On Wednesday morning I woke up and ran 5 miles.

I was feeling pretty stinking good about myself until I opened up social media. See… it turns out that while I was setting my standards for the day unreasonably low, the rest of the moms of the world were busy setting of their children’s leprechaun traps, painting tiny green footprints on the concrete outside and dying every imaginable food item green.

Woops.

I had no amazing St. Patrick’s day plans for my kids. I didn’t even have dedicated clothing items for them!

We had no green milk. No colorful cereal I could pick the green bits out of (we ate oatmeal and protein pancakes, thank you very much), and NO signs of a leprechaun haunting our home.

In short, I failed mom-ing this week.

I’m pretty sure Charlie has no idea that we had a holiday earlier this week.

To absolve myself of my utter lack of preparation, I wrote a flash piece that at the very least acknowledges the passing of March 17th.

And thus was born:

Good Luck

Jill N Davies

“Wake up!”

Norm groaned, turning in his bed so that his arm flopped over the side, reaching for an alarm that didn’t exist. His head swam with the motion. In his half-asleep daze, he imagined his eyeballs bobbing in a sea of the amber colored liquid that saturated his brain. Whisky…

Was it the kind with the y or the ey? Whichever one the Irish made, that was the kind he’d been drinking last night, and that was the kind making everything swim and churn now.

“Norm! It’s time to get up!”

This time the prompt was accompanied by a sound pop on the top of Norm’s head.

“Ow!” he groaned.

Begrudgingly, Norm sat up, scrunching his eyes and trying to make sense of his surroundings.

Norm turned his head to the nightstand to find a squat little fellow with a bushy grey beard and a bowler hat. He was about 10 inches tall and almost as round, with pointy ears, ruddy cheeks and a bulbous nose. Aside from the absence of a green suit and a pot-o-gold, he was the spitting image of a leprechaun.

“Am I still drunk?” Norm asked.

“No, just hung over,” The leprechaun said.

Norm blinked. “You’re not real,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what I am or am not! I’m here aren’t I?” the leprechaun scolded.

Norm considered this argument, his thoughts drowning under the constant murmur that blanketed his brain. What the hell did I do last night?

“What are you?” he asked.

“My name is Lucky. I’m a Leprechaun,” the little fellow squeaked.

Norm considered this. “You don’t have an Irish accent. You aren’t wearing green,” he pointed out.

“Tired, outdated stereotypes,” Lucky scoffed.

“What are you doing here?” Norm asked.

Lucky laughed. “I take it you don’t remember stumbling out of the pub last night to search the field for four-leaf clovers?”

Norm had a vague memory of a blurry green field—of stumbling over uneven ground and the smell of sweet grass. The image brought forth another memory. He looked down at his hands to see the bright red indents.

“You bit me!” Norm yelled.

“Yeah, but you won in the end, so I’m here to grant your wish,” Lucky said.

“My wish?” Norm asked, trying hard to remember.

“You’re stalling now!” Lucky said, getting to his feet and waiving his hands. “Get out of bed and get ready for work!”

At the prompting of the curmudgeonly leprechaun, he stood up and made his way into the bathroom to get ready for work. To his surprise, Lucky followed him. Under his guidance, Norm drank 16 ounces of water and took two Tylenol. Though he wasn’t in the mood, he shaved. Instead of yesterday’s wrinkled clothes, he put on a pair of slacks and a clean shirt. Before he knew it, Norm was feeling slightly less hung-over than he actually was.

“Do you have to grant my wish if I don’t remember it?” Norm asked as he drove down the road toward the coffee shop.

“I do,” Lucky harumphed.

“Was it for money? Success? Love?” Norm rattled off all the wishes he could imagine.

“You wished for luck!” Lucky snapped, shutting Norm up. “Good luck.”

“And you’re going to give it to me?” Norm asked in amazement.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Lucky asked.

Norm found a parking spot right in front of the coffee shop. As he parked, he wondered if the spot had been Lucky’s doing, but before he could ask him, Lucky hopped into his briefcase so he could accompany him into the shop without being noticed.

Feeling luckier already, Norm grabbed the briefcase and sauntered confidently into the shop. The smell of freshly ground coffee greeted him like a warm, caffeinated hug. Norm waited in line, bypassing the menu to stare longingly at the barista with the chocolate brown hair and inviting smile.

When it was Norm’s turn to order the barista turned her smile toward him.

“Hi again! What can I get you?” she asked.

Lucky reached out and poked Norm in the thigh.

“Ow! Uh-Hi. Can I have an americano please? Extra shot with room for cream?” he asked, rubbing his smarting leg.

“SMILEI” Lucky hissed.

Norm did.

“You look nice,” she said. “So many folks have come in here looking like hell. Day after St. Patrick’s, you know.”

Norm did know. His eyes followed her as she left to make his coffee.

“Ask her for her number,” Lucky whispered.

“I can’t do that,” Norm protested.

“Yes, you can!” Lucky argued, “All you have to do is open your mouth and let the words come out.”

There was no time to argue. The barista was on her way back with a steaming cup.

“Here you go,” she said, still smiling.

Norm took the cup, noting that she’d written his name on it in bubbly handwriting. Instinctively he moved his leg away from the briefcase so Lucky couldn’t jab him again.

“Can I get your number?” He blurted.

“My number?” the barista asked.

“Yeah, so I can ask you out on a date,” Norm explained, wondering why he was following the instructions of a tiny man hidden in his briefcase.

“You don’t even know my name,” she said, frowning at the pens next to the register.

“I’m going to need that too.” Norm said. “The rest we can work out over dinner.”

The smile returned. She grabbed Norm’s receipt and scrawled her number on the back of it. Under the number she wrote Trish with a heart over the i.

“I don’t give my number to just anyone,” Trish said, handing him the receipt. “Must be your lucky day.”

“Yeah, must be,” Norm said, folding the paper into his wallet.

By the time he’d made his way out of the coffee shop and back into his car he’d remembered the leprechaun hiding in his briefcase. But when he opened it up there was no sign of Lucky.

The End

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We’ve had a few gloriously sunny days around here lately, but that didn’t stop one heck of a storm from coming down on us this last Wednesday. We were hit with so much hail that it looked like the lawns and rooftops were covered in snow! There was still hail on the ground the next morning, which is highly unusual for our area.

The changing seasons tend to make me think about the changes in my own life. Like the seasons, there’s never a clear-cut line of before and after. There’s days of sunshine mixed with vigorous storms.

Recently, I was remembering a particularly difficult transition. The memory was brought up by the combination of season’s change and something someone told me.

Someone said “well, you got what you wanted.”

It wasn’t entirely correct. No one handed me what I wanted. The incorrect statement reminded me of something my husband said many years ago before he was my husband.

He said, “Something I’ve always admired about you is that you take your shot. You aren’t afraid to miss.”

He was wrong too, of course. I’m no better than anyone else. I’m definitely afraid to miss. I’m afraid of rejection– of failure or that general sense of loss, just like everyone else.

But for me, the idea of not even trying usually wins out as a bigger dread. So, yeah, I “got what I wanted.” But the truth was, I took my shot to get it. I could have missed too.

The idea rattled around in my head for a long time until I came up with this week’s piece.

It’s something to think about, if nothing else.

Supernova

Jill N Davies

“Tomorrow is the big day!” Bernard said.

It was a loaded statement, impossible to interpret. He probably just meant that tomorrow was important, that it would change my life forever and he was excited for me… but what if he was searching, like me, for the answer to a question neither of us had ever asked…

“Yeah.”

It was all I could manage to get out.

Bernard wiggled his foot. It was something he did when he was anxious. I’d seen him do it a thousand times before. After tonight we’d never see each other again. Not in person, anyway. Was it me, or was he wiggling it in my direction? Subtly shifting his body toward me…

He turned his head to look up at the stars. I followed his gaze to the clear sky, speckled with flecks of light. Billions of stars converting hydrogen to helium with the sheer force of gravity. Contained explosions suspended in space.

I was about to be one of them, but I already knew how it must feel. I’d spend my entire life as a contained explosion.

Bernard put a hand on either side of him so that he could prop himself up on the old stone bench. His right hand was so close to my thigh that I could feel its heat radiating through the fabric of my jeans, making my heart race.

“What do you think it’s like up there?” Bernard asked.

“Empty,” I said.

He looked at me, his blue eyes endless pools of depth, glistening in the moonlight. “Are you scared?”

Not how you think. What would happen if I didn’t say it?

There would be nothing left to talk about. I would leave him, returning to the sterile bunk meant for my last night on Earth and he would go home. He would move on—we both would. Him here on the ground and me in the stars. He would meet someone, eventually falling in love. We would write, send videos.

He would watch my journey, millions of miles away. Maybe on a clear, starry night like tonight he’d grasp his love’s hand and point at the sky. He would remember me because that’s how it worked, but the memory would warp and distort. It would fade like a dim light moving rapidly in the wrong direction until I was nothing more than a piece of the past—ingrained but mostly forgotten.

His grandchildren would read about me in the history books. The warmth we’d shared—the transfer of heat from two thermodynamic bodies—would dissipate into an entropic system like so many microscopic particles. Flecks of light in a midnight sky.

“Bernie?” My voice didn’t sound like my own. There was no self-assured strength boosting the decibel count beyond the background noise, forcing others to pay attention.

He arched an eyebrow, giving his smirk a mischievous slant.

“Don’t go freaking out on me now,” he said.

It was now or never.

If there was one thing I was good at, it was seeing my moment and taking my shot, accepting the misses in strides and banking the hits.

You have to miss a lot to get the tough ones.

But what good were all the hits when none of them were the only thing I’d ever truly wanted? Could I brag about the chances I’d taken when I’ve never been brave enough to take the only chance that mattered?

I’d always been too scared to swing for Bernard. Not taking my chance meant I didn’t have to miss him. That he could stay in my dreams as I lived among the stars.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” He asked, studying me like a puzzle too impossible to solve.

His body shifted toward me, square shoulders bent, only slightly, forward. The strong line of his jaw was covered in at least a day’s worth of growth, but that did nothing to detract from my attraction. His lips were still upturned beneath searching eyes. Eyes I’ve spent a lifetime searching for answers in. Lips I’d dreamed of nightly.

Dreaming would never be enough.

I leaned in quickly, taking his face in my hands so that I could feel the warmth of his skin against my palms.

“I love you Bernard,” I said.

The words were far too serious, considering the lightness they gave me, but they had to be said.

He looked at me, dumbfounded. “I love you too.”

It was obvious he hadn’t understood the import of it. We loved each other. That’s what friends do. There was only one thing left to do to get my point across, so I did it.

My lips met his, warm and soft. We kissed, gently at first, uncertain if it was allowed—if it was real. Pressure built as fusion began. Hydrogen turned to helium, releasing energy. Transferring heat from an open system.

We detached and I searched his face for his response, heart thudding inside my chest, held in place only by the gravity of the situation.

“Oh,” he said.

My heart sank. Never mind, I told myself, I’m going anyway, so nothing has changed.

He reached out, enveloping my hand in his. The warmth made my heart ache.

“Do you have to go then?” He asked.

“I could stay,” I said, “If you wanted.”

“I do, but…” He hesitated, head quirking in a familiar way, “this is your dream.” He gestured to the stars.

“My backup dream,” I told him. “I always knew I couldn’t live on this planet unless it was with you.”

“I wasn’t sure I could live without you,” he admitted, pulling me into his arms and kissing me again.

My heart swelled, a red giant whose fusion could no longer be contained. It burst into a supernova, scattering the rest of me to drift forever in the far reaches of the universe and leaving the core to remain on Earth, right where it belonged.

The End

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The weekend was sunny and warm.

Okay, I’m being careful with my words. Let me correct. This weekend was hot, so I did the only logical thing– I turned off the heater.

Fast forward to today and it’s freezing cold in the mornings. The house is a chilly 63 degrees and I’m thinking of turning the heater back on for the small children and dog of the house.

*sigh*

The warmer weather has me dreading the summer heat already. Around here the part of the year that’s too hot for my liking lasts about 6 months and precedes the season formerly known as fall but currently known as “Fire Season.”

All that heat had me picturing vast desert scapes. I was primed to think of deserts because I was doing some research about penguins for another story and reading about arctic deserts…

So, with all the ideas bouncing around in my head I came up with this story about a dog from an ancient Egyptian order that has a job to do that humans couldn’t possibly understand.

Originally the story was juxtaposed with a mother-daughter story, but I ended up having to edit it down because 1000 words isn’t that many.

I’m pretty pleased with the end result and I think you will be to.

Pharaoh’s Pact

Jill N Davies

Pharaoh let a nervous whine escape as he peered out the car window at all the things zooming by. Everything was different now—even him. That’s what made this so hard. He looked over at his new owner and whined. Jamie lifted a hand from the steering wheel and gave his narrow head an affectionate tousle.

“It’s gonna be okay, Buddy. My mom’s nice. She’s gonna like you,” Jamie reassured.

But Pharaoh knew things that Jamie didn’t. She knew he was a Saluki, born from a long line of hunters, but she had no idea what it was that the Saluki had been hunting for thousands of years. She had no idea what he was there to do.

After years of training and waiting, pacing the outskirts of the temple of Karnak and stalking passers-by in the Valley of Kings, the order had led him to Jamie. She was the one that would fulfill the prophecy. It was supposed to be as simple as that, but Jamie was far from simple. Pharaoh hadn’t expected to love her.

Having a master meant a whole new life. Together they traveled from the desert sands to a new place. Here the land was green and alive, with miles of running trails that Jamie diligently took him on. She was a good master, but the day had finally come.

“Baby! You don’t look a thing like yourself! You’re as thin as your dog!” Hildy exclaimed, watching the pair trot up the driveway.

“Good to see you too, Ma,” Jamie said.

Hildy held the door, pressing herself against the wall so Jamie could squirm past. She seemed nice. It was clear that she was also wild about Jamie, which only served to make Pharaoh ache more.

A sneaker toppled from the bag, landing on the entryway rug. Pharaoh used it as an excuse to linger, his whippet-thin tail swishing with good humor at their scent. He moved on from the sneaker, sniffing along the frayed edge of the entryway rug.

“He’s not going tohunt the cats, is he?” Hildy asked, giving the dog a false-stern look.

“Sighthounds hunt with their eyes,” Jamie reassured her, looking over at him with an owner’s pride.

Pharaoh, swelling from his master’s boast, was following his nose from the rug over to the sofa.

Hildy watched him work. “He’s acting more like a scent hound, if you asked me.”

“He’s still a dog, Ma. And you’ve got cats,” Jamie shrugged.

She started to step away from her pile of stuff when Hildy raised her voice and finger with motherly authority, “Don’t you dare leave that pile of junk in the Parlor young lady! March it straight into your room.” Her voice softened as she stepped into the kitchen, “come back after you’ve tidied. I’ll make you some tea.”

Jamie gathered her things with dutiful compliance, “Yes, Ma,” she said, before waddling off down the hall.

Pharaoh was able to make out a lot about the seriousness of the situation from the state of the house. The carpet was frayed and there were thick scratches on the sofa. Balls of hair danced across the floor like wicked little dust bunnies … Then there was the smell. An unholy stench. He had no doubt now that he was in the presence of his mortal enemy.

Pharaoh lasered in on the hiss and pat-pat of pompous feet.

Two cats emerged from the hall. The first was a Russian White, too fluffy and delicate to wreak any real havoc. The other, however, was a medium-bodied and muscular bronze Mau. It bounded up onto the countertop, long hind legs making the jump look effortless. He landed with smug grace.

“Apopsis!” Hildy tsked, noting her pet’s ascent onto the forbidden space. But before she could get a scolding out the Mau began his enchantment. The air filled with his musical tones. He chirped and chortled, waggling his tail. Hildy’s face went slack. With a placid, dreamy smile, she went back to brewing the tea.

I see you. There’s no use hiding, Apopsis purred.

I’ve come to destroy you, Pharaoh growled.

Attack me if you dare but be warned—Your master won’t look kindly upon you if you kill her mother’s precious cat, Apopsis purred, flicking his tail in Hildy’s face. She batted it aside absently. The Mau looked over his shoulder at her.

Pharaoh whined. He’d been warned not to get attached. That defeating a warlock took absolute commitment… but he hadn’t been able to help himself.

You wouldn’t dare be a bad dog, would you? Aposis taunted, casually licking a front paw.

Pharaoh didn’t want to be a bad dog. He didn’t want to disappoint the master he loved so much… but he’d made a pact when he joined the order. Maybe Jamie would understand. She’d called him a good boy, after all.

It was a chance he had to take.

Apopsis looked up from his triumphant grooming in time to and catch a flash of fur and teeth. He screamed an earth-shattering yowl of anger and pain. Claws out, he fought back, too distracted to conjure another curse.

It was over as quickly as it started. Apopsis was vanquished.

Spell gone, Hildy blinked, momentarily confused. Then she saw the cat hanging limply from Pharaoh’s deeply scratched muzzle. She let out a high-pitched wail, drawing Jaimie from the back room.

“No! Bad dog!” Jamie yelled. Pharaoh could hear the disappointment and betrayal in her voice.

He let out a meek whimper, dropping the Mau. Jamie ushered him into the back yard amidst Hildy’s frantic wails. He paced anxiously at the door.

It had to be done, Pharaoh told himself. What happened to him now was of small consequence in the face of an eternal battle. He wasn’t supposed to get attached.

Still, he thought, peering through the glass as the person he loved most walked away, he wished for Jamie to understand that he was still a good boy…

The End

Check out the reading video on IGTV on my Author Account. You can follow me there for more video readings and the occasional cute picture of Winston sleeping on my computer.

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Want something with` a bit more meat on the bones? I write short stories for reedsy. You can check out my:

Hungry for more?

I’ve been published in a winter anthology. Check out my short story Shipwrecked Santa in Angry Eagle’s winter anthology, Apocalyptic Winter- Book 2. You can get your copy on Amazon today

If you’ve got an idea for a flash fiction story send it to me at author@jillndavies.com

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It was windy again this week.

I’m not talking about the normal late-winter/early spring gusts that aggravate our allergies and blow the remaining leaves from the treetops. This was real wind. The kind that blows down unstable branches and knocks patio furniture into the pool.

But neither of those things happened. We’ve had so much wind lately that all the branches have already been grounded. And the patio furniture is secure.

There is, however, a nest in our oak tree. I’ve noticed it for the last few weeks and speculated on what type of bird made it. I also worried that the wind might have torn it out of the tree.

Good news is that the wind didn’t blow the nest down.

The other morning I noticed a red tailed hawk perched high up on a bare branch. I mentioned it to Drew. hawks, owls and falcons are fairly common in our area, but this is the first one I’ve seen in our tree.

Later that day I noticed two hawks by the nest.

That solves THAT mystery.

No telling if we’re going to hatch our very own hawks this spring or not. It turns out that Hawks make several nests each winter but end up only using one. Only time will tell if they chose the one in our tree.

The hawks got me thinking about another idea that’s been jangling around in the back of my mind. See, hawks are birds of prey and, while they mostly prey on small rodents like mice, squirrel and rabbits, they’ll also eat other birds and just about any small mammal.

I started thinking about other types of predators and how they find their prey of opportunity.

Thus all the ideas were put together into this week’s piece:

Raptor

Jill N Davies

“Ohmigosh you have to tell me everything!” Miriam said. She leaned into the table so that her charcoal jacket gaped as she reached for her drink with a perfectly manicured hand. Her lipstick left a dusky red ring on the straw.

Chelsea blushed, crumpling and un-crumpling the napkin in her jean-clad lap.

“It was really nice,” she said, still not diving into her entrée. “He was a perfect gentleman—he opened the door for me, pulled out my chair, stood when I got up to go to the restroom…”

“And I saw his profile picture. So handsome!” Miriam gushed.

“He is,” Chelsea agreed. She twisted the fork between her thumb and finger, feeling the uneven thud each time it went from sideways to right side and back again. The heavenly smell of roasted garlic and herbs wafted past as a waiter delivered bread to the table on the other side of the patio.

“Was the conversation good?” Miriam asked, taking another bite of her BLT.

“It was. I think he might actually know more about rookeries than I do.”

Chelsea smiled. Miriam raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Honey, nobody knows more about birds than you do,” Miriam said.

Chelsea found herself blushing again. She might agree if she weren’t so modest. Being an Ornithologist already set her apart from the casual birdwatcher. Winning the Burtoni Award for her work with the Magellanic panguins of the Falkland Islands made it a hard thing to argue against. Her preferred work was in the quiet study of colonies as they adapted to climate change, but if there were some major development—a city expansion, development of long-standing private property… anything that involved the collision of humans with winged, two-legged, warm-blooded, egg-laying vertebrates… she was the one they brought in to do the environmental impact report.

“He says he’s just a hobbyist, but that’s hard to believe. Did you know he was there—in 2008 when EF-2 knocked out half the heron population—he was in Stafford County!” Chelsea said. Her eyes glowed with earnest wonder.

Miriam paused, holding her drink midair, studying her friend. For a moment the quiet between them called attention to the chatter and buzz of activity surrounding them. Miriam returned her mojito back to the table, watching Chelsea’s wide, earnest eyes follow.

“Are you serious, Chelsea?” she asked.

“Isn’t that wild?” Chelsea whispered.

A wide smile cracked the porcelain vernier of Miriam’s face. She slapped the table and let out an honest, hearty laugh.

“Who cares?! Honestly Chelse, you’re so weird sometimes!”

Chelsea could feel the heat creep up the back of her neck. It was normal for friends and family to make fun of her weird expertise, but it still made her uncomfortable—self-conscious.

“I just think that’s cool, is all,” She mumbled, fidgeting with the stem of her margarita glass.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Miriam said with her best effort at being serious. She dabbed a potentially nonexistent tear from the corner of her eye. She took a deep breath to settle herself, took a bite out of her pickle, then went on. “But seriously, he seems like a catch. Are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know,” Chelsea admitted.

Miriam’s jaw dropped. “What? He seems so perfect—and perfect for you! Why not?” she whined.

“I don’t know,” she said again. “It’s something.”

“Something? You want to hinge the love of your life and your future perfect family on something?” Miriam shook her head.

“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s a feeling. Like something is funny. Like it’s not what it seems like it is,” Chelsea said. She was reaching, but she didn’t know what else to do.

“So figure it out! Go on another date with him and get to know him,” Miriam said. She took another, longer drink of her mojito. Setting the drink down, she shrugged, “It’s probably just cold feet. You shouldn’t self-sabotage.”

“Yeah, probably,” Chelsea agreed. “He wants to take me to Saint Alouette on Thursday.”

Miriam’s eyes widened. “The one on the bay?”

“It’s actually an estuary,” Chelsea corrected.

“Bay, estuary! Who cares? Chelsea, it’s the best French restaurant in town—you have to go!” Miriam whined.

“I’ll think about it,” Chelsea said.

~ ~ ~

He strolled away from the warm patio lights and fading music, toward the bay. Long legs carried him brusquely into the darkness.

She was a no-show.

He’d thought it had been a slam-dunk. He had been so interesting. She had been so charmed. They’d connected.

Hollow footsteps echoed off the marsh-level boardwalk, quieting the incessant chirp of arduous insects. Somewhere in the distance a lone heron took flight, leaving a ripple on the otherwise placid water.

He was angry. Frustrated.

An owl glided past, perching on a low branch and hooting in sympathetic concurrence. We all need to eat.

The boardwalk took him to the edge of the bay—far from the lights and bustle of the restaurant and parking lot—to where he’d planned to take her for a stroll after dinner.

“The Black-bellied Plover come here to nest,” He would have said, to highlight his knowledge.

She would know this, but she was meek, polite. She would have let him tell her what he knew. He would have put his arm around her shoulder when she shivered and…

But she stood him up.

His craned his neck and it seemed to elongate. He blinked dark, hungry eyes that rested above the sharp beak of his nose. He would not feed tonight.

The owl hooted again, and he responded with a piercing caw of frustration. The crickets were still quiet.

In the distance the cellist began to play a low, slow melody that blended with the night. The fog would be on its way in anytime now.

He looked back one, final time at the warm glow, where happy couples dined—to where they gathered, alone but together.

Safety in numbers.

He looked away in distain, then took flight.

The End

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Want something with` a bit more meat on the bones? I write short stories for reedsy. You can check out my:

Hungry for more?

I’ve been published in a winter anthology. Check out my short story Shipwrecked Santa in Angry Eagle’s winter anthology, Apocalyptic Winter- Book 2. You can get your copy on Amazon today

If you’ve got an idea for a flash fiction story send it to me at author@jillndavies.com

Tune in next week for more Flash Fiction.

Get your copy of Due North Today!

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Most of the US was hit by some kind of weather this week. Some folks were left without power for days. Kids who never thought they’d get snow in their backyards made snow angels. Dogs peed in litter boxes.

It was mayhem!

When the polar vortex kicks out this sort of weather craziness it makes you wonder if there isn’t something more nefarious going on… I’m not talking about conspiracies here, I’m talking about Elementals!

This week’s story was inspired by my own experience climbing the mountain trail up to the mountain named The Storm King. At the top, I experienced some of the rip-roaring-est winds I’ve ever had the pleasure of feeling try to tear me off a hogback.

I was humbled.

5 years later I wrote about a mountain called Storm King.

Check it out!

Storm King

Jill N Davies

The music blared, filling the SUV. Haven bobbed his head to the beat as he eased the unwashed behemoth to a stop and Echo rolled her window down.

“Is this the way to Storm King?” Echo asked, sticking her head out the passenger window.

The ranger tilted her head to the side and furrowed her eyebrows. She was an older woman. Haven tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, wondering why rangers were always older.

“I’m sorry, what?” the ranger asked.

Echo slapped his arm. “Turn down the music,” she admonished.

Haven rubbed his arm, smarting more emotionally than physically. He turned the music off with the stankiest gesture he could muster.

“Storm King. Will this road take us there?” She repeated.

“Well yeah, but I wouldn’t if I were you. There’s a storm coming,” the ranger answered.

Haven smirked. She sounded like a harbinger from a horror flick. ‘Storm’s a comin’!’ It wasn’t her business. They’d be up and down the mountain before the first drops fell from the gathering clouds.

“I promise we’ll be careful,” Echo gushed, retreating from the window.

Haven barely waited for her to resituate before he put the SUV in drive and lurched forward. The second her window was up he turned the music back on. Foot pressed against the accelerator he joined the chorus and ran, full steam ahead, into the hills.

Echo waited until the SUV was parked and Haven was darting around the car like a frantic hummingbird, gathering supplies before she spoke.

“Should we wait until tomorrow?”

“No way Babe! We’re supposed to hit Ozette tomorrow. If we don’t hit Storm King tonight, we skip it. Do you want to skip it?” He asked, opening his backpack with one hand and grabbing a couple cliff bars from the food bin with the other. He didn’t want to skip it, did he?

“No…” Echo mused. She checked the valve on her hydration pack. “But I think it’s smart to listen to the locals…”

Haven laughed. “That old crow? Come on! She was so old she probably measures the intensity of a storm by the ache of her fake hip. She’s practically from a horror movie—risen from the grave to warn passers-by, beware the Storm King!” He raised his arms into limp claws held over his head and let out a high-pitched warble.

Echo rolled her eyes, tossing his hiking boots into his chest. He caught them reflexively.

“All right. If we’re doing this, let’s get to it. I don’t want to be at the top of a mountain when a gale opens up,” She said, bouncing from her heels to her toes to loosen up.

Haven slipped a narrow foot into his shoe, skipping the laces before repeating with the other. He looked up, past the trees to the ominous-looking exposed peak. He didn’t either…

“Let’s do this!” He cheered, pumping a clenched fist into the cooling air to amp himself up. They took off at an easy jog up the narrow single-track.

Echo and Haven devoured the mountain trail, gaining elevation rapidly until they were looking out over the ridge at the lake far below. The surface was like glass, broken and chipped with a thousand white splinters. Haven stopped long enough to watch a long shadow sweep across the dark waters, sending a chill down his spine.

“I’m glad we didn’t ditch the plan,” Echo breathed, taking in the view. Between the bite of the cold mountain air and the rush of adrenalin, she was feeling positively exalted. Haven, on the other hand, was downright grim.

“Sure” Haven said. The sun was low in the sky and completely obscured by clouds. He didn’t want to admit how the grey light left him unsettled.

From this point they’d leave the partial cover of the trees and make their way across a hogback to the sheer face of Storm King. Somewhere in the trees an eerie sound wafted down. A chirrup followed by a hoarse coo.

“Did you hear that?” Haven asked, searching the sparse branches.

Echo breathed in the sharp smell of pine mixed with the tang of approaching rain. “A crow,” she said dismissively.

Haven liked crows, but not today. It was too dark. The repeated sound vibrated low in his gut. Storm’s a’comin. Beware the Storm King!

“Do you want to call it at the ridge?” He asked.

“Why?” Echo asked, but she sounded as ready as he was.

 “Look at the sky. I think it’s going to suck us up.” He said, “Besides, it’s dark. We’re not going to be able to see anything.”

“Is that what you want?” Echo asked. She sounded hopeful.

“I don’t know what I want,” Haven admitted. Yes! It was what he wanted.

She searched his face, not wanting to admit defeat, but not wanting to take another step up the mountain, either. He was right about the light, and probably about the storm, too.

“Some other time then,” she agreed.

Haven nodded. “Next time.”

The crow took flight, cawing as it made its way noisily down the trail, then across the open sky above the lake. Haven shuddered. They turned to race down the mountain.

Just above the tree-line, no more than 100 feet from where they’d stood, the clouds coalesced. At the center, two pinpricks of glimmering light appeared. Eyes in the swelling darkness of the storm. The eyes blinked and flashes of lightning flowed down across the exposed ridge. It began to rain.

The clouds swept across the mountaintop like hands, searching but not finding. A thunderous roar chased the young hikers down the mountain.

The crow lit on the ranger station below, where the old ranger watched the Storm King search for the hikers.

“Not today, my friend,” she said, tossing a crust onto the roof. The crow took it and purred. The Storm King looked down on the pair, bellowing with thunderous rage. The ranger gave a dismissive wave of her hand and the station’s door slammed shut.

The End

Hey look! I’m reading to you on IGTV!

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Jill N Davies (@jillndavies_books)

Want something with a bit more meat on the bones? I write short stories for reedsy. You can check out my

:

Hungry for more?

I’ve been published in a winter anthology. Check out my short story Shipwrecked Santa in Angry Eagle’s winter anthology, Apocalyptic Winter- Book 2. You can get your copy on Amazon today

If you’ve got an idea for a flash fiction story send it to me at author@jillndavies.com

Tune in next week for more Flash Fiction.

Get your copy of Due North Today!

Amazon

Kobo Books

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/due-north-4

Nook Books

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w?ean=2940162951827

Try a Free Sample of Due North Today:

Get your FREE Sample of Due North TODAY!

All you have to do is sign up for my mailing list!

Get my copy FREE

I’ll never spam you. You can unsubscribe at any time.