Flash: Scriptorium Meditation

The Etienne Chevalier Books of Hours

Public Domain – Per the British Library
The Etienne Chevalier Books of Hours

The excess pigment pooled off Jonathan’s favorite brush as he touched it against the cup’s side. Now safe, he passed it over the manuscript page to the illumination panel. Three quick strokes blended the new lapis blue with the still wet paint of the background. Large fills were the hardest. If the paint fully set between brushstrokes, a clear line would develop between the old and new paints.

Desert heat increased the difficulty. The pigment in the cup constantly needed adjusting with additional liquid and binder. After the noon sun had burnt off the last of the night cold, the parchment absorbed water as fast as he applied it. Once, the paint had dehydrated on his brush before he could transfer it to the page.

It could drive one mad.

Which, Jonathan chuckled to himself, is exactly the opposite of the results he was hoping for.

The painting was to keep him sane between skirmishes. A mediation to take him away from the here and now. Many of his fellow brothers of arms had their own ways to escape the boredom and terror. The few who didn’t fell into a dark place where only the terror circled.

He reloaded the brush. After an inhale and exhale, he followed the outline supporting the capital letter.

Abruptly, a siren sounded.

Jonathan steadied his hand, pleased to see no paint went outside the sepia lines he had inked yesterday.

The sound dragged him away from his artistic center; the solider part of him translated the shrill noise to “incoming aircraft”. No doubt their new lieutenant will be rushing them into bomb shelters.

… And there’s the second siren for the tail tuck. Shelter time.

The feral-warrior imbedded in every man’s head since Neanderthal times snarled, until the solider which boot camp had programmed into him slugged the lizard-mind. Jonathan pushed them both aside, staring at the manuscript page until the art spoke to him again.

Reviewing the page being painted, Jonathan estimated he could take a break in six to eight minutes. He dipped his brush to continue. Really, the enemy could at least do their runs when he was on-duty. Quite rude of them to interrupt his off-duty hours.

A head topped with rustic red hair poked inside the doorway. “Private Swartz, didn’t you hear the siren? We need to get to safety.”

“On my way, sir, just cleaning my brush.” Jonathan started filling in the final area he wanted blue.

Verbally assured, the lieutenant continued his hurried walk.

Too much paint had dried on the brush, creating lumps above the portion of the brush tip. Jonathan swirled the brush in his water glass. He glanced around the abandoned adobe building he had appropriated for his recreation time. One of three buildings located in the crossroad they were guarding. Millions of feet over thousands of years had hardened the unpaved paths. And only three families though it worthwhile to live here.

Uncle Sam thought it an excellent location for an inspection station.

Wonder who has the guns today? Haven’t heard the planes yet. Flying too high, or still a ways off? Well, we all will find out who is on duty as soon as the shots are fired. Manuel and Sebastian had very different approaches.

Gently squeezing the water from the horse hair, Jonathan brought the brush to a point. He took the cap off the binder and added just a touch to the pigment cup. Quickly resealing, the artist wiped the outside of the container. The binder was sticky. Then he added a little more water to the pigment.

The brush was dipped, twisted, and compressed in the cup until the pigment amassed throughout the fibers. He brought the brush to the parchment just before the last moisture left his previous stroke. The grumbling of engines became audible.

The ground trembled as Manuel let loose the anti-aircraft. Trust Manny to wait until he could see the whites of the enemy’s eyes. Dust drifted from the ceiling of the clay structure, but Jonathan’s make-shift fly crafted from one of his blankets kept the dust from falling into the wet paint.

Jonathan sighed.

If Manuel was firing, the run was for real. The spic didn’t like giving away range to anyone. The guy was a miser with bullets; he only shot when in danger and if he thought he could hit. And he was even stinger with missiles.

After capping his pigments and cleansing his brush, Jonathan reached down to lift the cover he made with four small feet. He carefully positioned it over the manuscript where it would hold the parchment down without touching the paint. Satisfied he had done everything to protect his art, Jonathan ran to the shelter.

Sebastian had been watching and opened the door for a split second. Sebastian or Manuel always was by the door; if the guns fell, the backup needed to be activated.

“Painting?” Sebastian smiled.

Jonathan nodded at the needles in the doorkeeper’s hands. “Not all of us are lucky to have portable art.”

“I got extra.” Sebastian kicked his yarn basket. “I could teach you.”

“I might take you up on that tonight. Painting sucks once the sun has set now that the lieutenant insists on blackout conditions. Seriously that man needs a hobby.”

“Scared he might start crucifying mice like the last one?”

A deafening exchange of the aircraft and anti-aircraft exchanging munitions prevented a verbal response, so Jonathan nodded. Watching your superior officer make little crosses and execute rodents for treason was terrifying beyond anything else in Jonathan’s experience. And Jonathan had done some stupid-ass, shouldn’t –be-alive-now shit. Sanity was precious.

(words 940 – first published 9/3/2013; republished new blog format 6/5/2016)

Flash: The Telling of the Myth of Hariti

Buddha head reflected in water

Image Courtesy of FreeDigitalPhoto.net

Before the world became as it is today, the ogress Hariti lived in the world with her five hundred children. She loved her children and doted on them. From the largest who stood taller than the tallest cypress to the smallest who could fit inside a snail’s shell, she loved them and doted on them. From the fiercest, whose roar shattered stones, to the most cunning, who could talk a thirsty man out of water, she loved them and doted on them all.

But feeding them was a chore, because they needed blood. Rich, red, sweet blood. And as Hariti doted on her five hundred young, only the sweetest, purest blood would do. Only the blood of human children would do. So she would steal children in the night to feed her young. From the strongest, who could pick up a river and move its bed, to the weakest, whose fingers dance on the back of your neck at night, she would feed them with a child stolen from her human neighbors.

And this caused her neighbors pain. But they feared her for she was an ogress of great power. Fear shook them. Fear held them still. Fear made them scream when they saw her. Fear kept them silent. And their pain grew.

Until their pain of their missing children grew so great they no longer could hold still. The pain of children missing from their homes could no longer keep them silent. Each human village chose an elder. Every village in the world chose an elder. From the Winding River of the West to the Great Sea of the East, each village picked an elder. From the Ice Mountains of the North to the Burning Sands of the South, each village sent an elder.

And once the elders of all the villages of all the world met together, they traveled as one to where Hariti lived with her five hundred children. Dust coated the elders’ feet. Mud coated elders’ ankles. Sand fleas bit the elders’ legs, leaving sores. Thorns scrapped the elders’ arms, leaving cuts. The wind blistered the elders’ faces. The sun burned the elders’ necks.

For many days the elders of all the villages of all the world traveled a distance the ogress could pass over with a single step. For Hariti was a powerful ogress and they were only human. From first harvest to second harvest to planting again, they traveled to where Hariti lived with her five hundred children. A distance the ogress could run in a single hour. For Hariti was a terrible ogress and they were only human.

Even so, the elders’ pain at the loss of their children held them to their task until they arrived at the home of Hariti where she lived with her five hundred young. There the ogress let the elders of all the villages of all the world come into her home.

She did not offer to clean their feet of the road’s dust. She did not offer them water to stop the road’s thirst. She did not offer them food to end the road’s hunger. For they were only human and she was an ogress of Rajgir. For her to hear their request instead of eating them outright was enough (though their blood was old and sour and held little appeal to her).

The elders asked her to stop stealing the children from the villages for they needed their children. The elders pleaded for her to stop taking the children from their villages for they needed their children to help them in the field. The elders begged her to stop stealing the children from their homes for they needed their children to help clean their houses. The elders entreated for her to stop taking the children from their homes for they needed their children to help them when they grew old.

The ogress Hariti heard their petition. From the morning sunrise to evening sunset she listened to their petition. When the elders were through talking, she laughed and sent them back home.

And that night she stole another human child to feed her young, for she loved her offspring and doted on them.

So things continued as they had been until such time as they no longer did.

In a village, close and not too far from where Hariti lived with her five hundred children, the Buddha reached enlightenment. Many traveled from the far reaches of the world to hear the Eightfold Path. From the Winding River of the West to the Great Sea of the East, people traveled to hear the wisdom of the Buddha. From the Ice Mountains of the North to the Burning Sands of the South, peopled traveled to learn the kindness of the Buddha. And those that traveled from River and Sea, from Mountains and Sand returned home. Every man and every woman returned to their villages from all around the world with stories of his wisdom and kindness.

Even Hariti heard the stories, but she cared little about the news, for kindness is not the way of an ogress. Instead of seeking out the Buddha, Hariti continued to steal children from her human neighbors for her young, for she loved her five hundred sons and daughters and doted on them.

So things continued as they had been until such time as they no longer did.

And when the humans in all the villages of all the world learned about the Buddha and his ways, they spoke among themselves. Maybe this man, full of wisdom and kindness, will know how to save their children. Maybe the Buddha could succeed where the elders of all the villages of all the world could not. Maybe the Teacher could fashion a change in the ogress.

Therefore each village in the world picked a new elder to go speak with the Buddha. A new elder needed to be chosen because much time had passed since the elders of all the villages of all the world had gone to petition Hariti in her house where she lived with her five hundred children. Many plantings had been planted and many harvests had been harvested. Unlike the ogress, the elders were only human and many had died.

Once the new elders had been picked they went with their petition to the Buddha. When the elders of all the villages of all the world arrived, the Buddha rinsed their feet clean of the road’s dust. He drew water from a well to stop the road’s thirst. And he took rice from his own rice bowl to end the road’s hunger. For they were only human and deserved kindness as every living thing does.

And once he knew they were rested, he took them to his favorite place under the pomegranate tree and listened to their request. From morning sunrise to evening sunset he listed to their petition. The elders of all the villages of all the world explained how the great ogress Hariti took their children to feed her brood of five hundred young. The elders of all the villages of all the world shared how night after night the powerful ogress Hariti stole into their homes and took their children and gave their blood to her monstrous young for only the sweetest, richest, and reddest blood was good enough for the rakshasa spawn. The elders of all the villages of all the world spoke how they missed their children and wept and gnashed their teeth every night, knowing the terrible ogress Hariti had eaten their children.

And when the elders of all the villages of all the world finished speaking the Buddha thought. For a night and a day and night again he thought on their request. And when he had thought long enough, he said he would talk to the great ogress Hariti, then he sent the elders of all the villages of all the world back to their homes. As soon as they had left, the Buddha picked up his rice bowl and went to the ogress’ home.

For things could not continue as they had been. It was time they no longer did.

Since the Buddha lived in a village close and not too far from where Hariti the ogress lived with her five hundred children, the journey only took from the time of first planting until first harvest. When he arrived, the Buddha’s feet were dusty, but not too dusty, and his ankles were muddy, but not too muddy. When he arrived, the ogress let the Buddha come into her home.

She did not offer to clean his feet of the road’s dust. She did not offer him water to stop the road’s thirst. She did not offer him food to end the road’s hunger. For even the Buddha was only human and she was an ogress of Rajgir, and kindness is not the way of an ogress.

So the Buddha sat and talked to the great ogress Hariti in her house while her five hundred children played around them. He asked after her largest who stood taller than the tallest cypress and the smallest who could fit inside a snail’s shell. And Hariti the powerful ogress spoke about her children for she loved them and doted on them. The Buddha marveled at the fiercest, whose roar shattered stones, to the most cunning, who could talk a thirsty man out of water. And Hariti, the terrible ogress responded for she loved her children and doted on them all. From the morning sunrise to the evening sunset the Buddha talked with Hariti about her children, from the strongest, who could pick up a river and move its bed, to the weakest, whose fingers dance on the back of your neck at night.

And as the sun set, the Buddha thanked her for her hospitality, although she had shown none other than letting the Buddha, who was only human, to sit in her presence. And once he thanked her, he stood, picked up his rice bowl carefully, and left, starting the journey back to his home, which was close and not too far from where the Hariti had her house with her five hundred children.

For the journey, she did not offer him new sandals for the road’s dust. She did not offer him water for the road’s thirst. And she did not pack him any food to end the road’s hunger. For while he was the Buddha, wise and kind, and Hariti knew his journey would take him until the second harvest before being completed, she was an ogress and kindness was not her way. That night, even after speaking from morning sunrise to evening sunset with the Buddha, she took three steps to a village and stole another human child to feed her young, for she loved her offspring and doted on them.

But when she had returned home, one of her children was missing. The powerful ogress Hariti went through her house and counted her five hundred children and one remained missing. She brought them all outside from the strongest, who could pick up a river and move its bed, to the weakest, whose fingers dance on the back of your neck at night. She counted them one by one, from at the fiercest, whose roar shattered stones, to the most cunning, who could talk a thirsty man out of water. And she checked again from the largest who stood taller than the tallest cypress to the second smallest who could fit inside an almond shell. And still her smallest child remained missing.

She cried from the pain of her missing child and went frantically looking for her missing son. From the Winding River of the West to the Great Sea of the East, she ran hunting for her smallest child. From the Ice Mountains of the North to the Burning Sands of the South, she jumped searching for her littlest son.

Sun, wind, thorn, sand flea, mud, and dust fled from her path as she searched the world for her child.

The humans in all the villages in all the world did nothing to help her in her search, and she did not ask them, for they were only human. Fear shook the men. Fear held the women still. Fear made the children scream when they saw her. Fear kept the elders silent. For Hariti was a terrible ogress, and they feared her.

When she had finished searching the world over, from the Winding River of the West to the Great Sea of the East, and from the Ice Mountains of the North to the Burning Sands of the South, Hariti returned to the house where she lived with her five hundred children and counted them again. Maybe the smallest of her children, who could fit inside a snail’s shell, had come home while she had searched.

So she counted her children and counted them again. For there were a lot of children and they kept moving; sometimes counting could go wrong. But the count remained the same. Still she could not find her youngest.

Then Hariti remembered the Buddha who had visited her. He was wise and kind, even though he was only human, maybe he would know what happened to her child. She made the journey to his home in a single step, for the Buddha lived close and not too far from the house where Hariti and her five hundred children lived.

When the powerful ogress arrived at the Buddha’s home, the Buddha rinsed her feet clean of the road’s dust. He drew water from a well to offer to her to stop the road’s thirst. And he placed rice in a second rice bowl to give to her to end the road’s hunger. For though she was a terrible ogress, she was a living thing and every living thing deserves kindness.

And when she had rested, he took her to his favorite place under the pomegranate tree and listened to her petition. Hariti told him of her counting and recounting of her children. She reported to him of searching from the Winding River of the West to the Great Sea of the East. She spoke about going through all villages in all the world from the Ice Mountains of the North to the Burning Sands of the South, hunting for her missing child. From morning sunrise to evening sunset she told him of her worry and pain. She petition him of how he must help her because no parent should feel what she felt right now.

And the Buddha listened and when the powerful ogress had finished speaking the Buddha thought. For a night and a day and night again he thought on her report. And when he had thought long enough, he asked her if she thought the humans felt like she did now when they found their children missing.

Contrite, she replied to the Buddha that the humans must indeed feel what she did right now.

The Buddha pointed out she had five hundred children where human parents did not have as many, so to have a child missing among so few must be even more painful.

Hariti agreed the suffering of human parents must be many times greater than hers when they discovered a missing child because they had so few children.

The Buddha stood a moment and picked a pomegranates from the tree and sat down again in his favorite place under the pomegranate tree. Hariti waited for him to say more, but he just smiled and opened the pomegranate, placing one sweet seed into his rice bowl and passed his own rice bowl to the ogress.

When she looked within she found the smallest of her children, so small he could fit inside a snail’s shell, eating the pomegranate seed. The terrible ogress cried out in relief to see her child safe.

Realizing that the human parents would never feel this relief for their missing children because the one which took them could never return them, Hariti vowed to protect all children but wondered how she would feed her five hundred children because they needed blood, sweet, rich, and red. The Buddha passed her the open pomegranate and asked her if the fruit would suffice. Upon tasting the fruit, the ogress was amazed at how sweet and rich and red the fruit was. Even better than the blood of human children. She agreed the pomegranate, one of the three blessed fruits, would more than suffice.

Thus the world as it is today knows Hariti the ogress in her role of the protector of children and women in childbirth. Her relationship with the Buddha developed and he gave her a Bodhi to withstand black magic and evil powers. He taught her how to cure the sick before he left this world. To this day you might go to her temples, but remember to bring a pomegranate with you in offering for she still has five hundred children to feed.

(words 2,837 – first published 5/29/2016)

Flash: If you love me …

Photo: Running Faucet

Image courtesy of Idea go at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Rating: Mature (Language)

Kassandra kept her back to the whiny drone of her boyfriend, digging her hands deeper into the suds. Finally the line “If you loved me, you would …” pushed her over the edge into interrupting his self-serving pleading.

“Stop! Just stop the fuck right there.” She said shaking the bubbles from her hands into the sink before grabbing the towel.

She turned around to see Dewayne’s startled expression. At least he had stopped talking.

“Do you know the last I heard that line ‘If you loved me’?” Kassandra asked as she threw the towel aside. “Two hours ago … at the grocery store. You son tried to pull that on me to give him candy. No way was I going to deal with him on a sugar high right before bed. He threw himself on the ground in a tantrum after I said no – should I expect that next?”

Dewayne’s handsome face twisted in anger. He was model beautiful, although he was beginning to run towards fat. “You don’t fucking love me!”

Kassandra rolled her eyes. “Damn, how did I know that was the next thing you were going to say? It’s déjà vu.” She muttered to the heavens as she went into their bedroom and grabbed Dewayne’s backpack. “At least Terrell comes by it honestly.” She started grabbing his clothes from the floor and shoving it in the bag.

Following her into the bedroom, Dewayne asked, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Doing what I should have done years ago,” Kassandra explained, “kicking you the fuck out.”

She shoved the backpack into his chest. She was relieved when his arms circled around it. He had never hit her, but she had never kicked him out before. Immediately she went for her purse and cell phone.

“Now leave.”  She said as she started to dial with one hand while using the other hand to push him towards the front door of the apartment.

Always one to have the last word, Dewayne yelled, “I hate you.” as he went down the apartment stairs. Several other curses and mostly inaccurate descriptions about her sexual habits continued until the apartment’s foyer door slammed shut.

Hearing the other end answer, Kassandra closed the door and leaned on it. “Yes, Mr. Nguyen. Could you come by and change the locks on my door?”

“I’lll be right up.” Kassandra heard the click as her landlord disconnected.

(words 400 – first publication 1/23/2013)


THE FLASH WHICH INSPIRED HONESTLY

Find out what happens next in the book

(click on the cover below to be taken to the Amazon page)

Honestly Cover - Small Size

Flash: Light It Up

Photo: Man in rumpled suit

Image courtesy of photostock at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Rating: Mature

Trey Warden came from old money. His hundred-dollar haircuts and thousand-dollar suits always looked stunning, and overdone for the bureaucratic agency he and Angela worked at. Those brave enough to pin him down had passed to the rumor mill he felt an obligation to give back to the society that help his family for so long.

Angela tolerated him only because his solution was never just to toss his money at the problem, but really solve the issue. Emergency planning didn’t need money, it needed strategy and tactics – both of which Trey had in abundance … when he deemed to come into work.

Yesterday, with a rare blizzard about to hit and the Queen’s City to prepare, he had graced them with his presence. That was twenty-two hours ago and God knows how many coffees. He lost his tie somewhere yesterday afternoon and the shirt came untucked after the cold pizza was finally consumed.

They had ordered the mushroom and onion pizza while putting final touches on the indigent housing; it arrived when one of the shelters where they were going to put hundreds of homeless burned to the ground. Around midnight they remembered their dinner.

Now as dawn broke, Angela looked out the window of the board room to see the first of the flakes flying by. “You can go home if you want.” She said. Her voice creaked with exhaustion.

Taking off a jacket worth more than a year of his token hourly pay, “No, some of us need to stay here.” He placed the jacket on the back of the chair beside her and sat down.

Her head dipped up and down, maybe in a nod, maybe in nodding off. “Just, you, me and the dozen of others sleeping in the cafeteria.” She had sent the single parents home once everything was back in order from the last minute emergency. The balance of her staff would man phones, help the department of transportation, and keep the plan moving for the next two days. Thank goodness the blizzard was polite enough to hit on a weekend, so no schools were in the mix.

Spinning the thin leather-like chair so he faced her, he commented. “You could catch some z’es in the waiting room.”

Angela grimaced, “Have you tried those seats? Besides, it doesn’t matter, I am light activated. I will be getting my second wind soon. You?”

“I am emergency activated.” His black eyes danced. “I won’t need to sleep for several days.”

Her mocha eyebrows met as she tried to process that piece of information. “Ex-military?”

He shook his head. The man was a miser about his past, and Angela’s review of his HR jacket didn’t come with any juicy bits. Not like the juicy bits of his muscles bunching and loosening as he stretched beside her. Technically she was his supervisor, but she was not in charge of his reviews or his continuing employment. He was hired at the mayor’s request five years ago, and she wasn’t certain anyone had the power or daring to fire him. She had no clue how far in he was with the present mayor.

“So what do we do now?” he asked. His long legs remained stretch across her egress and she could feel heat radiate through the expensive fabric. For a moment she fought the urge to stretch her legs underneath the bridge he had created, then she gave up. No real reason not to go with the flow. The red rays of dawn filled the room rejuvenating her.

“The press releases are delivered. I’ve already prepped the mayor and Jerome to be talking heads for the morning shows. The sand trucks are running, and the E Team is working the streets to get everyone into shelters.” She thought a moment as she moved her legs up a little until they were skimming the bottom of his trousers. “Did we touch base with the oil and electric utilities?”

“At six, ten, two and six again.” Trey responded same business tone she had been using. But his mouth tilted in a half smile. His coal black eyes lit with embers, meeting hers. He causally sat a little more upright in the board room chair, bringing his legs in solid contact with hers. “Is that it?”

“About everything that needs to be done for the next hour or two except bring the generator online now that the wind has started. Kassandra is covering the phones.”

His smile widened and slid his legs down hers before leveraging himself out of the chair. “Well then, off to the basement to light things up.” He offered her his hand to help her stand.

Angela felt the moisture begin to pool between her legs as she took his hand. God, this is just what she needed to get through the next two days. She hoped Trey wouldn’t be whiny about it afterwards.

She glanced over her shoulder as they entered the stairwell. He was watching her ass with abandonment. Nope, the man was not the whiny type. Rich and privileged, but also competent and strong. And definitely all male. Her breasts tightened in anticipation.

(862 words – originally appearing in Sunday Fun on Breathless Press 11/14/2012)


Kassandra, mentioned in passing in this flash, went on to have
her own story in “If You Love Me…” on January 23, 2013.

And then that flash expanded into my first book

(Click on the cover below to be taken to the Amazon page)

Honestly Cover - Small Size