Flash: Mannequin

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Brandson approached the mannequin cautiously. Too many weird fucking things have happened recently. Things appearing to be alive weren’t, things that shouldn’t be alive were, and we don’t even describe what was happening with the dead things. But to get to the other side of the room … to get to the next door which may lead out of this mad house … he must pass within arm’s reach of the mannequin.

“Because of course the door leading out is located directly fucking behind you.” Brandson commented out loud. “No offense darling, you’re beautiful but I stopped dating blowup dolls a while ago.”

All the room’s illumination pointed to the mannequin, making her plastic face shine. Her arms, covered with long black gloves, wrapped around herself tightly in fear; a feeling Brandson was becoming more and more familiar with. An evening gown stretched downward, wrapping her legs tightly together, before spilling down the small dais located immediately before the door he hoped lead out of wherever he was. Threads flowed out, crossing the only lighted path available.

Behind him, he heard a thump and a wet screech. “Yeah, yeah. I know you’re still there you mother-fucking salad!”

He hoped the last nightmare couldn’t uproot from its planter.

Brandson considered taking a step off the well-lit area to avoid the unraveling threads. He peered into the darkness. The four spotlights, each hovering in seemingly empty air, destroyed any night vision.

He returned to studying the mannequin, and jumped seeing her hands had moved. Instead of hugging herself, she was now trying to pull her hair from around her neck. Her complicated coiffure started in a bun at the top of her head, secured with a few sticks topped with cut gems. Multi-color strands wrapped around her head, behind her nape and then again around her neck.

“Shit, are you alive?” he asked, staring. The plastic face and hands made no movement. The eyes seemed to focus on him, pleading rescue, screaming in fear.

Looking down, to make certain he didn’t step on a thread, he discovered the cloth had pulled back to dressy cocktail length. The hem now skimmed the top of her very sexy, plastic knees and her shapely legs continued down to strappy black heels. Her toe nails were painted the same exact bright shade as her lips.

The mannequin looked a whole hell of a lot better than the blow-up his brother bought him as a joke when he went off to college. Shit, if Old Susie had looked this good he may have stayed away from Psycho Miranda. How long ago was that?

The floor raised into a little meter by meter square for the mannequin to stand on. The lighted path only extended a decimeter either side of the step. He debated looking up again to see what the plastic being was doing, but decided against it.

Muttering “No guts, no glory.” he made a run for it. Keeping an eye on his feet and tapping peripheral vision to watch the black skirt and the dark shadow, he rushed by the podium.

A gloved hand grabbed him as he passed and yanked him hard enough one of his feet took a step onto the platform before he could regain his balance. Brandson looked up to see the mannequin’s hair was wrapped around the arm grabbing him. She had pivoted and now faced the door denied him.

As he watched, the multi-color strands writhed where they separated the fingers gripping his arm.

“Please, sir.” The plastic doll begged. “Leave while you can.”

The woman’s face still shined plastic, but now looked like a clear plastic mask glued over a human face. Her eyes no longer were glass orbs, but bottomless green lakes of fear and concern.

“Is this the way out?” He asked. Brandson tried to take a step back only to find her fingers were not letting go. In addition, something had snaked around the foot located on the dais.

“I don’t know.”

The hair crossed from her fingers and started to wind around his bicep. Brandson  yelped.

“Is This The Way OUT?” He asked, his voice getting louder and louder as he used his other hand to untangle the strands.

Tears pooled, turning her eyes pure jade. “I don’t know.”

He dropped his eyes to his foot and discovered his own jeans hand lengthened to merge into the wood platform. “Then what the fuck do you know?” He asked contemplating how to escape the second part of the trap.

Her voice changed, picking up speed from her previous slow cadence, and a gutter hiss punctuated each word. “Dolly dear in spider web, bite your mate so you can live.”

“What the fuck?” He asked, snapping his head up to look at her face. For a second, he saw hairy legs reach out from the bun on her head. Mulit-faceted eyes blinked once on their stalks before returning to their gem-like camouflage appearance.

He felt her free hand unbuttoning his fly. Brandson’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Help me push them down,” she instructed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He said as her hand stroked his dick, pushing the jean fabric apart. After a second thought, he started pushing the cloth down. They both worked the tight denim until gravity took over. He was almost ready for the killing kiss as a release by the time they were through.  He started to lean towards her.

“Sir, … I will not free myself at another’s expense.” Her plastic mask moved as her face tensed. Still staring into his eyes, she brought up her free hand and crashed it down on the arm held in place by the spider silk. The plastic shattered.

With the detached hand still gripping his arm, he fell backwards against the door. His jeans remained attached to the dias.

With her remaining hand, the woman was holding an arm ending shortly past her elbow. Plastic goo froze mid-drip from white shards. Her plastic face, returned to looking like a plastic doll, was twisted in pain.  Four feathered boas rose out of her bun as though supported by wires and bent inward to frame her face. Her gown was once again tight around her legs. The trailing loose fringe hem had all the threads stretching towards his jeans and him.

Reaching up, he used the doorknob to help stand. Keeping an eye on the woman and her captor, he whispered to her. “I wish I could help you.”

He opened the door and stepped through to discover what was beyond.

(words 1,096 – originally appearing at Sunday Fun on Breathless Press 4/15/2013, published on old blog on 4/21/2013; republished new blog format 9/10/2017) 

Flash: Tank

http://www.deviantart.com/art/night-at-the-oasis-36345289

copyright 2006-2013 foolishbunny

“Fuck.”

 

Startled, Neville immediately went on full alert. Anything to set Younger cursing could not be good. Neon lights blazed over the gas station, making an oasis of light and cement in the black night. Nearly seven hundred miles from their stomping grounds, the needle pegged empty and they had to stop for gas. Ramps had been closed the last fifty miles because of flooding. This was their only chance before the fumes ran out.

 

Neville leaned forward in the passenger seat to access his gun tucked into a back holster. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I hate using stolen cars. I never know what side the gas tank is on.”

 

(words 108– first published 10/2/2013; republished in new blog format on 8/06/2017)

Flash: Three to the Chest

Clip Art Gun

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“Fuck, fuck, fuck … out of bullets.” Neville cursed as his gun clicked empty. The laboratory cabinet continued to shake as he ducked behind it. His opponents did not have the same ammunition limitations. Fortunately the metal cabinet had been built to handle exploding experiments.

The altercation had turned the laboratory into a war-zone, toppling even the heavy marble tables. One of which Younger was curled behind. “Damn it, Neville. You’re a vampire. Just stand up, take three to the chest and reload.”

Looking at his unarmed human companion wincing as a ricochet chipped the marble beside his face, Neville deadpanned, “Wrong caliber.” He tucked his favorite piece back into the ankle holster. “How about you … can’t you do whatever the fuck it is you do?”

“Thought you wanted some of the coven to still be alive, or at least undead, at the end. Quinn can’t be head vamp without followers.”

“Like you are that powerful,” Neville sneered. “The two fucks over there with their thralls are over four hundred years.” Neville looked around for better cover. He could hear some of the bullets pinging the inside of the cabinet now. They had pierced the front doors.

“If you are sure…” Younger commented.

The cabinet exploded in a rain of chemicals and glass as Neville dashed between several thin metal desks to join Younger under cover. Someone had broken out a shotgun with amour piercing rounds. “Fuck, yeah I’m sure. Just do it!” he screamed.

…. When the smoke cleared, Neville stared at Younger. He tried to remember the last few minutes, but fragments of icy fire and hungry darkness wouldn’t form into coherent thought. It was like someone had obscured his memory after a feeding; something not possible while he was the coven’s enforcer for Quinn.

“Okay, I stand corrected.” He stepped between the rapidly decaying bodies of the ancients they had been fighting, approaching his suddenly scary mortal ally. At least Neville hoped he was an ally. “Fucking powerful. How the Hell…?”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell, and don’t repeat, my friend.” Younger smiled enigmatically.

Sirens could be heard between the rubble resettling and liquid drips. “Riiiight.” Neville shook his head. “Well, Quinn owes you one and so do I.”

“Think you can cover this?” The scourge waved his hand at the wreckage.

Neville pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket, a quick glance at the time indicated it was only four AM. Dawn was still a ways off. “If I can’t, I got people who can.”

“Okay, I’ll be going then. Just remember next time to ask the bad guys to provide the same caliber bullets.”

Laughing Neville agreed, “I’ll do that.”

(words 447 – first published 5/22/2013; republished in new blog format on 6/04/2017)

Flash: Diamonds HIding

Clip Art

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The diamonds fell from her hands, scattering like stars in the night across the black marble. And as uncaring as the cold stars looking on from the sky, they reflected her falling, winked red as blood pooled out, and hid in the shadows when daylight came.

***

Younger did not know why he was here. The cops never called him. Yet this time they did.

DJ and Jeffery grunted greeting as they lifted the police tape. He nodded to the officers, debating talking to them. Spotting the detectives, he decided against it. Lance and Paul were assholes. Which made him being called in even more strange.

Not his normal strange, but the WTF?!? strange you get when your mom compliments your death metal tattoo.

Though he knew if those two called him in … his normal strange would be happening soon enough.

(words 141 – first published 5/1/2013; republished in new blog format on 4/2/2017)

Flash: Me, Again

Clip Art - Forest Fire

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Finally finding his cell, Younger looked around to steady himself before placing the call. Trees uprooted, blood and dirt mixed into a crusty mud, small underbrush fires providing flickering views of the devastation. How he hated this next part of his hereditary “second job”.

Three quick numbers dialed, he held the phone to his ear when the ringing began. A pleasant woman on the other end confirmed he reached the correct number. She continued the automatic pleasantry with “How may I help you?”

“It’s me, again.” he stated grimacing. “Michelle, right?”

“Huh, what? Yes, my name is Michelle.”

The man leaned against a tree waiting for the woman to realign her world. Not everyone identifies 911 operators by their voice. He called way too much.

A nervous voice betrayed her recognition after a moment. “Oh, Mr. Younger. Do I need to send any special equipment?”

“No … no leftover bombs this time. Everything detonated. No need for an ambulance either, so you can recall that.”

“Where are you located at this time sir?”

“Damn, give me a minute to find that GPS gizmo the cops gave me.” He started searching the area. “It can’t be far from where the phone was, they started in the same pocket.”

“Can you describe the location?”

He snorted as he recognized the standard question from her screen. But the prompt worked, “On the Powder Monkey Trail in Cameron Park, about a quarter mile in … maybe.” A metallic glint reflected in the dying fires. Younger kicked a squishy bit off to reveal the machine he was looking for – perfectly crushed. Sighing, “Yeah, well, I am at a switchback. Lots of grooves and ruts from dirt bikes.”

“Officers should be there shortly. Please stay on the line.”

“Not a problem Michelle, I know the routine.” And hated it. Modern bureaucracy at its finest. Red tape to tie him up for the next day. He would need to call his work shortly; fortunately working for a company three states away as a virtual programmer gave him leeway in getting his forty hours in. Flex time a-plenty to deal with the tokens his mother’s bloodline brought his way.

“Sir, the officers have arrived at the parking lot and are heading down the trail. They have asked me to remind you not to move anything.”

“Fuck, that would be Lance and Paul.” Younger looked the way they would be coming in. His eyes drifted to the stringy mass decorating tree limbs. “Could you tell Paul to bring a puke bag? He ain’t going to last long.”

Next time. Next time, he promised himself. Things will not devolve to the point he needed to call the nice girls at 911. Except maybe for a date; Michelle sounded hot, when he wasn’t scaring the shit out of her.

(words 468 –  first published 3/13/2013; republished in new blog format on 2/5/2017)