New Steal Tomorrow flash fiction: Double Agent.
Flash Fiction: Future Perfect
In Three Word Wednesday, In Tin SoldierThis is a prequel to Tin Soldier, my free online novel about a post-petroleum dystopia. It's also linked at Three Word Wednesday which is a great place to drop in and read new writers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carina walked the paddock fence, deep in thought. She had visited her parents' high desert rancho for years, but now she was here for good, or at least until her husband came back from the war.
One of the donkeys trotted to the fence and Carina rubbed her velvety nose. "There will be no getting out of your checkups now, silly girl. Soon you'll be wishing I'd go back to the city and take care of dogs and cats."
The city. Carina sighed and leaned against the fence, a gentle breeze blowing her hair and tickling her cheek. In spite of the privations of the Resource Wars, she had enjoyed city life - not just the stores and entertainments, but the little niceties that made life easier. What wouldn't she give to be able to light a room at night with the flick of a wall switch? Would she ever again enjoy a hot shower without having to hurry so as not to empty the rooftop tank and deprive the next person?
She patted the donkey's nose again and continued her rounds. When her husband came home, it would be different. He was a doctor and between his medical skills and her veterinary prowess, they would do well in this valley. When the wars ended, no one would have to hide their solar panels in the basement and ration their batteries behind blackout curtains. The anti-hoarding laws would be lifted and she would be free to prosper.
In the meantime...she looked around the dusty property with its ribbon of a creek meandering through, coaxing green living things out of desert dust. She was the only qualified veterinarian in this valley, and word was that the veterinarian on the nearby reservation was old. Carina would make out okay here and lay the groundwork for her husband's return.
The sun was low in the sky now, starting to dip below the mesas. In a mellow frame of mind, Carina started toward the house, but stopped at the edge of an alfalfa field where her older sister stood brooding over the freshly-irrigated crop. "It would make a nice painting, don't you think? All that green surrounded by desert."
Amalia looked at her through narrowed eyes, then turned away. "I'll be a regular Georgia O'Keefe," she scoffed.
Carina suppressed a sigh. Although Amalia was in many ways the more practical sister, her interests had always gravitated toward literature and the arts. Farm life was going to be hard for her. At least Carina had a skill her neighbors needed. "People have always made art in the desert, even when it was just native people painting pots. We'll find things to do here. Maybe we can even make it fun."
"You'll find things to do. I'll just cope."
"It's better than the city, with the riots and rationing."
"Perhaps." Amalia jerked her head. "Dinner was almost ready when I came out here. Let's go before Mom and Dad worry."
"What's to worry about?" Carina tipped her head and looked at the deepening blue of the sky, where a few faint early stars twinkled. "They've lived out here too long to still have city fears."
Amalia worked a shrug into her movements as they walked the path toward the low adobe house. "It doesn't matter why they think what they do. We may be married women, but living under their roof we might as well be kids again."
"It was best to come out here. Everyone said so."
"Of course."
She said it reluctantly, but Carina decided not to belabor the topic. They were nearly at the house, and she had to admit that the glow of candles and kerosene lanterns in the windows gave it a certain charm. She would find a way to make this work.
"What are you smiling about? I saw what Mom was cooking and it wasn't much."
Carina didn't care if dinner was a bowl of beans or an epicurean feast. "This place is our future," she said with conviction. "We're going to make the most of it."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Want to read the whole thing? Go here: Tin Soldier.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carina walked the paddock fence, deep in thought. She had visited her parents' high desert rancho for years, but now she was here for good, or at least until her husband came back from the war.
One of the donkeys trotted to the fence and Carina rubbed her velvety nose. "There will be no getting out of your checkups now, silly girl. Soon you'll be wishing I'd go back to the city and take care of dogs and cats."
The city. Carina sighed and leaned against the fence, a gentle breeze blowing her hair and tickling her cheek. In spite of the privations of the Resource Wars, she had enjoyed city life - not just the stores and entertainments, but the little niceties that made life easier. What wouldn't she give to be able to light a room at night with the flick of a wall switch? Would she ever again enjoy a hot shower without having to hurry so as not to empty the rooftop tank and deprive the next person?
She patted the donkey's nose again and continued her rounds. When her husband came home, it would be different. He was a doctor and between his medical skills and her veterinary prowess, they would do well in this valley. When the wars ended, no one would have to hide their solar panels in the basement and ration their batteries behind blackout curtains. The anti-hoarding laws would be lifted and she would be free to prosper.
In the meantime...she looked around the dusty property with its ribbon of a creek meandering through, coaxing green living things out of desert dust. She was the only qualified veterinarian in this valley, and word was that the veterinarian on the nearby reservation was old. Carina would make out okay here and lay the groundwork for her husband's return.
The sun was low in the sky now, starting to dip below the mesas. In a mellow frame of mind, Carina started toward the house, but stopped at the edge of an alfalfa field where her older sister stood brooding over the freshly-irrigated crop. "It would make a nice painting, don't you think? All that green surrounded by desert."
Amalia looked at her through narrowed eyes, then turned away. "I'll be a regular Georgia O'Keefe," she scoffed.
Carina suppressed a sigh. Although Amalia was in many ways the more practical sister, her interests had always gravitated toward literature and the arts. Farm life was going to be hard for her. At least Carina had a skill her neighbors needed. "People have always made art in the desert, even when it was just native people painting pots. We'll find things to do here. Maybe we can even make it fun."
"You'll find things to do. I'll just cope."
"It's better than the city, with the riots and rationing."
"Perhaps." Amalia jerked her head. "Dinner was almost ready when I came out here. Let's go before Mom and Dad worry."
"What's to worry about?" Carina tipped her head and looked at the deepening blue of the sky, where a few faint early stars twinkled. "They've lived out here too long to still have city fears."
Amalia worked a shrug into her movements as they walked the path toward the low adobe house. "It doesn't matter why they think what they do. We may be married women, but living under their roof we might as well be kids again."
"It was best to come out here. Everyone said so."
"Of course."
She said it reluctantly, but Carina decided not to belabor the topic. They were nearly at the house, and she had to admit that the glow of candles and kerosene lanterns in the windows gave it a certain charm. She would find a way to make this work.
"What are you smiling about? I saw what Mom was cooking and it wasn't much."
Carina didn't care if dinner was a bowl of beans or an epicurean feast. "This place is our future," she said with conviction. "We're going to make the most of it."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Want to read the whole thing? Go here: Tin Soldier.
Flash Fiction: Destroyer
New flash fiction featuring Coyote from my blog fiction, Bella Diana. It's also linked at Three Word Wednesday which is a great place to drop in and read new writers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coyote fidgeted in the saddle. The sun had set, but a faint glow remained, just enough to see the twin rails stretching into the distance. He sighed with impatience.
On time.
"Don't lie," Coyote said. It was bad enough that he heard disembodied voices, but the deceptions and half-truths were enough to drive anyone mad.
He turned his attention from the horizon to the valley floor. From his vantage point halfway up the mesa, he would be able to see everything unfold if it were daylight. Unfortunately, this was an operation that had to be carried out by night. A part of him wondered if he should be doing it at all.
Trains kill.
Coyote had an affinity for all things mechanical, but trains were special. As a child, he slipped away from his mother at every opportunity and went to the depot, where he became such a fixture that he would sometimes be allowed to hand tools to the maintenance workers. The best days were when the engineers would let him climb into the idling engines where he gazed in rapturous delight at the switches and controls. What wasn't there to love about trains?
Death.
"Shut up." Coyote hated it when they taunted him. He picked up his binoculars and squinted at the horizon again. Was it his wishful thinking, or did he see a pinprick of light?
Always right, always right, always right...
"Except when you tell me too late, you fucking bastards."
Coyote looked again at the steadily growing light of the approaching train and his mind flashed on memories of gears and pistons, and the perfect way they moved. He would've loved to have been a train mechanic. It seemed more appropriate to build such beautiful things than--
Trains are death. Your parents...
"You always mention them, as if it was anything other than an accident. Maybe I don't want to do this. Someone else's parents might be on this train, you know. Parents like mine."
Now he could hear the chugging of engines, the hum of wheels and the faint rattle of swaying cars. In his mind, Coyote saw it as if it were daylight - the dusty engines hooked front to back, the spinning wheels, the flat cars and box cars trailing behind, rocking to the rhythm of their own song.
A shrill metal-on-metal squeal of brakes. The engine's headlamp had illuminated Coyote's blockade, but it was too late. The sound of the crash ricocheted down the line as cars crashed into each other, sparks flashed, and cars toppled off the tracks. Even in the dark it was breathtaking, and Coyote sat transfixed.
A few small fires caught in the dry desert grass, and in their glow, Coyote saw cars scattered about like great dying beasts, and felt an unexpected surge of pride.
You are powerful now.
"It's only just one train."
There will be others.
Coyote opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. Yes, there would be others, now that he knew how easy it was. He loved trains, but a train had taken the lives of his parents, and that couldn't be forgiven. His mother and father hadn't believed in the voices he heard, but that was the only failing Coyote could think of. They had been otherwise perfect and deserved to be avenged. "Which one should I try next?"
The voices didn't answer. They were like that sometimes.
With a sigh, Coyote turned his horse and started up the switchbacks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you want more, Bella Diana is free and online.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coyote fidgeted in the saddle. The sun had set, but a faint glow remained, just enough to see the twin rails stretching into the distance. He sighed with impatience.
On time.
"Don't lie," Coyote said. It was bad enough that he heard disembodied voices, but the deceptions and half-truths were enough to drive anyone mad.
He turned his attention from the horizon to the valley floor. From his vantage point halfway up the mesa, he would be able to see everything unfold if it were daylight. Unfortunately, this was an operation that had to be carried out by night. A part of him wondered if he should be doing it at all.
Trains kill.
Coyote had an affinity for all things mechanical, but trains were special. As a child, he slipped away from his mother at every opportunity and went to the depot, where he became such a fixture that he would sometimes be allowed to hand tools to the maintenance workers. The best days were when the engineers would let him climb into the idling engines where he gazed in rapturous delight at the switches and controls. What wasn't there to love about trains?
Death.
"Shut up." Coyote hated it when they taunted him. He picked up his binoculars and squinted at the horizon again. Was it his wishful thinking, or did he see a pinprick of light?
Always right, always right, always right...
"Except when you tell me too late, you fucking bastards."
Coyote looked again at the steadily growing light of the approaching train and his mind flashed on memories of gears and pistons, and the perfect way they moved. He would've loved to have been a train mechanic. It seemed more appropriate to build such beautiful things than--
Trains are death. Your parents...
"You always mention them, as if it was anything other than an accident. Maybe I don't want to do this. Someone else's parents might be on this train, you know. Parents like mine."
Now he could hear the chugging of engines, the hum of wheels and the faint rattle of swaying cars. In his mind, Coyote saw it as if it were daylight - the dusty engines hooked front to back, the spinning wheels, the flat cars and box cars trailing behind, rocking to the rhythm of their own song.
A shrill metal-on-metal squeal of brakes. The engine's headlamp had illuminated Coyote's blockade, but it was too late. The sound of the crash ricocheted down the line as cars crashed into each other, sparks flashed, and cars toppled off the tracks. Even in the dark it was breathtaking, and Coyote sat transfixed.
A few small fires caught in the dry desert grass, and in their glow, Coyote saw cars scattered about like great dying beasts, and felt an unexpected surge of pride.
You are powerful now.
"It's only just one train."
There will be others.
Coyote opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. Yes, there would be others, now that he knew how easy it was. He loved trains, but a train had taken the lives of his parents, and that couldn't be forgiven. His mother and father hadn't believed in the voices he heard, but that was the only failing Coyote could think of. They had been otherwise perfect and deserved to be avenged. "Which one should I try next?"
The voices didn't answer. They were like that sometimes.
With a sigh, Coyote turned his horse and started up the switchbacks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you want more, Bella Diana is free and online.
Flash Fiction/Excerpt: Book Burning
This is an exceprt from Tin Soldier, my free online novel about a post-petroleum dystopia. It's also linked at Sunday Scribblings which is a great place to drop in and read new writers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The storm overtook them as they reached the valley floor, rolling in with cold gusting winds that rocked the wagon as the rain burst upon them in a deluge. Visibility dropped and the gray, wet world closed in. The downpour plastered their clothes to their bodies and turned the path to mud. Wheels stuck in ruts and Donovan had to get out and push. Goneril and Regan balked. There was no place to find shelter except in deserted Catalunia. Carina climbed down from the wagon, grabbed hold of a bridle and, laboring in the squelching muck, tried to lead the jennets to shelter by example.
House after house was unsuitable. They were caved in, crumbled, or so unsteady in appearance that taking their chances with the storm seemed more reasonable. Finally, in the thick of downtown Catalunia, where the few remaining signs swung crazily in the wind and gusts howled through the alleyways between vacant stores, Carina spotted something promising. "Over there." She pointed to a small stone library.
Donovan pulled a wheel out of a patch of sucking mud, and hurried ahead to try the door. The double doors opened readily and they led the jennies into the shelter of the building.
In the silence of the dusty foyer, Donovan and Carina stood dripping while the bedraggled animals hung their heads in the traces, as cold and dejected as their humans. Outside, the rain continued falling in sheets, but here in the library, the storm was reduced to a patter against the roof and windowpanes. After struggling so long in the downpour, it felt like utter insanity that they should find themselves in a quiet, sheltered place.
"I don't see us going any farther today," Carina said needlessly. "Let's light the lanterns. We need to get the animals settled in."
Luckily the tarps had kept most of their goods dry. The lanterns lit without a problem and Donovan went searching for a place to bed down the animals while Carina unhitched them, rubbing their ears, patting their necks and speaking to them with the first real affection she had shown in weeks.
"I found something," Donovan said, emerging out of the gloom. He took hold of Regan's bridle and led the way.
"A reading room?" Carina said, upon leading Goneril into the place Donovan had found. "Well, it doesn't seem to be leaking. I guess that's the most important thing."
They got the animals clean and gave them some hay from the wagon. "We should build a fire," Donovan said, noticing that Carina was shivering.
"I suppose the ceilings are high enough, and there's enough broken windows we won’t suffocate ourselves," she said. "But where?"
"The only thing I saw that didn't look flammable was the entryway. If we moved the wagon, we'd have enough room." Donovan took her hand and led her back the way they had come, and this time Carina assessed the foyer with an eye toward what might burn. The floor was marble, the ceiling was high, and there was nothing nearby that could catch sparks. Far above their heads was an absurd folly of a cupola where colored glass lit up in the occasional flashes of lightning. "If we moved the wagon into that room over there," Donovan pointed, "We could build the fire here in the middle of the floor."
"What will we burn? Books?"
"Why not? You don’t think anyone’s going to read them, do you?"
"Not likely."
They pushed the wagon into a small room and shut the door, then gathered a stack of reference books which Donovan lit with crumpled newspapers and magazines. The Catalunia phone directory caught first, then a thesaurus and encyclopedia. Then they were all ablaze, and Carina held her hands out toward the warmth. But books burned quickly, and it took a lot of them to keep the fire fed. After a few minutes, Donovan went to the wagon, retrieved a small hand saw and disappeared into the stacks. By the time he returned, Carina had traded her wet clothes for dry. She stood as close to the flames as she dared, looking in her black cloak like a priestess of some strange book-burning cult. When Donovan brought over an armful of sawed-off wooden chair legs, she let the cloak drop to the floor so it would be safe from sparks and helped him make a teepee of them. Then she stood back, picked up her cloak and put it back on. "I'll get some more books," she said, picking up a lantern. "Just to keep this thing going until the wood catches."
Donovan used her absence to change into dry clothes and spread out their bedrolls near the fire. It wouldn't be comfortable sleeping on the marble floor, but he tried to fold as much as he could underneath for padding. Then, realizing they hadn't eaten all day, he brought out some food and a bottle of scotch to take the edge off the cold.
The flames were dying and the chair legs were starting to smoke in a desultory sort of way when Carina returned, her arms full. She set the books next to the fire, collected a few off the top and took them to the room where the wagon was stored. "For Amalia," she said when she returned. "She'd never forgive me if I spent a night in a library and didn't bring souvenirs."
Once the chair legs caught, the fire began putting out real warmth. Carina sat on a bedroll and accepted a brownie. She downed it almost at a bite, ate a second with nearly equal speed, then fell to nibbling some dried apples.
"It's nice to see you have an appetite." Donovan poured a cup of scotch for her, then one for himself.
"We've done a lot today."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Want to read the whole thing? Go here: Tin Soldier.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The storm overtook them as they reached the valley floor, rolling in with cold gusting winds that rocked the wagon as the rain burst upon them in a deluge. Visibility dropped and the gray, wet world closed in. The downpour plastered their clothes to their bodies and turned the path to mud. Wheels stuck in ruts and Donovan had to get out and push. Goneril and Regan balked. There was no place to find shelter except in deserted Catalunia. Carina climbed down from the wagon, grabbed hold of a bridle and, laboring in the squelching muck, tried to lead the jennets to shelter by example.
House after house was unsuitable. They were caved in, crumbled, or so unsteady in appearance that taking their chances with the storm seemed more reasonable. Finally, in the thick of downtown Catalunia, where the few remaining signs swung crazily in the wind and gusts howled through the alleyways between vacant stores, Carina spotted something promising. "Over there." She pointed to a small stone library.
Donovan pulled a wheel out of a patch of sucking mud, and hurried ahead to try the door. The double doors opened readily and they led the jennies into the shelter of the building.
In the silence of the dusty foyer, Donovan and Carina stood dripping while the bedraggled animals hung their heads in the traces, as cold and dejected as their humans. Outside, the rain continued falling in sheets, but here in the library, the storm was reduced to a patter against the roof and windowpanes. After struggling so long in the downpour, it felt like utter insanity that they should find themselves in a quiet, sheltered place.
"I don't see us going any farther today," Carina said needlessly. "Let's light the lanterns. We need to get the animals settled in."
Luckily the tarps had kept most of their goods dry. The lanterns lit without a problem and Donovan went searching for a place to bed down the animals while Carina unhitched them, rubbing their ears, patting their necks and speaking to them with the first real affection she had shown in weeks.
"I found something," Donovan said, emerging out of the gloom. He took hold of Regan's bridle and led the way.
"A reading room?" Carina said, upon leading Goneril into the place Donovan had found. "Well, it doesn't seem to be leaking. I guess that's the most important thing."
They got the animals clean and gave them some hay from the wagon. "We should build a fire," Donovan said, noticing that Carina was shivering.
"I suppose the ceilings are high enough, and there's enough broken windows we won’t suffocate ourselves," she said. "But where?"
"The only thing I saw that didn't look flammable was the entryway. If we moved the wagon, we'd have enough room." Donovan took her hand and led her back the way they had come, and this time Carina assessed the foyer with an eye toward what might burn. The floor was marble, the ceiling was high, and there was nothing nearby that could catch sparks. Far above their heads was an absurd folly of a cupola where colored glass lit up in the occasional flashes of lightning. "If we moved the wagon into that room over there," Donovan pointed, "We could build the fire here in the middle of the floor."
"What will we burn? Books?"
"Why not? You don’t think anyone’s going to read them, do you?"
"Not likely."
They pushed the wagon into a small room and shut the door, then gathered a stack of reference books which Donovan lit with crumpled newspapers and magazines. The Catalunia phone directory caught first, then a thesaurus and encyclopedia. Then they were all ablaze, and Carina held her hands out toward the warmth. But books burned quickly, and it took a lot of them to keep the fire fed. After a few minutes, Donovan went to the wagon, retrieved a small hand saw and disappeared into the stacks. By the time he returned, Carina had traded her wet clothes for dry. She stood as close to the flames as she dared, looking in her black cloak like a priestess of some strange book-burning cult. When Donovan brought over an armful of sawed-off wooden chair legs, she let the cloak drop to the floor so it would be safe from sparks and helped him make a teepee of them. Then she stood back, picked up her cloak and put it back on. "I'll get some more books," she said, picking up a lantern. "Just to keep this thing going until the wood catches."
Donovan used her absence to change into dry clothes and spread out their bedrolls near the fire. It wouldn't be comfortable sleeping on the marble floor, but he tried to fold as much as he could underneath for padding. Then, realizing they hadn't eaten all day, he brought out some food and a bottle of scotch to take the edge off the cold.
The flames were dying and the chair legs were starting to smoke in a desultory sort of way when Carina returned, her arms full. She set the books next to the fire, collected a few off the top and took them to the room where the wagon was stored. "For Amalia," she said when she returned. "She'd never forgive me if I spent a night in a library and didn't bring souvenirs."
Once the chair legs caught, the fire began putting out real warmth. Carina sat on a bedroll and accepted a brownie. She downed it almost at a bite, ate a second with nearly equal speed, then fell to nibbling some dried apples.
"It's nice to see you have an appetite." Donovan poured a cup of scotch for her, then one for himself.
"We've done a lot today."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Want to read the whole thing? Go here: Tin Soldier.
Flash Fiction: Unwelcome Homecoming
In Three Word WednesdayNew flash fiction featuring a peripheral character from my recently released blog fiction, Tin Soldier. It's also linked at Three Word Wednesday which is a great place to drop in and read new writers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
She lay in the back of the cart, shivering under a blanket even though the day wasn't cold. The rag that had shielded her eyes from the sun had slipped, but Valerie was too weak to move it back into place or to call out to the driver to fix it.
What did the man say his name was? She squinted at the cloudless sky, aware that her memory shouldn't be so faulty at twenty-three. They had said this would happen if she kept buying cheap huffers, but she hadn't cared; she needed some way of coping so she could make her money and get through to the next day, only to do it all over again.
The wagon hit a rock, throwing her hard to one side. The driver stopped the donkeys and turned around in his seat. "You okay?" He set the brake, jumped down, and arranged Valerie's wasted limbs more comfortably. "You hungry? You want some water?"
Valerie started to shake her head, then realized she was as thirsty as if she had a hangover. With an effort of will, she nodded. She closed her eyes and after a few minutes, felt the man lift her shoulders and press a glass to her lips. She tried to drink, spilling much of it down the front of her dress, but the water was cool and tasted good. He tried to make her eat a little, but although the bread was soft and the berries were sweet and juicy, the act of chewing exhausted her. She accepted another sip of water, then let the man ease her back down and cover her eyes again from the sun.
As they continued up the mountain, Valerie tried to remember who this man was and why he was being kind to her. He had been a client - she was pretty sure of that, but most men were quick to leave after she gave them what they had paid for. This one had actually taken an interest in her. She had a dim memory of telling him about her family and the crazy set of circumstances that led to her being sent to town to earn money for them any way she could.
She tried to sigh but her breath came out as a wheeze. They wouldn't be happy to see her. Why had she consented to this? Not only was she tainted in her family's eyes, but she was coming home empty-handed.
It all came back to money, of course. The rag had slipped off her eyes and she gazed at the pines and aspens. She loved this place as a girl, couldn't get enough of the wind, sun, earth, and all the living things that dwelt here. The trees, deer and birds had no need of money, so why did people? Something was corrupt in this world, and in spite of her family's hostility to the manner in which she had kept them fed, she knew the corrupt thing wasn't her.
Now she just wanted rest and healing, if that was possible. Would she get it here? She had no reason to think so, but she would die for sure if she stayed in town, where only the rich were given sympathy when they were ill. It figured that those with the most would always get the most. It wasn't fair, but what was?
She felt the wagon stop. "We're at the stone bridge you told me about," the driver said.
Valerie closed her eyes. It wouldn't be much longer now.
"You sure this is what you want?"
What was she going to do, tell him to take her back after all this? Where would she stay?
"If you're not up for it, we could camp for the night and continue in the morning."
Camping? In her condition? Had she felt any better, she would've laughed.
"I want this to work out for you," he stressed. "If they're just going to send you away--
Valerie shook her head. "Keep going," she whispered.
She settled deeper into her nest of blankets in the back of the cart, no longer caring about the rocking of the wheels over ruts and stones. She was coming home and her family would just have to deal with it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you want more, Tin Soldier is free and online.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
She lay in the back of the cart, shivering under a blanket even though the day wasn't cold. The rag that had shielded her eyes from the sun had slipped, but Valerie was too weak to move it back into place or to call out to the driver to fix it.
What did the man say his name was? She squinted at the cloudless sky, aware that her memory shouldn't be so faulty at twenty-three. They had said this would happen if she kept buying cheap huffers, but she hadn't cared; she needed some way of coping so she could make her money and get through to the next day, only to do it all over again.
The wagon hit a rock, throwing her hard to one side. The driver stopped the donkeys and turned around in his seat. "You okay?" He set the brake, jumped down, and arranged Valerie's wasted limbs more comfortably. "You hungry? You want some water?"
Valerie started to shake her head, then realized she was as thirsty as if she had a hangover. With an effort of will, she nodded. She closed her eyes and after a few minutes, felt the man lift her shoulders and press a glass to her lips. She tried to drink, spilling much of it down the front of her dress, but the water was cool and tasted good. He tried to make her eat a little, but although the bread was soft and the berries were sweet and juicy, the act of chewing exhausted her. She accepted another sip of water, then let the man ease her back down and cover her eyes again from the sun.
As they continued up the mountain, Valerie tried to remember who this man was and why he was being kind to her. He had been a client - she was pretty sure of that, but most men were quick to leave after she gave them what they had paid for. This one had actually taken an interest in her. She had a dim memory of telling him about her family and the crazy set of circumstances that led to her being sent to town to earn money for them any way she could.
She tried to sigh but her breath came out as a wheeze. They wouldn't be happy to see her. Why had she consented to this? Not only was she tainted in her family's eyes, but she was coming home empty-handed.
It all came back to money, of course. The rag had slipped off her eyes and she gazed at the pines and aspens. She loved this place as a girl, couldn't get enough of the wind, sun, earth, and all the living things that dwelt here. The trees, deer and birds had no need of money, so why did people? Something was corrupt in this world, and in spite of her family's hostility to the manner in which she had kept them fed, she knew the corrupt thing wasn't her.
Now she just wanted rest and healing, if that was possible. Would she get it here? She had no reason to think so, but she would die for sure if she stayed in town, where only the rich were given sympathy when they were ill. It figured that those with the most would always get the most. It wasn't fair, but what was?
She felt the wagon stop. "We're at the stone bridge you told me about," the driver said.
Valerie closed her eyes. It wouldn't be much longer now.
"You sure this is what you want?"
What was she going to do, tell him to take her back after all this? Where would she stay?
"If you're not up for it, we could camp for the night and continue in the morning."
Camping? In her condition? Had she felt any better, she would've laughed.
"I want this to work out for you," he stressed. "If they're just going to send you away--
Valerie shook her head. "Keep going," she whispered.
She settled deeper into her nest of blankets in the back of the cart, no longer caring about the rocking of the wheels over ruts and stones. She was coming home and her family would just have to deal with it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you want more, Tin Soldier is free and online.
Flash Fiction: Holiday Plans
In Three Word Wednesday, In Tin SoldierNew flash fiction about Amalia and Carina from my recently released blog fiction, Tin Soldier. It's also linked at Three Word Wednesday which is a great place to drop in and read new writers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What would you like to do for Christmas?"
Carina gave her sister a blank look. "I'm not interested, and you've never liked all the fuss. Let's skip it."
Amalia understood why her sister might not embrace the holidays with her old enthusiasm this year, but it troubled her that she moped with such persistence. "It doesn't have to be anything fancy, but we need to think of the children."
"They used to be street kids. I doubt they believe in Santa Claus or have had any religious instruction. It's not a special occasion for them; it's just another day."
"Then we should teach them. Not about Santa, of course," she added at Carina's blink of surprise. "But they should know about Jesus and presents and all that. Even if they don't grow up to be Christians, it's part of their culture, and we can't let them go around ignorant."
With a sigh, Carina set her knitting aside and stood up. "Do whatever you want. You usually do, anyway."
"I could say the same of you."
For a moment their eyes met, then Carina looked away. "I would think you, of all people, would understand."
Amalia ducked her head. Of course she understood...kind of. But her husband had been killed early in the war, while she still had clear memories of him. Carina's husband had been gone for a decade, and they had only known each other a few months before he was drafted. How deeply could she grieve over a man who had hardly been part of her life at all?
She was on the point of saying something to put her frivolous sister in her place, when their eyes met again and Amalia understood. It wasn't the loss of Miles that she grieved, but the loss of a youth squandered on waiting for his return. She had put all her hope into a future in which she and her physician husband would transform this poor desert valley. Now it was all a waste.
Amalia stood and took Carina in her arms. "I'm sorry. Christmas can go to hell, for all I care."
Carina pulled away and forced a smile. "You're right, though. It's not fair to the children."
"Maybe just a nice dinner and presents? Presents for the kids, of course; not us."
"Sounds good." Carina smiled again, and this time it was genuine. "We can do presents for us, too."
"I'm sure Donovan intends to pick something up for us when he goes to market, so it would only be fair to have something for him, too."
Carina blushed and turned away. "You figure out that part, okay?"
Amalia watched her walk away and wondered, as she had so many times it made her head hurt, just what had happened between them when he took her to Jonasville to retrieve her husband's body and effects. She had her suspicions, but if she gave in to every little fear or jealousy, she'd have time for nothing else.
Amalia sat down and picked up her knitting. She had a Christmas party to plan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you want more, Tin Soldier is free and online.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"What would you like to do for Christmas?"
Carina gave her sister a blank look. "I'm not interested, and you've never liked all the fuss. Let's skip it."
Amalia understood why her sister might not embrace the holidays with her old enthusiasm this year, but it troubled her that she moped with such persistence. "It doesn't have to be anything fancy, but we need to think of the children."
"They used to be street kids. I doubt they believe in Santa Claus or have had any religious instruction. It's not a special occasion for them; it's just another day."
"Then we should teach them. Not about Santa, of course," she added at Carina's blink of surprise. "But they should know about Jesus and presents and all that. Even if they don't grow up to be Christians, it's part of their culture, and we can't let them go around ignorant."
With a sigh, Carina set her knitting aside and stood up. "Do whatever you want. You usually do, anyway."
"I could say the same of you."
For a moment their eyes met, then Carina looked away. "I would think you, of all people, would understand."
Amalia ducked her head. Of course she understood...kind of. But her husband had been killed early in the war, while she still had clear memories of him. Carina's husband had been gone for a decade, and they had only known each other a few months before he was drafted. How deeply could she grieve over a man who had hardly been part of her life at all?
She was on the point of saying something to put her frivolous sister in her place, when their eyes met again and Amalia understood. It wasn't the loss of Miles that she grieved, but the loss of a youth squandered on waiting for his return. She had put all her hope into a future in which she and her physician husband would transform this poor desert valley. Now it was all a waste.
Amalia stood and took Carina in her arms. "I'm sorry. Christmas can go to hell, for all I care."
Carina pulled away and forced a smile. "You're right, though. It's not fair to the children."
"Maybe just a nice dinner and presents? Presents for the kids, of course; not us."
"Sounds good." Carina smiled again, and this time it was genuine. "We can do presents for us, too."
"I'm sure Donovan intends to pick something up for us when he goes to market, so it would only be fair to have something for him, too."
Carina blushed and turned away. "You figure out that part, okay?"
Amalia watched her walk away and wondered, as she had so many times it made her head hurt, just what had happened between them when he took her to Jonasville to retrieve her husband's body and effects. She had her suspicions, but if she gave in to every little fear or jealousy, she'd have time for nothing else.
Amalia sat down and picked up her knitting. She had a Christmas party to plan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you want more, Tin Soldier is free and online.
Flash Fiction: Turkey Day
In Three Word Wednesday, In Tin SoldierNew flash fiction about Donovan from my recently released blog fiction, Tin Soldier. It's also linked at Three Word Wednesday which is a great place to drop in and read new writers, so go to it!
~~~~~~~~~~~~
For days he had been trying, but it was no use. Donovan thought he was a pretty good shot, but these damn quail were so small and flew up so suddenly...he kicked a clump of withered gramma grass in frustration. What was he supposed to tell the women, after boasting that he would bring down enough quail for a Thanksgiving feast for them and their neighbors? So far he had only managed to get one scrawny bird that not even a child would consider an adequate meal.
Unbidden, his thoughts returned to a remark Amalia, the older sister, had made: the God's Candidates cultists raised turkeys, and weren't more than a day's ride away. Buying from them was impossible, though; Donovan's dark skin and obvious mixed-race heritage would get him shot on sight, but who said he had to buy? If they didn't see him....
He headed toward the arroyo, deep in thought. Practical Amalia and her younger, more sensitive sister Carina, had both forbidden him to go anywhere near the cult compound, but although he was a stranger living on their charity, they didn't own him. If he wanted to try his luck at the compound, they couldn't really stop him.
Donovan stopped walking and considered. The women couldn't keep him from going, but the lack of a horse was a serious obstacle. Maybe he could borrow one from the adjoining rancho, though. The Nuñez girl was quick and smart, always up for adventure. If she loaned him one of her family's horses, he could slip out at night and... Oh, yes, it was doable. He shouldered his shotgun and started walking again, composing in his mind how he would broach the matter to the little Nuñez girl.
A sudden stirring in the grasses by the creek stopped him in his tracks and a dark flock rose into the air on thundering wings. Too busy daydreaming, Donovan wasn't able to get off a shot in time, and with a sigh of frustration, he set down his gun and rubbed his face with his hands. Who was he kidding? He would never shoot a quail. He was going through the motions, persisting in the illusion just to put off what was, in essence, inevitable.
For a long moment he looked at the distant mesas, as if daring them to challenge his decision. When the skyline stubbornly remained as it had always been, he picked up his gun again and turned toward the house. He had plans to make.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
For days he had been trying, but it was no use. Donovan thought he was a pretty good shot, but these damn quail were so small and flew up so suddenly...he kicked a clump of withered gramma grass in frustration. What was he supposed to tell the women, after boasting that he would bring down enough quail for a Thanksgiving feast for them and their neighbors? So far he had only managed to get one scrawny bird that not even a child would consider an adequate meal.
Unbidden, his thoughts returned to a remark Amalia, the older sister, had made: the God's Candidates cultists raised turkeys, and weren't more than a day's ride away. Buying from them was impossible, though; Donovan's dark skin and obvious mixed-race heritage would get him shot on sight, but who said he had to buy? If they didn't see him....
He headed toward the arroyo, deep in thought. Practical Amalia and her younger, more sensitive sister Carina, had both forbidden him to go anywhere near the cult compound, but although he was a stranger living on their charity, they didn't own him. If he wanted to try his luck at the compound, they couldn't really stop him.
Donovan stopped walking and considered. The women couldn't keep him from going, but the lack of a horse was a serious obstacle. Maybe he could borrow one from the adjoining rancho, though. The Nuñez girl was quick and smart, always up for adventure. If she loaned him one of her family's horses, he could slip out at night and... Oh, yes, it was doable. He shouldered his shotgun and started walking again, composing in his mind how he would broach the matter to the little Nuñez girl.
A sudden stirring in the grasses by the creek stopped him in his tracks and a dark flock rose into the air on thundering wings. Too busy daydreaming, Donovan wasn't able to get off a shot in time, and with a sigh of frustration, he set down his gun and rubbed his face with his hands. Who was he kidding? He would never shoot a quail. He was going through the motions, persisting in the illusion just to put off what was, in essence, inevitable.
For a long moment he looked at the distant mesas, as if daring them to challenge his decision. When the skyline stubbornly remained as it had always been, he picked up his gun again and turned toward the house. He had plans to make.
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