Tag: Historical

Flash: Harvest Time

Erin Penn

Photo by Tikkho Maciel on Unsplash.com

Photo by Tikkho Maciel on Unsplash

I pen these words, looking out the window at October’s cold landscape. Though the wind does not carry threat of snow or ice, the leaves on the trees have turned dozens of colors and the forest looks like it is on fire. Walnuts and acorns are falling like raindrops and our late-season almonds are ready for their trees to be shaken one last time before we send our young novices climbing.

I spent the day in the dairy while others of my order are scatted throughout our farm and helping the serfs in the nearby village. The spring-born calves are just about weaned (the kid goats long detached from their dams), therefore the last bitter milk is being turned into hard cheese for the long winter. It doesn’t matter if winter stays for a single month, like it does for our sisters in the south, or five, as the chilly abbey I transferred from experiences; time without plentiful food is always long. And only God knows if next summer will come for certain.

Meat has become plentiful for a short time as cattle are slaughtered to match the surviving herd to the hay and grain we must miser for them through the winter. Tomorrow, my turn at the cauldron will be the even more loathsome stench of lard preparation; boiling milk for cheese is more pleasant in the spring. If I could but wave a hand for one task to be done, changing fat to lamp and cooking oil, grease, candles, and soaps would be my choice. The scent clings through the night interfering with my prayers.

I would vastly preferred to be helping with the fruits. The apples are being prepared dozens of ways for the winter – stored in sawdust for whole fruit, cut into slivers and set in the sun or by the fire to dry, and, the abbess’ favorite, adding chunks to last year’s wines. But no farming task is without its portion of Adam’s curse. Blackberries need to be picked off the bushes with bleeding fingers; berries and bramble thorns are inseparable by God’s design.

I will tend to my stirring without a word of complaint passing my lips. Sister Cecilia provides a squash mash in the morning which carries us from dawn to dusk in the harvesting. Empty bellies will come soon enough, and our chores, Lord willing, should keep those days few.

Those more skilled than me in gardening have trimmed back the herbs and hung the trimmings in the rafters to dry. I will need to confess when the brother visits, and I write my shame here so I do not forget. The kitchen sisters stripped the plentiful mint leaves from their stems and left them in bowls to make tea leaves. I did grab a handful of mint leaves to chew and keep my mouth moist while stirring over the fire.

A few more days and I shall return to my primary duties in the scriptorium, and I think everyone will be happier. Even the novices who have been running the leaks, garlics, onions, and many of their relatives into the primary root cellar step wide around me the last few days. I am not suited for kitchen or gardening duties; let others work God’s creation and allow me to paint it.

Ah, full dark and the dinner chime has sounded. Tonight’s meal is beef cooked in beer with some mushrooms and other harvest Sister Cecilia saved for larder instead of storage. Beer for the drink as well; we are not drunkards in the convent. Those barrels need to be emptied by the end of the week because winter mash must be started. It is a task set to the entire convent, a welcomed one at the end of the hard harvest days.

(words 632 – first published 10/15/2017)

Flash: Stone Circle Clearing

Erin Penn

Image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Rating: Mature

Another rustle a little further from camp drew Lucius attention. The small Roman scouting party was deep in the unknown lands of this island and he had drawn the second night shift. He squinted through the fog trying to make out the forms deeper in the woods. They had camped on the edge of a forest in the younger trees. Evidentially, the village did not need as much farming land as it did about nine years ago, based on the size of the trees.

The hamlet had made no notice of their arrival, and likely would be a quick conquest once his group reported all they found to the Ferrata Legate. But the woods disturb him. He moved closer to investigate and winced as the armor straps bit into him and the plates clanked together. The rustle moved rapidly away.

Enough.

He grew up herding goats and knew how to move quietly to get in position to kill predators.  He unbuckled the compressing leather. The straps had stretched out in the warmth of the day during their swift march; nightfall had brought the cold and the weird fog. He had seen fog drift across water before, but never rise from the forest floor.

He quietly laid the cold iron aside just outside of camp and muttered a prayer to Mars to keep the Decanus asleep until he had finished his investigation. Being out of armor while awake included many punishments, the least being a reduction in salt. Laying a hand on his broadsword’s sheath to control its movement, Lucius melted into the older growth.

The full moon acted as daylight in the area the forest was reclaiming, but the full branches in this area blocked all but the most persistent light. Even so Lucius was able to place his sandals silently as he followed where he thought the rustle lead. A curious child from the village, or finally a warrior in this timid realm? A silver flash reflected off of cloth passing between the shadows to his right.

Within moments, the solider came into a clearing made by a fallen ancient. He walked around the exposed boulders surrounding the moonlight area. The moss-covered deadwood was taller than his short stature and blocked his view from the other side, but for the first time he heard music. A lute perhaps.

Staying in shadows he made his way around until he saw the two most shapely women he had ever seen. Stunned, he forgot to watch his step and last year’s leaves gave him away. They turned as one towards him. Somehow the haze cleared from his eyes and he clearly saw their faces matched their beautiful shapes and they were wearing traditional Egyptian outfits. Their full breasts fully exposed above flowing gauze.

“Come.” The black haired one invited. Then modesty made her bite her bottom lips for so bold a request. The blonde quickly glanced at the other and then nodded.  Turning her emerald eyes back to him, the blonde offered out a hand. “Yes, please come.”

Lucius didn’t even remember crossing to them. He just grasped the pale hand and pulled the blonde against his body and erection. His leather skirt was left with the armor, so the woman should easily feel his lust through the linen shirt and subligaculum.  As the woman pressed herself more firmly against him, the Roman gave silent thanks to Bacchus and crushed her centurion scarlet mouth with in a ravaging kiss.

Behind him the raven hair beauty stroked his back and commented in Latin accented from his home village. “Do I not get a turn?”

Somewhere his mind whimpered warning as he twisted his head around. The second set of lips met his as his thumbs traced the first female’s nipples. The two drew him down to the forest floor.

His ears felt the sweet female breath. “You must be hungry. Would you like something to eat?”

Lucius blinked and saw the women had come into the woods to have a picnic. But not just a simple country meal … before him was spread delicacies that rivaled Ceasar’s table.

“In a moment my lovely” he said as he lifted the gauze from the brunette’s ass. Her sapphire eyes glanced over her shoulders as he mounted her. Her hiss of pleasure was all he could ask for. As he felt cock get squeezed by the pale ass he was penetrating, the blonde kneeled in front of her companion and laid a lark’s tongue across each of her nipples.

Sex and food, what more could a solider want? He leaned forward, going deeper into the woman underneath him and sucked the morsels from blonde’s breasts.

The Ferrata Legio never found what happened to their scouting party in Hibernia. And somehow they never managed to conquer the Isle. It was as if the very spirits of the land worked against them.

 (814 words – originally appearing in Sunday Fun for Breathless Press on 11/11/12; republished new blog format 8/27/2017)

Related story: Captivated

Flash: Evendalson’s Cave

Erin Penn

Stock Art Winter parka

Photo by Talgat Baizrahmanov on Unsplash 
(Cropped and color adjusted by Erin Penn)

Old Man Winter sat heavy on Evendalson’s shoulders as he stared into the dark cave. If he stayed outside, he would surely die a quiet death. Already his limbs felt as cold and heavy as the grave. But the cave was sacred to the local fae, may they sleep well into spring. He knew little of its holiness; parents only taught children to stay away from certain sites within a day’s walk of the village.

With four moons until his name day, Evendalson’s was adult enough to bite back the curse rising from his gut as he debated what form of death to embrace. His mother had little choice in accepting Greger’s proposal since Evendal’s brothers had not extended arms to their brother’s widow.  A proud warrior, Greger was willing to take on the cost of a woman and her two daughters, but shunned accepting a boy with someone else’s name.

For a full moon Evendalson had survived being outcast, but winter gusts promised further ice and blind snow. His bed of leaves and sticks stopped holding heat days ago.

The wind ripped his fur-lined hood from his head, driving crystals hard into his face. Determination to survive goaded the young man into the cave. He grabbed the unbraided blond hair the Dod-vind had tried to steal, tucked it under the cloak, and pulled the hood back up. Outside the wind spirits howled at the loss of heated prey.

But the Dod-vind stayed the other side of the threshold. The still air of the cave held no warmth, but took none either.

“Blessing upon the fae and faekyn,” beseeched Evendalson as he continued away from the entrance. He smelled moisture and needed some badly. The creek had frozen over days ago. Melting snow with his hands traded thirst for cold; a trade he made for two mornings but dared not make at night.

A breeze bearing water instead of spirits guided him further in, aiding him in choosing splits and turns once darkness had swallowed all. The dark pressed on his eyes. Strangely the rocks Evendalson expected to trip him never reached out. No injury sought him; though maneuvering through the black wrought its own exhaustive wound.

After untold time, water clung to his face and hood.  Earthen soil below the hoarfrost allotted the air warm. Evendalson pushed the hood back and removed the two-finger mittens from his hands. He tucked them into his belt for safe keeping. His youngest sister, Hanne-grandottir, had knitted them in a red so bright the color hurt the eye even after several washings. Agnete-dottir’s socks were equally treasured through the cold days of his outcast, though their green often dyed his feet.

With the hood removed, trickling water could be heard. The walls were still dry under his fingers, but Evendalson knew he would find true water soon. He wiped the sweat from his face.

The dark grew even more complete, to the point Evendalson swore he saw light. Deeper he went until he discovered the light was not false. Eventually he made out a turn where the glow seemed as if firelight dancing in a doorway.

He firmly pushed back the urge to run. He was in a fae place. Despite his thirst and a desperate need for light after blackness had tried to steal his eyes’ memories of the sun, he approached the turn carefully.

(words 563 – originally appearing at Sunday Fun on Breathless Press 1/6/2013 – I do not know the copyright of the photo which inspired the story, so I did not copy it.; published on the old blog on 1/6/2013; republished new blog format 5/14/2017)

 

Flash: Love on the Line

Erin Penn

A gay couple dancing at the Chelsea Arts New Year’s Eve Bal

A gay couple dancing at the Chelsea Arts New Year’s Eve Ball. Photograph by Tony Linck. London, January 1947

Fran dragged Leslie onto the dance floor for the Chelsea Ball. It worked despite Leslie being taller, stronger and having a military background for two reasons. One, Leslie was overwhelmed by being in the middle of all the money, fame and demented people that showed up every year for the artist gentleman’s club New Year’s Eve Party, and, secondly, Leslie was not letting go of his hand. He was on shore for the holidays and did not want to miss a second with Fran.

Fran curled into his lover’s arms, ignoring the stares. Enough of the artists had brought their lovers to the party that one more gay couple did not matter. The stares were for Leslie being a sailor. Some artists were anti-military, but the majority of London still remembered the sirens. Only a year had passed since the war ended. Most were staring because they were trying to figure out a way to approach Leslie to thank him for serving.

Unconsciously Fran clenched Leslie’s hand tighter. They had met during training, but Fran’s family money had gotten him an officer position on shore and a quick muster out after serving his time. Leslie’s more plebeian descent had him on the front for over five years. Fran did not want to remember how often he nearly lost the love of his life. Ships were safer than ground pounding, but it also meant everyone died on the same bullet instead of an individual.

One more tour and they could be together forever.

Fran hoped that Leslie’s flamboyant style will allow him to overcome the status differences. Fran cared less about his personal wealth, but sometimes, like tonight, Leslie was clearly intimidated. The duke, whose title allowed him to disregard certain social requirements such as introductions, did express his gratitude to Leslie and had left his lover speechless.

The artist part of Fran’s mind started thinking about how to capture both an ostentatious and terrified attitude in one painting. On first pass, they do not seem to go together, but anyone who has been on the front could tell you both the sheer terror and the pure courage needed to be there.

***

Leslie guided Fran off the dance floor towards the bar when the song ended. He recognized the look that had seized Fran’s face. They would need to get home soon to Fran’s paints.

Leslie squashed the green monster from long habit when jealousy tried to sneak in. He only had two more days before pulling out and he had nearly ten days of Fran’s undivided attention. When he got back next time, he would need to decide if he could live as the second love of Fran’s life.

(words 449 – I believe the copyright on the photo is expired. If anyone knows that the copyright is different than public domain, please inform me – first published 12/30/2012; republished new blog format 12/11/2016)

Flash: Head Bowed

Erin Penn

Young Male Stock Photo

Image Courtesy of photostock at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Icy sweat dripped down Vincente’s spine as he waited, head bowed before Ubel. He prayed the overlord would extend his left hand so Vincente could kiss the ruby thumb ring.

In public, everyone said Ubel was strict but fair. In places where whispers will not be repeated, Vincente had been told Ubel destroyed all who crossed or disappointed him.

The stone floor stole away heat from Vincente’s knee, where it braced him before the steps leading to the throne. He kept his eyes trained on the hem of Ubel’s black fur mantle. The supplicant could feel Ubel’s eyes bore into his back. The bastard’s fingertips no doubt were steepled as he considered Vincente’s report. How often had he seen others in this exact position and laughed internally at their foolishness, seeking mercy from someone with none?

He never mocked them, like some of the court did. Ubel tolerated no other assuming his power. Only he granted life or death, kindness or abuse.

At long last, the cloth in front of him shifted. He felt Ubel’s hand rest gently on his head. Vincente started to raise his head and hands so he could grasp his salvation, when his head was shove so hard it continued until it met the stone steps.

Before he could recover, Vincente felt a nailed boot pressing down between his shoulders. Standing facing his audience, grinding the cleats deep into Vincente’s back, Ubel asked, “What shall I do with this dog?”

(words 244- first published 4/14/2013; republished new blog format 7/10/2016)