Here’s the flash fiction writing exercise that we did at the last Ink Slingers Guild Meeting – it was just Lisa, Desi and I (Desi bough ceviche and it was delicious – first time I’ve ever tried it).
nose (my word), chrysanthemum, floral,
Henri’s nose told him the problem before he even stepped foot in the room. The thick, putrid odor of decay and death poured from behind the door. He swallowed, turned the handle and stepped inside. The window was open, allowing a fresh breeze to come in from outside, but even the pleasant floral tones of the chrysanthemums from outside couldn’t mask the cloying stench that clung to the room.
“Is that it?” he pointed at the mass in the middle of the room.
The constable who had accompanied him nodded, and looked like he was trying to stop from puking. Henri couldn’t blame him, though in truth he had smelled worse in several of his many cases. Henri made his way to the rotting pile of black tendrils spilling out of the clay pot. He looked around the room for something that would allow him to examine the thing in more detail, and his eyes fell on the poker beside the fireplace. He motioned to the constable to bring it, and hefting the iron rod, he prodded the slimy ropes piled over the sides of the pot like noodles. They hissed and shrank back, and Henri also took a step back, just for good measure.
“Doesn’t like iron,” he muttered. “Not a good sign.”
“What was that sir?” the constable said through the handkerchief he held over his own nose and mouth.
“Fairies,” Henri spoke louder. “One of their creations.”
“Ah,” the constable didn’t look afraid enough of this pronouncement. “Can you get rid of it, sir?”
Henri considered the question. “I might be able to.” He also might just aggravate it and cause it to take over more of the flats, but he didn’t think the constable needed to know that.