She wound her way through the foreignness in her own backyard, smiling shyly at the vendors hawking their wares. The mix of languages floated through the air like exotic birdsong, falling around her like rain. Stopping beside a metal gate, she hesitated, looking around, then stepped inside, hurrying down the concrete stairs. Inside the dim restaurant below, she shook her head at the waiters, making her way back, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Putting in earbuds, she listened to the news of the assassination. No one would find her here.
Did I offer peace today?
(Today’s quote is in memory of all those who have died from hate and terrorism the world over.)
Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
1. A prompt photo will be provided each Monday pm to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.
2. Linking for this challenge begins on Monday pm and runs to the following Monday pm.
3. Please credit photo to photographer.
4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.
This week’s photo prompt is provided by Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode
“She’ll be a good one once we get her in dry-dock and shape her up.”
“Have I told you lately you’re out of your mind?”
“Well, not since fifteen minutes ago.”
“And here I thought it had been longer than that.”
The both stared out at the stranded boat.
“Who does she belong to?”
“Salvage to the salvager.”
Silent, the two men picked their way across the sand and rocks, stopping next to the boat. She was small but in fair condition, deck splattered with bullet-holes.
“You hired me to find the ships to salvage and sell. I’m doing that.” A touch of defensiveness in his voice.
“Salvage her,” his boss said after a moment, starting to turn away, pick his way back across the sand. “Make sure you find those drugs. Nobody steals from me and gets away with it.”
A moment later, he was gone.
Mistakes. Everybody makes them. I do. You do. We all do. Some say even God does. Whites. Blacks. Reds. Yellow. Some think killing is right; others wrong. I don’t know if its right or not right. I’ve never been religious enough to know the mind of God. Didn’t need no god to fill my blood with pain and sorrow. The Devil’s done enough of that already.
Interviewer: Did you feel you had a right to kill that man?
Right? I can kill a deer, can’t I?
Interviewer: In season, sure. But a man isn’t a deer.
Same as a deer ain’t a man. You think men got the right to kill that deer, but that deer don’t have no right to kill the man trying to kill him?
Interviewer: Well, I don’t know that. It seems like that would be another issue altogether.
Then you’re wrong.
Interviewer: All right, so tell me why I am wrong?
You don’t know, mister, I can’t tell you.
Interviewer: Why can’t you tell me?
If I killed a man because he broke into my house, you’d say I acted in self-defense. I wouldn’t be found guilty. I wouldn’t go to jail.
Interviewer: That’s true.
Then how come I can’t kill a man who comes on my property and kills my deer? Seems to be this worlds got right and wrong mixed.
Interviewer: But you weren’t defending yourself, but rather a deer.
Deer got just as much right to live as me. You. Anybody at all.
Interviewer: Maybe so, okay I’ll grant you that. But you let the deer attack that hunter. Then you shot him, the hunter, I mean, in the head.
Gotta put him down. Wouldn’t the hunter have done the same to the deer?
Interviewer: I have to say you have a unique view of the world, Mr Ringer, but I dare say it doesn’t fit in with the current laws of the world. A man is more important than a deer. A deer is just a creature. Men are meant to have domination over the animals of the land.
Gods supposed to have domination over the earth, yet men die all the time. That’s where the mistakes started.
Interviewer: So you are saying God makes mistakes? What about free will?
Don’t know. Don’t know God. Yet. But seems to me whats right for one is right for another. Deers got free will, too. Right to protect himself in his own home.
Interviewer: But instead of calling an ambulance, instead of helping the man, you killed him. He was still alive. He could have been saved.
Man puts down a horse with a broken leg. Seems the broken leg probably came from some fool thing man asked the horse to do.
No buts. Gotta be one way or the other. Not right to keep making the same mistakes.
I ain’t afraid. Mayhaps, I’ll meet God. Ask him some questions. Understand why he let the first mistake stand.
The prisoner stood, shackles around his wrists, tethered to the chain about his waist.
“Thank you,” the Interviewer said, standing also..
The prisoner looked at him. Gave a small smile. “I’m passing the torch to you. Keep fighting the mistakes. Not just deer and men, but all of them. Somebodys got to, and that must be you, you came to talk to me.”
Then he was gone.
The reporter stood motionless, staring into the distance, following the execution in his mind. The table. The straps. Drugs and going the sleep. Funny, how sleep and death were sometimes the same. Like deer and men? Maybe?
The prisoner had looked at his notebook when he’d said he was passing the torch and now the Interviewer looked at that notebook. Inside were only words, but words which could make or break a man? Maybe a world.
Once he heard the prisoner pronounced dead, he packed up his notebook and went home.
- ‘Perhaps 1,800 perished altogether in the noyades, and their bodies were washed up on the tidal banks of the Loire for weeks afterwards.’
- ‘Although absent from the novel’s descriptive chain of images, the noyade makes itself known to the reader by scattered traces throughout the text.’
Did You Know?
I wouldn’t recommend getting your sign done here.
“You have an inner serial killer?”
“Yes. Sort of like the Kellogg Killer.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Really? He was a big thing back in the 90’s.”
“Nope, never heard of him. Who did he kill?”
“Ah… Suzy Frost and her sister Sarah Frost. Then again, they were both flakes.”
“Really? Anybody else?”
“A Mafia boss?”
“He was just a big marshmallow.”
“This sounds pretty serious.”
“Oh yes. It’s been years in the solving.”
“You mean he hadn’t been caught?”
“Do you think he’s still around?”
“Oh yes, I saw him at the store the other day.”
“You know who he is and you haven’t told the police!”
“Well, it’s not like I want to rat on myself.”
“Wait….. you’re the Kellogg Killer?”
“I had to quit, you know.”
“Damn Corn Flakes kept getting ground into the carpet.”
a throwing of a person or thing out of a window assassination by defenestration
a usually swift dismissal or expulsion (as from a political party or office) the
Self-defenestration (autodefenestration) is the act of jumping, propelling oneself, or causing oneself to fall, out of a window.
Did You Know?
These days defenestration is often used to describe the forceful removal of someone from public office or from some other advantageous position. History’s most famous defenestration, however, was one in which the tossing out the window was quite literal. On May 23, 1618, two imperial regents were found guilty of violating certain guarantees of religious freedom. As punishment, they were thrown out the window of Prague Castle. The men survived the 50-foot tumble into the moat, but the incident, which became known as the Defenestration of Prague, marked the beginning of the Bohemian resistance to Hapsburg rule that eventually led to the Thirty Years’ War.
Lucky for him, they couldn’t, though the gun in her hand was problematic.
“I should kill you right here.”
“I would never hurt you, Lisa.”
“Shut up, Stephen.” Her eyes were red, dark circles underneath. “I should have staked you when I had the chance.
“I was protecting you,” he pointed out unnecessarily, but women were women no matter what the century.
“Shut up. Just shut up!”
He raised his hands. He wanted things over, but forced himself to remain calm and slow. Sometimes, overwhelming force worked. Other times, not so much. He didn’t want to have to hurt her, too.
“You killed Bobby,” she said, voice raw. “Marty. Mary Jeana.”
Well, he hadn’t killed them all, but he knew better than to argue. She was just worn out enough to circle back around to staking and re-staking.
“Why,” she asked.
He was directly in front of her then, one hand closed around the gun, turning the barrel away from them both.
She smelled deliciously of the life he’d lost a thousand years ago. “Because,” he said softly, “You are my home.”