Double-Click Flash Fic (2 page)

A rumble of thunder sounds in the distance, and, as I look out to the lake, I see a strange vision: a dark figure atop a horse rising out of the waters, the animal rending the lake surface asunder under its hooves in a display of fury and ferocity. The face of the horseman is a terror of black hair and lupine teeth as he races towards me. I drop the flower and turn to run, but he catches me and pulls me onto his steed. I am writhing with fear, the sound of my own screams and the neighs of the horse filling my ears. As the horseman turns back to the river, I see Luc running to us, yelling insults at my assailant and jumping to catch hold of my hand. I am still screaming, tears flowing down my cheeks, heart throbbing against my ribs. The horseman yanks me away from Luc’s grasp and grabs him by the hair.

“Luc! Percy!” Édith cries.

“Édith! Run for help,
vite!
” I call to her, but she is too frightened to move.

As the horse strides into the river, the horseman drags Luc beside him, then thrusts his head under the water. Luc struggles against the horseman’s hand, but soon stops resisting. His body goes limp. His head turns down. My eyes wide with horror, I weep for my beloved friend. The horseman lets out a roar of a laugh; the accursed flower is in his hand and he twists it into my hair. I am too weak with grief to resist him any longer. Slowly, we descend into the waters, and the last thing I see before losing consciousness is Luc’s face, his eyes an icy, piercing blue.

W
hen I finally gave in to my feelings, after he had courted and pampered me with such patience, I fell head over heels in love as if into a bottomless pit. Which is why, one day, I filched a photograph from his desk while he was in the other room. Later, when I was alone at home in my bedroom, I lay on the carpeted floor and held the photo in my hands level with my eyes. I looked at it intently. The photo was black and white. It showed him when he was younger, 20 maybe. He had a sweater on, he was outside, there was snow on the ground, and he was playing a guitar. I could play guitar. I was the same age now as he looked to be in the photo then.

In the photo, his lips were pursed and he was squinting a bit, caught mid-song with the sunlight hitting his face. His hair was longer, fluffed up and slicked back in a rockabilly style. His skin was smoother. The eyes that looked out from the photo were the same eyes that could make me melt with a single glance. He smouldered. I pressed the photo to my heart and closed my eyes. “Please, God,” I whispered, “let him be mine forever.” I made the request because lately I was feeling like he was slipping away from me. As if what he once saw in me were no longer there. I needed a mirror. I got up and stepped in front of the full-length mirror hanging on my bedroom door. I checked myself out. I was the same as always. But my eyes were shining too brightly. When night came, I fell asleep with unbearable impatience and longing. I couldn’t wait to see him again.

The following evening, we were in his bed. He held me close and I peered up at him, trying not to blink because I couldn’t stand not to see him. Slowly, a smile spread on his lips. Nuzzling my neck, he asked in Russian, “My little Roxana … do you want to hear a scary story?”

I smiled back. “Okay, Anton. Let’s hear it.”

He took my hand and began his story. “There once was a girl I knew, 19 years old, who had a heart as black as coal. My best friend, Vlad, dated her – he was my age. This girl’s family was not rich by any means, and neither was Vlad. It’s hard to be rich in perestroika Russia, I think I already told you that. But Vlad had an idea. He told his idea to this girl, and to me. Together, we made a plan. The girl convinced her father to take out a life insurance policy on himself. We took him out to a lake, and then … I got my cut for the part I played.”

When I didn’t say anything, he gave my hand a squeeze. “Scary, huh?”

I felt the blood draining from my face and extremities. A chill suffused my heart. I was silent for a long time.

Finally, he asked, “Did you like my horror story?”

“… No.”

“You hesitated to answer. Why?”

“It was scary.”

He chuckled. “Well, I told you it would be scary.” “I wasn’t expecting to hear that.”

“They never are …”

“Okay. It’s a lot to process.”

“Well, that’s just the way it is …” He paused. “Anyway, Roxana, what I want to tell you now is this. Listen closely.”

“I’m listening.”

“I know your Russian is not very good—”

“It’s good enough.”

“It is indeed. Now let me improve it even more. There is a sin in Russian, unique to the Russian Orthodox Church, called
kleveta.
It is when you drag someone’s name through the mud, when you say bad things about someone to other people, to
obschestvo,
to society. That’s two words you’ll learn today. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. You must never ruin the reputation of a man. You must never give people a reason to turn on someone.”

I simmered with emotion but didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to tell him. I didn’t know what to think.

He broke the silence again. “Roxana, I’ve had my say for now. Are you clear on what I meant?”

“I – I think so.”

“That’s my girl.” He took my hand and put it to his lips. I was numb and barely felt the kiss.

He confided in me. This brought us closer, just like I wanted. And I had known, or had some notion, some intuition that he was not an ordinary man, that he was a dangerous man. But after what he told me, or didn’t tell me … after what he left unsaid, I realized I couldn’t be with him anymore. Like youth, like childhood, my illusions faded away that day. I grew up that day. I finally saw, with blinding sight, how ill-advised my love for him was. The same evening, I slipped the photograph back in his desk and said goodbye forever. His voice haunts me still, after all these years. I kept his secret. I hope he kept all of mine.

H
ark! Thine fancy-free fires,

Crackle flesh down to the bones,

The flame ever-upward aspires,

Though cozy thou art ’midst the stones.

Scales, like fine teeth, shimmer blue,

An armour to match the white knight’s,

Shield and attack through and true,

Hold your own in any fight.

Fine meats run red with the juice,

Of succulent conquests, galore,

Though occasions appear to break loose,

Leaving you hungry for more.

There is something in you of nobility,

A glimmer beyond your ability.

I
sing the body mechanic

With gears and a switch in the heart

Soft tissue and sinew, electric

A hum and a hiss, push to start.

My song is a sweet revolution

Of human’s ascent to machine

Dark or bright, so may be the conclusion

As stomach gives way to the spleen.

It’s the end of the world, so they say

When the android kills off all of us

But while it’s far off we shall play

In the spaces where means meet the cause.

Bionic ears tell of hearsay

A ticking in lungs serves to prove

That, yes, we are so close to Doomsday

If not for the forces of love.

For love is the soul of the world

And the bright human spark lights the way

Robot and man shan’t be sold

But it’s the end of the world, so they say.

D
eep in the dark of the human mind

Many a treasure explorer might find

The collective unconscious binds us man-to-man

Geometry in chaos, or some divine plan?

Plumbing these depths and achieving loft heights

There may be an image serving strangely to fright

Monsters and demons, a rock on a hill

Casting on children a frightening chill

Out of these symbols and grammars anew

Bards and orators, though many are few

Tell tales of strong heroes who do conquer all

And sometimes a despot that Fortune makes fall

Maybe the world was made in a day

By Raven, a turtle, or some spirit fey

Maybe bright Good wins over Evil foul

And Christ’s redemption saves a poor soul

But all I have learned of a myth’s staying power

Is how to laugh, and write, and while away an hour.

R
eporting from the ship Lazarus II

Captain’s log, the year 3010

The time is 0300 hours, Orion Time

Give or take a second.

An anomaly pings on the screen

And I leave my seat to investigate.

My venture through the hull

Reveals nothing.

The crew sleeps.

Finnegan snores as before.

I am alone.

The ship hums.

Past the hydroponics station

I turn my gaze and the light

Diffuses into a dark emptiness

Where I hear a sound

Like the crinkling of paper.

I feel a cold hand on my throat.

The feeling stops, though my heart beats

Faster, 174 BPM, I think.

I blink my eyes, squeeze them shut

Open—

Then I see it.

The small ghost of someone I killed.

Standing before me.

A sad horror fills my thoughts.

I remember this.

The ghost remembers, too.

My eyes mist.

The ghost smiles

And melts into the metal of the ship.

T
here is a bird in Russian legend

Of fire-burning birth

Zhar-ptiza
is her name

Bird of heat, with flesh of meat

And a long blood-orange peacock’s tail

Showing her earthly roots.

Her glowing eyes

Look into the hero’s face

And bestow a blessing and a curse.

Our hero, proud blond-haired Ivan

Completes each fresh trial

Each battle harder than the last

To claim
Zhar-ptiza
as his prize

Sent on the journey by the Czar his father

A radiant feather

Caught in a bramble

His first clue.

Oh, the troubles Ivan goes to

What dragons, sorcerers he slays

The promise he made to his father

Keeps him as his horse gallops

To lands far and away and strange.

When at last the bird is in his arms

Ivan asks, “So this is what I’m looking for?

“For this, a bird electric,

“I nearly died many a time,

“Though you,
Zhar-ptiza,
live forever.

“Kind helpers on the way,

“Brought me and my horse to you,

“But I wonder, was it worth the risk?

“For you, bright birdy, are beauty magical,

“Yet I doubt you much.”

Zhar-ptiza
, nestled with a flutter

Looks into Ivan’s eyes

And with a voice sweet like sugar

Speaks:

“Dear Prince Ivan—

“I am no ordinary bird

“I glow with flames and sparks

“My feathers can keep you warm

“In cold taiga winters

“And the eggs that I lay

“Are Fabergé—”

She lets out a trilling laugh

Then continues:

“But my beak is sharp.”

Ivan looks down at the bird, puzzled.

He pulls down his cap over his ears with one hand

Cradling the Firebird in his other arm

Mounts his horse

And with a “Hya!” flies back

Down roads familiar

To the castle, his home.

H
azel sat at a desk stacked with flyers, business cards, and documents. Her hands, blessedly free of arthritis today, moved slowly; placed a flyer in front of her and a business card on the upper left corner of the flyer; stamped the stapler; and the ad was done. Hazel put it atop the stack to her left and reached for the stack to her right.
There must be more to life than this,
she thought. After a few more minutes, she got up and made a cup of coffee in the staff kitchen. Carrying it back to her desk, she stopped in her tracks. There was a hot cup of coffee already on her desk, in plain sight. She put her cup down and slumped into her chair. Her hands now moved to take off her bifocals, now to cover her eyes.
Not this again,
she thought.
Not now.

The ads couldn’t wait. Mr. Hardy would be cross if he didn’t have them by morning. And at least tomorrow Hazel would be working a half day, leaving the afternoon clear. The office was quiet, it was dark out, she was alone. “What I wouldn’t mind,” she said to herself, “is a nice government job. Union. Security. That’s what these old bones need.” The clock ticked on the wall. A hum came from the central air. Hazel’s hands found her bifocals and slipped them back on. Sighing, she continued her task until late.

The next day, she arrived at work, and Mr. Hardy greeted her with a smile. As Hazel sat down at her desk, he patted the stack she’d prepared and said, “Thank you, Ms. Saunders, that is swell. I have no more urgent work for you. Just the phones today.”

Hazel started to speak, but he interrupted her. “Ms. Clemens will be in later to cover the second half of your shift.” Hazel nodded. Mr. Hardy grinned down at her. Finally, he moved off and said, “That will be all.”

The rest of the morning went smoothly. When she came home, she unplugged the phone and drew a bath. When night fell, she slept with a smile on her lips.

The next morning, she rose earlier than usual and plugged the phone back in. There was a voicemail message for her: “Ms. Saunders, as you did not come in for your interview, scheduled for 1:30 PM today, and did not give notice of this, I regret to inform you that your employment application is respectfully declined.” Hazel gripped the phone receiver to her ear and felt tears prick her eyes. All she could do now was swallow her sadness and go to work. Like nothing had changed. At least she still had a job at the office.