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

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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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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

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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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Nook Books

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

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Happy Friday!

Did you know that authors read?

I hope you knew that. It’s one of those things that’s the lifeblood [also, lifeblood is supposed to suggest vitality and sustaining energy but all I can think when I write it is VAMPIRE!]

I’m no different. My personal library has been a flurry of both fiction and non-fiction. As a mom, author, dog-owner and (very crummy) homemaker, I struggle to sit quietly and read. Thus I get my book on in a variety of formats. At any given time I’ve got several e-books in rotation, a few audiobooks and once in a blue moon I even hold a real-life book in my hands. (Note to my readers– this is an extremely rare occurrence because babies like to be held and three year olds seem offended by the idea of you holding anything that isn’t them. So far, the dog is indifferent but might consider paper products acceptable foodstuffs.)

I have numerous unfinished audiobooks in rotation on two different apps. I use audible and Libby. I listen to some with Drew and some when I’m on my own.

Drew and I just finished Outsider, which gave us nightmares. I just finished City of Ember which didn’t give me nightmares but made me feel dark and lonely. Both stories were cave-y and filled my waking and non-waking mind with that sort of imagery. Said imagery got me thinking of the time I was supposed to go for a hike with my sister and her husband but instead we toured a mining cavern.

It was simultaneously lame and cool at the same time.

That juxtaposition got me thinking about being a preteen…. one thing led to another and voila! This week’s story was born.

(Don’t worry, no nightmare imagery.)

Cave-Blind

Jill N Davies

Velma the guide wore a wide-brimmed hat with a thick string tied below her chin. The dark green complimented her dirt-brown Medford Caverns shirt with the word Guide neatly stitched in off-white. Standing at the entrance gate, she surveyed the group with all the false authority the summer job gave her.  It really rubbed Josie the wrong way.

“It’s very important that you keep your hands within the railing. The caverns are very old and the oils from your skin can deteriorate the fragile minerals, ultimately damaging the walls,” she said.

Her hand rested on the chain. A possessive hand, Josie thought. Velma the guide thought that she owned the Medford Caverns—or at least owned them more than any of the tourists in her audience.

“One safety course doesn’t make you the boss of history,” Josie mumbled under her breath.

Velma the guide cleared her throat. The sound made Josie’s heart stop for a moment. She thought that maybe Velma had heard what she said. But no, that wasn’t possible. The general shuffle and breath of the audience was enough to drown her words. It was just that Velma was the sort of person that figured she shouldn’t be talked over.

She waited another moment, dark eyes searching the audience over the rounds of her ruddy cheeks for the guilty talker. When the culprit wasn’t immediately obvious, she decided to continue her speech. “There’s no natural light once we’re down in the caverns. Darkness is absolute. Your eyes aren’t used to this…”

Obviously! Josie thought, rolling her eyes.

“… Your eyes will keep finding something to focus on. They’ll work overtime, straining and damaging themselves until you go blind,” Velma finished.

That didn’t sound right. Josie did a project in 7^th grade science class on how babies learned. A baby had to wear an eyepatch over a stronger eye so that the brain didn’t cannibalize the cells for the weaker eye and put them to some other use… But that didn’t happen in three days. It took a long time for brains to compensate.

Josie suspected that she knew more than Velma about cave-blindness. If someone really did go blind there wasn’t anything wrong with their eyes. It was a brain issue.

“Alright, lets head on down!” Velma enthused.

Josie waited, trying to exude the appropriate level of teenage indifference. She headed down the rickety stairway. A large man separated her from her parents, his double-wide frame blocking them from her view. Velma’s 600-lumen lantern cast long shadows down the narrow hole. They moved past rocks that rippled like unsettled tides. Small clusters of Aragonite sprouted out from pockets where the ceiling met the walls. It was incredible to think that without the lantern, such beauty would go completely unseen.

Josie was so distracted by the surroundings that she hadn’t realized that the crowd ahead had stopped. She walked, face-first into the large man. He shifted to glance back. The move was so casual that it was as if he’d barely felt it. But Velma had seen. She’d witnessed the whole thing in the glow of her too-bright lantern, as evidenced by her self-satisfied smirk. She’d identified the mumbler.

Josie’s cheeks burned. At least she still knew the truth about cave-blindness.

“When I turn off the lantern, you’ll experience total darkness,” Velma said.

She twisted the nob on the lantern so that the light turned into a pale-orange whisper, then winked out into nothing.

It was total darkness.

Josie blinked a couple of times, as if trying to clear something from her vision. But there wasn’t anything to clear. It was just her eyes trying to deal with the lack of sensory input. She could understand why someone had explained the blindness as the result of a strain.

Velma was saying something about Gold-era authors retreating to the mines to be consumed by the darkness, but Josie wasn’t listening anymore. She was thinking about how unseen the cave walls were. This was their natural state—darkness. Blindness.

She was moving more slowly now. The open and close of her eyes was deliberate. She held them in the shut position, contemplating the sameness of open and shut—contemplating the walls. She wanted to touch them.

She reached out, fingers quivering with anticipation and defiance. There was a quick moment when she feared she would make contact with the large man instead of cool mineral.

Her senses were overwhelmed by the cool wetness. The slick, smooth surface that might be salty to taste. Calcium, magnesium, silica… and through it all, in the deeper places of the earth, gold, silver, iron ore…

The brilliance of the caverns overwhelmed her. Bright, twinkling light sparkling and glinting off ancient surfaces yet to be touched or witnessed. She was swallowed by the brilliance of it.

The light came on in the same instant Josie dropped her hand. Everything was returned to normal.

Josie didn’t know if she’d actually seen it or only imagined it. She didn’t even know if her eyes had been open or closed in the moment her fingers made contact.

But it had felt real. In that moment, when her eyes weren’t working her brain had used those connections for something different. Josie knew it.

The large man kept Josie separate from her parents on the way back up. She’d have to wait to tell them what she saw without the light. She was going to bolt when his large body cleared the exit but a sharp tug at the elbow of her jacket stopped her. Josie glanced back to find Velma peering into her face.

“You saw it when you touched the cave, didn’t you?” Velma hissed, her voice barely audible.

“Yes,” Josie replied, too stunned to say anything else.

“Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” Velma asked.

“The most beautiful thing I’ve never seen,” Josie answered, wondering how Velma had known.

The End

I know, words are hard. That’s okay, I’ll read it 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.

Have you ever heard of a bunnypig?

That’s what someone called a French Bulldog a long time ago. I thought it was cute. It was how I was introduced to the breed. They’re fat, squishy-faced little lap dogs that look part bunny and part pig.

Winston definitely fits the bill.

1 Part Pig, 1 Part Bunny, ?? Parts dog.

Often, while Winston sniffs around the house doing various dog things I make fun of him. He’s front heavy, he snores and overall his greatest purposes are to snuggle and play. I tease that he’s “useless.”

But Winston doesn’t know that. Winston only knows that he’s a dog. He’s a wolf in his mind.

We do our best to require of him the same things we would require of any dog– sit, down, stay, heel, don’t eat our children, etc. In the summer, he’ll probably want to swim, so we’ll buy him a life vest. He likes snow, so he’s going to need a jacket. He’ll even bring back a ball we throw in his comically oversized muzzle.

So why couldn’t he retrieve?

That was the thought behind this story:

Conformation

Jill N Davies

“When I was a kid there was this movie about a pig. It wasn’t an-award winning thing, you see, it was just a movie—a kid’s movie. But the point is, that in this movie a guy realized his pig had an incredible skill at herding sheep. So, he decided to enter the pig into the sheep-herding competition, and wouldn’t you know it—the pig won.”

“Are you trying to tell me that because there’s a movie about a Pig winning a sheepdog trial that you should be able to enter this…” Candice gestured to the squat little figure at the old man’s side.

The old man followed her gaze, then returned his focus to her with an exuberant, sheepish grin. “His name’s Duck,” he said.

Candice closed her eyes, rolling them behind the protective cover of her lids. Taking in a deep, calming breath, she rejoined reality, calm, centered, and ready to take hold of the situation.

“Sir,” She said, resisting the urge to fuss the lapels of her tweed blazer.

“It’s Herb—Herbert Calahan,” the old man said, transitioning the leash into his left hand before offering the right to her.

Candice looked at it but didn’t take it.

“Mr. Calahan,” she said, starting over again, “These are the Retriever field trials. Duck isn’t a retriever.”

“Ah, but you see Candice,” Herb said, reading the name on her tag, “Duck is a retriever! He’ll retriever anything I set him out to get.”

Candice quelled the rising annoyance with an artificially placid smile, “Surely you can see the difference in the intent of the trials versus what you’re trying to accomplish here, can’t you?”

Herb smiled back, undeterred. “The intent of the trials is to find the best retriever in the field, am I right? Duck is a retriever, through and through. Bread that way or not.”

Candice realized she wasn’t getting anywhere with this approach, so she switched gears. “I can’t register you and Duck without the director’s approval, so if you’d just give me a moment…”

“Yes, you can. I read the bylaws, including this year’s update. There’s nothing stopping you but your own prejudice,” Herb corrected.

“I’m not prejudice!” Candice protested.

“Y’are. But I’ll forgive you for it.” Herb winked, making her blush.

Candice didn’t know what to say. Herb was one step ahead of her at every turn, making her wonder if maybe there was more to his Duck than she realized.

“Tell you what,” Herb offered, laying out his free hand in a peace-making gesture, “If you’re right about Duck not having any business being here, and you register him, then he’ll be disqualified in the first rounds of competition. He and I will go home, and you’ll go on to judge the rest of the competition without having to worry about me and my pig anymore. If I’m right, then you and the other judges can hash it out before the finals. How’s that sound?”

She considered the proposition. Of course they’d be out in the first round…

“Alright Mr. Calahan, you’ve got a deal.” She took his outstretched hand and shook.

Duck was eliminated in the first round, just as Candice predicted. It was inevitable. Waterford Creek was more of a lake than a creek in the spring and took up the better northwestern part of the field. When the fowl went down dead-center in the water it was over. Duck’s first retrieve was a water-retrieve, which was impossible because Duck was a French Bulldog and French Bulldogs can’t swim.

Candice could have guaranteed this eventuality if Herb had given her the opportunity. All the dogs did a water-retrieve at one point in time. Even if Duck were a fantastic retriever he’d be eliminated once the target hit the water. What she didn’t predict was how precisely how Duck would get his dq.

In the quiet of her home, hours after the day’s trial, Candice flipped through the prime directory, searching as her mind wandered back to the field.

Even before the fowl landed, she held her pencil over the disqualification box, but she waited, being the stickler for rules that she was, for the dog to act.

Herb studied the fall. When the timer started, he looked to Duck’s squashed snout and said, in a calm, soft tone, “Fetch it up.”

Duck sprang into action. He bolted, tiny legs shooting out and pulling back in perfect, comical rhythm, carrying his too-heavy body to the water’s edge. He tried the creek and found his limit about 30 inches out. Candice smirked when Duck came back to shore, but instead of returning to Herb, the dog bolted to the edge of the ring. There was the dq…

Duck yapped at a cued retriever. He circled, then yipped. The stunning chocolate responded immediately, following the brindled bull back to the water’s edge. Duck waited as the chocolate first waded, then swam out to the fowl. Candice watched in awe as the retriever brought the fowl to Duck, relinquishing it without protest. Duck then took it up in his wide maw, carrying it at the base of the neck back to Herb before releasing it into his waiting hand.

Duck was disqualified.

Candice was impressed.

She laughed, shaking her head at the unbelievable events of the day. The chocolate whose help Duck had solicited ended up taking the field. She wondered if Duck had known that the retriever would. There was no way of knowing any more than there was a way of knowing how Duck had managed the stunt.

She sat back in her recliner, grabbed up her glass of cabernet and hit play.

Babe was the perfect movie to end the day with.

The End

Want me to read it for you on IGTV? I do that!

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.