The Daily Flash

A word of the day told through a piece of flash fiction, 200 words or less, a poem or a single photo to illustrate the given word. Join me on this journey.

[thedailyflash]

Munificent

It was the one place I always knew I could go. I hid there most afternoons, waiting until the first few stars arrived in the twilight sky before heading home, hoping to have avoided the transfer of power.

Frankie should have been off to work by then, and mom would be hovering over the kitchen sink, washing the dinner dishes. My belly was full when I'd walk in, and I'd tiptoe into the hallway, craning my neck to see if she noticed. But her head was always somewhere else.

Belinda played in her room with some old dolls, and I slithered past her door and slipped into my bedroom, gently shutting the door behind me.

In my backpack, I'd pull out one of the many books she'd lent me and a baggie of warm chocolate chip cookies. She left me a note this time: "Don't forget to make your wish tonight."

I closed my eyes and imagined her warm embrace, the smell of her chamomile tea brewing in the pot on the stove and the tickle of Chester, her tabby, brushing against my leg. I smiled. That was my wish.

[thedailyflash]

Exculpate

"I saw your little fingerprints you left all over the counter, smeared with chocolate!" she screamed. He cowered, wide-eyed in the corner, shaking his head in defiance.

"I didn't eat them, I swear, I swear!"

"Then how did they disappear? I should just pump your stomach now, get the evidence I need!"

"No!" The boy jumped up and bolted from the kitchen, running to the bathroom and locking the door behind him.

He heard her loud footsteps approaching and he started to cry. She banged her fist on the door.

"Let me in you little conniving thief!" She heard his sobs through the door. "You won't get any sympathy from me with those tears. Those cookies were for church group!"

"I didn't eat them!"

"Marjorie," a deep voice descended the stairs. "Honey, is that you?"

Victor entered the hallway and patted his wife on the shoulder.

"Not now, Victor. Your son is in big trouble."

"What he do this time? Oh, those cookies were great. Thanks for making them. What a treat! I totally pigged out."

[thedailyflash]

Ratiocinate

Margot lay in the dark awake. The noises in the wall grew louder. Unable to barely blink, scared to move more than a twitch, Margot's imagination took over.

A rat, perhaps, running on its tiny and quick feet, scampering through the tunnels in the wall. Or a bat? Does a bat run? Or perhaps it beats its wings against the two-by-fours.

Something small, feisty, nocturnal.

The critter scurried along the wall, its little feet scratching against the structural innards. Then the patter stopped. Margot trained her ears toward the spot in the wall where she last heard the scuttling. She dared not turn on the light. Better to imagine the cause of the noises rather than be faced with a room full of rats or mice.

She waited patiently, her breath slow and controlled so as not to stir any other animals in the dark.

It moved again. Margot stiffened in her bed. Then the sound of another came scurrying along the same wall. Then another, and another. She heard them as they ran past the wall at her head, then down toward the entrance to her closet, where they stopped.

Must be nesting there, she decided. Call the exterminator in the morning.

[thedailyflash]

Thewless

He stood there watching from the peephole high in the center of the door. They stood over the other man, swinging their arms, throttling him with kicks and punches.

The only light came from a distant streetlight, and he couldn't see anyone's faces, but he knew who they were. He shamed the man who'd been caught in their circle for being out past curfew. There was no one to offer protection at this hour.

He felt a stirring in his belly, a fire, a restlessness. He clenched his fist as his eyes widened. They were yelling at the man, who now resembled a dark ball, crouched on his knees, head to the ground.

Another man casually walked toward the group. His cigarette glowed in the dark. He passed through the stream of light cast down on by the streetlight, and his face was briefly illuminated. It was Herbie Gray. He tossed the cigarette into the street and gave terse directives to the other men, who then scattered into the dark.

Gray bent over the balled-up man, spit out a few words then offered one final swift kick to the ribs. The man on the ground let out a squeal, then fell silent.

Through the peephole, he squinted at the sound. Gray turned and slowly walked down the sidewalk and disappeared into the night.

He pulled his gaze from the peephole and grasped the door handle. He glanced at the phone hanging on the wall, wondering who was left to call. Moving to the view from the kitchen window, he saw the man stirring. He'd be OK. He'd be OK.

[thedailyflash]

Knucklebones

Rolling the Dice

[thedailyflash]

Trapeze

She soared through the air, her eyes shut, prayers rushing through her head. It had been only three days since the fall, and her confidence was slow to return.

Her heart thumped in her chest. She gained speed on the downswing, then glided up toward the rafters. She felt gravity pulling at her insides, and she knew exactly where she was, even though she chose not to look.

Sergei would be mirroring her across the way. He'd be ready to catch her in a few seconds.

As her body surged upwards, she opened her eyes and the fear caught hold. Instead of letting go of the bar with her hands, letting her knees keep hold, she took another swing backward. Marco bellowed from below.

She closed her eyes again, trying to remember the safety she once felt. She once thought of herself as a bird flying from tree to tree, weightless and free. She had never known fear like this.

"I can't, I can't, I can't," she heard herself whisper. As hard as she tried to push the fear aside, to remember her love of flying to remember the joy and rush of flipping and soaring through the air, her legs now felt like stone blocks, and her hands were wet with sweat as they grasped the chalked bar.

She swung back and forth, losing momentum, slowing with ever return. Marco continued to scream 30 feet below. A lone tear ran down her cheek and dropped the distance to the concrete floor. She grabbed the landing, dismounted and ran down the steps into the solitude of her dressing room.

[thedailyflash]

Macropod

Alexander flipped through the worn pages of his field guide while simultaneously pulling his binoculars to his eyes. He peeked down at a page describing the Red Kangaroo, then flipped to the next page describing the Western Gray Kangaroo.

"Yes,  yes," he muttered to himself, drawing his full attention to the view from the binoculars.

A large, male kangaroo was resting in the shade of a small tree. Alexander tucked the notebook under his arm while he used that hand to grab a pen from his shorts pocket. He pulled the cap off with his teeth and let the binoculars fall to his chest.

Beautiful specimen sighted at— he flipped over his wrist to check the time—13:43. Approximately one meter, light grey coat. Looks healthy. Resting in the heat of the day.

Alexander smiled as he replaced the cap on the pen and stuck the pen back in his pocket. He picked up his binoculars again and slowly sat on a small boulder at his feet. A line of sweat fell down his temple and then his stubbly cheek. He thought about snapping some photos, but didn't want to scare the animal by ruffling through his pack.

So he sat and stared through the binoculars, examining the animal, feeling the breeze. He brought the binoculars back down from his eyes, letting them hang around his neck. Reveling in the moment, he cupped his chin in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. The air was dry and hot, the sky as blue as he'd ever seen it. In the distance he heard the breeze rustle the leaves of a tree. He took it all in. A perfect moment.

[thedailyflash]

Casuistry

He looked out at the darkened auditorium. There were thousands of faces staring back at him as he stood under a spotlight behind the podium. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there.

Someone sneezed.

He thought about the cost of health care, the rising price of insurance premiums and copays and overcrowded emergency rooms. He thought about global pandemics, the bird flu, H1N1, small pox, malaria, tuberculosis. His heart beat quickened, and he knew it was time to start talking.

"Who's going to pay for that?" he asked to no one and to everyone. "Our tax dollars will not fund a socialist plight give government more control over our lives, over our hospitals, over our right to make individual choices. It's about the American ideals. It's about the foundations of our Constitution."

He paused and rubbed his chin. His heart raced, and his collar felt tight against his throat. Off stage, he noticed one of his aides talking with wild gesticulations on his cell phone.

"I won't let that happen. I won't let America fall to government control. I will keep our truths, our ideals close to my heart, to my policies, and I will never relent."

The crowd erupted into applause. He could hear some people stand up, chairs rustling in the darkness. A few whistles came from the back. He stood back and looked out into the faceless crowd, then adjusted his tie and smiled, leaning into the microphone.

"Thank you for your support. Good night!"

[thedailyflash]

Hector

Hector paused before filling in the adjoining squares with the letters of his name. He thought about using is favorite pseudonym, Vivienne. He would have to change the sex on the form if he did that.

Probably the date of birth, as well.

He glanced up, noticing a poster on the wall declaring the ways one could transmit AIDS. It was a black and white poster, in big, block lettering, and a man's shadow was cast off the edge. He twisted his neck, popping a vertebrae and noticing a woman in pink scrubs rubbing the back of a young girl in the plastic chairs against the wall. The woman in the scrubs, a nurse maybe, seemed to be consoling the girl. But the girl, while hunched over, did not seem to be listening. Her eyes met Hector's, and he quickly averted his gaze and turned back to the form.

That settled it. V-I-V-I-E-N-N-E won out. Last name?

As he scrolled through the mental list of possible surnames, the girl strut up behind Hector's chair and tapped him hard on the shoulder. Her finger felt blade-like against his skin. He stiffened, knowing he needed to turn around.

And when he did he was met with a wad of spit, landing squarely between the eyes. It dripped down to the bridge of his nose, then fell of to the side and down toward the corner of his mouth.

"You're no drag queen," the girl mocked, then stomped off.

Hector wiped the spit from his face with the back of his hand and grimaced. He watched the girl force open the heavy door and disappear onto the street, hopeful he'd never see her again.

[thedailyflash]

Tartar

Benny sunk into the worn leather chair and put the pencil tip to his tongue before he began scribbling.

It's incredible that we've managed to lock her down. She has given us such a trial. Dr. Magnussen tried his best before sending her here. Thank God we stopped the shock therapy. What she seems to need is companionship. After such a trying childhood, adolescence and now this, being incarcerated, I can't even begin to imagine the jumble of her mind—the complete mess of her psyche. I will try to coax her out with empathy and soft speech. Maybe she will respond without violence or spitting. Maybe we'll be able to release her from isolation and into the general population. It may be a way off, a long road ahead, but when I look at her through the mirror, when she can't see me staring, I just see a poor girl who needs my help.

He put the pencil back to his lips and turned his attention to the large plate glass window overlooking the courtyard. He imagined taking a stroll with her in the daylight, talking about her impulses and pulling out her demons. A smile crept onto his lips as he became lost in his thoughts.

Then, with a jolt, the alarm sounded. It blared through the speakers in the ceiling, and Benny jumped from his seat. A nurse barged in. "She's injured a guard, sir!"

Benny threw his pencil across the room and went to defend his patient.

[thedailyflash]

Nestor

"They say you know everything," the boy asked, his round, wide eyes peering through the iron rods of the gate.

The old man tugged on his beard. "I know what I know."

"Please let me in," pleaded the boy.

"Tell me about your mother."

"I don't understand."

"Did she leave you at the orphanage or just dump you on the side of the road?"

The boy shoved a hand in his pocket and kicked at the gravel road. "Please let me in."

"I can't help you find her. She's not here."

"They told me you are the wisest man and you are the only one who would know."

"They are wrong." The old man unlocked the gate and ushered in the boy. "But I have some tea brewing. We can sit and talk."

The boy followed the old man into the little house. They drank tea and ate crackers. The boy filled the man's ear with memories. Soon neither were hungry nor lonely.

[thedailyflash]

Garum

I know there's been a lot of talk about these people, the ones who think they can resurrect ancient cuisine and force it upon modern civilization. They think they can bring back shchi and solyanka and urban foodies will flock to the Russian bistro. Or maybe by serving cow's tongue on a bed of pickled beets, they'll come and also order a pint of ale.

But, I know for a fact, that people will try whatever you put on a plate in front of them. Especially if they are what they call themselves--the foodies, the adventurous eaters, the purists.

So gather 'round, listen up. I'll share with you my secrets. Go back to the mother land, cull culinary texts from old bound books that are falling apart. Skim through ancient novels to glean recipes and scavenge through lost villages to find little old ladies who will share their family recipes.

Then you will have the power. Then you can create and recreate. You can relive the past. And you can wonder why these dishes became lost over time, why tastes changed, why we all began eating McDonald's and Starbucks. What have we lost when we discarded our culinary history? Delve deep. Find the fish sauce, the pickled onions, the rotisserie goat. They will flock to you. If you make it, they will come.

[thedailyflash]

Foible

Parked in a clearing where he could see the stretch of highway that crossed the river, Doug took a sip from his flask and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He began to understand the advantages of being up high.

He played with the aperture of his eyes, squinting slightly, then opening his lids wide, experimenting on which contortion bettered his vision.

The team would be coming down the river soon. Doug took another sip from the flask. The whiskey burned going down, and he coughed.

An old pickup rattled down the highway, catching his attention, and Doug noticed that the sun was beginning to set. It was getting harder to see.

He opened the car door and stepped out onto the grass. It was breezy, and the wind was cold against his bare arms. He regretted not bringing his coat. And at this point, he felt foolish not to have gone to the optometrist like Tammy said. He pulled his cell phone from his jeans pocket and checked the time. He could still make out the river, and if they came on schedule, he'd still be able to see them. Maybe he should have invested in infrared goggles, he thought. Then laughed. He was an unprepared scout.

Doug leaned against the hood of the car, keeping watch on the river. It moved steadily, but carried no boats down its current. He checked his phone again. It was nearly seven, and Tammy would be getting anxious.

When the sun had fully set, Doug realized he'd have to move closer to the river. His vision failed in the dark.

He climbed back into the car and drove quickly down the windy dirt road that led back to the highway. Once he reached a pull out that lent an easy view of the river, the sky had turned black and he could see the outlines of constellations.

His phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket to answer. Tammy was screaming at the other end. The boat had reached the dock. No one had been there. They got away. The plan failed. Doug was a dead man.

[thedailyflash]

Metagrobolized

The phone rings, or is it the doorbell?

I shake the sheets off my bare legs and search around in the dim light for my slippers, one of which is missing for good. Hobbling down the creaky steps littered with matchbox cars, candy wrappers and cat toys, I rub sleep from my eyes and try to straighten the mess of hair on my head with clumsy fingers.

I look through the peephole. No one is there. Maybe it was the phone.

In the kitchen, where I leave my phone charging overnight, the cats are waiting for their daily bread. A baby screams upstairs, and I rub my ear, coating my fingertip with earwax.

The phone has not charged. It is dead.

Maybe a car was honking outside. Or maybe it was a dream.

I run up the stairs, tripping over the third step and falling forward. Somehow my hand stops my fall before I am impaled by a Decepticon.

I open the door to the nursery, and the baby is fast asleep. I think about making an appointment to have my hearing checked. I open Tyler's door, and there he is, staring at me with wide, innocent eyes, a DS in his hands, the sounds of the universe coming from its speakers.

And then the alarm shrieks, and I hit snooze.

[thedailyflash]

Crapulence

The empty shot glasses were lined up on the bar, and she slumped on the stool. The bartender strolled over, a dirty rag slung off his shoulder.

"Marty, give me another round," she mumbled, her eyes nearly shut.

"You outlasted them all Suzanne," the bartender said. "But we're closing up. Time to go."

Suzanne swiped the back of her hand across the bar, knocking over half of the shot glasses. They fell to the floor, some of them shattering on the concrete.

"You're going to have to force me out," she said. "Give me another round."

"You've had enough."

Suzanne pulled a flask from her purse and unscrewed the cap. "I'll take care of myself," she said and took a long swig.

The bartender nodded at a few men standing by the door, and they moved in on Suzanne, grabbing her under the arms and around the waist.

"Sleep it off, Suzanne," the bartender. "I'll see you tomorrow."

[thedailyflash]

Gloze

You see, madam, I do not see your name on the list. Please move to the back of the line and wait with the others.

Oh sir, you must be mistaken. Perhaps my name is misspelled? Surely, a handsome man such as yourself would not keep out such a lady? You must get this all the time, other women trying to bypass the unduly long line. Of course they complimented your eyes, how they look like an evergreen forest, and how tall and strong you stand, the breadth of your shoulders, mighty enough to keep rowdy crowds at bay. But I am positive they did not notice your lips, how kind they are, turning up at the ends in a perpetual state of welcoming. Of course they did not notice that. Or perhaps, the slight sadness that rests on your brow. Did they notice that? This gloom that befalls your kindness because you would rather not be the barricade. I notice it. I recognize the goodness inside you, that element that wants to please everyone, to be generous and forthcoming. But here you are, stuck at a crossroads. You are a reluctant barrier. I see that in you.

Well, let me scan the list one more time.

Maybe look under Lizzie Forsythe this time? I think I see my name, yes, right there, near the bottom. There it is.

Miss Forsythe? Please, sorry for the confusion. You may enter.

[thedailyflash]

Senryu

The cat is snoring

Curled in a ball on my bed

I need some ear plugs