Shorts, Flashes and Verses: A Collection of Short Stories and Poems

By M.D Hickman

The author of Conflagration! now presents a selection of his best short fiction and poetry. Included are a few presenting his best character, magician-detective Bill Sirclient, a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Harry Houdini, as well as Blackburn's Pill, a prequel to Conflagration! Also included are selections of his best poetry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645849216

Book preview

The Crimes She Has Done

Two women approached a nest. It was said to have contained a valuable jewel: a ruby worth millions and millions of dollars. But the ruby was no fable. One of the women, Jane Hawthorn, wanted this precious gem to herself; her confederate, Betty Scav, believed they would share the plunder. Jane had lied on this point. She would take it, possibly kill Betty, and leave—return to California and live the remainder of her existence an aristocrat.

The ruby you seek is there, Betty said, pointing. Forty years since the plane crash, and no one has touched it since, not even animal.

Jane brushed aside her own raven hair and said, Not discovered until now. Those rumors turned out true, the gem unperturbed, and we the benefactors.

The stone glistened fifty feet from where they stood. To the west, the sun dipped below the horizon, and soon it would be dusk. Enrobed in overall brown, Jane and Betty arm-in-arm, they marveled at this object saddled over an old bird nest that had fallen to the ground. Jane stepped forward, her hand outstretched.

Be careful, Betty said, of the spiders. There are many poisonous ones.

Jane nodded.

With care, Jane started her approach, and the leaves crunched beneath her soles. For a decade, Jane had dreamt of this moment, an opportunity to prove herself a noble echelon of the elite, to crush those bullies that had crushed her. Fame and fortune were now within grasp.

Then two sharp pricks, like needles, pierced her right ankle. She yelled and tripped on some tree bark. A snake wrapped itself around her ankle and then she rolled on her back, bent her knee, and sat up, used both hands to pry loose the venomous creature. With promptness, Jane snatched a rock off the ground, then smacked the snake’s head—one, two, three, four, and five blows. Blood and white matter smeared what was left of the cranium. As she pressed her hand against the ground and lifted herself back on her feet, the snake unwrapped and settled to the ground. Betty guffawed and slapped her own knee, while Jane quivered in shock. The blood within Jane boiled.

Jane limped to Betty and clung the latter by the neckline. What the actual hell? she shouted. You tricked me, bitch!

Betty’s laugh faded, though still she smirked. You won’t do a thing to me. She spat on Jane’s face and continued. In a few minutes, you’re going to die, and I’ll have your head as a trophy.

Even as Betty spoke those words, the landscape around Jane blurred, the environ spun, and Betty’s voice diminished by the syllable. Her legs trembled while her heart started to palpitate. She released Betty, not out of demand, but because her own arms weakened. Jane fell on her knees. Her temples throbbed, entrails sloshed like goop, and chest squeezed from inside. Slapping a hand to her throat, she gasped harder. Jane now realized what happened: Betty had planned this, her murder, and would deliver her to the enemy. They wanted her head, and Betty had accepted their reward.

You were a fool to cross me, said Betty. There is no gem—was no gem. I took you here to kill you. The venom will do that soon enough. And after you expire, your head comes off!

As Jane collapsed on her side, Betty drew out a knife and dangled it above her victim. Another gasp. Jane whimpered. A constricted windpipe stifled her pleads.

You thought you would kill me? Betty continued. No, my stupid ex-cellmate. It was always the reverse!

Urine spurted between her legs and soaked her undergarments, and it stun her like a bee. A hand on Jane’s shoulder, Betty shoved the dying woman to her back and placed the knife’s edge to the throat, while she grabbed Jane’s own hand and snatched it away. Jane ceased voluntary movement. That instant, Jane’s life flashed before her eyes: of her robberies, of framing her sister, of selling classified intelligence to hostile foreigners. All those memories staked her heart; and for the first time, the consequences weighed on her as if stones piled atop her, one above the other, one at a time, till they crushed her. In that glimpse, she strolled in the shoes of her own victims, since now she, too, became a victim, thus felt what they felt, endured what they endured, suffered what they suffered: helplessness, rage, and sadness. Now decisions she regretted.

However, the blade vanished, so did Betty, and so did the outside. She no longer lay on grass, dirt, leaves, or rocks but rather, descended a dark void; a wind blew below her, pebbles and dust falling to her. If she were dead, she might have fallen into the cauldron of hell; if she were alive, though, her body might have fallen into a sinkhole. A splash of water settled the question.

Submerged, she lifted her head above the waterline, gasped, only to re-submerge, then stuck out her head again. The water pushed her; she did not know where. A mighty roar deafened Jane, splashes around, thousands and thousands, her body chilled wet to the bone. Despite her partially paralyzed body, she fought against the tide. But this underground river would triumph, Jane knew, and this would be her tomb.

Then time stopped. A dreamless sleep followed; when she came to, no assault of water attempted to drown her. Instead, she lay on her back as earlier, only not outside but indoor, and not on solid earth but a soft bed. Beside her stooped an elderly man with grizzled white hair and a white pencil mustache; a stethoscope hung around his neck, and he wore a lab coat as white as his hair.

You’re lucky to be alive, said he. The native here found you and brought you to me.

I was underground, Jane said. Her voice sotto voce nevertheless remained clear.

True, he informed her. But the water carried you out of a cave. This particular cave is sacred to the peoples here, by the way.

A snake bit me.

The man nodded. You showed signs of Lympal venom, correct. No known antidote but fortunately, not enough to kill. Another lucky strike for you. According to a blood analysis, you had a fifty-fifty chance.

Who are you?

Doctor James Piller at your service. The doctor thrust out his left hand and, though her own palm quivered, she shook it.

And what people found me?

The Waha, a most primitive and yet civilized culture I know of.

Jane wanted to say shit but refrained. She recognized who they were, the Waha, and wished not, because a year prior, she had helped a tyrannical government invade their land. The invasion failed, but she had departed the land with the spoils on both sides.

Doctor Piller stood and patted her shoulder. In one week, you’ll make a full recovery, he assured her.

And so Jane rested three days. On the fourth, Piller took her by the arm and aided her out of bed. At first, she hobbled across the rocky floor arm-in-arm with him, but then, by day’s end, Jane limped unassisted. She was grateful to Piller that he kept her in isolation; she didn’t want to be recognized by the Waha and risk their wrath over what she had help done. Within a week, though, Piller permitted her a stroll outside, though she hesitated. But eventually, she risked it, and as it appeared to Jane, the Waha did not remember her. She felt a little safer.

Piller’s house was a large hut built of stones from a stream situated less than a hundred feet, and its pyramid roof was a collection of bamboo branches woven sunder by vines and clothed from leaves of squid. Inside his hut, he had many modern conveniences, including advanced medical equipment, refrigerated portable boxes for food and drink, battery-powered entertainment system, and loads of ammo and weapons buried strategically under floor. In some sense, he lived both a nomadic and sophisticated lifestyle. Piller knew her name, and some of her history, for she told him a few truthful details but kept silent a full candor as to her past criminal deeds, especially concerning the Waha tribe he adored so much. This secret didn’t allay her guilt. It only intensified.

The Waha were indeed proud people. They wore traditional fabrics that covered their erogenous demesne, some had faces painted blue from the brows to the nose tips, and though nudity was rare, to them, lack of attire was no great issue. One little girl caught Jane’s attention. This ten-year-old, named Fuhaji, reminded Jane of herself. Fuhaji appeared to have a rebellious attitude, Jane observed, except not of such great magnitude. It was noticeable. Jane felt a slight friendship to this girl despite keeping her distance.

Jane decided, then, that if she were to reform her life, she would help the Waha.

Near a cliff, Fuhaji toyed with a stick figure, singing some kind of lullaby in her native tongue. Jane could not understand the language, but the little girl’s facial expression and tone portrayed happiness and contentment, much like most girls in the west. Fuhaji looked at her, by chance, but instead of acting hostile or frightened, the kid beaconed Jane to join her. Jane cautioned toward her, thumbs crossed on her midriff, and grinned. Fuhaji grinned back, then stretched her right hand and waved the stick figure. It seemed the girl wanted to hand Jane the toy. Jane was not sure whether to accept the offer or not, and Fuhaji somehow knew it, for she placed the toy on the ground and picked up a collection of sticks, bundled them, used a thread to assemble a new toy, then waved the fresh made object. With reluctance, but with a sense of proper manner, Jane pinched the toy away from the child. Fuhaji picked up the old toy and resumed singing. Jane turned and smiled at the stick figure. Back at Piller’s hut, Jane observed the girl stands and walks to the village, summoned by the girl’s parents.

Then the ground shook. From afar, seventy or so tanks rolled toward the village, causing thousands to flee and scream. The oppressive government returned. Without a thought, she dashed indoor to warn Piller. Piller sat on the rocky floor, legs crossed, and engaged in a book.

An army is coming! she shouted.

Piller didn’t look to her. He dropped the book, shot to his feet, and ran out the hut passed her. He had binoculars wrapped around his neck, and he fetched them up to his eyes.

Bloody hell! he grunted.

How do we defeat them? Jane asked, while she sprinted and stopped behind him.

Piller turned to her, surprised. He looked unsure.

Last time they came, a storm flood their tanks, so they were unable to cross, said he. But now, I’m not confident. There’s no gale, and the natives have no weapon to fight against tanks. Their only hope is underground, in the natural caverns they took as almost like a second home.

What if we blow the dam? Flood them that way.

Piller oscillated his head in deep thought. That could work, yes. But what if the tanks are better armored than before?

They’re not.

How would you know?

Jane paused, and Piller’s stare told her he suspected. Now the truth had to come out.

Last time they invaded, she said, I assisted them. I organized their infrastructure and got them the metals they needed to build their tanks, but I got them cheap metal, not reliable, and I took their money. I swindled them, in a way, and I made the first invasion possible.

Widened eyes, Piller drooped his lips, and turned his head away from her. Good God, woman! You? That first time, a good woman lost her life followed by a toddler daughter. That woman was my wife and that daughter was mine.

The revelation punched Jane’s heart like a fist. She welled tears, folded her arms, and sobbed. I’m sorry for what I did. If you want to kill me, fine, but first let me help.

Why should I trust you?

Jane shook her head. Don’t. Kill me if you desire, here and now. Do it, or save the village. There’s no time.

I got some dynamite.

Then do it.

Piller ripped his binoculars from his neck, dropped it, and ran back into the hut. From a gap on the rocky floor, he reached into it and then lifted a wooden box with a metallic handle on the lid; then he fetched a crowbar from that same gap, inserted it under the handle, and pushed down. It opened, then he fidgeted the contents inside and out came a pistol and seven sticks of dynamite bounded together.

You’ll go with me, he said. He marched back to her, and the gun’s nozzle pressed between her breasts. Just in case this is a setup.

I understand, Jane replied.

They dashed behind the hut. Jane in front, and a pistol aimed behind her. In ten minutes, they reached the dam. It was some seven feet high and three feet breadth, constructed of timber and ran the width of the twenty-yard river. Armed pistol still at her, Piller stuck the dynamites at the edge of this river, duct taped it, and lit the fuse. He retreated, and Jane followed. Seconds later, a light flashed, then smoke mushroomed out the dam’s edge. Simultaneously, a bang clapped the air. The dam crumbled, and a massive body of water gushed out the forming cavity. Fresh water sprayed at a hundred miles per hour. Less than a mile away, the tanks had begun to cross a pond, but soon, the river enveloped them, and it swept them away.

Satisfied somewhat, Jane sighed as she let out a gentle grin to Piller. She done her first good deed but would that be enough?

You better leave now, Piller said.

Later, Jane spoke to Fuhaji one last time and with the little girl’s hostile parents. Though the elders shunned her and via pointed fingers and sharp unknown words, ordered her away; Fuhaji gave her one last stick figure toy, and they hugged. Fuhaji said a word and expressed a sad smile. Jane thought the girl meant I forgive you, or at least that’s how Fuhaji’s face indicated.

Her back against the village, Jane trudged up a hill and thick forest, uncertain where her modern civilization was. Alpine trees stood around her, the scent of cranberry her only comfort. All the while, tears trickled down her cheek. Clutched on both hands were the toy stick figures Fuhaji had gifted her, those and