Flash Fiction: Chocolate Bones

Chocolate Bones

By Sean C. Wright-Neeley  

“Your blood pressure is very low.  I can tell you aren’t menstruating.”

Ambrosia didn’t answer, closed her eyes, and pushed her face into the hospital bed.

Ambrosia’s manager, Holly, gave her a ride home. Holly looked like Steve Buscemi in a page boy wig, and was a good fifteen pounds overweight.  Her desk was a compost heap, and Holly returned from lunch with a stain on her shirt, ninety-percent of the time.  Ambrosia felt grimy whenever she left Holly’s office, always hurried to the ladies’ room to scour her hands.

“Ambi, you need help,” Holly said.

“I’m just tired.”

“This is the second time in three months that you’ve fainted at work.”

“I’ll get a good night’s rest.”

Her manager stopped at a red light, swallowed, and fingered the steering wheel.

“Ambrosia, we’ve decided you are not to come back to work until you are healthy.”

“I’m your best worker.”

“I know, but you aren’t much good to me in this condition.  I’ll give you until the end of this week to get help.  You’ll be on paid leave.”  It was Monday afternoon.

“If you don’t get help. . .”

Holly didn’t have to finish for Ambrosia to know what was coming: her manager wanted her to get fat. This jackal-faced bitch was jealous, and she didn’t want Ambrosia around if she wasn’t as ugly as she.

*****

Ambrosia loved getting into a rhythm so that her legs rolled like wheels.  Six miles today.  Normally, it was five, but the hospital made her drink apple juice (120 calories) before they released her.  Ambrosia was Coffee, Foxy Brown, chasing the scum. “Freeze, sugar! You’re under arrest!” she sometimes whispered to herself as she jogged.  Her ropy limbs pumped as efficiently as cylinders.  Ambrosia rounded a corner on the sidewalk, then another. She nearly toppled two Girl Scouts, clutching their cookie order forms.

 

She had been in Girl Scouts. The mirth was the number pi, looping and stretching into forever: selling cookies, going on hayrides and campouts, earning badges.  Ambrosia even adored the dorky uniform.

The brown girl had an easy smile, twinkling eyes, and a quirky sense of humor.  Her classmates always wanted to sit by her on the bus for a field trip, always flocked to the lunch table of her choice. The best part was Faye, a Melissa Sue Anderson lookalike, and her best friend.  The duo engaged in tea parties and sleepovers and dressing Barbie.  Their chuckles were cryptic and merry as they took turns kissing the Backstreet Boys poster in Faye’s bedroom.

Adorable, adults said. What a pretty little girl.  A pretty, happy girl.  Ambrosia had even landed a role as an extra in a Dairy Queen commercial.

Someone turned off the music, ripped the party dress off Ambrosia’s back when she was eleven. Her father lost his job. Faye moved far away.  The metamorphosis was the worst.  Ambrosia’s bosom swelled like a bantam rooster’s; the derriere and thighs like a manatee’s.  Acne turned her face into peanut brittle.

Ambrosia was munching on a cheese Danish while walking to school one winter morning when she crossed paths with Kelvin Moley.  He was one of ugly’s best reps with a cadaverous complexion and countless freckles, an albino chocolate chip cookie.  Kelvin had beady eyes and a mouth full of metal.  But his insult still felt like a kick to the shin.

“Hey, Bertha,” he said, gazing at Ambrosia’s pudge and pimples, “is that pastry watermelon-flavored?” But Tim Miglione’s comment last week pricked her heart worse.  Because Tim was a Mediterranean beauty: olive complexion and hair that was octopus ink-dark. His eyes were the best part, cerulean as water in a painting.  He had called Ambrosia “moose.”

Ambrosia fought the good fight.  She caked on Clearasil.  When the results were marginal, Oxy.  Ambrosia cut bangs, experimented with eyeliner.  But the affliction was insistent and persistent, and so was its darkness.  So she hid in her room; out of the path of her mother’s screeching arrows at her father to get off his lazy, black ass and find another job.  Ambrosia pitied him, but wished he’d grown a backbone. He only winced when her mother grilled him for bringing home the wrong brand of canned corn. He was silent when she threw a tantrum at the dinner table because he had bounced a check. Ambrosia simultaneously felt minty cool and cinnamon hot about her father leaving. Minty because she understood: a fat, mean wife was hell personified. Cinnamon because he had left her, too.

 

“Sorry,” one of the Girl Scouts said, even though it was Ambrosia’s fault, “Wanna buy some cookies?” She thrust her order form forward. Her cohort, scowled.  “She may want to buy from me.”

“I’ll buy one box from you both,” Ambrosia interjected, even though the thought of eating cookies thumped her heart like a disco.

They smiled as they each handed her pens and order forms.

Ambrosia stared at the Girl Scouts staring up at her. She so wanted to hug them, the poor things. They had no concept of the trouble that awaited them in about three years: boys, boobs, and monthly blood.

Ambrosia finished her run and went home to dinner: three saltine crackers, five black olives, and a glass of strawberry Crystal Light.

*****

Tuesday morning. 7:03 AM

Neonatal sunlight snaked through the blinds and into Ambrosia’s bedroom.  The room was “light” anyway with the bed clothes and throw pillows suggesting nothing darker than beige.  She kept only a bed, night table, lamp and clock in the bedroom, and two pieces of black art on the walls.  Ambrosia had a rug once, but hated how it mussed every time she trod on it. Ambrosia lay in bed, and ran a finger over her protruding collar bones and ribs.  Eight times.  Because eight was her favorite age.

After her morning aerobics, Ambrosia stood in front of the closed fridge, eating breakfast — one Fig Newton, consumed in no less than twenty bites. There was no magnet clutter on the fridge, only a picture of her at her most grotesque.  The photo stopped Ambrosia cold every time she got the urge to tear open the fridge and raid its guts with ravenous intensity.

 

“Let me take your picture before you go, Ambi.”

“Aw, Mama.”

“Come on now.  It won’t take but a minute.”

Ambrosia looked like a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade in her ruffled, fuchsia dress; bloated and colorful. All that was missing was the tether, she thought. Her relaxed hair was teased and sprayed into a big, black halo.  It was times like these that Ambrosia really missed her father.  Maybe he would tell her how pretty she looked, even though it was a lie.

Her mother snapped the picture, and the Polaroid slowly crapped out the image.

The dance was a microcosm of school, boys tethered to girls with meager waists and sinewy, coltish limbs. Boys who had been dancing with girls during the fast song snatched them close and swayed.

No one grabbed Ambrosia.

She sat with the other discarded girls. Hoped.  Ambrosia went to the girls’ restroom, blotted her face with paper towels, and fluffed her hair.  She came back, sat, and waited some more with her hands interlaced in her lap while fantasizing about one night in bed with Prince until the dance was over.

Ambrosia bleated and whimpered like only a thirteen-year-old girl can the moment she walked in the door.

“No one asked me, Mama. No one!”

“It’s not the end of the world. There’ll be other dances,” she snorted.

“It was embarrassing,” Ambrosia persisted.

Her mother’s face darkened.

Wham! Bam!Her mother clocked Ambrosia two hard and stiff punches to her shoulder.

“You don’t appreciate anything!  I get you a nice dress and shoes, get your hair done, and all you can do is whine. You’re just as simple as your father!”

Ambrosia ran to her room and lay down on her bed crying; a lumpy, hot-pink mess with a throbbing shoulder.

*****

Wednesday afternoon.

It was easy to ignore the ugly concert of her stomach growling at work. Phones rang, meetings were called, and clients screamed like wet, hungry babies about billing problems. The hours struggled to pass at home. Ambrosia watched TV, weighed herself (110; good, but not her best), and read until she felt like her apartment was crushing her windpipe and lungs.  Ambrosia put on her jacket and went for a walk.

She was three blocks from her apartment, and was actually enjoying the cool air swooping down from the cyan ceiling.  It was like Ambrosia was the only person on earth; children were in school and nearly everyone else was at work. Everyone but an older man, who was approaching her on the sidewalk. . .

 

The man had called to Ambrosia more than once as she trekked home from school that day, walked towards her purposefully.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, young lady. Can you tell me how to get to Berrymount Street?”

She immediately heard the little voice tell her not to let him get too close.  The man was stout and barrel-chested, like a toddler.  He had brushed his hair forward to cover his balding. He was smiling, but the smile couldn’t hide a leer.

Ambrosia gave him directions, despite her uneasiness.

“Thank you,” the man said, unzipped his fly, and revealed his entire package — penis and scrotum — in one quick and smooth motion.  Ambrosia’s eyes bulged like a Tex Avery cartoon.  The random thought in her flickering horror was, “He must not be wearing underwear.”

Ambrosia ran.  The nasty man’s laughter followed her for about one-hundred feet.  She kept running and looking back until she couldn’t see or hear him anymore. Ambrosia discovered that she had dropped her eighth-grade science book when she got home.  But she was too scared to go back and look for it. Her mother would be cross.

 

“I asked,” the man said, “if you had the time, miss.”

“No,” Ambrosia said, looking distraught, “I’m not wearing a watch.”

The old man watched her scurry away, perplexity pulling his bushy, gray eyebrows into arches.

She got the mail upon return from her walk.  Ambrosia always stood over the trash can when she studied her mail.  She discarded anything that wasn’t a bill–efficiently threw away coupons, charity solicitations, catalogs until she saw the canary yellow envelope.  Ambrosia opened it and pulled out the card.  Happy Birthday, My Dear Ambi! Love Mama.

Ambrosia tore the card into confetti and flushed the pieces down the toilet.

 

“Eat your pork chops, Ambi.”

“Not hungry, Mama.”

“I went through all this trouble to make a birthday dinner, and I’ll be damned if you waste it.”

“Mama, I told you I wasn’t hungry when you were making it–”

Eat!”

Ambrosia looked down at the tepid hunk of swine, lying on a rice raft floating in a gravy reservoir. The rice looked like maggots and the gravy looked like glue.

“No,” she said and stood.

Her mother caught her arm before she could leave the table and pinched it hard.

Ambrosia screeched like a rhesus monkey at the pain, then growled like a wolf as she picked up her plate and dumped it on her mother’s head.

“Don’t ever touch me again!”

Her mother gasped loudly and bucked her eyes as pieces of meat and rice rolled down her face like mucky rain in the gravy.  Her glare was fiery with weary overtones.  Ambrosia glared back, flexing.  She was getting lithe and strong, having lost nearly fifteen pounds.  Ambrosia had her father’s height, too, had sprouted up to five-feet-nine.  She looked and looked at this woman and wondered how she could have come from her.  This puffy, mahogany tyrant with food congealing on her head and shoulders. Her mother spoke at last, her voice sounding as brittle as termite-infested wood.

“I thought sending you to a white school would give you a better education.  All it’s done is make you a fool.”

Ambrosia scowled and turned to the chocolate cake on the counter whose top was impaled with sixteen candles.  She picked it up, raised it over her head, and dashed it to the floor.

*****

Thursday morning was overcast.

Ambrosia got into her fluid jogging rhythm.  She was in her third mile when her side cramped so that it felt like she’d been shot. Ambrosia slowed her pace, but it wouldn’t let up.  She was humbled to trotting, then walking, then limping. Her head felt like it was full of helium – again – and her breath became short. Ambrosia stopped on the steps of a modest Baptist church, and sat with her head between her knees. It seemed like she had been on the church’s steps forever when a warm hand touched her nape.

“You okay?”

Ambrosia slowly looked up to see everyone’s sweet, black grandmother: seventyish with salt and pepper hair and a complexion like tea cakes, standing over her. Her hazel eyes were tell-tale of a slave master’s foray into her ancestors’ cabin, centuries ago. The old woman wore a warm up suit with confidence, along with her body’s ample padding. The fat wasn’t repulsive though; it made a good lap to crawl into and listen to a story.  Ambrosia just knew the woman had butterscotch discs in her purse to share, and sang Mahalia Jackson songs as she baked notoriously delicious fruit cobblers. The last time Ambrosia ate apple cobbler was in a dream five years ago, wearing a royal-purple dress.

“I was running, and got tired,” Ambrosia replied.

The old woman looked around, then back at Ambrosia’s sharp face and twiggy limbs in her running tights.

“It’s cold out here, Baby.”

Before Ambrosia could protest, the woman was helping her up and leading her inside the church. The air was warm and still inside.  The carpet was red shag; the pews pale oak.  Images of Jesus and angels and doves floated in stained glass; he was caramel-skinned, the angels ginger and chocolate.

The woman led her to the church’s kitchen in back.

“Cooking for our revival on Sunday. Keep me company while you rest.  What’s your name?”

“Ambrosia,” she squeaked.

“Pretty name.”

Ambrosia listened — her mind thick and muddy as gumbo — to the old woman make small talk. Then she heard the other voice.  Ambrosia.  Her head cleared, she looked around the kitchen.  The old lady gabbed and gabbed with her back to Ambrosia, beating corn bread batter with a wooden spoon, not seeming to hear. Ambrosia. The voice got louder and appeared to be coming from the church’s front; it wasn’t masculine or feminine, wasn’t human or mechanical.

Ambrosia slowly waded to the kitchen doorway, and gazed out.  She caught full sight of black Jesus and the angels’ sweet faces in the stained glass before the colors broke, swirled, and zoomed towards her like a kaleidoscope. Ambrosia’s immersion into the colorful, racing soup felt like a bubble bath to the soul. It was warm; smelled like wildflowers in the apex of spring.

Images overlaid the colors. Ambrosia saw herself as an infant with a sack-of-potatoes body and toothless smile. Then at five, hair wild in the backyard’s sun, staring bright-eyed and holding ever-so-still for a monarch butterfly that had landed on her forearm. There she was at eight, wearing head-to-toe green in her Girl Scout uniform, skipping to school with herlunchbox; her longs braids sticking out from under her beanie, haphazardlyThen now at last – a spindly wand in the church’s kitchen doorway, looking like all her femininity and purpose had been siphoned out with a sadistic straw.   

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the vortex of truth, love, and peace was gone.  Ambrosia was once again staring transfixed at black Jesus and the angels in the stained glass.  The message was serene but firm: a meal of seven M&Ms and a glass of water and the like had given Ambrosia absolutely nothing in all her twenty-four years. There was nothing in whittling down to nothing.

Ambrosia wept. She turned back to the old woman in the kitchen; tears coursing down her drawn face. The lady faced her; didn’t bat an eye. Instead, she gestured to a plate on the table. It held a sandwich, cut in four perfect, loving squares and some fruit salad, the fruit as colorful and bright as polished jewels.

For more flash fiction by Sean C. Wright-Neeley, click here.

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I’m pleased to announce the release of my 8th book, Skoll’s Diary.

Africans and African Americans left Earth in 1900, and went to another planet in The Milky Way to escape mistreatment…

It’s now the year 3005 on that terraformed planet. We get a peek into the life of a bright and sensitive teenaged boy, Skoll, through his journal. He loves his world, but is curious about life on Earth. Then suddenly, an epic event casts him in the middle of a difficult decision.  The fate of the planet’s community is in his hands.

Get the book here. I’d appreciate your leaving a review if you read it. Thanks in advance!

Afro-Sean-Commission-Final copy

Lady Rougepen Says: Flash ‘Em

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Not ready to commit to writing a novel yet, or does the concept scare the socks off you? Try flash fiction. Flash fiction is a short, short story – sometimes only 100 words long. It’s a short, sweet way to strengthen the writing muscle, and to ease into writing plot lines.
I must confess: I have gotten addicted to this writing exercise, this year. Click here for all my flash fiction stories.

Flash Fiction: Vengeance Pasta

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Vengeance Pasta

By Sean C. Wright-Neeley

Widow Fannie Ridges was a hair shy of six-feet tall. Her milk-chocolate face held few wrinkles after being on the planet for seventy-six years. Her salt and pepper hair was relaxed, and cut in a bob, just above her shoulders. Seventy-six Fannie was, but she stood as straight as any thirty-year-old, and played like one, too. She was active in church and the neighborhood senior center, still mowed her yard, and carried a trash bag on her long walks to pick up litter.

Another one of Fannie’s passions was lending surrogate parenthood to the five stair-step children, down the street, ranging in ages from two to ten. Fannie wiped their noses, read them stories, tied their loose shoelaces, and gave them snacks. She made two apple cobblers one day – one for her church potluck, and another for the children to take home.

Days later, Fannie Ridges sat on her porch with a glass of iced tea in hand and a lit citronella candle nearby to keep the mosquitoes at bay. The sun was inching downward, and was dusk was about to take the stage. The stair-step children ran by, trying to beat the streetlights home. “Hey!” Fanny called to them, waving and smiling, “stop by here a minute.”

The children scampered towards her happily. “Hi, Ms. Ridges!” Fannie made note of the girls’ uncombed hair and the boys’ ashy arms, as they climbed the steps to her porch. The two-year-old only wore a diaper. “How y’all like the apple cobbler?” The children looked at each other then looked down. Fannie frowned. “You didn’t like it? It’s okay if you didn’t. I’ll just make you something else next time.”

“No,” the six-year-old said while she tugged at a frayed plait by her ear, “we didn’t get any.”

Fannie set down her tea beside her chair, her jaw slack. “Come here, baby,” she commanded in a firm, yet gentle voice. Once the girl complied, she took both her hands. They were dirty, but Fannie didn’t care. The girl continued to look down. “Why didn’t you get any?”

“Our uncle ate it,” she nearly whispered.

Fannie’s jaw clenched in disgust and fury. “All right,” she said in a trembling voice, “thanks for telling me. Y’all better go on and get home before dark.” The children left her porch. That was a good thing because Fannie didn’t know how much longer she could have held in her anger. She might have scared those sweet babies. She felt like cursing and punching. What kind of sorry bastard steals food from kids? Grrr!

Fannie had seen their no-count uncle on occasion. Had seen him trudge to the mailbox in sweatpants and a dirty undershirt while on her walks. She sighed, shook her head, and leaned over to blow out the citronella candle. Fannie collected her tea glass and went inside.

The incident had slipped on the back shelf of Fannie’s mind for about a week. Then she saw that dirty-shirted slug, coming in from somewhere while she was on her walk. He parked his old, beat-up Toyota Corolla in the driveway and stepped out. Fannie glared, her anger anew, as she passed. He just squinted his red eyes at her and nodded. Too much whiskey.

Fannie only fed the children at her place, after the apple cobbler debacle. But still. She prayed about it. The Lord says, “Vengeance is mine.” But still.

“Lord forgive me,” she whispered, as she stood in the kitchen, preparing the special meal.

The next time the children visited, and were about to leave, Fannie told them to wait. “I made something special for your uncle: spaghetti,” she beamed, and pulled out a ceramic dish, covered with foil, out of the fridge. “Tell him not to worry about returning the dish.” The children thanked her, and left with the food.

*****

Drew accepted the dish from his nieces and nephews with vigor. He raced with it to the microwave right away and tore off the foil and popped it in. Drew’s mouth watered in anticipation as the acrid smell of tomato sauce and smoky meat filled the kitchen. After it was done cooking, he carried the hot plate to the table, where his greedy ass wolfed down the food in five minutes flat. He was scraping up bits of sauce when he noticed something strange at the bottom of the plate. It looked like…writing. He pulled a napkin from the dispenser, and wiped the plate enough to see. A message had been written in indelible ink on the ceramic piece in tight feminine script: ONLY A LOW-DOWN DIRTY DOG TAKES FOOD FROM KIDS, SO I FED YOU ACCORDINGLY. THE SPAGHETTI MEAT YOU JUST ATE WAS MIXED WITH YAPPY BOY DOG FOOD!

Drew’s eyes bucked. He stood up, and let loose a disgusted groan. His hacking gags could be heard all the way down the hall.

For more flash fiction by Sean C. Wright-Neeley, click here.

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I’m pleased to announce the release of my 8th book, Skoll’s Diary.

Africans and African Americans left Earth in 1900, and went to another planet in The Milky Way to escape mistreatment…

It’s now the year 3005 on that terraformed planet. We get a peek into the life of a bright and sensitive teenaged boy, Skoll, through his journal. He loves his world, but is curious about life on Earth. Then suddenly, an epic event casts him in the middle of a difficult decision.  The fate of the planet’s community is in his hands.

Get the book here. I’d appreciate your leaving a review if you read it. Thanks in advance!

Afro-Sean-Commission-Final copy

Flash Fiction: The Passage

 

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The Passage

By Sean C. Wright-Neeley

Spirit 47 sighed, “All right. I’ve narrowed it down to three.”

One couple had one child already. Their marriage was failing, and the mother felt another child would narrow the gulf that had appeared between her and her husband in the last year. He was a dentist, and provided a good living for her and their daughter. Their beautiful home was frigid and full of eggshells on the shiny, granite floors. Their older, well-groomed daughter released stress in a horrific way: cutting herself. Spirit 47 would never have to worry about money here, but her mother would become an alcoholic, and she would develop an eating disorder as a teen. Later on, she’d repeat the scenario of jewels caressing her body, instead of her husband’s hands; a marriage for show. Her sister would disown her and the rest of the family, and go off the grid. The bottle would become her solace, too. She would be a selfless woman with her riches though. The poor, little rich girl cared about the poor.

Another couple was older, and had been trying to get pregnant for years. The woman wouldn’t hit menopause for another five or six years, but the race was on. They were a middle-class couple in a small house with two dogs as their only “children” for now. Whoever went there would have loads of love, but a modest living. The other children would mock their child for not having the latest and greatest clothes and toys. There was also a learning disability thrown in the mix. No girl would go with him to prom. The young man would draw on his experiences, and grow up to successfully counsel troubled youth.

Spirit 47 would be a twin in the third family. The mother and father would be overjoyed when they found out that they were coming. The joy would not last though. The father would die of cancer when the twin boys were seven-years-old. The mother would eventually marry another man who abused them. One twin would overcome his abusive household and become a famous entertainer. The other twin would die of a drug overdose at twenty-two. Of course, Spirit 47 could not choose which twin he could be.

After a few agonizing moments, Spirit 47 spoke again. “They all have pros and cons, but the second profile seems most attractive to me. They seem like such nice people who deserve a child.”

“They are,” He said, “and they will protect you from obstacles in the passages. So will I. I already wrote this story, and will make sure nothing stands in the way of your purpose.”

“All right then. Let’s do this.”

He smiled His benevolent smile, and spoke softly, as He briefed 47 on what to expect. “You won’t remember anything of this place, once you leave. There will be tears, but there will be triumphs, too. It’s beautiful, but can be ugly. The Passage is a place to learn and meet others. The humans call it ‘life.’ As, I said before, once you’ve learned and experienced all there is for you, you will return. I can’t tell you when that will be. It’s only for me to know. Go in peace, Spirit 47, and good luck.”

Spirit 47 dissolved into a mist, and was gone.

*****

Jared and Sherry MacNeely were overjoyed to find that they would become parents at forty-eight years of age. Nine months passed slowly and quickly at once. Her water broke the early morning of March thirty-first. An Aries. In the delivery room, Jared held Sherry’s hand, as the doctor pulled out Spirit 47, now cloaked in a baby boy’s form. He screamed his way into the world, slippery with Sherry’s blood, and the doctor laid him on Sherry’s chest. “Hey, little guy,” Jared said, softly. His father placed his index finger in the newborn’s tiny, wet palm. The baby grabbed ahold of it, tightly, and smiled an angelic, toothless smile, at hearing his father’s voice. The MacNeelys then chuckled and wept with exhausted joy.

I believe our journeys are cycles. We are spirits, cloaked in human flesh for about 70 or 80 years (if you’re lucky), and return to that spiritual home at the end of that voyage. This is my best attempt to paint a picture, as we are, before we’re born.

Check out my other flash fiction here.

Sean C. Wright is the author of 8 books. For more information about her writing skills and how she can assist you with yours–business or consumer–visit https://seanarchy.wordpress.com.

IMG_4170

 

I’m pleased to announce the release of my 8th book, Skoll’s Diary.

Africans and African Americans left Earth in 1900, and went to another planet in The Milky Way to escape mistreatment…

It’s now the year 3005 on that terraformed planet. We get a peek into the life of a bright and sensitive teenaged boy, Skoll, through his journal. He loves his world, but is curious about life on Earth. Then suddenly, an epic event casts him in the middle of a difficult decision.  The fate of the planet’s community is in his hands.

Get the book here. I’d appreciate your leaving a review if you read it. Thanks in advance!

Afro-Sean-Commission-Final copy

Flash Fiction: Do Not Disturb

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Do Not Disturb

By Sean C. Wright Neeley

I thought my people loved me. I gave my last speech in the communal relief-carved temple, and they cheered. My guards flanked me, as we walked back to my royal chambers. I recall the desert sun beating down on my bald head, and the sandal on my clubbed foot, dragging through the blazing sand. I wasn’t hungry, come evening. Maybe my upset stomach was foreboding of something horrible? I refused the roasted bird, fruits, and vegetables on the banquet table, and only sipped beer from an ornate bowl. I then prepared for bed. As I sat at my dressing table, removing the kohl from my eyes, someone struck me from behind. Gone; just like that, at about nineteen years of age. Was it a treasonous guard? A family member? I know not. I loved my people. Why didn’t they love me back?

As if my murder wasn’t disrespectful enough! People rushed in where I rested.

They removed my gold death mask.

They took my lifeless body to study how the priests and physicians removed my organs, sewed it back together, and wrapped me in honey-coated linens.

They removed my personal belongings – art, furniture, jewelry, weapons, chariots. Even my walking sticks.

Disrespected in life and death. You can’t do this to me. I am the son of King Akhenaten. Grandson of Amenhotep II. I am King Tutankhamen of Egypt, and the gods will get you for this.

This short story pretty much wrote itself. I really believe that I was an Ancient Egyptian in my former life, as this story was so vivid in my mind’s eye. I devour documentaries and reading material on Ancient Egyptian life and about “the curse” of King Tut’s tomb, raided in 1922. Thus, truth has been ingrained in this tale, like The Boy King’s clubbed foot and a head wound that they think was possibly fatal. I hope you enjoyed it. Check out my other flash fiction here.

Sean C. Wright is the author of 8 books. For more information about her writing skills and how she can assist you with yours–business or consumer–visit https://seanarchy.wordpress.com.

IMG_4170

 

I’m pleased to announce the release of my 8th book, Skoll’s Diary.

Africans and African Americans left Earth in 1900, and went to another planet in The Milky Way to escape mistreatment…

It’s now the year 3005 on that terraformed planet. We get a peek into the life of a bright and sensitive teenaged boy, Skoll, through his journal. He loves his world, but is curious about life on Earth. Then suddenly, an epic event casts him in the middle of a difficult decision.  The fate of the planet’s community is in his hands.

Get the book here. I’d appreciate your leaving a review if you read it. Thanks in advance!

Afro-Sean-Commission-Final copy

Flash Fiction: Auschwitz Forever

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A concentration camp survivor visited my tenth-grade history class, as a guest speaker. It had quite an impact on me. Some of the facts in this story are indeed what this man told us bug-eyed teenagers. This short story you are about to read is my way of bringing justice to those who were affected by one of the most incorrigible crimes in human history. If you are squeamish, you may not want to go any further.

Auschwitz Forever

By Sean C. Wright-Neeley

It was always the same, but different. He woke up in the barracks, every morning. This time, he was a Jewish man. The Star of David on his prison uniform told him so. Today, they had him and the other prisoners, clearing a field in the snow. He tried as hard as he could to conceal his cold, but a Nazi guard heard him cough and sniffle. They had no use for the sick, or the weak. He was marched to the gas chamber with other emaciated prisoners when they got back to the camp.

The next morning, he was a Gypsy woman, upon waking. He had red hair, something Dr. Mengele found fascinating. What gene caused red hair? The “doctor” needed to study all her reproductive organs. He removed them all, plus all her minor organs, too, in the experiment: her appendix, tonsils, and gall bladder. He welcomed death this time.

The next day that he woke up in the barracks, he was the Jewish man again, but the flickers of his real past life bled through. His wife’s name was Ava. Or was it Eva? They lived in a tight, secretive place before this nightmare started. But why couldn’t he remember the gap in between? But he knew one thing for sure: he didn’t belong there. He had been someone important. Maybe he could get to his money, and bribe them out of this nightmare if Ava/Eva was still alive.

There was a Nazi guard there that didn’t seem too cruel. He cooked up enough courage to ask the young officer with light-brown hair and gentle, hazel eyes if he could speak to him. He asked about Ava/Eva. Is she here? Could you find out where she is, if she’s still alive? The guard stared at him a moment, then asked him to come with him. He felt hope; something he hadn’t felt in months.

They went to one of the buildings, getting curious glances from the other ragtag workers in the camp on the way. The guard opened the door for him with a smile. Something told him not to go in, but what could be worse than his present situation? He walked in, and the door immediately shut behind him. He whirled around, once inside. It wasn’t a barracks. It wasn’t a gas chamber. It was a boiler room. He squinted into the sweltering steam to see a creature, sitting at a desk. It had a goat’s head and scarlet skin.

“Hey there!” the creature said. “It has been a while. Come on in,” he said in a familiar tone in the man’s own tongue: German. The man reluctantly took a step closer.

“I-I came to ask about my wife. I have money…”

The creature laughed. “You ask this every once in a while. Your wife, Eva, is dead, and so are you. You’re never getting out of here. You gave me the idea for your hell. Bravo! It’s worse than anything I ever created. I just ran with it, making you wake up, every day, as people you victimized and murdered. Sometimes, you’re a Jewish man. Sometimes, a gypsy woman. I am thinking of making you a homosexual man tomorrow; a Jewish woman on another day. Sometimes, it’s the gas chamber; sometimes, you will be experimented on. Sometimes, the guards will shoot you, as you work, for the fun of it. Now go back out there, and get back to work,” Satan growled, pointing his cloven hoof towards the boiler room door. “You’re dismissed, Fuhrer!”

Sean C. Wright is the author of 8 books. For more information about her writing skills and how she can assist you with yours–business or consumer–visit https://seanarchy.wordpress.com.

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I’m pleased to announce the release of my 8th book, Skoll’s Diary.

Africans and African Americans left Earth in 1900, and went to another planet in The Milky Way to escape mistreatment…

It’s now the year 3005 on that terraformed planet. We get a peek into the life of a bright and sensitive teenaged boy, Skoll, through his journal. He loves his world, but is curious about life on Earth. Then suddenly, an epic event casts him in the middle of a difficult decision.  The fate of the planet’s community is in his hands.

Get the book here. I’d appreciate your leaving a review if you read it. Thanks in advance!

Afro-Sean-Commission-Final copy

Flash Fiction Contest: I Won!

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I have only recently connected with the fantastic Kurt Brindley, a fellow author. He ran a flash fiction contest on one of his blog posts last week, and I thought, “What the heck. I’ll enter.” It was a challenge to keep the “meat” of the story in 100 words, or less, but it was super fun. Anyway, I won! It was really an honor, and surprise because there were other fantastic entries. Many thanks to Kurt for running this contest, and for appreciating my weird and irreverent imagination.

Read my entry here.

Click here for all Kurt Brindley books.

Sean C. Wright is the author of 8 books. For more information about her writing skills and how she can assist you with yours–business or consumer–visit https://seanarchy.wordpress.com.

IMG_4170

 

I’m pleased to announce the release of my 8th book, Skoll’s Diary.

Africans and African Americans left Earth in 1900, and went to another planet in The Milky Way to escape mistreatment…

It’s now the year 3005 on that terraformed planet. We get a peek into the life of a bright and sensitive teenaged boy, Skoll, through his journal. He loves his world, but is curious about life on Earth. Then suddenly, an epic event casts him in the middle of a difficult decision.  The fate of the planet’s community is in his hands.

Get the book here. I’d appreciate your leaving a review if you read it. Thanks in advance!

Afro-Sean-Commission-Final copy