No Regrets #FridayFlash

Snow blew in flurries, the cloak whipped back from her shoulders. With a gasp, she clutched it back close around her body. This was no day for a woman to be out, much less a country to be at war.

The weather made her job harder as blood stained snow crunched under her feet. The wind howled drowning out some of the faint cries of the men who needed her aid. A chill ran up her body as an icy hand clutched at her ankle under her skirt.

She looked down and swallowed softly, the young face half torn and bloodied by his enemy. His coat was blue a Union soldier. She was told to pass them by, they only had time for their own today.

Sarah pulled her foot from his loose grasp and started to move on.

The Yankee attempted to rise as he reached that trembling hand out. “Please…”

The plea tore at her soul as her mind replayed the doctor. His arthritic finger shaking in her face at dawn this morning with warning their supplies were dwindling. “To hell with that ole sawbones.”

Sarah turned back and knelt beside the young blue coat. “Easy, now. I’ll do what I can.”

He lay back in the snow, soft white mixed with blood, soot, and gunpowder. Carefully she tried to find his wound. By the way his face squinched and scrunched as he moved there was something far worse than the cuts and scrapes on the side of his face.

The poor boy was already blue enough to match his coat in the winter air. She tried not to open his coat too wide and lose what little warmth he had. His body shivered hard as she found the cause of his great discomfort.

She drew her fingers back from the wound and saw the blackened blood. Her heart sank lower. This ‘man’ couldn’t be more than sixteen, too young for wars against brothers. Far too young to die.

Sarah ad seen the cantankerous physician diagnose many soldiers with a wound like this one. The blood stained black meant the Federal’s internals had been damaged. All they could do was make comforts, take his last words.

Heaviness filled her for not the first time today. Sarah buttoned his coat back and gave the young man a gentle smile.

His eyes held the knowledge of his future. His hand trembled, flakes of ice fell from the digits as they wrapped around hers. “Write my mother, tell her I was brave.”

Sarah nodded once as the snow began to fall again. “What is your name, where does she live?”

He blinked snowflakes from his eyes as he took a ragged breath. “Thomas Lee Brunell. My parents live in Boston, George…..” He had to pause as his body heaved and coughed speckling his lips with dots of red.

Sarah smoothed back his hair and tried to calm him. “Shh, be still now. I’m sure your ma and pa are most proud of their brave son.”

Thomas gave her a smile, for a moment it softened those frightened hazel eyes. “I was, I fought well. I have one regret, I never kissed a girl.”

She smiled softly at the surprise in his pained expression. Many men have made confessions and requests as she tended them. None were so innocent as young Thomas. “Do you have a girl you’d like to kiss?”

Thomas gave her a slight nod, and tapped his watch. She opened and held it up for him to see the photo inside the lid. “She’s lovely, Thomas.”

“Her name is Sarah.” He paused to gather strength. “She’s waitin, for me.” It was plain in his expression he realized he wasn’t going to get that kiss with the pretty girl in the picture. His regret.

Her heart clenched for the young man. She brushed his cheek gently with her fingers. “My name is Sarah.” She pressed a soft kiss to his lips and felt him smile with the delight.

His grip tightened for a moment then the fingers uncurled from her hand. Sarah looked down at him, “Don’t leave me, Thomas.”

The hazel eyes were still, but there was a sweet grin on his face. Her breath caught as she placed his hands on across his chest. Sarah stood and gathered her meager bag of medical supplies. Sarah moved to the next call for help.

Now and then, she would glance over as the snow covered the young Federal, he had passed with no regrets. If she survived this war, Sarah swore to live without regret. The memory of a bittersweet kiss to remind her. 

Hungry: Friday Flash

A deep rumble woke Ben. He sat up and looked around the loft of the stable thinking he’d been caught by old man McKeen.

The rumble came again only louder. It wasn’t the old geezer tossing him out, it was Ben’s stomach. Four days, it was four days ago his mama had left him at the station.

She left him behind, telling him to sit and wait. She would be right back with the tickets. They’d go to Virginia to live with his aunt. Mama never came back from the ticket booth. Her carpetbag was gone. All Ben had was his small pack and the Bible she gave him.

Dawn was breaking. He needed to get out before the old man really did catch him. Quietly Ben made his way to the street and around the backs of the buildings. Maybe he could find a scrap of something. Anything he was so hungry.

His insides felt like they were shriveling up as he stopped at the rain barrel by the inn. Cupping his hands he took a few long drinks to try and fill the void.

As he splashed water on his face a scent drifted down the alleyway. Ben’s stomach clenched with hunger as the scent filled his nostrils with one of his favorite things in the world.

Fresh baked bread was somewhere close, very close. He sniffed at the air and turned down the alley. He followed the smell, stomach growling loud enough to make the stray dog napping in the shade raise his head.

Ben stopped at the window there they were. Three fresh baked loaves of bread. The steam was still rising off the tops. His tongue licked along his bottom lip as he took a step forward to get a deeper breath of it.

Something hit him on the back. Mr.Grove the owner of the inn shook the broom he’d just walloped Ben with. “Get, you urchin. Take your filthy self back to the gutters.”

Didn’t he recognize him? His mama had done some work at the in. “Mr. Grove, sir… “

Before Ben could finish the broom was raised again. He raised his little skinny arms and ran back down the alley.

The innkeeper satisfied the boy was gone went back to sweeping the stoop.

Ben sat behind a barrel and rubbed his lower back. He could still smell the bread. It made his mouth water. If he didn’t eat something soon he’d turn to dust and blow away.

He tried to drink some more water to fill his gut, but, that only made his stomach groan and ache worse. The bread smelled so good.

He could feel it in his hands warm with a crispy crust and soft fluffy inside. It would melt in his mouth as he took a bite.

The sound of the inn’s back door closing made him open his eyes. Mr. Grove had gone back inside. There wasn’t anyone in the alley.

He crawled on his hands and knees to sit under the window so he could smell the bread. His belly ached to the point of tears now. Ben was so hungry. He could take it. There were two more loaves. They surely wouldn’t miss one.

No, he couldn’t take it. He didn’t have no money and stealing was a sin. Ben’s mama always told him to be good. Be a good boy and grow into a good man. He couldn’t do that if he stole. That would make him bad.

Lifting his face up he could feel the warmth from the fresh loaves. If he didn’t eat soon he wouldn’t make it past the age of eight to become any kind of man.

Stomach tight with hunger Ben raised his arms up and grabbed the edge of the cheesecloth. Slowly he pulled it toward him.

Mrs. Grove called out to her husband startling Ben. He jerked his arms back and hugged his knees waiting for the innkeeper to come back with the broom. Nothing happened.  Mrs. Grove went back to humming.

Sitting there had become torture, he didn’t want to make his mama angry. What if she came back and found him with the stolen bread. She’d have his hide for sure.

Ben looked up at the loaf. It had been four days since he saw his mama last at the station. She wasn’t coming back, no one was going to help him. He had to help himself.

He stood stomach aching and growling as his breath panted with fear and excitement. Before he could change his mind again Ben reached out and grabbed a loaf of bread. He took off running as fast as he could behind the buildings.

Turning a corner he ran to the ladder of the livery loft and climbed up. Hiding behind a stack of hay bales he hugged the loaf to his chest. It was still warm and smelled so good. He was panting still from his run. Waiting for someone to catch him.

When there were no shouts he began to relax and looked down at the bread. Ben licked his lips as his
fingers dug into the crust and it apart. Steam flowed out as he pulled a hunk of the soft white fluff into his mouth.

Tears rolled down his face as he ate. His belly hurt from not having anything this solid in so long then it started to feel full. That feeling was the best thing he’d ever felt. He wasn’t a good boy anymore. Maybe he wouldn’t be a good man but he wouldn’t be hungry again.

No Regrets A Friday Flash Fiction

Snow blew in flurries, the cloak whipped back from her shoulders. With a gasp, she clutched it back close around her body. This was no day for a woman to be out, much less a country to be at war.

The weather made her job harder as blood stained snow crunched under her feet. The wind howled drowning out some of the faint cries of the men who needed her aid. A chill ran up her body as an icy hand clutched at her ankle under her skirt.

She looked down and swallowed softly, the young face half torn and bloodied by his enemy. His coat was blue a Union soldier. She was told to pass them by, they only had time for their own today.

Sarah pulled her foot from his loose grasp and started to move on.

The Yankee attempted to rise as he reached that trembling hand out. “Please…”

The plea tore at her soul as her mind replayed the doctor and his arthritic finger shaking in her face at dawn this morning with warning their supplies were dwindling.  “To hell with that ole sawbones.”

Sarah turned back and knelt beside the young blue coat. “Easy, now. I’ll do what I can.”

He lay back in the snow, soft white mixed with blood, soot, and gunpowder. Carefully she tried to find his wound. By the way his face squinched and scrunched as he moved there was something far worse than the cuts and scrapes on the side of his face.

The poor boy was already blue enough to match his coat in the winter air. She tried not to open his coat too wide and loose what little warmth he had. His body shivered hard as she found the cause of his great discomfort.

She drew her fingers back from the wound and saw the blackened blood. Her heart sank lower. This ‘man’ couldn’t be more than sixteen, too young for wars against brothers. Far too young to die.

Sarah ad seen the cantankerous physician diagnose many soldiers with a wound like this one. The blood stained black meant the Federal’s internals had been damaged. All they could do was make comforts, take his last words.

Heaviness filled her for not the first time today. Sarah buttoned his coat back and gave the young man a gentle smile.

His eyes held the knowledge of his future. His hand trembled, flakes of ice fell from the digits as they wrapped around hers. “Write my mother, tell her I was brave.”

Sarah nodded once as the snow began to fall again. “What is your name, where does she live?”

He blinked snowflakes from his eyes as he took a ragged breath. “Thomas Lee Brunell. My parents live in Boston, George…..” He had to pause as his body heaved and coughed speckling his lips with dots of red.

Sarah smoothed back his hair and tried to calm him. “Shh, be still now. I’m sure your ma and pa are most proud of their brave son.”

Thomas gave her a smile, for a moment it softened those frightened hazel eyes. “I was, I fought well. I have one regret, I never kissed a girl.”

She smiled softly at the surprise in his pained expression. Many men have made confessions and requests as she tended them. None were so innocent as young Thomas. “Do you have a girl you’d like to kiss?”

Thomas gave her a slight nod, and tapped his watch. She opened and held it up for him to see the photo inside the lid. “She’s lovely, Thomas.”

“Her name is Sarah.” He paused to gather strength. “She’s waitin, for me.” It was plain in his expression he realized he wasn’t going to get that kiss with the pretty girl in the picture. His regret.

Her heart clenched for the young man. She brushed his cheek gently with her fingers. “My name is Sarah.” She pressed a soft kiss to his lips and felt him smile with the delight.

His grip tightened for a moment then the fingers uncurled from her hand. Sarah looked down at him, “Don’t leave me, Thomas.”

The hazel eyes were still, but there was a sweet grin on his face. Her breath caught as she placed his hands on across his chest. Sarah stood and gathered her meager bag of medical supplies. Sarah moved to the next call for help.

Now and then, she would glance over as the snow covered the young Federal, he had passed with no regrets. If she survived this war, Sarah swore to live without regret. The memory of a bittersweet kiss to remind her.

Grave Dancer A Glaidator's Pen Friday Flash

It was dark in the chapel, a new moon shed no light in the old abandoned building He sat on a pew moved under a window watching, waiting. Tonight he was prepared with camera, recorder, extra batteries, and a thermos of hot coffee to combat the chill of the night.

His hands wrapped around the tin cup to absorb the heat as he took a long sip. It was almost time, almost. He was afraid they wouldn’t come, he wouldn’t see her again. That it had been all a figment of his drunken mind.

Every night since that first one, he had waited to see her again. John glanced back out the window; he saw a glow fill the ancient graveyard. 

The glow was a soft bluish green like the ocean. The air felt damp heavy as he tossed aside the half-full cup to get up on his knees for a better view out the broken window. His camera in hand as he searched the worn headstones.

The earth below a few of the stones shifted as a mist formed above them and began to take shape. Arms stretched toward the sky as feet touched the ground. The figures yawned and moved as if waking from slumber.

He watched from his perch in the window, held up his camera to get the proof he wasn’t mad. They were real. The women there were like wisps of wind, ethereal. He could see them clearly in their ivory burial gowns, their skin fair as fine porcelain. But there was a touch of dream about them as they moved. Shifts in the misty glow would show them transparent.

His interest focused on one, as she turned her skirt swirled the brittle leaves over her grave. She seemed to dance to some silent tune, perhaps only her kind could hear. Suddenly she stopped and walked back to her tombstone.

A cream colored rose lay on the aged marble. A soft smile of wonder touched pinked lips. She touched the petals gently as if the rose would fade away. When it didn’t she picked it up, brushed her cheek against the silken petals before she inhaled the sweet scent. 

A few of the other spirits began to gather to see the flower. Some searched their own stones. She smiled and held it out for them to sniff and touch lightly it had been so very long since anything but decay grew here.

The wind blew the leaves around them, though their delicate forms. One jealous spiteful spirit marched over. Around her the mist seemed darker, and aura of her cruel days in flesh?

Her hand closed over the petals and crushed the flower only the stem left in the sweet spirit's hands.

The others began to walk away to play on their night of freedom. The dark soul raised her chin and moved as far from them as her existence would allow. 

He watched, in that moment John wanted to run out and tell the good spirit not to be sad. The expression of loss on her sweet face was almost too much for his own heart to bear. How was he to know something so simple as a rose would cause so much a stir.

He saw her chest rise and fall in a ghostly sigh. She knelt on the dead grass she picked up every petal. Caressed it lightly in her hand. When they were all gathered she sat on a cracked marble bench and marveled.

She could still smell the sweet fragrance. The petals were still soft like her favorite velvet gown. She held them to her face and smiled. A petal escaped slipping through her fingers floating to her lap.

She stood and watched it float gently to the worn earth. Suddenly she raised her hands and spun around as she tossed the petals in the air. They fell around her catching on her hair and dress she danced in them.

When they had all fallen she gathered them to dance again in the glow of the mist. Her gown flowed around her, arms gracefully moved through the air, her dark hair fluttered freely around her shoulders lifting as she turned.

There was no sound but a soft rustle of leaves but he could imagine her joyous laughter. Something made her pause and look up. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and sighed. She gathered up her petals and carried them lovingly back to her grave.

The spirit held her hands over it, she slowly turned her palms and let them fall like rain over her stone. With a gentle smile she yawned and stretched as the mist appeared to grow thicker. Soon the others were in their places as well the mist began to fade until a glimpse of the sun could be spotted over the trees.

There were no more dances. The only evidence of the night being the cream colored rose petals strewn over the darkened marble stone.

  

A Gallant Night #FridayFlash

Lucinda stood in the gallery and sipped her wine as she gazed at the veduta. The landscape was done in earthy oils. The artist expressed great elocution in his work. As she moved on through the gallery, she found another painting. This one seemed so real, as if the man standing at the parapet could tumble out of the work.

Applause erupted as the artist raised his glass in a toast to Phillip Glazer. Pronounced fee-leep glass-a-er. The shmuck probably wasn’t even French. Lucinda had a premonition that all the artist’s efforts to impress the great critic were all a fallacy.

In her mind’s eye she could picture the review in which uppity Philip would eviscerate the young artisan. At the very least sever an artery.

With a sigh, she moved into the exhibits. Lucinda couldn’t help a quiet laugh as she passed a couple. The gentleman was trying to impress his lady friend, badly. He stood back from the painting with a distant expression. Then proclaimed that the artist was ocular. Oh yes, the young man had a vision alright. A vision of getting that girl between the sheets.

A huge landscape caught her eye. The view was from the bottom of a gorge. Near the end of the great trench was a cave, coming out of the gaping mouth was supposed to be a bear. After another sip from her flute, she decided the artist should stick to landscapes only. The bear looked more like a hamster.

Next was a classic view of the medieval hero Robin Hood. The outlaw stood in disguise lined up with the other archers. Arrow knocked ready to fly true and win the legendary contest. With a grin, she entertained the notion of being able to step into the painting and blow in his ear as he let fly. Let’s see him make that shot.

An odd coupling by the same artist the next painting held a limo in the Nevada desert. A man dressed forties gangster style stood against the side of the car. He might have been attractive but for the horrendous scar down the side of his face. Something caught her eye and she started to laugh at the artist’s morbid sense of humor. A man’s shoe lay just under the edge of the limo’s trunk. The scared man wasn’t really alone in the desert after all.

In the next exhibit she found the scene of an interior of a house. A woman stood in the background hands on her hips. A man cooked over an old wood burning stove, he was apparently her husband. The poor man was tall and thin obviously worked to death by the shrew.

The next piece was a collage of calendars. It was quite impressive how he managed to encapsulate so much history into the piece. There was a calendar from the year JFK was assassinated the date circled in red. Little pictures of historical events speckling many of the dates.

Lucinda actually liked the Florida landscape. The beach with its white sands seemingly stretched on forever. Palm trees bent to shade a group of sunbathers as the waves licked at their feet. A dog with a Frisbee in his mouth ran along the shore, which made her a smile.

Hanging next was a peep inside a brothel. Ladies enticed men with their unmentionables and pretty smiles, with hope to make a few dollars that night. Some were danced, others drank, a few couples locked in romantic endeavors but all laughing and gay. All but one. At the corner window seat a woman with long golden locks stared at the moon. Her sapphire eyes held a longing, perhaps of dreams lost. 

Lucinda sighed as someone behind her made loud comments. She had lost patience with the crowd growing in number and noise. The wine no longer able to quench her thirst she poured it into the potted tree. Lucinda glanced around as she slipped the flute with its gallery charm that dangled from the stem into her purse. On her way out, she over heard Fee-leep tell another patron the artist should have stuck to flipping burgers.

The valet brought her car and Lucinda tipped him before she drove away. On the way home, she listened to Mozart drift through the speakers. Once inside her apartment the illusion was shattered.

She toed off her shoes then walked to the wall by her dining table. Lucinda pulled the flute from her purse and set the glass on a shelf turning the charm to dangle from the front.

She stepped back and looked at her collection. There was a glass from almost every gallery in New York and LA. Since the move to California, Lucinda had found the Beverly Hills posh galleries a lot of fun. It was her little escape from her mundane life as a post office clerk.

Once a month she would dress to the nines walking among the beautiful people. Experiencing the world in their eyes for a couple of hours, tasting fine wines, foods she would never be able to afford. Walking to her bedroom Lucinda took off her dress she’d saved for six months to buy it. There were three fine gowns in her closet just for her little trips.

As she slipped on the less glamorous oversized sleep shirt, Lucinda thought about the gallery and all she had seen tonight. Her gallant night out, her name for these outings. As she rested her head on, her pillow Lucinda made note to check the listings for next month so she could plan her next gallant night.  

The Tentacle

Photo prompt courtesy photographer  Danielle Tunstall

His eyes snapped open, darted about the darkened bedroom. The room was too quiet, too still. His breath panted. They were almost here. No, not again.

A soft whirring sound made his muscles tense and jump. Then he felt the warmed air on his feet from the vent just below his bed. It was just the heat, he let out a breath.

There was a sound a claw scratching on the wall. The breath turned into a gasp as a dark blur shifted in the corner of his vision. His body stiffened and stilled, his heart raced until all he could hear was his pulse pound in his ears.

“Please.” His voice squeaked as his hands gripped the bed sheet.

The room fell into utter silence, until it began to quake. Mild tremors that caused nick nacks to clank on shelves, then stronger until the bed moved side to side. His hands tightened onto the mattress. “Please, please.”

The quake stopped as he begged into the still silence of the room. He began to pant, his fists balled around the sheet and pulled it up to his face. The clack of claw on the tiled floor became louder.

He tried to hold his breath, if he was still enough they may not see him. Sudden pain coursed though him as electricity lit every nerve ending on fire. The blaze faded enough for him to catch a breath.

It was difficult to take that desperate breath as though a weight sat upon his chest. He couldn’t sit up, couldn’t move any part of him.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see a blur, it reached out to press something by his head. He attempted to struggle against his paralysis as he felt his body being lifted then lowered. Cool thick liquid oozed over his skin until he was submerged.

He tried to hold his breath but it was too long and his lungs gulped in the gel. It burned as it filled his lungs. Then he felt them, their tentacles crept across his skin. Some of the creatures latched on. He screamed wordless as the tentacles bore into his flesh.

They crawled over his face reaching into his ears and mouth. He felt first one then another push its way down his throat. His screams were choked off by the creatures. Sensations of the arms inside him probing made him were sickening.

Worse as the paralysis wore off. He screamed and pleaded for mercy from the things. After minutes that seemed like hours of hell he felt the shock of pain down his spine once more.

The electricity jolted his body forcing the tentacles to flee their host.  He cried out in pure agony until….

He sat up, screamed wildly, his hands pulled at his face, hair and clothing. His breath came in hard gasps. He could see his reflection in his dresser mirror. The realization made him look around the room.

It was morning… He pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside as he searched his chest and arms for any evidence. Nothing. “It was a dream… just another nightmare.”

He didn’t know why they had begun, but hoped they would end soon as he swung his feet to the floor.

His foot stepped on something soft…wet…  His pulse in his throat, he looked down to what it was. A tentacle.