The Works of Nick Hayden

The Zealots

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Posted by Nick Hayden on August 19th, 2010

“Listen up! We haven’t much time. We’ll only have one shot at this.”

The cadre of freedom fighters nodded in agreement. Bearded, dark-skinned, their clothes covered in dust, they listened carefully to their leader.

“The governor delivered his sentence. Execution.”

“Our benevolent leaders pressured him,” another spat. “They don’t care about the people. They don’t care about us. They don’t care how we suffer under this occupation. They get to keep their power!”

“God sees our suffering,” the leader reminded them. “Ours is the righteous path. Always, throughout history, the tyrants have fallen from their heights. God is with us. We will certainly succeed.”

The others repeated the words: “God is with us! We cannot fail!”

“They will parade him through the streets,” the leader continued. “They wish to dishearten us. They have already deceived the masses. But we are not deceived. From the governor’s palace, they will lead him outside the city. At the first corner, we must stand ready to take him from them. He will be heavily guarded.”

“We are not afraid to die for the nation!” shouted the youngest of them.

“That is good. If we perish, we perish not just for the nation, but for God. Our nation will be glorious once again, as it was in the past. Every knee shall bow before us, and we will throw off our oppressors and stomp them underfoot!”

Just then, another entered their ranks.

“Simon, what news?”

“We must call it off. The plan will fail.”

“We are not afraid,” one said. “Strengthen your trembling knees!”

“It’s not fear,” Simon explained. “He won’t cooperate. Even if we succeed, he will not allow it.”

There was an uproar of disbelief. “You listen to me, Simon,” the leader declared. “I have read the Scriptures. We will be a power in the world again. You saw how the crowd welcomed him. So it shall be again. Don’t doubt, only believe.”

Simon shook his head. “I cannot be a part of this.”

“Stop him!” shouted several as Simon hurried out.

“No, let him go,” the leader commanded. “He does not understand the strength of our will. Even if Jesus does not want to be saved from crucifixion, we will save him. After all, what good is he to us dead?”

Categories Flash Fiction

Four till Boom!

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Posted by Nick Hayden on August 19th, 2010

Static.

“Clint! Clint! Talk to me! Did you make it? Clint!”

“…I made it. Oh, man, that hurt. I’m not doing that again, Molly, not ever, not even if the whole Earth’s in peril.”

“Well, I’d think jumping from a secret military plane onto a nuclear missle would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

“My ribs hurt. I think they might be broken.”

“They are not. Stop complaining. Your ribs are made of an indestructible metallic alloy. Listen, we have less than four minutes till this thing slams into New York. We can discuss your boo-boo later. Get up to the warhead, now.”

“Give me a second, it’s hard to grab onto anything and my joints aren’t working right….”

“Enough, crybaby. Just do it.”

“Alright, I’m there. Now what? There’s a wire to cut or something, isn’t there? I saw this on an old TV show.”

“Wires, you buckethead? A sophisticated computer runs this thing.”

“Can’t I just clobber it?”

“Three minutes till impact, Clint. Even you won’t survive the explosion, so stay on task. Rip off the panel, will you, and tell me what you see.”

“Okay…there’s some circuit boards, some stuff I don’t recognize, and a lot of other things I don’t recognize. You know, if that mine had blown off my face, too, I could have had video cameras for eyeballs and we’d all be sitting pretty now, wouldn’t we?”

“I like your eyes, Clint.”

“Oh, now you’re nice to me! Don’t know how to shut it down, do you? And now you’re afraid you might never see me again.”

“Shut up. I need to think.”

“Maybe there’s an off switch.”

“Clint, be quiet! Okay, look, there is a way, but I didn’t want to do it. Remember those nanites Doctor Destructo infected you with?”

“Yeah, like Marty McFly remembers being called chicken.”

“And we stabilized you by locking them in your chest, under a stasis field?”

“Uh, yeah, weirdest surgery ever, staring into my chest cavity like that. How does this keep New York from going boom?”

“If you hardwire yourself into the system and shut down the stasis field, the nanites should disable the warhead for you. They’re programmed to shut down any computer they come in contact with.”

“I know. They almost killed me last time. We were just discussing that.”

“It’s my only plan, Clint. Two minutes till impact.”

“I was seconds from having all my functions wiped and my heart stopped.”

“I know.”

“And this is your best plan?”

“I’m sorry…the clock’s ticking. I can order you to do this.”

“You’re a big talker, you know that? Give me a sec…I’m wired in. ’Bout ready to release stasis field. Hey, Molly?”

“Yeah?”

“You better cry at my funeral. All right, he goes nothing.”

Static.

“Clint, is it working?” Static. “Clint, can you hear me?” Static. “Clint? Don’t you die on me, Clint.”Static. “Clint!”

“Wooo-ahh! Oh, connection’s back. Molly, you there?”

“What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“Hey, hey, now, don’t sound so panicked. Piece of cake. The dumb nanites didn’t even bother with me. Thought I was defective already.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Broken ribs. I told you they hurt, joints weren’t working. Probably messed up a lot of internal circuitry. Free falling, now. Just a second.” Crash. Silence. “Ah, nice day for a swim. If you want, you can send a boat after me. If not, I think I’ll just enjoy myself.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Categories Flash Fiction

Another World

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Posted by Nick Hayden on August 19th, 2010

My name is Kaiden Drerup. I was once known as Wrath. This is my testimony.

His name was Dustin Schlemmer, and I met him in the prep room. That’s what they called the room where the meat-socks waited. That’s what we called the first timers, and this was my first time. Music from the arena blasted through the speakers: heavy, bleak, adrenaline-pumping rock that is still rooted deep in my soul. The room was light, clean, like a dentist’s waiting room.

He sat near me, a chair between us, his head tilted back against the wall. His eyes were closed. We waited for some time, alone, as if we were freely choosing our fate. I watched the image on the TV screen.

I remember when he first spoke. “You don’t have to do what they tell you,” he said suddenly. “Their way is not the only way. It’s not right what they do. You can choose a different path. You can do right.”

I thought at first he meant escape. After a few questions, I found that he was not a criminal, as I was, but a political prisoner, imprisoned for his faith. My first impression of him was his solemnity, a thing I’d seldom seen, for it was unmixed with anger, and the people I knew were rarely serious unless they were angry.

Soon, the producer came to prepare us for our roles. His name was Michael Smead. He’s dead now. He talked loquaciously, flashing us false smiles and goading us. Guards watched us closely, of course, and when he had explained all and insulted us to spur us on, we were left in the dressing room. Weapons and armor from all eras hung on the walls and on the stands placed around the room. Each bore two or three sponsors’ symbol.

Fifteen minutes counted down on the large digital display above the double doors. I hurriedly set to work strapping on a breastplate. Dustin stared at the dwindling seconds. After about a minute, he walked to the double doors and waited.

I tried to warn him. “Didn’t you hear the man? We don’t have much time. Find a weapon, at least.”

“I will not fight,” he said.

“You know what’s going on, don’t you? They’ll kill you.”

“There’s another world outside these doors,” he said, and he looked at me. “There’s a better world than this one. Let me tell you about it.”

My mind was preparing for battle, but I heard his words as he spoke. At that time, I scoffed at them.

The last thirty seconds passed with the constant pulse of a great electronic bell. The doors swung open. Smoke and light and noise and cheers rushed in. Guards (personal assistants, we called them) herded us out—but I was ready, sword in hand, knives in my belt. Dustin entered the arena empty-handed. Cameras followed us. The crowd booed when Dustin refused to fight. They cheered when Vengeance beat him with brass knuckles for twenty minutes.

I fought that day, and I won. I fought for days and weeks until I won my freedom. And then I fought on the other side, because the pay was good and I had learned to kill. But the scenes of Dustin’s last minutes, caught forever in the DVD set, stayed with me. How long his simple words took to take hold!

I understand now, and I long for that other world, for I am sorrowful unto death with this one.

Categories Flash Fiction

Snow Day

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Posted by Nick Hayden on August 19th, 2010

She finally got out of bed several hours after her husband left. Sun illuminated the room. Peering out between the blinds, she saw fresh snow glittering in the midmorning light. Putting on her slippers, she took a seat on the living room couch and gazed on the landscape outside. The neighbors were shoveling their sidewalk. Hers had already been cleared.

The house was cold, so she wrapped herself in a blanket. After ten minutes or so, she shuffled to the kitchen, filled a large bowl with Frosted Flakes, and sat munching as she stared contentedly out the window.

In time, she retrieved a book from the shelf, a Nicholas Sparks bought sometime last spring. Her bookmark sat at chapter two. She returned to the beginning and read past lunch, until she finished the last page with a sigh. Hungry, she nuked a plateful of mini burritos and ate them all, with only a smidge of guilt.

Pride and Prejudice, the two-hour film version, came next. She paused midway through to make a mug of French Vanilla hot cocoa. When the warmth faded from her insides, she filled the bath with steaming water, chose a CD titled “Celtic Dreams,” and soaked, adding scalding water when the edge wore off.

Chips and salsa sufficed for supper, with chocolate pieces left out on the table for her as dessert. She glanced at the clock. Perhaps she had time for one more movie….

Her husband arrived home minutes after the rousing end of Newsies. Her three children raced in and began assaulting her with tales of their adventures.

Dad fell off the sled! We had pizza for lunch! Anna got more turns than I did. No I didn’t! Michael and I made a ramp, it was like we were flying, but Anna was scared! No I wasn’t! Why are you still in your pajamas, mommy?

Two hours later, when she had finally gotten them all to bed, she came into the kitchen where her husband was washing the dishes. She saw that he had picked up the ones she had left in the living room. Seeing her, he wiped his hands dry, and she hugged him.

“Thank you,” she said, enjoying his closeness, the perfect end to the day. “That was the best birthday present ever.”

Categories Flash Fiction

Antidepressant

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Posted by Nick Hayden on August 19th, 2010

Taken by Natasha hayden

With quick steps and a skip, Josiah Wellington exited the elevator at the ground floor and hurried to join the throng of business men and women making their way to work. Leaden clouds pressed down on the skyscrapers, making it feel more like night than morning. Dark suits topped by stern faces dominated the streets. Many of this rapid crowd spoke to the air in front of them, arguing and rattling off figures to their Bluetooths.

Josiah Wellington threaded between his fellow New Yorkers, smiling abstractedly. The newsstand advertised “War!” on a dozen front pages. Josiah Wellington waved happily to the newsstand owner. The scrolling ticker on the bank next block declared losses in every market in bright red figures. Josiah Wellington began to whistle, lost the tune, and hummed.

Taking a less crowded route, a shortcut he often used, he passed dingy buildings, their windows and signs plastered with triple X’s. A man approached him, old, shriveled, unsteady, his hand held out. Josiah Wellington flashed him a smile, almost shouted “Good Day!” and passed with jaunty step.

He entered his building, rode the elevator, passed through the hall, stepped into his office. His secretary, an efficient and severe lady somewhere past forty, looked hard at him as he swung his briefcase as if in a dance.

“What is wrong with you?”

“What?” asked Josiah Wellington loudly.

“Get your head out of the clouds and wipe that smile off your face. What’s the matter with you? What’s there to be happy about?”

Josiah Wellington put up a hand to hold her off and took out his ear buds. “Sorry, couldn’t hear you. Man, this new CD I downloaded is awesome. Why are you looking at me that way? It’s a beautiful day. Here, have a listen.”

Categories Flash Fiction

The Joining

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Posted by Nick Hayden on August 19th, 2010

When the wedding march began, I watched anxiously for her to appear. There she was, coming down the aisle, smiling in that way I knew so well, taking solemn steps…toward me. My heart beat wildly. She glanced at me, almost furtively. All day I had been caught up in memories of our times together, how as children we had played, chasing each other through the woods nearby, sneaking from our rooms late at night when our parents thought we were asleep. In school we wrote notes to one another, and I defended her at recess. We had always shared this bond, as if we could understand each other without speaking. From our earliest age, we needed none but each other.

Her eyes shone with tears now as she stopped and waited to be given. I knew what this meant to her, and I think she knew what it meant to me. When we were maybe twelve, before I understood what love was, she made me promise that I would never change, that no matter what happened, I would be there for her. She smiled then as she smiled now, waiting to be given, certain in my promise.

I waited for her to step forward, my heart full of emotion, my head full of the past.

She was so beautiful…

Then she stepped forward and joined her husband. And I, her twin, her brother, stood at her husband’s side, letting go.

Categories Flash Fiction

One of a Kind

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Posted by Nick Hayden on August 13th, 2010

She watched as thousands of her kind labored at their creations. She was young and could not participate, though she had tried about a month ago, sneaking into the work area and forming the great chains of liquid into elaborate works of art. The Judges had watched her; she had not noticed their presence until she had finished. Then they took the piece she had created, turned it this way and that. “It has already been done,” a Judge declared, and he broke it over his knee.

She cried herself to sleep that night.

Afterward, she could barely stand to hear the thousands at their work. But when the wind blew hard, they worked all the harder, and the sound of their work could be heard wherever she tried to hide from it. The wind blew and she began to think again of the smooth material transformed by her touch.

Now the wind was blowing again. She watched for a long time, afraid to do what she wished, knowing that the Judges would come to watch her. Anger and frustration caused tears to come to her eyes. Finally, balling her fists, she stood and joined the adults. Closing her eyes, she envisioned what she wanted to make. Slowly, as if playing a harp, she began to shape it, mold it, grow it.

When she opened her eyes, the Judges were there. They took her art, looked it over, turned it this way and that. She could barely watch. Then a Judge spoke: “It is unique.” He offered it to her. She took it, tears in her eyes. She could not stop smiling. “You are an adult now. Let your beauty join the rest.”

She studied her work for a long moment. Then, bending her knees, she heaved it into the air. The wind caught it up and took it away, where it joined the other snowflakes as they descended.

Categories Flash Fiction

Now We Fight for Real

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Posted by Nick Hayden on August 13th, 2010

Johnny Chen struck a fighting stance as the thugs surrounded him. There were ten, maybe fifteen, all masked. Most carried knifes. He saw a club, heard a length of chain stretched taut.

He knew why he was there, why he must fight: they had Honey Li, his niece, and he would die before breaking the vow he had sworn to her father. But this was his first real fight. What if he couldn’t do it?

“You gonna fight us all?” the leader asked. He was tall, wide, like a professional wrestler.

“Yes.” There was nothing else to be said.

Three of the men rushed him. He ducked the first knife swing, rotated, knocked the legs out from one. The club came down, barely missing him. He somersaulted away and jumped to his feet. The chain pulled tight across his neck. Another thug punched him in the stomach, once, twice. He managed to dodge the third enough so that the blow landed in his choker’s large gut. The momentary shock gave him the chance he needed. Johnny slipped out of the chain’s grip, jumped, spun, landed a monstrous kick to the fat man’s head.

But then it happened—when he landed, his ankle twisted. Johnny lost his footing, fell backward. His head hit the concrete hard. As the pain came, his only thought was: After all the practice…

“Cut!” the director shouted. “Someone get the medic over here.” He rubbed his face, muttering, “So much for doing his own stunts.”

Categories Flash Fiction

Listen to the Beat

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Posted by Nick Hayden on August 13th, 2010

The solemn speeches and formal presentations of the podium gave way to the music of the dance floor. Henry watched as the young people leapt to life with the beat blasting from the speakers. The songs were those same played at weddings and celebrations everywhere, decided upon by some secret convocation of DJs. The dancers jumped and shook and gathered in clumps. They stood on chairs and lip-synched “I Will Survive.” The young girls shouted “R-E-S-P-E-C-T.” The son of the company president, 12, spun on his back and tried the worm.

Henry watched as the adults began to loosen up, first with slow songs, where young lovers danced no more intimately than the manager and his wife, married for 25 years. Steve and Doris showed off their ballroom dancing. Laughter accompanied the arm motions of YMCA. By now, even those who remembered hearing it on the radio when it was new participated. After a few false starts, more than 50 people moved in relative rhythm for the Electric Slide.

Heaven surely resembled this, Henry thought. The pulse of the music invigorated him; what perfect freedom was in the carefree energy of his friends moving joyfully, unconcerned with appearance or position! All that was sad and dull and unfair seemed a far-off dream.

“Henry…”

“How are you?”

“I’m getting tired.”

“All right. Let’s go home.”

Henry’s wife pushed his wheelchair off the dance floor.

Categories Flash Fiction

Body snatchers do me a favor

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Posted by Nick Hayden on October 20th, 2008

This entry is part 24 of 24 in the series What's Left of My Life

I’ll tell you something. Going to church after fighting with your mom all weekend — not fun. You don’t want to give the least indication something’s wrong at church, or everyone who knows you will swarm over you and try to encourage you and pray for you, and you feel like a misfit, because here’s all these people sharing in your troubles by saying they’ll pull you out of it. That’s not sharing. That’s feeling good about yourself at the expense of another person.

Not that there aren’t hurting people in our church. There are, but they’re always hurting, you know, so it’s a constant state of “How are you this week?” And it’s not that I think everyone’s hypocrites. It’s that I don’t want them poking their nose into things that don’t affect them. Mom’s the same way — private. We deal with our own problems, thank you very much. And so we’re both smiling and chatting to people, and I, at least, feel wretched inside. Then we go home and try to keep out of each other’s way.

It’s all about moving out. First, they want me to “shape up” and “be responsible.” And so I get a job, and they’re happy about that, and now I want to move out. Oh, it’s not the moving out that scares them (apparently) but Beth.

Let’s remember something: They sent me to a boarding school when I was fourteen! I’ve dealt with people on my own before. And honestly, what’s so bad about Beth?

You know, I took a gamble after church and made a point: “Wouldn’t Jesus have spent time with Beth?”

And my mom, quick as ever, replied: “You’re not Jesus.”

Well, duh.

But what makes this so weird is that yesterday evening, after all this drama, my parents sat down with me. “We’ve decided to let you move out,” mom said. “You can make your own decisions. Just remember that we’re always there for you.”

I don’t know what changed. I have a feeling dad talked to her, but I don’t think he was very excited about the prospect either. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. It’s time I got packing.

Categories Serials, What's Left of My Life

The Works of Nick Hayden

The Zealots

0

Four till Boom!

1

Another World

0

Snow Day

0

Antidepressant

0

The Joining

0

One of a Kind

0

Now We Fight for Real

0

Listen to the Beat

1

Body snatchers do me a favor

0

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