Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the line: "You have a lot to learn"
Return Trip
“You have a lot to learn.”
Yeah, right. It’s not like I haven’t heard that a million times before. Samuel grumbled, knowing full well his thoughts were an open book. He let the gate swing closed behind him, then, with his head hanging down on his chest, Samuel shuffled Charlie Brown-like down a forested path.
He came upon the viewing pond but refused to look into its depths. He’d seen it all before. There was nothing new for him. He would just see what was waiting for him when he went back. Bills, fears and tears lined up in anticipation of his arrival no doubt.
Peter had said he could take some time. “Stay a while. Have some fun. You may find that being sent back is not such a bad thing. Take all the time you need, but remember, you must go back eventually.”
Samuel took full advantage of his reprieve. He played golf and never made a bad shot. He ate like a pig and never gained weight. There were no worries, no wars. Life was good; at least for a while. Eventually, he came to feel that something was missing. He’d had everything he wanted simply handed to him and yet his soul felt empty.
One day Samuel again came upon the viewing pond. Why not? he thought. Getting down on his hands and knees, he leaned over the surface. The water shimmered for a while then settled to reveal the most beautiful, innocent, young woman he had ever seen. In that moment he knew what was missing. It was something beyond value. It was something that must be earned before it could be given freely.
“So you are ready to return. What made you change your mind?” Peter asked knowingly.
“I’d forgotten. I forgot about Love”
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Survivor
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: boot, cold, stairway
Survivor
The foggy exhale hung for an eternity before eventually dissipating into the thin Martian air. Everything happened in slow motion out in the colonies. Hiding under the front porch of her habitat, the young woman wished it would all just hurry up and end.
With a “clunk”, a boot stepped down onto the short stairway leading from the front door. Maggie willed herself to stop shivering in spite of the cold, certain that her chattering teeth would give her away.
She considered just giving up. There would be nothing left anyway once the Raiders had completed their devastation. That was how it was with the Out-worlders. Little was known about them other than their apparent policy of “take everything and leave no survivors.” One Martian colony after another had been hit. No one had ever lived to tell the tale. The Raiders had taken on a myth-like status; larger than life monsters that popped in and out of existence as they wished.
Soon only the heavily armed mining conglomerates would remain. There was talk of arming the farming communities as well but, in the end, it was never more than just talk.
The boot became a leg as it made its way into her field of vision. The leg became – No! It couldn’t be!
Molly clasped her hand over her own mouth to prevent an audible gasp from escaping. Her initial surprise was slowly replaced by a boiling anger. She no longer felt the cold. Gone were any thoughts of surrender.
Molly knew she must survive. The world must know the truth about the Raiders.
She watched as the shuttle lifted off. The colony was in ruins but all her mind’s eye could see was the door of that shuttle; the one bearing the logo of Mars Amalgamated Mining Company.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: boot, cold, stairway
Survivor
The foggy exhale hung for an eternity before eventually dissipating into the thin Martian air. Everything happened in slow motion out in the colonies. Hiding under the front porch of her habitat, the young woman wished it would all just hurry up and end.
With a “clunk”, a boot stepped down onto the short stairway leading from the front door. Maggie willed herself to stop shivering in spite of the cold, certain that her chattering teeth would give her away.
She considered just giving up. There would be nothing left anyway once the Raiders had completed their devastation. That was how it was with the Out-worlders. Little was known about them other than their apparent policy of “take everything and leave no survivors.” One Martian colony after another had been hit. No one had ever lived to tell the tale. The Raiders had taken on a myth-like status; larger than life monsters that popped in and out of existence as they wished.
Soon only the heavily armed mining conglomerates would remain. There was talk of arming the farming communities as well but, in the end, it was never more than just talk.
The boot became a leg as it made its way into her field of vision. The leg became – No! It couldn’t be!
Molly clasped her hand over her own mouth to prevent an audible gasp from escaping. Her initial surprise was slowly replaced by a boiling anger. She no longer felt the cold. Gone were any thoughts of surrender.
Molly knew she must survive. The world must know the truth about the Raiders.
She watched as the shuttle lifted off. The colony was in ruins but all her mind’s eye could see was the door of that shuttle; the one bearing the logo of Mars Amalgamated Mining Company.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Born of Frustration
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the line: "This isn't over yet."
Born of Frustration
Limousines delivered the assembly’s attendees to the upscale convention center. No one could miss the theme of this year’s gathering. It hung loudly from a banner over the keynote speaker’s podium. It read “This Isn’t Over Yet!”
“My fellow Republicans, I would like to welcome you to this year’s conference. There will be several breakout rooms over the next couple of days. You are welcome to attend those hosting the topics of your choice.”
He looked around at the room filled with soft hands, big bellies and expensive suits. These were his kind of people.
“Let me review what is in your programs. Room 232 is for those of you that want to help organize protests about health care. Sure, we don’t have a better alternative but when has that ever stopped us. Ha Ha.
Room 245 will be for those of you that want to make a case for how the bailout has failed. We need to keep focus away from what got us into this situation to begin with. Let’s face it. Who here didn’t have a finger or two in the pie. We want to blame today’s economic problems on the current administration. The average person doesn’t understand economics. They just understand fear. Once again, we don’t have anything new to offer but – well I think we all know by now that is not necessary.”
Nodding heads showed the crowd’s approval.
“Now, we have moved the school speech issue to a larger room. There were just too many of you wanting a piece of this low hanging fruit. Sure, every president has talked to students. Sure, the first president Bush asked students to tell him how to do a better job. We don’t care about that. We care about today.”
“Remember, blame, blame and then blame again.”
The prompts: This story must contain the line: "This isn't over yet."
Born of Frustration
Limousines delivered the assembly’s attendees to the upscale convention center. No one could miss the theme of this year’s gathering. It hung loudly from a banner over the keynote speaker’s podium. It read “This Isn’t Over Yet!”
“My fellow Republicans, I would like to welcome you to this year’s conference. There will be several breakout rooms over the next couple of days. You are welcome to attend those hosting the topics of your choice.”
He looked around at the room filled with soft hands, big bellies and expensive suits. These were his kind of people.
“Let me review what is in your programs. Room 232 is for those of you that want to help organize protests about health care. Sure, we don’t have a better alternative but when has that ever stopped us. Ha Ha.
Room 245 will be for those of you that want to make a case for how the bailout has failed. We need to keep focus away from what got us into this situation to begin with. Let’s face it. Who here didn’t have a finger or two in the pie. We want to blame today’s economic problems on the current administration. The average person doesn’t understand economics. They just understand fear. Once again, we don’t have anything new to offer but – well I think we all know by now that is not necessary.”
Nodding heads showed the crowd’s approval.
“Now, we have moved the school speech issue to a larger room. There were just too many of you wanting a piece of this low hanging fruit. Sure, every president has talked to students. Sure, the first president Bush asked students to tell him how to do a better job. We don’t care about that. We care about today.”
“Remember, blame, blame and then blame again.”
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Director
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase, "a scream echoed through the forest."
The Director
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” The director, Carl, jumped out of his chair and strode bristling onto the set.
“I don’t know what script you’re reading from, but mine says, “A scream echoed through the forest.” Whatever it was that just came out of your mouth, it wasn’t a scream!”
April squeezed out a couple of tears and tried to poise herself so the director couldn’t help but notice her more than ample breasts. She looked up with little girl eyes and pouty lips with a slight quiver that warned him more tears were on the way if he didn’t back off. The fact that her skimpy jungle-girl outfit left nothing to the imagination contributed to her cause.
“I just know I can do better. Can’t we do it again?”
Carl was hormonally outgunned and he knew it. “Alright everyone, take ten and then we will shoot it again.”
Why can’t the agency send me someone with some actual talent? I hate having to deal with these prima donnas.
During the next take, the pair of breasts managed to get out a fairly convincing scream. The rest of the shoot was going smoothly until the gorilla failed to enter at the appropriate prompt. Damn ape knows more words than my ten-year-old son but can’t follow a simple cue. “What seems to be the problem?”
The key grip came down from the tree with, “She says the lighting isn’t right. She also says that it is too far for her to jump down from up there.”
That’s it! I have had enough “Tell KoKo she’s fired.”
Picking up a megaphone, he yelled off to the left, “Send in the stunt monkey.”
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase, "a scream echoed through the forest."
The Director
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” The director, Carl, jumped out of his chair and strode bristling onto the set.
“I don’t know what script you’re reading from, but mine says, “A scream echoed through the forest.” Whatever it was that just came out of your mouth, it wasn’t a scream!”
April squeezed out a couple of tears and tried to poise herself so the director couldn’t help but notice her more than ample breasts. She looked up with little girl eyes and pouty lips with a slight quiver that warned him more tears were on the way if he didn’t back off. The fact that her skimpy jungle-girl outfit left nothing to the imagination contributed to her cause.
“I just know I can do better. Can’t we do it again?”
Carl was hormonally outgunned and he knew it. “Alright everyone, take ten and then we will shoot it again.”
Why can’t the agency send me someone with some actual talent? I hate having to deal with these prima donnas.
During the next take, the pair of breasts managed to get out a fairly convincing scream. The rest of the shoot was going smoothly until the gorilla failed to enter at the appropriate prompt. Damn ape knows more words than my ten-year-old son but can’t follow a simple cue. “What seems to be the problem?”
The key grip came down from the tree with, “She says the lighting isn’t right. She also says that it is too far for her to jump down from up there.”
That’s it! I have had enough “Tell KoKo she’s fired.”
Picking up a megaphone, he yelled off to the left, “Send in the stunt monkey.”
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Final Observations
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase, "it felt like a dream."
Final Observations
People, shapes and clipboards floated in and out of my world. This strange phase of my existence found me in a landscape strewn with tubes, bedpans and trays of green Jell-O. I knew I was in a hospital. At least I knew it most of the time. There were too many white coats floating around for it to be anywhere else. It felt like a dream; one in which I alternated roles between being an active participant and a passive observer.
Sometimes there were angels. They would come and talk with me during those times when I found myself alone. I liked it when they came. I could feel their comforting warmth even before they showed up.
“Am I going to die?” I asked once.
“Not the way you think about dying.” That had come from Eli. I came to be able to easily recognize him. He liked to float in the corner up by the ceiling. Sometimes he was just a ball of light. Usually, he dressed like a cowboy.
One day, they brought a dog in to see me. At first I thought it was an angel. I tried to talk to it but all I got in return was a lick on my hand. I knew that he knew I was dying. It was his way of saying not to worry. Maybe dogs are just angels that don’t talk.
Sometimes I sleep. Funny, I can’t tell if I am asleep dreaming of being awake or if it’s the other way around.
Eli came by earlier. He told me the time was approaching. I knew what he meant. I held on for a few more hours. They needed to say good-bye. I knew that wasn’t necessary but hey, I only knew that because an angel told me so.
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase, "it felt like a dream."
Final Observations
People, shapes and clipboards floated in and out of my world. This strange phase of my existence found me in a landscape strewn with tubes, bedpans and trays of green Jell-O. I knew I was in a hospital. At least I knew it most of the time. There were too many white coats floating around for it to be anywhere else. It felt like a dream; one in which I alternated roles between being an active participant and a passive observer.
Sometimes there were angels. They would come and talk with me during those times when I found myself alone. I liked it when they came. I could feel their comforting warmth even before they showed up.
“Am I going to die?” I asked once.
“Not the way you think about dying.” That had come from Eli. I came to be able to easily recognize him. He liked to float in the corner up by the ceiling. Sometimes he was just a ball of light. Usually, he dressed like a cowboy.
One day, they brought a dog in to see me. At first I thought it was an angel. I tried to talk to it but all I got in return was a lick on my hand. I knew that he knew I was dying. It was his way of saying not to worry. Maybe dogs are just angels that don’t talk.
Sometimes I sleep. Funny, I can’t tell if I am asleep dreaming of being awake or if it’s the other way around.
Eli came by earlier. He told me the time was approaching. I knew what he meant. I held on for a few more hours. They needed to say good-bye. I knew that wasn’t necessary but hey, I only knew that because an angel told me so.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Hot Pursuit
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: stumble, nose, grass
Hot Pursuit
Daisy pushed her nose through the tall grass. Her Alpha was gripped with a sense of urgency. She picked up on this as if he had whispered it into her ear.Find the little one. There is not a moment to spare.
The scent was strong and fresh. Her mind processed the olfactory information easily. There was fear mixed in with sweat and blood. And … there was something more. She wondered briefly if her Alpha understood this. There was a male; one sick in his mind.
The Bloodhound raised her head and sprinted forward. They were close enough that the scent still hung in the air. She stopped briefly to examine a trampled down area. They must have stumbled here and fallen. The strong scent gave her welcomed information. The young one still had the smell of life about her. Daisy flew ahead of her Master, her Alpha.
She could hear the rest of the pack as they slowly fell back. None could match her for speed and endurance. That included the chased. The man was growing tired. His stride was uneven and his fear smell was beginning to override the girl’s.
Soon, her eyes told her what her nose already knew. The girl had been dropped. Daisy licked the tiny face. She felt the fear ease into a feeling of relief. The dog stood guard for another two long minutes as she waited for the rest of the pack.
Her Alpha was with them. He let others tend to the girl while he came to heap praise on Daisy. While she welcomed it with an excited wag of her tail, she knew there was more work to do.
He knew it as well. He looked into the distant wooded area. “Get him girl.” She flew like the wind.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: stumble, nose, grass
Hot Pursuit
Daisy pushed her nose through the tall grass. Her Alpha was gripped with a sense of urgency. She picked up on this as if he had whispered it into her ear.Find the little one. There is not a moment to spare.
The scent was strong and fresh. Her mind processed the olfactory information easily. There was fear mixed in with sweat and blood. And … there was something more. She wondered briefly if her Alpha understood this. There was a male; one sick in his mind.
The Bloodhound raised her head and sprinted forward. They were close enough that the scent still hung in the air. She stopped briefly to examine a trampled down area. They must have stumbled here and fallen. The strong scent gave her welcomed information. The young one still had the smell of life about her. Daisy flew ahead of her Master, her Alpha.
She could hear the rest of the pack as they slowly fell back. None could match her for speed and endurance. That included the chased. The man was growing tired. His stride was uneven and his fear smell was beginning to override the girl’s.
Soon, her eyes told her what her nose already knew. The girl had been dropped. Daisy licked the tiny face. She felt the fear ease into a feeling of relief. The dog stood guard for another two long minutes as she waited for the rest of the pack.
Her Alpha was with them. He let others tend to the girl while he came to heap praise on Daisy. While she welcomed it with an excited wag of her tail, she knew there was more work to do.
He knew it as well. He looked into the distant wooded area. “Get him girl.” She flew like the wind.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Small Town Knowledge
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase "That was the last time I saw him."
Small Town Knowledge
Sheriff Tucker looked hard into his friend’s eyes. He had known Tom Harding for a long time. He had been a sheriff even longer. Something wasn’t right.
“Are you sure you haven’t seen that Johnson kid around here recently. I know he’s done some work for you in the past. Ed Powell from down the street said he thought he saw you two talking earlier.”
“Sorry Sheriff, but it’s like I said. He came by a few days ago looking for some work. I paid him to cut the lawn. My son Bobby used to do it for me but he’s gone off to college. That Johnson fella cut the lawn, collected his pay and left. That was the last time I saw him.”
Sheriff Tucker tipped his hat before stepping off the front porch and heading back to his car. He drove down to the end of the block, turned right and quickly parked along the side of the road.
He placed a quick call in for backup.
“Yep. He’s in there alright. My guess is he’s armed and holding those poor folk as hostages. He probably figures to use their car later tonight to make good his escape.”
Within minutes, he was joined by two more units, all parked well out of sight of the Harding house.
“Sheriff, how can you be sure that he’s in there?” The young deputy was nervous. If they were going to bust down a door and start shooting, they had better be right.
“Well son, it’s like this. Tom was sweating slightly and it’s a nice cool day. Also, his lawn hasn’t been mowed for at least two weeks.
“Sheriff, are you sure that’s enough?”
“There is just one more thing. Tom Harding doesn’t have a son.”
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase "That was the last time I saw him."
Small Town Knowledge
Sheriff Tucker looked hard into his friend’s eyes. He had known Tom Harding for a long time. He had been a sheriff even longer. Something wasn’t right.
“Are you sure you haven’t seen that Johnson kid around here recently. I know he’s done some work for you in the past. Ed Powell from down the street said he thought he saw you two talking earlier.”
“Sorry Sheriff, but it’s like I said. He came by a few days ago looking for some work. I paid him to cut the lawn. My son Bobby used to do it for me but he’s gone off to college. That Johnson fella cut the lawn, collected his pay and left. That was the last time I saw him.”
Sheriff Tucker tipped his hat before stepping off the front porch and heading back to his car. He drove down to the end of the block, turned right and quickly parked along the side of the road.
He placed a quick call in for backup.
“Yep. He’s in there alright. My guess is he’s armed and holding those poor folk as hostages. He probably figures to use their car later tonight to make good his escape.”
Within minutes, he was joined by two more units, all parked well out of sight of the Harding house.
“Sheriff, how can you be sure that he’s in there?” The young deputy was nervous. If they were going to bust down a door and start shooting, they had better be right.
“Well son, it’s like this. Tom was sweating slightly and it’s a nice cool day. Also, his lawn hasn’t been mowed for at least two weeks.
“Sheriff, are you sure that’s enough?”
“There is just one more thing. Tom Harding doesn’t have a son.”
Thursday, March 24, 2011
The Craft of Automobile Maintenance
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: flannel shirt, flashlight, flat tire
The Craft of Automobile Maintenance
The only thing missing from this picture is a junkyard dog. Sandy turned her attention to the pond on the far side of the small rural road. I bet I can skip my Blackberry all the way across that thing, she thought. In accordance with Newton’s Fourth Law, her car had coasted to a stop in one of the few remaining communication black holes left in the country; the other locations all being somewhere in South Dakota.
Leroy came out of the garage, wiping grease covered hands on the front of what appeared to have been, at one time, a white flannel shirt. Now it was just a mobile rag with sleeves. He waved Sandy over for an apparent update.
As she started to walk over, butt-crack Wally came out and grabbed Leroy by the arm. Together the two of them walked under the car which had been up on a lift for the better part of three hours. Wally used a flashlight to point out something for Leroy whose hand followed the beam of light into the bowels of the undercarriage. He drew back a can of beer that he had apparently left there earlier in the day. He slammed it down with gusto and followed up with a loud, appreciative burp.
Now that his thirst was momentarily satisfied, he looked around as if trying to find something to do. Only when his eyes fell on Sandy did he remember that his beer-holder was actually her car. He walked out to put her mind at ease.
“Ma’am, can you tell me one more time what happened?”
“Well, Leroy, I was driving down the road when the car pulled to the right. I got out and saw that I had a flat tire.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Leroy returned to his troubleshooting.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: flannel shirt, flashlight, flat tire
The Craft of Automobile Maintenance
The only thing missing from this picture is a junkyard dog. Sandy turned her attention to the pond on the far side of the small rural road. I bet I can skip my Blackberry all the way across that thing, she thought. In accordance with Newton’s Fourth Law, her car had coasted to a stop in one of the few remaining communication black holes left in the country; the other locations all being somewhere in South Dakota.
Leroy came out of the garage, wiping grease covered hands on the front of what appeared to have been, at one time, a white flannel shirt. Now it was just a mobile rag with sleeves. He waved Sandy over for an apparent update.
As she started to walk over, butt-crack Wally came out and grabbed Leroy by the arm. Together the two of them walked under the car which had been up on a lift for the better part of three hours. Wally used a flashlight to point out something for Leroy whose hand followed the beam of light into the bowels of the undercarriage. He drew back a can of beer that he had apparently left there earlier in the day. He slammed it down with gusto and followed up with a loud, appreciative burp.
Now that his thirst was momentarily satisfied, he looked around as if trying to find something to do. Only when his eyes fell on Sandy did he remember that his beer-holder was actually her car. He walked out to put her mind at ease.
“Ma’am, can you tell me one more time what happened?”
“Well, Leroy, I was driving down the road when the car pulled to the right. I got out and saw that I had a flat tire.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Leroy returned to his troubleshooting.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Behind the Scene
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: sliver, beard, rock
Behind the Scene
The bright neon marquee sent a sliver of light into the darkened room. From his corner chair, Joel watched silently as the dust motes swam in the solitary beam. He envied the carefree little particles.
It was almost time to go. With a groan, he pushed himself up unsteadily. A “clunk” near his feet told him he had forgotten about the Jack Daniels bottle that had been resting on his lap. Oh well, he thought, there’s more where that came from.
He shuffled into the bathroom. An aging figure with bloodshot eyes stared back at him from the mirror. He watched as arthritic hands reached up to stroke the tangled, graying beard. You are one old man. An outsider, seeing him for the first time, would have placed him well beyond his fifty-five years. Live hard – Die young, and leave a good looking corpse. Yeah, right. He smiled at himself. At least he still had all of his teeth.
The prickly shower felt soothing on his back. His arm crept out and returned with a bottle of Advil from the counter; all part of the routine. The only thing that had changed over the years was the amount of alcohol and number of pills.
Thirty minutes later, he again stood in front of the mirror. The reflection bent over for a moment only to reappear with small flecks of white powder under its nose.
A knock on his door - it was time.
He headed down the long hallway alone. They were there, his entourage, but they knew to keep their distance. The chanting grew louder and louder. It was to him, like blood to a vampire. He fed on it.
Anonymous hands handed him his guitar as he strutted out onto the stage.
“Hello, Cleveland! It’s time to rock!”
The prompts: This story must contain the words: sliver, beard, rock
Behind the Scene
The bright neon marquee sent a sliver of light into the darkened room. From his corner chair, Joel watched silently as the dust motes swam in the solitary beam. He envied the carefree little particles.
It was almost time to go. With a groan, he pushed himself up unsteadily. A “clunk” near his feet told him he had forgotten about the Jack Daniels bottle that had been resting on his lap. Oh well, he thought, there’s more where that came from.
He shuffled into the bathroom. An aging figure with bloodshot eyes stared back at him from the mirror. He watched as arthritic hands reached up to stroke the tangled, graying beard. You are one old man. An outsider, seeing him for the first time, would have placed him well beyond his fifty-five years. Live hard – Die young, and leave a good looking corpse. Yeah, right. He smiled at himself. At least he still had all of his teeth.
The prickly shower felt soothing on his back. His arm crept out and returned with a bottle of Advil from the counter; all part of the routine. The only thing that had changed over the years was the amount of alcohol and number of pills.
Thirty minutes later, he again stood in front of the mirror. The reflection bent over for a moment only to reappear with small flecks of white powder under its nose.
A knock on his door - it was time.
He headed down the long hallway alone. They were there, his entourage, but they knew to keep their distance. The chanting grew louder and louder. It was to him, like blood to a vampire. He fed on it.
Anonymous hands handed him his guitar as he strutted out onto the stage.
“Hello, Cleveland! It’s time to rock!”
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The Seige
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: Knight, barrel, twelve
The Siege
“Has there been any word?”
“No, my Lord. It’s been twelve days since our messenger was dispatched. I fear our request for help has gone unanswered. We need to consider - alternatives.”
“You want me to give up; to simply turn the castle over to the barbarians? I would rather die.” King Reginald stood up and turned his back to his senior advisor. Walking slowly to a window, he looked out over his castle. Beyond the outer walls, he could see the fires of the barbarian horde.
They’d arrived at the end of spring. The outer villages had simply been looted and then burned to the ground. The few villagers that had managed to escape made it to the castle with tales of horror.
That had been five months ago. The castle had been under siege ever since.
Winter was rapidly approaching. Food and water supplies were nearly gone. The last barrel of salt pork had been empty for a week. A lone messenger had been sent out with a desperate plea for help. Now it appeared that he had failed.
The king knew that his pride kept him from surrendering. As he looked out the window, he could see his subjects. They still manned the walls even though they were near starvation. They’d die for him.
The advisor watched as his king shook his head sadly. The once mighty leader aged years with a long slow exhale.
“Prepare my escort. It is time that I go to discuss the terms of my surrender.”
“My Lord, look!”
The king looked out the window to where the advisor was pointing. He smiled for the first time in five months. The messenger had gotten through after all.
Barbarians ran in confused terror as the Dragon Knight made one deadly pass after another.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: Knight, barrel, twelve
The Siege
“Has there been any word?”
“No, my Lord. It’s been twelve days since our messenger was dispatched. I fear our request for help has gone unanswered. We need to consider - alternatives.”
“You want me to give up; to simply turn the castle over to the barbarians? I would rather die.” King Reginald stood up and turned his back to his senior advisor. Walking slowly to a window, he looked out over his castle. Beyond the outer walls, he could see the fires of the barbarian horde.
They’d arrived at the end of spring. The outer villages had simply been looted and then burned to the ground. The few villagers that had managed to escape made it to the castle with tales of horror.
That had been five months ago. The castle had been under siege ever since.
Winter was rapidly approaching. Food and water supplies were nearly gone. The last barrel of salt pork had been empty for a week. A lone messenger had been sent out with a desperate plea for help. Now it appeared that he had failed.
The king knew that his pride kept him from surrendering. As he looked out the window, he could see his subjects. They still manned the walls even though they were near starvation. They’d die for him.
The advisor watched as his king shook his head sadly. The once mighty leader aged years with a long slow exhale.
“Prepare my escort. It is time that I go to discuss the terms of my surrender.”
“My Lord, look!”
The king looked out the window to where the advisor was pointing. He smiled for the first time in five months. The messenger had gotten through after all.
Barbarians ran in confused terror as the Dragon Knight made one deadly pass after another.
Monday, March 21, 2011
The Temporalnaut
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: Test, Clock, Unbelievable
The Temporalnaut
I’ve been here before. Temporalnaut Steve Crusher felt the déjà vu pass through his awareness like an icy cold wind. It left him as quickly as it had arrived.
He looked at the atomic clock embedded in his instrument panel. It read 1115.30. In another fifteen minutes, he would become the first man to travel backwards in time. The first jump would be short, a mere fifteen minutes. He initiated the AIAS, Artificial Intelligence Awareness Sequence. The computer came online immediately. That didn’t leave a lot of time.
They had tried to give the AI longer to work through the math but for some reason, every time they started it more than fifteen minutes before the “jump” the AI would go insane; schizophrenic to be more precise. It was as if there were multiple intelligences within the Probability Chamber’s mainframe; all of them trying to communicate something about an endless loop sequence and danger. None of it made any sense.
This was to be the final test. Failure meant they would have to go back to the drawing board.
The AI was running smoothly as it crunched through the probability wave functions, collapsing one after another. Steve’s pulse began to rise in anticipation of achieving something unbelievable. He was going to travel back in time.
Sixty seconds to go. The AI was almost there. When only one probability existed, it would become reality, regardless of how unlikely that one probability once was. Five seconds to go. Time to make some history. Steve thought.
The chamber began to hum. There was a brilliant flash of light.
I’ve been here before. Temporalnaut Steve Crusher felt the déjà vu pass through his awareness like an icy cold wind. It left him as quickly as it had arrived.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: Test, Clock, Unbelievable
The Temporalnaut
I’ve been here before. Temporalnaut Steve Crusher felt the déjà vu pass through his awareness like an icy cold wind. It left him as quickly as it had arrived.
He looked at the atomic clock embedded in his instrument panel. It read 1115.30. In another fifteen minutes, he would become the first man to travel backwards in time. The first jump would be short, a mere fifteen minutes. He initiated the AIAS, Artificial Intelligence Awareness Sequence. The computer came online immediately. That didn’t leave a lot of time.
They had tried to give the AI longer to work through the math but for some reason, every time they started it more than fifteen minutes before the “jump” the AI would go insane; schizophrenic to be more precise. It was as if there were multiple intelligences within the Probability Chamber’s mainframe; all of them trying to communicate something about an endless loop sequence and danger. None of it made any sense.
This was to be the final test. Failure meant they would have to go back to the drawing board.
The AI was running smoothly as it crunched through the probability wave functions, collapsing one after another. Steve’s pulse began to rise in anticipation of achieving something unbelievable. He was going to travel back in time.
Sixty seconds to go. The AI was almost there. When only one probability existed, it would become reality, regardless of how unlikely that one probability once was. Five seconds to go. Time to make some history. Steve thought.
The chamber began to hum. There was a brilliant flash of light.
I’ve been here before. Temporalnaut Steve Crusher felt the déjà vu pass through his awareness like an icy cold wind. It left him as quickly as it had arrived.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Defragmented Memories
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: Floating, Computer, Strange
Defragmented Memories
Captain Leland Hesse opened his eyes and saw – nothing.
“Computer,” he thought rather than spoke, “Status?”
“Re-assembly in progress,” came the monotoned response.
Re-assembly? What could that mean? Confusion reigned. He had no idea what was going on. Somehow he knew “Computer,” but that was it.
Mentally, he checked to see if he was injured. It was hard to get a bearing on his physical self. He felt strange, no, that wasn’t it. He felt nothing. It was as if he were floating in a sensory deprivation chamber. Off in the distance of his mental horizon there was a slight tingling sensation. Electricity?
Leland. My name is Leland. Leland what? He could feel memories coming back. They were unorganized: a race in high school track, a first kiss with no face to go with it, bad blood, shadows of family, a burnt lasagna dinner, space program, a fight in the third grade…
Space program! I’m in the space program.
“Computer, Status.”
“Re-assembly twenty-percent complete.”
The memories came back. Disjointed bits and pieces began to fall into place. Understanding began to creep in.
He knew it before Computer said it.
“Re-assembly complete.”
Captain Hesse climbed out of the bio-assembly pod with only one unknown remaining.
Had he passed through the unbreakable barrier?
“Captain, I am detecting Tachyons.”
He’d done it! Tachyons were only detectable if you were traveling faster than light.
He smiled sadly. “Mission accomplished Computer. Well done.”
“Congratulations Captain. Shall I initiate self destruct?”
Leland Hesse remembered everything. He remembered his Leukemia being one of his qualifications for this trip. Relativistic time dilation meant that Earth’s sun had burned out eons ago. There was no one to go home to.
He remembered this was a one-way trip.
He felt tired. It was time to cross one more barrier.
“Yes.”
The prompts: This story must contain the words: Floating, Computer, Strange
Defragmented Memories
Captain Leland Hesse opened his eyes and saw – nothing.
“Computer,” he thought rather than spoke, “Status?”
“Re-assembly in progress,” came the monotoned response.
Re-assembly? What could that mean? Confusion reigned. He had no idea what was going on. Somehow he knew “Computer,” but that was it.
Mentally, he checked to see if he was injured. It was hard to get a bearing on his physical self. He felt strange, no, that wasn’t it. He felt nothing. It was as if he were floating in a sensory deprivation chamber. Off in the distance of his mental horizon there was a slight tingling sensation. Electricity?
Leland. My name is Leland. Leland what? He could feel memories coming back. They were unorganized: a race in high school track, a first kiss with no face to go with it, bad blood, shadows of family, a burnt lasagna dinner, space program, a fight in the third grade…
Space program! I’m in the space program.
“Computer, Status.”
“Re-assembly twenty-percent complete.”
The memories came back. Disjointed bits and pieces began to fall into place. Understanding began to creep in.
He knew it before Computer said it.
“Re-assembly complete.”
Captain Hesse climbed out of the bio-assembly pod with only one unknown remaining.
Had he passed through the unbreakable barrier?
“Captain, I am detecting Tachyons.”
He’d done it! Tachyons were only detectable if you were traveling faster than light.
He smiled sadly. “Mission accomplished Computer. Well done.”
“Congratulations Captain. Shall I initiate self destruct?”
Leland Hesse remembered everything. He remembered his Leukemia being one of his qualifications for this trip. Relativistic time dilation meant that Earth’s sun had burned out eons ago. There was no one to go home to.
He remembered this was a one-way trip.
He felt tired. It was time to cross one more barrier.
“Yes.”
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Halloween Dare
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: trespassing, barrel, gate
Halloween Dare
The taste wasn’t what Kyle had expected, not that he spent much time thinking about such things. Vinegary? No, that wasn’t it. Salty with a woody sort of background flavor was closer.
His eyes drifted off to his right where an old gate banged back and forth in the windy autumn twilight. A gust of wind disturbed a pile of multicolored leaves off to his left; his eyes quickly and involuntarily swung over in that direction.
Of course his nose continued to point East by North East.
He loved this time of year, usually. He especially loved Halloween, usually.
At a younger age, there was trick-or-treating and costumes. As he grew older, he left the candy behind, albeit reluctantly. Now days, it was pranks and dares. Last year, they had covered the principal’s house with toilet paper. The year before that, they had sneaked into the cemetery after dark to touch the haunted tombstone of the late Shelby Dickerson.
This year, the dare had been to paint the front door of Old Man Perkins’ house a bright red. That would have been a hoot.
He had almost made it. Although he still had the brush in his hand, Kyle wisely resisted an urge to lift his arm up and paint the leg in front of him. He thought it would be bad form to paint the leg attached to the body that was holding a shotgun, the barrel of which, was currently resting in Kyle’s mouth.
“Blah, blah, trespassing, blah, blah…”
Nothing.
The silence was abrupt, like a slap in the face.
It seemed that after fifteen minutes of lecturing, Old Man Perkins had run out of steam.
“Now git!”
As Kyle sprinted through the gate, he was surprised that his only thought was, Oak. It tasted oakish.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: trespassing, barrel, gate
Halloween Dare
The taste wasn’t what Kyle had expected, not that he spent much time thinking about such things. Vinegary? No, that wasn’t it. Salty with a woody sort of background flavor was closer.
His eyes drifted off to his right where an old gate banged back and forth in the windy autumn twilight. A gust of wind disturbed a pile of multicolored leaves off to his left; his eyes quickly and involuntarily swung over in that direction.
Of course his nose continued to point East by North East.
He loved this time of year, usually. He especially loved Halloween, usually.
At a younger age, there was trick-or-treating and costumes. As he grew older, he left the candy behind, albeit reluctantly. Now days, it was pranks and dares. Last year, they had covered the principal’s house with toilet paper. The year before that, they had sneaked into the cemetery after dark to touch the haunted tombstone of the late Shelby Dickerson.
This year, the dare had been to paint the front door of Old Man Perkins’ house a bright red. That would have been a hoot.
He had almost made it. Although he still had the brush in his hand, Kyle wisely resisted an urge to lift his arm up and paint the leg in front of him. He thought it would be bad form to paint the leg attached to the body that was holding a shotgun, the barrel of which, was currently resting in Kyle’s mouth.
“Blah, blah, trespassing, blah, blah…”
Nothing.
The silence was abrupt, like a slap in the face.
It seemed that after fifteen minutes of lecturing, Old Man Perkins had run out of steam.
“Now git!”
As Kyle sprinted through the gate, he was surprised that his only thought was, Oak. It tasted oakish.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Do Not Enter
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase: "You must never open that door"
Do Not Enter
Addison mentally ambled by the room with the big DO NOT ENTER sign on it. He gave the rusty old padlock a little jiggle.
Bet I could knock that old lock off without any trouble, he thought.
His daily routine was emotionally inert. Work was work. He neither loved nor hated his job. Addison simply concentrated on what was in front. For him, a wondering mind wasn’t a good thing.
Still, that room ...
It’d been years since he’d even considered going in for a look. Thoughts like Why shouldn’t I? or What harm could it do? sat on his shoulders like little devils whispering weak rationale for poor choices.
He’d built that room.
Years ago, there had been some – trouble. His dad had taken him to see an old man. Addison didn’t remember too much about him other than he spoke with a soft voice. His name was Ron.
Together, he and Ron had built the room. It was constructed of steel and cement. At the time, they had joked that it would be a good place to be during a nuclear attack.
Ironically, it wasn’t built to protect those inside of it from what was outside. It was quite the opposite.
When they were done, Ron had cautioned him, “You must never open that door.”
Now Addison stood in front of the forbidden structure. Maybe just a peak, he thought, reaching for the lock. It crumbled in his hands.
Slowly, he turned the knob.
The door blew open as several long arms reached for him. Dozens of caressing hands thanked him over and over. He welcomed the sensation of being “whole” for the first time in many years.
Addison felt a sneer-like smile spread across his face. He and his demons had some catching up to do.
The prompts: This story must contain the phrase: "You must never open that door"
Do Not Enter
Addison mentally ambled by the room with the big DO NOT ENTER sign on it. He gave the rusty old padlock a little jiggle.
Bet I could knock that old lock off without any trouble, he thought.
His daily routine was emotionally inert. Work was work. He neither loved nor hated his job. Addison simply concentrated on what was in front. For him, a wondering mind wasn’t a good thing.
Still, that room ...
It’d been years since he’d even considered going in for a look. Thoughts like Why shouldn’t I? or What harm could it do? sat on his shoulders like little devils whispering weak rationale for poor choices.
He’d built that room.
Years ago, there had been some – trouble. His dad had taken him to see an old man. Addison didn’t remember too much about him other than he spoke with a soft voice. His name was Ron.
Together, he and Ron had built the room. It was constructed of steel and cement. At the time, they had joked that it would be a good place to be during a nuclear attack.
Ironically, it wasn’t built to protect those inside of it from what was outside. It was quite the opposite.
When they were done, Ron had cautioned him, “You must never open that door.”
Now Addison stood in front of the forbidden structure. Maybe just a peak, he thought, reaching for the lock. It crumbled in his hands.
Slowly, he turned the knob.
The door blew open as several long arms reached for him. Dozens of caressing hands thanked him over and over. He welcomed the sensation of being “whole” for the first time in many years.
Addison felt a sneer-like smile spread across his face. He and his demons had some catching up to do.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Musician
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: beard, silk, trumpet
The Musician
The musician swayed to the imagined background orchestra as he stood on the steps of the long empty government building. At the appropriate time, he raised his trumpet and began to play.
The skillfully fingered instrument soliloquized to an audience of abandoned cars and cracked pavement. The tune was a sad, wavering and drawn-out affair; appropriate for the welcoming of a dawn colored red by the paintbrush of Armageddon.
He paused, allowing the instrument to hang down at his side. The rising sun struggled against an atmosphere of ash to push back the night. Slowly, the darkness receded down the walls of the building to be replaced by an appropriate bloodish hue.
The musician stroked his tangled beard thoughtfully. It felt gritty from the dust that was everywhere.
Looking down at his arms, he saw the inevitable blisters. Radiation poisoning was not a pretty sight.
He knew it wouldn’t be long. All that remained was to plan his exit.
Should he sit and cry? Maybe he should take his life and be done with it.
He turned to the building behind him as if there might be answers inside. Many wise people had passed through those doors. Right up to the end, we’d looked to them for the answers. Right up to the end of all endings.
He chuckled to himself. Alas, there was no one to share the irony of looking for wisdom amongst those whose best ideas had brought about such a complete demise.
His chuckle grew to a laugh.
It was decided. With a flourish, the musician pulled a silk scarf out of his pocket. He wrapped it gypsy-like around his head. Then, with a jump and clicking of his heels, he happily marched down the center of Pennsylvania Avenue playing When the Saints Come Marching In.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: beard, silk, trumpet
The Musician
The musician swayed to the imagined background orchestra as he stood on the steps of the long empty government building. At the appropriate time, he raised his trumpet and began to play.
The skillfully fingered instrument soliloquized to an audience of abandoned cars and cracked pavement. The tune was a sad, wavering and drawn-out affair; appropriate for the welcoming of a dawn colored red by the paintbrush of Armageddon.
He paused, allowing the instrument to hang down at his side. The rising sun struggled against an atmosphere of ash to push back the night. Slowly, the darkness receded down the walls of the building to be replaced by an appropriate bloodish hue.
The musician stroked his tangled beard thoughtfully. It felt gritty from the dust that was everywhere.
Looking down at his arms, he saw the inevitable blisters. Radiation poisoning was not a pretty sight.
He knew it wouldn’t be long. All that remained was to plan his exit.
Should he sit and cry? Maybe he should take his life and be done with it.
He turned to the building behind him as if there might be answers inside. Many wise people had passed through those doors. Right up to the end, we’d looked to them for the answers. Right up to the end of all endings.
He chuckled to himself. Alas, there was no one to share the irony of looking for wisdom amongst those whose best ideas had brought about such a complete demise.
His chuckle grew to a laugh.
It was decided. With a flourish, the musician pulled a silk scarf out of his pocket. He wrapped it gypsy-like around his head. Then, with a jump and clicking of his heels, he happily marched down the center of Pennsylvania Avenue playing When the Saints Come Marching In.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Spooky People
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words:Jack O'Lantern, sheet, trick
Spooky People
Congress was rapidly growing weary of trying to solve the health care issue. By general consensus, they decided to table the matter for a few days in hopes that it would simply go away. This was more of a well proven tactic than some neat trick.
New important issues quickly filled the docket.
“The floor recognizes the gentleman from Illinois.”
“Madam Chair, I would like to propose that the Jack O’Lantern be made the national fruit.”
There were nods of approval throughout the room. After months of accomplishing nothing, it seemed as it they were going to start getting things done. Unfortunately, the senator from New Mexico had majored in food groups with a subspecialty in holiday related consumables. He stood and raised an objection.
“Madam Chair, I object on the grounds that the Jack O’Lantern is not a fruit.”
Gasps of indignation filled the room. How dare this young upstart use facts to interrupt the theater of pretend legislation.
The Chair gaveled the room quiet. “Are you saying that the Jack O’Lantern is a vegetable?”
“No Madam Chair. I’m saying it’s a pumpkin with a face carved into it.”
Several eyebrows raised in new found appreciation. The young man had a point.
“Well put. Let’s move on. What is next on the docket? Yes, the chair recognizes the gentleman from Ohio.”
“Madam Chair, I propose that brownies be reclassified by the FDA as chocolate sheet cake bits. After all, Brownies look like a sheet cake before you cut them up.”
Several members stood up quickly to applaud such a bold idea. The enthusiasm was infectious and soon everyone was standing and cheering. The motion was passed by a landslide.
They broke for lunch amidst much back slapping and high fives. Things were finally getting done in Washington.
The prompts: This story must contain the words:Jack O'Lantern, sheet, trick
Spooky People
Congress was rapidly growing weary of trying to solve the health care issue. By general consensus, they decided to table the matter for a few days in hopes that it would simply go away. This was more of a well proven tactic than some neat trick.
New important issues quickly filled the docket.
“The floor recognizes the gentleman from Illinois.”
“Madam Chair, I would like to propose that the Jack O’Lantern be made the national fruit.”
There were nods of approval throughout the room. After months of accomplishing nothing, it seemed as it they were going to start getting things done. Unfortunately, the senator from New Mexico had majored in food groups with a subspecialty in holiday related consumables. He stood and raised an objection.
“Madam Chair, I object on the grounds that the Jack O’Lantern is not a fruit.”
Gasps of indignation filled the room. How dare this young upstart use facts to interrupt the theater of pretend legislation.
The Chair gaveled the room quiet. “Are you saying that the Jack O’Lantern is a vegetable?”
“No Madam Chair. I’m saying it’s a pumpkin with a face carved into it.”
Several eyebrows raised in new found appreciation. The young man had a point.
“Well put. Let’s move on. What is next on the docket? Yes, the chair recognizes the gentleman from Ohio.”
“Madam Chair, I propose that brownies be reclassified by the FDA as chocolate sheet cake bits. After all, Brownies look like a sheet cake before you cut them up.”
Several members stood up quickly to applaud such a bold idea. The enthusiasm was infectious and soon everyone was standing and cheering. The motion was passed by a landslide.
They broke for lunch amidst much back slapping and high fives. Things were finally getting done in Washington.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Predators
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: door, hidden, liar
Predators
“Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” he lied. His tail, taped down to his inner leg, twitched in excited anticipation.
Sam held open the door for his date. She was obviously hesitant to “come in for coffee” with a man she had only met just a couple of hours earlier.
She didn’t believe him for a minute, but she had hidden plans of her own.
“It’s just that I have never done anything like this before.”
He smiled hungrily. Her naive, innocent-like demur exited him. She was going to be his prize possession; at least until the next victim came along.
She could see that he was barely able to hold himself back. He had bought the entire “Little Miss Sweetness” package while she could see him for what he was. It just meant she was a better liar than him. Still, she was no less hungry; no less dangerous.
In they went. With much flourish, he set about preparing a couple of drinks from the bar. As he added some crushed ice, their eyes met across the room. He offered her a small kiss which she playfully caught and brought to her cheek.
One drink led to another and to another. Eventually, it all led to “Let me freshen up for a minute while you slip into something more comfortable.”
Sam liked the sound of that. He went back into his room to make sure the trap was ready. A single bite was all he needed. Sure, he could do it anytime, but it was more pleasurable when they asked for it.
She looked in the bathroom mirror. The blood-lust gripped her. The Queen of the Vampires would dine on werewolf blood tonight.
Sam came out of his bedroom as she exited the hallway bathroom.
It was time to feast.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: door, hidden, liar
Predators
“Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” he lied. His tail, taped down to his inner leg, twitched in excited anticipation.
Sam held open the door for his date. She was obviously hesitant to “come in for coffee” with a man she had only met just a couple of hours earlier.
She didn’t believe him for a minute, but she had hidden plans of her own.
“It’s just that I have never done anything like this before.”
He smiled hungrily. Her naive, innocent-like demur exited him. She was going to be his prize possession; at least until the next victim came along.
She could see that he was barely able to hold himself back. He had bought the entire “Little Miss Sweetness” package while she could see him for what he was. It just meant she was a better liar than him. Still, she was no less hungry; no less dangerous.
In they went. With much flourish, he set about preparing a couple of drinks from the bar. As he added some crushed ice, their eyes met across the room. He offered her a small kiss which she playfully caught and brought to her cheek.
One drink led to another and to another. Eventually, it all led to “Let me freshen up for a minute while you slip into something more comfortable.”
Sam liked the sound of that. He went back into his room to make sure the trap was ready. A single bite was all he needed. Sure, he could do it anytime, but it was more pleasurable when they asked for it.
She looked in the bathroom mirror. The blood-lust gripped her. The Queen of the Vampires would dine on werewolf blood tonight.
Sam came out of his bedroom as she exited the hallway bathroom.
It was time to feast.
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