Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the line, "It's even worse than I thought."
The Dog Button
The President reached for the bottle of Excedrin. The threat of a nuclear war always gave him a headache.
It all started when Secret Service wouldn’t let the ambassador from North Korea use his Segway inside the White House. The small man stormed into the Oval Office and declared war on the spot.
The President was unimpressed. When attempts to calm the diminutive ambassador failed, the President pushed a button usually reserved for when the Minority Whip was visiting. The button, located just under the edge of the desk had an outline of a dog’s head on it.
The President felt better almost right away. There was nothing more uplifting than releasing the hounds on a dwarf in olive-colored pajamas.
With that done, he looked at his agenda and saw nothing but the typical hodgepodge of crises. The day would be filled with “terrorists this” and “bank corruption that.” There was no easy “release the hounds” solution to any of this. The American people had become so polarized in their opinions that the best the President could hope for was to piss everyone off equally.
The last meeting of the day was with the ambassador from Iran. He stood in front of the President, shaking slightly – the memory of last month’s “hound release” incident was still fresh in his mind.
“Mr. President, I am to inform you that we will rain nuclear death down upon you as soon as our peaceful research is complete.” He wasn’t sure if he had translated that correctly. However, he spun and fled at the sight of the President’s hand sliding under the edge of the desk.
Later that evening, the President’s wife greeted him and said, “We saw Clash of the Titans today.”
“Oh? How was it?”
“Awful. It’s even worse than I thought,” she replied.
Word count 300
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Unwelcomed
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: shadow, bridge and flower
Unwelcomed
Destroying the bridge was their only defense.
It could be a long trip around your typical Martian crevasse. Hopefully help would arrive before It could either circumvent the mile-deep trench or find another way across. Commander Hillman estimated they had no more than five months. After that, he and the rest of the colonists would be gone – either rescued or dead.
It was going to be a close thing. Earth had been notified but help was not exactly around the corner. Evacuating the entire base had never been part of the blueprint. Ships had to be built. After that, it was a four-week journey.
“Hold on as best you can Commander. We will be on our way soon.”
No use arguing. The distance was what it was.
Hillman gathered the colonists to discuss the situation.
“The planet does not want us here.” He gestured to the huge cloud of dust in the distance; its eerie shadow covered most of the bio-dome. Everyone knew its source. “We are unarmed against an enemy of immense power. Rescue is coming but it will take months to get here.”
“Maybe we can negotiate a truce.” It was Sam Jackson, one of the botanists.
“How would we do that Sam? Should I just walk out of the dome and surrender to the first boulder I see?” He wanted to take that back as soon as he’d said it. They were all afraid. Sam was only trying to help.
The meeting ended and people zombied back to work. Hillman tried to be positive but had just too little hope to offer.
In his office, he looked at what started it all. Everything had been fine until this. In an enviro-case, was Sam Jackson’s biggest success – the first flower to grow out of Martian soil.
Word count 298
The prompts: This story must contain the words: shadow, bridge and flower
Unwelcomed
Destroying the bridge was their only defense.
It could be a long trip around your typical Martian crevasse. Hopefully help would arrive before It could either circumvent the mile-deep trench or find another way across. Commander Hillman estimated they had no more than five months. After that, he and the rest of the colonists would be gone – either rescued or dead.
It was going to be a close thing. Earth had been notified but help was not exactly around the corner. Evacuating the entire base had never been part of the blueprint. Ships had to be built. After that, it was a four-week journey.
“Hold on as best you can Commander. We will be on our way soon.”
No use arguing. The distance was what it was.
Hillman gathered the colonists to discuss the situation.
“The planet does not want us here.” He gestured to the huge cloud of dust in the distance; its eerie shadow covered most of the bio-dome. Everyone knew its source. “We are unarmed against an enemy of immense power. Rescue is coming but it will take months to get here.”
“Maybe we can negotiate a truce.” It was Sam Jackson, one of the botanists.
“How would we do that Sam? Should I just walk out of the dome and surrender to the first boulder I see?” He wanted to take that back as soon as he’d said it. They were all afraid. Sam was only trying to help.
The meeting ended and people zombied back to work. Hillman tried to be positive but had just too little hope to offer.
In his office, he looked at what started it all. Everything had been fine until this. In an enviro-case, was Sam Jackson’s biggest success – the first flower to grow out of Martian soil.
Word count 298
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Death of a Hero
This story was written for the Writing.com Inspirational Quote Contest. The quote that was to inspire the writers was "April comes in like a fool, spewing flowers everywhere."
Death of a Hero
My deathbed has been waiting for me since the day I was born, out there fixed in time and space. My random meanderings through life have served to change none of this. Every step and misstep, that I have taken faithfully brought me closer to that inevitable end.
When I finally get here, I find myself surprised.
Somehow, I thought it would be different.
I had imagined a hospital room with tubes and pumps keeping me alive until all hope is lost and the plug pulled. Me, a shriveled up old man eating my final meal of green Jell-O as family members stand around, some crying dutiful tears, others checking their watches wishing they were somewhere else. All very touching and appropriate.
Not like this. Not on the floor of a seven-eleven with my life's blood flowing towards the Cheetos display. With a thirty year shelf life, they are marked down to move quickly.
And where did all of these flowers come from. I can see them everywhere. The air is filled with their scent as they whirl around me.
There are other views from where I lay. Moving my head slightly, I can see old wads of gum stuck under a shelf. Years of effort. Each wad presented to me as a unique dental signature. They make a colorful montage of goo; every morsel a history untold; not so different from myself. No bard would sing about my valorous episodes as I float off in my flaming Viking funeral boat.
Not this time around anyway.
Looking directly overhead, I could see the bug equivalent of me. Little dots count the number that failed to heed the words "Don't go into the light!" Do bugs think about death?
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see people. There is the arm of the store clerk hanging over the counter. We would meet each other soon enough...talk about old times. "Remember the time in that store?" I would say. "Stop it, man. You're killing me," he says. Then we would both have a big laugh.
Interesting thought, I think.
A woman is down the aisle next to the motor oil. She seems to be crying hysterically. I know how she feels. You should never buy auto supplies in a convenience store.
Suddenly, there is Leon. He's leaning over me gently; giggling as he shakes my shoulders.
"Come on, Bobby. April Fools. That's right. April Fools. I get it. Let's go back to the park."
But, the flowers...they want to take me elsewhere.
It all started about three hours ago.
Chub sent me a text saying the guys were heading out to River Road that evening and it's my turn to get the booze. Not a problem. The college dude across the street was twenty-one. I give him the money and he buys the beer, less his cut of one six-pack.
A quick visit revealed the potential benefits of proper prior planning. You see if I had bothered to check, I would have seen that my connection's summer break had ended last August. It was now April.
Time for Plan B. I borrowed my dad's truck and headed down to the town square. I would try and hook up with one of those loser high school dropouts that seemed to hang around town waiting for their life to somehow take a turn for the better. Typically less reliable but worth the risk.
I got lucky right away. Steven Housman came by in his Camero. The girls at school thought he was hot. I could see through the car to the reality of his situation. A beer gut was already being formed on what was once a quarterback's frame. Those glory days were long gone.
Anyway, I gave Steve a twenty and he was off to get the beer. An eternity later, he comes cruising by, drinking what looks to be my Budweiser.
"Steve!" I yell out. "What's the deal?"
He comes back with "Don't you know what day it is, you idiot?"
"Tuesday?" I venture, not quite certain.
"It's April Fool's day. Thanks for the beer Fool!" He speeds away, tires squealing for that extra cool loser effect.
So I am now down to my last twenty dollars. No room for failure. No more playing the April Fool.
Then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. April Fool!
I would get Leon to buy for me. He had to be at least thirty.
Leon was a mentally handicapped guy that lived in a shelter by the church although he mostly hung out around the park. I had known him for years. I think I may be one of the few people in town that even knows his name. Most just look right through him not wanting to acknowledge that he is even there.
He was sort of simple in the head. Rumor had it that his dad hit him in the head with a board when he was three. I think maybe he was just born that way.
I started by walking the park perimeter. I finally spot him over in an open area behaving in his normal abnormal manner. From the curb, it looked like he was picking things up off of the ground.
As I got closer, he looked up and saw me, a big grin crossing his face.
"Bobby! Bobby! Boy, it's sure good to see you! Gosh, this has been such a great day!"
"What's up Leon?"
"Gosh, yes, Bobby. I have been picking flowers. Lots and lots of flowers. You know April showers bring flowers. Gosh, yes."
I didn't have the heart to tell him he got the saying a little wrong. But I had to ask about the flowers.
"Leon. I don't see any flowers."
"Sure you do Bobby. Here ya go!" and he handed me what appeared to be a big bouquet of air.
Before I could say a thing, he saw the confused look in my eyes and burst out laughing. "I got you, Bobby. Gosh, yes! I got you. April Fools!" He started to dance around clapping his hands.
I had to marvel at Leon. He didn't have a thing in the world to be thankful for and yet...he is probably one of the happiest people I know. It was as if his limited mental abilities didn't include an awareness of the realities that so many of us "normies" find to worry about.
At the tender age of seventeen, I felt that Leon was possibly the finest person I knew.
That made what I was about to do particularly distasteful.
"Leon. How would you like to do me a favor?"
"Gosh, yes, Bobby. I can do you a favor that is for sure."
"If I give you some money, will you buy me some beer?"
"If Bobby gives me some money, I will buy some beer. Gosh, yes. I can do that."
So we head off to the store. Leon is overjoyed at the idea of helping me out. He thinks I am the smartest person in town. All the while, I'm thinking that I cannot possibly sink any lower. I am committed to this path for now, but I silently vow to never to do this again. This would be a one-time event.
All the way to the store, Leon is pretending to pick flowers. He somehow knows the names of what he is collecting. This invisible one is a daffodil. There are some invisible daisies. He goes on and on all the way to the store. How he knew so many flower names is beyond me.
We finally get there and Leon is bursting at the seams. He has to pull his April Fool's joke on the first person he sees. Just then, a group of gangbangers come be-bopping out of the store. They were pushing and shoving each other as their pants hung down, well below their waists.
"April Showers bring flowers!" he says handing the nearest dude an invisible bunch of something. "April Fool's!" He yells out laughing and clapping his hands.
"Hey retard. You da April Fool. Now get outta my face." The banger is un-amused and gives Leon a rough shove.
Leon is temporarily confused. A hurt look crosses his face. He does not understand cruelty. Like I said, it's outside of his mental envelope.
What do I do while this is going on? I maintain your basic low profile. For the moment, I was not with the retard. Never saw him; didn't know him. I just walked by on into the store.
What a coward.
The event lasted a moment but it stuck to me like glue. My face was burning with shame. Here, I was asking him to do something illegal and he agrees without question. He trusts me. And now, he is accosted in front of the store and I simply let him take it.
It's now official. I hate myself.
Nowhere to go but up. My head fills with things I should have done or should have said but it is too late now. The bangers are gone. It's just me and the tube-o-chips I was pretending to inspect as Leon wandered back down the aisle towards me smiling broadly.
He had resumed his game of picking flowers. "This is a great store. There are flowers everywhere." He has forgotten all about the beer. He probably forgot about that moments after I mentioned it to him. He just came along because he wanted to be with me, his friend.
It would be so good to be the person Leon thinks I am, not the person I seem to have become.
Then it hits me. No more of this crap! Right there at that moment, I changed. There would be no beer; no party on River Road. No more taking advantage of my friend. No more standing by while bad things happen to good people. I simply did a moral about face.
It felt good. I felt good about me.
A moment later, the world went into slow motion.
I both saw and heard the gangbangers reenter the store. There were two of them. The big one had a gun.
Without so much as a "Hand over the money" he put four slugs into the clerk who bounced back into the slushy machine and then staggered forward with a look of complete surprise on his face. He finally fell forward across the counter.
"Sheeeet Bro! What the hell are you doing? We just wanted to rob the place and now you have gone and put us in jail for life. I am out of here!" the backup gangbanger had apparently elected to reevaluate his alliances and fled through the front door.
The heavy swung the gun around to take a shot at his fleeing ex-accomplice when his eyes fell on Leon.
"Well if it ain't the retard with the invisible flowers. I ain't never shot no retard before" and with that, he swung his gun up and fired twice.
Like I said; the whole thing was in slow motion. I could almost see the slugs as they ripped into the clerk. I knew before he said a thing, the smaller one would flee. I also knew in that instant, that the shooter was out for blood and Leon was a big target.
I moved before the gunman did. I threw myself against Leon; shoving him aside just in time.
I never felt a thing.
I saw the shooter turn and flee as the candy display flew past my vision. Peanut M&Ms; I love those things.
I hit the floor with a silent "whoosh" instead of the thud I had anticipated.
The flowers had cushioned my fall.
They were everywhere. All types of flowers. I could see and smell them.
The last thing I saw was Leon. He had the biggest bouquet I have ever seen.
"Come on, Bobby. Gosh, yes. Let's go! "
My bed and I had finally met. Gosh, Yes.
Death of a Hero
My deathbed has been waiting for me since the day I was born, out there fixed in time and space. My random meanderings through life have served to change none of this. Every step and misstep, that I have taken faithfully brought me closer to that inevitable end.
When I finally get here, I find myself surprised.
Somehow, I thought it would be different.
I had imagined a hospital room with tubes and pumps keeping me alive until all hope is lost and the plug pulled. Me, a shriveled up old man eating my final meal of green Jell-O as family members stand around, some crying dutiful tears, others checking their watches wishing they were somewhere else. All very touching and appropriate.
Not like this. Not on the floor of a seven-eleven with my life's blood flowing towards the Cheetos display. With a thirty year shelf life, they are marked down to move quickly.
And where did all of these flowers come from. I can see them everywhere. The air is filled with their scent as they whirl around me.
There are other views from where I lay. Moving my head slightly, I can see old wads of gum stuck under a shelf. Years of effort. Each wad presented to me as a unique dental signature. They make a colorful montage of goo; every morsel a history untold; not so different from myself. No bard would sing about my valorous episodes as I float off in my flaming Viking funeral boat.
Not this time around anyway.
Looking directly overhead, I could see the bug equivalent of me. Little dots count the number that failed to heed the words "Don't go into the light!" Do bugs think about death?
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see people. There is the arm of the store clerk hanging over the counter. We would meet each other soon enough...talk about old times. "Remember the time in that store?" I would say. "Stop it, man. You're killing me," he says. Then we would both have a big laugh.
Interesting thought, I think.
A woman is down the aisle next to the motor oil. She seems to be crying hysterically. I know how she feels. You should never buy auto supplies in a convenience store.
Suddenly, there is Leon. He's leaning over me gently; giggling as he shakes my shoulders.
"Come on, Bobby. April Fools. That's right. April Fools. I get it. Let's go back to the park."
But, the flowers...they want to take me elsewhere.
It all started about three hours ago.
Chub sent me a text saying the guys were heading out to River Road that evening and it's my turn to get the booze. Not a problem. The college dude across the street was twenty-one. I give him the money and he buys the beer, less his cut of one six-pack.
A quick visit revealed the potential benefits of proper prior planning. You see if I had bothered to check, I would have seen that my connection's summer break had ended last August. It was now April.
Time for Plan B. I borrowed my dad's truck and headed down to the town square. I would try and hook up with one of those loser high school dropouts that seemed to hang around town waiting for their life to somehow take a turn for the better. Typically less reliable but worth the risk.
I got lucky right away. Steven Housman came by in his Camero. The girls at school thought he was hot. I could see through the car to the reality of his situation. A beer gut was already being formed on what was once a quarterback's frame. Those glory days were long gone.
Anyway, I gave Steve a twenty and he was off to get the beer. An eternity later, he comes cruising by, drinking what looks to be my Budweiser.
"Steve!" I yell out. "What's the deal?"
He comes back with "Don't you know what day it is, you idiot?"
"Tuesday?" I venture, not quite certain.
"It's April Fool's day. Thanks for the beer Fool!" He speeds away, tires squealing for that extra cool loser effect.
So I am now down to my last twenty dollars. No room for failure. No more playing the April Fool.
Then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. April Fool!
I would get Leon to buy for me. He had to be at least thirty.
Leon was a mentally handicapped guy that lived in a shelter by the church although he mostly hung out around the park. I had known him for years. I think I may be one of the few people in town that even knows his name. Most just look right through him not wanting to acknowledge that he is even there.
He was sort of simple in the head. Rumor had it that his dad hit him in the head with a board when he was three. I think maybe he was just born that way.
I started by walking the park perimeter. I finally spot him over in an open area behaving in his normal abnormal manner. From the curb, it looked like he was picking things up off of the ground.
As I got closer, he looked up and saw me, a big grin crossing his face.
"Bobby! Bobby! Boy, it's sure good to see you! Gosh, this has been such a great day!"
"What's up Leon?"
"Gosh, yes, Bobby. I have been picking flowers. Lots and lots of flowers. You know April showers bring flowers. Gosh, yes."
I didn't have the heart to tell him he got the saying a little wrong. But I had to ask about the flowers.
"Leon. I don't see any flowers."
"Sure you do Bobby. Here ya go!" and he handed me what appeared to be a big bouquet of air.
Before I could say a thing, he saw the confused look in my eyes and burst out laughing. "I got you, Bobby. Gosh, yes! I got you. April Fools!" He started to dance around clapping his hands.
I had to marvel at Leon. He didn't have a thing in the world to be thankful for and yet...he is probably one of the happiest people I know. It was as if his limited mental abilities didn't include an awareness of the realities that so many of us "normies" find to worry about.
At the tender age of seventeen, I felt that Leon was possibly the finest person I knew.
That made what I was about to do particularly distasteful.
"Leon. How would you like to do me a favor?"
"Gosh, yes, Bobby. I can do you a favor that is for sure."
"If I give you some money, will you buy me some beer?"
"If Bobby gives me some money, I will buy some beer. Gosh, yes. I can do that."
So we head off to the store. Leon is overjoyed at the idea of helping me out. He thinks I am the smartest person in town. All the while, I'm thinking that I cannot possibly sink any lower. I am committed to this path for now, but I silently vow to never to do this again. This would be a one-time event.
All the way to the store, Leon is pretending to pick flowers. He somehow knows the names of what he is collecting. This invisible one is a daffodil. There are some invisible daisies. He goes on and on all the way to the store. How he knew so many flower names is beyond me.
We finally get there and Leon is bursting at the seams. He has to pull his April Fool's joke on the first person he sees. Just then, a group of gangbangers come be-bopping out of the store. They were pushing and shoving each other as their pants hung down, well below their waists.
"April Showers bring flowers!" he says handing the nearest dude an invisible bunch of something. "April Fool's!" He yells out laughing and clapping his hands.
"Hey retard. You da April Fool. Now get outta my face." The banger is un-amused and gives Leon a rough shove.
Leon is temporarily confused. A hurt look crosses his face. He does not understand cruelty. Like I said, it's outside of his mental envelope.
What do I do while this is going on? I maintain your basic low profile. For the moment, I was not with the retard. Never saw him; didn't know him. I just walked by on into the store.
What a coward.
The event lasted a moment but it stuck to me like glue. My face was burning with shame. Here, I was asking him to do something illegal and he agrees without question. He trusts me. And now, he is accosted in front of the store and I simply let him take it.
It's now official. I hate myself.
Nowhere to go but up. My head fills with things I should have done or should have said but it is too late now. The bangers are gone. It's just me and the tube-o-chips I was pretending to inspect as Leon wandered back down the aisle towards me smiling broadly.
He had resumed his game of picking flowers. "This is a great store. There are flowers everywhere." He has forgotten all about the beer. He probably forgot about that moments after I mentioned it to him. He just came along because he wanted to be with me, his friend.
It would be so good to be the person Leon thinks I am, not the person I seem to have become.
Then it hits me. No more of this crap! Right there at that moment, I changed. There would be no beer; no party on River Road. No more taking advantage of my friend. No more standing by while bad things happen to good people. I simply did a moral about face.
It felt good. I felt good about me.
A moment later, the world went into slow motion.
I both saw and heard the gangbangers reenter the store. There were two of them. The big one had a gun.
Without so much as a "Hand over the money" he put four slugs into the clerk who bounced back into the slushy machine and then staggered forward with a look of complete surprise on his face. He finally fell forward across the counter.
"Sheeeet Bro! What the hell are you doing? We just wanted to rob the place and now you have gone and put us in jail for life. I am out of here!" the backup gangbanger had apparently elected to reevaluate his alliances and fled through the front door.
The heavy swung the gun around to take a shot at his fleeing ex-accomplice when his eyes fell on Leon.
"Well if it ain't the retard with the invisible flowers. I ain't never shot no retard before" and with that, he swung his gun up and fired twice.
Like I said; the whole thing was in slow motion. I could almost see the slugs as they ripped into the clerk. I knew before he said a thing, the smaller one would flee. I also knew in that instant, that the shooter was out for blood and Leon was a big target.
I moved before the gunman did. I threw myself against Leon; shoving him aside just in time.
I never felt a thing.
I saw the shooter turn and flee as the candy display flew past my vision. Peanut M&Ms; I love those things.
I hit the floor with a silent "whoosh" instead of the thud I had anticipated.
The flowers had cushioned my fall.
They were everywhere. All types of flowers. I could see and smell them.
The last thing I saw was Leon. He had the biggest bouquet I have ever seen.
"Come on, Bobby. Gosh, yes. Let's go! "
My bed and I had finally met. Gosh, Yes.
Teamwork
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: sharp, lake and crimson
Teamwork
“Keep a sharp eye on ya, Lad. It’s the buffalo fish that she be attracted to. But in a pinch, a young boy like yerself will do just as well. This is no place for a tiny sprout to be hanging around.”
Crazy old potato, Patrick thought. I’ll show him.
Everyone knew of the old wives tale. The Lake Monster was just one of many such stories that had sprung up since The Great Upheaval. The problem was, some of them were true; in fact, many were.
Ever since the Genetic Wars had swept across the planet, nothing was as it had once been. Up was still up and two plus two still equaled four. But other than those, and a few other examples, things were different.
Patrick stood at the end of the pier, staring out at the red float bobbing only a hundred yards from the shore. No one knew why it was there. It just was. One day, no float and the next, well …
For months, there had been speculation. The most interesting theories had to do with the Lake Monster. Some said it was marking its territory. Others said it was trolling for people. So far there had been no takers – none curious enough to risk the swim.
Until Patrick.
He made it ten feet before disappearing amidst a frantic boiling of the lake’s surface. A crimson spot showed up on the surface a few moments later; almost as an afterthought to the event.
The lake sent out its thanks.
The old man never blinked. He sucked on his pipe hiding the euphoria that was sweeping through him. She fed and he felt the pleasure as it raced up the nearly invisible umbilical leading from the lake to where it was attached to his ankle.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: sharp, lake and crimson
Teamwork
“Keep a sharp eye on ya, Lad. It’s the buffalo fish that she be attracted to. But in a pinch, a young boy like yerself will do just as well. This is no place for a tiny sprout to be hanging around.”
Crazy old potato, Patrick thought. I’ll show him.
Everyone knew of the old wives tale. The Lake Monster was just one of many such stories that had sprung up since The Great Upheaval. The problem was, some of them were true; in fact, many were.
Ever since the Genetic Wars had swept across the planet, nothing was as it had once been. Up was still up and two plus two still equaled four. But other than those, and a few other examples, things were different.
Patrick stood at the end of the pier, staring out at the red float bobbing only a hundred yards from the shore. No one knew why it was there. It just was. One day, no float and the next, well …
For months, there had been speculation. The most interesting theories had to do with the Lake Monster. Some said it was marking its territory. Others said it was trolling for people. So far there had been no takers – none curious enough to risk the swim.
Until Patrick.
He made it ten feet before disappearing amidst a frantic boiling of the lake’s surface. A crimson spot showed up on the surface a few moments later; almost as an afterthought to the event.
The lake sent out its thanks.
The old man never blinked. He sucked on his pipe hiding the euphoria that was sweeping through him. She fed and he felt the pleasure as it raced up the nearly invisible umbilical leading from the lake to where it was attached to his ankle.
Word count 300
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Hope
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: code, scream and tent
Hope
The town was empty as expected.
The drone floated down the street. Its sensors looking for sounds, heat or unnatural movement; any evidence that life had returned to normal.
It was looking for hope.
In the early days after the Great Upheaval, this is what we did.
The bio-habitats were filled with wanna-be prophets. They preached that breaking the genetic code had opened Pandora’s Box. Genetic engineering had become “The Devil’s Tool”.
“God is punishing us.” That’s what they said.
Looking back, I’d have to reluctantly agree with them. Sure, we found new cures and extended lives and all that good stuff. But in the end, we killed ourselves. We were like children with loaded weapons. We playfully pointed our genetic manipulations at each other and then pulled the trigger – so to speak.
The drone whipped quickly to the right. It had sensed a motion somewhere deep inside the giant warehouse store.
Hope…
The building had several large portions of its front torn down. The gene-ogres never used a door when tearing down a wall would do just as well. Their violent nature was mankind’s best hope. Maybe they would kill each other off.
Not much of a strategy; hoping the enemy would self destruct. But we could hope.
The drone floated into the building. It was dark but not perfectly so. Images were sent back to the controllers who saw isle after isle of destruction. No one was surprised.
The drone picked up a heat signature and tracked it to a tent in the sporting goods department. Maybe they would find someone here not infected.
Hope…
A scream, a flash of a horribly disfigured face and a view of a swinging hammer ended the mission abruptly.
They would try again tomorrow. They had to. It was their only hope.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: code, scream and tent
Hope
The town was empty as expected.
The drone floated down the street. Its sensors looking for sounds, heat or unnatural movement; any evidence that life had returned to normal.
It was looking for hope.
In the early days after the Great Upheaval, this is what we did.
The bio-habitats were filled with wanna-be prophets. They preached that breaking the genetic code had opened Pandora’s Box. Genetic engineering had become “The Devil’s Tool”.
“God is punishing us.” That’s what they said.
Looking back, I’d have to reluctantly agree with them. Sure, we found new cures and extended lives and all that good stuff. But in the end, we killed ourselves. We were like children with loaded weapons. We playfully pointed our genetic manipulations at each other and then pulled the trigger – so to speak.
The drone whipped quickly to the right. It had sensed a motion somewhere deep inside the giant warehouse store.
Hope…
The building had several large portions of its front torn down. The gene-ogres never used a door when tearing down a wall would do just as well. Their violent nature was mankind’s best hope. Maybe they would kill each other off.
Not much of a strategy; hoping the enemy would self destruct. But we could hope.
The drone floated into the building. It was dark but not perfectly so. Images were sent back to the controllers who saw isle after isle of destruction. No one was surprised.
The drone picked up a heat signature and tracked it to a tent in the sporting goods department. Maybe they would find someone here not infected.
Hope…
A scream, a flash of a horribly disfigured face and a view of a swinging hammer ended the mission abruptly.
They would try again tomorrow. They had to. It was their only hope.
Word count 300
Friday, November 26, 2010
The Choice
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: whistle, glass and cheap
The Choice
He walked into the Tavern like he owned the place.
Heads turned and then quickly looked away as everyone suddenly regained interest in something other than the muscle-bound eye patch that just sat at the bar.
Things would change as the night grew long. For now, the men needed some alone time. The place was crowded with isolation. Cheap whiskey served in dirty glasses was all the companionship they needed. It was a life worse than death. Some, a few really, chose death rather than face another shift in the mines. Most would drink, sleep and then shuffle back to work, starting the cycle anew. Such was life in the prison mines on the dark side of the moon.
He waited, drinking only water.
Eventually, a few thought they would have a go at the stranger.
He looked at them with contempt before finally saying, “Sit down.”
There was something about the way he said it that cleared their foggy minds. Two sat, while the third ran to notify the warden.
A few minutes later, a shotgun preceded the warden into the bar. He walked up to the stranger and placed the barrel under the big man’s chin, setting the stage for his interview.
“Who are you? You’re not one of my convicts. Are you a tourist?”
“Nope. Bounty Hunter.”
The warden let out a big laugh. “What’s a bounty hunter doing at a prison? Everyone here has already been caught.”
“I’m not here for them,” he said, nodding towards the now-rapt audience.
“Then who are you here for?” the sheriff said as he pulled back the trigger.
“I’m here for you. It’s time for you to choose.”
The next morning, the whistle sent men into the mines. The warden was not amongst them. He chose the path less traveled.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: whistle, glass and cheap
The Choice
He walked into the Tavern like he owned the place.
Heads turned and then quickly looked away as everyone suddenly regained interest in something other than the muscle-bound eye patch that just sat at the bar.
Things would change as the night grew long. For now, the men needed some alone time. The place was crowded with isolation. Cheap whiskey served in dirty glasses was all the companionship they needed. It was a life worse than death. Some, a few really, chose death rather than face another shift in the mines. Most would drink, sleep and then shuffle back to work, starting the cycle anew. Such was life in the prison mines on the dark side of the moon.
He waited, drinking only water.
Eventually, a few thought they would have a go at the stranger.
He looked at them with contempt before finally saying, “Sit down.”
There was something about the way he said it that cleared their foggy minds. Two sat, while the third ran to notify the warden.
A few minutes later, a shotgun preceded the warden into the bar. He walked up to the stranger and placed the barrel under the big man’s chin, setting the stage for his interview.
“Who are you? You’re not one of my convicts. Are you a tourist?”
“Nope. Bounty Hunter.”
The warden let out a big laugh. “What’s a bounty hunter doing at a prison? Everyone here has already been caught.”
“I’m not here for them,” he said, nodding towards the now-rapt audience.
“Then who are you here for?” the sheriff said as he pulled back the trigger.
“I’m here for you. It’s time for you to choose.”
The next morning, the whistle sent men into the mines. The warden was not amongst them. He chose the path less traveled.
Word count 300
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The Do-Over
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: crossroads, flag and bright
The Do-over
Kevin didn’t exactly recognize it as a crossroads moment until his mind translated things into the easier-to-understand choice between door number one and door number two.
On the one hand, there was a life sculpted from an education that fell about four years shy of a high school diploma. On the other hand was a life of wealth, women and the occasional hot pursuit.
Done deal.
Sure, the guns, gambling and gratuitous violence had sent up a red flag or two. But on the whole, it beat pushing a mop around for eight hours a day.
That had been more than two weeks ago.
Now, leaning against the wall behind a rundown warehouse, Kevin wished for a do-over – a chance to make a different choice. Nothing had turned out quite as expected. The bleeding, for example, was a bit of a surprise. He had never seen so much blood.
His vision tunneled as he wondered how much blood he could afford to lose before…
“About four pints.”
Two thoughts crossed Kevin’s mind as he stood and brushed himself off. First of all, where was this Mr. Know-it-all and secondly, how much blood was in a pint.
“I’m right here Kevin.”
There was no attempt at a disguise. The horned creature had Kevin pegged as an easy mark.
“Not to worry boy. I can have you up and on your feet in no time.” The beast explained his point with a gesture to the right.
Kevin followed the pointing finger, only to find himself lying lifeless against the building. He had a bad feeling about this. The Beast would want something in return.
“Do I have a choice?”
As if on command, door number two opened up a few feet away. A do-over; a different choice! Kevin walked into the bright light.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: crossroads, flag and bright
The Do-over
Kevin didn’t exactly recognize it as a crossroads moment until his mind translated things into the easier-to-understand choice between door number one and door number two.
On the one hand, there was a life sculpted from an education that fell about four years shy of a high school diploma. On the other hand was a life of wealth, women and the occasional hot pursuit.
Done deal.
Sure, the guns, gambling and gratuitous violence had sent up a red flag or two. But on the whole, it beat pushing a mop around for eight hours a day.
That had been more than two weeks ago.
Now, leaning against the wall behind a rundown warehouse, Kevin wished for a do-over – a chance to make a different choice. Nothing had turned out quite as expected. The bleeding, for example, was a bit of a surprise. He had never seen so much blood.
His vision tunneled as he wondered how much blood he could afford to lose before…
“About four pints.”
Two thoughts crossed Kevin’s mind as he stood and brushed himself off. First of all, where was this Mr. Know-it-all and secondly, how much blood was in a pint.
“I’m right here Kevin.”
There was no attempt at a disguise. The horned creature had Kevin pegged as an easy mark.
“Not to worry boy. I can have you up and on your feet in no time.” The beast explained his point with a gesture to the right.
Kevin followed the pointing finger, only to find himself lying lifeless against the building. He had a bad feeling about this. The Beast would want something in return.
“Do I have a choice?”
As if on command, door number two opened up a few feet away. A do-over; a different choice! Kevin walked into the bright light.
Word count 300
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Morning Quandry
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: ladder, hourglass and fog
Morning Quandry
Donald considered sneaking quietly out of the house. Fortunately, the fog in his head cleared briefly; allowing him to recognize where he was- home. Departing the scene would only prolong the situation.
Fighting off panic, he searched for Plan B.
For the moment, he lay perfectly still lest he wake the beast snoring happily next to him. Using only his peripheral vision, he tried to scan the room for a solution. What would MacGyver do? Maybe he could set fire to something. In the ensuing commotion, she could be coaxed out of the house and somehow fed into a waiting taxi; its driver bribed into amnesia with regards to the originating address.
He quickly nixed that idea. The last thing he needed was for the entire neighborhood to watch as a fireman carried what appeared to be a large manatee down the ladder. Donald had his reputation to think about.
How could this have happened? he thought. Sure he had been drinking heavily but he was certain that he would have remembered picking up a girl with her own gravity well. There was a vague memory of drinking with an hourglass figure earlier in the evening. Maybe they pulled the old bait-and-switch and he’d ended up with the wingman.
An intimidating burst of flatulence made the sheets billow like a mainsail in a typhoon. She would be waking soon and then there would be no escaping. He had to act now.
Donald rolled to his left only to have her follow suit. She drowsily threw a beefy arm across his body.
Just great, he thought. I’m being spooned by Mount Everest.
Just then, he spied salvation right in front of him. It was time to take the twelve ounce solution. He reached out for the half-full bottle of Jack Daniels.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: ladder, hourglass and fog
Morning Quandry
Donald considered sneaking quietly out of the house. Fortunately, the fog in his head cleared briefly; allowing him to recognize where he was- home. Departing the scene would only prolong the situation.
Fighting off panic, he searched for Plan B.
For the moment, he lay perfectly still lest he wake the beast snoring happily next to him. Using only his peripheral vision, he tried to scan the room for a solution. What would MacGyver do? Maybe he could set fire to something. In the ensuing commotion, she could be coaxed out of the house and somehow fed into a waiting taxi; its driver bribed into amnesia with regards to the originating address.
He quickly nixed that idea. The last thing he needed was for the entire neighborhood to watch as a fireman carried what appeared to be a large manatee down the ladder. Donald had his reputation to think about.
How could this have happened? he thought. Sure he had been drinking heavily but he was certain that he would have remembered picking up a girl with her own gravity well. There was a vague memory of drinking with an hourglass figure earlier in the evening. Maybe they pulled the old bait-and-switch and he’d ended up with the wingman.
An intimidating burst of flatulence made the sheets billow like a mainsail in a typhoon. She would be waking soon and then there would be no escaping. He had to act now.
Donald rolled to his left only to have her follow suit. She drowsily threw a beefy arm across his body.
Just great, he thought. I’m being spooned by Mount Everest.
Just then, he spied salvation right in front of him. It was time to take the twelve ounce solution. He reached out for the half-full bottle of Jack Daniels.
Word count 300
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
A Mother's Wrath
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: forest, bowl and egg
A Mother's Wrath
She circled frantically
Tanager watched proudly as the baby dragon gently licked the bowl clean. He was like a proud papa; watching as his little one tries solid food for the first time.
“Won’t be long now, little one. You’ll be wanting something a little more – substantial.”
The dragon-pup, wagged its tail excitedly. Like all dragons, it was extremely intuitive. It could sense the anticipation of its adopted master. However, it had no point of reference to tell it that his master was up to no good.
After checking to make sure the chain was secure around the animal’s neck, Tanager wiped his filthy hands on his shirt and headed off into the forest. He’d need some small game to feed the dragon-pup. It was time to get it accustomed to eating red meat. If all went well, that particular taste would be satisfied to the extreme.
Swooping. Seeking.
As Tanager wondered through the trees, he imagined what it would be like to watch as the villagers fled before the beast. The Dragon would swoop down over and over again; carrying them off one bite at a time. They would regret that they had ever cast Tanager out into the wild.
It wasn’t his fault that the drink had taken him. The girl had been willing. What happened was an accident. He never meant to harm anyone.
But no -they needed someone to punish and the finger of the law pointed squarely at him.
Now they would pay.
By chance, he came upon the very nest where he’d found the eggs months earlier. He’d taken one without a second thought; certainly, one egg would not be missed.
There! Him!
She plucked him off the ground before he could even scream. The dragoness would take her time with this one.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: forest, bowl and egg
A Mother's Wrath
She circled frantically
Tanager watched proudly as the baby dragon gently licked the bowl clean. He was like a proud papa; watching as his little one tries solid food for the first time.
“Won’t be long now, little one. You’ll be wanting something a little more – substantial.”
The dragon-pup, wagged its tail excitedly. Like all dragons, it was extremely intuitive. It could sense the anticipation of its adopted master. However, it had no point of reference to tell it that his master was up to no good.
After checking to make sure the chain was secure around the animal’s neck, Tanager wiped his filthy hands on his shirt and headed off into the forest. He’d need some small game to feed the dragon-pup. It was time to get it accustomed to eating red meat. If all went well, that particular taste would be satisfied to the extreme.
Swooping. Seeking.
As Tanager wondered through the trees, he imagined what it would be like to watch as the villagers fled before the beast. The Dragon would swoop down over and over again; carrying them off one bite at a time. They would regret that they had ever cast Tanager out into the wild.
It wasn’t his fault that the drink had taken him. The girl had been willing. What happened was an accident. He never meant to harm anyone.
But no -they needed someone to punish and the finger of the law pointed squarely at him.
Now they would pay.
By chance, he came upon the very nest where he’d found the eggs months earlier. He’d taken one without a second thought; certainly, one egg would not be missed.
There! Him!
She plucked him off the ground before he could even scream. The dragoness would take her time with this one.
Word count 300
Monday, November 22, 2010
The Centipedian Incident
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the line: "It was the worst experience of my life."
The Centipedian Incident
“It’s all in my report, Sir.
At the time, I remember thinking that it was the worst experience of my life. Who wouldn’t? The Centipedians invaded with such ferocity that all I could do was blow out the giant cargo door. Luckily, they are no more immune to space vacuum than us.
It was as if the entire thing took place in slow motion. We were cruising along on our way to deliver supplies to Outpost Theta-Four when they began to beam aboard. They looked like giant green worms with blasters. The slaughter began almost immediately.
I was on the command bridge at the time. The captain was there and was probably the very first one they shot. He never even had a chance to get out of his chair.
I got lucky. While they targeting the command crew, I sneaked over to the weapons locker. Staying low, I loaded myself down with enough weapons and armor to outfit an entire squad.
You should have seen their faces when I popped up from behind the navigation console. If you have never seen a surprised worm, you are missing something special. They hesitated for a nanosecond, giving me the time I needed.
Lucky for me, they’re easy to kill. My blaster was opening them up like a hot knife through butter. I began to think we had a chance. At the time, I still though there was a “we”. Turns out there was just me. After a few minutes, it got real quiet. I thought it was all over.
Then the second wave hit.
I did the only thing I could. I blew the blast door and threw myself into a life-pod.
Now that I look back on it – I’m certain that was the worst experience of my life.”
Word count 298
The prompts: This story must contain the line: "It was the worst experience of my life."
The Centipedian Incident
“It’s all in my report, Sir.
At the time, I remember thinking that it was the worst experience of my life. Who wouldn’t? The Centipedians invaded with such ferocity that all I could do was blow out the giant cargo door. Luckily, they are no more immune to space vacuum than us.
It was as if the entire thing took place in slow motion. We were cruising along on our way to deliver supplies to Outpost Theta-Four when they began to beam aboard. They looked like giant green worms with blasters. The slaughter began almost immediately.
I was on the command bridge at the time. The captain was there and was probably the very first one they shot. He never even had a chance to get out of his chair.
I got lucky. While they targeting the command crew, I sneaked over to the weapons locker. Staying low, I loaded myself down with enough weapons and armor to outfit an entire squad.
You should have seen their faces when I popped up from behind the navigation console. If you have never seen a surprised worm, you are missing something special. They hesitated for a nanosecond, giving me the time I needed.
Lucky for me, they’re easy to kill. My blaster was opening them up like a hot knife through butter. I began to think we had a chance. At the time, I still though there was a “we”. Turns out there was just me. After a few minutes, it got real quiet. I thought it was all over.
Then the second wave hit.
I did the only thing I could. I blew the blast door and threw myself into a life-pod.
Now that I look back on it – I’m certain that was the worst experience of my life.”
Word count 298
Sunday, November 21, 2010
The End of Night
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: escape, dawn and gift
The End of Night
The moonlight had been a gift; enabling David to cover several miles since his escape. Soon, he would find out if it had been enough. Dawn was coming and with it would come the hunt. The Others owned the day. That was the law. Any human found out while the sun was above the horizon was fair game.
And so it had been for almost thirty years.
No one argued the wisdom of The Truce. After decades of war, it was clear that both species were on the eve of mutual destruction. They had to choose between living and dying. Whichever they chose, they would go through together.
Now man was a creature of the night. In the darkness, he was safe. It formed an impenetrable boundary to The Others. No one understood how a star faring species could not figure out a way to see through the darkness. Thank goodness that had been the case. Otherwise, genocide would have come quickly to Earth’s once dominant king of the food chain.
David stayed in the shadows as best he could. Still he had to take some chances. There was no time to worry about what they would do if they caught him. Failure was not an option. The secrets he had seen must be passed on, even if it cost him his life.
Mankind needed to be ready for the time was near. The Others would gather at dusk and wait for an unsuspecting enemy to emerge into the night.
David had seen their research facilities. Breakthroughs had resulted in the technology they needed to take the fight into the night. The production lines were producing tubes and filaments in vast quantities.
Man needed to know. The Others were coming and they would bring the end of night with them.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: escape, dawn and gift
The End of Night
The moonlight had been a gift; enabling David to cover several miles since his escape. Soon, he would find out if it had been enough. Dawn was coming and with it would come the hunt. The Others owned the day. That was the law. Any human found out while the sun was above the horizon was fair game.
And so it had been for almost thirty years.
No one argued the wisdom of The Truce. After decades of war, it was clear that both species were on the eve of mutual destruction. They had to choose between living and dying. Whichever they chose, they would go through together.
Now man was a creature of the night. In the darkness, he was safe. It formed an impenetrable boundary to The Others. No one understood how a star faring species could not figure out a way to see through the darkness. Thank goodness that had been the case. Otherwise, genocide would have come quickly to Earth’s once dominant king of the food chain.
David stayed in the shadows as best he could. Still he had to take some chances. There was no time to worry about what they would do if they caught him. Failure was not an option. The secrets he had seen must be passed on, even if it cost him his life.
Mankind needed to be ready for the time was near. The Others would gather at dusk and wait for an unsuspecting enemy to emerge into the night.
David had seen their research facilities. Breakthroughs had resulted in the technology they needed to take the fight into the night. The production lines were producing tubes and filaments in vast quantities.
Man needed to know. The Others were coming and they would bring the end of night with them.
Word count 300
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Bait
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: point, easy and gone
Bait
Scott walked out of the bar to find his car gone – no big surprise. After all, this wasn’t exactly the best neighborhood to leave your unlocked car outside with the keys in the ignition.
That was easy, he thought.
With no apparent concern, he headed off to his “other” car. It was only a few blocks away and besides, he had plenty of time. Even the best chop-shops needed a couple of hours to a-la-carte a vehicle.
He would meet them there; wherever that turned out to be. But first, he needed his car; the one that didn’t have a coke addict in the driver’s seat heading for a quick payday.
Night was coming and Scott soon found himself walking in shadows, still ten minutes from where his car was parked. He didn’t care. Just let someone try something funny. They would find out what it would mean to attack a man with nothing to lose.
In his suit, he was a tempting target. More than one scrum of corner dealers gave him a quick, appraising glance. There were no takers. There was something about the guy. Something only a seasoned “street eye” could see. He wasn’t a cop but he wasn’t afraid either. Best to let this one just walk on by.
Good call.
A geo-locator told him where his ex-car had landed. He wondered if this was the one where they had taken his car years ago; right after the carjacker killed his wife.
It didn’t really matter, so long as someone continued to pay.
Casually, he popped his car’s trunk and pulled out what he referred to as his point-and-shoot automatic door opener.
The RPG opened up the front of the strip shop like a can of sardines.
Heavily armed, Scott walked into the smoke.
Word count 299
The prompts: This story must contain the words: point, easy and gone
Bait
Scott walked out of the bar to find his car gone – no big surprise. After all, this wasn’t exactly the best neighborhood to leave your unlocked car outside with the keys in the ignition.
That was easy, he thought.
With no apparent concern, he headed off to his “other” car. It was only a few blocks away and besides, he had plenty of time. Even the best chop-shops needed a couple of hours to a-la-carte a vehicle.
He would meet them there; wherever that turned out to be. But first, he needed his car; the one that didn’t have a coke addict in the driver’s seat heading for a quick payday.
Night was coming and Scott soon found himself walking in shadows, still ten minutes from where his car was parked. He didn’t care. Just let someone try something funny. They would find out what it would mean to attack a man with nothing to lose.
In his suit, he was a tempting target. More than one scrum of corner dealers gave him a quick, appraising glance. There were no takers. There was something about the guy. Something only a seasoned “street eye” could see. He wasn’t a cop but he wasn’t afraid either. Best to let this one just walk on by.
Good call.
A geo-locator told him where his ex-car had landed. He wondered if this was the one where they had taken his car years ago; right after the carjacker killed his wife.
It didn’t really matter, so long as someone continued to pay.
Casually, he popped his car’s trunk and pulled out what he referred to as his point-and-shoot automatic door opener.
The RPG opened up the front of the strip shop like a can of sardines.
Heavily armed, Scott walked into the smoke.
Word count 299
Friday, November 19, 2010
Stranded
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: message, broken, drop
Stranded
Well that’s the end of that, Tangeron thought to himself.
In his hands were the fried remains of his backup de-randomizer chipset. Its broken predecessor was still warm from its own demise only hours earlier. Without at least one of these chips, his vessel’s probability drive would slowly begin to choose more and more unlikely outcomes. His ship’s Artificial Intelligence would become increasingly confused. It would only be a matter of time before he would find himself trying to re-assimilate inside of a star or some other equally uninviting location.
Quickly, he set about sending out a distress signal. Once his ship realized it was going insane, it would automatically drop out of Null-Space. Any message sent after that would be subject to light speed limitations. It would take forever for anyone to find him then.
The tingling sensation in his head told him he was too late. He’d phase-shifted into real time before he could call for help.
“Ship, where are we?” he thought.
“Assessing…” the ship thought back.
Tangeron could physically feel the numerous gravity wells. That was good news. It meant he was probably in a star system. If that were true, he may find locals able to lend him a hand.
Soon, the ship thought, “Location is determined to be a minor, unnamed spiral galaxy. The nearest likely source of assistance is located next to a yellow dwarf star approximately thirty light minutes distant from our present location.”
He sent a distress thought out to the local solar system. There was no answer.
“What’s the local sentience level?”
“Three”
That’s just great, Tangeron thought. Fossil fuel barbarians at best.
“Ship, what is the most likely means of successful communication?”
“Radio waves.”
“Send a message using radio waves; whatever those are. Let’s hope someone’s listening.”
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: message, broken, drop
Stranded
Well that’s the end of that, Tangeron thought to himself.
In his hands were the fried remains of his backup de-randomizer chipset. Its broken predecessor was still warm from its own demise only hours earlier. Without at least one of these chips, his vessel’s probability drive would slowly begin to choose more and more unlikely outcomes. His ship’s Artificial Intelligence would become increasingly confused. It would only be a matter of time before he would find himself trying to re-assimilate inside of a star or some other equally uninviting location.
Quickly, he set about sending out a distress signal. Once his ship realized it was going insane, it would automatically drop out of Null-Space. Any message sent after that would be subject to light speed limitations. It would take forever for anyone to find him then.
The tingling sensation in his head told him he was too late. He’d phase-shifted into real time before he could call for help.
“Ship, where are we?” he thought.
“Assessing…” the ship thought back.
Tangeron could physically feel the numerous gravity wells. That was good news. It meant he was probably in a star system. If that were true, he may find locals able to lend him a hand.
Soon, the ship thought, “Location is determined to be a minor, unnamed spiral galaxy. The nearest likely source of assistance is located next to a yellow dwarf star approximately thirty light minutes distant from our present location.”
He sent a distress thought out to the local solar system. There was no answer.
“What’s the local sentience level?”
“Three”
That’s just great, Tangeron thought. Fossil fuel barbarians at best.
“Ship, what is the most likely means of successful communication?”
“Radio waves.”
“Send a message using radio waves; whatever those are. Let’s hope someone’s listening.”
Word count 300
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Beckoned
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the line, "We're going to be late again."
Beckoned
Bobby focused on the ground and picked up the pace.
Don’t look up. Just keep going. Just keep going, he repeated over and over again to himself.
He didn’t hear his sister calling for him to slow down. He didn’t notice his breath start to quicken as The Fear began to grow in his chest. He didn’t notice the rain beginning to fall or the sudden blustery gusts blowing head on, as if trying to slow him down.
Don’t look up. Just keep going…
Bobby could only see the sidewalk in front of him. It was just him, the cement and the lines.
It wouldn’t be long now; less than a hundred yards to go.
The slabs of the sidewalk begin to age; each one more cracked than the one before. Weeds were starting to sprout through the cracks and in some places, the slabs had been lifted slightly.
Don’t look up…
The wind was blowing hard now. He could barely walk. He could hear the wooden gate banging against the fence. The wind – it was howling. It was too much.
Bobby stopped and looked up.
There was the old Henson place. It’d been abandoned for so long, that most people didn’t even notice it any more.
That was before something strange and unseen had moved in.
Now it called to Bobby. He could feel it; almost hear it. The house and whatever was in there wanted him. Every morning on the way to school, he had found himself stopped in front of the old place. He wanted to go in. He needed to go in. He couldn’t help himself.
“We’re going to be late again.”
His final words to his sister, “Run Susie. Run!”
The house called out to him again. Helpless, Bobby stumbled up towards the front door.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the line, "We're going to be late again."
Beckoned
Bobby focused on the ground and picked up the pace.
Don’t look up. Just keep going. Just keep going, he repeated over and over again to himself.
He didn’t hear his sister calling for him to slow down. He didn’t notice his breath start to quicken as The Fear began to grow in his chest. He didn’t notice the rain beginning to fall or the sudden blustery gusts blowing head on, as if trying to slow him down.
Don’t look up. Just keep going…
Bobby could only see the sidewalk in front of him. It was just him, the cement and the lines.
It wouldn’t be long now; less than a hundred yards to go.
The slabs of the sidewalk begin to age; each one more cracked than the one before. Weeds were starting to sprout through the cracks and in some places, the slabs had been lifted slightly.
Don’t look up…
The wind was blowing hard now. He could barely walk. He could hear the wooden gate banging against the fence. The wind – it was howling. It was too much.
Bobby stopped and looked up.
There was the old Henson place. It’d been abandoned for so long, that most people didn’t even notice it any more.
That was before something strange and unseen had moved in.
Now it called to Bobby. He could feel it; almost hear it. The house and whatever was in there wanted him. Every morning on the way to school, he had found himself stopped in front of the old place. He wanted to go in. He needed to go in. He couldn’t help himself.
“We’re going to be late again.”
His final words to his sister, “Run Susie. Run!”
The house called out to him again. Helpless, Bobby stumbled up towards the front door.
Word count 300
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Trail Dust to Dust
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: diamond, trail, bone
Trail Dust to Dust
Sam let his finger trace the brand on the horse’s flank.
A double diamond.
This just got real interesting, he thought to himself. His horse, still wearing his saddle, was tied to the hitching post. There was no attempt to hide any of it. Sam guessed that was to be expected. He was dead, after all. At least that’s what they thought.
That had been a mistake for which they would pay with their lives.
He dusted off most the trail that he’d collected on his clothes over the last three weeks. He had a bone to pick with some would-be murdering thieves. First he would need to scout the situation. They’d have him outnumbered. Plus, he was unarmed.
He found them inside the saloon. They were sitting at a table; cheating at cards.
Sam leaned against the bar and considered his options. He would need a gun. He couldn’t take on three armed men without one. He would also have to confront them; get them to start it. Otherwise, the sheriff might see him as the instigator. There was also the…
A commotion broke out at the card table. One of his “targets” stood up and tossed the table aside. Another one, dove to his left and came up shooting. The one standing teetered for a moment before collapsing in a bloody heap.
It happened so fast; all Sam could do was watch.
One down, two more to go, he thought. Somehow he felt a little cheated. Left to their own devices, they would apparently just kill themselves off. What fun was that?
Just then, the bloody heap stood up and walked over to the bar. He glanced over at Sam and said, “Hey, ain’t you the guy we kilt out there on the trail a few weeks back?”
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: diamond, trail, bone
Trail Dust to Dust
Sam let his finger trace the brand on the horse’s flank.
A double diamond.
This just got real interesting, he thought to himself. His horse, still wearing his saddle, was tied to the hitching post. There was no attempt to hide any of it. Sam guessed that was to be expected. He was dead, after all. At least that’s what they thought.
That had been a mistake for which they would pay with their lives.
He dusted off most the trail that he’d collected on his clothes over the last three weeks. He had a bone to pick with some would-be murdering thieves. First he would need to scout the situation. They’d have him outnumbered. Plus, he was unarmed.
He found them inside the saloon. They were sitting at a table; cheating at cards.
Sam leaned against the bar and considered his options. He would need a gun. He couldn’t take on three armed men without one. He would also have to confront them; get them to start it. Otherwise, the sheriff might see him as the instigator. There was also the…
A commotion broke out at the card table. One of his “targets” stood up and tossed the table aside. Another one, dove to his left and came up shooting. The one standing teetered for a moment before collapsing in a bloody heap.
It happened so fast; all Sam could do was watch.
One down, two more to go, he thought. Somehow he felt a little cheated. Left to their own devices, they would apparently just kill themselves off. What fun was that?
Just then, the bloody heap stood up and walked over to the bar. He glanced over at Sam and said, “Hey, ain’t you the guy we kilt out there on the trail a few weeks back?”
Word count 300
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Border Breached
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: nightmare, circle and unseen
Border Breached
Dr. Benjamin slid the viewing panel shut and turned to his group. “As you can see, Doctor Szokoly has lost all contact with the rational world. The renowned physicist claims that the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland has breached the quantum membrane; whatever that is. He says that we are under attack by unseen forces. ”
Dr. Adam Szokoly hunched in the corner of his padded cell. He could see them peeking in at him. When the panel on the door slid shut, he went to work. There wasn’t much time.
“Isn’t he the guy that tried to blow up the collider?”
The administrator turned to his audience of fat wallets in search of good causes. “The very same. At the time, he claimed he was trying to close the border between us and the nightmare world of magic and witchcraft.”
“So he actually believes in magic? Isn’t that odd for a man that dedicated most of his life to the pursuit of truth through scientific discovery?”
Adam didn’t have anything sharp to cut himself with so he used his teeth. Once he had a nice flow of blood, he stood in the center of his cell and turned slowly. As long as he stayed within the circle of blood, he would be safe.
“Yes, that’s what makes this case…”
A commotion down the hall caught everyone’s attention. People running towards the tour group were brought down from behind by large gorilla type creatures. Just beyond that, the building lost focus. Nothing made sense. The stunned group could only watch as the edge of reality charged towards them, consuming everything in its path.
As quickly as it happened, the world reset itself. Adam stepped out of his circle wondering if there was an Eve for him out there somewhere.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: nightmare, circle and unseen
Border Breached
Dr. Benjamin slid the viewing panel shut and turned to his group. “As you can see, Doctor Szokoly has lost all contact with the rational world. The renowned physicist claims that the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland has breached the quantum membrane; whatever that is. He says that we are under attack by unseen forces. ”
Dr. Adam Szokoly hunched in the corner of his padded cell. He could see them peeking in at him. When the panel on the door slid shut, he went to work. There wasn’t much time.
“Isn’t he the guy that tried to blow up the collider?”
The administrator turned to his audience of fat wallets in search of good causes. “The very same. At the time, he claimed he was trying to close the border between us and the nightmare world of magic and witchcraft.”
“So he actually believes in magic? Isn’t that odd for a man that dedicated most of his life to the pursuit of truth through scientific discovery?”
Adam didn’t have anything sharp to cut himself with so he used his teeth. Once he had a nice flow of blood, he stood in the center of his cell and turned slowly. As long as he stayed within the circle of blood, he would be safe.
“Yes, that’s what makes this case…”
A commotion down the hall caught everyone’s attention. People running towards the tour group were brought down from behind by large gorilla type creatures. Just beyond that, the building lost focus. Nothing made sense. The stunned group could only watch as the edge of reality charged towards them, consuming everything in its path.
As quickly as it happened, the world reset itself. Adam stepped out of his circle wondering if there was an Eve for him out there somewhere.
Word count 300
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Mechanic
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: inheritance, alarm and shake
The Mechanic
He didn’t look up when the alarm went off.
If it was an intruder, the dogs would handle it. Otherwise, let them wait. Balancing the nitrous circuitry on these rice rockets was a task best performed without interruption. His reputation counted on this car performing as advertised.
He had a reputation of never failing – at anything.
With the job done, he went to check on his dogs.
“Yeah?”
“Mister, will you call off your dogs?”
The mechanic continued wiping his hands with a rag. He looked at the man atop an oil barrel.
“Animals sense fear,” he said. “Don’t shake so much.”
Neither said a thing as the mechanic walked around the 'treed' customer.
“What are you doing here?”
“Someone told me you were the guy to see if I needed something done.”
“I’m just a mechanic. Tell me what you need and I might know someone that knows someone.”
“My name is Newman, Fredrick Newman. Does that name mean anything to you – Mechanic?”
With a snap of his fingers, the mechanic sent the dogs off to the far side of the yard.
“The inheritance.”
“That’s right. I knew you were more than a mechanic.”
He tucked his rag into his back pocket and looked up as the man still standing on the barrel.
“I read the newspapers. What’s the deal?”
“Let’s just say, I don’t like to share. Now, who do I make the check out to?”
The mechanic reached into his back pocket. Instead of a rag, he pulled out a check of his own and handed it up to his “customer.”
“Mr. Newman, we have an interesting situation here.”
Newman’s eyes grew wide as he read the signature on the check. It was his sister’s!
He never felt a thing. The mechanic was, after all, a professional.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: inheritance, alarm and shake
The Mechanic
He didn’t look up when the alarm went off.
If it was an intruder, the dogs would handle it. Otherwise, let them wait. Balancing the nitrous circuitry on these rice rockets was a task best performed without interruption. His reputation counted on this car performing as advertised.
He had a reputation of never failing – at anything.
With the job done, he went to check on his dogs.
“Yeah?”
“Mister, will you call off your dogs?”
The mechanic continued wiping his hands with a rag. He looked at the man atop an oil barrel.
“Animals sense fear,” he said. “Don’t shake so much.”
Neither said a thing as the mechanic walked around the 'treed' customer.
“What are you doing here?”
“Someone told me you were the guy to see if I needed something done.”
“I’m just a mechanic. Tell me what you need and I might know someone that knows someone.”
“My name is Newman, Fredrick Newman. Does that name mean anything to you – Mechanic?”
With a snap of his fingers, the mechanic sent the dogs off to the far side of the yard.
“The inheritance.”
“That’s right. I knew you were more than a mechanic.”
He tucked his rag into his back pocket and looked up as the man still standing on the barrel.
“I read the newspapers. What’s the deal?”
“Let’s just say, I don’t like to share. Now, who do I make the check out to?”
The mechanic reached into his back pocket. Instead of a rag, he pulled out a check of his own and handed it up to his “customer.”
“Mr. Newman, we have an interesting situation here.”
Newman’s eyes grew wide as he read the signature on the check. It was his sister’s!
He never felt a thing. The mechanic was, after all, a professional.
Word count 300
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Free Agency.
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: tile, shadow and blister
Free Agency
He was a dark hero of sorts, although some called him evil.
Shunned when not needed, he’d bide his time. When the call came, when they needed him, he wasn’t “evil.” He was Mr. Black.
He sat in the center of the room as several small items swirled around in the air. He measured his adversary by the strength of its telekinesis. Small appliances were the toys of shadow demons. Large furniture was a different story. It would mean he was up against a real player from the darkness beyond.
Whatever was haunting this house was apparently becoming frustrated with Black’s lack of concern over floating blenders. A coffee mug went flying by his head and crashed against the decorative tile surrounding the fireplace.
Mr. Black lit a cigar and turned on the television.
He knew they hated it when you disrespected them.
A commotion from the game room caught his attention. He casually strode in to find balls rolling around on the pool table. Mr. Black picked up a stick and began to line up a shot when the door slammed shut.
It had him now. Everything that wasn’t nailed down began to cyclone around the room. Mr. Black knew that nothing could strike him so long as he showed no fear. That was one of the rules he’d learned as a student of astral-physics.
There was only one thing that could harm him. Hopefully, they were unaware of this. Most shadow level demons were too new to the business to know all the tricks of their trade.
When he saw the paint on the walls begin to blister, he knew that they knew.
Fire!
Black smiled at his own imminent demise. Death brought no fear. He’d always known he’d play for the other team someday.
Word count 298
The prompts: This story must contain the words: tile, shadow and blister
Free Agency
He was a dark hero of sorts, although some called him evil.
Shunned when not needed, he’d bide his time. When the call came, when they needed him, he wasn’t “evil.” He was Mr. Black.
He sat in the center of the room as several small items swirled around in the air. He measured his adversary by the strength of its telekinesis. Small appliances were the toys of shadow demons. Large furniture was a different story. It would mean he was up against a real player from the darkness beyond.
Whatever was haunting this house was apparently becoming frustrated with Black’s lack of concern over floating blenders. A coffee mug went flying by his head and crashed against the decorative tile surrounding the fireplace.
Mr. Black lit a cigar and turned on the television.
He knew they hated it when you disrespected them.
A commotion from the game room caught his attention. He casually strode in to find balls rolling around on the pool table. Mr. Black picked up a stick and began to line up a shot when the door slammed shut.
It had him now. Everything that wasn’t nailed down began to cyclone around the room. Mr. Black knew that nothing could strike him so long as he showed no fear. That was one of the rules he’d learned as a student of astral-physics.
There was only one thing that could harm him. Hopefully, they were unaware of this. Most shadow level demons were too new to the business to know all the tricks of their trade.
When he saw the paint on the walls begin to blister, he knew that they knew.
Fire!
Black smiled at his own imminent demise. Death brought no fear. He’d always known he’d play for the other team someday.
Word count 298
Thursday, November 11, 2010
An Almost Good Plan
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: blink, chicken, cross
An Almost Good Plan
There is a thin line between being heroic and being stupid; between being reckless and being chicken.
Johnny was about to cross that line.
Across the room was the nearest threat – a man wearing a ski mask, carrying an assault rifle.
Another was near the front door of the bank. He appeared to be the lookout. His attention was on the outside of the building.
The third threat of deadly force was in the vault with the bank president.
Johnny’s mind’s eye played out a favorable scenario. He would slowly get to his feet and clear his throat. When the nearest gun turned his way, Johnny would execute a spinning back kick to the head. He would then quickly wrestle the gun from the stunned hoodlum and use it to drop the lookout where he stood. Vaulting over the counter, he would meet the leader as he emerged from the vault. A quick chop to the back of the head and it would all be over.
In the blink of an eye, Johnny would go from geek to international man of mystery – a hero to all.
There were a few flaws in his plan that he needed to consider. First of all, he had only been taking karate for three weeks. At one lesson a week, he was still a white belt; the lowest of the low. Secondly, he had never shot a gun in his life. Sure, it looked easy enough. Point and shoot; just like the video games.
Finally, there was Mom. The ultimate show-stopper was laying face down on the floor next to him. Her grip on his arm was like an iron vice. She was way stronger than most of girls he knew. Besides, she would probably ground him for a week just for trying.
word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: blink, chicken, cross
An Almost Good Plan
There is a thin line between being heroic and being stupid; between being reckless and being chicken.
Johnny was about to cross that line.
Across the room was the nearest threat – a man wearing a ski mask, carrying an assault rifle.
Another was near the front door of the bank. He appeared to be the lookout. His attention was on the outside of the building.
The third threat of deadly force was in the vault with the bank president.
Johnny’s mind’s eye played out a favorable scenario. He would slowly get to his feet and clear his throat. When the nearest gun turned his way, Johnny would execute a spinning back kick to the head. He would then quickly wrestle the gun from the stunned hoodlum and use it to drop the lookout where he stood. Vaulting over the counter, he would meet the leader as he emerged from the vault. A quick chop to the back of the head and it would all be over.
In the blink of an eye, Johnny would go from geek to international man of mystery – a hero to all.
There were a few flaws in his plan that he needed to consider. First of all, he had only been taking karate for three weeks. At one lesson a week, he was still a white belt; the lowest of the low. Secondly, he had never shot a gun in his life. Sure, it looked easy enough. Point and shoot; just like the video games.
Finally, there was Mom. The ultimate show-stopper was laying face down on the floor next to him. Her grip on his arm was like an iron vice. She was way stronger than most of girls he knew. Besides, she would probably ground him for a week just for trying.
word count 300
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Escaping Grand Rapids
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: thread, grass, flew
Escaping Grand Rapids
Something is wrong with my pizza. I know I ordered pepperoni and this one has no – wait a minute. I now see that I have accidentally eaten part of the box. What does that say about the food here at the airport when the box tastes just like the pizza minus the toppings?
Grand Rapids International - home to crop-dusters, ultra-lights and the last of a dwindling fleet of turbo-prop aircraft. It’s bustling place where up to twenty passengers an hour pass through airport security in hopes of finding a flight that someone forgot to cancel.
I look around, ensuring I am not being observed as I toss a half eaten pizza box into the trash. A few minutes later, I am stretched out on the floor trying to find my “happy place.” I imagine myself lying in a field of tall grass. The wind blows lightly across my face. There is the peaceful cadence of meditation drums from somewhere off in the distance.
I’m at peace.
The drumming becomes louder; closer. The beat is irregular now. The wind becomes a gale as my “happy place” spins out of control.
I sit up abruptly; not sure where I am. I look around from where I am sitting on the floor and notice I’m the center of attention. Through a window, I see a thread of light appear against a background of dark clouds.
I consider being embarrassed but decide instead, to lie back on the floor. My hope of getting a flight flew out the window with the weather. In an airport where flights are canceled based on input from a Magic Eight-Ball, I have no hope.
I’m a hostage of the local TSA job site.
Let them watch me. I don’t care. I have a happy place to find.
word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: thread, grass, flew
Escaping Grand Rapids
Something is wrong with my pizza. I know I ordered pepperoni and this one has no – wait a minute. I now see that I have accidentally eaten part of the box. What does that say about the food here at the airport when the box tastes just like the pizza minus the toppings?
Grand Rapids International - home to crop-dusters, ultra-lights and the last of a dwindling fleet of turbo-prop aircraft. It’s bustling place where up to twenty passengers an hour pass through airport security in hopes of finding a flight that someone forgot to cancel.
I look around, ensuring I am not being observed as I toss a half eaten pizza box into the trash. A few minutes later, I am stretched out on the floor trying to find my “happy place.” I imagine myself lying in a field of tall grass. The wind blows lightly across my face. There is the peaceful cadence of meditation drums from somewhere off in the distance.
I’m at peace.
The drumming becomes louder; closer. The beat is irregular now. The wind becomes a gale as my “happy place” spins out of control.
I sit up abruptly; not sure where I am. I look around from where I am sitting on the floor and notice I’m the center of attention. Through a window, I see a thread of light appear against a background of dark clouds.
I consider being embarrassed but decide instead, to lie back on the floor. My hope of getting a flight flew out the window with the weather. In an airport where flights are canceled based on input from a Magic Eight-Ball, I have no hope.
I’m a hostage of the local TSA job site.
Let them watch me. I don’t care. I have a happy place to find.
word count 300
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
A Lapse in Memory
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: swimsuit, waterfall, lemonade
A Lapse in Memory
Next time I go with the lemonade, Todd thought as he fled down the jungle trail. He didn’t need to look back to know they were still after him. It was like being chased by a pep rally with automatic weapons. Apparently if you throw enough Tequila and a big enough bounty at a problem, everyone will want to play.
He remembered ordering the Bourbon and then – nothing more. At the moment, he would settle for just knowing who he was.
A bullet whistled past his head. Probably a lucky shot, he thought/hoped. Give enough monkeys an infinite number of bullets and one of them will eventually shoot Shakespeare – or something like that.
Todd smiled. At least I’m not panicking. Maybe this it something I do all of the time.
He looked down at his bare feet picking their way thought the underbrush. He was dressed in only his underwear, or maybe a swimsuit. He was armed with – nothing.
He ran and ran; amazed by his stamina. The posse was falling behind yet he could still hear them laughing as they confidently chased their prey.
What do they know that I don’t?
Five minutes later, he had his answer. Sure, the waterfall implied there would be a pool at the bottom of the cliff. Still, all he could see was mist. There had to be another way.
Todd looked around in a panic. They were getting close. In seconds, they would burst into the opening and see him. Then it would be over.
What would I do if I could remember who I am? he thought. Todd took a couple of deep breaths and tried to let his “real” self take over.
As the guns broke through the edge of the jungle, Todd remembered.
Without hesitation, he turned and jumped.
Word Count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: swimsuit, waterfall, lemonade
A Lapse in Memory
Next time I go with the lemonade, Todd thought as he fled down the jungle trail. He didn’t need to look back to know they were still after him. It was like being chased by a pep rally with automatic weapons. Apparently if you throw enough Tequila and a big enough bounty at a problem, everyone will want to play.
He remembered ordering the Bourbon and then – nothing more. At the moment, he would settle for just knowing who he was.
A bullet whistled past his head. Probably a lucky shot, he thought/hoped. Give enough monkeys an infinite number of bullets and one of them will eventually shoot Shakespeare – or something like that.
Todd smiled. At least I’m not panicking. Maybe this it something I do all of the time.
He looked down at his bare feet picking their way thought the underbrush. He was dressed in only his underwear, or maybe a swimsuit. He was armed with – nothing.
He ran and ran; amazed by his stamina. The posse was falling behind yet he could still hear them laughing as they confidently chased their prey.
What do they know that I don’t?
Five minutes later, he had his answer. Sure, the waterfall implied there would be a pool at the bottom of the cliff. Still, all he could see was mist. There had to be another way.
Todd looked around in a panic. They were getting close. In seconds, they would burst into the opening and see him. Then it would be over.
What would I do if I could remember who I am? he thought. Todd took a couple of deep breaths and tried to let his “real” self take over.
As the guns broke through the edge of the jungle, Todd remembered.
Without hesitation, he turned and jumped.
Word Count 300
Monday, November 8, 2010
Busted - Plausible - Confirmed
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: swimming pool, fireworks, picnic
Busted - Plausible - Confirmed
Stan sat up in the middle of his backyard and wondered briefly where his clothes were.
Standing seemed out of the question; at least for the moment. He settled for just sitting quietly as he surveyed the damage from the night before. At first blush, it didn’t appear to be bad. There was the obligatory overturned keg and trash everywhere.
He had no recollection of any police involvement so it was probably a felon-free night.
If anything, it looked tidier than he expected.
That’s when he noticed the picnic table was missing.
Who would want to take my picnic table? he thought.
That’s when he noticed the big sign.
What the hell does “Plausible” mean? That’s when he remembered “The Big Idea.” The Big Idea being to have a party based on the television show MythBusters.
Stan struggled to his feet and staggered over to where a clipboard hung below the sign.
I remember now. This is where we recorded the results.
He skimmed the data which became increasingly illegible the farther down the page it was recorded.
Myth #1: Picnic tables float – busted
Stan glanced over his shoulder at the swimming pool. He didn’t need to look very close to know what he would find on the bottom.
Myth #2: Fireworks will ignite in a microwave – plausible.
Stan looked at the microwave. The door was hanging a little off kilter but, aside from that, it appeared alright.
Thank God for that, he thought. It was the only appliance in the kitchen he knew how to use.
Myth #3: Bobby is too much of a chicken to hold a firecracker in his hand until it, the firecracker, explodes – confirmed.
No blood anywhere, a first for one of Stan’s “events”.
Myth #4: Stan holds the best parties every – confirmed.
Word count 298
The prompts: This story must contain the words: swimming pool, fireworks, picnic
Busted - Plausible - Confirmed
Stan sat up in the middle of his backyard and wondered briefly where his clothes were.
Standing seemed out of the question; at least for the moment. He settled for just sitting quietly as he surveyed the damage from the night before. At first blush, it didn’t appear to be bad. There was the obligatory overturned keg and trash everywhere.
He had no recollection of any police involvement so it was probably a felon-free night.
If anything, it looked tidier than he expected.
That’s when he noticed the picnic table was missing.
Who would want to take my picnic table? he thought.
That’s when he noticed the big sign.
What the hell does “Plausible” mean? That’s when he remembered “The Big Idea.” The Big Idea being to have a party based on the television show MythBusters.
Stan struggled to his feet and staggered over to where a clipboard hung below the sign.
I remember now. This is where we recorded the results.
He skimmed the data which became increasingly illegible the farther down the page it was recorded.
Myth #1: Picnic tables float – busted
Stan glanced over his shoulder at the swimming pool. He didn’t need to look very close to know what he would find on the bottom.
Myth #2: Fireworks will ignite in a microwave – plausible.
Stan looked at the microwave. The door was hanging a little off kilter but, aside from that, it appeared alright.
Thank God for that, he thought. It was the only appliance in the kitchen he knew how to use.
Myth #3: Bobby is too much of a chicken to hold a firecracker in his hand until it, the firecracker, explodes – confirmed.
No blood anywhere, a first for one of Stan’s “events”.
Myth #4: Stan holds the best parties every – confirmed.
Word count 298
Sunday, November 7, 2010
A Moment of Youth
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: sunscreen, lawn mower, garden
A Moment of Youth
Sam looked up and down the street. Everything was going according to plan.
It wouldn’t be long now.
He watched as the black SUV with the tinted windows slid down past his house.
Right on schedule, Sam thought.
He had been casing the neighborhood for the better part of a week. He knew every movement; every prying eye there was to know.
Three, two, one – enter stage left, he thought looking three yards down. As if on cue, the Widow Jones appeared, lathering on sunscreen as she began her alluring parade around the yard. Past her prime by about five administrations, she was still one of the youngest women around.
The Widow Jones pretended to garden but if one looked close enough, he could tell she was just putting on a show. She was out there to be seen. Blinds at two different houses across the street abruptly rolled up as old men strained their fading eyes hoping to get a peek; wishing they were sixty again.
Looks like I’m not the only one that keeps track of the local happenings.
As for Sam, he squatted down and did a little pretending of his own. He tugged and fiddled with various parts of the lawn mower; glancing at his watch to make sure of the time.
Three, two, one – now!
In one motion, he stood up and peeled off his pants. At that same time, the Widow Jones went back inside, the blinds across the street dropped with an almost audible sigh and – the water came on in the Henderson’s yard.
Sam pulled off his shirt as he strode into his past.
Sixty seconds later, Sam was again bent over his mower; a big smile on his face and his hair still dripping wet from playing in the neighbor’s sprinklers
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: sunscreen, lawn mower, garden
A Moment of Youth
Sam looked up and down the street. Everything was going according to plan.
It wouldn’t be long now.
He watched as the black SUV with the tinted windows slid down past his house.
Right on schedule, Sam thought.
He had been casing the neighborhood for the better part of a week. He knew every movement; every prying eye there was to know.
Three, two, one – enter stage left, he thought looking three yards down. As if on cue, the Widow Jones appeared, lathering on sunscreen as she began her alluring parade around the yard. Past her prime by about five administrations, she was still one of the youngest women around.
The Widow Jones pretended to garden but if one looked close enough, he could tell she was just putting on a show. She was out there to be seen. Blinds at two different houses across the street abruptly rolled up as old men strained their fading eyes hoping to get a peek; wishing they were sixty again.
Looks like I’m not the only one that keeps track of the local happenings.
As for Sam, he squatted down and did a little pretending of his own. He tugged and fiddled with various parts of the lawn mower; glancing at his watch to make sure of the time.
Three, two, one – now!
In one motion, he stood up and peeled off his pants. At that same time, the Widow Jones went back inside, the blinds across the street dropped with an almost audible sigh and – the water came on in the Henderson’s yard.
Sam pulled off his shirt as he strode into his past.
Sixty seconds later, Sam was again bent over his mower; a big smile on his face and his hair still dripping wet from playing in the neighbor’s sprinklers
Word count 300
Saturday, November 6, 2010
The Courier
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase: "Are we there yet?"
The Courier
The courier jerked the interphase plug from its connector in the side of his head. He didn’t need the transport’s panicky data-feed to know they’d been hit.
After a quick check to make sure his “package” was secure, the courier ejected.
He blinked to call up the appropriate sensor as he fell. A stream of data fed across his field of vision. They were on his tail but had yet to lock on. He sent out a countermeasure worm to confuse the attacker’s acquisition program for a few seconds. At the same time, the courier pointed his head to the ground and willed himself to fall faster.
At a thousand feet, the primary chute deployed. Almost immediately his aug-sensor array began flashing “Target Acquired.” Seeing how he was the target, the courier released his chute; once again, falling away from the threat as fast as gravity would take him.
A small backpack glider deployed automatically at three hundred feet. It would serve only to alter his course slightly. A glancing blow with the ground would greatly increase his chances of surviving impact.
Darkness…
“We’re losing him…”
Darkness…
“Clear. I’ve got a pulse.”
Darkness…
“Courier, can you hear me?”
Blurred shapes moved past his field of vision. Apparently he had survived. That was only good news if the package had survived with him.
Ignoring those around him, he looked inward to where the encryptions were buried. They were right where they were supposed to be; jumbled in his subconscious mind at level three.
He closed his eyes, concentrating on the flow of data that would unlock the package. Finally, it was done. He opened the vault at his deepest subconscious level to find the persona he was in charge of delivering.
It blinked awake and sleepily asked, “Are we there yet?”
word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase: "Are we there yet?"
The Courier
The courier jerked the interphase plug from its connector in the side of his head. He didn’t need the transport’s panicky data-feed to know they’d been hit.
After a quick check to make sure his “package” was secure, the courier ejected.
He blinked to call up the appropriate sensor as he fell. A stream of data fed across his field of vision. They were on his tail but had yet to lock on. He sent out a countermeasure worm to confuse the attacker’s acquisition program for a few seconds. At the same time, the courier pointed his head to the ground and willed himself to fall faster.
At a thousand feet, the primary chute deployed. Almost immediately his aug-sensor array began flashing “Target Acquired.” Seeing how he was the target, the courier released his chute; once again, falling away from the threat as fast as gravity would take him.
A small backpack glider deployed automatically at three hundred feet. It would serve only to alter his course slightly. A glancing blow with the ground would greatly increase his chances of surviving impact.
Darkness…
“We’re losing him…”
Darkness…
“Clear. I’ve got a pulse.”
Darkness…
“Courier, can you hear me?”
Blurred shapes moved past his field of vision. Apparently he had survived. That was only good news if the package had survived with him.
Ignoring those around him, he looked inward to where the encryptions were buried. They were right where they were supposed to be; jumbled in his subconscious mind at level three.
He closed his eyes, concentrating on the flow of data that would unlock the package. Finally, it was done. He opened the vault at his deepest subconscious level to find the persona he was in charge of delivering.
It blinked awake and sleepily asked, “Are we there yet?”
word count 300
The Perfect Gift
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: mystery, sand dollar, beach
The Perfect Gift
At the age of twelve, Bobby figured there weren’t too many things that remained a mystery to him. He understood math and could, in fact, multiply with the best of them. He knew when he had pushed his mom too far and needed to behave for a while. He could hit a baseball and catch a pass.
And yet, there were still a few things that baffled him.
Susie from the vacation home down the street was one of those few things.
He’d met her the very first day of summer. She was walking their dog on the beach and he was trying to see how big a hole he could dig before the tide came in.
“What’cha doing?” she’d asked. Her voice made him feel strange. It was like the night before Christmas; anticipation of unwrapped mysteries to come.
He’d glanced up only to find himself, for the first time in his life, speechless.
Finally, he turned back to the hole and mumbled an impressive, “Diggin.”
Over the next few days, he struggled to find a way to interact with her. He didn’t know why but he felt an overwhelming need to impress Susie. The problem was that she didn’t seem to be responding to the usual stuff.
She'd run away when he showed her a jellyfish in a Ziploc bag. She'd held her nose when he produced a week-old box of mussels. She’d screamed when he snuck up and placed a small crab on her leg.
Nothing seemed to work.
Finally, he just gave up. He wandered down the beach, with his head hanging and a strange feeling of heaviness in his chest. That’s when the sand dollar caught his eye.
Perfect.
Now, fifty years later, it hung in a frame over their bed.
“Our first dollar.”
Word count 299
The prompts: This story must contain the words: mystery, sand dollar, beach
The Perfect Gift
At the age of twelve, Bobby figured there weren’t too many things that remained a mystery to him. He understood math and could, in fact, multiply with the best of them. He knew when he had pushed his mom too far and needed to behave for a while. He could hit a baseball and catch a pass.
And yet, there were still a few things that baffled him.
Susie from the vacation home down the street was one of those few things.
He’d met her the very first day of summer. She was walking their dog on the beach and he was trying to see how big a hole he could dig before the tide came in.
“What’cha doing?” she’d asked. Her voice made him feel strange. It was like the night before Christmas; anticipation of unwrapped mysteries to come.
He’d glanced up only to find himself, for the first time in his life, speechless.
Finally, he turned back to the hole and mumbled an impressive, “Diggin.”
Over the next few days, he struggled to find a way to interact with her. He didn’t know why but he felt an overwhelming need to impress Susie. The problem was that she didn’t seem to be responding to the usual stuff.
She'd run away when he showed her a jellyfish in a Ziploc bag. She'd held her nose when he produced a week-old box of mussels. She’d screamed when he snuck up and placed a small crab on her leg.
Nothing seemed to work.
Finally, he just gave up. He wandered down the beach, with his head hanging and a strange feeling of heaviness in his chest. That’s when the sand dollar caught his eye.
Perfect.
Now, fifty years later, it hung in a frame over their bed.
“Our first dollar.”
Word count 299
Friday, November 5, 2010
A Smiting
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the line: "I'm bored. There's nothing to do."
A Smiting
“I’m bored. There’s nothing to do.”
Thelma rolled her eyes and continued to chop carrots. Best to ignore him when he was like this. After all, it’s not like she hadn’t heard that a billion times before.
“I said I’m bored.”
Thelma tossed the carrots into the pot. “I heard you the first time.”
He risked an indignant “humff” as he left the room. He knew from experience not to confront Thelma directly. Cross her and there would be hell to pay.
A few minutes later, Thelma heard the T.V. remote slam down on the coffee table.
“There’s nothing on. How much are we paying for cable?” he called from the other room.
Thelma continued to ignore him as she tasted the soup then added a little more salt. She knew they didn’t pay for cable. He knew a guy.
Dinner was more of the same. He was really in a mood. It had been this way since that whole 2012 thing came out. Now everyone was expecting a big show and he, being more of a spontaneous sort, hated projects.
After dinner he seemed to calm down a bit; becoming a bit more approachable.
Thelma sat down next him on the sofa. She patted him on his thigh and said, “Why don’t you go down and smite somebody.”
He was still feeling a little sorry for himself and answered with a pouty, “Don’t wanna smite someone.”
“Now dear, you know how a good smiting always lifts your spirits.” She gave him a comforting rub on the back of his neck.
“I guess you’re right.” He walked over to a straw hat and drew out a bit of paper.
“Looks like it’s North America’s turn for some punishment.”
He reached into the air and bellowed, “Let there be Glenn Beck!”
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the line: "I'm bored. There's nothing to do."
A Smiting
“I’m bored. There’s nothing to do.”
Thelma rolled her eyes and continued to chop carrots. Best to ignore him when he was like this. After all, it’s not like she hadn’t heard that a billion times before.
“I said I’m bored.”
Thelma tossed the carrots into the pot. “I heard you the first time.”
He risked an indignant “humff” as he left the room. He knew from experience not to confront Thelma directly. Cross her and there would be hell to pay.
A few minutes later, Thelma heard the T.V. remote slam down on the coffee table.
“There’s nothing on. How much are we paying for cable?” he called from the other room.
Thelma continued to ignore him as she tasted the soup then added a little more salt. She knew they didn’t pay for cable. He knew a guy.
Dinner was more of the same. He was really in a mood. It had been this way since that whole 2012 thing came out. Now everyone was expecting a big show and he, being more of a spontaneous sort, hated projects.
After dinner he seemed to calm down a bit; becoming a bit more approachable.
Thelma sat down next him on the sofa. She patted him on his thigh and said, “Why don’t you go down and smite somebody.”
He was still feeling a little sorry for himself and answered with a pouty, “Don’t wanna smite someone.”
“Now dear, you know how a good smiting always lifts your spirits.” She gave him a comforting rub on the back of his neck.
“I guess you’re right.” He walked over to a straw hat and drew out a bit of paper.
“Looks like it’s North America’s turn for some punishment.”
He reached into the air and bellowed, “Let there be Glenn Beck!”
Word count 300
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Becoming Hemingway
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: humid, sweltering, complain
Becoming Hemingway
“It’s not the heat; it’s the humidity,” quipped the waiter; smiling at his wit as his hand asked for a tip.
If Josh heard that one more time, there was going to be trouble. Not that trouble was a bad thing. Being rough around the edges was all part of becoming – Him.
He tossed the cabana-boy a wadded dollar bill and said, “Get the fuck out of here.”
Taking a deep drag from the fresh bottle of Scotch, he looked out at waters of Key West. The lack of wind belied the apparent mild temperature of the day.
Damn doldrums. It’s not just humid out here. It’s fucking sweltering. Josh turned towards the cabin, exposing the back of his sweat-stained shirt to the promise of serenity offered by the small waves lapping whisper-like against the shore.
He didn’t want peace of mind.
Josh wanted to suffer.
Back inside, a typewriter taunted him from a small table. No computers here. No cell phones either. Electricity was his only luxury; that and a direct phone line to the bar.
He wasn’t about to complain. In fact, this is just the way he wanted it. Suffering was part of the game; part of becoming Him. All truly great artists suffer.
Josh intended to be great.
He sat down at the table and scrolled a piece of paper into the old machine.
His mind flipped through his time in Africa and that stint as an ambulance driver in WWI. He recalled past loves; some of whom became ex-wives.
None of those things actually happened to Josh, but that didn’t matter. The mind can’t tell the difference between a real memory and an imagined one.
Soon, the words began to flow.
Pausing only to take a drag from his bottle; Josh was on his way.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: humid, sweltering, complain
Becoming Hemingway
“It’s not the heat; it’s the humidity,” quipped the waiter; smiling at his wit as his hand asked for a tip.
If Josh heard that one more time, there was going to be trouble. Not that trouble was a bad thing. Being rough around the edges was all part of becoming – Him.
He tossed the cabana-boy a wadded dollar bill and said, “Get the fuck out of here.”
Taking a deep drag from the fresh bottle of Scotch, he looked out at waters of Key West. The lack of wind belied the apparent mild temperature of the day.
Damn doldrums. It’s not just humid out here. It’s fucking sweltering. Josh turned towards the cabin, exposing the back of his sweat-stained shirt to the promise of serenity offered by the small waves lapping whisper-like against the shore.
He didn’t want peace of mind.
Josh wanted to suffer.
Back inside, a typewriter taunted him from a small table. No computers here. No cell phones either. Electricity was his only luxury; that and a direct phone line to the bar.
He wasn’t about to complain. In fact, this is just the way he wanted it. Suffering was part of the game; part of becoming Him. All truly great artists suffer.
Josh intended to be great.
He sat down at the table and scrolled a piece of paper into the old machine.
His mind flipped through his time in Africa and that stint as an ambulance driver in WWI. He recalled past loves; some of whom became ex-wives.
None of those things actually happened to Josh, but that didn’t matter. The mind can’t tell the difference between a real memory and an imagined one.
Soon, the words began to flow.
Pausing only to take a drag from his bottle; Josh was on his way.
Word count 300
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Foiled
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: allergies, vacation, picutre
Foiled
“Sir, is that a bazooka in your golf bag?”
Akmed thought quickly. In spite of his training, he found himself completely unprepared for the question.
“Please forgive to say. That is perhaps a 9-iron or maybe an inhaler for my asthma. My allergies, uh anguish most bad this time of week.”
At least his English was passable. Thank goodness for that.
The TSA agent eyed the bag suspiciously. Finally, “We’re going to have to wrap this in plastic before we let it go onto the plane, Mr. uh…”
“Cunningham. Ritchie Cunningham. That will be most good with me as I proceed to my hometown of Kansas where I always live.”
Akmed was beginning to sweat. The thoroughness of the typical TSA agent was world renown.
The agent decided to push a little harder.
“I see from your passport that you have just returned from Pakistan. What was the purpose of your trip?”
“Vacation. See, here is a picture of me at the beach.”
The TSA agent looked at it and said, “It looks like a guy running through the desert with an AK-47 over his head.”
“No sir. I assure you I was just collecting wood for a bonfire.”
“Okay, go on over to the TSA donut hut, uh, I mean the line for airport security.”
He could hardly believe it. He had outwitted America’s best line of defense, not counting the miles of fences with ladders draped over them.
At security things started to go wrong. First there was a group discussion about the x-ray of his bag. A scrum of agents finally used a Vulcan mind meld. Their now-combined intellect reached the conclusion that he was transporting an oversized tube of tooth paste.
TSA celebrated with a rousing, “Donuts for everyone,” as Akmed was led away in cuffs.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: allergies, vacation, picutre
Foiled
“Sir, is that a bazooka in your golf bag?”
Akmed thought quickly. In spite of his training, he found himself completely unprepared for the question.
“Please forgive to say. That is perhaps a 9-iron or maybe an inhaler for my asthma. My allergies, uh anguish most bad this time of week.”
At least his English was passable. Thank goodness for that.
The TSA agent eyed the bag suspiciously. Finally, “We’re going to have to wrap this in plastic before we let it go onto the plane, Mr. uh…”
“Cunningham. Ritchie Cunningham. That will be most good with me as I proceed to my hometown of Kansas where I always live.”
Akmed was beginning to sweat. The thoroughness of the typical TSA agent was world renown.
The agent decided to push a little harder.
“I see from your passport that you have just returned from Pakistan. What was the purpose of your trip?”
“Vacation. See, here is a picture of me at the beach.”
The TSA agent looked at it and said, “It looks like a guy running through the desert with an AK-47 over his head.”
“No sir. I assure you I was just collecting wood for a bonfire.”
“Okay, go on over to the TSA donut hut, uh, I mean the line for airport security.”
He could hardly believe it. He had outwitted America’s best line of defense, not counting the miles of fences with ladders draped over them.
At security things started to go wrong. First there was a group discussion about the x-ray of his bag. A scrum of agents finally used a Vulcan mind meld. Their now-combined intellect reached the conclusion that he was transporting an oversized tube of tooth paste.
TSA celebrated with a rousing, “Donuts for everyone,” as Akmed was led away in cuffs.
Word count 300
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
A Simple Choice
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the line: "Don't try to stop me."
A Simple Choice
Thelma watched open-mouthed as the alien spacecraft silently settled down in the middle of the south forty.
She considered going inside to fetch her shotgun but a warning glance from Old Luke swayed her otherwise. That dog had more sense than most people. If he decided to give this particular incident a pass, he probably had good reason.
If only Zeke were still here, she thought. He would be a good one to send out and test the waters. Back when he’d been around, Thelma had always considered him to be somewhat expendable.
Problem was, Zeke took off one night and she hadn’t seen him since. She never did find out where he got off to. She’d been watching something or other on the television that night. Zeke came in all excited about something and was ranting, “Blah, blah, adventure, blah, blah and don’t try to stop me.”
Now, a door irised open on the spacecraft and Zeke came strutting out.
He came walking up to the house like he had only been gone for a couple of hours instead of months.
“Evening Thelma. Good folks there,” he said gesturing back over his shoulder towards the craft. “What’s for dinner?”
That was it.
Zeke walked into the shack/house, plopped himself down in front of the television and started cruising through the channels.
Once again, Thelma considered the shotgun. If Zeke couldn’t stay gone, maybe she could help.
As she got up from her chair, the momentarily forgotten spacecraft caught her eye; It's door still open.
“Good folks there.” That’s what he’d said and Zeke didn’t like anyone.
Thelma looked at Zeke who was watching QVC's special on sharp kitchen implements.
God how she hated him.
She left him a note, “Blah, blah, blah and I’m taking the dog with me.”
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the line: "Don't try to stop me."
A Simple Choice
Thelma watched open-mouthed as the alien spacecraft silently settled down in the middle of the south forty.
She considered going inside to fetch her shotgun but a warning glance from Old Luke swayed her otherwise. That dog had more sense than most people. If he decided to give this particular incident a pass, he probably had good reason.
If only Zeke were still here, she thought. He would be a good one to send out and test the waters. Back when he’d been around, Thelma had always considered him to be somewhat expendable.
Problem was, Zeke took off one night and she hadn’t seen him since. She never did find out where he got off to. She’d been watching something or other on the television that night. Zeke came in all excited about something and was ranting, “Blah, blah, adventure, blah, blah and don’t try to stop me.”
Now, a door irised open on the spacecraft and Zeke came strutting out.
He came walking up to the house like he had only been gone for a couple of hours instead of months.
“Evening Thelma. Good folks there,” he said gesturing back over his shoulder towards the craft. “What’s for dinner?”
That was it.
Zeke walked into the shack/house, plopped himself down in front of the television and started cruising through the channels.
Once again, Thelma considered the shotgun. If Zeke couldn’t stay gone, maybe she could help.
As she got up from her chair, the momentarily forgotten spacecraft caught her eye; It's door still open.
“Good folks there.” That’s what he’d said and Zeke didn’t like anyone.
Thelma looked at Zeke who was watching QVC's special on sharp kitchen implements.
God how she hated him.
She left him a note, “Blah, blah, blah and I’m taking the dog with me.”
Word count 300
Monday, November 1, 2010
Scatter
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: test, trouble and scatter
Scatter
Professor Andrews sat in the Enviro-Chamber with his finger hovering nervously over the button. Through a small port, he could see Professor Stein giving him the “go” signal.
Andrew was aware that this might be the end of himself. Accordingly, his subconscious mind offered up a short episode of “My life flashed before my eyes.”
It had started three years ago…
“Watch this,” Professor Stein said as he threw a switch.
The stapler disappeared.
The professor smiled as his audience of one sat in stunned silence.
“Now watch this.”
He threw another switch and the stapler appeared in thin air a few feet away. It immediately fell to the floor.
“I don’t understand,” said Professor Andrews. “You called me in here for some sort of magic trick?”
“It’s no trick, Andrews. I have figured out how to direct the particles of the subatomic world.”
“What?” asked Andrews with obvious skepticism.
“I sent a subatomic signal to all of the atoms in the stapler, telling them to scatter. At that point, the stapler became a collection of disassociated particles.”
“And when it came back?”
“Same idea except this time the signal was to regroup. I am having a little trouble with that last part. There is always a little subatomic drift that makes it hard to determine where it will re-materialize.”
Since that time, there had been one test after another. Failures followed failures until successes began to turn the tide. Tests progressed from inanimate object to plants and then lab rats. The Enviro-Chamber had been a big breakthrough. Now the subjects could survive no matter where they reappeared; even if it was in a wall.
Now for the ultimate test subject.
It was time to make history.
Andrew took a deep breath and pressed down on the Scatter button.
Word count 299
The prompts: This story must contain the words: test, trouble and scatter
Scatter
Professor Andrews sat in the Enviro-Chamber with his finger hovering nervously over the button. Through a small port, he could see Professor Stein giving him the “go” signal.
Andrew was aware that this might be the end of himself. Accordingly, his subconscious mind offered up a short episode of “My life flashed before my eyes.”
It had started three years ago…
“Watch this,” Professor Stein said as he threw a switch.
The stapler disappeared.
The professor smiled as his audience of one sat in stunned silence.
“Now watch this.”
He threw another switch and the stapler appeared in thin air a few feet away. It immediately fell to the floor.
“I don’t understand,” said Professor Andrews. “You called me in here for some sort of magic trick?”
“It’s no trick, Andrews. I have figured out how to direct the particles of the subatomic world.”
“What?” asked Andrews with obvious skepticism.
“I sent a subatomic signal to all of the atoms in the stapler, telling them to scatter. At that point, the stapler became a collection of disassociated particles.”
“And when it came back?”
“Same idea except this time the signal was to regroup. I am having a little trouble with that last part. There is always a little subatomic drift that makes it hard to determine where it will re-materialize.”
Since that time, there had been one test after another. Failures followed failures until successes began to turn the tide. Tests progressed from inanimate object to plants and then lab rats. The Enviro-Chamber had been a big breakthrough. Now the subjects could survive no matter where they reappeared; even if it was in a wall.
Now for the ultimate test subject.
It was time to make history.
Andrew took a deep breath and pressed down on the Scatter button.
Word count 299
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