Flash Fiction Contest Round 8
By Jo Eberhardt | August 1, 2015 |
“Gideon” – Photo by Brin Jackson
Thank you to everyone who participated in round 7 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest. I loved so many of your stories. Rainbows clearly bring out the best ideas. It was a pleasure reading through them all, and a seriously difficult task judging them.
We’ll get to the winner in a moment. But, first, the August contest is now open. You have seven days to write a 250 word story about the picture above to be in the running for an absolutely fabulous prize pack.
The rules:
- Each submission must be 250 words or fewer.
- Each story must contain a beginning, middle, and end. Like all stories, a compelling narrative is essential.
- All submitted work must be original, not published elsewhere, and written by you. After the contest, what you do with your story is up to you; we hold no claim on your work.
- Each submission must be made in the comment section of the prompt post.
- No more than two entries per person, per prompt will be eligible for any given month.
- Deadline for entries will be one week after the prompt is posted, meaning 7 a.m. EST on the second Saturday of the month.
- The winning story each month will be selected by a mix of votes in the form of Likes in the comment section and our own discretion (which includes a blind-reading of the entries by a panel).
What the winner receives:
Each month’s winning story will be announced the following month, and republished on Writer Unboxed, along with the author’s bio, and links to the winner’s website and social media accounts. As well as this platform-raising exposure, the monthly winner gets bragging rights and the exclusive opportunity to compete for the grand prize in December.
In December, each of the monthly winners will be asked to write a new flash fiction story based on a new prompt. The overall winning story will be selected by a mix of votes via a poll and our own discretion.
The overall winner of the 2015 Writer Unboxed Flash Fiction Contest will be announced by the end of December 2015, and will receive:
- A signed copy of Dave King‘s Self-Editing for Fiction Writers
- A signed copy of David Corbett‘s The Art of Character
- A 15-page manuscript critique by bestselling author Catherine McKenzie (double spaced, normal margins, Times New Roman 12pt font)
- A one-hour Skype lesson with Scrivener expert, Rebeca Schiller
- A free, non-transferable pass to attend the next Writer Unboxed UnConference (does not include travel or hotel expenses)
The other finalists will receive the a beautiful “Edit” poster from Three Figs Villa, as kindly donated by the generous Cyd Peroni.
Good luck and happy writing!
And now… announcing the winner of Round 7 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest.
HONOURABLE MENTIONS
Sean Callaghan (“The Rainbow”)
Pauline Yates (“The Friendship Bird”)
Cathryn Grant (“Filleted Fish”)
Congratulations Sean, Pauline, and Cathryn. I’m looking forward to your next stories!
WINNING ENTRY
Photo by Flickr user Rocky Raybell
Congratulations to Kate Magner, who has earned another entry in the 2015 WU Flash Fiction grand final with her story, “Homestead”.
Please read and enjoy it in its encore performance:
I burrowed into Mama’s quilt when our covered wagon rumbled to a halt.
“Beck?” At my father’s call, I shrank deeper between our belongings.
He swung down from his driver’s seat. Instead of coming for our bedrolls, though, he unlatched buckles he’d secured before he’d ripped me away from the world I knew and the dead we’d left behind.
“What are you doing, Pa?”
After dumping tent stakes, he lifted the canvas. My father didn’t look my way as he hooked the eyelet and dragged his toolbox near.
“Why are you unloading?”
My father tipped his head as if the wind had asked instead of me. He muttered then hauled his toolbox from the wagon.
The gap remaining in the canvas showed me dusty yellow slopes and stalks of evergreen. No tiled roofs or plowed land teased, just emptiness. Still wrapped in Mama’s quilt, I wormed across the wagon’s bed in search of more to see.
From behind gray rain clouds, the sun peeked out and painted a rainbow into the air. The arc dove into a valley, brightening trees where no one lived. The land seemed to soak in the color, though, to come alive, to have a heartbeat and hope.
In silence, my father shared my view.
“No one’s here, Pa.”
He put a finger to his lips. “Listen to your mother.”
I strained to catch anything other than the rustle of unkempt grass, but my mama’s ghost didn’t speak to me.
“What’s she saying?”
“That we’re home.”
Kate Magner
lives near Seattle, Washington. Working as a librarian pays her bills and escaping into the foggy, rainy, and sometimes even sunny outdoors helps maintain her sanity. When she’s not traveling as much as budgets and jet lag will allow, she writes fantasy short stories and novels in the hopes of giving all the characters in her head their own adventures.
Congratulations, Kate!
Jo Eberhardt is a writer of speculative fiction, mother to two adorable boys, and lover of words and stories. She lives in rural Queensland, Australia, and spends her non-writing time worrying that the neighbor’s cows will one day succeed in sneaking into her yard and eating everything in her veggie garden.
Great story Kate! I enjoyed it. Congrats.
Congratulations, Kate! What a great story! And I loved your description of the rainbow and its effect on the land.
So beautiful.
Gideon
“The name plate says Gideon, Bianca. It literally means ‘destroyer’.”
“Well, I think it’s beautiful anyway.” She steps in front of Mike and squats to get some photos, taking more than necessary.
When she finally stands up, Mike says, “Let’s go.”
He’s relieved to finally get out of there. It had been a long day.
“I want to go back and get a picture of the bridge at twighlight. No one’s ever gotten one.” She wiggles her eyebrows at him, smiling.
“That’s because no one is allowed here after dark!” He thrusts his finger at the nearby sign. They were all over the park.
“Wittle Mikey scawed of ghosties?” Her smile turns mocking. “It’s just a stupid rumor.”
“Whatever.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “If it’s just a rumor, then you don’t mind going by yourself.”
“Whatever.” But Bianca isn’t smiling anymore. She stands for a moment before she marches off alone.
The last light of day slips over the horizon as Mike stomps his butt into the ground. A crunch sounds behind him.
“There you are! I was-“ But he stops as he turns around. Bianca isn’t there.
And neither is Gideon.
Mike hears a woman’s scream.
“Bianca!” He breaks into a run towards the bridge, but stops short. He sees Gideon perched on the railing, Bianca under his arm.The statue turns his ugly face towards Mike.
“Gideon. Beautiful.”
He flies into the night, the camera dangling wildly from Bianca neck.
Thanks for your entry, Celeste.
Her Demons Alone
Pain like no other, both emotional and physical.
Her back ached as she sat up, dirt underneath her fingernails and rubbed onto her skin. A slight breeze rustled the garden around her, droplets of dew hanging from the edge of leaves until they fell. It was chilly among all the plants and vines, while her hand rose instinctively to feel the bruised skin encircling her left eye.
Breathing deeply, she tried to ignore the pain coursing through her bones like blood. There were no birds singing sweetly in among the trees, or any other living creatures to be seen. Like so many times before, she was here alone, without a hope or help. Only the stone bench behind her remained, just as it always had.
Groaning, she attempted to stand, placing a hand behind her rough stone. With much struggling, her small, weak frame finally rested on it, twisted unnaturally and crying warm, salty tears that dripped down her face onto the dirt below.
Though her vision was foggy, she could just make out another form, squatting behind plants a few feet away. Raising her head, she saw more stone, this time in the shape of some evil creature.
Hunching over, with knees nearly touching its chin, it had pointed horns, wrinkled stone-skin, and large, angelic wings unfurled behind its head. This was, however, no angel; its malicious grin spoke the truth clearly:
It was a her demon.
Sighing, she breathed, “Here we are again, old friend.”
Thanks for your entry, Dante.
Ed walked past the stone gargoyle, humming a tune, in the almost deserted, large garden.
He suddenly doubled back and walked back a few steps.
There it sat, the stone gargoyle. Smug and creepy looking, a big evil grin on its face. Like some mythical creature which had suddenly turned up, from somewhere, in the modern world- wings spread wide, just sitting there, amidst the bushes.
Like a predator waiting to pounce on its prey, Ed thought, an involuntary shudder passing through him.
GIDEON- THE GARGOYLE was written on a plaque beneath the statue.
Ed wondered why someone would keep such a creepy, malevolent looking statue in the otherwise beautiful, serene garden. Plus, Gideon meant ‘destroyer’, ‘mighty warrior’ or ‘tree-feller’. Ed guessed this gargoyle was the first.
Ed kept staring at the statue with morbid fascination, his mouth lying open and his body rooted to the spot.
Then he suddenly laughed out loud at his own stupidity.
“Ha! Come on Ed! It’s a stupid old stone statue…it ain’t gonna kill you or…” suddenly he stopped talking.
Ed thought he saw the gargoyle move a bit.
That could be the trees or bushes moving around, he thought.
Ed blinked twice, and then peered at the gargoyle.
“You’re not gonna kill me, are you, you ugly medieval brute?” Ed asked.
A half hour later, a couple taking an evening walk found Ed’s mutilated, bloody and partially eaten body lying right beneath GIDEON.
Thanks for your entry, Percy.
“Dadburn it!”
I look up from my digging to see Josiah Grange jump up and down on one leg, stirring up more of the desert dust that already encased us like coffins.
“What happened?”
“It’s that blasted statue you dug up, that’s what happened! Nearly took my kneecap off.”
I remove my hat and wipe my sweat-covered brow with my forearm. “Don’t be so dramatic, Josiah. That thing isn’t tall enough to reach your kneecap.”
I heave the statue onto my shoulder. “Why don’t you go see the medic?”
“Don’t need no medic,” he grumbles and stomps away.
I grin and shake my head. Josiah’s a good worker, except for his constant complaining. I go in my tent and set the statue on a makeshift table. There’s a thick spot of caked-on dirt on its back I hadn’t noticed before.
“Strange,” I mutter. I run my thumb across it a couple times until I see what appears to be a label.
“Are you kidding me?” No artifact would have a label on it. Have I been duped? Angrily, I spit on my thumb and rub harder. The area I thought was a label begins to glow red and soon the light fills the whole tent. As the statue transforms into a living demon, my throat constricts, stifling my scream. The demon turns to me with a smirk on his face.
“You have released me, Master. What is your bidding?”
Thanks for your entry, Linda.
I WANT TO BE A COWBOY
It was a hot afternoon and I’d been sitting in the saddle looking for cows since early morning. They’re not easy to spot amongst the dense mesquite trees and scrub brush. I was getting saddle sores, blistering in the Arizona summer sun, and starting to talk to Myrtle, my mule. I pictured my comfortable office chair at my desk in the air-conditioned reception room of the attorney I had worked for a few months ago, and began to question why I decided I wanted to be a cowboy and not a paralegal.
There are 1,700 acres of range in the foothills of the Rincon Mountains to cover. A hundred and forty-nine cows to find in those acres, and check off the ear tag number on the list I carried in my saddle bag.
“Need a break Myrtle? I Know I do. We’ll stop at high tank and you can drink to your hearts content.”
I held her reins low as she took a good long draw out of the ground tank, then lead her to the shade. As I was getting my water bottle out of the saddle bag I thought I saw a cow through the brush right behind us. Happy to be out of the saddle and walk a bit I headed to get a closer look. My eyes were kind of sun burnt, but as I squinted to focus… Damn! What tribe of Indians did these cowboys kill off for this range?
Hi Trula, love this. You really nailed the feel of the range and cowboy voice.
Thanks for your entry, Trula.
“Don’t tell her about it, or she won’t let you come anymore.”
“I bet it’s my Mother’s! The soldiers told me that she was half mermaid.”
“I wouldn’t believe anything those soldiers say!”
“Margaret, it’s time to come in now.”
Miss Kerrigan stood in the door stiffly, examining Lucan.
“You can go home, boy.” She nodded towards the woods, purpling with sunset.
Lucan snuck a look at his friend. “Tomorrow,” he whispered.
“Mermaids are magical,” Margaret whispered back. “That means I am too.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not like that.”
Lucan ducked into the shadows. Margaret closed her eyes and breathed summer honeysuckle.
“Now.” Miss Kerrigan did not abide loitering, or foolishness. Life had stripped her of curlicues and replaced them with bricks and mortar.
“Miss Kerrigan,” the girl began, tiptoeing on forbidden ground. “We found something in the woods.”
“Oh?” The washer woman prickled.
“Yes, a statue. I- I think it was my mother’s.”
Miss Kerrigan froze.
“Why do you think that?”
Margaret gulped. Crickets chirped in cascading waves.
“Because it was magic.”
“What?”
“The statue. He was a magical creature, just like my mother. The soldiers told me she was a mermaid, and she went back into the sea. I know what really happened.”
“Oh honey-“
“Only the soldiers will tell me what happened. They know.”
“Yes, they know.”
Miss Kerrigan opened her arms to the girl.
“Come here, Margaret.”
She held onto the lonely child, noticing for the first time that the encircling fireflies were beautiful.
Thanks for your entry, Kathy.
STONE.
Doyle stretched, turning to look at Gideon crouched in the garden. “Oi,” Gideon called out. “What you staring at?”
“Nothing,” Doyle said with his hands up in a quiet surrender.
“Just wondering what you’re doing.”
“Thinking,” Gideon replied with a deep exhale.
Doyle came closer. “Thinking?”
“Thinking,” Gideon repeated in a low voice to his naïve companion.
The leaves blew by like a school of fish, whatever those were. “Do you want to go to the mall?” Doyle asked, head in hand.
Gideon turned to look at Doyle scribbling in the dirt and sighed. “The mall?”
“Yeah I…” Doyle paused to exhale, regretting sounding foolish. “I heard some girls talking about it.” From last night. There were two girls, two boys. They were laughing and drinking from metal cups they squished with their feet when they were done. They were pushing each other and telling stories. They put their lips on each other. And then the boys. They had come from a place called the mall.
“I was thinking…” Gideon began, “about the woman who wanders,” he mused, disregarding Doyle completely.
Doyle whined, “I don’t care about her. I don’t care about any of the wanderers, or the diggers, or the stones. I don’t care about the church bells or the dawn. Or thinking. I just want to go to the mall.”
Gideon moved to sit cross-legged on the ground, and stretched his talons before his face, to see the night sky between them. “We’re made of stone you dipshit.”
Nice twist! Really good fun, Taylor.
Thanks for your entry Taylor.
‘It’s not a pleasant story.’
‘Tell me anyway?’
We were the only visitors in the gardens of one Elizabeth Spry, recently opened to the public.
‘She was a sculptor, mainly in clay which was slapped and manhandled until having conquered any malevolent spirit within, until it was malleable and compliant. Then she tweaked, stroked, and caressed her work until beauty stared back.’
‘And?’
‘Impatient, aren’t you?’
I fidgeted.
‘But then she turned to stone and sculpted the most beautiful angel which many came to see. Some said it had magical powers to heal.’
I shook my head at such nonsense.
‘You think you know reality?’ Tom scoffed.
‘Of course.’
‘Then explain this.’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘According to the servant, who witnessed it, Elizabeth was standing by the angel statue one moonlit night when a terrific wind whipped up and a searing flash of light hit that spot.’ Tom was pointing at the ugliest gargoyle figure set in the long grass.
I pulled a face.
‘And the angel and sculptor disappeared before his eyes and that thing sat there instead.’
‘How could that be?’
‘You tell me, miss know-it-all.’
I frowned, moving closer to peer at the statue.
‘Someone must have replaced it.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘What else?’ I demanded.
Tom shook his head, looking sad.
‘Elizabeth was never seen again. They say that on moonlit nights a woman’s voice can be heard from within that stone… screaming to be let out.’
I shivered and ran, hearing feet thundering after me.
Thanks for your entry, Julia.
Monsters are scarier in the daylight. It’s why I ask Luke to follow me behind school through the overgrown paths after lunch.
“Radcliffe’ll kill us if we miss fifth period.” He glances over his shoulder. “I don’t need trouble senior year, man.”
“Other things will kill us first.” I scatter a colony of ants with my boot. “Trust me.”
I simultaneously navigate and predict his reaction when we get to the spot. Will he wither like diseased leaves? Or will the dirt claim him, leaving a perfect imprint for next decade’s geology class to unearth?
I decide he’ll petrify like a tree in his former footprints.
“Over there.” I wrap my fingers around his shoulder.
He stares at the gaping-mouthed gargoyle lost beneath foliage. A remnant of the old school.
“What the hell?” he asks, his jaw slack as a steady shiver builds from his shadow. I study the monster.
“Found it a few months ago.”
Luke turns too slowly. I bring my fist level to his nose.
“You must have missed it, being busy and all,” I remind him.
He wipes at the blood but it won’t stop. The memories manifest, and a red slick coats his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he bumbles, reaching up.
I snap his picture and return through the cafeteria exit. I text the picture to ALL. Except my sister.
Rapist returns to his roots.
Luke won’t die out in the woods, but he will when he returns to school and the daylight hits him.
This story is brilliant! I love how it ends.
Thanks for your entry, Sarah.
“Sold!’ said the auctioneer. “That was a bargain.”
The seller of the frowning gargoyle locked eyes with the highest bidder. “Perhaps more than she bargained for,” he said, stroking his beard.
Ellen’s heart pounded all the way home. The moment she set eyes on the stone sculpture, she had to have it. What would Jack say? She pulled into the garage and struggled to lift it out of the SUV. It kept slipping from her grip.
“What is that ugly thing?” asked Jack.
“It’s an artifact from the Orpheum Theater torn down for our strip mall.”
After wrestling it into a wheelbarrow, Jack rolled the gargoyle to a corner of the garden.
Later that night, Ellen dreamed she climbed onto the roof. She pulled her knees up to her chest and gazed out at the stars. Her nightgown rippled in the breeze.
The gargoyle flew up and sat beside her. “Come. We’ll explore the heavens,” he said.
Ellen’s back prickled as she sprouted wings. Contracting her shoulders, she lifted off the roof. She could fly!
Jack woke the next day alone in his bed. “Ellen?” He searched the house and then raced outside. He found her face down in the garden. “No!” He looked up. The gargoyle’s frown contorted into a sneer. Jack screamed.
The gavel slammed down. “Sold!” The auctioneer turned to the seller. “That’s not the same statue you sold last month. It’s different.”
The owner of the scraped Orpheum nodded. The smiling gargoyle winked.
Thanks for your entry, Susie.
GIDEON SPEAKS
I watch.
Silent.
Waiting.
Do you see me? See stone? See evil? See me crouching, ready to spring?
Lethal.
Silent as the panther.
Or do you see
Stone.
Hard. Cold.
Pounded, chiseled, hammered, scraped.
Molded.
Inanimate.
Set out to watch and warn in all weather: “Do no evil, lest evil find you…sleeping.
Inanimate
Pounded, chiseled, hammered, scraped.
Hard.
Cold.
Molded, by life.”
Now you watch.
You watch me. Wondering, wide-eyed.
You are not the first.
What will you give to hear my story? What treasure lies hidden beneath my toes?
Gold? Enchantments? Dry bones?
Do not blink.
If you do I will disappear.
Do not breathe, or you will never know.
Come, bend close. Touch my horn. Whisper in my ear.
What will you give to know my secret?
Hush. Do not blink.
Hush. Do not move.
Hush. Do not breathe.
I feel you.
Feel me.
Feel the cool
Feel my cold, hard horn.
Your are warm. Inhale now. Deeply. Deeply.
Again.
Feel the cold.
Take me in.
No more breath.
No beat, beat, beat of the pulse dancing in your palm.
You will watch. You will wait.
I will go.
You will crouch here.
Silent.
I am warm.
I really liked this. It had great descriptions and a good finish. I’d say you have a good shot at winning.
Thanks for your entry, Victoria.
After the cyclone fence was installed, the surveillance system operative, and the silent alarms programmed, Miriam Barnes settled into her easy chair with the newspaper. The headline sent her into a panic.
Days later at an antique shop she got an idea. She hurried home, found a spot for it in the front garden, and yes, didn’t the sweet gargoyle look perfect and hideous, sneering from between the Chinese evergreen leaves with such malevolence, goosebumps prickled her skin.
That night, the feeling she was being watched started just after dinner and persisted as she got into bed. Then it occurred to her. She put on her slippers, got a flashlight, and went outside. It was a quiet night, nearly starless. She pointed the light at the gargoyle. Everything was as it should be.
The next morning, the newspaper reported several recent crimes. Two got her attention–a domestic abuse case, and something about a reported peeping Tom.
She needed to visit the victim.
“How you feeling?” Miriam said, sitting in the woman’s kitchen.
“Ashamed. Angry. Black and blue.”
Miriam told her about the peeping Tom and her feeling someone was watching her, but she didn’t mention the gargoyle’s role or that it now sat in the woman’s front yard.
On the way home, listening to the news, Miriam knew she could count on the gargoyle’s vigilance. And the thought of regular visits with her new friend more than made up for not seeing that sly sneering face greeting her.
Thanks for your entry, Vincent.
Hans screamed.
At least Ella thought it was a scream. The noise was part guttural, part little schoolgirl. Hans fell back into her, his sweaty t-shirt leaving a sloppy splat on her cheek.
The heat baked drops of moisture out of the trees, suspending it above thick, green leaves like poison. Hans’s damp shoulders blocked her view of the path ahead, and Ella tried shoving him aside to see what had startled him. His bulk was solid as stone, and Ella grunted in frustration.
“Hans! Hans?” Ella poked for his attention, but her voice dropped away as her big brother silently stood his ground. “Hans…”
After a moment too long, Hans shifted and Ella was able to peer around his arm. The light that was so cheery behind them was nothing more than a suggestive glow ahead. The shadows seemed more substantial than they had a right to be.
A stony gargoyle, chipped with age, but oddly clean of the moss that crept over the trail, crouched in the middle of the path. Its face was old and ominous, sinister and intense.
“Ella, back away,” Hans whispered.
“But it’s just a – “
“I said, back away,” Hans whispered again.
Ella’s argument was swallowed up in the heavy air as she saw what she thought was stone begin to move; a crouch that she thought was statue begin to stand; hands that she thought were lifeless begin to reach. She stumbled backward.
Hans screamed.
Thanks for your entry, Kris.
Adam’s Curse
“Look, this is a library. I’m trying to study. Are you deaf? You’re carved, not real.
“You will not sell your soul?”
“I’d rather keep it.”
“I protest. I offer eternal achievement yet you scorn me.”
“No deal interests me. You’re an ugly stone symbol, a liar. I’m not gullible.”
“The fool is me. You throw forever away if you decline.”
“I’m preparing a thesis on demonic possession. Why tempt me?”
“You’ve already succumbed. Look at your desk.”
The priest spoke, “I see a Book of God’s word.”
“I see two, the aforementioned one, another belonging to me.”
“Satan, or whoever, this is nonsensical.”
“Let me enlighten you. Do you recall my most prominent achievement, the Temptation in the Garden? The inhabitants ate the forbidden fruit of the Tree. It became a symbol of sin.” Look again at your property.”
“I see only instruments of knowledge.”
“Is there not a small book, like an ancient tablet? A hand-held machine? A book, one of good and evil, but more iniquity than good? Show me the graven symbol.”
Oblivious, the cleric surrendered to the shining apple.
“This is the most powerful book in the world. I’ve discarded my library of alchemy, possession and reincarnation. I need only a digital unit to do my bidding. In this new world, I am ruler. My converts are myriad as the stars in the sky. You are now mine.”
Demonized, the priest departed, carrying only his personal assistant and the beaming stone idol.
Thanks for your entry, Ralph.
Gideon was old. He’d been sitting here a long time. So long he had turned to stone. He was waiting for Felicity. She was a human and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“I’ll be back.” She’d promised him and offered him a lick of her strawberry popsicle. He could still taste it on his chipped lips. He’d watched as her mother led her away, little legs in powder blue leggings, partially covered in a striped pink tunic that swung with each step. Her short, auburn pony tails bounced to the rhythm of her stride. Her minuscule hand clung to her mother’s index finger as she glanced over her shoulder at him. Her smile lingered in his memory and like sunshine, brightened his long and lonely days.
While he waited he counted the ants that were marching by, attracted by a rotten fig that had fallen from the tree. Then he watched as the leaves changed color and counted them as they fell, only to be blown away with the autumn wind. When the rain and snows came, they washed away the last remnants of her popsicle. He could no longer taste the sweetness and he felt lost.
He was counting the buds that were forming on the fig tree when he heard her at last. She’d come back!
“See, Mummy, I told you he would still be here!”
“Yes, Darling, you did.”
“Would you like some ice cream, Gideon? It’s vanilla.”
Inside Gideon’s heart burst with joy.
Thanks for your entry, Ann.
Be There Flowers Amongst The Thorns
The name tag read ‘Bob’. They were all ‘Bob’. The same lewd comments and innuendos. I was divorced not desperate. All I wanted was the job done.
Bob kicked the statue of the gargoyle with his boot. “Heavy as sin,” he grumbled.
I’d ignored his previous suggestion about payment other than cash. “Can you remove it or not?”
“I’ll have to use the shackle and chain.” He leered at me. “You like chains don’t you?”
Only to wrap around your throat. I didn’t know who I wanted gone more? Bob and his disgusting advances or Gideon the Gargoyle, the object of my childhood nightmares even though my mother swore it protected us from evil. Even after fifty years, the tips of its wings still looked like polished bone protruding through the stone.
I gritted my teeth. The funeral was over. Mum was in her final resting place. I couldn’t bear to feel those stone eyes on me a second longer.
Bob hauled down a chain and wrapped it around Gideon’s neck. A winch creaked, then the chain tightened and tore Gideon from the garden bed. Bob stood underneath the crane and guided the statue to the back of the truck.
There was grind of metal. Bob cursed. The chain groaned under the weight then snapped and speared Gideon to the ground.
Shock froze my scream. Bob lay flattened on the ground, head squashed like a rotten marrow. Gideon rolled back to his place in the garden.
Stone eyes met mine.
My favorite so far..
Thanks for your entry, Pauline.
Be Reasonable
I race down the path, blindly pushing away branches blocking my way. Well, you can’t really run in the jungle; nothing stays put, everything gets in your way.
Just like the rest of my life, I think bitterly.
This vacation was supposed to put our family back together, be a new start.
“Sarah, be reasonable. Forgive and forget. Be reasonable, for the children.”
But I no longer feel reasonable—and suddenly I flee, wild to get away.
“Don’t go into the jungle alone”, they warned. Well, I am alone, and that’s the way I want it right now.
As the adrenaline wanes, my steps falter. I’m not sure I know the way back.
That’s when I hear the whispering.
“Feed me…”
Great, now I’m hearing voices.
I look around uneasily, nothing but green foliage. And then I see it; a stone statue perched upon a crumbling wall … the remains of an ancient temple perhaps?
That whispering again. I stare at the statue, mesmerized.
Come on, Sarah, I tell myself. You’re a modern woman, you’re not afraid of a statue.
But I am.
The jungle goes very quiet, not a single bird or insect making a sound. Weird. The silence is deafening, as they say.
I turn back, picking my way carefully down the path, breathing hard.
It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…
But it’s not okay.
Looming in the path ahead of me is the statue. This time its mouth is open, sharp teeth dripping with something red.
Thanks for your entry Veronica.
Shadow
Once they called me devil, demon, bad omen. Now they say I’m a figment of their imagination—just ignore me and I’ll go away.
But I am both more and less than that, and I am not going away.
In your dreams you feel my shadow lightly brushing your skin, like gentle raindrops falling in the jungle.
In your waking life, you push me away and pretend I don’t exist.
But I am part of you. I run through your veins like blood.
I live within your heart, along with all the pretty little things you so admire. I am beautiful too, the beauty of earth, and bone, and sinew. I fill your body with life force.
Embrace me and you embrace life itself, with its endless cycle of devouring and rebirth.
I am part of that cycle. Feed me your love and hate, your joy and sorrow, your fear and courage.
Then I no longer sit outside you, watching and waiting for my chance to devour.
Then I am a mighty force rising within, and bring you Power.
Fully alive at last!
Thanks for your entry, Veronia.
Lovely story from last month which inspired me to write my own for this month.
Great picture!
Here’s mine:
“Excuse me, Madame, you have no right to kiss me; I am not a frog. I won’t turn into a prince. I am a respectable daimon, thank you. Those are NOT devil horns; they are what you would call moisture sensors, quite necessary for a garden.
“Yes, my wings do work, or did. I could have flown away long ago, except this garden is full of such sweet smelling things and aromatic humus. They charm me into drowsiness. So, I crouched here sleeping while some children broke off my wing pins. Now, I fly rather haltingly. That was your great-grandfather? He should have been scolded roundly.
“I am not a garden GNOME or a useless hunky punk! I am a kapos eudaimon. That’s right, I’m the good spirit of this garden which charms you when you come.
“It has bloomed rather magnificently, hasn’t it? Think about those cabbage-sized roses you had when you tended them. Those were your mother’s roses and you were the one married our here? Well, I do lose track of time. I have deep things to do here, coaxing up the earthworms and singing to the little fungi.
“What ‘weeds’? Those are growing things. It’s up to you what you plant here. I just woo it into vitality.
“Ah, can’t you smell that when you turn the earth? That’s my labor’s doing. Oh, how lovely; you’re sewing baby’s breath for your grandson. Shall I add some violets? Time to work. (Yawn) Don’t wake me, please.”
Thanks for your entry, Lynn.
Entente
Sticky scents of wild ginger and freesia twined through the open screen windows, while I surveyed the boxes left to unpack, then noticed David striding over the yard. Shoulders back, whistling brightly, and swinging a sledge. He disappeared in the brush like a Sumerian warrior, anticipating mythic destruction.
I found him deep in the woods, swatting mosquitoes before he took aim with the hammer, his skin as damp with sweat as my own. He grinned when he saw me.
“What are you doing?”
He lifted his chin toward an Oregon ash, overgrown with manzanita and woodruff, a ring of dark pine farther in like a secret.
“You see it?” he asked.
Atop a small pedestal, worn and tarnished with age, perched a stone gargoyle the size of a tabby. Stubby black horns crowned a jinn’s smile, the unscaled demon wings as smooth as a dream.
I glanced at David again, this time in reproach. “Why would you—”
But he left without a word, his mouth tight with fury.
That night in bed, David faced the wall. He threw off my hand when I touched him.
I said, “You don’t have to smash everything.”
I said, “You could have divorced me.” His adultering wife.
We sweated in silence, each pretending to sleep.
In the morning, David kissed my cheek and went for a run. I dressed, made the bed. Skipped downstairs to make coffee.
The gargoyle’s head lay on the burnished counter in pieces. Shattered, still smiling. Like us.
Love this take on the prompt.
Thanks for your entry, Melissa.
Gargoyle
“Are we closer?” Samantha swatted large mosquitos away from her skin.
“No, senorita. The Yucatan jungle has reclaimed the trail. Our guide Echo, will deliver us to the place you seek.” Ricardo replied wiping his brow.
The hacking of Echo’s machete encouraged Samantha to keep pace as they climbed the mountain. Echo stopped suddenly, backing away from the object previously hidden by the ferns.
Senorita, quick, come look!” Richardo shouted.
Handing her burro’s lead to Echo, Samantha stepped forward to the spot Ricardo pointed to. Surrounded by ferns, the stone gargoyle grinned back at her.
“Is this what you seek?” Richardo inquired.
“Yes! It’s the Guardian to Sanctuary. My father told me about it on his deathbed. I promised to find it.” She replied, her mind adrift in the last memory of her father.
“But senorita, the trail ends here. Where’s the entrance to Sanctuary?” Ricardo cast his eyes around looking for an entrance.
“Only a pure heart, without malice, may pass the Guardian to enter Sanctuary,” she whispered reverently.
Ricardo motioned Echo foreward. Without hesitation, Echo placed his hand on the Guardian’s head as he passed. The Guardian’s eyes glowed yellow. Echo disappeared.
Samantha stepped forward caressing the Guardian’s head. Its eyes glowed blue as Samantha disappeared.
Inhaling deeply, Ricardo put his hand on the Guardian’s head. The statute’s eyes glowed red, lightning erupted from its horns. “NO!.” A bodyless voice shouted. The energy of the response threw Ricardo back impaling him on a broken branch.
Thanks for your entry, Mary.
Judge me
Air rushes out of my mouth, and my pace picks up. The bench is free.
My momentum breaks when a boy and a girl emerge from behind the trimmed hedge. The girl’s hair is tousled, her lipstick’s red out of line. The boy points to my bench.
Oh, no, you don’t. You’ve had your fun.
Clutching my shoulder bag’s strap, I trot to the bench and sit right at its centre. The boy eyes me, hooks a lanky arm over the girl’s shoulders and ushers her away.
I lean forward, craning my neck this way and that. No one in sight. I sit back, place my hands on my lap and look up.
The same snarky grin greets me. The frozen sneer that unfailingly pierces my grieving façade and strips me down to my truth.
Oh, I put up a good front. It feeds my “support mechanism”. I’m consoled. I’m facilitated. I’m sadistically scrutinized for pain. And I deliver. I cry. I wail. I’m swathed in black.
But his knowing smirk is what grounds me. Only he knows, and for half an hour, each day, he lets me revel in my truth.
No more bleeps and swooshes twenty-four-seven. No more gut-twisting fear. No more shriveling pain.
She’s gone. My child is gone.
And I’m relieved.
Thanks for your entry, MM.
Second entry
Ed Graybill knelt in the garden beside the gargoyle nestled between the sumac.
“Speak,” it said, its voice as dark as the dungeons.
“Another company.”
The hissing meant the gargoyle was laughing.
“Please, just one more.”
“For payment . . . your wife’s kidneys.”
A pebble in the grass dug into Ed’s kneecap. One more payoff and they’d be living easy–if the vile creature could be trusted. Ed’s mouth tightened.
“Deal.”
The details were worked out–he hoped.
Back inside, Ed surprised Daphne with breakfast.
“Still no appetite?” she asked, looking guiltily at the pancakes.
“I’ll feel better when all this is over.” Ed tried not to look away.
“They have no case. You’re innocent.”
Tell her. Before it’s too late.
“These are delicious, babe,” Daphne said, her soulful eyes spikes into his heart. “Gotta, run, babe.”
Ed’s attorney called an hour later.
“DA’s uncovered correspondence between you and the contractor. It’s bad, pal.”
Ed showered, poured a drink. He went into the garden.
“What will it take to clear up everything?” The terrible hissing started. Ed grabbed the gargoyle. It was like grabbing a pot of boiling water. He dropped the statue, his palms scalded. “All right. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“Payment is . . . her life.”
“No.”
“Very well. Your miserable life.”
“How about a stranger?”
“Someone young, pregnant.”
Daphne found Ed’s letter on the grassy depression beside the poisonous sumac. She read it and cried, and slowly rubbed her swollen belly.
Thanks for your entry, Vincent.
The Call of Gideon
“Emma! Wake up!”
“What? What happened?” My twin sister, Lisa, was kicking me from the top bunk.
“You were talking in your sleep again saying, “Lee…ssa”—in that creepy voice.
You’ve been doing it all week. I’m exhausted.”
“Then stop sneaking out with Ryan every night.”
“I wouldn’t have to if we were allowed to date. Hey, let’s go on the veranda and
watch the sunrise.”
We ate granola on lounge chairs wrapped in blankets.
Lisa stopped crunching. “What’s that?”
I followed the direction of her spoon. “I dunno. A big rock?”
We walked over to the edge of our yard. “Oh my god.”
“What? He’s cute.” Lisa patted the stone gargoyle’s head.
“Don’t do that. That’s Gideon, the demon in my dream.”
“Come on.”
“He said he’d help us with mom and dad. That they’re too strict with us.”
“That’s for sure. But how do we know that Gideon’s for real?”
“Let’s test him. Lay your blanket down around him in a circle. Good. Now let’s ask him to prove himself.”
“How?”
“This is just like it is in my dream. I say, Gideon, at dawn let the blanket around you be wet but you dry.”
The next morning, the blanket was wet and Gideon was dry.
Lisa wasn’t convinced. “Let me ask him. Gideon, at dawn let the blanket around you be dry but you wet.”
When Lisa and I got up the next morning, the blanket was dry and Gideon was wet.
And our parents were gone.
The 3rd line above (it got separated-forgive me) should read:
“You were talking in your sleep again saying, “Lee…ssa”—in that creepy voice. You’ve been doing it all week. I’m exhausted.”
Love the “fleecing” twist here from the biblical Gideon. Very creative!
Thanks for your entry, Avye.
“Troops, you know what this is about.”
Their stone heads nodded and their red eyes flared.
“Revenge.” I unfurled my terrible wings. “We used to be respected. We used to be feared.”
My hoary comrades, half-covered in the indignity of moss, rumbled.
“We used to have a purpose. Now we’re just ornaments. They think we’re cute. And it’s all her fault.” We glared up at the big house. “Tonight, no more hiding in the hostas. You know your assignments.”
And so it began.
Seven nights of lining the windowsills of whatever room she was in. Seven nights of marking her as the target with the beam of our red eyes. Seven nights of infiltrating her dreams with images more terrifying than those she’d imagined.
On the morning of the eighth day, she came to us. “I’m going mad.”
I rotated my shoulders just enough that she could hear stone grinding on stone.
She crouched in front of me. “I don’t know how you know what I’ve written or who I am, but I apologize. How can I make it up to you?”
I told her our demands. She stood and tapped on her phone and then showed me the results.
@jk_rowling Garden gnomes are not cute objects of fun to be tossed over your garden gate at Harry Potter birthday parties.
@jk_rowling Garden gnomes are gargoyles, which are seriously fearsome magical creatures that we should all respect, if not fear.
@jk_rowling Please stop sending me garden gnomes.
Mission accomplished.
Thanks for your entry, Natalie.
Somehow the 3rd line of my story above “The Call of Gideon” got separated.
The 3rd line above should read like this:
“You were talking in your sleep again saying, “Lee…ssa”—in that creepy voice. You’ve been doing it all week. I’m exhausted.”
Still carrying his bag, Alan walked the park, his favorite activity after arriving in a new city. Ahead of him, he saw what appeared to be Jar-Jar Binks. Moving closer, what were eyes and cowl became joints and wings. He cleared the foliage and there was what the sculptor intended, a smirking wraith in stone, with little Hell Boy nubs. Something you shouldn’t take your eye off if it were alive.
“I see you’ve met Gideon.”
Behind him stood a bearded young man.
“I’m Foster,” he said. Alan gave him a brief handshake, noticing his rough palm. “I do wish we kept some romance in our world. Guys like him used to be envisioned literally all around us, then figuratively as reminders of sin. Now we know everything, and all we do is argue about it.”
“We still make movies with these guys. He made me think of Jar-Jar and Hell Boy.”
“Rubbish,” he said. “Echoes of past delights.”
“You’re certainly not the hipster I’d taken you for.”
“I’m no poser. And my borough is Queens, not Brooklyn” he said gesturing north. I’m a stonemason. Restoring these figures here, they have heft and gravitas.
Foster added, “Welcome to our city, and I hope you’re a convert. Here is my card, come to my stone yard someday.”
“Will do. What makes you do it?” I called after him.
“I’m on a mission from God.”
Thanks for your entry, Doug.
Thanks again for the prompt, Jo. Here’s my take: Wedding Gifts
Devin poured two shots of his uncle’s prized whiskey.
“Weren’t we saving that?”
“He changes things.” Devin handed me a drink before facing the gargoyle we’d been gifted by his grandmother.
“He’s not that creepy.” I sipped the shot. “We can put him in the garden.”
“There’s something—”
Three pounds on the front door cut him off and startled me enough whiskey sloshed from my glass.
“Damn.” I rose, ready to reprimand the rude arrival, but Devin grabbed my arm.
“Forget the mess, Grace.”
Devin’s grip kept me away from the door when it shook, then shuddered as whoever, or whatever, struggled to get inside.
“What the hell?”
“I’ll explain, but later. For now, you need to touch the gargoyle.” Devin placed his hand on the statue’s hunched wing, the silver band I’d slipped on his finger shiny against the stone.
More pounds dented the door.
“Devin?” Wide-eyed, I sought an answer in the hazel-eyed gaze of the man I’d just married.
As if in reply, the door splintered and a hot gust snuffed the candles. Out of the darkness came heavy, panting breaths and the snort of something huge.
I wanted to scream, to run, but hearing Devin’s voice, I found myself reaching for the gargoyle instead.
Pitted stone met my fingers then a hand I knew in my sleep.
“We’ll be alright, Grace.”
With Devin’s skin frosty against mine, I couldn’t help but hope this stooped statue would keep us safe from the shadows prowling our way.
Thanks for your entry, Kate.
The Appointment
Wandering through the side garden, where she was already invading the private space of the formidable woman she had come to see, Chantelle came upon the gargoyle unexpectedly. Though the sun currently enveloped it and it was smiling, she was reminded of the Phyllis Whitney novel, Hunter’s Green, in which the main character, Eve, comes upon the life-size chessboard at Athmore, from which point on evil intrudes into the story.
But, no, she was here to meet Mrs. Anne Gellert—albeit a day late. And it was a sunny day. She kept moving along, with the crouching gargoyle seemingly enjoying the scene.
Reaching the nearest back door of the main house and hoping it was to a kitchen or at least occupied quarters, Chantelle knocked. When her knock again went unanswered, she looked inside more directly. The center of the door, though glass, was remarkably hazy. In fact, the view through the door made what was inside the room rather undistinguishable.
“May I help you?” came a small voice from behind her. Turning to meet her greeter, Chantelle was certain a shadow had then passed near the door. From below, two dark eyes, markedly in contrast with the bright yellow gingham sundress that fell below them, were focused on her.
In seconds, the door behind Chantelle opened, and she was struck on the head. The last words she heard came from the girl, “But if she had come yesterday, this wouldn’t have been necessary. It’s otherwise such a nice day.”
Thanks for your entry, Susan.
A disgrace to our kind, he smirked beneath the hats of garden gnomes. Gargoyles belonged perched upon ledges, casting menace to the lesser below. Elevation was a virtue, but he smiled as if proud of his flat surroundings. Did he enjoy living in the shadow of a birdbath? Why was he happy? What was so funny?
For centuries, I had watched this grinning lump of stone from my Gothic spire hundreds of feet above. The streets and garden were under my view, but his smile eluded me. What a sight he must see to ignore his ground shame, and how selfish he was to keep it from those higher. If only I could bend my neck.
Every day, I stretched for a glimpse of what he saw. Moving stone took decades, but each year, I felt progress erode beneath my talons. Soon, I would understand his smile.
As sunrise melted the tail of winter, my foundation cracked, and I tipped forward. New wonders filled my periphery: a tree, a fountain. Nothing funny, but once I stopped moving, I would survey the area … once I stopped moving.
My body broke free, and I felt nothing underneath me. The spire and roof tumbled away as my stone wings flew me faster to earth. I fractured against the damp grass. Pieces of legs and arms scattered. My head settled sideways against a garden gnome, and I saw a familiar face in the shadow of a birdbath.
The gargoyle was smiling at me.
Very cool take on the prompt! Love the ending, too! :D
Thanks for your entry, M.A.