Flash Fiction Fridays: By Ram Or By Sea

One of the problems that I constantly run into in my writing journey is looking down the long road of novel writing and thinking, Eh, I’ll start tomorrow. It’s going to take forever to finish, so one more day won’t hurt. One day leads to another, then another, and before long, an entire year’s gone by and I have nothing to show for it other than blank pages and stacks of empty taco wrappers. (What, you mean you throw out your taco wrappers more than once a year? Now that’s ambitious.) One of the tools I’ve found to get the creative blood pumping and remind the muse that there’s more to life than tacos and anime marathons (those are awesome) is flash fiction.

And do you know what the best part of flash fiction is? It doesn’t take long to write and you’re done in a flash! (Get it? A flash? Eh, never mind.)

So, my plan is to periodically (every Friday if I’m industrious; less often if not) write and post a bit of flash fiction here for you to endure enjoy. And where will I find the constant stream of ideas necessary for such a monumentous (it’s a word now) undertaking of unpolished prose? The app Story Dice. Each time I sit down to write flash fiction, I’m going to pull up the app and write based on whatever dice come up. For this week’s piece, it gave me the image you see above. Sometimes the best way to get things done is Under Pressure.

Now I hear David Bowie and Freddy Mercury singing. Great song, Under Pressure, and talking about it lets me put off the actual writing for a few moments.

*bobs head and listens*

Oh, fine. Here we go:

By Ram Or By Sea

Menel spread his arms to better feel the caress of the winds against his skin. From his perch, he could see the entire valley spread below him. The distant village, tucked in the shadow of the opposite ridge, appeared as little more than a circle of toadstools rung clustered around a central pond.

His memory swam with stories of that pond and the homes surrounding it, stories of misspent youth, lazy afternoons that stretched into infinity, of lost loves and half-forgotten relations, of old friends long-gone. No one lived there now. The toadstools stood empty, silent guardians of a history that existed only within him, and he would carry them wherever the winds deemed to carry him.

The river of thought broke upon the rocks as the bleating of his companion dragged Menel back into the present. A reflexive smile that did not quite touch his heart stretched his lips, and he pulled his gaze away for the last time to focus on his friend.

“There, now,” he cooed to the battle ram as he scratched deep within the wool behind a black ear. “I did not go far.”

The ram bleated again, a long, low rumble as he turned his head into Menel’s hand. That cold smile warmed at the sound. Such a simple pleasure, a moment between friends who had seen more than either wished and still had so many miles to go. That his steed could still take joy in such a simple thing as a scratch, despite the long road in front of them, Menel could not help but share some small piece of it.

Animals are not so dumb as people think. There is always a lesson, if we take the time to listen.

He touched his forehead to the ram’s and raised a hand so he might scratch behind both ears at once. He shut his eyes and tried to lose himself in the scent of oiled armor mixed with the natural odor of wool, the prickling of the short black hairs of the ram’s face against his, and the sound of pleasure at the scratching, but he could still hear feel the village pulling at him.

It begged him to stay with words that had no sound. It did not want to be left behind, lost to new growth and, perhaps in time, new stories of new people who did not know the other had ever existed. He could see it as clearly in his mind, a portrait of the past that held so many years of joy, tears, and a thousand other emotions with and without names.

But it would only be a portrait, a single frame that did not reflect the decay, the loss, everything that had been left behind. A portrait he could take with him. He could close his eyes and gaze upon the past whenever he chose, but if they were to survive, he had to keep moving forward.

He would have another name, another life, and when those who knew it passed on at the end of their short years, he would do it all over again. They both would, as they had done since the first light of the first dawn kissed the earth and gave it life. And they would continue to do so until the final sunset, when they would finally be allowed to rest.

The portrait faded as Menel drew back and opened his eyes, meeting the doe-eyed gaze of his oldest friend. He did not glance back to the village. He tucked it away in his heart among the countless others he had known in his long years.

The ram bleated again, and no nodded. “Yes, old friend. It is time we moved on.”

He swung up onto the saddle and urged the ram forward. He picked his way along the mountainside, leaving that valley and its ring of toadstools behind them. Across the next horizon, they would find another home. New memories. Stories he had heard before, but were always new. Finally, he smiled. He always did love a new story.

So, what did you think? Please comment below and share with your friends. Thanks for reading!