Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase: "It came out of nowhere."
Not for the Beast
Officer Sandra Miller pushed herself deeper into the dark corner.
“It” was lumbering towards her; manlike in shape, nightmarish in all other ways.
Shaking violently, she turned her head aside; away from the inquiring advances of the beast. Its breath was warm and ragged. Globules of something rancid dropped from its thick tangled fur, landing on her cheek and neck.
Only minutes before, everything and been going smoothly.
Then the call came in.
It was hard to make out what was exactly going on. The officer placing the call was in a state of panic. There was shrieking and then gun fire. She thought she heard, “It came out of nowhere.”
Sandra and her partner, Mike Sheffield, hurried to the location. Sandra couldn’t help but notice that everyone on the streets that night seemed to be running in the opposite direction.
They arrived at the scene to find a bloody mess. Sandra wanted to be sick but she had a job to do.
A movement over by the ally caught her eye. She signaled to Mike and they cautiously approached what they assumed to be an armed and dangerous criminal.
They were still a few yards out when it attacked.
The fact that “it” was clearly not human didn’t keep them from firing shot after ineffectual shot into the beast. It stood at least ten feet tall and was covered in long, brown tangled hair that smelled of something rotten, something long dead.
It took Mike first; tearing him apart.
Now it wanted her. Sandra felt her grip tighten on her gun. “It” sniffed her and then gently touched her face with the back of its hairy hand.
Trembling, Sandra brought her gun up slowly. She had one bullet left – and it was not for the beast.
Word count 297
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Then Came The Wind
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: emergency, lock and bright
Then Came the Wind
Karen had just switched the channel to Oprah. The women in her salon loved that show and if they were happy, Karen was happy. She looked around and felt the same satisfaction she always felt when her chairs were full.
After little more than a year, her hair salon was a success. There had been failures before but those were all behind her now. The bad marriage was history. So was one job as a waitress/pole dancer and another as a receptionist at the Happy Ending Massage Parlor.
She’d worked hard to put herself through cosmetology school. Scraping and borrowing money to get her salon going was yet another challenge she had met and overcome.
Now the chairs were full and Oprah was in the air. To top it all off, she was having dinner tonight with the nice man that owned the dry cleaners next door.
Her life was good and filled with happy anticipation.
Everything changed when Oprah blinked off the air to be replaced by an Emergency Broadcast.
It was the president. He got right to the point with, “My fellow Americans, we are at war.”
Every head turned to the set in unison as the salon switched from hustle and bustle to silent disbelief.
“Everyone should immediately shelter in place,” he continued.
The broadcast was cut off; replaced by fuzz.
One scissor cut through a lock of hair as the hand holding it involuntarily spasmed shut. No one moved and then… everyone moved. There was screaming and crying as women scrambled to do something – anything.
Karen ignored the chaos and walked silently to the front window that faced the city across the bay. She watched a skyline become a fireball.
“It’s so bright,” she thought, “So bright.”
Then came the wind.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: emergency, lock and bright
Then Came the Wind
Karen had just switched the channel to Oprah. The women in her salon loved that show and if they were happy, Karen was happy. She looked around and felt the same satisfaction she always felt when her chairs were full.
After little more than a year, her hair salon was a success. There had been failures before but those were all behind her now. The bad marriage was history. So was one job as a waitress/pole dancer and another as a receptionist at the Happy Ending Massage Parlor.
She’d worked hard to put herself through cosmetology school. Scraping and borrowing money to get her salon going was yet another challenge she had met and overcome.
Now the chairs were full and Oprah was in the air. To top it all off, she was having dinner tonight with the nice man that owned the dry cleaners next door.
Her life was good and filled with happy anticipation.
Everything changed when Oprah blinked off the air to be replaced by an Emergency Broadcast.
It was the president. He got right to the point with, “My fellow Americans, we are at war.”
Every head turned to the set in unison as the salon switched from hustle and bustle to silent disbelief.
“Everyone should immediately shelter in place,” he continued.
The broadcast was cut off; replaced by fuzz.
One scissor cut through a lock of hair as the hand holding it involuntarily spasmed shut. No one moved and then… everyone moved. There was screaming and crying as women scrambled to do something – anything.
Karen ignored the chaos and walked silently to the front window that faced the city across the bay. She watched a skyline become a fireball.
“It’s so bright,” she thought, “So bright.”
Then came the wind.
Word count 300
Friday, October 29, 2010
Jovian Dreams
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: mermaid, blink and glass
Jovian Dreams
He first saw her in a dream, maybe…
Although he was wide awake at the time, he chose “dream.” The alternative, hallucination, would mean that he’d traveled a little farther down Crazy Road than he wanted to admit.
His rational mind told him there was nothing out there. Nothing swam by because nothing lived at the bottom of the swirling gas oceans of Jupiter - nothing except a forgotten outpost, and its lone occupant, Stanley.
It was hard, but he tried not to give up hope. The last transmission from Earth had been more than six months ago. The gist had been global warfare was imminent. This didn’t bode well for Stanley. He was well aware of Einstein’s thoughts on the subject; “I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”
A planet that bombed itself to bedrock rarely sent out rescue missions.
He tended his garden; he slept and from time to time, he would dream of her swimming in the blue and green gaseous ocean outside of his dome, with the grace of a ballerina.
Time passed and his hope passed with it. Only his dreams kept him alive.
+++++
The knocking on the glass woke him. At first he was confused. His eyes tried to blink clarity to his mind. Apparently he had fallen asleep in his garden. He did that a lot lately.
There was that knocking again.
He looked up and it was her, looking directly at him through the dome.
The Jovian mermaid of his dreams had returned at last, but he was not dreaming.
She swam seductively, enticing him to the airlock.
He’d been alone too long. Putting his hand on the handle, he paused, then opened the hatch.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: mermaid, blink and glass
Jovian Dreams
He first saw her in a dream, maybe…
Although he was wide awake at the time, he chose “dream.” The alternative, hallucination, would mean that he’d traveled a little farther down Crazy Road than he wanted to admit.
His rational mind told him there was nothing out there. Nothing swam by because nothing lived at the bottom of the swirling gas oceans of Jupiter - nothing except a forgotten outpost, and its lone occupant, Stanley.
It was hard, but he tried not to give up hope. The last transmission from Earth had been more than six months ago. The gist had been global warfare was imminent. This didn’t bode well for Stanley. He was well aware of Einstein’s thoughts on the subject; “I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”
A planet that bombed itself to bedrock rarely sent out rescue missions.
He tended his garden; he slept and from time to time, he would dream of her swimming in the blue and green gaseous ocean outside of his dome, with the grace of a ballerina.
Time passed and his hope passed with it. Only his dreams kept him alive.
+++++
The knocking on the glass woke him. At first he was confused. His eyes tried to blink clarity to his mind. Apparently he had fallen asleep in his garden. He did that a lot lately.
There was that knocking again.
He looked up and it was her, looking directly at him through the dome.
The Jovian mermaid of his dreams had returned at last, but he was not dreaming.
She swam seductively, enticing him to the airlock.
He’d been alone too long. Putting his hand on the handle, he paused, then opened the hatch.
Word count 300
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Prelude to Sin
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: Roses, basket and candle
Prelude to Sin
The priest knew this man was different.
There was something about him that demanded attention; something that said, “Stand aside.” Perhaps it was the way he stood framed in the doorway. With the setting sun at his back, it was hard to make out much detail other than his size – tall and broad-shouldered.
As he stood there, it looked for a moment as if he had a bright aura around him, angelic-like.
The illusion disappeared as he entered the relative darkness of the church.
His steps were slow and deliberate; thudding with a deep echo one could almost feel.
Curious, the priest wondered closer; fiddling with a vase of roses in a small alcove near the back pews. The man walked right by him without a glance. The priest noted the fine leather shoes and the expensive overcoat. This was a man of means.
He also saw the eyes.
They were dark and set deep inside the black circles of sleeplessness. His beard was days old and unkempt.
The man reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of bills which he tossed into the donation basket.
The priest watched as the man lit a candle. He watched as the man mumbled a silent prayer, clearly unfamiliar with the task, but driven to it none-the-less. He watched as the huge man’s shoulders shuddered. He watched him cry.
The priest knew this scene. The man had suffered a loss.
Duty called and the priest hurried forward.
The man straightened at the sound of the priest’s approach. He turned to meet the priest who noticed, for the first time, the gun in the man’s hand.
Before he could offer his help, the man said, “Forgive me Father, for I intend to sin.”
With that, he walked out into the coming night.
Word count 300
http://www.jimdillingham.blogspot.com
The prompts: This story must contain the words: Roses, basket and candle
Prelude to Sin
The priest knew this man was different.
There was something about him that demanded attention; something that said, “Stand aside.” Perhaps it was the way he stood framed in the doorway. With the setting sun at his back, it was hard to make out much detail other than his size – tall and broad-shouldered.
As he stood there, it looked for a moment as if he had a bright aura around him, angelic-like.
The illusion disappeared as he entered the relative darkness of the church.
His steps were slow and deliberate; thudding with a deep echo one could almost feel.
Curious, the priest wondered closer; fiddling with a vase of roses in a small alcove near the back pews. The man walked right by him without a glance. The priest noted the fine leather shoes and the expensive overcoat. This was a man of means.
He also saw the eyes.
They were dark and set deep inside the black circles of sleeplessness. His beard was days old and unkempt.
The man reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of bills which he tossed into the donation basket.
The priest watched as the man lit a candle. He watched as the man mumbled a silent prayer, clearly unfamiliar with the task, but driven to it none-the-less. He watched as the huge man’s shoulders shuddered. He watched him cry.
The priest knew this scene. The man had suffered a loss.
Duty called and the priest hurried forward.
The man straightened at the sound of the priest’s approach. He turned to meet the priest who noticed, for the first time, the gun in the man’s hand.
Before he could offer his help, the man said, “Forgive me Father, for I intend to sin.”
With that, he walked out into the coming night.
Word count 300
http://www.jimdillingham.blogspot.com
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Final Legacy
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: moon, stone and grass
Final Legacy
“I miss the grass.”
She spoke into her Remembrance-Bank. Sarah wasn’t certain why that seemed important, but at that particular moment – it did. Truth be told, it had been years since she’d seen real grass; the kind you could walk on and feel between your toes. Right at this very moment, grass was what she missed the most.
Sarah remembered on purpose. It had become a habit. That’s what they told everyone to do – remember and record.
She saw her 10-year-old self running along the edge of the lake. Every now and then she would dash in and then back out.
“Did you see that, Grandpa? Old Whiskers nearly got me that time.”
The old man would frown, “You know better than to tease Old Whiskers.”
She would try to look sad while he pretended to be angry. Then they would both burst out laughing. It had been a good time to be alive. She made a note to put that memory into her RB.
Things had changed over the years. She bent over and picked up a small flat stone. It was perfect; just like the ones she used to look for when she was young. She looked up at the flat barren stretch of dirt that used to be a lake.
With a sigh, she let the stone fall to the ground.
Sarah looked at her RB and saw the blinking message, “Fifty-six hours until final upload.”
Fifty-six hours until she committed her memories to a data base that would be flung towards the nearest star.
She looked up at Armageddon. The moon covered most of the sky. It grew larger daily - Reflecting more and more of the sun’s heat.
“I miss skipping stones,” she said.
Word count 292
The prompts: This story must contain the words: moon, stone and grass
Final Legacy
“I miss the grass.”
She spoke into her Remembrance-Bank. Sarah wasn’t certain why that seemed important, but at that particular moment – it did. Truth be told, it had been years since she’d seen real grass; the kind you could walk on and feel between your toes. Right at this very moment, grass was what she missed the most.
Sarah remembered on purpose. It had become a habit. That’s what they told everyone to do – remember and record.
She saw her 10-year-old self running along the edge of the lake. Every now and then she would dash in and then back out.
“Did you see that, Grandpa? Old Whiskers nearly got me that time.”
The old man would frown, “You know better than to tease Old Whiskers.”
She would try to look sad while he pretended to be angry. Then they would both burst out laughing. It had been a good time to be alive. She made a note to put that memory into her RB.
Things had changed over the years. She bent over and picked up a small flat stone. It was perfect; just like the ones she used to look for when she was young. She looked up at the flat barren stretch of dirt that used to be a lake.
With a sigh, she let the stone fall to the ground.
Sarah looked at her RB and saw the blinking message, “Fifty-six hours until final upload.”
Fifty-six hours until she committed her memories to a data base that would be flung towards the nearest star.
She looked up at Armageddon. The moon covered most of the sky. It grew larger daily - Reflecting more and more of the sun’s heat.
“I miss skipping stones,” she said.
Word count 292
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
What Paradox?
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the line, "You're going the wrong way."
What Paradox
There I was; standing at the edge of the cliff – toes hanging over into what might as well have been infinity.
I remember thinking, How far is far enough? How far must I fall to guarantee the outcome I want?”
I had even done a little math ahead of time. After falling so far you’d reach Terminal Velocity – that’s what they called it. When you fall so fast, you just can’t fall any faster. I might not go that fast, but I was sure this would be terminal enough.
I watched myself from a short distance; just out of sight if you weren’t looking. I watched myself ponder the end of life. I watched myself sob and then sigh. I saw me lean forward and then flap my arms to keep from falling. Then I saw the moment I was waiting for.
I stood at the cliff in no big hurry. I was savoring my final serving of life. This was unexpected. Small memories popped into my head stirring surprisingly large emotional responses. Sad times, good time – everything was exaggerated. There was no emotional middle ground.
I saw myself wiggle my toes. I remember that. I laughed out loud back then, just as I was doing now. I remember feeling a complete appreciation for the absurdity of it all; life, death – all of it. None of it mattered and all of it was important. It all meant something.
I remember thinking, “What the hell,” and then leaning forward, embracing the sudden pull of gravity.
That was my signal. I was only a couple of steps away by that time so it was easy to reach out and grab myself; pulling me back to safety.
“You’re going the wrong way. Come with me,” I said, “I have something to show you”
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the line, "You're going the wrong way."
What Paradox
There I was; standing at the edge of the cliff – toes hanging over into what might as well have been infinity.
I remember thinking, How far is far enough? How far must I fall to guarantee the outcome I want?”
I had even done a little math ahead of time. After falling so far you’d reach Terminal Velocity – that’s what they called it. When you fall so fast, you just can’t fall any faster. I might not go that fast, but I was sure this would be terminal enough.
I watched myself from a short distance; just out of sight if you weren’t looking. I watched myself ponder the end of life. I watched myself sob and then sigh. I saw me lean forward and then flap my arms to keep from falling. Then I saw the moment I was waiting for.
I stood at the cliff in no big hurry. I was savoring my final serving of life. This was unexpected. Small memories popped into my head stirring surprisingly large emotional responses. Sad times, good time – everything was exaggerated. There was no emotional middle ground.
I saw myself wiggle my toes. I remember that. I laughed out loud back then, just as I was doing now. I remember feeling a complete appreciation for the absurdity of it all; life, death – all of it. None of it mattered and all of it was important. It all meant something.
I remember thinking, “What the hell,” and then leaning forward, embracing the sudden pull of gravity.
That was my signal. I was only a couple of steps away by that time so it was easy to reach out and grab myself; pulling me back to safety.
“You’re going the wrong way. Come with me,” I said, “I have something to show you”
Word count 300
Monday, October 25, 2010
Puppet Show
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: ribbon, spoon and violet
Puppet Show
Norman ignored the straps on his wrists as well as the guard standing in the corner. Instead, he focused on the silverware spread on the table in front of him; safely out of reach.
He’d give them what they wanted.
Feigning great effort, he leaned forward and a seemingly untouched spoon bent in half.
Child’s play really.
Let them gasp at the power of his mind. They had no idea.
He smiled at the thought of what he would take in return.
Norman knew they were there; studying him. In spite of the one-way mirror, he could see them. His mind’s eye roamed through the group as he savored the possibilities.
There was the tall skinny male with glasses - boring.
There was the techno-geek fiddling with the brain scanner as Norman’s brainwaves edged into the ultra-violet. Geeks were no fun. No one cared.
There, the young woman taking notes towards the back. Cute and shy, she would be unlikely to call out until it was too late.
Norman sliced out a small part of his mind and set it to entertaining the crowd. Knives and forks shook and bent as the researchers leaned in closer to catch every bit of the action. Meanwhile, his other mind slipped into the back of the observation room. It reached up slowly and loosened a ribbon that held back the hair of his choice du jour.
Once loose, he caused it to slide slowly around her neck where it slowly pulled up and…
“Okay, Norman, that’s enough for today.”
Damn, Norman thought. How does he always know?
Norman would never know that he was really only a puppet for the man wheeling him out of the room; the man who looked back over his shoulder and caused the ribbon to suddenly pull tight.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: ribbon, spoon and violet
Puppet Show
Norman ignored the straps on his wrists as well as the guard standing in the corner. Instead, he focused on the silverware spread on the table in front of him; safely out of reach.
He’d give them what they wanted.
Feigning great effort, he leaned forward and a seemingly untouched spoon bent in half.
Child’s play really.
Let them gasp at the power of his mind. They had no idea.
He smiled at the thought of what he would take in return.
Norman knew they were there; studying him. In spite of the one-way mirror, he could see them. His mind’s eye roamed through the group as he savored the possibilities.
There was the tall skinny male with glasses - boring.
There was the techno-geek fiddling with the brain scanner as Norman’s brainwaves edged into the ultra-violet. Geeks were no fun. No one cared.
There, the young woman taking notes towards the back. Cute and shy, she would be unlikely to call out until it was too late.
Norman sliced out a small part of his mind and set it to entertaining the crowd. Knives and forks shook and bent as the researchers leaned in closer to catch every bit of the action. Meanwhile, his other mind slipped into the back of the observation room. It reached up slowly and loosened a ribbon that held back the hair of his choice du jour.
Once loose, he caused it to slide slowly around her neck where it slowly pulled up and…
“Okay, Norman, that’s enough for today.”
Damn, Norman thought. How does he always know?
Norman would never know that he was really only a puppet for the man wheeling him out of the room; the man who looked back over his shoulder and caused the ribbon to suddenly pull tight.
Word count 300
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Do You Hear Me Now?
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the line, "They made me do it."
Do You Hear Me Now?
“They made me do it! Can’t you hear them? The voices made me do it. Why won’t anyone believe me?”
Annie looked from one “pretend” face to the next. There were three of them in all. Men in white coats; all pretending sympathy – pretending they didn’t hear the voices. But she knew better. She knew they could hear what she heard. She knew because the voices told her so.
If only the voices would talk now, with everyone in the room. Then there would be no denying it. Sure, they could pretend not to hear; but she’d see it in their eyes.
One of the coats looked up from his clipboard and asked, “What do the voices say?”
A trick question for sure.
“Things,” she mumbled looking down at her shackled wrists and ankles.
“Come on Annie, we can’t help you if you do this.”
She ignored him; instead choosing to let her head dangle – a long string of drool reaching for the floor.
“Be reasonable, Annie. Can’t you se…” the coat was cut off in mid-sentence as the room shook violently.
The three men turned white as they looked for something to grab onto in the padded cell. A second violent shaking sent all of them to the ground.
“It’s an earthquake!” exclaimed one.
Annie sat in her chair which was bolted to the floor. Her head was still hanging down.
She lifted it up slowly at the sound of the deep rasping voices, each just slightly out of sync with the others.
“We are here for them; we are here to crush the unbelievers. We shall set you free, Annie; to do our bidding.” they said from the far side of the door.
Annie smiled, turned to her keepers and said, “Tell me you didn’t hear that.”
Word count 299
http://www.jimdillingham.blogspot.com
The prompts: This story must contain the line, "They made me do it."
Do You Hear Me Now?
“They made me do it! Can’t you hear them? The voices made me do it. Why won’t anyone believe me?”
Annie looked from one “pretend” face to the next. There were three of them in all. Men in white coats; all pretending sympathy – pretending they didn’t hear the voices. But she knew better. She knew they could hear what she heard. She knew because the voices told her so.
If only the voices would talk now, with everyone in the room. Then there would be no denying it. Sure, they could pretend not to hear; but she’d see it in their eyes.
One of the coats looked up from his clipboard and asked, “What do the voices say?”
A trick question for sure.
“Things,” she mumbled looking down at her shackled wrists and ankles.
“Come on Annie, we can’t help you if you do this.”
She ignored him; instead choosing to let her head dangle – a long string of drool reaching for the floor.
“Be reasonable, Annie. Can’t you se…” the coat was cut off in mid-sentence as the room shook violently.
The three men turned white as they looked for something to grab onto in the padded cell. A second violent shaking sent all of them to the ground.
“It’s an earthquake!” exclaimed one.
Annie sat in her chair which was bolted to the floor. Her head was still hanging down.
She lifted it up slowly at the sound of the deep rasping voices, each just slightly out of sync with the others.
“We are here for them; we are here to crush the unbelievers. We shall set you free, Annie; to do our bidding.” they said from the far side of the door.
Annie smiled, turned to her keepers and said, “Tell me you didn’t hear that.”
Word count 299
http://www.jimdillingham.blogspot.com
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Death Under the Big Top
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: scissors, pipe and balloon
Death Under The Big Top
“So, tell me where you were tonight around 8 o’clock.”
The mime began signaling furiously.
“Wait,” said Detective Arnold, holding up his hand. To the rest of the room, “Does anyone here understand what the hell this guy is trying to say?”
Shrugs all around.
Arnold looked around at the current ensemble of suspects. They didn’t spend a lot of time with this type of case back at the academy. There were several, including a bearded lady; a man with tattoos covering his entire body; a clown, a goat, and two kids apparently joined at the hip.
It was always like this when someone got murdered at the circus. The usual suspects were anything but.
The World’s Fattest Woman lay dead on the floor, scissors sticking out of the top of her head. She had a beached-whale look about her. Arnold mentally crossed off “sex” as a motive.
“I think I can help you out Detective.”
Arnold turned to find a miniature version of Sherlock Holmes staring up at him. At first, Arnold thought it was a midget. Closer examination showed it to be a kid, probably no older than eight.
Detective Arnold took a moment to look at his collection of misfits; trying not to make eye contact with the mime who was clearly waiting for any excuse to start performing again. With no better option, he turned to Doyle’s protagonist and said, “What have you got for me kid?”
Holmes took a long, thoughtful drag on his pipe causing bubbles to foam out of the top. He then pointed to the figure in the corner and said, “He did it; the one with orange hair holding the balloon.”
Arnold nodded in agreement. Experience told him that in situations like this, the clown was nearly always the guilty one.
Word count 300
http://www.jimdillingham.blogspot.com
The prompts: This story must contain the words: scissors, pipe and balloon
Death Under The Big Top
“So, tell me where you were tonight around 8 o’clock.”
The mime began signaling furiously.
“Wait,” said Detective Arnold, holding up his hand. To the rest of the room, “Does anyone here understand what the hell this guy is trying to say?”
Shrugs all around.
Arnold looked around at the current ensemble of suspects. They didn’t spend a lot of time with this type of case back at the academy. There were several, including a bearded lady; a man with tattoos covering his entire body; a clown, a goat, and two kids apparently joined at the hip.
It was always like this when someone got murdered at the circus. The usual suspects were anything but.
The World’s Fattest Woman lay dead on the floor, scissors sticking out of the top of her head. She had a beached-whale look about her. Arnold mentally crossed off “sex” as a motive.
“I think I can help you out Detective.”
Arnold turned to find a miniature version of Sherlock Holmes staring up at him. At first, Arnold thought it was a midget. Closer examination showed it to be a kid, probably no older than eight.
Detective Arnold took a moment to look at his collection of misfits; trying not to make eye contact with the mime who was clearly waiting for any excuse to start performing again. With no better option, he turned to Doyle’s protagonist and said, “What have you got for me kid?”
Holmes took a long, thoughtful drag on his pipe causing bubbles to foam out of the top. He then pointed to the figure in the corner and said, “He did it; the one with orange hair holding the balloon.”
Arnold nodded in agreement. Experience told him that in situations like this, the clown was nearly always the guilty one.
Word count 300
http://www.jimdillingham.blogspot.com
Friday, October 22, 2010
All Creatures Great and Scary
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: mask, bubble and broom
All Creatures Great and Small and Scary
“Who’s there?”
Hilda squinted into the darkness outside the front of her cottage. Someone, or something, was out there. She may have been losing her sight as she got on in years, but her witch’s sense was as strong as ever.
“It’s just me, Samantha. I’m lost and hungry and scared. Can you help me?”
Hilda was a loner by nature; completely unprepared for a guest. There was a time when she would welcome a bit of company. Many were the times when she would bait a trap, hoping to catch the occasional “normie.” She’d shove them into the oven or pop them into the pot. They could make for some good eating.
Alas, those days were long gone. Now she was older than old; too slow to chase anything down and heaven knows it’d been years since she took her broom out for a spin. No, there would be no more “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble” for her.
Now she had a fat little girl sitting next to the fire.
Hilda fiddled around in the refrigerator. Her guest was probably hungry. She’d feed her and keep her warm tonight. In the morning, she’d lead the girl back to the nearest main trail and that would be the end of that - a far cry from the Hilda of years gone by.
With some effort, the old witch straightened up, a carton of milk in her hand. She looked over at her silent guest and noticed, for the first time, something was strange about her.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The little girl pulled a mask from over her head, revealing a being of pure light.
“It’s time to go Hilda.”
“But, but I’m a witch. Who’d want me?”
“Everyone’s welcome up there. Even witches have to go home someday.”
word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: mask, bubble and broom
All Creatures Great and Small and Scary
“Who’s there?”
Hilda squinted into the darkness outside the front of her cottage. Someone, or something, was out there. She may have been losing her sight as she got on in years, but her witch’s sense was as strong as ever.
“It’s just me, Samantha. I’m lost and hungry and scared. Can you help me?”
Hilda was a loner by nature; completely unprepared for a guest. There was a time when she would welcome a bit of company. Many were the times when she would bait a trap, hoping to catch the occasional “normie.” She’d shove them into the oven or pop them into the pot. They could make for some good eating.
Alas, those days were long gone. Now she was older than old; too slow to chase anything down and heaven knows it’d been years since she took her broom out for a spin. No, there would be no more “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble” for her.
Now she had a fat little girl sitting next to the fire.
Hilda fiddled around in the refrigerator. Her guest was probably hungry. She’d feed her and keep her warm tonight. In the morning, she’d lead the girl back to the nearest main trail and that would be the end of that - a far cry from the Hilda of years gone by.
With some effort, the old witch straightened up, a carton of milk in her hand. She looked over at her silent guest and noticed, for the first time, something was strange about her.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The little girl pulled a mask from over her head, revealing a being of pure light.
“It’s time to go Hilda.”
“But, but I’m a witch. Who’d want me?”
“Everyone’s welcome up there. Even witches have to go home someday.”
word count 300
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Taking the Initiative
The prompts: This story must contain the line, "You'd better have an explanation for this."
Taking the Initiative
“Captain, the shields have dropped.”
“Who ordered that? I didn’t. Ship, what’s going on with the shields?”
“Wait one.” Ship had no idea what the problem was. There had been no command directive, as required, so Ship sent out a tracer which soon came upon a highly suspect situation.
A security-bot was sent to investigate and soon came upon the culprits. “Okay you two, are you the reason the shields are down?”
The two bulky battle-bots quickly turned away from the open access panel; their eyes irised wide in a hopeful display of innocence.
The security-bot was not swayed. “Don’t you know we are transiting the Conflagration Zone? We are almost certain to be attacked without our shields. You’d better have an explanation for this.”
The two battle-bots could hardly restrain their excitement. It had been an extremely dull transit between the stars. This was the first mention of action they’d heard in months.
“We have a very good reason,” they stated in unison. Battle-bots were always in complete synchronization with each other. Quantum Intelligence allowed them to communicate with each other instantaneously. It was one of the features that made them so formidable in battle; that and the stockpile of high-tech munitions stored just beneath their impenetrable outer skins.
“Well?” The security-bot tried to be stern but one never wanted to push too hard when dealing with battle-bots.
“We disabled the shields so that our ship would come under attack.”
“What!? Why would you want to do that?”
Just then, General Quarters sounded.
The battle-bots immediately ramped up to high alert. Sensors and weapons started to extrude from all over their bodies.
Over the intercom came, “Battle-bots to the launch bay.”
The security-bot could only watch as the two bots exchanged high-fives before scurrying off down the passageway.
Word count 299
http://www.jimdillingham.blogspot.com
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
First Things First
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge (a contest on www.writing.com) with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Write a story about someone long dead and risen from the grave in an unfamiliar, modern world.
First Things First
Grog’s eyes popped open, displaying an instant alertness that caught the scientists off guard.
Moving only his head, he slowly took in the strange new surroundings. Odd shaped suns hovered overhead, seemingly near enough to touch – although he knew from experience that such a thing was not possible.
“Hello in there. Can you hear us?”
The sound came from – everywhere.
Somehow, Grog understood the question. “Where am I?” he asked with an oddly British-sounding accent.
Again, from all around, “You are in our laboratory. We have brought you back to life using the genetic coding found in your fossilized remains. A language augmenter has been placed in your head so that you can communicate with us.”
Grog understood immediately. Then, just as quickly, he lost interest in the “everywhere” voice. There were more important issues at hand. First of all, he was starving. Grog took a minute to look around before finally saying, “food.”
Almost on demand, a small opening appeared in the wall of the “cave” and a tray of something, apparently edible, was pushed through.
He attacked the offering with great enthusiasm. Each time he cleared the plate, another full one appeared. Soon, he sat back and held his bloated stomach in both hands. He didn’t know where or even “when” he was, but this place was one he could easily get used to.
The “everywhere” voices continued to pester him but he paid them no mind. Although full, he definitely wasn’t completely satiated. There were other needs to fill. He got up from the floor and again began to search his immediate environment. He was looking for something very specific. Finally, he managed to tear a leg off of a chair. This would make a fine club.
Perfect.
Looking up to the everywhere voices, he said, “woman.”
Word count 300
http://www.jimdillingham.blogspot.com
The prompts: Write a story about someone long dead and risen from the grave in an unfamiliar, modern world.
First Things First
Grog’s eyes popped open, displaying an instant alertness that caught the scientists off guard.
Moving only his head, he slowly took in the strange new surroundings. Odd shaped suns hovered overhead, seemingly near enough to touch – although he knew from experience that such a thing was not possible.
“Hello in there. Can you hear us?”
The sound came from – everywhere.
Somehow, Grog understood the question. “Where am I?” he asked with an oddly British-sounding accent.
Again, from all around, “You are in our laboratory. We have brought you back to life using the genetic coding found in your fossilized remains. A language augmenter has been placed in your head so that you can communicate with us.”
Grog understood immediately. Then, just as quickly, he lost interest in the “everywhere” voice. There were more important issues at hand. First of all, he was starving. Grog took a minute to look around before finally saying, “food.”
Almost on demand, a small opening appeared in the wall of the “cave” and a tray of something, apparently edible, was pushed through.
He attacked the offering with great enthusiasm. Each time he cleared the plate, another full one appeared. Soon, he sat back and held his bloated stomach in both hands. He didn’t know where or even “when” he was, but this place was one he could easily get used to.
The “everywhere” voices continued to pester him but he paid them no mind. Although full, he definitely wasn’t completely satiated. There were other needs to fill. He got up from the floor and again began to search his immediate environment. He was looking for something very specific. Finally, he managed to tear a leg off of a chair. This would make a fine club.
Perfect.
Looking up to the everywhere voices, he said, “woman.”
Word count 300
http://www.jimdillingham.blogspot.com
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