Comb Over

Sunshine spills o’er these sycamore hills and darts amongst the buttercup plains, yet for me, there’s darkness approaching. I failed. Fizzled out. Lost my sparkle.

He’s coming for me, that foul creature. Wants to chop off the part of me that shines at daybreak. And all because I’ve had a nasty cold this past fortnight. Is it my fault I can’t crow through the dawn?

Around and around I circle, pacing through my fears. I wander near the pond, near the other me. Is he there? Can he help me? I catch sight of his magnificence down in the dark deep of the pool. Cocky as always. He just tilts his head and chuckles.

Swish and glint. The dicey blade is headed for my head. “Goodbye, world!” I squint, bracing for the bitter kiss.

“Damn rooster!” His skin, speckled with broken blood vessels, reminds me of the butter pats stamped with Marianne’s stunning silhouette. Ah, now there was a hen. He, on the other hand, reeks of whiskey and death. He growls and sways on his feet. “You can talk?”

One darkness lifts as another takes hold. I feel the shackles snap shut, and I know I’ll regret keeping my elegant head.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash!Friday:
https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/08/21/flash-friday-vol-3-37/#comment-41616

Don’t Go Naked Into the Woods

Drip drip. That sound. Drip drip. Again! I tore through the house in search of silence and stumbled across a severed head.

“Who put that head in my front vestibule? Don’t they know I’ll have to run through the woods naked now?”

The thought stopped me in my tracks. “Oh. They do know. Very clever. I suppose the answer will be resting under a maple tree. Probably the murder weapon, too.”

I glanced around my family manor, hesitating. I’d just put on the kettle, ready to settle into my comfy chair with the shredded backrest—blasted cat—and while away with a bookish evening.

Oh well. Off came my clothes, and I swear I heard the squirrels laughing. “Get your own nuts!” I had a quick scamper through the woods, cursing the foul weather as I completed the circuit.

Next, the murderers. Wouldn’t you know it, the blasted sky decided to let loose its full bladder. I love being deluged with cloud pee. Now I’d have to sing “Land of the Silver Birch” at the top of my lungs. They’d hear me coming a mile away!

Where would they hide? The river. I bolted east, searching for damp grass or footprints in flight.

Footprints! Of a rabbit. Failure. “Don’t forget to stamp five times.”

There. Twenty paces to the right. Damp, flattened grass. He was waiting in the hollow. Gilbert. My brother. “Murderer!” I screamed.

He looked at me and smiled, knowing my superstitions would bring me out naked. “Did your ratty old teddy bear have an accident?”

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash!Friday:
https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/08/07/flash-friday-vol-3-35/#comment-40917

From the Darkness We Rise

“Carry that case wherever you go. On a plane. In the rain. Even racing through seating at rugby games. You got it?”

Ha. That rhymes. I beat down a dopey grin. “Yes, Mother Carrot.”

She took me in when I got hooked on drugs. Made me a voluntary carrot. I’d transition to full status with a clear head. Badge and all.

Six months later, full carrot with sleek leafy duds. First assignment is a tough one, and I evade several armed officers before halting at your door. We give the signal and conduct a trade. My case for your cash.

Oh, and that carrot fixation? I’ll tell you later on.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Micro Bookends:
http://www.microbookends.com/2015/08/06/micro-bookends-1-42-carry-micro-on/#comment-6412

Dancing on a Carpet of Water

They say I took my first steps at 9 months but my first swim right from the womb.

Screams echoed in the darkness, the mid-winter air frosty despite numerous wool carpets lining walls. The midwife fanned my mother’s face with the bodbezan fan, while she drew her own cloak further around a hunched frame.

Blood gushed from between my mother’s legs. Splashed brocade cushions. They say they watched the rivers of blood turn to water before their eyes. Such magic could only be caused by the djinn.

My mother wailed. Ill omens. She named me Uparmiya, paying homage to my djinn-touched state, and she knew I was destined, like my father before me, to head out to sea.

I soon joined my cousin Youtab on her adventures around the Farakhkard waters. Girl sailors run in the family.

A criminal at one port screamed through his torture. The djinn kissed my mind, sending me into the shifting Djinnestan lands. My watery nature became ethereal, all-encompassing.

I lapped against his protruding feet, tried to comfort him from the sun. I felt his pain, strapped to those hollowed logs, covered with honey and burrowing insects, and drowning in his own feces. I washed his face with my tears, offering brief respite from his impending scaphism death. What had he done? He stole a pomegranate to feed his children.

I slammed back into my body and renewed my senses with a splash of the sea. I am the water, and the water is me.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash!Friday:
https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/07/24/flash-friday-vol-3-33/#comment-40205

Percival and the Manhattan Minotaur

“Stage this house properly, and you’ll bring in the big boys.”

“But ma’am, I’m just the advertiser.”

Mrs. Gallagher, aka the Manhattan Minotaur, gave me an icy glare. “Everyone is responsible for closing a deal. If I lose the sale, you lose your earnings. Capeesh?”

In an instant, she was ribbons and curls. She flipped platinum blonde embellishments — victims of chemical injection and flatiron mutilation could never be deemed real hair — and stomped to the balcony.

What happened next wasn’t my fault. The minotaur tripped and toppled over the wintry ledge.

I felt gleeful until a new thought entered my brain. There goes my reputation and good name.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Micro Bookends:
http://www.microbookends.com/2015/07/23/micro-bookends-1-40-stage-micro-name/#comment-6192

Vermilion Dreams

The butterfly men come at night. I hear them tapping on the glass, their luminous vermilion wings flashing heatless fire into the dreary space I call my room. My frayed little calendar rests in the drawer beside my bed. Small wavering symbols, spiraling flames etched in charcoal, mark their visits.

I pull out my pencil, the tip dull and stream-smoothed from too many late night scribbles, and make a new symbol. Seven spiraling flames radiate up at me. Seven visits to ease the fears from my dreams.

On their third visit, the butterfly men detoured to the nursery. Maggie’s disgruntled cries echoed with stifling summer slickness. The leader, vermilion wings tinged with the purple-black film of age, kissed her sorrows, and the air around her crackled.

Peppermint mingled with a bed of fresh moss, and smoke swirled by Maggie’s crib. I watched a mark bloom upon her tear-drenched cheeks, the puffs of fragrant smoke fading to nothingness. A silhouette, butterfly black, with the faintest trace of red. She never cried again.

They come to those who need help, drawn by aching sorrows and moonlit tears. Tonight, the air shimmers and shakes as peppermint wafts in the velvet-heavy air. On this, my seventh visit, I know the truth. I will see them no more.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on 200 Word Tuesdays:
http://200wordtuesdays.blogspot.com.au/2015/07/smoke-12-vermilion-dreams.html

Smiles of Remembrance

You ran past me that morning with a smile on your face. Gentle and relaxed. You were serenity at its finest when jogging, your therapeutic hour, called its song of seduction. I wish I’d taken a plaster cast of that grin. Or at least a photo in passing.

A shrill phone call disturbed my thoughts. Bad timing. Ominous warning. My grocery list in progress.

Your number registered, but the caller wasn’t you. Chilled cider in a frosty tumbler dropped from my hands, dispersing like mudslides on my cheery pink carpet. My carpet is blemished still; a splotchy sickness I hide under half-moon table ends.

My grocery list for two became one.

I went to see you in the mortuary. Cold and pale, lying on that stainless steel slab. A white sheet your silent companion. Your muscles had tightened, the doctor said, as he pointed to your face. A little grin, like the one I saw that morning. Small comfort, but I was glad all the same.

Another dawn breaks as I take over your niche. I feel the pull of the trails and know what you felt in those moments. I detect a slight curve of my lips as my feet slap the pavement, darting off onto dusty dirt-packed routes. Even in death, your smile will linger.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on 200 Word Tuesdays:
http://200wordtuesdays.blogspot.com.au/2015/07/the-interrupted-note-8-smiles-of.html

Poison by the Dose

The bad men drowned today. Them with their fancy duds and debonair smiles. Not sure what that means. I heard Mr. Martin say that when they left the shop. He also said they had smooth talking ways and arsenic-laced eyes. That got me excited. They got poison in their eyes?

I followed along, eager to watch poison shoot from their eyes. Were they aliens? Would the G-Men come soon?

Instead, they whipped out pistols and robbed the bank on Main Street. That’s where the money lives. Bad men.

Jackets fluttered as they raced loot down the street like sacks of laundry. They even threw it over the bridge and dived in. That’s when the yelling started. Guess their boat got away.

The taller one saw me on my perch. Called for help. I shook my head. Mama always told me to never lend a hand to bad men.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash!Friday:
https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/07/10/flash-friday-vol-3-31/#comment-39411

Wicked Ways and the Broken Telephone

Six tears shed over you. I counted. After that, those ducts ran dry. The switchboard girls crowded around me, oohing and aahing and clucking their tongues. Like hens on the nest. Didn’t they know I needed my space?

I threw down my headset, watching it ricochet off splintered wood panels. Dusty corners sent up plumes of grey smoke.

Blinding light and nauseous haze. I ran for home, beat down by summer vehemence.

Strange odours. Peculiar feelings. I grabbed the knife, plunged it into the pillows. Again. I was liberated, until the lump shifted. It wore a face like yours, remorse and pain etched in shifting degrees.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Micro Bookends:
http://www.microbookends.com/2015/07/09/micro-bookends-1-39-six-micro-degrees/#comment-6057

Brothers to the End

“How many times must I tell you? I don’t have to pee!”

“We’ve been running for two hours. Surely you gotta go.”

“Well I don’t. If you have to pee that often, perhaps it’s you with un problème.”

That was me and Barnard earlier. Right now he’s sleeping. Probably peed on himself already. I’m keeping watch for the prison guards.

Honestly, that man drives me crazy. I know he’s my brother, otherwise I’d have murdered him in his sleep. Kidding, Maman.

“Simeone?”

Damn.

“Oui, Barnard?”

“Who are you talking to?”

“I’m narrating une histoire pour Maman.”

“She can’t hear you anymore.” He rolled onto his side and stood up. “Gotta pee.”

Good, he’s gone. Now where was I?

A yelp tore through the trees.

“Barnard?”

Barnard raced towards me, his trouser waist flapping in the breeze. “Oh, oh! A bee. It got me!”

He pointed below his waist.

“Petit frère,” I said with a laugh, “that’s your responsabilité. Go throw yourself in the stream. Might help with the odour, too.”

He gave me a scathing look. “Sure. Like you always smell of violettes.”

Oh, Maman. At times like these I’m glad to have mon frère. Helps to ease the gnawing hunger pains. We might kill a rabbit, but we’re better with large game. That Monsieur Gaspar, for example. Too bad we didn’t know he was your new man.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash!Friday:
https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/07/03/flash-friday-vol-3-30/#comment-39076
Special Mention!
https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/07/06/flash-friday-vol-3-30-winners/

Finding Solace in Solitude

Lost. I am lost. Tears drip down my smooth, trembling cheeks, spilling salty sadness on my tattered childhood blanket.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” my mom says. Her eyes are gentle, crinkled softly in the corners. “One day you’ll meet a guy who will love your mind.”

Does it help — or hurt — that an English teacher once said the same thing after I poured out my heart in a writing assignment? Another tear shed; another rip in my tender creative soul.

I don’t know who I am anymore. Clever. Quirky. What does that mean? Why is it unappealing? I stare out the back bedroom window, a deep rumbling sigh reminding me of my cat-like qualities. I could almost sense a tail flick.

I glance up into her friendly, loving face, my emotions tangled in a web of blackened, twisting dismay. She plants a quick kiss on my head. “Late blooming doesn’t always apply to those teenage years. Sometimes it takes a lifetime to find the right one. You’ve got great wit. Strong independence. Forget about what others think. Focus on you. What makes you happy.”

“I’m lost. Lonely. I don’t know how to be free.”

“Find your happiness, and you’ll find yourself. People will notice. Trust me. That’s how I met your father. I wasn’t always the one who could light up the room. I used to glower in the corner, writing my pain on paper serviettes.”

Warm hazelnut eyes search mine. Her words strike me. Give me hope. It radiates downwards, filling me with strength and determination.

If I can’t fend off the insults, at least I can write them off in my stories.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on National Flash Fiction Day: The Write-In
http://thewrite-in.blogspot.com/2015/06/finding-solace-in-solitude-by-emily.html

Lutania Rises

I’m alive. I stumble from the salty depths, marine richness dripping from my legs. Turning, I gaze in wonder at the world of my own creation.

Lutania. Here, people are born from the sea, at different ages, with pre-set, unknown life spans. Neural pathways cross on the day of determination. Massive degeneration. Confusion. Fear. Aggression. People become uncontrollable, rip their clothes, claw out their eyes. They must be sent to the sea.

I glance at my naked self. Kienan Burk, my main character. He is me. I know how he lives, and I know how he dies. I dread page 337.

Voices. Tender shushing. “Don’t stare,” the woman says. “It’s just another new face.” She hands me a set of clothes. Blushes. Walks away.

Suddenly I’m in the swamp. Snarling. Screaming for freedom.

Page 335. Blood drips down my cheek. Shadows overtake me and stab me with knives. I’m dragged to the shoreline.

Page 336. I escape.

Page 337. I scream at the stars. Extending my nails, I rip open my eye sockets and gouge out my eyes. Left, then right. Hot life pours down my tender, inflamed skin, as sharp metal sends me to sleep.

The sea made me, and the sea will take me back.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash!Friday:
https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/06/26/flash-friday-vol-3-29/#comment-38702

Seconds, Please

Big Selection. All-You-Can-Eat Buffet. Already I taste baked goodness, the crumbly bumble of bumbleberry pie.

The bear in my stomach takes a swipe at my gut. Hunger. Always a pleasure.

Pile my plate, barely pause to breathe. Eat. Repeat.

Lucy, her push-up bra on overdrive, handles the register. She sneers. “Janelle. You know the drill. $7.99.”

My fingers poke a hairy thigh. My bills are gone, and I haven’t shaved in weeks. Perfect. “I only have a toonie.”

“Eight dollars. Not two.”

“Next week?”

“Tony!”

“Please! I lost my money.”

Lucy raises her eyebrow. Adjusts her top. “Fine. Get me a date with your brother.”

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Micro Bookends:
http://www.microbookends.com/2015/06/25/micro-bookends-1-37-big-micro-brother/#comment-5534
Honourable Mention!
http://www.microbookends.com/2015/06/28/micro-bookends-1-37-results/

Eyes and Tales

She deals in shadows, winding them around a finger that bleeds black and white. Her arms reach out, seeking contact, assurance. I’m here, Margit, you say with your nose, nudging the words onto her open palm. She tickles your fur, petting your steady soothing back.

You’re her eyes. Her support system. You’ve listened to her tales of gymnast feats and daring balance-beam flips. They’re only stories, though. She’s been blind since birth.

Her shadowed world clings like glistening sweat, and she knows — yet fears — her limitations. You nuzzle her tears, hoping the saltiness will generate her lifelong dream.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash!Friday’s Warmup Wednesday:
https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/06/24/warmup-wednesday-21/#comment-38400

Lungs of the World

Urban smog has its eye on you. It snaps a photo. Records your face. Your smile. Your innocence. It chuckles with never-ending glee. One day — one day soon — you will be trapped.

Smog weaves its spell over those who cannot move. It shimmers in the distance, but it hides up close.

It lurks everywhere.

Look around as you walk home from the gym, fresh glow radiating from your face and flexed muscles lining your calf. Peek under the park bench. Glance up at that street sign. Inspect the soot on the willow leaves.

Smog is ready to pounce. Unlike the boogie man, it’s not a legend.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Micro Bookends:
http://www.microbookends.com/2015/06/18/micro-bookends-1-36-urban-micro-legend/#comment-5400

Dial 9 for Renewal

Insects crawl across his face, attracted to the smell. They search for the bigger prize. The golden reward.

He sprawls in the ditch, half hidden by the willowy branches of the rowanberry tree. His crimson-splattered pants show traces of green. Dragged. Through the fields. Tossed like unwanted refuse.

How many times did they beat his face? Did they laugh as his mouth dropped in anguish? Were they indifferent to his tears, to the way he begged for his life?

His skin, a thriving home for the maggots and beetles. The insects crawl, but the birds soar. Overhead, circling this ditch. The carrion-hungry vultures know their next meal is nearby. Silent, as always, they eye the decomposing flesh, inhale the rich, heady aroma of a portable, ready-made meal.

Life, so fragile and finite. Who mourns him?

No one will recognize his mashed, fleshy face and that shredded, punctured chest. His plaid shirt is mangled, the front pocket ripped away. Tangled threads dangle like robust cobwebs, tickling the corners of my mind.

Will I turn out like this man? Alone and scared, without a real friend?

I grab my phone and push those three little buttons. Connections take hold. They transport me away from this desolate place, remind me of the life I still hold, the chances I have for forgiveness.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on 200 Word Tuesdays:
http://200wordtuesdays.blogspot.com.au/2015/06/indifference-4-dial-9-for-renewal.html

Nighttime Theatre

I see his face in the stars. His warm smile and his mocha eyes. His amber-toned hair flecked with a shot of espresso. I can’t even glance at coffee without bringing him to mind.

Ten years since we parted, since his lips last brushed mine. He never let me see his tears. They slipped from his eyes at night, staining the grey pillows a rich and intense charcoal.

A proud man. A practical man. Stubborn like his father. They were alike in strange ways; I never figured the tumours would get him, too.

Weeks ticked by with regularity, slipping from autumn grace to the slumbering stillness of winter. Back into the light when spring awoke to kiss the blushing tips of these trees.

The stars were our theatre, bringing us joy and making us sigh. We sat in their radiance, with tickets purchased for the sweetest show on Earth.

“I’ll be up there soon,” he said. Just once. “Joining the others to light up the night with a song. With laughter.” He hadn’t laughed in a while. Once so free and forthcoming, his amusement became limited to smiles. Weak smiles.

Every clear night I search the sky until I find his star. His face. I smile then, knowing he’s extending his joy with each and every twinkle.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on 200 Word Tuesdays:
http://200wordtuesdays.blogspot.com.au/2015/06/in-stars-6-nighttime-theatre.html

Curses in the Night

Mirror, mirror. Who do you see? An innocent woman looks back at me.

In this world, you’re born evil. You walk evil. You breathe evil. Those who are not evil are deranged. Good behaviour is wrong, and it can quickly morph an evil youth into a sweet-tempered fiend. Oh the horrors!

I start my day with a brisk dip in the Pool of Mystical Odours, and I splash my cheeks with angel tears. Angels. Those vile creatures. We hunt them for sport, or else they’d take over this place. Just the other day I actually caught one planting flowers in the road. Horrible! You don’t plant flowers. You pluck them. Shredding the petals until they shrivel and die. Decay is the highlight of our existence.

The Hour of Regurgitation, the only meal of the day in this place, consists of rotten fruit mashed to a pulp and dried. It is tough, leathery, and nausea inducing. I wash it down with flavourful fermented goat’s milk, the kind that is thick and bursting with mouldy chunks. I heave the contents into my second stomach to allow further fermentation. I regurgitate the meal, savouring the bile. Just what I need to get through the day.

Society is single minded. Wherever we work, however we occupy our time, we labour with one goal: to eliminate the kindness. You see that metal shard in the Nightmare Park? Throw it at the angels. You see that mouldy bread? Eat it quickly, before someone else partakes of the delectable spores. If we see someone suffering, we prolong the anguish. A kind charity act would go against everything evil and impure, everything that makes us thrive.

One morning I wake up without the knot in my back. Without the pain. I know something is amiss. I glance in the mirror, and instead of scratches and claw marks, I see the outline of lips on my left cheek. Something — something good — has cursed me.

I eat the dried rotten delights and vomit profusely. I suck down the fermented chunks and spew my stomach contents across the room. I panic. I race through the house, into the street, seeking — love. Comfort. The thoughts are horrendous. What’s wrong with me? I’m not who I thought I was.

I’ve become one of them.

The crowds form. They surround me, brandishing daggers and swinging clubs. A short-lived hunt. As I scream in fear, begging for the life I know I’ve already lost, my eyes observe a trace of sympathy. Gentle eyes near the back of the crowd.

Kindness, that virus, that incurable disease, is on the move.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash Mob:
https://flashmobwrites.wordpress.com/2015/06/12/flashmobwrites-1×16/comment-page-1/#comment-701
1st Place Winner!
https://flashmobwrites.wordpress.com/2015/06/14/flashmobwrites-1×16-winners/

Knit Me a Memory

His letter brings giggles and tears. She runs her hands across the rough, textured homemade paper, sees the remnants of his former correspondence. He soaks the paper to bleed out the ink, but it never disappears completely.

She misses him, that crazy old man. How long has it been now? Seven years, surely. Is he all right? His whiskey-laced cheek kisses, his whisker-rich bear hugs. Gentle. Comforting. Sincere. Her grandpa is Sunday morning pancakes.

She opens the card and out pops a photo. Grandpa, wrapped in a blanket. It’s in swirls of colour, tropical fruit punch. The lines shimmy down the sides, zig zag back upon themselves. He’s holding a drawing. Her childhood drawing. The pattern for the blanket.

She smiles as the tears splash upon her turquoise blue sweater. He took up knitting after Grandma died. He knitted that blanket, and now he wears it at night, wrapped around his shoulders.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Written for Visual Verse prompt Vol 2 Ch 8:
http://visualverse.org/submissions/knit-me-a-memory/

A Theatrical Affair

Ellie was in trouble. She felt the pang as the clock struck 9 p.m. It kicked at her chest and whipped like wildfire through her skin. Traitor. Harlot. Fiend. She’d heard it all before. Those eccentric whispering tones as her neighbours slunk to their curtained windows to watch her escape.

Now, she heard it again. She whipped around, caught sight of the rustling sleeves, the flash of pink curlers. Mabel on the prowl.

She slipped into the Golden Triangle Theatre, sighing with relief as her body sunk into the cushioned comfort of seat 55A. She’d once made a generous donation to the theatre, and now, she’d claimed a seat.

Ellie was a regular. One of those frequent audience members obsessed with live action and the stage. She was a slave to her memories. Of the times she pranced and sang in school plays. That little girl danced in and out of her vision. A graceful, willowy blonde with a beaming face. What had become of her?

She glanced at the guests. A small boy in the seat near hers. Children. Home. Robbie and Heather. Their names and faces blurred in the shadows. Perhaps she should—

A fresh song tickled her ears. Entranced, she turned her attention to the stage.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Flash!Friday:
https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/06/12/flash-friday-vol-3-27/#comment-37519