Fiction: Greg and the Dragon

I'M BACK.

Hi. Yeah. I am indeed back. Haven't done one of these in a while. This here piece of insanity is a response to Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge of the week. My opening line belongs to tbianconi and it is:

“You amuse me, human,” the Dragon said, swallowing several thousand Smarties in on gulp.

 Now, on to the story. :D Enjoy!

 Greg and the Dragon

“You amuse me, human,” the Dragon said, swallowing several thousand Smarties in one gulp.

“Glad to be of service,” said the human through gritted teeth. The Dragon sniggered and a puff of smoke jetted from his nostrils and surrounded his guest, an unfortunate beanpole of a creature that called himself ‘Greg’.

“Oh dear,” said the Dragon. “Excuse me.”

He waved a scaly paw in Greg’s direction and the cloud dispersed, leaving a sooty and disgruntled Greg in its wake.

“Alright there?” the Dragon inquired. The hanging chain squeaked as it swung, slowly bringing Greg back around to face him. Greg glowered. His face glowed scarlet under the soot and little showers of ash fell from his hair every time he moved. His face contorted.

“Just—spiffing,” he bit out.

“Good, good,” said the Dragon. “I do like to think my guests enjoy themselves while they’re here.”

“I see. And do most of the humans you’ve encountered enjoy being chained and hung upside down from the ceiling of a chocolate factory?”

The Dragon’s brow furrowed. “Upside down?”

“Yes, you bloody lizard—”

“Language, young man!”

“What?”

“Watch—your—language. I do not appreciate such… intolerant vocabularies,” the Dragon said, drawing himself up. The pair glared at each other, eyes narrowed. Greg scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. The Dragon raised a scaled ridge above his eyes that seemed to serve as an eyebrow. Greg sagged and the Dragon preened slightly. “Now,” the Dragon continued. “What was that you were saying about being hung upside down from the ceiling of a chocolate factory?”

“What is there to say? I am hanging upside down from the ceiling of a chocolate factory—a chocolate factory that does not belong to you, I might add. The issue seems pretty self-explanatory.”

“But you’re not upside down, are you?” the Dragon said, peering closer at the slight figure.

“I’m sorry?”

“I did put you the right way up, didn’t I? I was quite sure I had…”

“You did what?”

“Did I—how would you say it nowadays… fuck up?”

Greg blinked.

“Erm… just a bit.”

“Oh bollocks,” the Dragon said, sounding so dispirited that Greg almost felt sorry for him. “My apologies. Here you go.”

And without quite knowing how it was achieved without the use of interposable thumbs, Greg found himself unchained, standing on the small platform to which his feet had been bound, and—mercifully—facing up the right way.

“Is that better?” the Dragon said, eying him critically. Greg nodded, still slightly shaken. The Dragon shifted uncomfortably. “I really am sorry, you know. It’s just—it’s been a while.”

“A while?”

“Since I’ve had human company,” the Dragon elaborated. “I forget these little details.”

“Of course, of course,” Greg said understandingly. “Could happen to anyone.”

The Dragon seemed somewhat cheered. 

“You think so?”

Greg waved a hand. “Of course. Really, I mean I forget little details all the time. It’s just part of getting old, you know…”

The Dragon drew back slightly.

“Not to say that you’re getting old, though,” Greg hastened to assure him. He thought back desperately everything he’d ever read about dragons. “You look fit to be storming down castles and kidnapping virgins—you know; all that sort of stuff…”

The Dragon drew back further and Greg realised this had probably not been a brilliant plan.

“Err—never mind. More Smarties?” Greg offered.

For a long moment, Greg thought he might be about to find out what the inside of a fireball looked like—but then the Dragon seemed to relent, mollified by the prospect of Smarties.

“If you insist,” he said, and swiped his tongue through the mountain of multi-coloured chocolates. Greg grimaced and wondered how he was going to explain all this to the plant manager when he arrived for work in the morning.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Greg ventured. “What are you doing here?”

“Where?”

“In a chocolate factory. Specifically this one.”

“Well,” said the Dragon. “I went over to Europe for a while to have a look at their St George celebrations, and when I came back, somebody had built over my dungeon.”

He shrugged.

Greg frowned. “This place was built twenty years ago. And the land had been empty for years before that. How can that be?”

The Dragon thought. “Well what century is it?” he asked.

“The twenty-first,” Greg said.

“Ah,” said the Dragon. “That explains it then.”

“How?”

“I left in the fifteenth.”

Greg nodded slowly. “Yeah… I reckon that might be it.”

And then neither of them spoke for a while, the Dragon because he was again preoccupied by Smarties, and Greg because he was busy identifying and regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment.

END.

Fiction: An Exercise in Cruelty

EDIT: The title was rubbish so it's been changed, and there's been a minor alteration to one sentence in the second scene. Blink and you'll miss it. ;) Cheerio!

Hello folks,

Not entirely sure what happened in my brain but this week's flash fiction challenge response is decidedly not my usual style. It's probably nsfw (fair warning: there's quite a bit of swearing) and involves implied violence. I'd say enjoy but that doesn't quite seem fitting... 

An Exercise in Cruelty

The man puts the phone down and turns the envelope over in his gloved hands. This letter is his best so far. It’s neat and professional; makes him feel like an artist instead of an amateur. He’s proud, and rightly so. Carefully, he adjusts his burden, and leaves via the laundry door. He slips the letter in the mailbox on the way to his car.

><><>< 

It’s bone cold when Parker gets back to the precinct. The snow’s coming down harder now and his fingers feel cold and clammy. Griesley follows at his heels, huffing and swearing like a sailor.

“Fucking hell,” Griesley says, tumbling through their office door and shedding his raincoat. “I fucking hate anonymous tipoffs. I fucking hate bloody serial killers with stupid fucking leather masks and weird patterns and—fuck, I fucking hate fucking snow.”

Griesley is Australian. It shows.

“We all do, Griese, we all do.”

Parker kneels down to hold his hands out in front of the mini-heater he’d bought when they got sick of the AC breaking down, and which Griesley had promptly named ‘George’.

“It’s not bloody right. We were supposed to knock off hours ago. Fucking wankers and their fucking tipoffs.” Griesley exhales and turns back to his partner. “Are you heading home?”

Parker nods and Griesley sits beside him with all the grace of a baby giraffe.

“My place tomorrow?”

“Can’t,” Parker says, slouching. “I’m sorry. I’ve got Mia this week. Karen’s already irritated about me working tonight.”

Parker opens his mouth to apologise again but shuts it when Griesley pulls him closer and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Hey, it’s fine. I get it.”

Griesley squeezes him briefly before releasing him. Parker understands; there’s a window set into the door behind them. Better not to risk it. He stands.

“I’d best head off then,” he says, brushing carpet fluff off his knees. “It’s nearly one…”

“Yeah, alright.”

Parker collects his things and leaves with a last smile and nod. It’s not enough for either of them.

><><>< 

Parker arrives home to silence. He pauses at the door, waiting for the hurried pattering of socked feet that reveals an evening spent playing Pageant Star (a vicious children’s game of simulated beauty pageants that he hadn’t figured out how to block yet) on his computer instead of sleeping. He ducks in to check on Mia on his way past, but stubs his toe on her miniature pink rocking chair as he’s approaching her bed and has to bite his lip to hold back a torrent of swear words that would undoubtedly wake Mia and make Karen very, very angry with him. Neither prospect is particularly appealing. He beats a hasty retreat.

><><>< 

The morning comes too quickly for Parker, who flails sluggishly for the snooze button no less than three times before dragging himself out of bed to get Mia ready for school. He shuffles into the kitchen and puts the kettle on with practiced inattention, wondering abstractly if the odd noise it emits when he flicks the switch is something he should be worried about. Yawning, he pulls a bowl out of the cupboard and sets it down next to the unopened carton of some horrifically sugary breakfast cereal that Karen probably wouldn’t let within two feet of their daughter.

Ten minutes later, Parker has drunk half of his cup of tea (and is feeling a little more human, if only a very little) and has begun going through the post when his phone rings.

“Parker, they’ve found another one.”

Parker feels as though the milky tea in his stomach has curdled.

“Where?”

The underling—Frank or Fred something like that—tells him.

Swearing, Parker writes down the address and hangs up. Scribbling a quick note for Mia and leaving a voicemail on Karen’s phone, he slaps the next letter—a neat professional looking thing that makes him think it must’ve been meant for the accountant next door—back down on the counter and almost flies out of the house.

><><>< 

Griesley’s there when Parker arrives. There’s an officer standing by the yellow crime scene tape. He flashes his badge—the officer nods—and ducks under the tape.

“Why the fuck would you call him?” Parker can hear Griesley yelling. Parker frowns. “Fucking hell—”

Griesley turns away from the unfortunate underling and catches sight of him. Their eyes lock and Griesley’s face goes the colour of porridge. Then he’s moving towards Parker like reaching him is the most important thing he’ll ever do.

“What’s going on?”

“You shouldn’t be here. Fuck. I don’t—” Griesley is pushing him away but Parker doesn’t move. “You don’t want to see this, Parks, please—”

“See what?” Parker says, giving Griesley an odd look and trying to step around him.

“No!”

Griesley tries to turn him away but it’s too late. Parker’s eyes fix on a point behind Griesley’s head and for a full minute he just stares, insensible to everything. He can barely feel Griesley’s hands pressing at him, or hear his voice breaking as he begs Parker to leave. It’s as if he’s been plunged underwater. Everything is suddenly very far away, like the world has receded to exist only on the fringes of his awareness.

His eyes trail upwards slowly, from the tiny camel-coloured ugg boots, to the cuffs of a pair of pink flannelette pyjamas, and up and up until he’s staring at the ropes that bind the girl to the road sign, and then further and oh god he doesn’t want to see this but he can’t stop himself and her face is obscured by a curtain of strawberry blonde hair but he still knows, he still fucking knows—and the world comes back. It rushes in, filling his senses, and everything is too loud and too bright and he thinks he’s going to vomit and then, very suddenly, there is nothing but blackness.

END.

Fiction: The Murder of Endolyn Muirden

Hello!

This one took rather longer than expected but it demanded to be written so here it is, this week's response to Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge, Last Lines First. Hope you enjoy it - bye!

 

The Murder of Endolyn Muirden

And then, being mindful not to spill my tea, I eased into the tartan embrace of Endolyn Muirden’s least offensive armchair, and settled back to watch him die. No… watch is the wrong word. I stared, or I studied. I drank in the sight of him and let it saturate my being. I knew every tremor, every tortured shudder of his flesh. In that moment of silence, he was very nearly beautiful, hanging by his ankles from the ceiling fan, his lovely mouth twisted and bloody. Most of my fellows prefer to do the deed and be done with it but that’s never been my style. Rushing off home in time for dinner is so… pedestrian. To my mind, haste is rather more indicative of poor planning than professionalism; one does not flee the opera house before the curtains close, and a predilection for felony is no excuse to neglect one’s manners. Unfortunately, the majority of criminals are always embarrassments and disappointments, to their occupation and their parents respectively.

He thrashed and swore into his gag as I sipped my tea calmly, savouring the bouquet of success and chamomile and the mistreatment of workers in third world countries.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” I smiled slightly.

Endolyn levelled a cutting glare in my direction but it was rather ruined by his being upside down and middle class. (The aristocracy were always leagues ahead of the bourgeois, in everything, obviously, but particularly in that subtle arch of the eyebrow or pursing of the lips by which a certain refined disdain or amusement is conveyed.) I raised a manicured eyebrow.

“Problem?”

He snarled and hurled himself at me, or at least, in my general direction. It was a futile endeavour, yes, but it set the fan turning, and I indulged in a snigger as Endolyn revolved in a series of awkward, aborted swings, his face reddening in a way that could only indicate humiliation, fury, or an imminent medical emergency. I could not but hope for the latter.

“I do hope you’re not disappointed with the accommodations,” I said pleasantly. “I’ve done my very best to make this interesting.”

“Mtrstm?”

“Yes, interesting—honestly, man, enunciate will you?”

Another glare, this one more ridiculous than the last. I sighed; how disappointing.

“Yes, yes, I know you’ve a gag in—who do you think put it there?—but you’ll be allowed to talk soon, and you’ll need to bear in mind my fondness for pronunciation if you don’t want to lose the privilege of speech in your final hours.”

He trembled in spite of my benevolence. Queer little man. And to think I was being generous with him.

“Now there’s no need to look so betrayed; it’s not as if we know one another, is it? Look here,” I said comfortingly. “I’m not an unreasonable man, you know, and I’m sure you must have things to say to me. So if you’ll promise to mind your manners, I’ll take the gag off right now. Can you do that for me?”

Ooh now he was trying for mutinous. I felt the sudden urge to catalogue his expressions and label them for future reference, but supressed it; Endolyn would be dead within the hour and there was always the issue of creating evidence. I wanted Lucette to know I’d been here; I didn’t want him to be able to prove it.

I waited for Endolyn’s decision, watching him serenely over my tea. I would remove the gag when he agreed to my terms and not a moment before. It would not do to let the man think this was some kind of democracy.

Slowly, Endolyn nodded. True to my word, I set my tea down on the little gilded table beside my armchair and stood. He eyed me warily as I moved towards him and crouched down.

“Are you quite sure you can behave yourself?” I breathed. He nodded again, tightly. I removed the gag and pocketed it to burn later.

“Now, you have questions.” I said, reclaiming my seat. “Ask them.”

“Why—why m—”

“No, not that. Start with something interesting.”

Endolyn looked affronted. “What’s more interesting than that?” he said.

“Oh I don’t know; lots of things. Stock market indexes, share prices, Scrabble, ironing…”

“What’s wrong with any of that? I like…” —he floundered—“Scrabble.”

“Indeed."

“What?”

“Well you were hardly going to say ‘ironing’ were you?” I said, eyeing his trousers. “Ask me something else.”

“Fine. What do you do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I’m trying not to think about it. Favourite colour?”

“If you can’t think of something more interesting, I’m gagging you again—”

“Alright, I will, just give me a moment.”

I waited.

“I know you think,” Endolyn began finally, “that I was going to ask about me—earlier, when you cut me off—but I wasn’t. I swear.”

I leaned forward slightly. “Go on.”

“I was going to ask about my brother.” Endolyn sounded choked.

I straightened. “Ah.”

“Yes.”

“Lucette.”

“Yes.”

“And what exactly did you want to ask about him?”

“I think you know.”

“I’m sure I do.”

“So answer me.”

I paused and set my tea cup aside.

“Answer me—”

I was out of my chair before the last syllable had left his mouth. I knelt before him, grasping his jaw between my fingers as I stared into his face.

“Do not speak to me as if you have the right to demand things of me,” I said lowly. “You are nothing. You mean nothing. Your purpose is to die. You will never know precisely why because like your precious brother, I belong to a world where people like you live and die at the whim of people like me. So in your final moments, because these will be your final moments, I want you to think about your brother. I want you to remember that he could’ve saved you—and he didn’t.”

Standing, I reclaimed my chair; I had nothing more to say.

END