Category: Flashes Page 1 of 5

Like the Innocent Flower, the Cohuatl Under It

On October 14, 2021

Sulekha crouched behind the effigy. The hissing resounded in the chamber. Its resplendent walls bounced back the echoes of promised violence. Every cohuatl in this room had surely noticed her presence. They were loudmouthed pests, insisting on distracting her from her prayer. She continued chanting the familiar words as she carried the lamp along in its gentle circle through the air. Her thoughts drifted away from the flame which flickered so near her, warming her slightly, and towards the winged beasts that had infested this place. Could there be no place free of them? What food were they finding here? The temple was kept clean; there were no lizards, insects, or whatever else the snakes sought out. They wanted something besides physical nourishment.

Others complained of the cohuatl, but Sulekha had not heard anyone mention seeing them at the temple. It was the highest arrogance to assume- but why had no one said anything? Why were the cohuatl looking at her? That must mean something. Still, she kept her eyes shut as she prayed silently over the flame. If the cohuatl were here for her, they would draw her attention. She put them out of her mind. She completed the ritual, placing the oil lamp gently at the feet of the effigy. From her hair, she removed the flower she had brought with her, and tossed it at the figure of Cor-Nilka. It landed atop a pile of flowers, which had been left during the prayers of others. She smiled, a warm, hopeful thing, which was when the cohuatl hiding within the flowers bit her ankle.

An image of a feathered serpent. Its feathers are green, while the other colors that dominate the serpent are red and yellow.

Broken Vessels in Long-Term Storage

By Járnviðr

On February 15, 2021

In Flashes

Malachai’s hand reaches out. He has attempted escape before. The record of previous attempts pockmark his bodies. Where once, he had been beautiful, now, he is marred. His dark skin, once smooth, is now cracked and broken where the light peeks through. Like sunlight streaming through a moth-eaten curtain, or a bullet-ridden lampshade, his body pours out light onto the dirty floor.

Close-up selective focus on yellowish-white feathers on a white background

Inside this storage locker, time becomes irrelevant. Angels have not been subject to time in the same way humans are; along with their other mutations, their need to engage in basic human functions (some of which would have made themselves very relevant after weeks in here) is absent. Malachai had considered it a blessing, when he was a little boy hearing scripture at his mother’s feet. Before she turned him in.

He had always wondered how they broke them, the angels that he saw kept captive. Angels had power that men and women did not. Besides, how could people enslave their own children? How could people enslave their betters? But after months with his wings crying out for mercy, pinned underneath boxes of hidden, forgotten treasures- he could see childhood toys and awards from even this low vantage point. Malachai had become a curiosity, an old toy that didn’t behave properly. If he had not broken already, he would break soon. He only hoped his body would break before his spirit.

Romantic Tourism

By Járnviðr

On January 27, 2021

In Flashes

Immigration is a time-consuming, expensive process. Maverick didn’t go to Thailand for a girl. His parents taught him better than that. He went to play music. He wanted fame and fortune, and if he got a sweet girl out of that, then who could blame him? The garden of their love needed plenty of water and sunshine, but all he had to give was piss and vinegar. He stepped out on her, and she brought other guys home. Mav missed her whenever he was gone, and she was always there when he flew back in. He still isn’t a citizen.

First Step on the Silk Road

By Járnviðr

On January 18, 2021

In Flashes

An extravagant purchase, his wife calls it. A dangerous fantasy, his father says. A bad idea, says his eldest daughter, surrounded by books and head full of numbers. He ties down the trade goods with ropes. He hires a guard who carries a flail- an odd choice of weapon, but apparently one of the few permissible under the new laws. Half of his family begs him to stay. His youngest son begins to cry when he explains his plan. He knows that he must do something. In order to continue to afford his eldest daughter’s education, he must learn to trade. As his caravan departs across the first stretch of the vast distance through the mountain pass, he looks back longingly at the family that hates him. He hopes they learn to forgive him.

A Ragdoll Heart

By Járnviðr

On January 11, 2021

In Flashes

Everyone breathed easier at the first signs of spring. Infants died during the winter, as did crops, which left everyone a bit shaken. The least among them hardened their hearts against the pain, and then in good times, they sapped everyone else’s strength. Cruelty and senseless suffering visited upon the community again and again, with no sign of abating- during winter, from lack, and during summer, from anger. The gate of spring brought on hope, cheer, and the potential for something fresh and unsullied by reality; freshly-driven snow, melting into water for the fields.

Even when the losses of the season had been particularly bad, Gayle could not cry. She had hardened her heart, but not as many of their young men did. She did not fight, brandishing a knife to steal food for her family. She did not offer shelter, and then demand rents paid in exchange. She did nothing cruel in service of being kind, nor anything kind in service of being cruel. Nothing big. Nothing momentous. Gayle simply did little things, year after year. She walked half the distance to the river, to help the young men with stronger backs as they brought back water from the river. She told stories to the other women’s children, giving them fantasy as a vehicle so that they might learn important lessons. She tied knots, using ropes to hold together the collapsing structures of a town forgotten by its best and brightest. It was this last kindness- this last cruelty- that everyone remembered.

One of her creations lasted for months before it burned in the spring bonfire. The doll made of hair, rags, rope, and straw had taken three years to make, and it burned in the course of several minutes. Gayle replaced it soon enough. She got to work, stealing scraps that she could sew into the next one. The dolls were powerful. The fate of a community, made to rest on a single object. Objects were unlike people, Gayle knew. Objects had no feelings. Objects could not suffer. Unlike the homeless, made to toil to pay for their shelter, or the desperate, killing to feed their baby siblings, Gayle hurt no one when she punished the dolls. They took the punishment uncomplainingly, and when the larders filled through autumn, her neighbors all thanked her. No one asked how, or why.

Gayle did not know why, or how. The dolls had been a family legacy. Her mother had explained to her the process. She had not told her the cost. Most of these things had a cost, said the stories that Gayle told the wide-eyed children who studied at her knee. Gayle did not believe in the cost- or more importantly, Gayle did not care. If there was a cost, she would pay it. Let the cost fall on her. The dolls would absorb the suffering of a whole world if she asked them, and in turn, she would take theirs.

#hoistbyhisowncustard

By Járnviðr

On January 9, 2021

In Flashes

A kind of prudence only comes when knees buckle under the weight of self-imposed limitations. Lenny took a bite of the smelly fruit concoction. All eyes watched him, seeking an intense reaction. He disappointed his audience, and they will rake him over the coals for it. As the jeers come in through the interface, Lenny closes it. In the blink of an eye, all of his followers will abandon him. Various sources of income will dry up. There will be a parade in the streets proclaiming the fall of another great man, hoist by his own petard. As the source of this challenge, Lenny will be mocked, criticized, and judged for how far it has gone. He does not look at his numbers, having no interest in watching them shrink. He lies awake for the rest of the night.

In Concert

By Járnviðr

On December 30, 2020

In Flashes

On the grassy knoll, the people gather. United in common purpose, they laugh, dance, and sing along, off-key. Their tickets are checked before they enter, but once inside, they are part of the chosen. United in common purpose, they sit, stand, and settle in to watch something magnificent. The performers take the stage- the first of them. The night does not begin with the promised singers, their voices and words renowned across the land. It begins with the newcomers, screaming into an uncaring night, into blank faces with their ears waiting on their promised reward. United in common purpose, the audience listens- they are drawn in, distracted from the revel by the unexpected beauty of something unexpected- but they are united in common purpose. The bards take the stage, one at a time. They shout their names, their dreams, their stories at the gathering of humanity. The hill absorbs their sound, the receptive earth accepting this violence against the soil. United in a common purpose, the haggard listeners sing along, and along, and along. The performance carries on, the players of the parts changing places until the band is unrecognizable. In concert, united in a common purpose, everybody enjoys the music.

Suffocating Smoke & Sweltering Steam: Verse, As If In A Dream

By Járnviðr

On December 20, 2020

In Flashes

Crushed underneath the hammer in the crucible by the clearsmith with the limp, the hailstones gathered moisture and began to drip drip drip. They melted as they smelted in a facsimile of alchemy. The master swung hard, a grisly application of his extra strength. The claustrophobic workspace encouraged a faster pace. With extra motivation, he pursued his grand ambition. Crash, gnash, smash- so the tools say. The crystalline structure, with steam rising off in waves. It allows the water to peel off, from the spear of ice. Spear and sword alike, a glaive that changes size, shape, and kind. As the night approaches a later hour, the clearsmith begins to flounder. Left with nothing else to ponder, the craftsman starts to wonder: in a crucible of heat and metal, is evaporation fundamental?

Claustrophobic Conversation

By Járnviðr

On December 13, 2020

In Flashes

“I’m sorry for letting this happen. I should have ended it before it began.”

“That’s not what you were saying last night.”

“We exchanged fluids, but not an ounce of romance.

“That was a whole lot to dump on me before noon. I’m barely awake! Park, scarf down some eggs and bacon. De-stress.”

“…surprisingly enjoyable.”

“Aw, you’re making me blush. I’ve never heard anything so completely over-the-top before. I’ll die of your praise.”

“It’s inimical to cultivating something healthy, or halfway functional. You’ll need therapy after what my cocktail of mental illness, unsavory habits, and- God knows, you don’t deserve this mess.”

“I drove twenty miles past midnight when you broke down on I-95. Maybe I don’t deserve that, but I damn well wanted to do it!”

“Your instinct to mend every broken bird’s wing-what are you doing now?”

“Out. Out, that’s what you want, right, want me to leave, storm off like I’m a kid and you’re the mom because then you get to say ‘told you so’! Not like I can leave anyway, or you’ll pull out the contact tracing charts. Screw you, lover boy. And your little dog, too.”

“He’s not my pet, primarily-”

“Our pet! See, this is why Rach stopped hanging out with us.”

“Please, explain. How is your tiff with your friend my fault?”

“Argh! Shut up and just- I’m here because I want you! I love you! Why are you the dumb one when you majored in Faulkner or Aristotle or whatever?”

“Prosperity and comfort don’t make a home. You’ve been unhappy.”

“Sure, I have! We’re stuck together in this pressure cooker because someone wanted to hold onto our UST more than he wanted to fuck his boyfriend.”

“Girlfriend.”

“God, I know you didn’t just correct me for misgendering myself. This is about your ‘sexuality crisis’, isn’t it, well, maybe I used to be your girlfriend and now I’m your boyfriend. Just because I was always- I heard myself, don’t put on your ‘well, actually’ face. Used to be boyfriend, now girlfriend. This is the problem, is that when I try to acknowledge the positive, you make sure I know where the negative is, even though we’re both living through the same pandemic! Let me slip up, trip up, say the wrong thing- nobody is judging you! It’s you and me and God and I’m not that sure about the last one!”

“Should I attempt to lighten the mood with a joke about Continental philosophy?”

“Hah. Thanks.”

“I am sorry. I don’t believe my assessment is unsupported by the evidence, but I apologize for bringing it up now. We can defer the decision.”

“Yeah. We’re not breaking up. We’re not on a break. We’re thinking, and- and waiting- we weren’t even together. It’s like Schrodinger’s dating. We still live together. I just- I am not being broken up with over breakfast I made for you in our shared apartment. We can figure it out after.”

“Speaking of what happens after, I finished planning the post-COVID vacation. Let me show you the slideshow.”

Source of Heat & Light

By Járnviðr

On December 8, 2020

In Flashes

After the first lump of coal, Thousand did not question anything. It wasn’t that she saw no value in compassion, or kindness, or other traditional virtues. It was that the statistics promised little chance of redemption. With just a bit of arcane struggle, a crack snapped the chunk of carbon repeatedly. All that was left was a black powder that she could use to fill in the stencil. She opened the drape and cast the prayer. No, it was not that she was unwilling to do what was right. In fact, her recent actions had been so far outside her comfort zone that it wasn’t funny.

Pieces of coal with a reddish-fire peeking out from underneath them

(Photo by Nikolay Kovalenko | Colin Viessmann)

Intermittent acts of violence, widespread fraud, and a loose understanding of consent had marked the past several months. She hadn’t made a decision she could be proud of in even longer than that. If there was anything left of her soul, it lay sodden with the blood she had shed- through action and inaction alike. Thousand did not question anything; she knew that now all she could do was win. There was no chance of playing fair. She sent lumps of coal, now, instead of receiving them, and watched as the recipients were slowly overwhelmed with luminescence.