The cloudless sky was still above Mann and Carol’s house in Phoenix, AZ. One day, Mann sat on the porch as the house was ablaze, unbridled by reason.

Earlier, in the morning, he had been in his study listening to the cries of Carol, his younger sister, in the next room. Mann was sympathetic but misunderstood it all.

Carol no longer tried to convince or aid anyone with her understanding of anything. Doctors had called her mentally-ill, but Carol knew that before all of this began—the tug in her gut, the visions—that she was cross-eyed and unaware.

Mann listened to muffled wails from her room and walked out of his room to her’s knocked on the door.

“What is going on?” he inquired.

Carol stomped hurriedly to the door. To Mann’s amazement, she smiled and seemed relaxed and relieved at the sight of him.

She was nonchalant and seemed happy.

“Hey,” she said.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, relieved by the interruption but anxious for him to leave.

“Ok,” he said, and he turned away from the door. Dull Mann walked back to his study, thinking about her alertness. “Trouble,” he thought.

Mann had left, and she began again. She cried out uncontrollably, and then tried to contain the noise. She felt that she was insufficient for the task of saving the world. It was perhaps that she had spent so many years on the wrong side of people that she now was so attentive and pained. She was deadly now, to good or to evil. She saw her plot written on the walls: messages, visions. It wasn’t even devotion, maybe yet, but rather fear that made her move quickly left, and then right, and then to the door to her room.

She exited swiftly, but shut the door closed slowly.

Carol heard the televisions--four of them--around the house sputtering news commentary as she walked down the stairs towards the front door. Carol imagined lots of nodding and dubious smiles. 

      Mann watched the one in his study, and with it on he was oblivious to her exiting. He lit a cigarette and lounged in his chair to the news.

Arid, hazy air blasted onto Carol's face as she opened the front door to the house. She went to the stoop and waited for instructions. At once she began walking east down the road in front of the house. She felt hurried but calm, away from the confines of her room. The wind swept around her and gave her an identity: she was an instrument of faith and action. She walked forward and backwards, and after minutes of this, she stopped on the road. Three raindrops hit her on her head. In an otherwise light-blue sky, a cloud had formed above her. 

Mann was asleep while Carol walked hurriedly back to the house. He had turned the TV off before falling asleep, and the screen, now a mirror, watched him as he sat slumped asleep in his chair, a fire from the cigarette now burning next to and underneath it. He awoke, startled by the heat and crackling of the burning carpet beneath him, and rushed down the stairs and out onto the front porch. He stood for a moment, muscles clinching and wanting to move forward, but he took a seat. The thought to call for help never entered his mind. Somehow he needed the place to burn.

      Carol was walking swiftly as a downpour followed her to her house. Carol saw the side of the house outside of her brother’s window: pillars of flame shrank under the pouring rain. Mann stood up when he saw that the fire was dwindling, and together they watched the rain douse the fire out completely. Mann said, “I couldn’t do anything.”

“I know the method,” Carol said. She fixed with two fingers Mann’s messy hair from the trial. She looked next at the house and went inside to break every television and then to her room to see where she stood and what was next. Mann called 911 to save the inside of house that didn’t need to burn anymore.

Tele sat, relaxed, on the back of his seat at the restaurant. He had been named after a guitar. His father, a musician, was said to have placed the notes inside the heads of his audiences. He was locally famous in Cleveland, where Tele sat now, awaiting a woman for tonight, a blind date.

Earlier that day, after escorting a disappointed and anxious date from last night to his front door, he went to his bedroom and prepared for tonight's date. He closed his eyes. "Wear a red dress," he said, "and white heels. You'll look amazing. The date will be fabulous: you'll have one drink and I'll have the best table, and then we'll go to my place and I'll play you a song." He turned around. "Sir, MaitreD', you will let me have the finest table in the house."

Tele smiled remembering this as he lounged at the table, sipping a margarita, and waiting for Carol, the woman he was meeting. Tele loved blind dates. People were so susceptible to his influence when there was no history between him and them. He twiddled his thumbs. "I told her 9:00."

At 9:01 exactly, Carol entered the place, and Tele saw the most beautiful woman that he could imagine: a woman with straight sheening dark hair wearing a red, silk, fitted dress and white heels.

"Carol..." he said in an astounded straight tone. "Tele," he pointed at himself.

"I'm Carol, hi. Nice to meet you. Do we have a seat?"

"Yes, he said, "up front," and he escorted her to the table in the back. "Would you like a drink?" he asked. "She'll have a margarita," he said softly.

The waiter arrived at the table. "Hello madam, sir. Would you like a drink, madam?"

Carol looked at Tele. "What do you think?" she said. "A margarita?" she asked. "A margarita," she said to the waiter. "Actually no... a bourbon, please. Thanks." She winked at Tele.

"Something wrong?" she asked. "No, absolutely not," he replied.

They talked for a half hour. At 10 the restaurant would close. Tele had counted on this. He suggested that they go back to his place for a drink, and she said, "Yes." They arrived at the condo, he went to the wet bar, and she to the sofa.

"I love the place, wow," Carol said. You must be doing well."

"The key to business is getting your point across, by any means," he said smugly. He smiled and walked to Carol and gave her a drink, and then, suddenly, he had the strongest notion to go to his bedroom alone. He excused himself, shaking his head, and went there.

Tele immediately--inexplicably--took off his jeans. He pulled his acoustic guitar from the wall. He then said, "I need to turn on The Weather Channel on the TV in the living room." Tele seemed in a daze. He flung the bedroom door open and burst into the room, wearing only his boxers, and strummed the guitar and began to sing. "Well, Yankee Doodle Dandy went riding on a pony..." he sang. Carol smiled deviously from the sofa. Still playing and singing, he went to the TV remote at the edge of the sofa and turned on the TV and put in the channel number... "and called it macaroni." He stopped, a big smile on his face. "What do you think?" he said.

Carol burst into laughter. "Holy Shit Tele, really? Tele Slade, wow!"

He shook his head, snapping out of some daze, and, feeling mortified, laid the guitar on the floor.

"Wait, how'd you know my last name?" he said.

"Earlier today, Tele, I had some words of inspiration that I decided to send your way. I closed my eyes and I said, 'he'll want a red dress, with white heels. I'll have a drink at the restaurant and he'll have the best table. He'll desire me, and will play guitar naked in his living room while the television plays something ridiculous. Then he'll finish, proudly.' What I didn't say was what I'd do next: I'd laugh, and then say...

Remember me?" she said. Carol closed her eyes and Tele caught an image in his mind of a pretty girl with straight hair sitting on the couch next to him and...

"KRISTY! Holy Shit!" he said. He looked down at the floor, bashful and alarmed. He looked up. "You're Kristi's roommate! I mean we met but that was months ago. Is this, this whole thing...and why am I watching the fucking Weather Channel right now?" He turned to Carol. "So this, this was all a setup. How?"

"You dumped her, right? Well, you cheated on her," she said plainly. "Ever wanted a girl you couldn't have, or couldn't trick?"

The television was showing a red banner with "Storm Warning" written in white across it.

"There will be a thunderstorm tonight and..." the weatherman on the television began.

"Oh, Tele. You didn't want me to wear a red dress, I did. And 'she'll be beautiful and dressed amazingly...' Well I do look good in just about anything, but take a closer look."

Tele looked down at her dress. Now, once a gorgeous silk dress could be seen for what it was, a baggy, second-hand pick-up from the used store that Carol had intentionally ripped, making it "probably my ugliest suggestion," she said proudly.

"You," Tele said.

"And you! Carol said. "Some might say that you put thoughts into Kristi's head every time she sobbed and inquired about Trish, Claudia, and whoever else. And the girls you have probably tricked with your mind since then? Some would call that being smooth, but you and I, we share something."

The weatherman on the TV had more to say: "There will be a thunderstorm tonight and..."

"STOP SAYING THAT!" they yelled in unison, looking at the TV.

The weatherman changed course. "No, actually tonight will be clear, sorry."

Tele looked at Carol.

"Telepathy," he said.

"You're not the only one. Just go forward knowing that others might be like us. Don't be an asshole," she said, and left.

Tele locked the front door and sat on the sofa. He turned the television off. He straightened his back and got serious. He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and said, "she'll have a really shitty day tomorrow."

She didn't.

One summer in north Texas, the days were hot. Rain clouds would disintegrate into thin wisps each late afternoon. From his porch—here in the country—Mat could smell the cries of parched earth anticipating relief but getting none. Mat was the cause, he knew it.

Mat had fallen to his knees once to keep things from getting worse.

One night Mat was jolted awake at 3:06 am. The Ute Indian statue in his room looked curiously and amusedly at him. Everything was important these days, even waking up. Mat got dressed, and five minutes later he felt the spirit in his house guide him: a brush of wind against his side moved him towards the front door. Mat took a long breath—breeze at his back—and stepped outside.

The wind outside took over for the spirit and swirled upward and around him.

A long walk—furious and dutiful—followed. Each direction was instructed, and each step was performed with Mat’s typical act of piety.

He was led to the road outside the property, and approaching a neighbor’s ranch—

begrudgingly, dutifully—he saw the barbed wire fence.

Mat hopped the fence. The breeze returned to his back, stronger than before. Mat was a little scared—mostly mindful of the land owners and guns—but moved forward. Immediately, a bold, beautiful but utilitarian alien spacecraft—dark and then aflame in

green fluorescence—lifted itself from the ground. Mat felt a deep nudge within the front of his brain, and a message rang in his mind.

“You are here. We wanted you to come, but commitment is unforeseeable.”

Mat stood still. He tried to communicate back to the voice he was interpreting. It spoke again.

“Choose between this world and a future away from it.”

“You are telling me that you are going to end our world?” Mat said.

The alien spoke to Mat inside of his brain: “Yes. We, or you. You are strong: an aberration, but one admired. You should leave with us now.”

Mat thought about all of the destruction on this planet. What a gift, he thought, being respected and able to leave. The trusted wind blew against his face now. The planet made its message clear to Mat.

He backed away from the craft and turning and then moving quickly, went back towards his property. He looked over his shoulder as he walked briskly away, and saw that the craft had disappeared. Mat returned home. The Pleides constellation shown distinctly in the southern sky.

“I choose this planet,” Mat said aloud. The wind rapturously swept around him. The trees were blown, given a voice: applauding.

Mat returned home and saw the Ute sculpture looking at him with a wide-eyed optimism. Maybe for once, Mat knew more than he. Tomorrow his strong feet would follow his will for change.

At 6 a.m. the car sped angrily by.

“Screw you.” Sam said, inside of his house.

And then, “Thank you,” he said.

Knowledge of an abrupt and interactive Universe had stung Sam now for months. Nothing is spared. The driver communicated a message to Sam and it was this: “fall in love with life, or I’ll kill you.”

Amongst the empty vodka bottles and energy drink cans stuck to the countertop during last night’s spills and overflowing consumption, Sam swept his arm for an empty glass, and when he found one he poured water into himself and turned toward the room.

Conclusions entered Sam’s head. “People want you to fall in love with life. It’s all they do,” he thought. “They are angry and it hurts me.”

At 8 a.m. Claudia called and offered Sam a ride to town. He wanted more alcohol and said “yes” and they rode together.

At the corner store Sam sauntered in and lifted his head to say “hey” to the store clerk. Sam moved towards the alcohol at the back of the store. As he closed in on the refrigerator he felt his feet sink--with each step--more deeply into the concrete floor of the store. A hollow feeling built inside of him. He turned to see the store clerk and saw the man with his head down in a confused gaze. Sam inflated himself and pulled away from the alcohol.

A heavy sigh came from Sam’s insides. He left and nodded to the clerk, who was now looking up.

Exiting the store Sam saw a girl on her haunches--hands on her knees--that had a smile on her face. Sam breathed a heavy sigh that fell into a flat smirk. The girl looked at his breathing.

“It’s easy,” the girl said. “It’s a moment. Lend some magic.” Sam strode to the awaiting car.

Sam hopped in. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Sam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He looked out of the passenger window and saw bodies swinging to a synchronized dance that got tighter as Sam became more prominent in the scene. Sam breathed another heavy sigh. “Magic,” he thought.

At 9:03pm, Jack plodded through entrance of the HEB grocery store in Preston, TX—it was the only one—and looked around as though it were his. It was also almost entirely without customers at this hour.

Jack was a slovenly and conspicuously covetous man, but he didn’t know that. And he was available to any type of experience, so long as he could ingest it, and digest it, for his own pleasure.

All of this was visible to Charlotte, the young woman in her early 20’s who worked at the store, and one of many that held disdain for the anonymous creature that had slimed his way through it before.

Jack had definitely noticed her before.

She was stunning, statuesque—a vision to soul-parched men off from their jobs, and wonderful

to the, mostly, middle-aged women who shopped at the store.

Jack, by contrast, was a series of trips; a burp. He couldn’t see his own feet.

Charlotte rounded the corner dividing the bakery and produce sections. There was laughter behind her: Perhaps the close of a conversation with a customer or an unrelated agreement with a co- worker about something that likely was interesting. She was smiling, with a happy and confident glide.

Jack was clutching a clear box of cookies when he saw her enter his field of aimless vision. She saw him as she passed.

Her smile fell. She stopped. It was him.

She looked right at him.

He was clutching the cookie box with his right hand, flat look on his face as if he’d seen a chair, a television commercial, or a beautiful girl.

She was looking right at him. She breathed, and then pivoted to her right and began to walk with brisk determination horizontally to the horror that was Jack.

Jack watched her walk away with his head turned as he walked toward the open space that was the chest’s cavity of the store.

Then, Jack heard a crackling laugh from the corner of the store. It could have something from another land, another dimension. Jack, instinctively and irrationally turned his head to look.

There, 50 feet or so away—in the eating area—sat a woman in a stock metal chair. She looked to be old: 70 years, 100? A century? She laughed again and smiled a somehow” knowing” grin. Her eyes had a light above their black pupils: black like her dress.

Jack laughed reassuringly and resumed his distracted jaunt.

“Oh,” he said, and moved to the back of the store, turned and headed towards the food aisles straight ahead.

On the other side of the HEB, Charlotte’s pace quickened as she walked determinedly across the store. Her long hair, tied back, actually seemed as if moved by the wind as it sometimes was outside.

“You know...” Jack muttered to himself—although everyone cared—and he moved down the aisles a little further.

“Cereals,” he said, and he walked left down the aisle to get his Kix.

He had walked a few feet and looking around, stopped, opened the box of cookies that he was holding, and pulled one out.

“Oh...,” he said. He’d probably heard it said that way once before. He took a long bite.

He started walking up the aisle and looked to his right for the Kix cereal, but he didn’t see it! His mouth was full.

Charlotte meanwhile was looking down the aisles, coming from the causeway horizontal from where Jack had come before going down the cereal aisle. She moved briskly. Walking fast enough to almost pass the perpendicular aisle, she spotted the man standing and looking at the cereal boxes, food in his mouth, dead-faced.

“Outrageous!” said Jack about the no Kix.

“Outrageous,” Charlotte indignantly spoke to herself.

Jack turned his head to his left and there she was. Jack took another bite.

And then, at once, Charlotte pounced. She walked, but very quickly, towards Jack.

Jack couldn’t believe it! But he could.

Mouth full, Jack opened up to say something, and then closed his mouth, it full of cookie.

Charlotte was close to him now and she stopped, put a leg between his, and slid one out past his body. She grabbed the back of his head, and pressed her lips to his.

“WOW!” he thought! “Wow. Wow.”

Charlotte kept her lips there. Her eyes were open, staring past Jack.

“Whaaa...” he thought, as he gurgled little air through the dessert lodged in the back of his throat. “Ka!” noised Jack, and his arms shot at his sides, his hands shaking.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Arghh...!” he protested, and tried to pull away.

Charlotte held his head toward hers, with her lips fastened tightly to his.

“Ghaa” he muttered as his face fell white.

Charlotte stopped. She peeled him off of her mouth by pulling the hair at the back of his head. She looked at him.

She looked past his shoulder and then turned her head the other direction, still holding his hair, which began to tear out of its follicles as it now held the weight of his limp body.

No one had seen.

She dropped him—mouth full of cookie, sweat on his stomach through the fabric of a too-tight

t-shit. Disgusting as ever, but, better.

She spun around, and a happy, new, glide emerged.

She looked at her watch.

“9:13...an hour left!” she thought.

Charlotte walked towards the center of the store with gentle, strident command. Her long hair moved as it would have outside, blown by a soft wind.

Charlotte's Revenge is the title of this Flash Fiction offering. The genre is Horror. I am 37 years old, and the word count is 913 words. Author is myself, Will Wright. It was a Flash Fiction challenge and I believe that it shows my ability to create with restraints. The concluding action I think makes for a thrilling experience. The gyst of the story is that a man plods through a grocery store and is confronted as Beauty makes a stand against ugliness. I think that the story will appeal to Flash Fiction afficionados. I am 37 and am an unpublished author, this platform is Flash Fiction, I am a high school graduate with some college and I have experience only in personal writings and essays. My writing style is visceral and hopefully true to the inate human struggle between righteous and negative behaviors; a state of grace, viewed somewhat scientifically. I enjoy listening to and critiquing music. I am from San Antonio, TX.