Brenda Baker

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Category: Flash Fiction and Short Stories

  • Two Little Princesses: A Magical Adventure

    by

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    Once upon a time in a far, faraway land there lived two little princesses. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia lived in a castle with their mommy the queen and their daddy the king. Berry the magical strawberry cow lived in a house near the castle.

    Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia loved strawberry milk. So Berry made sure to give them a glass every day. Our two little princesses loved visiting Berry’s tiny house in the mornings.

    Berry the magical cow was not like the other cows who lived at the castle. Berry was much smaller than all the other cows and preferred to stand upright. She also loved to play dress up with Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia.

    Princess Marjorie, Princess Sylvia and Berry spent each morning playing games and laughing at each other’s jokes. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia loved Berry and could not wish for a better friend in all the land.

    On a sunny morning in the middle of another busy growing season, our two little princesses were skipping to Berry’s house. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia practiced telling each other the jokes they wanted to tell their best friend.

    “What did the black cat say to the sheep?” said Princess Marjorie.

    Princess Sylvia stopped to think. When several moments had passed, she shook her head. “What did the black cat say?” Princess Sylvia said at last.

    “Meow, meow, the black cat said to the sheep,” said Princess Marjorie with a giggle. “Meow, meow. Cause that be what cats say.”

    “I have one too,” said Princess Sylvia. “Why did the black cat come home with four green shoes?”

    It was Princess Marjorie’s turn to stop and think. Then like her little sister, Princess Marjorie shook her head. “I give up. Why did the black cat come home with four green shoes?”

    “Because the shoemaker ran out of brown shoes,” said Princess Sylvia.

    The two little princesses laughed merrily and skipped all the way to Berry’s house. Berry always waited at the door for her two best friends. But Berry was not at the door this morning when they skipped past the apple tree. The two little princesses looked at each other in surprise.

    Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia could not remember a single morning that Berry did not smile and wave to them from her doorway. No matter the weather, Berry was always waiting. Was Berry ill? The two little princesses ran to Berry’s tiny house. If Berry was sick, they would care for her and get her some fresh hay and carrots.

    The kitchen inside Berry’s house was empty. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia hurried to the bedroom next. But it too was empty. Our two little princesses looked at each other in confusion. Where could Berry be?

    “Maybe she went to the market to buy some candles,” Princess Sylvia said hopefully. “Berry has just three candles left. And Berry loves candles.”

    So Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia ran to get their horses from the stable. Then the two little princesses galloped all the way to the candlemaker’s shop in market square. Once inside the shop, our two little princesses looked to see if Berry was anywhere in sight.

    But save for an elderly woman in a green dress, the shop was empty. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia hurried over to the candlemaker. Mr. Waxler was making a small yellow candle. He smiled at the two little princesses.

    “Please, kind sir. Have ye seen our friend, Berry?” Princess Marjorie asked the candlemaker.

    Mr. Waxler shook his head. “I made five red candles especially for Berry. Red reminds her of strawberries. I was expecting her this morning, but she has yet to pick them up. I’ve never known Berry to be late.”

    Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia thanked the kind candlemaker and hurried back to their horses.

    “Where else might Berry go?” Princess Sylvia asked her sister.

    The two little princesses thought for a moment. Princess Sylvia then looked at Princess Marjorie with the brightest of smiles. “Berry wanted to make strawberry tartes for our walk tomorrow. Maybe she went to see the miller for more flour.”

    Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia always passed by the mill on their way to town. It was the only building alongside the river outside of Longbridge. Without a moment’s delay, our two little princesses rode to the mill.

    Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia tied their horses to a nearby tree and hurried inside the mill. Neither Princess Marjorie nor Princess Sylvia knew what the miller looked like, so they asked a kind-looking woman. The kind woman brought them to where the miller was filling a large sack with flour. Princess Sylvia asked the miller if he had seen their friend.

    “Berry was here just after dawn. She picked up her sack of flour and left straight away. I hope ye find her well,” said the miller.

    Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia thanked the kind miller and went to retrieve their horses once more.

    The two little princesses were untying their horses when Princess Marjorie spotted Berry’s hat and sack of flour next to the river. Berry loved her blue hat and never left home without it. Our two little princesses ran down to the river. Princess Sylvia picked up the hat and studied it in bewilderment.

    “Berry would never leave her hat behind,” said Princess Marjorie.

    The two little princesses searched the river for Berry. A dark blue fish rose from the water in front of them. Upon the fish’s head, there was a silver horn. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia had never seen such a big or strange-looking fish before.

    “Pleased to meet ye,” said the blue fish with green eyes. “My name be Junara.”

    Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia stared in surprise. They had never met a talking fish before. Truth be told as it must, our two little princesses didn’t know fish could speak at all.

    “What may I call ye,” asked Junara next.

    Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia introduced themselves and asked Junara if she had seen a magical strawberry cow who could also talk.

    Junara nodded her head. “Your friend was taken by the river monster. He will present your friend as a gift to his daughter. But fear not. I gave your friend magical lungs to breathe underwater.”

    The two little princesses stared in despair, for Berry was their best friend in all the land. And Berry was a cow. She wasn’t a fish. Cows lived on farms and castle grounds. Cows didn’t live in rivers. Cows had legs. And last our two little princesses checked, cows didn’t have fins.

    “Please, Miss Junara,” implored Princess Sylvia. “Can you help us rescue our friend from the river monster?”

    Junara looked at the two little princesses for a moment. “I will need a gift from each of ye for the monster’s daughter in exchange for your friend,” said she at last.

    Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia nodded happily and went to find their gifts for the monster’s daughter. They returned shortly thereafter with one gift each. Princess Marjorie’s hands overflowed with freshly picked elderberries. Princess Sylvia held up her crown for presentation.

    Junara glanced at the gifts and shook her head in disapproval. “River monsters have no use for elderberries and crowns. They are already kings and queens of the rivers.”

    Our two little princesses thus rode back to the castle at full gallop. Inside the castle, they spotted their parents. The king and queen were leaving for Starbridge. Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia were not permitted to leave the castle without Berry. But Berry was in trouble and needed their help.

    So our two little princesses said their farewells before the king and queen could ask any questions, then ran to their chamber fast as their feet would go. Princess Marjorie found her favourite book and tucked it inside her leather pouch. Princess Sylvia hugged her favourite doll before placing it inside her pouch.

    Upon their return to the river, Junara smiled in approval. “I see the value of each gift in your eyes, little ones. It shines bright as the sun above. Now I see the true value of your friend. The monster’s daughter will be pleased with such worthy gifts.”

    Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia placed their pouches over Junara’s horn. Junara swam upstream and disappeared. Our two little princesses waited by the river. And then they waited some more.

    Then, after what seemed like days, Junara suddenly appeared with Berry swimming happily beside her. Berry waved to Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia, then swam past Junara fast as she could. Berry climbed onto the riverbank and shook herself dry.

    Our two little princesses ran to hug Berry. To Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia, Berry’s friendship was worth more than a thousand pretty gifts. And no gift more precious could ever replace their best friend in all the land. For Princess Marjorie and Princess Sylvia loved Berry with all their heart.

    A story for Marjorie and Sylvia, my two bright and beautiful little princesses.

    Your comments give me reason to smile✨

  • Cinderella of Mythbridge

    by

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    Once upon a time, in a town not far from this one, there lived a young maiden with dark brown hair and eyes prone to sorrow. The young maiden was named after her mother, Ella, whom she missed with all her heart. Mrs. Whiterling passed twelve years ago when Ella was only seven.

    When his wife died of fever, Mr. Whiterling married a widow with two daughters of her own, aged ten and twelve. Mr. Whiterling reasoned it would be good for Ella to have two sisters and a woman to take her mother’s place. Mr. Whiterling knew nothing about raising a daughter, and so he trusted his decision as wise and best for everyone.

    The new Mrs. Whiterling embraced the life of a trader’s wife and the comforts such a life could afford. While Mr. Whiterling travelled to the distant towns of Wrunwicks, Mrs. Whiterling quickly learned how to make use of her stepdaughter, citing the need for Ella to learn the skills of a wife.

    “Better to start too young than too old, ” Mrs. Whiterling had once said to her new husband.

    Trusting his wife’s experience in such matters, Mr. Whiterling had simply nodded in agreement and smiled proudly as he watched his daughter stir the evening’s pottage. His wife knew best how to raise their daughters.

    Twelve years later, Ella had learned to cook the finest pottage and all her family’s favourite foods. So much so that Mrs. Whiterling let the undercook go, offering his services to their lord, who was kind and thus happy to oblige his dear friends.

    Over the years, Ella had learned many other skills as well. Before starting her chores, Ella rose every morning with the first bell to clear the ashes from each fireplace. And every morning, she was rewarded by a smile from Mabel, the tottering head servant. Mabel affectionately nicknamed Mrs. Whiterling’s youngest daughter Cinderella. Mrs. Whiterling and Cinderella’s stepsisters liked the nickname straight away, though with more scorn than affection, truth be known. Mrs. Whiterling and her daughters liked to save the virtues for times of need. A fact that caused great pain for their Divine Mother, who loved all Wrunwickers.

    But Cinderella had long accepted the shortcomings of her stepmother and stepsisters. She liked her nickname despite their scorn. She liked Mabel too and learned all that she knew from the kind-hearted woman. Cinderella pretended to be happy with the endless chores for her father, the person she loved most apart from her mother. So she put on her smile every morning with her dress.

    Cinderella was sweeping the kitchen floor one morning when a loud knock sounded at the door. She ran to open the door, where a young man waited with a note in his hand from Lord Agmire. Cinderella thanked the messenger and hurried to the great hall. The note was addressed to her parents.

    Mrs. Whiterling lay down her knife when Cinderella entered the hall. “I’m not to be disturbed during breakfast. Ye know this, Cinderella.”

    “My apologies, Mother, but the note be addressed to ye and Father. It bears the crest of Lord Agmire.” Cinderella passed her stepmother the note and waited.

    Mrs. Whiterling tore open the note and read with ever-widening eyes. “Lord Agmire is having a ball for his son. Our young lord seeks a bride-to-be, and Lord Agmire invites us to attend.” She smiled at her two oldest daughters. “Ye’ll need new gowns made of the finest silk. It won’t do to arrive in rags at the grand ball. The future lady of Mythbridge must dress the part.”

    “Am I to attend as well?” asked Cinderella. She had seen their dashing young lord on a few occasions and knew him to be kind and juste.

    Upon hearing Cinderella’s question, the two stepsisters laughed so hard they nearly wept. Mrs. Whiterling stared at Cinderella in what looked suspiciously close to shock. The woman’s face was stone white. Cinderella wondered if her stepmother had suddenly grown ill.

    “I can’t possibly take ye, Cinderella,” said Mrs. Whiterling. “I shudder to think what Lord Agmire might think if I arrived at the ball with ye dressed in rags and smelling like the day’s cinder. He might think me mad, or worse still, he might throw us out onto the street. Have ye stopped to think what that might do to your poor father? His health isn’t what it used to be.”

    Cinderella wanted to weep upon hearing her stepmother’s words, but she put on her bravest face. “Please forgive my foolish lips, Mother. I too want what be best for our family. “

    Later that day, Cinderella snuck out to visit her mother’s tree. She still remembered the day her father planted it as though it were yesterday. Today, Cinderella asked her mother for strength as she always did. But today, she also asked her mother for guidance. A bright yellow flower fell from the tree and landed in Cinderella’s hand. Cinderella beheld the flower in her hand and tried to understand its meaning. She knew the flower was from her mother and held it close until she could find a place to hide it from her stepmother and stepsisters.

    Cinderella received a flower during each visit after that. On the day of the grand ball, Cinderella visited her mother once more and received yet another flower. She hid the flower inside the chest beneath her bed. She now had twelve flowers.

    After Cinderella’s stepmother and stepsisters left for the ball, she snuck out to the stables to gaze up at the stars undisturbed. A fairy suddenly appeared with four twigs in her hand. Cinderella stared in surprise and stepped back from the window, for she had never seen a fairy before. The fairy flew in and stopped midair.

    “I was your mother’s friend for many years, Cinderella. I watched her grow from childhood to motherhood,” said the tiny fairy. “Before her passing, your mother asked that I watch over ye but to never interfere unless my help was needed. Your mother then said to watch the flowers. When the flowers fell I would know it was her by their number. A flower a day for each year of her passing. I heard of the ball and know that your stepmother has forbidden ye to go. I believe your mother has a different wish for ye.” The fairy then flew over and gave Cinderella two of the twigs.

    Cinderella looked at the twigs in her hand. “What am I to do with these? Should I keep them?”

    “The twigs belonged to your mother’s tree. Place one in each shoe,” said the fairy.

    Cinderella did as the fairy said and stuck the twigs upright inside her shoes. She looked to the fairy once more and waited.

    “The twigs know your mother’s wish for ye. I’ve given each twig the power to fulfill that wish,” said the fairy with a bright smile.

    No sooner had the fairy finished speaking when Cinderella found herself surrounded by thin swirls of yellow light. Within moments, her tattered dress transformed into a yellow gown of velvet and silk. Twas a gown like none she had ever worn. The sleeves nearly touched the ground in back. And the entire gown was trimmed with delicate blue flowers stitched onto the snow-white silk. A rope of thick silver encircled her waist and stopped mere inches above her feet. The twigs in her shoes then stretched around her ankles and transformed into a pair of silk slippers to match her gown. The slippers twinkled in the dark.

    “Ye look like a princess,” said the fairy, admiring Cinderella. “Each slipper reflects the hope that shines in your heart. They can never be destroyed while hope remains.” The fairy flew over and gave Cinderella the second last twig with two long buds near the tip. “I almost forgot. We can’t have ye going to the ball with your hair like that. Place the twig behind your ear.”

    Cinderella did as she was told. The twig began to glow a soft yellow and jumped to the back of Cinderella’s head. She felt the twig twisting itself around her hair. When Cinderella reached back, she discovered the twig had turned to silk.

    The fairy smiled once more. “Ye’ll need a ride to the manor,” said she and whistled softly.

    In through the door came a pardela with the gentlest of green eyes. A saddle covered in blue flowers peeked out from a magnificent set of wings. “I will be your ride to the grand ball,” said he without introduction. “Fear not, Cinderella. I will get ye home before your stepmother be any the wiser.”

    Cinderella stared in surprise and stepped back, for she had never seen a pardela before. What strange and wondrous adventure was this? “Perhaps tis a dream,” she thought and shook her head.

    “Goodness me,” said the fairy. “I’m getting more forgetful than a babbling brook.” She flew over and placed the last twig on the pardela’s saddle.

    Within moments, thin swirls of yellow light surrounded the pardela. Moments later still, the pardela had transformed into a black horse with a pale yellow mane and tail.

    “Beware the last bell,” said the fairy. “Ye’ll need to leave before the first chimes. Your belt will begin to swing when the last bell draws near.”

    Cinderella looked down at her belt, then looked back at the fairy. “How will it know?”

    “Your mother wills it so. Do ye trust your mother, Cinderella of Mythbridge?” asked the fairy.

    When Cinderella nodded, the horse turned to her. “Time to leave while the night be still young,” said he with hurried breath.

    Cinderella climbed onto the saddle and gripped the reigns. The flowers that covered the seat were softer than her bed. The horse said farewell to the still-smiling fairy and made his way to the manor at fast trot.

    Arrived at the manor, Cinderella entered the great hall with its lofty ceilings and even loftier guests. She knew nothing of fine manners or fine clothes and hoped she would not ruin her fine gown. Now at the ball, Cinderella knew not what to do next. She stood admiring the dancers when their dashing young lord approached. He introduced himself as Frerik, the lord’s son, and asked Cinderella to dance.

    “All are familiar with your name and kindness, my lord,” said Cinderella and bowed. She neglected to introduce herself, but Lord Frerik seemed not to notice her poor manners.

    Lord Frerik asked Cinderella to dance many times throughout the night and ignored the other maidens hoping to gain his favour. Cinderella’s stepsisters failed to recognize the beautiful maiden in her yellow gown and silk-woven hair. Envy had stolen their sight. As for Mrs. Whiterling? She rarely saw past her own nose, suffering as it were from nosticulus, and tonight was no exception.

    Cinderella was dancing once more with the dashing young lord when her belt began to sway. Soon as they finished dancing, Cinderella thanked Lord Frerik for his generous hospitality and bid him a very good night. Before Lord Frerik could speak even a word, Cinderella had already disappeared among the guests. Lord Frerik spotted Cinderella hurrying out the door and squeezed his way through the crowd. But when he made his way to the courtyard, Cinderella was gone. All that remained was a tiny slipper.

    Unknown to Lord Frerik, Cinderella was already halfway home. When she reached the stables built so long ago by her great-grandfather, the fairy was still there. She commended Cinderella on her swift return, then frowned in dismay.

    “It seems ye lost a slipper in your haste. The slippers are yours to keep, but one shall have to suffice. For what be done cannot be undone.”

    And for the first time, Cinderella noticed her bare foot. She was about to apologize when thin swirls of yellow light surrounded her. Within three blinks of an eye, Cinderella was back in her tattered dress. The twig from her hair lay on the ground next to the pardela’s, who had also transformed back to his original form. Cinderella still wore the silk slipper while her left foot remained bare. She dismounted, collected both twigs and handed them to the fairy.

    The fairy thanked Cinderella and said the twigs would be buried next to her mother’s tree from whence they came. The fairy and pardela then took their leave. Cinderella hid the slipper beneath her dress and snuck back to her room just as the last bell began to chime.

    The next day, the lord’s steward posted a notice in search of the beautiful maiden with dark brown hair, the finest yellow gown and lost slipper of yellow and blue. Word of the notice quickly spread throughout the town. People spoke of the maiden who had cast a spell upon the young lord. The people feared for their young lord’s enchanted heart. Perhaps another fair maiden could break the spell.

    So every maiden in Mythbridge searched for her yellow and blue slippers, should one have gone missing – for hope was a curious thing with a mind of its own. And every maiden in Mythbridge had her mind fixed on becoming the next lady of Mythbridge.

    Two days after the notice was posted, Cinderella’s oldest stepsister squealed with the utmost delight. She waved a yellow and blue slipper for all to see. The matching slipper was neither high nor low. It was in fact nowhere to be found.

    The stepsister changed into one of her finest yellow gowns and left for the manor at full gallop. She returned some time later, flung her slipper into the fire and watched it burn. She told her mother the trip had been a fruitless use of her time.

    “Lord Frerik will surely perish from a broken heart. No maiden could ever wear such a silly slipper. Yet Lord Frerik holds it like a precious jewel,” said the stepdaughter next. “It had no opening and was crumpled like an old shoe.”

    Cinderella smiled to herself. The slipper did not belong to her stepsister with a heart born too hard to break. Cinderella had three more days to wait until market day. Until then, she would hold her tongue. But not a day more.

    On market day, Cinderella waited until her stepmother and stepsisters left, cleaned her face and pulled down her hood far as she could. She then rode to the manor, careful to avoid the main streets as she made her way to the outskirts of town.

    Lord Frerik sat in the great hall with his parents. In his hand, the yellow and blue slipper waited for its owner. Cinderella introduced herself and explained to the dashing young lord about her lost slipper. She apologized for leaving the ball so abruptly, citing the need to be home before the last bell. Lord Agmire nodded his approval of her sound wisdom.

    The young lord gave Cinderella her slipper. “Many have mistaken the slipper for theirs and mistook me for blind. But my eyes tell me it belongs to ye.”

    The slipper unfurled in Cinderella’s hand. She removed the other slipper from her pouch and replaced her grimy shoes with the slippers. She looked down at her twinkling feet. The slippers were a gift from her mother, and she would treasure them always.

    “Never have I laid eyes on a maiden so fair as ye,” said Lord Frerik. “When I saw ye at the ball, I knew we were meant to wed. If it pleases ye, Cinderella, we will marry on the day of your twenty-fifth birthday.”

    Cinderella smiled at the dashing young lord. “Nothing would please me more, for I have loved ye from the moment I first saw ye.”

    With that, Lord Agmire and Lady Kitura invited their future daughter to stay for breakfast. Cinderella gladly accepted their gracious invitation.

    When Cinderella shared the news with her family, Mrs. Whiterling hugged her stepdaughter and ordered their cook to prepare a special feast in celebration. And from that day forward, Mrs. Whiterling treated her stepdaughter with love and affection. After all, Cinderella was the next lady of Mythbridge, the daughter she had always wanted.

    As for Cinderella, she learned to forgive her family, turned to face the sun and married her dashing young lord. On her feet, Cinderella wore the slippers of yellow and blue. She continued to visit her mother’s tree throughout the years. But not a single flower fell from its branches, for Cinderella was happy at last. And her mother’s wish was at last fulfilled.

    ***

    Author’s Note: The story of Cinderella is referenced in Flowers and Ash on a few separate occasions. This is the story known to Wrunwickers. In this version, which was adapted for the people of Wrunwicks, the author includes a pardela. Pardelas resemble black panthers, but pardelas are taller and bigger with a large set of wings. The legendary animal was well known to the people of Wrunwicks. And in Wrunwicks, no one could marry before their twenty-fifth birthday. So Lord Frerik’s proposal was in accordance with the king’s law.

    Your comments give me reason to smile✨

  • Forty-Five to Midnight

    by

    Terington Province, Northwest, Global

    Smoke and Fire

    Wednesday, March 1, 2045

    March arrived without fuss or fanfare. A welcome change after the incessant winds of February. The people of 10th Park trailed out to watch the sunrise, their boots still holding up after years of wear. As they trudged past the remnants of a world gone mad, the new curtain of snow promised them a second chance.

    But the people of 10th Park were tired of promises. Turning a dim eye to the snow, they gathered round the nearest drum to warm their hands and spirit. Another day of waiting. Another day of inescapable hope.

    Two miles west across the river, Aster Noles awoke with the sun like every morning since childhood. And just as she had done then, Aster watched the steady smoke push upward, defying the odds for one more day – plus tomorrow, she added under her breath. She had long since learned the value of time. And with spring just around the corner, the snow would soon be an unfortunate memory.

    For the lucky few, spring was a time of renewal. But for Aster, the encroaching season renewed her worse fear. If she was right, the first floor would be destroyed. Aster closed her eyes against the thought. She couldn’t afford to test fate again. She had already poured her dreams into 913 Merable Street.

    The hall light blinked in rapid succession. Less intrusive than their prototype, the light paused for five seconds before resuming its command. Aster ran to type in her password. The lock clicked open with eight minutes to spare. Despite six years of practice, the light still made her heart do a triple backflip. Wide awake now, she watered the flowers and jumped into the shower.

    ***

    Her shift at Twisted Beans over, Aster worked on the first section while a few of the other tenants watched from a safe distance. She knew how strange it must look to them. She also knew it was impossible to reach them. They lived in separate worlds blithely stacked on top of each other. And for all its many achievements, technology had yet to close the distance.

    At last, she managed to loosen the first bits of paint from the wall. Evolution had not favoured the first-floor tenants. But maybe – just maybe, they would survive. In any case, she owed it to herself, the first-floor tenants and those waiting to at least try, no matter how implausible her success. Or how impossible it was for them to understand. Hell, even she didn’t understand it – not entirely.

    After the last floods, their super argued the damage was due to the neglect of first-floor tenants. If found guilty, it would’ve meant an unforgivable breach of their contracts. Fortunately, the landlord saw the break during a walk with his girlfriend, ordered a contractor and some paint, then let them off with a warning about accusing the super of neglect.

    Some first-floor tenants speculated the landlord had only wanted to impress his girlfriend. No one knew for sure. And no one cared. Mr. Dippins was known to be a ladies’ man. It was an accepted cliché among the first-floor tenants. Was he a man of reason too? She might’ve come from 10th Park, but that didn’t mean she was simple, contrary to popular belief. Aster waved to Mr. Silies in a gesture of goodwill.

    “What do you suppose she’s doing?” Mr. Silies asked from his podium.

    Mr. Harald puffed his chest. “I only pay heed to the turkey on my plate.”

    “Do you think we should notify the super?” Mrs. Preening eyed the woman in alarm.

    “She’ll tire before long,” Mr. Grimly said. “No one breaks their contract.”

    Saturday, March 4

    Upper-floor tenants held onto their thoughts while a crowd of onlookers huddled for warmth. The crowd appeared harmless enough: a series of men and women stopping to inquire about the woman scraping a wall in the cold and snow. Satisfied with the answer, most nodded and went about their lives.

    Though many stayed for further deliberation and, more notably, to articulate their learned opinion. Thanks to its ongoing expansion, the building had tripled in length and gained two new floors. But the young woman was hard to ignore with her scraper, coat that had seen better years, and sugary bubblegum hair. The crowd swapped noble theories about mental illness, poverty and the growing number of parks.

    Seemingly deaf to the ruckus, Aster pushed westward. Theories were of no value from where she stood. She needed a roof over her head.

    Unable to ignore his mounting concern, John approached the wall with his scraper in hand. He wanted to know why Aster thought it necessary to strip away perfectly good paint. Like all things it seemed these days, the paint would not have been cheap.

    And he’d known Aster since before her parents moved. Frugal to a fault, some might say. He had never known her to throw anything away, not even the scraps of material inside her junk drawer, filled with countless artifacts waiting to be recycled. John peeked at the upper-floor tenants. They looked uninterested in the scene before them. He didn’t buy it.

    Next, he studied his friend and neighbour from apartment 134. At twenty-six, she already possessed more courage than he ever would. She wasn’t a woman to be dismissed, by him or anyone else. “Why are you wasting your time on this, Aster?” he asked quietly. “It’s freezing out.”

    Aster paused to look at John. “You’ll think I threw my marbles out with last week’s garbage. Maybe I did. But I see no other way.”

    John pushed back his tuque. “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt these ears?”

    “Remember the crack on the side of the building?”

    “How can I forget? I dreaded spring for the two years it took Mr. Dippins to fix it. Remember that second year? I had to camp out on your couch for three days while they fixed the damage.”

    Aster’s scraper faltered for a second. She glanced toward the smoke. Its ever-changing form steadied her resolve. “I noticed the weeds taking over the foundation last summer. And now lately, I’ve been noticing a stench in my bathroom.”

    John recalled the mildew in his own bathroom. He let it slide until the tub started draining twice as slow and the toilet needed two flushes instead of one. The super promised he’d take a look. But as usual, their super was too busy with other maintenance.

    “Did you mention it to Busy?” John ripped off a piece of red paint and threw it on last night’s snow. To his overactive imagination, the discarded paint looked like fresh blood.

    “He said it was at the top of his list and asked what scraping paint had to with it. I told him it’s everyone’s job to keep our building safe and in good repair for all of us. So if there’s a problem, it needs to be fixed. And with spring on the way, I’m afraid the first floor will be ruined beyond repair this time. He then told me to leave it to those better qualified to deal with such matters.” Aster tightened her grip around the scraper. “I’m tired of waiting for him to do something. This is our building too. Someone has to listen. If we lose our place on the list, we’ll never get another chance.”

    “Once a jerk, always a jerk. I can see why the landlord likes him. He never disappoints.” And with that, John put his scraper to the wall.

    Sunday, March 5

    Just before 10 a.m., a group of first-floor tenants joined Aster with their scrapers and went to work on the left side wall, including tenants from the new wing. They too had noticed some plumbing issues and, like Aster, didn’t want to spend their time mopping up water, or worse. Nor did they want to piss off the super again. None of them did.

    So as the snow ceded to the sun, friends and family scraped away at the paint. If there was another crack somewhere inside the wall, they’d find it and force the super to fix it. At the very least, they’d force him to bring it to the landlord’s attention.

    Whiskey Glasses

    Over the days that followed, tenants from the upper floors began to grumble about the first-floor tenants debasing their property. They paid top dollar for their spacious apartments with windows overlooking the river and surrounding trees. They had not paid to look at paint chips. They paid others to look at paint chips for them.

    A few tenants from the first floor posed next to their idols from the upper floors. It was a symbolic gesture. But the suitably appalled first-floor tenants felt special by proxy. The upper-floor tenants, or UFs as they were often called, paid them well to assist the caretakers, expanding their wallets and their connections with each paint chip let loose on the tenants. And by the same token, didn’t they all share the same building and the same contract? Who in their right mind wanted to look at dirty paint chips?

    ***

    As spring drew near and the group outside the old building on Merable Street continued to grow along with the neverending pile of paint chips, the anger from the UFs grew accordingly. The anger spread throughout the upper floors, and into the halls until finally, it reached the super.

    Sunday, March 19

    Busy invited his guests into the living room, pleased he had insisted that Myra polish every surface until it sparkled. He’d been expecting their visit for the past week and quickly offered them drinks from a bottle kept for moments like this.

    The UFs were people of action, rarely second-guessing themselves. Busy saw their clarity of purpose in the mirror every morning, awarding him a sense of kinship.

    Mr. Harald sampled the whiskey and nodded his approval. “The first-floor tenants need to go,” he declared with his father’s gold. “Spring’ll be here tomorrow, and I need my walks.”

    “What would you have me do? They signed their contracts.” Busy gazed at his favourite painting: Expectation by Richard Oelze. He spotted the reproduction during a vacation to North Central and fell in love with its grey sky brooding over the landscape. He never married, but the painting taught him love was possible. How long did it take to complete? He never did find the answer – not that it mattered. Busy lauded the painter’s singular vision. The time spent was irrelevant.

    “Well?” Mrs. Preening looked Busy in his one good eye. She didn’t like him much, but she had to admit the little toad cleaned up nicely. “This spectacle has gone on long enough. My patience grows thinner by the day.”

    Mr. Grimly moved away from the window. “My dear friend is right. It’s time to bring down the curtain.”

    “It goes without saying that our contracts are second to none,” Mr. Silies pronounced gravely. “We can’t compare diamonds to peanuts, now can we?”

    Busy puffed his chest in the familiar act of solidarity. “I’ll speak to Mr. Dippins and make him understand the calamity of your situation. You can leave this debacle in my careful hands. I won’t let you down.”

    “You, my friend, are an army of one.” Mr. Grimly took a sip of his whiskey. “And a knowledgeable host. You’ve never failed us before. I don’t expect it’ll be any different this time.”

    Busy mustered a sheepish grin. “I’m here to serve our tenants.”

    ***

    The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. Mark waited to escort him with his chest puffed. Busy puffed his chest in rousing response, their only exchange in the eight years they’d been meeting outside the elevator. Busy thought he detected a smile in the eyes of his comrade, although he couldn’t be sure. Mark had an unwavering poker face. A useful skill for a man in his position.

    Inside Mr. Dippins’ lavish office, Busy admired the expensive decor as was his custom. And once again, he promised himself the office. Above all else, Busy admired rank.

    “Reports have reached me the tenants are unhappy,” Mr. Dippins said from his oak desk. He gestured for his third in command to take a seat.

    Busy shifted his eyes away from the piano. During his first visit to the penthouse, he mistook the piano for a sentimental eyesore, and Busy left sentiment to those who could afford little else. Mr. Dippins, on the other hand, could afford a piano for every building he owned.

    When questioned, Mr. Dippins had said the piano belonged to his great-grandfather. Busy preferred facts to music, but wanting to appear interested, he asked if his boss could play. In a rare show of cordiality, Mr. Dippins laughed before admitting he had learned one song, then grew bored and moved on to more exciting things like baseball. But the ladies seemed to like it, so he kept the relic to charm their sensibilities in affairs of the heart and business.

    Hearing the conspicuous drum of impatience from across the desk, Busy went straight for the jugular. “The UFs beseech you to get rid of the first-floor tenants.” Busy puffed his chest. “As you know, the new building is set to open this summer, so the mess outside couldn’t happen at a worse time. If the UFs think we’re violating their contracts, they may seek more fitting arrangements.”

    “All reasonable and fair contracts. It protects everyone. I, myself, signed one in good faith. However, as I look down at the growing numbers chipping away at our historical building, I can’t help but wonder if the first-floor tenants have taken leave of their senses. And now the land wardens are barking about all the damn paint chips. Have you asked them to stop and return to their apartments? Did you explain how it defaces our building, stresses the other tenants, and therefore breaks the terms of their contract?”

    “I did. But they insist there’s a problem with the piping and maybe the walls. At any rate, I didn’t want to argue with them. An emotional lot as you know. They claim to be fulfilling the terms of their contracts by protecting the building.”

    “Yes, well, I see no other option than to terminate their contracts at this point. We can’t stand by while the other tenants grow increasingly stressed and upset. Our reputation already took a blow to the knees. But if the UFs were to move, the optics could ruin us. Not to mention the loss in revenue. Where the hell do they think the new first-floor apartments came from? If only snowflakes were money.”

    “There still wouldn’t be enough sense to go around.” Busy shook his head in disgust. But it did make his job easier. “Where will they go?”

    “They should’ve thought of that before taking scrapers to the building. The paint is less than a year old, for Pete’s sake. We can’t have tenants breaking their contracts while so many wait in the cold. I trust you’ll inform them as soon as possible?”

    ***

    Busy studied his painting from across the living room. The trees reminded him of Mr. Dippins’ desk. It would be his desk someday. He leaned back in his favourite chair to savour the image. The soft leather was a far cry from the canvas walls of his youth. His parents would’ve been proud. They always said he was too smart for the first floor. Busy smiled in satisfaction.

    Tomorrow was the first day of spring, and the first-floor tenants would rejoin the homeless waiting for their chance. But the terms were clear. Instated after the housing collapse, the contract guaranteed a fixed rental fee for all first-floor tenants. And it guaranteed everyone’s right to enjoy a safe and healthy living space.

    As always, the UFs would want to pay their respect with more than a string of empty words. Today had brought him closer to the twelfth floor than the last three years combined. Busy glanced at his pocket watch: 11:10. Five more minutes until he called it a day. He never stayed up until the 12 o’clock curfew. A man needed his sleep. And today had proven more exciting than most.

    ***

    He brushed his teeth for exactly two minutes, flushed the toilet twice, then once more for good measure. Out with the old and in with the new, his father used to say. Pleased with the fruits of his labour, Busy turned off the hall light and thanked Aster for her sacrifice. She would never know, but her naive heart had secured his future.

    For his final act of the day, Busy placed his watch on the nightstand. A gift from the Grimleys in 2042, he kept it close as a reminder of his loyalties. The UFs never forgot their friends. He cracked another smile. Under the bed, a cockroach scurried to safety.

    The Hands of Time

    The wind snapped at the trees on the feathered tail of a northwester. At 913 Merable Street, the windows rattled, while locked safe in her bed, Aster counted back to the lost and found.

    Humming to the telltale ticking of a new moon, the last sheep paddled to where Aster spun round and round the tent.

    “Hello there,” the last sheep hailed upon coming ashore. He pulled his canoe onto the riverbank and straightened his shirt.

    Aster stopped to smile at him. “Want to help me?” She picked up a scraper from years past and pointed to a red wall. “No one will mind so long as we don’t wake them.”

    “Perhaps during our next visit,” the last sheep replied. “Would you like to go for a walk instead?”

    “Will it be scary?”

    “No nightmares tonight,” the last sheep said gently, wanting to comfort his young guest. She had already seen too many of those. He took her by the hand. It was time.

    ***

    Chomping at the air, Busy dreamt of laboured skies. Beneath the slow-marching clouds, a proud legion of men and women gazed into the abyss. To his right, a lone woman stood with her back against the spectacle.

    What was she staring at? Busy turned atop his minute hand to inspect the plain-dressed woman, whose only embellishment were two pink flowers. He tried shaking the hand on which stood his consequence. Then he shook it some more. But like the crowd, he could not turn away.

    ©Brenda Baker 2022

  • The Target

    by

    Too early to set up yet, Ronny lit a cigarette. The target wasn’t due for another forty minutes. Ronny preferred it that way. He liked to relax before each job. It was a time to collect his thoughts and prepare. At twenty-eight, Ronny was still new to the business – just a week shy of his first year anniversary.

    Before starting his career as a shooter, Ronny worked at a gas station. The mediocre pay meant he had to share a crummy apartment with two other men. Although he rarely saw them, as they worked equally long hours. Then Ronny decided to put his shooting skills to good use.

    Taught to shoot by his father, Ronny joined an outdoor shooting range and saved enough money to buy a used Savage 10FP. He practiced for a full year. At last, on May 12th of 1986,  Ronny placed an ad in the paper.

    Professional Shooter

    Wednesdays at 6 p.m. Studio 201

    The Green Lantern

    For two months, Ronny wore his Green Lantern tee-shirt to the gallery every Wednesday from 5 to 7 p.m. And just as he began to think he’d never be given a chance, Ronny was contacted for his first job.

    Nervous and wanting desperately to succeed, Ronny arrived at his first job two hours early. Scoping out the area weeks beforehand, he already had the perfect spot picked out, or so he hoped. During those two hours, Ronny set up his rifle, ate his meal, and smoked a half pack of Players.

    The extra time also allowed him to focus solely on the job, and the target. Thus, when his target showed up – on time as always – Ronny was ready. A single shot to the chest and it was over. Ronny breathed a sigh of relief, packed up, and went home.

    He hoped the success of that first job would lead to more jobs. And it did. Ronny was able to take the ad out of the paper, providing him with more relief. He was a private man, and the ad had left him feeling exposed. Unfortunately, he knew of no other way.

    Almost a year later, Ronny was earning enough money to buy a brand new rifle and anything else he might like. But his 10FP had never missed a target yet, so not wanting to break his winning streak, he kept it. And the new apartment suited his needs for now. He preferred a simple apartment that afforded him privacy to expensive things.

    Butting out his third cigarette and dropping it into the container he always brought with him, Ronny set up his rifle. The target would be there in less than ten minutes. Everything was as it should be. The street below remained quiet, with only a few pedestrians enjoying the evening sun. They wouldn’t be interested in him when the shot found its mark.

    A 1985 black Buick rounding the corner announced the arrival of his next target. Ronny slowed his breathing. He had learned to ignore his racing pulse. It would slow down after the job. Counting back from one hundred, he watched as the Buick drove up to the restaurant and parked. He’d have seconds to make the shot.

    The target ate at the same restaurant every Thursday. Ronny figured that he met up with someone inside. Although he did’t care who the target was or wasn’t meeting. It was none of his concern.

    With a clear view of the Buick’s interior, Ronny noticed a blond woman sitting on the passenger side. The target’s wife, maybe? During the weeks leading up to the job, the target had always arrived alone, parking his car in the same area. A man of habit. Ronny liked that. It made his job easier.

    Targets’ names and personal details were unknown to Ronnie.  Those things didn’t matter. So when meeting with clients, Ronny requested as little detail about a target as possible. Each target was identified by photo only. It wasn’t personal. It was business.

    This meant that Ronny had never laid eyes on the blond woman before. She certainly was a beautiful woman. Ronny wished he could spare her the scene about to unfold. He had great respect for women, which is why he didn’t date, visiting Star twice a week instead. He paid her handsomely in return.

    The best Ronny could do was spare the woman any blood on herself. As the target approached the passenger door, Ronny pulled the trigger. The woman inside the car screamed, but it was to be expected.

    Ronny didn’t wait to see what happened next. He was already disassembling his rifle, returning it to its backpack, and confirming nothing would be left behind.

    His car was parked a block away. A 1978 Chevy Monza that cost more in upgrades than it cost to buy. A small price to pay for being invisible.

    Ronny took his time walking back to the car. No one even glanced at the young man in faded Levis, Bon Jovi tee-shirt, green baseball hat, and backpack. He was a dime a dozen in a city filled with college students. And Ronny could easily pass for twenty-one.

    Back at his car, Ronny shoved his backpack in the trunk, locked it, and went to order a burger and fries. He disliked cooking, which he considered a waste of time. He ordered to go, needing to get home and change before visiting Star.

    The thought of Star’s unique talents was enough to make Ronny smile as he drove home. Turning up the radio, he relaxed, ate his meal, and enjoyed the hour drive to his apartment.

    Once home, it didn’t take Ronnie long to shower and change into a pair of navy blue dress pants and light grey shirt. He liked to be presentable for Star, who once asked why he didn’t get rid of his old, beat up car. Ronny told her it reminded him of where he came from. Star didn’t ask any other questions. Even though Ronny was a regular, she knew not to stick her nose where it didn’t belong.

    The sun had long conceded when Ronny arrived at Star’s apartment, who was waiting for him as usual. She liked Ronny and enjoyed his company. He was a generous man who treated her with respect. And unlike Star’s other clients, Ronny often stayed to hold her in his arms and talk for a few hours.

    Tonight, Star asked Ronny if he’d heard about the man who’d been shot. Star’s girlfriend had called earlier to tell her about the shooting outside a restaurant.

    “He was seeing a couple of the girls for about ten months, growing increasingly rough with them. Then three months ago, he beat Zoe so bad, that she ended up in the hospital with three broken ribs and a broken jaw. The girls haven’t seen him since. He only started seeing the girls after his wife threatened to kill him if he ever hit her again. If I could thank who shot the bastard, I would.”

     

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~

     

    Blog News

    If you haven’t taken advantage of my ebook promotion for Finding Their Way Home yet, it’s not too late! The sale ends tomorrow, so don’t miss out on this great offer! Available now for just $0.99!

    Amazon.com

    Amazon.co.uk

    I’d also like to share the link to a book tour that’s starting in November and running until December. It’s an amazing opportunity for indie authors to connect with readers and grow their readership. The tour will be taking place in the United States, so I’m unable to sign up. But I wanted to share for the indie authors who live close enough to participate. If you’d like to find out more, just click on the link below!

    Written Escape Bookfest

    Well, that’s it for this week. Until next time, be kind to yourself. You’re worth it!

     

     

     

  • A Symbol of Hope

    by

    Introduction

    I started this flash fiction story yesterday while a pot of soup simmered on the stove. I didn’t get a chance to finish it until this morning.

    When writing a flash fiction story, I try to keep it as lean as possible, keeping it around the 1000 word count. I hope you enjoy reading.

    A Symbol of Hope

    Anna permitted herself one final glance in the mirror before heading downstairs. Jimmy was due home any minute and she was looking forward to an evening out. As a surprise, Anna had booked a table at their favorite restaurant.

    After all, a ten year wedding anniversary was worth celebrating. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Jimmy’s face when she told him about their reservations. He was always surprising her, and now it was her turn.

    As Anna neared the kitchen, she heard the familiar sound of her husband’s Malibu. Jimmy was never late. He prided himself on being punctual. After leaving her job as an architect, time became a more abstract concept for Anna. She had a new dream that had no time frame.

    “Hey, Hon! Traffic was backed up because of an accident.” Jimmy sung out while placing his briefcase in its usual spot. He placed the roses next to Anna’s favorite vase before joining his wife in the kitchen.

    “Wow! You look great! Is that a new dress? It looks hot on you!”

    Anna smiled before her husband’s admiring gaze. She was thrilled that he had noticed the dress, making it worth the extravagant price tag.

    “Thanks, Hon. I thought you might like it. I wanted something different for this evening.”

    “This evening? Did I forget something again?” Jimmy had a habit of forgetting anything not written down, and he loved teasing his beautiful wife, who spent most of her time covered in paint since leaving her job. Anna often shared her latest painting with him. Jimmy was always amazed by her talent. The owner at the local art gallery had promptly offered to showcase Anna’s work during her visit. Jimmy couldn’t be more proud of the woman he married ten short years ago.

    “I just remembered!” Jimmy ran out the kitchen, retrieved the roses, and ran back to where Anna still stood.

    “These are for you. Happy anniversary, hon.” Jimmy passed the small token of his love to the woman he called his wife. He knew not to buy an expensive gift. Anna preferred simple gifts with meaning. And flowers were her favorite. After her mother died, they were also a reminder of her mother.

    The loss had been hard on Anna. By the time they found the lung cancer, it was too late. A few months later, Anna left her job and picked up the family tradition of chicken casserole on Fridays, not once deviating from her mother’s recipe. Anna loved having her father over for dinner on those days. After the first invitation, the three of them understood that Friday’s tradition would now be carried on by Anna.

    “Earth to Jimmy.” Anna kissed her husband back to reality. “The roses are beautiful, hon. I have a surprise for you too.”

    While Anna tended to the roses, taking the time to admire their fragrance as usual, she told Jimmy about their reservations at Kasey’s. It was the restaurant where they ate on their first date, but hadn’t been to in years.

    “I wanted to surprise you, so I booked a table three months ago. The restaurant is always full, so I didn’t want to take any chances. I wanted this anniversary to be special. I can’t believe we’ve been married ten years already. You’ve always stood by me, Jimmy. When Mom passed away, you held me up when I couldn’t.”

    The roses taken care of, Anna walked over to her husband and wrapped her arms around his waist. Even after a day at work, she could still detect a faint whiff of his cologne. Taking a deep breath, Anna picked up where she left off. “Our reservations are at 7, which gives us plenty of time.”

    “The perfect change in plans, hon. You’ve always wanted to cook for our anniversary, so I never suggested going out. Maybe this could be the start of another tradition, and save you all that time in the kitchen. Plus it’ll give me a chance to enjoy how good you look in that dress, before helping you out of it.” Jimmy’s grin was filled with mischief.

    Even after ten years, Jimmy still made her feel sexy. It didn’t matter what she was wearing. Anna continued to be grateful for his love and support. When she had announced that she was leaving her job to paint full-time, he didn’t ask a single question.

    Instead, he converted the guest room into a studio. The other bedroom would be a nursery some day. After their wedding, they decided to wait until they were financially secure. Anna was hoping to bring up the subject at dinner this evening. She was ready to start a family.

    Anna could think of no better answer to Jimmy’s words than a slow, tender kiss. The kiss reminded her of their wedding day. She loved him then, and she loved him even more today, if that was possible.

    “If we leave now, we’d have time for a drink before dinner.” Jimmy wondered how this beautiful woman had ever come to be his. He was a lucky man.

    “I’ll get my purse. Tonight is my treat.” Anna hugged her husband a little harder before getting her purse from the bedroom.

    “I’m ready, hon.” Anna stood in the kitchen doorway, waiting for her husband. She reached out her hand.

    “The roses are beautiful, Jim.” Sarah admired this man’s dedication. For the past year, he always made sure his wife had fresh pink roses next to her bed. Although today the roses were red.

    “Thank you, Sarah. Today is our anniversary. Anna loves roses, so they’re an anniversary tradition. I know she can’t see them, but maybe she can smell them.”

    “I’m sure she can, Jim. Anna’s room always smells so lovely. The hospital could use more of them.”

    “Anna said flowers allowed her to feel close to her mother after she died. Mabel loved her flower garden – being especially proud of her pink roses. Anna never had much of a green thumb, so I’ve been surprising her with pink roses since her mother’s passing. But on our anniversary, I still like to give Anna red roses – a small symbol of my love. It’s been a year since the accident, but I know Anna’s going to wake up. Until then, the roses give me hope.”

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Well, that’s it for this week. Until next time, be kind to yourself.

  • The Reaper

    by

    Jane didn’t fear the Reaper – because she was gonna take down the Devil. She was tired of waiting for someone to help her. She’d been waiting for seven years while he beat her blacker than his soul. And when the bruises faded, he’d start again.

    She was done. The time had come to end it once and for all…

    The gun in her hand felt surprisingly comfortable. Jane didn’t believe in guns. They caused too much destruction. But this one was different. It was her last stand – a fight til death do us part.

    It all started innocent enough. He’d come home after a night out with the guys, and  would forget to check if she was in the mood. Then he started accusing her of flirting with his buddies on poker nights. She hated those nights – they always ended in an argument.

    She tried wearing jogging pants with old tee-shirts. It didn’t matter. Once John made up his mind, there was no going back.

    She’d never forget the first time he hit her – not because it was the worse, but because it was the time he broke her heart. She never let him have it again. It took too long to put back together.

    After the beatings started, John discovered that he liked it, and that was that. Eventually he stopped pretending he was sorry – using her as a punching bag whenever he needed to unwind.

    And no one cared enough to help. The few she told, told her to simply move out. They didn’t know John very well. He wouldn’t stand for her leaving – she was his. And he’d be damned before he’d let her go. His friends and family would never believe her, so she didn’t try telling them.

    They believed she was just accident prone, and needed to be more careful. They couldn’t see the monster hiding in plain sight. Jane didn’t blame them, however. How could she? She hadn’t seen the monster herself until it was too late. The ring was already on her finger when she saw him for the first time.

    When they were dating, she only saw the prince who treated her like his future queen. So when John asked her to marry him, she didn’t hesitate. And wishing she hadn’t been so blind, didn’t stop his fists.

    When he broke her jaw, she knew it was time to save herself – before he broke her for good. She was too young to die.

    That was three years ago. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. Rushing in the first time, Jane knew she had to be patient.

    Now the night had finally come, and his shift would be over soon. She hoped he wouldn’t go out for drinks with the guys at his precinct. Tonight was going to be special – she would finally be free. She couldn’t remember how it felt, but she wanted to find out…

    Jane heard the door open – no drinks tonight. Thank God! She couldn’t wait to get the whole thing over with. What would it feel like to pull the trigger? She’d find that out too.

    “Jane? Where are you?!” He’d gotten so use to her waiting in the kitchen with supper ready – in case he was hungry.

    Though he was hungry for more than supper right now. It had been a long day ending in a ton of paperwork. But Jane always helped him forget the atrocities he saw on the job.

    He was a lucky man, as the guys were quick to point out. Jane was a beautiful woman – despite those wretched jogging pants she insisted were more comfortable.

    She didn’t wear those when they met – a good thing too. He was more of a skirt man. And man, did she have the legs! Too bad she insisted on covering them up now. He missed seeing them.  Except when he managed to get the clothes off her…

    “Jane?!” Where was she? It wasn’t like her not to answer. Her car was parked as usual, so she had to be home. He started to worry. He couldn’t imagine life without her. She was his rock. He counted on her to make sense of a senseless world.

    His supper wasn’t even started. Something was wrong. She never missed a night – always waiting with a smile to greet him. He was a lucky man…

    “There you are!” Then John noticed the gun in her hand. She hated his guns. She always talked about how much they scared her – too destructive. She’d never held one before. It looked kinda sexy. Man was he hungry.

    “What’s ya doing with my gun?”

    Jane was done talking after seven years of being beaten senseless.

    “What the hell!” He would’ve asked about the tarp, but he never got the chance.

    She aimed for the head – no point in aiming for the heart. He didn’t have one. And she didn’t want to take any chances. This was a one shot deal. She aimed to make it count….

    They never found the body first, or last. You see, Jane knew to hide it in plain sight. No one ever looks there. She’d learned that first hand.

    Even his cop buddies were baffled. How does a man a vanish without a trace? They eventually stopped asking, after offering their sympathies.

    The neighbors never thought to question the bags of scrap. They’d grown quite use to her feeding the fish over the past three years. ‘Crazy Jane’ they liked to call  her – always tripping over her own feet.

     

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~

    ©Brenda Baker ~ Caffeinated Ramblings 2017

     

    Since I started writing, I’ve written a number of poems about domestic abuse. A couple of which will be included in my poetry book. So I wanted to tackle the subject by writing a flash fiction story this time.

     

  • Murder on Birch Street

    by

    Max was lying in his usual spot for this time of evening. He prided himself on being a creature of good habits, and the fire was so inviting during the cold winter months in Fortune Bay.

    As Max looked back on his day, he wondered whether to show Maddie. What would she think? She’d always given him her unconditional love – even when he didn’t really deserve it, but this was different. And he knew it.

    Max was only a pup when Maddie brought him home. He could still remember the children’s joyful hoots as she placed him on the kitchen floor. Of course the children were young then too. Teenagers now with little time left for play – which suited Max just fine.

    He was quite content to go about his daily business, unhindered by the antics of youth. Although he did miss their energy on those days when the cold kept him inside.

    If he’d been gone today, he wouldn’t have seen Mr. Patterson in the bathroom washing all that blood from his shirt. Whose blood was it?

    And while Max was delighted to see Mr. Patterson again, he would’ve preferred a different circumstance.

    Mr. Patterson had always shown himself to be a kind man, lavishing his wife and children with gifts from his many business trips. He mostly left Max alone, for he was usually too busy with other concerns to fuss with the family pet. He left that to Maddie.

    Ah – Maddie. What would she think of her husband’s nefarious activities? Perhaps she already knew. Oh – but not Maddie!

    Maddie, who always welcomed him with open arms. Maddie, who spoiled him since that very first day. Maddie, who made sure he was never left out in the rain or snow.

    She could never be part of something like this – her nature would never allow such a thing. Of course, he wouldn’t have thought Mr.Patterson capable of hurting anyone either.

    Until now, life had been simple. Most days uneventful, but comfortable. Max had no reason to complain – unlike his dear friend whose health was fading. Is that what he could look forward to in a few years?

    His troubled thoughts were interrupted by Emma, who’d come to join him in front of the fire.

    Max had always been rather fond of Maddie’s youngest child, whose laughter rang throughout the house. Although lately he noticed that Emma no longer laughed, or smiled for that matter. Her face dark with sorrow these days. And despite his best efforts, Max couldn’t figure out why. He didn’t believe in snooping, so he had no choice but to drop the subject.

    This evening, Emma appeared in no mood to speak – preferring to sit quietly, as he tried to forget this afternoon. It was of no use though. Was Mr.Patterson really capable of hurting someone – or worse? There’d been so much blood on his shirt. Max scanned the years for a clue, but could find none.

    He couldn’t even remember Mr. Patterson raising his voice – let alone anything to explain all that blood. Max did remember Mr. Patterson playing with his children in the garden, and taking him for the occasional walk when time permitted.

    “How are you, Max?” Emma finally asked, wrapping her arms around his thick brown coat.

    Max could see how sad she was, so he wagged his tail to show that he was doing just fine.

    “How long have you been lying here?” Emma’s voice echoed the sadness in her eyes. Max couldn’t understand the words. Although he had long since learned to understand his family’s tone of voice – all but the most recent.

    “Would you like some supper, old boy?” Max didn’t really feel like eating, but he knew it would make Emma happy, so he wagged his tail in a yes formation.

    As they neared the kitchen, Max could hear Maddie and the other children cleaning up after today’s guests. Max had never seen so many people in the house before, or so much black. He hadn’t recognized most of them.

    So Max decided that he preferred some place more quiet. If he’d known that Mr. Patterson would be there in such a bloody state, he would’ve stayed downstairs…

    It was Maddie’s turn to hug him now. Max noticed that her eyes were even sadder than Emma’s. And she was using that new tone again. Max couldn’t translate yet, but he knew the sound of pain. The affair with Mr. Patterson would have to wait.

    “Lying in front of the fireplace again?” Maddie turned toward Emma, her arms wound tightly around Max.

    “Our dear sweet Max, he’s been waiting for days…” Maddie looked around the kitchen, spotting Mr. Patterson’s slippers next to the door.

    She couldn’t bear to move them. Mr. Patterson only wore them in the evenings when his feet were exhausted from the day. He’d always worked so hard to provide for his family.

    Mr. Patterson possessed little more than determination when she met him. He used it to build his business from scratch – neither of them thinking twice about their sacrifice.

    Maddie hadn’t really given the business much thought. There were so many other details in need of her attention. And while the children were old enough to understand, they needed her to be strong.

    Maddie was still in shock. But she would need to shake it for their sake. If only Mr.Patterson hadn’t gone out that night, he’d be with them this evening.

    The police were no further ahead in their investigation. A senseless act of violence, they called it – stabbed twice in the chest. There’d been so much blood. The newspapers called it “Murder on Birch Street”.

    Maddie realized that she was still holding onto Max – who now spent his days next to Mr. Patterson’s favorite chair. How Maddie wished she could make him understand that Mr. Patterson wouldn’t be coming home this time.

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    ©Brenda Baker ~ Caffeinated Ramblings 2017