Flash Fic: Fate, Trials, and Ripe Nashi

    “Old Wise Konichi, is there a—that is... How does one become a man?”
    “Child, you must live.”
    “Live? Is there no trial or test?”
    “Every day is a trial. If you make it through, that is the truest test of them all. Whether it is a test of your manhood, or a test of life.” Old Konichi’s eyes crinkled merrily.
    “But, Wise Konichi, isn’t it said that you are fated to live and fated to die?”
    “Boy, you’ll find that as much as you want to believe that fate rules all and that your actions have no effect, the wisest among us will see that is not true. The only thing set in stone is our response. So, for you to take control of your own destiny, you must react, not without thought, but with calm meditation. Then, and only then, will fate release its grasp.”
    “I think I see, Wise Konichi. Thank you.”
    “You are always welcome, child, it is what I am here for.”
    But the boy did not move.
    “Yes, is there something more?”
    “Well, Wise Konichi, but, what if that is what is expected? What if the calm meditated response is all part of fate? How do I escape fate then, and win a trial I am already fated to lose?”
    Old Konichi stopped and considered the boy for several moments, massaging his chin slowly. “Well then, my boy, it is simple: you must react hastily and without thought.”
    “But...”
    “No, no, no more questions. I am hungry and I see a large, ripe nashi hanging from that tree. May you be hasty and impetuous.”

© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
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A taste of the whimsical today and perhaps a little bit of insight. I hope you enjoy. So go forth and be impetuous and make calm meditated responses, but just make sure that you do so when and where appropriate. No, no, no more questions. I am hungry...

Flash Fic: 8 O’Clock - Expectations Over Coffee

Every day I sit here, and it’s the same. Coffee to my right, a donut to my left—pink icing, white sprinkles. I twist ever so slightly in the squeaky seat, drum my fingers on the formica table top. The harsh florescent hums above me. Morning light floods long storefront windows. A siren oscillates in the distance.

It’s 8 o’clock. I see the digits high on the chipped plaster wall—they’re red, hypnotic, absolute.

I like absolute. I like certainty. I like knowing what will happen next. I like knowing when and how, but even as much as I do, when I raise the donut to my lips—the familiar hint of sugar and fried dough wafting past my nostrils; the touch, texture and taste of the iced coating melting upon my lips; the satisfying feel of the crispy sweet dough severed between capped teeth; the taste: perfect, as I swallow each morsel—I have to wonder: What brings me here?

Before me, through the windows, within dawn’s peaceful light, the red and blue strobe of emergency vehicles flash and turn; like everyday, every time, without fail. The crushed metal and shattered glass of another life taken

Coffee to my right, donut to my left, the lights flashing before me; mixing their colors with the white sprinkles—a patriotic splash upon my fried confection.

Every day.

My eyes glaze over, misted by the regularity—a known quantity to life; there is a beauty to it all, and a horror. But I do not think, I only appreciate the fact that I know one thing that will happen every day, as I put the hot coffee to my lips and sip.

Coffee to my right, donut to my left.


© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
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Creeped out? Good!

Perhaps this is a slight commentary on how we like things in life. Despite the fact that they are not good for us, we like the regularity, we like to repeat, and do the same. There is something intrinsically, obsessively compulsive about it, but also: comfortable.

Do we seek it, or does it seek us. The chicken or the egg?

Or maybe this was just a visual that popped into my head, meaningless and yet gripping in some indescribable fashion.

Poem: The Book

I opened the book.
I turned to the first page.
I read.

Each word sounded in my head like a bell.
Each sentence flashed about, like a raging symphony.
Each paragraph changed my very perception.

I felt my worldview shifting.
I felt everything changing.
I wanted to tear my eyes away.
Something screamed inside.

Nooo!
No, stop.
No more!

But my hand turned the page,
and my eyes could not tear away.
And another,
and another,
and another page I went.

The light around me dimmed.
It became dark, but still I read,
into the night.
Deep into the night I read.

Finally, as sun tipped horizon,
a small bead of light wreathed in dark,
I came to the last page.

My fingers trailed over final words,
in a daze,
then I closed the book and stood.

And though I stood still,
the world spun.

And I knew what I had become.


© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
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Any lover of books can relate. Relate to what happens when you lay hands on a book that transforms you, shifts you to another realm, another time, another body, another world. Thoughts, concepts, entire peoples presented before you in compelling fashion that transport you.

Is this what happens to you? Do you become something greater and grander when absorbed by a book? It can for me and there is a certain power within that ability.

Poem: Order of Corenne - Lonely Knight.

I am Tristfallin, Knight of Corenne, Order of the Deep,
My orders are always to keep:
The Faith, from the evils of Fire,
Persecution and undue Ire.

Let my arm be strong, my aim be true,
My shield hold and my virtue:
Stand.

In the quiet and shadows I do train,
Waiting, patient—as those, that before came,
I sharpen my blade,
I oil my steel,
And I prefer for that one day:

When the waves will rise and the sun falls fast,
When the Knights of Corenne rise to the task.

Let it be soon,
Let it be now,
For I tire and ache,
Of seeing fellows hung low,
When our colors SHOULD show.

© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
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A small taste, as it were, of my novel Felling Abberfaun. The Knights make an appearance in the novel that is both beautiful and sad, all in a hope to challenge religious tyranny that drove their peaceful order to near extinction. One day I will share their plight with you. For now, a poem will do.

Flash Fic: Once, But Never Again.

Look at him: mesmerizing, as he moves through the motions of battle. Pivot, thrust, slash, block, parry, swing. He lunges left, he takes a slash to the shoulder, rights himself, throwing his body like a battering ram into his opponent. He moves well, I think, but...I used to move better.
Now...I can hardly talk, I am a hobbled, handicapped mess.
That man out there, it used to be me. But...I was far better. No one could touch me, I had the luck of the gods. Alas, like a starving puppy trailing hopefully behind, I paid that luck no heed. I gave it no scraps, or love, or attention, and then one day it was just: gone.
With a foot twice broken, a hand severed at the wrist—no, I had not stolen that horse—I have little to live for. Never been a friend to any. Pushed them all away. Like batting at flies—instinctual. Now, with a pittance of pay—the sad remains of pity from a commander that found some imagined value, I subsist.

Poem: The Warrior

Thrumming steel,
Flying blood,
The warrior stands,
A mountain, in the mists of time.

One day—tall and insurmountable,
Another, worn and bare,
A tale of another day,
Now just dust and bone.

Do not cry,
Do not woe,
Claims the strong one,
Who stands on his own.

I will live forever.

Lies on the lips of the young.

© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
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The muse struck and gave me a series of poetry in an epic fantasy vein. Look for more to come, each Friday, for a while.

Flash Fic: Team-Building

This is a 519 word short that just kind of materialized. It's not fantasy, or sci-fi (I probably shouldn't be wasting my time on it),but the story wanted to be told and for any cubicle-dweller you can probably relate. Ending needs something else, but I can't imagine I'll work on it further, so here ya go.

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The below excerpt is © 2011 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.

Team-Building

    John could not believe his luck. His best friend, Rob, had just gotten hired and was working in the cubicle next to him. John could never stand his co-workers, and finally, at long last it seemed the doldrums of work were on their way out the door. It was his buddy’s second day and John had plenty planned.
    But when his friend showed up for work wearing a horrid assortment of hyper-colored floral prints, short khakis and a lei—looking like nothing more than some random Hawaiian sightseer—he scowled. “What the heck are you wearing, Rob?”
    Rob gestured to the garish display. “It’s Hawaiian-Friday, the girls up front said everyone was dressing up for the team-building exercises today.”
    John shook his head. “Yeah, sure, all the losers are going.” He smirked and gestured to his own grey slacks and silk dress shirt. “I’ve got no time for this team-building crap. Blow it off and come with me early to lunch. I know this killer Thai place. The chilés will blow your head right off, and the waitresses are smokin’ too.”
    Rob rubbed a clean-shaven cheek. “Um, sorry, John, I kind of need this job. I can’t blow this off. It’ll look bad.”
    “That’s a load of—”
    Rob’s face made John choke to a stop. “What’s up, boss?” He turned, as smooth as his slacks, his smile twice as glaring as his shoes.
    “John. I’m glad you could finally bless us with your arrival.” Gene stood there in his Hawaiian best, his face as humorless as a rectal exam.
    John chuckled. “You know traffic, Gene. Moves slower than the company’s stock price.”
    “You’re right. I do know traffic. I know that it could never move faster than your mouth, but it somehow manages to get everyone else here on time, and whether team building is a joke to you or not, it is part of the work day. You know about work, right? It’s that thing you should be doing Monday through Friday.”
    By now, John had his mouth firmly shut in sheer amazement. Since when did Gene grow a pair?
    “Perhaps it is an odd sort of karma, but your friend’s fortuitous hire allows me to finally do this. If I had known,” said Gene, looking between the two friends, “I would have hired him a week ago.”
    Gene shook a piece of paper under John’s nose.
    “What’s this?”
    “Now John, even your too-cool-for-the-light-of-day eyes should be able to tell through those opaque panes you call sunglasses that it is pink. Normally I would take you into my office, save your pride and make the whole thing quiet and without spectacle, but I just can’t seem to find even an ounce of patience. Here. Take it. This is yours. You’ve earned it.”
    John looked down at the pink slip, then back at his friend, his replacement.
    Rob barely had the decency to look down at his team-building sandals.
    Snapping the paper out of Gene’s hand, John walked out the door, not needing another minute in that pit of losers and sycophants.
    “Good, great. Thai sounds great to me!”