Nana's Untamed Flash Fiction Oneshots

Search and Find

St. Michael's Maryland was a quiet place, that lay along the Miles River. The water there was a restful deep green, and it slowly meandered through the town. Its story was rooted in Maryland's deepest history. Tales were related by townspeople that made the Revolution, the War of 1812, and the Civil War seem like recent occurrences, and many people either were registered as Daughters of the American Revolution or could have been but just thought of it as pretentious foolishness. That was not unusual for Marylanders. With the Mason /Dixon line cutting through the countryside, it was a strangely bipolar State to begin with. Divided early on between Catholic settlers and Protestant usurpers, wealthy landowners and slaves, colonists and Piscataway Tribesmen. Many folks today are fond of saying, 'Maryland isn't a State, it's a Cult and its Holy Sacrament is the Blue crab.'

With Old Bay Spice being used at almost every meal.

Lots of Old Bay Spice.

Once a week, as the fishermen began to return from casting rods and pulling in their crab pots, the elegant man, fairly new to town, would leave his charming hotel room, and head for a quiet drive east to Easton, Maryland. There, tucked away among large, sedate, and comforting trees, lay a white building, that was unassuming, plain, and alluring in its peaceful serenity. The Third Haven Meetinghouse was the longest continuously used Quaker place of worship in the United States. While he was not a Quaker himself, one did not need to be to appreciate the pull of quiet contemplation. He knew that, since the school had been dismissed there, and no meeting was scheduled that night, the odds were good that it would be his alone. He liked that very much. No idle chit-chat, no forced interest in others' problems; just him, and a few choice books if he got the urge to read.

He slipped through the doors, inhaling the scent of wood. Warm reddish wood was deeply polished from centuries of loving hands, rubbing the wall, pews, and floors to a deep glow so that the worshipers could sink in, warmed by the silent conversations between them and their God, over three centuries. He would sit there, last row on the center aisle, right-hand side each time and wait, until the moment was right and fall deeply within himself. He did not pray, it was more of a simple meditation. No questions were asked, but he still waited for an answer that never came. Yet he always returned to this place. It just seemed to be the thing to do.

After an hour, or two, or more, he would rise and walk the neatly kept cemetery, unhurried, and look at the modest, squared markers; all of them the same uniform sizes, centuries of unassuming resting places. He wandered to a grove of oak trees and in a secluded, ivy-covered stone grotto on a granite bench, he removed his latest history book, one on old Maryland homes from his backpack, and began to read and wait. He was an expert in waiting. He had waited more times in his existence than he could count. Patience was an old, irritating friend to him, one that he wanted to strangle at times, but one that was a huge part of life to him.

He laid his book aside momentarily and closed weary amber eyes, leaning his dark head back against the cool, smooth stones. The birds were singing, and a warm breeze blew across his pale skin, drying the faint sheen caused by the Southeastern humidity. Yes, this strange, and very, old state was a lovely place to have chosen this time.

He picked up on footsteps and voices that grew louder as two men approached.

"It's so peaceful here, Mark! I haven't been here before." The sound of the man speaking was nice; a soft tenor, light and clear like a bell's chime. He sat straighter when he heard it.

Another replied. "Yeah, I guess. I asked a friend if she knew where we could go, where we wouldn't be interrupted. and she suggested this. I wanted to be able to speak with you without anyone else around."

"Nobody around?" The hidden man heard the first voice increase with excitement but to his dismay he heard the second man's voice change, suddenly more cautious and wary.

"Look, Will. I needed a place where. well, I ..."

"Mark, what is it? Let's sit here on the grass. You can tell me anything..."

"No, I'd rather stand, Will."

There was a ladened hush and when the first man interrupted, the bell-like quality had suddenly thickened with dread. "I...don't...Do not say what I think you are going to say..."

"Will, hey...this thing we started..."

"This THING? What THING, Mark."

The tall man edged to the opening and could see the couple for the first time. The man called Will was facing him , staring with wide tear-filled dove-gray eyes at Mark. Eyes that filled the watcher with wonder and a sick feeling of dread for their owner. He found himself praying, 'Don't you bastard. Don't do this. Don't hurt him.'

Will stumbled on. "You said you loved me. You call it a thing. You said you love me." Silver tears, shining like lost diamonds began to escape, tracing down gently rounded cheeks. Will suddenly looked like an abandoned boy.

"Look, Will, we had fun, didn't we? Parties, club, road trips... but I need more..."

"More? We were discussing the next step. Mark."

"Not that...I ..."

"Did I make you angry? Did hurt you in someway? Please tell me.Let me fix it..."

"It's not you...I found someone else."

"Someone...What?"

"Look Will, you are a great guy. Fun. Gorgeous. But I need more..."

"I don't understand..."

Mark raised his voice. He was done. He was over. And he wanted to end it.

"He is rich. Loaded. I am tired of squeezing into my efficiency and your warehouse loft. Tired of Spaghetti joints, road trips. half-assed concerts with local bands. I want the best and you...you..."

A raw cry tore from Will throat and the amber-eyed man rushed forward had grabbed Mark's shirt at the neck. He pulled him forward and his voice, a deep, unyeilding baritone erupted, low and menacing.

"Shut your mouth. You are not qualified to speak to another in that manner. Do not say one more word."

He glanced at the broken man who stood trembling despite the warm evening.

"Is it your car or his that you came in? Will? Is that your name?"

The gray-eyed man took a deep breath and whispered. "His car. And call me Wei Ying. He only wanted to call me by my English name."

OF course, he did, this piece of waste." His eyes went from amber to a dangerous glowing Imperial Topaz. They glittered, and not in a good way.

"Wei Ying. That is a lovely name.It is good to hear it. My name is Lan Zhan."

Lan Zhan pulled a light blue Trafalger square from his pocket and handed it to Wei Ying while still holding the unfortunate Mark up on the tips of his shaking Chuck Taylors.

"Wipe your eyes and blow your nose. I have several more handkerchiefs in my pocket if needed. Those tears are too precious to be wasted on crap like this."

Lan Zhan pushed Mark backward, and he landed on his astonished ass. Then he walked toward the frozen Wei Ying and suddenly the anger melted as he looked down into the stricken face. When he spoke again, the deep baritone sounded like it had been created by Charbonnel et Walker, smooth, rich, and sinfully chocolate.

"My car is parked at the street. May I escort you safely home?"

To be continued...

'

'