Stick Ya

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Amanda challenged me with "I've never been afraid of needles." and I challenged Leo with "Include a leaf and an electric socket. This can be literal or metaphorical. Go wild."






"This might hurt a little; do you want the restraints?" the nurse asked as he swabbed my arm.

"I've never been afraid of needles."

"Okie dokie," he said, "here it goes,", and pushed the needle into my pulsing vein.

I flinched as the needle found its mark on the first try. Steady hand; more than one stick with this puppy and I'd be bleeding all over the floor. I felt the contents slipping into my bloodstream and away, to be carried throughout my body. Supposedly, the vaccine would protect me from the enemy mind-attacks. Laugh all you like, where I was going it wasn't even the subject of jokes whispered on bad nights to dispel fear, the way other things were. My orders were simple: Survive the mindslippers, get a fat retirement. Everything else was just detail. Even winning the war didn't really matter, according to some. The fight was all I or anyone else had ever known. We were taught from birth to love the fight, to seek the fight, to breathe the fight. The only way out was to fly, and even that came with risks...

Meat or Magick?

The neighborhood cat lady's cats found the mess on their daily stroll. At first, they didn't know what to make of it. It smelled of meat, but was not meat. It looked like a magick, but it wasn't a magick either. The cats arranged themselves on a lawn a few blocks down, to discuss.

If you ask me, it is unsightly, said a well-meaning grey tabby.

Perhaps we should dispose of it amongst ourselves, said the tortoiseshell. She was feeling particularly bloodthirsty that day, and would have been quite amenable to getting rid of the mess by herself--if it was decided that the mess was meat.

We should decide what it is first, a small voice chimed in. It was the little Russian blue that nobody liked, but it's always politic to be polite.

You may have a point, said the yellow tabby, begrudgingly. How should we know what to do if we cannot decide what it is? Perhaps it will go away on its own, he said, and thought hopefully that they forget the whole thing, since the sun was especially nice that day. He eyed a dandelion and swatted it lazily.

A large white cat had been rolling about to relieve an itch and had missed the first part of the conversation. Is it edible? she asked.

Let us have a vote, said the gray tabby. Whomever believes it is meat, twitch your tail. The tortoiseshell and the white twitched furiously because they were hungry and indiscriminate. Whomever believes it is a magick, wash your face. The grey and the yellow tabby both washed their faces.

Why do you not vote? the yellow asked the blue. The other cats had become cross and their ears had begun to twitch. Sitting on the fence simply wasn't done or at least, it hadn't been until the blue joined them. And who was she anyway, to come in and never take sides? One must always take a side, or go away and be miffed. But she did neither of these things. The gray tabby found it unsettling.

What if it is neither of those things? Aren't any of you interested in how it got there? asked the blue.

The cats did not understand. These ideas did not occur. Things were either meat or magick. It was determined by vote, and then the spoils divided and disposed of. How things got anywhere was of no consequence. The blue had been upsetting from the beginning. Something would have to be done to re-balance the equation.


...


The neighborhood cat lady found the remains of the little blue a few weeks later. She had rather liked that cat; it had been unprepossessing and didn't require much. It must have been that yard boy. She never did like the way he looked at the cats.





For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Stefan challenged me with "I blamed it on the kids. " and I challenged Diane with "I don't feel sorry about what I did to you. "

The Stripe

I laughed when I saw the line they'd painted on the wall. Cross the line, they said, we dare you. We dare you. Though the words were challenging, the dispassionate body language told me something else. That crossing the line did not matter, that it was another sort of test. There was something here I needed to figure out about them that would further my petition, my endeavor to become one of the few. They pranced a little in false impatience,  the impossibly sleek hides shone with sweat--it was too warm on the surface. They preferred to be aloft. Who could blame them?

The first time I stood upon one of the Heights, I wanted nothing more than to leap into the nothing. The ground would never see me, I would never get close enough for the near-sighted earth for it to claim me. No one else I knew understood this; they feared that I would kill myself for this dream. People tried to stop me, lock me up, commit me. So I did what anyone in my position would do. I became one of them in spirit. The ground became too warm, my blood too heated. In my fever-dreams they brought me to the high places so I could pass their exams and answer their questions. If I failed, I would be fodder. If successful, I would ascend. There is the answer. 


With a flying leap, I mounted one of them and yanked its tender mane, startling it airborne. I crowed as they crow and urged it sideways, its feet striking the wall, crossing the line. By then, it had control of itself, and threw me at the feet of the current minister. I lay there, bruised, but unbroken. I bared my teeth the way they do, so they could see, and waited. The one I had taken rejoined its fellows, subdued and fairly shaken. They stared back in hatred and admiration.

Bold, they said as one. Very bold. The minister knelt down so it could look in one eye. I saw the intelligence there, the fierce fire that I too now possessed, and did not blink. The snout whuffed and I felt the acid of its tongue searing my arm. I did not hiss, I did not flinch. You will proceed, they said. Well come, they said.

I looked down at the angry burn on my arm. A perfect stripe of screaming red that would fade into a green and blue pattern. Every flier had one. I threw myself from the Height then, and they caught me.










For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Cedar challenged me with "Write a pivotal moment in a personal history that swings on the most trivial occurrence. " and I challenged Wendryn with "Write about something despicable. "