Samantha Lee Week 68: Butterflies

Picture 1


Picture 2


Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Butterflies

"Fang?"

"Hm?"

"Are you happy?"

Fang looks up from his book frowning. "What are you reading, doamnă?"

"I'm flipping back and forth between Dante's Inferno and Austen's Pride and Prejudice. So, are you happy?"

"At the moment?"

"Um, as a whole, I think."

"I...I don't know, doamnă; I never think of it much."

She bites down on her lower lip, her fingers absently toying with the gold Anubis charm dangling from her necklace. She does that when she's nervous - chews her lower lip and fiddles with her jewelry, usually her necklace. It's an old habit, something she's done since childhood, or at least for as long as I've known her. The pair of them are sprawled out on the library's overly plush carpet, piles of books scattered around them. Fang sits with his legs stretched out in front of him and his back propped against a mountain of pillows. She lies on her back with her head resting on his thigh. Osiris, her black fairy cat, is curled up beside her, three mundane cats are cuddled up at her feet and, of all things, a striped hyena lay with its head on her stomach. She loves her kitty piles, as she calls them, enjoying the warmth and comfort her kitties give her, the closeness of a wraith gives her.

"Is this about what London said?" Fang asks, interrupting my observations.

She shakes her head, dipping it so that her hair fell forward to veil her face. "No, I...I just wonder sometimes if...if being a wraith, being my wraith, is a gift or a curse."

Pushing himself into a more upright position, Fang gives her a long, intent look. He sighs. "London is a brat and you indulge him too much. He had his hand slapped, so he lashes out blindly with little thought of consequence and little care for who he hurts in the process. He's a child."

"And you're not answering my question."

Fang sighs again and rubs at his forehead with one hand. I recognize the expression on his face; all of we wraiths have worn it at one time or another. It's an interesting blend of exasperation, wariness, and affection, although the dosage of that last one varies depending the exact circumstances. "We're butterflies, doamnă."

An almost comical expression flashes across her face and I instantly mourn my chance to have caught it on camera. "My elite, immortal, kickass powerful undead warriors...are butterflies?"

"Yes. Did you know that once, butterflies were thought to carry messages to the afterlife? It's not as crazy as your look would suggest, doamnă."

She reaches out one hand to scratch the hyena behind its ear, then chuckles when he enthusiastically rubs his head against her hand for more. "Go on," she murmurs, "explain."

"I saw this picture once of a butterfly being lifted up by human hands. The upper half of the picture was a photograph, the lower half a pencil sketch. If you looked at it one way, it seemed as though the human was picking the wings off the insect but...tilt your head and give it another chance and you realize those hands were actually lifting the butterflying from art into realism."

She groans and leans her head back, closing her eyes. "Oh, gods, Fang, you know I suck at the art interpretations. It's all gibberish to me - is the apple an apple or is it a symbolic representation of original sin? If it is, what does its position and colouring and shading tell us about the artist's views on sin? Blah, who cares?!"

"We're butterflies, doamnă, because, while began as something else entirely - vampire, werewolf, demon, djinn, banshee, Fae - we have been transformed by your power and emerged transformed, made faster, stronger...improved."

She opens one eye and looks at him suspiciously. "So being a wraith is a gift because it makes you more powerful? I'm basically like one of those mushrooms in Mario that level him up or that flower that lets him shoot fireballs!"

Fang looks at her blankly, not catching her reference at all. Finally he shakes his head and moves on. "What's my favourite colour?" he asks abruptly.

Blinking, she sits up, eliciting grunts and growls of protest from her cats and the hyena. "You claim it's black but it's actually Mediterranean blue."

"What's my favourite movie?"

"Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy, especially Return of the King."

"What do I do in my spare time?"

"Read old epic fantasy books and vintage Marvel comic books, play yourself at chess, and occasionally just stroll around taking in the scenery."

"Where did I spend my last vacation?"

"Paris. You went to Versailles and the ruins of the Louvre and the Eiffel Monument."

Fang spread his arms wide and gestured towards her. "Aha! You see? I served Elizaveta for centuries - almost a millennium, if not more. I died in her service - TWICE - and, were you to ask her, she would not remember my name, let alone anything else about me. I am nothing to her but a soldier lost to an enemy and I was less than nothing before that. You, however, care, doamnă. You care if I am happy, care if I am well, care if I am harmed or if I am hurting. Were someone to try and take me from you or to injure me in anyway, physical or otherwise, you would raze cities to the ground and slay whole armies single-handedly to avenge me. You love me, doamnă, and I know this. Let London sulk and have his tantrum; it is his own loss that he cannot see being a wraith - YOUR wraith - for the gift it is."

She reaches over Osiris' bulk to snag a Latin edition of Ovid's Metamorphoses and settles back into place. "Because you're butterflies?" she asks after a moment.

"Because we're butterflies," Fang confirms.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

You can read my blog - Calliope's Domain - over at calliopedomain.blogspot.ca

#DailyPicspiration

Lizzie Koch Week 68: Beach Days

Picture 1


Picture 2


Lizzie Koch’s Picture Choice:

Title: Beach Days

An unusually warm autumnal sun spread her rays across a cloudless blue sky, shimmered on the sea below and warmed up the stony beach. Amber nestled back against the stones, looking comfortable. But her heart beat ferociously with every crash of the wave against the shoreline.

“Just relax Amber, you’re not gonna get wet,” Dean joked as he readied his camera. She afforded a small smile before placing the shades over her eyes which shielded her anxiety. “Hey, Amber, chill will you. You’re all tense.” Dean put down the camera and sat down next to her, casting a shadow over her. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“You can’t lie to me Amber. I know you too well.” He removed her glasses, staring into her pale blue eyes that usually sparkled but today they looked a glassy grey, etched with sadness. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Dean wiped away a tear, his touch soothing to Amber. She clasped his hand before kissing it.

“I’m fine, really. Just a bit emotional that’s all.”

“I can see that. The lens can see it too. We’re not gonna get this shoot done with you looking so miserable so get if off your chest. What is it?”

Amber sat up, clasping her hands around her knees, staring out to sea. It looked so peaceful, so beautiful but that was just on the surface. “I killed my best friend.”

A nervous laugh left dean’s lips. “What? What do you mean?”

“You’re going to hate me, leave me and I guess you won’t want to photograph me anymore so I’ll lose my job too.”

“So why tell me? Why now?”

“You asked. I can’t hide it. Not here where it happened. I’ve never been back until now. I didn’t know we were coming here for a start. If I’d known, I could have prepared myself or even not come.”

“I thought you’d enjoy being back in your hometown and I thought a surprise visit was romantic.”

“Sorry,” Amber muttered. Dean draped an arm around her, pulling her in close. He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the familiar, subtle smell of coconut. His other hand was buried deep in his jeans pocket, squeezing the small box tightly as he sat silently, waiting for Amber to tell her story. Amber inhaled deeply.

“It was a really hot day; we were in the middle of a drought. The sea was busy, full of kids, people, dogs. I came down as usual with Sam. We were water babies. We met some friends, had ice cream, pizza, coke, threw stones, paddled, swam and splashed. It was heaven.”

“Sounds perfect Amber. But obviously something went wrong.”

Amber closed her eyes but the image was just as clear, painted to her eyes and always would be. The sea was so blue and so warm. Amber was a good swimmer but that didn’t mean strong. Her arms ached and she lagged behind the group. With every stroke, she seemed to stay where she was and tiredness crept in. Gulps of salt water took her breath away as she tried to shout to her friends. Trying to float didn’t help; she just buoyed further from the shore. He4r salty tears mixed with the sea. Fear gripped her. She waved her arm frantically, trying to grab someone’s attention on the heaving beach. All the bobbing heads, frolicking bodies didn’t spot her.

But then she saw Sam. He was swimming back, with the raft. Mustering every ounce of strength, Amber began to lift her arms to swim towards him. He was tantalising close. Amber’s arms flayed, stretching to reach for safety, finger tips just touching the raft before it bobbed away.

“I’ve got you,” Sam yelled, holding her, pulling her close to the raft. He heaved her up. In her panic she kicked out her legs with one last push of energy before collapsing in the dingy, panting for breath to fill her aching lungs. Sam didn’t follow. Sitting up, she saw just blue. No Sam.

“Sam!” She repeated over and over again. “Sam!” A life boat pulled up, wrapping her in a foil blanket, examining the wound to her heel as the search for Sam continued.

Amber paused, wiping away the tears that stained her face. She wasn’t sure if she could continue. After all those years, it seemed like yesterday.

“I think I can guess,” Dean began, “your wound to your heel. When you kicked out, you kicked Sam.”

Amber let out an anguished cry. “Shh, it’s ok Amber,” Dean soothed, burying her head into his chest.

“He was unconscious. I knocked him unconscious and he drowned,” she sobbed.

“And that was an accident Amber. It was nothing more than an accident. You have to believe that. It’s what I believe. So you’re not going to lose me. I’m staying right here.” He continued to hold her as they stared out to sea, the little ring box in Dean’s pocket could wait another day.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

I dream of sharing my work with the big wide world one day as a published author. Right now, I share flash fiction with a wonderful community of writers and friends. If you liked this story, then why not visit my blog at http://40somethingundomesticateddevil.blogspot.co.uk/ for more. Thank you. Love Lizzie x

#DailyPicspiration

Ruth Long Week 67: Blue Jean Regime - Part Four

Picture 1


Picture 2


Ruth Long’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: Blue Jean Regime - Part Four

Autumn afternoon. Blue skies. Empty roads.

Their route down River Road might have been a lovely lazy country drive, just a couple of kids holding hands, listening to the radio, and daydreaming about the future. Instead, it was a quiet sober detour on the outskirts of town designed to avoid hordes of zeds.

The countryside appeared strangely removed from the chaos and destruction in town. The Flannery's two-story colonial looked as regal as it had every day for a century. Horses paraded in their paddocks out front and crops swayed in the breeze beside the barn. Made it easy to believe what they’d seen in town was just a bad dream.

Another couple of miles and they'd be safe, surrounded by friends and tucked away in their own quarters, where she could nurse the fussy baby, get some much needed rest and relaxation, and maybe begin coming to terms with life, or rather, what had become of life.

Jonas turned onto the gravel road that led to the back of the gym. “Let’s go over it one more time before we get there. Soon as we get out of the truck the guys will lower the ladder. Head for it, haul ass to the roof, and move to the side quick as you can so I can get up there and the guys can retract the ladder."

She shifted in the seat to look at him, taking comfort in his relaxed posture. “You said there will be plenty of people on the roof to help, right? Because I’m still a little shaky on my feet and you'll be carrying Eden.”

“Jay and Donovan will be up top with a handful of others. I’m sure my sis will be there too. Quit making that face. I get that you’re nervous about meeting her and yeah, she’ll probably play the hardass card but soon as she gets her hands on Eden, she’ll settle down. If not, I’ll set her straight, okay?”

It was so not okay but what was she going to do? Only option was to suck it up and trust Jonas to handle it if things went south. Damn it! She was on the verge of tears again. She could deal with the weariness and ache of delivering Eden but the fluctuating hormones were a bitch.

There weren't as many cars as she expected when they pulled up to the brick building. Certainly nothing like when there was a ball game or even Saturday practice. Where was everybody? Were there other bases throughout the town? The county? The state? So many questions she hadn't thought to ask before now. Something else there'd be time for once they were safely inside.

Jonas lifted Eden from her car-seat and buttoned her into his coat. “Remember, no matter what, keep climbing. Don’t stop. Don't slow down. Don't look down. And soon as you get to the top, get clear of the ladder and stay where they put you. Ready?"

Climb fast. Get clear. Stay put.

She nodded, dropped to the pavement, and headed for the ladder descending from the roof but something in her peripheral vision diverted her attention and her foot slid off the first rung. A crowd of zeds came from around the library, a dozen or more of them, moving fast, chasing someone who appeared headed for the ladder.

Jonas’ hands around her waist steadied her as she tried connecting with the first rung again. This time she got traction and hurried up the rungs. Jonas was so close behind that her heel connected with his cheek a couple times but she kept moving.

As she reached for the last rung, the ladder swung sideways and hers wasn't the only scream. Hands reached down, grasped her wrists and yanked her to the roof. One of the rescuers wrapped an arm around her waist and rolled her clear. She scarcely had time to register Donovan’s face before he was up and gone.

She started to get up but a heavy knee crashed into her spine, a powerful body pinned her to the roof, and a gruff voice said, “Stay put, cupcake.”

Donovan reappeared just long enough to thrust Eden into her arms and the knee eased up, waited for her to get the baby tucked against her chest before reapplying its considerable pressure.

The discomfort of being held down was nothing compared to the assault on her ears. Metal scraping brick. Frantic shouts. Screaming. A strange incomprehensible rasping. Conflicting instructions. And then a pair of gunshots echoed across the cement and sky and only a hushed murmuring remained.

Movement at the edge of the roof caught her attention and she watched as a body was stretched out on its side, shirt so bloody the skate logo was hardly visible. Skate logo. Jonas. "NO!”

Securing Eden under one arm, she tried crawling to him but the imposing knee was joined by a second one, stopping her progress before it began.

Suddenly, Donovan was there, face so close his breath stirred her eyelashes. "You don't want to go over there, Haley. Please. Listen to me. He wouldn't want you to see him like that."

She couldn’t catch her breath. "Like what? Oh god. Please. Jonas! Jonas!”

Once she started screaming his name, she couldn’t stop. Moments later, Eden joined in, her wail so shrill it was like a sharp needle puncturing eardrums.

Jonas’ body began to twitch and a strange guttural sound emanated from his chest. Was this how it happened? The change? How long before they - would they shoot him or just push him over the edge?

This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not after all his careful planning. Not when they had a second chance to make things right.

He moved again, surprising her by getting to his feet and coming to her. No one shot or tackled him. Maybe he was going to survive? Maybe some people were immune to the virus or whatever it was, right?

He crouched in front of her. "I need you and Eden to go inside now. That gorilla on your back is my sister, Mason. She'll take you downstairs, okay?"

She reached out and stroked his cheek. "Did you get bit?"

He kissed Eden's cheek, then hers, and helped her to her feet. "No, beautiful, but we just lost Jay and I'm going to need some time to deal with the situation. Go inside. Cuddle our daughter. And don't let my sis bully you too much."

She followed Mason through a door, down a stairwell, and into the gym office hallway. Through the open doors, she could see the basketball court was filled with rows of cots and people were huddled in groups across the bleachers. She started through the door but Mason redirected her.

"You and the baby are in here, in a private room," Mason said, pushing an office door open.

Well, she was a nursing mother and the privacy was welcome. "Thank you."

Mason blocked the doorway with a well-toned arm. "Don't thank me. I'd have put you in the gym but Jonas pitched a fit."

So much for niceties. Her body ached, was demanding that she save her energy for more important things than bitchy sisters but her hormonal emotions were boiling beneath the surface and it was about time she put them to good use. "You want to do this now, Mason, fine. But you better get it all out because it's the only time I'm going to put up with it. And soon as you're done, we're done, which means you can kiss any hope of a relationship with your niece goodbye."

Mason dropped her arm and stepped back. "I've been raising him since he was fifteen and I was nineteen, four years now, and then you came along and ... do you have any idea how that impacted our family? Damn it! Of course I want to be a part of my niece's life. Eden? That's her name, right? But I got all this shit I been daydreaming about saying to you. What am I supposed to do with it?"

She dropped into a chair and unwrapped Eden from her cocoon of blankets. "All I'm saying is that in the last forty-eight hours, I gave birth, found out the world imploded, and thought my boyfriend was dying, so you can understand how I don't have the energy to duke it out with you at the moment."

Mason leaned in and stroked her palm over Eden's head. "Well, you got me there. Guess we can call a truce. Just for tonight mind you, because I won't be able to keep it bottled up forever. I should go check on Jonas while you feed the baby."

Took some brass on her part, but she caught Mason's hand. "Hey, how about you stay here with Eden and let me see to Jonas."

Something softened in Mason’s face. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. Oh, while you're here, maybe you can take a look at her medical chart and make sure she's okay, healthy and all that, because she'd been moved to the NICU but we don't know why. We can talk that out when I get back."

She left Mason with a sleepy baby and wrinkled medical chart, and headed out into the gym. A couple of faces she recognized from the roof were hanging around and all too happy to direct her to the showers.

In another day and time, another world, she wouldn't have entered the boy's showers but this was now, and she was somebody else.

Donovan was standing at one of the sinks, dressed in sweats and shower shoes, slicking back his dark hair. "Jonas is still in the water."

She nodded. "Thanks."

"Hey, you got a minute?"

"Sure."

"Look, I want to clear the air about what went down this year. I'm not much for sticking around for people or hard times but Jonas and I have been running around since preschool and when it comes to him, I got his back on everything."

That was the most he'd ever said to her and there was no reason to interrupt him.

"What I'm saying it that some folks are going to give you shit about you and Jonas being back together but long as he's in it, I got your back. Now, get in there and talk my man out of his funk."

She rounded the corner to the shower stalls just as Jonas was coming out, towel wrapped around his hips. "Mason have the baby?"

"Yes, and the medical chart too."

He leaned up against the row of sinks. "She comes on strong but if you can hang in there, I think the two of you will get along."

"I guess we're going to find out. You, on the other hand, I'm worried about."

He looked away again. "Today I shot a kid I've known almost as long as I've known Donovan. A kid whose house we used to commandeer on weekends so we could play that damn zombie video game. A kid who was going to get a communications network up and running. It could have been me, Haley. Or you. Or Eden. But today, it was Jay."

She put her cheek to his. "How can I help you?"

He turned so that she was against the counter and lifted her so that she was sitting on it. "Just be here with me. Put your hands on me. Let me talk. Or not talk."

She sank her fingers into his scalp, massaging the skin, toying with his shaggy blonde waves. "Well,how about you let me use your shaggy mane to practice with the little pink barrettes you bought for Eden? Please?"

He kissed the tip of her nose. "Always. No matter the question, for you, the answer is always 'yes.'"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

A reader by birth, paper-pusher by trade and novelist by design, story-telling in my passion. If you enjoyed reading today's story, please consider checking out my blog bullishink.com, joining my creative community sweetbananaink.com or participating in the madcap twitter fun @bullishink.

#DailyPicspiration

JB Lacaden Week 67: Ephemeral

Picture 1


Picture 2


JB Lacaden’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Ephemeral

I raised my hand
And stabbed the night
With a sickle of a moon
And it bled out clouds
That muddied the sky.
The stars, they started
Coming out,
Curious as to what happened;
Cosmic fireflies,
They watched me
Rip the night in half.
I shoved my head
Behind the curtain
And I saw the planets
Dancing the ballet:
Traipsing and twirling
And tiptoeing around
The sun.
I started to cry
At the magnificence
Of the heavenly orchestra
And I embraced
The ephemeral feeling
Close to my chest
But it started to disappear
Like smoke
And only its smell
Remained.
But I know
That too will disappear
Leaving nothing
But ghostly images of it
In my head.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

JB Lacaden dreams of someday being a published writer. He currently resides in Manila, Philippines. He's a lover of comic books, science fiction, and high fantasy. Check out some of his works at http://www.jblearnstowrite.com/ and follow him at @jblearnstowrite.

#DailyPicspiration

Jeff Tsuruoka Week 67: Riding With Mary Crow Part 2 of 2

Picture 1


Picture 2


Jeff Tsuruoka’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Riding With Mary Crow Part 2 of 2

William Faulkner once said, “The past is not dead. In fact, it's not even past.”

Old Bill must've been thinking of Mary Crow when he spoke those words.

Mary was a throwback in almost every sense of the word. She grew her own food, made her own clothes, even built the log cabin she lived in with her own hands.

She didn't watch television and didn't use a computer, though she owned one.

She spent her days roaming the res, writing letters-- longhand-- or journaling.

When I thought of Mary Crow I always pictured her in one of her eighteenth-century-style dresses, sitting under the big tree near her cabin, writing in one of those old leatherbound notebooks she bought by the dozen, mail order.

Of all the people on the res who cared about the old ways, Mary Crow was the one who kept our heritage present in everyday life. She sang the songs, knew the dances, understood our connection to the natural world.

She was also a Stanford-educated geologist who figured out what the runoff from the power plant next to the res was doing to the water supply and spoke out about it at every opportunity.

When she didn't show up for a couple of days no one thought anything of it. She was known to spend chunks of time alone in her cabin.

When she failed to appear at a hearing on the legal action she and a coalition of like-minded residents were bringing against the plant we started looking.

Her hands arrived at the Tribal Police station a few days later. Just her hands, in a reinforced cardboard box without a return address.

Coyotes found the rest of her for us. They got hungry and uncovered her shallow grave on an abandoned farm right in the shadow of the plant she fought so hard against.

The county sheriff had jurisdiction since she was found off the res but she let us work the case with her. Mary Crow had friends everywhere.

The medical examiner said the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head-- most likely a lead pipe. He also told us that the hands had been amputated post mortem. The man really seemed to think knowing that made it better.

Our crack investigative team soon turned up two witnesses-- a young couple who went out to the abandoned farm to play a little grabass-- who saw a very large man burying something near what remained of the foundation of the main house.

The sheriff took the lovebirds into protective custody and stashed them in a safe house while we continued to investigate.


This was the stuff I ran through my mind as I shivered with Lenny at the bottom of the steps.

It didn't take long for the blood on my face and the sweat on my body to chill and frost over. Breathing got harder and vision began to fail.

I forced myself to get up and stomp my feet to keep warm.

Lenny sat on his step, watching me move around the icebox.

“Breathe, boy,” he said, over and over again.

I breathed, thinking about the case. Some people think about loved ones or happy places when they need strength. Didn't have either in my life. What I had was work. And Mary Crow. I could almost see her sitting next to Lenny right there in the icebox with us.

“Gonna get 'em, Mary,” I mumbled. “Gonna get 'em. I promise you.”

“You bet your ass you are,” said Lenny.

I closed my eyes as I paced and went over it all again.

Those two kids we found-- him white, her red-- with their crazy, gibberish story about a big guy with a body, they stood in front of me, telling us how they weren't stoned and that they saw what they saw, too scared to come forward right away. The crispness in the dawn air as we set out from the station house to check the abandoned lot, ruined by the smell of rotting flesh as we approached the gravesite. Mary Crow's body after the coytotes had been at her. The still-red wounds where her hands should've been.

I stopped walking and dropped to my knees. I closed my eyes but still saw Lenny in front of me.

“Don't you do it, boy,” he said. “On your feet. Now. You've still got work to do.”

“I'm... so... tired,” I moaned.

My legs weighed a ton each. The floor made inviting overtures to me.

“Look at me, you sorry son of a bitch! Look!”

I opened my eyes. It hurt. Any longer and they'd have been frozen shut.

Lenny was right where I left him, sitting in the corner of the step.

Mary Crow sat next to him, looking at me like she always did-- respect paired with deep concern for the state of my soul creased her brow.

“That's right, pal,” said Lenny. “She needs you. Mary Crow needs your help. She's got somewhere to be but there's something tying her to this world. That's where you come in.”

Mary stood and stepped toward me, her outstretched arms reaching for me.

I stared at the raw, bleeding wounds at the ends of her wrists.

She smiled at me and moved closer.

“Take her hands, boy,” said Lenny.

I looked at those bloody stumps again, then back at Lenny.

“What are you waiting for?” he hissed. “You've got 'em, Rushing Bull. You know who killed Mary Crow.”

“They haven't confessed to anything!” I roared.

“They will, boy. They will. Take. Her. Hands.”

I heaved myself up and reached for Mary Crow.

Fingers I could not see found mine and held them still.

Lenny hopped off the step and padded to me.

“It's almost time, Rushing Bull. You got the stones for this? Forget I asked. Of course you do.”

I glanced down at the snowy icebox floor.

No cat.

The tingling started in my feet, traveling up my legs, burning as it went.

Mary smiled once more, then nodded, and faded away.

The energy moved all the way through my torso, out into each arm, then up my neck into my head. It burned white hot in my eyes.

I looked around the icebox, everything seen through a red haze.

The chemical stink of refrigerant stung my nose, mixing with the odors of stale water and old fish.

My ears pricked up, suddenly aware of a drip, audible over the low hum of the freezer.

Footsteps sounded from the other side of the door, slow and plodding, then the key scraped in the lock.

Lenny's voice reverberated around in my head.

“You're on, boy.”

The door swung open.

Luke bounded down the steps. Hector followed behind, wary and slow.

The big guy stopped on the bottom step.

“What the...?”

I felt the grin spread across my face as he blanched and recoiled.

My arms came up and I launched myself at him.

There was screaming.

I don't remember much else.

It smelled like blood.



My head didn't clear until the paramedics put blankets over my shoulders in the back of the ambulance.

Flashing red lights lit up the street in and around the warehouse. Every cop car in the county and both of our Tribal units sat strewn around the crime scene. If you were in another part of the county and you wanted to commit a crime, this was your big chance.

The paramedic working on me-- nice girl named Lola-- wrapped me up like a burrito then held a cup of hot coffee to my lips. She had long red hair and a lot of freckles in the right places.

“How long was I in there?” I asked her.

She shrugged and refused to answer me until I had a sip of coffee.

“Don't know for sure, Rush, but if you were in there much longer we'd be taking you out of here in a bag.”

I nodded, noticing the blood on my hands for the first time.

“Am I injured?”

She smiled at me. “A little hypothermia and a broken nose. You're going to need to see the dentist. But... I've seen worse.”

“Me too.”

“That little guy they took out of there.... he was in bad shape. I can't imagine what could've gouged him up like that. All those scratches. The guy lost a ton of blood.”

“He gonna pull through?”

“We'll do our best, Rush.”

Sheriff Todd came out of the warehouse and made a beeline to the ambulance.

“How's our friend, Lola?” she asked.

The sheriff was taller than me and just as lean. The lines worn into her face told a lot of stories, most of which end with the words, “and that's when I shot him.”

She crossed her arms and eyeballed me.

“I'll give you some space,” said Lola, handing me the coffee. “Finish that, Rush. I'll get you another.”

When she was gone, Sheriff Todd sat down next to me on the gurney.

“How are you, Rush?”

“Cold.”

She waited me out.

“Heard what we wanted to hear,” I said.

“Yep. Gave us a full confession right before he passed out from blood loss.” She looked at me sideways. “Care to tell me just what the hell happened down there?”

I looked at my bloody hands again, at my frayed, filthy fingernails. I scanned the street and caught sight of Lenny as he turned the corner and headed out of sight.

Sheriff Todd placed her hand on my shoulder.

“What's the matter, Rush? Cat got your tongue?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Jeff Tsuruoka is an author in search of a writing career. He has found a home in the Flash Fiction circuit and is grateful to the blog hosts that give him the opportunity to get his work out there. You can follow him on Twitter @JTsuruoka and be sure to keep tabs on his weekly contributions to Daily Picspiration.

#DailyPicspiration

Michela Walters Week 67: Flying High

Picture 1


Picture 2


Michela Walters’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Flying High

The fresh breeze blowing in her hair was always the first sense to be awakened when she got out on that swing. It whirled around her, giving her a thrill as the smell of tar, asphalt and exhaust wafted around her perch. The scent was a distinct difference from the usually sickly sweet rose water perfume her husband liked so much. When she was soaring, her heart always filled with elation as she swung across the city, from skyscraper to skyscraper, like a regular ol’ spider man.

Sitting high above the city every night, she dreamt of being larger than life. Her stomach always dropped with every push out over the ledge; the feeling of flying was simply spectacular. She craved the rush of adrenaline that coursed through her veins. She seemed to only be able to capture the feeling when she was asleep. Back in her consciousness, she was a trapped soul, her body ravaged by disease leaving her to survive and live only in her dreams. She was a lifeless body, her ability to move and speak hampered so greatly, she could barely blink to get her point across. Some days, it was even too difficult to do that, and instead she had to put up with her husband’s constant droning of a story she didn’t want to hear but was unable to tune out. So here she lived, swinging above the city she remembered, her freedom to do all she loved still within her grasp. Whenever possible she closed her eyes and traveled to her ledge, the only place where she was still truly alive.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Michela Walters is a wife, mother and book enthusiast. She is currently attempting her hand at writing her first romantic fiction novella. You can read her other stories on her blog: michelawalters.wordpress.com

#DailyPicspiration

Sarah Aisling Week 67: Twice Dead

Picture 1


Picture 2


Sarah Aisling’s Picture Choice: 1

Title: Twice Dead

Nathan trudges toward the fence, his milky eyes roaming over the battered old sign. He knows he isn't supposed to go in there but doesn't remember why. The letters are morphing and dancing around on the weathered background. Just when he thinks he might have a grip on what the words mean, they're on the move.

The fever has him in its molten grip again. His lips won't form words now, just incoherent moans. His mind shatters, splintering into many directions.

A sweet scent drifts under Nathan's nose on the gentle breeze, and he forgets about the sign or where he is or that he should be concerned about the heat cooking his brain.

Taste. Want to taste.

Must consume.

Feed.

Nathan shuffles around, his ankles twisting oddly, and follows the beacon of life before him.

As he reaches the frightened girl with the corn-silk hair, he tilts his head, and a memory of Milly digs into what's left of his rational mind, burrowing deep, a shard of white-hot pain.

The part of Nathan that's still human tries to pull back, but the slavering beast is anchored inside him. Rendered helpless, he has a front row seat to the experience of grabbing soft, screaming flesh and biting deep. Ripping skin apart from bone and sinew, digging deep inside and pulling out entrails.

Nathan is pushed further back where he can watch the horror but do nothing to stop it.

The shick-shick of a shotgun from behind him draws Nathan's attention. He turns slowly, still chewing on a kidney.

A familiar figure hovers a few yards away with the muzzle of the gun pointed at Nathan.

I'm in here! Please. Please.

With the last bit of strength he has, Nathan digs through the soup of his mind looking for the controls. He doesn't want to be this—trapped inside while this thing commits atrocities.

He ambles toward the man with the gun, arms spread wide. “Aaaaaahhhhhh!”

Bang! Right between the eyes.

Later on, Jeremy reports to his group that the zombies are more aware than they believe.

“I swear that zombie offered himself up to me. Someone else was in there with him. Part of the original human must be retained!”

The rest of them laugh, but Jeremy wonders if he'll ever sleep well again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Sarah Aisling hails from the East Coast of the US and loves living by the ocean with her incredibly indulgent husband and precocious daughter. She’s currently editing her upcoming novel, The Weight of Roses. When Sarah isn’t being enslaved by her characters, she can be found with her nose in a book, obsessing over nail polish or anything leopard, biking, hiking, camping, and spending time with friends and family. Twitter: @SarahAisling Facebook