Walk Away

The theme park in Santa Clara is abandoned. Like most of the town, all that remains is paint flaking from oxidating amusements.

“Going somewhere, pretty boy?”

Tight leather and garishly pale skin, she was another gothic princess perpetuating the entire “blackityblack” bloodsucker stereotype.

“I was just pondering if there was any reason to stay here.”

“Possibly not, in your case,” she showed fangs.

At my signal, the ActiveArmor™ burst into life. The shirt I’d been wearing like mail separated into tens of thousands of tiny scales. Each scale split into two wings, and a cloud of metallic butterflies dispersed around me.

Surprise made her hesitate, briefly.

“Cute. But do you think your bugs can save you?”

She lunged for me, claws reaching for my throat. The AA butterfly cloud descended on her as quickly as it ascended from me.

I’d requested customization from the AA sales rep for an excellent reason. Each butterfly wing features a tracery of silver conductor wiring. To a vamp, skin contact with so much silver is like showering in holy water.

“But I do want to thank you for the signal,” I replied to her charred corpse. “It’s definitely time to walk away.”

198 words. Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

Fun stuff. Mixing genres is always a treat. As is hiding away “what does this crap have to do with this prompt” until the very last sentence is, too.

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Head in a Cloud

The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still.

He watches the pathway leading to a portico with ionic columns and a bronze door. Before the door is a sack of homespun wool.

Hooves clop, wheels scrape gravel, and harnesses jingle. Heat and blinding radiance forces him to look away for a moment. A chariot rolls past.

The sack is now burning. He dashes forward and pounds on the door.

A figure opens the door, looks surprised,  and quickly stamps out the flaming sack.

The man with the broad grin races down the mountainside, pursued by a thunderbolt.

“HERMES!”

100 words. Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

(I saw Mt. Olympus, obviously. Apologies to Mr. McCartney, and flaming poo sack pranksters everywhere.)

 

Thespian Curse

Madam Petulengro leaned forward, examining the ancient skeleton with interest. Bones here was found in an isolated cabin rotting away in the Barataria Preserve in Louisiana.

“I ain’t got all day, boy.”

Bones’ skull turned in the gypsy’s direction.

“That’s more like it,” she said. “What’s yer story then?”

“Cursed, of course. Jean Lafitte’s crew, a smuggler. One of your ancestors took a dislike to me, because my bones have been in the bog for more than a hundred years.”

“Well, you probably deserved it.”

“Madam, does any soul deserve to linger forever without rest? I never wanted to be pirate crew anyway, all I ever wanted to be—”

“If you say ‘Lumberjack’, you’re going right back in the bog,” Madam Petulengro scowled.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. All I ever wanted was to act. On the stage.”

The gypsy rubbed her chin and said, “Done!”

After a few mystic passes and some magic dust, Bones regrew his flesh. He stood before her and bowed, restored. And broke into song:

“For I am a Pirate King!
And it is, it is a glorious thing
To be a Pirate King!”

“Oh, no no.” Madam Petulengro covered her face and sobbed. “Not Penzance.”

Apologies to Rodgers & Hammerstein

Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

Posed skeleton in a shed

 

The Shop

There is a place where hidden treasures can be found.

A tiny storefront of an old building, in the middle of the avenue. Number 15. Surrounded by more modern shops, most passersby fail to even notice the place.

“Welcome,” offered the store’s proprietor as I entered. A wizened little gnome of a man, his spectacles perched before beady eyes. “May I help you with something?”

“This place is marvelous,” I breathed. “Might I look around?”

“Of course.” The gnome turned back to scratching away in his ledger.

I browsed the shelves and stacks of old books, discovering marvels. First editions, beautifully illustrated folios. Treasures! I wallowed in the smells and sensations of a dusty book shop.

Finally, I discovered the best. Making my choice, I took my book to the register, and the little gnome looked up from his careful handwriting.

“This one,” I said. “I’d like to purchase this first edition Ivanhoe.”

“Not for sale,” harumphed the Gnome.

“What?”

“This isn’t a book shop.”

I blinked in confusion. “It isn’t?”

“This is a book shop shop. I sell book stores. They’re going out of business by the cartload, you know. You’re standing in my Demonstrator Model.”

Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction photo:

A book shop that is no longer there

Prophetic caption on that photo…