This week’s story was my first entry into the Not Quite Write flash fiction contest. The challenge includes three prompts. One of the three is what they called an “anti-prompt” where the requirement is to break a named writing rule. For the round that I entered, the rule to break was “use active voice.” The other two prompts were: include the word “crane” and include the action of burning something.
I enjoyed writing the story, even if I didn’t place in the contest I still ended up with a nice little story to post here.
The Magic of Crane Flies
Erin Welch dropped the match onto the brush pile, and with a crackle, the dry tinder ignited. The leaves were burned in the evening, because that’s the way it was always done, as her grandmother had taught her. Leaning against her rake, Erin studied the sparks rising into the dark–orange blooms against the purple dusk. The autumn scent of wood smoke filled the air. Soon, they would be drawn to the light.
Minutes later, when the glow lit up the trees, the first crane fly brushed against her cheek. She captured it in her cupped hands, and its six spindly legs tap, tap, tapped against her palms. Others arrived, drunkenly flying above the flames, their wings reflecting amber light. Easy to believe they were faeries, with their long bodies and large eyes.
Erin’s grandmother, Dinky, had always said that crane flies were made for magic. During their short lives, they never ate. Instead, they spent their time reproducing for their next cycle stage. Such determination to foil death had led to their kind surviving for millions of years. Across the yard, inside Dinky’s cabin on the fireplace mantel, was proof–a fossilized crane fly, stamped on a chunk of shale.
“Capture one and it’ll grant a wish,” Dinky had said.
Adulthood cares banished belief in enchantments. Until now, the week after her grandmother’s death. Careful not to damage the trapped insect, Erin whispered her request and released the crane fly.
It joined its mates above the flames, as sparks swirled and joined to form a familiar figure. Before Erin could blink away the apparition, her dead grandmother stepped beside her.
“Nothing like a good fire.” Dinky held her hands out to the flames, as though to warm them. Her body flickered like a pixelated image. As in life, her ghost stood barely over four feet tall, her short stature the inspiration for her nickname.
“Grandma?” Erin’s breath hung in a cloud. The night air turned winter cold. She edged closer to the fire for warmth.
“I’m here.” There were so many things she wanted to ask her grandmother. She tried to touch the ghost, but her hand passed through.
Gusts of frigid wind scattered the burning leaves. Erin rushed, stamping out pockets of flames. When she finished, Dinky’s ghost had vanished.
“No!” Frantic, Erin tossed handfuls of dried leaves onto what remained of the fire. Despite her efforts, only sparks floated above. The ground circling the fire held dozens of the crane flies, their stick bodies motionless. She dropped to her knees, the cold soaking through her jeans as she scrambled, hoping to find one alive.
She wanted more time. So many things left unsaid. She strode to the cabin and went inside. The wish had only lasted for as long as the crane flies lived, so what better magic than something captured forever? Erin picked up the fossilized crane fly and made her wish.
The third time I entered the Writers’ Playground short story contest, I actually managed to finish and submit something. I like this contest because the genre is open, and they offer a good mix of prompts so you’re not tied to something crazy. Despite the opportunity to go all out in horror, I went with the story below as my entry. The prompts were: one of the characters had to be a carpenter, the setting must be mostly in a rehabilitation center, and the story must include a piece of amber with something living preserved inside.
One of the best things about entering the Writers’ Playground contests is they send you feedback on your entry, even if you don’t place in the contest. For this story the judges had some nice praise but they pointed out that the story didn’t seem to have any conflict. Everything flowed a little too smoothly for the main character.
I liked the story, but I don’t think I’ll be revising it, so here it is, in all its unedited glory. Enjoy (or not)
Bird, Stone, Pen, Ring, Sand
Cole Miller lost his wife, Kira, on a rain-slick county road. Not to death. Thank God she wasn’t with him the night a drunk driver plowed into his pickup, but the accident wiped all memory of her from him as smoothly as wiping crumbs from a counter.
Since that night, he had spent forty-two long days in the hospital before transferring to the rehabilitation facility that had been his home for the past three weeks. Days, he shuffled along the smooth vinyl floors, down hallways painted a calming robin’s egg blue, to appointments with the therapists entrusted with his care. His recovery advanced in painful bits both physical and mental. Cole wondered if he would ever regain what he had lost.
On his left hand, he wore a simple platinum wedding band and around his neck hung an amber pendant on a gold chain. His wife had brought the necklace to him when he first entered rehab. “Amber is for courage and healing,” she said. A butterfly lay captured inside the resin, its delicate wings folded closed. Fragile, yet protected by the substance that had trapped it.
The pocket of his fleece hoodie sagged with a stack of notecards, a felt-tip pen, and five creased photographs. These were the tools he had been given to recapture his life. Cole would try to be brave, while he struggled to recover the bits of his past he had lost.
He had traded his walker for a cane the week before and he was still working out the use of it, stumbling now and then when his feet refused the rhythm of walking. With each falter, he peeked around him, to make sure no one saw his weakness. Before the accident, he had been able to stroll along the top plate of a four-story apartment construction, balancing on the 2×4 frame as though it were the width of a sidewalk. Stopping at an open door, he peered inside to reassure himself he had arrived at the psychologist’s office at the right time.
“Good morning, Cole. Come in.” The woman greeting him had long, dark hair, pulled back in a loose bun, wispy tendrils draping to frame her face. A pair of reading glasses perched on her forehead.
After a moment, like the answer from a Magic Eight Ball, her name floated into his consciousness. “Doctor Foster.”
“That’s right. But you can call me Ellen.” Tapping her desk, she motioned to the seat across from her. “How are the cards going?”
Shrugging, Cole pulled the note cards and photos from his pocket. “Not much new, I’m afraid.” He covered the lot with his hand, embarrassed by how few lines he had written in the two days since they had last met.
“Okay. Let’s get started and we’ll go over the changes. Your memories are still there. They’re filed away, and we just need to teach your brain how to reach them again.” She leaned toward him, as though about to impart a secret. “First, I’m going to say five words. Listen carefully and try to remember as many of them as you can. I’ll ask you for the words in a few minutes.” When Cole nodded, she said, “Bird, Stone, Pen, Ring, Sand.”
Silently, Cole repeated the words. He met with Ellen twice a week, and he had failed this test each time. The random words together made no sense to him, which he supposed was part of the test. Instead of a filing cabinet, his memories were like the butterfly in the amber. Encased in resin and like the delicate wings of the insect, he feared they would be damaged as he tried to free them.
Why couldn’t Ellen use things he could recall easily—hammer and nail, saw and plane? Vivid as a movie, he replayed days on job sites. The sun warming the back of his neck as he bent to cut a sheet of plywood, and the burned wood scent of sawdust as it drifted into piles at his feet.
“Let’s go over your notes.” Ellen interrupted his recollection.
Cole sorted the cards into piles next to the photos. He picked up the first card and the picture that went with it. It was a studio portrait of an older couple, posed in front of a fake background of tropical flowers. “My parents,” Cole said, “taken a couple of years ago when they were on a cruise.” He smiled and pointed to his notes. “It was their anniversary.”
As he nudged a faded polaroid of a small dog with a wiry, black and white coat, Cole said, “My dog. But I think it was a long time ago.” He frowned with the strain of reaching for the dog’s name. Was it Topper? Tipper?
“Good. And the other photographs? Anything you remember?”
Arranged in a triangle, the last three photos were still somewhat of a mystery to Cole. The first was of waves rolling onto a beach, an orange sun either setting or rising across the horizon. A man stood knee deep in the surf, his back to the camera. Someone had captured a one story, red-brick house in the second photo. This was where he and Kira lived. The house felt comforting, in the way the set of a favorite movie or television show would be familiar.
In the last picture, he sat at a restaurant table next to a woman in a denim jacket. His wife. With one of her hands, she lifted a margarita glass. The other hand rested on Cole’s arm. Her head flung back, a wide smile stretched her lips. The flat, one-dimensional photograph did not hide the spark in her eyes. “Kira,” he said.
Cole picked up the photo and turned over the note card that went with it. The card held the details he had been able to recall so far. She was a teacher. They met in high school and married ten years ago, soon after graduation. No children.
Cole scooted forward in his chair. “No children. Not yet,” he said, and something in those words brought a wave of sadness. He touched the photo, where a matching pendant to his could be seen tucked halfway hidden by the fabric of his wife’s shirt. Was this a different necklace, or had Kira given him hers? Did this one also have a butterfly captured inside? As he studied the photograph, his wife’s face shifted, replaced by a younger version of herself, then back to the familiar image in the picture. Cole rubbed his eyes. “We don’t have kids, but we want them.” At least, this was what he thought now. Had they really been trying for a baby, or had he recreated an alternate reality to fill in the gaps in his memory? And which option was the better one?
“That’s good,” Ellen said. “Put it on your card.” When he finished writing, she asked, “Now, how many of the five words can you name?”
Cole froze. He blinked and flinched at a flash of pain behind his eyes. Trying to recall the words, he shook his head, then glanced at the spread of photos and the card he had written on. “Pen!” Picking up the photo of the beach, he added, “Sand.” It was cheating, using these things to trigger the words, but he allowed himself a deep breath and a moment of satisfaction.
“Anything else?” Ellen asked. “Take your time.”
Cole gripped the side of his head as though he could pull the remaining three words from his brain. He slapped the table, frustrated. “No, they’re gone.” His voice rose. “I can’t do this.”
“It’s okay. Two is a good start.” Ellen gripped his hand. “We’ll try again.” She pointed to the cards. “You’re making progress and I expect you’ll be able to recover your past, up to the accident. Forgetting that is the mind’s way of protecting you.”
Protection? Did that mean he would only recapture the good things from his past, and not the bad? He grasped the amber pendant, rubbing the smooth surface across the calluses on his fingers. The motion relaxed him.
Ellen flipped through the folder on her desk. “You’re scheduled for discharge tomorrow, but we will continue therapy on an outpatient basis. Are you ready for that?”
“I guess.” He tried for a hopeful tone. “Yes, it’ll be good to be home.” As he scooped up his things, Cole asked, “Hey. Can you tell me those words again?”
“You know they change each time, right? We’ll keep working, don’t worry. Let everything come back naturally. Once you’re home in familiar surroundings, that will help.”
“I just want to write them down.” Even though he knew the next test would have new ones, this group was special, because for the first time he had been able to recall two of them. He wanted to hold on to all of them, as though they were magic words that would unlock everything.
Ellen nodded. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Here they are – Bird, stone, pen, ring, sand.”
During the drive home the next afternoon, Cole stared out the car’s window, studying the houses and businesses flashing past. His shoulders relaxed as he settled back against the car’s vinyl seat.
“Some music?” Kira asked.
“Sure.” Cole adjusted the oversized sunglasses that covered his eyes. They helped block the light that triggered migraines and wearing them, he could hide the crimson scar that ran from his temple to his cheek. “Oh. I wanted to ask you about this.” He held out the amber pendant. “Where did I get it? Was it a present?”
Kira glanced at him, then looked back to the road. “It was a present, yes. You gave it to me. When we traveled to the coast last year. There was a gift shop near the beach.”
Cole closed his eyes, still holding the pendant. When he breathed in, he swore he could smell salt in the air. “The photograph—that trip?”
“That’s it, yes. It was after…” She shook her head. “You told me amber was for healing.”
“And courage,” Cole added. “Sometimes, I think my memory is like this butterfly. Trapped in here.”
“Not trapped,” Kira said, “preserved.”
He closed his eyes. Preserved meant kept safe. The night before, he had had trouble falling asleep. Finally, he had taken out the card where he wrote the words from his therapy session. He had read them, then tucked away the paper and repeated the words from memory.
Kira turned on the radio, and his eyelids heavy, Cole surrendered to sleep. He woke as the car pulled into their driveway. For a moment, he expected to see his Ford parked there, but no—it would have been totaled in the wreck, towed away to a scrapyard.
Stepping into the house, Cole slipped his sunglasses into his pocket and paused on the threshold. He leaned on his cane and exhaled, reassured by the sight of things he knew. The couch with its sagging cushions covered by a green and yellow blanket, the braided rug before the fireplace, and the photograph over the mantel—Kira and him on their wedding day. A faint scent of vanilla hung in the air from the candles arranged on the coffee table.
“Welcome home.” Kira took his arm. “Do you need a tour?”
“That depends. Do I need a ticket?” He started down the hall, toward the master bedroom.
“I think we can let you slide this time.”
When he stopped in front of a closed door, Kira stepped beside him and blocked his path. He put a palm against the door. What was inside this room? He grasped the handle and pushed open the door. Kira followed him inside.
The walls were painted sky blue, a color that reminded him of the rehab center. A dozen boxes were stacked in a corner, opposite a piece of furniture covered by a sheet.
“We don’t have to go through this now,” Kira said. She tugged his arm. “Come on, let’s get you settled.”
Cole shook his head. It was there, teased at the corner of his memory. He clutched a handful of cloth and pulled it away, revealing the object underneath. A cradle. He ran a hand across the side. “I made this.”
“Yes.” Kira wrapped her hands around his waist and buried her face against his shoulder. “After we lost the baby, we packed everything away. And then, when you got hurt in the accident I didn’t know when the time might be right again.”
Not all memories were good, but they were all a part of what made him who he was. What they were, him and Kira. “We’ll get there.” He kissed her brow, then took off the pendant to clasp it around her neck as he whispered, “Bird, stone, pen, ring, sand.”
A short story from the 2022 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest
Photograph by the author
In November 2022 I made it all the way to the final round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. The story I submitted didn’t land on any of the prize levels, and I filed it away until in 2024 when I reworked it into a tale that was accepted and produced for the Drew Blood’s Dark Tales podcast. Writing is often like that, we take scraps of ideas and piece them together like a quilt. This story changed quite a bit from the original, but one thing that stayed was the object that had been one of the NYC Midnight prompts – a cloche.
Here is the original story, in its unedited glory. Once again, I hope you like it, but if you don’t – don’t tell me.
The Price of Guilt
Beth pulled up the email with the instructions for the rental cottage’s lock. Assured a late arrival would be okay, she grabbed her bag and the half-empty wine bottle from the passenger seat. A single yellow bulb illuminated the porch. In its glow, she studied the damage to her car. A crack zigzagged down the front bumper. Clots of dark red liquid were smeared across the damaged running light.
Hurrying to the front door, she imagined the crunch of steps behind. Inside the house, a tiny fireplace took up one wall, bookcases on either side. Scattered among the dusty books were dozens of cloches. The bell-shaped covers reflected the light, concealing their contents until Beth stood close enough for her breath to fog the glass.
Each cloche held a tiny woodland tableau, filled with moss, twigs, and stone chips—scenes from fairy tales. The old stories, where starving children wandered lost in the woods and maidens had their hearts carved out by jealous witches. Desiccated butterflies, with their tattered wings, clung like fairies to miniature branches. Scattered within the greenery of one were the delicate, yellowed bones of a small animal.
She found the bedroom at the end of a short hall, across from a bathroom no larger than a closet. The antique door knob turned with a squeal as the door opened on rusted hinges. Beth dropped her bag on the bed and gazed at the four walls. There were no windows in the room.
The metal framed bed took up one wall, and a scarred oak dresser rested across from it. Another cloche sat atop the dresser. This one held a miniature replica of the cottage, and a screen of tiny trees. Minuscule bits of rock trailed along the inside front of the glass, circling to the tree line.
She pressed her palm to the rough texture on the blank wall, then tapped across the area with her knuckles, expecting to hear a hollow sound. When she realized the missing window would have faced the edge of the forest outside, she shivered, grateful to have missed that view.
The pipes in the bathroom groaned and rusty liquid spun down the drain, the color like bloody water. Gagging, she retreated to the bedroom to undress and snuggle under the heavy patchwork quilt. She took one last check of her phone. No messages.
She woke from a dream that drifted from her memory like smoke. Cavernous darkness surrounded her. Beth fumbled for the bedside table and her phone. Her hands met open air. She stood. Sweeping her arms out, her fingers brushed across the textured wall. She traced her steps back to the bed, but somehow missed it. Her back thumped the far wall.
Her heart thudded. The taste of sour wine rose in her throat. She scooted sideways to the next corner, then to the next, and the next. Finally, her hip bumped against the dresser. She brushed her fingertips over the cloche’s cool, rounded glass. For a second, she closed her eyes and when she opened them, a window appeared in the wall.
The moonlight streaming through the opening revealed the dresser as the only furniture remaining. No door, no bed, no table, no purse, no luggage, no phone. A sound escaped her, half-gasp, half-laugh. Taking a breath, she shook her head. Cool air brought the clean scent of pine and juniper. The walls and ceiling of the room pressed upon her, as though they shrank with each breath she drew. Outside, the open expanse called to her. She climbed through the window.
Ahead, the tree branches dipped in the wind, waving her forward. When she came to the road, she strolled on, despite the bite of gravel under her bare feet. Tire marks dug into the soft earth of the shoulder. The accident had been miles back, but here, dark blotches dotted the grass. A path of flattened weeds led into the brush, as though something large had dragged itself from the road. The tree trunks at the edge of the forest held strange symbols carved into their bark. Runes, scratched into the pale inner wood. The hair rose on her arms.
“An animal,” Beth chanted. “It was an animal.” Her mind recalled the stooped figure rising in her headlights, two black shapes like horns sprouting from its head. A deer. Wouldn’t a person have cried out? It happened so fast – in the time it took for her to glance at the phone in her hand.
A strangled cry sounded, half moan, half growl, like no animal she had ever heard. Beth jumped and raced back to the cottage. If she didn’t look, she wouldn’t know.
The space was back to how she’d found it. Door straight ahead, bed to her right, with the covers thrown off as she’d left them. When she glanced behind her, the wall had closed. No more window. Rushing to the door, she jerked it open. Down the hallway, through the living area, to the front door and then outside again. She didn’t stop until she crashed into a solid barrier. Knocked off her feet, she moaned and crawled forward, one hand held out. Stumbling upright, she banged her fist against the hard, clear surface. Glass.
“No!” She crawled to the cottage and inside to the windowless room. The dresser top sat empty—the cloche gone. Her world tilted, the floor beneath her swaying like the deck of a ship. She fell. Scrambling to her feet, she spilled from the room, rushed down the hall and out the front door. A huge red eye stared at her, distorted by the curve in the glass. It placed the cloche, her world now, on the shelf, then left. At the doorway, the thing crouched and lifted its horned head. The silhouette was exactly how it had appeared in her headlights. Beth stumbled backwards into the cottage. She stretched out on the bed in the windowless room and closed her eyes at last.
The End
If you’d like to hear the story inspired by this one you can listen to Drew Blood’s podcast on YouTube here.
Let's Get Out of Here 