Fruits of the Parallel

© Sharon Hood

Here's Sharon's latest piece. She can get them done in 60 minutes from start to finish (it takes A.T.D longer to provide a visual accompaniment than it does for her to jot the text down). Limit for all stories is 750 words. It's rather grand, calling them stories - some of them are mere flashes (hence the term 'flash fiction') and insights into snippets of isolated scenes or sketches, with no hint of a beginning, middle, or end - just a small segment from either one or all of these.

~

Kaydee died mid-sprint half a mile from her house, flat dead on the running track two thirds of the way through her second lap. She’d joined the local athletics club to lose weight.

She left behind no children, but both parents, two sisters, and a brother. She’d also recently started dating again after three years of being single.

The moment she died, she stood up like Patrick Swayze in the film GHOST and stared at her still body.

“You’re allowed in,” she heard over her shoulder. An angel who looked like Peter Andre with a white glow gave her a remote control. “Go home and turn on the TV until it’s time. There’s a two hour wait.”

She went home, noting the ambulance quickly on the scene, and plodded upstairs to watch telly. There were pears on the telly, which she started to eat. They were the nicest foodstuff to ever touch her lips, both filling and thirst-quenching at the same time. On Channel 1, there was a hippie woman playing a harp to a live audience. On 2, it was a woman in overalls fixing a flat tyre in a garage. On 3, it was a woman in a restaurant carrying a platter of food. All three women were the same: All three women were her.

She hardly recognised herself: different clothes, different hair, different demeanours. On Channel 4, she was a child at a friend’s birthday party. On 5 she was a multi-millionaire media mogul in a suit. On 6, she was rowing a boat in the Olympic Games. In two hours, she’d only reached Channel 23. There were hundreds, thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands more.

Thankfully, Kaydee had turned at 30. Before 30, she had only guessed at the presence of God or any other kind of power, bewildered and confused at certain critical moments of her life. Grief, shame, guilt and anger had dominated her twenties, but something changed then and she actively sought any kind of higher existence on a permanent full-time basis, rather than flirting with the idea when it suited her, in times of want and need. She changed herself, BY herself, and indeed found something that had always been there, and would always be there, now that she had opened her eyes and her heart to receive it. It was not the Lord Jesus Our Saviour, she didn’t think at the time, but it could have been. The important thing was not what it was or what it wasn’t, but what it did.

On every channel she had friends and family; on every channel she was enriched. It would have been so much different, if she hadn’t altered her mindset and outlook while she had still had the time. The channels might have been dark, solemn, and glum, showing her walking the streets, destitute, weighed down not only by the pressures of the world, but more so by the mistakes and regrets of her own soul.

Life is all about choices, she thought. A maze.... a sheer labyrinth of Cat & Mouse and Snakes & Ladders. Every wrong turn rippled along the Path of Consequence.

Kaydee heard her bedroom door open. She thought it was the angel to lead her to the next place, but it was another version of herself. This other one was dressed like a goth with black lipstick on, black mascara on, and covered in tattoos. The goth Keydee spoke into an earpiece. She said: “I’ve infiltrated purgatory. When St Peter comes to collect my inferior, I’ll eliminate him too and invade Heaven.”

The ‘nastified’ edition of Kaydee dragged the saved Kaydee to the floor, picked up a pear, and rammed it into her throat. “You have so many fruits of the spirit,” the bad Kaydee shouted, “you may as well have fruits of the parallel too...right down your gob!”

Kaydee choked and suffocated as more pears were stuffed into her mouth. The evil Kaydee changed channels when she was done, to enjoy herself shooting a speedball for the first time all over again, on Channel 66, and splitting up someone’s marriage, on Channel 69. She chuckled to herself.

MEANWHILE, BACK ON EARTH....The paramedic finally brought Kaydee back to life. The girl had been technically dead for two minutes. She became a celebrity of sorts among her close circle, known as the girl who had cheated death. Absolutely everybody knew, it seemed, after a while....but, in fact, they only knew the half of it, because she was sure in the knowledge, deep in her heart, that she had died not just once....but twice.

finito

Snow Queen and The Princess

Beauty vs Beauty

~

Tom sat on his step looking out over the cobblestone street. It was late, and deserted. Full moon above the thatched rooftops. Patchy clouds with stars in between. His parents were tucked up in bed, beneath warm blankets. He should be, too, but he wasn’t. Instead, he looked out over this cobblestone street, yellow with lamplight and white with snow.

The Princess arrived on her gold-plated tandem bicycle. It had two seats and two sets of pedals. It also had a basket on the front with hot soup and rolls in. They had been having an affair for weeks now, ever since their meeting at the village carnival. It wasn’t really an affair, but it was just as risky. Tom would be outcast from society, if found out, or possibly flogged.

She appeared from nowhere, as usual, as knowledgeable of the commoners' backstreets as she was of the royal courtyards. They were at the touching stage now, so greeted each other with a hug and a kiss. The Princess’s lips were so soft that Tom thought they might melt in his own. Her eyes were so deep and sparkling, they reminded him of jewels, floating in pools.

Together they cycled out of the labourers' village towards the restful abandon of the brook. The Princess unravelled a fishing rod with a glow worm on the hook, casting into the smooth silken silvery surface. They laid a mat and sat, one hand around the other and one hand each on the rod. Soon enough they caught a majestic starfish, studying it intently before returning it unharmed.

Comfortably, her in her diamond-studded robes and him in his brown rags, they devised their plan about running away together, across the valley. He would build their home and she would work the land for vegetables. They argued about who was more besotted with who, glad to be away from the world they knew and happy to have some time with themselves. They lay back, relaxed, about to christen their secret relationship by creating love for the first time...

Just then, they noticed a dark spec coming out of the moon. They both sat up, thinking it must be an asteroid. It was actually The Snow Queen, in her flying chariot of ice, driven by six black unicorns with wings. She breezed to earth and landed on the other side of the brook. Tom got to his feet and undressed to his long johns. He was a strong swimmer.

The Princess tugged his arm and begged him to stay put. Tom knew he shouldn’t investigate, but curiosity and excitement got the better of him. The Princess tried to pull him to ground, to ignore the distraction and create love, but Tom was off into the freezing water and splashing his way across.

On the other side, The Snow Queen was waiting for him, off her throne and on her booted feet. She helped him up and touched his fingers to her lips. He caught a glimpse of her sharp, blue tongue. She looked both sexy and cruel in a very deliberate way – something Tom had never encountered before. She was old enough to make The Princess seem like a child in comparison. She had longer legs, a tighter waist, bigger breasts, and firmer flesh. She peered down at him, holding his chin up to her, and smiled the widest, whitest smile he had ever seen, nose and cheekbones above chiselled by a master sculptor.

Her eyes, narrow and dark, burned with a faint shade of crimson. She didn’t lead Tom away, but merely nodded her head towards the ice chariot, and opened one side of her polar bear skin cloak.

Across the brook, The Princess dove into the water in a desperate bid to stop Tom from being taken away from her. She was a weak swimmer and got into trouble halfway, sinking beneath the calm surface into strong currents below. She died crying Tom’s name.

When Tom escaped from the Snow Queen’s Palace several years later, and heard of her fate, he regularly planted flowers at the spot where they had almost created love, and very nearly died himself, from a broken heart.

© Sharon Hood
DNM Fiction
Start to fin in 60 min

Sharon saw an animated version of The Snow Queen one Christmas Eve, and inserts this occasion as a ‘life marker’ in her diary. She says it invigorated and refreshed her and motivated her and inspired her. A truly magical children’s adventure, even better than The Snowman. Because there are so many versions however, she has been unable to acquire it on DVD.

MY LITTLE MAN by Sharon Hood

DNM FICTION®
EDITED BY A.MICHAEL
Sharon Hood’s prose is usually adventurous and daring, but here she offers a mix of morality and philosophy in a kind of excerpt from a God’s guidebook about maternal instincts for future generations. “With designer babies around the corner,” she says from her 1st floor residence by the local primary school, “I wondered what the forms will look like when you are deciding what kind of baby you want. I’m almost certain they will be multiple choice with boxes to tick. This would be the addition at the end when it asks you for any more information that you think might be relevant.”

~

He shall be born. Whatever his condition, weight or size, he shall be adored, and receive plenty of attention. Smiling faces shall peer into his cot and stroller. He shall not cry and bawl more than is normal. As soon as he is upright, he shall be free to investigate and explore, leashed only for his own safety. Shopping aisles and parks shall be his second home. On the issue of schooling, he shall mix well with the other kids, but not too well in order to mislay his trust. It is not in his advantage for everyone to know his affairs, but a privilege for those who do.

He shall respect privacy, and restraint, but not to the point that renders him solemn, or sly. In his desired company, he shall be open and honest. Among undesirables, polite but wary. He shall neither slack in his studies or become so absorbed in them that he has hardly room for anything else; paying them the necessary attention to be an example to those below him but not to let the top of the class get out of sight.

He shall respect his elders, especially his teachers, and not be disruptive to the detriment of others. A mild wild streak shall flow through him, utilised only for flair, bravado, and humour; never unpredictable stupidity. He shall not be afraid to try new things, but never become dependent to the brink of addiction. If someone shows him favour, he shall repay them double-fold. If he shows someone favour, he shall expect nothing in return.

Primarily, he is kind and non-judgemental, but must be able to stand up for himself and others when the circumstances require. Violence shall not interest him, but blood shall not make him break out in fits of squeamishness. He shall be knowledgeable of the human body, and never test its limits; that is for other people to do. He shall enjoy, occasionally, being a spectator of the procession of life, but only to learn from it from the purpose of participation.

He shall be active, but always make time for relaxation. On the matter of women, and sex, he shall treat them like princesses, and reserve it solely for those who occupy a place in his heart. On religion, he shall have an open mind, but not so open that his brains fall out. He shall be interested in politics, if only for its entertainment value, and he shall listen to the radio more than he shall watch TV. Career, family, and success, is a given. But, most of all....

....he shall loveth me.

© Sharon Hood MMX
Blob of Glob

Sharon’s previous story
http://piebald77.blogspot.com/2010/06/parachute-fiance-by-sharon-hood.html

THE PARACHUTE FIANCE by Sharon Hood

DNM FICTION edited by A.Michael

Sharon Hood is 27. She is outgoing and quite childish at times. Her biggest asset is her ability to approach and talk to total strangers. Her biggest downfall is drinking one too many in Wetherspoons and doing exactly that. The most important thing in her life is her son, who she has just got back, and the thing she is best at is looking after him.

Beatrice the instructor, 44, took a liking to Pedro on their steady climb to 13,000ft, over landscapes and lakes green and blue. He’d been in the group she’d been training all morning, but only now in the cramped confines of the aircraft did his presence really sink in. His features were soft, his manner softer. He looked at her in a funny way that made her belly itch with butterflies. He wore an expression that seemed to indicate he had some kind of icebreaker to share with her. Like ‘what are you doing tonight?’ for example, or ‘I think you look great for your age’. He was silent, however, except for the obvious concerns most 1^st timers have. His heart wasn’t really in it; she knew that today was his birthday and the jump was a present from his family, who were watching from down below.

She did her best to relax him, more so than other clients, because it struck her that he reminded her of her first husband, who had sadly passed away when she was eight months pregnant with her 1^st and only son, who had also been tragically lost to sudden death syndrome when only six years old. Beatrice’s 2^nd husband had walked out halfway through their third year together and ever since the only chance she ever had time to enjoy male company was in work, when she was jumping in tandem with men in what could only be described, for them, as either very intense or very exhilarating situations. For her it was ace every time.

The 1^st timers could be tricky to work out. Bravado on the ground counted for nothing in the air. A lot of them bottled out last minute. Pedro wasn’t a bottler, but she could see that he was infected with fear by the power of the vertigo. She could help him with that.

They jumped. All was good. His face was a giant blissful smile. Then disaster struck. The cord trapped and the parachute failed. They went spiralling out of control, the planet a spinning canvas of blurry colour, the wind a screaming banshee. Given no choice, she had to open the reserve without releasing the first one. The two instantly tangled. And that was it. Game over. Just like that. Bye-bye life. Pedro was very quiet, and she admired that in him, but he clung to her like a baby. She realised the coincidence then that he was the same age to the day as her son would have been, had her son still been alive.

When someone reminds you of a loved one, she thought to herself, you almost want to love them unconditionally too, even though you may not know the slightest thing about them. It was like Gods sending down angels and messengers, and they never came more than once or twice. It was cruel for her to encounter someone special at the very end like this. Cruel. Her life had been sad, overall. She’d spent many months and years in grief. But there had been good times, and those good times flashed through her mind like a stream of rosy photographs.

This was a good time. The freedom of the sky and the clouds. The peace. She would die flying, and flying she loved more than anything else in what was left of her life. No sweat. She had done it a thousand times before. Pedro, though, none. She held him back just as tightly, and they communicated so-so much without saying a word. As one they plunged like a bullet to the earth, Beatrice making sure she was on the bottom underneath him to take the full force of the impact.

Pedro didn’t like this, and tried to stop her, but he was no expert of the heavens like she, and was eased gently into submission. Her back hit the ground first and dead pain exploded throughout every outermost nerve-fibre in her body, but she only felt it for half a second before the whole world and all she knew of it collapsed inwards into a chasm of black pixels, and out she went, like a light.

She awoke a week later, in a wheelchair, wearing a neck-brace. The hospital ward was sunny. Pedro sat opposite her with tears on his cheeks. She felt so overjoyed to exist at all, for the both of them to exist, that her present condition didn’t bother her one bit. She was so happy, she started to tell jokes to cheer him up. Soon enough they were laughing together. She would get better. As author of this story, I guarantee it.

It was in a fit of giggles and laughs that Pedro proposed to her. Beatrice thought that was his idea of a joke. It wasn’t. She had saved his life and he wanted to be with her.

“But I’ve got twenty years on you,” she protested.

“I don’t care,” Pedro replied, “it’s what me and my family want.”

“Yes then,” she said.

© Sharon Hood 2010

WOMAN OF WAR by Sharon Hood

Gun-less, she bumped into someone alive. Another soldier, crouched and armed with a rifle.

‘I’m down to my last clip,’ the soldier said. ‘Take my rifle if I get hit––’ Before he could finish he flopped onto his stomach as if he were falling onto a bed after a double shift of hauling heavy furniture up and down apartment block staircases. There was a bullet hole the size of a penny an inch above his left eye.

Before she could even blink another bullet whistled past so close to her head that she had to check if her ear was still attached to it after she dived to the deck. Seizing the dead soldier’s rifle, she belly-crawled towards a T-junction. Fired warning shots towards the sound of scuffling enemy feet. Took the opposite direction, right, and clambered up a ladder set into the wall ten metres ahead. Popped her scalp up out of the trench.

Within gobbing distance was a makeshift den of sandbags where two friendly quartermasters were handing out ammunition beside their tripod-mounted guns. They beckoned her out and told her in thick ally accents to go in the direction of their pointed fingers.

Beyond them was a battlefield of jeeps and trucks and tanks, half of them leaking black smoke into the sky. Kamikaze planes lined up and dived and bombed like predatory flies on anything that moved. Troops scuttled from cover to cover like ants scooting out of the rain. Gunfire crackled and banged.

An explosion blew her off her feet. She landed on top of an upturned, burned-out vehicle, rolled off it, spluttered, and rolled under it. Spilled cartridges tinkled in front of her. A piece of shrapnel spun like a spinning top. A burning puddle of oil warmed her brow. She stared into the hot flames, their blueness reminding her of a gas oven, of sticking a folded length of newspaper into the fire in the living room, transporting it carefully to the kitchen, and lighting the grill so she could make some toast. All because the ignition button on the cooker in the bare kitchen had not worked; it just had clicked endlessly, as a child, when she was hungry. Nothing in her poverty-stricken childhood home had worked.

Now nor did her rifle. It had jammed. She flung it away.

A pair of booted legs ran past. Another soldier, dragging a stretcher. Like the first one, he dropped as if God had suddenly turned him off, like a robot with the power cut. The body on the stretcher slid off; an old civilian with leg injuries, the colour of an albino ghost.

She dashed to help, obligated to jeopardize her life. The fright on the face of the old civilian was infectious galore. The eyes said how can this be, how can this possibly be?

She shoved the poor chap back on and headed towards a medical tent, protected behind a pyramid of rubber tyres. She flinched at the sight of muzzle-flash. She jumped at the sound of every crash and boom. She almost tripped and fell, distracted by the pandemonium around herself. She could hear more foreign voices, barking out orders she could not understand. Some of them were chanting, singing, cheering.

At last, the flimsy tent was only a few more steps away. She shuffled inside.

There were twelve taken beds and other casualties on gurneys between them on the floor. There were no machines of any kind, no reassuring bleeps from a heart monitor. Several fatalities were covered in black tarpaulin. The survivors were silent except for the odd muted sob.

A single busy body male nurse attended to them, glancing up from the hurried process of washing his bloodied gloves. Every other aspect of his persona was impeccable. His eyes locked with hers for a long, long moment before flashing back to the victim. She stood back, weakened by the beauty of his eyes, and watched the male nurse remove debris from the wounds of the old civilian with a pair of tongs, before cauterizing them. That was when the old civilian passed out.

She could not take her eyes off the male nurse; he was more interesting to look at than all of the action outside. His movements, his facial expressions, his rigid hair.

‘You have to get more,’ he said to her. ‘Go.’

Her body remained rooted to the spot. Go back out there? This flimsy tent was a sanctuary. The image of him was an escape.

But the male nurse’s eyes locked with hers again. Another long, long moment passed. The explosions became distant echoes. He nodded at her. It was a nod with subliminal implications. A nod full of promise. As if he might want her for something shortly, as if she might be able to assist him in some way. It was all the motivation she needed to get on the move again, and haul some more survivors in.

© Sharon Hood 2010