Fiction

Her name is Future

By Jim Anderson

The streets of Kal teamed with festival-goers. Nothing draws crowds like the prospect of burning a woman at the stake.

Even a good drawing-and-quartering runs a distant second.

“Her name is Future,” Proffer said as we made our way back to the inn.

I knew he was referring to the accused. The anguish in his voice surprised me. “You know her?”

Proffer nodded. “As do you. She’s the baker’s daughter, the girl you flirted with our first day here.”

“I do not ‘flirt’!”

“You do. And you marked her by it.”

“But –”

“It’s clear they know what you are.”

I wrote this fiction for the 100 Word Challenge “Future” at Thin Spiral Notebook.

Also see Part I of this story: If the gods be merciful.

If the gods be merciful

By Jim Anderson

The good people of Kal were fixing to burn another witch. The event would close the Festival of the Tyrant’s Demise. “Third one this week,” Proffer said as we watched the wood-stack grow. “They must like the smell. The evil–”

“Judge not, lest you be judged,” I said hastily. And in a lower voice: “Be careful, my friend.”

Proffer narrowed his eyes, but spoke more softly. “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry.”

“We’ll move on before the lighting.”

He sighed, and glanced toward the great temple. “Do you think she has confessed?”

“If the gods be merciful,” I said.

I wrote this fiction for the 100 Word Challenge: “Tyrant” at Thin Spiral Notebook.

See Part II of this story: Her name is Future

What Else You Can’t Do

By Jim Anderson

He had no music in him, never had.

In fourth grade, before the Christmas pageant, a desperate teacher ordered him to lip-sync “The Little Drummer Boy.” Decades later, a grown man, it still made him sad.

“You can’t dance,” a woman told him over the booming bass at a grad school party. “It makes me wonder what else you can’t do.” A nasty sly smile. A mean drunk, he thought. He wanted her anyway.

He wanted to sing “Drummer Boy.” He wanted to dance. He wanted the music to lift him up and waft him away, but it never did.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge: “Music” at Thin Spiral Notebook.

The Presence

By Jim Anderson

The wind chimes were driving him nuts.

“They’re pretty,” his wife said, without looking up from her book.

“Pretty loud!”

“Go take them down, then.”

“All right, I will.”

He set aside his laptop, leaned forward in his chair, and then stopped. It seemed too easy. He studied his wife for a moment, sensing a trap.

“Really? That would be OK with you?”

“Sure. Go ahead. What’s to stop you?”

“Your mom! This could be her way of haunting me.”

His wife laughed. “She has other ways to do that.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“Take down her chimes, and you’ll see.”

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #407 at Velvet Verbosity.

Another Cold Morning in the Tower

By Jim Anderson

As always, he’d put the kettle on for tea. She awoke to the whistle. Today I will escape, she resolved, throwing off the bedclothes.

She encased herself in her royal-blue robe and waited. The sad-faced jailer appeared. He set the breakfast tray on her table, and then dragged out the ornate chair.

“Tea again? I prefer milk.”

“Yes, but tea is what we have.”

“And sugar instead of honey.”

“Again, we make do, my lady.”

He bowed deeply to her.

“I will escape today, jailer.”

“There is always hope.”

“Yes,” she said. “There always is.”

She drank the honeyed tea.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #406 at Velvet Verbosity.

No Kind of Wing Shot

By Jim Anderson

Sam found the shotgun under the stairs. His 12-gauge Remington pump, a classic with its clean lines and walnut stock.
His father had preferred semi-automatics.

His father was no kind of wing shot, but he could work a duck call. He trained Black Labs, too, and was a good man to have with you on a hunt.

Sam opened a box of shells, and eased one out, pinching the brass between thumb and forefinger. He decided to clean the Remington and sell it.

The last shot his father took was with a Glock into the roof of his own mouth.

ORIGINAL VERSION:

Sam found the shotgun where he’d left it. A 12-gauge Remington pump, his favorite, a classic gun, really, with its clean line and walnut stock. His father had preferred an automatic.

The old man was no kind of wing shot, but he could work a duck call as sweet as anybody. That and the Labs he trained made him a good man to have with you on a hunt. Not so good other times. Jesus, no!

Sam felt the usual jumble of emotions. He opened a box of shells, and eased one out, pinching the brass between thumb and forefinger.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #405 at Velvet Verbosity.