I’m Back!

It is so great to be able to post on my own blog once again. I have to thank Adam Robinson for his assistance, and Dave Rank for his help. Also Jennifer Rupp (Trethaway) for her encouragement. As the saying goes, it takes a village.

Meanwhile, we have our next Bending Genres weekend workshop on July 12- 14 with Meg Tuite: Mutate Through the Five Elements: Flash your Fleshy Pearls. We still have…

View On WordPress

Avatrice Short 53

Avatrice Short 52

“Please don’t make me leave.”

The words were stuttered, barely audible save for the lone figure who was leaning over the wounded woman. She couldn’t help but hear the plea as she desperately tried to save her.

“No one’s making you leave, Beatrice.”

Hands were trying to staunch the flow of blood, almost just as hard as she tried to staunch the memory of a different time, a different van.

“Please.” The sob that emanated from the nun’s lips almost broke her. “Please I don’t want to go.”

“You’re not going anywhere, okay? No one’s making you go. No one!” She turned to the side as she shouted for help, hoping someone would just arrive already so they could do something. Anything

“I like it here. I want to stay. Please.”

The words were getting fainter and Camila pressed harder as she whispered her own words of prayer.

“Stay with us, Bea. Stay as long as you like! We want you to stay!” Her words rang throughout the battlefield and Camila nearly failed to notice the silence around them.

“I need to stay.” Beatrice’s murmur failed to register with Camila when the sound of footsteps behind her made her turn and reach for her weapon, only to freeze at the sight before her.

Mary, Lilith, and Ava.

Or Lilith carrying what was left of Ava.

The sob from Camila burst unbidden as she turned her attention back onto the woman lying on the ground before her.

“Ava.” One word lined in pain as a tear fell from the corner of the nun’s eye.

“Bea…” Camila had no more words left. And even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. Not when she saw the corner of Beatrice’s lips slightly pull upwards in what looked like the hint of a smile, and words contrary to her earlier anguished pleas.

“I have to go now.”

Avatrice Short 51

Avatrice Short 49

TheTanaga is an indigenous type of Filipinopoem, that is used traditionally in the Tagalog language.

The Tanaga consists of four lines with seven syllables each with the same rhyme at the end of each line — that is to say a 7-7-7-7 Syllabic verse, with an AABB rhyme scheme.

-Wikipedia

Astrid Grímsdóttir was thankful that her sister Dagmar remembered the lamp, for she knew he would come once the lights from Njardarheimr faded into the black night to retrieve it. It was near the end of summer, the rolling hills and vegetation at the glistening fjord walls were lush and vibrant. She had seen them in the morning.

She sat among a pile of stones, fiddling absentmindedly with a collection of marbles. 

Dagmar and herself used to sit her in the evenings, just as a dark streak lined the horizon, telling ghost stories. Whether daugrs were more frightening than haugbui. Dagmar was terrified of both, but Astrid knew the difference.

Mama would call them both from their house at the edge of the village. Her mother would be angry with her, sitting plainly in the dirt, in her finest wool dress and petticoat. Astrid always wondered how she noticed such things, given that her dress was that same earthy brown as the soil, the shades blending together like how the waters mirror the sky. They never told her about their discussions on ghosts, knowing would only make her anxious. Bad luck follows those who mock the dead.

There were no stars, and for that she was glad. Only a sliver of the moon offered any light.
When the last light died, Astrid stood and sighed. He would keep her waiting, she knew. Her mother complained for the same reason: he was a good-nothing, with no sense of time or goodness. Yet he always brought her berries, and for that Astrid had kept a warm place in her heart for her uncle, her father’s brother.

He sought, perhaps, to become her father, too.

But it was too late for that now.

Astrid noticed a small light, red and low, like a smoldering coal near the gates. She held her breath.
She knew he would come.

And he did.

Erik Sturluson, her father’s brother, blue eyes and blond, like herself, dressed in a pair of ragged pantaloons and tunic, a shovel at his side.

Astrid said nothing, but watched him as he began to dig into the soil, freshly turned.

Dagmar, her sister, had listened. They were not a rich family, not even a moderately well-off one, but she had told Dagmar about her love for that silver lamp, often in the presence of mama. It would fetch a good price, Astrid knew.

That’s why her uncle had come.

She snuck closer to him, aware that when she walked, only silence echoed. Astrid shot her hand out and grasped Erik’s wrist with all her strength.

He nearly jumped back, his thin frame, eyes wide in terror. His lips began to tremble, in the same way after Astrid’s mama would criticize him. When she had been younger, only eleven, it used to make her laugh, that pitiful tremor. Perhaps that’s why he pushed her into the lake and let her sink.

She took from her belt a knife and plunged it into his neck. She watched him squirm and wither beneath her grasp, croaking out the word, haugbui, haugbui. Ghost, ghost. Mound-dweller.

Astrid did not like the term, and yet it was better than a drauger. A haugbui only disturbs grave robbers and thieves.

She watched as his face took on a cold, waxen parlor, blood leaking into the soil. And she was thankful Dagmar remembered the lamp. Otherwise, he would not have come.

_______

I send out fresh flash fiction every Sunday along with a poem. You can sign up for that weekly newsletter here:  bit.ly/31S6OaJ