Dangerously Genocidal: flashfic

Hot

Post Top Ad

Showing posts with label flashfic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flashfic. Show all posts

Tuesday, 3 May 2016

My Name is Stumpy - #BlogBattle Week 60: Duplicitous

May 03, 2016 6
My Name is Stumpy
#BlogBattle Week 60: Duplicitous

This is my entry for the #BlogBattle hosted by Rachael Ritchey. This week, the theme that seemed to stand out in my mind as I envisioned the story, was something of a Horror. I hope you enjoy it!

* * * * *

Welcome, my friend, welcome. Please, take a seat. I have not had company in a long time - it is good to see a new face. Coffee? Oh, of course, forgive me. Old habits die hard. I must say that I was surprised to receive your letter. Not many are interested in my story, but I would be happy to share it with you.

Now then.

My name is Stumpy. It's not my real name, but I've been using it for so long that the name my parents give me feel foreign on my tongue and to my mind. People have been calling me Stumpy since I was eight years old; ever since I'd lost my leg to the old chipper on grandfather's farm. It'd been awkward at first, walking around with half my leg missing, but one grows used to prosthesis. Besides, when I finally chose my profession, it became rather useful. Who would've thought that a peg-leg clown could be so popular?

Yes, you heard that right. I'm a clown. It doesn't pay much, and I can't say that my father - may the old bastard rest in peace - ever forgave me for choosing to become one. I went the whole nine yards, even attended a professional clown school. I have my degree framed and hanging against a wall in my house. I always displayed it proudly. It was a badge of honour for me. My wife - soon to be ex-wife, I suppose - found it adorable. 

She married me because she thought I was funny, you know? Said that I always made her happy, always knew just how to make her laugh. I'd been proud of that too, once.

I wish I could tell you where it all went wrong. I'm not exactly sure myself. I read an article, many years ago, that spoke about the mental stability of clowns. The writer was quite certain that the humans behind the painted happy faces tended to be... depressed. I thought he was an idiot, then. Over the last few years I've gone over that article so many times in my mind - I didn't have much else to do, you see - that I can probably recite it word for word. It's still hard to believe, even now, but maybe the writer had a point.

Not that I would say that I'm depressed... but I'm not altogether certain about my mental stability anymore. Now, don't give me that look. Ask even the craziest of men, and he would still believe that he is sane.

I really did enjoy being a clown. There was something so... undeniably satisfying to bringing joy to others - whether they were adults sitting in a pantomime crowd, or children at a birthday party. They always laughed at the foolishness of stumbling old Stumpy. I loved them for their smiles and their laughter. I don't know when it happened, though, but one day... that changed.

Their laughter was no longer satisfying. They twisted, became cruel. I saw derision in their eyes, I saw them mocking me with their toothy grins. That was when I began to hate them. Over time, I became angry with them for deserting me, for withholding from me the true merriment that was meant to be my reward. So, when I could no longer have their true laughter, I settled for pure screams.

Yes, I can see that you are familiar with the rest of the story. They've certainly brandied it about a fair deal, publishing every event in even the finest detail. They certainly made it sound like I had become a clown specifically to utilize the deceptively friendly facade to to satisfy my 'urges', I believe they called them.

It was good to speak about the true man again... it was beginning to feel as though he were long dead. Perhaps he is; dead and gone the moment the white face and painted red smile became more real than the man hiding behind them. Perhaps that is why I'd killed them... I simply forced them to reveal the true nature behind their mocking smiles, eternally preserved in death. So young, so innocent... so cruel.

But, as you can see, we have run out of time. Not that I'm in any hurry, you understand, but I don't think those many families waiting out there would be quite so happy if I missed this final performance. After all, is death not a performance as well? I rather welcome it, having waited for it so many years in this small cell. I suspect it will be a comfort.

Now then, before you leave my dear young man, permit an old man walking down death row one final handshake...


Vex Vaudlain   
Read More
at 6 comments:
Labels: , , , , , , ,

Sunday, 1 May 2016

I Heard Mother Earth - The Literature of Music

May 01, 2016 0
I Heard Mother Earth
The Literature of Music Series Chapter One


The theme for this week is the song “Earth Sounds” by the amazing performer Gennady Tkachenko-Papizh – I have included the link, and I highly recommend that you listen to it while reading. He performs his music by utilizing amazing vocals to create a sound that seems to reach something deep inside you that you didn’t realize was there. In this case, listening to the brief but beautiful song repeatedly, a tale of remembrance, and of regret finally formed within my mind. I hope that you enjoy this week’s translation of music to words.


* * * * *
I walk now as I did then, with feet bare and long soft grass brushing against my ankle. The trees rustle in the breeze, filled with the sounds of life. I can hear them; the birds singing their beautiful songs, as if harmonizing with the rushing stream and the shifting leaves. So many voices, all singing the same song, the same words. The song of the earth, or Mother Earth. She who provided, cared and loved.

Her voice was always there, the undercurrent that guided the tones of all her children. Her music was an energy that fed me when I walked upon her soil. There had been those amongst the people who once called me a druid. They built religions around the great mother, but I did not join them. She was mother not god, and deserved not our worship but our love, care and respect. Others called me delusional. I cared not much for them, either. All I cared to hear was her voice, her song.

I have not walked with bare feet in many years, nor have I felt the grass against my ankle or the shade of the trees. To walk barefoot now would risk burning the very skin from my feet, the hard and cracked dirt baked hot in the merciless sun. The only shade I have known for a long time has been only artificial. I cannot even recall when last I had heard the wind singing in the leaves, the sounds of birds, or the rushing of a stream… sometimes I fear I might have forgotten the song altogether.

There had been a place, once, where I had heard her singing clearest of all. High at the top of a waterfall, the rushing water created a crescendo that was accompanied by every piece of nature, every child of the earth, that heard it. Atop this waterfall I had sat many a day, listening to the mother singing for hours on end. I had wanted no more than that, content only to listen. I had loved mother earth… but never once had I taken it upon myself to speak for her. Would it have been pointless? Perhaps… simply another voice amongst the ignored masses. But now I could not help but wonder… if I had, would mine have been the one voice that finally tipped the balance?

I would never receive an answer. I’ve made peace with that.

I sit here now, on the ledge of what used to me my place of communion with the mother. I have spent many months making my pilgrimage here, through the harsh conditions that was now my home. The world is silent.

I can almost hear her voice again, for the briefest of moments… a memory so strong that I can feel the shade, hear the sounds, feel the dampness of the river. For a moment… I can hear my mother singing, calling me back to that time so long ago lost…

With a final breath, I join her in silence.


Vex Vaudlain   
Read More
at No comments:
Labels: , , , , , , ,

Thursday, 8 January 2015

The Greenest Eyes - A Short Story

January 08, 2015 0
I was challenged to another word sprint, with this story as the result. The prompt was to choose something on your desk and write about it - and my cat chose that exact moment to plop down on my keyboard. I'm really happy with the result, and might expand it into a full short story later. Either way, please let me know what you think in the comments below!


The Greenest Eyes

The night was darker than usual – it was full moon but dark clouds covered the sky. As if everyone could sense that this was not a good night to be outside, the streets were completely devoid of people. A strong breeze drifted through the small town, causing a lone flyer to flit about restlessly, and occasionally causing the door of the old abandoned shop on the far end of the main road swing creakily. The scratchy noise was interrupted by the occasional rap-rap as it hit the door frame.

An old man looked at the journalist, and nursed his drink in the near empty bar as he continued his story.

“Crowley has always been a small community. When a town consist of a main road with everything important, and a few blocks of houses, everyone knows everyone – and it makes for a ripe breeding ground for rumours.

The town is usually a lively place, you might have noticed during the day? The people here are very kind, friendly people. But they're also very traditional, and anything that does not fit in with their view is quickly shunned and disposed of. We are happy with our existence, and would've been happier if we could have separated Crowley from the outside world completely.

But life's rarely so simple, isn' it?

Life has always been good here, until two years ago. A young woman moved to town and things quickly went down the dung hole.

She was a beautiful young woman, I don’t mind saying. Quite a few boys lapping at her feet. Long black hair, like the finest silk. Had the greenest eyes you’d ever seen. An' her smile could light up the darkest night.

No one minded having a new resident - we're not too fond of strangers anymore, you might have noticed, but things were different then. In fact, we all welcomed her into the community. We supported her starting a small business in town, and we all wondered what it was that she did, excited and a little apprehensive of the mystery that surrounded her. I was too, to be honest. She had this air about her… But we were kind, friendly people. We decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

The day the store opened, chaos ensued. It was an 'es-o-teric store' – you know, the kind that sold scented candles and crystals, talismans and weird little packets of ‘healing herbs’. 

Kind the people may have been, but not when it came to someone who was different. I, myself, was quite up in arms about it. Some of us tried to warn her off. Argued with her mostly, but no one really did anything about her. She was as stubborn as she was beautiful.

I remember the grocers kids painted all over the front windows. Can’t quite remember what it was, but they called her a witch and devil woman. What was amazing is how she never reacted to the insults. Always calm, always smiling. Unsettled me some, don't mind saying.

That was until a night, two years ago, today. We still don’t know who it was that did it. Always suspected the Wilson boy myself, but you don’t go accusing the sheriff’s son without evidence. Anyway, found her body the next day. When we got to the store the girl was all battered and beaten. Raped too, I recall.

Even in death, she was smiling.

Next day, the cat showed up. You might have noticed him today. No? Black as night, always just seems to appear out of nowhere. Yes, that’s the one.

Things happen on this night. Noticed the lack of kids out today?

The first anniversary of her death, the Wilson kid committed suicide. The cat was there. Last year the Corley kids drowned when they went for a late night swim. Blasted cat was watching them too.

We tried to catch it, but no one ever has. It only comes tonight. It will leave tomorrow night. So we all wait inside. We wait and tomorrow we’ll find out what happened. Something will have happened - I don’t doubt that missy. And that blasted cat, it will be there. And tomorrow night – it will be gone.

I think the cat is her spirit. She’s angry with us now. She never showed it, but she was. I can tell you know. And she’s not going to stop.

You watch yourself tomorrow missy. And stay away from the cat.”

The journalist later left the pub, sorely disappointed. Just another ghost story. She always got the crappy jobs. With a sigh she put away her tape recorder and looked over the empty street, ready to head back to the guesthouse where she was staying. 

Across the street she noticed a flicker of movement. A shadow separated itself from the rest of the darkness, and a cat walked out of a small alleyway, sitting down across the street. It stared at her, it's fur almost as black as the night. And its eyes… they were the greenest eyes she’d ever seen.
Read More
at No comments:
Labels: , , , , , , , ,

Thursday, 20 November 2014

I Am Sorry - A Letter To My Muse

November 20, 2014 1
Dear Muse,

I started the original draft of this letter while I was quite frustrated. As you know, it is National Novel Writing Month and I have been drawing creativity from every source I can get my hands on to finish this book in time. But now - while I need you most - you seem to be constantly hiding, finding excuses and just generally proving to be unhelpful.

I finished a long letter - read RANT - about why you should be around, how disappointed I am, and how I was going to chain you up once you finally got back. And when I was done, I sat back, feeling better and quite self justified, staring at the pages filled with ink.

It took all of five minutes before I regretted writing that letter. In those five minutes, something amazing happened, something which I can barely describe. You see, my dear muse, in those five minutes I suddenly realized I thought of you not just as some mythical force, but a powerful creative entity that was an extension of myself. I thought of you as a living being in those minutes - and I felt horrible. I reread those pages several times, and I realized what a horrible mistake I had made.

Because you see, Muse, I can't blame you. 

I can't blame you for wanting to hide away from someone who would write such a letter, just like I would hide myself if someone wanted to do those things to me.
I expect you to be around whenever I demand it, no questions asked, no excuses given.
I expect you to come with creativity and ideas in hand, and to keep delivering when I feel that the ones you've tried to inspire me with aren't good enough.
I expect you to stay as long as I need you to, without rest, without breaks, without some time to stew in subconscious creative juices and come up with something new.
I expect you to be happy with these circumstances, where I'm prone to complain about your lack of work and dedication, your constant escapes, and rant, rave and insult you all the time.

If my boss wrote me a list of expectations like that, I would NEVER work for him. I would quit my job or sue him! And yet, here I was, writing out a whole letter demanding that you explain why you weren't following those rules.

And I came to realize a few very important things:

I realized that maybe you kept running away because I kept trying cage you and force you to work.
I realized that maybe you enjoyed coming on your own, and that you don't appreciate being summoned like a dog or slave.
I realized that even muses need time to rest, time to themselves, so that they can deliver later.

I realized that you are incredibly dedicated and understanding. You give and you give, and it's never enough. And on the few occasions when you actually get the chance to come up with a great idea, and can't wait to show it to me, I complain that you are being active at the worst possible time.

AND I'M SORRY.

I imagine that if you were a physical person, you would be one of the unhappiest, most depressed people in existence. And nobody would care.

When I started this letter, I'd planned to rant about how horrible you are, and how you were failing me.

Instead, I'd like to say: THANK YOU.

Thank you for always making some effort to show up, even when you hate that I called you.
Thank you for always coming with some ideas, even if they aren't the best. You take the abuse, the insults, the mockery, and you can't say anything about it - and you take some more after you get back from hiding out.
Thank you for always coming back, and sticking with me despite everything. I can't imagine how many times you've wanted to leave and never come back
Thank you for always trying to inspire me, and caring for my creative self.

You might not walk around or talk, or have a physical body, but that doesn't mean that I shouldn't respect you or that creative part of myself. It does mean that you need someone to speak out for you, someone who cares. It's unfortunate that that someone just so happens to be the worst offender, ME, but I'll try harder.

In short, Muse, this letter is a promise.

I promise I'll try harder to see your side of things. 
I promise I'll understand when you need a break.
I promise I'll take a closer look at your ideas, no matter how horrible they may seem, and try to find the good in them.
I promise to actually work with you rather than expecting you to do all the work.

And most important: I Promise to respect you - you who are a part of me, an extension of my being and my creativity - and in so doing respect myself.

With all my love,
Your Writer
Read More
at 1 comment:
Labels: , , , , , , ,

Sunday, 2 November 2014

Rhapsody In Fire

November 02, 2014 0

Rhapsody In Fire
The Music of Emotion

The first notes were slow, a haunting sound in the old abandoned theatre. The sound of the violin echoed loudly, every note hanging heavily in the air. They trembled as the cracking walls did, and the shadows dancing through hall seemed darker than before. The very air thickened with something unspoken.

When it happened, the change was almost unnoticed. Notes became shorter, slightly faster, faintly louder. They joined the shadows in their dance, writhing in graceful movements. The gloom that cursed the hall was lifting, if only slightly, the soft glow chasing it from the room. The cold air was seeping away.

The theatre slowly reawakened.

The shadows transformed before the melody did. Movements became sharper, mere flickers against the growing orange light. The violin sang of rebirth and rejuvenation. Warmth permeated old surfaces, paint peeling away faster and renewing the ruined walls. Pillars that stood strong once, now creaked and crackled, adding their own beat to the flowing music.

And then there was only light.

The melody became an ode to fiery desire, the tune bending and twisting like the world around it. The stage itself gave in to the sound, moving and flowing in harmony with the music. The crackling came faster now. The creaking and crashing lent a pulsing beat to the harsh trilling notes. The comforting warmth became a scorching heat, the air a black cloud of pulsing need.

What was once a lifeless body was now writhing and dancing, music its blood, rhythmic crashes its heartbeat. It was a passion all consuming, reviving and destructive. It blazed against the night sky.

And all the while the music played.

It played as glass warbled and shattered.
It played as the walls curled inwards.
It played as the roof finally caved.

Heat unbearable, air unbreathable. One final note, a climax.

A string snapped.


Vex Vaudlain   
Read More
at No comments:
Labels: , , , , , , , , ,

Post Top Ad

Author Details

I am a lover of crazy little interesting facts, player of many games (PC, not console. DAMN YOU CONSOLE!), and creator of words, stories, and poems. Most importantly, I am a lover of my happy purple life!