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Another week, another piece of flash fiction.

This week I had the unique experience of falling asleep while writing. I was multitasking, of course. Nursing a baby, with a computer on my lap. I just couldn’t keep my eyes open. At first I told myself I was doing a great job typing with my eyes closed. Next thing I knew, oops….

This week’s flash fiction piece is about a woman who dreamed of making it big, but got a big surprise once she’d arrived.

So, now I bring to you– in between accidental naps and long night….

Exit, Stage Left

Jill N Davies

All the world’s a stage and most of us are desperately unrehearsed.

Who had said that? Sean O’Casy? By way of Shakespeare maybe, but from Grace’s perspective it was hers— every word if it a Grace Mitchel original.

She used it as her line in that interview she did for her community theater. And she lived it, performing her wedding vows on the literal stage—much to the chagrin of her husband.

Her husband… that impossible man! Thinking of him made Grace’s eyes water. The way he could adore her and roll his eyes at the same time. She wanted to shake him and kiss him all at once. At least he supported her dream… even if she couldn’t get her performance career to launch further than her backyard.

“Stop it Grace! It doesn’t matter now. None of it.” She scolded under her breath, pressing her hands against her costume skirt to calm herself. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t ruin the stage makeup that took so long to perfect.

After all, it didn’t matter—none of it. This was her life now. She was here, on the real stage. Broadway. She had finally made it. Her name was on the marquee and she was the star. Every member of the adoring audience was there to see Grace Mitchel. It was all for her.

She heard her cue—the melancholy music that would usher her into the limelight. Grace let the music pull her onto the stage where the spotlight waited.

Once in position she blinked against the brightness. She had exactly four beats before beginning. She used them to look out beyond the stage. The audience wasn’t visible in the glare, but she could imagine them. Starstruck and eager for her performance—poised at the edge of their seats.

And then she began.

There was a time when men were kind…

Her voice filled the space, robust and mournful to match the accompanying music. Grace let herself be swept up in it, like she always did.

She sang each line as she’d rehearsed it, placing the emphasis in all the right places—a real professional.

She loved Les Miserables. She loved I Dreamed a Dream even more—the longing it evoked, the drama. She’d always known that if she made it that this would be her performance.

Then it all went wrong…

Grace was so swept up in the realization of it that she nearly stumbled over the next verse. She forced herself to focus on the song—the act. What she wanted to convey with each increasingly tragic line.

And then something happened.

She stumbled again, this time audibly.

As—as they tear your hopes apart.

In an instant the performance turned. The words were like ash in her mouth. She was overwhelmed with the shame of it.

It was wrong—it was all wrong. She could feel it overwhelm her.

She wanted to stop, but the words continued to flow from her as though she had no control. The affect was gone from her voice, along with any hint of overdone emphasis. Instead she sang with the purity of her own genuine, consuming sorrow.

The beauty of her performance overwhelmed her, compounding the agony until she was nearly choking on it.

The song swelled and carried her to its conclusion, to her conclusion. She spoke what was in her heart.

Now I have killed the dream

I dreamed

Hot tears streamed down her face as the music faded into nothingness. The electric buzz of the limelight echoed in the silence of the performance hall. Grace stifled a sob, hating the blinding light. She brought a hand up to wipe the flow of tears, reminding herself that the light would fade any minute now.

The generator was nearly empty when she’d hauled it down the street. With the draw of the sound system, lights and air it wasn’t going to last more than another minute or two.

As she predicted the motor choked in the distance, stuttering on the thin fumes and making the lights stutter before everything went dark. Grace stood in the darkness, wishing for it to swallow her up and end her pain.

But the darkness refused to be so kind. She remained in it until they became one and there was nothing to swallow her anymore.

She looked out into the audience to take in row after row of empty seats. Baren, like the world.

Grace Mitchel was all that remained—the lone survivor of a deadly virus.

No. Not lone—there were hundreds, if not thousands of survivors out there. But they didn’t run in her circles and they definitely had no interest in theater. They were the scientists, masterminds and world leaders. They were the ones the vaccine was meant for. Not for her.

But he’d given it to her and she’d taken it eagerly. She had measured her value against his and accepted.

It had taken all of this for her to see her error—to see that he’d been right all along. He wouldn’t take it without her.

But she had taken it without him. Decided it was worth it to live on to perform.

Without him. Shattered, Grace made her exit. The door shut and a puff of dust danced across the empty stage, soaking in the encore Grace Mitchel would never hear.

The End

Don’t have time to read? It’s okay, I read it for you!!

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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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True Believer

Greetings after a long absence. I’ve been on what should be considered a maternity leave for an author. Since I work for myself it certainly wasn’t anything formal, but hey, it happened.

The last piece of flash fiction was Friday, June 19. We were surprised the following Monday with a decry for an early delivery and welcomed our second daughter into the world at exactly 36 weeks.

Mom and baby and Dad and toddler are all doing great. It just took us a while to find our legs as a family of four. In the meantime I managed to write a few more pieces of flash fiction and do some story mapping for the reader magnet, but the concept of doing a recording was a bit much.

But this week I sucked it up and gave it a shot!

This week’s flash fiction piece is meant all in good fun, but was inspired by the idea of cultural concept. I’ve always been interested in how a following of people come to believe something unbelievable so I wrote a piece meant to create a shadow of a doubt. It’s up to the reader to interpret things.

Without further delay, I give you this week’s piece:

True Believer

By Jill N Davies

“The footage you’re about to see is difficult to interpret. It was recovered in the southern range of the Gifford Pinchot National forest, approximately 60 miles north of the Oregon border. It was found along with the equipment in the search for Dr. Hartman and his nephew, Joseph Grosse. Neither the doctor nor his nephew were recovered.

Dr. Hartman was researching the psychology of cultural-concept. Joseph was making a documentary for his filmography dissertation. The two men departed on April 5^th and were supposed to wrap up their interviews and return by the 23^rd. The last reported contact was April 14^th, when Joseph made a three-minute phone call to his fiancé at approximately 8 am.

The woman in the footage has been identified as Edna Fraskin. She’s a member of a cult following known as the BBRA, a fringe group whose members consider themselves both scientists and disciples. Since the footage was recovered Edna has not been located. The case is still open.”

The detective concludes his introduction, dims the lights and cues the footage.

The screen flickers with static before a crisp image of a Edna Fraskin against a forested background appears. Her braids are frayed and the loose strands of hair are matted. She wears several layers of clothing—a wool beanie, a worn scarf and a threadbare sweater. Her face is gaunt with dark circles set deep under ghostly eyes.

She blinks, as if adjusting to the light before smiling. The lines on her face deepen with the expression as she listens to a question that can’t be heard. Her chin dips down before she addresses the men behind the camera.

I’m here because he lets me be here. I can’t offer you any sort of protection. You’re here at your own risk. Are you ready for this?

The camera follows her to the edge of the woods. She breathes puffs of warm air into the frigid wilderness. As she walks, she continues her story.

I’ve been living with him on this side of the woods for about six years. He goes in deep when the winter comes. I just wait here for him to come back.

She looks back, behind the camera, scowling.

You dismiss me for believing, but I don’t just believe. Is it irrational to believe what my eyes have seen? I’ve been face to face with the beast and he spared me my life! That’s why I decided to give my life to him.

The off-camera person asks another inaudible question.

Most of us in the BBRA have faced him. It’s our sacred duty to pay him back for his gift—to spread the news of his benevolence. To protect him.

The camera continues to follow her into the dense woods. The overhead branches cast eerie shadows on the forest floor. Edna nearly disappears into the surroundings, swallowed by the wildness.

I don’t know if we’ll see him. I know that’s sort of the point of your video, but he don’t follow your rules. You’ll see him if he wants you to. But I can show you this.

She pushes aside several frayed branches with a thick walking stick and gestures to the camera to come closer. The image wobbles and zooms in on the tree. Deep scratches come into focus. Sap leaks from the wounds. The surrounding bark has been torn away. The markings are level with Edna’s forehead.

Most non-believers would say these here are from a bear. But a bear don’t tear into a tree like that. This is his mark.

She lets the camera take it in for another moment before pulling the men deeper into the wood, following a rough-cut but well-tread game trail. She veers left and begins scrambling up a steep embankment. The camera rocks as Joseph struggles to keep up with her. Clouds wobble and the camera settles on Dr. Hartman’s legs as he climbs after Edna—the first evidence of his presence.

At the top of the climb Edna pops upright again as if not phased.

This way, if we’re going to catch a glimpse.

The camera follows her toward a clearing. She points to her left.

Predator here.

The camera takes in pile of bones—something large, but unlike a deer or elk. A wild boar? They’re picked clean and split, the marrow cleaned out from within.

There are a lot of predators in these woods—bobcats, black bears, mountain lions…

She makes a swift turn, causing the camera to swing wide to keep her in the frame. Dr. Hartman invades the frame before disappearing behind the camera again. When the camera finds Edna again she’s standing on a flat-topped boulder and reaching up for the branch of a nearby tree. Something in the corner of the screen moves.

Off screen a branch snaps. Someone curses loudly.

The camera swings before pitching. Something enormous enters the frame in a blur before disappearing. The camera lands on the ground. Edna’s feet can be seen at the top of the frame, swaying against the tree. Distorted screams echo in the wilderness.

There’s a thud and a crunch before everything falls silent. A snort and heavy breathing can be heard in the distance.

Edna’s feet stop swaying suddenly. She screams. There’s a flurry of sound. Something snarls. The camera spirals from impact. When it settles the lens is split, splintering blades of glass into hundreds of distorted images.

The sun sinks low and the camera light flips on along with the low battery indicator. Edna moans.

After another ten minutes the screen goes dark.

The shadowed silhouette of the detective passes in front of the screen. He clears his throat.

“Obviously the precinct doesn’t believe that a bigfoot is responsible for the incidents in the video, however, don’t yet have an alternative explanation.”

He shifts uncomfortably in the silence.

“We’re looking for any insight you might be able to provide.”

The End

Don’t have time to read? It’s Okay, I’ll read it to you on IGTV!

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A post shared by Jill N Davies (@jillndavies_books)

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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Don’t have time to read? It’s okay! I’ll read it to you on IGTV

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Beware the beans that seek ill! Friday June 19th's flash fiction edition dives deep into the intent of nature's most innocuous creatures. Who says plants can't wish bad things on you? War looks different when it grows on vines! Make sure to check out more flash fiction at: https://jillndavies.com/index.php/blog/

A post shared by Jill N Davies (@jillndavies_books) on Jun 19, 2020 at 1:13pm PDT

Malevolent Beans

Jill N Davies

They grew in average soil with good drainage. The gardener took great care to ensure they were always exposed to full sun. They had a healthy mix of organic fertilizer, perfectly balanced. The real problem was that she planted them next to the corn. The beans hated the corn.

There was no way for her to know that the beans hated the corn. Under normal circumstances beans and corn were good companions—both in the garden and on the plate.

But not these beans. They thought the corn was smug. Since the beginning the corn outdid the beans, growing taller, greener, faster. The beans believed they had respectable growth, all things considered, with their teardrop leaves snaking up the cross-hatch of their wired trellis and their pods getting fat with bounty.

But the corn grew taller—those haughty stocks. And it didn’t take long for the beans to realize that the corn wasn’t just minding its own business. It was gloating. That rustle of the wind agitating the stocks? A brag. The long, thin shadows that stretched across the garden when the sun was low and red? Showboating. There was nothing humble about it.

The beans wanted to fight the corn directly, but they were plants so they couldn’t. It’s difficult to go to war when you’re a combination of cellulose stocks and starchy deposits. They tried growing invasively into the corn’s section of the garden, but it didn’t work out. First of all, the new growth reaching out from the trellis couldn’t support its own weight beyond a certain point. The limp little vines drooped down toward the rich earth, useless in the battle for honor.

When the beans made their attack from the ground level, creeping and rooting in their trek toward the corn they were likewise thwarted. The gardener discovered their malicious growth and uprooted the wandering tendrils of plant. That’s when the beans first identified her as the true enemy.

Only… how could beans, mighty as they were, fight against a gardener? Giver of life? Nurturer. It went against their very makeup as a sentient and nutritional being.

Thus began the transformation of the beans from natural to malevolent. Of course, they had to do it in natural ways, as they remained a plant through the transformation.

The bean has several natural enhancements for battle that other growth lacks. Predominantly, the bean is made of a combination of protein (the driver of their natural intelligence and reasoning) and carbohydrates. The large quantity of carbohydrate (or starch, if you will) includes both soluble and insoluble fiber. They also contain various minerals, like selenium and phosphorus. This is where the beans began, but it’s not where they stopped.

They pulled from the earth and grew complex compounds within themselves that had the potential to wreak havoc on the digestive system. Like their ancestor the lima bean they produced linamarin. Like their cousin the red kidney bean they built up phytohaemagglutinin. Though neither was guaranteed to overcome the gardener, the effort to become dangerous showed the bean’s commitment to revenge.

Harvest was yet another insult to the beans. The gardener took her time getting to them. Before even placing her basket near the crop, she tended to practically everything else. She enhanced the tomato soil with compost, trimmed back the overgrowth on the zucchini and culled the creeping vines of her fall pumpkins. The greatest insult, however, was that she tended to the corn, pulling ear after golden ear from their glorious stocks. The beans could smell the sweet grass with each snap of corn. The basket filled, leaving only a small section for them.

By the time the gardener stooped down to pull the pods from the curling vines the sun was high in the sky. The beans relished the way that sweat trickled down her forehead and stung at the corners of her eyes. They giggled a terrible giggle, vibrating viscously within their pods, fat with starch and toxins as they fell into the basket.

The gardener harvested approximately two thirds of the current crop, satisfied with what her work had yielded. The beans were likewise satisfied with the work they’d done in anticipation of the harvest.

They waited in the basket as the gardener prepared her meal. Corn shucked for the grill. Eggplant salted and sweating. Carrots shredded and dressing the fresh lettuce…

The beans didn’t notice the pot of water simmering on the stove at first. They eyed the salad expectantly, thinking their plan had come together so nicely.

The farmer made quick work of drawing the beans from their pods. Holding each one in her hand she used a calloused thumb to burst through the pod and pull the beans out. They landed three and four at a time into a glass bowl with a little plink! The sound was just enough to mask their expectant chortles.

But they didn’t laugh when they saw the water, bubbling with convective heat. The farmer poured them out from the bowl into the water. She sealed in their horrified screams with a glass lid.

All their hard work, all the toxins cooked out in a simple matter of minutes. Their awareness faded with the poisons. They died believing their efforts had been in vain.

But hate has a way of lingering in a thing, and that night, when the farmer consumed her bounty, she consumed the intent of the beans. She didn’t succumb to toxins, she wasn’t doubled over by the pain of insoluble fiber (though she was plagued by a particularly nasty bout of gas for several days). Instead she was filled with a dread.

Because she ate the beans first, she didn’t eat the corn—she couldn’t, such was the dread that filled her. She was never able to eat corn again. The beans had won.

The only problem was—she likewise never ate beans again. And she never planted them in her garden either.

The End

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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Have you ever met someone that just seemed a little bit… off?

Did they seem just a little too interested in something… weird?

This story is dedicated to the people who are willing to do almost anything for the thing that they love.

No time to read? That’s okay. I’ll read it to you on IGTV!

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I'm here every week to bring you more weird fiction readings. Every Friday I'll read an original flash fiction piece straight from the archives of Jill N Davies. This week's story is called "The Sociopath" Have you ever met someone that just seemed a little bit… off? Did they seem just a little too interested in something… weird? This story is dedicated to the people who are willing to do almost anything for the thing that they love

A post shared by Jill N Davies (@jillndavies_books) on Jun 12, 2020 at 3:50pm PDT

The Sociopath

Jill N Davies

I created you. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be alive. And look how well you’ve grown—so plump and full. I’m proud of you.

But I don’t want you to think that I did it for you—I didn’t. This was all for me. You’re here for my pleasure. It’s not that I don’t like you. I do. I think you’re beautiful. But you’re only purpose is to bring me joy. It’s why I’ve done what I’ve done this whole time. The months of toiling. It was only worth it because I got what I wanted in the end…

You.

It wasn’t easy, you know. The work was arduous. So many days baking in the sun while I tended to your needs. The labor was love, and as we both know, I’m willing to do almost anything for love.

And I love you.

Do you remember that night in March we spent together? It was about a week after it looked like spring had officially arrived. The temperatures plummeted and I was afraid for you so I did what I could. I couldn’t bring you inside. My family would question me, so I wrapped your like a fragile blossom with a felted blanket and stayed with you for the worst of it. I shielded you from the moisture that threatened to creep in and ruin my plans. I saved you.

I fed you when you were hungry.

I gave you water when you needed it.

I chased away the vermin that threatened to corrupt your purity.

I killed for you.

At first it was small time stuff—the little nibblers and suckers that try to sneak in and not be noticed. No one would judge me for that. How many others have done worse to protect their loved ones? But I may have gone a little overboard. You see, I didn’t realize that the competition would be so aggressive. I had to protect you!

I tried all the usual methods first, of course. I kept you covered so that others couldn’t see what you had to offer. I put up distractions and deterrents, but it wasn’t enough.

And when I saw them pawing at your tender flesh… It was too much for me. I’ve never considered myself a violent person before, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

I performed my evil deeds in the dark of night, obviously. Doing it in the daylight would mean taking on too much risk. What if someone saw what I was doing? Could I live it down? What would the consequences be? I had to be secretive. I had to be smarter than everyone else.

It’s all led us to this point in time—to tonight. The house is supposed to be empty. We’ll finally be alone together, just you and me.

You see, my family is otherwise occupied this weekend. My daughter is going to a slumber party and my wife is having a lady’s night out. I made certain to tell her to stay out as long as she wanted. I even told her she could stay over at Jeanie’s if she wanted, so we’ll have time.

You’re just sitting there, waiting for me. It makes me smile to think of you, soft and round… so ripe. My mouth waters. Knowing how close I am to being with you, putting my mouth against your soft, supple flesh… it makes it hard to focus on driving. That’s what you do to me!

But it’s alright. Here we are. All I need to do is park the car and…

What’s this? What are all these extra cars? Why is Morgan’s car still in the garage? Everyone is supposed to be gone…

There’s so much noise coming from the house. Who is in there? Is the door even locked?

“Daddy hi!”

“Hey sweetheart.” … and she runs off to the other kids… why are there so many kids in my house?

“Hey honey!”

“Morgan! What’s going on?” She’s so beautiful but I’m so upset right now. We’re supposed to be alone right now.

“Oh honey, sorry I left you a voicemail. Frankie has the flu so the party was almost postponed. I told Abby she could have everyone over here and canceled with Jeanie.”

Oh. No. This is not supposed to be happening. “Oh, that’s fine Morgan. We can make this work, I’ve just got to take care of something real quick and then we’ll chat about what the night will look like.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

I can’t look at her right now. I have to get to you. I push past her, into the kitchen. The screen to the patio is open. My heart sinks.

“Morgan?”

“What’s up?” She looks so innocent.

“Has anyone been on the patio?”

“Yeah, I sent the kids out there first thing so I could set up the living room.”

Oh. No.

I race out to you, looking frantically for evidence of your presence, but you’re gone.

“Morgan, did you let them…?”

“Abby was begging so I told her they could have them.”

She sounds so apologetic, but I don’t know if I can forgive her—not for this.

You’re gone. I can’t bring you back. All my hard work is spoiled! You’re gone.

“You okay honey?”

Morgan cares about me. She puts her arm around my shoulder. She can tell something is wrong, but she has no idea what I’m feeling right now. I’m not sure where to go from here…

“My apricots…”

The End

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 ebook

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:

For the Good of the Realm

By Jill N Davies

“For the good of the realm, I beg you—eat this pickle!” The strange man waved the limp little cucumber under my nose. It flopped to the left, a pale green drop of liquid suspended from its tip, threatening to upend the world as we know it.

That’s what I thought he said.

There was no way… I mean—he was wearing a ratty old robe that looked like it came from the twelfth century. He hadn’t brushed his hair in at least a couple of decades. He had crazy eyes. The guy was for sure insane.

… then again… when the robe hit the light it shimmered like a clear sky littered with a billion stars. And his hair also had a look to it—when he turned his head just so, it wasn’t a matted mess—it was smooth and long and caught the breeze like he was the hero of an epic fantasy… and his eyes… were they crazy or were the alive with the fire of a man impassioned with duty…?

It was just enough to make me second guess the whole situation. And I really didn’t want to be second guessing myself because I hated pickles. The very thought of biting into a soggy vinegar bomb made me want to curl into a protective turtle-ball and vomit.

How long had it been? A decade? No, more than that.

The memory came unbidden… Granny’s house. The tiny kitchen that should have felt cramped. The beige refrigerator with the faux wood-handle. The smell of salt and brine mingling with the cloyingly sweet potpourri.

“They’re nutritious!”

I didn’t care. I didn’t believe her either. But no ten-year-old says no to their dear old Granny… This weird old wizard though?

“Here, I’ll wrap a slice of cheese around it and make it a real treat!” Her sun-spotted fingers made quick work of the cellophane wrapping around the artificial slice. It was perfection wrapped around a warty nightmare.

I gagged it down, tears streaming down my cheeks as Granny looked on with pride. I would’ve kept it down too, if I could have—that’s how much I loved Granny. But it wasn’t up to me. My body revolted and the squishy chunky mess came right back up—right on Granny’s Formica counter.

The old man’s eyes flashed with impatience. His fingers trembled as he held the sloppy, disgusting pickle out.

“How will eating a pickle—”

“No time! You must eat it now!” He thrust the pickle forward, right under my nose so I could smell that same salty tang.

I was about to shove his hand away when the ground trembled below me. Somehow, I knew it was connected. It was as if the Earth itself was speaking to me, warning me.

So what choice did I have?

I took the pickle.

The wizard looked partially relieved, but still terrified.

I brought it up to my lips as dark clouds collected into a siphon.

“It must be done with haste!”

Lightning tore through the sky as I took my first bite. Didn’t my high school physics teacher electrocute a pickle?

I gagged the first bite down, aching for a breath of fresh air, but the wizard shoved my hand forward, forcing me to take the next bite. As I chewed the earth split open. A deep and terrible cavass split
Main Street down the middle, forcing cars up onto sidewalks as terrified onlookers shrieked.

Is this pickle saving the world or destroying it?

“It’s happening…” the old wizard shuddered, grabbing my jaw as tough he could force me to swallow.

In went another bite as a torrential rain began to fall. All around us the air turned black with the darkness of a moonless night.

I was halfway through when I managed to gasp, “Why is this happening?”

But the wizard didn’t answer. He only urged me to keep going.

As fire shot up from the broken earth an unspeakable scream rose from the depths, drowning out the cries of terror on the surface. All around me people fled for safety.

Two more bites at most. The vinegar burned my throat as tears filled my eyes. Dear god! What’ll happen if I can’t keep it down?

Fire and ice struggled for dominance as the world crumbed around me. Somewhere in the distance a building crumbled, its rubble turning to dust and then mud as it mingled with the downpour.

“Swallow the last bite!” The command was urgent and pleading.

I fought my instinct to spit the vile thing up. Acid burned at the back of my mouth. I wanted to scream but instead I chewed as the world fell apart all around me.

Something was coming. I could hear its approach but didn’t know if it would come from above or below. Swallow! Swallow! I closed my eyes and willed my body to obey.

It didn’t come easy, but finally the last of the pickle went down. I felt it slide like liquidy slime down my throat and head toward the abyss of my stomach.

The instant it landed the world fell silent.

I dared to open my eyes and witness the ruin.

The day was gloriously sunny—not a cloud in the sky. Cars made their way lazily down the pristine road. The sun seemed to glint like winking lights off the freshly cleaned windows of nearby houses as passers-by greeted one another cheerfully.

Was it all a dream?

My stomach churned with the truth. The taste lingered in the back of my mouth, threatening to undo what was done.

I made my way hastily to the corner café and bought the largest drink on the menu. Ripping the lid off I tipped it back to chug the contents, but before I took my first drink, Granny’s face appeared in the pale liquid, smiling wide.

“I’m so proud of you!”

The End

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 ebook

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: