The Icemen Cometh

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must be based on a photo of an ice crystal

The Icemen Cometh

They had come a very long way over a very long span of time. The galaxy had seen stars come and go over the millennia-long trip. Launched from the first advanced civilization formed after the Big Bang, they were part of an initiative to seed the universe; a grand vision by the first to call out “Manifest Destiny!”

Now the seeds had landed. They were the legacy of powerful minds and enormous egos. The grateful recipient of random chance in their favor, they had found a new home. Meanwhile, the civilization that sent them on their trip was no more than a memory in the cobweb strewn corner of the universe’s collective intelligence.

Nano factories folded out from the inner dimensions of strings and such. They began to build with a fury. After days, they had grown microscopic in size. Within weeks, they were visible to the naked eye. And still they grew; their crystalline structure virtually indestructible. Using the basic building blocks of matter, they found resources to be plentiful.

After a month, the first of them became aware.

Bodiless, they floated through the streets, countrysides and oceans of Earth. There was life everywhere. This was good. From the life of others, they would draw the energy they needed to survive. Sickness and death would certainly come to those they fed from. It was unavoidable.

There were no feelings of guilt about this natural string of events. They were advanced people with a strong sense of right and wrong. They had very strict codes of conduct; taking only what they needed to survive. They would never harm another intelligent species’.

Fortunately for them, they had landed on a planet where, of all the different forms of life, none met their minimum requirements for attaining the classification of “intelligent”.

The Day of the Wendigo

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must be about being snowed in.

Day of the Wendigo

Andrea huddled in the small crawl space under the stairs. Her dad had been gone for more than an hour now. He had said he would be right back and that she was not to be afraid.

Now, alone in the small dark room, she was not afraid. She was terrified.

First came the clouds; dark and low, quickly blocking out the heat and light that should have been flooding the small town on this day in June. The storm began when the last speck of sunlight disappeared from the ground. Snow fell in blankets, quickly piling up in high drifts against the houses on the block.

Andrea had been on her way home from school when the clouds first moved in. She got home moments before snow had begun to fall. That had been more than five hours ago. Now they were stuck in the house. She and her dad didn’t worry too much, didn’t think to hide, saw no reason to fear … until the screams started.

Like the cry of baby in the distance, the sound was uncertain and ill-formed at first. As it grew in volume, so did the ferocity of what they were hearing. It sounded like people screaming the scream of terror beyond imagination. Dad had looked out the window before quickly grabbing Andrea by the hand and heading for the crawl space.

She had heard the front door crash open and the sound of something large, like a bull or an elephant pounding around the house. The smell had hit them like a hammer. They fought to not gag fearing the sound would give them away. Even at the age of twelve, Andrea knew this smell; it was the smell of death.

She cracked the door a little and whispered quietly, “Daddy?”

What the World Needs Now

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must be about a famous character that comes to life.

What the World Needs Now

He walked down the busy sidewalk with a muscular grace that drew blatant stares from pedestrians; this in a city where keeping to oneself was the norm amongst the multitudes that shoved and jostled their way from point to point.

His suit somehow fit with the hair hanging down his neck. He did not know how he got here and really didn’t give it much thought. He was here and that was that. He would survive. He always survived. It was what he was best at.

He carefully surveyed his surroundings. Buildings of unimaginable height reached up to the clouds. Machines of unknown mechanisms choked the main thoroughfare forcing the villagers off to the crowded sides.

This was not a healthy place. He could feel it; smell it. There was a sickness of soul that ran through everyone. There was fear aplenty. There were also predators; those that thrived on the sickness and fear.

He now knew why he was here. Someone had summoned him forth to change the tide. He had been brought here to hunt. To put fear into those that caused it in others. Mentally, he shifted into his most dangerous mode. It was time for the predators to become the prey; his prey.

Walking more slowly now, he put his nose to the wind and sniffed. His grey eyes missed nothing. His sharp hearing was the first to notice. A scream was coming from the heavily wooded area about two blocks back.

He turned and ran with an agile-laced speed that would have shamed any world class athlete.

In the park, he found her surrounded by no fewer than ten men. It was quick and blatantly unfair.

The woman looked up into his eyes and asked, “Who are you?”

He simply said, “Tarzan.”

The Boys of Summer

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must contain the words hot dog, rope, radio

Boys of Summer

The wrinkled hand reached over shakily and adjusted the radio dial. The game wouldn’t be on for a few minutes. That was okay with him; it would take a bit of time for him and his walker to make it the ten feet to where the battered old Lazy Boy waited patiently.

The effort it took to make muscles work his creaky old joints could be plainly seen in the expression on his face. He would pay for this short foray into the Assisted Living recreation room. He had seen too many years for his body to forgive any physical endeavor. He didn’t mind; fair was fair.

The game came on as he eased himself into the chair. At the familiar sound of the announcer’s voice, he found himself, as always, instantly propelled back in time. He had been a young boy once and the crack of the bat made him a boy once again, if only in his mind.

His thoughts would always start at the first game he had ever attended. He was excited beyond belief. All of his favorite players were there. The sounds of the fans filled his ears as hotdogs and peanuts filled up his stomach.

Eventually, his mind roamed through any number of events, all part of the simple life of a young boy in a simpler time. There had been games of chase and tag. There were adventures like the time they had snuck into the old abandoned Hanson mansion. Looking back in time, even tragedies had a fondness about them; like the time he fell off of the rope swing and broke his arm.

Eventually, the radio resumed its original programming. He let the memories linger a little longer as he offered up a bit of thanks for the Boys of Summer.

Thumbs Malone

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must be about someone who loves playing video games.

Thumbs Malone

The class gathered around the viewing window to get a look at their subject. The one-way glass appeared as a mirror to the unsuspecting man on the far side. He was as naked as the padded walls surrounding him. The group talked in whispers as if the man on the other side could hear them through the thick glass/mirror.

No way.

He only heard what his mind allowed him to hear which, more often than not, had nothing to do with reality. At that moment, he was hearing the rapid staccato blasts of machinegun fire along with occasional distant explosions.

His eyes were wide with excitement and he was laughing in a halting, hysterical manner. He was also sporting a fine erection.

“As you can see,” the teacher began, “our subject has completely detached from the real world and now lives full time in the repeated scenarios of past video games.”

One of the students peered in to get a closer look. His face lit up suddenly as he said, “I know who that is! That’s Thumbs Malone! He was three time world champion at the International Video Competition. That guy is a legend. How did he end up here?”

The class had a hard time tearing their attention away from the spectacle in front of them; a clearing of the teacher’s throat brought them around.

“About two years ago, after playing Grand Theft Auto for twenty-four hours straight, he left his house and started driving over people. When they caught up to him, he was fumbling in the air with his hands. He later told the police he was pulling a bazooka out of his inventory. He’s been here every since.”

Thumbs Malone cocked his head to the side. He could hear the enemy sneaking around behind a bush.

The Artist's Maid

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must contain the words hourglass, statue, featherduster

The Artist's Maid

The squat, muscular woman surveyed the room with her hands on her ample hips. Dominica found herself wishing she had chosen another profession. She could have been a dancer, but alas, those days had passed with the loss of her youthful figure some thirty years ago. Now, with a rolling of her eyes, she got to work; the master would be back before long and the room needed to be prepared.

The high level cleaning completed, she stuck the feather duster’s handle deep into her bunned-up pile of still dark hair where it dangled unnoticed. Damp rags hung swinging from her shoulders as she leaned into the mop. How this man could make such a mess was beyond her. There was paint everywhere, the walls, the ceiling and in some instances on paintings that he had already finished but was starting to paint over anew.

Every time she came by there seemed to be something else added to the mess. Lately, huge blocks of stone and marble had begun to show up. Once, when he caught her trying to shove a block out of the way to clean he had scolded her with, “Be careful! There is a statue in there waiting for me to dig it out!”

He considered himself an artist of sorts. She had her own ideas about that.

She finished just in time. The “Master” had just arrived home with a model he had hired to pose for him. As she was leaving she looked back and saw the model pull out an hour glass and set it upright, the sand running down slowly to the lower container.

“Mike, I can only stay for an hour today,” said the model assuming his pose.

The man shook his head saying, “I told you, it’s not Mike, it's Michelangelo.”

Undead Vocational Training

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must contain the line "I don't like this place."

Undead Vocational Training

Headmaster Quimby floated silently over the instructor working with one of the new students. There seemed to be some sort of problem with the class LURCHING 101; Quimby didn’t like problems so he decided to listen in.

“I don’t like this place,” the little boy said looking around at the upturned tombstones eerily visible in the bright light of the full moon.

“What do you mean? This place is great! You have everything. No parental supervision so you don’t have to clean your room or bathe. The food is great; even better when we go on field trips to densely populated areas. Your entire existence is dedicated to scaring the living. What more could a zombie want?”

“I’m not sure. All that I know is this place gives me the creeps. I want to run and play in the sun not stumble around in the dark with my arms stretched out in front of me. Whose idea was that anyway?”

The instructor was caught off guard by the question. Regrouping, he said, “I think someone saw it in a movie once. Anyway, you are a zombie and sooner or later you will have to start acting like one.”

The headmaster had seen enough. Something was wrong. No one assigned to him ever failed to fall right into step with the program. Someone had screwed up somewhere. He put in a call to the Limbo Personnel Distribution Center. Twenty minutes later, he was still on hold. Those bureaucrats down there were so inefficient it was scary and Quimby didn’t scare easily.

Finally, someone picked up the line and said, “LPDC how can I help you?”

“I have a problem,” Quimby said. “One of my students doesn’t fit in. I think you sent him to the wrong place. His name is Casper.”

To Shuffle No More

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must contain the words: Tea, Brush and Dark

To Shuffle No More

I felt the cold brush my cheek seductively; it first caused a shiver, and then a smile as I recognized the subtleness of Her way.

I set down the cup of tea and pushed myself up to my feet. Once there, I paused to catch my breath before shuffling towards the window.

I do that a lot nowadays – shuffling. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Part of getting old, I suppose. And I should know, having been there/here before.

She blows the curtains aside as I approach. Nice touch.

The sun is just dipping below the old oak across the street. It won’t be long now. Not long until the dark would bring the newest end; an end to shuffling and to drinking evening tea to warm my bones. Not long until She would bring me the fountain of youth our deal, now centuries old, called for.

I wandered what form the life-force would take this time; someone in their prime, no doubt. They had the most to offer, thus lengthening the time between harvests. I sensed she preferred it that way. Seductive as she was, I knew that there was a loathing for me within her.

But a deal is a deal. And so far, she’d kept her side of the bargain.

As for me, I’d always keep my end up as well. Her name was my secret. Knowledge of it was enough to keep her on a leash.

The sun disappeared and darkness settled in quickly. I can feel my heart jump as I see the form moving towards my front door. My prize has arrived.

The wooden stake ran me through with lightening speed.

Apparently, She has a new keeper; one offering a better deal I suppose.

I’m surprised by my last thought, no more suffling…






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Halo

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must contain the line "I'll give you one more chance."

Halo

The threat had been real, of that Winston had no doubt.

“I’ll give you one more chance. You make one mistake and I’ll put a sticky bomb on the back of your helmet.”

That’s what he had said and Winston was certain that Bobby was capable of it. They had been through one battle after another together and it seemed like each time, Winston was the one holding the entire team back. He just couldn’t seem to get the hang of it.

As they headed into battle, Winston did a check of his ammo, armor and weapons. He was loaded down with so much stuff that a single stray shot would set him off like a backpack nuke. He fought his natural inclination to hide behind some of the debris scattered all over the place. Hiding would increase his chances of surviving in the short run but if you didn’t take the battle to the enemy, they would find you eventually.

The first indication that they had been spotted was when the lead scout exploded sending gobs of goo everywhere.

Winston did what he always did in these situations. He began running as fast as he could, firing randomly in every direction. When one weapon emptied, he simply switched to another. His squad had become adjusted to this type of panic fighting and simply stayed low while Winston drew the enemy’s fire.

At one point, Winston began throwing hand grenades everywhere. He saw a huge explosion off to his left; he must have accidentally hit something big. There was smoke and blood and destruction everywhere.

The quiet came as Winston’s last weapon fired its last round. It was over and he was still standing! A first.

Smiling, Bobby set down the game controller and said, “Way to go Dad!”


Notes: Thanks for visiting this page's sponsors.  Also, please check out my other blog at http://jamesdillingham.com.

Vision Quest

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: This story must contain the words: Black, Fire and Spring

Vision Quest


Diliahla dragged her left hand along the wall of the cave; it came away black.

A smell confirmed what she suspected – smoke.

Her pace picked up in anticipation. She’d been following the tunnel for an eternity as her physical body rested elsewhere. Sure, she seemed to have arms and legs as well as all of her senses; but she knew that was just a mental fabrication. The body that needed food and sleep and such lay in a trance in hut at the edge of a jungle village.

The underworld did not allow passage of other than a soul.

At first, there was nothing. She’d envisioned the hole and dropped down it to find only darkness.

Now that had all changed. There was light somewhere up ahead and she could see. Again, there was the strong smell of smoke. Together, these small nuances urged her forward. She could feel a memory struggling to be realized.

It was right there at the edge consciousness as she hurried around another bend. She could feel the truth coming to her…Where there is smoke…there is..

A spring?

Around the bend all edges of the forever tunnel fell away and she found herself in a paradise of lush forest surrounding a spring.

What does this mean? She thought. The answer had been so close and now it was gone. Something do to with…smoke?

The pulsing wind was as sudden as it was strong. And yet, Diliahla felt only the warm embrace of familiarity. She now knew what she had always known but, for a while, had forgotten.

Where there is smoke…there’s… “Fire!” She said aloud.

She spun and rushed to hug the neck of her love; her power animal.

The dragon lowered its head to accommodate her. It had been a long time. Too long.

Misdirection

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must have a clock, a fish and a pair of knitting needles

MISDIRECTION

Michael stood inconspicuously near a newsstand in Gare Saint Lazare, the busiest train station in Paris. He’d been there, in one guise or another, for four days now; gaining familiarity with the pulse of the old landmark as it responded to the surges in rush hour traffic as well as to the near-silent sliding of a midnight mop across its ancient floors.

The big clock on the wall said it was six. Train 577 from Rouen was due about fifteen minutes ago. It would not actually arrive for another ten minutes, predictably late and thus, oddly on time. This had been built into the plan as had everything else.

Every security guard was on Michael’s payroll, if only for this one hour; as were the three maintenance men scattered about the giant lobby. The guy behind the fast food stand could feel the gun under his apron and he passed fried fish and chips across the counter to fat man with an assault rifle barely hidden under his large coat.

Across town at the much smaller train station, a dark little man smiled to himself as he thought about how he had fooled those idiot assassins over at Gare Saint Lazare. How arrogant of them to think they could keep such a large operation a secret. They would be gravely disappointed when they found that he had not taken the 577 as anticipated.

As he prepared to exit his train, an elderly woman stumbled in front of him. He caught her arm and she smiled up at him. That was when he first noticed her too-young eyes. The knitting needles went in silently and with a surprising lack of pain.

At a signal from Michael, Gare Saint Lazare saw fifteen of her patrons fade into the background, their mission accomplished.

No Exit

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must have a gun, a crown and a key

No Exit

Finding the treasure had been surprisingly easy. Once he had the map, it was simply a matter of following directions.

Finding the map had been part luck, part a willingness to do whatever it took. The theft of the ancient artifact with the riddle written on a scrap of paper inside, that had been luck.

The riddle had said, “Once found does not possession make.” Randy had interpreted that to mean he would have to find the map and forcibly liberate it from its owner. His research found several previous owners of the artifact. After that, it was simply a process of elimination, literally. Owner number three produced the map in response to the sudden appearance of the business end of a large handgun. The gun barked a final good-bye and Randy took off after what was his and his alone.

Three months later found Randy sitting against a stalagmite at the bottom of a very deep, very remote and uncharted cavern. Around him, the floor was littered with riches beyond belief. It seemed as if every nook and cranny had been stuffed with gold and gemstones. The only thing more numerous than the treasures, were the skeletons.

Boned fortune seekers told the soundless story of Randy’s pending fate. They taunted him without mercy. One wore a crown as it rested against a particularly large pile of gold coins. The soul had left but the bones, they remained behind with the crown.

I guess you can’t take it with you, Randy thought smiling. He was resolved to his fate.

Yes, the treasure had been easy to find. The only thing missing was the key to the door that would let him out. Scribbled on the walls by generations of souls were the words Once Found Does Not Possession Make.

Tantor

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must have a telephone, an elephant and a daisy

Tantor

Tarzan slowly placed the phone back onto its hook and then gazed out over the vast grasslands of northern Africa.

He had been in the northern part of the continent for several months, helping local authorities track down poachers. He felt a great deal of satisfaction from the impact that he had made. Knowing he was around made most poachers seek more legitimate sources of income.

He had left his native jungle behind, knowing it would be there when he returned. The jungle resisted change with the same determination of the moon resisting a fall from the sky. It had always been there and would always continue to be.

Today, Tarzan had found that change did come. It was as inevitable as the passage of time. You could resist it, but time was the most patient master of all. In the end, it always won. Yesterday, in the densest part of the great African jungle, time knowingly watched as nature took its inevitable course. Tantor, the mightiest of all elephants and Tarzan’s closest companion for most of his adult life had died.

Tarzan took a train south to the northern edge of the jungle before disembarking. At the station, he shed all remnants of the civilized world and disappeared into the dense jungle.

It took him three days of swinging, running and swimming to reach the old elephant’s final resting place. Jane sat at the edge of the clearing waiting for her husband. She knew he would come. She knew he would need her to be there. Swaying gently nearby as she mourned her lost was Tantor’s longtime mate, Daisy.

The ape-man landed noiselessly a few feet from his wife. Without a word, she rose to meet him. He held her tightly and then, the Lord of the Jungle wept.

Out of Place

Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.

The prompts: Story must be about someone waking up from a coma.

Out of Place

Squinting through wrinkled eyes, the old man leaned over the sink to get a better look at the stranger in the reflection. He touched the sagging skin on his face, his soft hand sensitive to the stubble growing there. The reflection mimicked his motions perfectly.

The doctors said that it had been thirty years since he had processed a conscious thought. Maybe that was it; his brain was playing tricks on him. Surely he would see familiarity in the eyes, the window to his soul. If he was truly there, in that body, then the eyes would tell.

Brushing back his long graying hair, he looked deeper into the reflection, but alas, all that looked back were tired, yellowed lenses. No, that was not him. He was not the frail, spindly-armed old man in the mirror; of that he was certain.

This was not his place, his time or his body. This must be the work of the sorcerer he had locked away in the tower.

Making use of the walker, he made his way back to the bed and climbed in. As he slowly closed his eyes, a look best described as satisfied determination shaped his features.

The king’s eyes opened to a clear blue sky as he gasped for air. His mount stood nearby, the Dark Knight was even closer with a sword raised overhead for the final blow. The king moved quickly, sweeping the Dark Knight off of his feet with his legs. The advantage was now his, and the king quickly dispatched the usurper. 

The doctors entered the small room at the end of the long corridor to find their declaration of a miraculous awakening a bit premature. The patient had slipped back into his coma. The only change was the smile on his face.