6-PACK OF ROMANCE FLASH FICTION
by Gil C. Schmidt
Copyright 2011-- Gil C. Schmidt
Published by MisTribus Publishing at Smashwords
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to MisTribus.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Introduction
Welcome to this 6-Pack of Romance, with a BONUS 7th story! These are stories taken from my two flash fiction anthologies, Thirty Stories and Thirty More Stories, available at fine digital establishments everywhere (but most especially here, at Mis Tribus Publishing.)
The idea behind the 6-Pack concept was to give you a chance to spend a nifty half-hour or so exploring small slices of Romance. Tiny affairs of the heart, if you will. Although some people believe otherwise, most of what I write has romance in it, the discovery of that special something in another person that lights up your life. I've lived romance, indulge in it often and would dread any world that didn't have it.
For the purest romance in my life, I thank my wife, María, as well as for her amazing support and simple presence in my life.
Now on to the stories. Enjoy!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I’m a Black Rook standing on King’s Rook 1. No, this isn’t one of those “chess pieces as fantasy heroes” story. I’m real and so is the game, standing under the mild sunshine on a plaza-sized chessboard in Brussels. Thirty-two of us arranged on squares three feet to a side, a checkerboard black-and-white that looks odd at ground level and must look great from the chairs where the capitaines sit. They are the real players: We are just the human pieces.
Every Sunday morning, except when it rains, folks gather here to participate in this life-sized battle of wits. The capitaines are local chess club players who donate money to local charities for the privilege of sitting in the high-backed chair some twenty feet above the plaza. One is painted white, the other black and the edges of the board are bordered in that fabulous red clay brick the Belgians once used for every building. I volunteered to be a piece and got assigned as a Rook.
I barely had time to get to my square when the first move was called out: Pawn to King 4. A smiling young man moved two squares forward, his counterpart did the same and the game was on. I knew it would take some time for me to get involved in the game, so I took in the other players.
That’s when I saw her, the White King’s Rook. She was absolutely stunning, with waist-length black hair, olive skin, a tall lithe figure and a dazzling smile. She was wearing shorts and her lovely legs were tanned. I lost track of the game as I stared at her. She was talking happily with the Pawn in front of her. I would’ve given a year of my life to switch places with that Pawn.
Suddenly I heard “King-side Castle” and when I looked around, a few frowns were aimed my way. The King had already moved and it was my turn to switch places. From there, I kept my mind on the game while my eyes drank in the beautiful Rook, now closer to me. The White capitaine castled to her side and for the first time we locked eyes. The moment was electric, the chess fading as we searched each other’s souls. We laughed at the same time and her face was flushed, her eyes shyly darting down and back to mine. A quick flurry of moves had me advancing to center-board, then away from the White Rook. I didn’t care for that, but I eventually noticed I was “threatening” the White Queen, an imperious-looking older woman who smiled frostily at me. The White Rook smiled at me warmly as I shrugged an “It’s not my fault.”
White pressed his attack and I was forced to retreat. Then it happened: The White Rook was moved to King Bishop’s Six, one square away from me. The vision of beauty moved gracefully through the other pieces and stepped into the square. Her shy smile lit up her green eyes with a quiet fire. I couldn’t speak, so I nodded. She nodded back. We smiled like children.
I looked around and noticed the situation. White was forcing Black to exchange Rooks to gain a positional advantage. Exchange Rooks? That meant I was to “capture” the beautiful girl and she would leave the game. If only “capture” meant I could stay with her! But the game could go on for another hour and what was I going to do if she left? I turned to speak, but she interrupted my first words and pointed at the Black capitaine. I knew what she meant: Talking could interrupt his thinking. She was being a good sport and I was getting frantic. I looked around again. White’s pieces were strongly positioned, but not exactly supportive of each other. Forcing my mind to think faster, the solution burst like a flare.
As the Black capitaine spoke his play, I moved down the board, five spaces away to threaten the Queen again. The crowd gasped and the White capitaine asked for the play to be described again. I turned, desperately hoping the Black capitaine would see the play I saw…
His face melted from frown to smile. He called out my play and sat back, knowing he'd won. The White Rook waved at me, I waved back and we smiled together while the game ended within two plays.
Later, I told the White Rook—Sylvia—that I didn’t want to capture her in the game so she could stay close to me.
She smiled and said something marvelous: “I was hoping you would.”
True love can be like that.
After three years of virtual monkhood, Thomas felt it was time to “get out there,” to test the dating waters again. His last breakup had been bitter, agonizingly so, as Erleen had gone from loving partner to vicious bitch, to the point where even her closest friends were taking Thomas’ side. Jumping at the chance to leave Erleen’s savagery behind, Thomas took a new position in San Diego, putting two thousand miles between him and his painful past. But the past travels well, so Thomas let time do its thing. Three years led up to a late Friday night, Thomas nursing a beer he didn’t want. With a few clicks, he pointed his browser to one of those “compatibility sites,” rated “the absolute best” and before he thought about it too much, filled out the questionnaire, chuckling at the absurdity of the whole thing.
The next day, his Inbox had a cheery Subject line: “Your matches have arrived!” Smirking, Thomas opened the message and scanned the text. Hyperlinked numbers introduced four descriptions of women (Thomas hoped they were women) who, the message proclaimed, matched Thomas’ profile to “a 98+% degree!” Thomas had no idea what “98+%” could even mean, but he reread the descriptions and finally clicked on the third one, described as “Adventurous within reason, lover of solitude and embracer of honesty.” What the hell, he thought, It’s only a blind date.
His overture got a prompt response (Desperate?) and an invitation for lunch on Sunday at Il Pesto, a trendy new bistro that was neither ostentatious nor chintzy. Good choice. She—Lorraine—said she’d be wearing an emerald-green dress and would arrive promptly at 11:45.
As Sunday rolled towards noon, Thomas felt himself getting nervous. Nervous, hell, he was beginning to get scared. What the hell was I thinking? A website test to meet women? Thomas shook his head and slapped the steering wheel, driving up the quiet boulevard to Il Pesto.
He was early and let the hostess at the bistro know he was expecting someone. The tiny bar had comfortable stools and when the door opened at 11:45, he knew who it was. Lorraine was wearing the promised emerald-green dress and Thomas let out a sigh he never expected to be so deep. I was afraid it would be Erleen. He rose and introduced himself, enjoying the pleasant handshake and dazzling smile. Even so, he mentally kicked himself for checking out her throat to make sure it didn’t have a visible Adam’s apple. You never know, dammit.
Lunch went past two and became a short drive to a museum, where Impressionists led to an early supper of Hungarian stew and rye bread in a cubbyhole café by the pier. Over that time they discovered they’d both grown up in the Midwest, been in Scouting, loved math, hated English, enjoyed picnics and family gatherings, swam well, couldn’t get enough of Disney movies, “24”, chocolate and pistachio ice cream. They’d loved Europe, yearned for Japan and would not spend a dime of lottery winnings until they’d let at least five years go by, just to get used to the idea of having all that cash. Over coffee, with topics buzzing and cavorting between them, Thomas sat back and smiled, his heart filled with a joy he thought he’d never feel. Lorraine saw his expression and smiled, her deep blue eyes alive with pleasure. Lifting her purse onto the table, she pulled out a slim cardcase and slid it across the table to Thomas.
“What’s this?” he said, picking it up.
“Your membership to SoulMates,” she said. “You’re in!”
Thomas was stunned. “Membership? What—what do you mean?” He stared at the contents of the cardcase, not seeing any of it.
Lorraine smiled. “We’ve even given you a discount.” She patted his hand. “My treat!”
Thomas noticed the hand patting his: It had a wedding ring. Thomas felt his heart thud in his chest. He felt like kicking himself.
Lorraine sipped her coffee. “Every prospective member is interviewed by a staff evaluator to ensure we get the finest possible candidates in SoulMates. That’s why we have such a high success rate.” She frowned prettily. “You didn’t think we relied only on a website test, did you?” Thomas shook his head and tasted a sad bitterness he’d thought he’d forgotten.
She came into the bakery as she did every morning…A little flustered, slightly flushed, her hair sporting a stray tendril or two, her hands flitting about her slim figure in a near-frantic search for keys, wallet, sunglasses or change.
Milton was always there, often kneading dough for one of Eiffel Pierre’s delicate pastries. The quiet dawn hours were his favorites, but they gained a new aura once he knew that she—Jean Marie—would walk in. She was simply beautiful, not in the glamorous, plastic modern way, but in the natural “look twice and you’ll see” way, the kind of beauty that slips across your eyes, brings a small smile to your lips, then gradually absorbs you until you can’t remember ever thinking she wasn’t beautiful.
Milton’s claim to fame, at first glance, or maybe down to a third or fourth, were his eyes, a deep green that shimmered with gold specks reminiscent of elves in a wondrous fairy tale. Sadly, those beautiful eyes were obscured by the heavy lenses of glasses that kept him barely this side of legally blind. His eyes were the main reason he took up baking, for the work relied very little on seeing and oh-so-much on sensitivity and feeling.
Jean Marie breezed in and Milton, as was his habit, smiled shyly, wiped his hands of flour and stood in rapt attention as she flittered and flexed in search of…something. Milton waited patiently until Jean Marie smiled up at him and asked his usual opening question: “Will you buy a pastry or three?”
She laughed, as she usually did. Their morning ritual complete, Jean Marie bit her lower lip and scanned the display, hovering over each item as if absorbing its essence. Milton watched, entranced, taking in her profile, the gleam in her eyes and the very sense that Jean Marie was alive in a magical way no one else was.
Milton’s heart sped up. It always did when Jean Marie was around.
“A maple-glazed doughnut, a pair of ladyfingers and a medium coffee, please.” She frowned slightly. “I may be overdoing it.”
Milton shook his head. “No, ma’am. Seems to me you’re just having a solid Continental breakfast.” He quickly placed her order in a waxed box and served her coffee, to go.
“That’ll be $5.87,” he said. “Busy day today?”
Jean Marie stopped suddenly. “Oh, yes. Today’s my last day at work.”
Milton took her money and sombered a bit. She was leaving town! He was afraid to ask, but simply had to know. “Did you get a new job?”
Jean Marie shook her head. “No. I did something better.” Her smile was half delight, half roller-coaster rictus. She seemed happy and on the verge of fainting. The she laughed happily and he let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Something big!”
Milton chuckled. “You bought the company?”
Jean Marie clapped once in surprise. “You almost guessed! I did buy a company, of sorts.”
Eyebrows rising like semaphores, Milton said “’Of sorts?’ What did you buy?”
“This!” Jean Marie twirled, a lithe ballerina under golden hair, swirling like a vision of happiness in the morning light. “I bought Eiffel Pierre!”
Milton’s jaw dropped. His first words got lost somewhere between brain and mouth, but his next group came out audibly, if somewhat strangled. “You’re…my new boss?”
Jean Marie dimpled, and Milton’s jaw dropped again for he’d never seen that touch of beauty before. “I guess so.” Then, with a blush of shyness that made Milton’s heart break and soar at the same time, she said “That way we can see each other more than just before breakfast.”
And they did just that, for the next forty-one years.
FORESIGHT
Madam Savarona tucked in her voluminous skirt, took another swig of wine and cracked her knuckles. Her ginger-red hair wisped around her eyes as she took in the crowd walking to and fro around her motley stall. The crystal ball in front of her looked dim and damp, while the tarot cards she fingered absently felt soft and worn. Just as she was about to take another shot from the dark-green bottle, the one she knew would push her into the land of fog, a man’s voice drew her up short. “Are you--open? For a reading?”
Madam Savarona’s sea-green eyes focused on a tall man, his clothes well-cut, if slightly stodgy in style. His shoes were expensive, but scuffed at the toes. The hat he held too-tightly was a soft fedora, short brim, a quiet choice. Broad of shoulder, he held himself down, trying to appear shorter and maybe even smaller. Waving a bejeweled hand in what she hoped was a mystical pass, Madam Savarona forced her voice deeper. “Be seated, sir. Madam Savarona…is at your service.”
The man slumped more than sat on the fading cushioned chair, his legs akimbo, and ran a hand through wavy brown hair. His face was an open book of confusion and a touch of despair. He cleared his throat. “I’ve never… I’ve never done this, something like this before.”
Madam Savarona raised her hand. “You live in a world of facts and numbers, not feelings.” She saw him start and smiled behind her eyes. “I have seen this already.”
The man’s confusion increased. “My word! That--that is remarkable. I do work in facts and numbers. I’m a--” Madam Savarona’s hand cut him off.
Frowning, she let her eyes gaze into a distance. “You…are…I see money and…safety…I see…a bank. Yes. You are a banker.” She focused on the agape man in front of her. “You work in…I sense family…Your father is the bank president.”
The man slumped back, his face slack and almost empty of expression. “How? How can you, uh, see this?” She waved the question away. The man lunged forward, his eyes now ablaze, his face eager. "I know you can help me! You must! Please!”
“Ask. I shall do what I can.” Her eyes flashed deeply.
“I--I have a quandary…There’s these two girls, see? Two women, really. They’re both--well, they’re both fabulous, in their own ways. And I, well, I--” He shook all over, as if caught in a harsh fever. His mouth chewed air and tasted despair, “I love them both! At least, I think I do, but that’s not it. It’s that I have wanted to… I want to…” He looked up, helpless.
“You want to get married.”
The man almost fainted. “Yes! Yes! That’s it!” Madam Savarona watched her sense of triumph fade into memory, her eyes fixed on the anguished man. “You are remarkable! I know I can ask you--”
“Which one to marry?”
She rushed around the rickety table to help the man up into the chair, his head lolling as if punched by a heavyweight. “Oh my stars,” he mumbled, “That’s never happened to me before.” He gazed at Madam Savarona, who dashed back to her chair. “I’m so sorry. I’m not usually like this.”
“I know,” she said, then quickly added “It is a strong thing, what you feel. I may be able, I think, to help you.” The gratitude in his eyes gave her the strength to go on. “Do exactly as I say. Approach each woman. Ask her to name a jewel. Your true love, the one that will light your life forever, shall be the one who says ‘A ruby, red as passion.’ She you shall delight in marrying.”
The man stood up, electrified. “’Name a jewel.’ Yes! I can do that. I will! By Jove, I’ll do that right now!” Slapping the fedora on his head, he strode out, the picture of determination.
Madame Savarona watched him go, then quickly divested herself of clothes and wig. “A ruby, red as passion,” she whispered to herself. Yes, that’s exactly what Jonathan would hear when he asked her to name a jewel in about, oh, thirty minutes or so...
THE FINAL LETTER
Dear Rebecca,
I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I know these words sound trite, but they are true, as true as anything I have ever told you.
Time and time again I have tried to write this letter, to ask you to forgive me, and I end up so angry at myself for not finding the right words that I rip up the paper and start again. So I won’t try to find more words than necessary: Please forgive me. If you can, please do it whenever your heart tells you to. I can wait because I’d rather let you heal than force some empty arrangement to salve my conscience.
Whenever you wish to see me, or speak to me, you know where to find me. I love you, please believe that I do. I don’t ever want to lose you, but I know I must wait. I will. And I hope that someday we can be together again, for the rest of our lives. Love, Andy.
Marcia looked up from the letter, her eyes bright. “Wow. He seems to be feeling pretty strongly about this.”
Rebecca brought her eyes back from the street scene outside the tiny Deluxe Cup café, the passersby clutching coats tightly against the harsh wind, cars fluffing white contrails in the dry frigid air. “He seems to be. Yes.”
“You’re not sure?”
Rebecca glanced at her mug of chai, the spicy aroma now faint. “Are you?”
Marcia blinked twice, very fast. “You’re asking me?”
A long look at the street, taking in the sudden plunge into darkness as the clouds swallowed up what little cheer was left in the day. She looked back at Marcia. “Yes.”
Marcia’s hands fluttered, the letter waving up and down and around. “I don’t know.” She read it again quickly. “I think he is.”
Rebecca nodded, her mouth a tight line. “Do you hope he is?” She sipped from her mug, the chai tepid and flat.
More fluttering, eyes darting from table to letter to cups to street and back to the table. “Well, yeah, I do hope he’s honest here.” A few seconds later. ‘For your sake.”
A grunt, an ugly harsh grunt was Rebecca’s only response. Marcia stared at her friend until Rebecca’s eyes met hers, then she looked away. “Andy’s boss called me today to tell me he’d requested a transfer to San Diego.”
Marcia turned her head slowly. “San Diego? That’s what you wanted, right?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Andy never liked it there.”
“He’s trying--he’s trying to get you back.”
"Get me back?" The words were clipped.
“Uh, yes, of course. He’s saying he wants to be with you, wherever you want to be.”
Rebecca drained her mug and set it down softly. A car slipped and slid on the icy street, narrowly avoiding a FedEx truck and a pedestrian. “And you want what I want, right?”
Marcia was taken aback. “Becky! Of course I do! What are best friends for?”
Rebecca took the letter from Marcia’s hand, folded it neatly and tucked it into her purse. “Best friends… Marcia, best friends share everything, that’s true.” She slapped Marcia so hard that her head thudded off the wall, the cheek blushing crimson immediately.
“Except husbands.” And Rebecca walked away, her mind on San Diego. And solitude.
LETTERS
The first letter sped across the intervening space, tucked within canvas, the very day after they'd met. Its response, perfumed ever so lightly with lavender, criss-crossed the county and arrived into eager hands. Words, tender and fragile as soap bubbles, were being shared.
Letters then flew and rode and were carted like butterflies on a gentle breeze, filling the summer days with yearnings and sighs, with new memories, new hopes and new fears of being forgotten. Fall went from butterflies to equally-colorful leaves, letters now probing and confiding, seeking deeper into the illusion for the reality of souls matched in the heavens.
The chills of winter blanketed the increasing ardor, wrapping it in the glow of its own contentment, incapable of dampening Love's flame. The eruption of Spring multiplied the letters, which then multiplied again into gilt-edged formal cards requesting a response s'il vous plait.
For a while, the letters ceased, but a distant war and a call to honor made the letters fly, sail and truck to lands filled with the hateful violence of inhumanity. Fears and the frequent touches of despair, even thoughts of death and tear-stained lines weighed the letters with realities best left unmet. A bootie, pink-edged, made one letter bulge and two hearts squeeze with the dread possibility of hopes and lives dashed forever.
But then letters, stiff, starched, serious soldierly letters said the time had come for the other letters to become unneeded and a flurry of letters, now tear-stained with joy, flew and raced to share the news, the plans, the changes and the future so bright and clear.
No letters for a few years, until a step up the proverbial corporate ladder made the letters reappear, from points north, south, east and west, all radiating inward and outward from a tiny hamlet that to one person was a universe and to the other an anchor that demanded to be raised. Questions became demands and accusations, words going past each other without regard to each other, speaking to themselves, hearing nothing but their own angst. The letters dwindled to postcards with perfunctory details, then one day, they stopped.
A few months later, one large letter, papers folded over carelessly, wrapping within them the words that signaled the end of any more letters, of any more words between these two. The papers, minus a few pages, were returned swiftly, slashingly, finally.
Four months passed.
A tiny letter, scrawled with crayon and kisses, made its journey. Held in trembling hands for an hour, receiving a drop of plumbed sadness before resting on a sleeping chest. Its response delighted tiny hands, and then every day, sometimes twice a day, crayon, pencil and even watercolor, like butterflies new to flight, wended their path across a landscape changed: the hamlet that felt like an anchor now seemed like a world, one that gave a soul purpose.
A small letter reached out, not to tiny hands, but to a tiny hope that maybe, just maybe, a spark burned where once a fire kindled. For days...nothing. Then, from words, from many words, from what could have once been too many words, but were now not enough, the answer whispered like a wave...maybe.
More words, many more words than were ever used, flowed from a heart torn by its own failings. Words of apology amidst lines of regret and sorrow, words that recognized that the shared had been so much more than the perceived, that what the heart had was so much more than what the eyes could have ever seen. The folly of blindness mixed with yearnings and sighs, with memories and hopes and fears of being forgotten, the passion of long ago barely restrained by the most powerful new hope.
Its response, perfumed ever so lightly with lavender, criss-crossed the land and arrived to eager, tearful hands that, it now said, would never need to receive another letter again.
A GOOD MAN FOR CINDY
"Battle stations!"
The warped whoop-whoop of the siren rose above the soft thunder of steps hammering in the corridors and the ladders of the U.S.S. Sea Hound, the 73 men aboard scrambling to their positions as a voice crackled over the intercom: "Hold on! Hold on!"
The Sea Hound was slammed as the roaring whump of a depth charge churned the submarine, tossing its crew into unyielding walls and equipment. Several of the men screamed as bones broke, quieting quickly as the silent deep discipline took over. The intercom crackled again: "Damages."
Stations reported and medical kits appeared to take care of the injured. The Sea Hound tilted as it sought the deep, the crew that could do so adjusting their stances to the new angle and the prostrate injured being held as they bit their lips to keep from crying out. Another crackle: "Another one coming! Hold on!"
The sub tilted to port heavily, hammered by the exploding depth charge. A tiny leak appeared in the engine room and an ensign, fighting panic with every heartbeat, slapped a marker seal on it and hung on for the next explosion. It came like a charging bull, this time from below, lifting the Sea Hound and causing more injuries as surprise overcame strength. Crackle: "Damages!"
The reports flowed in and the panicky ensign, Mardsden, from the Cincinnati Mardsdens, welded a seal over the leak so quickly he never noticed the burns on his left hand, where a glove should have been.
Crackle. "We're going up! Secure! Secure!"
The Sea Hound's nose rose as ballast was ejected, the sub rising as fast as it could to avoid the depth charges floating down like lazy death. A distant boom rocked the sub, and motion that was once a fright was now a relief. Mardsden, his girl a beautiful blonde named Cindy that he was sure was too good for him, checked the seal and the engines, his mates doing the same over and over again in the tense thrum of expectation.
Crackle: "Destroyer, repeat destroyer. Load torpedoes, direct impact. Repeat, load torpedoes for direct impact." Mardsden clenched his fist. The Japs were in trouble. Sea Hound was deadly because Captain Higgins was deadly. The sub would arrow up beneath the Japs, fire its torpedoes and angle away. Eleven kills so far in this mission and this destroyer would make it an even dozen. Mardsden checked the engines again and waited for the "Full power!" order to come.
The Sea Hound rose as two more charges exploded below it, one pushing it to starboard enough for a correction to port. Crackle: "Torpedoes ready, Captain. Four for the Japs, sir."
Crackle: "Roger. Standby." Mardsden reached up to his shirt pocket and took out the picture that made him the envy of his mates: Cindy in a summer dress beside the lake, her long hair flowing in the breeze, brilliant smile, her figure on display and legs Grable would envy pirouetting gracefully. Crackle. He tucked it back. "Engine room. Standby."
Mardsden grasped the lever that would open up the engines for full power, his mates shifting position to leap into action in case the machinery needed adjusting after the explosions. Sweat flowed into his eyes and he blinked hard and fast, refusing to use his hands for anything else other than the engines.
Crackle: "Fire! Fire! Fi--"
The whoosh of a torpedo was engulfed by an explosion so massive it ripped open the bulkheads around Mardsden, the frigid Pacific sea roaring in. Mardsden was ripped from his post, his thoughts cascading as his body slammed into pieces.
His last thought was a hopeful "...a good man for Cindy..."
### Fini ###
Gil can be found in the digital world on his website, Gil C. Schmidt At Work and his blog Gil The Jenius. Offline, he can be found in Cabo Rojo, Puerto Rico, not close enough to the beach to be sprayed by the waves, but close enough to see them. If he squints.
Other books by Gil C. Schmidt:
Brian's Here (1st Tale from the Hotel Central)
Brian's Hurt (2nd Tale from the Hotel Central)
Brian's Hope (3rd Tale from the Hotel Central)
Brian's Home (4th Tale from the Hotel Central)