AW Flash Fiction

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I wrote this as a late entry for AW’s FFC whose theme word was “engine”. My original purpose was to enter it in the NewScientist flash fiction contest–“Forgotten Futures”. Only problem was I missed the contest’s deadline of 11/19. Curses! But the concept fit the theme word for the weekly flash challenge and I did write it idea to posting in less than 90 minutes. So, here it is for my blog readers’ entertainment instead. It’s a few words longer than the 350 allowed by the contest, but no matter now:

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Digging to China

“All aboard! The seven o’clock shuttle to Beijing will be leaving in five minutes.”

“Why are we going to China again?” Father withdrew his pocket watch and frowned at the last stragglers searching for space in the overhead bins.

“Because it’s quicker to take the passageway to China, then hop a plane to Japan.”

Father grumbled and said, “I wished they’d dug the hole to Japan. Ridiculous that we have to go to China first.”

“Maybe, but definitely faster than flying from New York to Tokyo. Besides they already tried to dig to Japan and Sydney and Paris, but it didn’t matter. No matter where they meant to go, they always ended up in China.”

Father read his travel instructions and I knew what he’d grumble about next. “These suits are uncomfortable and why they gotta advertise on ’em?”

“Well, the core’s pretty hot, so between friction from the travel speed and the Earth’s internal temperature, it gets hotter than the climate control can accommodate for so many passengers. As for the advertising…oh, never mind.”

“I don’t like it. Never have, never will.” His hands trembled slightly as he turned the page of his instruction booklet.

The passage guide pantomimed the cutesy safety instructions narrated through the intercom. Most ignored her and continued to read the newspapers they’d soon have to seal up unless they wanted crispy brown pages by the end of the trip. If you traveled often enough, you’d already heard the jokes about baby bacon, cheap tans and relaxing in the spa-like atmosphere. I had, Father hadn’t and his wide eyes reflected his terror.

I reached across to pat his hand. “She’s kidding, Father.”

“Hmmph. Still can’t convince me this isn’t a Chinese conspiracy.”

The pod jolted forward and accelerated; the familiar thrum of its engines tickled our feet. We’d reach light speed before we breached the crust. Like a hand passing through a flame, we’d emerge unharmed in China.

Or that had been the plan before the thrum rose to a whine then coughed its way to a bunkety, bunkety. Crap.

Father turned his sweaty face to me and asked, “Are we there yet?”

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“Where is it?” Calypso tore through the parchment packets that littered her lingerie drawer looking for the blue one with the sharpie label. “Come on, come on!” Her breath came in pants as the consequences of the missing ingredient took form in her imagination.

“He’ll look right through me…” She tossed out packets of wolfsbane, powdered newt tail, pompeii rain, and all her underwear then moved to the next drawer.

“Once he sees Helena, it’ll be all over…no second chances. Dammit! Where is it!” Socks and pantyhose flew over her shoulder as she scoured for her lost packet of ringevelt.

She sat back on her heels and fought the urge to cry. No ringevelt meant no love potion. No love potion meant no Carson Honeycutt. Carson hadn’t paid her a lick of attention until she’d begun dabbing a bit of the special brew behind her ears each day. But her supply had run out and the dance was to start in less than an hour. The tragedy of love lost loomed like the bow of the Titanic moments before its collision with the iceberg. Like Rose, she could feel her Jack slipping through her fingers. It was too much for a young mage in love to bear.

With a snap of her fingers, she jumped to her feet and scrambled down the stairs. Maybe Solange had some ringevelt.

“Solange! Solange!” She called to her mother who eschewed possessive descriptors such as Mother and Daughter.

“Woo!” Solange called back in response. “Whatcha need Callie darlin’?”

Calypso skidded to a halt in front of Solange and carefully considered her words. “Um, well I was making this potion and it calls for this really odd ingredient and I was, like, wondering if you might, like, have some?” She twisted a ringlet of her hair as she spoke, hoped Solange wouldn’t press for details.

Solange gave her a sly smile. “What do you need?”

“It’s something called…I dunno…ingervale or unkersnell?”

“Ringevelt?”

Calypso slapped her hand to her forehead. “Yes! That’s the name.” She bobbled her head to drive home her mental lapse, because of course she had no idea what ringevelt was nor had she ever used any before…that she could remember.

Solange rose from the sofa and slid her arm around Calypso’s shoulders. “I believe I do have a bit. Come on and we’ll get it together.”

In their modern kitchen with its shining stainless steel appliances and countertops, Solange searched through a cabinet, muttering as she did. Calypso held her breath, crossed her fingers, her toes and her eyes.

“A-ha! Here we are!” Solange pulled out a small plastic baggie containing a grainy brown substance. “It’s not much but–”

Calypso grabbed it and ran, shouting her profuse thank-you’s over her shoulder as she did.

In her room, she carefully threw a pinch of the ringevelt into the fine white powder her mother called “essence of Demeter” then added a few drops of water to make a paste. This she dabbed behind each ear.

After slipping into her dress and heels, touching up her makeup one last time, she declared herself ready. In the mirror she blew herself a kiss and winked. “Sorry Helena. Better luck next time.”

Three hours later, she drifted home in a woozy, love-induced stupor. Solange met her at the door. “Have fun at the dance?”

“Oh yes. It was…heavenly. Carson was heavenly.” She closed her eyes and released a long sigh as she waltzed to her bedroom.

Solange returned to the kitchen, a knowing smile blooming on her face. In a small blue parchment packet she mixed one tablespoon of cinnamon and one tablespoon of sugar. She shook the packet to blend the ingredients, affixed a label and with her sharpie wrote “ringevelt”. Admiring her handiwork, she murmured, “Self-confidence is the greatest love potion of all.”