Tag: fiction

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Luc Diamant

Yes, child, here. Yes, I know what I have taught you. No, you need not worry. This place is different. Why? I do not think I can answer that. But I can tell you how it came to be so. It started with the sprouting of an orange tree.

***

No one knew where it came from. Oranges are not native to this region, not with the summer rains and the winter snow. What’s more, that year, no oranges had been imported to the region due to a trade embargo caused by the latest war. All the same, there it was, a tiny sprout outside the house where the girl with the deep brown eyes lived.

When the villagers asked, she said she did not remember planting it. She was not in the habit of planting, preferring to let her garden grow as it would, only maintaining the paths she needed to get around.

No one in the village remembered having had an orange seed, either. Even the boy who always lied was clearly telling the truth; his denial was not vehement but confused.

And who would lie about it? The villagers would not have punished a person for idly burying an orange seed. They would simply have been relieved to have an explanation. But no one remembered being in possession of an orange seed, much less planting it, and so the tree remained unexplained.

This did not bother the villagers too much. It was spring, and strange things sometimes grow in spring. The tiny sprout of citrus would live through the summer if it was lucky, then freeze to death in the winter, along with the herbs and the wasps and the villagers’ hopes of the war ending the next year.

***

But the tree did not die. Deep snow covered the village, and when it melted, the orange tree was still there, right among the snowdrops.

The girl with the deep brown eyes did not seem surprised by this—but then she rarely seemed surprised by anything. The villagers did not act surprised either, though they were. It must have been a fluke, they concluded. The winter had been somewhat less harsh than usual, come to think of it. Next year, when the real cold came, the tree would surely perish.

But the real cold came and went, and the tiny tree remained. And grew. And by the third year, the villagers no longer expected the orange tree to die. Some decided that it was not so strange, after all—that perhaps orange trees were hardier than they are generally given credit for. Others suspected that there was something unusual about this particular tree, but they mostly kept these thoughts to themselves.

***

Either way, the tree did not bear fruit, even after three more years, and the villagers all agreed that this was bad. The trade embargo held, and if an orange tree was going to grow here against all sense, this should at least result in oranges. Now, the villagers whispered, it was just a useless, discordant thing at best, a painful reminder of all the war had taken from them at worst.

They told the girl to cut it down, but she shook her head. The villagers tried to argue. The tree looked out of place, they said; it was the wrong shade of green compared to the other things that grew there. The tree grew too slowly. The tree was in an inconvenient spot, so that she had to reroute her small garden path. Surely, the villagers reasoned, she would be happier without it.

But the girl with the deep brown eyes shook her head, and the tree was on her property, so that was that.

***

That was that, until another three years later, when the tree—still small, but no longer tiny—grew a single orange. The villagers did not believe it at first, but as the fruit grew, there was no denying it: the orange tree was growing an orange. It was not the size of the oranges the villagers remembered from before the war. It was not even the size of a plum. It was, in fact, barely bigger than a grape. But it was an orange nonetheless.

Those who had previously whispered that there was something unusual about the tree now began to murmur it. This orange, small as it was, might well have special properties. The tree’s appearance and its subsequent refusal to die had been odd, but this was beyond strange. No, the villagers speculated, this was no ordinary fruit.

***

One day, some of these villagers went to the girl’s house to try and buy the orange. They offered good money for it, more than one could reasonably hope to sell a single citrus fruit the size of a grape for. More, frankly, than they could afford to buy a single citrus fruit the size of a grape for. But the girl with the deep brown eyes shook her head, and the tree was on her property, so the villagers slunk away.

The other villagers, upon hearing this, wondered. Many had been skeptical about the orange’s alleged properties, but this lent credence to the theory. After all, why would anyone turn down good money for an ordinary piece of fruit, in times like these no less? No, the orange must be special after all.

***

More villagers went to the girl’s house to offer more money. Each time, the offer increased, and each time, the girl refused. And the more money she refused, the more convinced the villagers became that the orange must be magical.

One by one they came to make offers, and to demand an explanation when their offers were refused. What powers did this orange possess, that the girl must keep it at all costs? And why was she hoarding the secret of this magic? Before long, the entire village was gathered around the girl and her orange tree.

***

The girl with the deep brown eyes looked around, sighed, then reached out and plucked the tiny orange from the tree. As the villagers watched breathlessly, she peeled it with delicate fingers, revealing the flesh of the fruit within. She held the small orange up to the crowd before putting it in her mouth and swallowing it whole.

Instantly, her eyes widened. Her breathing grew ragged. The villagers saw her hands reach up to her throat, but none dared to move until she fell to the ground. By the time someone rushed forward, the life had already left her deep brown eyes.

Among the villagers, the conclusion spread first as a whisper and then like wildfire: The orange tree was not just magical, it possessed the strongest kind of dark magic. Its own defiance of death would come at the cost of the life of whoever dared to come near it. This turned from theory to truth in moments. If anyone suggested that the girl with the deep brown eyes might have simply choked on a seed, no one heard.

***

The girl with the deep brown eyes was buried under the orange tree—or as close to it as the villagers dared dig. In the year that followed, the tree seemed to grow much faster than before. And the next summer, it grew not one but three small oranges. In another three years, thirty mid-sized oranges. Another three years and the oranges were too big and too many to count from the distance the villagers kept from the tree, and more tiny orange trees were starting to spring up. Over time, what had been the property of the girl with the deep brown eyes became an orange grove that to this day none of the humans dare touch. Even in the final years of the war, those faced with the choice chose starvation over the oranges.

***

And this is why we have come here, my child, so close to a human settlement. You are quite right: Normally this would be far too risky. You have learned very well how we only eat the fruit that grows in the very depths of the woods where the humans do not venture—or if a single one does get lost there now and then, who is to believe their tales when they come back? But this, my love, is the exception. The humans in this village are more afraid of this orange grove than of what lurks in any forest. They would not enter it for the world. And if they hear our laughter or catch a glimpse of the fluttering of our wings, well, it will only convince them further that this place is not for them. In fact, in a hundred years or so, when you are grown, there may not be a village here at all. Look: Already the orange grove has taken over some of the houses. And its fruit—why, it is the sweetest you will taste in all your life.

About the author:

Luc Diamant is a Pushcart-nominated writer from Amsterdam, where he lives with his partner and child and their imaginary pets. By day, he teaches Dutch as a second language. His writing has appeared in Small Wonders, Canthius, and Clarkesworld, among others. When not writing, he enjoys spending time with his family, watching the plants on his balcony grow, and thinking about lemurs. You can find him on social media @lucdaniel94.

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

by: Amanda Pica

              Mabel wished the window would open farther, to let in a better breeze. She tapped her fingers along her collarbone, feeling for the fabric there that stifled her skin, but when she found nothing to tug on, she let her arm fall back into her lap.

            Evening light cut a line across the floor tile and bathed Cliff in marigold and amber. Mabel wished to embrace him. Wished for his arms to circle her waist again, carefree and weightless like those after-school days in the apple grove. She’d been slight and wispy, and he’d hoist her up with such ease she’d swear for a split second she’d taken flight. Mabel’s frame had filled itself out over the years, first through her baking skills and then through menopause, but had once again become slight. Had ground the life out of itself. Had once again become wispy, but this time, without the sun-kissed strength of youth.

            A single butterfly squeezed into the room through the small gap where the window should have met the sill. It fluttered around Mabel’s face, patterns of lemon and butter laced with black webbing, and she giggled, then rubbed her nose where its wings had tickled her.

            “She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” said the butterfly.

            “That’s my Mabel.” Cliff patted her knee and she turned her face to him to warm herself in his glow.

            The butterfly flapped, a papery sound followed by scratching. Mabel tilted her head but didn’t follow the sound.

            “Can she bathe herself, Cliff?”

            More scratching. Mabel furrowed her brow and let the smile on her face dip before pulling it back up. Inquisitive little insect. Cliff’s voice rumbled on in his beautiful butterscotch baritone, overlayed by a slight waver that had started a few years ago. She wished to talk to him about how some things should remain private, between a husband and a wife.

“How about toileting? Can she do that on her own?”

Mabel blinked a few times. Such an intrusive insect. The evening light shifted and the bright splotches on the butterfly’s wings shifted too, morphed with the light until they shimmered. Translucent now. Elongated.

            Mabel froze, not that she’d been moving much before. The warmth of the evening sun had tricked her. The 5 o’clock angle had been wrong, wrong, wrong. 6 o’clock. That was the time of fact. Even more? 6:30. Once the sunline had crossed to the opposite wall, that was when the canary sun sang its truth. That had been no butterfly. All this time, flitting about their room, masquerading in a beauty that didn’t belong to it. It was a mosquito, with too many skinny lines and not enough color, and a proboscis the size of a garden hose. Two drinks and Mabel would dry up into one of those mummies Cliff had taken her to see in Chicago.

            Sandpaper raked up the inside of Mabel’s throat and a dreadful noise filled the room. The mosquito in butterfly’s clothing focused its horrible eyes on her. Lens after lens after lens, layered like fish scales, glimmered a sickened chartreuse with the setting sun. 

            “Is this the beginning of one, Cliff?” asked the wretched mosquito.

            The beginning of what?! Swat it, Cliff! Swat it before it bites!

            The words stuck tight. Mabel shoved at those stone monoliths in her brain but they refused to slide toward her mouth where she could speak them. Instead, they slipped toward the ever-growing drain hole in her mind, where thoughts got eaten up and never came back. She threw herself at the immoveable words and her body trembled in response. The horrid noise infected the air, filled all the cracks and footholds between her and Cliff and left nowhere for her to grab on. She couldn’t get to him. Mabel flung her head back in a desperate try at dislodging the stubborn words, and when her head struck the back of the chair, golden sparks shot across her vision.

Cliff stood next to her now, one hand pressed to an ear and the other, somewhere else.

Where?

            Missing. Missing.

Cliff’s arm was gone, melted into nothing, digesting in mosquito bile. Mabel twisted in her chair and her arms flapped up and down, left, right, left again. She had never been good at swatting insects. Cliff would laugh at her unseemly pliés and leaps, rolled newspaper in hand, until he’d finally take it from her and with one whack, splat the offending bug into a jaundiced smear of guts.

            Her breath came in bursts and her own hands flitted about her head, sometimes bouncing off her own cheeks. How could he save her this time? One hand wasn’t enough. A newspaper wouldn’t be enough.

            The mosquito flew close and Mabel struck out, missing it like always, the clumsy ballerina who never hit her mark. And then, through the screeching noise, something else.

            Something doleful and sweet, a bite of mango sorbet that soothed her aching throat.

            “…you make me happy, when skies are grey. You never know, dear, how much I love you…”

            Cliff’s lovely voice didn’t waver, not even once through the song. He’d taken his hand off his ear and tugged her saffron dress back down over her knee. The terrible noise faded and when she felt Cliff’s other hand on her back, the screeching cut off entirely. He rubbed her spine with a light touch, just enough to know he was there. His arm was there. A miraculous touch, as he’d reattached it. He’d saved it. Saved them. Her Cliff could move mountains.

            “…please don’t take my sunshine away.” Cliff’s voice hitched on the last phrase of her little song and Mabel smiled at him. A breeze outside blew through the black-eyed susans that covered the trellis just off the window, and with it, the mosquito had blown away.

            Cliff met her eyes and her thoughts pooled together into a pot of warm honey.

“I love you, my dear. With all my heart. Excuse me for a moment? I need to attend to something, but I’ll be just outside the door.”

            Mabel smiled at Cliff, and wished to say she loved him too, just as she had in the apple grove that first time, when the words had brought lightning with them. She turned her head again to the window, where the buttercups danced in the grass. Someone spoke outside the room, but the muffled words wove into straw and cornsilk and caught themselves in the doorway.

            “I think she’ll be content with us, Cliff. We can manage her care, and she’ll grow to know our facility as home.”

            “I’ll miss her.”

            “Of course you will. You’re welcome to visit as often and for as long as you want.”

            Cliff’s voice wavered, in bigger swoops than before. “Could I paint her room yellow? It’s always been her favorite, after all.”