A.L. Kaplan is the readers’ choice in this week’s Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Challenge for “Claim Jumper.”
The winning entry is rewarded with a special feature here today and a place in our collection of winners which will be published as an e-book at year end.
I stare at the old barn through the thick mist. My heart pounds. That barn burned down thirty years ago. Police thought a dropped lighter and moonshine turned that tinder-trap into a lethal blaze. But that wasn’t the cause. I grasp the doorframe; listen to the echoes of the past.
Popular kids like them didn’t ask girls like me to parties, but I was too desperate for companionship to see the warning signs. Besides, Brenton was cute. I sipped my soda while they swigged booze and studied how everyone stumbled through the barn. Drunk was ugly.
I didn’t realize just how ugly until a few more sips into my drink. The walls started to spin. I sank to the ground, limbs heavy and numb. Brenton loomed over me, a strange grin on his face. Before I could get up two of his friends held me down and started to cut away my clothes. I screamed, told them to stop, let me go. They laughed. Nobody could hear me. No one was coming to my rescue. Brenton climbed on top of me.
I don’t remember anything else after that. My clothes vanished. I woke up in my bed, neatly washed and wearing my fleece jammies. Police found three bodies in the charred remains of the barn, toasted from the inside out.
There’s a good reason I stay away from people, hunt alone. Smoke rises from the doorframe. Flames shoot skyward, engulfing the structure again. I’m unharmed. I never am.
I remember my art history professor throwing a pair of slides up to demonstrate the difference between nude and naked. It was one of those huge seminar classes that we affectionately called art in the dark. Usually class would start, the lights would go out, and half the class fell asleep. This lecture got everyone’s attention.
I don’t recall what images he showed, but Edouard Manet’s, Olympia, is an excellent example of a nude. 
The girl in, Nude in the water, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, however, is naked.
What’s the difference? The attitude and pose. Olympia casually lounges while the other tries to hide herself. The same distinction holds true for the literary arts. Imagine two people walking onto the same beach in identical clothing.
Jane drops her bag next to the lounge chair and pulls off her wrap. Without a pause she slides out of what passes as a bikini. She reclines on the chair, hands resting behind her head. A smile spreads across her face as she watches other sunbathers.
Jackie, her twin, stands nearby, eyes darting up and down the beach. After several minutes she slips out of her clothes. Another pause before the suit comes off. Knees hugged close, she sits staring at the edge of the chair. She bites her lower lip as another beach goer walks by.
So which of these two is naked and which is nude? Jane is relaxed and confident, simply without clothes. She is nude. Jackie is uncomfortable and insecure. Even with her clothes one she feels naked and exposed.
Now go look at the characters in your stories. Are they naked or nude?
“Stand behind me,” said Clifford. He pulled on a red hat and cape. “I’ll keep you from harm.”
I clutched my notebook close. The beating of my heart made it bounce against my chest. All I wanted was to write a story about a modern psychiatric hospital, something that I could get published. The one I wrote about the Northgate asylum nearly got me committed. No reputable newspaper would touch a ghost story. If I survived this riot I just might have something.
“Out of the way Super-Dude,” said a patient holding a metal pipe. “I want that pretty girl.”
“I won’t allow you to harm her. Turn away or I will be forced to use my powers.”
Pipe man and his three friends laughed. My stomach twisted. The guards were dead or soon would be. All that stood between me and this crazed mob was a sweet little lunatic who thought he was a super hero.
“I’m gonna shove that cape and helmet of invisibility down your throat,” said Pipe man. He marched forward, his face twisted in a sneer.
My friend shook his head. “You’ve been warned.”
Clifford vanished. The inmates gaped at the empty space where he had stood. So did I. A second later Pipe guy fell to the ground. Blood streamed from his nose. When the second man fell, his friends fled.
My hero stood guard until the riot ended. I had quite a story to tell—one that only Super-Dude would believe.
Chocolate, gooey caramel. My mouth almost waters. If only I could still taste that luscious candy, but the reanimated can’t do that. It wouldn’t be bad if I got out more. I mean, Grandma is great and all. She brought me back to half-life after I was killed. It’s just not the same without other kids to play with. Halloween is the only day I can go outside without freaking the living. Believe me, you don’t want the pitchfork and torch brigade chasing you.
“Trick or Treat.” I hold out my sack with the other children.
A lady hands me a handful of candy. “Great Costume.”
I thank her and hurry toward the next house. Two little girls sob at the curb. Halloween should be fun, not sad.
“Are you ok?”
The bunny points a gloved paw at three disappearing teens. Her ears bounce with each sniffle. “They…took… our…candy.”
I hate bullies. “Here, take mine.”
Big, round, adoring eyes look up at me. Being undead has its perks. I track the thieves faster than a bloodhound.
“That candy isn’t yours.”
They laugh and tower around me. “Get lost or get pounded, squirt.”
“Squirt, is it.” I take a deep breath and squirt them with inky old blood.
A moment of stunned silence, then they clench their fists. I point down. They stare as skeletal hands reach up and pull them into the ground. Half-buried, they shriek and struggle.
“Don’t steal, especially from little kids on Halloween. I’ll be watching.”
Shredded wood bobbles in the water near my oasis of dry land. Cousin Jack’s name blazes across what’s left of his johnboat. My heart sinks. He was supposed to meet me here, rescue me from that demented prison.
“You didn’t really think this little prison break would work, did you, Bobby?” says Warden Carson. “We’ve had this place staked out all week.”
I spin around. The warden drags Jack’s mangled body from behind the ancient cypress and dumps it on the ground. One of the warden’s hounds sits next to him, Jack’s severed arm clenched in its mouth. I’ve had first-hand experience with that hell hound and its friends. Scabs and old burns still decorate my body.
Tears sting my eyes, but there’s no time to grieve. Turning a blind eye before got me sent away on trumped up charges. Carson had to be stopped. My bare feet press into the island’s soft mud. I was raised in this swamp, know things the warden doesn’t. I reach for the swamp’s pulse, the life that most people don’t notice. Energy surges. The hairs stand up on my arms.
“Help,” I whisper. “I beseech you.”
Carson laughs. “Ain’t no one here to help you now, Bobby.”
But there is. The cypress groans, bends as if struck by a sharp wind. Two moss covered branches swoop down on the warden and his pet. A scream—then nothing. I fall to my knees. A mossy hand touches my bowed head, fills me with its power.
“Thank you, mighty S’serpyc, spirit of the trees.”
My new path lies back at the prison. This time there is no hesitation.
A L Kaplan is the readers’ choice in this week’s Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Challenge.
I backed deeper into dad’s half-collapsed toolshed and prayed Augie would stop counting long enough to turn around. My body screamed for oxygen, but my asthmatic lungs refused to comply. The man stepped with me, keeping the pistol inches from my head. Blood oozed from a gash across his neck. Bright and red, just like the blood on the bag of money Augie and I found on the tracks. I knew we should have left it, but money was tight and that bag had a lot of it.
“Ain’t nobody coming after this money, Wyatt,” said Augie. “There’s way too much blood.”
A crooked grin split the man’s face. “I guess my name is Ain’t Nobody, kid.” His raspy voice sounded like the chain smoking guy at the station.
Augie’s voice shook. “Please don’t hurt my brother, mister. Take the money. We won’t tell. I swear.”
A flicker of sadness crossed the man’s face. “Just pack it up.” He pulled out a bottle. “Slow breaths, Wyatt. Drink this.”
I swallowed the liquid he poured into my mouth without thinking. It burned my throat, but by the time Augie packed up all the cash, my molasses filled lungs had cleared. The man took the bloodstained bag from Augie and tossed a thick wad of twenties on the ground.
“For your troubles.” He tousled my hair and smiled. “Slow easy breaths and a shot of whiskey, Wyatt. Worked for my brother every time. Remember, if anyone asks, Ain’t Nobody been here.”
“Don’t just stand there! Go after him.”
Concerned tourists gathered around the old woman. Purse snatching isn’t on my list of things to witness while vacationing, but hey, I’m a cop. I looked up the flight of marble stairs. The punk that grabbed her bag must have been part monkey. If I tried running him down I’d be clutching my chest like the old lady. I was a lot older than monkey kid and my daily donuts hung around my waist like banana custard. Good think I didn’t need to.
“Don’t worry. He’ll be right down,” I said. “Those upper steps are slick.”
No one noticed my fingers wiggle as I helped the woman stand. A thin glaze of ice formed on the steps. Not an easy feat to do in Southern California. But hey, I’m talented.
Just my luck, monkey kid must have been part cat. He stumbled on the ice, then leaped past. I muttered an oath. At least I had one more ace up my sleeve. My little friend popped up to the top of the stairs just as the kid reached the uppermost step. By little I mean huge. Anyone but me saw Clyde as heat rising in the distance…Unless, of course, you ran into him.
Monkey kid shrieked, then tumbled backwards down the steps. I couldn’t help but smile. Any mention of what he saw would be attributed to the huge crack on his skull. Score one for me and Clyde.
Tears stained her face as she slipped from the car. A loud snore made her jump and cringe. Last night’s beating marred her face. He never let her stop here, the one place that made her happy. If he woke….She didn’t breathe until she was sure he still slept.
Bright yellow flowers stretched as far as she could see. They called to her, singing, swaying in the sun; a peaceful contrast to her turbulent life. She pushed through thick stems to take a picture.
Flower heads pressed against her. Their bright yellow faces bent and swiveled like no plant should. Sweet perfume filled her nostrils. Fear and pain vanished. Sunshine kissed her lips. When she opened her eyes thousands of yellow faces beamed at her as she hovered above the field. She smiled back. What a beautiful place to rest. No pain. No tension. Far from his reach.
A patrol spotted her car later that day with her husband still passed out in his seat. Searchers followed a wide trail to the center of the field where they found her battered body under a blanket of flowers. Amongst the bruises a peaceful smile graced her face.
Denials were useless. The officers were as moved by her husband’s tears as he had been to hers. Those same fists that had hit her so brutally shook when they cuffed him. They hauled him away, far from the beauty he denied her. Forever locked in shadows while she soared free.