March Fadness Flash Fiction Entries

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Rolling Thunder

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The March FADness thread is now available for your reading enjoyment! Watch for voting instructions!
 
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Without Warning 905 words

“Detective Roberts, you’re going to want to read this,” the coroner said handing him a small black book.

“What is it?”

“It seems to be a diary of the diseased female’s. I found it tucked under her skirt.

Detective Roberts took the diary and tucked it safely in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, it weighed heavily on his mind. “Thank you. You can take the bodies out now. We have everything we need,” he informed the coroner.


The ride to the 24-hour diner left the detective wondering what could have led up to the soon-to-be famous murder-suicide as he peered at the passing media trucks, through the droplets of water, in convoy to the scene. The rain beat against the windshield and the wipers methodically swiped back and forth bringing the 1 am morning a chill he would never forget.

“I’ll have the apple pie and some coffee, please,” Roberts said to the waitress, reaching into his jacket pocket and slapping the small black diary on the table.

He took a napkin and wiped off the finger print dust and began to read it.

December 15, 07

I’m so in love! It’s amazing! I’m tingling all over. His voice is sultry and sexy and drives me wild! It’s like magic; my heart just automatically knows when it’s time. It skips a beat, everything stops and I’m obedient to his call. Just when life seemed so bleak, I found love! I never thought I’d end up happy. Love is grand!

December 20, 07

His eyes are so blue! I love the way he smiles when he speaks. Everything is perfect about this amazing man! He makes my heart sing songs I’ve never heard before. I started writing them down. I wonder if I should give them to him to let him know how I really feel. Not yet. It’s too soon. He may wish me away, but it may be the very thing that bonds us together. He needs to know how deeply in love I am with him so he will want to stay with me forever.

I’ve decided to flush all my medications. I don’t need them. Who needs those evil pills when I have love, this man’s love. So true, so real it heals me. I can feel it happening. Am I worthy of such goodness? Yes! Thank you my King!

December 24, 07

Christmas Eve. I’m alone! I hate being alone! Where’s my love? Why is he not here with me? He should be here with me! Our hearts belong together! Tonight he made me very angry! I waited for him but he didn’t come. Now I sit here alone drinking our champagne without him. I need to cut, to bleed this out of my soul! This one’s for you my love. I will drink the blood for both of us. Then we will be one.

January 1, 08

I found a letter of apology under my matt today. It was him! My true love! I forgive him for hurting me like that. I’m happy again! He realizes how wrong he was for missing our Christmas Eve celebration. My head hurts from too much alcohol last night, though. Silly me, I must not drink that much or my King will hate me forever.

January 3, 08

I sent my love songs to him. He’s finally going to know how I really feel about him. He will surly want to marry me when he reads the songs and take me in his arms and lavish me in his love. Our lives together will be like no other love anyone on earth has ever witnessed. We will be famous!

January 15, 08

I see him now speaking directly to me! It’s like magic again. I can read between the lines of what he says. I hear your voice, My Sweet Love! I hear you! And good news! I’m coming for you. I’ve been accepted. And the way you look at me melts my heart into rivers of undying love flowing from my soul to yours.

My Darling, wait for me, for soon we will touch.

January 20, 08

He’s married! My king is married! I can’t take this! I’ve been crying and cutting for hours now. I’m a bloody mess. I’ve destroyed my home and it’s all because of him! He never wrote me back! How will I ever know how much he hates his wife and loves me? I must get to him! I will get to him. He needs to tell me himself that he loves me and choose between me and HER! Too bad for her though, he will choose me. I still love you my darling! You can do no wrong.

January 28, 08

I bought a gift for my king today, a gift that will unite us for eternity. You like silver don’t you, darling? Silver becomes you.

I’m almost there my love, my true love. I hear you when you say you still love me! I can’t deny you. I hear you when you say you say you can’t live without me. It’ll be our little secret. Shhh. ~giggle~

February 6, 08

The plane tickets came in today. I can almost smell his cologne; almost hear his voice. I go on the show today. He will be so surprised. I can’t wait. Today we will be eternally united, forever and ever. Here I come my love…
 
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Prompt: Something Beautiful
Title: Marielle’s Puppet


At first the window displays were very confusing to Marielle. Who put them there? What were they for? Her mother clutched her hand tightly, pulling her along the crowded sidewalk. Some of the people would turn around as Marielle bumped into them, look down at her, and grudgingly step aside to let her see. One of the windows had puppies from the SPCA running around in a playpen decorated like Santa's workshop. The next was full of shining jewelry carefully spread out across mounds of black satin. Another had enormous dolls that looked very expensive and very delicate, nothing like the Barbies that Marielle wanted for Christmas.

The last window at the end of the block was not nearly as crowded as the ones with the puppies or the jewels. Marielle could see a deep, red glow coming through the glass as she walked towards it. The family standing in front of her blocked all but the top half of the window, but she could see a delicate spiderweb of slender, shining threads coming down from the ceiling. Once the family stepped away she saw what the threads were attached to - four puppets slowly moving their arms and bodies in sweeping, graceful motions as a set of motors in the ceiling hummed and turned. The puppets were almost as big as Marielle, all of them with faces painted ghost white and bodies covered in long, flowing robes that swayed hypnotically as their arms moved up and down.

Marielle pressed the palms of her hands up against the glass, transfixed by the graceful motions and strange faces of the puppets. She felt her mother's breath warm on her cheek as she leaned in closely.

“You like those, honey? You think they're pretty?”

Marielle nodded.

“They're from Japan. See, it says on the sign here that it takes a year to make each one. Their faces are made out of porcelain and the clothes they wear are a special kind of silk that you can't get in America.”

Marielle didn't know what porcelain was, but it sounded expensive. She thought about working on something for a year as she watched the movements of the puppets. She had worked all weekend on her painting project for Ms. Orsell's class, and that had seemed like a very long time to her. She decided that the puppets were the most beautiful thing that she had ever seen and that she would learn how to make one as soon as she could. She didn't care if it took a long time or if it cost a lot of money, she would find some way to put it together.

She felt her mother's hand gently gripping her shoulder, pulling her back from the window.

“Come on, honey. It's time to go. Marielle?”

Marielle ignored her mother. She wanted to look at the puppets just a little longer, watching them rise and fall in the store window as she took in their hair, their clothes, and the delicate strings that followed their hands up into the ceiling.

“Marielle Thomas,” her mother said sternly. “Come on now, we really do need to go.”

There was no arguing with that tone. Marielle kept her eyes fixed on the window as she stepped backwards and allowed herself to be led away. She wanted to keep watching as long as she could, until the last possible second. Soon a tall man in a bright blue ski cap stepped in front of her, blocking out her last view of the puppets slowly turning in the deep, red glow of the window. Marielle closed her eyes tightly, trying to remember everything she could about her last view through the glass so she could hold on to it forever and ever.
 
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The End

Imagine yourself if you will, completely immobile, lying flat on your back in a box. The box is sealed shut. Darkness surrounds you. You hear nothing, because no sound can penetrate through six feet of dirt. That, my friend, is what it's like for me. And that is what it will be like for you.

Every now and then when I think about it, I wish I'd been eaten alive by some wild animal. Sooner or later it would have crapped me out and I could lie there enjoying the sunshine and the sounds around me instead of suffering this damnable, interminable isolation.

I'm not trying to give you the impression I'm completely alone. The dead do have some company. As I lie here, I can feel my little bacterial friends at work, growing, multiplying, increasing. They dine on my skin, feast on my muscles and gorge themselves on my organs. There's not a part of me that's off limits, except, perhaps, my teeth and bones. But time will take care of those as well.

You might think you won't be able to handle it when your time comes. Let me tell you, my friend. You can. You will. Because you have no choice. And you'll have plenty of time to get used to it.

If you've been praying for eternal life, I'm here to tell you you'll have it. But it's not going to be what you thought. And you're not going to like it one bit.
 
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The Same but Different

England, 1946


I slid down in the bath and twisted my legs to the side trying to cover as much as my body as possible with the lukewarm water. Through the open window sunlight poured in, the temperature had been climbing steadily all day. My Mother’s voice floated up to me from the garden, strident and sharp. I slunk lower in the bath letting the water fill my ears, trying to block her out. Floating my hands through the bubbles I felt them cobweb between my fingers, as insubstantial and fragile as I felt.

I pushed my hands further under the water skimming them over my body, round my breasts, across my stomach, over the jut of my hipbones and finally between my legs. My eyes fluttered closed, my mind wandering down paths of pleasure.

“Elizabeth!”

My Mothers screech reached me even under the water and I reluctantly sat up, pulling the plug out with my toes. I shivered as the air hit my wet skin, goose bumps springing up across my body, despite the sticky heat of the day.

Dressing quickly and pulling my damp hair back into a messy chignon I made my way downstairs. My Mother stood in the entrance hall, immaculate as always in a green dress. Her lips were painted a fashionable pillar-box red; she pursed them as she spotted me.

“Elizabeth finally!” she ran a critical eye over me and from the crease that formed between her eyebrows I knew she found me wanting. “This is your engagement party and our first party since the war, I thought you’d be helping more”

“I’m sorry Mother, what shall I do?”

I watched her cast about for a job; truthfully she only wanted me playing the role of perfect daughter. The one thing I didn’t seem capable of.

“Look here comes a delivery, show them to the kitchen.” she bustled away. I trooped outside watching as the horse and cart pulled closer. There was something familiar about the driver but it wasn’t until he was pulled up in front of me that I recognised Kit.

“Hello Lizzie,” he was grinning, his teeth gleaming white in his tanned face.

I shaded my eyes form the sun looking up at him. It must be three, no four years since I last saw Kit, just before he signed up.

“Big delivery,” he gestured over his shoulder at the boxes.

“Yes they’re for the kitchen.” He slapped the horse lightly with the reins. I walked beside him although he needed no directions he knew the house.

He jumped down hefting one of the boxes into his arms. I watched him deposit the box and head back for the next one. He had the slightest of limps.

“France,” he said noticing my gaze.

“Oh,” I was tongue –tied. A world of experience separated him from the boy I’d known. I wanted to tell him that I was glad he’d survived, that I’d thought about him, worried for him but I didn’t know how to begin.

He finished unloading the boxes and climbed back on to the cart.

“It was nice to see you.”

I swallowed; behind me I could hear my Mother’s voice it grated on my already shredded nerves.

“Can you give me a lift into the village?”

“Sure.” he looked pleased and I scrambled up beside him.

“How long have you been discharged for?”

“A few months.”

I felt my chest constrict slightly that he hadn’t bothered to come and see me.

“So you’re working for your father now?”

“Only for the summer. I start at Cambridge in October.”

I nodded remembering, he’d deferred his place and signed up when war broke out.

“You know you shouldn’t be marrying him.” His voice was so conversational I almost missed the sense of the words.

“What?”

“He’s all wrong for you.”

“Excuse me? You don’t even know him!” I felt fury rising in me as fast as the mercury in the thermometer.

“I do, he came in to the shop a few weeks back. He’s an idiot.”

“He’s not an idiot!” my voice was loud in contrast to his measured tones.

“Alright he’s not but he is all wrong for you.”

“He is not, you don’t know me.”

“Of course I do, people don’t change that much in four years.” he glanced sideways at me so quickly all I saw was a flash of dancing blue “and I don’t think you’ve changed at all.”

“Stop this horse and let me down,” my voice had risen to a screech. Unbecomingly like my mothers, it made me even angrier.

Obligingly he pulled the horse up and I jumped down jarring my knee as I hit the road. I heard gravel crunch behind me and whirled round. He was standing close to me, grinning.

“You wouldn’t be so angry if I wasn’t right” he caught my arms and pulled me towards him. When he let me go the blood was thudding in my ears. He was still grinning.

‘I’ve wanted to do that for years.”

I felt like I should slap him but that seemed overly dramatic, especially as I’d been just as engaged in the kiss as he was.

‘I don’t know what you think your doing kissing me in the middle of the road.” I wished my voice sounded icy not breathy.

He rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets ‘are you upset I kissed you or upset someone might have seen me do it?”

No withering response crossed my mind so I pushed past him and started for home, limping slightly on my aching knee.

“Lizzie” he ran round me and blocked my way. The grin had vanished from his face. He was completely serious “Your not really going to marry him are you?”

I gazed up into his blue eyes, the same colour as the August sky and felt like I was falling but it was exhilarating not terrifying.

“No,” I whispered, “I’m not.”
 
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Rolling Thunder

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NO COUNTRY FOR OLD TROLLS (476 words)


He smelled blood for the first time in weeks. Hefting his club to his shoulder, The troll pressed on through the silent woods. Once this glen would have teemed with pixies and wood nymphs, but that was so long ago that he barely remembered. To him this had always been a place of oppressive solitude. The sharp scent spurred him onward. Whether it was dead or injured, it was somethingand he would find it.

Two days of tracking led him to a stream running through a rocky pass at the base of the Dnagzal Mountains. The troll scanned the horizon. To one side was the dense forest he had emerged from. Across the stream was the steep slope leading to mountains and something else: a large, brown stain smeared on a boulder. He lifted his snout and scented the air, curling away his upper lip for a cleaner taste.

He was rewarded with the tangy flavor of blood, but he would have to wade the stream.
It only reached his thighs, and yet his starved body was so wasted that he almost fell, which would have meant certain death. The effort of staying upright cost him another half a day as he rested on the bank before following the enticing trail of blood up the mountain path.

It was just as the sun reddened and began to sink below the distant ridge that he caught the injured goblin. It had fallen in the path and tried to crawl into the scrubby brush for shelter. For a moment, he thought it was already dead, but saw the slow rise and fall of its chest. Goblin meat could prolong his life, give him strength to cross the Dnagzals and search other lands for more of his own kind. With a grunt, he lifted the club.

"I pray you, do not." The goblins eyes opened, but it did not move.

The troll tilted his head at the strange accent, lowered the club, then raised it again.

"Please. We are the last, you and I. There is nothing across the Dnagzals except more humans."

The troll stared for a moment and then lowered the club. He studied the goblin. It closed its eyes and seemed unable to summon the will to attempt escape. He dropped the club and lifted the goblin to his shoulder with a grunt. He staggered under the weight and then steadied himself, moving them both deeper into the safety of the brush. The club was abandoned. He would not need it.

The darkness was complete without a moon or campfire to relieve it. The goblin's breath grew more ragged and then came the silence. The last troll moved closer to confirm the passing of the last goblin; then, he sat beside the goblin's body and waited for death or the morning, whichever found him first.
<>
 
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TWIST OF FATE

Mac sat on the bed in his modest apartment, wondering how he was going to get out of the mess he was in! At the time he started all this, it had seemed foolproof. Just take minute amounts from every large deposit made daily at the bank before he posted it to the records.

As branch comptroller, it was really easy to do. In fact, he found it so easy that the more he took, the further he wanted to push it. Besides he needed that money!

"I'll be sixty-five next month and they'll want to put me out to pasture with that pittance they call a company pension! I deserve more! Besides, those rich depositors won't miss the few cents I'll take," he'd told himself the whole time.

Then, the shadow of the falling axe appeared.

"Oh, by the way Mac, the auditors are coming from the main branch tomorrow" his boss had said yesterday. He'd frozen; panic running through his veins. How much had he actually taken so far?

He wasn't sure, and he was afraid to check too often, in case he was caught; was it one million or more? He pushed down his panic with a supreme effort even as his mind raced trying to figure it out how much he'd stashed.

"But I'm sure that'll be no problem for you, you've never failed an audit yet!" the manager had said, slapping him on the back hard enough to almost knock him out of his chair. He'd smiled weakly at the jest and gone back to work.

On the outside, he'd calmly continued with the day's work, but inside his concentration sank in a quicksand of desperation. What if they found out what he was doing? What if they caught on to the fact he had an offshore bank account in the Caymans for his new "retirement fund" and had been steadily adding to it since last October?

The thin man, who had aged ten years overnight, fingered the pistol that was lying beside him on the worn bedspread. "I've never fired a gun before, but how hard could it be?" he said aloud to the stuffy atmosphere of the room.

Mac Donaldson" a voice suddenly boomed through the locked door of the room.

They're here! So soon? Mac gripped the gun convulsively, raised it, trembling, and pressed it to his temple.

Congratulations, you've just won 10 million dollars from Publishers Clearinghouse!" he heard a jovial voice say, just as he pulled the trigger.
 
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Title: Nathan's Rhetorical Nightmare

Word count: 905


NATHAN’S RHETORICAL NIGHTMARE
This is the story of Nathan Bradsford, a bright young literary agent for Curtis Brown Ltd. He was honest, friendly, smart and enough ambition for ten men. He was the pride of the San Francisco office where he worked. So far, his clients were doing very well in the publishing world. Two have penned bestselling novels and several others were selling their second or third novels through him.
The internet has made his passion for the written word known everywhere, not just in America. He blogs regularly about what an agent does and gives advice to writers. Tips about how to write queries and other information a new writer needs. He holds contests for his readers where he awards critiques of query letters or first chapters as the prize. He answers questions on the Absolute Writers Forum. This willingness to help new writers has earned him the respect of aspiring writers everywhere.
Another thing people know him for is his dislike for rhetorical questions. To him, the fight against queries starting with rhetorical questions is a war. On several occasions he blogged about his war on these queries. He would rant, he would rave and yes, he even begged people to heed his words. However, the rhetorical questions queries continued coming, an unending assault on his inbox.
It became so bad he dreaded opening his emails up, the fear of the rhetorical question had him firmly in its grasp. His screams would echo off the office walls and send shivers done the spines of his co-workers. Banging sounds where heard coming from his office as he beat his head against his desk in frustration. Therefore, it should have come as no surprise when he finally had enough and exploded.
He was at a writing convention in San Francisco on that fateful day. When agents go to conventions they expect to hear pitches from new authors. It is one of the reasons writing conventions are held all over the country. Yes, you have your workshops and speeches by famous writers and such. But one of the big reasons new writers go is to interact with people in the business. They have a chance to meet other authors and rub shoulders with publishers, editors and agents.
Nathan goes out of his way to make himself available to these writers when he attends a convention. So, when several writers corned him by a booth selling writing software; he was happy to chat with them. At first they asked the usual questions, what’s it like to be an agent, what types of stories does he look for, etc, but he knew the pitches where coming. The first few pitches were typical of new writers, different takes on some old ideas. Then it happened.
“Hi Mr. Bradsford, my name is Tyrone Jackson, and I have an idea for a book and would like to hear what you think about it.” From what witnesses say, he looked like he could take care of himself.
“Hi Tyrone, go ahead and give me your pitch,” Nathan smiles as he shakes Tyrone's hand.
“It’s a story about a blind Indian and his faithful companion, a white man named Joe. They travel around the old west helping Indians, healing the injured and finding the lost. And when an Indian needed protecting from the white man, he was there to fight for them.” The excitement was bursting out of Tyrone as he talked.
“I know I have to query agents and I have a great opening for the query for this book.”
“Well, go ahead and let me hear it.” Nathan’s smile never left his face.
“If a man is blind, what does he see?” Tyrone never got another word out of his mouth.
Nathan’s face lost all color as the blood drained from it. His eyes began to twitch; his body started shaking uncontrollably, his scream exploded from him and echoed off the rafters of the convention center. Security guards immediately started running in the direction of the scream. They got there just in time to see Nathan grab the laptop from a surprised software representative.
He spun around and BAM! Right upside the head of Tyrone went the laptop. Tyrone dropped like a just cut tree in the woods. His eyes rolled back into his head, his body became rigid and he was out cold before he hit the floor. Nathan dropped the laptop on his chest, looked down at him, and said.
“Did I knock your punk ass out?”
He turns and walks away muttering and cackling like a lunatic as the guards grabbed him by the arm and escorted him away. Nathan eyes popped open as he wakes suddenly; he sees the familiar gray wall of his apartment staring back at him.
“It was just a dream, wow!” he is laughing as he rolls over and stands up all in one motion.
WHAM! He falls back onto the bed and grabs his forehead. He is dazed and his sight is blurry from the blow to his head. As his vision clears and he looks around he begins to mutter.
“No…no, it can’t be, it’s not possible.”
The other inmates are all looking at him, quietly watching as their roommate realizes he is in jail.
As the realization this is no nightmare hits Nathan one word escapes his lips.
“NOOOOooooooo!”
Thus, the brilliant career of Nathan Bradsford ended
THE END
 
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Be Mine (416 words)

We sat on the couch, watching the window expectantly. Two hours and counting, but the rain wasn’t going to stop. Figures.

“We can play scrabble.”

I groaned, “You know I suck.”

“Exactly,” Jeanne grinned.

“Do you think he forgot?”

“Not a chance! He’s been waiting to ask for months.”

Of all the days, he picked now? “So why am I still here?”

“You, missy, aren’t even supposed to know he’s on his way!”

Jeanne never could keep her mouth shut. I looked away with a sigh.

It was a pitiful sight. You’d never guess I was twenty-four; I was acting like such a teen.

I couldn’t resist. I looked again. The driveway was still empty.

The radio switched stations and there was a sigh of relief. She had been playing punk rock for the better part of the morning. Not exactly my fancy. So when it stopped on Chicago’s You’re The Inspiration it took me by surprise, not that it did any better for my mood.

“Ugh…turn it off!” I threw a pillow from the couch.

To make it worse she stood on the loveseat and sang along, “You’re the meaning to my life…”

There was nothing to make the pain go away and she burst out into giggles mid-chorus. It was contagious and before the end of the song I had joined in. I made a decision then, forget about it. He had made no promises.

“She’s laughing at me already…” the voice on the radio came through clearly enough to sober my mood.

“Is that…?” My question went unheard; Jeanne was lost to her own amusement. “Jeanne! Quiet, I think that’s Nate!”

That got her to shut up. “What?!” She asked, entirely too innocent. We both listened.

“…now, Lisa, dear…” The endearing term rang with sarcasm. I could hear the rain over the line. “If you would come out back, I have something to ask and I’d rather not make the rest of Lake County wait for the answer.”

I shot a look to Jeanne and her expression cracked. She had known! I was at the porch door in an instant and sure enough, there he was, with cell in one hand and umbrella in the other, struggling with the small box between the two. He looked up, with that cheesy grin I had come to love.

“Be my inspiration?” His voice came through clearer on the radio than the distance from across the yard.

‘You idiot!’ I mouthed, but my smile was wide.
 
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"Catch"


The wooden ball seemed to float at the top of its arc, its bright colors swirling more brilliant than flowers as it spun. It landed with a solid thunk in Marvin's hand, and he launched it into the air again.

"Careful you don't lose that before we get home, little brother," said Benedict.

Marvin caught the ball again. His short legs had to move twice as fast to keep up with Benedict's long stride, but someday he'd be just as tall. "I won't lose it. This is a magic ball. It always comes back."

When Benedict frowned, he looked just like Father. "You don't really sense any magic on it, do you?"

"Well, no, but it might be magic."

"Magic's nothing to fib about."

"I wasn't fibbing. I was just playing."

"Telling stories is fibbing. You were saying something which wasn't true. What if someone heard you and believed you?"

"I wasn't trying to hurt anyone." Marvin tucked the ball under his arm. Benedict caught him by the shoulder.

"We're House Tarrandel, little brother. The house of truth. We do not tell lies."

"Yes, Benedict."

Marvin stared at his boots. Benedict tousled his hair, then walked a few steps away and held out his hand. "Catch?"

They tossed the ball back and forth while they walked up the path from the village to Veritas Keep. The gate to the castle's outer wall was blocked by a mounted troop of men. Their green and brown clothes surrounded by the blue of the Tarrandel guards made Marvin think of a stand of trees growing out of the sky, but Marvin didn't say so. He knew Benedict would tell him trees grew from the ground, not the sky.

The black-haired man in the center of the troop was different. He wore the black robes of a master mage, and the spectacular bruises covering his face and neck hinted at even worse injuries underneath his black tunic. He quietly stroked his horse's mane while two of the mounted men argued with the Tarrandel gate keeper.

Benedict stopped Marvin on the path. "Looks like Lord Kestoney is early for his visit. Father wasn't expecting him for another three days. You remember Mother's instructions?"

Marvin's hair bounced in his eyes as he nodded. "Lord Gideon is here to read in the Archives and rest after his master trials, so we're not supposed to bother him." The argument grew louder. "Why aren't they letting him in?"

"These guards must not have gotten Father's orders to let them in with their weapons. We'll wait here until they sort it out."

They waited, but Marvin grew bored watching the men shout. Benedict was listening and waved Marvin away when he offered the ball, so Marvin played catch on his own. He tried throwing the ball higher than the Keep, but the best he could do was almost as high as the trees.

The sky looked deep enough to fall into. Letting his knuckles brush the ground, he launched the ball straight up as far as he could into the blue, then waited for it to fall.

But the ball didn't fall. It hovered in the blue sky slowly spinning in the sunlight. His gaze never leaving the twirling colors, Marvin stumbled over to Benedict and tugged on his sleeve.

"Later, Marvin."

Marvin pointed. "See? I told you it was magic."

Benedict's jaw dropped. "Is that you?"

"No, I'm too little for magic." Marvin stared over at Lord Gideon. Silver light flickered around him like stars, and he grinned as he met Marvin's gaze.

"What do you think-- hey, wait," said Benedict, but Marvin didn't heed him as he marched toward Lord Gideon.

The argument dwindled as Marvin wove his way between the horses and stopped next to Lord Gideon's horse. He gave a bow like Mother had taught him, stared straight up at Lord Gideon, and said, "Do you want to play catch?"

Lord Gideon blinked. Up close, the silver light of Lord Gideon's magic rustled against Marvin like wind. Marvin shivered at the sense of magic he alone of his brothers could feel, but he kept his gaze steady. Lord Gideon frowned, thought for a moment, then said, "I would love to play catch."

Marvin pointed at the ball. "It's your turn."

But Benedict caught up with him. "Lord Kestoney, I'm sorry if my brother is bothering you. I'm Benedict Tarrandel, and this is my brother Marvinistral--"

"Marvin," said Marvin stubbornly.

Benedict waved him silent. "Welcome to Veritas Keep."

"Thank you," said Lord Gideon. He glanced at the gate keeper who was unlocking the gate. "Looks like our game will need to be postponed, Marvin."

"Can I have my ball back?"

Lord Gideon threw back his head and laughed. He gestured and the ball flew through the air trailing silver flickers and landed neatly in Marvin's hands. Marvin gave him another bow. When he straightened, Lord Gideon's hand was outstretched to him. The triple triangle of a master mage marked the back of his hand, and Marvin imagined the same mark on his own hand. Someday.

"Care to join me?" said Lord Gideon.

Marvin took his hand. Silver flickers lifted him. He settled on the horse behind Lord Gideon and slipped his arms around his waist, the ball still clutched in one hand.

"Benedict didn't believe the ball was magic," he whispered in Lord Gideon's ear.

"Everything's magic," whispered Lord Gideon and urged the horse into a walk as the troop entered the gates.

Marvin's arms tightened as he found his seat.

Lord Gideon's hand closed over his. "Don't worry, Marvin. I won't let you fall."

=====
 
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Rolling Thunder

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Stepping Out


The other day I reached out and tore a hole in the fabric of the universe. It wasn’t that hard, really. Just stuck out my arm, took ahold of the aether, and pulled.

Myra’d been taking about doing something like that for weeks. At first I figured it was just the long, slow hours at the desk that were wearing on her. What was I supposed to think when she began rambling about impossibilities?

“No matter what you ultimately believe, the world is simply an ordered structure of numbers, tying into one another with perfect certainty," she once said, "But some numbers just don’t fit. Where would you have to bring a GPS unit to arrive at √-1?”

“It’s academic,” I said. “You could never do it.”

“But what if you could?”

She’d gone on like that for several days, eventually declaring that existence was '"a semi-permeable membrane,” one which was “paper-thin and full of bald spots.”

“So what, exactly, does that mean?” I said.

“It means that, if you walk down the right street at the right time, you could wind up anywhere. You could turn down Lancaster Street and find yourself in the Pleiades.”

I thought she was crazy.

Then I took a weekend off, visited the family cabin up north. Alone, of course, but with a lot on my mind. I’d seen some movies lately, read some books, browsed some comics, all of which had—in a silly, romantic way—put me in a very open frame of mind.

I took a walk along the lakeshore as the day was waning, looking down at the sand and ruminating on fragments of thoughts and images. One of them had a man in a bubble cast into the cosmos; another had a girl meeting herself for a heart-to heart over the Big Bang. They’d both come from silly things I’d seen and read, but for some reason it felt profound, and I felt very small.

Myra was there too, all her mumbo-jumbo about semi-permeability and impossible wanderings. Maybe whatever insanity she had was catching; I thought for a second that I could perceive a galaxy of things unseen in the shadows and pebbles and rough grasses of the shore.

Then I looked up.

The sand no longer belonged to a beach, but rather a vast scrub desert—the sort of thing that had no business being within a thousand miles of the cabin. A canyon opened up to my left, as broad and deep as the one in Arizona, while something vast—many vast somethings—towered in the distance. I couldn’t put words to what they were, nor could I describe the color of the sky. There were two moons there, though, and a veritable ocean of stars.

I should have been afraid, then, but I wasn’t. I remembered what Myra had been saying, all the things I’d been thinking about, and it seemed less like a waking dream or a psychotic break than a grand adventure. Something to be seen, something to be experienced, something to be drunk in with wild gasps for fear it would vanish. I wandered among that landscape for days, weeks.

Then I woke up in my own bed.

“Why have you been saying all that stuff?” I asked Myra. “What were you getting at?”

“I wasn’t getting at anything. Sometimes stuff like that just flows up out of people, and we’re generally too good at holding it in and smothering it. I just decided to let it go.”

“I think…I think you might be right,” I said. “I also think I might be going crazy.”

“What if you’re not?” she asked.

That night, I resolved to see for myself. Fortified on the flights of fancy I’d seen during the day, I felt like a book, open and ready. Not to be read, but destined for something entirely unexpected. To be bronzed, maybe—a book made statue. Or perhaps to have flowers pressed between the pages—my pages—each leaving a mark upon and changing the other.

It was all easy enough. Reach up, grab, pull down. The tearing sounded much as you’d expect it to.

On the other side?

Stars. The corner of Leighton and Burrick, downtown. A dusty old gas station with a sign in Arabic. A city growing out of a vast, purple forest canopy. All at once, in a rush like a breaking wave.

So I stepped out—just for a moment. There’s something to be said for Myra’s paper-thin membrane, wrapping the everyday into a neat brown package. There’s something to be said for seeing only what you can perceive and nothing more.

But for now, I was content to skate among planetary rings in the arm of a distant spiral galaxy, to pirouette on a molten surface all but consumed in a solar corona, to break upon far-distant shores thrilling with every undulation.

I was stepping out. I’d be back—but I wouldn’t ever be the same. Myra would be proud, wherever she was.
 
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The Rain It Raineth

Some are born fools, some are made foolish, and some have foolery thrust upon 'em. Then speak no ill of fools, sir; I shall prove what circumstance may so oppress a man that he who's no man's fool -- as you yourself, sir -- may be woman's. Think not so? Then hear.

I loved a maid once -- such adoring love -- but ask the duke o' that. He'll tell you all, so take his tale for mine. Her father loved not me. A silly thing, you'd say, a trifle, so? More sticky 'twas than sweet.

He'd power more than common father's wont, to set his eyes where'er his lass would go and spy what suitors did in cloistered lanes; and then, once found, played from afar such tricks as any fool might love. A branch of roses, ripe to prick the skin; a bird aloft with aim exquisite, so -- but leave that by; a stormy cloud, too weak to bear its burthen one rod more, so it must drop the whole and drench the swain. Then might my lady pity draggled wretch, but never love -- and, worser, laugh.

But me she fancied; so was I made bold for her dear sake. I fronted him; defied; brass-brave I thundered, fine's the king's own heralds. She looked on, admiring as a play. Himself but sat in silence 'til my shot ran dry, then up rose he and flung my suit outdoors, with me inside. The finest silk it was...but ne'er mind that. It was well-watered, for, as I touched earth, poured down the rain.

A fool, they say, knows not when he's been beat -- his back doth know! -- but head did not, nor heart, so back crept I, when day's lamp burned low. She met me in the lanes, but would not stay, the rain poured down so chill.

I came at noon: he spied the shadowing clouds and came with haste to toss me o'er the wall, saving his gates. I sat at home, to plot how I might win, and there within the house the rain drummed on.

Now here's a pretty scene. Within and yet without, like faithful dog too foolish-old to know his master's scorn, came e'er the rain; my love would none of me. So back again, to crave what hope he'd give. (A fine fair love, you'd say -- I own it, yet, what other hope, for one by love betrayed? A lover is a fool, did I not say?) And so heard his decree: roamed I the world, that rain must follow me.

What then? To lack the sun, the lesser light -- and, too, the greater ('twas my lady's face, or so I told her) -- would not that fate make any man a fool? I took his gift. I spun myself fine tales, how I'd return, a wizard now myself, from worlds afar, to humble him from base discourtesy and claim my love.

So, here. I serve a lady -- none so fair's my love, and none so kind, though admirable sad. I speak my grief in plain fair words, plain song, and not a man but thinks it fooling. Not you, sir? Oh, aye, I heard you say, a drunkard's tale. So 'tis, for who could love a fool?

But could I find a door that once I saw, and find the key to it, I'd call you here such rivers as would churn all fields to mud, for all the sun's hot spite; out-rain the sum of all my lady's tears -- instead I sit here dry.

Oh, thanks, good sir, and here's the same for you; and if we drown in it, well, what worse fate?

Then here's to folly! Aye, sir, here's to love.
 
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Jump and Hold

Three inches and jumping, I know I can make it! With every thrust upward I hesitate in thin air. Jump and hold. Jump and hold. Each attempt lasts a little longer. I break concentration long enough to look around me. Can anyone else see that I’m suspended above the ground? The reality of my success is titillating, euphoric. I’m actually giddy and the sensation makes me feel that much more effervescent, as though I’ve become a bubble and can’t help but rise into the atmosphere.

Blam! Eyes staring wide-awake, I’m hit with the sudden shock of knowing the dream is over and I’m plastered by gravity to the surface of my bed. I succumb to the truth but mentally argue that if I could have just jumped and held my self a little higher, a little longer, I would have taken off and awakening to the mundane would not be an option.

My favorite dream is filed and throwing back the covers, I watch my reluctant feet meet the floor. Thudding into the kitchen in a groggy stupor, I set a kettle of water to boil for tea. I’ve recently had a conversion from coffee. I feel rather sophisticated drinking tea, especially with a bit of milk or cream.

The hot liquid helps to soothe out the morning kinks and once again, I find myself loaded down with forethought of the morning ahead. Ritualistically, the implements of the day are gathered. Like the list from a scavenger hunt, I begin to search: Glasses? Found. Cell phone? Yes. Favorite pen? Got it. A little change for the day? I’m ready.

Headed out the door, fresh morning air rivets my senses. It’s intoxicating and I inhale deeply. I glimpse the immensity of blue hanging overhead and lose track of the horizon.

Loaded down, I let books, purse and jacket slip off my arms into the seat beside me. My goal now becomes the work of staying fifty-five or under. A clock ticks the answers back to me as I map out my morning and seeing the highway patrol, I slow down until he’s unseen.

I click on the radio. A favorite writer describes his moment of decision when writing became what he would do, regardless of where it took him. Caught in a reverie, I envision my writing journey. “Jump and hold.” “Jump and hold.” “Breathe in deeply the fresh morning air”, I subconsciously advise. The bubbles begin to make me feel uncomfortable. My car and I run parallel but separate.

I work. As a teacher, I love to grab the imagination of my students and to bring them into a realm of understanding so that the desire to become more becomes the mantra of their hearts. I work and in a parallel universe, I dream. My feet don’t touch the floor. It’s only three inches and I wonder if anyone notices. As I work with my students, my heart whispers, “Jump and hold. Jump and hold”.
 
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