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“Momma, no don’t hang…”
The dial tone said it all.
“I will always love you.” A lie repeated so many times growing up to a child. But an adult, making their own choices. Unacceptable. Love is conditional.
Staring at the numbers doesn’t make them dial back. Should the child or the parent be the one to reach out? Who is responsible for the relationship?
(words 64; first published 4/1/2024; created 11/18/2023))
Image by Laith Abushaar on Unsplash
“I did it!” The white-coated mad-man screamed. “Do you see that Meriday? It lives!”
Cowering into the corner, hoping his dark skin would hide him from his master’s creation, Meriday felt the sting of pride. It wasn’t Mr. Floyd who had figure out he needed four crocodile bones down the neck to hold the soul of the steam automaton, but Merry. His momma had taught him some of the secrets of the wild women before he got sold down river. It wasn’t Mr. Floyd who had fetched the ash from a burned church to make the black fluid for the hydraulic pumps. Sneaking through Virginia during the unrest looking for the right riot, the right town, to get the ash had taken months. The border North so close, but Mr. Floyd talking to one politician after another even closer, demanding to see him every Sunday during his quest.
It certainly wasn’t Mr. Floyd standing in the middle of the hurricane flying a kite like he was some thrice-damned descendent of Mr. Franklin. But white man will claim credit and there is nothing old Merry can do to stop him. Not that Merry wanted credit for mechanical mayhem his owner had raised. The door of the barn near, he wondered if he could slip out before master noticed.
Before the dragon noticed.
Master didn’t see the light in the dragon’s eyes. The orange light of zombie. The light of clockwork consciousness.
Something had responded.
Master didn’t lie in that the dragon lived.
(words 251; first published 11/23/2023 – flash written for Facebook Group prompt with a goal of 50 words)
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“Will someone please get that lighting head?” The paladin screamed as he managed, through the grace of his goddess, to dodge another bolt despite being a walking-talking lightning rod in a metal plate armor suit.
The sorcerer yelled back, “You are lucky I got the fire-breathing with a back-burner snuffing out its oils for a few minutes. Ha-zah!” Hands thrown out, the group’s magic user returned the lightning.
“Fuck, it’s dripping oil again from the red head,” shouted the fighter. “Move back, move back.” He ordered the unit of minions he had gathered over the last month hunting for this dragon.
One of the young men asked the monk, “Why isn’t the purple head not doing anything? It’s just staying up there watching everything, letting the blue and red heads do their things.”
“You had to ask that, you had to ask that.” The monk muttered, pushing the untested soldiers back just in time for a fire blast to land where they had been.
The thief ignored the byplay, using her ring of invisibility to advantage, slowly circling the multi-headed monster., when she noticed the purple head swivel her way.
“I see you,” a voice said in her head.
(words 199; first published 3/3/2024 – written for a FB group prompt, aiming for about 50 words as the goal – as usual, I went over)
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Swimming from the green misty woods to the blue morning sky, the emerald dragon’s scaly body slid back and forth against the air, like a snake swimming through water. Each polish scale reflected lights in flashes, silvery diamonds glittering when touched by the newly reborn sun. Clouds gathered and moved in curious circles like stone ripples in a Zen garden with each turn and swirl of the serpent’s long tail.
The monks held poses, waiting far beyond the normal time to shift stances, watching the impossible.
Dragons only flew above free states. The Emerald Valleys had knelt for generations at the Throne of Providence, their dragon sleeping deeply. What had happened?
(words 111; first published 2/25/2024; created 11/20/2023)
Photo by Karen Cann on Unsplash
The dragon emerged slowly from his long rest, nosing out of the borrow he had hidden in so long. Green grass and meadow surrounded him, replacing the village he had burned to the ground before digging his nest, its people a forgotten memory by all but him
… and the archeology team carefully laying out a string square grid to dig up the speculated trade town of Briganemeto, best translated as “the hill claimed as sanctuary by wood”. With small shovels and measuring sticks in hands, the students and professors stared at the legendary creature.
The year of the wood dragon had begun.
(words 103; first published 2/11/2024; created 11/18/2023)