Friday Flash - Old People

“Dude, I don’t know about this…” Rick shuffled his feet, his hand unconsciously rising to wipe the snot away from his abused nose.

“What’s there to know?” Ice turned to glare at him, his light blue eyes seeming to glow with the reflected illumination of the park lights.

Rick hunched down a little, putting more of the tree they were hiding by between them. “Still… Old people?”

“Easy pickings, fool.” Ice’s stare turned cold. “You want a hit and that takes money. You got none. So you’ve got to help entertain me if you want your fix.”

Rick looked away, only too aware of the type of things Ice considered entertainment. Assaulting old people though, that’d be a new low, even for him. It was one thing to let Ice pick on him in exchange for what he needed, but this… His ran his tongue over dry lips; hands shaking at his sides, bottomless need trilling through him. “But they’re old, Ice. They’re not hurting anyone.”

His companion snorted. “That’s half the fun right there, idiot. You want the smack or not? I got others needing what I got as much or more than you. And they can pay.”

Rick swayed where he stood, the gnawing craving causing panic to shoot up his throat at the thought of not getting what he needed. He’d hate himself later but right now the person he had to take care of was himself. “No, no, man, I’m in.”

“That’s more like it.” Ice’s smile was predatory. “Now come on. Those two old farts will never know what hit them.” He hefted the bat at his side.

They stuck to the shadows as they made their way around the park toward the concrete game tables in the center. Several of the lights had been busted out by vandals or burned out and never replaced by the city, but the two old men had brought their own with them.

Rick and Ice separated.

Though it was close to summer, both old men were bent over the table wearing heavy coats, caps, and mufflers. They both had on round John Lennon glasses with dark lenses. Really dark lenses. They stared at the board for minutes at a time and then a slow, shuddering hand would clamber up and move one of the pieces.

Taking a deep breath to fortify his courage, Rick stepped out from the bushes and walked their way. “It’s really late, isn’t it?”

Both men turned ever so slowly in his direction as if having to calculate every movement. “Look, we have company, Mr. C.”

“I see that, Mr. L.”

Rick hesitated, the voices sending creepy shivers up his arms. It was like hearing old papers rustling out words. The faces turned toward him were wrinkled and dry, as old as dirt.

One of them made a beckoning gesture. “Come on closer, boy.”

Something inside Rick screamed at the suggestion. Only his ever increasing need was able to clamp over the urge to run and allowed him to walk a little nearer. “You, you shouldn’t be out here, you know? It’s not safe.”

“Why aren’t you the sweetest thing? Worried about us like that.” The smile that cracked over the face of Mr. L seemed to be laughing at him. Rick really didn’t want to be here anymore.

Keep them distracted, fool. No smack for you if you don’t.

Ice’s parting words slapped him again. His whole body shook. He’d been without for so long. He would die. He knew he would die if he didn’t get more. So he stood his ground. “Can you spare some change?”

He spotted Ice leaving his place of concealment the bat up and ready. Ice rushed forward, aiming for the head of the closest of the two men.

Rick opened his mouth to shout out a warning despite what might later happen to him -- in that one moment forgetting about the hunger inside him. Before he could say anything though, the bat was already moving toward Mr. L’s head.

Without turning around, the old man lifted his arm and caught the wood in his palm with a loud whack. The force of the blow half unsettled the old man’s glasses exposing his eyes. They were green orbs with an up and down black line. It took Rick a second before his brain started shouting the fact they weren’t human.

“I don’t know how you did that, old codger, but it’s not gonna cut it!” Ice pulled out a switchblade and stabbed at Mr. L while still holding on to the bat. In a blink, Mr. L was no longer sitting, but standing, easily avoiding the blade.

Off balance, Ice let go of the bat to take another swing with the knife. Rick tried to warn Ice this time as the end of the bat moved in a blur to poke him hard in the stomach. Before Ice could fall gagging to the concrete, Mr. C was up and grabbing him by the collar. With a flick of a wrist, Ice’s body flew up and thumped with a bone breaking crunch onto the chess table.

Ice screamed and blood gurgled from his mouth. Mr. L tossed the bat aside to the grass then reached inside Ice’s jacket. Mr. C smiled and small tentacles played with his teeth as they reached out, as if tasting the air.

“Young man, do you want this?” Mr. L held up a packet of white powder.
Rick shook his head so hard it looked like it might come off. His eyes were wide, soundless screams issuing from his mouth, a dark stain growing on his pants.

“Off you go then.”

He was gone before Mr. C finished speaking.

The two men leaned over Ice as life left him. “You should know better than to mess with old people, boy.” The tentacles from their mouths reached down to lap the blood on his face. “You won’t ever do it again.”


The End

#FridayFlash - Harbinger

(My second contribution to #FridayFlash! Amazing how many times I went and edited something this short. lol. Probably still missed something as usual. Heh. Enjoy!)

When my gaze came across the man-sized raven I thought my heart would stop. It walked through the death shrouded streets as if the Grim Reaper could not touch it. A wide brimmed black hat adorned its head, the ensemble filled out with black cloak, black leggings, a touch of white at the cuffs and a ruffle around his neck. Its glassy, oversized eyes stared at everything around it, its long beak as dark as night. There were no wings that I could see. But it didn’t need them. It walked the streets easily, like everyone else, except for all the sick and dying.

The year 1665 had brought with it the Great Plague. Death danced amongst us. It dispensed its evil vapors to invade the unwary and add them to its ranks. It ripped families asunder without rhyme or reason. Its mark upon those chosen distinct and unassailable -- black blossoms at the neck, armpits, or groin. Raging fevers and headaches served as teasers of worse to come. Torturous pain twisted through the guts so those afflicted couldn’t forget their coming fate. Then, eventually, mercifully, the End.

And here was a raven, walking among us, its mere presence foretelling more would fall.

I watched it move from house to house. Those that still held life and hadn’t been boarded up to try to hold in the contagion or the ones belonging to those who’d fled the city hoping for fresher air. Its beak was closed tight though there were plenty of bodies it could have chosen to eat from. They were stacked on the cobbled streets waiting to be picked up for burial, the men burdened with the task coming later and later each day as the numbers needed to be disposed of rose.

The smell of rotting flesh, waste, fear and sweat rolled and coiled along the buildings clogging my nostrils, yet it didn’t bother me. There’d been too much of it for too long for me to truly notice it anymore.

My parents were gone, my sisters dead. Rank and privilege had meant nothing in the end. Perhaps this time the messenger had come for me. Or, if I was careful, I could follow it to its master. Perchance it’d show me mercy and take me swiftly rather than leave me to die in agony alone.

The raven’s circuitous route eventually took it to a small cottage beside a church. Once the door was closed I hurried forward to peek inside through a partially shaded window.

The wide brimmed hat came off revealing a head of white curling hair. A strap, previously hidden beneath it, was unbuckled. As I watched, the raven removed its beak and became a man. I recognize him. It was the local priest. His name tickled the edge of my memory, but I couldn’t quite recall it. I did remember it’d been said he was a doctor as well.

I watched him remove moss and herbs from within what I now knew to be a mask. He put them away in a sealed tin, adding bits of this and that before closing it. Then he made notes on an already handwriting filled paper.

A cure? Had he perhaps found a cure? Mayhap the priest had found a way to clear the air to stave off infection. Surely a man of the cloth wouldn’t be like the many who walked the streets claiming they’d been successful, dispensing their supposed wisdom for a fee. Hope rose in my breast, though since the cold had meant little to me this day, I had a feeling it might already be too late for me. Yet to think there might be a way to save those still here, to save brave London from Death’s siege! It made me optimistic that spring might yet come after all.

But as I continued to watch him busily scrawling away, I realized the hope was futile. Whatever method he was trying didn’t work. For there, on his neck, was a red circle which grew darker as I stared.

The priest was doomed.

The man-like raven had been a harbinger, but the message it carried this day hadn’t been for me.

Gloria Oliver

Unveiling the Fantastic

www.gloriaoliver.com

#FridayFlash - Achievement

(I heard about a cool Twitter experiment/experience called #FridayFlash where authors put out samples of their writing by giving away free flash fiction once a week. Don't know if I can do it that often, but I have a flash story or two I thought I could share. So here's this week's contribution - Achievement. Enjoy!)

(Also if you want, join me at Twitter @GloriaOliver or come see what else I have at the website www.gloriaolivercom)


It was finished.

After years of toil, of making sure every part was perfect and whole – his opus was complete.

A moment of indiscretion had led Taltus to his doom but also to his supreme achievement. Here, in this five by five cell, the greatest written masterpiece of his generation had been born and refined to perfection.

Yet no one would hear or read it. It would die in this dismal place with him.

He stared at the blank walls surrounding him, fighting welling despair. Yet as he stared, their very essence changed in his mind, sparking hope.

The walls would be his parchment. Blood his ink.

His story would be told.