Flash Tales Read online

  FLASH TALES

  A Collection of Short Stories for Children

  Chess Desalls

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Flash Tales

  What a Clown Reads

  The Floating Flautist

  Trompette

  Well Plaid

  Queen of the Small Seas

  Morning and the Moon

  About the Author

  Text copyright © 2017 by Czidor Lore, LLC

  All rights reserved in the collective work as well as each individual work.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  First Edition: 2017

  “What a Clown Reads” © 2015, Czidor Lore, LLC

  “The Floating Flautist” © 2014, Czidor Lore, LLC

  “Trompette” © 2014, Czidor Lore, LLC

  “Well Plaid” © 2014, Czidor Lore, LLC

  “Queen of the Small Seas” © 2015, Czidor Lore, LLC

  “Morning and the Moon” © 2014, Czidor Lore, LLC

  FLASH TALES is a collective work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this collection and in each of the individual stories are used in a fictitious manner and are the products of the author’s imaginings. Any resemblances to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events are unintentional.

  Cover art by CoverMe Designs

  ISBNs: 978-0-9993829-4-3 (paperback), 978-1-5401224-7-6 (ebook)

  To all who wonder, children and adults, alike.

  What a Clown Reads

  (First Place Winner, SBW WritersTalk Challenge, Fiction Division)

  I settled into evening with a perfectly ordinary-looking book—one I’d purchased at Trixie’s Gags and Gains, a magic shop filled with card tricks, disappearing ink, wax moustaches, and soap-flavored candies. The cashier, Trixie herself, had pointed her chin at me and smiled, confirming that my selection had been a good one. It was the shop’s last copy to boot, she’d told me. She wouldn’t be ordering any more. What fortune! I could hardly wait to read it.

  The clown that graced the book’s cover had a tiny pink nose and a garish smile. In his gloved hand he held a book that matched, in every way, the book I’d bought from Trixie. Across his shiny gray shirt that just barely stretched across his belly, it read “What a Clown Reads” in bright red scrawl. What a clever little clown, I thought. What a clever little title.

  I opened the clever little book and read.

  The silver-clad clown wore a silver-clad frown as he took up the Sunday paper. “Good news, bad news, old news, new news” the clown muttered. He feverishly turned pages, looking for the funnies, something to cheer him up. When he reached the last page, however, he began to shake. And then tremble. And quake.

  “This isn’t the Sunday paper,” he said. “It’s that fake newspaper I bought from that tricky damsel by the lake.” He flipped over the last page and sighed. Then his nose twitched. He lifted a hand to scratch an itch. While scratching, his eyes bugged out and his frown stretched into a scowl. He tapped his nose with both hands. “Why, this isn’t my nose!”

  He ran to a mirror and looked inside. His round pink nose had beaked to twice its size, and it was as pale and ghastly as the rest of his face. Sharp fangs poked out between blood-red lips. His breath quickened. His heart pounded—

  “The joke’s on him!” I cried, laughing at the clown’s folly. He’d been tricked! And what a clever little trick it was!

  I sipped from my teacup, shook my head, and read on.

  A pale white hand turned the page, blotting out the clown’s memory of the matters previously described. There, in the silence of midnight, hours before the sun would rise, the silver-clad vampire sat over his diary to reread his entries by candlelight. Arching a dark eyebrow, he narrowed his eyes. The first page was blank, as was the second...and the third.

  “Where are my entries?” he asked of the book, flipping forward through its pages. “My victims, my sanctuaries, my drawings of the sea backlit by the moon... Where have they gone?” He thought for a moment. “Surely yesterday’s freshly penned entry remains.” He bit his lip, taking care not to draw blood, as he slid the ribbon that marked the page where he’d last written.

  The vampire drew in a sharp breath. His marked page was unmarred, a fresh blanket of snow.

  I slapped my knee with my hand and guffawed. “Disappearing ink! What a fool the vampire was to not see that coming!”

  The vampire continued turning pages until he reached the end of the diary. After turning the last page, he howled. And then growled. Furious with himself for having lost his words and his voice, he stalked off to his washroom to gargle. Nearing the sink, he shuddered. Someone else was there—inside the mirror above the sink. But I am a vampire, he thought. I do not have a reflection.

  With his heart pounding in his eardrums, he moved in for a closer look. The reflection peered at him, too, until its wet black nose at the end of its long furry snout bumped the mirror. The vampire and the monster recoiled in surprise. The vampire touched his nose. So did the reflection. Both growled, and wiggled their pointed ears.

  I furrowed my brows. An interesting trick, I thought. I lifted my teacup for another sip, but I had trouble keeping it steady. Instead of hazarding a shaky slurp, I thought better of it, set the cup back down, and continued to read.

  A hairy gray paw—thick with claws—turned the page, blotting out the vampire’s memory of the matters previously described. The silver-haired werewolf grunted where it hid in the darkness, using its night vision to decipher—

  I stopped reading and rubbed my eyes.

  I knew where this was going, for I was no fool. Flipping ahead, I mumbled whatever phrases caught my eye as I turned pages. “The silver-clad witch read from her recipe book of potions... The silver-beaked crow...silver-tailed skunk...silver-clad reaper.” Yes, I could see the pattern, and on and on it went. I skipped ahead to the last page and, finding nothing of further interest, I turned it over.

  Yawning, I glanced at my watch, then started. I couldn’t make out the time.

  A reflection in the watch face looked back at me, icing my blood. It wasn’t me. It couldn’t be! I ran to my bedroom and flicked on the light.

  “No!” I screamed at the reflection in the mirror. “I’m not supposed to have a little pink nose or silver painted lips that frown!”

  A gloved hand, fringed in silver, quietly turned the page.

  The Floating Flautist

  (Instruments of Piece, #1)

  Zenne closed her eyes and began to play. Her delicate fingertips fluttered across the holes of a wooden flute. Arpeggios skipped through syncopated rhythms in deep, mellow tones. The notes stretched and grew. They wailed when she rested her fingers for too long and tapered to completion before she took her next breath.

  While playing, Zenne tapped one foot on the floor. The taps softened and faded until her foot no longer came in contact with the floor. The space between foot and floor lengthened as Zenne continued keeping time by heartbeat. Ba-dum, rest. Ba-dum, rest. Three four time. The time signature of the human heart.

  With her eyes still closed and her body drifting upwards, Zenne continued to play. Tresses of straight black hair flowed from her forehead, down across her back and past her waist. Musical energy generated electric static that ran from root to tip. Wrapped in sound, breath and heartbeat, Zenne could have stayed that way forever. Perhaps she would have, had she not been distracted by a shrill cry.

  “Mama! She’s doing it again. I caught her!”

  The music stopped. Instead of floating dow
n to the ground, Zenne landed with a thud. She opened her blue-gray eyes. Mesha, a miniature version of Zenne, stood with her chubby hands resting on her hips.

  Zenne winced. Holding her flute protectively to her side, she reached out to rub a sore ankle.

  Mama walked in with a dishtowel in one hand and a padlock in the other. “Zenne,” she said, “I wasn’t joking yesterday. That was your final warning, and this is the last time.” Mama reached for the flute.

  “No—you can’t! It doesn’t belong to you!”

  Mesha’s eyes grew wide. She’d never talked back to Mama. That’s why Mesha was the favorite, which is why she could get away with the occasional tattle whereas Zenne and their older brother, Kist, could not.

  Zenne stood up and slid the flute behind her back. “I’m thirteen years old now, Mama. This was the last gift Papa gave me before he...” Her lower lip trembled.

  Mama’s eyes softened, then grew sharp again. “Do you want to ruin Papa’s last gift to you? When you play you frighten our little Mesha. How long before you fall and break the flute, or worse yet, your younger sister?”

  Zenne shrugged, letting her shoulders droop and round forward. “Then I won’t play it anymore. Please don’t take it away, Mama. I promise.”

  “That’s not fair,” whined Mesha. “She already had her last chance, Mama.”

  Zenne glared at her little sister. “You’re jealous. The flute won’t play for you. It’s the only time you don’t get your own way.”

  Mesha bowed her lip into a pout and batted her lashes up at Mama. “But the flute scares me. I want it to go away.”

  Mama sighed. “Let’s put it away for a little while. I did say you had your last chance, Zenne. You abused that chance, so now you’re grounded.”

  Tears fell from Zenne’s eyes. With trembling hands, she handed over the flute. Mama wrapped the wooden instrument in the dishtowel and placed it inside the safe box where Zenne’s family kept other precious gifts and memories of Papa. After clamping the padlock shut, Mama removed the chain from her neck where she kept the key.

  Zenne’s eyes filled with tears all over again as Mama turned the key inside the lock, separating the flute from the music inside of her that she had not yet played. Mama returned the key and chain to the safety of her neck, gave Zenne a sad smile and left the room.

  Mesha trotted after Mama, turning back at the doorway to look at Zenne. She stuck out her tongue. “Creep!”

  Zenne mouthed the words “suck up,” but found her lips incapable of producing any sound.

  ***

  Three long hours passed before Kist returned home from the marketplace, where he spent his days selling what was left of the woodwork Papa had made. Kist spent his evenings whittling away at fallen branches, but none of his work was good enough to sell to the public. That evening he found Zenne in her room, hunched over a table of wooden toys, all gifts from Papa that hadn’t been taken away or destroyed by Mesha.

  Kist ran his hand through his short, dark hair. “Ah, Zenne,” he said. “I heard what happened. Mesha couldn’t wait to tell me all about it.”

  Zenne’s lips pulled into a tight frown. “I can’t stand her. She gets everything she wants, and then she makes sure I lose the only thing I want in the whole world.”

  The edges around Kist's honey-brown eyes—Papa’s eyes—crinkled as he smiled. “Mesha is only six years old. She’ll grow out of it.”

  “But what do I do until then?”

  “You improvise.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Before replying, Kist looked over his shoulder and squinted at Zenne’s bedroom door. He lowered his voice. “Remember the adjustable cane Papa made—the one with the holes in it?”

  “Yes. One hollow tube fits inside the other. You can slide the inside tube to make the cane longer or shorter, and then press pegs through the holes to keep it at the length you want.”

  Kist nodded, his eyes glowing. “I’ll be right back.”

  ***

  Zenne’s fingers trembled as she removed the pegs from the cane. “Do you think it will work?”

  “Try it.”

  “But this was Papa’s gift to you—”

  “It’s yours now.”

  Zenne closed her eyes and played, tapping her foot until it no longer came in contact with the floor. Music poured out of the cane—scales and triads, melodies and rhythms, trills and slurs. Zenne soared upwards, her fingers dancing along the holes in the wood, all while keeping in time with the beating of her heart. Ba-dum, rest. Ba-dum, rest. Ba-dum.

  Trompette

  (Instruments of Piece, #2)

  Trompette watched greedily from her wooden perch. A dirt road bended and twisted below, bordered with townspeople waving flags of leaves and handkerchiefs. Trompette shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

  “They should have been here by now,” she whispered.

  She squinted, her eyes straining to see the farthest point along the road. The parade route began a half mile away, but the dust from the road sat undisturbed. Still, the groans of the sackbuts—trombones of old—poured out ahead, reaching the depths of Trompette’s ears, announcing that they were drawing near, long before she could see them.

  Trompette clutched two branches, digging her nails deep into the weathered wood, as she dipped her head underneath boughs of autumn-changed leaves. The players would be there soon, and with them, Sharon. Trompette drew in a quick breath. This year, Sharon would be first in line behind the rows of drums and jingles.

  Swirls of road dust uplifted, enveloping the townspeople in a cloud as thick as a swarm of moths. Trompette let go of one of the branches to cover her mouth and nose as a long line of players, four rows deep, marched to the tapping of the drums. Jingles of all shapes and sizes joined the tapping with their cracking and ringing and their clacking and pinging.

  Flags rose higher. Voices cheered. Trompette crouched with bated breath.

  A glint of light reflected off the brass bell of a sackbut and stung her in the eye. Formed to perfection and decorated with the most delicate of etchings at its bell, the horn rose toward the sky. Trompette gasped. Sharon.

  The drums and jingles fell silent, their players at rest. Sharon began her solo. With a timbre deeper than a cornet and softer than a trombone, the instrument sang...mournfully.

  Trompette’s mouth fell open. Her green eyes darted from the bell to the right hand of Sharon’s player, watching as he moved the slide back and forth to produce different notes. The notes were too slow. Trompette’s eyes watered. The notes were too sad.

  One by one, the townsmen and women lowered their flags of leaves and handkerchiefs. The plump, sun-kissed cheeks of children sagged as their smiles disappeared. Trompette wiped tears from her own cheeks. What happened to Sharon?

  Lips trembled as Sharon grieved her last note, a distressing plea for help in a voice that sounded almost human. Stunned, Trompette looked at the face of Sharon’s player. He, too, had tears in his eyes. He blinked rapidly as he ended the solo, and then he lowered the instrument to the ground.

  In years past, the sackbut soloist received a stirring round of applause. The sackbut’s song had always been celebratory, heralding, like the song of the long trumpets that had since been banned. This year was different.

  After he lowered the instrument to the ground, Sharon’s player stepped out of line and turned his back on her. The drummers and jinglers cast each other sideward glances. Murmurs from the townspeople accompanied raised eyebrows and pointing fingers. The parade and the celebration were at a standstill.

  The jinglers raised their jingles, ready to restore the merriment. But their hands and their jingles hung in midair as Sharon’s player sharply turned about face. He lifted his right leg, with his knee tightly bent, and then slammed it back down again. With a sickening snap, his heel separated the sackbut’s tube and bell from her slide. Then, with his hands balled into fists at his sides, he turned left face and marched away.

  “Sh
aron,” Trompette screamed.

  Tree bark scratched her palms and fingers and tore at her frock as she slid down the tree. “Sharon!”

  She pushed her way through the wall of townspeople and knelt before the maimed instrument. Untidy brown curls fell across her shoulders as she reached forward with one hand and placed it on Sharon’s fresh wound.

  ***

  Trompette remained on the dirt road for hours after the players broke out of position and the townspeople drifted away. Leaves that were once flags littered the ground around her. She lifted a dusty handkerchief that had been left behind and shook it out before tying it around the broken instrument.

  With a heavy heart, she carried Sharon home, to where she’d seen the instrument shaped—to Brindle Smith’s metal shop where Trompette apprenticed.

  Brindle was still hard at work over his forge when Trompette found him. He wiped his hands across his leather apron. “What is all this?”

  “It’s Sharon. She’s been horribly damaged.”

  Brindle raised a bushy brow. “Is that so?”

  Trompette nodded.

  Taking Sharon from Trompette’s arms, he untied the handkerchief. He placed the tube and bell on his workbench and threw the slide on top of a pile of metal.

  Trompette shot him a look of disbelief. “What are you doing, Brindle? Aren’t you going to make her whole again?”

  “No,” he said as he began hammering out the dented tubing. “Sharon has been many things over the years. You saw her when she became a sackbut, but you never heard her last song as a long trumpet.”

  Brindle grafted a smaller mouthpiece onto the end of Sharon’s tubing. “She’ll never be a long trumpet again,” he said. “And today ends her days as a sackbut.”

  “But why?”

  “Because the time has come for Sharon to begin a new life as a new instrument, Trompette.” He handed over the shortened brass tube with its flared bell and new mouthpiece. “Today, Sharon begins a new life with you.”