Mini-fiction Monday: With My Kind

On 6 Mar 2023 By Cait (like Kat) GordonIn Flash Fiction, microfiction, Mini-works Mondays, This blog's posts, WritingLeave a comment

CN: Ableism, eugenics
Genre: science fiction

Fun fact: This was the first micro-fiction I had ever written, and it first appears in Stargazing: Microtales from the Cosmos.

They’ll be coming for me. Fine. Anyway, there’s something so satisfying about a high-speed chase through space involving a Crip at the helm.

Huh.

Funny how our leadership brags that our planet’s a galactic god of tech, but they’re oblivious to the spirit of disabled sentients. Whatever. I’m here, alone for the moment, lights off but with life support, staring at the stars.

I’d been scheduled for “restructuring.” Well, the collective They felt people with legs that don’t leg were an impediment to their medical accolades. Being corralled to the Institute (read: institution) with about a hundred others was super fun. Thank goodness for Sheena. Our late-night convos from our bunks made everything bearable.

“You’re a star,” she’d sign. “You need to shine with your own kind.”

I finally had the courage to sign back, “I love you,” the night before they took her away.

She wasn’t voiceless. I heard her screams. The restructuring didn’t take.

So, for the next weeks, I watched. Each security team, what they carried, when they took breaks.

They shouldn’t have left that hoverchair unattended.

Nor the Crip Carrier.

Gorgeous ship, too.

I’m with my own kind now, Sheena.

“I love you.”

With My Kind © 2020 Cait Gordon. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. For more information, contact Cait Gordon.

A greyscale close-up of me, standing in front of a blank background. I am a white woman with short silver hair cropped closely on the sides. I am wearing dark metallic rimmed glasses with rhinestones on the side. I’m wearing silver hook earrings with flat beads and a plaid shirt.

Cait Gordon is an autistic, disabled, and queer Canadian writer of speculative fiction that celebrates diversity. She is the author of Life in the ’Cosm, The Stealth Lovers, and the forthcoming Iris and the Crew Tear Through Space (2023). Cait also founded the Spoonie Authors Network and joined Talia C. Johnson to co-edit the multi-genre disability fiction anthologies Nothing Without Us and Nothing Without Us Too.

Featured photo by Philippe Donn on Pexels.com

Mini-Fiction Monday (a day late): Deliver Me From This Pandemic Hell

On 7 Feb 20237 Feb 2023 By Cait (like Kat) GordonIn Flash Fiction, Mini-works Mondays, WritingLeave a comment

by Cait Gordon

Genre: Realistic Fiction, CN: Eugenics, Ableism, Inaccessibility

“Humanity started with Eden, and now it seems we’re in hell.”

“What the heck to do you mean by that?” asks Ed.

Cherie slumps against the table, then holds a hand out to stroke the handle of her rollator. It’s smooth, comforting. This is a time for comfort. This hell. This hell that never seems to end.

“I dunno. Never mind I said anything.”

Her words are muffled by the soft woollen sweater she loves. Periwinkle blue. That colour is a stim for her eyes. It’s cool but happy. She’s tried to explain this to Ed. His usual comment: “You’re wearing that blue one again?”

“Listen,” he says now, “We’re outside. Finally. It’s what we both wanted, right?”

“I need to put my mask back on.”

“Why? It’s a big room and not many people around.”

Cherie wants so badly to bop Ed one. Violence apparently never solves anything. Whoever said that must have never been interacted with a clueless abled. She still loves Ed, though. She supposes. He wears her out sometimes with his failure to see things as they are.

Wrapping her elbow around her face, Cherie bends over to the bag in her mobility device and grabs a white KN-95 mask. Her fingers are misbehaving today and tremble as she puts on the protective piece.

Ed isn’t wearing his. He scowls at her.

“Can’t we just do anything normal anymore?”

Cherie rolls her eyes. “Dude, what is normal to you and most other non-disabled or high risk folks is a right heap of crap for us. This pandemic has brought out the worst in people. All I’ve heard from government officials, medical professionals, and even members of my own family is that we need to live with this virus. Well, maybe they want to catch it several times and play Russian roulette with their immune systems, but I don’t. Do you have any idea how much I think in a day about my body? Like, even before 2020?”

Ed’s scowl is replaced by that confused expression again. The one he wears so often when she’s talking about her health.

“I can’t leave the house without thinking how long we will be,” Cherie continues. “If I’ll need snacks in case hypoglycaemia comes to call. Or if it’s longer, do I pack a small lunch because of my food sensitivities. Then there are my legs. Will they be okay for a cane or should we bring the rollator in case there’s too much walking or standing? Should we bring the combo rollator-wheelchair in case my feet become a neuropathic symphony? Is the place where we’re going accessible at all to let me enter the joint, will the aisles be large enough to move around? Are there going to be searing lights and music that blasts bass into my sterum? That’s part of my normal!”

And then Ed does it. He sighs.

“Okay, you know what?” says Cherie, carefully standing up, “You can go visit the sun. I’m out of here.”

“Whoa, whoa, I didn’t say anything!”

Cherie unfolds the black mobility device until the seat snaps in place. She unlocks the brakes and turns to leave.

Ed puts a hand on each handle, over her hands.

Fire fills her pupils. “Get. Your. Hands. Off. Her.”

He pulls them away as if burned by the flame decals on the chassis.

“Sorry, okay? I just don’t want you to go! We never get out anymore.”

She raises her index finger. “That’s not my fault. You always propose activities that might end in harm for me. Almost every time you suggest something, I need to add to my list of thinking for my body. It stresses me out to no end!”

“Then just stop thinking so much!”

Cherie laughs. It’s not a happy sound. On reflex, Ed takes a step back from her.

“Spoken like someone who has never transitioned from a life before chronic illness and disability,” she says. “Someone who has never had to grieve who they were before they could accept and love their new self as they are. Who has to constantly live in a world that does nearly nothing to accommodate them. Don’t you think I wish I could move out of my front door and not have to prepare in advance for the constant possibility of inaccessibility? I would be a heckin’ lot more laid back if the support needs of folks like me were already woven into spaces!”

Ed sighs again, but this time it doesn’t set Cherie off again.

“Yeah, I know,” he admits, “I don’t really get it. I only want us to be together and just… live.”

“I want that too,” says Cherie. “But I need you to take the protections I need seriously. I bet we could do a ton of things if we put our thinking caps on together.”

His eyes perk.

“I could really use a thinking partner,” she adds.

“Like someone who takes the pressure off you having to think by yourself?”

“Yeah.”

Ed smiles. The breeze from the open window fluffs up his brown swoopy bangs. He reaches into the right pocket of his dark jacket and pulls out a black KN-95 mask.

“I might not be as knowledgeable as you,” he says, putting on the mask, “but I will do my best to help.”

Cherie grins under her mask, but it also shows in her blue-green eyes. “Sometimes I get exhausted from being an ‘educator’ about my criptastickness, but other times, it’s a time investment… for future happiness.”

“Well, I love you, okay? And I offer myself as a willing student. I hope you feel I’m worth the time, clueless wonder that I am.” He winks and reaches out a hand. “May I?”

She clasps it.

“What do you want to do today?” Ed asks.

Cherie looks to the side as the wheels churn in her thoughts. Ed knows enough to be silent and patient when she does this. He sighs a third time, but happily, awaiting her reply.

Deliver Me From This Pandemic Hell © 2023 Cait Gordon. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. For more information, contact Cait Gordon.

Featured photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

scenic view of rocky mountain during evening with stars out

Mini-fiction Monday: We Together

On 30 Jan 2023 By Cait (like Kat) GordonIn Flash Fiction, microfiction, SFF Fiction, short stories, This blog's posts, WritingLeave a comment

I thought it might be fun to post short fiction pieces on Mondays that just streamed out of my brain.

We together

by Cait Gordon

Genre: fantasy

You wrap yourself around me and I feel enveloped in the coolness of your skin. Here, I am secure. In the quiet of this place, high above where anyone can harm me, knowing we are together, I can regain who I am. Rebuild the woman who has faced one too many sword-points.

But you swooped in and rescued me. I might not have been a young damsel—it’s been years since I was a maid—but I had indeed been in distress. You didn’t care; you still felt I was worth saving.

We might not speak the same tongue, yet we understand each other without spoken language. Our eyes, our gestures let each other know all that there needs to be known. And together, we’ll fly above the tedium and the host of mundanes who threaten to make us less than what we are.

For our bond is greater than any other. Our hearts are one. And as one, they shall conquer.

But for now, we rest.

Deep within this cave atop the highest mount, with a circular view of the multitude of stars shining their light in the distance, we sleep. Or, I shall sleep soon, lulled by the rising and falling of your body as you breathe.

The hand that rests upon you pats your tail gently. The stars pick out the pearlescent gleam in your scales, which cross over from jade to opal to amethyst. You are a host of jewels.

Your wings are folded neatly and docile. How I love when they are in full span! Your majesty puts fear in the faint hearted, but the sight of you strengthens me. I know your heart and your intentions. You want justice and so do I.

So let them fear us. Those trolls, those oppressors, those mundanes. We will gather those like us, assemble our own city, where we shall not rule over them, but in community with each other. Dragons and all of the Othered. Our land will have peace. It will bloom. And it will thrive.

But for now, we sleep.

I shall close my eyes soon, I promise.

Wrapped in the love of my dear one.

My bosom friend.

Mo chara dragan.

Until the morn.

For it promises great things.

Featured photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on Pexels.com

ID: interior of modern flat with winding staircase and a wall of windows

Once Upon a Flat (Flash Fiction)

On 10 Jan 202110 Jan 2021 By Cait (like Kat) GordonIn Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Challenge Draw 2021, This blog's posts, Writing2 Comments

It’s 2021 and time for the monthly fun Flash Fiction Challenge Draw. This year, it’s hosted by author Jeffrey Ricker! For January, we had to write a 1000-words max story that was a fairytale set in a studio apartment in a big city, and there had to be a potted plant in the story.

Here’s my contribution, Once Upon a Flat!

Once upon a time, two avid runners lived in a luxe studio apartment atop a tall building in Montréal, Québec. The flat had been divided into zones that included a sunken living space and a winding staircase leading to the bedroom terrace. It also had a gorgeous wall of windows overlooking the cityscape.

Melvin and Helen had happily lived there for years, donning their expensive runners twice a day to keep in shape. It had also been their favourite togetherness activity.

One year, Helen had often found herself with mysterious bilateral pains, all over her body. She could still run, though not as quickly, and afterwards, her tissues would inflame mercilessly. When she sought help, she was told to reduce how frequently she ran, or to try run-walks, and to ice where it hurt. Medical professionals insisted she maintain her fitness routine.

At first, Melvin had been understanding and accepted he would do his morning runs alone. However, he’d become increasingly impatient when Helen kept cancelling evening runs or could only manage a walk. Finally, she claimed she couldn’t walk at all.

“You’re not trying hard enough!” he cried. “You’re giving up on yourself—and us!”

Through tears Helen replied, “That’s not true. The pain… it’s excruciating.”

“If you don’t move, you’ll never move!”

So, with all the effort she could muster, Helen tried walking. But her legs had become so stiff and riddled with nerve pain, she found herself constantly falling down the steps to the sunken living room and couldn’t climb the steps to their bed.

“Now you don’t even want to sleep with me?” Mel shouted, finding Helen under a blanket on the kitchen area floor.

She winced as she pushed herself into a sitting position. “It’s not that. I love you. It’s just those stairs!”

“Whatever. I’m fed up with this drama. You don’t want me around, fine. Fend for yourself. I’m sure your legs will magically work again once I’m gone.”

“Mel!”

Melvin grabbed his briefcase and dashed out the door.

He never returned.

Some men came round to collect his things the next day. They had Melvin’s key and let themselves right in. Helen stayed slumped on her blanket in the kitchen without uttering a word. When they left, she crawled to a dining chair and managed to get into it, then stood up to limp to the kitchen sink, where she held onto the counter with one hand, and used the other to wash her face. Her cheeks were drenched with tears and tap water.

Bing-bong!

She cursed through her sobs.

Bing-bong!

“I can’t come to the door!”

Bing-bong!

“Go away!”

Bing-bong!

Helen turned her head and spotted a lone office chair. Hm. She stumbled over and clung to the back of it while pushing it across the floor to the front door, being careful not to careen over the steps to the living room area.

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

She huffed but opened the door anyway.

There was nobody, nothing except a large potted plant with a big shiny purple bow.

Helen growled. “How am I supposed to bring you into the apartment?”

“No matter, really,” said the plant. “I can float.”

She nearly dropped to the floor. “Oh no. Oh no, I’m going mad!”

The rubber tree chuckled amiably. “You have no idea how many times I hear that! You are quite sane, my dear. I am your fairy god-plant.”

She blinked. “Uh, yeah. That makes me feel way better.” Helen shook her head and rolled herself into the flat while the plant floated to a sunny spot by the window.

“Ugh, the door,” Helen groaned, not wanting to turn back, since the office chair was not that steady.

“No bother, my dear. Consider it closed!”

Helen heard the lock click as well. She swivelled the chair to sit in it, then swivelled back to face the plant.

“So, you’re magical, that’s it?”

“I am!”

“And you’re going to grant wishes or something?”

“If you like! I prefer to make people’s lives easier.”

“Uh huh, and what do you get out of it?”

“The satisfaction of a good deed well done?”

“What’s the payment, I mean.”

“Well, I like this spot. A little water and some fertilizer might be lovely.”

Helen stared.

The plant remained silent.

Helen stared some more.

The plant gestured with a leaf for her to speak.

“Okay, fine,” the woman said. “You know what I want? I want to move again. Around this flat. Outside. The works. Lay it on me!”

“All right, my dear. But sit by me, to be safe.”

At once, the apartment began to shake. Helen yelped and rolled to the window.

The sunken floor began to rise until it was flush with the rest of the place. The front door grew wider. The glass staircase disappeared and the bedroom terrace lowered to the main area. The bathroom door also widened and the bathtub disappeared, replaced with a walk-in shower with seat. Space throughout the studio morphed. Kitchen countertops lowered and most-needed items flew out of cupboards to where she could reach them.

And the office chair on which she sat, gently transformed around her, becoming a combination electric wheelchair and rollator—a walker with wheels.

“Oh, and the final touch,” said the plant.

Helen’s runners floated in the air to land near her feet. They, too changed, but still looked like runners.

“You’ll find these much more comfortable when you stand,” said the plant.

It took Helen a moment to find her voice again. She steadied her breath and managed, “So, where’s my handsome prince?”

The plant swished a leaf dismissively. “You don’t need one. But there’s a physical therapist I know who is a great listener and can offer help you actually can use. You’ll still need assistive tech, but you’ll get the support to thrive. Or… I could just send you a handsome prince.”

Helen took in her surroundings and smiled.

“What’s the PT’s name?”

— The End —

Once Upon a Flat © 2021 Cait Gordon. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. For more information, contact Cait Gordon.

Cait Gordon is a disability advocate who wants everyone to be wise and think of others as we battle COVID-19!

She’s also the author of Life in the ’Cosm and The Stealth Lovers. When Cait’s not writing, she’s editing manuscripts and running The Spoonie Authors Network, a blog whose contributors manage disabilities and/or chronic conditions. She also teamed up with Kohenet Talia C. Johnson to co-edit the Nothing Without Us anthology (a 2020 Prix Aurora Award finalist for Best Related Work) in an attempt to take over the world.

ID: An open notebook with blank cream pages, and a pencil rests on one pagestart

Flash Fiction Challenge: November’s and December’s Results

On 14 Dec 202014 Dec 2020 By Cait (like Kat) GordonIn Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Challenge Draw 2020, This blog's posts, WritingLeave a comment

Aw, this is my last summary post for 2020, but that’s okay because the Flash Fiction Draw will continue in 2021, curated by author Jeffrey Ricker! You can follow him on his website and on Twitter to learn more.

November’s entries

For November, I drew these cards: 3 of spades, 9 of hearts, and the 10 of diamonds. That meant the genre was urban fantasy, the setting was a hospital elevator, and the object that must appear in the story was a gun! (Yikes.)

And here are the stories from our authors:

Iara Warriorfeather wrote Some Enchanted Evening
Jeff Baker wrote Incident in an Elevator
Jeffrey Ricker wrote Nurse Erin
EH Timms wrote Snake Eyes
and I wrote Better to Believe…Fewer Mutants That Way

December’s entries

For December, I drew these cards: queen of spades, 7 of hearts, and the 2 of diamonds. That meant the genre was dystopian (Finally, eh?), the setting was the Eiffel Tower, and the object that must appear in the story was a cane!

And here are the stories from our authors:

IaraWarriorfeather wrote The Rex Files of Terror
Jeff Baker wrote When in Rome
Jeffrey Ricker wrote Shufflers
EH Timms wrote Climb Every Tower
and I wrote Ooo-la-ahhh

Once again, thanks for playing, everyone! And to all who are reading this, Have a safe and happy holiday season! Cheers!

Cait Gordon is a disability advocate who wants everyone to pummel that curve!

Ooo-la-ahhh… (Flash Fiction)

On 14 Dec 2020 By Cait (like Kat) GordonIn Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Challenge Draw 2020, This blog's posts1 Comment

I did it! I finished my final flash fiction of 2020! The cards drawn meant we had to write an dystopian piece that takes place at the Eiffel Tower, and there had to be a cane in the story.

Here’s my entry: Ooo-la-ahhh…

December 15. It’s been seven months to the day that I’ve been living in France. Thought 2020 would be a banner year, kicking it off in Gai Paris for a stay. Yeah, that turned out to be a walloping non. COVID-19 hit all over. Not registering how serious things would become, I took it in stride, enjoying time with my friends, then I missed the deadline to come back to Canada.

Merde.

My flatmates, who had been hosting me, decided they didn’t want the pressure of living with a Crip. Something about how because I’m higher risk, they couldn’t keep track of how much isolation I needed or all rules I insisted must be followed. So, they kindly invited me to leave.

Merci beaucoup, mes amis. Insert expletive here.

I still love Paris, though. Gorgeous city for walking about. Mind you, I tend to roll around it, using my rollator, with my cane folded up in a basket, in case shops aren’t accessible. But this time, I was suddenly homeless during a pandemic. Hotels felt too people-y for my liking, so I did what I felt was best. I went to the place that always helped me take my mind off things. And let’s face it, 2020 has had a host of things to forget. Folks all over the globe had become infected by a novel virus that scientists knew exactly nothing about; I read stories about triage nightmares in some countries where doctors had to choose who would die or not because of the lack of ventilators; and no current meds or vaccines could cure it… I wanted to escape reality for a good while.

So, I went to the Eiffel Tower. I truly only intended a visit. I swear.

But it had been closed to the public. I must have looked properly dejected because the security guard, Jean-Louis, had felt really badly for me. Through his face mask, his deliciously accented voice told me he would take me up, just once.

I haven’t left.

During our conversation up the lift, I’d explained my situation, and we connected. Funny how that happens. You meet this random stranger, and for some inexplicable reason, they become your person. He told me about Gustave Eiffel’s private apartment at the top of the tower, which I’d already known about. However, it remained vacant and unvisited because of the pandemic, so Jean-Louis asked me if I would consider staying there until I could get back to Canada.

I had cell connectivity, so I informed everyone back home that I was fine. They reported back that lockdowns were happening in various cities, and many people were being good, but others flouted the rules. Everyone I’d spoken to seemed frustrated in one way or another. I followed the news about what was happening in the US and couldn’t believe it. Seemed I was better off right here.

Bathroom accommodations were… interesting. Had to get used to chamber pots and told myself this was what kings and queens did once upon a time. Baths were in a metal tub with hot water from a kettle. How Jean Louis had disposed of everything, I never asked. He just helped me through this trying time, and it was difficult not to fall for someone who handled your waste material and dirty water with such easygoing cheer.

The cases grew in the outside world. People got sick of all ages. Deaths were astronomical. Still no cure in sight.

And faithfully, Jean-Louis brought me supplies, never once complaining.

In the summer, I had found out that there was a way I could return to Canada after all. On that day, Jean-Louis told me he loved me.

We both had access to the internet. We both knew I could leave any time.

Tonight we’re going to have a candlelit supper overlooking the city. From up here, there’s no virus, no death, no fear.

Just the warm fathomless brown gaze of Jean-Louis’ eyes.

I’m not sure what 2021 will bring, but for now, there’s this.

Ooo-la-ahhh © 2020 Cait Gordon. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. For more information, contact Cait Gordon.

Cait Gordon is a disability advocate who wants everyone to be wise and think of others as we battle COVID-19!

Banner for December's flash fiction draw

Flash Fiction Challenge 2020: December

On 7 Dec 20207 Dec 2020 By Cait (like Kat) GordonIn Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Challenge Draw 2020, This blog's posts, Writing9 Comments

Well, the time has come at last for the final 2020 Flash Fiction Challenge. I really enjoyed being the curator during this really heckin’ heck of a year. Thanks a billion to all who participated.

Exciting news! Author Jeffrey Ricker will be the curator for 2021. I know he’ll do a great job. Please follow him on his website and on Twitter. (And look up his latest work, The Final Decree!)

Here’s the video of me choosing the cards for December’s challenge!

Closed captions are up. A transcript is also available after the author bio of this blog post.

You have until Monday December 14 ( 2-3 p.m. EST) to submit your stories. Please add a link to your stories in the comments section of this post. And if you’re done sooner, you can comment sooner!

I’ll write a summary post later on to highlight the stories that have come in.

Good luck!

Cait Gordon is a disability advocate who wants everyone to be wise and think of others as we battle COVID-19!

Video Transcription:

It’s time for December’s Flash Fiction Draw, hosted by author Cait Gordon.

Hi I’m Cait Gordon, and oh my stars, is the very last flash fiction challenge draw for 2020. Can’t believe it we’ve made all the way to December.

I thought that, um, today I would talk a little bit about what this flash fiction is and what we’ve done this year. So, the flash fiction challenge draw was a non-competitive, just-for-fun writing prompt series started by Canadian author ’Nathan Burgoine in 2018, and it was a blast. So in 2020—

I can’t even remember— I must have asked him if I could curate for this year. So I did, and in 2021, it’s going to be curated by author, Jeff Ricker, and that’s going to be so fun. He’s a great guy. I can’t wait to see this happen.

And in my blog post where you find this video, I’ll let you know where you can find Jeffrey Ricker.

Also he just came out with a new novella! I bought it.

Okay, so for 2020, what did we do? Well, I probably should add that the way this flash fiction challenge draw works is you draw a— you choose the genre, the setting and an object that must appear in a story by drawing different suits of cards. So, this is what the draw looked like for 2020. In January, we had sci fi that had to take place in a castle, and there had to be a tea and coffee press in the story. In February, we had a gothic romance that took place in a mausoleum, which is probably my best card draw history in life. And we had to have goggles and that story. In March, we had mystery that took place in an open field, and there had to be a beard trimmer in the story.

Yeah, my luck at cards is coming out now. In April, we had a steampunk that had to take place in a car dealership. Nope, sorry, steampunk they had to take place in an apothecary. Yeah. That was a good one, and there had to be a spider in the story. In May we had action adventure that took place at a fandom gathering and there had to be a silk garment in that story. In June, what do we have in June? Historical fiction that took place on Parliament Hill or the White House, depending where you live.

And there had to be an empty pill bottle that story. In August, we had horror that took place in a bakery, where all horrors typically take place, and there had to be a spoon and that story. In September we had young adult that had to take place in a warehouse, and there had to be a lone shoe or a boot that story. In October, we had a Western that took place in a museum. And there had to be a cracked pot in that story. And finally, in November, we had a… sorry. Yeah, in November we had an urban fantasy that took place at a hospital elevator, and there had to be a gun in the story.

Okay, so now for the final flash fiction draw of 2020. I am going— from my two little remaining spades— going to choose the genre for December 2020. Okay, what do we got?

What is that? That’s a queen… dystopian. Dystopian… we waited all the way to December of 2020 to choose dystopian. So, ain’t that grand? Okay from that I have my hearts, I go to hearts. I’m going to choose the setting that the story must take place in, and we go with seven, which is what? What is seven?

The Eiffel Tower.

You’re gonna miss me you know that, eh? You’re going to totally miss me when this is over.

All right, and an object that must take place in this dark dystopian Eiffel Tower story…

Holy stars.

That’s a two, what is two— a cane. Oh, well, I’m disabled, so I relate to that. Alright so, with my unspeakably lucky talent at choosing cards:

Flash fiction for December 2020 is a dystopian that takes place at the Eiffel Tower, and there has to be a cane in that story.

Maximum 1000 words and your stories are due, a week from today, And I never remember how to add— that’s something else that you’ll probably enjoy with Jeff better. I’m sure he knows how to add. So, Monday, December 14, is when your stories are due, and you just post your stories as links in the [comments section of the] WordPress post that this video appears.

And thank you so much for playing. It’s been an honour to be your curator, and I’m looking forward to your stories. Thank you to all my faithful band of writers who played long for this year— your stories kept me company in this very trying time. And I will see you in 2021 as a participant. Yay for Jeff— WHOO! And thank you to ’Nathan Burgoine for coming up with this really super fun way to write every month. Cheers.

[Transcribed by https://otter.ai and modified by Cait Gordon.]

Better to Believe…Fewer Mutants That Way

On 16 Nov 20209 Dec 2020 By Cait (like Kat) GordonIn Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Challenge Draw 2020, This blog's posts3 Comments

Well, I managed to finish my flash fiction for November. The cards drawn meant we had to write an urban fantasy that takes place in a hospital elevator, and there has to be a gun in the story.

Here’s my entry: Better to Believe… Fewer Mutants That Way

“What floor?”

The woman peers at the indicator lights, wearing a mask with unnaturally large lips in a toothy grin. The smile takes up half of her face.

“Third, but I see it’s already been pressed.”

I nod. My own mask is nothing special. Navy blue with white elastics. I quickly glance at the other occupants. One is wearing a mask with a moustache, another’s looks like a galaxy, there’s that huge grin lady, and a pink paisley fellow. Might ask the wife to sew me something. She’d offered, the crafty little elf, but I turned my nose up. Now I feel underdressed.

The elevators nearly close all the way when a broad white guy barges in, face revealed.

“Wahoo!!!” He pulls a gun from his pocket and waves it around as the door shuts. “FREEDOM!”

Paisley Guy is not intimidated in the least. “What the hell? You bring a gun into a hospital? What’s your plan, to run away with a half-dozen gold-plated bedpans?”

I frantically press the open-door button. It doesn’t work.

“It’s not real. Just a toy for my kid. Had his appendix removed.”

“And where’s your mask?” asks Huge Grin.

“I don’t like ‘em.”

“Do you have sensory issues?” asks Galaxy Girl.

“Huh? No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you have a chronic severe respiratory condition that makes you feel smothered when you’re wearing one?” asks Huge Grin.

“No. Hey, what is this, an interrogation?”

The woman pulls a plastic bag out of her purse, and throws it at Unmasked Guy. He didn’t expect that, so he dropped the gun to catch it.

Instinctively, I jump, thinking the weapon will go off, then remember it’s a toy. It just makes an empty plastic sound on the floor.

“What is this?” Asks Unmasked Guy.

“It’s a mask. Put it on!”

“I don’t see what the big deal is. You’re all wearing them, so why should I have to?”

At this point, I realize that while the door is shut, the elevator hasn’t moved. An alarm beeps with an automated message:

“The door is ajar, the door is ajar…”

I look over and see that the backpack of Unmasked Guy is stuck in a crevice by the door jamb.

“Dude, your bag!”

“Huh.” he says, then adds an, “Oh,” as he realizes he can’t turn properly. He pulls himself forward.

The elevator starts moving.

“Put your mask on,” says Paisley.

“I’m telling you, I don’t have to do it! It’s a free country.”

The chime pings, indicating the third floor. This is my stop.

As the door opens again, we’re greeted with the sight of what looks like two COVID-19 viruses, standing on tall legs and in each other’s arms.

“Now, Mother,” cooes the larger of the two viruses, “Don’t fret. He infected many people before they got him with that antiviral wipe. We should focus on that.”

“I know, dear, but I just can’t believe he’s gone, and—“ She pauses at the sight of us staring wide-eyed. Unmasked Guy’s mouth is open.

The mama virus’s eyes switch from sorrow to bloodlust.

”There’s one of them who thinks we don’t exist, I can sense it. Let’s pounce, son!”

We all scream. Unmasked Guy fiddles in the bag to put on his mask while I pound the close-door button. The viruses charge the elevator, but Huge Grin stands in the way with some alcoholic spray. Two spritzes cause the viruses to recoil while the door closes.

Paisley helps the previously unmasked guy get suited up. Huge Grin woman spritzes his hands. I shakily dial my cell to call Information:

“Information, can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah, you can. Five of us are in the elevator in the West Wing. We nearly got attacked by two gigantic COVID viruses on the third floor!”

A pause.

“Was one of you not wearing PPE?”

Newly Masked Guy looks at his shoes.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Is he a pandemic denier?”

“Seemed like it.”

Well, that explains the lunging. We’ll get a cleaning crew to the third floor. I’ll inform security to blast any further intruders.”

”You’ll… you’ll what?”

“We have everything under control, sir. In the meantime, please exit the building. I’ll have a team of soldiers escort you. Don’t worry, they’ll be fully armed with antiviral weaponry. You’ll be safe.”

We all felt the elevator automatically reverse direction toward the main floor.

“I… I… I thought the viruses were so small, they needed to be viewed by an special type of microscope.”

“That was originally. But now that so many people don’t take the pandemic seriously, the virus grew. Disbelief feeds them like fertilizer.”

The door opens to the armed guards, looking like something from a Ghostbusters franchise. I automatically hang up the call.

“We heard there was an incident,” said the team leader, through his specialized headgear, deep voice almost sounding like Darth Vader.

“Yeah, somebody refused to wear his mask,” said Big Grin.

“I will never take it off again,” Newly Masked Guy said.

“Madam, there are some disabled and chronically ill people who cannot wear masks, so we have their back, and their belief in the virus also prevents it from coming close because these people will accept other safety measures. It’s the mockers who get trampled on by the mutant viruses.”

Newly Masked Guy raises his hand, “As God is my witness, I shall take this pandemic seriously from now on.” He jumped. “But my kid! Will my kid be all right?”

“Should be fine. Kids seem to really understand what needs to be done. I even saw a toddler kill a mutant by flinging a bottle of hand sanitizer at its head.”

No one speaks.

“Anyway, let’s get you all outside. My team has to roll.”

As we are escorted outside into the fresh air, Newly Masked Guy gets on his cell:

“Yeah, toy shop? What’s your biggest barrel squirt gun? Something that fits about 2 litres of hand sanitizer. Hello? Hello?”

Well, at least he understands.

Better to Believe… Fewer Mutants That Way © 2020 Cait Gordon. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. For more information, contact Cait Gordon.

Cait Gordon is a disability advocate who wants everyone to be wise and think of others as we battle COVID-19!

ID: A herd of horses in a green grass field with mountains and a lake in the background

Flash Fiction Challenge: October’s Results

On 16 Oct 20201 Nov 2020 By Cait (like Kat) GordonIn Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Challenge Draw 2020, This blog's postsLeave a comment

Hoo-whee, this month’s challenge was…challenging. But never you mind your pretty lil’ head over it because my trusty band of authors came through. Yee haw!

For October, I drew these cards: 8 of spades, 10 of hearts, and the 6 of diamonds. That meant the genre was Western, the setting was a museum, and the object that must appear in the story was a cracked pot!

And here are the stories from our authors:

IaraWarriorfeather wrote The Great Dinosaur Robbery
Jeff Baker wrote Lodovico Senarinz and his (Grandfather’s) Steam Powered Hyperdrive
Jeffrey Ricker wrote Howdy Pardner
EH Timms wrote Old Habits Die Hard
and I wrote Showdown Over the Somewhat Okay Corral

The next draw is coming up on November 2, 2020. Two more to go for 2020!

Hope you can join us! Cheers!

Cait Gordon is a disability advocate who wants everyone to pummel that curve!

ID: A field and a corral-like dark wooden fence

Showdown Over the Somewhat-Okay Corral (Flash Fiction)

On 11 Oct 20201 Nov 2020 By Cait (like Kat) GordonIn Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Challenge Draw 2020, This blog's posts, Writing3 Comments

Author’s note: This is my flash fiction for October’s entry of the 2020 Flash Fiction Challenge. Each month of 2020, on the first Monday, I’ll draw cards to determine the genre, setting, and an object that has to appear in the short story. Participants will have until the following Monday to link their stories to the blog post I put out each month. Then I’ll do a follow-up post and share the stories that have come in (before the deadline). It’s only for fun and non-competitive.

October’s draw results: (genre) Western, (setting) a museum, and (object) a cracked pot. Yeah, I swear, those were the cards I drew.

This is my very silly and weird entry: Showdown Over the Somewhat-Okay Corral

“Why, howdy, there, Tex!”

“Yeah, it’s still Phil. It’s always been Phil, and it will always be Phil.”

“Aw, come on, buddy. Just work with me here.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“You get this way every time we’re assigned to this section of the museum.”

Freddy looked around. It was his favourite place. These old western exhibits reminded him of the films he used to watch with his grandmother on public broadcasting television. Whenever he did security in this spot with Phil, he couldn’t resist acting out the scene.

“That’s because I’m really not into white settler crap.”

Freddy frowned. True, Phil did have a point. At the same time, the exhibits were so vivid, it almost felt like they came to life. Freddy meandered over to a scene of two men with guns pointed at each other, ready to kill. One of the men was dressed in black with a black cowboy hat and the other like a sheriff with a white hat, so it was a typical case of good guy versus bad guy.

“Please?” Freddy pleaded again. “This is the last time, I swear.”

Phil parked his butt in a chair and pulled his navy-blue security cap over his eyes.

Freddy sighed. “So, I’ll take that as a no.”

Phil pointed at his partner with one hand and touched his own nose with the other, like in charades, when someone guessed correctly.

Freddy clicked his tongue and wandered over to the display again, trying to imagine what those days had really been like. As his eyes took everything in, he noticed something seemed out of place. It was a ceramic pot from a completely different era, with a huge crack winding down its surface. Encrusted within the intricate design were all sorts of gems: amethysts, rubies, sapphires. Not very old-westerny at all. He bent over the clear acrylic half-wall and reached for the pot. Turning it upside down to see if there was a card indicating to which exhibit it belonged, Freddy could find no information about this relic.

He turned it right round again, inspected its surface, and gently brushed the dust from one of the gems.

“Phil, do you know what this is?”

“I don’t right know who this Phil is, but I ain’t seen you round these here parts before.”

Freddy slowly raised his head in the direction of the voice. It wasn’t his security partner, but the man in the black hat and long curled moustache pointed a gun right at him.

“I… what?” Freddy managed.

“Now see here, Jake, yer business is with me, not this beardless youth.”

“But I’m 35,” said Freddy.

Jake spit out his chewing tobacco. “Right, and I’m Miss Aggie from the Cathouse! You got a face like a baby’s bottom.”

Freddy preened. “Well, I do moisturize!”

The sheriff and Bad Jake McKinney made similar faces.

“Uh, yeah,” said Freddy. “Please don’t let me keep you from your duel.”

Bad Jake guffawed. “Duels are for sissies. This here is a proper showdown.”

“You mean like the one at the O.K. Corral?!”

“Ya take that back or eat lead, son. My corral be one of the finest in the land.”

The sheriff scratched his beard with his gun. “The young’un has a point, Jake. Mean, it’s only somewhat okay. For a corral. But not worth all this fuss and fighting o’er it. Don’t rightly know why you felt it was worth stealing from Granny Betsy anyhow.”

Bad Jake scowled, then paused, still not lowering his gun. “Ya really don’t reckon it’s on a great a property?”

“Well, I wouldn’t wage my life and limb for it. Now, the corral that Mr. Owens has, it’s a beaut. For sale, not too dear a price and all. Land has a good size well and a home with a south-facing screened-in porch. Might pretty come sunset.”

“Ya don’t say? What’re the ’menities? I like bein’ close to town.”

Freddy stared at the two men, mouth agog. What the? This wasn’t at all like the westerns he’d watched as a child. It felt like The Real Estate Channel… with ten gallon hats and guns drawn.

Bad Jake lowered his weapon. “Sheriff, I’m willing to give back Granny Betsy her corral if you’ll put in a word for me with Owens. What do you say?”

The sheriff nodded, and pulled out deed papers from his leather vest, which he’d brought in case Bad Jake had been willing to listen to reason. “I got the contract here. And we can stop by straightaways to look the place over.”

“I’ll git my horse and follow ya there.”

And just like that, the two men left the scene, completely forgetting Freddy, the baby-faced stranger who had been new to those there parts. He shook his head, looked down at the cracked pot he still carried, then rubbed it vigorously.

“What are you doing?”

“Phil!” Freddy ran to his counterpart, put down the pot, and gave him a huge bear hug.

“Uh… dude?” Phil had never really known his friend to be that affectionate before.

“Never mind,” said Freddy, letting go.

“You okay?”

Freddy gingerly picked up the pot, being careful not to rub any of the gemstones.

“What’s that thing?”

“Oh, just something I need to return to another exhibit.”

Phil felt concerned over the confused expression on Freddy’s face. “You’re acting weird.” He slapped his thighs and got up from his chair. “Fine. I’ll play cowboys with you, but this is the last time. I mean it.”

Freddy pulled a face like he’d just eaten something really sour. “Nah, forget it. Turns out I’m not really into white settler crap either. They stole from Indigenous folks, then from each other… and sometimes only to construct subpar corrals. Also, I think the sheriff gets a kickback from Mr. Owens, so that’s kinda gross.”

Phil stared after his friend, who walked away with the pot, holding it as if it had germs.

“What the ever-loving heck?”

Showdown Over the Somewhat-Okay Corral© 2020 Cait Gordon. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. For more information, contact Cait Gordon.

Cait Gordon is a disability advocate who wants everyone to be wise and think of others as we battle COVID-19!