Lena Corazon

Flights of Fancy

Tag: flash fiction

Dice Games, Day 2: “Worthless?”

June 6, 2012 / / 3 Comments

Okay, I got a little distracted from the #DiceGames fest this week, so my last 2 fills are a little late. But better late than never, no?

For Day 2, I rolled a 2. The prompt: Write a love story. Blood and gore mandatory.

I thought I’d have a bit of fun with this one, so here, have a couple of supernatural hunters, a horde of zombies, and a lovers’ tiff. This piece of flash fiction tried to run away with me, but I managed to shave it down to 750 words exactly.

And don’t forget to check out the fills from the other intrepid #DiceGames writers while you’re at it!

-oOo-

“Worthless?”

Fighting zombies was no time for a lovers’ quarrel, but Gareth had learned long ago that his beloved wasn’t like most women. A young lady of refinement would never be caught armed to the teeth with knives and pistols, nor would she spend her days tracking supernatural creatures to kill them in the most brutal way possible.

That was exactly why he loved Serenity. Her jealous streak, however, was another story altogether.

“I know you were looking at her.” Her voice, sharp with accusation, was loud enough to be heard above the noise of battle.

“Spirits be damned, Serenity, I love you.” The gravitas of his declaration was lost in his rather unmasculine screech as blood fountained from the monster before him, its head suddenly missing.

“Keep up,” she snapped, whirling away from the spurting corpse. Her katana flashed in the sunlight.

Grunting, he adjusted his grip on the crossbow, picking off two more of the shambling creatures before they could close in on her. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Sorry, I’m too busy trying to keep your worthless hide alive.”

He winced. “Worthless” wasn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe himself. He might’ve been more comfortable with a stack of books than he was with a weapon, but in the 2 years since Serenity had hauled him out of his library and proved that monsters existed, he’d become a fairly proficient hunter.

Pushing his silver-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose, Gareth pulled a pistol out of his holster and emptied the rounds into the last creature. It tottered, stumbled backwards, and fell with a satisfying thud to the ground.

That’s when things went to hell.

A dozen more zombies were on them in the flash of an eye. Serenity leapt into the fray, a blade in each hand as she sought to keep them back. Gareth loosed his arrows upon the horde with breathtaking speed, until the crossbow was ripped out of his hand.

The zombie had him in its undead grasp before he could sneeze, lifting him a half-foot into the air. He struggled wildly, legs kicking out, but his attempts were completely ineffectual.

When was he going to learn to stop showing off?

The zombie’s hand tightened around Gareth’s throat, cutting off his screams. Spots danced before his eyes, and he wondered, absurdly enough, whether the creature would rip his head off or merely choke him to death.

He never got the chance to find out. He found himself crashing to the ground instead, the zombie toppling over a moment later. Putrid goo oozed from the body and puddled around Gareth, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Still alive. Still breathing. Shocking, really.

A shadow dropped over him, and Serenity’s face swam into view. Blood and gore stained her clothing; the squishy gray bits flecked on her cheek must’ve belonged to some poor zombie’s brain. Still, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He grinned up at her with all the enthusiasm of a psychotic.

“Maybe ‘worthless’ wasn’t the right word.”

His heart expanded in a swell of satisfaction. Maybe it only took half-dying for her to notice? “That’s right, ma’am.”

Her dark brows furrowed, her lips twisting in disapproval. “‘Reckless’ might be more accurate.”

Oh. Not quite the compliment he’d been hoping for. The silence stretched out between them, but she broke it at last, an unexpected grin brightened her face.

“Looks like I’ve managed to corrupt you at last. Never thought I’d live to see the day,  Mr. Mountbatten.”

“Done more than that. You stole my damned heart while you were at it.” He inhaled gingerly, wincing at the pain that lanced his body. Bruised ribs, perhaps?

It didn’t matter. Gareth had things to say, and he wasn’t going to let petty injuries stop him. “I’m not lookin’ at anyone else. You’re the only one I want, Serenity Vega.”

She was silent as she knelt beside him, but her fingers lingered over his cheek with unexpected tenderness. “I know.” Her voice scarcely more than a whisper. “You have my heart, Gareth.”

Gently, she pulled him against her, cradling his head in her lap and pressing her lips to his forehead. His delight was slightly dimmed by her next words.

“If I catch you staring at another buxom barmaid’s assets ever again, I will personally castrate you.”

He could only chuckle in response and nuzzle in closer. No, Serenity wasn’t like other women, but she suited Gareth just fine.

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Dice Games, Day 1: “Liberty”

June 4, 2012 / / 16 Comments

I’m busy trying to survive the end of the school year, but I wanted to tiptoe in and post this bit of flash fiction for ‘Timony Souler’s June edition of the Dice Games. The rules are simple:


You will roll a die – THREE TIMES

Each number you roll will give you a PROMPT (Which can be found HERE)

You will post a piece (between 250 and 750 words) on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

For Day 1, I rolled a 6, which gave me the following: You fly off to a foreign country to meet a stranger – how does that work out?

The fill is 739 words long, with a bit of dialogue swiped from one of my favorite films. Many internet brownies to those who can identify the movie. 😛

There are nine other writers taking part in the challenge, so be sure to check out their work as well.

-oOo-

“Liberty”

The air is oppressively heavy, weighed down by the stench of sweat, smoke, petrol fumes, and a thousand other scents too foreign for Ara to identify. Five minutes beyond the air-conditioned confines of the ship, and her shirt is already plastered to her skin with perspiration.

The docks are a microcosm of the madness that has overtaken the sprawling, overcrowded nation of Hynnash. Here, a multitude of bodies collide and coalesce, swirling together in a melee that is dizzying and disorienting.

Ara’s only comfort is the thin silver blade concealed within her left hand. Solid and cool to the touch, it steadies her frayed nerves like an old friend, a confidant that holds all of her secrets. In a way, it is true. Her blade knows with deep intimacy all of the blood she has spilled over the years, the identities of every man and woman to fall beneath her fatal blow.  There is no other companion that she trusts more completely.

If she is lucky, there is but one more life to claim: the fugitive warlord known only as The Stranger. Intelligence states that he is aboard his personal yacht, where he will remain for the next three days before slipping deeper into Hynnash’s impenetrable jungles. The task that she faces is a simple one, save for the challenge of finding the yacht amidst the thousands of dinghies, boats, and watercraft of all shapes and sizes lining the three-mile stretch of shore.

But Ara has never known failure. With fluid grace, she melts into the press of bodies, slipping through the crowds with otherwordly ease. Fifteen years of the hunt has honed her into the perfect predator, calm, cool, and patient. However, it is not the thrill of the chase that propels her forward, but the tantalizing promise of freedom.

How long has it been since she lived for herself? How long has she killed, hoping with every strike of the blade to destroy yet another shard of her shattered heart? She can hardly remember what it was like before she was a servant to the Hierarchy, one of the many cloaked assassins sent in to do their dirty work.

If she can complete this last task, her final dance with death, she will be free. Likely she will spend the rest of her life dodging old enemies, avoiding new ones, confined to the shadowy, dark places in the world. It is a bleak future, but it is hers. She can’t help but cherish it.

The sun is making its downward arc into the sea when she sees the yacht. It is a splash of pure white against the blinding blue sky, with a single word painted on its side in crimson: Liberty. Her lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile. Ironic, but fitting.

There is a bustle about the boat, with workers bustling to and fro, loading crates into the hold. Her curiosity is piqued, but she quickly suppresses it. Her business is with The Stranger.

In spite of the bodyguards stationed on either side of the entrance, Ara slips through the doors unseen. Her pulse is rapid, adrenaline coursing through her body as she seeks out her prey. She bypasses empty rooms, her intuition leading her up narrow stairs and out to the upper deck.

The Stranger is there, alone. He stands with his back to her, facing the water. His silhouette is long and lean; the gentle breeze stirs his long, dark hair. At the sight, memory wakes within her, the pain sharp and piercing in that place where her heart once beat: the thrum of passion, the ecstasy of love, the wrenching emptiness of death.

She knows him.

He turns towards her then, though she knows she hasn’t made a sound. Those blue eyes cut straight to her soul, sharper and more deadly than the blade clutched in her hand. When he smiles, those lips curving into a benediction that is all at once gentle, loving, and welcoming, she feels her knees threaten to buckle beneath her.

She manages to remain upright, but her voice is guttural when she speaks, rough and raw with unshed tears. “Where the hell have you been?”

His answer is simple. “Waiting for you.”

Somehow, no other explanation is needed. She hardly feels the blade slip from her fingers, doesn’t even hear its splash when it sinks beneath the waves.

Liberty. It is a fitting name.

 

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Fiction Fridays: Tapping Into Writerly Extrasensory Perception

November 18, 2011 / / 15 Comments

Today marks the final day of the Warm Fuzzies blogfest. I’m not quite sure where the last four weeks went, but here we are, over halfway through with November, hurtling our way to the winter holidays.

Our prompt for the week is a bit of a timely one, given that I am easing my way out of a rough writing patch and trying to regain momentum with NaNoWriMo:

This week, post what makes writing worth it for you and most importantly, post one of your Warm Fuzzy moments. It can be a scene from a WIP, short story, poem, anything that strikes your fancy. Visit one another’s posts and enjoy the writing you find there.

Writing involves blood and sweat and tears (the blood is hopefully metaphorical, unless we are discussing paper cuts). It can be stressful, frightening, disheartening. Sometimes I can end my writing time feeling down-in-the-dumps pathetic, like I’m the worst writer to walk the face of the planet, and how in the world am I ever going to turn this piece of tripe into something that people want to read, let alone pay for?

Sometimes, it helps for me to think of writing as a sort of treasure hunt, or some vast archaeological dig. I like to imagine myself the intrepid adventurer on a quest, armed with a map and some tools, along with a folder holding the bits of research and scraps of paper and a clue or two.

Image: taoty / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

No matter how detailed my preparation for the excursion, however, I never fail to wander into unmarked territory. It’s in those unmarked spaces that I find the most unexpected gems, the most valuable pieces of treasure. It’s in those off-the-beaten-path spots where I suddenly find the capacity to listen.

Sometimes the things I hear resonate with the guideposts on my map; sometimes they take me into brand new territory. No matter what, this is where the magic happens.  Characters suddenly reveal a handful of new secrets. Mundane settings become more vibrant. Flat, uninteresting plots gain complexity, along with a few twists and turns. Ideas are infused with life, with passion and vibrancy and wants and needs,

This is why I write, aside from the fact that there are characters chirping in my ear, demanding that their stories be told. I write because I can’t get enough of this strange extrasensory perception, this third eye that allows me to see and to hear things that don’t exist. I write because I have the faith that my hard work will be rewarded with those wonderful, incandescent moments of joy, when a scene that’s been hazy and vague suddenly crystallizes in my mind.

Given the furious pace of NaNoWriMo, it’s been difficult to tap into my writerly ESP, to take the time to sit down and just listen to what my characters want and need. It’s one of the things that I’m hoping to do this weekend, because I know the story needs an injection of vitality, a little (or maybe a lot) extra oomph.

All of this is a roundabout way to preface my excerpt, which is not taken from my NaNo novel (sorry, guys, it just doesn’t have that “zing” right now). Instead, I’m posting a flash fiction piece that I wrote for a Halloween-themed challenge last month. You can find the original post here. I love this piece because it’s a little creepy, moody, and dark, which is out-of-the-ordinary for me.

Enjoy, and be sure to swing by and visit the other bloggers taking part in the Warm Fuzzies blogfest!

-oOo-

“Midnight Walker”

It was a small thing, really: a single globule of blood, no larger than a dewdrop and just as delicate.  If Alaric hadn’t been starving, his veins parched and dry, it would’ve been easy enough to ignore.  Restraint and willpower had always been his strengths, even before he was reborn.  But then again, he had never been deprived of sustenance for so long. There was no way he could withstand such temptation.

That drop of blood was a siren’s song of lust and desire, flooding his mouth with saliva, sharpening his gleaming fangs.  It gleamed in the flickering glow of the streetlamp, adorning the whore’s neck like the most precious ruby.

She’d been bitten already — a sloppy kiss from a drunkard, for her intoxicating bouquet was tainted by the acrid, burnt smell of whiskey. With his preternatural senses, he could hear the beating of her heart, the borborygmic trembling of her stomach; she was hungry as well, her face pinched and pale beneath a heavy coating of rouge.  It mattered little. By the time Alaric was through, food — or lack thereof — would be the least of her worries.

The whore turned limpid eyes upon him, lips parted in a drawl of invitation, and Alaric’s hands shook as his slid the coin into her hand.  A thrill of delight coursed down his spine as he followed her into the dank alley nearby, even as his conscience uttered one final whimper of protest.

He would hate himself come morning, when the alleys would be strewn with evidence of his excesses, but the salt-sweet elixir on his tongue drove away all regret.

 

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