Another Flash Friday is upon us!

I didn’t want to jump straight into Christmas-related fiction on the first Friday of December, so instead I decided to go with a little cold weather immagry.

Here’s the inspiration for this weeks piece. I learned something about penguins recently…

Did you ever wonder why there are no dead penguins on the ice in Antarctica – where do they go? Wonder no more!! It is a known fact that the penguin is a very ritualistic bird which lives an extremely ordered and complex life. The penguin is very committed to its family and will mate for life, as well as maintain a form of compassionate contact with its offspring throughout its life.

If a penguin is found dead on the ice surface, other members of the family and social circle have been known to dig holes in the ice, using their vestigial wings and beaks, until the hole is deep enough for the dead bird to be rolled into, and buried. The male penguins then gather in a circle around the fresh grave and sing:

“Freeze a jolly good fellow.” “Freeze a jolly good fellow.” Then, they kick him in the ice hole.

(Full disclaimer, this isn’t my joke. My mom told it to me…)

So that’s where I got the idea for “Revenge of the Penguins”

Revenge of the Penguins

Jill N Davies

“It’s not right,” Ace said, before shoving another few silverfish down his gullet.

“I know, but what’s done is done. We can’t bring him back,” Flappy said, stuffing his brood pouch. His youngest chick was grown now, but the habit died hard, much to Tier and Misoo’s chagrin. The last time Flappy brought fish to Misoo, she’d given him a loud and indignant gakker. She was, after all, old enough to lay her first egg.

“They didn’t even eat him!” Ace proclaimed in a long, sorrowful honk. Appetite gone, he turned away from the school of silverfish.

“It doesn’t matter. There still wasn’t anything left to put in the ice…” James T. Penguin pointed out as he, too, abandoned the school.

Flappy stuffed a few more fish in his pouch before scuttling over to his brothers. “Come now. None of us have had our fill and it took two days of diving to find this school.”

“I’m not hungry. I’ll eat squid later,” Ace said.

“I hate squid!” James T. Penguin blurted.

Ace cut through his bubble-stream, blocking his path. “You’re missing the point. I can’t eat fish like everything’s fine while the orcas get away with it!”

James T. raised his wings in abdication. “Orcas do what orcas do. What’s a penguin going to do about it?”

“Get pulled apart in a senselessly violent game of toss the Freddy?” Flappy blurted.

“This isn’t funny brother!” Ace gakked as they surfaced into the frigid Antarctic air.

“I know that! James T. knows it. The entire raft knows it! But what do you expect to do against a group of murderous orcas? We’re not going to attack them, we’re just penguins,” Flappy squawked.

“We can banish them,” Ace chirped before launching himself onto the ice.

Flappy and James T. exchanged incredulous looks before doing the same.

“Ace, brother… we all miss Freddy, but you’re talking crazy. Penguins don’t banish orcas. We eat fish. We raise young. We march…”

Ace watched as James T. lost steam.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said.

“Penguins can’t win against orcas,” Flappy argued.

“You’re right,” Ace agreed. “One penguin doesn’t stand a chance. But all of us? A whole raft of penguins… has it ever been done?”

“You know it hasn’t,” James T. said.

Upright, they waddled back toward the mass of endlessly circling black and white. The ruckus of the birds carried despite the high winds.

“I think we should do it,” Ace said.

“The orcas would kill us,” Flappy said.

“They already do. It was Freddy last week. Who’s next? Mildred? Daphne? Our chicks?”

Flappy gasped and James T. gakked.

“My point is, the ice is moving no matter what we do. When it closes, it could shut the orcas in, or out. I, for one, would like to see it shut them out,” Ace said.

The brothers were quiet for a long while. Three silverfish slid unnoticed from Flappy’s untended pouch.

“It could be done,” James T. mused, “and it wouldn’t even take the whole raft to do it.”

Ace nodded. “Not if we can get them to chase us past the ice gate while it’s closing.”

“A chased penguin is a dead penguin,” Flappy said.

“One, yes, but if we can confuse them—make them lose track of who they’re chasing… then we’ve got a shot,” Ace said.

“Yes!” James T. agreed, “We’ll use their tactics against them. We’ll trade off the chase when we pass the schools.”

“We’d have to have perfect timing,” Flappy said.

“Then let’s have it,” Ace concluded.

“How long have you been planning this?” Flappy asked.

“Since before Freddy,” Ace said, then, puffing his chest, asked, “are you in brothers?”

James T. cocked his head to the side. “It might be worth it. Our chicks are grown. It would protect the rest of the raft…”

Ace shifted his gaze to Flappy. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, brother. Misoo’s still young…”

Ace’s wing shot out across Flappy’s beak. The rest of the brood pouch’s contents spilled across the ice.

“Misoo is hatching her first chick as we speak!” Ace said.

Their eyes met across the frozen wasteland. Black pebbles skewed by the dust of long-frozen snow.

“There’s nothing left for us here… Not with Freddy gone. Not without the safety of the raft…”

Flappy turned to look across the shrinking expanse of open Antarctic sea. In the distance, spray from an orca’s blowhole misted the horizon.

“Let’s do it,” he said.

“Now?” James T. balked.

“The gate is closing. If we wait much longer, we’ll have to wait until next season,” Flappy said.

It was true. The massive ice sheets were growing every day. Two days ago, they’d shifted to close the deep inland bay. It was now or never.

James T. nodded. He couldn’t argue with them. The chirp, caw and bray of the raft drew his attention from the shifting ice.

“Should we tell them at least? I mean, in case we don’t make it back?” he asked.

“No. Let’s save it for when we return,” Flappy said.

Ace cawed in excited consent. “This is happening.”

“It sure is,” James T. agreed.

Flappy turned to face the open sea. In doing so he stepped on one of the silverfish, now frozen over from the frigid cold. He lost his feet, slipping and sliding until he tumbled into the water.

“I’m okay!” he cried when his head popped out of the water. “Let’s go banish some orcas!”

Ace approached the water as Flappy swam toward the orcas.

“You planned it this way, didn’t you?” James T. asked.

Ace raised an eyebrow. “Me? No. This was a spur of the moment sort of decision.”

Ace launched himself into the water and sped after Flappy.

James T. sighed, giving one last look at the raft.

“Don’t worry, Freddy m’boy. We’re about to make it right,” he said before his bubble trail shot out like a mistle.

The End

Don’t feel like reading? I’ll read it to you on IGTV!

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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 entries:

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.

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Happy Holiday weekend!

For my family yesterday was Thanksgiving. This year we didn’t do the big family gathering, which made things very different.

Normally my Thanksgiving day starts with an early rise for the Turkey-Day 10K. This year I ran a 5K with the family at noon.

Normally it’s all rush-rush to get showered and down to the family in time for the big meal. This year dinner was at 6, well after Charlie’s afternoon nap.

Normally I bake at least one pie. This year we purchased a pie from Costco.

In short, everything was different.

It was different, but it was nice. In the absence of every normal tradition, we had an opportunity to explore the parts of the holiday that were important to us. We had a lovely meal, we goofed off and laughed together, and of course, we missed our extended families.

The whole experience got me thinking about what I would write, because I hadn’t started writing my flash fiction piece for this week yet. Perhaps I was experimenting with the idea of being a vaguely irresponsible adult. Or, maybe I’m just a busy mom and it was a holiday week.

I sat down and started writing at about 9:30 PM on Thanksgiving evening. Fueled with a bit of wine and an Irish Coffee, I was enticed by the idea of talking food. What resulted was this piece, which combines the concept of a solo holiday with food that talks. I hope you enjoy the result.

I was so tickled with how it came out that I decided to use a longer version of it as a reedsy submission. That means that technically, this story was first published on Reedsy.

Regardless, I give you Bitter Cranberries

Bitter Cranberries

Jill N Davies

Frances had never cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner all on her own. It wasn’t that she couldn’t, but that she came from a very large family.

Coming from a large family made holidays the stuff of chaos. The way she figured, the apocalypse was probably more organized than her parent’s house on a holiday. The kitchen absolutely bursted with the smells of so many dishes…

Grandma Trudy’s famous roast, Uncle Iver’s pickled radishes, Great Grandma Ida’s spiced potatoes…

And then you had to count the current generation: Hildy’s brownie bottom pumpkin pie, Trevor’s sweet corn casserole, cousin Barbara’s pineapple upside-down sweet potato dish…. It was enough to make anyone’s head spin!

And the food was only the half of it all. Each family member managed to bring their own drama to the table. Since Frances was a chef, she embodied that drama in the dishes:

Momma’s histrionic glazed ham

Anita’s baked brie stuffed with petty jealousy

Cousin Benji’s pigs in a blanket with another woman, resting on a pile of divorce paper cabbage and served with alimony sauce

When the opportunity arose for a solo Thanksgiving, Frances basked in the idea of a peaceful, drama-free meal. She hadn’t counted on how judgy the food would be.

Turkey trussed-up in a double-deep roasting pan stuffed with vegetables, mounds of potatoes obscuring the counter-top, bowls full of lettuces, breadcrumbs and several experimental sauces, Frances viewed her world.

She took a sip of wine, letting the bright acidity contrast the scent of simmering broth laced with rosemary.

“I’m so glad I don’t have to spend the day smelling Aunt Kacy’s over-seasoned green beans with emotional-baggage mushrooms,” she said to the turkey.

She stared at the turkey as if she expected it to respond, but it was the sprouts that spoke up.

“You sure don’t sound like you’re enjoying it,” they said.

Frances’s eyes settled on the sprouts. She tilted her head curiously as she studied their ordinary-ness.

“It’s nice not to have any drama,” she said.

“No drama? What do you call that panic-attack you had when the salt-shaker top came off then?” the turkey asked.

Frances gave the turkey a stern side-eye and said, “Fixing that means that you’re going into the oven instead of the trash, so watch that attitude!”

The Turkey gulped and the oven dinged. She grabbed a couple of oven mitts and set about the task of getting the bird settled.

“Enjoy yourself in there!” she said.

“I will!” the turkey replied.

She gave it a content nod before shutting the oven.

“Where’s my wine glass?” she asked.

“Over here!” it called.

She retrieved it, took a sip, and decided that it wasn’t weird that her food was talking to her.

“You all make better company, anyway,” she said.

“You don’t miss your family at all?” the potatoes asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Frances said.

“But you said that a bunch of talking food was better company. Don’t you think that means there’s something wrong with you?” the Waldorf salad asked.

“Food’s always spoken to me. It’s why I became a chef!” Frances said.

“Yeah, but we’re literally talking to you,” came the muffled voice of the roasting turkey.

Frances shrugged. “You’re all in my head. What’s the harm?”

“Some serious mental and emotional ramifications?” the pecan pie suggested.

“Cuz you’re not quite drunk yet!” the pinot chimed in.

“Damn, that was gonna be my excuse,” Frances said. The diced fruit snickered.

“Just admit that you miss them!” the sage-rubbed yams said.

“I don’t miss them! Family is nothing but drama, noise and a bunch of people who don’t appreciate your cranberry sauce,” Frances said.

“Didn’t Uncle Iver like your cranberry sauce?” the sprouts asked.

“Yeah, and cousin Chelsea too!” The turkey piped in.

“And Pappa, don’t forget him,” the pumpkin risotto added.

“Sure, a couple people liked them, but Mark’s kids said they were goopy and Grandma Jane threw them out after dinner. She said there was no room for leftovers!” Frances argued.

“Maybe they were goopy,” the potatoes said.

“They wouldn’t even know! They took one look at them and stuck their noses up!” Frances cried.

“You’re being a little sensitive,” the pinot suggested.

“I’m not being sensitive! My mom’s the one who gets sensitive. Anita and Hildy get sensitive. Those cranberries were the same recipe that earned me my first star,” Frances argued.

“Maybe this isn’t about cranberry sauce,” The turkey suggested.

“Yeah, maybe this has more to do with feeling like your family doesn’t appreciate you,” the sprouts agreed.

“They don’t,” Frances agreed.

“Do you appreciate them?” the yams asked.

“I… do. Most of the time,” Frances faltered.

“When you’re not criticizing their cooking,” the rolls said.

“And their personal problems!” the mushrooms added.

“I don’t criticize,” Frances argued.

“What about the dish names—Henry’s close-talking clafloutis?” The dang mirepoix was too observant.

“Okay, so maybe I can be a bit of a jerk to them sometimes too. It’s hard not being noticed, being put aside because I’m the single at the table. Always sleeping on the sofa because I don’t have a partner… I just want to feel important!” She said.

“So you shut yourself in and made a 12-course meal all to yourself?” The turkey asked.

“Who’s going to tell you you’re important, you?” the pie asked.

“She probably expects it to be us,” They sprouts said. Frances could practically hear their non-existent eyes roll in the back of their sprout-y little heads.

“Alright! I get it! I’ll go call them right now. Will that make you happy?” She asked.

The vegetables cheered.

“Put them on video so they can see my drippings!” They turkey yelled.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Frances chuckled.

She set her wine glass on the counter and made her exit in search of her phone. The door shut, knocking a small paper sack over and spilling its contents.

“Can you believe she didn’t even notice me?” the spilled cranberries asked indignantly.

The End

I finished the story at about 10:45 last night. It was just in time for Juniper to be due for another feed, so I took the opportunity to snuggle the pup until then.

Don’t feel like reading for yourself? I’ll read it to you on IGTV!

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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 entries:

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

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Another Friday is suddenly upon us! It’s difficult for me to believe that we’re already nearly through with November. I also have to admit that I thought that things would be different by November.

If there’s something I’ve learned, though, it’s that things don’t always go the way we’ve planned. That’s a truth I’ve gotten to know through some of our struggles.

I’m thankful for my strength and endurance. I’ve weathered a lot of storms. I’m also intensely grateful for my daughters.

I wrote this week’s flash fiction piece back in August. The entire story is based on an image that flashed in my mind of a woman in knight’s armor standing at water’s edge in a very dark place, looking up at a star.

I wrote the piece in the same fashion as The Babadook. That is to say that I wrote it to be an analogy. The Babadook is meant to be an analogy for mental illness. Light Paladin is meant to be an analogy for something else. For me, it’s meant to be an analogy for someone fighting a long-time illness, but it could be for anyone who has a long-time struggle.

The story has a prequel. I will provide the link immediately after the end.

Light Paladin

Jill N Davies

“Hello little light. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you here in this dark place.”

Gwendolyn lowered her sword and removed her helmet to gaze upon the twinkling beacon.

Since entering this dark realm the lights were her only companions. When they shone, it filled her heart and made her whole. They gave her the strength she needed to go on. To fight.

Gwendolyn was a paladin for the order of light. She stood against the darkness, fighting for all that was good and right— for the light. It was her sworn duty, so she could do no less.

She used to live in a world full of light. Her life and duty gave her joy, and she was fulfilled. But that was before. She couldn’t remember what that world was like. She couldn’t picture the people, couldn’t remember the places or her routines… it had been too long.

Gwendolyn couldn’t even remember what she looked like. All she had were distorted reflections in the shadowed, murky waters that swelled and festered in this dark land. She didn’t dare linger at the water’s edge long enough to look. Too many beasts gathered there, hungry for a fight. Besides, Gwendolyn preferred to imagine she looked the way she used to— short blond hair, easy to tuck under the smooth metal of her helmet. Piercing green eyes that weren’t muted by the darkness. Smooth skin free from the scars of so many battles…

The second light blinked on, twinkling against the inky black sky. She watched as the lights danced around each other— bright points, not strong enough to fill the dark realm, but enough to fill her.

As she watched, willing the lights to pull her back with them, something moved in the dark.

Gwendolyn reacted without pause. She had done this dance so many times that it, like the lights, was a part of her.

The helmet slid silently back onto her head, sword drawn from its sheath, muscles tensed; Gwendolyn was ready to fight.

The creature lashed out from the darkness, attempting to envelop her in gripping tendrils. The cool metal of her sword bit into flesh. It shrieked in protest, giving her an idea of where it hid in the shadows.

“A nightmare,” Gwendolyn whispered. It was the largest of the creatures that haunted this realm.

She had fought nightmares before, but not often. They hid in the deepest parts of the realm, rarely venturing out when she could see the lights. But something felt different about this time—about this nightmare.

The beast lashed out again, baring razor-sharp claws that glinted even in the shadows. She jumped out of the way, landing without sound on the damp rock. Again, she sliced into the darkness to impact a reaching tentacle while simultaneously lifting her shield to block another attacking appendage.

The impact of claw and metal rang out across the stagnate water, echoing through the cavern so that it felt as though the walls were closing in. With all her might, Gwendolyn heaved her shield and forced the nightmare’s arms away from her.

The beast continued its attack as though there were no limit to its reach. Each time Gwendolyn blocked the onslaught.

The battle wore on. It was difficult to say for how long because time didn’t exist in this world. It slipped and slithered so that huge swaths were lost, then fell into stillness so that a second stretched out into eternity. Gwendolyn grew tired. The ache of old wounds crept in, dragging her down and slowing her strike. The nightmare crept out from the depths, towering high and blocking out the lights with its terrible body.

She wasn’t certain she could defeat it this time. She was too weak. She’d fought for too long. Her body demanded rest. It would be easy to let it take her. She could finally lay down her sword. The lights would blink off and she could sleep …

The nightmare dipped its head down and bore a mouth of dagger-like fangs in a terrible roar. Drenched in the stench of its breath, Gwendolyn was knocked prone. She scrambled, slipping on the wet stone.

“I’m so tired,” She whimpered into the dark.

The creature prepared to lunge. She caught a glimpse of the black sky above its head. The lights twinkled in that slice of space, filling her heart.

“Give me strength,” she begged through gritted teeth.

The attack came swift. Gwendolyn thrust herself into the murky water to dodge it. The beast lumbered in after her, sloshing enormous waves as it thrashed, searching for her in the pool of death.

Desperate to escape, she heaved an enormous breath and sunk into the murky water. She forced herself deep to elude the encroaching horror, moving through the darkness guided by instinct alone—and the lights.

When she surfaced she was at the nightmare’s back. Stifling the coughs and stutters, her lungs begging for air, she threw herself forward, blade angled down.

The sword plunged into the nightmare under the weight of her body. She let out an earth-shattering scream, drowning out the sounds of the dying beast. She pulled her sword from its lifeless body before falling, exhausted.

Panting, she gazed up at the sky, her eyes fixed on the lights. They blinked at her, growing larger with every breath until she was consumed by them. They filled her. The lights filled the realm so that she had to close her eyes against the brilliance.

When she opened her eyes again, she didn’t recognize where she was. Her whole body ached and trembled with weakness. She whimpered and groaned.

A hand closed around hers, small and gentle. Then another, smaller, but fierce grip. Gwendolyn forced her eyes to focus on the little girls that gazed up at her.

“Are you awake Mommy?”

She recognized the voice.

Then another.

“Mommy? Are you back?”

Two of them, holding her hand, pulling her from the darkness.

Her little lights.

The End

Read the Prequel, Knight of Another Realm, HERE to learn how Gwendolyn ended up in the Realm of Darkness

Don’t have time to read? I read Light Paladin 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 entries:

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.

For the last two weeks Charlie has been saying “it’s Halloween tonight!”

She’s been wrong, of course, but I love her excitement. She loves pumpkins and fall decorations. Ever since our neighbors put out their decorations she’s been keen to have her own.

We finally made her dream come true by picking up about 5 pumpkins and a sparkly dog carrying a jack-o-lantern that lights up at night. She takes trips outside to pet the puppy and kiss the pumpkins because she’s sweet like that.

Watching her grow up has me thinking a lot lately about what the world looks like through a child’s perspective. Thus, with Halloween upon us I came up with the final Fall/Halloween themed piece. Though one of the leads in the story is a little girl, the story is told from the perspective of the parent. I like that it captures the feeling of how things sort of unfurl before our eyes and we feel like we’re along for the ride.

The Monsters of Ravenwood

Jill N Davies

“Tell me again how you found us?”

The vampire’s thick Romanian accent sounded like something straight from a campy horror movie, but I don’t doubt that he’s the real thing. After getting tackled by wearwolf, absorbed by a gelatinous cube, haunted by a gang of ghosts and drooled over by a bunch of zombies, Vlad the vampire was almost a welcome relief. At least he spoke English… mostly.

I wanted to ask myself how I ended up in this situation, but the truth is that I knew the answer. Tina never did have much of an imagination.

“It wasn’t hard to figure it out. I’ve been tracking movement from this sewer drain for months now,” Tina said.

“Ah yes, our secret entrance. You’re a clever little human, aren’t you?” Vlad raised a bushy eyebrow over dark, mesmerizing eyes. I’d get lost in his eyes if it weren’t for the fangs.

“Not a very good secret if you ask me. You guys use it like a revolving door, and he doesn’t even wait till after midnight!” Tina pointed an accusatory finger at the furry giant hanging out in the shadows of the archway.

Vlad followed her gesture. When his eyes lit upon the figure he cursed in another language.

“Sasquatch! We’ve talked about this. You’re too big to be using the front entrance!”

The bigfoot moaned something back at him. I know vampires are supposed to be immortal, but I don’t know that I’d have the guts to stand up to that guy.

“I don’t care if it’s the closest to the woods. You go the back way!” Vlad responded.

Sasquatch bellowed.

Vlad rubbed his temples in exasperation before refocusing his attention on my eleven-year-old daughter. “So, one yeti climbs out of the sewer and you figured out our entire underground city?”

“Well, that and city workers don’t normally have bolts sticking out of their necks—or randomly lose an arm or an ear,” Tina said.

Vlad shifted his gaze to Frankenstein and the zombies, who only lifted their shoulders as if to say eh, it was worth a shot.

“Oh, and fog doesn’t moan or spread out in every direction after it rises from the ground,” Tina added.

The ghosts rushed to hide behind Nessie and the Kraken. Vlad runs his hands down his face in exasperation. “Am I the only one around here that cares to keep our secret society secret?”

“Nah, Mr. Call of the Wild over here is very discrete,” Tina said.

The wearwolf’s massive jaw falls open.

“How’d you figure Buddy out?” Vlad asked.

Honestly, I was wondering the same thing. Buddy’s been our next-door neighbor for 8 years now…

“Okay, first of all his name is Buddy,” Tina started.

“People can be named Buddy,” Vlad protested.

“And second of all, he always gets really itchy and sniffy right before the moon is full,” she finished.

“We’re working on that—That’s not the point! Do you know what you’ve done, coming down here?” Vlad shouted.

It turned out that a shouting vampire is a lot less scary than I might’ve thought, but that could’ve been due to the type of shout. My sweet child had completely unsettled him. She wasn’t even scared. In fact, she looked downright proud.

“I’ve unearthed an entire monster community!” she said.

“That’s a problem,” Vlad said.

“Why?”

“Because people are scared of monsters! What do you think they’re going to do us now that you know we’re down here?” he shouted.

“I’m not scared,” she shrugged.

“Your dad is really freaked out right now.” Vlad gestured and all eyes were on me.

A shudder went down my spine when the giant spider blinked all 8 of her eyes at once. Tina looked like she’d forgotten I was there. I realized they were all waiting for me to say something.

“Hey… monsters…” I managed.

“See? This is what people do when they know about us,” Vlad said.

“He hasn’t done anything,” Tina argued.

“Not yet,” Vlad said. “First, it’s the freak-outs, then it’s pitchforks, torches, silver bullets and wooden stakes…”

Buddy shuddered at the mention of silver bullets.

“And nobody cares that we don’t hurt anybody anymore!” Vlad lamented.

“You… don’t… you don’t?” I asked, keen to learn more about this turn of events.

“No. We are a peaceful community. Kraken here is a pacifist.”

The giant sea monster nodded, and the nearby dock rocked in the wake.

Peaceful? It was a hard pill to swallow—suspicious at best. Weren’t vampires skilled in deception? All at once I realized what they were up to, and that I let Tina fall right into it…

I grabbed her shoulder and tugged. “Stop looking at him, Honey—he’s dangerous,” I said.

“Daaa-aad,” she moaned. I could see her eyes roll through the back of her skull.

“I’m not dangerous!” Vlad protested. “I haven’t had human blood since 1982!”

Tina looked impressed.

“That’s not very long ago,” I protested.

“Some advancements take time! They didn’t perfect the anti-wearwolf serum until 2003!” Vlad said.

“What serum? He’s a wearwolf!”

“Yeah, but did he eat you?” Vlad asked, throwing his arms up in the air. “I don’t know what you humans want from us! We monsters do our best. We’ve made advancements in medicine and technology just like you have. Most ghosts get their haunting done by trolling online. Vampires drink filtered plasma, zombies eat 3D-printed brain matter! All we want is to live in peace in a nice neighborhood!”

“We live right next to monsters. This is so cool!” Tina oozed.

“Okay, I get it. You’re not bad guys,” I said.

“Some of us are girls,” a witch, who was just descending the sewer escalator with a bag full of candy protested.

“You’re not bad folks,” I corrected.

Vlad and the sasquatch nodded.

“So, what happens now?” I asked.

Vlad shrugged. “We wait for the trick-or-treaters to finish up. Buddy will take you home.”

The End

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A typical suburban dad, a quiet neighborhood and a precocious 11-year old girl. What could go wrong on Halloween night? Turns out a lot. Find out what happens when they come face to face with a vampire and his entire secret monster community. #flashfriday #flashfiction #shortstories #shortstory #halloweenfiction #monsterfiction #fallfiction #halloween #authorsofinstagram #authorsreading

A post shared by Jill N Davies (@jillndavies_books) on Oct 30, 2020 at 1:56pm PDT

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

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.

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Fall weather continues to evade the California valley. In fact, I got my first serious sunburn of the year this Tuesday when it was (wait for it…) 91 degrees outside!

While I’m nursing my wounds and mourning the lack of decent weather I continue to harbor fantasies of a real fall somewhere in the world.

Meanwhile, Charlie has told me every single day for the past 5 days that “it’s Halloween tonight.”

At least someone is feeling the fall spirit.

In honor of approaching holidays, and in honor of my genuine love for pumpkins and everything else that I like about cold weather, I give you this week’s flash fiction piece:

Emotional Support Gourd

Jill N Davies

Cole Matherson made the entire 15-minute trip home with a giant pumpkin on his lap and a beaming smile spread across his face. It was a perfect day, maybe even magical. The second-grade class went to the pumpkin patch. There was a corn maze, a scarecrow building contest, caramel apples and then, the best part of all— he got to walk the patch until he found the perfect pumpkin to take home and carve.

Cole’s cheeks were reddened by the blazing fall sun and chapped by wind that carried the whispers of cooler weather into the afternoon. When his mom said he looked like a sun kissed wildling, he’d merely nodded, hoisting his behemoth of a squash into the van and clambering in after it. He lifted it gingerly into his lap and hugged it. His mom asked about the adventure, but Cole barely answered. He was too busy thinking about the day. More specifically, he was thinking about what the pumpkin said to him when no one else was around.

“Hi, I’m Gourd!”

Faced with the task of carving a pumpkin, Cole had two dilemmas. First, he wanted to do something that couldn’t be found on a stencil. Second, he didn’t want to murder his pumpkin—if that was a thing. Not daring to touch his tools until he was certain, Cole rested his chin on the table so that his face was level with the pumpkin and said, “Gourd? My name is Cole.”

Nothing happened. In the background he heard his mom in the kitchen working on dinner.

He waited.

He was nearly certain the whole thing was his imagination running amok when the same small voice said, “Well Cole, you gonna get started or what?”

“I knew it!” Cole gasped, hands flying to either side of his head. “Ohmigosh, you can talk! I have a talking pumpkin.”

“Yep. All pumpkins can talk. But only some kids can hear us,” Gourd said.

“What about grownups?” Cole asked.

“Never grownups!”

“Not even the cool ones? Like Uncle Earnie?”

“Not even Earnie,” Gourd confirmed.

“Woa.” This was special. “What should I do, Gourd?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t want to murder you…” Cole said, scrunching up his face.

“That’s ridiculous! You can’t murder a pumpkin,” Gourd said.

“Not even by cutting you open and scooping out your guts?” Cole asked, eyes wide.

“They’re seeds,” Gourd corrected.

“What about the stringy stuff?” Cole asked.

“It’s stringy pumpkin stuff. That’s just what I’m made of.”

“But will it hurt?” Cole asked.

“Nope. Pumpkins don’t have nerves. Or brains,” Gourd said.

Cole thought about that. He wasn’t sure how a pumpkin without a brain could be talking.

“How….”

“It’s best to not think too hard about it,” Gourd said.

Cole picked up the big saw-tool with the jagged edges and paused.

“But what if you’re wrong?”

“Well, then I guess I’ll scream until the pain is too much and I’m swallowed by eternal silence.”

Cole’s jaw dropped. The saw fell from his hands and clattered on the ground. He scrambled to pick it up, tipping his chair over its axis and losing his balance. He fell, all arms and legs flailing while Gourd cackled.

“I’m kidding! I promise, I won’t feel a thing.”

Cole tentatively poked his head up to look at the pumpkin’s faceless front.

“That’s a bad joke,” he said.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself,” Gourd said, still chuckling.

Cole retrieved his supplies, lining them up next to the pumpkin.

“I wasn’t going to do a face, but do you want a face? You know, to go with your voice and stuff?” Cole asked.

“Nah, I don’t need a face. I’ve never had one before, so why would I need one now. Go ahead with your original plan. What’s it going to be? A black cat? Vampire fangs? Happy Halloween with flying bats?” Gourd asked.

Cole fiddled with the saw, looking down at his dirt-stained sneakers. “I was gonna do a dragon…” he mumbled.

“A dragon? That’s awesome. Do a dragon!” Gourd gushed.

“Okay,” Cole said, offering a meek smile.

He sawed off the top of the pumpkin and scooped the seeds and stringy pumpkin stuff, following Gourd’s coaching to get in there good. He was bolstered by the fact that Gourd seemed downright delighted with the carving process.

When the pumpkin was good and clean, and the dragon was etched on the face with a sharpie, Cole picked up one of the smaller precision tools and put it up against the fat black line. The metal edge sat there for a long moment.

“What are you waiting for?” Gourd asked.

Cole looked down, suddenly bashful again. “Well, I don’t want to mess you up.”

“Mess me up?”

“I’m not that good at carving. Every year I get an idea, and every year it ends up not looking right…” Cole blushed.

“Hold the vine, little dude. Doesn’t look right says who?” Gourd asked.

“It doesn’t look like the picture, or what I have in my head,” Cole explained.

“Aw, come on little dude—you’ve got to give yourself some slack. You’re what, 7?”

“And a half,” Cole said.

“And you came up with this dragon all by yourself?” Gourd asked.

“It’s Smaug.”

“But you drew the picture, right?”

“Yeah,” Cole admitted.

“Well then I’m already a million times cooler than some stencil pumpkin!” Gourd said.

“Really?” Cole asked.

“Heck yeah! C’mon, get in there and make me a dragon!” Gourd exclaimed with enough enthusiasm to sweep Cole away.

His first couple cuts were tentative, but under the direction and encouragement of Gourd, he carved with confidence. Forty minutes later, Cole presented the coolest dragon pumpkin anyone had ever seen. His parents gushed over it, making Cole blush.

All night long he heard other trick-or-treaters comment on the awesome dragon pumpkin on Gale St., but for Cole, the only opinion that really mattered was Gourd’s.

The End

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Cole loves pumpkins. He loves them almost as much as he loves carving them. The only problem is that he doesn't think he's a very good artist. He messes it up every year. The stakes are really high because he has a new idea in his head and a very special pumpkin… This year he got to pick out his very own pumpkin at the pumpkin patch. But what will he do now that he knows that pumpkins can talk? #flashfriday #flashfiction #pumpkinfiction #shortstoriesforkids #fallfiction #halloweenshortstories #halloweenshortstoriesforkids #weirdsciencefiction #authorsreading #authorsofinstagream #jillndavies

A post shared by Jill N Davies (@jillndavies_books) on Oct 23, 2020 at 10:36am PDT

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

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

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Get my copy FREE

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Do you believe in ghosts?

I see that question anywhere, and while I know it’s supposed to be a yes or no sort of thing, I’ve never been able to answer it. My answer falls more in the range of “kinda?”

There are those who believe that ghosts are completely real, those who believe they’re completely fake, those who think they’re not what we think they are and the folks who just want to profit from their concept.

This week’s story was an exploration of what would happen if someone who thought ghosts were definitely fake had to grapple with being face to face with one. What would he do about the folks he’s always seen as crooks? How does it change his perception of reality?

And of course, who better to put in that role than a serious, cutting edge scientist who prefers to look at things through the laws of physics?

Thus this week’s story was born:

The Haunting of Quantum Accelerants

Jill N Davies

Things had been weird in the labs for Mark for a few days. He wasn’t sure what the problem was, but could trace it back to his last cup of coffee. Nobody was talking to him anymore.

“Hey Fabian, does it seem like the frequency converter is always on the fritz lately?” Mark asked as he ran the calibration sequence again.

Fabien stopped what he was doing and looked back at the machine as it came to life. “Again? What the heck?!”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Mark said, but Fabien ignored him.

“Hey Bea! The frequency converter did that thing again,” Fabien called.

“That’s what I said.” Mark rolled his eyes.

Bea left the particle accelerator to stand next to Fabien. “You still think it’s Mark?”

“Very funny, blaming me for malfunctioning equipment,” Mark said.

“It’s a pretty big coincidence,” Fabien said.

Bea shook her head. “You know I don’t believe.”

“You started it!” Mark protested.

Fabien shrugged. “You agreed to let his brother try to talk to him. C’mon, let’s get some coffee.”

“You talked to Andy?” Mark asked, confused as to why Bea would talk to his kooky brother.

“I’ll have tea. After what happened last time…” Bea started.

“That was probably Mark too,” Fabien laughed. The two physicists exited the lab as though Mark weren’t there.

The next thing Mark knew, an overburdened Andy was ushered into the labs. Mark couldn’t believe Andy had weaseled his way into the labs. But that’s how it was with Andy—always a gimmick. Haunted this, spirits that, electromagnetic disturbances…

Andy chewed his lip while studying the wildly blinking equipment. “He must be trying to communicate.”

Bea rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say, Ghost Man. I just want to be able to run an experiment without something going wrong.”

Andy dumped his equipment at the base of the converter. Mark winced at the noise.

“You asked me to come talk to Mark,” he jabbed.

“Let the man do his job. The sooner the equipment is up and running, the sooner we make history,” Fabien coaxed.

“Fine. If you two are right about this, I can switch back to coffee,” Bea said, following Fabien out of the lab. Mark watched them go. He wasn’t sure what to do—follow them and demand an explanation, or make sure his brother didn’t mess anything up in the lab…

Mark turned away from the door to find that Andy had somehow already finished setting up his gear. Andy flipped a visor over his eyes and started to look around the lab for—what did he call it?—disturbances.

Andy settled his gaze on Mark. “Hey Mark, it’s your bro, Andy. Can you hear me?”

“What are you doing here, Andy?” Mark asked.

Andy watched the panels light up. The ground shook with each word.

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

Mark couldn’t believe Andy’s audacity. How dare he bring his joke of a career into the laboratory! “You came all this way to hear my voice? I’m not buying it. What’s it really? Do you need money?”

“Nah, I came here for you.”

“What sort of yarn did you spin to get in here?” Mark found himself tinkering with the controls again, almost as if he couldn’t help himself.

“They approached me,” Andy said.

The electricity flickered and pulsed. Andy could see his breath as the moisture formed crystals in the frigid air.

“Yeah? And you told them—what? The Laboratory’s haunted?” Mark scoffed.

“The laboratory is haunted,” Andy said.

Mark stormed away from the converter and began tinkering with the accelerator.

“A couple of machines start going haywire and they abandon reason? You must be really good at what you do.”

“I am,” Andy agreed.

“A real con artist.”

“A real ghost hunter,” Andy corrected.

“Yeah? Have you found our lab’s ghost yet?” Mark laughed.

“Yep,” Andy said.

“Who is it? Disgruntled lab tech?”

“Not exactly,” Andy said.

“The suspense is killing me—who died?”

“You did,” Andy blurted.

“Good joke,” Mark laughed.

“It’s not a joke.”

Mark waited for Andy’s face to break.

“That’s why they can’t hear you,” Andy explained.

“You can hear me,” Mark pointed out.

“I know how to listen,” Andy said.

“Because I’m a ghost,” Mark mocked.

Andy nodded.

“Well how’d I die?” Mark asked.

“It was an accident—with the accelerator,” Andy started.

A flash of a memory crossed Mark’s consciousness—something about coffee.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts!” Mark shrieked. Several fluorescent lights shattered.

“What about that then?” Andy asked.

“There’s an explanation. Energy—a rearrangement of atoms…”

“You’re not Dr. Manhattan,” Andy said. It gave Mark an idea.

“If there were an accident, then perhaps I—”

“You exploded like a potato someone heated up to fast.”

Mark sobered.

“Think about it. When’s the last time you touched any of the equipment?” Andy asked.

“I’ve been working on it since you got here!”

“Look at your hands, bro.”

Mark looked down at his hands. He thought they’d been resting on the control panel. They were floating inside the machine. He pulled them away, shocked. He looked at them, then through them, before focusing on his brother.

“I’m a ghost.”

“Yeah you are,” Andy agreed.

“What am I supposed to do now?” He asked.

“How about a cup of coffee? I can show you how,” Andy said.

“No way, we’re on the brink of a breakthrough here, as soon as… as soon as…”

“You quit messing up the equipment,” Andy finished.

“I guess so,” Mark said.

“I can show you how to do that, too,” Andy suggested.

Mark looked at him, seeing his brother for the first time.

“So how about that coffee?” Andy asked.

Mark hadn’t been able to get one since the accident.

“I’d die for one,” he said.

Andy smirked, “You already did.”

“Too soon, dude. Too soon.”

The End

Don’t have time to read? It’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 entries:

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.