Posts Tagged ‘Tiny Stories’
Tiny Story #7
Wednesday, August 5th, 2009
“WHERE TO TODAY?”
For six days Ridley did not alight except to eat, drink or relieve himself, and occasionally sleep. It was all so new. Learning to navigate from an entirely different perspective was easier than he thought it might be. He simply learned to recognize shapes of intersections and tops of buildings. He really felt as though he had been reborn. He felt free in a way that he could not explain. Nobody else could do what he could do. Anywhere he wanted to go he could go and nobody could tell him otherwise. For the first few days he had had to leave and return via a vacant parking lot. But not anymore. His dexterity and agility increased with each day and he had begun to understand the nuances of moving in such a different manner. So, once again, Ridley looked out over his city from his thirty-story perch in front of the Paramount Clock. Times Square was bustling with life below. Screens and billboards that boldly displayed adverts for Coca-Cola, Samsung and Haughty Couture took up entire sides of buildings. The Virgin Mega Store flashed its stuff like a hawker in a bazaar. He saw the little cars that had to adhere to the strict concrete grid-work. He saw pedestrians that had to wait for signs to signal their right to cross streets. He was one of them, once. Once upon a time. But not anymore. Six days ago everything changed when he awoke to find that it had not just been a dream. So Ridley leaped off the ledge in a perfect swan dive. His wings shot out and spread ten feet to either side. He caught an updraft that blasted up the side of the building and spiraled into the sky. “Where to today?” he asked his city.
Cheers,
~D
Tiny Story #6
Monday, August 3rd, 2009
FOREIGNER:
Thomas did not blend in with the locals in the least. He was more than a head taller than anyone else. The rich dark skin of Mumbai’s inhabitants contrasted sharply with his fair countenance. He clearly did not belong, so the men and women hawking their wares along Fashion Row would raise their prices at least a thousand percent whenever he entered one of the makeshift booths. He haggled and argued over the marked up prices until the vendor would simply cross his arms and look off to the side like Thomas no longer existed. When he turned to leave the man called him back and with a heaviness, as though it would cost him his shop, he would concede to a price that Thomas knew was still five times more than a local would pay. But he had settled on a set of glass bangles and a pair of glass earrings with countless beads dangling from a beaded triangle. He thought his girlfriend would like them. Maybe he could drag a pardon out with them. He wanted to get out of the throng. The press of unknown faces was too much. Every time he looked down there were children reaching up with cupped hands, faces contorted in pained yearning for just one rupee. He saw a woman with a baby that was sleeping in her arms, but when she caught him looking at her she pinched the infant and it started to wail as she quickly approached him and gestured with one hand toward her mouth. She twisted her face into a look of someone not having eaten in days. She placed her hand out for a donation. She had the most amazingly white teeth Thomas had ever seen and they were perfectly straight. All of them had those teeth. Beggars, merchants, businessmen, it didn’t matter. Perfectly straight smiles could be seen wherever he looked. The woman pushed her hand toward him again after pinching the infant a second time. Thomas quickly looked away and made a sharp right toward the road where he flagged down one of the countless yellow and black auto-rickshaws, which was essentially just a three-wheeled moped with a shell over the top. He clambered in.
“Carter Road,” he said, slightly breathless and more than a bit overwhelmed. The driver waved his head slightly and set out to force a path through the ever-present traffic, making his way east. Honking the high-pitched horn incessantly. It seemed to be more habit than anything else. Everyone was honking, but unlike New York, nobody yelled and swore at anybody else. It was all the daily routine as poverty stricken beggars squatted on corners, mongrels skulked in alleyways and merchants plied their goods, crying out over the din “Chaaaaai BabbaChai!” or “Lemonorrraaaaange!” and countless other phrases that Thomas did not understand. The rickshaw reached Carter Road and Thomas tossed the driver two hundred rupees and hopped out. He had to run across the street to the promenade to avoid the cars and rickshaws that caromed down the road, heedless of pedestrians. When he set foot on the wide tiles that overlooked the Arabian Sea, Thomas let out a long breath. The tide was low and the pocked rocks stretched out hundreds of feet before him. He did not venture out but rather leaned against the waist-high wall and sipped the milk from a fresh coconut that no doubt came from one of the many palms across the street. He gazed out toward the water until he saw an aging man walk out toward the water. When the man was nearly to the edge he pulled his pants down and squatted over a small pool, heedless of the numerous people walked up and down the coastline. Thomas could not help but grimace. He did not belong.
Cheers,
~D
Tiny Story #5.5
Friday, July 31st, 2009
Holy jeez, it’s Friday already?! I nearly forgot… It’s been one of those days I guess. Anyway. Shall we continue?
BROTHERS: Part 2 of 2
Oliver climbed down the tree that grew alongside the house and dropped the last ten feet into the soft snow. He ran up the nearest slope until he was level with his mother’s window. He could see his father. His blade spun faster than Oliver could follow, but a crossbow bolt slammed into his right shoulder, and knocked him back into the room. The Captain looked once more out the window, and before the outlaws could stop him, plunged his blade into his wife’s heart. He turned to face the men once more. “You will not have her in this life.”
One of the men stepped forward, wearing a black tunic and brown woolen pants. He had a thick black beard and wore a plain half-helm with black iron-wrought wings along the sides. “Aye, she don’t need be alive, Captain,” he said with a cruel smile. “Aint that right, Paulo boy?”
Another man with the same black tunic stepped forward. He wore a black fur vest over the top and gray fur pants with gray fur boots. He wore an old bronze helmet that he must have stolen off some slain victim. “That’s the right of it, Sarge.” The men let out chuckles. “Just so long as they’re still warm’s good enough for the likes of us scum, ay Captain?” Captain Combe raised his sword with his left hand and parried several attacks, but they forced him back. Oliver turned and ran into the foothills, heading towards the mountain called Bhediya.
Another wolf howled and snapped Oliver back to the present. It was close. Somewhere just up the mountain. He twisted around and craned his neck, looking for a way up the rocky slopes… away from the wild animal. All he had was his father’s hunting knife. He wished he had thought to bring a bow. He knew the outlaws were just toying with him, but the sight of the rocky crags so close gave him hope. He pushed to his feet and within three steps was waist deep in snow again. He began to cry as he pushed through the heavy drifts. Oliver had to pull himself up onto the rocks when he reached the other side of the field. He looked up at the stony towers. They looked like rain-worn castles whose tops had been shorn off by some giant’s axe. They jutted into the sky like granite teeth. Rocks skittered down the slope somewhere to his right. Oliver went left and began climbing. He heard voices behind him, but still distant. He looked back and saw the men had abandoned their horses and were climbing over the rocks too. Oliver swore under his breath. A curse he had learned from one of the servants at his father’s estate. As he came to the peak of the mountain, he found it was only a false one. Before him was a small lake, frozen solid, and the true mountaintop towered high above the far shore. Gingerly at first, he made his way across. The slope on the other side was all scree and gravel, dotted with a legitimate boulder here and there, but as Oliver reached the foot of the slope he fell to his knees. It was too far. The slope was too long and they would be on him before he was halfway up. Their legs were almost twice as long as his, and their lungs twice as big. He began to sob. He didn’t know what else to do. Even his sobs were labored and sent knives down his throat with every breath. It was not long before Oliver heard their voices again. As he turned, blinking through tears, he saw the first one climb over the ridge on the other side of the frozen lake.
Oliver got to his feet and picked up stones, throwing them as far as he could. He ran up the slope a short distance, then turned and threw more stones. He had heard his father say something about “uphill is the upper hand,” but they had steel where he had only rocks. He threw more stones and whooped as one caught a bandit in the cheek and sent the man sprawling on the ice. Still, the others came on. When they reached the foot of the slope they stopped. They seemed to hesitate. A couple dropped their knives and swords and began to run back the way they had come, as others appeared to brace themselves. Oliver heard loose rocks skittering down the slope behind him and he turned, fearing an avalanche. But when he looked, there were no boulders bounding down the slope. Oliver was frozen. When he finally made to run back the way he had come, it was too late. They were on him before he could take three steps, then they were past, racing down the mountain like a black and white tide. The outlaws fled as wolves, seemingly innumerable came snarling out of the rocks. The wolves outnumbered them five to one. Oliver crouched and threw his hands over his head. He could hear them growling and barking as they ran past. His father had always said that wolves didn’t like the taste of highborn children because they were sour, but Oliver knew that was just to quell his fears of the night.
Olive chanced a peek just in time to see the last few animals fade into the rocks. He looked around wildly but he saw neither hide nor hair of the beasts of the mountain. The Bhediya was named for its inhabitants. But Oliver had never seen more than a few at one time. What he saw then must have been hundreds. And now they were just gone; all but one. A massive black creature with burning amber eyes. It stared at him. That gaze was unsettling, but not as much as the evil men had been. It loped toward him and he had his father’s hunting knife out before he knew. Oliver scrambled to his feet and waved the knife furiously, shouting and hollering curses for the animal to stay back. The wolf stopped and regarded Oliver for a moment. Then it just bounded off and seemed to fade into the rocks. Oliver looked around, perplexed.
He dropped to the ground. He was tired. His arms and legs ached and did not want to move another inch. Oliver jumped suddenly and screamed when the black wolf sat down next to him. He was afraid and embarrassed by his high-pitched wail. He slowed his breathing as he stared at the beast. It was just looking off to the horizon as he had been. With both of them sitting, the wolf was taller than he was. He was frightened, but the fear was quickly fading. It never looked at him, just gazed out over the mountains. So Oliver sat up a little straighter and did the same.
Cheers,
~D
Tiny Story #5.0
Wednesday, July 29th, 2009
Aaaaaand we’re back!! So let’s get right to it, shall we?
—————————————————————-
BROTHERS: Part 1 of 2
Oliver struggled through the waist-deep snow, pushing it aside with his arms as best he could. The drifts had gotten deeper during the night, but still he plodded on. There were men somewhere behind, following. Oliver knew they were just playing with him. Like the fat farm cat did with the mice. The men would let him think that he was escaping, then draw close enough for him to hear their raucous laughter and jeering. Though he had only seen ten years, he knew that much. And he knew they were bad men. “The dregs of humanity,” Oliver’s father had called them.
He climbed a small granite outcropping and took a brief moment to catch his breath. He pulled his wolf-pelt coat tighter and cinched the straps around his wrists and waist. He had his woolen scarf wrapped around his mouth, and a fox-fur cap atop his head. Oliver looked towards the peak of the mountain. The rocks were jagged and steep towards the top, and he knew their horses would not be able to follow him up there. But the air was thin so high up and every breath came a little more labored. He moved up the slope and hid behind a house-sized boulder still trying to catch his breath. Oliver lay down on his back and stared up at the low clouds. They were streaking across the sky. He felt as though he could reach out and touch them. It made him feel restless. He wiped away his tears and, reluctantly, pushed to his feet. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep, just for a couple hours. Maybe when he awoke, his mother and father would be there, no longer stuck like slaughtered livestock. He had not slept all night as the evil men harried him up the treacherous slopes of the Bhediya. Sniffling, he wiped his nose with the back of his fur glove and made his way up the slope, climbing over sunspots and scurrying over the exposed scree.
His legs were numb from running all night, but it was either run, or die, so he made himself keep going. He jumped as a wolf howled. It sounded close but Oliver knew his ears played tricks on him in the mountains, the Captain, his father, had said so. Ridges and cliffs bounced the sounds around in strange ways. The wind began to pick up as Oliver clambered up a cliff face. It was no more than thirty feet to the top and he had climbed cliffs three times that height around his father’s manor house, but he was winded when he reached the top and his limbs trembled. He looked back the way he’d come and saw the score of men ride over a low saddle. He could see one of them pointing up at him. He knew he must have stuck out plain against the stark white snow. Still, the ground was rough for the horses and it would take them time to reach his present perch. They would have to ride around all the jutting boulders, while Oliver could climb right over them.
Oliver’s father had hanged the bandits’ leader, but it was justice for all the murders and rapes the monster of a man had committed. And the Captain had been ordered to do it by the Caliph himself. But the bandits wanted their own justice, so they had come in the night for the Captain and his family.
Oliver had not run out the back door as his father had commanded. He had had to see his mother one last time. He climbed the stairs as fast as he could to her bedroom. The fire in the hearth gave the room a pleasant warmth, but Oliver felt colder than the snow that was falling outside. He looked at his mother’s ashen face, and tears welled up anew. She slowly turned her head as he lightly touched her hand. “Oh,” she whispered. “My baby boy.” She smiled weakly. She tried to raise her hand to brush through is hair, but she did not have the strength.
She was so pale. He had never seen his mother like this. Why was she so pale? She had always been strong with a ready smile and a musical voice. Her once raven hair, now had a light dusting of salt, and lay limp upon the pillow. “Hello, mother,” he managed.
“My sweet baby Jon,” she whispered through her teeth. Oliver had to put his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob.
“Jon… Jon’s not here mother,” he said between shuddering breaths. “I’m Oliver. Remember, mother? Your youngest son, Oliver?” Tears blurred his vision. Jon was his older brother, but he had died when Oliver was only three.
“Yes, of course.” His mother’s voice was thin and drawn. “Sweet little Olli,” she smiled.
“Yeah,” was all he could manage. Oliver heard the clash of steel from downstairs. He knew he should run, but he could not leave his mother, not like this. She closed her eyes and fell back asleep, as he held her hand. “Sleep, mother,” he whispered to her. “This is a scary dream. A night terror. Sleep, and don’t wake up. Dream of sunshine and being strong. Dream of Jon, of Papa; dream of me, mother.” He scrubbed the tears from his eyes and cheeks. He ran to his room and grabbed his wolf-pelt coat, his woolen scarf, and a fox-fur cap. Oliver ran back to his mother’s side to see her once more. His father burst into the room and slammed the door shut, bolting it from the inside.
“Damn it, Oliver I told you to run!”
“I… I had to say goodbye.”
“Go, out the window. Climb down the tree and go!” The door shuddered and the wood around the hinges and bolt cracked slightly. “Go!” Captain Combe opened the window and hauled Oliver out onto the roof. “I’ve already lost Jon, I won’t lose you too. Off with you now. Hide, and stay out of sight. Remember this night, Oliver.” Captain Samuel Combe spun towards the door as it splintered open. The Captain’s curved blade was a blur.
To be continued…
I will post the second part on Friday… still working out the kinks… as much as I can work them out in just a day or two ;)
~D
