Blues Buster: Torque

I liked my Five Sentence Fiction: Goggles piece so much I thought I'd continue it for Jeff Tsuruoka's Blues-Buster. The song prompt for this week is Kira Skov's Riders of the Freeway.

Photo Source: wikipedia.org Detail of Indian Larry's Wild Child bike by Mike Arther

Cropped and altered by Lisa Shambrook with Instagram and Streamzoo

“I’m surprised you didn’t clock him with the torque wrench!” murmured Steven, standing at a safe distance behind the bike. Thalia tried not to grin, but couldn’t stop her lip from curling into a smile. “If I were a lady, I’d have punched him a while back,” he added.
“If I were a lady, he’d still be waiting for it…thankfully, I’m not a lady!” Thalia raised a wry eyebrow. “You don’t need to wait around, I’m almost done.” She flashed him a glance and tightened up a nut.
He shrugged. “Actually that’s not true, when Danny gave you your marching orders this afternoon and you refused to go…he left it to me to see you off site.”
Thalia glowered beneath a layer of engine grease, her cheeks reddening despite the smears of oil. “I said I’d go when I was ready, he doesn’t get to order me about!”
Steven shrugged again. “He’s the boss’s son, and he did fire you…”
“Small detail,” she seethed. “Okay if you’re waiting, slide the tool box closer will you?”
The metal box grated across the concrete floor, echoing throughout the hangar as Steven pushed it with the toe of his boot. Thalia glanced up, her eyes flitting about, but he was right, everyone had gone.
Thalia stood and arched her back, stretching and working out the crick in her neck.
“I won’t offer to help,” Steven grinned remembering the crack Danny had received as he’d touched Thalia’s shoulders unbidden. She shook her arms and caught his eye, for a moment energy crackled and Thalia’s defences caved. She laughed.
Steven reached down for an oily rag and searched for a clean edge. He began to rub the motorbike’s engine, polishing it, rubbing in circles and Thalia looked on with feelings brewing inside she wasn’t entirely sure of.
She picked up her chamois, and watched him polish, his eyes intent on the metal and his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. The setting sun threw orange blazes across the hangar and set his thick blonde hair on fire. He glanced up, and squinted, blinded by the sudden sun. She blocked the light and cast her shapely shadow across the bike.
“It’s okay, I’m not going to hit you for polishing my bike,” she spoke softly and handed him her chamois. His fingers brushed hers as he took it and she inhaled deeply, unconsciously allowing his grimy, gritty sweat to permeate her mind.
“You’ve turned this heap of junk into something quite spectacular,” he said as the soft leather stroked the customised Indian Bobber.
She watched again as the engine began to shine beneath his deft fingers.
“You know we could take it out…” she began.
“It’s not yours…” He grinned as her eyes sparkled even in the gloom of shadow.
“I know, but I’m sacked and I’m not coming back, are you coming back tomorrow?”
His heart raced. If she left, there’d be nothing left to come back for.
She grabbed her leather jacket and pulled it tight across her breast, buckling it up and watching his face as she shook out her dark hair. His Adam’s apple bobbled unconsciously in his dry throat and then he was zipping up his own jacket. She threw him a pair of goggles and slid hers over her head and over her eyes.  Her boots clipped on the concrete and she swung her leg over the low-slung bike.
It came to life between her thighs and growled, its voice snarling through the empty hangar.
Thalia glanced at Steven and pulled on her soft, fitted gloves as it purred beneath her. She curled a finger at him and smiled.
Her teeth shone in the evening glare and Steven knew he’s been snared.
He climbed upon the back of the rumbling bike and closed his legs around her rear. His arms, hesitated for a moment, then stretched around her waist and she squeezed the throttle.
Moments later they were gone, headed up the vast, open freeway, with only memories left behind.

(676 Words)

Five Sentence Fiction: Goggles

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook, using Instagram and Streamzoo (Please do not use without permission)

Thalia’s spanner bounced and clattered across the hangar’s dirty floor as she wiped the back of her greasy hand across her brow; she emitted an exasperated growl which was immediately lost amid the hiss of steam and piston thud. She closed her eyes, leaned over the grimy engine, and rotated her shoulders trying to release the afternoon’s pent up tension.
She tensed all the more as unannounced hands rested on her stiff shoulders and began to knead, as if her back was soft, yielding dough - it was not.
She yanked off her goggles and slung them across the room, just as her oil smeared fist met with the obsequious Danny’s jaw, “Take that as a warning shot!” she cautioned still brandishing her torque wrench like a gladiator’s weapon.
Nursing his chin and wounded pride, Danny slinked away, and Steven, on the other side of the hangar, offered Thalia a grin that she couldn’t refuse to return…

After the Dirty Goggles Blog Hop I was more than ready for some more Dieselpunk...

Take a look at the other Five Sentence Fictions...

Dirty Goggles: A Blue Heart

This is my second entry into the Dirty Goggles Blog Hop, run by Ruth, Jen, and Steven. this time it's an attempt at Dieselpunk.

A Blue Heart
Dieselpunk
691 Words
Lisa Shambrook
@LastKrystallos
Safe Content

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)

A Blue Heart

Nell was fed up with waiting. She watched the indigo skies night after night, but he failed to return. 

She smoothed down her combat trousers, and buckled up her boots.

He’d told her to be patient that he’d seen her future and it was good. 

She sighed as the building vibrated with the closeness of the dirigible flying low overhead, and she imagined the vibration and hum, desperately trying to change it to fit...

She expertly ran her fingers up her weathered, leather jacket, tightening buckles. She was ready, even if he wasn’t.

She grabbed her Derringer, and checked its barrel before closing the breach and engaging the safety. Nell cast a glance out of the window one last time before she flicked the ugly generator’s switch, extinguishing the light, and strode out of the door. “Damn you,” she muttered as she clattered down the iron stairs and out into the street. 

Mist shrouded the road and gas lamps were halos of light amid the haze. Nell wandered, her fingers reaching up to her neck, stroking the blue heart at her throat. Its silver cogs and contorted wires reminded her of the complicated man who’d given it to her and she smiled. She walked, restless, her eyes flickering over the glistening pavements and her ears listening over the sound of the train on the track behind her. 

She searched.

He’d caressed his bow tie, bowed low and told her to watch her heart, her blue heart, but wouldn’t give her another word, didn’t want to spoil anything. Then he’d gone.

Was one adventure all a girl got?

 A scream echoed through the night and Nell ran. The chill night air tore down her throat and stung her eyes but she ran all the same.  The scream rang out again and Nell ducked. She stared, watching a dark figure dragging a young woman across the tracks. She reached for her gun, and chased after the shadows. 

The girl lie limp in his arms and Nell swung into action. She brandished her pistol and marched forward. “Let her go!” she ordered stepping over the rails. Fear was a thing of the past, she been through too much, seen too much to waste time on fear.

He turned and grinned, and Nell steeled herself. She only had two shots and they were only any good at close range. She closed in, still clasping the pistol in outstretched hands. “Let her go,” she repeated.  

The man silently cast his hostage aside and in one quick, unexpected movement had Nell in a head-lock, one hand twisted up behind her back and the other still clutching her useless weapon.

Fear came flooding back.

Her pendant tightened against her skin, its chain choked her and began to cut into her throat. She dropped the pistol and grabbed at her necklace, but it was too tight and she began to lose consciousness. 

Her eyes bulged and her breath caught and her ears drummed. 

The throbbing sound built, humming, hissing, throbbing…until a hefty motorbike roared up the gravel and squealed to a stop, spitting grit. Exhaust smoke filled the air and shouts rang out, followed by shots. 

Nell dropped to the ground, clutching at her throat. She stared behind at the mound that had been her assailant and watched the goggled man in the grey, military greatcoat as he helped the first victim up off the ground. A small crowd gathered and Nell gathered her senses. Army Officers arrived and removed the body as her saviour approached, his hand extended. 

“Jack…”he offered, “…and you are?”

“Nell,” she murmured gazing up at him.

“And this must be yours…” He opened his fist and revealed her pendant. He smoothed his short, oiled, black hair as he roughly pushed his goggles up onto his head.

She nodded, and accepted her blue heart from the man with eyes that matched the stone precisely. He glanced at his leather wrist strap, and pressed a blue button, and smiled at Nell expectantly as he revved his bike. She grinned and stared up into the indigo skies. Maybe a girl really was allowed just one more adventure!

Photo Source: doctorwhocompanions.com

Dirty Goggles: The Apothecary's Art

This is probably the most difficult contest I've been part of...Steampunk and Dieselpunk...I'm a huge steampunk fan, but writing it's another matter altogether. It has, though, been lots of fun!
This is for the Dirty Goggles Blog Hop, put together by Ruth, Jenn, and Steven.

The Apothecary's Art
Steampunk
698 Words
Lisa Shambrook
@LastKrystallos
Safe Content

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)

The Apothecary’s Art

Razor-sharp claws hung just shy of his eye and a bead of sweat slipped down his cheek as his brass-topped cane clattered to the floor. The dragon hovered, its leather wings beating a rhythm of their own and armoured spines glinting down its shimmering, metal back. It clicked and whirred and glanced at the watching girl.

“Could you call it off…please?” Anxiety rippled in the stranger’s voice and Elspeth smiled.

“Why are you in my shop?” she asked.

“Looking for you…” he replied as the clockwork dragon flapped its wings and dipped closer. 

“After closing?” Elspeth stared at his long, dark hair, and the top hat now lying abandoned on the dusty floor. He struggled to maintain his awkward position, pressed against the medicine cabinet, and she knew beneath his floor-length coat lurked fear. “Who are you?” 

“Reuben,” he replied. 

“Reuben?” she repeated, then waved her hand. “Zircon…down.”

The dragon flicked its mechanical tail, and fluttered backwards, spitting sparks. 

Gas lamps flickered and the shadows of a hundred bottles danced on the papered walls. Elspeth watched, running edgy fingers up and down her buckled corset, as Reuben righted himself. He stepped closer and she moved out of the penumbra and into the light. 

Zircon whirred and circled the man, spilling sparks, showering him with diamonds in the dark. 

“I want something from behind the counter…I need a potion…” he said.

 “What sort of potion?” 

He smiled and Elspeth’s breath caught somewhere between her head and her heart. 

“Something to whisk her off her feet, to make her dance in the moonlight, to lift her higher than an airship, something to light her soul with the romance of a thousand lanterns…” he enthused, “Something that stops time in her heart…”

Elspeth’s own soul danced as his voice swelled with yearning. 

“A love potion,” she whispered and he nodded. 

“An elixir of adoration.” He closed his eyes, lost in his dream.

Elspeth smoothed her skirts and moved behind her counter.  She began to lift one bottle, then another. “You’ll need a thornless rose, and balsam and a touch of elm…” she twirled and flit, her skirts and petticoats wrapping around her legs as she moved.  “…and a pinch of dill…” She glanced at Reuben and tried to ignore the somersault in her chest. “We’ll need forget-me-not and heliotrope, and…” she grinned, “ivy…and a touch of cardamom…” she stole a look at him and smiled. “Come with me…” 

Reuben followed as her laced-up boots glided across the floor. He sat on an old brocade sofa, ducking to avoid fluttering clockwork butterflies. She wound up an inch of candle and lit the wick, polished brass instruments and set wheels and cogs in motion.

She lit burners and began to grind tendrils and petals, pounding them into a dark, brooding dust. She poured a drop of oil and stepped back.  “And a touch of desire …” she murmured adding a pinch of spice. She bit her bottom lip and slowly raised her eyes to meet his smile.

The room bubbled with the sweet fragrance of love.

Reuben glanced at the pocket watch in his coat as Elspeth distilled the finished liquid.  

She fixed her dark eyes on his and strode across the room, a vial of elixir in her hand. “This scent…” She wafted the potion beneath his nose and whispered, “…is intoxicating.”

He nodded, nervous, as her ebony curls tickled his ear, or was it her breath?

Her dragon, perched upon her shoulder, suddenly flapped its wings puffing a fountain of sparks. Reuben jumped and Elspeth’s hand flustered. Glistening love potion sprinkled across his face and shirt.

“Don’t worry, it’s fine…” Elspeth’s fingers loosened his collar and her hand curled around the back of his neck. “It won’t hurt, not one little bit!”

She wiped a drop off his bristled cheek and ran her finger across his lip, awakening want in his eyes, and finally his ardent, willing lips sought hers.

* * *

She cradled his heart, vibrating and pulsating with pleasure, and gently placed it inside a small leather chest with a dozen others. Gears and cogs whirred as the trunk locked. She dropped the ornate key back into her bosom and smiled.

Flash! Friday: Salvation

Having a go at Rebekah's Flash! Friday #22, 150ish words on the prompt photo:

Photo courtesy of Wondermar at pixabay.com

Salvation

Fear ignited every nerve in their strained bodies as they waited. Defensive clothing wouldn’t offer a jot of protection once the firestorm invaded their sector.
“We’re not going to make it…” Aaron’s father’s voice cracked through the muffled layers. “Not this time…we’re not gonna make it, son.”
Aaron squeezed his dad’s hand, and despite their huge, padded gloves, tears spilled behind the older man’s visor.
Ahead, the billowing, angry gasses stretched for hundreds of kilometres, destroying everything in its path.
Aaron shifted his weight, hopping from one nervous foot to the other, watching the sulphurous clouds dance in violent malevolence on the horizon. He glanced up at his dad’s resigned, slouched shoulders and pulled himself up straight. “Don’t lose hope, he’ll be here.”
 A voluminous pillar of cloud whirled up before them and his father groaned, but Aaron grinned as vast wings swept up from beneath the cliff, and salvation rose in glorious dragon form.

(155 Words)

Blues Buster: The Fog

This week's prompt for The Tsuruoka Files Blues-Buster is Judas Priest's The Ripper. I took inspiration from the London fog and came up with this...dead on the word limit!

Photo by Lisa Shambrook (please do not use without permission)

Nobody expected the fog. It rolled in overnight and as Kit stared out the window she smiled. Only faint halos from the white gas lights could be seen, like will-o-the-wisps lost in urban alleys. She backed away from stark oblivion, her skin taut and cold in the early morning air, and slid back into bed beside Tay. He grumbled in his sleep and Kit ran her finger down his exposed spine. He tensed, his whole body suddenly alert, and she giggled. 

“Don’t do that!” he admonished sharply as he relaxed and rolled over. 

She responded by curling her legs around his torso and placing her lips firmly on his. 

“Okay, you can do that…again…” he said as he pulled away then drew her close for a more intimate kiss. 

She gave herself for a few sweet moments, sharing passion as if they were sharing their last minutes together, before reluctantly pushing him away. He watched, sated, as she rolled out of bed and pulled on her underpants then drew her jeans over her long legs. 

“Come back, just for a few more minutes…” he urged. 

She shook her head and pulled her sweater down over her body and stood. “C’mon Tay, it’s perfect out there today, and there won’t be much time, it could change any moment!”

Tay grumbled again, but pushed the covers away and got out of bed. She grinned, and threw his shirt at him. “Get dressed!”

Kit shivered as they stepped out of the apartment and into the gloomy world. She reached for Tay’s gloved hand and gripped it tight. “Don’t let go,” he warned.

“I should be the one telling you that!” She rose on her toes and kissed his stubbled cheek. 

Whispers of frost coiled within the fog and she shivered again. Holding hands they moved along the wall and waited at the corner. 

Kit listened. Her hearing was perfect, and in this low visibility hearing was the greatest weapon they had. 

The city was quiet, almost silent. 

The birds never sang anymore, and the only birds they ever saw were ghostly corvids, and they sat lonely and lost atop the gas lamps, like black shadows in the mist. They never sang.

 Kit squeezed Tay’s hand and they moved, heading into the labyrinth of alleys. Glancing down, Kit could barely see her feet. She pulled her soft leather jacket tight amid the cold, white fog. They were prepared, and ready.

Their familiarity with the dank corridors kept them on track and they ran silently through the streets. 

“Almost there,” whispered Tay, as they came to an abrupt halt. 

Kit listened, and Tay’s nostrils flared. 

“I can smell the river,” he murmured. “I can smell…”

“Don’t!” Kit placed a finger over his lips and she strained to hear. “It’s quiet, but I can hear them…we’re not alone.”

They stood with their backs against the once imposing, now dilapidated, Savoy, disguised only by the blinding fog. Kit reached into her jacket removing her hunting knife from its leather sheath. She noted the narrow trident dagger strapped to her boot, and felt the comfort of her combat knife snug against her thigh. Tay stood beside her similarly armed, with his kukri held close.

They moved stealthily forward, until reaching the embankment. On the river’s edge, they stood, back to back…ready.

Tay squeezed Kit’s hand and then let go. 

Sweat sparkled in the fog and they waited for their scent to betray them.

The water was still, stagnant and foul, but Kit listened as its tiny lapping waves grew and the tendrils emerged. Like snakes tentatively searching, tendrils peered through the fog and curled before their faces. 

“Now!” Kit’s battle cry rang through the fog. “The Kraken wakes, but so do we!” 

The swish of knives swung through the air, sweeping through tentacled flesh and ripping jellied arms and limbs from the leviathans.

From the Thames came explosions of water as creatures from the deep surfaced and climbed out onto the promenade, but alongside Kit and Tay, all along the embankment, came shouts of battle and wrath, and from the fog emerged a force so large and enraged that bloody battle to the end was the only possibility…

   

(700 words)

Blues Buster: Broken

Another story for the Mid-Week Blues-Buster from The Tsuruoka Files, the prompt song is found here: 'Man With the Hex' by The Atomic Fireballs.

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (please do not use without permission)

Broken

Crushed blades of grass made him almost as sad as the broken daffodil stems. Golden yellow trumpets drooped and withered and his heart sank as he shuffled down the path, his hand reaching down to lift a flower with as much gentleness as his frail body could manage. A tear dropped from his hooked nose, but even that had no more than a moment’s restoration power for the doomed bloom. 

He glanced about his garden, turning his arthritic neck and surveying the damage. It wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last, but every time he stood and gazed, his tears welled and his heart froze, just a little bit more.

Emerald grass was battered and churned where feet had converged and turned the small patch into a veritable bog. Mud spattered across blooms that now struggled to stand tall. Scarlet tulip petals, stained with saffron yellow, splayed open and wide, their stamens and pollen laid bare. His orchestra of daffodils slouched, bewildered, petals torn and creased, and stems snapped and broken. Mounds of purple aubretia lie crumpled beneath foot and burgeoning clumps of bluebells were flattened and trampled. Primroses stared at him from rumpled beds and cowslips’ had been creamed, the innocent victims of the garden massacre.

He closed his rheumy eyes and clenched his tired, bony fists, his brittle finger nails biting into his hardened palms. In his mind he saw the feet of reprobates and hooligans dancing in his garden, screaming and whooping while he hid behind his curtains, and his dry, cracked lips pursed tight. 

He remembered his body jumping in fear as stones from his path clattered against his window. He recalled his heavy heart and the way his shoulders gently bounced as he wept. He felt the twinge in his back of his neck as he’d bowed his head, and how hot tears slipped down his furrowed face, and slid down inside the open collar of his shirt, soaking his grey, wiry chest hair. He recalled the rage that had built and the tension that had gathered in his old body and the strength his anger had given him. 

The boom, as something large hit the window, and the subsequent crack of glass like a frozen lake waking, had roused his wrath and turned it into something terrible and he’d flung open the door and stared. 

Now a football lay abandoned in the middle of his swampy lawn and he stared blankly, wondering why the boys hadn’t retrieved it when they’d scarpered. His eyes caught the mud, now dried in a strange circle on the cracked window, and he shook his head. 

He hobbled slowly up his path, his joints creaking with pain and age, and he sighed in deep disappointment. As his door clicked shut, curtains from neighbouring home swung back into place, the football quivered as three young toads cowered behind it…and the neighbourhood quietly mourned the loss of three more of their intrepid, but foolish, young boys.

(497 Words)