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The End of Santa?

The End of Santa?

 

The crashing of the waves on the rocky shore sounded like thunder. It was early morning and the gray mist was losing to the rising sun as the distant sky became tinged with pinks and purples. As each wave rose to its peak the white maelstrom of the raging sea spoke of the power of the hidden depths. The icy cold water enveloped each of them as they struggled to shore. Many had been lost in the crash. The few that remained knew their quest was over. It had been a noble quest of course, but now it was only survival that mattered. Santa was dead. After hundreds of years he was dead. Murdered by the enemy. Christmas was at risk. Millions of children’s lives would be changed forever. Even for adults life would never be the same, for without Christmas, society would spiral even more out of control.

Lawrence knew this. That is why he applied for the job. He would he be the new, magical Santa, if the enemy didn’t find him of course, and it already looked liked the enemy wasn’t going to let that happen. Now, he struggled to shore, icy sea water stinging his feet in his boots. He was freezing, soaked from head to toe. He felt like a walrus, his Santa suit absorbing each molecule of water of the ocean, weighing him down as he trudged through the breaking waves to shore.

What now? Looking around he saw that four of the Santa’s had survived this vicious attack. Two of them ripped off their red coats and ran up the beach. They wanted no more. Just moments ago 15 of them had been on a private jet taking off from LAX on the way to the North Pole for the final interviews. The explosion and fire had come without warning from the back of the plane. Dense smoke, yelling, panic and then the plane had hit the water. Lawrence didn’t know how those pilots had brought the plane down belly first, but they did, and he was alive because of them.

He looked over at the last Santa who shook his head and slowly took off his red coat and hat. I’m the only once left. It’s up to me. Lawrence thought. I will be Santa. I will fight the enemy. I will win. Santa will live. Christmas will be saved.

January 10, 2012support Post Under Flash Fiction - Read More

Assault on New York

Assault on New York

“Raise the flag, let’s show ‘em who we are,”

 “Aye captain,” replied Stephan, as he pulled on the halyard, raising the skull and crossbones to the top of the mast.

 Captain John was a pirate.  He stood on the bridge of The Ghost, salty spray stinging his face as his ship sliced through the choppy bay.  It was early morning with wisps of last night’s fog floating on the tops of the waves.  The breeze was coming across the port side as The Ghost heeled over and pushed on towards land.  John looked out at the city of mighty buildings made of steel and glass.  Will she still be there? He wondered, and how will I find her?  He had never assaulted a city of this size, never even knew something like this existed.  All he knew is he had to have her back.

“Captain, look at the large, green lady statue in the bay,” yelled Stephan.

 With wonderment and awe John looked off the starboard bow and saw a large statue of a woman holding up a torch.  What is this place I have come to? He thought. 

“Where do we land the ship?” shouted Stephan

 Looking back to the city, John surveyed the land.  “There at the point, where those giant white tents are, it looks like a dock of some sort,” replied John, “and prepare the cannons on the starboard side, I see enemy ships leaving the dock and heading this way.”

John watched as the large, square ship headed right at them.  They were strange vessels, with layers of shiny glass on each side, and no sails.  He could see people on the very top moving around and pointing at them as the distance between the two ships closed.  Looking closely, John could see no sign of cannons or other weapons. “Ready the cannons, but hold your fire,” shouted John.  As the two ships passed he could see hundreds of strangely clad people looking out of the glass at his ship, and they were waving at him. 

“Prepare for battle,” John shouted, “Muskets and sabers, all parties ashore.”  The Ghost quickly jibed and as the boom swung across the deck, Stephan expertly slid the ship into the dock.

“Ashore,” John shouted as he jumped over the side of the ship.  Thirty rough pirates followed him onto the dock. Muskets and sabers in hand they raced past startled onlookers to the large white tent.  “Where is your leader?” John shouted as he crashed through of hundreds of people.  He looked around.  These people weren’t afraid.  Most of them were looking at him and smiling, some were clapping.  One of them shouted, “Where is Jack Sparrow?”

 He walked up to the nearest strangely dressed man and asked, “Who is your leader?”

 “Leader, what leader?” replied the man, “You guys look great.”

 “Hey, what are you guys doing?  You got a permit for a movie down here?” shouted a tall, dark man in a uniform as he approached John.

 “Aye, are you in charge around here?” John asked.

 “Yeah buddy, but only til five, what are you doing? I don’t see any cameras,” replied the man.

 “I don’t know cameras, but I need you to take me to Trump Castle.  I am here to rescue my fair maiden, Guinevere,” said John.

 “Trump!   That explains it.  What’s he up to now? The Tower is way up on 5th avenue, you guys need to catch a bus,” said the man.

 Johns pulled out his ruby encrusted dagger and held it to the mans neck.  “You will take us,” he said as he slowly drew the blade down the left side of his neck causing a line of blood to slowly appear, “or today is the day you die, take us to this bus.”

 With eyes wide with fear the man pointed to a large, gray vehicle.  Dragging the man with the dagger still at his neck he led his men over to the bus.  The men charged up the steps. John entered last with his prisoner and looked down at the startled man sitting behind a big wheel.  “Take me to Trump Castle or you die!”

 Standing with his dagger next to the driver’s neck, John looked up in awe as it moved forward.  Castles built into the sky as far as his eye could see on both sides of the bus. Everything made of glass.  The bus came to a stop.  “This is it, Trump Tower,” said the driver.

 “Prepare for battle, follow me men!”  John exclaimed.

 The door of the bus opened and John jumped the steps down to the ground.  Knocking men and women to the ground he sprinted through huge glass doors with his men close behind.  He stopped in shock at the beauty of the inside.  Dark wood, gold, waterfalls.  It was like an oasis inside a castle. He fired his musket in the air and shouted, “Where in this castle is my fair maiden Guinevere being held prisoner?”

Suddenly, from behind them a voice came “Drop your weapons now!”

 John turned to see 10 uniformed men with big and little muskets pointed at them.

“All I want is Guinevere, nobody has to die today,” he said.

“Drop your weapons or you will die today,” replied a uniformed man.

John looked at Stephan who winked at him.  Stephan knew his captain had never surrendered.  He turned to his men and whispered, “Be ready.”

 “For Guinevere,” John shouted as pointed his musket and fired. Eardrum shattering gunfire erupted from both sides.  Acrid smoke filled the air.  “Charge,” John shouted, as he ran toward the battle. 

He heard the bullet before it hit him. He could hear the whine of the bullet’s rotation as it spun on a perfect trajectory directly for his head.  For just an instant he felt the impact as it hit and then spun into his brain, making jelly of all thoughts of Captain John before it exploded out the back.  Everything went dark.

There was light, John slowly opened his eyes.  Looking down on him was a beautiful woman, deep blue eyes sparkling like sapphires through her long blonde hair.  A troubled look flashed across her face as she watched him.

“My fair maiden, Guinevere, I’m alive,” said John.

 “Fair maiden. What are you talking about?” said the woman, “You’re an idiot John, get up, you’re late for work.”

 Captain John, sat up and looked around his 500 square foot apartment, then flopped back down on the bed.  “Arrh, I’d rather be a pirate.”

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December 21, 2011
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Post Under Flash Fiction - Read More

Paul

“Domitia, come back.  If they catch us we will be executed, too.”

“Sh, Livilla, they’ll catch us only if you keep talking.”

It was early morning as they walked along the base of Capitoline Hill.  The sun’s rays were just beginning to shine through the trees on the hill, creating long shadows in front of them as they walked.  There was a bright cloudless sky and everything was still. The usual morning sounds of birds, goats and people in the marketplace was missing.  They continued on the brick walkway around the corner to the small building they had come to visit.

“This is where he is,” said Domitia.

“Where, I don’t see him,” replied Livilla.

“Look down,” said Domitia.

They both bent down and looked through small barred grate in the walkway.  Above them Livilla noted the sign on the building, Mamertine Prison.  As they looked into the dungeon below the little light that penetrated showed a cramped hole with walls made of large stones, blackened with age.  Pungent odors of sweat, urine and blood emanated from below.

Suddenly, an old face appeared at the grate.  Long flowing white hair, a long flowing white beard and the most beautiful brown eyes the women had ever seen.  The eyes were warm and inviting along with a broken smile meant only for them. They could see he had a crippled frame and looked older than his years.  A chain was attached to his left leg and to a post in the center of the room allowing him just enough length to reach the grated window.

“Lord we have brought you some bread and fruit,” said Domitia.

“I am not your Lord, but bless you my child,” the man said, “the food cannot go through the grate.  If you look down, I can reach through one of these bricks.  The crippled old man bent down and disappeared. Soon, one of the bricks on the walkway moved and his arm weathered with age reached out.  After quickly looking around, Domitia bent down and placed some bread, grapes and a small jar of water into the man’s hand and he pulled them into his cell.  The aged and bruised face reappeared at the grate.

“Thank you, my children, but please go now before you are seen.  Remember God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of sound mind.  Be strong in the grace that is the Christ.”

“Bless you Paul, we pray for you daily,” said Domitia.

Domitia and Livilla stepped away from the grate and began walking back around the Capitoline.  Six Roman soldiers dressed in their full battle gear; the bowl shaped helmet, the iron breastplate,  iron plated leg and arm guards, a red and white tunic, and the sandal boot laced up to the knee marched past them.  They stopped, looked back and watched as the guards removed the grate and pulled Paul out of the dungeon.

“It is time, old man,” a soldier said as he beat him with a rod to the back of his legs causing Paul to collapse to his knees.

“Wait, wait,” a shout came from a man running up from the road. “I must talk to the prisoner.”

Paul turned to the man and smiled, “Luke, my friend, my physician, it is good to see you one last time.  Please take these letters to Timothy at Ephesus for me,” he said as he handed Luke several rolled parchments.

Luke stood there speechless as the soldiers led Paul away.  Domitia and Livilla watched in silence as they marched off.

“We must follow,” said Livilla.

“He’s going to be put to death,” replied Domitia.

“All the more we should follow,” said Livilla.

They followed as the guards marched Paul, stooped, white hair blowing in the wind, , shuffling his chained feet slowly along.  He was marched through the heavy gate and beyond the stone wall.  They went past the pyramid of Cestius, onto Ostian Way.  Others on the road knew the old man was marching to his death.  They walked by without a glance.  This happened every day in Rome.

Domitia and Livilla followed closely watching as Paul, even though walking stiffly had slowly straightened up.  A faint smile appeared on his lips as if he was in on some private joke.  Suddenly, a sobbing woman ran up to Paul and gave him her veil and bowed down to him.  He said a few words to her and then the guards pushed her away.

They marched into a wooden glade called the Aquas Salvias.  Paul was walked to a stump like pillar and stripped; Paul was standing perfectly straight by now, no evidence of age or infirmary.  Shoulders back, chin up he seemed to have lost years in the short march.  He turned and looked at Domitia and Livilla and smiled his face aglow with happiness.

“We must save him,” said Livilla.

“He is already saved,” replied Domitia.

The guards beat him one last time with rods and axe handles.  He groaned and bled from his nose and mouth.  The guards pushed him down to his knees, forcing his head and neck down onto the pillar.  Without hesitation, the executioner swung the gleaming axe above his head, and then brought it down quickly, hitting his target with a loud thud.  The head of the Apostle Paul rolled onto the ground.

November 8, 2011 Post Under Flash Fiction - Read More
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