Flashes of Darkness Year 2: Flashes of Darkness, #2

Introduction

This is a collection of fiction written over the span of a year for my web page and shared on social networks with my readers. I refer to this as flash fiction but also as picture fiction. One of the hashtags used for this collection online was #picturefiction. Each piece in this volume was inspired by an image that was either found online or taken by myself or someone I know. The pictures have not been included in this volume as some of their provenances are unknown and I do not wish to steal someone’s intellectual property.

Flash Fiction

What is flash fiction? Flash fiction is extremely short fiction. It stands out for its brevity, often as little as a few words to as many as 1,000 words or so. Some of the stories contained herein surpass 1,000 words but for the most part remain near that target.

Flash fiction, although extremely brief should still provide setting, character and a story. No one knows how long flash fiction has actually existed as it has its roots in prehistory. The oral tradition is rife with very short stories. Aesop’s Fables is a perfect example of flash fiction. During the early part of the twentieth century it was referred to as the ‘short short story’.

There are many brands of flash fiction from stories limited to specific word counts such as 50 or 100 words, and tales like those contained in this volume which tend to come in between 500 and 2,000 words in length.

The advent of the internet has caused a renaissance of sorts for flash fiction. Blogs are the perfect vehicle for the format.

What began as a writing exercise for me became a weekly event for my readers. I’ve collected the first year of my flash fiction into one convenient tome for readers who have not discovered my site yet or want to have bite size reading easily at hand.

If you’re in a rush, waiting in the doctor’s office, ten minutes from the next train station; this is the collection for you. Each story was written to be read in a matter of minutes, the perfect bite size stories for our hectic, always moving world. I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed writing them.

The Night of the Funeral

J ohnny stop that, Mister Hodges shouted across the room.

Kenneth Hodges, owner of Hodges’ Funeral Parlor, crossed the preparation room at a near jog.

Johnny Williams, his assistant, stood over the embalming table with a trocar poised to enter the body of Harold Zigler who lay dead and uncaring on the stainless steel table.

What’s the problem sir? I was just preparing to embalm this guy.

Mister Zigler is a special prep case, Hodges said. He was panting with the minor exertion of racing across the fifteen foot wide room.

The family has requested no embalming or any other modifications to the body. We’re also to dress him in unaltered clothing.

Well that’s gonna suck, Johnny said. He’s gotta weigh 240 and wrestling him into uncut clothes is gonna be a bitch.

Standard practice at Hodges’ was to cut open the back of pants to make easing the corpse into them easier. Once the deceased was in the coffin the family could not tell that the clothing was damaged; out of sight, out of mind.

I think it’s something religious or cultural, Hodges said. The wife seemed European, interesting accent; just make do.

Johnny grimaced at the expected physical effort but he as he put the trocar on its hook he at least was mollified by not having to deal with fluid disposal.

The sun had just set when the first cars pulled up to the funeral parlor. Mister Zigler was displayed in the finest mahogany casket Hodges carried. His clothes were immaculate, jewelry was displayed prominently on his folded hands and his hair was groomed in the style of a famous movie star his family had requested. The only negative in Johnny’s eyes was the graying skin. Normally Mister Hodges and he would apply makeup to the embalmed bodies to provide a natural appearance; most families did not want the rudest parts of death shown to them. The Zigler family obviously wasn’t bothered as each of the mourners, dressed in black tie and gowns, filed past the coffin remarking on how good he looked.

Is it just me or are they a bit festive? Johnny said to Hodges as they stood near the doors.

Different culture, Hodges whispered. Maybe they treat death like they do at a New Orleans funeral with brass bands and dancing.

Brothers and sisters, an extremely tall man in a tuxedo said from beside the casket. It has been three days since our newest brother received his sacrament. Tonight we gather to celebrate.

A cheer ran through the crowd. Hodges was shocked to see several people pulling on tacky paper birthday party hats and blowing on noise makers.

Most unseemly no matter the culture, he whispered.

A hand fell on Johnny and Hodges shoulders. They both started as they realized that a heavy set man in a baby blue tuxedo had somehow materialized behind them.

Youse guys did a great job with old Zig, he said. Why dontcha come up and join the party.

Oh sir, that would be improper, Hodges said.

The man’s hands squeezed and both men felt as if a vice was crushing their shoulders. They felt themselves being pushed forward.

If you insist sir, Hodges said through gritted teeth.

Hodges and Johnny were steered through the crowd of mourners — who were more like celebrants — until they were beside the coffin.

Our hosts, blue tux said and the crowd cheered and tooted their party horns.

It is time, the extremely tall man said and the crowd rose to its feet.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present our newest brother, Harold Zigler.

Blue tux turned toward the casket, dragging Hodges and Johnny around by his motion as if they were paper dolls. Hodges’ face drained of color as the corpse sat up and blinked its eyes sleepily.

Hi everybody, Harold Zigler said. I’m famished.

Brought you a youngun, blue tux said and pushed Johnny toward the casket.

Zigler grabbed the young man as fast as a striking snake. Johnny barely had time to register the long fangs that appeared in Zigler’s mouth before he bit into his throat and began to feed.

Happy rebirth day, the extremely tall man shouted.

The crowd cheered.

Now we feast, he shouted.

The crowd of vampires pushed forward for their taste of a Hodges’ cocktail.

Stalking the Ya-Te-Veo

The door to the Adventurer’s Club slammed against the wall. The gathered men turned to see who was so uncouth as to make such a racket.

Lord Stanley Rockridge stood framed in the doorway, a shadowy silhouette against the dappled sunlight illuminating the front garden of the mansion. His chest heaved as if he had run a long distance – quite unthinkable for a proper gentleman – and he blinked myopically as his eyes battled against the gloom of the great room to adjust.

Woolington, he said in a voice that bounced from the walls. There you are.

Lord William Woolington cringed as Rockridge marched across the great room toward the comfortable wingback chair where he had, until moments ago, been reading a penny dreadful. He liked Rockridge well enough but after such a boorish entrance the other nobles and men of means in the club would pooh-pooh Rockridge for days and now he might be included in their gossip.

Good afternoon Rockridge, Woolington said and pretended to return to his reading.

Rockridge dragged a club chair opposite Woolington with a clatter and flopped unceremoniously into it.

I found the most amazing thing, he said and commenced digging through the multitude of pockets in his overcoat.

Good afternoon to you too Lord Woolington, Woolington said. So sorry to have disturbed you Lord Woolington. May I join you Lord Woolington?

Rockridge stared at Woolington with a puzzled expression and then exclaimed loudly as he brandished a crumpled piece of paper he had located in an inner pocket.

Look at this Wooly, he said, oblivious to the other’s annoyance.

Don’t call me that.

Oh, bugger that. Just look at what I found.

Rockridge flattened a large piece of paper, graying with age, onto the small table between them. He knew he could not escape; so, ignoring the stares of his fellow Adventurers, Woolington placed his book aside and leaned forward to accommodate his companion.

The paper was quite large and was smudged at the margins where many fingers had touched it over its lifetime. The left side of the paper was ragged as if it had been torn from a book. Dominating the sheet was a garish etching of some monstrous creature seemingly devouring one of a trio of dark skinned natives. Woolington assumed it to be Africa from the style of loincloth and the facial features of the natives.

Is that a beast or a tree? Woolington pointed at the creature. It seems to be a bit of both.

That, dear Wooly-

Don’t call me that.

Rockridge rolled his eyes.

That is the carnivorous Ya-Te-Veo tree. A thing of fearful legend from darkest Africa and I now know how to find it.

Do tell.

I found an old book in the archives which mentioned the tree. That led me to an even more ancient volume which contained this image and explicit directions to the site of the pictured attack on the reverse.

With a flourish, Rockridge flipped the paper over to reveal faint words.

Wait, did you tear this from a volume in the archives? The Royal Archives? Dear God man, that’s vandalism; it’s tantamount to blasphemy.

Rockridge waved away his companion’s concern.

A trifle; imagine the fame we will garner by finding this thing. Her Majesty will bestow untold honors on us. What is a mere page compared to the find of the century?

We? You expect me to accompany you on some mad expedition?

Of course dear Wooly–Woolington. I need your airship after all. Wouldn’t you rather be on a grand quest to gain fame rather than sit here reading some bodice ripper?

Woolington blushed. It’s not a bodice ripper. It is a tale of—oh that’s not important.

He looked around the room. No less than a dozen well dressed gentlemen were staring at him and Rockridge; even the servants stood gaping at them. Perhaps a journey to the bush would be a good idea. By the time they returned the others would have some new gossip to make them forget this scene.

Oh, all right; I’ll go. But I expect you to pay for my airship’s fuel on this mad quest.

Done, Rockridge said and the men shook hands to seal their bargain.

Three weeks later found the airship Endeavor floating over a valley north of Lake Victoria near the southern Ethiopian border.

This has to be the place, Rockridge said consulting his purloined page for the hundredth time.

You said that for the last six locales.

Yes, yes I know. But look, the mountains to the north match the description and the very shape of the savannah matches. Bring us down Wooly; I think we’ve struck pay dirt.

This is the last time Rocky. If we find nothing again, I’m sailing for home.

Rockridge waved off his friend’s concern and leaned over the rail to watch the land come up to meet them.

The men disembarked from the airship but their bearers refused to move beyond the safety of the vessel’s shadow. The dark skinned men pointed at the leafless trees which dotted the savannah and grumbled in their native tongue.

What’s their problem? Rockridge said.

Something about demon trees; they refuse to leave the ship.

See? Demon trees, this is the place.

Rockridge shouldered a pack and hefted an enormous rifle. Without waiting for his companion, he marched off through the waist high grass. Woolington gathered his own supplies and, after delivering hasty instructions to guard the airship, trotted after his friend.

Sweat poured down both men as they hiked. According to Rockridge’s paper, the site of the attack was three miles north of the savannah’s southernmost border. The dead trees were everywhere; their long desiccated limbs reached toward the sky. Woolington wondered what had killed so many trees while still providing a fertile place for the copious grass.

Look there, Rockridge said.

Woolington followed his friend’s pointing finger and saw a lone tree swaying in the breeze. It took a minute to realize that there was no breeze; the tree’s limbs were moving of their own accord.

The limbs writhed sinuously, more like the tentacles of some sea creature than the branches of a tree.  As they approached they could make out the cracked bark of the trunk and rows of thorns covering the writhing branches.

Dear God, you were right.

Rockridge preened at the praise. He dropped his pack and dug through it until he discovered a bulky camera.

Would you be so kind as to take my picture in front of this beast? Then I’ll take yours.

Woolington could not believe that his friend had actually been right. They had been on dozens of adventures, all fun but fruitless. This was the first time one of Rocky’s wild goose chases had actually resulted in a goose.

Of course, but be careful.

Woolington took the camera and lined up a shot while Rockridge struck a pose in front of the tree.

Say cheese, Woolington said.

Rockridge smiled broadly and Woolington depressed the camera’s trigger. At that exact moment the Ya-Te-Veo bent forward, its trunk flexing like a man’s waist and a dozen branches lashed out and snared Rockridge. The man screamed as the thorns dug through his clothing and flesh. He was lifted from the ground and toward the unseen mouth of the monster.

Woolington dropped the camera and gathered up the rifle. The shot was deafening and Woolington felt his heart sink as the bullet ricocheted from the monster’s trunk as if it were made of stone. He prepared a second shot, trying to ignore the frantic screams of his friend who was now halfway into the tree monsters mouth.

A sound from behind him drew his attention. Three of the trees were closer than they had been before. As he stared in disbelief they shuffled closer. He fired another, ineffectual, shot at the new arrivals. Their branches lashed out to snare Woolington. As he was drawn to his doom he knew his friend had missed an important bit of information in the legends; the Ya-Te-Veo was not a singular monster and it hunted in packs.

Battle Cry

The sun was setting over the grassy field. As shadows lengthened, furtive movements caused the long grass to sway. Dozens of forms crawled toward the border, intent on having their revenge on their hated foes on the other side.

Grunts and whispers heralded their coming as they struggled over the uneven ground.

Silence. The leader’s voice was a hoarse whisper. The enemy is near.

The grim force closed ranks as their scouts finished cutting through the metal links of the border fence. 

Tonight we avenge our fallen brothers, the leader whispered.

With a roar the members of the combat force, a score of warriors, rose from the grass and charged through the opening in the border fence. Their blue and orange shirts rippled in the breeze as they charged. Their red Phrygian caps flapped behind them and their bushy beards and hair gave them the appearance of angry lions as they rushed across the grass of the enemy territory.

The enemy force turned from their contemplation of a pond. Their eyes widened in shock and then quickly narrowed in anger. Voicing their own roaring battle cry they charged with their traditional blue Phrygian caps flapping behind as they ran.

The two forces met half way between the pond and the border. Screams filled the night as the equally matched forces battered each other with fists, feet and teeth.

A blue cap was first to fall as his head was crushed under the bright red boots of a red cap. A scream of dismay rose into the air and three of his brothers leaped upon his murderer. Soon a knot of struggling forms rolled back and forth over the fallen warrior’s corpse.

Arms were torn from their sockets, legs shattered and throats crushed. Carnage filled the night.

The red caps fell steadily; it appeared the blue army would win the battle when a trio