Sparks - Flash Fiction Day 2015

One

They never could guess how he'd done it- only that he must have been frightfully angry, to slip the ring around her neck instead of her finger.



Two

Mary Beth was special. From the day she was born, she never cooed or cried or burbled. There were no sounds typical of infants. Yet, she managed to wake her parents frequently.

Somehow, whenever the child opened her mouth, music came bursting forth.

It wasn't singing. Oh, no! Mary Beth was too young for that. Instead, a jumble of lullabies and her mother's favorite 80's tunes assaulted the Johnson household. Doctors were baffled. Mary beth's father shot her mother an accusing look.

"Well," the woman said sheepishly. "All the books said listening to music would stimulate her."  

It continued as Mary Beth grew. She learned to communicate in song. Marching band booms when she  mastered a chore- like using the big girl potty, Beethoven's symphonies while she doodled in her sketchbook, Taylor Swift when a crush refused her valentine card...

Her parents loved her through it all.

Mary Beth's mother, poor soul, only showed real signs of anxiety during the goth phase. Dark clothing and makeup she could have lived with. Brooding silence was a blessing.

Still, when backtalk was replaced with screeches of heavy metal, peace was hard to come by.



Three

John had been jumpy since breakfast. He couldn't speak until he swallowed the frog in his throat.

"Bad idea," he gasped. Then he croaked.



Four

There was a crooked man who walked two crooked miles. The chiropractor met with him and looked over his files.

"Your spine is rather twisted. Can you afford my fee?"

Said Crooked, "All I have is yours, if you will straighten me."

There was an upright man who led an upright life. He worked his way from nothing and found an upright wife.

The chiropractor's work gained him fortune and much fame.

Too bad living with those crooked things drove him quite insane.



Five

When I said you were my world, I lied; you were the force keeping me grounded.

I still exist.

So does everything else.

It's just that, without you, none of it has any weight.



Six

Distraction (noun): rinsing the water from your hands.



Seven

After a long day of terrorizing nearby villages and extorting their inhabitants, Big Cheese sagged into his easy chair. He practically melted into it. So what if he liked to spend his evenings lazing about? It was hard work leading an evil organization.

The doorbell rang and jarred him from his reverie. He grumbled, then straightened his tie and went to answer it like a respectable villain.

When the door opened, it revealed a girl in an uninspiring costume.

He sighed. "What do you want?"

"Oh, ah, hello." She adjusted her bulky utility belt, looking self-conscious. "Is this the home of Mr. Big Cheese?"

"It is."

"And are you the head nacho himself?"

"What?" He blinked. "Well yes, I suppose you could call me that."

"Great." She grinned and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm your newest neighbor, and the town's newest hero. You can call me The Pun-isher."

"...Don't you mean, The Punisher?"

"I know what I said." She stepped back, and the friendly expression dropped. "Sorry to say, but I'm going to have to vanquish you now. I heard about how you've been milking these poor people for all they're worth."

Her pigtails flounced when she tilted her head. "And I thought, 'Cheeze wiz! Someone has to put that guy out to pasteur.' No whey am I going to stand for this, y'know?"

The Big Cheese felt a headache coming on and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dairy we- Very well, then. How do you think you're going to do that?"

There was a click, then a can opener and some scissors were being waved at his face.

"With this Swiss army knife."

Big Cheese stared, then broke into a fit of laughter. "Foolish girl. My family is responsible for inventing that trinket! Do you think I don't know how to defend myself against one?"

"Oh. I guess that's true." The Pun-isher tucked it back into her belt. "Give me a second to get ready, would you?"

He leaned on the door frame, amused.

First she reached behind her back and untied a pole she'd been carrying. Crouching, she laid it straight and reached into one of her pouches. A large, metal chunk with holes was next to come out. It was followed by some twine, which she used to bind the first two items.

Big Cheese glanced at his watch. "And what, pray tell, are you trying to do?"

"Isn't it obvious?" She raised an eyebrow first, then she raised her weapon. "I'm mounting my grate offense."

He tried to run, but she wedged herself in his path. She attacked without mercy, until he was Parme-gone.



Eight

The reporter rubbed her eyes, glanced at the press release, and sighed. One more story to type up before she could go home.

In other news, the Crafty Drafters Development Company has announced its next big project. A crew will be rolling through the country, filling any and all plot holes in its way. Special attention was paid to the mixture they'll be using, so consistency won't be an issue.

She adjusted her glasses. "Well hey, this sounds cool."

The Crafty Drafters believe this will benefit writer and reader-kind alike. To prevent unnecessary flaming, however, the crew has been tasked with burying all trace of the plot holes. By the end, no one will remember the holes existed in the first place.

The reporter reread that last sentence, brow furrowing. "Wait. If no one will remember the holes, how are they going to remember this project? Won't publishing this create a new set of problems, or-"

RRRrrrrummMMBUuuuulllllrrruuURRRmmMbbbullllRRRRRMMMMB-

She stuffed the press release in the paper shredder and ran.



Nine

His frigid demeanor couldn't keep her at bay. She had a steam-powered heart.



Ten

Every night, Clarice lulled Princess Xeshooni to sleep. She didn't particularly care about how the little slime ball slept, but the laser spears the guards kept brandishing made a convincing point.

She couldn't understand a word these creatures said- if, in fact, they were using words. All she could construe was that she had been captured for her calming sounds. If she didn't provide them, the creatures would get angry. If the creatures got angry, she would find out what had happened to the former soothe-singers.

The worst part, though, was the feeling she did know what happened. For when she curled into bed at night, someone always sang Clarice a lullaby in her own language.

Though the days grow tired and worn, don't you cry, Dear. Don't you cry.

It was a soft, spectral voice. One that had no owner.

Fragile things are often torn. Don't you cry here. Don't you cry.

She appreciated the warning, but she hated the song. Still, when she ran out of her own melodies, Clarice would borrow it. She had to be brave. No Tears.

No tears.

Don't you cry here. Don't you...



Eleven

The lashes bit deep into his back. They stretched raw and red from his shoulder to his waist, criss-crossing their way down.

He tried to smile when the others saw. "It's okay. You got me out in time, and that's what matters. A leopard can't change its spots, and a prisoner can't change his stripes. Right? No use crying over it now."

One of them stepped forward, sorrow brimming in gray eyes. "If we can't change them, let us heal them."

He flinched when a cloth was pressed over his skin. It was cold and damp. So why did he feel like he was burning?



Twelve

The Evil Organization Committee was in shambles.

Acting president Doctor Dark banged his fist on the table. "Silence!" he demanded. "We can't lose our heads; we've got reputations to uphold! The Pun-isher will be defeated."

A roomful of blank faces turned to him. Slowly, a hand rose above the crowd. "How?"

"We'll send one of our best," said the bad doctor. "What about Balloon Man?"

"She deflated his ego."

"Okay, then what about the Conniving Cook?"

"He's been served."

Murmurs were starting to pick up again, creating an undercurrent of panic. Doctor Dark massaged his temples. He stopped a second later, his eyes shifting toward where he'd seen that hand. Waitaminute.

"And what of Charlie Hoarse?" he asked hopefully.  

Someone stifled a giggle. "His rein of terror has been brought to a halter."

"AHA!" Doctor Dark leaped onto the table and thrust a finger toward the speaker. "Ladies and gentlemonsters, we need look no further. The Pun-isher is here in our midst!"

The girl stiffened as as everyone turned to look. "Hi there," she said weakly. "Um, you see... I don't know why you're listening to that guy. He's obviously a shadow of his former self."

They turned back to Doctor Dark, who groaned. "Just get her already."



Thirteen

Murphy Law was born unlucky. He couldn't walk anywhere in his house without finding every Lego his baby sister had lost. He couldn't step outside without summoning rain. It was dreadful for his complexion, really, and rather depressing.

He could have whined about it, but Murphy preferred to focus on the positives. He was great with animals! Black cats adored him, so he never worried about vermin.

Even Mr. Schroedinger's cat was warming up to him. Today, he would teach it to play dead.



Fourteen

I once met a girl who was weathered by the world. She had storms in her eyes and a cloud tied 'round her neck.

She said, "I'm saving the sun for my beloved one." So she faded away when he passed in the wreck.



Fifteen

A pelican looked at his friend. "So, Bill. I could go for some frog legs. You in?"

The second bird shuddered. "How can you suggest something like that? You know what happened to John."



Sixteen

Joy (noun): the extra crinkle in your smile.



Seventeen

In his youth, he was brilliant. Crowds flocked to see the prodigy put brush to canvas. Within minutes, he would capture their clamorous excitement in all its breath-holding, tiptoe-standing beauty. Laughter meant more than applause.

He laughs to himself now, quietly, while his neighbors sit and watch him work. They don't mind that he's forgotten the paint again.



Eighteen

Oranges are God's gift to undertakers.

The bright, citrus smell chases the dust from your nose and the rot from the air. And when you bite into the juicy flesh, it keeps you from doing the same to your guests. So sweet and supple. They're more considerate than your guests have ever been.

If you didn't have your oranges, who knows? You may have gone nuts in a job like this.



Nineteen

Chains clinked against each other. The Pun-isher shook her bound wrists in frustration, then looked to Doctor Dark. "You can't throw me in that cell," she stated.

He gripped her shoulder more tightly, steering her toward the holding chamber. "Not falling for it."

"Because I'm seventeen. I'm too young to go to bars! ... Oh, you're not?" She frowned. "Golly. That sucks all the fun out of it."

"That's the idea."

They paused so he could fiddle with the security pad, and she scrutinized him. "I guess I'll have to rely on my trusty sidekick to save me."

The overworked overlord growled. "You don't have a sidekick."

"Sure I do," she said. "I just don't go around announcing it to everyone. Any second now, my sidekick is going to take you by surprise. You'll never see it coming."

Against his better judgment, he looked.

Twelve minutes later, he was being helped up by a pair of minions who had stayed clear. "If it's okay to ask," the shorter one ventured, "how did this happen? You had The Pun-isher disarmed, right?"

Doctor Dark refused to meet their eyes. He picked himself up gingerly, careful not to jostle his bruised kidney.

The taller one hesitated. "Boss?"

He winced. "She kicked me in the side. Really hard."



Twenty

When she jumps, the world topples around her. Endless blues and patchwork earth spin until she spreads her arms to steady herself. It's anything but steady, though, and the air makes her wobble as it tries to slow her descent.

This. This is life- the kiss of windburn on her cheeks and the happy shout stuck in her lungs.

Thousands of feet above the ground is where she belongs. It's lighter here than anything below, and she wishes she could stay. She wishes, though she knows it can't be.

Her fingers twitch as she falls, not quite ready to pull the string. The straps around her shoulders will be weighing her up any second. Not yet, not yet, not yet...

Let the landscape grow a bit larger. Please, just a little more.



Twenty-One

Grief (noun): that many-legged thing that chews its way out of your head, scuttles between your ribs and settles somewhere in the pit of your stomach.



Twenty-Two

Five minutes 'til midnight, and the writer smiles. Scrawled notes are swept from the desk, dripping with spilled tea or coffee or cocoa- whatever the last pick-me-up-now consisted of. They go 'plip' into the waste basket.  

It's all typed, all finished.

Fingers run through frazzled hair, and the writer exhales. "Five minutes 'til midnight. Ha. Who's the queen of procrastination now?"