Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts

05 April, 2019

Extinct - Flash Fiction ( #AtoZChallenge )


Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Extinct

by Jessica Marcarelli

The winds of the future blow through the scattered remains of yesteryear.

Gray wastelands cough up the bones of dead cities beneath a sky no longer blue. Trees bend stark black branches where birds sang beneath the blossoms of spring. Where once were golden fields pregnant with the sweetness of a ripe harvest, now there are only swirls of putrid ashes. The parched earth cries out for water that will never fall.

What fauna remains is twisted, vicious, and always ravenous. The hovels of the survivors huddle in the shadow of dark caves and ruined canyons. Bands of the insane feast on their own humanity.

Our desolate present is the direct result of our own hubris. Our meddling in the facts of life we thought we knew brought us to our knees. Not as a society, not as nation, but as a world. A race.

We destroyed ourselves, man versus man.

The next generation does not yet know this. A sparse handful of young faces, found amidst the hovels, hidden away in the recesses of ancient fortresses, protected against the cruel whims of this broken world.

But we will teach them.We will show them what came before. In these young minds lies our world’s only hope of salvation. We are no more but they…they may yet live.

__________





This is a post for the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, one post (and letter) for each day in April. I hope to see you tomorrow for the letter F!

10 April, 2015

I is for Icarus [A to Z Challenge 2015]


Another Friday means another flash fiction piece for Flash! Friday. I'm tired and out of sorts today but I just couldn't leave it alone after coming so close last week. It's a like a drug, I tell you. You can  read the actual entry here.

Enjoy and come back tomorrow for the letter 'J' and all the pretties that I am pairing with it....






Icarus

by Jessica Marcarelli

I kneel in the slime left by a thousand rain cycles and hold out my cup. Acid from the atmospheric vents overhead drips over the porcelain rim.

A man stumbles by, his skin blistered like all the other sufferers here. Rumor has it the disease rose from terraforming imbalances as the first miners arrived.

It’s called the Icarus Syndrome, taken from some Lost Earth myth. Named for the hubris of those who can’t leave well enough alone. They sent me. Government officials who can’t let go of a trillion pounds of whatever passes for coin these days out in the ‘verse. I was sent to spy out the ore that will power a thousand worldships.

Except the miners never found it.

And I’m not interested. My hope is in the ship legend told me was buried here. Solar wings on a battered hull. An engine fueled by the same acid falling into my cup. Soon, I’ll sail close enough to the bloated monstrosity of a star this system calls a sun to collect the energy the ship needs to make that one jump all the way back to the ancient world where humanity took its first wide-eyed steps into the void.

This vessel is my ticket home.

07 April, 2015

F is for Flash!Friday [A to Z Challenge 2015]


 Between work and yesterday's issues, I'm still a bit under the weather, so I'll be making today's letter really simple (thank you to all who wished me well - you're all so kind!).

Today is 'F' so I have decided to cover Flash! Friday's winner announcements. Not only because the weekly challenge rocks but also because of one very personally important little tad bit of a thing....



I got a special mention for my Crucifix story! I've been participating in Flash! Friday for a while now and this is the first time I've gotten even a nod in my direction. This being after an incredibly dry creative period wherein almost nothing has been written. I was truly over the moon about it this morning. It made my day and is such an encouragement to keep pursuing my dreams.

The other runners-up stories and especially the winner's are totally worth a read, too. ;)

Go explore the stories today, my readers, and enjoy another round of mad blog hopping courtesy of yours truly. I will be back tomorrow evening with G for Games....

03 April, 2015

C is for Crucifix [A to Z Challenge 2015]

Today's post is a story written for Flash! Friday.

For those not in the know, writers from all over the internet meet up each week at Rebekah's blog to write a 200-word max story from a two-part prompt. Winning gets you attention, an interview on the blog, and more attention.

As I perused the other entries, I must say that this one by Mark K. King held me riveted. Such visceral beauty in so little space. Please read it if you have the chance. It's well worth it.

Without further ado, here is my own entry (the word prompt was "blunder"):



Crucifix

by Jessica Marcarelli

The desert sands are unfriendly to a lone runner who carries no provisions. But I can’t stop.

The cat of nine tails tore flesh from bone. The crowds jeered and screamed all around the whipping post. Blood spattered my sandals.

Overwhelming heat suffocates my lungs. I pant for air that will not come. I can’t stop.

He stumbled during his forced march through the streets and I turned away. Someone else took the wooden beam. It might have been me if I had not denied my belief in the scrutiny of the long night before.

My legs begin to shake. Every step drives fresh agony into aching muscles. But I can’t stop.

On the hill of his crucifixion, I abandoned my fellow believers...and him. When the hammers fell and the nails pushed through his wrists, I fled. In fear and revulsion and grief, I ran as if my own grave had opened before me.

Clouds collide overhead. Darkness evaporates the light. Freezing wind scatters the heat. A cry fills the heavens with agony. I collapse into the sands and weep. It is over. He is gone and my last act was to betray him.

Salt and dust fill my tongue as I plead for forgiveness.

09 January, 2015

Flash! Friday Fiction: Mystic

My writing has lagged in the intervening months since I last wrote. My familiar companions of fear and poor self-worth returned, as I think they must with many artists, and I turned away from creating. While it wasn't the right path to take in the first place (and I really must find a different way of dealing with those old enemies of mine), I found my way out once more.

Flash! Friday prompted me to stretch those atrophied writing muscles once more with the beautiful artwork below.  This isn't my best work or even my favorite (it's not even within the word limit guidelines of the contest). But it is a reminder that not every creation has to be perfect. That's why I'm posting it here today.

Maybe you're also struggling with self-worth or fear of imperfection. I hope it helps you, too, realize that there are far worse things than others seeing a side of us that isn't perfectly groomed and polished. It's okay to be imperfect.

Jeanne d’Arc, 1876. Painting by Eugène Thirion. Public Domain.



Mystic

by Jessica Marcarelli


Françoise clenched the prayer beads close to her lips. “The angels. I hear them, Maman.”

Her mother took one of her hands. “What do they say, child?”

Françoise’s eyes widened as she beheld a gleaming sword held beneath outstretched wings, glowing pink in a myriad of colours too vibrant to describe. “They praise the majesties of le Créateur de l'Univers. They sing of glory and…” her brow furrowed. “And they sing of an army’s march. Now. Tonight.”

The Knight of the Holy Chalice who had come to their cottage on the edge of the Wilds stepped towards her. “But it is an eclipse, mademoiselle. The dead walk this night. My men will be slain by the thousands.”

Françoise turned her eyes from the wondrous scene to the blackness she faced every day. “If you do not go, our worlds will die at the hands of the invader host.”

The knight exhaled. The sound carried with it all the weight of the planets his order protected. “As He wills it. Thank you, mademoiselle. Madame.” His footsteps went to the door and she could hear his voice echoing outside. “The mystic has seen death at Planète Achille."

"We leave at once, milord?" another man asked.

"Yes. And may le Créateur rest those souls who see eternity this night.”

Her mother touched her forehead, her own fingers trembling. “You should rest, my love.”

Françoise faced the visions once more and rubbed her beads. “Not yet. They still need what He may give me. I will keep vigil as they wage war for us."


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Have you participated in Flash! Friday?  Leave a link to your story or blog in the comments - I'd love to check it out.


09 November, 2014

Flash! Friday Fiction: Water Spirit's Return


Another Flash! Friday participation occurred a month ago and I completely forgot to post my story here. Better late than never, right?

Once again, for anyone not aware of Flash! Friday, writers from all over the internet congregate at Rebekah's blog to write a 160-word max story prompted by a picture and sometimes a phrase, word, or idea that can be included for bonus points. Winning gets you attention, an interview, and more attention.

The following story did not win but I love what I came up with. I hope you do, too.





 Water Spirit’s Return

by Jessica Marcarelli


“Did I ever tell you the one about the vodanoj?” the old man asked. The dinghy rocked as he shifted his substantial weight.

Davor cast his net into the grey waters. “Nope.”

“My majka told me. Hers told her. The vodanoj was said to take the lives of fishermen who weren’t protected. S’why my otac, my father, and his fellow fishers and their djed, their grandfathers, before them wore the crucifix ‘round their necks. Said the water spirit couldn’t sink their boats that way.”

Davor scratched his bare collarbone through his shirt. “You wear one?”

The old man grinned, showing more teeth missing than not. “Got little time for praying myself. You?”

“Nope.”

As the setting sun kissed the surface of the water on the horizon, the boat sloshed to the side again. Neither man had moved. Out of the corner of his eye, Davor saw a webbed hand dig its talons into the side of the boat.

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Have you participated in Flash! Friday?  Leave a link to your story or blog in the comments - I'd love to check it out. 


09 October, 2014

Flash Fiction Mid-Week Blues Buster



I'm over at The Tsuruoka Files this week, judging for the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction contest. If you're a writer and you love writing flash stories (even if you don't - there's always a first time for everything), come write me a story based on Jeff's song of the week.

Just think about it. Then do it. You've only got one day left to join in the fun!

Can't wait to see your entries!

29 September, 2014

Flash! Friday Fiction: Obedience


After planning to do so for months, I finally took the time to participate in Flash! Friday.

For those not in the know, Flash! Friday involves a 160-word max story prompted by a picture and sometimes a phrase, word, or idea that can be included for bonus points. You write/turn in the story on Friday and find out what came of it on Monday. Winning gets you attention, an interview, and more attention.

I didn't win, didn't even get an honorable mention, but it was fun to stretch those muscles. I'm glad I did it. Might even do it again. (If you want to join me, check it all out here.)

I've posted my story below, along with the picture prompt, just for the fun of it. Enjoy!





Obedience

 by Jessica Marcarelli


“Give him to me, Siri.”

Siri handed the little boy down to his mother, who stood on the lower lip of the tiered dock.

The man beside Siri handed her a gas mask. “Remember: only when the poison becomes airborne.”

“Yes, master.”

“Don’t follow us. Wait here.”

“Yes, master.”

She held an umbrella over his head as he shimmied down the rope to join his family. All three disappeared into the underground waterway.

A siren sounded. Siri looked out over the village. Silent packages dropped from approaching airships. Houses ignited and a green mist rose with the smoke.

The robotic maid jerked as her legs attempted to move. If she remained, the poison would eat away her synthetic skin, fuse her processors, and she would cease to exist.

But her master had told her to stay. Her preservation protocols could not override her obedience chip.

Siri strapped on the gas mask, raised the umbrella, and watched the approaching green mist.

__________________________________________________




Did you participate in Flash! Friday this week? Leave a link to your story in the comments - I'd love to check it out.


05 February, 2014

Beyond the Binding Cover Reveal

As many of you may remember, back in December, I wrote about a wonderful project to raised funds for the Philippines relief effort, Composers for Relief, and my involvement in a fiction companion collection in which one of my stories would be included. I am very happy to announce that Samantha Redstreake Geary has revealed today the cover for that companion collection, "Beyond the Binding."

Isn't it beautiful? A total of 29 authors collaborated in this short story collection where music met fiction in a breathtaking explosion of imagination. The eBook will shortly be available from Amazon, Amazon UK, iTunes, B&N, Kobo, Sony, Diesel, and Smashwords. I will post links as soon as they're live.

As a reminder, all proceeds of the Composers for Relief album and the Beyond the Binding companion collection will go to Gawad Kalinga and GVSP, to continue to support the relief efforts for victims of Super Typhoon Yolanda (Haiyan).

Please consider spreading the word on this amazing project. You can also add your support to this cause by purchasing Composers for Relief: Supporting the Philippines from ITunes , Amazon CDBaby and Spotify.




31 December, 2013

Composers for Relief: God is With You


On November 8, 2013, Super Typhoon Yolanda (Haiyan) struck the Phillipines, taking the lives of over 6,000 adults and countless children. Over 16 million people have ultimately been affected by this destructive force of nature.

Fueled by a desire to help the victims of this disaster, 30 composers and 28 writers from around the world have come together to collaborate on an inspirational album and a companion ebook of fictional stories to raise funds for relief efforts. All profits will go entirely to Gawad Kalinga ("give care") to rebuild these many devastated lives.

Please visit Composers for Relief: Supporting the Phillipines by Samatha Redstreak Geary for more information on both sides of this project, links to the songs and stories, and the ways in which you can get involved, as well.

The following is my contribution, a short story written to the inspiration of Hendric Bünck and Pascale Scarabin's "God is With You" and entitled the same.  I would like to thank Hendric and Pascale for such an uplifting, otherwordly composition of beauty and to Sam for allowing me the opportunity to be involved!


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God is With You

Copyright © 2013 by Jessica Marcarelli


 “God is with you,” Grandmother used to say.

I can still hear the rasp in her deep voice echoing through the decades to where I stand, alone and forgotten, on a desolate rock in the center of the universe. 

The last day that the old woman who was not really my grandmother whispered that phrase to me was a cold one. I remember still being young enough to warrant an outfit with sewn-in booties and gloves. My nose had lost feeling, even within the safe confines of the underground compound. All of our elderly caretakers noted that the surface winds of our world had not penetrated so deeply even in their own childhoods.

Grandmother pulled me close that evening. “Can’t have our youth freezing to death,” she said, tucking me into her thin frame. I rubbed my nose on her scratchy sweater to warm my skin. I must have been very young. That’s when she spoke close to my ear, barely above a whisper : “God is with you.”

I did not ask her who God was. Many of my playmates would have; some had, in fact, done so. Their grandmothers were no longer with them. I instinctively understood his importance as surely as I knew that we children weren’t supposed to know. It was a lovely secret for Grandmother and I alone.

It was also the last time I would share it with her.

The next day, she was gone. I did not cry. If we cried when they took our caretakers, we disappeared, too. But every evening I repeated her words in my head as I fell asleep.

I can still feel the scratch of her sweater, even here amongst the brilliant stars and lifeless earth of my imprisonment. But a spirit enslaved does not dwell long on one memory. The stark recollection of that coarse material pulls me forward to the vivid chaos of my first battle.

That day, I woke to my bunk mate's hand on my shoulder. “They've sounded the call – the enemy is on our position,” he said. No nervousness invaded his tone for he was a veteran already, being three months older than I. My hands shook when he handed me my rifle. We donned our breath masks and sealed our armor-reinforced hoods so that the gaseous air outside would not poison us.

I don't recall much of the battle. The yellow mists of chemical-laden air obscured all but the cloudy shapes of the enemy. I fired again and again and, sometimes, a shape collapsed. The crystallized stone beneath our feet became slick with blood but still we were ordered forward. I must have taken a wrong turn at some point, become separated from my squad in that sickly haze, since my next sharp memory of that day begins when I realized I was alone.

I stopped walking. My hood's speakers were quiet, too. Either my equipment was broken or the army had moved out of range. After some minutes of indecision, I trudged back the way I thought I had come. It felt like hours but might have been much shorter. The sun on that world never sets and, always, the yellow mists cling to the earth.

I found the army when something crunched underfoot: the arm of one of my comrades. He lay dead, his hood punctured, the skin beneath eaten away by the gases. Other bodies slumped around me in various forms of rigor mortis.

Someone behind me yelled and another man's weight dragged me to the ground. I tossed him off and glimpsed his features through his faceplate. My bunk mate.

“Enemy,” he wheezed.

I scrambled to my feet. A shape charged out of the mists with a dagger in hand. I squeezed my trigger without aiming and missed. The man lunged for me but my bunk mate grabbed his ankles. They wrestled and the dagger disappeared. With careful aim, I shot the invader in the back. Both men went still. I found the dagger buried in my friend's belly. Already, the skin around his wound yellowed. Tears filled my eyes.

He reached for me. “Don't lose hope, brother. God is still beside you.”

As with my grandmother, I silently repeated his words every night. Others voiced the sentiment in later years: a young woman as she quieted her forbidden baby, a fellow operative in the intelligence network that undermined the enemy, and the man condemned with me when we were discovered.

The death cry of a soldier cuts my memories short. My mind flows through the circuits and pathways of the machine that holds my body captive and launches across the stars to an old planet, small and unstable in its orbit. On a battlefield in the middle of a vast desert lies a man without legs. I manifest as a holographic reflection of myself and his fear-filled gaze centers on me. His bloodied hands grip an iron crucifix.

I move my incorporeal hands over his. “You have nothing to fear. God is with you.”

He focuses on the crucifix. Slowly, he raises it to his lips, kisses it, then clasps it to his heart as the light fades from his eyes. Other soldiers lay wounded or dying and I go to them, as well.

“God is with you.”

A mere handful once whispered it to me; now, I share it with thousands. Here, in the prison from which there is no return, with my body frozen in the rigid steel that keeps it alive, my mind reaches out to those most in need of hope and comfort. To the oppressed, the wounded and imprisoned, to the child without parents and the soldier seeking courage, I bring the comfort of my youth, the hope of my adult years, and the joy of my future: “God is with you.”

I am condemned by our enemies to an eternity of imprisoned immortality for my past efforts against them. What they do not yet realize is that, through me, they have given new life to all who hear my words echo through the wide universe.


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If you enjoyed this story, please help spread the word about this amazing project by sharing with one of the two buttons below or through your own preferred network. Thank you!







03 October, 2013

Fall Flash Festival: The Men of Aiobheann

Welcome to October! In honor of this glorious month and the beginning of autumn, I have writtern a flash fiction piece for a contest hosted by Eric Martell and Daniel Swenson (which you can find here). 

Image provided by wikipedia commons.

The Men of Aiobheann by Jessica Marcarelli, 949 words


When the morning mists creep into the valleys and the leaves on the mighty Turlough trees turn to burnished gold and the chill winds bring the first scent of ice, then the men of Aiobheann go to war. In the years of winter, their women and children wait for word of the brave warriors; in the spring, those who have survived the generational battles proudly return to make larger families and plant their fields. Many are the songs sung of those who return but many more are sung in remembrance of those who are mourned.
  
The year that Caomhìn’s father marched to war, he did not return. Yet Caomhìn, who counted only seven years as his own, did not weep, for the cycle would begin again when he, too, reached his second autumn, and the men returned to war.
On the first morning that frost hardened the soft earth, little Caomhìn woke to his father’s urgent voice. “Wake, a bhuachaill, my boy. Wake to send your father to his glory.”

Caomhìn blinked sleep-heavy eyes. Darkness had not yet been banished by the dawn. His father bent over him and his mother stood in the door to the sleeping room. She held a single ensconced candle that sent flickering shadows over their forms.

“Mamaì?” Caomhìn said. His lower lip trembled as fear of the unknown gripped his young heart.

“Sh, a ghrà.” His mother patted her lips with a finger. “The earth sleeps this morning. Do not awake her to wrath before the March.”

The little boy nodded then looked to his father. He wet his lips with his tongue to form the ritual words he had been taught. “Let us march, Athair, my father.”

His father smiled and straightened. With a quick turn, he marched out of the room. His mother beckoned to her son. Caomhìn tumbled from the goosedown bed. He shivered in the cool air as he pulled on a leather tunic and leggings, boots wrapped in wolf fur, and the wolfskin cloak crafted by his father in the last months of summer.

Outside the house, the last stars sparkled above the low clouds that churned in the east, blocking the first view of dawn’s pale light. The hills lay silent but sounds of stirring came from the other timber dwellings gathered together in the low glen. A chill breeze rustled the the tree branches overhead and stirred eddies of fallen Turlough leaves across the ground packed firmly from many feet. Caomhìn wondered if they, too, were eager for the Autumn March.

Other candles like his mother’s began to appear as the sky lightened and the stars winked out. His mother and father began to walk and Caomhìn trotted along beside, doing his best to look dignified beside his father’s long strides. His father was dressed in hardened leather and a larger wolfskin cloak akin to his son’s, thrown over his shoulder. With every step, his rust-colored braids tapped the silver war chief’s torc that encircled his thick neck. At his hip rested a scabbard covered in leather, out of which protruded the hilt of the family sword. Bronze fittings gleamed above and below the weathered wooden grip. Countless ancestors before had carried this sword and, one day, Caomhìn, too, would buckle it to his side. Caomhìn glanced behind. A hundred warriors and their families followed on quiet footsteps.

Too soon, they came to the lake by which the settlement had been built. Its dark waters barely rippled in the light breeze. Slaves obtained from past wars held the warband’s horses still for the sending ceremony.

Caomhìn felt fear again touch his heart. He turned to his father. “Let me come, too, Athair. I will make Crìost proud.”

His father smiled and cupped his son’s fair head with his hand. “The Creator-God could find no better warrior, my brave boy. But it is not yet your time. I must go this autumn so that you may carry our name proudly in the next.”

Caomhìn grinned.

His father let him go and turned to the gathering. All the people went silent. The women blew out the flames of their candles and set them on the ground. Then each raised the chalice she held in the opposite hand. Murmured prayers to good health and fortune, bravery and courage traveled around the gathering. They whispered lest the earth goddess hear and her rage halt the March of the warband. Though the Creator-God had long since taken precedence over their people, the old gods still reigned strong in both hearts and minds.

After the prayer, Caomhìn’s mother led the wives in offering the cups to their husbands. The men drank deep of the heather beer within, saving only the last sip for the eldest sons. The beer was bitter to Caomhìn’s tongue but it warmed his stomach. He held the wooden chalice as all the people turned to the lake. With a shout of triumph, the men unsheathed their swords and raised them to the pale sky.

“Caithréim!” they shouted as one, a thunderous cry of victory that echoed across the lake. Then they sheathed their swords and left their families.

Caomhìn’s father did not look back as he mounted his horse and tugged on the reins. As one, the men kicked their horses into motion and galloped away to the south. The Autumn March had begun. Caomhìn looked to his mother. A single tear crossed her cheek as pink and orange shafts of light flared over the eastern clouds.

Caomhìn gripped the cup in his hands and did not cry, for it was autumn, and the men of Aoibheann had left for war.

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Copyright 2013 by Jessica Marcarelli. All rights reserved.

26 October, 2012

Behind the Curtain Contest Results


I don't normally post on Fridays but this is a special post for a special occasion!

A couple weeks ago, I entered my flash fiction horror story into Anna Meade's Behind the Curtain contest. You all were so supportive and wonderful of myself and all the other participants and for that I thank you.

Today, the Dark Fairy released the results of her tireless search for the four top picks. I was - and am - so, so, so thrilled to have found myself to be one of them!



Not only am I so happy to have finally gotten my hands on a copy of Sophie's newest book, but the encouragement, the compliments, the hurrahs, and the general support of everyone during this contest has been amazing. You all have not only made my day over and over but have also gotten me excited about my writing all over again. Thank you. And thank you to Anna for hosting this awesome contest.

I'd also like to send a HUGE congratulations to the other winners for their amazing stories: Sophie Moss, J. Whitworth Hazzard, and Melanie Conklin. You three deserved it!

Take a look at their stories and, please, feel free to leave them - and all the participants - comments on their lovely entries. In the meantime, I'm off to plan my weekend around my newest reading material (which you can also obtain HERE).

11 October, 2012

Behind the Curtain | Flash Fiction Contest

The Dark Fairy herself, Anna Meade, made me do it. I just want this to be clear. If not for her, I wouldn't be writing fiction when I should be working. Because I'm busy. Too busy for fiction contests. But she called and my muse answered. It's not my fault. So I write flash fiction...

This is my submission for the Behind the Curtain contest, squeaking in at 399 words and inspired both by the description of the contest itself and this frightening bugger:

Image: https://pinterest.com/pin/179158891396922039/
 

Behind the Curtain

Don't look behind the curtain.
Don't scream if you do.
Don't make a sound
Or the clown may take you!

The childish rhyme faded as she opened her eyes. Stage lights hung dark and broken above her head. A stained velvet curtain that had once been red hid the audience from view but no sound, not even a murmur, could be heard beyond it. She turned her head. At the back of the stage rested a scenic mural, its paint cracked and flaking. A wooden horse leaned against it. One black glass eye was missing.

Fear crept through her belly. She tried to remember why she lay here but her memory offered only a blank slate. She sat up. The movement sent a creak through the wood. A light far above buzzed to life, flickering a sickly yellow. Swallowing sudden panic, she rolled to her feet.

Again the floorboards creaked, spreading the sound until the entire stage groaned. Shadows deeper than those cast by the dim light shifted beyond the mural. A ripple passed through the old curtain. The wooden horse raised its head. Its one eye sparkled with malice.

Icy fear numbed her skin. She must go before...before... Her thoughts spun, searching for the answer to her questing memory.

Someone snickered in the dark beneath the curtain.

Time froze around that one sound. Her heart stumbled in its beat for one exquisitely terrible moment. A will beyond her own forced her head to turn and her eyes to see.

In the shadows, on a deathly white face, painted lips spread in a mocking parody of a smile.

Her hand flew to her own mouth as her heart thudded to life against her ribcage, urging her to run. But she could not move. She could not even give sound to the terror coiling around her stomach, stopping the air in her lungs, pushing cold weakness over the hot rush of adrenaline.

Now she remembered. Her overwhelming curiosity, the shared giggles, a flick of the forbidden curtain, her own screams as she was pulled in. Now she knew what would happen here, behind the curtain, where children's verses grew fangs.

The painted smile spread unnaturally wide as its owner emerged from the shadows. Tears filled her eyes but did not fall. A wail rose from her throat.

In the empty theater beyond the curtain, no one heard her scream.

 
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So, tell me, friends: what did you think? 


30 April, 2012

A to Z Challenge: Z is for Zozzled


Zozzled?  You just made that up.

Did not. It's slang for drunk. Which is how I feel right now: emotionally drunk on the success of getting through an entire month of daily blogging and mentally drunk on the relief that I don't have to do it again for a whole year.

Well...it's still a made-up word.

Know what else is made up? The last flash fiction story of April! My muse finally showed its face and I am pleased as punch with the results. I hope you will be, too. Scroll down for a look-see. (And, if you missed them, here are parts 1-3: Catagenesis, Isotope, Osmosis.)

Thank you all for visiting my blog this month!  I've enjoyed getting to meet each and every one of you. I'll still be trolling through the A to Z list for anyone I missed. Feel free to leave me your blog address if you'd like to be visited sooner rather than later.

Also, a HUGE welcome to all my new followers!  You all are amazing.  When not doing crazy things like A to Z, I blog Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  You can find the schedule for what happens when on the right sidebar.

And, now, without further ado, the last flash fiction. Until next year, A to Z-ers!

[EDIT: Unigenous has been taken down, along with its flash siblings, for consideration in a print magazine. Thank you so much to those of you who read it and left such wonderful comments!]






26 April, 2012

A to Z Challenge: W is for Wizard

Today's flash fiction is the 4th and last of April's Thursday fantasy series. Click the following titles if you missed part 1: ENERGIA, part 2: KINDLED, or part 3: QUELLED.

[EDIT: Wizard has been taken down, along with its flash siblings, for consideration in a print magazine. Thank you so much to those of you who read it and left such wonderful comments!]




21 April, 2012

A to Z Challenge: S is for Serendipity


Thanks to everyone who participate in the suggestions for today's flash fiction!  This week's Saturday Challenge winner is Michelle for her prompt: "Serendipity."

Michelle is a writer on a journey of words.  She calls herself a "late bloomer" writer but doesn't let that stop her dream as she looks forward, not back.  Light hearted and full of perk, her fiction carries her personality in every sentence and the reader along with it.  For the A to Z Challenge, she is writing 26 original fiction pieces that each have something to do with music.  So far, we've seen fiddlers, improvisation, lullabies, and reverberation, just to name a few.

Her stories' connection to music constantly makes me stop and think, sparking further inspiration for my own stories.  Be inspired yourself and check out her blog at Writer-in-Transit.


And now to the flash fiction inspired by Michelle!



Serendipity

Copyright © 2012 by Jessica Marcarelli and Visions of Other Worlds


“So. Is Aspen your name or just, like, your favorite tree?” He grinned. Crookedly. What made it worse was the fact that Allery Mason wasn’t even looking straight at him and she could still see the expression. She concentrated on the gas pump.

“Yo.”

Yo? Who said that anymore? Allery looked at him.

The stranger grinned again as he leaned against her car. “Your plate.” He bent and tapped it as if she’d be looking for dinnerware. “Is it your name?”

Allery frowned. “License plates don’t mean anything.”

“They do if they have a particular name or something on them.”

“This one doesn’t.” The nozzle handle clicked. Finally. She could get away from this stalker wannabe.

He hopped away from her car and made a grab for the nozzle. “I’ll get it.”

“I have it.” Allery wrapped her hand around it.

“No, really.” His teeth shone inside that predator’s smile. “I want to.” His fingers touched her hand.
Allery yanked both her hand and the nozzle out of his reach. She slammed the nozzle into its place on the pump and slid into the driver’s seat before he could make another move.

He peered in through the window. “Are you a feminist?”

She rolled the window up and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. Frowning, she tried it again. The lights on the dashboard came on then flickered off. Allery pursed her lips. Twelve hundred miles across the country and the car chose to die twenty minutes from her destination.
She looked out of the corner of her eye. The stranger waved.

She laid her head against the seat back. “Why me?” Holding back a grimace, she got out of the car.

The stranger flashed a wide smile. “Change your mind?”

Allery’s mouth flattened. “Do you live here?”

“Nope. Gas stations aren’t my thing.” He winked.

Could she punch him and claim self-defense? “I meant this town. Do you live in this town?”

“Have a nice little apartment down the street. Care to see it?”

She held back the smart remark that sprung to her lips. “Is there a mechanic anywhere around here?”

“Why?”

“My car won’t start.”

“Mine will. Where are you going?”

Allery glared at him and reached for her cell phone.

“Hey, wait.” He held out a hand.

Her phone rang. It was the movers. “Hello?”

“Miss Mason? Ben here. We just got in but we can’t find Chestnut Street.”

Allery’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean you can’t find it?”

“I mean it isn’t here. We’ve driven all over. It’s a small town, you know?”

“Okay, hold on. Let me get the map for Jackson.”

“Jackson?”

She pushed past the stranger, who still had an enormous grin on his face. “Yes, Ben, Jackson. Where my new house is?”

“We’re in Jamestown, Miss Mason.”

The blood to Allery’s face stopped flowing. “You’re what?”

“We’re in Jamestown, Ohio. Is something wrong?”

“You’re in the wrong place!” She lunged across the driver’s seat for her road map. “Check the address on my paperwork.”

Papers rustled. Ben cleared his throat. “Nope. It’s still Jamestown.”

Her finger found Jamestown on the map. “That’s eighty miles from here!”

He said something to someone else. “If Jackson is the proper place then we can be there first thing tomorrow morning. It will cost extra, though.”

Allery shook her head as her voice rose. “Ben, listen to me. I need my furniture tonight. Can you be there tonight?”

“Miss Mason – ”

Her phone beeped. She held it away from her ear. The batteries were dead. Her hand shook slightly before she growled and threw it into the backseat.

“Whoa, hey. No temper tantrums.”

She glared at the stranger. “Shut up and leave me alone.”

“I thought your car was dead.”

“And so is my phone, so get out of my way.” She slammed the door and headed for the convenience store attached to the station.

“Hey, wait a minute.” The stranger blocked her path. “My uncle is a mechanic. He owns a shop a couple blocks away.”

Allery wanted to scream. “Then why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

He shrugged and grinned. “Look, stay put and I’ll go get him. Then we can talk about our upcoming date.” He ran towards a blue pickup truck.

“We are not – ”

“Name’s Jonathan!” He jumped into the truck and pulled out of the station.

Allery clenched her fists as tight as they would go and began counting to ten. The money for this move couldn't have come at a better time - she'd seen it as a serendipitous gift from the universe for all the stress her Gram's disease had caused. But every turn since then had gone from bad to worse.

She glared down the road after Jonathan's truck. With any luck, she'd be over wanting to kill him by the time he got back.
 
____________________

It's never too late to start thinking of the next challenge!  If the story inspired you, feel free to leave your suggestion for next week and the chance to get your blog advertised.  Next Saturday's letter is Y and is the last challenge of April.  Rules are HERE.


19 April, 2012

A to Z Challenge: Q is for Quelled

Today's flash fiction is part 3 of April's Thursday fantasy series. Click the following titles if you missed part 1: ENERGIA or part 2: KINDLED.

[EDIT: Quelled has been taken down, along with its flash siblings, for consideration in a print magazine. Thank you so much to those of you who read it and left such wonderful comments!]







18 April, 2012

A to Z Challenge: O is for Osmosis

Many apologies for the delay in getting this post out - a water pipe burst in our apartment complex yesterday, leaving us with no water (and thus no toilet usage! gah!) until this morning. As you can imagine, this scenario promptly made me forget that anything called a "blog" even existed.

So...double goodies for everyone today! I'll post Tuesday's regular flash fiction now, give you all some time to enjoy it, then post today's real post this afternoon (hint: it has to do with maps and treasure).

Enjoy!

[EDIT: Osmosis has been taken down, along with its flash siblings, for consideration in a print magazine. Thank you so much to those of you who read it and left such wonderful comments!]






14 April, 2012

A to Z Challenge: M is for Midborn

I guess M stumped everyone this week. I have no room to talk - once I realized I'd have to come up with something on my own, I dragged my feet...and you can see I'm barely getting it in on time to count for today.

(Apologies for that and for not being very active this week - I've had a lot of other things on my mind.)

But all's well that ends well and since my ego's not big enough to brag on myself and implore you to read my blog, enjoy today's flash fiction. ;)



Midborn
Copyright © 2012 by Jessica Marcarelli and Visions of Other Worlds


“Think she’ll remember me?” Gace asked.

Lyn looked up from his holo-pad, where a three-dimensional game hovered. “Why wouldn’t she?”

Gace shrugged. “She was two when I left.”

“But you’ve sent holo-pictures.”

“Yes.”

“She'll remember.” Lyn went back to his game.

Gace frowned at the porthole. He was just paranoid. Of course Yarit would remember him. He was the only family she had left.

Of course, if he and Yarit hadn’t been separated, this wouldn’t be a problem. The last day he had seen her was still emblazoned in his mind. They had been playing under the big oak outside the family home. It was summer and too hot to play so they were looking at clouds instead. Yarit was almost asleep, her head pillowed in a bed of yellow pansies.

Gace saw the transport first. He stood and covered his eyes with one hand.

“Gace!”

He looked to see his mother running towards him. He pointed at the approaching silver tube. “Look!”

“I know.” She gathered Yarit into her arms. “Come quickly.”

He trotted after her, keeping his eyes on the transport. “Are they coming here?”

“Yes.”
“Why?”

“Because they must.”

“Why, Mother?”

“Gace, do not ask questions!” Her tone was short, strained. Even at six, Gace could hear it. It worried him. His mother had never talked to him like that.

They went inside, where his mother cleaned he and Yarit and dressed them in their best clothes. She cried, wiped the tears away, and told Gace to go the front room. He did. His father was talking with two uniformed men.

“Gace, this is Captain Bennett and Lieutenant Jackson,” his father said.

Gace saluted the way he had been taught. “You’re real soldiers?”

Captain Bennett smiled. “We are.”

Gace grinned at his father. He did not smile back. “What’s wrong, Father?”

His father knelt. “You and Yarit are going to go with these men, son.”

“Why?”

His mother walked in with Yarit, her eyes red.

“The Marauders have attacked again. You’ll be safer in space.”

Gace frowned. “What about you?”

“We have to fight them. When we’re done, we’ll send for you and your sister. Do you understand?”

Gace nodded but he didn’t. Not really. Why should they have to go with strange men? Couldn’t the captain fight the aliens? He kept his mouth shut and tried hard not to ask. His mother didn’t want him asking.

His father hugged him. “I love you.”

The hugging was too tight. It hurt and Gace wiggled away from it. “I love you, too, Father.”

His mother kissed him then handed his sister to the lieutenant. Gace thought she held on to Yarit too long. Then the captain took his hand and they were walking to the transport. His father held his mother. She was crying again, and shaking.

Gace had not seen his parents since that day. He and Yarit had been separated as soon as the transport docked with its ship. Yarit was too young to go with him, the captain said. She couldn't learn to fight the Marauders yet. But he could. He was midborn and old enough to be admitted to the training.

Gace swallowed. It had been seven years since he and his sister had been taken from one another. Next week, he would graduate from midborn to warrior. Then he would fight Marauders. But not before he finished his training on Yarit's academy vessel.

"But what if she doesn't remember me?" Gace whispered to the stars. They didn't answer.

____________________

Next Saturday is the letter S. Give me good ideas anytime this week and up until 11:59 PM on Friday! Rules are HERE.

12 April, 2012

A to Z Challenge: K is for Kindled

Today's flash fiction is part 2 of April's Thursday fantasy series. If you missed part 1: Energia (or just need a reminder), click HERE.

[EDIT: Kindled has been taken down, along with its flash siblings, for consideration in a print magazine. Thank you so much to those of you who read it and left such wonderful comments!]



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