[#FridayFlash] With Leotard and Cheerleading Baton in Hand

I'm back with the followup of my humorous super hero story called "Worst Superhero Story Ever" At the end of the story I left the heroine Amelia with her newly handed symbol of office, namely the fabled baton and leotard of power. Oh, and a lot of loaded guns pointed at her. How the heck will she get out of this one?

"With Leotard and Cheerleading Baton in Hand"
by Harry Markov

“Oh my god! What is that on my lap?!”

As far as improvisations went, this one wasn’t half that bad. All the bad guys postponed their trip to Trigger Happy land to look at my lap, distracted by the white blot that was my leotard.

I used the moment to bolt to the right, both leotard and baton clasped in my hands. The goal was to reach the stacked crates and try to Houdini myself into the leotard, while handcuffed.

Gun shots mercilessly followed and I found myself dodging bullets. Among zigzagging and praying I didn’t get hit, I found myself performing cartwheels, front aerials, handsprings and roundoffs. Go team ‘Survive this Night Goddamnit’. Ra-Ra-Ra!

Surprisingly, I took cover without getting shot. Perhaps the first thing I’d write in this thing’s manual would be that the leotard gave the wearer super magic acrobatic acts without wearing it beforehand. No wonder that Robin, the Boy Wonder pranced around in tights.

Squatting with the leotard and the baton bundled in my hands I wondered how to get out of the cuffs. At this point I was numbed with the absurdity of this problem to worry how close to home the bullets hit. What I needed was a key. I didn’t see how else I could free my hands. I was no handy woman to work with tools and there were no tools in sight (well, other than the assholes with the guns that is).

Thinking it over and not finding a solution freaked me out a bit (a lot more than I’d admit it), but not as much as the baton growing smaller and lighter. Now, that pushed all the wrong buttons at the wrong time. The baton disappeared in the leotard and when I searched for it, I found a pair of keys for the handcuffs.

Deus Ex Machine to the rescue! No three words had made me happier in my life (other than the ‘Monthly Ex-Husband’s Allowance’ combo). I unlocked the cuffs and crouched around just as the goons grew the balls to follow me to the crates. There was something unsettling about this ‘in the nick of time’ business. I could’ve very well dined there and the only disturbance would have been the damage to my hearing.

The octogenarian planed on teaching me a lesson, so I wouldn’t die per se, but spending all my time in a gun fight didn’t rank at the top of my list for fun Sunday night outings.

I somehow moved to a different hideout position without getting shot. It seemed to me that I would do a lot of things in a somehow fashion, but I’d work it. I always did.

In all honesty, the leotard proved a lot more difficult to put on. I had to strip (the weather did not make this pleasurable), then the blasted thing caught on my…eh…muffin top (more hours in the gym, yey! Not.), then I came face to face with a shotgun barrel.

“Any last words, sweetheart?” The man holding the shotgun smiled, winked (in response I swallowed my bile or else he’d come face to face with projectile vomit) and prepared to kill me, though his motive still remained a mystery.

In the mean time I held the keys in my hand and was prepared for a second test run.

“Yeah, sure. Just one.”

I lifted the hand with the keys to his groin, which was really below his shotgun and in his blind spot. Really, because every gangster had to squint with one eye aligned with the barrel two feet from the target.

“Taser.” I yell and immediately feel how the keys grow into the familiar taser (every reputable businesswoman had one).

I shot. The wires darted. As they made contact with his crotch, I rolled out of the way (the leotard’s survival instinct, not mine) and the rest was a Home Alone action sequence. The shooter’s crotch was electrocuted. He fired at nothing and then curled up in pain.

With a single tug, I pulled the lifeless wires from him and ignoring my heavy accented muffin top I turned around towards the majority of bad guys, who just stood there (the power of the leotard). I might have been a sight. Sneakers, leotard… nothing else actually.

“You guys are the most inefficient henchmen in the world. I’d fire you if you worked for me.” I said in my most hardcore movie voice.

As they drew their guns, ready to take me out (personally, I’d lost confidence in them as enemies) I aimed the taser at the majority, hanging wires and all.

“Rocket launcher,” I said and sure enough, the taser elongated until one end rested on my shoulder and the loaded end faced the guys.

“You really want this to go down?” I asked. In my mind I tried to sound bad-ass, but then again I must have sounded constipated (that thing weighed a ton and I had no upper body strength at all).

The clatter of weapons on the floor answered my question as the tough guys made an exit, stage right, never to be seen again.

“Baton.” I commanded and huffed as the launcher shrank to the familiar baton.

God, what a Monday morning.

I placed a hand on my hip, thinking that this was the beginning of a super hero career that would totally damage my business life. Oh, and the muffin top reminded me about a renewed gym membership for I would have to avenge the streets with a leotard and a baton in my hand.

#FridayFlash The Brain is the Brawn is the Brain

The Brain is the Brawn is the Brain
By Harry Markov

To say Pete Homes thought his life unsatisfactory would be correct, it would probably also be considered an understatement well deserving of an award. Pete would agree and then he would most certainly present you with a 84 page-long thesis to illustrate why that is. You see, Pete thought and he did it a lot.

Pete thought all the time, even when he touched himself at night [during those times he'd theorize as to why there was no one to do it for him]. It goes without saying that Pete's 'friends' mocked him. They would call him The Thinker, which Pete thought was better than the classic Lard-Ass.

"Hey Thinker, did you find out why we exist?"

or

"Thinker, tell me now, why did the chicken cross the road?"

Then most naturally they would commence laughing.

Pete, the 'Thinker', Homes understood how the world worked - for he'd thought about it a lot - and his conclusion: money did not rule the world, muscles did. He'd analyzed every possibility with or without muscles and deduced that if he had muscles - big, sculpted beauties -, then he'd be happy.

Nobody messed with people, who had muscles. If he had muscles, Peter thought, then he'd be the alpha male, while the others would remain inferior gammas. Women would swoon over him, driven by their prehistoric instinct to seek protection and copulation with a suitable male. It was all obvious to the Thinker. Simple, if one thought about it.

And Pete did, because Pete thought a lot. All the time, a stream of thoughts as long as the Nile, as consuming as a flood and as pummeling as the waters of the Niagara Falls. Among overthinking everything that crossed his line of sight, Pete indulged a lot of his brain cells in his personal project called Portrait of Misery, in which he thought about his shortcomings as a human being, all resulting from the unfortunate circumstance that was his Jabba-the-Hut physique.

Now, Pete had attempted to adopt muscles. He had tried going to the gym, but he found he did not like it there. The smell of feet, pits and crotches, his unsurprising non-existent tolerance for pain and residual sweat on the equipment re-routed his energy to chewing. Because Pete - the sad, sad cliché that he was - entertained an emotion-based eating disorder.

If Pete was a movie character, he'd be the fat, miserable nerd, ranked lower than the homo BFF. Just background... no, the background to that background.

To say that Pete was fed up would be correct. However, there was another entity, which was just as disgruntled. That entity was Pete Homes’ brain, which unsurprisingly called itself Spock.

Spock had had enough [fuck this shit, in his words] and decided to give Pete what he wanted and shut him up once and for all. Being in control of Pete’s medical-mystery-of-a-body, Spock diverged Pete’s thinking energy into his muscles.

BEHOLD, Pete Homes lost weight.

Pete was dumbfounded as to this peculiar phenomenon... His mind was thoughtless in the face of this conundrum. For one Spock could use some silence.

The pounds fell from Pete like leaves in a picturesque autumn scene. ‘Friends’ became ‘friends’, who were interested in the miraculous weight loss. Pete, however, didn’t get the hint to stop with the thinking and soon after all the fat, body odor and greasy skin had been exorcised, muscles began to form on his current wire-hanger, boyish frame.

It was around the time, when Pete had a swimmer’s body, when a woman decided to touch him down below, decided she liked it and then did a lot more. Pete Homes, voted most likely to die alone in high school, had a sex life and a brand new frontier of thought for his cognitive gymnastics. He’d never been happy and he thought how he’d been correct about the singular significance of muscles as a prerequisite for satisfaction, how much better his life was and how it would be better with more muscles.

Who would have thought that Pete Homes would win Mr. Olympia? Then again how could he not with bowling balls for biceps, baseballs for triceps, barrels for pectorals and a buffalo’s romp.

All the while Pete grew and grew, thinking how much more he would win. Subsequently, he did learn after growing some more.

When his pectorals rose so high that he couldn’t see beyond them, the doctors came. Pete had graduated to being a medical mystery again, no longer invisible to the world, but the world invisible to him. Around that time Spock reconsidered his plan as a bad idea in the first place, but what had started could not be reversed for Pete thought more than ever, quick bursts of frightened and erratic thoughts, which fed his muscles.

The last Pete heard was that he had grown so large that he had developed a gravitational field stronger than that of the Earth. Then silence.

Pete wondered whether he would orbit around the sun as a planet. Spock groaned.

[Friday Flash] Worst Origin Story Ever

NOTE: I'm back on the #FridayFlash scene. It's been a long time since I've had the time to get a flash done [on time that is] in-between projects, so here is a slightly humorous super hero tale to entertain you.

Worst Origin Story Ever
by Harry Markov

‘Crack!’ was the only sound that accompanied the door’s sudden transformation from cheap pine to splinters. At this point Amelia didn’t bother with buying a sturdier front door, opting for a heavy stock of identical spares.

Why would she, when every month paramilitary troops would rush into her living room, as was the case at the moment. Four armed soldiers stormed her apartment, spreading into a half- circle before stopping. After a quick glance at the clock (three minutes into the new Monday) Amelia concluded that they were right on time.

“Are you here for the kidnapping?” she asked the unit leader. Thirty-four abductions taught a person a lot about the chain of command in illegal organizations.

“Yes?”

“Well good. Shall we go on, then? I’ve packed some light reading and a midnight snack, just in case it’s necessary.”

“You serious?”

“No. I am joking,” truth was that constant abduction was a drag (not to mention how it spoiled all her weekend plans) and she wanted to shake things up.

The unit commander didn’t respond, not that it was of great import. Amelia’s reputation as America’s Most Abducted Woman prohibited her from consorting with the underlings (it was only appropriate).

Amelia was a good captive. Followed the armed men into the black van. Didn’t try any of the ‘funny stuff’ she was instructed against. Didn’t object to the unreasonably fastened cuffs. Nor did she correct them after incompetently tying the blindfold. It had taken a while (and a few bruises to her cheekbones) before she had learned the abductee’s proper etiquette. But she supposed it was all well worth it for then the gypsy witch that had cursed her would never see Amelia powerless, even if the witch had the upper hand.

During these nights, it was hard not to think of the curse: a sorry mad-lib-like thing played in an eternal loop:

“In the dead of night, in the days of sorrow (Mondays; nothing worse than the begging of the week, even if she liked her job) you will be taken by (insert criminal organization). You will suffer indignations and humiliations. Then you shall be saved by (insert law enforcer; usually with a five o’clock shadow) only to fall in love and then reap bitter rewards.”

Rather lengthy and specific. Unnecessary effort, considering Amelia only sacked two hundred people. Hostile takeovers didn’t happen without casualties and the gypsies had to go. It was part of the job description. Why couldn’t they deal with it? She had.

Amelia tried not to dwell too much on the unjust past. Instead she revised the reports and the data for the meeting on Wednesday. The upcoming deal would decide whether Amelia was junior partner material or not. In the mean time, the van had stopped and the henchmen lead her (still blindfolded) into a place with great acoustics. Outside she heard water. The air was heavy with fish and salt.

The henchmen seated her and the cold of the metal ran a chill down her back. Something was off. Amelia had done this enough to feel how this particular stillness held back something of importance, how aggressive the bite of the cold was, how no one made demands or bothered to laugh. All things that before had not happened. Perhaps they were a criminal organization of mimes. Maybe that’s why they did not talk.

Then Amelia’s ears picked up multiple clicks as if pins had fallen on the floor, but she knew better than to hope for a clumsy seamstress with lots and lots of pins to drop.

“Enjoying the twist?”

It wasn’t until Amelia heard that sandpaper-rough voice that she realized she’d been holding her breath. Fear had crept back so fast, Amelia gritted her teeth. If there was one thing Amelia loathed more than hearing about synergy, it was feeling afraid.

“You are no Shyamalan.” Amelia said, although uncertain to whom.

“You are mean-spirited.”

The blindfold slid off by its own volition. One mean, anorexic octogenarian floated above a bouquet of extended arms and barrels. She smoked from a cigarette holder. Smoke coiled, all white, as her hair, as her robes, as her eyes, swallowed in milky white.

“Who are you?”

“I am nameless.” She spun the smoke from her mouth into her bony fingers. “You left my people hungry.”

“You cursed me.”

“You begged to be cursed. Don’t worry. You will atone. I see that my child’s curse couldn’t beget change in your heart.” The movements of her fingers sped and the smoke thickened to white fabric.

“You don’t fear for your life. You don’t fear to be alone. You live, but you’re very much dead inside. I do wonder, however, if you would not live for others.”

The octogenarian finished and tossed a tacky Madonna-inspired leotard in Amelia’s lap. Then she reached inside her sleeves and tossed a cheerleader baton on top.

“Dressed as a stripper?” To Amelia that didn’t make sense.

“You are quick to smear everything with the dirt of your words. You will learn otherwise. The wand is your weapon. Will it and it shall be.”

“What do I need a weapon for?”

If Amelia thought the octogenarian gypsy a nutjob, suspended with cables, now she feared (as much as she hated admitting it) her to be the real deal.

“For them, superhero.” Yes, the witch said superhero...

Then the gypsy pointed below at the loaded guns.

“A word of advice. The wand will only work, when you are dressed.”

And with that the godly octogenarian dissolved, time rushed back, trigger fingers squeezed in for the head shot and for the first time, Amelia had to defend herself.

Such shame that she had to do it dressed in a leotard. Not to mention that she had the worst origin story ever.

[Friday Flash] Wordless

"Wordless” by Harry Markov

Today the bus brimmed with passengers, which wasn’t unlike any other week day. Passenger after passenger stepped in and elbowed their way forward to claim a spot for themselves. This continued until each silhouette nested into another and the space around me blurred into one colorful collage of fabric and faces. I managed to scuttle in a sun bathed corner and stood still, swaying with the bus’ rhythmic stops and starts. Soon he’d board as well and our morning game could begin.

I couldn’t get a good visual, so I resorted to second best. Among distilled human fragrances, cheap fruit deo, aftershave and I searched for his perfume. I caught an accidental whiff one day, when I brushed off him on my way out and now could find it anywhere in enclosed spaces. This was all much to my surprise since my sense of smell was dull, misguided at best, but all around him all my senses spiked. No, I couldn’t hear him breathe a mile away, though he had a deep breath, strong lungs. At least his chest cavity deceived me into thinking so. Once I even had the luck of hearing him talk, the inconsistent small chat over the mobile phone that really showed an individual’s personality and his voice was something else and special.

Rather cliché, but how could you not go there, when what this man makes me feel is beyond the reach of words. I have read a lot of books on the matter, bound to happen since I work at a library and after that in a late night coffee shop – bookstore and how could you not pay attention to the glossy cover art on some of these novels. And all the big volumes come slightly skewed around infatuation, attraction and the mystery of relationship. And I think we had a relationship with him. A silent relationship.

Mornings we greeted each other with a smile and a knowing look, anticipating the hour long traffic for me and the longer ride for him. Late at night we encountered each other in the subway separated by the plastic white seats, where we swayed to the tracks staccato passing and told our day’s passing with head nods. Of course there were questions in my mind. A constant, chattering cacophony of questions. It was a wordless courtship and resembled bathroom conversations with the mirror and your imagination. Why was a man in a decent quality black suit doing with public transportation? Was he single? Had to be, otherwise why bother with me. How old was he and did he like his stubble? In my mind he was a philanthropic lawyer or big shot manager in a company, who liked being cramped in a bus. Rich people had their eccentrics. But how many sculpture worthy people matched their beauty on the inside, especially when fat checks were in play. Sigh, whatever he was, my man, silent in the chaos, gave that all around good guy vibe.

It didn’t matter how far away we were in the bus, he would always give me a sign, slip a message or wave with the umbrella on a rainy day. I had mastered all the skills of observation or so it felt like, a private hunting game of hide and seek. On a sunny day I would spy his face in the window’s reflection and caress his features with my fingertips or catch a glimpse of his blue shirt’s collar, business case or top of wavy cinnamon hair. At the same time I could also feel, when he watched me, his stare clinging on me like elastic binds.

Today though was different. Today all of the small pieces towered above me. I didn’t even notice, couldn’t even move, when his perfume expanded and took all air around me hostage. His arm reached in front of me and anchored on the aluminum grip, the bright blue sleeve waving like a strip of the sky in front of me and that was when reality became dysfunctional. Five months I’ve nibbled from the edge of this feeling and now an overdose exposed me to an emotional livewire. It injected chaos within me, but on the outside I was no different from an exhibit at Madam T. museum, petrified but slowly melting. And so the ride continued, fearful and wanted and me torn in the middle. Should I speak or should I stay silent. Words, spoken and hidden, thwarted and played with always ruined what started with a glance full of wanton. My lips quivered, indecisive; cracked in a thin line with a ‘hi’ in the hatching.

Yet the moment passed and the ‘hi’ remained stationary on my lips, unmouthed and unheard. The bus parted doors on my stop and I stepped down, feet heavy with gravity. I turned and saw his face was blank and in his eyes I saw farewell.

Perhaps he lost himself in the sea of numbers that was the abundance of bus lines or had a new routine. I could only pluck questions and fantasies from thin air in the bus, the same air which held our relationship with no words.

---

I am posting an oldie. Explanation as to why will come, when I can type and link properly. :D

[Friday Flash] Maiden's Resolve

I have finally found some time to write a Friday Flash on time. Okay, so technically I am one hour late, judging by my time zone, but that is why I love the time zones. I am allowed to not make it. Hah. So, this week I took the prompt from Tessa's Author Aerobics, which was giving cliches a new spin. My choice: damsel in distress. Enjoy. 

 

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Maiden's Resolve

by Harry markov 

The owl hooted three times. It was the third night with a full moon. It was how the witch let the princess know, when a new prince would come to rescue her. 

Every month for a hundred months, a warrior would come and stand against monsters and trickery. It was the princess’ punishment for aiming her sword at the witch. It was how the princess had become a princess and slept in the finest linen, in the finest bed, perched on the highest floor in the highest tower. 

That night the princess didn’t sleep, like she always didn’t on the night the owl hooted. She remembered, when she slept under the skies, on the ground, in her armor and watched the sky lose the silver-lined darkness and blush in morning colors. 

When the songbirds started singing, she heard the neighing. It was faint, but right as the witch had announced. The princess rose from her bed and stared from her window, sleeves in emerald silk billowing from the wind. There was no mistake, a lone figure rode from the forest and possessed the empty castle’s grounds like the ghost he’d soon be. 

The princess sighed as the spell began its work. Her feet walked on their own from the window to her chest. Her hands undid buttons and straps, letting silk and linen pool at her feet. Her hands opened the chest and pulled out her armor. Her hands polished it until it shone like a star, then donned the armor. Then her feet took her to the room with the mirror and the weapons. She sat down and her mouth ate, even though her mouth tasted like rot. 

“Another prince for your fair hand.” The mirror spoke with the witch’s voice. 

The princess looked at her hand and it was fair. Long gone were the battle calluses and scars. Washed away with the witch’s balms and salves. 

“Let us see what this warrior has. Will he live or will he die?” The mirror spoke and fell in silence as the surface blurred. 

Instead of her face the princess saw the warrior as he entered through the gates. His face was hardened from previous battles. His sword cut the air, clearly dangerous in his hands. But it did not matter how many foes he had fought, how many wizards defeated. Each brick in the castle was magic and he would die, whenever the castle thought it was entertaining.

“Not trying to help?” The mirror asked and hummed. “You know ever secret. Every monster and you have every weapon.”

The princess kept silent as her body stood up and headed to the weapons lined on the walls. Her hand stopped on a battle axe, took it, swung for practice and headed to the staircase entry. It was true. She knew every spell. How to evade it, how to slay all the demons and ghouls and apparitions. She knew where the magic ran weakest, but she also knew what the price was for her rescue. For each blow she landed, a hundred lives would expire, slain by her hand. Such was the witch’s curse. 

“No.” She said. “Be silent. Leave me mourn.” 

The screams started. The castle had hungered since the last warrior to die at the orchards and had starved for torture. The warrior’s voice rung loud, carried by metal tubes, crawling on the walls of the castle. It was broken and thinned with pain. Through small grids on the steps the scent of blood wafted. The princess’ nostrils filled only with that and her muscles tensed. Her feet begged to leap down, swallowing three four steps at a time. The magic worked in her own veins, breeding memories of her past battles in her limbs, resurrecting that feeling in her heart and in her mind. 

Weather through it. Her foot moved on the first step. She gritted her teeth and stopped. She was in control now. Had her limbs, her muscles. When she twitched, it was because she had willed it so. Do not walk down. She strained, body taught, at the verge of ligaments snapping. She pushed back at the bloodlust, blocked the berserk in her head. 

“Oh, how good he is. He still lives and has climbed to the sixth flight of stairs. What strength and what fortitude. How noble.” The mirror cooed and marveled. Its voice felt like a finger rubbed in salt prodding a wound inside the princess’ chest.

The princess hissed. The prince was a fine warrior, climbing as fast as he did. His screams echoed with pain, but also singed with rage. They were a challenge, a dare and the princess shivered, imagining herself alongside him. Her sword trailing arcs, carving enemies. Indeed, the man was a noble warrior, who did not deserve to die for a fraud. For the witch’s glee and need for fresh hearts. 

But each blow cost a hundred’s lives. It was a toll she could not pay. She refused to pay, even if these moments, when she stood bloodied and with raw from screaming throat, were what she was born to do. Even if it meant leaving death’s hands drag another warrior in the lands below. It hurt to breathe in these moments, when the battle reached its climax, when she knew that she could save the poor soul and the berserk voice grunted her to do so. 

One breath. Two breaths. The screams stopped. The warrior had died. The axe dropped by her side and she climbed the stairs to her chamber, where she undid the armor and placed it back in the chest. She pulled on her clothes, lacing the linen and silk. Then she sat in front of the mirror, a comb in her hand. In her reflection tears ran down her cheeks as she combed her locks. Ninety months more, she counted and continued to comb, in her mind a hope that next month a prince would come, who needn’t help to slay the monsters. 

[Friday Flash] Secret Last Thoughts of...

They open the refrigerator door with laughter. I can feel it rumble through the metal. It's a sound, which makes me colder than the artificial freeze inside. They have been planning it for days. Talked how they would eat me up right from the moment they saw me. Now, it seems, the time has come and there is nothing I can do about it.

They pull the metal plate I lay on and lead me through the kitchen. It is a slow procession as if I am a Sunday ritual. Each step feels slower, more intense. Perhaps time had decided to aid them, bending and dragging. The plate shakes. Was I that heavy? Were they drunk or maybe this involuntary body language expresses doubt regarding their actions? Maybe they know this is monstrous. Either way, I pray they drop me. Let me tumble over, find the right angle and skip this. It would have been merciful. But it's not how it continues.

"Mhm, that will taste so good with the champagne, momma." One of them moos and the sound is unholy.

It prods me, bruising my flesh with its rough fingertips. The sensation reminds me of slime through the plastic folio, they have wrapped me in. I shudder at the pain, but it's the contact with them I abhor.

It's pointless to resist. I have tried. I have failed. I am immobile. I was then. I am now. It's the cold. It's the shock. I can barely breathe through the folio and I am already there, laid down on the table with one final shake of the plate.

"My, my, Loraine. You have outdone yourself, sweetheart. Where did you spot this pretty little thing?" One of them calls. Another giggles in return, but silence settles soon and no one talks again.

It is as if I am not there, not hearing, not feeling, not alive. Without them caring or even acknowledging me apart from how good I will taste. It is this dead-on certainty on their course of action, which denies me hope.

The folio is stripped from me. It hurts to breathe again after sweating in the plastic. It has begun. I am nude. I see their knife, their saliva. I wish I can move, but my fear has me resigned from an atempt. So, I watch the knife grow and grow in size as they steady it for the perfect cut. I can't breathe anymore. I can't even faint.

The blade pierces me. It sinks in with ease and drags itself along my edges, until I am cut in fine pieces.

"Oh, God," Mister Roth exclaims as he stuffs his mouth full. "best chocolate cake, ever."

---

Yes, these are the Secret Last Thoughts of a Chocolate Cake, BUT I could not include that last bit in the title, because it would totally ruin the surprise. PLUS, I am sure that for some demented minds reading about cannibalism and then realizing that they have been reading about a cake is hilarious. NOW, I have to thank Amanda Rutter, because the idea came after discussing cakes and their inner emotional state. The natural question => What does a cake think, when it knows it will be eaten? <= popped in and had to be answered.

Also, this is an entry for Tessa's Author Aerobics. The element we are working on is emotion and I bet you all know how this cake feels. However, I did not use the prompt, which was flight. And although flying cakes are fun, it made no sense. In retrospect, maybe I should have written this as the Secret Last Thoughts of a Banana Cream Pie from a Three Stooges movie...

Friday Flash: Bite

~

I decided that it's high time I got back to writing flash fiction and meet new writers in the process, so here I am back to basics. This is my official christening into the Twitter #FridayFlash society as well as Author Aerobics, hosted by Tessa Bazelli. This is an exercise, in which each week Tessa hands down an element from writing to practice as well as a prompt to go with it. This week participators had to practice good telling and work with afterlife. Somehow, this piece, which I had been working on meets both criteria. How well, you decide.

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BITE
by
Harry Markov

A bite from an apple put her to sleep, but a bite from her flesh jarred her awake. The pain thrust itself and slithered as a multi-headed serpent through her limbs.

She screamed and opened her eyes to a coffin and darkness, her body feathered in glass. The pain was such that it threatened to stop her heart anew. Next to her knelt a man, wearing the uniform of a prince. His teeth had sunken deep in the crook of her elbow, fingers clutching at her arm. Her scream ended, her lungs burned and she pushed at the man's face, which made her scream again. His skin had rotten and she felt maggots right beneath the surface.

She remembered tearing her throat with wails at the torment, at the horror, at the ungodliness. But for all the fear it caused, the monstrosity was slow paced. Its frame was weak and movement feverish in its tremors. It hurt as she kicked at its head. It sickened her as its head cracked, but she kept on, until her flesh ripped and remained in its mouth. But she was free. She could run and it could not follow with her speed.

In the night she didn't see, where she fled. The cave where her coffin lay opened to a forest and it seemed like a womb. Alive, moist and sultry; nurturing children deep inside. But the air was rot and the winds screamed part in pain and part in madness.

She didn't want to stop, until she was out of the forest. As far away as she could possibly be from that place. But she tired soon and her run slowed to a fast walk. And then to a stagger. The branches swung as if pointing a way. Perhaps salvation. Perhaps death. And all she craved was silence, the quiet to regain her thoughts.

The forest expelled her eventually and she stood alone with the shadow of the wind, out in the open. Houses hunched over ahead as if blackened by the ghoul’s stench, which in her speeding heart she knew she would never forget.

She followed the road and reached the village. Her eyes were always a-blink in a new direction. Not a single soul called, nor a ghoul moaned. The village felt like death. However scared she was, she forced her feet onward. What she needed was nourishment. And something to bandage her wound with. The blood from her arm had receded, but the pain smarted and she knew the wound festered. As she searched each house, she found only ointment, but no food. Her hunger was all consuming, like termites eating her from the inside, but she felt grateful she encountered no ghoul. Maybe there was only one, but then again, if it was just one, would the village be abandoned.

The day began. It was dull and she slept up a tree, too tired to wander on, too mortified to close an eyelid on the ground. Thoughts of death and ghouls and hunger poisoned her sleep, never giving comfort, nor bring rest.

When she woke, she walked. Past the village turned skeleton. From there it was on a path through the wilderness, with no food and no water, but always hunger. Each night when she closed her eyes, she doubted she would open them again. When she did in the morning, she feared she would have no strength to walk again.

But she carried on, until stepped into an orchard. Mist curled around the roots of dried trees, fruit now black with rot. The sight made her cry. The wound still hurt, now black around the edges, enflamed in the center. How the fate taunted her with food turned to poison. Inedible. She sat down and wondered whether she could continue. Whether there existed a reason to wander on, when the land itself seemed to decay.

The longer she stayed, the less the acrid smell repulsed, the stronger the craving grew and at last she bit through the ashen apples. Teeth tore through the wrinkled skin. The taste was horrid. Flesh oozed and black juices stained her fingers and face, until she felt as if she was the ghoul. Dead, but walking.

After the orchard the small path widened to a well kept road and soon she reached the open city gate. The sight made her moan. She was unafraid, only hungry. Starved. But there was nothing. No fruit. No greens. Bones lay around, splintered and licked clean, or meat disappeared as ghouls clustered in small groups to chew, excluding anyone else. In here she seemed invisible. Nothing came at her.

Reason never left her; this was her home, though it was pillaged. She moaned louder, but not because it was as dead as her land, but because there was none left for her to devour.

There were only bloodstains and smell to taunt. She followed the collective groans, which seemed to have the air aflame, to the castle, beyond the walls and up the steps to the throne room. It was the same space, but dressed in mirrors. She saw herself thin and caved in. She had once hair black as night, skin as white as snow and lips as red as blood. Now her hair was blacker than darkness, skin as dull as wax, lips as pale as rot.

She proceeded, now groaning with the rest of them. The ghouls saw and parted for her as if they recognized her. Even those hunched over their slabs of flesh crawled away, leaving a gnawed corpse in sight.

It was a woman. Dress soaked in viscera, face long gone. In her hand she held a cracked mirror, from which a face whispered.

"Snow White. Snow White is the fairest of them all."

Snow White bent over and lifted her stepmother's severed hand.

A bite from Snow White's flesh had ended her life, but a bite from the witch's would celebrate her coronation in death.

---

I think that I have some disjointed sentences without good transitions. The story skips from one though to another, but I can of course point out that the character is turning into a zombie. The truth is that I am not used to working with such word limit. So I found it hard to get the flow right.