Fragments & Fancies: Ficlets, Flash Fiction & Shorts

by Jean Marie Bauhaus

  Too bad her biggest critic was herself.

  I used to know this girl. It’s too bad, what happened to her. But I guess it was inevitable. Just didn’t think it would happen so fast, is all.

  SLEEPLESS

  Cindy loved her husband, and the dog. She wanted to love sharing a bed with them both just as much. Sometimes she did; but, as she shoved aside the tiny body curled up on her back and burrowed her head deeper under the pillow that failed miserably as a sound-proofing device, she lamented that this was not one of those times.

  Some married couples slept in separate beds. Some gossips, her husband included, wondered if those marriages were all they were cracked up to be. Cindy didn’t. She envied the self-assured confidence of the well-rested.

  She dreamed of her own bed, downy soft and just right, with no one to jostle her or snort in her ear as she dozed. What a lovely dream. Except, not a dream. A wish. A nice fantasy. She’d have to be asleep to dream.

  Irritably, Cindy picked the dog off of her chest and plopped him on her husband’s, whose snoring abruptly stopped. She sunk back into her pillows and smiled. Maybe she couldn’t sleep alone, but at least she didn’t have to be alone in her sleeplessness.

  THE KNOCKER

  A little blue house sits at the end of the lane. It is always freshly painted, and its lawn freshly mowed, though no one can say when these things get done, or by whom. A stone path leads up to the porch. There are windows. There is a chimney of red brick. But there is no door.

  No one is ever seen coming or going. At night, there are lights in the windows – strange lights that move and dance and are simply the wrong color. There are sounds, too, but no one who is asked can ever quite describe them.

  There is no door, but there is a giant knocker, red like the chimney. No one knows what happens when you knock. No one has done so in this lifetime.

  They say the last child brave enough to accept a dare to peek in the windows (or too cowardly to stand up to his peers and say no) was immediately stricken mute, and all of his hair went white. He’s over 60 now, and still doesn’t talk.

  That’s what they say. Nobody since has been brave enough to discredit the rumor. But Kendall thought she’d give it a go.

  MAMIE'S PIE SHOP

  Mamie Sawyer didn't have a divine calling, as far as she could tell. Maybe it was fate that got her to open her pie shop right on this very spot, or maybe it was just chance. She left that sort of thing to the intellectuals to work out. She just knew that, as long as she was there, she ought to do what she could to help the poor, lost souls who came through her door time to time. She could tell them by the wild, scared look in their eyes, the way they flinched at the bell above the door, the way their questions had nothing to do with pie.

  She kept a special room in the back for these folks. Whenever they came in--which was more often than she liked--she would take them back, sit them down, and serve them a slice and some coffee--or a glass of milk for the children; Lord, how it hurt her heart to see the children come in this way. Once they'd calmed a little, she'd gently explain to them where they were and, as best as she understood, how they'd gotten there.

  They all took it in different ways. Some just sat there, taking it all in. Some cried. Some needed proof, so Mamie would show them the Sunday paper--she only took the Sunday edition--and when that wasn't enough, she'd fire up the computer her grandson had hooked up, so she could read his e-mails, and show them. She'd started keeping a shotgun in that room, out of the way but close enough to get to if she needed it, after last year, when one old man accused her of playing a cruel joke on him and expressing his displeasure with his fists. Praise the Almighty that her grandson was running the cashier that day and heard the commotion. She kept the shotgun in plain sight. It didn't matter when anybody came from, they understood what it was for and what it could do.

  They all tried to go back. But when they walked back through the door, all they saw was the world outside. Mamie's world. Not theirs. The door only worked the one way. She did her best to help them. Caught them up on current events, answered questions as best she could. Fed them and gave them a little money, as much as she could afford, just to get them started. With the children, of course, she always called the proper authorities.

  For thirty-odd years, she'd been helping these folks. She never told no one, though. Who would believe her? Nobody, that's who. Nobody in their right mind would believe that the door to her shop was also a doorway to time, or that she, Mamie Earlene Sawyer, pie maker, grandmother, and head of the Ladies' Choir, was its guardian.

  She hardly believed it herself, sometimes. But whenever she'd start to doubt it, the door would open, the bell would ring, and the customer would flinch, not knowing where they were; and Mamie would smile and cut them a big slice of pie.

  BIRTHDAY GIRL

  Hidden safely behind the veil between worlds, she watched the mortals play. They were beautiful, all of them. She'd had no idea such beauty existed, apart from her Queen, especially there in the world of Men.

  The Queen had kept her sheltered. Her entire life, all sixteen years, she had been confined to Mab's underground palace. Goblins and pixies were her childhood playmates, her nursemaid a wraith, her guardians satyrs, minotaurs and trolls. Only since her flowering had she become all too keenly aware of the differences between herself and those who made up her mother's court. A new need sparked within her called out to her own kind. She craved beauty. She craved another's touch.

  Her wrists ached. Self-consciously, she traced a finger over the scars.

  The most recent burns were her punishment for fulfilling that need. Mab's fury upon discovering her with a centaur could only be sated by burning the taint from her flesh. Older scars were for lesser crimes. A miscast spell, a haughty look, small acts of defiance... Queen Mab was easy to displease.

  Her rewards matched her punishments, though. Ceredwyn wanted for nothing, save the company of her own kind. Mab was a strict teacher, but also effective; Ceredwyn was already one of the most powerful sorceresses the Black Court had ever seen. Mab promised she would rule someday, provided she stayed in her good graces.

  Her venturing out tonight would not put her on Mab's good side. But if she was careful, her mother need never know about it. If she was caught... well, she already knew how much pain she could endure. It was quite a lot.

  Her hand wandered up to the crystal pendant that hung around her neck, the only thing she had of her true mother. She wondered once again if her real mother was kind, and came to the same conclusion she always did: a kind, caring mother wouldn't abandon her infant child to a witch such as Mab.

  Casting a glamor to hide her scars, she stepped through the veil into the shadows. The pretty mortals lined up outside a plain-looking building that pulsed with drumbeats and music and lustful energy. It echoed the rhythm of her heartbeat, urging it to go faster, emboldening her and spurring her on with excitement. She imagined that the building must hold some sort of god or great ruler, the way the mortals lined up to present themselves, with only the choicest being allowed past the guards. She had to see. She strode up to the door and demanded entrance. The guard was a tall, dark male, exquisitely built. He looked at her with cold, hard eyes, and then laughed. "Not you, Ren Fair," he said, pushing her aside to allow a small group of half-naked maidens to pass.

  Ceredwyn stared in disbelief. How dare this mortal deny her? Nobody denied her, save the Queen. Glaring, Ceredwyn raised her hand to curse him when another voice distracted her, preventing the curse from passing her lips. "Hey, honey, the Goth bar's down the street." A girl standing behind the ropes addressed her, a note of unfriendliness in her voice. Ceredwyn approached her, studying her as she went. The girl wore red and black, her garments skin tight and revealing, feet clad in the leather boots of a warrior, buckled up to her knees. Her hair hung in fiery ringlets, and a small ruby graced the side of her nose. Ceredwyn looked down at her own gown, with its cinched up skirts and its dagged sleeves. Of cour
se. She should have realized.

  Lifting her gaze again, she took notice of the man next to the girl, of his pretty lips, the undisguised lust in his eyes. "What is your deal?" the girl asked, hooking her arm through his and clinging tightly.

  Ceredwyn smiled at him. "Come with me."

  As she turned to go, the girl stepped between them, her hands balled into fists and planted on her round hips. "What the hell? Bitch, who do you think you are? He ain't going nowhere with you."

  Ceredwyn glanced back at her. "I was speaking to you." She looked at the boy. "But you can come, too." She started back the way she came, not waiting to see if they followed.

  Of course they did. Resisting her wasn't an option.

  Sliding back into the shadows, she undid her laces and, turning to face them, let her gown fall. The girl gasped. She started to back away, but cast a glance at her mate, saw him lick his lips, his eyes drinking Ceredwyn in. She held out a hand to the girl, locking gazes with her. "It's all right," she soothed. "Let yourself go."

  "My... my name's Shelly." She, too, licked her lips, her hand rising aimlessly to to her chest, fingers tracing the collarbone.

  Ceredwyn smiled sweetly at her. "Shelly. Take off your clothes and join me." A slight nod, her gaze transfixed on Ceredwyn, she began to obey. "And you," she told the boy. "Careful," she added as the girl started to drop her dress on the ground. "You don't want to soil it." Nodding, she carefully folded her dress and laid it on a nearby crate.

  The boy took less care with his clothing, too hurried to free his erection. He almost tripped over his breeches trying to get to her, but soon enough his hands covered her breasts, his mouth covered her lips. Ceredwyn relished the sensation. This was no glamor. No illusion hid horns and fur from her sight. This man looked like her own kind, his lips so like a Fae's lips, his tongue a Fae's tongue. She felt the softness of the girl's breasts press against her back, and grew warm between her legs as two pairs of hands roved her body, two eager, hungry mouths took their pleasure in tasting her.

  She could enjoy them all night. But this wasn't what she came for. She turned, her breasts brushing against the girl's. A soft hand on her stomach, a shy smile at Ceredwyn as she reached up to stroke Shelly's cheek. "Happy birthday, Shelly."

  The smile faltered. "It's not my birthday."

  Ceredwyn cupped her face in her hands. "I didn't say it was." The girl kept smiling even as her neck snapped and she collapsed like a broken puppet.

  "Shelly!" the man screamed, and then was silenced with a sweep of the silver dagger she kept strapped to her thigh. Any further cries of protest were drowned in blood.

  Ceredwyn knelt at the girl's feet, unbuckling her boots before the man's body hit the ground. She took a moment to admire what the boots did for her legs before taking up the girl's dress. It fit a hair too loosely, but a simple spell remedied that, molding the dress to her like a glove.

  Stepping back out of the shadows, she closed the veil behind her. Bone eaters would dispose of the dead. They would join the ranks of all the other mortals who slipped through the cracks in the veil between their worlds. No one would know what had become of them. No one but her.

  She approached the guard at the door. This time he smiled as his eyes roved her body, and held the door wide open. Inside she found a human bacchanal, a horde of beautiful mortals devoted to pleasures of the flesh. Ceredwyn threw her arms out, closed her eyes, and moved with the drumbeat.

  This was her best birthday by far.

  ANGELS

  He's heard stories. All his life, he's heard stories.

  His granny used to tell one every summer, when she'd come and stay and they'd all go to the tent meeting. At supper she and his parents would all get to talking about miracles. Ones they said they'd seen, and ones they hoped for.

  It happened to a friend of her cousin, she swore. The friend and her husband were driving to town one day, and they pulled over for a hitchhiker. People did that in those days. It was a different country back then. The hitcher was a young man dressed in rags, humble, clearly down on his luck. So they did the kind thing and picked him up.

  "Where you headed?" asked the husband, after the hitcher settled in the back seat.

  "Home to my Father," said the man, "but I'll return soon." When they turned to ask him what he meant, he was no longer there. Praise Jesus.

  That was how his granny always ended it. "Praise Jesus."

  He hadn't been to a tent meeting since he'd gotten big enough that they couldn't make him go. He hadn't seen his granny in almost as long. He hadn't praised Jesus in all that time, either.

  But he had heard other stories. Other mysterious hitchhikers. He knew they were urban legends, but that didn't stop him from wondering. This stuff was pretty ingrained. Every time he saw someone on the side of the road trying to thumb a ride, he thought of those stories. But he never stopped, because he'd heard other stories, too, and he'd seen that movie, the one with Rutger Hauer. He liked that movie better than the remake.

  Still, he wondered. He didn't believe in angels. He was less sure about Jesus, but he was pretty sure that if he did exist he had better things to do than hitchhike around leaving cryptic messages with country folk.

  This girl, though, she looked like an angel. A sad, lost little angel, hitchhiking in the rain. He pulled over for her. She got in next to him, pried wet hair off of her cheek and wiped at the mascara pooled underneath her eyes. "Thanks."

  "Where you headed?"

  "West."

  "West. You mean Tulsa?"

  She sniffed and took a napkin he offered her. "Further," she said, wiping off her face.

  He chuckled. "Further. Let me guess. California?"

  She shot him a look that told him to mind his own business. Then she seemed to think better of it. "You going that far?"

  "Nope. But neither are you."

  "What?"

  He smiled. "You some kind of runaway?"

  "No," she said. "I actually need to get home. You can let me out up here."

  "Just relax, angel. I'll get you where you need to be." He turned to her and grinned. "Praise Jesus."

  She gave him a nervous laugh, and fixed her gaze on the road ahead.

  She was no angel. But she was still going to disappear.

  He was no angel, either.

  TARTARUS

  He couldn't remember a time before darkness. He once thought that there had been one, but now he thought it must have been a dream. Recollections came to him in disjointed flashes of memory lighting up behind his eyes. But when he opened his eyes, all he could see was nothing, and the memories were gone.

  Nothing crushed him. It weighted him down, pinned his wings and blinded his eyes. He wore no chains. They weren't necessary. The darkness kept him still, silent, helpless.

  Hopeless.

  His brothers were there, somewhere. He had seen them cast down alongside him. He had spent the first eternity crying out to them, but none answered. Whether they were too far away, or could not answer, or hear, or his screams were simply swallowed up by the void, he did not know.

  He spent the second eternity remembering. Remembering his Creator. Remembering a time before darkness. Remembering his sin.

  There was no darkness in the presence of his Creator. The light of His glory was infinite, knowing no bounds, leaving no room for shadow. It was palpable, that light. Textured, multidimensional, alive. It was the opposite in every way of this deathly darkness which now imprisoned him.

  The new creation knew that light, in the beginning, before they chose to forsake it for illumination of a different sort. After that they could not bear it. Even then, even after they had shown themselves so capable of sin, so willing... even then He had shown them mercy, shielding them from His own light, and then diluting it, hanging pieces of it in their sky. They were His favored children, still.

  Is it any wonder, then, that he and his brothers had found them so beautiful? They were His masterpieces. How could He not have k
nown how their loveliness would inflame his desires? To touch them, and lie with them... soft lips and tiny hairs tickling his incandescent skin, firm yet compliant flesh curving and swelling and folding in ways so foreign, ways that begged to be traced, tasted, penetrated....

  This was his sin. Loving his Creator's children too much. For this he and his brothers were cut off and cast down into darkness to await their judgment.

  He spent the third eternity hating.

  Of course He had known. He who knows all, sees all, hears all, who knew and saw and heard it all before time began. He sent them to that lonely little blue ball knowing what they would do. He'd already seen it done, and still He sent them.

  And still He punished them.

  He spent the fourth eternity going mad.

  The fifth eternity was for forgetting. Forgetting the Light, forgetting the Creation, forgetting all but the weight of his sin. Soon there would be nothing left but waiting.

  Waiting for judgment. To be reconciled with the Creator and returned to the Light, or to be cut off forever, banished to a lasting, final darkness.

  Sometimes he still tried to remember, but it hurt. Five eternities of drowning in darkness had atrophied his mind as much as his wings; but he still tried to stretch those sometimes, too. As he tried to remember this time, blasphemous thoughts as dark as the pit that held him flooded his mind. He tried to put them out of his head. He knew by instinct that they were wrong. His Creator was perfect, and perfectly just. With every fiber of his being he knew this to be true.

  He also knew that to be judged for one sin was the same as to be judged for many. He knew perfect justice was not perfectly fair. He knew he would rather be destroyed than spend forever in this place.