Vengeance: The Chieftain had been accused of treachery and hung. I watch his family flee to the four corners of the land. They cut-off their own tongues to swear a blood-oath of secrecy, vowing to reunite one day only under the banner of hatred. The Erinyes raptured with glee.
Justice: The King had been poisoned and assassinated. I watch his young daughter rally the guards in defense of the castle. Barbarians surround the gates but she wields neither spear nor sword, offering herself in her people’s stead. Athena lent her her Aegis.
A stretch case Fiona thought. The evidence was circumstantial and won’t pass the divorce courts despite having a damning and material impact on the will.
“So how much you want for this?” muttered the leery-eyed informant.
Fiona directed a sharp gaze at the stubby man before pushing the brief back. “These paternity results are under doctor-patient confidentiality. Unearth some legitimate dirt next time.”
“The husband won’t be pleased when I show him this” grunted the annoyed rat turned treacherous.
“Go ahead, they already know” lied Fiona with open disdain that concealed regret. In truth, only the kid didn’t yet know.
Entry to this week’s FFFC!
Apologies for any offenses beforehand 🙂
- Fetch the native!
- Fetch the change!
- Aww… is that your finger of death? Here’s mine
- Et tu Fandango?
- You have some barks on your hands.
- Ruff texture
- Couldn’t give two woofs.
- Thank me for my love!
- He really does love me!
- How narcissists and codependents ideate.
Entry to this week’s WWP!
Delivered on the cusp of night
The child of Nyx saw twilight.
On winter’s eve he first walked.
With sister fates he talked.
Of past lives and last regrets,
Of lost dreams, untimely deaths.
Right the wrongs, voices decreed.
Becometh the figure of destiny.
Selene loved waking up on Sunday mornings. Every week, her husband would pick a different vase of flowers before dawn and leave them by their bedside. Sunflowers energized them for the day. Irises strengthen their devotion and union under God. Before marriage, romance sparked all the varieties of Rose. After childbirth, new beginnings delivered her Daffodils. When she got cancer, Gladiolas gave her strength. When she beat cancer, Chrysanthemums gave her long-life. This continued until old-age and eventually her husband’s passing. On that Sunday funeral, no vase of flowers appeared. Instead, a field of colors bloomed.
Morey’s Piers, New Jersey. Entry to this week’s WPS!
Meridian: A beacon appears on the horizon after a long dry spell. My supplies are running low and my compass desynchronized. I need to re-link with the collective, above and below.
Azimuth: The beacon looms overhead and I enter its orbit. Cycling between hot-to-cold to hot, the center pulsates with a code that I must decipher. Its shards keep me at a distance from the access point.
Zenith: I hear the sonorous commands of my station. His voice booms with my coordinates and the next destination. I split one half to follow.
Nadir: I hear a faint whisper which I’ve known long ago. Her voice is still a riddle but now with a twinge of the mercurial. I lead one half in pursuit.
The school never assigned anyone to locker 328. A century ago, a group of misfits spread a rumor that a kid had lost his hand when he reached into the chasm. The hand was never recovered and the boy had to be sedated after hysterically pawing with a limb for the its return. Since then, the story of the locker took on a life of its own. During the great war, it housed a gateway to a Lovecraftian universe that whispered sacrifices of the flesh. The red scare by the communists converted it into a secret panel that opened a fallout shelter. The age of love transformed it into an altar for every Eastern deity and pagan god, competition for offerings notwithstanding. Columbine to weapon’s cache. 9/11 to terrorist dead drop. Trump’s election to a stuffed ballot box. A decade later, the county demolished the school and built a hospital in its place. The lockers were destroyed but the story lived on as all of them were replaced with drawers.