Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Ladybug, Ladybug

Pyre passed through the motel lobby without a glance to the left or the right. Though there were three people sitting reading newspapers or waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, not one so much as blinked as he walked by. As far as anyone was concerned, he had never been there at all.

It wasn't that Pyre was invisible. No, there was as much physical reality to his body as there is to any human's. But unless a Kindle chooses to manifest himself, that physical reality goes entirely unnoticed. Pyre had manifested briefly the night before when he had paid for the motel room and collected his key. Now he manifested again, even more briefly, as he passed through the front door.

Manifestation while passing through doors was merely a courtesy for the mental well being of others nearby. If the door had opened - apparently - by itself, the lobby crowd might have cause to worry about their sanity. Instead, if anyone saw him walk through the door, they would simply think, Huh, I didn't notice that guy walk by.

Nobody would ever think, Hey! That guy materialized out of thin air, for the simple reason that he hadn't materialized out of thin air. He'd been there the whole time, albeit completely beyond the capacity of the human brain to notice.

Except for those brief, necessary moments when Pyre would manifest, and the eyes of others rested briefly on him, his life was a life of solitude and aloneness. But Pyre was made for solitude, and far from enjoying those moments of manifestation, Pyre felt exposed and intimidated when human eyes, with their idle curiosity, passed over him for even a moment.

Outside, Pyre crossed the street and darted down a filthy, trash-cluttered alley. He was in a dismal, poverty stricken part of the city by his own choice. For a variety of reasons it was simpler for the Kindle to stay in a low-class, run-down, motel than to book a room at the Ritz-Carlton. The cost was lower, and the other guests were less likely to put up a fuss if something out-of-the-ordinary happened during their stay.

At the end of the alley Pyre came to an abandoned freight yard, where a group of indigents stood around a 55-barrel drum, warming their hands over a trash fire. The men in tattered and bug-ridden clothing stood in silence. The only sounds were the distant whistle of a lonely train and the crackling flames licking at the discarded pasteboard boxes and wood splinters that kindled them.

It was an anti-Hallmark scene - the sort of scene no one would want to see on their birthday or anniversary or Christmas cards. Most people would speed up as they walked by - either from fear or from guilt over their own good fortune.

Pyre felt no fear, and he felt no guilt, so he neither sped up nor slowed down. He kept a constant pace, and hardly glanced at the homeless crowd around the smoky, dirty fire.

As he passed by, one old man, a simple looking soul, a bald and toothless fellow with an idiot's grin, sniffed the air and began singing a silly nursery rhyme, to the annoyance of all his companions: Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Your house is on fire, and your children are gone.

One of his companions landed a good thump on the top of the old man's bald head, and the fellow lapsed into silence.

Pyre continued walking, certain that he was getting ever closer to his goal.

More writing by this author

Blogs on This Site