Another week’s gone by and somehow we find ourselves deep in the heart of October.

This week’s flash fiction is in honor of our late labrador, Omarcus. Omar came to us at 16 weeks old. He was the runt of his litter and too short at the shoulder to be a show quality dog. He was also a male black lab, which, for some reason made him somehow less appealing (not to us, of course!)

When we brought him home people would ask us if he was a Rottweiler, if he was viscous, or what type of dog he was at all. All because he was a black dog. Omar was hands down the best dog in the world. He was sweet, patient, energetic and loaf-like all at once. We enjoyed him for 12 years.

Black pets get overlooked all the time, mostly because they don’t show up as nicely in photographs. This is true regardless of where they come from. In honor of Omar and Halloween, I wrote this story.

The Terror in the Night

Jill N Davies

The toad ambled its way across the great expanse of dirt that carved through the grassy field. A darkness crossed the toad’s path, like the shadow of a cloud shrouding the moon before the sharp pierce of teeth and flash claw ended its existence. The two figured tumbled into the brush that edged the pathway, driven there by the momentum of the attack.

In the wake of the strike all was silent. The orange moon rose over the overgrown branches of the mulberry tree, casting its light across the rickety redwood fence and reflecting in the still waters of the creek, whose waters were shallow and stagnant at the close of summer.

The cat emerged from the brush victorious. The toad’s limp body hung from her triumphant maw as she carried it to a more suitable location. In the distance an owl called out from her high perch—a reminder that she was not the only predator that haunted this domain. But she didn’t care.

Though she was basically still a kitten, she knew her place in the wild. She was darkness, the shadow that blackens the night—the blur that disrupts the star-dusted sky. There wasn’t a creature in this wild place that could frighten her.

The boy stood at the hilltop, just like he had every night for some time now. Whatever he held smelled delicious, but she did not approach him. He was not a ferocious hunter like she was—he was just a youngling.

The boy’s face dropped as once again the kitten ran past him with her latest catch and disappeared beyond the fence line. He pocketed the pouch of tuna and, shoulders slumped, headed back inside.

She ran on, cautious, but not cautious enough. The door snapped shut, trapping her inside. Forgetting about the frog, and about everything fierce about herself, the kitten proceeded to panic. But no matter how much she yowled of screamed, the door cage remained fastened shut.

She was taken to a place of beasts and predators. The humans had bested her. They carried her in her cage so she couldn’t lash out with claw of fang. She hissed with fury and rage at the hands that dared get close enough for her to reach, but she was unable to make contact.

She was dumped into another cage—this one fixed in place with cement. She would not be escaping her tiny prison, and even if she could, she didn’t want to. The stench of other beasts was strong. She could smell their ferocity—the pheromones of a dozen hungry dogs. She would not be able to fight her way out of this place.

The kitten slinked up to a bowl of water and took a few laps before curling into the corner of the cage.

She tried to sleep, but the beasts wouldn’t stop barking. She knew they must be hunting her. All she could do was cower in the far corner of her cage. Humans came to offer food—dried pellets of something that smelled like meat. She ate it once, but then the barking started again and she returned to her corner.

The morning after the third night something happened.

It was normal for humans to pass by her cage, wandering the halls and ushering various dogs around and paying her no mind. When the bell rang, alerting her of another human’s arrival she did nothing more than readjust her position at the corner of her cage while the humans began their conversation. Being a wild cat, she couldn’t understand their language, so what was the point?

“Good morning sir. You haven’t happened to catch any black kittens lately have you?”

It was a familiar sound. It made her heart race and stirred her from her corner.

“Got a real skittish one in the back, I’ll take you to see,” the cage warden replied.

She made her way to the front of the cage, pressing her nose against the mesh and straining to hear the voice over the cacophony of barks. She could smell something delicious. It made her stomach rumble. As the humans got closer she was torn between remaining at the front and cowering in the back. She waited, unsure what she expected.

When the boy approached her cage, their eyes met.

“That’s her.”

“She’s your cat?”

“I sure want her to be. I’ve been trying to get her to come up to me for a while.”

He put his fingers against the mesh. She should have lashed out, but she didn’t. She sniffed him.

“I’d like to take her home,” the boy said.

The cage opened. Ignoring the cage warden’s protests he reached hands in and gently wrapped her up into his embrace. She didn’t fight. A strange sound vibrated from within her, unbidden.

“Would you look at that,” The cage warden marveled.

The boy carried her past the dogs. One barked and she stiffened.

“Quiet you,” He rebuked.

She marveled at the way he commanded the dog—completely unafraid.

She’d been wrong about him. He wasn’t a youngling. He was like her, and he freed her from the trap she’d foolishly fallen into.

The boy took her to the top of the hill to the same place he waited every night. He opened the carrier and she bounded out. She was home. Her domain splayed out before her. She knew she should run until she could hide, but she remained as though something had frozen her in place.

Indecision.

The boy opened his hand and offered her the smelly stuff, hope glistening in his eyes. She sniffed. Their eyes met. She ate the food offered by the fellow warrior.

The boy smiled.

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 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.

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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Kobo Books

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Nook Books

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

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It’s finally October which, for many locations means that fall is in full swing. If it isn’t, then there’s likely signs that Fall is on its way.

Here in the California valley, however, it’s been in the high 90s. There are no pumpkins, no apple cider or hot chocolate… In fact, the very thought of a hot pumpkin spice latte is downright unappealing. The leaves are dying because it’s just plane hot. Oh, and the sky is filled with smoke. In short, it’s not very fall-like.

But I love October because of the promise of cooler weather. So I wanted to do a special 4-week October-themed stretch of Flash Fiction– Things like black cats, sentient pumpkins, ghosts…. and of course spiders.

In the midst of the summer that won’t quit the one sure sign that October is here is all the spiders. They’re on the move. In California we’ve got summer, fire season, spider season, a week or two of fall weather, then what the locals like to call “winter.”

That’s why I’ve decided to kick off October Flash Fiction with this piece.

Without further delay, I give you:

Roommates

Jill N Davies

Hey, my name’s Stew and I’m a common American house spider. But there’s something not so common about me. In fact, it’s totally, completely awesome: my roommate is football legend Heinrich Jackson. There’s literally nothing I could complain about when it comes to him… except for one thing: his girlfriend has got to go!

First of all, I know what you’re thinking: how does a house spider even know what football is? Well, let me ask you something: when was the last time you were in a house that didn’t have a TV in it? So yeah, I know what football is.

And Heinrich is the real deal—champion linebacker. Total of 62 sacks in two seasons… and who could forget that legendary interception return for the winning touchdown last season? I know I couldn’t!

But you don’t have to know the first thing about football to know that Heinrich is one helluva guy. He always donates to the exotic animal foundation. I like to think that he does it because of me—because I’m kind of exotic. That and we’re best friends.

When Heinrich’s home we do everything together.

Last month he was home and we were having fun cleaning. He was dusting and picking up clutter. I was making quick work of some fruit flies that had descended upon the bananas that went bad while Heinrich was away.

In his fervor to get the place cleaned up, Heinrich swept up my web. The whole thing happened so fast that I barely had time to evacuate.

Heinrich felt awful, and being the nice guy he is, came back the next day with a replacement. It didn’t matter that it was useless, it was both an apology and a gesture of friendship.

Who would’ve thought a guy like that would end up dating a monster?

I didn’t know it at first on account of it being a long-distance relationship. He met her at an away game. She seemed nice enough in their video chats, but the truth is that she’s jealous. She wants Heinrich all to herself, and I can prove it.

Yesterday she was here for the first time. Heinrich had this romantic evening planned, with candles, fancy plates, wine… the whole thing, ya know? I mean, sure he’s a football player, but he’s a sweetheart deep down. He wears his heart on the overstretched sleeves that cover his hulking football biceps.

I knew how important it was, so I’d made sure to take care of all the bugs in the apartment.

The place was in great shape when she showed up. I could tell Heinrich was nervous from his laugh, but the night was going great. They ate the dinner and drank wine on the sofa while they watched a movie.

I was doing my best to be a good roommate and keep out of their way. The last thing I wanted was be the guy to barge in on their date, but there was a fly making a racket landing on the dirty dishes. I had to do something.

I figured it would be a quick job—get in, handle the fly, get out. They were watching the movie, anyway. No one would ever know I was there. Some spiders are ambush hunters, but not me. I need a web to catch my prey. I had to do a quick job between the faucet and counter. I was just finishing up when Bethany got up from the couch.

“Want more wine?” She asked, trying to sound all nice and considerate.

“Nah, I got practice,” Heinrich said, responsible as ever.

She took both glasses into the kitchen and set them down on the counter. I did my best to slink away into the shadows, but she spotted me.

“Oh my god Heinrich! There’s a spider!” She yelled.

“What? Lemme see,” Heinrich said, getting up from the couch. (I’m sure he was confused about what I was doing in the kitchen. I normally stick to the archway between the dining area and the hall.)

He sauntered up and put his arm around Bethany. (It was obvious how much he liked her, so I don’t know why she had to be so insecure.) She pointed to where I was hiding in the crevasse between the counter and the sink. Her finger tore right through my fresh web.

“Oh hell no,” Heinrich said, seeing how tucked in I was. He got a paper towel because the sink was wet.

Knowing that Heinrich was concerned about me, I decided to show him that I was fine. I crawled out from the crack to give him a thumbs up.

“I got him babe,” He said to Bethany as his awesome, massive hand made its way down to give me our very first high five.

“Oh Heinrich, don’t do it!” Bethany squealed, turning her head away as if she couldn’t stand to see two bro’s bonding.

“He’s not staying. Not in my house!” Heinrich insisted, knowing how dangerous it was for me by the sink.

“Just put him outside,” She said, putting her hand on his outstretched arm to stop him.

“No way I’m not handling a live spider like that!” He said (because he respects me.)

 “Fine, I’ll do it,” She said.

She grabbed a cup and slammed it down. It scared the crap outa me! I jumped off the counter and clung to the side of the glass with a bit of webbing. (It comes out on its own sometimes when I’m scared).

“Got him!” She yelled.

And just like that she scooped me up and raced out the door. I landed in the bushes. Satisfied that I was banished, she turned back into the apartment and slammed the door.

I mean, what a jerk right? Kicking me outa my own house!

As soon as I get back in there Heinrich and I are going to talk.

I just have to get his attention while she’s sleeping…

The End

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Stew loves his roommate, and what's not to love about champion linebacker Heinrich Jackson? But what happens when conflict arises for these two cohabitators? Find out in this week's Flash Fiction edition: Roommates. #flashfiction #flashfriday #weirdsciencefiction #shortstories #authorsofinstagram #authorsreading #roommatefiction #octoberfiction #spiderstory #footballfiction #fallfiction #footballseason

A post shared by Jill N Davies (@jillndavies_books) on Oct 2, 2020 at 12:11pm 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.

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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Did you know that September is NICU awareness month?

Sometimes I forget because there’s a lot of awareness. March, for example, is IUGR (Intrauterine growth restriction) awareness month. That one sticks with me because Charlie, my first born was IUGR and we had NO idea until after she was born. Additionally, she came home from the NICU on IUGR DAY. So double extra reason to remember.

But September is important to.

10% of all babies are born prematurely. A premature baby is a baby that was born BEFORE 37 weeks of gestation. They aren’t “early babies” that come before their due dates, they’re premature, meaning that they were born before their bodies were ready to function on the outside.

Both of my daughters were born premature and spent time in the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit).

My first was born at 28 weeks 5 days and spent 67 days in the NICU. My second was born at 36 weeks and spend 72 hours in the NICU.

But it’s not only premature babies that end up in the NICU. Term babies can end up needing NICU time also.

No matter what the reason for NICU time, it’s an incredibly difficult time for parents, babies and family members. The month of September is meant to acknowledge this time and those who experience it.

In honor of NICU awareness month I wrote a short story. It’s a work of fiction that is meant to honor those who have fought the NICU fight and bring awareness.

I hope you enjoy it.

Machine-Baby

Jill N Davies

Day one

“I need to pump!”

It was the first thing Emily said in the recovery room after the obvious series of questions.

What happened?

Did he make it?

Is he okay?

Her son was alone on a different floor. Instead of a womb and an umbilical cord, he was on life support. Pumping was all she had left to do for him now. Use a machine to extract milk from her breasts so that he could have it. She reached over and let her fingers run across the slick surface of the ultrasound picture. Her baby’s cheeks looked so plump, his lips were full and pouty. He looked like the perfect little baby.

But Emily knew that’s not what he would look like on the outside. She’d googled premature babies. At 26 weeks and 1 day her little man wouldn’t look like the chubby bunny she’d expected. He would look stringy, pink and wrinkled, more alien than human.

The ultrasound technician handed her the printout just after midnight during the first of what should have been four scans that day. But in the middle of the scan the tech stepped out to grab the doctor. There was no more fluid. While the doctor explained the situation, Emily’s baby’s heart rate dropped down so low that people started to panic.

By the time it bounced back up the room was full of people—doctors and nurses in the process of whisking her away for an emergency extraction. But even though the immediate danger had passed the doctor was steadfast. It was time to deliver.

For what it was the delivery went pretty well. Baby boy (Mr. No-name, as she thought of him since she’d only just discovered she was having a boy and didn’t even have a short-list yet) was born at 1 pound and 15 ounces—a great weight for a 26-week micropreemie. He even gave a little, mouse-like squeak before the NICU team whisked him away.

Then Emily had started to bleed. Things got very blurry after that.

She managed to pump once in the recovery room. Five minutes before she got light-headed and nauseous. In that five minutes she hadn’t managed to get anything.

She remembered the bitter tears when the doctor had explains the state of her boy—not breathing on his own, sedated in the NICU. He had given her some statistics on his likelihood of survival, of brain bleeds and the chances of severe health complications…

“How are you feeling?”

Emily’s head jerked up at the sound of the nurse’s voice. It took her a disoriented second to find the nurse’s face. It was a kind face, with dark, searching eyes.

Had she been sleeping?

Emily blinked. “I’m, um…”

The nurse came to her bedside and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I know. It’s been a rough few hours.”

Emily nodded at that, gripping the ultrasound printout until it crinkled in her hand. She choked back a sob. “What time is it?”

“It’s a little after eleven. My name is Jade. I’m going to do your vitals really quick.” Jade wrapped the blood pressure cuff around her arm and stuck a thermometer in her mouth.

Eleven. What time had she gone back for surgery? One, maybe two? The day was nearly half gone and she hadn’t even met her Mr. No Name…

“I can’t believe I fell asleep,” She mumbled.

“Oh honey, I can! After that hemorrhage? You’re lucky you didn’t end up in the ICU!” Jade said, pressing a button.

The blood pressure cuff buzzed as it inflated around her arm. Emily lost herself to her own thoughts again. Thoughts about how she had failed her baby. She couldn’t bring him to term and now she wasn’t able to produce any milk for him. She hadn’t even been able to name him.

Her numb, swollen and stitched up stomach was empty. No more kicks or squirms. She couldn’t place her hand there and no that her baby’s flicker of a heartbeat was galloping on beneath it. The knowledge of it consumed her.

“82/56. If you’re feeling up to it I can take you down to your baby,” Jade offered.

“Take me down to see him?” she repeated, as if the words made no sense strung together.

“I’ve got a wheelchair parked right outside your room in case you wanted.”

Of course, she wanted.

Didn’t she?

Emily thought about what waited for her in the NICU. A tiny baby with no name, fighting for his life.

What could she offer him?

Not life, not sustenance… What could she do for him other than be his mother?  And what did it mean to be a mother if it wasn’t those things?

There were so many questions.

What if she didn’t recognize him? What if he didn’t recognize her? Would she be flooded with maternal love for him?

“I’d like to go see him,” Emily said, fighting back the fear and doubt.

Jade smiled. “I thought you’d say that.”

She disappeared behind the curtain, returning with a squat, double-wide wheelchair.

Emily took one last look at the ultrasound picture before setting it on the table next to a jug of water. Ready or not it was time to meet the real deal. Black and white come to life.

The elevator ride to the basement was much like her pregnancy, both agonizingly slow and done too soon. The door opened to the hollow halls of the artificially lit NICU floor with a hollow ding. They turned a corner to face a door. Emily’s mouth went dry. Her heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird. Panic rose, but she swallowed it down. The nurse swiped her key card in front of the sensor and the doors opened.

Emily was greeted with half a dozen alarms signaling along with the electronic beeps and buzzes of too much equipment. Nurses moved stoically through the maze of plastic isolettes. Quiet conversations wafted from drawn curtains.

“He’s in the corner over there,” Jade pointed to the far side of the room.

Emily took it in as the wheelchair proceeded. She did not see any sign of a baby. A petite woman in dark blue scrubs sat in front of a glowing computer screen tapping away. Next to that was a large monitor with three rows of information. A green pulse and a green number, 143. A blue sine wave and a blue number, 92, then a pink trace. In front of all that was a large machine that looked like something out of the dark ages. It wasn’t until they were right up on her baby’s little corner that she was able to see his isolette.

He’s in there. Mr. No-Name.

It sat amidst everything like a sentinel—too large for too tiny baby, yet she knew he was contained within its plastic walls. An animal-print blanket was draped over the top of the isolette so that she couldn’t see him. She ached with a longing that was somehow bigger than her fears.

The woman in the dark blue scrubs popped up out of her chair at their approach. Her eyes found Emily’s immediately, crinkling into a kind squint.

“You must be mom,” she said so matter-of-factly that Emily actually felt like a parent for the first time.

Emily nodded, offering the plastic medical bracelet that she was told she’d need to be identified to the woman for confirmation.

The woman checked it. “I’m Evie and I’m his nurse for this shift. I just did his care and he’s resting now.”

“His care?” Emily asked. Everything felt so strange. She was five feet from her baby but still hadn’t even caught a glimpse of him.

“That’s right. I changed his diaper, checked his vent settings, cleaned his airways…” Evie explained.

Emily shook her head. “What are vent settings?” she asked.

Evie gestured to the big machine next to the isolette. “This is a ventilator. It’s breathing for your son. It’s providing the pressure and oxygen he needs in order to keep him alive.”

Emily thought of the old iron lungs in her history book that used to breath for polio victims. Lungs breathing for the sick.

She remembered what the doctor said to her when he explained her son’s state. “He’s very sick right now…”

“Can I see him? I need to see him,” she said, pushed by a growing urgency that once again managed to overpower her fear.

“We like to keep such fragile preterm babies as peaceful as possible in between their cares, but you can take a little peak,” Evie said.

Jade pushed her chair forward, following Evie to the crowded space next to the covered isolette. Evie dimmed the lights before lifting the corner of the animal-print blanket draped over the plastic womb containing her boy.

Emily’s breath caught in the back of her throat. There he was, nestled in a bed of wires and wraps with a tube sticking out of his mouth. He was tiny and pink, with a fine down covering the small bits of his exposed shoulders. She glanced at the clock on the wall. At 11:48 am Emily caught her first glimpse of her son.

There was almost nothing to see. He was so small and so covered. If it weren’t for the tube in his mouth his thin little lips would practically disappear. His head was covered by the world’s smallest knit cap, and the rest of him was either covered or had a monitor attached. She blinked back at the tears threatening to spill over. She lifted a heavy hand and placed it on the plastic wall of the container, still inches away from his tiny body.

He didn’t look sick. Just small.

“Hey you…” she whispered, stopping herself from calling him Mr. No-Name. She’d have to fix that fast, she decided.

As she gazed upon the tiny baby, Emily became overwhelmed with grief and fear and a bit of anger. But somewhere in that chemical mix of emotion, there was love.

“I want to hold him,” She told Evie without looking away. The thought of his tiny body in her arms was horrifying, but something inside of her knew she needed to more than she needed to do anything else. More than carrying him, more than pumping for him she needed to hold him—to love him and believe in him.

That was what she could do for him as his mother.

“I’m not sure if he’s stable enough. You’ll have to wait for the doctor to know if that’s possible,” Evie said.

“Then I’ll wait,” Emily said, resolved to do what her heart told her was necessary.

“Okay,” Evie said, eager to seal the isolette up again, “I can call you and let you know what he says.”

“I’ll wait for him here so that I can ask,” Emily corrected, suddenly and steadfastly resolved in her role as a mother.

“You don’t have to do that, I can call,” Evie protested.

“I want to be here. I can pump here. I’ll rest, but I need to be next to him,” Emily insisted

Evie relented wordlessly, moving back to the computer to finish her charting. Jade leaned over the wheelchair.

“I’ll tell the nurse you’re down here. She’ll come grab you at shift change to give you your medicine. I won’t let anyone tell you that you have to move. You’ve found your job.”

Emily let out a relieved breath. “Thank you,” she said, overcome with the support of her nurse.

Jade squeezed her arm. “Anything else I can get you, momma?”

Momma. It sounded right.

“Could you find me a pump?” Emily asked.

Jade smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

Emily sat alone in the dim light, looking at her baby. She studied the pieces of him she could see until every single detail was etched into her memory. His cheeks looked the same as they did in the ultrasound. She decided that she recognized him after all.

Jade came back pushing the pump. She handed Emily a fresh bag of pump parts before taking her leave. Emily dutifully put the plastic pieces together and connected them to the pump. She fumbled with the buttons on the machine while holding the cups in her other hand. It was only the third time she’d managed to pump since delivery. She knew it wasn’t enough, but there was nothing she could do about that now except try again.

Finally, after what felt like too long, she had everything set. She held the funnels against her breasts and prayed for it to work. Instead of staring at the nothing that her breasts produced, she returned her gaze to her son.

“Mr. No-Name isn’t going to do. What do you like?” She asked, keeping her voice low so that the conversation stayed between the two of them.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t even move. She let the tears flow. Next to her the ventilator beeped it’s signs of life. She listened to the rhythm of the breast pump as it mingled with the beeps and dings of the NICU.

The ventilator machine was breathing for her baby. If it weren’t there, then neither would he be. In that moment it was as though the two of them were one. Ventilator and baby.

“You’re just as much machine as you are baby right now, aren’t you?” she whispered again.

The vent beeped. It made her smile.

“My very own medical marvel,” she mused. It gave her an idea.

She didn’t want to think of her baby as medically fragile. She hated the statistics and percentages the doctors gave her. She didn’t care about the chances of mortality, likelihood of complications and long-term health outlooks. Those numbers were based on other babies, she decided, not her machine-baby.

Beep, the ventilator agreed.

And who cared that Evie didn’t think she’d be able to hold him? She was basing that on other babies, not him. Her son wanted to be held. He wanted her there, looking in on him.

Beep.

The pump shut off. Emily looked down at the empty cups, wishing she could do better for him.

As she pulled the funnels away from her breasts she noticed some moisture, and there was a collection of colostrum stuck in the duckbills. Emily’s heart swelled. It wasn’t much, but it was there—little golden drops of promise.

She clung to that promise as she collected the colostrum in a small orange syringe. One third of a milliliter. She held on to that number as the hours passed and she waited for the doctor what would tell her she could hold her son. While she waited, she whispered to her son—too quiet for him to hear and be disturbed from his peaceful slumber. But each time the vent would speak for him. A beep in agreement. A beep of consent. A beep to let her know that he was still with her.

She pumped again and captured 1.2 milliliters. The vent beeped approval. The nurse came to take her up for her vitals and medicine. Emily counted the seconds away from the giant plastic container that held her boy. Back in the NICU she returned to the pump, counting the drops of golden promise once more; 3.5 milliliters. Beep.

It was nearly 10 pm when the doctor finally made his rounds.

“I hear you have a question for me,” he said as he pulled a fresh pair of blue gloves over his hands.

“I want to hold him,” Emily said, certain of what the outcome should be.

“A lot of the time babies at this age aren’t up for it, but I’ll take a look and see how he’s done today,” He said, pulling up the chart.

“He’s ready for it, doctor,” Emily said, willing it to be so.

Beep.

She held her breath as he read over the chart. She held it for so long that her heart started to pound. She let it out slowly as the doctor turned his attention to the isolette, lifting the blanket and opening the side. While the doctor examined the little boy hidden amidst wires and tubes, Emily thought about how naturally breathing came to her. Would it ever be that effortless for him?

Beep, the machine promised.

The doctor closed the side of the isolette. “I think we can give it a try,” He said.

Emily’s heart sang. “I knew it. He’s stronger than he looks.”

 “Does he have a name yet?” He asked.

“Austin,” She said. “My six-million-dollar machine baby.”

Beep, said the vent.

Someday, Emily knew, Austin would respond for himself. Until then the vent was there, making sure he was heard.

The End

I hope you enjoyed this short story.

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https://jillndavies.com

I can remember a time that I didn’t give the sun a second thought. It was the sun, what was there to think about?

When I started teaching Earth Science to high-schoolers with a questionable amount of interest I became immersed in astronomy. I’d always had a reasonable respect for stars and all their gravitational, fusion-driven glory, but I turned a corner. Facing the extreme weirdness of space made it undeniably appealing.

But, do you want to know a secret? While I think space is cool, and I love both learning about it and teaching it, I’m terrified of it. Maybe something about its vastness (the next nearest star to ours is 4.3 lightyears away, and there isn’t much in between us and it). Maybe it’s how lonely space must be with all of that nothing…

Or maybe it’s the simple matter of how fast things in space are moving and how there isn’t enough pressure or oxygen to survive if your life support goes bad. (spoiler, this is why space freaks me out!)

No matter. I have a healthy mix of fascination and somber respect for the awesomeness of space, so when I saw an artful picture of the sun sinking into the Colorado mountains on Instagram with the title “93 Million Miles,” the story just happened inside my head.

Without further ado, I bring you this week’s Flash Fiction:

93 Million Miles

Jill N Davies

It was a fate fitting of a criminal—an act of revenge. Condemning a person to burn up in the sun was the correct thing to do to someone who didn’t belonged amidst the people of Earth.

But Alfred Jacobs wasn’t a criminal. He was a respected astrophysicist with three space trips to his name already. He was the first black man to walk on the moon—an American hero. So why was he being shot into the sun?

Alfred was grappling with this at the age of 63, so how was he supposed to explain it to a bunch of middle schoolers?

He adjusted his NASA tie and rested his hands on the wobbly, chipped-wood podium before beginning.

“Earth’s star is 93 million miles away. To put that distance in perspective, if we sent you into orbit, you would have to travel around the globe 3,735 times to make that distance, which is just a technical way to say it’s really far.”

His audience giggled. Their nervous, awkward energy put him at ease.

“It’s going to take the Vector approximately 80 years to make the trip.”

As expected, hands shot into the air. He pointed to a boy in the back.

“You’re already kinda old. Won’t you die before you get there?” The boy blurted. His teacher’s eyes went wide.

Alfred loved the way that children didn’t hold back. They didn’t think about how such a statement might make him feel. Their worlds were small, and self-centered. Alfred enjoyed being a part of changing that.

“Hopefully. That’s the idea of sending someone who’s already old, like me,” He said.

The children in the audience buzzed with incredulous looks and whispers. Alfred waited patiently for the hum to die down.

“Assuming the mission is successful, the Vector will be torn apart by heat and solar winds before it reaches the center of the sun. It would be pretty crummy to still be around when that happens.”

Another hand.

“If you can’t get there without burning up or dying, then what’s the point?” the girl asked.

Alfred expected this question also.

“The ship will collect data and relay it back to Earth until it’s too damaged to do so. Things like temperature, radiation and solar wind patterns. NASA will use that information to solve some of our biggest challenges with climate change,” he explained.

It went on like this, with Alfred explaining technical information in a way that the young audience could understand, and them asking the most important questions—how he might die, or how the sun’s energy would destroy the craft.

Throughout the presentation Alfred noticed a small girl sitting in front. She wore thick glasses and a white shirt with the NASA logo. At first, she took notes, but after a while she just sat there, almost despondent.

When things started to wrap up, she raised her hand.

“If all the data is being collected remotely, why do you need to go at all?” She asked.

Alfred was touched by the question.

“To get to the sun, the Vector must slow down. It’s not a straight shot. It’s hundreds and hundreds of orbits. Someone needs to man the craft to make it all happen without getting caught up in a planets gravitational pull. And the equipment needs adjustments to work for as long as possible.”

The girl didn’t relent. “But why would you want to go?”

“It’s an honor to go.”

“Won’t your family miss you?”5

“I don’t have a wife or children. My sister and her family will miss me, but they’re in Sweden. We have a long-distance relationship. It’s going to become a really long-distance relationship,” Alfred chuckled at his own joke.

This didn’t satisfy the girl. She chewed her lip, fidgeting in her seat while her classmates looked on.

“But won’t you be lonely?”

Yes, Alfred would be lonely. He’d known all along, but he hadn’t given it much thought in the years leading up to the mission—maybe because it was too sad to think about.

The problem was that since the assembly, it was all Alfred could think about. Here he was, days away from launch, and he was just as worried about how lonely he was going to be as that twelve-year-old girl.

Loneliness consumed him and he hadn’t even left.

He sat in his bare apartment and thought about his loneliness. He tried to remind himself that he would be able to talk to his sister. He would have his own website and social media. He would be connected.

But it wouldn’t be enough. The girl had confirmed it.

A knock on the door stirred Alfred from his lonely thoughts. He left his empty table to answer.

On the other side of the door a woman with an almost familiar face stared back at him with a sheepish grin.

“I’m sorry to bother you Mr. Jacobs,” She said.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“You met my daughter,” she explained.

Ah. He placed her immediately. She was the grown image of the awkward little girl who was worried about his loneliness.

“How did you—”

 “I’m certain this is such an intrusion to your personal life, but Nina has been beside herself since the assembly. She’s been crying for days and, well, we had to do something,” the woman interrupted.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. Nina’s mom shrugged, then stepped aside, revealing that Nina had been hiding behind her.

Nina looked up at him, glowing with excitement. Nestled in her arms was a tiny ball of golden fur. She blinked back tears as she offered the furball to him.

Stunned, Alfred collected the puppy.

“Now you don’t have to be lonely,” She said, smiling.

Alfred stared at the puppy, then at Nina, at a complete loss of what to say. He was confused and touched. Before he could put his thoughts into words the puppy squirmed up and licked the side of his face.

“Thank you,” he said.

The End

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93 Million Miles This week's flash fiction video brings you a story about a far, far away place. Alfred Jacobs is an American hero, but he's about to take on task better suited to a criminal. Tune in to find out how he deals with his mission with a little bit of help. For the written version of this piece check out my blog on my website: jillndavies.com For more flash fiction scroll back into the archives For more writing by Jill N Davies check out Due North, a dystopian thriller #flashfiction #flashfriday #shortstories #authorsreading #storyoftheweek #weirdsciencefiction #sciencefictionshortstories #sentimentalshortstories #authorsofinstagram #fictionalshortstories #storieswithdogs

A post shared by Jill N Davies (@jillndavies_books) on Sep 25, 2020 at 11:44am PDT

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

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

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Tune in next week for more Flash Fiction.

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The last month has felt like an apocalypse– a very slow apocalypse.

California skies turned orange. Every day I watched the red sun rise until one day the air quality was so bad that I had to stop going outside.

Staying inside was worse, of course, but I had to do it to protect my littles.

The fires on the west coast were the last straw for me. Between being shut away from everyone, and shut away from nature I finally felt like I was cracking. It really did feel like the end of everything.

I know that everyone handles things differently. I’ve always handled myself through writing. I also tend to inject a bit of levity into my processing.

Thus, The Test Tube was born. Written several months before I hit the mental apocalypse wall, it felt like the right time to put it out there. I hope you enjoy it!

The Test Tube

By Jill N Davies

It might be hard to believe, but the day the world ended was like any other day. That’s because the end of the world was a complete accident.

Seriously.

It took a lot of research, but I’ve concluded that the doomsday device was likely nothing more than a regular old test tube.

Based on years of research I believe that test tube 1536 held the liquid that ended the world.

1536 looked just like every other test tube. This can’t be true, of course because if it had been almost any other test tube things wouldn’t have worked out the way they did. But I suspect that 1536’s smooth Pyrex surface was covered in microscopic defects, a porous landscape of the work it had done and the foundation that laid out the beginning of the end.

This was likely result of a manufacturing error that was documented in the fall of 2016, shortly before 1536 arrived at the laboratory receiving building along with 499 other freshly manufactured test tubes. By all appearances it was identical to all the other test tubes, however, while every other test tube underwent a careful cooling process that resulted in a smooth surface, 1536 cooled next to a broken fuse that resulted in an invisibly bubbly exterior. Approximately 8,000 test tubes never left the manufacturer due to this error. 1536 must have been missed because it was supposed to have rested on the line of what was determined ‘safe.’

According to the records, 1536 was used to detect heavy metals. During the experiment, microscopic flecks of lead sulfate must have adhered to the extra-porous surface of 1536. That was the beginning of the end. Unfortunately, there was no way for anyone to know at the time.

In the spring of 2020, the laboratory relocated to the southeast side of Texas. 1536 made the cross-country journey by freight in early April 2020. Approximately 13% of all glassware was damaged. If 1536 had been one of the disposed glassware items things would have been different, but it survived in pristine shape.

On the last day on Earth, 1536 was retrieved from available glassware along with 36 other test tubes, 3 one-liter beakers, a 500 mL round bottom flask and a package of fresh tips for the variable micropipet.

Test tubes were lined up on the lab bench. While the serum was being prepared, a lab tech added a small amount of highly concentrated acid into each tube as was indicated in the experimental design.

Nothing happened visually, but upon the addition of the acid to 1536 the lead sulfate that had been clinging to the bubbly, porous surface began to dissociate.

The acidic solution was supposed to rest for exactly ten minutes before the tubes were dumped. If that had happened, everything would have been fine, but it never did.

After the lab tech added the acid to the test tubes, he went to start a timer, but they had all been moved to the other laboratory by night shift. He dutifully left in search of the timers but was stopped in the hall by the day shift manager, who was doing a safety audit.

The manager wanted to know why the liquid waste container was within an inch of being full and had not been taken out to waste collection. The lab tech did his best to explain that it was next on his list, but the shift manager wouldn’t hear it. So the lab tech, forgetting about the timer, dutifully switched gears and the day shift manager dutifully ticked the audit off of his to-do list.

Meanwhile the experiment continued. After the nitric acid, the lab tech was meant to put a buffer solution into the test tubes in preparation for the serum. When the scientists approached the bench and saw the liquid in the test tubes, they assumed that it was the buffer solution, not nitric acid. This, of course, shouldn’t have happened, but lots of things that shouldn’t happen end up happening on any given day.

When the serum was added to the nitric acid in 1536 the lead ions must have bounded to the activation complex. This caused such an intense exothermic reaction that flames shot out of the top of the test tube. Those flames ignited the serum within the other test tubes creating such an intense heat that the scientists were forced to evacuate.

By the time the fire department responded, the entire laboratory site was a flaming inferno. That inferno sunk into the growing fault line that split the eastern side of Texas.

That same intense heat caused unprecedented tectonic activity, creating a worldwide volcanic chain reaction. The temperatures on the surface of the earth reached upwards of 100^O C, causing a massive extinction event.

One portion of the laboratory was shielded from this disaster. When the Eastern Texas plates opened up it swallowed the north wing of the laboratories from the blast shield on. They were encased in an insulative layer of semi-molten granite, protecting everything inside. The Earthen shell protected everything within, from laboratory equipment, to the mainframe database and the lab tech, who was dumping the liquid waste behind the blast shelter when the accident happened.

I’m that lab tech, and I may be the only person left alive in the world. There may be others who were able to protect themselves, but I have no way of confirming that. I’m trapped in here.

I tried to escape for the first couple of years, but it’s impossible. I’ve survived by eating grossly mutated amphibians and distilling water from the gasses that waft in from the tectonic vent. I’ve passed the time reading the archives and piecing together the events that lead to the end of the earth.

After all, I figured someone should document it.

You know, just in case there’s anyone still out there…

The End

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’swinter 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.

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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This week has been hectic incarnate, but that’s partly my fault.

While I can’t do anything about how the ongoing pandemic affects my family, and I can’t do anything about the wildfires that are currently blazing across the west coast, I am responsible for a portion of the added pressure I experienced.

I have been participating in the weekly Reedsy writing prompt competitions for the last two weeks and this week I decided to create a flash fiction piece that went along with my Reedsy submission.

That means that I had to make some changes. I had originally planned on putting out a different piece of fiction for this week’s flash feature, but I decided that the best thing to do was put out the two pieces at the same time.

Thus I had to draft two stories that went together, do a flash fiction recording, a blog post and a submission. Maybe once upon a time this would be all in a day’s work for me (or for SOMEONE, anyway). But not these days. I scrambled to get it done from the moment of decision all the way to the creeping deadlines.

This week I wrote with a nursing baby, a sleeping family, a squirming toddler, and all of those things at once. I wrote during tummy time, while walking in the moments of almost decent air quality, and I’m pretty sure that I did some writing in my sleep (trust me, it wasn’t good!)

I got it done, and I’m very proud of that.

Let’s get right to it.

Albert Baker and the Power Lines

Jill N Davies

“It’s the darndest thing, Al. They’ve been there since yesterday, just staring.”

Harold put a sun-spotted hand over the expanse of his belly and chuckled as if it were the best story he’d heard all year.

If there was a joke, Albert sure didn’t get it. The stoic line squirrels resting on the fence unsettled him. There was definitely something unnatural about it. Squirrels were supposed to chitter and run, squabble with one another and bark at loiterers. These squirrels bore more resemblance to his daughter’s plushees than that.

“You sure they’re real, Harold? Could it be a joke them Harvey twins put together to mess with you?” He asked, keeping a close eye on the line. He wasn’t sure he’d even seen one blink yet.

“No, they’re real squirrels, alive and kicking. I watched them come down from that tree there and line up myself. Unless Pip and Marley suddenly became robotics savants, there’s no way,” Harold said.

The last time Albert had seen the Harvey boys they’d been coaxing their poor old basset onto a skateboard at the top of Knickerbocker hill. The chances they could pull off something half as brilliant were slim to none. Therefore, the only thing he could do was believe Harold. The problem was this only served to unsettle him further.

“What are you up to,” he muttered, gazing out the window.

Harold was busy packing up his things, his cheeks flushed with the effort. He let out a mighty huff as he hoisted his pack.

“Other than those squirrels, things are in ship-shape here. You should have a quiet weekend.”

Albert looked back at Harold, startled. “You aren’t just leaving me with them, are you?”

“They’re squirrels, Al! What’re you afraid of?” Harold guffawed.

Albert’s cheeks flushed. “You know it was a squirrel that caused the Oakwood fire.”

“That’s why they redid all the lines. And we’ve got those fancy critter-covers on the breakers too. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about, Al.”

Harold’s hand was on the door. He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his wide face. “If you’re worried, you could always grab up ol’ Bessy and play target practice.”

Harold roared laughter at his own joke as he made his final exit. The engine of his 12-valve roared to life as Albert returned his attention to the squirrels. Sure, they unnerved him, but he had no intention of using Harold’s pellet gun on the little buggers.

He’d nearly managed to let go of the odd phenomenon when something out the window caught his eye.

He looked out to see the squirrel’s continued vigil. Nothing more.

“Your mind is playing tricks on you,” He said.

Then he saw it again.

He focused his gaze along the bottom of the fence where puffs of dirt danced on the breeze, dragging a few leaves to waft aimlessly. Albert would have to sweep those leaves up. It must’ve been the leaves.

Albert would’ve been satisfied with his conclusion if he hadn’t seen the truth. A flick of dust, and then another, as though tiny hands were flinging dirt into the air.

All along the fence squirrels were tunneling. The longer he watched the more he spotted progressing toward the substation equipment.

Why were they tunneling when they could just come down the fence? Albert didn’t like it, not one bit. None of it was natural. The squirrels were up to something.

He grabbed his safety vest and hard-hat before heading out. Albert wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he knew he had to shoo them off. Some squirrels in national parks could be semi-tame, but this area was remote. The squirrels would run from him.

The second Albert stepped out the door he regretted it. There were so many squirrels. He was right about one thing; they were affected by his presence, but it wasn’t how he’d thought.

The squirrels lining the fence descended upon him, scratching and biting as their tiny feet pittered across his body. Albert shrieked, then spat out mouthfuls of dirty fur. Before this moment Albert might have thought that his worst fear was heights, but from this moment and forever forth he knew it would be squirrels. He thrashed and flailed. Squirrels few in all directions. His hat fell off his head. In its absence the squirrels clung to his hair. He couldn’t see more than fur, but he could hear them. The zzzap of electric discharge as they bridged wires they shouldn’t have been able to cross, tearing into the breakers and transformers as easily as if the protective covers were nothing more than bedsheets.

Overcome, Albert fell to the ground. The squirrels rolled his body under the fence where his vest hung up in the chain-link. The squirrels swarmed over the hang-up like flies on manure, giving Albert a glimpse of their activity. They were at war with the substation and they were winning.

They planned this, Albert realized as the squirrels carried him off. It may have been his last coherent thought.

The fire department responded approximately 70 minutes after the first blaze. It would’ve been faster, but Albert wasn’t there to report it. Their first clue that something was amiss was the blackout in Warshaw county. It was the largest one recorded in the state.

Harold Durk, whose story of statuesque squirrels was so wildly unbelievable that he was arrested under suspect of arson along with the murder of Albert Baker, whose body was not recovered.

Albert would corroborate Harold’s story if he could, but he’d have to figure out how to escape the squirrels first.

The End

To read the other side of the story, check out my Reedsy submission, the Oaknut Company.

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.

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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