Flash Fiction February 2024 – With Prompt List

What the Heck is Flash Fiction February?

Every year I make the same new year’s resolution: Make writing a habit. Or just write more. Or share more. Or some chimera of all three. And every year I mean well and then thanks to a lifetime of ADHD, the real world being a mess, and personal life drama, something gets in the way.

This year, to help in easing into a habit I’ve decided to give myself a little challange (and anyone who wants to join in) to write, even a rough draft, one piece of flash fiction every day in February, as a warm up to my reuglar writing time, or on days I don’t normally work.

Each piece will be written based just on a single word. Think in the vein of how artists use October as a month of practice and progress using a prompt list. You can eaither plan ahead and draft things out, or go with your gut feeling when you sit down for the day to work.

What Constitutes Flash Fiction?

For my purposes, something between 500-1500 words. Some sources limit that to more like 1000, so your milage may vary. I like to say 1500 becuase some of my favorite shorter pieces I’ve written the last couple of years hit the 1200 mark.

I was Told There was a List?

There totally is after the break! I made a list of 28 prompts (+1 authors choice for the leap year). But, find a generator/list that speaks to you! And don’t force yourself to go in order. If a prompt speaks to you, jump to it. Or, randomly generate a number/fresh word each day and go from there! As far as challanges go, this is for practice and habit

Pages: 1 2

Lantern

The adults always told the children to stay away from the fog that would roll in. There never seemed to be a rhyme or a reason for when it came, and the where was no better. Sometimes, they would see it rolling down from the distant mountains; sometimes it would come in from the lake right at their doors, before the fishermen would get out to their boats in the early mornings. The only thing that was consistent was the chill and death it brought with it to any of those foolish enough to be caught outside. Every door and window in the town was sealed with a thick tar-like resin twice a year to ensure not a wisp made its way inside.
Some of the elders would say that the fog was whipped up by an evil witch that always kept one of her wicked eyes on their doors. In order to ensure that naughty children straightened up their acts, they would say that the witch used the mist to snatch away misbehaving children, and would feed their bones to her hell-hounds. But, these were just old tales. What they did know for certain was that it never damaged crops or the buildings themselves, and even the livestock always made it through just fine. It was like whatever made it wanted only one very specific thing: People.
Oh and there were plenty of fools all too happy to feed it. Some would try to go in after loved ones they had lost to the fog, and there were those who were growing old or ill and couldn’t bear the agony in growing more and more feeble so wanted to go out on their own terms. No one could fault those folks. The ones that received fault and no pity were the wannabe heroes that would come parading in like they were there to fight some great cataclysmic evil. No one missed them.
And even if anyone did, there were never bodies to send back for those who ventured out. Everything would be gone the moment the fog cleared up. Trails of footsteps would simply end in the middle of line going in one direction. It was as if the person dissolved, disappeared, or were perhaps whisked into the sky. At the end of every trail of footprints, however, something was left behind: A lantern. They were heavy, made of a black metal that seemed like iron and a thick frosted glass for each of the four sides. They were completely impenetrable with no candle inside that anyone could see, and no mechanism for turning on a gas or a spark to be set. Always one for each soul that was outside either intentionally or not.
People had taken to bringing them to the cemetery by the old Church, leaving them in place of headstones as a reminder of the power of the fog. One of the Elders called it a trade. A vessel for a vessel.
The family who kept the cemetery and lived on its grounds said the lanterns would glow the night before the fog would roll back through; Ghastly greens and unnatural blue would splash color against all the simple white stones. It seemed, to them that the fog lit a wick that no one could find.
At least, that’s what they said.

GAR Reviews – Book # 95 Mind Invaders

CONTENT WARNINGS: Physical assault, murder, heavy religious themes (specially Christianity), violence, hospitalization

I will not go into specific detail on these topics, but they may be mentioned in this review. These themes/instances are unavoidable in the book

Rating: 1/5

Do you ever pick up a book, excited in the idea behind it and immediately get the ick when you read about the author? And have the ick influence the reading, which also reinforces it? Enter Mind Invaders by Dave Hunt.

The bones of the story are your typical enjoyable sci-fi romp: We’ve made contact with aliens, we think/hope they’re good guys. Turns out not really. Only one person knows the truth, and no one believes them. Sprinkle in a Cold War setting where Russia and the US both come across them at the same time for some extra drama. Light romance, little boy saves girl action.

Simple, a little predictable, easy read. We love to see an easy 3.5/4 star read just for tropes. Right? Wrong. So very wrong.

Dave Hunt was a big C Christian writer, and specifically writes Christian fiction. I have a religious studies undergrad, and I love to see people use their faith to guide and influence their work, so at first I was exited at the idea of a heaven and hell approach with some devilish aliens. But, Hunt was a Christian apologist who literally has information about his ministry in the back of his novel. Dude was laying it on thick here.

I haven’t read enough Christian Spiritual fiction to know its tropes and what to expect, I’ll admit that. But the straight white male savior complex is so strong in this book. The main character is as flat as he is dogmatic. Every time we returned to him he was sermonizing. I won’t argue if it was convincing or not, but it became his entire personality and the only way the world could be saved.

And that’s not to even start on that romantic subplot. The boy saves girl? Cringing the whole way down. If the main male character is flat, the female character is a straight line. She is eve in the garden, her alluring words as a reporter helping spread the word of the devil. Oh but of course she accepts Christ and is redeemed in the end because no one ends up a good guy can be anything but born again.

But, I don’t want to rip too hard into the characters without touching on how they’re written. Now, I’m no award winner. I’m not even published, so take this with a grain of salt: the book just isn’t well written. Every third line of dialogue seems to have an exclamation point, for no reason, so every character is constantly shouting, And no one ever seems to be talking to one another, just at or in the general vicinity of one another. Also, the tension starts too high to really give things anywhere to move. When you open with “the aliens are the devil and are going to take over world!” and don’t let us discover it on our own, it feels dull.

Honestly, I really did want to like this, and with just how general the concept was, I can likely find another way it’s been approached.

Hunger

“Do you really have to hide under that thing?”
“Do you really want to carry a pile of ash back to the apartment? I’d rather not come back missing something.”
Christopher laughed. It was hard not to with the way his fiance’s fingers tightened on the handle of the black umbrella. There was not a single cloud in the sky, so it probably looked strange to anyone else walking down the street. After all, the messily cropped black hair and deep brown eyes meant that Erik wasn’t an albino or anything.
“I could deal with a missing finger or two. Though there is one appendage I’d rather not risk you losing…”
“Why did I let you drag me out here again?” Erik withdrew his sunglasses from his pocket, putting them on so he could stop squinting.
“Because I want ice cream. And you love me. So quit your bitching and keep walking.”
Before Erik could groan back at him, Christopher leaned up and kissed him, faces hidden under the brim of the Umbrella. The taller man sighed, wrapping an arm around him while being careful not to poke it out from the shade.
“I hate you.”
“Liar. Ohh, Baskin Robbins!”
Christopher grabbed one of Erik’s hands, pulling him down the street to the store. The umbrella stayed up until they were fully inside, which got a few looks. Erik’s glare kept them quiet though.
“I’m gonna get a pint.” Christopher’s smile made Erik smile.
“Whatever you want, Love. Just make it quick.” he nudged him toward the counter.

Curled back up on the couch in their two bedroom apartment, Christopher tossed the lid of the ice cream at his dark haired partner who was headed into the kitchen.
“Babe, grab me a spoon!”
“After you throw things at me? Have you ever heard the saying you get more flies with honey than with vinegar?”
“Grab me a spoon please?”
“Better.”
He came back with the spoon and sat beside him before handing it over. Christopher curled up happily against his side as he dug the spoon into the container.
“Want some?” He got a wordless arched eyebrow in response. “Sorry, habit. At least I offered.”
He pulled up a chunk of the green colored ice cream and slurped it off of the spoon. Erik looked down at the noise, licking his lips as he watched Christopher suck the cream from the spoon. The next spoonful was accompanied by a moan that wasn’t normally reserved for eating. His eyes grew dark as he watched the smaller man lick partially melted ice cream off of his hand that had dripped onto it. Saliva built in his mouth and needle-sharp fangs extended as he watched Christopher’s eyes closed. Christopher paid no mind, continuing to moan and wriggle happily over the ice cream pint.
“I haven’t had mint chocolate chip in so long. I wish-”
He opened his eyes and glanced up at Erik. The heat in those black-blown eyes made him swallow what was still in his mouth. He set the spoon on his knee, putting the container on the coffee table in front of them.
“Hungry?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
The spoon clattered to the ground as Erik pinned Christopher to the arm of the couch. The moan as fangs pierced skin was the same as when the mortal had his first taste of his treat. The rumble of a laugh against his flesh caught Christopher off guard.
“What’s so funny?” He panted, trying to catch his breath as the fangs shifted from under his skin.
Muffled through skin and a mouth of blood that dripped across his chin, Erik managed to get out:
“You taste like mint chocolate chip.”

Figs

His wife had been incredibly insistent about what she wanted: a handful of plump, juicy figs. She would waste away to nothing without them. It was the pregnancy hormones talking, but he wasn’t foolish enough to suggest that. Every day he went to the markets to come home empty-handed. The native soil was not equipped to handle growing the odd fruits, and recent fighting in the borderlands kept many traders out of the city. Much as he adored his wife, he was not going to ask one of the few traders that could make it through to make room in their packs for something as delicate as fruits. There were people who had far more urgent needs.
He had one last option: the old woman that lived on the top of the hill outside of town. She had the most lush garden anyone had ever seen; fruits, vegetables, and plants that he couldn’t even name sprung up from the soil behind the stone and iron fence that circled her land. The old woman opened the gates for no one. Sometimes you could see her bent, gnarled form moving across the rows of plants through the iron bars. Deaf and blind some said. Uncaring and uninterested the majority agreed.
And Gods above had he tried. He knocked on the gate, shook its bars. He screamed in her direction, at nothingness when she wasn’t there. Day after day for a week with not so much as a glance his way. Voice given out from calling and shouting, body exhausted from shaking the bars, he collapsed onto his hands and knees in the dirt on the eight night. He couldn’t go home empty handed. Not again. So, he made a choice.

An hour later, the sun disappeared fully behind the horizon. What felt like an eternity after that, the lights went off in the windows of the little house. The man had walked the span of the fence many times in the days he had tried to do things the polite way. He knew there was a crack in the stones, enough to get him a foothold so he could pull himself up. After a few failed attempts, he at last managed to hoist himself up, scrambling to the flat top of the walls. With a grunt and a soft thud, he dropped over onto the other side, wincing at the impact of the fall on his knees.
He paused, waiting to see if the sound would send some sort of alarm. Perhaps a guard dog of some kind he had missed before. But there was nothing but silence. Perfect. He moved along the path the old woman’s constant walking had made in the dirt, gawking at the greenery. The night flowering plants were things he couldn’t hope to name. The vegetables grew large as his head. Enough to feed the town until the blockades were taken care of. If she wouldn’t give it willingly, perhaps it was time to take it-
No. That wasn’t why he was here. Let someone else worry about the town.
Making his way past the house itself, he kept low, crawled, slowly on his hands and knees. He could hear the clock call out an hour since he had started this before he was on the other side where the fruit trees and bushes were. The purple fruits bent the boughs with how heavy they made them. Each one the size of his palm, as he raised his hand to hold one and inspect it. There were so many, he could pick a dozen and the woman wouldn’t even notice one was missing. If she had only answered his pleas he wouldn’t have had to resort to this.
He picked them one by one, making sure to take from a different location each time so it wouldn’t be so obviously picked over. Each one went into the bag he had brought along with him, sitting now at his feet so he could fill it. After four of them, he noticed a buzzing, bugs coming out from the center of the tree. He could see no nest or hive. He ignored them at first, swatting at one that came too close. One became two. Two became four. With a grunt, he brought both hands up, trapping and crushing one. When he was certain he felt no movement, he opened them to take a look.
It was as long as the space between two of his knuckles, with transparent wings. Too large to be mosquitoes or flies, but he had never seen anything like them before. The thin body came to a point at the end, with a growth that looked like a needle. The question was answered for him when another of them landed on, and stung, his neck. The pain was a throbbing thing, spreading beyond the entry point. Ripping another fruit from the tree, he decided he had enough. He dropped the last fruit in the bag before bending to pick it up. He held the opening of the bag with a hand on other side, so he could look in for one last inspection of his spoils.
One of the bugs flew out, practically vibrating with that menacing buzz. Then two. Then ten. A cloud of them seemed to pour unending from it, even as he dropped the bag to the ground with a shout. The swarm of them blinded him as he made his way towards the gate in an attempt to flee. Soon, even his screams were swallowed by the sound.

In the morning, the man’s wife was beside herself. Her husband hadn’t come home. Perhaps, she decided, he had gone to the pub and had one too many. She would walk her way there and find him sleeping on the bar, like she had before she was with child. She would scold him, they would laugh about it, and then they would go home.
As she stepped out the door and settled her scarf about her head, she nearly tripped over a bundle of something. A sack, which she stooped and picked up. The woman took a peak inside, eyes widening before she closed it. A look left down the quiet path. A look right. No sign of anyone,so she opened it again. Five of the most beautiful figs she had ever seen. Her husband must have been working all day to find a merchant who was able to get them. Bless the man.
She pulled one of them out, biting into it without a second thought. The juice spilled across her lips and down her throat, sweet as anything she had ever had. She could have wept with joy as she took another bite. Her teeth hit something hard at the fruit’s center. Of course, they had tiny seeds no matter how perfect they seemed to be. She reached her fingers into her mouth to dislodge whatever one had gotten stuck. But this seemed far too large. Like a stone of some kind. Closing her fingers around it, she pulled it out with a wet pop.
A golden band, covered in fruit flesh and dripping with juice. Her own name engraved on the thing’s inside. There were no buzzing beasts to cover her scream.

Father

Joanna didn’t understand why her mommy was so mad at her. The woman had always told her to stand up for herself if someone made fun of her. And her daddy said that if someone touched her without her permission, or didn’t listen when she said no, that she should hit them first and call for help second. Charles, had done both of those things so she punched him right in the jaw. He was a lot bigger than her anyway, so he was probably faking all that blubbering and crying anyway.
She kicked her legs, heels knocking rhythmically along the bottom of the couch. In the quiet of the house, she could hear the muffled voices of her parents talking upstairs. Arguing would probably have been the better word for it, but she couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying. She continued tracing little pictures in the microfiber of the cushion next to her until the voices stopped and she could hear the door open at the stop of the stairs. Her mother, still in her hospital scrubs with her hair in a messy pony tail walked out and down the stairs.
“Your father wants to talk to you. I have to go back to work.” She walked over to her daughter, lifting her little chin with two fingers. “I’m not mad at you. Just…Try to be good, okay?”
“Yes Momma.”
Her mother bent down and kissed Joanna’s forehead before grabbing her keys from where she had hung them back up by the door. She paused, looking back at her daughter.
“I’ll pick something up for dinner. Love you.”
“Love you too, Momma.”

Joanna waited until she heard the car start and pull away before getting up from the couch. Her mother had left the bedroom door where she had been talking to her father. When he didn’t come down right away, she walked to the stairs and looked up them with a pout. No movement, no sound. Joanna was sure her mother had been talking to her father in person and not on the phone with how loud it had been. And she would have taken her cell phone with her to work….
“Poppa?”
“Come on up, Sweetheart.”
The pout turned to a grin and she made her way up as fast as her legs could carry her. Since her father was always somewhere else for work and only made it home for the holidays and special occasions, the fact he was here was exciting. But, Joanna remembered she was supposed to feel sorry for getting sent home from school so she tried to smooth her features back to something a little more neutral. Once she was sure she wasn’t smiling anymore, she walked into the bedroom.
The man that sat in the desk chair near the window looked like he would have been more comfortable in a boardroom than a bedroom. The dim lighting from candles and the window only barely showed the pinstripes on the three piece suit he wore, the jacket draped over the back of it.
“There’s my girl.”
“Poppa!”
“Ah ah. Careful now.”
The man held his hand up before Joanna could charge forward, pointing down at the floor. Right, she knew to look first. The bare, black-stained, floor was covered in chalk lines and sigils all drawn in her mother’s steady hand. It was like hopscotch jumping across each one to make sure none of them got smudged. She had to stop before reaching the man, though. A semi-circle in thick white powder went from one side of the window to the other. Effectively encircling the suited man.
“Oh…Momma was pretty mad, huh?”
“You know how she is, Jojo. She gets worried when teachers call. They ask questions, ans we don’t like those, do we?” the girl shook her head in a way that made her pigtails wiggle and melt the man’s stern expression into a smile. “Remember the last time? You had to move away and it was very hard for her.”
“I was just doing what you said.” She frowned stubbornly. “That gross boy at school I told you about tried to lift my dress.”
The smile turned to a snarl that showed the man’s teeth. How dare some boy try to so such a thing to his little angel? He sauntered forward, right to the edge of the white border and squatted so he was at Joanna’s height.
“I bet you showed him to never try that sort of thing again, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Poppa.” An affirmative nod.
“That’s my girl. Remember rule number two though?”
“Nothing is unattainable?”
“Close.” He raised his hand, so it was next to his face. “No…”
“No witnesses. Yes, Poppa. I’ll remember.”
She raised her hand as well. The inch-thick line separated their palms from touching. She sniffled, fingers twitching a little.
“Hey now, no tears. Poppa loves you Josie. You know that right?”
“I love you too Poppa.”
The smell of sulfur and ash was immediate as the main straightened himself and picked his jacket up from the back of the chair. The wood under him changed from black to a swirl of red and violet.
“Be good, okay? Momma needs a break. Work has been Hell.”
“Poppa! That’s a naughty word.”
He laughed, pulling the jacket on as he started to sink into the swirl of color, like stepping into a puddle. Or maybe quicksand.
“That isn’t an answer, Joanna.”
“Yes Poppa.”
The candles went out, the blinds blowing in a sudden burst of wind. As quickly as the color and smell came they were gone, the man along with them.
“That’s my girl.”

Fairy

Johnny was never excited for bedtime, but tonight was different. When he bit into his apple at lunch, his wiggly incisor came out and got stuck in it. His teacher had given him an envelope so he wouldn’t lose it and he could take it home. All the kids at school didn’t believe him when he said the Tooth Fairy was real: He knew they were wrong though. He had missed it the last time but this time, he was going to be prepared
He ran to bed right when his parents told him to, the blanket pulled tightly over his head. Johnny’s parents laughed and shook their heads before turning off the light as they did every night, leaving his bedroom door open just a crack. He kept his eyes tightly closed until he could no longer hear their footsteps down the hallway.
Now the waiting started.

He had almost fallen asleep a few times. It had to be super late when he finally felt the pillow shift slightly under his head, as the hall light his parents left on for a night-light was off. Johnny lay very still as the pillow wriggled, holding his breath as if even that much would ruin it. There was a soft metallic clink, followed a moment later by a barely audible “oof”. After another few wiggles, Johnny risked a glance downward best he could without moving his head.
It seemed to be outlined in a glowing white light, acting as its own little flashlight in the cocoon of blankets. The creature was as tall as a grown man’s hand from the wrist to the tip of the middle finger and skinny as could be. And even though it was so small, Johnny was sure it was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. Well….Half seen. He couldn’t move very much and it was very quick.
Only when he was sure that it was off of the bed did the boy risk shifting on to his side to face the direction it went. The creature was already most of the way to the window on the other side of the room. He was pretty sure he hadn’t left open before bed. It was certainly open now though. The tiny creature was currently pulling itself up on to the sill. Once it made it the light around it seemed to glow brighter for a moment. The light pulled fully into the creature’s back, and from it burst a pair of beautiful butterfly wings. Johnny barely managed to contain his gasp.
Before he could get out of the bed, the creature had already flown out of the window. With a grunt, he dove towards it and fell on to the floor. The fairy didn’t seem to notice, or if it did it didn’t care. It landed on a branch of the old Elm tree just outside chittering like his cat when it saw a bird. Johnny crawled across the floor to the window for one last closer look. If he reached a hand out, he would almost be able to touch the back of the gossamer wings.
The window slammed closed with a loud thud before he could. Johnny gasped and pressed his face right up to the glass, his breath leaving a layer of fog there. Through the bit of condensation the one light from the fairy became two, and then two became four. The two new ones hovered for a moment, directly in his line of sight and practically blinding him. As quickly as they had come, they were gone.
Eyes, pure milky white situated over an angular nose. The light that radiated out from them gave the outline of what looked like the shape of a skull on its shoulder, where the small fairy sat atop. When the large creature opened its mouth, rows upon rows of horrible, sharp teeth were revealed, the thin lips cracking to allow it to open wider and wider. More and more teeth, until his whole vision was swimming with them. He screamed, scrambling back toward the bed, to the shield of his blankets.
By the time Johnny’s parents rushed in to see what was wrong the three lights were long gone, two golden dollar coins left on the sill in their place.

Desire

Remember when I talked about saving something in a bad draft? Here’s the character I mentioned! Dawkins was the best thing to come out of that failed attempt to write a short story/novella.

*~*~*~*

It was the perfect sort of night to have drawn the short straw for duty, Dawkins reckoned. This far out, with no other ship for Christ only knows how long, there wasn’t really anything to keep watch for. All he was missing to really enjoy the crisp evening was a bottle of rum. The Capitan demanded sobriety on watch nowadays, though. Something about having lost too many men to a tumble over the side of the rail. He might be young, but he wasn’t stupid enough to not risk the man’s ire.
Even without liquor, the light of the mostly full moon reflecting on the water was beautiful. Dawkins stood at the bow and leaned on, but not over, the rail. He reached his fingers out for a brief moment, as if he could touch the white light and hold it to his chest. Would it be warm, like the sun? A sudden sound of splashing broke his quiet reverence. Squinting out over the water in front of him, he couldn’t see anything that could have caused it. One hand on his flintlock, he took off at a run, to inspect all sides of their vessel.
A single longboat wouldn’t have been frightening on its own; only that one longboat was very rarely just one. But there was nothing at all. No swimmer. No oars. Nothing but an unsettling silence that settled back over the night air. The young sailor frowned, coming to a stop in his pacing at the ship’s starboard side. A tuna, or maybe a swordfish wouldn’t have been too far out of the question, he supposed.
“D’ya hear that?”
Dawkins nearly pulled his pistol on the other sailor. Hells below, Nathaniel was too good at being quiet for his own good. He hadn’t even heard the other sailor make his way down from the crow’s nest.
“The splash? Yea. Damnedest thing, haven’t seen anything that could have made it. You didn’t drop the spyglass in did you? Cap’n will have your-”
“Splash? Are you deaf lad? The music. The singing. Most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever heard.”
The young sailor looked the man up and down. Nathaniel had a slight sway to his stance, like he couldn’t quite keep himself steady. Fantastic. Now he knew what the Capitan had been getting at. Drunk, or maybe sleep deprived, the older sailor would be useless if there was actually a problem. Dawkins was certain there was no music; just the sound of their voices and the water that lapped against the sides of the ship. He shook his head, frowning when the man came closer. Too close with how near he already was to the rail and the depths just on the other side of it.
“Nathaniel, easy man.” Dawkins put a hand out, pushing Nathaniel back gently and towards the firm ground of the deck. “You’re hearing things. Maybe you should stay down here the rest of the night. Climbing back up seems like it might be a lot for ya. I’ll take the high watch and-”
“It’s so beautiful. A choir fulla angels.”
The rambling made him roll his eyes. There had been rumors that the scouts stashed booze in the Nest, since the Capitan didn’t make his way up there. But honestly. Dawkins had no patience to babysit a drunkard AND the lives of the rest of the crew.
“All right. Let’s get you down to a bunk, Nate.” He shook his head.” You’ve had too much tonight. I won’t tell Cap. I’ve got things from here.”
When he started to lead Nathaniel towards the door, the man started to fight back. Lunging, scratching, fighting tooth and nail only just short of grabbing his sword. Nathaniel was head and shoulders taller than Dawkins, but his swaying stupor gave the smaller man enough of an advantage. He almost felt bad for practically pushing Nathaniel down the stairs once they managed to get there. Almost. He had kept the door open just long enough, to make sure that the man hadn’t broken anything or hit his head. He was already groaning about “that song” and trying to crawl back up. Dawkins closed the door and stayed with his back against it. With his weight on it, Nathaniel wouldn’t be able to get it open and the man would have to give up eventually.
It felt like an eternity, listening to the moaning on the other side of the door. He might have to tell the Capitan about this in the morning after all of the man didn’t seem better. Some sort of illness might have gotten to his head if the drink didn’t. Eventually, there was the sound of him retreating down the stairs to a bunk, at least Dawkins hoped as much. He got off of the door, walking to his position back at the bow of the ship. Only the sounds of his footsteps and the sea. Good to know the madness wasn’t catching, at least.
He wished he had brought his pipe with him, as he leaned on the ship’s rail and faced the door in case Nathaniel had tricked him. He tilted his head to look at the stars that dotted the clear sky above. The navigator could direct them by the shapes he swore were in them. Dawkins wasn’t sure he believed any of that. They just looked like blobs to him.
“Are you a witch? They do not usually let women sail on boats because they’re bad luck.”
That wasn’t singing. Someone was speaking. The voice was decidedly feminine. It sounded like his sister used to when she was annoyed with him when they were children. Before he-
“I know you can hear me. Down here.”
This time there was a thump that followed the voice, like someone striking their fist against the hull. He slowly turned around, taking a deep breath through his nose. Grip tight on his pistol, he bent his head down, following the location of the sound. Dawkins jumped backwards and fell on his back, not believing his eyes. Something was there…Some ONE was there. Scrambling to his knees, he nudged himself back to the edge.
A woman with skin browned from a life in the sun, wild hair stuck to her face and shoulders from being so saturated with water. The strands were so long, they covered her otherwise bare breasts. She seemed to be an expert swimmer, her legs barely even splashing as she kept herself afloat.
“No, you must be deaf then. That’s it, isn’t it? Of all the terrible luck…”
“Icanhearyou.” Dawkins could barely hear himself as he spoke the words, too quickly and a jumble of more sound than real words. “I’m not a witch. At least….I don’t think I am. Are you a witch?”
What other sort of woman would be out in the middle of the ocean with no sign of a boat or a raft, after all? He considered, however briefly, of throwing a rope down for her. But when she frowned, she looked rather menacing. And even from here, those teeth looked deadly sharp.
“Not a witch, and not deaf. Well, what are you then? No man can hear us sing and be unaffected. And you told the fat one you didn’t hear us at all…”
Hear us?
“No no. You aren’t real. This isn’t real.” Sirens were just stories that shitty sailors told. To excuse the fact they rammed their vessels into the rocks. And they especially weren’t normal looking in any of the tales.
Tails. A tail that looked more like a snake’s than anything. It was finned at the end, though, like a whale or dolphin. This weird, not-real woman had a tail. The sound of it slapping the water, like the splash he heard earlier, brought him back to attention.
“Ah I have it now!” She nodded her head as if she had discovered some great secret. “You must be one of those sorts that likes to do it with other men. So disappointing…”
Dawkin’s confusion and alarm turned to annoyance quite quickly. How sare this…Thing make any sort of assumptions about him at all. His cheeks turned pink as he grew flustered and made his way onto his feet.
“I’m not any sort, thank you.”
“Not any sort? What does that mean? What an odd thing you are. Not any sort.” The creature used its tail to propel itself backwards away from the ship, as if to get a better look at him.
Dawkins looked right back, unblinking. He could not tell if it was fear, or excitement that pounded in his chest. After a moment, the creature let out a sound that was almost a giggle and disappeared under the water.
“I will be back. You are fascinating, not-any-sort-of-man.”

GAR Reviews – Book # 96 White Teeth

CONTENT WARNINGS: Attempted suicide, racism, drug use, mention of sexual encounters with underaged indivduals, war-time violence (WW2), use of animals for scientific experimentation, physical assault (including mutual spousal abuse), infidelity, 

I will not go into specific detail on these topics, but they may be mentioned in this review. These themes/instances are unavoidable in the book

Rating: 3/5

I promise, I’m going to talk about the novel here, really. But, the copy I picked up of White Teeth was a prime example of issues I have with physical publishing so I have to start there. The novel’s front cover is a solid color with the title and author’s name. As a reader, I wouldn’t even pause over this sort of thing for more than a second or two if I saw it on the shelf. No matter how engaging the title, even if it’s an author I know, I’m not going to pick something up if it has, essentially, a blank sheet of a cover. It tells you nothing about what you can expect. Oh and my gods, speaking of telling you nothing: What happened to story summaries/abstracts on the back of books? I’m not saying that you have to give everything away, but tell me something. On my copy of White Teeth, there is a tiny square of real estate that isn’t a review quote or a mention of an award win/nomination. There is one sentence, half of one really, that gives any indication of what MIGHT be inside the book. Sure, it isn’t a newer release (originally published in 2000), but even my 2012 reprint of The Shining gives a setting and Jack’s name on the back. The cover and summary are the best ways to grip a new reader who has never heard of you and your work, and this mass market paperback copy was such a prime example of everything not to do.
Sorry, rant over. Had to get it out of my system. Let’s get into talking about what is IN the pages between the covers: The story of White Teeth. Zaide Smith’s debut novel is a multi-generational story about families, history, culture, and how to keep them in an ever-changing world. The centerpoints of the two main families the story follows are the patriarchs: Archibald Jones and Samuel Iqbal. The pair of unlikely bedfellows are thrown together as a part of the same WW2 tank team, and their lives are forever intertwined after that. An Englishman and a practitioner of Islam from Bengal, the two seem like they shouldn’t get along on face value. But history and how it binds us all is a recurring thread throughout the whole of the story.
Another key point to the story is the multi-generational aspect of families. Across the novel, we are frequently moving back and forth from past to present. Where this can sometimes be confusing, or difficult to manage for some authors, Smith does an unparalleled job keeping things in order. You never have to stop and think when and where you are. With all the jumps and pivots the text makes, the overall storytelling feels like watching a beautifully choreographed ice skating routine. Every leap is executed to precision, all according to its creator’s plan (another key aspect of the story).
For all its intricate construction, I found myself not really absorbing much when it came to the meat and depth of the story. We’re presented with a whole host of characters from the three major families that make up this story, and I couldn’t find myself really getting behind any of them. The characters and their conflicts are meant to reflect the society around them and the battles it is waging, but I felt as if I just didn’t really…Care what any of them had to say in the arguments. It wasn’t that any of them were good, or bad. They just…Were.
When I was describing reading White Teeth to a friend of mine, I said it gave me the same feelings as when I listen to my usual rotation of news podcasts at the start of my workday. It’s interesting, educational, hell sometimes I’ll even chuckle ro be brought to just the right level of disgust or annoyance. But then it’s off and I’ve gone back to being largely unaffected by it. Vaguely enjoyable background noise, that maybe I’ll remember to bring up in a conversation later.
I WILL say that there are a handful of twists that happen at the story’s end that did impress me, but I don’t want to give any spoilers. The last chapter I read incredibly quickly, wanting desperately to know how it was going to get resolved. The story wrapped up wonderfully. Like getting the Chocolate Brownie Lasagna after a meal at the Olive Garden: A tasty ending to a mediocre meal.
In summary: Do you like stories about families? Realism revolving around immigrants, identity, and the delicate balance of keeping your history and staying true to who you have become? You’ll probably like this book. Zadie Smith is a master of the craft and technical points of telling a story. The characters, though on their own not necessarily any one person you might root for, pull together as an ensemble and make a beautiful mosaic.

Candle

“You’re fibbing! I’m gonna tell your mom.”
“Harmony no! I’m not fibbing.” The little girl grabbed at her friend’s arm to pull her back.
“Magic isn’t real, Kelsey. Only babies think that it is. Sister Terry told us in Sunday school that it’s all just stories to tempt little boys and girls. Jesus is the only person with magic, and that’s because God gave him the powers to make miracles.”
“But what about Moses? He did magic too.”
“Either way, you can’t be Jesus or Moses. You aren’t even a boy.” Harmony crossed her arms.
Kelsey groaned, diving under her pink, fluffy, bed. The other girl pretended she didn’t care, arms still crossed with her head tilted away. She peaked from the corner of her eye though, watching Kelsey’s little legs wriggle madly as she searched.
“What are you doing?” Harmony finally gave in and asked. “You’re going to get all dirty.”
“I’m lookin’ for something to prove that I’m not fibbing.”
“Well you can stop.” Harmony ‘humph’ed, turning her head away again. “I already know that you aren’t telling the truth so-“
“Found it!” Kelsey wriggled back out from underneath the bed, clutching a box to her chest. “Okay, this will prove everything.” she set it on the floor between them.
“A box?” Harmony frowned as she looked down at it. “How’s a box supposed to prove you can do magic? I’m not dumb, Kelsey.”
“It’s the stuff inside the box. Duh.” Kelsey nudged the lid up just enough to slip out a small, plastic bottle. “Sand, from when I went to Florida with my mom and dad.” She pulled out the stopper, pouring the sand on to the lid of the box. “Now watch.”
Harmony held her breath as Kelsey pointed at the little pile. Kelsey moved her finger in the air above it. As she did they moved, forming the shape of the heart that she had been tracing.
“You’re touching it!”
“I am not. See.” Kelsey held up her clean little finger. “Not touching anything.” Harmony’s arms remained crossed and she shook her head again.
Nor did Harmony believe that the pretty blue feather moved even when they both held their breath. The same went for when the box itself moved across the floor without either of them touched it.
“You just put strings on it. Like the magician at Sarah’s birthday party last month.” she shook her head. “Just wait until your mom hears what a fibber you are.”
“I’m not-Fine, I know what you’ll absolutely one hundred percent believe.” Kelsey went back in to the box, pulling out a package of unopened birthday candles. “I can light one of these. without a match.”
“We’re not supposed to play with candles” Harmony gasped as if Kelsey ha just suggested that they go get the scissors out of the “no touching” drawer in the kitchen. “My mom says-“
Harmony fell silent when Kelsey pulled one of the blue and white wax sticks out of the paper packaging. Kelsey pinched the bottom between two fingers with her left hand, and the wick with her right.
“Kelsey, don’t.”
“Why? Because you believe me?” The little girl smirked wickedly when her friend gawked.
“No.” Harmony still shook her head. “But your mom is gonna get really mad if she knows you have candles in your room.”
Kelsey rolled her eyes, removing her fingers from the wick. In their place, a small fire burned. Harmony’s jaw nearly hit the floor.
“Told you so.” Kelsey blew the flame out and dropped the candle back into the box. “Wait until you see what I can do with my dolls.”