Flash Fiction

The Beginning of the End

Ryan Yarber Flash Fiction, Stories Tags: Leave a comment

Rowan stepped onto the spongy earth floor and a small ache fluttered through his chest. This was his favorite place. He had a hammock and a small stock of canned beverages a mile or so to the south. There were few predators in this forest capable of causing him harm, though he couldn’t say as much for the smaller species that inhabited the branches above. The ache wasn’t regret or guilt or envy, it was from a sadness that he could not stay here, and an even greater sadness that the forest may not be here if he ever had another chance to visit. It wasn’t very often he happened upon the forest at the end of the world. With a sigh, he turned back to the heavy wooden door just as it closed with a thud. The door looked out of place here, set in the middle of a boulder that sat nearly thirty feet wide and half again as tall. Rowan suspected it was a perfect sphere that was half-buried in the soft earth. He would never know and he never felt the need to know. He didn’t have to think about anything while he was here. That’s why he liked it so much. He could just be. Except the hour had grown critical.

He opened the thick, wooden door with little effort and tried to peer inside at his next destination. It was pitch black. It always was until he stepped through, but he liked to prepare himself nonetheless. He took a deep breath and went inside. The damp heat of the forest vanished as he was assaulted by the crushing weight of freezing water. His buoyant body began floating above the door. He had entered the door at the bottom of the ocean. His least favorite place. He began swimming, propelling himself toward the stone door that remained open as the current coursed through its frame. His arms pushed and his legs kicked but he continued to float upward. His woolen trousers and leather boots offered little assistance in his attempt to sink toward the door. His thin, cotton shirt enveloped him like smoke. Before the panic welling inside him could surface, he remembered what to do and began to slowly let the air out of his lungs. The stream of bubbles shot upward until he became suspended. He moved neither upward nor downward. He let more air out and he began, slowly, to sink until his heavy boots touched the ocean floor. He leaned, walked and floated his way to the door and pushed it shut against the current. Then he opened it and stepped through as quickly as he could.

He fell onto the cobblestone of Harehall Lane. Several people bustled by giving his sprawled-out form a wide birth. He gulped in lungfuls of air as water pooled around him. The iron gate clicked shut behind him as he gathered himself on his feet. His limbs burned from the lack of oxygen and he continued breathing heavily as he got up and made his way up the street toward Doctor Nesbitt’s place.

Rowan didn’t bother with entering the back door, as was Nesbitt’s strict request to maintain his secrecy regarding his function as a member of The Foundation. He didn’t bother because his news was urgent and he was certain Nesbitt would scold him for seconds lost, so he burst through the front door, through the foyer, and into the study. Nesbitt was not in the study so he wandered through a hallway until her heard shouting behind him.

“I don’t care how it got here. Clean it up immediately. I don’t want to see a single drop when I return.” He recognized the voice as Mistress Beatrice. Despite his instinctive nature to avoid the bitter old woman, he forced himself to intercept her.

“Mistress Beatrice. Ma’am, I-”

“You!” her eyes blazed as she watched his saturated clothes continue to drip onto the hardwood. “I should have known it was you. No matter. Perhaps this will finally convince the doctor to be rid of you for good. Come.”

He did not argue. He knew full-well what any retort would earn him, and silence would get him to the doctor faster so he followed obediently as she navigated the halls. They ended up in the observation room where the doctor would meet patients outside of the hospital and others who could not afford house calls. Mistress Beatrice rapped on the door and entered.

“Doctor Nesbitt, sir, I found this rascal running through the foyer sopping wet. I am unsure where all he has trespassed, but I have set Wilkins to cleaning up before the floor is damaged.”

Dr. Nesbitt held a hand up to stop her. She hesitated, obviously prepared with a rant to destroy any reputation Rowan had, but she remained silent at the doctor’s order. Nesbitt glanced at Rowan briefly but managed to take all of him in. He returned to the little girl sitting in a chair against the wall and finished wrapping her arm in a cotton sling.

“Make sure you are gentle with the arm for at least two weeks. That means no fetching water. If your mum has issues with this, have her come speak to me. Come back if it still hurts next month.” He ushered the girl out of the chair and stood. “Beatrice,” he stared her straight in the eyes, “please see little Alana to the door.”

“But doctor-”

“Beatrice.” His inflection froze her. Her temper from moments ago seemingly vanished. “I will have words with the boy.” The answer offered little satisfaction but she accepted it as if they were a promise of punishment. She guided the girl from the room and disappeared. Nesbitt shut the door behind her.

“This better be urgent. We agreed only the back door, and only after the streetlamps were lit. If this is simply a lapse…”

“The Anvil has broken,” Rowan nearly shouted.

Nesbitt’s eyes bulged and he stumbled. Rowan helped him to a chair. “Who has confirmed it?” he asked.

“Aedmon himself. I heard it from Maltair and was sent to notify everyone.”

“Are any other messengers active with this knowledge?”

“None that I know, but I have not seen any since given the order.”

“I will tell any who arrive here. Now go. Tell as many as you can. I fear there is little this world can do in its current state, but I will do what I can to prepare and assist. Spread word of my intentions. They will know what little I can offer.” Nesbitt  got up and ushered him to the door. “Run. Do not stop until they have all been told. We will not last without everyone present. We may not last even then.” The last sentence he said as if to himself. Rowan did not wait long enough to hear what followed. He ran through the halls, his clothes still dripping a trail behind him, and out the front door. He sped across the cobblestones to the iron gate and opened it. His breathing was heavy but he took a breath and stepped through.

The heat hit his face. The world was on fire and the arid earth absorbed the few drops that still fell from his clothes. The air soon ate away the remaining moisture. He hated this place, but it was the location of another member, perhaps the strongest, so he continued through the blazing air toward the mountain across the barren land in front of him. He ran despite the heat. He ran as if the world were ending. For all he knew, it may have already started.

Burden of Prominence

Ryan Yarber Flash Fiction, Stories Tags: Leave a comment

Sashi was growing tired of her reputation. Even in her self-imposed exile she was visited by a new challenger once a week, and every week she dug a new grave. Becoming the greatest swordsman, in her case swordswoman, had been her dream since she was a child. She’d practiced throughout her life, defying her family’s wishes, until she achieved it. Her sword became a part of her. She could survive on her blade alone, and she has done so for the past twelve years.

The emperor’s tournament was where her dream began to sour. Her reputation as a swordswoman was vaguely known in her village, but it was enough for her nomination when the messengers came. She traveled to the capital with excitement, ready to show everyone her swordsmanship, but she was ill-prepared for what was to come. She watched the first match from the fighter’s box. She remembered trying to focus on the fight, but kept stealing glances at the emperor and his elaborate throng of guards. She imagined herself among them. A round of applause had returned her attention to the fight or, rather, the end of it. The winner was bowing to the emperor while the other lay dead as servants came to drag him away and clean the blood before the next fight. Sashi never looked at the emperor again.

She had entered the tournament believing it would follow the rules of sparring and not being decided by fatal blows. After all, what was the purpose of a tournament of swords if only one skilled warrior remained? It was a waste. Sashi had not yet drawn her blade with the intent to kill, but she now knew she must if she were to survive.

Many of the other fighters wielded swords or axes. A few fought with weapons she had never seen before. Many wore armor of either leather or wood. Sashi wore only her grey kimono. She had brought nothing else believing only her sword was needed for these fights. She still believed this but was thankful she had forgone the more elegant kimono she considered wearing in the emperor’s presence. Her grey kimono allowed her full range of motion.

The large men in the fighter’s box believed she was lost and threw her out. She continued watching the tournament with the local peasants in the standing area until her name was called. She entered the fighting ground and was greeted with silence before laughter erupted. Her heart beat swiftly, as a bird’s after a long flight. The laughter died at the emperor’s gesture and her contender was announced. A large boulder of a man entered wielding a flail nearly as big as she was. One spike would be enough to end her.

The fight began. Sashi dodged the flail and delivered her first cut on the man’s waist just below his armor. It was shallow, barely drawing blood. He grunted and swung again as he turned on her. She was caught off guard and had to dive to escape from being impaled. She dodged again and gained her footing. Her enemy was slow but powerful. She would need to rely on her speed and her reach to sneak beneath the man’s armor if she were to stand a chance. She had to draw out the fight and use her superior stamina to her advantage. She used her small cuts to instigate the large man into attacking. He grew tired as the seconds went by. She maintained her efforts and delivered cut after cut. Each one increased the man’s rage and efforts until he was thoroughly spent. Her final cut, though shallow, was still enough to sever the carotid artery.

She fought six more men before she was proclaimed champion in the silence of the arena. The emperor did not acknowledge her victory, and the crowds left disappointed. Sashi went back to her village with the fortune awarded to her. She was hoping to leave the tournament behind when the first challenger approached. He came to the village claiming to be the brother of one of her victims in the arena. He further claimed dishonesty was the only explanation for her ability to defeat her brother. She dismissed the claim knowing the truth but accepted his challenge. She defeated him in three blows. When he failed to yield, she delivered a fourth and made his men carry his body back to be buried with his brother.

Three months passed and five more warriors challenged her. Sashi moved to the outskirts of her village where she could face the challengers without causing further trouble for her family. Her reputation spread across the country with every warrior she defeated, and more came to test her skills and prove her reputation as a deceit. Two years passed before her blade proved her reputation as genuine. Then the number of challengers increased. Each one hoping to defeat the greatest swordsman and claim the title for themselves. It was then that she moved to the island of the crescent moon in the southern sea.

Twelve years passed and countless challengers still made their way to her small island to claim their glory. She defeated every one of them. At times she felt her island held more graves than grains of sand. She was alone and surrounded by death. She was growing tired. Her dream had become her cage. Then the emperor’s messenger came.

A new tournament was to be held. As the greatest swordsman, she was expected to attend and again prove herself. She left her island for the first time in over a decade. She wore a grey kimono and brought only her wooden training sword. Her steel blade remained behind on the island where it would become its own legend.

She entered the arena to a hushed silence. No laughter followed this time. Only a deep respect and a tinge of fear filled the air. Her first opponent was eager but fear undid him as her wooden blade cracked his skull and he fell. She fought again and again without rest and without defeat. It seems the emperor had hosted the tournament with the sole purpose of usurping her reputation and grant her hard-won title to a new warrior, even if he did not prove worthy of it.

When no warriors remained, she returned to her island expecting many new challengers to approach her. A month passed without a single visit. Then a year. She hoped one might come who would want to learn from her. Someone she would pass her title to. She spent the rest of her days waiting for a warrior who would best her. None ever came.

Sadness and Wonder

Ryan Yarber Flash Fiction, Stories Tags: Leave a comment

He walked into the reception room and sat in one of the many chairs arranged in a semicircle. They were early because they were family, but Zach was uncomfortable in the stiff shirt and tie his mother had made him wear. The suit coat was itchy but he had been warned not to take it off for any reason. He sat in the chair, his feet barely meeting the floor, and waited while his parents spoke with a group of people Zach had never seen before. The room was quiet and filled with the perfume of old people. That dusty, masking smell that permeates buildings and all who enter until a feeling of nostalgia sets in for a time they never knew. Zach felt as if he had entered the past just by remaining still and looking at the ancient design in the carpet.

Twenty minutes passed before people began arriving. To Zach it felt like two hour. Though he was grateful to no longer be the only one sitting in the waiting area, he was a little sad that no one arriving neared his own age. The closest was a man in his early thirties with a large beard and wrinkled suit that looked as if it had been dug out of the back of a closet. Zach doubted anyone was less than twenty years older than him, so he sat quietly and avoided eye contact. Even with those who offered their condolences to him. He didn’t know the word, but he knew the meaning behind it considering their tone and the reason for their being here.

The reception room filled quickly and it soon regained its purpose. Everyone was waiting for things to begin. Zach didn’t know it was customary for visitors to wait around and offer their sympathy and support to the family. He just wanted to go home and play his Nintendo.

Then, through the din of conversations, Zach heard a woman begin a story about his grandpa. He didn’t realize they were talking about his grandpa at first, but he quickly realized it had to be about him.

“I remember one time,” the woman said, “when Gus had to come pull us out of the mud. Do you remember that, Brad? We had just started dating at the time and were out near Hawk’s Ridge when it started raining. We were….a little preoccupied at the time to care…”

Laughs circled the room and Zach offered a chuckle so as not to feel left out even though he had no idea why everyone laughed.

“…but it poured down. Brad started the truck to go home because we were cutting it close to my curfew. Within seconds the wheels had buried themselves. Brad ran into town and knocked on Gus’s door asking for help since he knew Gus had a truck big enough to tow, and of course Gus was happy to lend a hand. He always was. So he came out and started pulling us out of the mud. He even dug out our back wheels in the rain to put the boards under them. He had us out in under two minutes and we made it back just in time.”

“I don’t know if your dad would have let me take you on a second date if we broke your curfew,” the man next to her said. He was holding her hand. Zach noticed the woman was pregnant because it looked like she was hiding a basketball under her shirt.

“I remember when Gus took that truck and plowed the high school parking lot and all the bus routes so the kids wouldn’t miss a day of school.” A man sitting across the semicircle from Zach said. He was probably older than his grandpa had been. He held a cane in his hands even though he was sitting, and a goofy, toothless smile now spread across his face. “The next morning, the superintendent decided not to call off school because all the roads were cleared. Those kids were mad as hell.”

Zach could imagine his grandpa plowing snow. He was allowed to join him one time when he was only six. His grandpa had brought a big thermos of hot chocolate for the both of them to share. His grandma had packed a lunchbox of cookies too. Zach had sat in the passenger seat, thrilled to be out well beyond his bedtime and out working with his grandpa even though the only work he did was eat the cookies and drink the hot chocolate and eventually fall asleep in the passenger seat only to be carried in the house by his grandpa at three in the morning.

He could imagine those kids being mad at having to go to school when expecting a snow day. For some reason, he had a hard time realizing the man named Gus in the stories was his grandpa, and that his grandpa had been anything but the white-haired old man who came to his house a few times each year and was always smiling.

“Did you know that Gus once worked at the hotel where they filmed a Marilyn Monroe movie?” It was an older woman who said this. “I remember him always telling this story when we were at dinner parties. I think it was Some Like It Hot, or maybe it was Love Nest. I can’t remember. Anyway, he worked there the summer they filmed the movie and actually got to meet her.”

“I remember that,” another old woman chimed in, “Nancy hated when he told that story. She would always get flushed and hide her face, but we would all laugh when he said he missed his chance with Marilyn.”

“She got flushed because she didn’t believe us when we told her he was lucky to have her. Even though he knew she had settled for him. That’s why he spoiled her so much.” The two women continued their story but it faded into the background as Zach turned his attention to a man in a military uniform who was talking about how his grandpa, referred to as Zip in the story, had saved a man’s life during their time in the army. Zach listened in wonder at all of the stories everyone was telling of the man they had come to say goodbye to.

He no longer felt the stiff, itching of his clothes. He no longer felt bored. He didn’t want to go home. He was in awe learning about his grandpa from the strangers surrounding him. He wished he would have known all of these stories before today so he could ask questions about them, but he was soon ushered into the chapel where the open casket waited. Zach could only wonder at what else the man who was his grandpa had done as people went up to the podium and spoke for the next hour. He realized he wasn’t sad anymore. Instead, his imagination was filled with wondering who his grandpa had been before he had white hair and thin, speckled skin. He wondered what kind of person his grandpa was as a kid. He imagined an entire life for the man he only knew as grandpa.

Pay the Paradox

Ryan Yarber Flash Fiction, Stories Tags: Leave a comment

The little boy ran into the room where his grandpa was reclined in a chair snoring. Bright sunlight shone through the window and warmed the room as a gentle breeze blew through the screen door. His parents were still unbuckling their seat-belts as the boy jumped onto his grandpa’s large belly.

“Ooooooooohhhhh,” Grandpa moaned and sat up suddenly. He looked down to find his grandson hugging him, and he couldn’t help but smile while the pain slowly receded.

“Jack, my boy,” he said, “You need to be more gentle with me. If you get any bigger, you’ll break me next time.”

“You can’t break Grandpa. You’re too big to break.”

“Maybe,” Grandpa sighed and rubbed his abdomen. He silently promised to cut down on the snacks but knew it was his mind making the promise and not his heart.

Geoff and Marie walked through the door with their bags.

“Dad,” Geoff nodded before taking the bags to the back room. Marie gave him a hug.

“I think Kate could use your help in the kitchen.”

“I’m here less than ten seconds and you want to put me to work?” She asked in mock offense.

“She’s making cinnamon cake.”

Marie’s eyes narrowed at him. “Mmmhmm.”

“Grandpa, show me the trick.” Jack was grabbing at his shirt.

“Serious,” Grandpa said. He remained wide-eyed and as convincing as possible until she wandered toward the kitchen. He heard her greet his wife, then heard her ask if that was indeed the cinnamon coffee cake. He smiled and turned his attention back to Jack, who kept pulling at his shirt and asking to see his trick.

He picked the little boy up and they wandered into the basement where he had a little workshop. He sat on the stool at the workbench and hoisted the boy onto his lap. In front of them sat a little cube. It was the same cube as last time. A metal frame with small, intricate machinery inside.

“This is the last time,” Grandpa said before they started.

“Awwww,” the boy whined and looked up at the wrinkled face of his grandfather.

“I’m sorry Jack, but this is the last time we can do it.” He looked down at the pouty-face his grandson made and quickly gave in. “We can do it twice this time okay. But no more afterwards.” The pouty-lips turned to a smile and the boy focused on the cube in front of him. His little hands gripped the edge of the workbench as he tried to get his face closer.

Grandpa picked up the cube and turned it to the side with three small dials. He checked his watch then set the dials accordingly before placing the cube on the workbench again. He crouched until his face was next to Jack’s and they stared at the cube.

A second passed. Then the inner parts began to whir and spin. The cube began to rattle on the flat surface. Neither pair of eyes dared to blink. Grandpa glanced at Jack to see the wonder on his face. The same wonder he had when he first saw the cube. The wonder he kept until he learned its inner workings. He turned his attention back to the cube just before it vanished.

“Whoa…” The boy stared at the spot where the cube had been.

“Yeah. Whoa.”

“When will it come back?”

Grandpa checked his watch. “In about ten seconds. Keep your eyes glued.”

They waited in silence as seconds ticked by. Jack’s breathing was steady but shallow. A whisper escaped him, “Two……one…..” The cube appeared exactly where it had been moments before.

“How does it work?” the boy asked.

“You’ll learn when you’re a bit older.” When you are fifteen and back in this basement looking at my old stuff without me, he thought. “Remember, this is the last time.” He picked up the cube and calibrated it. Then he sat it back down on the workbench. “Watch closely this time.”

The boy’s face shaped into a serious expression and he had to restrain himself from laughing at the boy. Together they watched the cube. The seconds passed until it vanished again, except this time it didn’t reappear. Jack stared at the empty space waiting.

“It’s not coming back this time champ.”

“Why not?”

“It just won’t. Now let’s go get some food, huh?” He paused as he finished his question, suddenly realizing the futility of it and the implications of what he had done.

He knew Jack was going to stick to the workbench with a vice-like grip, looking at the empty tabletop for the next two hours, only to finally be persuaded by his mom to go eat dinner. He knew it because he remembered it, just as he remembered an older Jack coming back to his workbench to see the cube reappear next to a journal. The journal he was going to purposely leave out after his grandson left in two days. It would collect dust for a decade only to be opened and read by Jack. When he read the journal himself, he had learned who he really was and who his own grandfather had been, and it will be the exact same for his grandson. The journal held the secrets of the cube, and the designs for the machine that were too tempting for the curious mind.

He had always believed that the cube was the catalyst. It led to the journal and kept the mystery alive until it became an obsession. Now, at the end of his life, he saw the cube was the cause. The journal was the catalyst. The cube was now lost to time. Set to reappear in exactly ten years on June 5th where it will cause the innocent boy in front of him to recreate the same machine he did, and use it in the same way. The thoughts consumed him.

He did nothing for the next two days but think about how to undo what he had done. He wasn’t sure he could, or wanted to, considering what may happen. He could very well undo himself. His wife worried about him on that second day. Enough to call their son.

She was looking at him while she talked to their son, but it wasn’t until she said the phrase “I’m worried” did he get the uneasy feeling of nostalgia. He remembered that phrase and the heaviness he saw on his father’s expression upon hearing it. His father who stood at the counter on the phone with his grandmother. He remembered those words “I’m worried” and remembered his grandmother.

Now he heard the words from the other side of the call and knew what came next. A calmness filled him moments before his coronary artery clogged and pain radiated through his chest and down his left arm.

No More Weekly Stories

Ryan Yarber Flash Fiction, Post, Stories 4 Comments

I know, I know. I feel like I’ve just been spouting bad news about the changes I’m planning for my blog/writing, but I promise they are all for very good reasons. Just as I will no longer be writing weekly book recommendations, I am also ceasing the weekly flash stories as well.

“But Ryan, will you be posting anything on your blog?”

Yes. I will. I promise. I will just be posting less frequently. I will be changing gears and writing less flash fiction and more short stories, which I plan to submit to literary journals for publication. I currently have one story officially published. I hope to get at least five stories published in 2019 and write several more that may be published in subsequent years. This is all an effort to progress toward my goal of publishing my first book. It is all meant to help improve my writing as well.

This change is also not going into effect until 2019, so the weekly stories will continue through the end of the year. I feel as though my table of contents has grown to a suitable size to entertain you and new visitors should you ever look through the list. The same goes for recommendations. I’m not stopping completely, so I will continue to add more. I’ll still post random micro-fiction from time to time too.

I do actually plan to expand on several of my flash stories I’ve posted here and turn them into short stories. Many of my flash stories were concepts that I think deserve more attention. I know which ones I like the most, but I am definitely open to suggestions. If you liked one of my stories and want to see more of it, leave a comment with the story title.