Ficlets 8: Drex Underground

Left to his own devices, Drex would have been out of the locked basement and up to street level again within minutes, before his captors even had time to unpack their needles. But these were not his own devices. They were somebody else’s, perhaps more than one somebody’s, and devilishly enigmatic besides.

A strange array of elegantly designed yet unfathomably complex miniature machines lay spread across the small room’s one, otherwise-bare shelf. One of them might have been a shell splitter for stubborn pistachios. Or perhaps a toenail remover. Another that at first appeared to be a burnished and fissured brass avocado pit responded to a slight tap by expanding into a graceful, almost spherical cage for a finch.

Devices, yes: this they certainly were. But devices, it seemed, devised to do little more than puzzle the curious mind of a captive. The inventors clearly knew that if you ask the questions, you control the discourse. And the question posed by these was clearly: What are you supposed to use me for?

Ficlets 7: Sunset Clause

“Had you been more clever,” hissed the evil Doctor Krell, “you might have had an inkling of the importance of those first 125 characters.” He laughed to himself, a wheezy, sinister laugh. “But you weren’t clever, were you, you great man of letters? No. Idiot! You wasted your first precious words on some rambling description of a sunset. As if everyone hadn’t already read about more sunsets than any human can hope to see in a lifetime. What a fool!”

“Well, I thought …”

” ‘You thought,’ did you? ‘You thought.’ Ha!” Krell smirked. ”’Thought’ is the whole problem, isn’t it? It isn’t thought that draws them in at all, is it? It’s action! Danger! Fear!”

Milliken’s face was blank, uncomprehending.

“You still don’t comprehend, do you?” asked the observant, though evil, Doctor. “Let me give it to you again. Your first line is vital! It determines whether anyone will even bother to read another word. I should destroy you now, but no: you have one last chance. Now, go write it over and turn it in again on Monday!”

Ficlets 6: Return to Manderley

Last night I dreamt of Manderley again. To be honest, I mostly dreamt of Dannie, or, I should say, Mrs. Danvers. And really, we weren’t at Manderley at all. We practically never are. She and I were on a little shingle just past the boathouse, at low tide. I had gathered scraps of wood from a recent wreck and built them into a fire where we sat warming ourselves, wrapped in woolen blankets and roasting sausages. (No, of course we weren’t wrapped in roasting sausages! The idea!)

Gazing across the lively fire, I saw its flames reflected in Dannie’s eyes as she laughed aloud at some snide comment I had made. It was a look I would never forget.

Most of my dreams lately have been somehow related to old movies, and more and more of them are in black and white. I wonder if I am becoming somehow like a dog? It’s said that they see in black and white; perhaps they dream that way, too. I wonder, do I also make little yipping noises when I sleep, or twitch as if I were running? Alas, I may never know. I sleep alone.

Ficlets 5: A Game of Darts

“You’ll have to be quicker than that,” Fednor taunted. Then “Ow!” as a dart struck his left forearm, and “Ow!” again as two more punched the thick of his thigh. Everyone knew the sterile tips did no real harm; the danger came if you got hit in an artery. That was the object of the game: Hit your opponent’s artery before he could hit yours. One arterial hit and you were out.

Fednor and his team knew very well what that meant. When you were out, you were literally “out”: out of the game, out of consciousness, sometimes even out of your body, floating above until the medics could patch you up, pump you full of fluids, and wake you from your dark fantasy. It also meant (which was worse) that you were out of the game for at least a week.

Only flesh wounds so far, deep but clean, and spilling little blood. Then in a distracted instant came that familiar, deep ache. Before he could put words to his pain, all was black. He was gone. Again. When he woke, though, he saw a sunny meadow, not the familiar hospital ward.

Ficlets 4: Someone to Watch Over Me

He lay down dutifully in bed, and was tucked in, wished “pleasant dreams,” and left with the door closed, in the darkness of the most terrifying space his young mind had ever known: his own bedroom. A quick scan of the room confirmed his fears. Here were all of the familiar inanimate horrors, each masquerading with a face and eyes as a living, malevolent creature.

The life-sized punch-nose clown balloon with its insipid smile and its relentless readiness to be beaten down and then pop back up immediately to mock the boy’s puny fists. The saucer-eyed Japanese fish kite, easily a foot longer than the boy was tall, hanging from the ceiling by its huge, gaping mouth. And any number of dressers, toys, and other objects on which the boy’s eyes (in a bizarre twist on the whimsical illustrations of H. A. Rey) could identify still more insidious faces, each one observing his every move.

What could be the point of this surveillance, he wondered silently to himself. What could they want? And who had put them up to it?

Ficlets 3: Heir of Mystery (II)

“So what’s the ‘Z’ stand for? Is it for real?”

“Yeah, it’s for real.” I gave her what I hoped was a probing look, though I’m not sure I’m good at that sort of thing. It’s a question I’ve been asked before. A lot. I don’t usually give a straight answer, or even answer at all. But there was something about her. Actual curiosity, maybe? She wasn’t asking just to be coy, or to tease. I don’t know. Well, what the hell. “It’s Zimbalist.”

” ‘Zimbalist’?” I could hear the extra quotes in her voice. Mistake. Oh well; no turning back now.

“Zimbalist. My middle name’s ‘Zimbalist.’ Efrem Zimbalist Street.” She gave me a blank look. She didn’t get it. “See, my mom watched a lot of old TV detective shows.” Still nothing. “I take it yours did not.”

“What?” She seemed a little embarrassed. “No. No; my parents were really into the folk scene. You know, clubs? Jug bands in the park? We didn’t even have a TV.” Then a glimmer: “Bet you can’t guess what my middle name is.”

I thought a moment. “Rainbow?”

She looked crushed.

Ficlets 2: Heir of Mystery (I)

Hard to get down to business on a day like that. What is it about a foggy morning? It’s almost like a new-fallen snow, but better still: Just walking through the snow leaves a mark, spoils the curve, but the fog heals itself, swirls right in behind you as if you’d never been. That and a sense of short-sighted clarity, surrounded by a huge potential for mystery and wonder. Five feet ahead could be a black sedan waiting at the curb, or a grim-faced cop, or a lurking, silent stranger, or (and yes, I admit this one’s usually the most likely) my own front gate, dripping with dew.

Just the sort of morning that would be perfect for disappearance, walking off into familiar ways and never being seen again. And, as I learned from a distraught Mrs. Otis in my office three days later, that’s exactly what her husband Clarence appeared to have done.

“Mr. Street,” she begged me, “you have to help me find him. He just went out to pick up the paper. He didn’t even have his shoes on. I can’t sleep. I’m just sick with worry.”

Ficlets 1: Terminal Behavior

(NOTE: I've started posting short (1024 characters max.) bits of fiction at ficlets.com. As I post them there, I'll post them here also. This is the first.)

>> What is that? Do you smell that? Is someone eating in line?
>> No; it’s that woman with the green suitcase. She’s got a jar of mango body butter, it looks like. Probably just figured out she can’t take it on the plane. She’ll have to give it up at the gate.
>> So, what, is she using the whole pot up right now? That’s gonna be a very fragrant aircraft.
>> I don’t see how . . . Oh. Well, would you look at that! That’s a good idea.
>> What?
>> She’s sharing it with people in line. She knows she can’t keep it, so she just used a little and now she’s passing it around.
>> How nice, I suppose. That explains the fruit salad. This whole terminal is turning into an enormous human smoothie.
>> Ugh. Well, that’s an unpleasant image. Oh, look! Can I try some? Over here! Please!
>> Hey, wait a . . .
>> Thank you! Ooh, this feels good. Smell?
>> Thanks, but I’ve had a pretty good whiff already.
>> Mmm. Hey, I wonder if I’ve got anything to share . . . Oh, look at that. Um, does anybody need some contact lens solution?