Blackdirge's Vignette Vagabonds & Homeless Heroes (Updated 12/12/16 - "Phylactery")
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
Phylactery
This another horror flash fiction story born of the same one-hour writing exercise I used to do on a bi-weekly basis. With a limit of 1,000 words and just and hour to write, the end rushes up on you fast with these things. Sometimes the stories work regardless, and I've sold a bunch that began life as flash writing exercises. What follows is one where I like the premise, I like the characters, but I think I'd need another 1,000 to 2,000 words to tell the story properly.
Anyway, it's got a very D&D-esque title.
Phylactery
“Can we please leave?” Robert said, and set a tiny frosted glass swan back on a rickety cafeteria-style table. This particular table was loaded with tiny glass animals: glass frogs, glass ducks, glass rabbits, you name it. It was exactly the kind of useless (and worthless) junk you always found at garage sales, but despite the mountains of used Tupperware, the piles of ancient VHS tapes and CDs, his wife dearly loved to sift through the cast-off debris of middle-class America.
Every time they drove through a residential neighborhood, Laura kept an eye out for the hastily scribbled construction-paper signs posted on telephone poles and lampposts. To her, these signs pointed to an endless possibility of treasures just waiting to be found in a nearby driveway or front yard. To Robert, they meant standing in someone’s impromptu junkyard bored out of his mind.
“Yeah, just a sec,” Laura said from across the cement driveway of the dilapidated bungalow she’d forced him to seek out, following nauseating lime green signs declaring “Garrage Sale!” ad “Every Thing Must Go!” She was hunched over a collection of jewelry boxes, mismatched china, and other random gewgaws. He watched her reach for a small carved wooden box, but a gaunt elderly woman in a shapeless green dress standing next to her snatched it away before Laura could pick it up. “Oh, sorry,” Laura said, jerking her hand back. The woman frowned at her, then turned and walked toward the open garage. There the proprietor of this little bazaar, a withered old man in a ratty straw hat, sat in front of a three-legged card table, one gnarled, veiny hand resting atop a battered tin money box.
“How much for this?” asked the woman in the green dress.
The old man tilted his hat up with one finger, his rheumy eyes running up and down his potential customer. He said nothing for a moment, then smiled, showing a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. “Sorry, lady,” he said. “That box isn’t for you.”
“What?” the woman said, her brow furrowing. “Why not?”
“It’s not for you,” the old man repeated. “It’s for her.” He leaned forward and pointed at Laura.
“Ridiculous!” the fat woman shouted, her face crinkled in outrage. She tossed the wooden box on the old man’s card table, causing it to sway and nearly tip over, then turned and stalked out of the driveway.
Robert had moved to stand next to his wife during the altercation, and he put one hand on the small of her back and leaned close. “Can we please get the hell out of here,” he said softly. “This is got to be one of the sorriest collections of garbage you’ve dragged me to in weeks.”
Laura turned and kissed his cheek. “One more minute,” she said. “I like that box. Plus he said it was for me.” She winked at him and then approached the old man.
He picked up the wooden box from the card table and held it out for Laura. “Here. It belonged to my wife. I got it in Japan during the war.”
Laura smiled and accepted the box, running her hands over the polished wood. Robert could see it was actually a pretty thing, made of teak or mahogany with an inlay of mother of pearl, a rare diamond in a pasture of manure. He came up behind her to get a closer look.
Laura opened the box, and Robert, looking over her shoulder, saw it held a single faded Polaroid photograph. He glanced over at the old man and saw he was staring at Laura intently, his mouth working silently, his eyes fixed on her hands. She reached in and picked up the photo. It showed a man and a woman seated at a table, arms around one another. They were dressed up in what looked like mid-70s dress clothes, and both looked very happy. The man was obviously the proprietor of the garage sale, some forty years younger. The woman looked to be in her early forties, her long hair black and lustrous, her fairly average face made pretty by her vivid green eyes.
“Your wife?” Laura asked, setting the picture back in the box and closing the lid.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s my pretty Amanda. You look a little like her.”
Way to sell it, dude, Robert thought. Laura was blonde, had blue eyes, and looked nothing like the woman in the photograph. The old man was starting to creep him out.
“Thanks,” Laura said. “Are you sure you want to sell the box?”
“Sell it? No, ma’am. I want you to take it.” He rose from the card table. “And the picture. Amanda would want a pretty girl like you to have it.”
“Oh, okay,” Laura said, obviously a little embarrassed. “Are you sure?”
“Please take the box,” Robert whispered. “So we can leave.”
“The rest will be here when you get back,” the old man said. He looked strangely gleeful.
Robert frowned at the old man, wondering what he meant, but he had his wife by the shoulders and was gently steering her toward their parked car. He was home free and uninterested in anything else the old geezer had to say. Minutes later they were safely ensconced in the Acura and driving away.
Laura had the box on her lap. It was open, and she was looking at the picture within. She said very little on the drive home, barely responding to his efforts at conversation. She was completely intent on the photo, her eyes hazy and unfocused.
When they got home, Robert was feeling guilty for being so pushy at the garage sale. He got out first, went around the car, and opened the door for his wife. She was still looking at the picture, but when the door opened, she set it back in the box and closed the lid. She turned her face up to him and smiled.
Her eyes were brilliant emerald green.
This another horror flash fiction story born of the same one-hour writing exercise I used to do on a bi-weekly basis. With a limit of 1,000 words and just and hour to write, the end rushes up on you fast with these things. Sometimes the stories work regardless, and I've sold a bunch that began life as flash writing exercises. What follows is one where I like the premise, I like the characters, but I think I'd need another 1,000 to 2,000 words to tell the story properly.
Anyway, it's got a very D&D-esque title.
Phylactery
“Can we please leave?” Robert said, and set a tiny frosted glass swan back on a rickety cafeteria-style table. This particular table was loaded with tiny glass animals: glass frogs, glass ducks, glass rabbits, you name it. It was exactly the kind of useless (and worthless) junk you always found at garage sales, but despite the mountains of used Tupperware, the piles of ancient VHS tapes and CDs, his wife dearly loved to sift through the cast-off debris of middle-class America.
Every time they drove through a residential neighborhood, Laura kept an eye out for the hastily scribbled construction-paper signs posted on telephone poles and lampposts. To her, these signs pointed to an endless possibility of treasures just waiting to be found in a nearby driveway or front yard. To Robert, they meant standing in someone’s impromptu junkyard bored out of his mind.
“Yeah, just a sec,” Laura said from across the cement driveway of the dilapidated bungalow she’d forced him to seek out, following nauseating lime green signs declaring “Garrage Sale!” ad “Every Thing Must Go!” She was hunched over a collection of jewelry boxes, mismatched china, and other random gewgaws. He watched her reach for a small carved wooden box, but a gaunt elderly woman in a shapeless green dress standing next to her snatched it away before Laura could pick it up. “Oh, sorry,” Laura said, jerking her hand back. The woman frowned at her, then turned and walked toward the open garage. There the proprietor of this little bazaar, a withered old man in a ratty straw hat, sat in front of a three-legged card table, one gnarled, veiny hand resting atop a battered tin money box.
“How much for this?” asked the woman in the green dress.
The old man tilted his hat up with one finger, his rheumy eyes running up and down his potential customer. He said nothing for a moment, then smiled, showing a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. “Sorry, lady,” he said. “That box isn’t for you.”
“What?” the woman said, her brow furrowing. “Why not?”
“It’s not for you,” the old man repeated. “It’s for her.” He leaned forward and pointed at Laura.
“Ridiculous!” the fat woman shouted, her face crinkled in outrage. She tossed the wooden box on the old man’s card table, causing it to sway and nearly tip over, then turned and stalked out of the driveway.
Robert had moved to stand next to his wife during the altercation, and he put one hand on the small of her back and leaned close. “Can we please get the hell out of here,” he said softly. “This is got to be one of the sorriest collections of garbage you’ve dragged me to in weeks.”
Laura turned and kissed his cheek. “One more minute,” she said. “I like that box. Plus he said it was for me.” She winked at him and then approached the old man.
He picked up the wooden box from the card table and held it out for Laura. “Here. It belonged to my wife. I got it in Japan during the war.”
Laura smiled and accepted the box, running her hands over the polished wood. Robert could see it was actually a pretty thing, made of teak or mahogany with an inlay of mother of pearl, a rare diamond in a pasture of manure. He came up behind her to get a closer look.
Laura opened the box, and Robert, looking over her shoulder, saw it held a single faded Polaroid photograph. He glanced over at the old man and saw he was staring at Laura intently, his mouth working silently, his eyes fixed on her hands. She reached in and picked up the photo. It showed a man and a woman seated at a table, arms around one another. They were dressed up in what looked like mid-70s dress clothes, and both looked very happy. The man was obviously the proprietor of the garage sale, some forty years younger. The woman looked to be in her early forties, her long hair black and lustrous, her fairly average face made pretty by her vivid green eyes.
“Your wife?” Laura asked, setting the picture back in the box and closing the lid.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s my pretty Amanda. You look a little like her.”
Way to sell it, dude, Robert thought. Laura was blonde, had blue eyes, and looked nothing like the woman in the photograph. The old man was starting to creep him out.
“Thanks,” Laura said. “Are you sure you want to sell the box?”
“Sell it? No, ma’am. I want you to take it.” He rose from the card table. “And the picture. Amanda would want a pretty girl like you to have it.”
“Oh, okay,” Laura said, obviously a little embarrassed. “Are you sure?”
“Please take the box,” Robert whispered. “So we can leave.”
“The rest will be here when you get back,” the old man said. He looked strangely gleeful.
Robert frowned at the old man, wondering what he meant, but he had his wife by the shoulders and was gently steering her toward their parked car. He was home free and uninterested in anything else the old geezer had to say. Minutes later they were safely ensconced in the Acura and driving away.
Laura had the box on her lap. It was open, and she was looking at the picture within. She said very little on the drive home, barely responding to his efforts at conversation. She was completely intent on the photo, her eyes hazy and unfocused.
When they got home, Robert was feeling guilty for being so pushy at the garage sale. He got out first, went around the car, and opened the door for his wife. She was still looking at the picture, but when the door opened, she set it back in the box and closed the lid. She turned her face up to him and smiled.
Her eyes were brilliant emerald green.
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