It's Halloween Flash Fiction Story Time: Mrs. Shackles' Pumpkin Patch

The ground beneath Lucy Shackles’ pumpkin patch was unusually hot and dry for Autumn. Lucy Shackles stomped her heels releasing pockets of foul air. “Small harvest,” she grumbled and picked up a handful of soil. “Need better fertilizer.”

When evening fell, vines shuddered, and earth’s groans ascended from the pumpkin patch; ghoulish giggles echoed into the night sky ’till a loud knock rattled Mrs. Shackles’ cottage. When she opened the door, a long shadow loomed onto her wooden floor.

“Hello, Mrs. Shackles.” A tall, thin boy stepped out of the darkness. His red hair too stringy; his head too big. “I’m Jack.” He shook off crumbs of dirt and wisps of mist. “Small crop this year.” Jack lifted his lantern.

“Just need one pumpkin.”

“Yes, and who shall I carve it for?”

“Lily.”

Jack crunched his eyebrows. “And Lily is …?”

“You’ll see in the morning.” Mrs. Shackles hurried Jack off her porch and watched him shuffle into the pumpkin patch.

When the sun rose, costumed children ran about in a sea of orange. Mrs. Shackles trudged through waves of little goblins, witches and elves and found Jack playing tag with them. “Jack! Did you carve a pumpkin for Lily?”

“Of course!” Jack pointed to a pumpkin, with two hollow eyes and a triangle nose, grinning a toothy smile.

“Well, that’s not scary at all. Kindda looks like you.”

Jack shrugged his shoulders.

At sunset, when all the children had gone, Mrs. Shackles and Jack sat on the steps of the porch.

“No Lily, Mrs. Shackles?” Jack tilted his head; apple cider dribbling from his lips. “Who is she anyhow?”

“Dr. Payne’s ten-year-old daughter. … Such a beautiful child. He claims she’s very clumsy. His way of explaining her bruises, cuts, and broken bones. ‘Lily crashed into a glass window,’ he says, ‘and fell out of it too.’”

“Dr. Payne?” Jack sighed. “ The dentist?”

Just then a shiny new sedan rolled into the driveway.

“Speak of the devil,” Lucy Shackles muttered.

The dentist, a husky man, opened the door and yanked out a little girl. She fell on her knees and cried, wiping blood from her nose. When she spotted the pumpkin patch, she held back the tears.

“Pumpkins!” She dusted herself off and stumbled into the pumpkin patch. “See Daddy, I didn’t make us late.”

Jack skipped toward her; Mrs. Shackles followed. “You must be Lily.”

With little scarred hands, Lily covered the bruise on her neck.

Dr. Payne cleared his throat. “We just came for a pumpkin, and we’ll be on our way.”

“That pumpkin?” Jack raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, we’ll take it.” The dentist reached for his wallet. “How much?”

“It’s not for sale.”

Lily bowed her head. “It’s not?”

Mrs. Shackles grabbed Lily’s hand. “Come inside, Lily. I’ve got a special pumpkin just for you, and some warm cider too.”

Alone in the pumpkin patch with Jack, Dr. Payne’s knees became very wobbly as Jack’s eyes lit up like flames and smiled a toothy smile.

By the time Lily and Mrs. Shackles walked through the door of the cottage, Jack’s pumpkin had tasted blood. Vines wrapped around Dr. Payne’s mouth so he couldn’t scream; around his neck so he couldn’t breathe; around his arms and legs so his bones would break. Then the ground imploded and swallowed him whole.

“Wait for me!” Jack picked up his lantern. “Bye, Mrs. Shackles! “twill be a better crop next year!” He leapt through the air and dove into the hungry soil.

Mrs. Shackles sang a happy tune as Jack’s ghoulish giggles faded away. “See you next year, Jack.”

aka Deborah L. Alten
pumpkin photograph by Aaron Jacoby

Read more Halloween haunts with Mrs. Shackles.




Mrs. Shackles' Pumpkin Patch by Deborah L. Alten is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Flash Fiction: Priest: Truth and Consequences

The following flash fiction is included in "Short Tales of Secret Worlds" now available on Kindle.

~~*~~

“Make certain the tower is locked, and the priest still breathes. Then get out. The portal closes within the hour.” Gad retracted his battle-torn wings as he gave J’than his orders.

The soldier nodded and reached for his M16.

“Don’t bother.” Gad shook his head. “Your weapons cannot go through the portal. However, the Watcher’s sword rests atop the tower. The Nephilim left it there. For the priest I suppose.”

J’than frowned. He clenched his fists which wrapped his body armor around him from head to foot. Taking a breath, he stepped through the portal. But on the other side, hydrogen sulfide infiltrated his lungs. He coughed till he managed to activate his oxygen pack. This was the unfamiliar world. The one men tried not to believe in.

The Glory of Reims

J’than located the tower. Horrid cries, voices within the walls—exhausted voices—screamed for mercy. The soldier stood both in awe and fear of the tower. Yellowy-brown mortar oozed between the bricks, spitting out drops of red. Blood. “Still fresh.” Vines and roots choked the craggy stones, strangling life from each layer. The roots dripped with pungent liquid. And a constant banging of broken bones clanged through living walls.

He ignored the pleas. His job was to secure the tower. “Flight.” J’than’s voice-command equipped his body armor with wings: F22-Raptor particles. He fortified the tower, every lock he bolted, every crack and hole he sealed.

He found the sword. It was longer than he expected and heavier. With weapon in hand he walked into a cold cave. There he saw the priest. A pouch of coins dangled from his tattered belt. His pale blue hand clutched a bloody sword. Red veins lined his black eyes. And an open wound, unable to heal, scarred his neck. “Where is your sign? Let me see your forehead.”

J’than’s grip on his sword tightened. “No sign.”

“No sign! No pass!” Then, with unexpected velocity, the priest charged toward J’than.

They clashed midair. Sword upon sword, resonating through cavern walls.

“Who are you?” J’than hollered as iron ignited.

“You can’t kill me. I’m already dead. We could fight for eternity.”

“You wouldn’t last. Just tell me who you are and I might let you live.” J’than backed away, though his sword pointed at the priest’s face.

“I betrayed Him, you know. With a kiss no less.” Saliva trickled from the priest’s lips.

“This I knew,” J’than replied, “I just needed to hear you confess it.” The soldier slashed the pouch with his sword which scattered the silver coins. “Your reward!”

The priest scrambled to gather his coins but J’than grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and lifted him off the ground. “Scelestus. Traitor! You truly are lost.” He threw the priest’s body onto the parched ground. Thump! Bones rattled and broke.

The priest staggered to his feet. “Go then. Perdition waits. Why you travel here is none of my concern. You will not return.”

“I came to make sure you had not found a way out.”

The priest stroked the wound on his neck. “Did they kill Him?”

“Who?”

“The One who sang all worlds into being.”

J’than walked toward the closing portal. “Yes, they did. But three days later he rose. I didn’t believe it myself until I saw you. I’m guessing it’s why they sent me.”

The portal closed. The soldier was gone. Pockets of lava seeped through the parched land. The gnashing of teeth grew louder. The ancient tree appeared and a noose slithered down. The priest hung himself … again. Three days later, breath returned to him. He sighed. Eternity … “This is Hell.”

~~*~~

Easter Poems
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King On A Cross
The Fray:
It's only hell when Heaven's in your view ... but you can't get there.
The Cross Is Still Divine

Easter Flash Fiction Judas Priest

I am A Writer, My Family Doesn't Know

So you're a writer. Does your family know? Do they encourage you on your writing journey? I'm not quite sure if my family knows. If they do know, they're not telling anyone. Maybe I'm wrong. After all I'm not around any of them 24/7. I could use a little help here. 

I was talking to my cousin in Australia and send her a link to my flash fiction. Yeah, I write flash fiction on Yahoo because I can't sit around and wait for that big book deal. And when my novel does get published, we have plans, there's still no guarantee that it will be on the New York Best Seller's list. So writing articles, recipes and flash fiction is the in-between plan to put food on the table.

In any case, my family down under didn't really know I was a writer. Could be, that I'm not good at selling, or rather promoting, myself. Too much to learn.

This post then, is for my family. I mean come check this out. I'm a writer!

Flash Fiction:
Where Dragons Live
The Whisperer's Daughter
Jesha: When Worlds Collide (my first Steampunk short)
The Dying World
Light of the World: The Christmas Planet

So dear family, I hope you'll come and see what I do. But then again, you probably don't know I blog.




writing online
a writer's life

Flash Fiction: Jesha: When Worlds Collide

By Debby Alten

"You never called him King?" Ráh wrapped the silk scarlet cord around her wrist. She dipped a cotton towel into dirty water and rinsed the blood off the warrior's face.

"We did … call him King. He said it did not suit him." The warrior sat up. "In my world, when the last king passed, Jesha took the throne. We just let it be. Strange really, though it seemed right."

Outside the arched windows, war ravaged the city. Ráh's ear hugged the wall. "Listen." In the distance, lowly chants of a thousand voices echoed from the ocean's shore. "Jesha …" She turned to the warrior. "They say he was born a slave."

"Thus the scars on his back." The warrior eased to his feet. Smells of spilt fuel filtered through shattered glass. His eyes widened as another airship fell from the sky. "This city will fall." With every blast the blade of his sword rattled amongst the rubble. "It doesn't seem that--"

Read More ...

Flash Fiction: A Knight's Armor

By Debby Alten

Illustration by Michael Rogers

For two weeks a steady rain had battered the ancient forest. Malatthias was cold and hungry, the weight of his armor tiresome. By the time the second moon rose he wore but his tattered shirt and bloodstained pants, his sword still sheathed. A thick cloak covered him and part of his horse, Mayllyn.

Suddenly, a snarl came from above. Malatthias looked up. She was dark and beautiful and for the moment the disenchanted knight was mesmerized. Look away. He could not speak. She slowly descended toward him. "I am Kteress." It was more like a hiss than a woman's voice.

Mayllyn stood straight up on her hind legs, plunging the knight into the thistles and thorns. He scrambled to his feet but Kteress was on him within a blink of an eye. Her claws dug around and into his throat.

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Flash Fiction: Charley Bates' Funeral

By Mary Findley

Illustration by Mary Findley

Two hours had been advertised for the visitation this evening. The curtain at the front opened of its own accord and we saw the barrow carrier behind it, curtains drawn to the back, fully exposing the fragrant, wrapped body of Charley Bates resting on it.

The class of people who began to trickle in paid no compliment to his own character or the company he kept. These filthy, shuffling, shifty-eyed mourners filed in and passed by Bates' body before finding seats. We kept a careful watch.

Madame Phoebe's glorious voice poured out prayer and praise and we saw wonder, discomfort, all manner of emotions, flicker across the faces of the newer arrivals.

We had to force ourselves to remember that we were in this place, for more than just the solution to a mystery. This angelic voice reminded us that God controlled what seemed like madness and mayhem to our weak human vision. To their credit, this rabble quieted their whispers and cackles and snorts upon entering. Reverend Ferrars shook the hand of every stranger in that strange assembly, producing much more discomfort.

"We welcome you all here," Madame Phoebe said. "This is not a church, but we who believe in Christ have brought Him here in our hearts. Do not harden your own hearts, but let Him do a work here tonight."

"Gracious Heavenly Father," Edward said, "You brought Charley Bates to us, though he thought he came of his own will, to do his own will. Instead he found Christ. You have now brought these others, people who thought they came of their own will, for their own reasons. May we see these find Christ as well. You have not taken Charley from us, but merely brought him home to yourself. In Christ's name we have come, and in His Name we say Amen.

"The book of Job always comes to mind when I think of funerals. Think of the horrible incidents where Satan attacked Job. Think of all that he lost and all that he suffered. But remember that God said to Satan, 'Spare his life'.

"And God did protect Job's life. Not that it mattered to Job about his physical life. His wife nagged him to 'Curse God, and die', but Job said, 'Though He slay me, yet will I trust him'. We who take every precaution to protect, nourish, and cherish our physical bodies and lives cannot comprehend this. 'Though this body be destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God,' Job assured us.

"In the New Testament, Christ says, 'I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die. Believest thou this?' He said this on his way to the tomb of a dead man. Do you know what He meant?

"Stop thinking you must serve a wicked master because only he will feed you, shelter you, protect you. Let God free you from domination. Charley Bates fell into our company from a great height and no doubt thought his life was over. Understand that you must lose your life to save it, by falling into the everlasting arms of God. Those arms are always underneath us, and they will catch us."

I put my arm around Kera because she began to tremble beside me. I made a note to gently teach my little vessel not to be afraid to be in the presence of our God. Madame Phoebe laid a comforting hand on Oliver Twist as he began to weep, overcome by his memories, his pain, and perhaps truly at the thought of Charley Bates having been so briefly his brother in Christ.

~~*****~~

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flash fiction Mary Findley

Flash Fiction: Where Dragons Live

By Debby Alten

(551 words)

"There are no more dragons, sir." Gha'enna caressed the innkeeper's face with the back of her sun-bronzed fingers. "Perhaps you'd be so kind as to pour me a pint of ale, slice me a piece of bread, and spare me a bowl of warm stew." Her lips were close to his, her nimble fingers unfastened the buttons of his disheveled shirt. "Here's me last few pence."

He trembled at the mere touch of her skin on his. "Keep it."


Read more ... 





Knight & Dragon by Eleon

Flash Fiction: Patty-Cake

By Mary Findley

Magazine Cover by Sarah Alten

"Patty-Cake, Patty-Cake, Baker's man ..." Dr. Isabel Regis sat on the floor in a black evening gown, her golden hair in diamond combs. Julie, the baby sitter, folded into place.

"Bake me a cake as fast as you can ... " Julie kept up the rhythm. Emily squealed as her mother joined her dress-uniform-clad father in the doorway.

“So beautiful,” Captain Lincoln Regis murmured into her ear.

“We haven’t had a night alone in three years.”

“My coma, Baby Emily, or Baby Sentinels, nonstop. God gave us people who made us come out of our den and be civilized for one night.”

“It was nice getting all dressed up, fussing over me instead of diapers and wipes.”

“Or plexiglass housings or fiberoptic cable or …” Linc opened the car door for her. “Hey, could we skip the reception and ... ?”

“The marines would come looking. What if they found us?” Izzy giggled. “How can they honor us for our work in cheap clean energy, anti-gravity and robotics if we don’t come to our own reception? The Lord brought us here, and expects us to do everything decently and in order.”

The Sentinel on the sidewalk waved its tentacles as if saying good-bye. It floated five feet off the ground, egg-shaped, bronze-colored plexiglass glowing with Izzite gas power: light and buoyancy. Its red forward sensor panel followed the car out of sight.

***************

Two black figures flitted behind the house. The Sentinel moved. A soundless flash filled the night air. The Sentinel lay on the ground, tentacles twitching and groping, energy core pulsing and sizzling. The saboteurs continued.

A second Sentinel met them at the rear of the single-story quadrangle of buildings housing apartments and the research team laboratories. Another silent explosion knocked the Sentinel against the wall shattered its globe and rocked the whole building.

Julie had put Emily to bed and gone to the bathroom. Terrified, she discovered the door was jammed. She pounded on the door, screaming for help. She could hear Emily begin to cry in the nursery.

Two saboteurs rounded the front of the Regis house. A third Sentinel appeared in the open garage. This one had perfectly round housing, almost clear, faintly golden. It hovered almost six feet above the ground and its tentacles were longer and thicker. It had no visible sensory devices.

One intruder tossed a bomb, signaling the other to run. The Sentinel seemed to drift. The brilliant flash obscured it for a moment. When the light faded the front of the Regis home was blown away. The Sentinel, however, continued moving toward the saboteurs. One threw another explosive. The Sentinel's tentacles reached for the two saboteurs and drew them toward itself. Both screamed.

***************

“Now, now, Captain, Doctor, I know it looks bad, but everything’s okay,” the marine guarding the ruined front of the Regis house assured them. “We’re getting the babysitter out of the bathroom. You need to get your little girl.”

Linc and Izzy tore down the hall. Just inside the nursery door they skidded to a halt.

“Well, we prayed that the new design would be an improvement,” Linc whispered.

“More durable, more adaptable.” Izzy nodded. “Just like God helped us plan it.”

“Did we – um – did you –”

“I did not plan that.”

Emily sat up in her crib, reaching her chubby hands toward the waving tentacles of the Ultra Sentinel as it hovered over her. She patted the tentacles which seemed to be patting back. “Pa-Cake!”

*****

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