Category Archives: Short Stories and Other Fiction

Friday Fiction – The Man in the Cupboard Pt. 5

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It’s time to see what wee Mike has been up to in this week’s installment of “The Man in the Cupboard.” Enjoy!

To start at the beginning, click here!

To go to part 4, click here!

fiction friday bannerEven after eighty years, Mike still loved the old Colonial style house, drafts and all. It had personality. He remembered the day he came to the neighborhood, fresh out of tinkering school and eager to find his home. Of all the homes on the street, this one spoke to him, Its bright yellow paint beamed like sunshine among the solemn brown, brick, and gray of the other homes on the tree-lined avenue. A rose garden bloomed in the front yard under the sitting room windows, inviting sprites and pixies in the warm months, snow fairies in the cold. Even then the house required lots of work, remembering made him tired.

He sunk into his favorite armchair, the one he had crafted from matchboxes and Popsicle sticks, padded with folded pieces of discarded felt, and covered with a scarlet silken handkerchief. Alongside the chair, on top of a table made from a thread spool; he kept his favorite thimble mug, the one with the flying birds etched across its sides. His collection of postage stamps hung on display along one wall. On the opposite wall hung an antique pocket watch that sparkled with its gold case and mother of pearl face. Mike had gifted it to himself to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of working at the house.

As he reclined in the chair he listened to the quiet mumble of noise coming from the family below. The kids had all been snuggled into their beds. Kimberly had turned on one of her favorite dramas and had curled up on the couch alongside her hubby with a mug of hot chocolate. Most nights Mike usually would watch as well, he had a comfy spot on top of the glass paneled curio cabinet with an excellent view, but tonight he felt more like sitting and thinking.

Watching Kimberly and Thomas had kindled a spark within him, and itch that needed scratching. At one hundred and two, and still an eligible bachelor, perhaps it was time to seek out his own companion. After all this time being alone it would be a welcome change to have another tinker around. He craved someone to care for and to care for him as well. He smiled thinking of having someone to wake up next to in the morning. The house could use another tinker, caring for it by himself had become harder as it grew older and more things had started to break.

Resolved, he slapped the arm of the chair, releasing a cloud of dust into the air. He knew what he must do. It was time to seek out his mate, he could wait no longer. Leaving the house to find her pained him, he didn’t want to leave Kimberly without an explanation. At the same time, he worried that she wouldn’t give permission to bring another woman in the house. In the end he decided it would be better to leave without telling her and come back as soon as he could. Perhaps she wouldn’t notice.

As the sun rose that next morning Mike waved a farewell to the house and to Kimberly who would be waking any minute.  Dew clung like tiny diamonds to the blush colored roses lining the walkway.  With cane in hand and a small pack on his back, he walked toward his greatest adventure yet.

 

To continue the story, click here!

Fiction Friday: The Man in the Cupboard pt. 4

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Well ol’ Mike Finnegen is back at it again in this installment of the Man in the Cupboard series, hope you like it!

To start at the beginning of the series, click here.

To go to part three, click here.

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The plastic spoon bounced across the tile floor, scattering drops of milk and soggy cereal along the way.  Baby Thomas belly laughed as Kimberly, once again, retrieved the spoon and gave it back with a sigh.  She knew he was hungry, he had been climbing her legs and pushing her around the kitchen for the past twenty minutes, all while screaming and shrieking.  He sounded for all the world like a distressed guinea pig.

“Come on buddy, this isn’t a game.  Eat a few bites.” She waved a different spoon under his nose. “Please?”

With a squeal of laughter he lobbed his spoon across the kitchen once again.  Kimberly picked it up again and this time tossed it into the sink. “No more games buddy, it’s time to eat.”

Thomas let out a wail and stretched out his pudgy fingers towards the sink as far as his high chair would allow.  Clearly breakfast wasn’t going to happen, at least not right now.

Kimberly pulled the angry baby out of his chair and hauled him over to the sink to wipe him down. He grabbed at anything his stubby arms could reach, wildly flailing in all directions. After a few swipes of the washrag she set him down. He sped off as fast as his wobbly legs could carry him.

“He’s a fiesty one isn’t he?” asked a quiet voice above the sink.

Kimberly found Mike lounging on the windowsill, soaking in the morning sun. “Of the three he’s always been a bit of a free spirit.  I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.” She picked up the washrag from the sink, rinsed it out, and began the process of wiping down the kitchen.

“He’d make a right nice pup, much better than a wee lad if your askin’ me.” The tiny tinker swung his cane in the direction Thomas had run off.  “I could do it fer ya, it’s not a bother.”

“You’ll not be changing Thomas into a puppy,” she said with a sigh, “at least not today.  I still love him, even when it’s tough.”  She turned towards him, one hand on a hip. “You can’t really turn people into animals can you?”

Mike blushed. “Well no, not really.  But I know of one who can. It’s a nasty business that is. Not worth it if you ask me.”

“And why’s that?”

“Involves black magic.” He went to spit but stopped when he saw Kimberly’s glare. “It’s not natural, no one should get mixed up in it.  Those who do…” He shuddered. “We’ll let’s just say nothing good comes of it.”

Something crashed to the floor in the next room where Thomas played.  Kimberly tossed the washrag into the sink. “I guess I’d better go check on him, he’s been too quiet, means he’s up to no good.”

In the next room Thomas was gleefully unloading the shelves.  Behind him, scattered all over the floor, was the big box of blocks.

“Well at least he didn’t hurt himself.” Kimberly said as she sat and started collecting the blocks, she wiggled one in the air.  “Hey, Thomas, wanna play blocks?”

Thomas turned and looked at the block only to turn back and pull down another stack of books.  He wore such a look of concentration, like this was his job and how dare she interrupt him.

“Thomas! You stop that, you naughty baby.” She snatched him away from the shelf and stuck him in her lap where he squirmed to get free. “Oh no you don’t.” She laughed and tickled his tummy.

Mike appeared in a poof of smoke on one of the higher shelves, out of the baby’s reach. Thomas stopped his wiggling and stared at the tiny man, wide eyed, mouth open.

“I thought you said none of them could see you.”

“Didn’t think they could, I know the older ones can’t for sure.  This wee one, however, well he’s as bald as an egg.  Guess there’s ginger in there after all.” He gave a half laugh. “Relax, it’s not like its a bad thing.”

Kimberly ran her hand over Thomas’z fuzz covered head. He twisted his neck to look at her and fell over in her lap. “What do we do now?”

“Nothin’. There’s nothin’ wrong.  Lots of kids have imaginary friends growin’ up.  His will just be a bit more real than others.”

“Won’t that cause problems down the road?”

“I suppose. But we don’t have much choice do we?” He shrugged. “It’s not like we can stop him from seeing me.  And I can’t be always hiding from him either. I say we start him young.”

Kimberly looked up at the little tinker sitting on the edge of the shelf and smiled. “I suppose it’s better than having him turned into a puppy. For now.”

“Most definitely.”

___

For the next part, click here!

 

Fiction Friday: Izis of Velchi

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At last I’m going to share part of a fantasy story with you.  This tale was meant to be a short story but as with most fantasy pieces I set out to create, it has grown during the course of the writing and now is begging to be part of something much bigger.  I like it enough that it might become part of the novel trilogy I’m writing.  Enjoy!

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The fickle breeze of Autumn carried the scent of brittle leaves and the promise of early snow.  It teased the deep hood of Lianea’s cloak and spun her earth colored hair into ribbons as she walked the ancient pathway.  Here, folded deep within the Velchin wood, she sought a cure for the illness plaguing her village and her dear brother Liandro.

As she drew closer to the glade the sky grew darker, the air pressed up against her, stealing her breath.  She clutched the handle of the short dagger she wore at her waist, knowing it would do her no good but reassuring all the same. With each step the dark press of air grew more eager, more oppressive. The village elder had warned her that there would be forces that would try to stop her from crossing into the glade, that she must not give them heed.

She forced her way through the stone archway and as she passed the darkness lifted. Inside the small glade stood an alter and statue of Izis, goddess of knowledge of the past and future, one hand cupped before her, the other over her heart.  The green veined marble had been worn by the wind and weather, moss grew along the folds of her long robe..  Lianea felt the statues eyes upon her as soon as she had entered.

As prescribed by the elder, Lianea lit the tallow candle and cupped her hand around it as she set it into the small hole in the low alter.  The flame seemed too weak in the failing light, too fragile for such a task.  The townspeople had said the same about her when she demanded to leave and seek help.

On either side of the candle she set the four required items, a blue feather, the blood of a dying man, a silver coin, and a rose crystal from the mines of Turah.  This last she admired in the flickering candle light, never having imagined that a place filled with such sorrow would contain a wealth of something so beautiful.  There in Turah her guide had met his untimely end when he stumbled and fell from one of the high ledges in the mine. She set the crystal next to the vial filled with his blood.

Dusky twilight filtered through the branches as the moon made its journey across the blanketed sky.  Lianea recited the first incantation as she poured the dark contents of the vial into the hands of Izis. As she did, a cold mist trickled into the glade.  While reciting the second incantation she dipped the feather in the blood and then used it to draw the broken circle slashed with five lines, a symbol of submission and humility.  The mist gathered around the statue, boiling and churning at Lianea’s feet.

With the third and final incantation she held the silver coin to the flame until it stung her fingertips and then pressed it into her outstretched wrist.  She clenched her teeth, holding back a gasp of pain as the coin burned a circle into her skin.  Izis required a token of suffering.  As she spoke, the mist drew itself up around the statue, covering it like a shroud. It pulled the flame from the candle into itself until it began to glow with its own ghostly light.

Lianea’s heart raced, screaming at her to flee the clearing as the once statue came to life before her.  She willed her feet to stay firm, she could not fail, not after coming so far. Liandro needed her to be strong. She placed the rose crystal in the palm of her hand and the other hand over her heart, the last offering.

A voice whispered through the trees. “Too long have I waited for an offering from the children of this world, too long.” The voice trailed off, but the presence of the spirit of Izis remained strong, studying Lianea. “You have suffered much child, I feel it within you. Speak your request. If it is within my power, I will grant it.”

Lianea drew in a breath, she was the last hope for Liandro and all those of her village who had fallen ill. If she failed, the sickness would claim them all, herself included.  “Oh Great One, the people of my village are dying of a sickness.  The elders have never seen it’s like. I petitioned them to leave and seek help.”

The mist rose up around Lianea, brushing her face. The gesture reminded her of times when her mother would stroke her cheek to sooth her. As the mist touched her a flood of images from the last few weeks filled her mind.  People crying, clutching wives, fathers, and children in their arms before returning them to the earth.  So many. Dark bruises covering arms, legs, and faces. People moaning, consumed by fever. Her own brother, pale and listless on his cot.

Lianea sagged to her knees, overwhelmed.  The mist withdrew.

“There is hope little one. I will grant you knowledge of those who can help.  You must seek them out.”

The mist rose towards Lianea’s face once more and she flinched as it brushed her skin. This time images of people she had never met and towns she had never visited filled her mind, teaching her and filling her with a peace she hadn’t known since before the sickness began. She knew what she had to do.

…to be continued…

Fiction Friday: The Man in the Cupboard, Pt. 3

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We’re back to Fiction Friday here at the blog, and today is part three of the Man in the Cupboard serial fiction.  To start at the beginning, click here.  To see the last installment, click here.

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Over the last few weeks Kimberly found all sorts of things that tiny Mike had fixed. The squeaky ceiling fan in the family room now behaved properly instead of squeaking and swaying like an airplane propeller lodged in in her roof.  The chair at the kitchen table with the stunted leg had lost it’s wobble, and she couldn’t remember the last time the faulty light switch had shocked her when she didn’t flip it correctly.

Instead of a nuisance, Mike’s unannounced appearances in the kitchen had become a welcome surprise.  She enjoyed having someone to talk to and share her life with.  Although he wouldn’t say it, she thought Mike enjoyed it as well.

Today, she didn’t feel like doing the obligatory housework.  The dishes in the sink could stay there for a few more hours, no one would care.   Sun shone through the east windows making liquid puddles on the floor making it a perfect day to sink into the couch with a Coke and read one of those cheap harlequin romances she kept stuffed under the bed.

Just as she got snuggled into her favorite spot, the big armchair in the corner, a terrible screech and clatter bounced from the broom closet.  She jumped to her feet and opened the door to see what had happened.  There on the floor, completely tangled in what looked like spider’s web and dust lay Mike, looking a bit dazed.

“Blasted spiders won’t get the best of me,” he muttered under his breath as he struggled to sit upright.  The webs held him down.  The poor man looked as if he had had an unfortunate run in with a crazed knitter.  Tight bands of web circled his chest and another strand pulled across his face, flattening his nose to one side.  His legs were stuck bent, ankles hog tied behind him.  His arms looked no better, one was only free from the elbow down, the other stuck at an awkward angle against his chest.

Kimberly started the painstaking task of untangling Mike from the mess of string, being careful not to tie him into a worse knot.  “Are you alright, have you hurt yourself?”

“I’m fine, don’t you be troubled ’bout me.” He brushed her hands away. “No need for that, get my cane free and I’ll take care of the rest.”

She pulled the cane free of the sticky web and put it in his free hand.  He twisted it, and began tapping at the strands which loosened and fell free. Once he had dusted himself off, straightened his shirt and vest, and located his hat, he finally looked up at Kimberly.

“After an ordeal like that a man deserves a drink, don’t you think?”

“That depends. What happened?”

He sighed and leaned on one of the shoes that had fallen from the closet. “Been going on a couple o’ weeks.  ‘Dem spiders don’t forget anything, or forgive for that matter.  I shoulda never tried to move their egg sack in the first place.”

Kimberly sat on the nearby stair. “Why would you want to move an egg sack?”

“Thought it’d be funny.  Guess they don’t have that kind of sense of humor.  They’ve been after me ever since.”  He kicked at the loose pile of web.  “Today they finally got me.  Tied me up good they did, even made it so I couldn’t get my cane.  That’s how I ended up tripping in the closet, I was trying to grab it and lost my balance.”

“They weren’t planning on eating you, were they?”

“Naw, spiders don’t eat tinkers.  I suppose we don’t taste that good anyway.  They were just messing around.  We’re even now.  At least until I get the itch for mischief again.”

Kimberly rose and went to the kitchen and pulled out an amber colored bottle from a high cupboard.  “I suppose you can have a little something for your ordeal.”

Mike’s eyes went wide. “That’s not what I think it is, is it?”

“Only because you have proven your worth around the house. I expect this bottle to last you a very long time.”

He breathed in deep and a dopey smile crossed his face as if he had already imagined the joy he would find in drinking it. “Cross my heart, m’lady.”

Later that evening, after the kids were in bed and the house was quiet again, Kimberly swore she could hear Mike singing a bawdy ballad up in the rafters. She smiled and tipped an imaginary glass his way, “Cheers.”

 

For the next part, click here.

Friday Fiction: Transdimentional Zombies

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The idea for this short story started out as a random thread on Facebook where I was challenged to write a story about none other than Zombies.  Readers be warned.  A shout out to Lauri and Neils who are egging me on.

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The smell had become unbearable, sickly sweet with a hint of barbeque and just a touch of rot.  Oh, who are we kidding, mostly rot.  I tapped the side of the Anomalous Field Detector, or AFD, hoping to get a reading so I could collect some samples and get out of this place.  It’s not that I dislike graveyards, but considering the circumstances, I’d rather be anywhere else.  A locked down bomb shelter with food and a computer sounds better by the minute.

The zombie invasion came as a big surprise to our whole town.  Most thought it was a joke by the local high school, at first. That soon changed after people started turning up mutilated and dismembered.  Then, there were the ones who were changed, who somehow got the venom in their system.  These were the ones I felt the worst for,  I mean it’s one thing to die a hideous death.  It’s completely another to not quite die and be forced to live an eternity walking the earth, waiting for your next bite.

The air hung hangs heavy and dank in the night, the smell makes bile rise in my throat.  Twigs snap under my feet and I can’t help but imagine dried out fingers and toes.  The thought puts my hair on end.  Times like these make me think my mother was right about a mainstream career, anything but a viral toxicologist.

The AFD pings, sounding too loud in the dark.  It points ahead and left 50 meters.  I switch it off, can’t risk letting them know there’s a snack nearby. Without the light of the detector’s display my eyes adjust to the dim light.  The moon, hidden behind a thin veil of clouds, turns the landscape into a dull palette of grays and shadow.  Off in the distance where the detector has directed, I see a figure shamble along.  He’s missing an arm and is dressed in a dark tattered uniform that reminds me of old civil war pictures.

Image by Christopher Keough from Pixabay

I ready the catch pole, loosening the noose and twisting the pole to extend it, then checking each joint making sure it’s tight.  Test tubes and syringes are lined up in a special pocket in the lining of my jacket. Although I know it doesn’t make a difference, I don latex gloves and lower my face shield.  Protocol has to be followed.

He shambles across my line of vision, step, drag, step, drag. I wait until he has passed further, so I can approach him from behind.  In a low run I follow, pole held in front and zeroed in on his head, aimed for a quick take down.  I’m about twenty feet away when he drops and disappears from view with a burst of blue light.

I curse and stumble back in surprise. Where did the devil go?  He has to be somewhere.  I switch on the AFD once again and sweep the area, the last thing I need is a surprise.  The fellow I just saw should show up, no one disappears like that.  There is always a reason.

Nothing shows up on the AFD. I smack the side of it, stupid university tools were always on the fritz.  He has to be somewhere close.  I keep walking toward where he disappeared, studying the ground.  His trail in the damp grass is clear, I can see where he’s dragged his left leg. Ahead, lies an open grave.  Knowing that he didn’t simply disappear is a relief.  The thought of him falling into a grave is oddly ironic and I find myself giggling.

I look over the side of the hole expecting to find a frustrated tangled mess of zombie. There is nothing there. I mean that quite literally, where there should have been dirt and rocks there is only a dark unfathomable expanse.  I drop a small rock over the side and watch it vanish with a flash of blue light.

I had only read of such phenomenon in the texts of conspiracy books.  Portals aren’t supposed to exist, not in the real world.  The AFD bleeped to life showing dozens of readings around the periphery of the clearing.  Deep in my gut I knew. They weren’t coming for me, they were going home.

Fiction Friday: Fireworks

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Image by Đắc Ninh Bùi from Pixabay

Alex had been gone on tour for over a year.  In their last phone call he told her that they’d finalized the plans for sending his troop home, next week.  Ever since he left last year on the 4th of July weekend she had imagined the celebration they would have when he returned for the next 4th of July.  Now he would miss it and the thought brought tears to her eyes.  Here in the park celebrating the holiday with her family felt empty without him.

For the past few months she had felt anxious about his homecoming. Absence was supposed to make the heart grow fonder, and when he first left it did.  She yearned for him, cried in her pillow at night for him, and found every waking thought returning to him. As the time of his absence stretched longer the memory of his touch began to fade as she found new ways to keep her mind occupied.  She threw herself into her work, got promoted and then threw herself into her new position.

Now, with his return so close she worried if she still had the same feelings for him.  Would his touch feel the same to her as before, or would a year of soldiering in the desert have changed it? Would she seen the same to him after all that time, or would she seem pale and ordinary compared to the people he had come to know and trust?  

Still, here on the soft grass out under the warm night sky surrounded by family she wanted him back.  Holidays were meant for couples, having someone to hold hands with and lean on.  She watched as her sisters giggled with their spouses and wrangled their kids.  She couldn’t help but smile, one day that would be her as well.  She tried to hide how watching them made her heart hurt by laughing and smiling along, but she knew they knew.  Sisters always knew.  They had ways of finding out about secret pains and joys and things hidden under the bed.  They were there in the middle of the night with a kind word when the tears came.

Just as they always knew what was going on with her, she had a way of knowing what was going on with them as well.  And tonight they were hiding something.  She hoped that they hadn’t done anything foolish. Earlier that year, when the pain of his leaving was still too fresh, they had hired a stripper for her birthday party.  She still hadn’t fully forgiven them, but looking back it seemed much funnier now than it did then.

She prayed for something simple like a cake or a song.

As the dark fell and the first of the fireworks blossomed in the sky she felt a strange chill, like warm electricity coursing through her.  The hair on her arms stood straight up.  Then she smelled a familiar scent on the breeze, aftershave, his aftershave, mixed with his indescribable scent.  Her heart pounded in her chest, she didn’t dare turn around for fear that it might be someone else.

He didn’t say a word, but placed a hand on her shoulder.  She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, tears threatened to choke her.  He pulled her into his arms, and it was as if the world had stopped turning and they were at the center of the world.  All her worries disappeared, and in her heart there were fireworks big enough to drown out the cheers of the crowd.

He was home.

Fiction Friday: The Man in the Cupboard pt. 2

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To start at part one, click here!

Two weeks had passed since Kimberly had first encountered that tiny man in her cupboard, since then she had seen no trace of him.  Maybe she was right in thinking that  he was only a figment of her imagination.  Even so, the last time she put the peanuts away she made sure that the lid wasn’t too tight.

The radio blared in the kitchen, bouncing the best hits of the 80’s and 90’s off the walls and throughout the house.  Kimberly sang along to the music as she tackled the dishes and cups overflowing from the sink.  Over the last week with the coming of better weather and no sighting of the tiny Mike Finnegan, she had found a cheerfulness that she hadn’t found in what felt like years.

During a particularly loud rendition of “All the Single Ladies” she heard a loud rap and then the music died.  There on top of the radio sat Mike, swinging his cane.

“What in tarnation is the meaning of all this racket?” he asked, clutching his head. “In my day, people caught singin’ like that were put in the stocks.”

Kimberly couldn’t help but stare.  Seeing him again meant one of two things, either he was indeed real, or she needed her head examined.  “So…,” she rubbed her temples, “you’re real then.”

“As real as the smelly pile of laundry in yer closet.”

“What?!?” She slapped the counter.  The thought of a strange little man in her kitchen was one thing, knowing he was raiding her closet was a more serious offence.

Mike blushed and shuffled his feet, “Erm, forget I said that.”

“Don’t think I can.” Kimberly planted her hands on her hips. “What am I going to do with you?”

Mike jumped down from the radio and began pacing across the countertop. “Well Missy, most tend to ignore me but I can be quite handy.”

“Like how?”

“Well, I’m a tinker, right?”

“I thought you were a leprechaun, is there a difference?”

Mike banged his cane against the counter with a snap. “Now you understand this, no one calls Mike Finnegan a leprechaun.  Little gold obsessed good fer nothin’ mites, they are.” He spat, emphasizing his point.

“Hey, none of that!” She tossed him a cloth from the sink. “Clean it up.”

He grumbled as he wiped up the spot, something about how gingers had a temper.  She couldn’t make out most of it, and was glad for it.

“A tinker, miss, fixes things.  It’s what we live for.  That squeak in the garage door, the one that mysteriously disappeared, that was me.”  He tossed the cloth back, which to him seemed more like a blanket.  “A tinker is happiest when there are things to mend, that’s why we love these old houses.  Always something that needs a fix.”

Kimberly nodded, tapping her chin. Someone who sould fix things around the house would be nice. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch, you lets me borrow things from here and there, a pinch of food, and what not.  A touch of whiskey is always a nice gesture.  Do that, and I’m more than happy staying here doin’ what I do.” He said with a flourish.

“Alrighty Mr. Mike, you can stay.  Just promise me not to riffle through my personal items.  None of the drawers in the bedroom.”

“And the whiskey. . .?” He asked, a hopeful gleam in his eye.

“We’ll see in time.  When I can see things working out well between us then yes, I’ll get you some.”

He danced a little jig, swinging his tiny cane in time to his steps.

“Oh miss? There is one more thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Promise me never to get a cat.”

Kimberly giggled at the image in her head of tiny Mike being chased by a cat.  “Ok, I promise.”

“Good doing business with ya.” He tipped his hat and with a flash, vanished.

 

To read the next in the series, click here.

Friday Fiction: The Man in the Cupboard

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Welcome back to Fiction Friday where every other week I experiment with different genres.  Today’s story might become a serial depending on how it’s received.  Enjoy!

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After the whirlwind of breakfast and getting the kids off to school, the kitchen was a disaster and thankfully quiet.  Kimberly had set about the task of shoving dirty dishes into the already full dishwasher when she heard a pinging sound coming from the pantry.  She ignored it at first, but when the sound didn’t just go away she felt she had to investigate.

As she came closer to the pantry door the sound became clearer, the same sound as when metal hits glass, a kind of metallic ping.  Ping, ping, ping.  What on earth could make that noise?  She opened the door a crack and the ping stopped.  She opened it wider.  There to her surprise was a tiny man standing next to her jar of peanuts wielding a cane. He stood no taller than her hand and wore a dingy yellow shirt and green vest over a pair of worn grey slacks.

“Fer heaven’s sake, why’d ya change your brand?” he asked and gave the lid on the bottle another whack with the cane. “This lid’s all but impossible to get off.”

Kimberly slammed the door shut with a shriek and reached for a knife from the block.  There was a tiny man in her pantry raiding her peanuts.  She racked her brain trying to remember if there was anything about strange occurrences reported by previous owners in the real estate paperwork.  There were disclosures about lead, asbestos, and rats; why not tiny men?

When she had worked up enough nerve to open the pantry again she found the little man leaning against the box of Cheerios sitting with his legs dangling off the shelf. He held one toasted O, which to him was the size of a donut.

“Oh, hi again. Sorry about before, didn’t mean to give you a fright. No one told me a ginger girl had moved in.”  He said with a smile, pointing at Kimberly’s red curls.

“Who are you, and why are you in my pantry?” Kimberly asked, fighting down the tremble that threatened to leak into her voice. She adjusted her grip on the knife, keeping it out of sight.

“Well, I would have been in the liquor cupboard, but it seems all the whiskey is gone.  You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?” He waved his cane at her as if accusing her for it’s absence. “Can’t have a shindig without a bit of whiskey now can we?”

“Whiskey? . . . Shindig?” Kimberly sputtered. ” I don’t know what you are talking about.  You didn’t answer my question.  Who are you, and why are you here?”

“My apologies Miss, where are my manners?” He stood, brushing the crumbs from his pants as he did and held out his tiny hand. “Mike Finnegan, at your service.”

Kimberly took his hand between two fingers and gave it a shake, unsure whether she was dreaming or had hit her head.

Mike cleared his throat. “And who might you be Miss?”

“Kimberly Pike,” she answered.  Dozens of questions filled her mind and she struggled to catch a hold of one that didn’t make her sound insane.  It was harder than she thought.

Using his cane, Mike lowered himself to the lower shelf and began inspecting the goods there. “Ye must have a speck of the old Irish in ye.  Old lady who lived here before couldn’t see me, one before that couldn’t neither. They both had the decency of always having a flask of whiskey on hand, so it worked out just fine.  You however are different.  Irish blood in ye, and nothing for a poor fella to drink.”

“If I get you your whiskey will you go away?”

“No, why would I? I live here, have a right nice home up in the attic.”

Kimberly shook her head and set the small knife down on the counter. “What about the others, can they see you?”

He climbed on top of a bag of rice and sat down again. “Doubt it, not a ginger in the lot.”

“Listen, Mike is it? This is all a little bit much for me right now.  Tell you what.  I’m going to close this door and leave for a while and when I come back all of this will be back to normal.  I think I’m just under a lot of stress right now.  I mean listen to me, I’m talking to a little man in my pantry.  Okay?”

He tipped his hat at her. “Whatever makes you happy Miss.”

Kimberly shut the door, got a soda from the fridge, and a candy bar from her secret stash.   She hoped a few hours running errands away from the house would be enough to calm her nerves, but as she pulled the car into the street she had the sinking feeling that this was far from over.

 

To read part 2, click here!

Fiction Friday: The Music of Heaven

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Today’s post is a piece of flash fiction inspired by this piece of abstract art.  For more terrific public domain abstract art, check out The Public Domain.  Enjoy!publicdomain-free-remix-share-texture-abstract

“They’ve broken the sky, now there’s no going back.” Balzac said, reaching towards the cacophony of color and light that arched overhead.  The sky seethed in billowing masses of reds and deep purples.  Sparks of lightning, like brilliant stars, dotted the heavens, filling the boiling clouds with flashing light.

Sabine pulled the rough woolen blanket tighter around her, so that nothing below the curve of her neck could be seen.  “I’m scared, I never imagined it would happen this soon.” she said, her voice soft compared to the thundering above.

Balzac lowered himself down next to her with a grimace, he wasn’t as young as he used to be and after the day’s journey he ached all over.  A cold breeze pulled at his hair, teasing the silver strands into his face.  “There is no need for fear now.” He patted her shoulder. “If only they had listened sooner, they should have heeded my warning.  This wouldn’t have happened.”

“It isn’t your fault, you never intended your studies to lead to this.  Your’s was a search for truth, for understanding of our world.  If anything your discovery should have been used to heal the rift in the sky, not to tear it further.”  She opened the blanket and beckoned him to join her inside.  “It is beautiful, isn’t it?’

“Of course it’s beautiful, even in its death throes it manages to put on a show.  I imagine it won’t be much longer before the transition is complete, then all this will fade to nothing.  Dark grey clouds will blanket the earth so thick that the sun’s light will no longer pierce through.” He pulled the blanket around them both and shut it tight, closing out the chill.  Inside her warmth was welcome.  The cold would only grow more bitter as time passed.

There on the crest of the southern ridge they sat, below lay a city in ruins, their city.  But Balzac knew, he had predicted that it all would happen.  The diplomatic disputes, the wars, the destruction, and finally, the breaking – he had seen it all when he discovered the secret to the music of the sky.

To him the world and everything in it was organized in numbers and frequencies, harmonics and resonances.  To discover how it all worked he immersed himself in his lab, measuring the vibrations of the heavens and then engineering exact matches.  The university provided the funds and equipment as long as he published his findings.  Perhaps that was his first mistake, but then there was not other way to get the money. Tools for studying celestial vibrations didn’t come cheap either.

“Balzac?” Sabine asked, “Are you certain that there is no way to repair the damage?  Could the vibrations be neutralized?”

“No, I’m certain. I would have to discover the exact frequencies and patterns they used, which is impossible as both change as soon as they meet the harmonics that exist above. Although now I’m not sure if I would want to.  The effort, if it were possible, would take years of precise applications, maybe even decades.  By then there would be no society to save, civilization would have returned to a primal state, that is if anyone managed to stay alive for that long.”

Sabine curled in tighter to him, hugging her knees to her chest.  He wrapped an arm around her and breathed in her scent, she smelled of sweat and floral shampoo.  Having her here with him here at the beginning of the end felt right.  The thought of facing this catastrophe alone made his stomach twist.

“It’s final then, you plan to carry out your orders?” To his surprise she had tears on her face.

He wiped away her tear with a thumb. “Yes. I’d rather it end this way than watching countless millions suffer.  It’s clean. . . ” he sighed, “it’s humane.”

“And what about us? We’ve been together for so long, seen so much.  Should that all be lost?”

“No Sabine, we won’t be lost, we will be changed, transformed into the very harmonics and vibrations that I’ve studied for so long.  There is a place for us in the heavens among all of our family and friends.”

“I wish I had your faith. For now I must rely on yours, it is enough.  You were always the strong one.  Do it.  Do it, before I lose my nerve.”

Balzac pulled the activator from his pocket and the silver key from its chain around his neck.  He slipped the key into its slot and turned it, opening the cover.  After he entered the complex arming code the device chimed to life.   When he discovered how to break the sky, he had also discovered the frequencies that would annihilate the life from earth.

Together they pushed the button.  From deep within the bowels of the earth it started, a deep thrumming rhythm unlike any they had heard, it sent a chill that started at the back of his neck then shot down his limbs.  The sound thrilled him, electrified him. From a distance higher tones flowed in undulating patterns all across the land and sky counterpointing the music from below.  Tears of joy bathed Balzac’s face.

It was the music of the death of earth, and it was beautiful.