body.

With nothing to anchor me,

I continue for days

Solace a meaningless word.

Day and Night merge,

My compass without bearings

I give up, go limp, fall.

That’s when I see it:

A break in the clouds

Delicate webs parting slowly.

The mast rises high up ahead,

Announcing its arrival while

The main vessel remains shrouded.

A chill runs my spine,

Shooting across my back

As it raises the hair on my neck.

I can’t explain this feeling.

Is it fear? Anxiety?

Or something else entirely?

I look down now and realize

That I no longer walk –

Must not have for a long time.

The sense of flying overwhelms me,

A revelation that leaves me

Wondering how did I not know?

The rolling mist fades more than moves,

Making way for the scarlet ship

Propelled by nothing, moved by everything.

And again, that voice,

“I can see you.”

But this time it’s familiar.

A mixture, like a good recipe,

Nothing distinct and yet wholly its own.

My son/grandmother/father/mother.

They all talk to me, speak

As they once spoke. And their

Sum total comprises that voice.

As too does the one that shot me.

I hear its faint tone lying in wait

Hoping to disrupt me.

But it will not happen.

I know who I am now.

I know where I am now.

Floating with purpose,

I move to the great vessel

Approaching from beneath.

It is something brand new to me

And something as old as time.

It is as it has always been.

Coming over the side, I spy

The crowd on deck and my heart jumps

As it has not for some time.

My family is waiting for me

As I have waited for them.

It has been lonely all these years.

And he is there as well,

Forgiven in a way I’d not thought possible,

And yet my heart does not darken at his presence.

He took them from me –

All of them –

And I vowed revenge.

But when it was time for that,

My hand faltered

Because I was not that man.

And now understanding floods me,

Threatening to overwhelm that which I once was,

But a comfort to that which I now am.

It has been a long journey,

But tonight I will sleep as

I have not for a long time.

Tonight I will sleep with my family.

Tonight I will sleep with my enemy.

Tonight I will sleep forever.

The Call of the Sea: a bit about process

So, earlier I included the piece of flash fiction I had created based upon the following picture:


You can find that story here

That really was not a fully fleshed out piece of fiction. So, I've returned to it in order to expand it and make it ready for publication, hopefully. I did a second draft and let it sit on the hard drive for a few months. But recently, I finally pulled it up to get back to it.

This is the first short section of the new iteration:

The call of the sea was urgent in his ears. As long as he could remember, Jared had known that uneven sway beneath his feet, the rolling passage of the lobster boat over the Atlantic.

But Jared Ames was also a dreamer. How else to explain his going off to high school? That rarely happened on the “Ledge,” particularly for the boys. The one-room schoolhouse elicited visions of Laura Ingalls and Little House on the Prairie, attracting many first-year teachers from the mainland, the closest point to the island nearly twenty miles away. But there was little encouragement for children to go much beyond what was offered here. Ledge Island was a fishing island – every man either had his own boat and traps or was a sternman. Even the postman and the honorary mayor (at eighty-two, the oldest resident of the fifty who called the island home year-round) went lobstering on a regular basis. It was understood that the boys were just biding their time until they would become full-time lobstermen.

This was just the way things were. Which is why it had been a surprise to see Jared head to the mainland and Andrews Academy///, a private school in SOMEWHERE. It was his mother’s wish. And, with Jared’s father gone when he was six and his younger brother not yet one, there had been no counter-argument to be made.

Which did not mean that Jared gave up lobstering. Like most boys from Ledge Island, and the clusters of islands along Maine’s coast, he was a natural, which is to say that it was something he became familiar with at a young age. His father taught Jared about trapping lobsters before the boy even began school. And when Harold Ames left, others on the island took the place of teacher. They took young Jared, and his brother Eric, out on their boats most weekends and many afternoons. It was exciting, and every chance growing up Jared was hauling traps.

A month into his junior year at Andrews Academy///, Jared’s mother was diagnosed with cancer. She hadn’t been well for a while, though she’d hidden it well. But when she collapsed in the post office one afternoon, Susan Richmond (for she’d taken back her maiden name when Jared’s father left) had relented and flown to Fairhaven, the one island large enough and close enough to the mainland to have its own hospital. The doctor didn’t take long to view the x-rays before proclaiming that Susan only had a month to live.

Stephen King and Greg Rucka have both said that the first draft of any story - for them - is all about getting the ideas on the page. The first draft is the quick burn. And I've taken this to heart.

When writing that initial draft, I speed through as fast as I can, my fingers trying to keep up with the ideas and dialogue in my brain. If I can't find a word or come up with a name for a place or a person, I just fill it in with the closest thing I can come to. These I denote either with a few slashes (///) after the word, or by substituting the word with a simple descriptive placeholder in all caps. These are the places where the minutiae of the piece faltered, and I just needed to keep going or lose the ideas coming to me. You can see examples of this bolded in the above selection.

But these are just the parts I know I need to fix when coming back to revise. There's so much more that has to change when I'm editing subsequent drafts. I need to make sure I'm using the same tense throughout (something I never fully understood until I began writing seriously a few years back). I have to watch for continuity errors and internal consistency. I need to make sure the words flow and that I'm not repeating the same words over and over in a small space. And I need to make sure it's "good."


Below is the second (or third, if you like) draft of the previous section, by way of example.

The call of the sea was urgent in his ears.

As long as he could remember, Jared had known/// that uneven sway beneath his feet, the rolling passage of the lobster boat over the Atlantic.

Like most seaman, Jared Ames was a dreamer, but all his dreams did not reside on the water. He wanted something more and realized/// leaving the island for high school was necessary///. And so, when he graduated eighth grade, Jared set off for the mainland, to board with relatives he’d met once when he was seven. It was an occasion of note, something that rarely happened on the “Ledge”.

The one-room schoolhouse in the middle of the island elicited visions of Laura Ingalls and Little House on the Prairie, attracting a procession of first-year teachers from the mainland///. But despite the teachers’ best efforts, there was little encouragement for children to go much beyond what was offered in this tiny village twenty miles off the Maine coast. Ledge Island was a fishing island – every man either owned a boat or worked on one. Even the postman and the honorary mayor (at eighty-two, the oldest of the fifty year-round residents) went lobstering on a regular basis. There was a tacit understanding that the boys were just biding their time until they would become full-time lobstermen.

This was just the way things were. Which is why it had been a surprise for everyone to watch Jared head to the mainland and Andrews Academy///, a private school in SOMEWHERE. It was his mother’s wish, and with his father gone since Jared was six and his younger brother not yet one, there had been no counter-argument to be made.

This didn’t mean Jared gave up lobstering. Like most boys from Ledge Island – and the clusters of islands along Maine’s coast – he was a natural, which is to say it was something Jared became familiar with at a young age. His father introduced Jared to lobstering before the boy was four. And when Harold Ames left, others on the island took the place of teacher. Most weekends Jared, along with his brother Eric, could be seen racing across the Atlantic in one boat or another.

A month into his junior year at Andrews Academy/// Jared’s mother was diagnosed with cancer. She hadn’t been well for a while, though she’d been able to hide it. But when she collapsed in the post office one afternoon, Susan Richmond (for she’d taken back her maiden name when Jared’s father left) relented/// and was flown to Fairhaven, the one island large enough to have its own hospital. The doctor didn’t take long to view the x-rays before proclaiming that Susan only had a month to live.

It still has some unfinished bits and markers where I need to go back and really think about the phrasing or about a name or maybe do a bit of research, but it's starting to gel now. The next pass I do should include minor changes and amendments unlike this first overhaul. But, we'll see.

Which means, my later drafts often read very differently than the early ones. I've had my wife read a first draft, tell me that large sections DID NOT WORK, and then have her appreciate the new dialogue of a later draft. As Greg Rucka said, the writing isn't the first draft, the writing is the revising and polishing and working at making a story something to which others can relate. It's hard work, but it's one of the most fun things I get to do during my day. That's why I schedule, in my head, the late evenings for writing. And why I stay up past my bedtime to do it.

chris

Elephant Words week #7

More flash fiction inspired by the images at Elephant Words. The site is still going strong, nearly three years after Nick Papaconstantinou created it. If you like interesting writing but don't have much time, you should definitely head on over there and check it out. It's fun.

Sand In My Toes

By Chris Beckett

I remember the day you left. I was so angry. Mom tried to talk to me, but I wouldn’t have any of that. Like any kid, I preferred to be miserable alone, but needed to make enough of a scene so that everybody knew I was unhappy – the center of attention without acknowledging it. Of course, Dad just sat in front of the television watching the game, which was typical. I’m not sure how I could have expected anything more from him?

It was hard; I was only seven. How was I supposed to understand? For so long, I resented you for abandoning me like that. I’m sorry.

I come out here whenever I’m home now. Running my fingers across the smooth stones, I stretch back through scattered memories, searching for one I recognize, for a stone we might have skipped across the river that used to run through here.

The state dammed it up quite a few years back, sent all the water toward the farms on the other side of the next town. Maybe you heard. But I don’t know.

Not a day goes by I don’t think of you, wonder what you’re doing, imagine what we could be doing together if you were still around. It’s foolish, I know, but it’s what I do. I can dream, can’t I?

On some level, I think I’ve finally come to terms with the whole thing. I needed years of therapy, which I only agreed to once my first marriage went to hell. But that’s another story, and one I’m not ready to discuss.

Shit, what a life.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t comprehend the realities in my head. You were the older brother. You were the one that could swim. I wasn’t strong enough, and I even had trouble with a life jacket, always felt like I was sinking despite its buoyancy. But none of that mattered. In my heart, I couldn’t reconcile the fact that I hadn’t saved you.

To be honest, when you first started flailing I thought you were pulling my leg, trying to scare me. That wouldn’t have been beyond you. I sat there in the sand watching you splash around, expecting you to stop suddenly and swim back over to shore. But when the splashing stopped, I couldn’t see you. I had no idea what to do, I swear. I wanted to rush in and save you, wanted to swim out to where the water rippled softly, but I was scared. I couldn’t move.

So I sat there, pulling my knees up to my chest, worrying my toes into the sand. (I still have trouble with grit between my toes.)

There are some mornings I wake up, and for a moment I forget and call out your name. It’s a reflex, probably just a specter of my dreams, but for that split second my heart skips and I wonder what we might do today.

But then I remember and pull myself back under the covers.

Elephant Words week #6

Another look back at some of the flash fiction I created for the forums on the Elephant Words site. Based on the image below, this is a piece I have plans on expanding later this year in order to send out and see if I can find a publisher for it. There's far more involved than the snapshot seen her.

SOME OF MY FAVORITE THINGS

by Chris Beckett

Henry led the young girl through the field, the tall blades of grass tiny whispers on their arms as they moved away from the Pontiac parked on the soft shoulder. This was Henry’s favorite place in the world. Any new friends, particularly ones as pretty as Serena, were always introduced to this field. It lay down a long dirt road ten miles out of the city. Henry liked it for its solitude; there would be no reason to expect they would be interrupted.

Serena was a typical girl. Living in one of the piss-ant towns surrounding Brooks Harbor, she came to town for some excitement. And excitement was always on the menu for a seventeen-year-old who looked twenty-five and showed enough skin. She’d already been to three bars when Henry spotted her in Geaghan’s Pub. After fifteen minutes of conversation and two free drinks, he’d easily sheared the girl away from her friends as the two of them made their way outside to his Grand Am. She didn’t hesitate when he opened the door for her, and her hands roamed her body as they drove through the quiet streets.

Walking behind, Henry enjoyed the way her skirt rode up her thighs, the tight fabric molding softly to her round cheeks. The white t-shirt too was far too small, pressing snugly on her pert breasts. They were tiny, round and firm, braless nipples standing at attention, ripe fruits waiting to be plucked.

Henry could feel an aching in his groin as he licked his lips. Anticipation made his heart race, the blood pounding in his temples making his mind rush as the pressure built up. He could feel a prickling sensation at his fingertips as his arms began to twitch. Legs wanting to give way, he stopped and reached out for Serena’s arm.

“Right here. Let’s do it right here.”

She turned, her eyes glazed with alcohol, smiling lasciviously as she ran a moist tongue over bright red lips.

“How do you want me?”

A glint sparkled in her left eye as clouds pulled back from the moon above, and then just as quickly a new formation swept across the celestial spotlight. Henry welcomed the warm blanket of night that covered them, preferring the darkness for such things.

“On your back,” he said with a slight rasp. Her smile widened as she pulled off the white t-shirt, throwing it behind her where it landed on a bent sapling. Shucking off her sandals, Serena slid the skirt over her hips, letting it drop to the ground, revealing her lithe body for Henry to soak in.

Henry cupped his groin vigorously, unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside but left his shorts on. Serena lay down on the damp ground, her arms reaching out to invite him to her. Serena’s eyes fluttered as he lay on top of her, grinding his crotch against hers. He let his arms roam over her body, pinching her nipples before sliding his fingers over her soft shoulders, moving to the base of her neck.

Henry kissed her lightly on the lips as Serena softly breathed his name into the night breeze. She ran her long nails down his back and humped up against him.

“Please,” she whispered as she looked into his eyes, boring deeply into his soul. He smiled and shook his head, causing her to pout ridiculously. Pressing his crotch more strongly against Serena, Henry ran his fingers along the hollow below her chin. Serena’s head lolled back as a gasp escaped her, and Henry slowly wrapped his hands about her delicate neck.

Serena didn’t notice at first, all her attention was focused on the frenzied spasms clutching her middle. But soon ecstasy turned to anxiety and then to stark fear as she realized it was getting harder to breathe. Eyes wide with panic, Serena looked up into Henry’s and saw only black. His face betrayed no emotion as hands clenched more strongly. She tried to call out, to protest, but could no longer find the air necessary to do so. Kicking wildly, she tried to buck him off, but his weight was more than double her own and he only grunted dismissively at her futile attempts. She didn’t want to die, wondered if anyone would find her, would catch him, and worried about her mother discovering she’d gone bar-hopping in that mini skirt she detested.

•••

Afterward, Henry stood up. He retrieved his shirt from where it had dropped into the grass and buttoned it up meticulously. He considered returning Serena’s shirt, but thought it looked nice fluttering in the night air, the moon’s faint rays illuminating it like some ghost.

Running his fingers through his hair, Henry tucked his shirt into his waistband and walked back to the car, serenity returning to his features, the pressure relieved until next time.

Elephant Words week 5

Here's another entry from my time playing in the Elephant Words sandbox, a flash fiction site where 6 contributors have to create a new story each week based upon a new image. And each one has to have their story up on each of the other days of the week according to a rotating schedule. Nick Papaconstaninou created the place and it's going strong nearly three years later. You should check it out if you have the chance.
But for now, my entry for week 5 of Elephant Words, based upon the image above:

Fire and Ash

Gem’s parents died suddenly when he was only six. The tiny village organized quickly – the boy’s neighbors took him in – and sent off dispatches to any known relatives with regards to young Gem’s misfortune. Only one replied. His Uncle Valencium.

People in the village were wary of Gem’s uncle. He lived in a thatch hut atop the bald hill that overlooked the village and rarely made his way down from this perch. There were many believed him to be an alchemist of a kind, though they had no proof, and objected to Gem staying with some mystical hermit.

But, the young boy’s stay was determined overlong after two weeks. And so, Gem found himself being escorted by two elderly women in long, dark robes up the hill to his Uncle Valencium.

When Gem arrived, he found the whispers had been true. Gem’s uncle was indeed a wizard and a powerful one at that. Many years ago, he had been banished from the walled city that lay a day’s walk to the west for acts none would discuss. Those rare times that Gem broached the subject it always sent a chill through his uncle, and the boy quickly dropped the matter.

Thankfully, his uncle had a loose memory, and these dark thoughts would soon whisk away on the breeze, leaving a void to fill with knowledge and laughter. It had been too many years since Valencium had known an apprentice, and when his nephew reverted to his care, he was happy at the thought of imparting his wizardly knowledge to the malleable child. It was an amazing time for young Gem. He learned alchemical techniques for transforming the brittle vegetation surrounding their hut into lush plentiful foodstuffs – yet another myth proved true – as well as how to become invisible, how to snatch whispered secrets from a stolen breath, how to make a spinster fall in love with an ass, along with a multitude of other incantations, spells, and potions.

But the most intriguing aspect of this time with his uncle was the enclosure on the second floor – a second floor not evident from the hut’s exterior. Gem would often hear bumping noises coming from the secret room, a scratching of claws waking him many nights. Whenever he asked his uncle about this, he would only say, “Later. Save that for later,” but that later never arrived, not with his uncle.

•••

Valencium had a renewed spirit in these years, finding purpose in his life where there had been none for so long. And Gem absorbed everything fully, his mind open wide to the possibilities that lay ahead of him.

A score of years passed, and with each passing season Valencium looked younger, more vigorous, while Gem grew to be a stout and handsome young man. A new generation in the hamlet below was now talking about the old hermit and his nephew, though sometimes he was named as a son, and the strange rituals performed atop their hill. Gem enjoyed going down at night and walking unseen among them, hearing the tall tales being spun. Gem would come back to his uncle with a multitude of stories for him, and the two men would laugh heartily until daybreak.

And then one day, his uncle passed away.

It happened without fanfare. Valencium did not awaken one morning, and when Gem walked over to check, he found his uncle was not breathing.

Gem searched his memories and pored over the parchments that were stashed all about the hut, but nothing could he find that would reincarnate his uncle. But what he did find in those stacks was almost as important. Valencium’s final wish had been left for his nephew to find, and at the bottom of the parchment, the young wizard also discovered the “later” he’d been awaiting all these years was now at hand.

So Gem took his uncle down to the base of their hill and dug five holes, burying different parts of his uncle in each, for it is never safe to bury a wizard complete. Chanting over the small mounds, Gem wept openly for the first time he could remember. Masking the area with a complex façade spell, he returned to the hut on the hill and slept for three days.

On the fourth day, Gem rose before the sun and performed a cleansing ritual prior to fulfilling his uncle’s last wish.

•••

The gray haze of dusk seeped over the hard stone of the city walls as Gem approached. He had been all day rolling over the valleys that lay between, and the sack on his shoulder was heavy.

“chrp” The sound from the burlap was weak, almost a whisper.

Gem had not been ready for the sigh of the feeble bird when he opened the secret room that morning. But looking into its eyes, Gem had come to the realization that his uncle and this bird were connected in some way. During the trek, he had come to understand better that bond and knew bringing it to the city was as much a return for Valencium as it was for the ancient bird.

Gem toiled up the final few yards to the base of the eastern wall and dropped to one knee. Sliding the sack off his shoulder, Gem carefully untied it and let the burlap slide to the ground. The bird within was more frail than he remembered it being that morning. Its wings convulsed weakly, barely sighing on the night air as they moved. Trying to lift its head, the animal found the effort too much and let it fall back to the hard ground, its eyes twitching erratically as it did so.

Gem felt a tear roll down his cheek, the night air cooling its traces. Leaning over, he picked the bird up – which was all bones and skin now – and stood up. Looking up, Gem bent at his knees and drew the bird down before heaving it toward the upper reach of the wall where a lit torch flamed dully in the cool night. A soft flutter of wings accompanied the young wizard’s throw and he watched as the skeletal bird arced toward the torch and passed right over its flames.

In a sudden burst, the bird erupted into a monstrous ball of flames that lit the entire valley for miles around, sending guards rushing over the sides of the walls in an attempt to escape the fire. The tiny sun roiled vigorously, sending heat off in incredible waves. Sweat stood out on Gem’s brow as he shaded his eyes with a hand, working a spell to insulate him from most of the heat. This went on for many minutes; the screams from within the city brought a smile to Gem’s face.

But eventually, the flames started to subside, pulling back into themselves until all that was left was a ball of flame roughly the size of a small man.

From the midst of this fiery ball, a great bird of flames shot forth screeching through the night. It wheeled and came back over the city flying low over the parapets. Making one final turn, the regal bird sped off into the night. The residual fireball was now fading, leaving the dull flicker of the torches to light the night. Inside the screams continued to ring while outside, Gem sat down and watched the soaring flame roll off into the night. A smile came to the young wizard’s face and he thought of his uncle, laying beneath the mound back home, smiling just as broadly.

THE END

ELEPHANT WORDS, week 4

Here's the short piece I created for the 4th week of Elephant Words, the flash fiction website created by Nick Papaconstantinou where six creators conceive a new piece of short fiction each week based on a new image. The catch is that, on a rotating schedule, the writers need to have a new piece of fiction up every day of the week, so someone has only 24 hours to write their story while others have six days. It's pretty fun and a great challenge. You should definitely check it out. And before the story, here's the image from which it was inspired:



The Lost
by Chris Beckett

Six children had gone missing in less than two weeks, all of them lost near Big Lake outside of Rumford. A sign warned against going in the lake, birthing its fair share of urban legends through the years, but it had apparently done no good.

The disappearances prompted the Bangor Daily to send a photog to Rumford, but the myths surrounding the lake relegated the assignment to one farther down the pecking order. That was where Darren Fletcher came in. He understood his laughable “role” at the paper, but was determined to make the most of this opportunity. After scouting the area in the daylight, Darren had returned near midnight thinking he could find it again easily.

“Aw, shit.” Mud oozed over his left foot, sucking his Teva into the soft earth. At least the moisture assured him he was close. Darren released his foot with a loud squoosh and took halting steps forward.

A scream from behind made him stop suddenly. He peered into the darkness for the source of the sound, but the clouds kept what little illumination available at bay.

“Eeehh.” A spider’s web stretched across his face. He clutched at his face, wiping harshly down each cheek. It took a couple of swipes before the tingle of gossamer threads retreated.

Once he’d finished clawing through his hair, a faint sound came to his ears. Isolated notes made it difficult to place, but it felt familiar somehow. Darren turned slowly to the left, following the faint notes. Zeroing in on the music, Darren caught a glimmer of light through the silhouetted trees.

Checking that his camera was still on his hip, Darren moved forward with more resolve. Walking quickly, he slashed wildly at the branches surrounding him. The lilting tones were clearer now, but he could still not place them. Pushing through the underbrush, Darren refocused on the light ahead. His heart raced.

“uh–” A sharp hiss of breath as a line of thorns raked across his calf. He thought they might have drawn blood but had no time to check.

Approaching the odd luminescence, Darren was now able to make out the local geography. The music was louder but still inscrutable.

“Shit.” Something buzzed Darren’s ear. A bat, maybe an owl, didn’t matter, he was sure his heart seized for a second. Leaves rustled up high as it alighted on a branch. Darren wiped his brow and took a deep breath. He held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. Release the balloon.

Darren moved more deliberately now – curious, anxious, his stomach clenching as he felt an urge to relieve himself. Pushing that down, he reached for a branch crossing his face and nudged it aside.

•••

“SURPRISE!!”

The light was blinding. He blinked furiously, willing his pupils to adjust. Finally, he looked up. His jaw dropped.

The lake was solid, but not frozen. Tiny waves rippled against the embankment. A group of children sat at picnic tables on the middle of the water. They were eating ice cream and playing “go fish.” Darren recognized four of the kids that had gone missing. The other two were turned away from him, but Darren knew they were numbers five and six.

They paid Darren no mind and were not those who greeted him. Behind the children, next to a brightly painted ice cream truck (the memorable jingle now audible) stood a group of animated teddy bears. They were apparently expecting Darren, beaming at him, as if anticipating some great feat of magic or dexterity.

Waving merrily, they motioned for Darren to join them.

He was at a loss. He looked down at his camera. Returned his gaze to the scene before him. Considered the most feasible reaction to such a situation. Disregarded that option. And then took one tentative step out onto the lake.

It held.

A smile came to his face as he took another step onto the water. Then a third and a fourth. Picking up his pace, Darren reached down with one hand and pulled out all the spare change he was carrying.


THE END

ELEPHANT WORDS, week 3

Elephant Words, the flash fiction site created by Nick Papaconstantinou, is a cool concept. Six writers given between a day and six days on a rotating schedule to create a short piece of writing based on a new image each week (usually prose, but it can be poetry, comics, a script, an excerpt, or any other piece of writing inspired by the image). For the first number of months, I contributed my own pieces in the public forums and eventually got the chance to be a part of the site with a six-week stint there. This is the third piece - based on the image below - I contributed to the public forums in the second official week of the site's existence. I like how the words loop around so that the opening line closes the piece, but like most of these quick "sketches" it is something I'd like to return to and expand a little for possible publication somewhere down the line. I hope you enjoy.

Thanks,
chris




















The Call of the Sea
by Chris Beckett


The call of the sea was urgent in his ears.

Of course, growing up on Ledge Island had afforded Jared Ames little in the way of job options. Not counting the schoolteacher or the post master, lobstering was the only vocation available to those living a dozen miles off the Maine coast. But that didn’t matter to Jared. As long as he could remember, he’d wanted to be a lobsterman.

Jared was a loner, always had been. When he was starting out, he took on a sternman, but that lasted little more than two weeks after which time Jared made it perfectly clear the man was no longer needed. People made Jared nervous, though maybe that wasn’t the correct word. Whatever it was, he didn’t care to socialize with others. It was the sea’s companionship he craved. Its quiet murmur and endless depths stirred something deep within him, and the mysteries held beneath the cold water excited his imagination like nothing else could. He had the sea in his veins, and Jared would never be rid of that.

Early on, it was obvious that Jared was just a natural lobsterman. He was always the first one out, without exception, and at night his boat was the last one in with hauls that were always overflowing. Jared was the only one on the island who would routinely slip in to dock with three lockers full of the dark crustaceans.

This success left many of the older fishermen scratching their heads. The boy, as they were wont to call Jared, had done little in the way of apprenticing, only serving as a sternman for one summer before getting his own boat and license at eighteen. There were more than a few whispers that he might be hauling in from others’ traps as well as his own, but nothing could ever be proven, and eventually those whispers faded away.

And so it was, after ten years of calloused hands and long days, that Jared Ames had gained the respect, if not the love, of the tiny community on Ledge Island. It was something that might have made the young man smile, if he’d been aware of it.

•••

“Billy!”

Billy Fernald looked around, but the only person that caught his notice was Jared gliding his boat into the dock. He stared at him for a second more and then went back to work.

“Billy!”

Fernald looked up again, and this time Jared was waving to him. Bill stood up and dropped the lobster back into the tank. Tugging his ball cap off his head, Bill scratched at his thinning hair and waited for Jared to dock.

The two of them had been in the same class together, though that was true of every kid on the island. One room, K-8, with a new teacher every couple years. But Billy and Jared were the same age and grew up together. Even as children, it was obvious Jared preferred to be left alone. Billy tried to include his friend, but Jared wasn’t interested, and eventually Billy just gave up.

Once they reached eighth grade and “graduated,” the division between the two of them widened precipitously as Billy, at that point insisting on being called Bill, went to the mainland to attend high school. He boarded with a family that summered on “the Ledge” and received his diploma from Mattanawcook Academy, placing somewhere in the middle third of the class. After graduation, Bill considered doing something else with his life and took some classes at a local community college, but like most island boys he found his way back to Ledge Island in order to be a lobsterman. By the time Bill came back and got on the waiting list for sternmen, Jared was already working his way up the food chain. This engendered some resentment at first, which was exacerbated by the typically cool reception from Jared. But seven years later that was water under the bridge. Still, it didn’t dull the surprise any when the hermit came in to dock calling his name.

“Billy!” The excitement was evident on Jared’s face as he tied off his boat.

Fernald strolled over to Jared and stopped short when the grown man jumped from his boat onto the moist planks.

“How was your catch?” asked Bill.

“Good,” Jared said breathlessly.

“I finally found it,” he said as Bill looked at him curiously.

“What?”

“What I been lookin’ for,” said Jared. His eyes were wide and gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Bill couldn’t remember ever seeing him like this . . . animated, excited. It was disconcerting and he took a small step back, hopeful Jared didn’t have something that was catching.

“It’s out there they’re out there it was amazing.” Jared ignored his breathing reflex as he tried to tell Bill what he’d found.

“You need to come with me tomorrow I can take you there you’ll love it –”

“Jeezis, will you stop a second.” Bill Fernald held his hands up, trying to snap Jared out of his rambling trance.

“What are you talking about?”

“Shhh. Don’t raise your voice Bill. I don’t want everyone to hear.” Jared looked around, eyes bugging out of his head, and decided it was safe. Sidling up to Bill he leaned toward the other man’s ear and whispered softly, “Mermaids.”

Bill retreated two paces, a broad smile crossing his face.

“Fuck off,” he said, beginning to laugh.

“No. I’m serious. I saw them. They’re out there.

“They’ve been waiting for me; they said so.” Jared’s eyes glazed as he spoke about his mermaids. Bill tried to stifle his laughter out of courtesy, but in his mind he knew his friend – which was the best, if not exactly correct, description that came to mind – had finally lost it. Too many days alone on the sea had cracked Jared Ames’s psyche. And it was at this point he decided to try and re-enter society.

Ironic.

“Okay. You sure they weren’t seals or a whale?”

Jared cut him off. “You’re not listening. They spoke to me. They want me to join them.

“They gave me this.” From a front pocket of his coveralls, Jared pulled out a delicate necklace with a large crystal hanging from it. He held it up, light refracting through it, painting deep beams of color over the front of Bill’s t-shirt.

“That’s nice,” was all Bill could think to say.

“It’s from them.” Jared bent at the waist, a pleading look on his face. “They told me the light would shine through it more purely because it came from the sea. Look. Can’t you see how much deeper the colors are than those things Mrs. Boucher picks up in Camden?

“Look.” He stuck the crystal under Bill’s chin, insistent that his friend see what Jared saw. Bill took the necklace from Jared and turned it over in his hand, peering at it for effect. Holding it up to the light, he shut one eye and examined the crystal as he’d seen jewelers do on the mainland.

“Yeah.” Bill dragged the word out slowly. “I can see what you mean. It is a darker color.

“I’m sorry,” Bill said as he handed it back to Jared.

“So, you’ll come out with me tomorrow?”

Bill didn’t like the frantic look in Jared’s eyes. “I can’t. I need to fish if I’m gonna pay the mortgage.”

Jared’s face dropped as he returned the necklace to his pocket.

“But if I see you out there, I’ll come over and see what we can see,” added Bill as way of an apology. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Jared waved his hand absently as he turned back to his boat.

“All right then. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.

“Take care, Jared.” Bill watched him walk over to the boat and then turned back toward his own where there was still a lot of work to be done before supper.

•••

A few weeks later, Bill was walking toward the western end of the island. He and Maggie were fighting again and he needed some fresh air. The full moon hung low in the sky, its brilliance illuminating the rutted dirt pack before him. He had no destination in mind, but as he rounded a bend in the road, turning into the long shadows of the pine trees, Bill saw where his feet were leading him.

Up ahead on the right, settled back nicely beneath a patch of maple trees, sat Jared’s house. It was a small one-story shack that didn’t look like much from the outside. Approaching the driveway, Bill spied a single light shining dully behind one of the windows. He paused for a second deciding if he should go in. Ever since the conversation they’d had on the dock, Bill had been considering talking to Jared. This feeling had become more urgent since Jared had started returning from a day’s fishing with less than a flatlander’s catch. And Jared was no flatlander.
Wiping his palms on the sides of his jeans, Bill walked up the narrow path and knocked on the front door. There was no response from within, but a few seconds later Jared was standing there, the door half open, a faint stream of light shooting into the darkness.

“Jared.”

“Bill.

“What brings you out tonight? Maggie pissed again?” Jared said this latter statement matter-of-factly.

Bill pulled off his worn ball cap and scratched the top of his head. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Jared pulled the door wider and stepped back as Bill walked inside.

“Have a seat.” Jared motioned to a tattered old recliner that had patches of duct tape on the seat and back. Bill accepted the invitation and discovered it was surprisingly comfortable for such an obvious relic.

“So. What can I do for you?” asked Jared.

“Well. I don’t know.” Bill looked down at his feet as he searched for what he wanted to say. He’d gone over this conversation a dozen times in his head already but none of it was available now.

Finally he asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know. What is wrong with me Bill?”

“You haven’t brought home a good catch in over a month. You’re talking to people when you see them at the post office or in the street. And you keep babbling on about these mermaids to anyone that’ll listen.

“Don’t you see how they look at you when you tell them? They think you’re a freak, and I have to agree.”

“But they are real, Bill.

“Do you know the beauty hiding under the sea out there? It’s amazing, and I want to see it. I want to see it all. And they can show me.”

“Will you shut up about this shit? God, I get shit at home and now I get shit here.” Bill stood up quickly from his seat, pacing in front of the recliner.

“I came here to see if there was some way I could help. I wanted to talk some sense to you,” continued Bill.

Jared looked up from where he’d sat down on his brown plaid couch and was touched by the worry in his friend’s eyes. But there was nothing to be done about it.

“Bill. I’m sorry you think I’m tetched, but I can’t help what I’ve seen.” The calm way he said it was unnerving. Bill wanted to grab the man he’d known as a boy and shake him. Maybe if he shouted loud enough, reality would sink in. Something had to work. But nothing would. So Bill shoved his hands deep into his pockets and made to leave.

“Where are you going?” asked Jared.

“I only wanted to get out of the house. I don’t want to fight with you too. If you’re seeing fairies, I’ll leave you to it.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Jared.

“Yeah, me too,” said Bill as he reached for the door and let himself out.

•••

The following month went along in a similar fashion to the previous. Jared continued to be the first one out in the morning, last one in at night, but still no worthwhile hauls to speak of. Bill worried about it for that first week after their late-night discussion but soon gave up. He couldn’t divide his anxiety between his own problems and his friend’s, especially when his friend wasn’t willing to listen to reason.

And then came a day when Bill was sailing back into harbor and Jared’s boat was already moored, as if waiting for Bill to arrive home. He eyed the small fishing boat as he cut the motor to his own and let it glide the rest of the way in. Tying it off, he made his way up the dock, walking past the spot where Jared’s boat bobbed on the water.

He only paused for a moment and continued up the slight incline to the post office. The ancient bell above the door jangled as he entered the tiny room. Walking over to the window, Bill leaned down and called in to Harry.

“Hey, old man. Got anything for me today?”

“If you’re lookin’ to get a beat down, yeah I got somethin’ for ya,” chuckled the postmaster as he came around the corner carrying Bill’s mail in his large hand.

“Thanks,” said Bill with a sly smile.

“Don’t thank me. It’s my job. If I could burn all your junk and get away with it, I would.

“How’s the fishin’ out there?” asked Harry as Bill scanned his envelopes.

“Good,” said Bill absently.

“Well, you must be doing better than some cuz all I get from them is bitchin’.”

“Yeah,” said Bill almost in a whisper.

“I gotta go. Take care.” Bill reached for the door and almost tripped as he quickly made his way back outside.

Turning the corner of the building, he put all but one of the envelopes into his back pocket and then stared at the single manila one he’d retained. There was no return address on it and no postmark. It was clasped at the top but didn’t appear to have been fully sealed. Pulling at the flap, Bill tore it open and turned the envelope upside down, allowing the contents to drop into his empty palm.

It was the crystal. The one that Jared had shown him that evening on the dock. Bill’s chest tightened as he rolled it in his hand. Lifting it up to the light, he was again amazed at how dazzling were the colors that refracted through its chiseled surface. He drew the crystal closer, mesmerized by the deep hues playing across his vision. The background noise around him faded, drawing slowly down.

And the call of the sea was urgent in his ears.

THE END