Kickass Characters Are Only a Click Away!

This week's Terribleminds challenge is hilarious. You go to theyfightcrime.net, get two characters, and write a scene of them interacting. I'm swamped this month, but those of you who aren't, go have fun!

I know I can't participate (deadlines, deadlines, deadlines), but I couldn't resist picking characters. I got:


HE'S A BISEXUAL MASTER CRIMINAL, CONSTANTLY SINGING THE THONG SONG.

SHE'S A MISTRUSTFUL BARBARIAN, SUFFERING FROM A LASER HAIR REMOVAL ACCIDENT.

TOGETHER, THEY FIGHT CRIME!

Aww! I need to write this!

Terribleminds Challenge: A Story in Five Sentences

I haven't been doing too many of the Terribleminds challenges this year, because I swore I'd finish the short story I've been working on before doing anything else, but this week's was too fun and short to resist, just five sentences. And I've been very productive this weekend: I wrote a new short story, which seemed to just write itself (don't you love those?), and even wrote two pages of the unfinished story (the one that feels like pulling teeth from a tyrannosaur, sigh). 

But here's the little drabble I came up with:

                                                        The Charred Heart

On his way back from work on a grey Wednesday, Mr. Johansson discovered he had misplaced his heart.

Feeling hollow, he slumped in his bland Ikea chair at his bland Ikea table and thought about when he had last used it, but couldn’t remember.

Determined, he searched and finally found one piece tucked inside his favorite book, another in the jar of gingersnaps, some shards at his father’s grave, and a few charred pieces stuck to his work jacket.

He glued them together and stuck the singed little heart into his chest.

It wasn’t much, but he’d make it grow.

Terribleminds Challenge: Random Flickr Photo Challenge

Yay, the Terribleminds flash fiction challenge is back! This week we took inspiration from a random photo on Flicr. This is the one I picked. Here we go...

Winter’s Child

The day was so cold that breathing felt like inhaling tiny needles, snot froze in your handkerchief, and smiling hurt your teeth. Any sensible person would have given up on running that day, but not me. No, I had decided to run 5k, and 5k I would run, even though I couldn’t feel my legs by the second lap around the park.  My iPod died after ten minutes, which didn’t improve my temper any, but if I had been blaring my music, I’d never have heard the child.

I didn’t recognize the noise at first. A high giggle sparkled over the snow like champagne, as if some snow-sprite had stepped out of a fairy story and decided to spy on me from the barren branches of the old oak trees. I stopped, trying to place the sound. There it was again.  I followed it to the soccer field, not yet frozen for ice-skating, and looked around. A large, green dumpster stood on my right, rust flaking off it in long strips. I spotted something red on the ground behind it. The snow creaked under my sneakers as my footsteps marred its pristine perfection.

Cautiously, I approached, creeped out against my better judgment. The park was deserted, the blue twilight fast fading to darkness. I suppressed a shudder and told myself to stop being silly. Someone might be in trouble, and who knew if anyone else would come this way before morning?  Time to act like an adult, for once.  I set my jaw and strode on with a confidence I didn’t feel. As I came closer, I saw a red blanket. On the blanket sat a child, its skin as white as the winter’s snow. It looked like a two-year-old, maybe younger, and it wore only a woolen scarf for a diaper. It giggled again.

“Hello? Anybody here?” I called and looked around, but there was no answer.

How could it have survived the cold? The outdoor thermometer had shown twenty-eight degrees below zero when I left, and my fingers were numb even with two pairs of gloves on. I’d need to get the child inside, maybe to a hospital. How long had it been there? Who would leave a child in the snow like this? Of all the irresponsible… I looked around, but no mother appeared.  I bit my lip, debating whether I should call the police or an ambulance, but decided it would take too long. My house was only five minutes away, and my first priority was getting the child somewhere warm.

“Hi there,” I said, dropping to my haunches. “Where’s your mommy, then?”

The toddler only smiled, its eyes glinting black under the streetlights. I wrapped it in the blanket and lifted it up. The child felt surprisingly heavy, and its skin was cold as marble.

“Upsy-daisy! You’re coming home with auntie Ada, and then we’ll call the nice ladies at social services, okay?”

The child looked at me, its dark eyes full of mischief, and grabbed at my collar. At least it wasn’t crying. I started jogging home.

#

After I had bundled the kid in an old sweater, way too large, of course, I called the emergency number. All the lines were busy. I scratched at a stain on the tabletop and jiggled my leg furiously up and down, trying to stay still. Damn it, damn it, damn it. I kept one eye on the child as I tried again. The kid pulled itself up against the sofa and toddled over to the coffee table. It burbled as it grabbed an orange from the bowl with wobbling hands. Relief dispersed the frantic, panicked energy gathering in my limbs. The kid was playing and not crying, so maybe it wouldn’t drop dead on me in the next few minutes. Redial. Still busy. Suddenly the child took on a fierce look of concentration like only little children can. Frost spread from its fingers, and, slowly, the orange froze. It grew too heavy for the child to hold and fell to the floor with a thump, ice crystals scattering all over. I dropped the phone.

“What . . . ”

The child took a few steps, wobbled, and fell. I caught its arms by reflex. It clambered up, using my knee as a support. My legs began to freeze, and I couldn’t move. The child climbed into my lap and stood up, placing both hands on my shoulders. Frostbite crawled over my chest and froze the air in my lungs. I couldn’t feel my hands anymore.  The child pressed its cold nose to mine and giggled, revealing teeth sharp as icicles. My heart gave a last, sluggish beat as my eyes froze through. The world turned into cool shades of ice and frost.

I stood, my limbs strong and smooth and cold, and held the child close. It felt warm against my skin.

Together we walked into the fierce midwinter’s night. 

Terribleminds Challenge: A Scary Story In Three Sentences

Halloween fun on Terribleminds today. Here's my story, and you can check out the rest here.

The creature is here; I can smell its fetid stench, rotting meat and engine oil, hear the whisper of its claws on the plascrete. I slam the dermspray into my thigh, and poison burns through my veins like ice. Time for your last meal, you bastard.

Terribleminds Challenge: X meets Y, The Horror Edition

It's time for another Terribleminds challenge. We're smooshing two randomly selected concepts together again, and I got Back to the Future meets The Shining. It's supposed to be horror, but mine turned out more science fiction-y. I was in a bit of a time crunch, so I incorporated my Novoed course plot assignment into this as well. For that, I'm supposed to have a source of interior and exterior force impacting the characters. It had to be under 1,500 words, so this is a bit on the short side for the Terribleminds one, but, oh well... Hope you like it:)

Time After Time

Wide-eyed people rush past me. Desperation drives them forward, even though there’s nowhere to run. A child clutches a toy bear with one button-eye missing. She holds my gaze for a moment, her liquid eyes dark and solemn. The air is filled with smoke and terror and the sound of screams.

Time to go.

I hurry past the couple necking like there’s no tomorrow. There isn’t, for them. A boy sits in the middle of broken glass in the display window of a sweets shop, eating bright fruit candies from the chocolate castle resting on clouds of cotton candy. I leave them all to burn. This isn’t my first apocalypse. I can’t save them. Or I could, but I might inadvertently destroy the entire history of the human race in the process. So I won’t.

Then my heart freezes. I see a familiar shape. A figure, right hand missing from below the elbow joint, face badly burnt. A sonic blade hangs from its hand. How does it always find me? This time I had three whole weeks before it turned up. I don’t know what it wants; only that I can’t let it catch me. I turn tail and run, just like all the others.

 I round a corner, looking for the rusty iron grate blocking the way to the alley where I left the Icarus.  I hear explosions behind me and jump the grate, fumbling for the entry sequence. I glance back, and the figure approaches, an island of calm in this fiery hell. 54-indigo-doom, I think. For a moment I’m afraid I’m in the wrong place, or that the ship has left me to die, but then a door shimmers into being on a nearby recycling unit. I dive in and it seals behind me.

My heart hammering, I fumble with the safety straps, break a nail and curse. After sealing the doors I pull the control helmet on, lean back on the couch and finally allow myself a small sigh of relief. It can’t get in. I’m safe. Well, at least from my shadow. The apocalypse outside is another matter. 

The command module feels like being in a womb. I like enclosed spaces. That’s probably why they chose me. The cooling systems whir into action, their hum comforting and familiar. I see the map on the MindsEye screen and pick a destination at random . Anywhere but here.

The hum turns into a high-pitched scream.

We fade.

We land on a nice pseudo 18^th century beach on one of the Outer Colonies, Triton’s Bounty. I bury my toes into the sand and watch the sunset. It looks exactly like the fires on Iago. I dig a few derms from my pocket, slap on one marked ‘whiskey.’ It’s not the same as the real thing, but it might relax me enough so I can sleep. The image of my shadow intrudes, its amorphous, shiny burns and the sonic blade. The sour stink of terror and smoke.

No.

I won’t be getting much sleep tonight.

I crawl back inside the Icarus and try, anyway.

The next morning I’m grumpy and hung-over. I activate the MindsEye, check my instructions. Daedalus wants me to return to Iago, find out why their sun flared like that. Fine.  I’ll do it, but not today. I’ve got a time machine, for gods’ sake. There’s no hurry.

My derms run out after a week. It takes me another one to kick the shakes, but I do. Then, and only then, I program the fade to Iago, one day before the flares and the flamestorm. I figure that’s my best chance of finding something. I watch a few vids via MindsEye as I wait for the Icarus to finish its scans. Everything looks fine. A healthy, yellow sun, barely a third into its lifespan. I decide to come back tomorrow.

I land in a different alley, this one in the equator region. I don’t want to run into myself, because that would be bad. I need more derms, and a shot of the real stuff, if I can find it.

The bar is on the sand, and I sip my drink as the sun sinks into the sea. The alcohol has a strange metallic tang to it, probably from the planet’s water.  It’s not whiskey, but close enough. I wish I could load the Icarus up with bottles, but they’re just too heavy.

I’m pretty drunk by the time the shadow turns up; it gets close enough that I can see its shiny burns. It smiles, a grimace that shows a flash of warped teeth. One of the women in the bar screams as it activates its sonic blade. I stumble out of my chair and stumble towards the door. The other patrons slow it down, and I make it outside.

I’m almost at the Icarus, but then I trip. The sand leaves a metallic taste in my mouth when I spit it out.  I turn. The shadow is upon me. I can smell the reek of its festering wounds. It mixes with the scent of roasting fish and lemon from a barbecue down the beach.

“Get away from me!” I scream and scramble backwards, the smooth sand not giving my feet purchase.

The shadow mumbles something, but I can’t make it out.

“Stop!”

It lifts the sonic blade. I can hear its song. Again, the thing tries to speak, but I don’t understand.

I roll away as the blade hits, but I’m not fast enough. There’s a blinding pain in my arm, then it’s just not there anymore. It’s a good thing I’m wearing three derms; they help to kill the pain. I can still function. Screaming, I kick at the thing’s legs. It falls. I struggle to my feet, clutching the seared stump that’s left of my arm.

The shadow thing cries something. I’m almost inside the Icarus, but I pause.

I think it said ‘murderer.’

I seal myself inside the Icarus and activate the emergency medical station. As the ship patches me up I try to think. It gets easier when the painkillers kick in.  What did it mean? I haven’t killed anyone, not really. I’ve left some to die, though.

Who did I kill?

Then the Icarus shudders. The emergency klaxon blares.

Hull breach imminent.

This ship can withstand almost anything, but somehow the shadow is tearing it apart. I try to activate the fade sequence. Thank the gods for the MindsEye. The ship chirps and whirs to life.

But something’s wrong. It’s unstable. The chronocore is going to blow. I use the emergency override to open the door. I’d rather take my chances with the shadow than wait for the explosion. We’ll both die if it doesn’t take off, so I order the ship to return to the last set of coordinates. Then I roll out.

The shadow comes at me. Now there’s no escape. It raises its blade.

I close my eyes.

Sand scatters on my face, but the blow doesn’t come.

I open my eyes only to see the shadow throw itself into the Icarus.

A searing blast of coolant slams into me. It burns. I stagger up, away from the ship.

Then they’re both gone.

I remember the last coordinates, somewhere in the star’s orbit.

After a few minutes, the flares start.

The sonic blade lies in the sand before me. I pick it up with my good arm. It doesn’t take me long to understand that I’m looping. Tears sear like acid on the burns, but I can’t stop crying.

I find the time machine parked under some palm trees like ferns. It isn’t difficult; I’m the one who parked it there. First, I go back to Tritons Bounty. Then I make a list of all the times I saw the shadow. I’m not going to accept this. I’m not going to chase myself. How ridiculous! I’m sure I can come up with a better plan.  I refuse to think of the billions who died on Iago. It’s not real. I can stop it, I know I can. That’s probably why Daedalus gave me another ship. I haven’t contacted them, and I’m not going to.  Too many variables already. I’m going to talk some sense into myself, but first I have to find me. It’s easy. I know where I’ll be.

I wear a hat and prosthetic when I go into the bar, but when I get there, I realize I needn’t have bothered. I see myself, passed out in the corner booth. Perfect. I help the younger me up, and grab her purse. Fortunately the bar isn’t far from the apartment.

It’s morning when she wakes. I hand her a glass of juice and slap a derm on her arm.

She groans.

“I know how you feel. Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to hurt you. We just need to talk.”

Sipping her juice, she nods.

              

   

Terribleminds Challenge: Flash (Non)Fiction

Here's this week's Terribleminds challenge: tell a story from your life, something that actually happened. So, obviously, no speculative fiction elements allowed, which made this a bit of a challenge for me. Hope you like it, anyway.

Into the Catacombs

The descent into the catacombs is a winding staircase like you might see in an underground car park, but it goes much deeper. The walls are painted white to combat claustrophobia, but some of the tourists look uneasy. A woman keeps popping mint candies in her mouth, and a young man wipes his brow for the fourth time. As we venture deeper underground, the sounds of modern Paris fall away and I begin to feel the weight of the earth above us. I imagine Orpheus, clutching his lyre, descending into Hades. Is this how he felt?

Finally we reach our destination. The stone corridors are old, and my converse slip on the wet, uneven floor. When I look up, I see a trail of soot from long-extinguished torches. People have been coming down here from the 1800s. I wonder how the women managed in their long skirts and heeled lace-up boots. It must have been exciting, seeing this place in torchlight with a dashing young man by your side. Many a kiss must have been stolen here, accompanied by a nervous giggle. I touch the damp wall, like those young people must have done. My smile falls when I realize they are all long dead.

We reach a stone portal, the entrance to the ossuary. There is an inscription above it: Arrête! C'est ici l'empire de la Mort.

With more then a little trepidation, I enter the empire of the dead. The passage opens, and I forget to breathe. Bones everywhere, artistically piled in layers of skulls and femurs from floor to ceiling. It’s beautiful and gruesome. The air tastes of dust. Dust from the crumbling bones. Memento mori. I reach out to touch a bony forehead, but lose my courage and let my hand fall. Empty sockets regard me. Year after year, they watch streams of tourists pass them by.  Aloof and dispassionate, the skulls wait, like people-watchers in a café.

I heard that the guards check your bag when you leave, because some people try to smuggle out a skull or two. I feel a mad urge to take one, smuggle it out, my own Eurydice. Are the dead content here, I wonder?  The ceiling trembles. My heart springs into a gallop, until I realize it’s only a subway train passing nearby. But what if something goes wrong and the ceiling collapses? Then I’ll join the dead in their eternal slumber. I can hear the other tourists around the bend of the corridor. Someone coughs, a shoe scrapes against the stone. I hurry toward the sounds of the living.

The labyrinth of bones goes on and on. Thankfully an obliging minotaur has closed off the wrong turns and dead ends, leading us to safety. How many people have become lost here? What about those first tourists, what did they do if their torches sputtered out? Do they wander here, still? Thieves found haven among the dead once, too. Did they feel the relief of coming home? Did they find sleep among the bones?

We reach another staircase. Up we trudge, out of breath but not stopping. Don’t look back, someone whispers in my ear.  I see sunlight. We step outside. The air smells of spring and living things.

Memento vivere.

Remember to live.  

Terribleminds Challenge: Borrowed Title

Another Terribleminds challenge here. This week we're using the titles from last week. The only rule is that you can't use your own. I borrowed this one from Gordo: "The Crack in Lucy's Eye." It turned out all kinds of weird.

The Crack in Lucy’s Eye

The crack in Lucy’s left eye appeared the day lightning struck down her father. Blue against her brown iris, it forked across her pupil like a strange scar. The doctors took out their ophthalmoscopes and examined it from every angle, and a specialist from London even wrote a case report on it, but no one could explain it. When they were certain that it didn’t affect her vision, the doctors finally ceased their poking and prodding. But they were wrong. The crack did affect Lucy’s vision; just not in the way they had thought.

At first Lucy’s mother thought her daughter had developed an imaginary friend. When she was five, it was cute when she prattled on and on to invisible creatures around her, but soon Lucy turned six, then seven, and her strange behavior continued. She spent her entire birthday party hiding behind the couch from the monster on Grandma’s back. Everyone laughed until the old woman turned up dead the next morning.

Lucy sat through the countless psychiatrist’s appointments patiently. She liked talking to the funny creatures sitting on the other patients’ shoulders, at least until her mother left her at the children’s ward for a whole week. After that she learned to stay quiet. But it didn’t stop her from seeing the creatures.

No one was surprised when Lucy chose to become a nurse after she finished school. After graduating, she found her place in a geriatric ward of forty-two patients, most with dementia. She got on well with patients, but her colleagues avoided her, especially on night shifts. Strange rumors circulated of her seeing things, but nothing concrete enough to threaten her job. She did have a few sessions with the occupational care psychologist, who thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Soon after, the worst gossip on the ward had some kind of breakdown and left. No one complained about Lucy after that.

Early on, Lucy had learned that some of the creatures could be reasoned with and others couldn’t. The bloated blue thing that liked to choke COPD sufferers sometimes left if she could persuade the patient to stop smoking, and the little imps that caused schizophrenia were easily distracted and hated the color yellow, but some beings just would not budge. The cancer demons were the worst. On her surgical rotation she had seen them hang onto the lumps of severed flesh right up to the incinerator. The dementia wraiths were also tenacious: once they had sunk their claws into your memories they would never let go.

This was the case for the poor Mr. Rutherford, who lay in his bed, his crow-like claws clutching a fuzzy toy cat one of his grandchildren had brought him. Every one in a while he’d make a “mew” sound and stroke the cat.

Lucy frowned as the grey wraith on Mr. Rutherford's shoulder pushed its claws deep into his head and pulled out another ragged, golden memory. There was a tearing noise as it ripped the memory to shreds. Mr. Rutherford stopped, confused, and then continued petting the toy. Another demon, this one a nasty orange-red, nibbled at his toes, and a third, slimy green, had its tentacles around his chest.

The man didn’t have much time left. Lucy made a mental note to call his daughter and swatted at the green creature. It detached with a squelch. The red demon looked at her and fled under the bed.

“Is that better, Mr. Rutherford?” she asked and straightened his blanket.

“Mew,” Mr. Rutherford answered. The wraith bared its sharp teeth, daring her to come closer.

As Lucy left the room she heard the smacking noises of the tentacle demon climbing back onto Mr. Rutherford’s chest.

Two days later Mr. Rutherford was dying. He had a high fever, and his breath came in rattling wheezes. His daughter had come in for a half hour, most of which she had spent fiddling with her phone. Lucy sat on a stool next to the bed and stroked the dying man’s hand as she waited for the doctor.

The door swung open and Doctor Bree Thomason arrived. She was young enough to not to have accepted her own mortality, but old enough that she had shaken any idealism she had once possessed. Like most doctors, she had a poison-green cynicism demon hanging around her neck. It smirked at Lucy as it licked invisible tears from the doctor’s cheek with its long, black tongue.  The doctor swiped at her face as if brushing away a fly.

“You called?” she said, pulling out a piece of paper and a pen advertising a popular brand of antidepressants.

“Yes, Doctor. I believe Mr. Rutherford’s come down with pneumonia again.”

The Doctor took out her stethoscope and lifted up the man’s puke-colored hospital pajamas.  “Sure sounds like it. How long has he been like this?”

“From last night. The fever went up this morning.”

“All right. Do you think he’ll manage the pills, or shall we give him injections?”

“He didn’t take any of his medications today. I can’t even get him to drink.”

The doctor jotted something down on her pad. “Injections it is, then. He’s in palliative care. We need to respect the family’s wishes. Nothing invasive. No IVs.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

She looked up at Lucy. “Maybe you’d better let the daughter know. He might not pull through, this time.”

“She just left, but I’ll call her.”

“Thank you. I’ll come round tomorrow to see how he’s doing.” The doctor’s gaze rested on the stuffed toy cat and the demon licked another tear off her nose.

Mr. Rutherford got even more restless as the night progressed. Lucy came in as often as she could and chased the demons away, but she couldn’t neglect her other duties. A little after midnight she came in and found the daughter sitting by the bed.

“Hello,” Lucy said.

 The woman didn’t take her eyes off her father. “It’s going to be tonight, isn’t it?” she said.

“I’m sorry. There’s no way to say for sure.” Lucy checked the man’s breathing. The rattles were getting more drawn out and there were long pauses between them. The dementia wraith had curled around the man’s head like a strange, spiky hat.

“I wish I could have talked to him, just once more. He was a good dad, you know, before.” Her voice shuddered.

“I’m sure he knows you’re here.”

“I hope so.”

Lucy swallowed, trying to remove the lump from her throat. Mr. Rutherford might still wake, if she could get the wraith off him. But to do that she needed a little privacy. “Why don’t you go get a cup of coffee, have a little break? I’ll stay with him.”

The woman hesitated, but after a while she gave in. “Okay. Maybe just a short one? I’ll be right back.”

As soon as the door closed, Lucy grabbed one of the demon’s legs and pulled. It kicked and scratched and bit like an incensed cat, and every time she made a bit of progress, the thing scrambled back onto Mr. Rutherford’s head.

“You’ll never get him off like that,” a deep, dark voice said from behind her.

Lucy turned around.

Death leaned against the wall, cold and skeletal in its dark robes embroidered with moonlight.

“Well, what do you suggest?” She wasn’t afraid. Death was no stranger to her; it was a colleague, like Doctor Thomason.

“You’ll need a bait, my dear. Any memories you’re willing to part with?”

Lucy thought. “It can have the two weeks of stomach flu I had last year.”

Death shook his head. “That won’t do. You’ll need something tasty.”

She sighed. “Fine. The day at the zoo when I was five?”

“That will do. Permit me?” Death reached a bony finger towards her head.

Lucy nodded. It didn’t hurt, but its touch was cold and smooth like surgical steel.  Death held a glowing shred of memory, writhing like a snake in its grip. The wraith sniffed the air and started crawling down Mr. Rutherford’s chest.

“Quick. In here!” Lucy lifted the lid off the bedside commode. In went the memory, and the wraith pounced after it. She slammed the lid down and lifted a few heavy boxes of disinfectant from the supply cupboard on top of it. The commode rocked as she pushed it into the connecting, empty room.

Mr. Huntington blinked and his eyes focused. He coughed.

“Nicely done,” Death said, “but I’ll need to take him soon.”

“Come on. Let’s have a cup of coffee so his daughter can say goodbye.”

Death dug an hourglass from its pocket and checked it. “I suppose I can spare a few minutes.”

They passed the daughter in the hall. Lucy smiled at her.

“I was just coming to get you. He’s awake.”

The woman rushed inside.

Lucy took Death by the crook of its arm. “Come on. I have some of those animal crackers you like.”