Post by dennismlane on Feb 21, 2012 6:43:13 GMT
Here is a very short piece.
There are many definitions of 'flash fiction' some require 55 words, drabbles are 100, flashfictiononline.com defines their stories as being 1000 words or less. This one is 924.
I hope you all enjoy it!
Quentin Masterton the Third lay moaning in the darkness; his dreams full of betrayal and deceit... As he struggled towards wakefulness, images of his brother, angry and demanding, troubled him.
Auberon Masterton had always been jealous, ever since he had been old enough to understand that Quentin was the heir to the familial estate. He had always coveted the position and, later, had lusted after the wealth. But he had managed to conceal that fact from everyone - except his older brother.
Only a year younger than Quentin, Auberon had ever been the more adventurous. It had been he who had ridiculed Quentin for being a coward, egging him on until he'd climbed the poplar tree, and it had been Auberon's smirking face that had been the last thing that Quentin had seen before waking up in the hospital bed when he'd fallen. While people could understand Quentin's fear of heights, they didn't know its origin.
As they grew up, Auberon had continued to push his older brother to do things that he didn't want. Auberon had led the investigation of the family vault nestled in the trees by the lake. Belittling Quentin, he had overridden his brother's objections as he stole the key to the great oak door of the family mausoleum. Quentin had been frightened by the knowledge that there were bodies inside; the long decomposed corpses of the very same ancestors who stared gravely down from the portraits in the green room.
The sarcophagi had been too heavy to open, Auberon had tried, but the ornate stone lids were immovable. Even so, Quentin's dreams had been filled with shambling corpses and ravenous zombies for many a week afterwards.
As the years passed, the Lord of the Manor, their father, grew older; his papery thin skin revealing blue veins as they circulated his turbid blood; and it became clear that he was not much longer for this world.
And so Auberon began to scheme. He was always there, uncomplainingly helpful, never asking for anything. But the old man was a traditionalist; he could not imagine handing over the reins of power, and control of the bank accounts, to any but his firstborn. He had a vague sense of unease; that his youngest was after more than that allotted to second son; but he did nothing about it. Quentin would have to learn to look after himself.
Auberon knew that he had to act, and act quickly. If his father died with Quentin still in the frame, he would be left with just the scraps from the table.
Which brings us to today. The sun rolled its way across a clear cerulean sky, reminiscent of the long summer days of the boys' childhood. With a glint in his eye, Auberon had gone up to his brother. "I miss those old days, playing down by the lake."
Quentin, surprised, had smiled "You know? I do too! It must be years! I wonder if the old swing is even there?"
"Well, there's nothing going on today. Why don't we go and look?"
Quentin had no idea what his brother had planned for him; he was just glad that, finally, Auberon seemed to be over his jealousy.
As they got close to the lake, a shadow flitted across Quentin's face. "What's the matter?" asked Auberon, knowing exactly what was troubling his brother.
"It's that damn mausoleum, it still gives me the shivers."
"Oh come on! You're a grown man! You need to face your fear."
Quentin wanted nothing to do with facing anything, he never had; but, as usual, Auberon knew exactly how to goad his brother.
"Come on! At least stand under the portico that much can't hurt you."
A dubious look on his face, Quentin sidled up to the door and turned. He saw Auberon picking up a spade that was leaning against the wall. "Hey! What are you doing!" His brother swung the spade and everything went black...
Everything is still black, but now Quentin is awake. The air is dry and dusty and Quentin tries to sit up, as he does he bangs his head on something hard and recoils, cursing. The moment that he falls back, Quentin realises that he is lying on something, it feels like sticks... With a terrible realisation the terrified young man tentatively investigates one of the 'sticks' with trembling fingers. "Nooooooo!" He screams and begins to pound on the stone lid of the sarcophagus.
He pounds against the unresisting stone above him until his hands are little more than throbbing lumps coated in blood. He screams until his tortured voice gives out, the cries reduced to little more than croaks by exertion combined with the noisesome dust. Finally, his body is no longer able to protest and he falls back, spent.
Quentin lies in the dark, willing his heart to slow down. Trying to convince himself that all he has to do is force his body to be calm and then he can come up with a plan. Perhaps, if he approaches this rationally, he could work out a way to lever off the lid.
Just as his heart is approaching its normal rhythm, there is a sound. “What was that?” Quentin whispers to himself. But there is no reply, no words, just the rattling susurrus of breath being exhaled. “No... I must be imagining it,” reasons Quentin.
And then he feels movement in the blackness. A bony hand grips his arm and Quentin screams.
This time the screaming lasts for much longer...
There are many definitions of 'flash fiction' some require 55 words, drabbles are 100, flashfictiononline.com defines their stories as being 1000 words or less. This one is 924.
I hope you all enjoy it!
Trapped
Quentin Masterton the Third lay moaning in the darkness; his dreams full of betrayal and deceit... As he struggled towards wakefulness, images of his brother, angry and demanding, troubled him.
Auberon Masterton had always been jealous, ever since he had been old enough to understand that Quentin was the heir to the familial estate. He had always coveted the position and, later, had lusted after the wealth. But he had managed to conceal that fact from everyone - except his older brother.
Only a year younger than Quentin, Auberon had ever been the more adventurous. It had been he who had ridiculed Quentin for being a coward, egging him on until he'd climbed the poplar tree, and it had been Auberon's smirking face that had been the last thing that Quentin had seen before waking up in the hospital bed when he'd fallen. While people could understand Quentin's fear of heights, they didn't know its origin.
As they grew up, Auberon had continued to push his older brother to do things that he didn't want. Auberon had led the investigation of the family vault nestled in the trees by the lake. Belittling Quentin, he had overridden his brother's objections as he stole the key to the great oak door of the family mausoleum. Quentin had been frightened by the knowledge that there were bodies inside; the long decomposed corpses of the very same ancestors who stared gravely down from the portraits in the green room.
The sarcophagi had been too heavy to open, Auberon had tried, but the ornate stone lids were immovable. Even so, Quentin's dreams had been filled with shambling corpses and ravenous zombies for many a week afterwards.
As the years passed, the Lord of the Manor, their father, grew older; his papery thin skin revealing blue veins as they circulated his turbid blood; and it became clear that he was not much longer for this world.
And so Auberon began to scheme. He was always there, uncomplainingly helpful, never asking for anything. But the old man was a traditionalist; he could not imagine handing over the reins of power, and control of the bank accounts, to any but his firstborn. He had a vague sense of unease; that his youngest was after more than that allotted to second son; but he did nothing about it. Quentin would have to learn to look after himself.
Auberon knew that he had to act, and act quickly. If his father died with Quentin still in the frame, he would be left with just the scraps from the table.
#
Which brings us to today. The sun rolled its way across a clear cerulean sky, reminiscent of the long summer days of the boys' childhood. With a glint in his eye, Auberon had gone up to his brother. "I miss those old days, playing down by the lake."
Quentin, surprised, had smiled "You know? I do too! It must be years! I wonder if the old swing is even there?"
"Well, there's nothing going on today. Why don't we go and look?"
Quentin had no idea what his brother had planned for him; he was just glad that, finally, Auberon seemed to be over his jealousy.
As they got close to the lake, a shadow flitted across Quentin's face. "What's the matter?" asked Auberon, knowing exactly what was troubling his brother.
"It's that damn mausoleum, it still gives me the shivers."
"Oh come on! You're a grown man! You need to face your fear."
Quentin wanted nothing to do with facing anything, he never had; but, as usual, Auberon knew exactly how to goad his brother.
"Come on! At least stand under the portico that much can't hurt you."
A dubious look on his face, Quentin sidled up to the door and turned. He saw Auberon picking up a spade that was leaning against the wall. "Hey! What are you doing!" His brother swung the spade and everything went black...
#
Everything is still black, but now Quentin is awake. The air is dry and dusty and Quentin tries to sit up, as he does he bangs his head on something hard and recoils, cursing. The moment that he falls back, Quentin realises that he is lying on something, it feels like sticks... With a terrible realisation the terrified young man tentatively investigates one of the 'sticks' with trembling fingers. "Nooooooo!" He screams and begins to pound on the stone lid of the sarcophagus.
He pounds against the unresisting stone above him until his hands are little more than throbbing lumps coated in blood. He screams until his tortured voice gives out, the cries reduced to little more than croaks by exertion combined with the noisesome dust. Finally, his body is no longer able to protest and he falls back, spent.
Quentin lies in the dark, willing his heart to slow down. Trying to convince himself that all he has to do is force his body to be calm and then he can come up with a plan. Perhaps, if he approaches this rationally, he could work out a way to lever off the lid.
Just as his heart is approaching its normal rhythm, there is a sound. “What was that?” Quentin whispers to himself. But there is no reply, no words, just the rattling susurrus of breath being exhaled. “No... I must be imagining it,” reasons Quentin.
And then he feels movement in the blackness. A bony hand grips his arm and Quentin screams.
This time the screaming lasts for much longer...