Tag / short story

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 24: Knight and Doc

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Story dedicated to my friend Sam, the inspiration for Patches, and one of my oldest and best friends.

Battlefield clean-up was far from glorious. Lady Rune Lostsabre and the medic she was bound to protect, Patches, were some of the few figures standing among the dead and wounded. Rune had been prepared for gore and destruction — in the past she’d caused plenty of it herself — but you never got used to the smell. Even with the smear of ocimea oil under her nose, the reek of death still stung her nostrils.

Patches primed the scanner. A grid of blue light settled over roughly one quarter of the battlefield that was his to monitor. Rune circled him, eyes sharp, shield raised. Medics weren’t permitted to carry weapons; their protector had only shields. Rune had forgone the standard lightweight energy shields most soldiers preferred. Hers was enhanced, of course — she wasn’t stupid — but she preferred the heft of a real metal shield.

Patches’s scanner chirped, indicating that it was ready to start scanning the area. Gray light filtered over the dead bodies. Blue marked wounded allies and red marked wounded enemies. The light trickled over the area: gray, gray, gray.

Green.

Green meant alive, unhurt, and neither friend nor enemy. The rarest color in clean-up. But it was tucked underneath a pile of gray.

“Careful,” Rune warned the doc. She’d known Patches half her life now. They’d both started in Basic together. He was prone to running headlong into things without thinking of the consequences. Admittedly, Rune was similar, but it was her sworn duty to keep him alive. “Scene isn’t safe.”

“It’s never safe,” Patches said, and moved toward the green mark. Rune matched his stride, but let him roll over the dead body on top of Green.

Greens were usually civilians, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. They usually were panicked or in shock, and grateful to see anyone who wasn’t pointing a weapon at them. Underneath the dead body, Green was alert. “Damn!”

He leaped to his feet. Rune had only a second to assess. Chainmail boots. Bits of armor stolen from both armies. Beads in knotted hair that were actually small explosives, and a push knife in either hand. A war scavenger. Nasty, dangerous business, but a lucrative one.

Green charged toward Patches. He thrust one of the knife points towards Patches’s neck.

Rune intercepted the scavenger in a second. Her heater shield went up, blocking Green’s first blow, then the next. Rune flicked on the dial to burn mode.

Green ran at Patches again. Rune swung her shield, bashing Green in the side of his head. He staggered, his flesh already reddening. Rune tilted the shield back and jabbed its pointed end into Green’s throat.

He fell, stunned and whimpering in pain.

Green’s color marker changed to purple. Wounded non-combatant.

“Thanks for that,” Patches said, shaking his head.

“No worries. You want me to arrest him first, or you wanna fix him up first?”

“Arrest him. Once he’s immobile we can triage the rest.”

Rune set about cuffing the scavenger, and Patches looked over the battlefield. He was duty bound to heal all he could, even the enemy. And Rune was sworn to protect him, with only a shield.

It was an ugly job. A hard one.

Rune finished with the scavenger. “You good?”

Patches sighed. “Not really.”

Rune squeezed his shoulder. “You know, when I was transferred to Med Corps. I was pissed. Then I found out you were the doc I got assigned to. And I thought, ‘Great, the trouble twins are together again.'” Patches smiled at their old nickname from Basic. “But I was glad. ‘Cause I knew you’d have my back.”

“And your blood,” Patches added with a small laugh.

Rune punched him lightly in the shoulder. She may have been a universal human donor — and living blood bag in a pinch — but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“I was glad too,” Patches said. “Cause I’d knew you’d have my back.”

“Right. Let’s do this.”

Knight and Doc went into the battlefield, fire-forged friends.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 20: Not Quite A Glow-Up

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Today’s story is a 369er, 3 separate but related stories, each using only 69 words.

Solar Ivybell’s phone pinged with the news that she’d been waiting to receive for 33 years: Eris’s Comet to Make Earth Fly-By September 8. Solar had been 16 when it last came to Earth, carrying Eridians that had fed on Earthlings’ memories and implanted false ones. Thankfully, Solar had discovered the magical power to hurl them back into space, as long as she had her beloved, equally magical friends.

Angel Moonwater and Lotus Fallenbloom hadn’t talked to Solar in years. Not since Solar had made a drunken maid of honor speech at their wedding, made the day all about her, and used her sacred magic to literally shine on the dance floor. “Do we really need to team up with her?” Lotus groaned. “Eridians are bad, but she’s a sparkly disaster. I’d almost prefer the Eridians invade instead.”

Angel and Lotus found an Eridian scout before the main force arrived. Angel interrupted its declaration of revenge. “We’re not going to hurt you. Instead, we have a request.” The Eridian snapped its pincers, curious. “Can you eat the memories from our wedding and implant a new one? Something happy.” The Eridian obliged. When Solar texted them about the impeding invasion, they happily reunited to kick some alien butt.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 19: Maize Maze

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

“We’ll never find it.” Janine and I had been in the corn maze for hours. The sun was getting low and the sky was already turning pink. We’d already found the exit, but had doubled back to the center of the maze when Janine realized she’d left her phone in the center of the maze. “And the place is gonna close soon. Can we please just let someone know and head home? I’m sure someone’ll find it and call you in the morning.”

“On what phone, Hillary?” Janine snapped. Even though her earbuds weren’t connected to anything, Janine still had them in. She’d been listening to music the whole time we were in the maze.

“Give them your mom’s number. Or mine. But it’s getting seriously creepy here.” The corny Halloween decorations—plastic skeletons and scarecrows with pumpkin heads—strewn throughout the maze hadn’t bothered me in the full daylight. But in the setting sun they cast long shadows that kept making me do double-takes. The beautiful October afternoon had turned chilly and windy. I shivered. “Let’s just go.”

“My whole life is on that phone. I’m not leaving without it.”

I knew how she felt. Janine had years of photos saved on it, a ton of apps, not to mention the phone number of everyone who mattered (and a few people who didn’t). She hated to be apart from it. Even in class, when she was forced to put it away, she would put her hand in her pocket every few minutes like she was making sure it was still there.

A gust of wind blew through the stalks. Dry leaves rustled against one another. It sounded like the field whispering.

“Please.” I shivered. “Let’s go. You know this place closes at sunset.” I glanced up at the bruise-colored sky. “Which is about ten minutes from now. We need to find the exit.”

As if on cue, the PA system that had been playing “Monster Mash” shut off. All I could hear was the wind, crickets, and Janine’s angry, “No!” She stomped deeper into the maze.

“Janine, please!” I grabbed the sleeve of her sweater. “We’ve gotta go!”

The sun disappeared below the horizon. A crackly voice on the PA system announced that Barley Farms would be closing in five minutes. That wasn’t enough time to get out.

Somewhere behind a row of corn I heard footsteps. Probably staff.

Maybe staff.

I hoped staff.

“Let go!” Janine tugged her arm out of my grip. She squinted in the dying light. “Where’s your phone? We need a flashlight.”

“I didn’t bring it.”

“You what?” Her voice rose into a squeak.

“Because I wanted to spend time with you for a change! Not you and your stupid phone!”

Janine opened her mouth to yell when a low howling sound floated over the maze. It sounded like a wolf, then turned into a mournful moan. “The hell is that?” Janine grabbed on to my arm.

A distorted man’s voice rolled over us:

And in the death
As the last few corpses lay rotting on the slimy thoroughfare
The shutters lifted an inch in temperance building, high on Poacher’s Hill

Janine’s breath caught. “What is that?”

“I told you we had to leave before dark!” I tugged arm back towards where I thought the exit lay. “Weird shit happens here!”

And red mutant eyes gazed down on Hunger City
No more big wheels
Fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats

This time Janine didn’t fight me. We jogged down the paths while the man kept speaking.

And ten thousand peoploids split into small tribes
Coveting the highest of the sterile skyscrapers
Like packs of dogs assaulting the glass fronts of Love-Me Avenue

In the dark, we didn’t see the roots sticking out of the ground. Roots that I would swear hadn’t been there when we walked in the maze hours before. Janine face-planted, jaw smashing against the hard ground.

“Are you okay?” I asked. She started to get up, blood falling down her chin.

She screamed. “Oh my God something just touched my ankle! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—”

We ran. I didn’t know where we were going. I could barely see anything but the stalks in front of me.

“I can hear music!” Janine said with panting breaths. “It’s just a song!”

“‘This ain’t rock and roll!'” The man called out. “‘This is genocide!'”

We both screamed.

I don’t know how we found our way out of the maze. By the time we did, we were breathless and clinging to each other. We finally got back to Janine’s car. She locked the door as soon as we got in.

“God.” I ran a shaky hand through my bangs. “The haunted corn maze was actually haunted.”

“M-maybe.” She looked at the holder connected to her air vent where her phone normally sat. “It’s okay. I know how to get home from here.”

I noticed then that she didn’t have her air pods. They must have fallen out during our mad dash for the exit. “Damn. And you lost your earbuds too.”

“Huh?” Janine touched her empty ears. “I guess they’re gone forever.”

That was not the reaction Janine would have had a few hours ago. “You don’t want to go back and look tomorrow?”

She shook her head furiously. “Never again.”

“It’s all junk anyway,” I said.

“Yeah.” Janine started the car. “It’s all junk.”

It’s my favorite challenge: David Bowie Day! Celebrating the 40th anniversary of the movie Labyrinth, which was my introduction to David Bowie.

ELEMENT 1: Your story must take place in a labyrinth. Easy, right? Too easy? Well, since you were all begging for more Bowie…

OPTIONAL ADD-ON ELEMENTS:

♫ UNDERGROUND: Include a reference to the movie Labyrinth in some way, shape or form. I really wanted to have a reference to the worm, but “it’s all junk!” worked better.

♫ DANCE, MAGIC DANCE: Someone in the story must be listening to a song from our David Bowie song randomizer. I got “Future Legend” and “Janine.” “Future Legend” is so spooky~

♫ AS THE WORLD FALLS DOWN: Include something forgotten. Janine forgets her phone in the maze.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 18: The Queen and the Seal Lord, Pt. 3

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. This is the final part of “The Queen and the Seal Lord” which was really only supposed to be one story but I got carried away. I also know that the description of Raghnall should have come sooner in the story, but between the first story and this one I decided that selkies have dad bod and I needed to include it.

Part 1
Part 2

Raghnall ducked his head under the waves. He was still trapped in human for, his knees weak, stomach roiling. He trembled, but that had nothing to do with the ocean’s chill. His seal coat was moving further inland, carried by someone with intent to do him harm. And he was forced to rely on Queen Gráinne — the same queen that just slapped him for insubordination — to return it.

A small pod of Raghnall’s trusted companions encircled him. Two were in seal form, swimming around him. The third stood on two legs, holding a net and trident and standing alert.

Réalta should have been among them. Her death was too recent to inspire grief in the selkie pod, only anger. If Raghnall survived this, he would see Réalta’s killers flayed.

Raghnall poked his head out from the water and breathed out a sigh. The shaking in his slightly webbed fingers stopped. Gráinne had his seal coat, and she was bringing it to him.

As soon as the queen arrived on the shore, her mount dark with sweat, she ran towards the sea. The selkies let her pass. Wordlessly, Gráinne held the seal coat out to Raghnall.

He donned it quickly, human feet becoming fins once more. He barked once, then dove into the ocean. The pod followed him.

A week later, Gráinne received a request for an audience. “He’s here now, my queen,” the courier said, almost apologetically. Few would be so bold to just assume the queen had the time or inclination to meet with them.

“Is he dressed?” Gráinne asked.

The courier’s pale cheeks turned pink. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Send him in.”

As a seal, Raghnall was svelte and strong; as a man, the extra blubber from his seal form settled on his limbs and torso. His whiskers had become a Van Dyke mustache and beard, which Gráinne felt rather suited him. He wore black trousers that had been patched multiple times, an open-breasted red shirt that popped against his gray skin, and a long, dark coat. At the collar was a with an embossed elk antler, marking him as a privateer.

“Hardly a suitable wardrobe to meet the queen in, but at least you have one this time,” Gráinne remarked. She stood up from her writing desk to greet him.

Raghnall bowed at the waist. “Was that a joke, Your Majesty?”

“They’ve been known to happen,” Gráinne replied once he’d straightened.

“I’m afraid at our last meeting I wasn’t thinking clearly. But I bring you thanks from Réalta’s family for returning her coat to them.” Raghnall reached into his pocket and produced two pink studs, shined to a polish: coral earrings. “They asked me to give you these.”

“Thank you.” Gráinne gingerly took the earrings from his hand. Most selkies owned few things, but loved what they had fiercely. “Please tell her family I will treasure them.” She replaced her carved bone earrings with the coral. “From what I knew of her, Réalta was clever and strong.”

“I couldn’t have asked for a better first mate.” Raghnall cleared his throat to keep tears from his voice. “I’d like to apologize to you as well, Ma’am.”

The notion of Raghnall apologizing for anything was so unexpected, Gráinne had to clap her hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of laughter. “Raghnall. You’ve sunk my ships. Raided my shores. I nearly hanged you once.”

Raghnall rubbed at his throat. “‘Nearly’ is the operative word.”

“And never once did you apologize for piracy. So what did you do that was so egregious to warrant one now?”

Raghnall looked away from her, and Gráinne realized that he was trying to hide his embarrassment. Until now, she wasn’t sure he’d even been capable of that particular emotion. “You retrieved my coat without hesitation, even after I blatantly disrespected you. Once I had it back, I did not even thank you.”

Gráinne shrugged a shoulder. “You’ve disrespected me for years. I wasn’t going to let you die out of spite.”

“Except for all the times you actually did try to kill me.”

“That’s different.” Gráinne actually smiled. Her royal duties kept her on land now, but Gráinne remembered her days fostered at sea as some of the best of her life. “The one time I did manage to arrest you—”

“And nearly hang me,” Raghnall added, unhelpfully.

“I decided to keep you instead.”

The seal lord blinked his inky eyes several times. “What am I supposed make of that?”

Gráinne thought a moment. “That our discussion about Hy-Brasil and your kin crossing the barrier is not finished, I suppose. And that at our next meeting, I expect you clothed.”

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 15: Unclean Break



Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. To be clear: this is not directed at anyone, it’s just something I’ve been reflecting on lately.

I just got tired.

The smallest thing inside me turned, and I couldn’t do it anymore. I wanted out.

If we were dating, it would be easier. I know the rules of a break-up. Someone leaves. You awkwardly return each other’s stuff. Maybe someone moves out. You avoid talking to each other. Maybe you’ll see each other again, years later, and exchange cordial but awkward words.

I wish it was that simple.

There’s no such thing as a clean break from a friendship.

I just reply to texts less, and then one day I realize either you’ve stopped texting, or I haven’t replied at all. We stop hanging out, just the two of us. Soon I only see you at “group hangs,” and then not at all.

I’m okay with this.

And it hurts that I’m okay with this.

I’ll never get the sweater I left at your house back. Or taste your mom’s extra-cheesy macaroni again. We won’t exchange books ever again, or stay up all night talking about everything and anything.

I have the good memories of you and I together, even though they hurt to look at now.

It’s not enough. They can’t replace you.

But someday, maybe we will see each other on the street and exchange our cordial but awkward words.

Maybe then we’ll fall back in sync, they way we used to be.

Until then, keep the sweater. It looked better on you anyway.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 14: The Queen and The Seal Lord, Pt. 2



Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. This part 2 for The Queen and the Seal Lord. I really thought that part 2 would be the end of it, but this is at 999 words already, and I want to give this story a proper conclusion. Which means that there will be a part 3 at some point. Whoops.

Gráinne felt it only a moment after Raghnall heard it. Intruders on a navy ship. She was on her feet at once, cutting through the peace ties on her sword with a letter-opener from her desk. “Raghnall, see to your crew. And for fuck’s sake, get some trousers on.”

Raghnall had checked his weapons with his Réalta, his first mate, as was protocol. He dashed toward the cabin door, Gráinne just footsteps behind. The selkie froze mid-stride and let out a noise somewhere between a yelp and a gasp. He staggered where he stood, then gripped the wall for support. “Someone has my coat.”

Not just someone. A selkie and his seal coat parted at great risk. There were few he would have given it to willingly. Raghnall’s sudden weakness — his stooped posture, knees trembling — came from someone with ill-intent handling his coat.

“Stay here,” Gráinne demanded and shouldered past him. Just past the door to the captain’s quarters, Gráinne saw Réalta dead. The deep puncture wound at the base of her skull told Gráinne that the seal maiden had no chance to fight back. Whoever had done this had chosen stealth, not brute force.

Gráinne spun at the sound of uneven steps behind her, but it was only Raghnall, who by now had availed himself of a spare cloak, which was tied around his waist. His already ashen skin was growing lighter and lighter. “Is Réalta…”

“I’m sorry.” And Gráinne was. For all her differences with Raghnall, she had always liked his first mate.

“They’re taking the coat inland,” Raghnall said. His voice did not hold the rich timbre that Gráinne liked, one of waves lapping at the shore. He collected his weapons from Réalta, a trident and net, and short club that he normally wore on a belt. “If they bury it—”

“I know.” Disgust filled Gráinne. It was one of the unspoken laws of Fae war. Stealing a selkie’s coat was an unforgivable act. If it were to be buried under a black oak tree overnight, Raghnall would die. “Stay here,” she said again.

Raghnall bared his teeth. “It’s my coat.”

“And you’re in no shape to go after it,” Gráinne snapped back. “Stay in the water. It’ll help. I’ll be back before nightfall.” Before Raghnall could object, she threw herself overboard. Docked in the harbor, the ship wasn’t in deep water. Gráinne moved through it was ease, as though she were walking on dry land. When she reached the shore, she placed her bare palms on the ground, closed her eyes, and felt.

The land was part of her, and she was part of it. It couldn’t tell her who had stolen Raghnall’s coat, but she could feel the wrongness of someone, speeding away from the harbor. She sensed the person’s direction, and the vile tang of retribution they carried with them. This creature was moving at full speed, but not fast enough to avoid being overtaken by Gráinne.

She whistled for her horse, a silver dappled courser, who trotted out to the queen. Gráinne mounted easily, not bothering to saddle the mare. They understood each other, in the same way that the sea offered her only passing resistance and the land told her the direction of her quarry. They raced across the sand, following the thief.

The tracks told Gráinne the thief was traveling on a wild boar. Fierce, nasty creatures that rarely tolerated riders. That narrowed the possibilities of her quarry down some: Fir Bolg, true Orc, or Fomorian. Gráinne’s parents had established an uneasy truce with the Fir Bolg some decades before, and Orcs had no use for stealth. Fomorians were sea raiders, and had never entered into a treaty with the crown.

Finally, Gráinne spotted the boar and its rider. Fomorian, just as she had feared. Gráinne spurred her mare forward. She wouldn’t cut off the Fomorian’s path if she had another option. Her mount had been trained for combat, but she didn’t want it going against the boar’s deadly tusks. Instead, she took the sling that she carried on her belt and loaded a stone into it. The first shot missed her target completely. The second bashed the Fomorian in the back of the head.

The Fomorian lurched forward with shock, then wheeled their boar around to face Gráinne. It was a misshapen humanoid, muscles bulging in strange places and limbs with extra joints. It held a pike in gray-green fingers. Thin, yellow hair covered not just its head, but its entire face. It wore a fur coat spotted with gray and brown; Gráinne instantly recognized it as seal skin. Not selkie, but the selkies considered the animals their cousins. Raghnall would’ve had the Fomorian’s head for that.

Under its arm was Raghnall’s coat.

No Fomorian could resist a challenge by the Tuatha Dé Danann, even a half-human one. It dug its spiked heels into the boar’s side, and charged.

Gráinne found herself wishing for her glaive. She shifted to dismount, but as soon as she did, her courser ran at the boar. Gráinne called out for the horse to retreat, but the mare refused. Instead, she kicked up her powerful back legs, knocking the Fomorian out of its rope saddle. Without its rider, the boar abruptly changed course. It was distracted for now, and Gráinne hoped it would give in to its fatigue soon.

She sprang from her mount, sword in hand, and ran at the unseated Fomorian. It jabbed at her with its pike. Gráinne ducked replied with a kick to its stomach, throwing it off balance. She whirled and smashed the hilt of her sword on the side of its head, stunning the foul thing. Then, she took its head. It was a kinder death than Raghnall had given it.

She took his seal coat and tied it around her waist for safe keeping. Her mare was still standing alert, watching the boar trot away. Gráinne mounted her horse, and turned seaward. “Hold on, Raghnall. I’m coming.”

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 13: Tasting Notes for a Bottle of Gin


Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

Tasting notes for a bottle of gin: juniper berries roll over the tongue, wash your mouth with a foundation that tastes of Christmas trees and better times. Citrus splash, the yellows and greens of summers left behind. Cinnamon dust, scraping around the edges of your teeth, grit on the tops of your molars, the small sins of the past you can never truly swallow.

Another challenge story!

Element 1: The form for today’s story must be Prosetry.

Element 2: Your story must mention at least THREE herbs or other botanical elements (i.e. chamomile blossoms, death caps, salt, sage, tobacco, pine, etc).

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 11: B-A-N-A-N-A-S

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

“I think I need a bananaquit.” Randy closed eBird with a sigh.

“Bananaquits are not why we’re here,” Ethel reminded him, and shut her laptop down for the night. They hadn’t come to Guatemala for bird watching, but it traveling with Randy had been more fun than Ethel imagined. She was the veteran reporter; he was the novice who’d gotten lucky when Ethel’s usual photographer had a nasty bout of food poisoning. At first, Randy reminded Ethel of a dog, following too close at her heels and looking for scraps. His hidden talent, though, was knowing every bird that flew by them. Ethel was initially annoyed at how he pointed out every grackle, oriole, and pigeon, but she’d come to like it. He saw things that Ethel had never paid attention to before.

She just couldn’t let him be distracted by them.

“I know. It’s all about the bananas, isn’t it?”

“Not all about the bananas. There’s a human interest story, too.” She yawned.

“Yes, but bananas are the most important part.” He rose from the bed where he had been sitting. “Who are we meeting with at the banana farm tomorrow?”

“Balam Tun. Review your notes on her before you go to sleep. Originally from Los Platanos, university in the United States, mad as all hell at Chiquita,” Ethel told him matter-of-factly.

Randy frowned. “Banana bastards.”

Tun’s farm was more than a two hour drive outside Puerto Barrios. The only reprieve from the heat, humidity, and mosquitoes had been Randy’s sharp eyes. They were too far out from civilization for eBird to work, but he wrote down the names of every bird he saw and heard on the way. Ethel was relieved when the bumpy ride was over, but Randy only said, “no quetzals, no bananaquits.”

Tun was a tall, broad-shouldered woman who greeted them warily, hands propped on her hips. They sat in her kitchen. Tun poured herself a glass of ice water, but didn’t offer any to the reporters. “So, you Americans got bored of your Cavendishes and wanted to see a real tul?”

At the look of confusion on Randy’s face, she said, “Banana. It’s the Q’eqchi’ word for banana.”

“We are interested in bananas, of course,” Ethel said, maintaining her well-honed professional composure. “But we also want to hear about your experience about starting your own farm, and how your hybrid bananas are helping fight against exploitation of Guatemalan people and resources.”

Tun huffed, got up from the table, and grabbed something from the counter. What she brought back was a rosy pink cylinder, fleshy and slightly curved. Randy blinked several times. Tun finally cracked a smile. “Why do you look so surprised? It’s just a banana.”

“I’ve never seen a banana that was pink,” Randy replied.

“Or not banana-shaped,” Ethel added. The fruit was long and thin, with a fat ball at its stem.

“It’s not as sweet as a Cavendish, but it’s resistant to Panama disease. And it’s a banana that only I have a patent on.” Though Tun tried to hid it, the pride was evident in her tone. “And no way in hell are those banana barons every getting their grubby little claws on it.”

Ethel and Randy sampled the fruit, finding it pleasantly firm and sweet, with a faint aftertaste of vanilla. “Would you mind if we toured the banana farm and took a few pictures? Our readers would love to see how everything works around here.”

Tun’s expression became stony. Ethel had seen this before. Tun was obviously protective of her work, and wasn’t going to let any Americans look at it too closely. Ethel would need to find a way to soften her if they were going to get anything of real substance.

While Ethel tried to find the right thing to say, a bird chirped outside the window.

“A bananaquit!” Randy announced. “Right outside!”

A slow smile tugged at the corner of Tun’s lips. “You like bananaquits? They’re all over the groves this time of day.”

“Omigosh, Ethel, did you hear that? Bananaquits! Here!”

Ethel wanted to remind him that he was a professional, not an excitable child, and they were supposed to be doing an interview. But Tun laughed. “Nice to see a fellow bananaquit lover. Sure, let’s go take a look.”

Ethel followed behind them, bewildered. Randy told her about all the birds he’d seen so far, while Tun gave him tips for spotting quetzals.

It wasn’t all about the bananas after all.

No, I have not lost my mind.

Thanks to fellow FFM author Damon Wakes, bananas have become an important part of FFM every year. But this year everyone was invited to join in. Today was a challenge day!

Element 1: Oh dear, we seem to have picked up too many flashback prompts for today’s challenge. Your story must include TWO of them. (They do not necessarily have to be word-for-word. Please just be sure Hydra can perceive their delightful presence.)

OR

Element 1: Every sentence of dialogue must include the word “banana”. If you choose this option, you must include a good amount of dialogue. Don’t be un-delightful.

OPTIONAL ELEMENT: Can you do both? You need to ask? The answer, of course, is: delightful! Doing both options is also a valid, if entirely optional, option.

I did both. 😱 I think it should count if I use “banana” in another language! The prompts I used were:

  • I think I need a bananaquit. – by WindySilver 
  • bananas are the most important part – by FlashFicMonth
  • “Why do you look so surprised? It’s just a banana.” – by bookcrusher

This challenge would have been a lot harder, except I’ve been reading Waste Wars by Alexander Clapper. I’m not far into it yet, but the first chapter is all about the United Fruit Company (which later became Chiquita) and Guatemala. Combined with Eating to Extinction by Dan Saladino (easily in my top 10 favorite nonfiction books), we had a story. Also: birbs.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 10: Leaving Home

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

I left my home many years ago, leaving my clan behind. It broke my heart to turn my back on the mountains that I rambled along, the rocky lake shores that I slept upon. Still, I had no choice.

The badges of honor I had sweat and bled for could not sustain me. I had worn them with such pride when they were awarded to me, but a cape cannot feed me. A helm cannot chase poverty away. I had no choice but to leave. Not to seek my fortune, but my own survival.

I’ve since settled in a new land. I have friends that welcome me at their tables, and a profession that sustains me. I find joy in my new surroundings, difficult as the change might have been. But no matter how far I travel or how long I stay away from my birthplace, the homeland has left an indelible mark on me. I carry it with me, like carrying a lucky stone in my pocket.

I will always have a 165 area code.

Still catching up after missing a few days. 165 isn’t a real area code, but I still have the same phone number for…at least 10 years now, probably more. Still with my hometown’s area code.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 8: The Queen and the Seal Lord

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. I had to miss a few days due to real-life stuff, but I’m hoping to catch up! Gráinne and Raghnall are both characters in the novel I’m writing. She’s made a few appearances in last year’s FFM. I had intended for this story to be a bit more action-focused, but I enjoyed exploring more of the world and the politics of it. So it’s a two-parter now.

I was inspired to write about my selkie character after reading AmehanaRainStarDrago’s story about her selkie character on deviantArt! Read it here: Interrupted Sleep

When Gráinne had been at sea, Marcaíocht Conán was the only pirate ship she couldn’t capture. After becoming queen, she had done the only thing she could to neutralize the ship and its selkie captain. In a blow to both her pride and her obstinacny, Captain Raghnall and his crew became privateers. Politically, it was a wise move. While the selkies fell under the purview of Gráinne’s crown, they had always held their own shores and culture apart from the rest of Tír na nÓg. The selkies were a nation within a nation, with Raghnall now serving as seal lord.

Personally, Gráinne thought that Raghnall had made it his life’s mission to vex her. And it was working.

It was difficult enough to find a neutral meeting ground for them. The castle put Gráinne at an advantage, and Raghnall refused to meet her there. The sea was Raghnall’s domain, and Gráinne refused to meet him there. Their compromise was a naval ship docked in one of the permanent harbors.

Raghnall, as usual, came to the meeting naked. He left his seal skin with his first mate, and refused to don humanoid clothing. Gráinne knew that he was hoping to prey on the prudishness of her human side. That tactic had never worked, and she was, frankly, tired of it.

Her brother’s suggestion that she go to the meeting naked to turn the tables on Raghnall had been soundly ignored.

The queen and seal lord sat in the captain’s quarters. “You’re not chilly?” Gráinne asked after the proper greetings had been exchanged.

“No.”

“There’s evidence to suggest otherwise.”

Raghnall remained nonplussed. “The bipedal body is hardly perfect. I’m sure you understand that well. To what do I owe the honor of this meeting?”

“I need to speak first to Captain Raghnall, then the seal lord.” Gráinne unrolled the most recent sea charts the navy had provided her. “The vortices in the northeast. You’ve gotten closer to them than any other ship has dared.”

“Better,” Raghnall said with a cocky tilt of his head. “I’ve swum among them.”

Despite his often infuriating nature, it was moments like this that assured Gráinne she had made the correct choice in making Raghnall a privateer. Any sailor with his audacity was a valuable asset, especially now. “And?”

He nodded once, saying the words that so many others were afraid to speak. “Hy-Brasil is returning. Not immediately, we both know that these things take time. But we have years. Maybe a decade; I doubt two.”

Gráinne realized she was clenching her fists. She forced herself to uncurl her fingers. Even among Fae, Hy-Brasil was legendary. It appeared and disappeared with seemingly no rhyme or reason, but it was well known that the island’s reappearance signaled great change, often for both the magical and mortal realms. “We have years to prepare, but prepare for what?” She said under her breath.

“If you figure it out, let me know,” Raghnall said. “Anything else for the captain?”

“What supplies do you need? Other than trousers.”

Raghnall’s thin mustache twitched with a smile. She wasn’t asking just about restocking food or repairing weapons. After news like this, the queen was letting Raghnall name his reward.

“There’s a very lovely figurehead on this ship. I believe it allows the ship to camouflage?” When Gráinne confirmed this, Raghnall nodded. “Something like that. It doesn’t need to be an octopus, though.”

“Octopus, squid, or cuttlefish are your choices,” Gráinne said, marking his request down. “It will take a few months to make.”

Raghnall considered his options for a moment. “Fine, cuttlefish.”

“And now, the seal lord.”

Raghnall bowed at the shoulders. “At your service, my queen.”

Gráinne rolled up her sea charts and crossed her arms, frowning. “Explain why there were four sightings of selkies in the Irish Sea last month.”

Raghnall rolled shoulders easily. “You know pups. Sometimes they cross the barrier unknowingly.”

“Pups do, yes, and I’ve always granted them leniency. I’m talking about adult selkies, fully in control of themselves and aware of the law.” Gráinne pressed her lips together tightly.

“Drink?” Raghnall suggested mildly. “We enjoy shore leave, same as you.”

“Shore leave that fuels the black market? Whenever selkies are spotted in the mortal realm, suddenly human goods are readily available.” Gráinne narrowed her eyes. “You know how much damage that kind of smuggling has brought here. End it.”

Raghnall’s nose twitched — a hint of irritation. “Are you responsible for the actions of all your people?”

“I am responsible for keeping them safe.” She jabbed her finger down hard on the table. “End it.”

Raghnall leaned forward, lips curling upward to reveal inhumanly sharp teeth. “The selkies are not subject to your barrier laws, gestalt.”

She struck him with the back of her hand. The word was not an insult, only a reminder of Gráinne’s mixed heritage. She would not have it used against her. “The selkies are subject to Tír na nÓg, and I speak for Tír na nÓg. You may not like it, but you know it’s true. End it.”

A low growl rose in Raghnall’s throat. He held a slightly webbed hand to his cheek where he had been struck. “As my queen—” he stopped mid-sentence, liquid dark eyes growing wider. “Someone’s on board. Someone who’s not supposed to be.”