My Heart Soars Like A Parakeet But You Are An Avocado

The old tree against his shoulder, upon which the side of his head rested, made no comment as Dan vented his frustrations.  Catalog of woes completed, the young man noticed the somber shade of the clouds scudding across the reddening sky. The forest shadows had grown long and only a few dim pools of light painted the leaf litter.

"You're a good listener, Mister Tree," Dan said, "but my mom was a real clever talker. Know what she always said? She said, 'Never let the sun go down on an argument'." He straightened up and gave the tree a hearty slap on the side. "We're two peas, you'n me. I'm dumber than a post too, old buddy, but I ain't dumb enough to ignore my momma's advice. I got some apologising to do." He pointed at the sky. "And I ain't got long to do it!"

Dan set off at a breakneck pace through the forest, leaping from stumps and ducking branches. The rightness of his decision filled him up like he had a fat helium balloon for a soul and he wanted to soar. He fought down a holler, aware that his apology remained unspoken.

The notion to stop came a little late to check his speed, so that he stumbled and slid to an ungracious halt next to Maria. He hunkered down beside her and grabbed her hand, wrapping both of his hands around her fingers for warmth.

"Listen, sweetheart, I was wrong," Dan said. "You shake me up like a soda pop, baby, but I shouldn't be letting it bother me so. I apologise. I sincerely apologise, and I hope that you can find it inside you to forgive me."

The sun had set some time ago when he finally let her hand drop. With a sigh, he pulled the shovel from the pile of loose dirt and started to fill in the shallow grave.

Hard Knock Wife - #fridayflash

Trudy was grinding flour for her daily bread, according to a recipe that a friendly giant had given her. Trudy was renowned for her ability to whip her ingredients into one dish or another. She would start with the whipping, then follow that with the flaying, the drying and the grinding. She was an old school cook.

An aroma, carried on the breeze that blew through the cave, made her set the mill aside and check the oven. She had a batch of tarts baking. Trudy peeked inside, the heat and the smell washing over her face. Bliss. She fetched the tray out and set it aside to cool. The tarts were perfect. Nobody ever missed them.

She heard a noise from the cave mouth and hurried out to see what it was.

"Sorry..." Sid attempted a sentence. "I was just..." Practice didn't seem to help.

"Hey honey!" Trudy said. "What's that?"

Sid put his hands behind his back, awkwardly. "Nuh-"

It was as if Trudy had five sets of arms the way she swarmed around him. Sid didn't stand a chance. Trudy plucked the letter from him.

"What is this?" she demanded.

"Nuh-"

"That's my name on it!" she interrupted.

"I-" Sid began.

Trudy straight-armed him in the chest, sending him lumbering backwards. She ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter. After a few minutes reading it, she looked up at Sid.

"Is this a joke?" she said.

Sid opened his mouth, but Trudy was speaking over him again.

"You're not doing this," she said. "You are not dumping ME. You LOVE me."

Sid sighed. "I DO love you. I love you SO much. I... I never..."

"So why are you doing this?" Trudy said, shaking the letter at him. "Why now? I know you love me!"

"I do, baby," Sid said. "It's just... you're wearing me down."

Trudy snorted. "Wearing you down? This nonsense is wearing me down. Silly man, we can work it out. Is it all the clubbing?"

Sid shook his head. "I like clubbing things. I love it. I'd club anyone for you."

Trudy grabbed Sid's hands, clasped them tight. "So what is it?"

A huge tear rolled down Sid's cheek.

"Oh baby," Sid said. "It's the sex."

Trudy rocked back. "You... don't... like... the... sex...?"

"No, baby! No!" Sid said. "The sex is amazing but it's wearing me down."

"Explain yourself," Trudy said, looking vexed.

"Well... we're both rock trolls, right?"

"Of course," Trudy said.

"But you're an igneous rock troll, and I'm just a limestone rock troll..."

"So?" Trudy demanded.

"Baby, you're wearing me down." Sid glanced at his crotch. "You're harder than I am, baby. You're seriously wearing me down..."

Little Red Riding Hoodie - #fridayflash

Little Red Riding Hood had gotten lost in the Forrest again. No choice but to ask for directions. She went back to the common room of the Martha Forrest Rest Home and found someone under seventy who was probably staff. No chance they were a visitor.

"Hey!" Little greeted the dead-eyed young woman in the white tunic.

"Awright," she replied. "If you is here on the rob, none of these biddies got nothing."

"Naw!" Little said. "I is looking for me Granny."

The care worker looked at the old women slumped in chairs about the common room. "Dey is all grannies, blood, but I knows you. You pulled Hankle off his moped, yeah?"

Little nodded. "Lil bitch showing me no respect so I did it. He chipped a tooth, right?"

The carer nodded. "For sure." She jerked a thumb at the exit. "Your granny is at her dubya eye meetin'."

"Awright!" Little said. She left the care home and took herself to the hall where the Women's Institute held their gatherings.

As soon as she stepped into the hall an enormous middle-aged woman made a beeline for her. Little recognised her as Nell Danbury, someone her Granny was always droning on about. Mainly complaints. Nell ran the local chapter of the Women's Institute.

"Hello Gina," Nell said. "Here to listen to your grandmother? You'll be wanting to put THAT down."

Reluctantly Little pulled back her red hood. "Listen to Gran, is it?" she asked.

"Yes," Nell said. "She's giving a talk on how they made their own buttons after the war."

Little looked up at the stage and peered closely at the figure behind the trestle table, currently pointing to a slide of what looked like a foil milk bottle top that had been improvised for button work.

"Whoa!" Little said. "Dat is not me Granny, dat is a fecking wolf. Look at his teeth and all. He has proper fangs"

Nell glanced up at Gran and she smiled, shaking her head. "It's her new false teeth, dear. She's still working them in."

"But lookit his face, he is all hairy and that"

Nell frowned. "Sweetie, you'll find out soon enough that after a certain age none of us can afford to neglect the routine maintenance." She rubbed a fingertip over her upper lip and mouthed the word "electrolysis". She winked at Little.

"That is NOT- ow!" Little was startled by someone grabbing her arm. Hard.

"Is this one causing trouble?" The old crone that had Little in her bony grasp was Hettie Booth, Gran's arch-enemy and oldest friend.

"Missus, dis crazy bitch is sayin' dat's me Nan up der, but- ow!"

Hettie gave Little another shake. "That is your Gran up there, and we're all very, very pleased with the changes she's made."

"She's ever so helpful now," Nell added.

"A pleasure to have around," Hettie said. "And if, once in a while, your Granny takes someone out shopping with her, and comes back on her own... it's a price we're prepared to pay."

"Thinning the herd," Nell observed, nodding with a tight smile on her face.

Gran had finished her talk and was coming off the stage towards them. Immediately she caught sight of Little and their eyes locked. Little gritted her teeth.

"I expect you'll be wanting your pocket money, dear," Gran said in a bass rumble. She pulled her purse out, and pressed a crisp five pound note into Little's palm.

Little crunched the note in her hand, then rubbed it. It felt real. She exclaimed, "I love you Granny!" and threw her arms around Big in a hug.

Mmmm, she thought. Furry...

Fragile

I love Abi but she makes me so mad. She'll lay in the dirt in the corner of the garden, her head tucked under her arm, laying there like she's passed out or dead. I guess I understood why, but it makes me mad.

Just weeks ago we had so much fun. I'd play with her toys, and she'd play with mine. I'm always in charge, because she's such a scaredy cat. A nervous Nellie. She wants to fade away, like trees and such. Not like me. I'm a star. I'm special.

We're the only girls, little girls, so we share a bed, lying in the dark and talking about whatever we think about. We dream about crazy stuff, imagining things we can hardly put into words. We're not supposed to, but who's going to tell?

Abigail cries a lot. I cry sometimes, too, but for real reasons. Abigail cries about imaginary things.

Like her parents.

I told her, if her parents were real they'd be here. They aren't. I should be happy about that, but I feel sad for Abi, even though I'm right. I don't always understand why she is sad.

Daddy said we had to go. He stroked my cheek and smiled at me. I love him so much. He laughed as he pulled me off his leg. I wanted to hug him so tight.

I told Abi we had to go but she went to that corner of the garden and curled up in the shade of the bushes again. I told her we'd leave her behind. She said she wanted to be left behind. I felt sick.

Daddy came. He spoke to me. He spoke softly, but I could see he was angry at Abigail. I told him to wait. I would talk to her.

I crouched by her. I put my hand on her hip, then on her shoulder. She felt so cold, but she moved when I touched her.

"Abi, come with me," I said. "Come with me. It will be good where we go."

She rolled her head against her crooked arm. I heard a noise but it was not words.

I had my arm draped on her. I squeezed my fingers into her shoulder. What more could I do?

Daddy stood in the garden. He said something to me I did not hear. Then he spoke again, louder.

I sighed. My heart was broken. I was as sad as I could be. I clipped the tether onto Abigail's collar and jerked it hard.

"Come, Abigail," I said. I tugged the collar again.

She moaned. Not like a hurt sound, like a sad sound.

I tugged on the collar again, harder this time. Daddy leaned over me. I knew he wanted to help.

Abigail did not want to leave the corner of the garden where she was lying. I shrugged off my daddy's help and readied myself for a final effort to shift Abigail. I regretted telling her that was where we buried her parents. They weren't even buried where I said they where.

Any Good Mother Would - #fridayflash

On Monday she showed her boys how to make pizza from scratch. She taught them how to knead the dough and explained the patience required to let the yeast work its magic. She showed them how to work the pizza with the palms of their hands, and not to roll it out. She explained how to layer the cheese directly on to the sauce and not to crowd the pizza with too many toppings. That night they all went to bed with flour in their hair, dried dough under their finger nails and full bellies.

On Tuesday they made shepherd's pie with shredded lamb in a rich gravy. She showed them how it was easier to pipe the mashed potato after letting the filling cool. She told them the story of how their grandmother claimed she came up with the idea of topping the pie with grated cheddar cheese but never got the recognition that was due to her. That night she had to chase them to bed, her voice hoarse from telling them stories about her mother.

On Wednesday they made chilli from prime ground beef and thick chunks of bacon. She warned them not to use too much chilli powder but they didn't listen. Little David wiped his eye with a hand he should have cleaned first and he wept for an hour straight, though by the end even he was laughing at how silly he looked with his puffy red eye. That night the boys went to bed with their mouths still burning, convinced that next time they should listen to their mother when she tells them how much chilli powder is just enough.

On Thursday she taught them how to order ingredients from the Internet. She told them how to keep the lights off at night so no one would know they were home and ordered them not to answer the door unless they could see it was a delivery person. That night the boys slept in the same bed. Together, alone, in the house.

On Friday she touched down in Tijuana, pleased with herself that she had prepared the little ones so well, as any good mother would.

Shadow of the Noose - #fridayflash

Dawn pinked through grey clouds sending shades creeping along the base of the tall courtyard walls, with the gallows' long shadow serving as a grim sundial. It was almost time.

A light breeze cooled Nathan Hamilton's face through the bars but did not stir the heavy noose that now held his gaze. His eyes traced the curve of the rope looking from heavy knot, around and back again. The unexpected trill of a bird's call startled him back to awareness. His hands slid from the stone lip that barely jutted under the window and he turned back towards the man who was sitting on the rough cot that lay against the opposite wall.

"Are you tired, father?" Hamilton asked, his voice hoarse.

Father Maskie shook his head without looking up. He sat there without further movement, his hands clasped against his chest. After a while he raised his face to look at Hamilton, showing eyes that were reddened and damp.

"Is it morning already?" Father Maskie asked. "I'm sorry, my son, I should have let you rest."

Hamilton gave a derisive snort that turned into a cough. "Plenty of time for rest later," he said.

Father Maskie nodded solemnly. "I'm glad you agreed to talk to me," he said.

"I could hardly refuse you, Father," Hamilton replied. "By all accounts this will be the last execution they ever hold. The Italians have no stomach for a hanging."

"Are you certain you won't join me in a prayer?" Maskie asked. "Or I could take your confession."

Hamilton shook his head. "With all due respect Father, MY father would turn in his grave. He never cared for the Papacy."

"And yet here you are," the priest said.

"Aye," Hamilton nodded. "While my father was in the army back in England, he became acquainted with an Austrian mercenary by the name of Spenzler. He cashed himself out and served under Major Spenzler during various scuffles with the Prussians and the French. When he'd made enough for a stake he sent for mother and the rest of us. He said he chose to put down roots in Italy because there were too many old scores waiting to be settled in Germany."

"Soldiering is a hard life," Father Maskie observed, leaning slightly towards Hamilton.

"All life is hard," Hamilton fired back. "A man must become hard to make his way in life." He wrapped his arms about his body dramatically. "The comforting blanket of religion is neither broad nor deep enough to warm us all, Father."

"Indeed?" Maskie raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps the comfort of religion would have set you upon a path that was..." The priest's words trailed away.

Hamilton's eyes narrowed and his hands bunched into fists.

"Have a caution, Father." Hamilton spoke cooly, though his body trembled. "I know well the black pit wherein my stony heart lies and I have no need of your forgiveness nor your puny judgements neither. Do not presume to ease the guilt I feel for lives ended by my hand. Rather ease the weight of clouds from off the sky."

Father Maskie clenched his eyes shut briefly, then held his open palms towards Hamilton. "Oh sweet Lord pity this foolish man for his conceit. What arrogance he has. He would claim to fly like a bird while yet he falls into sin. Nathan Hamilton, have you no regret? Do you feel no shame?"

"No more!" Hamilton was shouting. "Nor yet again, Father. There is no contrition to be found here." He slapped his hand on his chest.

"Only because you refuse to let what IS there free, my son." Father Maskie's own hands were white-knuckled fists now and they shook alarmingly. "You MUST let me help you." The priest's body was bent almost double, his arms tight against his sides, rigid, his gaze fixed on Hamilton.


Hamilton's chest swelled with the breath to fuel strong words but he was cut short by a loud banging on the cell door. It opened and a guard entered, while another loitered in the corridor outside.

The guard sheepishly pulled his cap from his head, nodding at Father Maskie as he traced the sign of the cross on his chest. His eyes darted towards Hamilton then back to the priest. "It's time, Father. You must leave now."

Father Maskie lurched to his feet, but instead of approaching the door he went to Hamilton and grabbed the other man's arm in both of his hands. "I forgive you," he said, his voice rising. "God will grant you his forgiveness too if you'd only ask him for it. Don't be an arrogant fool. I can save you, my son."

"ME?" Hamilton shouted. He wrenched his arm away from the priest, sending him into an off-balance stagger that was only prevented from becoming a fall by the swift action of the guard, who gathered Father Maskie into his arms. "What about your sins, Father? Who will forgive those?"

Father Maskie strained against the guard's grip. "I am a righteous man, sinner, with clean hands and a pure heart. I perform the Lord's work." He shook his clasped hands in Hamilton's face. The black chains hanging from the manacles about the priest's wrists danced. "I didn't do anything wrong. I'm innocent!"

"That's what they all say," Hamilton sneered. He retrieved his black cloth hood from where it lay crumbled at the end of the prisoner's bed. "The Lord executeth righteousness and judgement for all that are oppressed. Nathan Hamilton executeth the rest."

Main Street Competition

Haggerd the Haggard knew that patience was a virtue when it came to a good assassination. He had waited until he was certain his victim was close to finishing his business for the night and now Haggerd was ready for the confrontation. The clanging of bells caused him to hesitate for a split second as he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

His victim, clad in white and stood amongst his paraphernalia, offered him a wry smile. "Sorry about that, I was just closing up and had the alarm set." He motioned under his bench and the bells abated. "What can I do for you? I don't want to rush you but it's getting late."

Haggerd flipped the sign on the door from 'Open' to 'Closed' and pulled down the blind to cover the window panel. "You are the one known as 'Ryan Peabody'?" Haggerd asked. "The one that claims knowledge of the alchemical arts?"

"Yes, I'm the chemist," Peabody said. "A humble pharmacist, at your service. Do you have a prescription you need to get filled? It's just I have to be getting home or the wife will give me hell." He rolled his eyes at Haggerd.

“You won’t be going anywhere tonight, alchemist,” Haggerd said. He took a pace forward and planted his staff on the floor by his foot, daring Peabody to try anything.

The chemist looked dismayed. “Don’t tell me the roadworks are still holding the traffic up! At this time of night. Good Lord. I thought I’d seen the last of bumper to bumper traffic when I moved here.”

“You should have thought twice before moving to my domain, little man,” Haggerd said, ominously. “The village of Tiddling-on-the-Wold belongs to me and I will slay any other magic user that attempts to wrest it from me. I will have no aggravation from warlocks.”

“No 'what'?” Peabody asked.

“Warlock aggravation!” Haggerd shouted.

“Okay, steady on,” Peabody said. “I think I have an ointment for that.”

Haggerd took another pace forward and Peabody could see just how large and imposing a figure he was, wrapped about with ragged brown robes and steadfastly clutching a gnarled wooden staff in his hand. “Do not mock me, interloper,” Haggerd said, “there is the stench of thaumaturgical meddling about you.”

“I expect that will be the drains,” Peabody said, somewhat perturbed. “The Council were supposed to have all that sorted out.”

“Be warned, meddler,” Haggerd said, “for I have choked the life from many a neck in my time, and relish the opportunity to do so once again.”

Peabody looked at Haggerd blankly. “I see,” he said. “Is that a euphemism? I can’t sell you viagra without a prescription, but we do have some herbal remedies...”

“Enough of your lies,” Haggerd cried. “You are a rival magus intent upon usurping my dominion. Admit it!”

“Stop!” Peabody said. “I’m just a simple chemist. Look!” He grabbed a small brown bottle. “See? It’s just aspirin, for headaches. And this is toothpaste, for brushing your teeth.” He pulled a brown jar from under the counter. “This is... is...” Peabody pulled out his spectacles and read the label. “Ah, yes, knuckle bones from nosy hedge-wizards.”

Haggerd realised he couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t even bat an eye-lid. Not even when Peabody produced the rusty old hacksaw.