by Paul D. Dail
Free Five
Flash Fiction Pieces
by Paul D. Dail
Copyright 2011- De los Diablos Books, inc.
This book, as well as other books by Paul D. Dail can be obtained either through the author’s official website and blog:
www.pauldail.com
or through select, online book retailers.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
- A 250 word introduction from the author
- The Professional Crier
The tears of high school outcast Penny Circe can bring back the dead. At least temporarily.
- I Spy With My Little Eye
Anthony Monsano has gone through hell to finally find himself in possession of the round box. The question is, what’s inside?
- Run, Rabbit. Run.
Pete Cantrell hates jackrabbits. Unfortunately, his home is surrounded by them. And something else as well.
- The Death He Expected
A group of boys on a midnight, full moon trip to an Indian burial site get more than just a practical joke.
- Another Oldie But Goodie
Retirement home resident Margaret Daniels is hearing music that no one else can hear, a song she hasn’t heard in almost 50 years.
A 250 word introduction:
My wife hates flash fiction.
Not necessarily my flash fiction, but flash fiction in general. Even though the pieces I write allow up to 1000 words (roughly 4 pages), it bothers her to not know the rest of the story, either before or after this particular “flash.”
For me, it’s a love/hate relationship. Run, Rabbit. Run. was my first attempt, and my first draft was over 1300 words, meaning I had to figure out a way to cut almost a quarter of the story.
As a writer, this is an amazing exercise, both in finding the most essential details necessary for a story (as opposed to the fluff and filler… like this parenthetical), as well as tightening up the very words chosen (in order to get your point across not only clearly but also in a manner reflective of the mood of the piece… see what I mean?)
But sometimes I love the fluff and filler. Sometimes it adds nice additional depth to the story. And sometimes I hate to cut it because I feel like something is lost. However, perhaps what is lost is best left to the imagination of the reader.
So I resisted taking another look at these pieces. All of them came in heavy for word count on their first drafts, so they already received serious editing to get under 1000 words.
And as for the stories which seem to have more to tell? I expect I’ll be doing that someday as well.
Thanks for reading.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Paul D. Dail is the author of The Imaginings, a supernatural/horror novel, as well as several short stories. Writing has always been his passion, and while he will quickly tell you that the people he has met in the many places that he has traveled have been the best schooling he could get, Paul received his formal education in English with a Creative Writing emphasis at the University of Montana, Missoula.
Currently Paul teaches Language Arts and Creative Writing at a performing arts high school in southern Utah. You can follow all of Paul’s rants, rambles and reviews at his blog: www.pauldail.com, a horror writer’s not necessarily horrific blog.
The Professional Crier
[Necromancy: the art or practice of supposedly conjuring up the dead, especially in order to obtain from them knowledge of the future]
My name is Penny Circe.
If I had any friends, I’d want them to call me P.C. It would be funny, you know? ‘Cause I’m not really that politically correct.
But I don’t have any friends. Can’t blame ‘em. I probably wouldn’t be friends with me, either.
My school counselor calls me P.C., but not to my face. I overheard her once, whispering to the secretary when I was waiting in her office. “The Professional Crier is back.” I could detect the exasperation in her voice, like maybe she wanted me to hear her.
Of course I was back. After all, Randy Metz, the school quarterback, had died in an ATV accident. And anytime one of my classmates died, I had to cry.
Because my tears can bring back the dead. At least, temporarily.
Don’t get me wrong. I cry out of genuine sadness, too. How could Mrs. Gants not get that? After all, I am the only daughter of our town’s only mortician. (Correction. I was the only daughter of our town’s only mortician.) And dying has always been good business in our town.
The mortuary has been in our family for generations. Literally. We run it out of the house my great-grandfather built after the Civil War. The same house we’ve lived in my whole life. Death has been my playmate ever since I can remember. Nothing to be afraid of. But I’ve also seen the grief in the loved ones when he came around to play.
And I’ve seen the bodies left behind. And I’ve cried over them, just like I did with Randy Metz. But it never does any good. They never stay.
Sitting on my bed in the dark, I can only hope it works tonight. It hadn’t worked with Randy last Fall, and I haven’t tried it since.
The trick is to get to the bodies before the mortician. My father had a curious ritual when someone brought him a body to prepare. After a few minutes alone with the deceased, he would leave the house without saying a word. I never knew where he went, but I have a few guesses. He was never gone more than an hour, but it provided the time I needed. You have to get to them before the eyelids are glued shut or the jaw sewn together.
I learned this early on.
After they had “delivered” Randy Metz and my dad had left, I went down to the parlor. Randy wasn’t the cutest boy in school. But he wasn’t bad looking. He had even looked at me a couple of times. Most people just ignore me.
He didn’t look so good that day. Kind of grayish-blue. Scraped up pretty bad, and his neck was one big bruise where the four-wheeler landed on him.
The tears came then. I can’t really control them, but at least I finally figured out what I can do with them.
As with every classmate who made their next-to-last stop here, after I had wiped my tears on his face, Randy opened his eyes in shock. And just like every other time, I thought I had done it… brought someone back from the dead.
Some, like Randy, would even sit up and look at me. Color would seep back into their flesh. After the initial shock, there would usually be a look of placid calm. Relief, maybe. But before they could say a word, they would get that terrified look again. Their eyes would return to a hazy, milky color as they seemed to look right through me, wide-eyed and staring at something I couldn’t see.
My old playmate probably.
And then Death would take them. Again. And I would cry. Again. But this time because I had failed.
But I can’t fail tonight. Tonight is more important than any other time. Tonight it’s my daddy.
I found him just after midnight. I had awoken from a particularly nasty nightmare and gone to his room. It had been a year since the last time this happened, but I knew he would still let me climb into bed next to him. But the bed was cold, even when I curled up alongside him.
I came back to my room and sat on my bed. But I haven’t cried, even though I really want to. I have to save my tears. I have to try one more time.
Daddy lost a lot of weight over the past year, so I’m able to carry him downstairs. His cosmetic effects are all there. And the cold steel table, scalpel, and tools for removing the blood.
I lay him on the table. Finally I let myself cry. Harder than ever. Puddles of tears fill my palms, and I rub them across my daddy’s face.
He opens his eyes.
But there is no shock. He smiles as color rushes back into
his cheeks. He pushes himself into a sitting position. “My sweet daughter,” he says. My breath catches in my chest.
He spoke.
He reaches out a hand and wipes my tears away with his thumb. “I have the answers you have been seeking.”
Then it hits me. Hard. Like a book-filled backpack “accidentally” swung in your direction in a crowded hallway.
Suddenly I realize that I haven’t been trying to beat death all these years. I wasn’t reanimating my classmates because I loved them or anything (well, Randy Metz…) It wasn’t about them. It was about me. I’ve been wanting answers… to know what they discovered. Was there an end to this pain? Or would it be better if I just ended it myself?
Now here was my answer.
But all I want is my daddy back.
But before he can say another word, he gets that terrified look. His handsome blue eyes turn milky and hazy, and he looks right through me, wide-eyed and staring at something behind me.
My old playmate probably.
When he drops back on the table, I reach for the scalpel.
The End
ABOUT THE PROFESSIONAL CRIER
From the author:
I have to give credit where credit is due on this one. The original spark of this story actually came from our school’s guidance counselor who said that at a previous school, they had a student who was a “professional crier,” meaning that anytime a student died (it was in Las Vegas, so apparently not uncommon), this particular student was the first in the counseling offices whether she really knew the passed student or not.
Needless to say, after she made that comment, I didn’t pay much attention at our training in-service for about the next hour little while as I started ferreting out the details of this particular girl in my head.
The response to this story when it first appeared was interesting, especially in regards to Penny. I hadn't originally intended her to be "creepy," but that was the impression many got from her. Working at a performing arts high school, I am surrounded by kids who would normally be shunned at a regular school (and I was a theatre student myself in high school, so I can understand). I originally envisioned Penny as one of these types of students, and actually I was concerned that this piece might be more depressing than anything else.
But given a little space, and allowing Penny to exist in other people’s imaginations, I realized that there is definitely something off about her, maybe something a little darker, and when I took off my teacher’s glasses, I saw her in a whole new light. I expect you’ll be hearing more from Ms. Penny Circe someday.
Oh, by the way, the name is a play on words. “Penny” for the coins (often pennies) placed on a dead person’s eyes. And Circe was a Greek goddess of magic. Obviously, the combined initials have a variety of possibilities as an acronym.
Thanks for reading, and if you have any questions or comments, please feel free to email me at [email protected].
And of course, special thanks to my parents, wife and family.
I Spy With My Little Eye
