Action_painting_1Hi there!

Bet you didn’t expect to see me on a Friday. I didn’t either. At least, not for a time. After a year of not posting any flash fiction, however, I decided I should at least do something.

I could regale you with a tale of how I came to decide upon 15-minute Free-write Friday, but, as Inigo Montoya put it: “That will take too long. I will sum up.”

I set a timer for 15 minutes and spewed words. Tada! I ran a spellcheck, but that’s it, my friends. I’m about to throw the rawest of the raw at you. I may use prompts in the future, but today’s word-vomit was promptless.

So, without further ado, an intimate look into the way my poor brain behaves.

Alright. let’s see what I get here. Once upon a time there was a little girl who spent her free time in the meadow near her home. It was a bright sunny meadow, with lovely tall grass, where one occasionally saw moose. But there were dangers lurking in the grass. Unbeknownst to the little girl or her mother, one of the nearby businesses used the field, as yet undeveloped land, as a dumping place for their scrap metal. Sharp pieces hid in the tall grass, waiting for their unsuspecting victims. The little girl was running about one day when she tripped and impaled herself on one of these sharp pieces. Ouch. Okay. New story.

Apparently this mama is in an anxious mood, though I’m not sure why. Um, um, um… Let’s see.

Dagger,_c._1700,_Safavid_dynasty,_Iran,_chiseled_steel_blade_with_silver-washed_steel_hilt_-_Sackler_Museum_-_DSC02542Lulubelle picked up her sword and swung it at the werewolf’s throat, hoping to chop off its head. Her blow, strong enough to fell an ordinary man bounced back. The force of the impact threw Lulubelle off balance. She stumbled backwards, missing having her throat torn out by an inch. Rolling to her side she scrambled to get at the silver dagger her boyfriend forged for her out of the silver she found while mining the week before. The werewolf’s sharp teeth delved into her shoulder.

Doomed. She was doomed. If she survived the attack, she would only turn to a werewolf herself the next time the full moon rose. She shoved the thought aside. Finish the task at hand, she told herself. Worry about the future later.

The werewolf’s weight on her back kept her from turning to get a better angle for her stab. Instead, she jabbed at it with flapping motions, like a bird trying to beat a cat off its back. Six times she jabbed before the beast let go. She rolled out from under it. It lunged before she got to her feet. Knife at the ready, she let the creature’s momentum drive the blade into its eye.

The monster’s claws scrabbled to get a grip on her tunic, shredding fabric and flesh with ease, but failing to keep  the dying creature upright. It fell at her feet, twitching, and succumbed to its death throws with an ear-piercing howl.

Lulubelle stared down at the creature. Her shoulder and chest burned where the teeth and claws dragged chunks of her away. It didn’t matter. It bit her. If she survived the night, which seemed unlikely without magical aid, she would wander these forests herself, killing whatever unfortunate creature stumbled across her path, hunting old friends when she caught their scents.

Her chest heaved in spite of the searing pain. With her foot on the werewolf’s head to brace herself, she yanked the dagger from its eye. She stared at the blade. Pure silver. The finest workmanship. Crafted by her lover, so she could kill him.

JimmyBob’s wolfish form faded away, leaving behind the man Lulubelle adored. With a quiet sob, she sunk to her knees beside him. Somehow, she needed to join him. She wrapped his hand around the handle of the dagger and held it with both her own hands. Closing her eyes, she slammed her heart onto the sharp point.

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