Tag: story

Nigh invincible

Day 29: Bone
No Novel November 2019

The cold only bothers him first thing in the morning. Once he’s up and moving, he barely notices. But right now, lying in his empty bed surrounded by an Eastern seaboard winter, his body aches to its marrow.

The other agents at the Supernatural Cases Division think he’s invincible, but it’s only half true. Inside, he’s a patchwork of grafts and mends. He may not need casts or bed rest, but broken bones magically healed still leave their mark, still remember their weakness when the weather shifts.

He grunts with the effort of swinging his legs to the floor. The comminuted femur complains as he stands, his slight weight too much for the patch yet. A trio from the left foot creaks in agreement, chorusing with ribs six through twelve as he stretches, hitching at a shoulder dislocated so many times he’s lost count.

Moving warms the blood in stiff muscles as he washes his face. Long fingers with round knuckles slide over a thin jaw calloused at the hinge, glide across fine hair hiding sutures opened and closed. Thankfully, brushing his teeth doesn’t raise any alarms.

Body done with its complaints, Jack Alexander slides on his ubiquitous black suit like a second skin that covers his fractured skeleton and steps out into the frozen DC air, wondering how today will try to break him.

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.

How do you like them apples

Day 28: Rotten
No Novel November 2019

Johnny surveyed the orchard full of naked trees and sighed. Every year, the harvest was less, the waste more. The apples of belief bloomed each spring, swelled in summer, ripened in fall, and hit the ground to rot before the first frost. Months of back-breaking work for nothing.

He spent the day clearing the ground the old-fashioned way. For their anniversary, Demeter had bought him a fancy cart off Amazon that sucked them up automatically as he walked, but it stayed in the garage. Some things needed doing by hand. Besides, ten acres was nothing compared to what he used to work.

As the sun dipped below the branches, Johnny threw the last bag of mealy brown apples into the barn and himself into the armchair in front of the fire. He reached for his phone and the red-labeled bottle on the end table, opening both.

“Yeah, D, I think this is it for me. Nobody quests anymore, especially not for enchanted produce.” He took a swig from the bottle and grimaced. “Time to retire to the big orchard in the sky. Two hundred years is a good run, right?”

He paused for another pull. “Good gods, this is terrible,” he coughed. “Why do people like it?”

As Dionysus expounded on the wonders of scotch, Johnny’s attention faded. Something about the red label and the burning in his sinuses stirred up an idea.

“Hey, D,” he interrupted. “What do you think about Johnny Appleseed’s Hard Cider—‘So Good, It’s Magic’?”

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.

Mighty but vulnerable

Day 24: Quill
No Novel November 2019

Red quill feather pen line drawing via Pixabay

The quill lies limp in my hand as the click of boots on marble gets fainter and fainter, finally disappearing behind the slam of the great hall’s heavy doors. No one will return from the hunt until after dark—until it’s too late for me. But I must tell them. I must reveal the traitor.

Shaking fingers dip my pen into the most precious of inks that now pools around my chest. The cool white floor is my parchment as I scrawl the name of the man who flatters doddering kings and murders inquisitive priests. I pray the warning is legible. I pray it is heeded.

Strength expended, I exhale and let the quill fall. As the grey curtain of this world draws closed, I cannot help admiring the irony of this end. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but those who wield the former are still vulnerable to the latter. 

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.

Family time

Day 23: Clock
No Novel November 2019

1971 Chevrolet Chevy Camaro Z28 yellow fastback

“Do you know why I pulled you over, ma’am?”

Officer Jensen leans on top of the canary-yellow Camaro fastback with a disapproving look on his thin features. His radar gun had nearly exploded when this thing came whipping down the country lane he’d been assigned to this weekend.

“I can’t imagine, Officer,” the driver says, all innocence.

“Ma’am, I clocked you going a buck ten in a forty. Anything about that seem odd to you?”

“Oh my. Yes, sir, I suppose that is a bit fast.” She smiles sweetly and bats her eyelashes at him through the window. “But seeing as there’s no one out here besides you and me, maybe you could let me off with a warning or a lecture or a coffee date?”

Jensen sighs and shakes his head. If this was the first time she’d done this, he’d be embarrassed. But seeing as it happens at least once a month, he’s nothing but frustrated.

“You can’t keep buzzing me like this when I’m on duty,” he says.

She sniffs. “Well, Steven, maybe if you called more, I wouldn’t have to get your attention this way.”

Before he can defend himself, she cranks the key in the ignition and peels away, leaving him standing on the shoulder in a cloud of dust and laughter.

Jensen pats the dirt from his uniform, then trudges back to his car, pulling out his phone.

“Siri, reminder: Tomorrow, 8am, call Mom.”

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.

An audience of one

Day 22: Musical
No Novel November 2019

I listen, periodically aware that I’m holding my breath. I can’t stand for even the microfriction of inhaling and exhaling to obscure the sound. Sudden crescendos and gentle arpeggios sweep me along with bobbing triplets punctuated by abrupt rests, the space between the notes as important as the notes themselves. My heart beats in time with the shifting cadence, from adagio to andante to allegro. Codas come and go, weaving motifs into melodies, unfolding and refolding one measure at a time until the air is crowded with invisible threads that wrap themselves around and hold me close.

Eventually, the story comes to an end—something about spreadsheets and margins and deliverables—and he looks at me expectantly.

“Well? What do you think?” he asks. A brief reprise.

I blink and shake my head as if I hadn’t been in rapt attention the entire time he was speaking. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I wasn’t listening. Can you tell me again?”

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.