Duncan had been lost in the woods for three days. This suited him just fine.
Everything was going according to plan. He had food, a sleeping bag, and a tent. He also had a book on wilderness survival, giving him all the advice he needed.
Duncan had no intention of finding his way back. He had even removed chapters from his book that referred to finding one’s way home. Lost in the wilderness meant no traffic, no meetings and most importantly … no Gladys.
Two weeks later, Duncan began to rethink his strategy. He was tired of eating twigs and dirt clods. It turned out that catching food with snares was more difficult than the book led him to believe. He began to think that a little time in traffic could be a good thing. He would call it his contemplative time. As for meetings, he could call those group sharing events.
With a new outlook on life, Duncan began to work on finding his way home. After some time, he eventually managed to climb to the top of the highest nearby mountain with the intent of getting his bearings.
Sure enough, from his perch on the peak, he could see a large town not more than five miles away. That was when his long forgotten cell phone buzzed indicating he had an SMS. He realized that he must be within cell range up there in the open.
Pulling out his phone, he looked down to read, “Where the hell are you, and pick up some milk on your way home, you worthless excuse for a man.” It was from Gladys.
Duncan calmly dropped his cell to the ground, smashed it with his foot, and then headed back into the wilderness. Some perspectives are just too hard to change.
Be sure to stop by my main blog The View From The Cheap Seats.
jim
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Quiet Wife
Paul lifted his wife out of the car trunk and stood her stiff body on the dolly, which he then used to wheel her into the service department.
“What seems to be the problem sir?” asked the service representative behind the counter.
“It’s my wife,” Paul began, “she seems to be acting up a bit.”
The rep walked around from behind the counter to get a closer look at Paul’s unit.
“Ahh,” he said scratching his head, “I see you have the Quiet Wife model 01-Alpha. I didn’t know that any of these things were still out there. She must be what, twenty-five years old?”
“I’ve had her for nearly thirty years. You might say we’ve grown old together,” said Paul, a tear forming in his eye.
“What seems to be the problem?” the rep asked.
“She is leaking oil and several of her connections keep loosening up. She requires a lot of attention. If I have to pay that much attention to my wife, I might as well get a live one. Plus, she seems to have lost some interest in me … physically I mean.”
The rep couldn’t help but do a quick body scan, noting the generous belly and unkempt look of his customer. Recovering quickly he said, “It must be her optical recognition and response card. I should have another one in the back.”
While the rep went to look for the part, Paul scanned through some brochures touting the latest in Artificially Intelligent Domestic Partners. Their best selling model was Handyman Hal. The testimony below said, “He is much more of a man than my real husband in every way.” Paul shuddered as he saw the smiling face attached to the comment. It was that of the newest female AIDP, Quiet Wife Ultra.
“What seems to be the problem sir?” asked the service representative behind the counter.
“It’s my wife,” Paul began, “she seems to be acting up a bit.”
The rep walked around from behind the counter to get a closer look at Paul’s unit.
“Ahh,” he said scratching his head, “I see you have the Quiet Wife model 01-Alpha. I didn’t know that any of these things were still out there. She must be what, twenty-five years old?”
“I’ve had her for nearly thirty years. You might say we’ve grown old together,” said Paul, a tear forming in his eye.
“What seems to be the problem?” the rep asked.
“She is leaking oil and several of her connections keep loosening up. She requires a lot of attention. If I have to pay that much attention to my wife, I might as well get a live one. Plus, she seems to have lost some interest in me … physically I mean.”
The rep couldn’t help but do a quick body scan, noting the generous belly and unkempt look of his customer. Recovering quickly he said, “It must be her optical recognition and response card. I should have another one in the back.”
While the rep went to look for the part, Paul scanned through some brochures touting the latest in Artificially Intelligent Domestic Partners. Their best selling model was Handyman Hal. The testimony below said, “He is much more of a man than my real husband in every way.” Paul shuddered as he saw the smiling face attached to the comment. It was that of the newest female AIDP, Quiet Wife Ultra.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
R&R
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words tomato, flower, book
R&R
Jackson finished tightening his apron before going out to tend his garden. He hummed an old tune as he watered his prize flowers. The time out here with his plants was special. Sitting in the dirt, digging weeds as his tomato plants hovered around him gave him time to think. Sometimes the thoughts were big, other times they were inconsequential. Whatever the case, they came and went and he was free from the stress and strain of everyday life.
After about an hour, he forced himself to his feet. Maybe he had time to do a little reading before going to bed. Dusting himself off, he made his way back inside. There, he found a favorite book. He made some warm tea and settle down for a good read.
The flashing red light over his door caught his attention. With an audible sigh, he rolled out of bed and slipped into his body suit.
The executive officer addressed him as he stepped onto the starship’s fighting bridge.
“Captain, the Corillians have just rezed to within firing range. They appear to be booting up their weapons’ systems.”
The captain looked over at his weapons officer and received a confirming nod. As he took his seat in the middle of the bridge he simply said, “Fire when ready.”
The prompts: This story must contain the words tomato, flower, book
R&R
Jackson finished tightening his apron before going out to tend his garden. He hummed an old tune as he watered his prize flowers. The time out here with his plants was special. Sitting in the dirt, digging weeds as his tomato plants hovered around him gave him time to think. Sometimes the thoughts were big, other times they were inconsequential. Whatever the case, they came and went and he was free from the stress and strain of everyday life.
After about an hour, he forced himself to his feet. Maybe he had time to do a little reading before going to bed. Dusting himself off, he made his way back inside. There, he found a favorite book. He made some warm tea and settle down for a good read.
The flashing red light over his door caught his attention. With an audible sigh, he rolled out of bed and slipped into his body suit.
The executive officer addressed him as he stepped onto the starship’s fighting bridge.
“Captain, the Corillians have just rezed to within firing range. They appear to be booting up their weapons’ systems.”
The captain looked over at his weapons officer and received a confirming nod. As he took his seat in the middle of the bridge he simply said, “Fire when ready.”
Friday, July 1, 2011
Thinning the Herd
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must involve a winter sport.
Thinning the Herd
Ignuth and Mudsock struggled into their heavy winter clothes. This was to be the biggest day of their young lives. They were going to participate in their little Eskimo village’s oldest ritual; one designed to recognize the fittest amongst them while keeping the population in check.
Today they were going to go polar bear tipping.
The idea was to sneak up on a sleeping polar bear, which happened to be standing at the time, and push it over. That was step one. Step two was to outrun an animal with the speed of a snowmobile.
Needless to say, few survived.
The polar bears thought this was great sport. Every year they would bulk up on Eskimo youth; not as tasty as seals but much easier to catch. They had learned to stand very still and then amazingly, the food would actually walk right up to them.
The day started with a parade down the center of the village’s short main street; a mud path about a hundred yards long. The two-person teams would walk together amidst cheers and much ado. They always tipped in pairs.
Ignuth considered himself to be very lucky at having drawn Mudsock as a partner. Neither boy was very physically adept. Ignuth was extremely fat, signifying the wealth of his family. Mudsock was from an even richer family and thus even flabbier than Ignuth.
All of the other teams eyed Ignuth with open envy. They had all wanted to tip with Mudsock. The reason for this was clear. When tipping a polar bear, it was not necessary to be the fastest or the strongest boy in the village. The polar bear was always going to be faster and stronger.
There was only one key to success. You simply had to be faster than your partner.
The prompts: This story must involve a winter sport.
Thinning the Herd
Ignuth and Mudsock struggled into their heavy winter clothes. This was to be the biggest day of their young lives. They were going to participate in their little Eskimo village’s oldest ritual; one designed to recognize the fittest amongst them while keeping the population in check.
Today they were going to go polar bear tipping.
The idea was to sneak up on a sleeping polar bear, which happened to be standing at the time, and push it over. That was step one. Step two was to outrun an animal with the speed of a snowmobile.
Needless to say, few survived.
The polar bears thought this was great sport. Every year they would bulk up on Eskimo youth; not as tasty as seals but much easier to catch. They had learned to stand very still and then amazingly, the food would actually walk right up to them.
The day started with a parade down the center of the village’s short main street; a mud path about a hundred yards long. The two-person teams would walk together amidst cheers and much ado. They always tipped in pairs.
Ignuth considered himself to be very lucky at having drawn Mudsock as a partner. Neither boy was very physically adept. Ignuth was extremely fat, signifying the wealth of his family. Mudsock was from an even richer family and thus even flabbier than Ignuth.
All of the other teams eyed Ignuth with open envy. They had all wanted to tip with Mudsock. The reason for this was clear. When tipping a polar bear, it was not necessary to be the fastest or the strongest boy in the village. The polar bear was always going to be faster and stronger.
There was only one key to success. You simply had to be faster than your partner.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
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 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”.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
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?”
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?”
Thursday, June 23, 2011
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 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.”
Monday, June 20, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
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 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.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
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.”
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.”
Saturday, June 11, 2011
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.”
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.”
Thursday, June 9, 2011
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…
Thanks for visiting my sponsors:)
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…
Thanks for visiting my sponsors:)
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, June 6, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, June 3, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Hell Has No Wrath...
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must be contain a doll, scissors and a pair of socks.
Hell Has No Wrath ...
In the dim light of the small lamp, Deana held a pair scissors in one hand and what appeared to be a raggedy doll in the other. On her lap was a book of undeterminable age other than the fact it was obviously very, very old. A randomly placed bookmark said “Thanks for shopping at the Wizards Book Shelf.”
She had been a very busy girl tonight, this Deana. Her sewing table was littered with special ingredients. There was a bundle of steel wool sparkling brightly in a cup holding a burning candle. Several spices, some hard to find, had been ground together into a fine powder that was now brewing in a pot of water on the oven. The smell was somehow rotten and sweet at the same time. Other items such as tape, lipstick and a toaster all waited patiently for their turn in the dark ritual.
The curtains to the front window were closed, shutting out the streetlamp that was trying in vain to push back the darkness of a moonless night.
Yes, she had been a busy girl … and the night was still young.
The next morning, across town at the Thrift Inn, a detective scratched his head as he attempted to brief his boss on the grisley scene in one of the rooms.
“It’s the strangest case I have ever seen Chief. We got a call from that girl over there who claims to be this guy’s mistress. She said she woke up this morning and he was like this. There is no weapon and no one else heard anything.”
The Chief glanced at the mangled body. The victim was only wearing a pair of socks with the bottoms burned out of them.
Across town, Deana slept. It had been a long night.
The prompts: Story must be contain a doll, scissors and a pair of socks.
Hell Has No Wrath ...
In the dim light of the small lamp, Deana held a pair scissors in one hand and what appeared to be a raggedy doll in the other. On her lap was a book of undeterminable age other than the fact it was obviously very, very old. A randomly placed bookmark said “Thanks for shopping at the Wizards Book Shelf.”
She had been a very busy girl tonight, this Deana. Her sewing table was littered with special ingredients. There was a bundle of steel wool sparkling brightly in a cup holding a burning candle. Several spices, some hard to find, had been ground together into a fine powder that was now brewing in a pot of water on the oven. The smell was somehow rotten and sweet at the same time. Other items such as tape, lipstick and a toaster all waited patiently for their turn in the dark ritual.
The curtains to the front window were closed, shutting out the streetlamp that was trying in vain to push back the darkness of a moonless night.
Yes, she had been a busy girl … and the night was still young.
The next morning, across town at the Thrift Inn, a detective scratched his head as he attempted to brief his boss on the grisley scene in one of the rooms.
“It’s the strangest case I have ever seen Chief. We got a call from that girl over there who claims to be this guy’s mistress. She said she woke up this morning and he was like this. There is no weapon and no one else heard anything.”
The Chief glanced at the mangled body. The victim was only wearing a pair of socks with the bottoms burned out of them.
Across town, Deana slept. It had been a long night.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Recollectionless
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must be contain the line "I wonder where that came from."
Recollectionless
Buckley stared at the ceiling with one clear thought, Where the hell am I?
His head rolled over to the right bringing something big and brown into his line of site. Focus was slow in coming, hindered by a competing brain-signal that screamed PAIN!
He was no stranger to hangovers so the source of the pain held no mystery. The brown thing was starting to look like his ratty old sofa standing on its side. Buckley sat up while gravity resumed its job of holding the furniture to the floor.
Rightly assuming that the presence of his sofa meant he was in his own apartment cleared up some of his immediate questions. Rolling to his stomach, our hero managed to get to his hands and knees; he had a porcelain god to pray to and it wasn’t going to come to him.
As he made his way down the hallway, he came across what appeared to be a large stuffed beaver wearing slippers and a motorcycle helmet. I wonder where that came from? he thought only mildly surprised. He had seen stranger things.
His mind rolodexed backwards hoping to find that the activities of the night before justified this morning’s “head-o-death” feeling that pulsed in time with his heart. Flashes of bright lights, taxi cabs, women and something that reminded him of a unicorn all flashed through his mind in nightmarish fashion. Nothing made sense.
With no coherent memory, he took stock of what he could. Aside from his head, he seemed to be physically intact. The apartment, while untidy, was basically undamaged. He had to admit that the beaver added a sense of exotic curiosity to his otherwise drab abode. No harm, no foul …
Time to deal with the pain, he thought, reaching for the Jack Daniels.
The prompts: Story must be contain the line "I wonder where that came from."
Recollectionless
Buckley stared at the ceiling with one clear thought, Where the hell am I?
His head rolled over to the right bringing something big and brown into his line of site. Focus was slow in coming, hindered by a competing brain-signal that screamed PAIN!
He was no stranger to hangovers so the source of the pain held no mystery. The brown thing was starting to look like his ratty old sofa standing on its side. Buckley sat up while gravity resumed its job of holding the furniture to the floor.
Rightly assuming that the presence of his sofa meant he was in his own apartment cleared up some of his immediate questions. Rolling to his stomach, our hero managed to get to his hands and knees; he had a porcelain god to pray to and it wasn’t going to come to him.
As he made his way down the hallway, he came across what appeared to be a large stuffed beaver wearing slippers and a motorcycle helmet. I wonder where that came from? he thought only mildly surprised. He had seen stranger things.
His mind rolodexed backwards hoping to find that the activities of the night before justified this morning’s “head-o-death” feeling that pulsed in time with his heart. Flashes of bright lights, taxi cabs, women and something that reminded him of a unicorn all flashed through his mind in nightmarish fashion. Nothing made sense.
With no coherent memory, he took stock of what he could. Aside from his head, he seemed to be physically intact. The apartment, while untidy, was basically undamaged. He had to admit that the beaver added a sense of exotic curiosity to his otherwise drab abode. No harm, no foul …
Time to deal with the pain, he thought, reaching for the Jack Daniels.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
A Day in the Life
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must be about a bank robbery
A Day in the Life
Tony looked around at the bloody carnage and thought, I have got to find a new line of work.
The day had started off so well. Dorothy, his youngest daughter had shown him her A+ vocabulary test. He had stuck it proudly on the refrigerator door. Sue, the wife had been exceptionally warm and welcoming this morning; a condition he accepted gratefully even though he knew there was something behind it; maybe a new pair of shoes.
Even the new puppy was performing well. It had moved its “potty” area from the center of the living room to an area behind the sofa. This meant that he could pretend not to notice the smell until he left for work. At that point, it became someone else’s problem.
Now, as he stood there with a bag holding his version of a 401K plan, he could only shake his head and sigh. Off to his left, was a dead guard; to his right was Lefty Malone. The two had shot it out a few moments earlier. They were both exceptional shots and now they were both exceptionally dead.
The cops had shown up almost immediately. Note to self, he thought. Never hold up a bank across from Dunkin Donuts. The boys in blue had apparently failed to read the hostage negotiation manual. Their idea of step one was to lob a crate of smoke bombs in the general direction of the alarm screaming out of the bank. The result was a bank and street with near zero visibility.
Tony knew he would have to shoot his way out; tough way to go but everyone had a bad day at work from time to time. At least this day can’t get any wor…,he half-thought, just as the overhead sprinklers kicked on.
The prompts: Story must be about a bank robbery
A Day in the Life
Tony looked around at the bloody carnage and thought, I have got to find a new line of work.
The day had started off so well. Dorothy, his youngest daughter had shown him her A+ vocabulary test. He had stuck it proudly on the refrigerator door. Sue, the wife had been exceptionally warm and welcoming this morning; a condition he accepted gratefully even though he knew there was something behind it; maybe a new pair of shoes.
Even the new puppy was performing well. It had moved its “potty” area from the center of the living room to an area behind the sofa. This meant that he could pretend not to notice the smell until he left for work. At that point, it became someone else’s problem.
Now, as he stood there with a bag holding his version of a 401K plan, he could only shake his head and sigh. Off to his left, was a dead guard; to his right was Lefty Malone. The two had shot it out a few moments earlier. They were both exceptional shots and now they were both exceptionally dead.
The cops had shown up almost immediately. Note to self, he thought. Never hold up a bank across from Dunkin Donuts. The boys in blue had apparently failed to read the hostage negotiation manual. Their idea of step one was to lob a crate of smoke bombs in the general direction of the alarm screaming out of the bank. The result was a bank and street with near zero visibility.
Tony knew he would have to shoot his way out; tough way to go but everyone had a bad day at work from time to time. At least this day can’t get any wor…,he half-thought, just as the overhead sprinklers kicked on.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
In Search of Ponce de Leon
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must be about a someone that travels through time.
In Search of Ponce De Leon
“What do you mean my credit crystal has been turned down?” Seth asked, trying not to shriek as panic and disappointment fought for space in his frontal lobe.
He had been paying down his crystal for months so that he would have enough room under the limit to rent a replicator he could take with him on his discreet foray. Seth had been planning this for months; setting up the fake excuse for being out of town and reviewing hours of time-footage so that he would be in just the right place at just the right time.
It wasn’t cheating. She was his wife no matter what the date on the calendar said. It was just that she was starting to show a little wear and tear. It wasn’t her fault. Who lived to be a hundred without a few lines here and there; maybe a few extra pounds to boot? The simple fact was she no longer tapped his libido the way she did when she was a young philly of seventy.
A quick time-jump with the replicator and he could make a copy of his wife from a more pristine era. No, it wasn’t cheating. He would just have two of the same person.
But something had gone wrong. His crystal was charged to the limit. How could that have happened? Only he and his wife had access to the account. That’s it! he thought. She must have gone out and bought that new purse she had her eye on.
I’ll give her what-for, he thought as he burst into the house.
Confusion filled the room as his wife screamed and a youngish looking version of himself rolled off of her and ran into the bathroom. Seth walked over to the nightstand and saw the replicator rental receipt.
The prompts: Story must be about a someone that travels through time.
In Search of Ponce De Leon
“What do you mean my credit crystal has been turned down?” Seth asked, trying not to shriek as panic and disappointment fought for space in his frontal lobe.
He had been paying down his crystal for months so that he would have enough room under the limit to rent a replicator he could take with him on his discreet foray. Seth had been planning this for months; setting up the fake excuse for being out of town and reviewing hours of time-footage so that he would be in just the right place at just the right time.
It wasn’t cheating. She was his wife no matter what the date on the calendar said. It was just that she was starting to show a little wear and tear. It wasn’t her fault. Who lived to be a hundred without a few lines here and there; maybe a few extra pounds to boot? The simple fact was she no longer tapped his libido the way she did when she was a young philly of seventy.
A quick time-jump with the replicator and he could make a copy of his wife from a more pristine era. No, it wasn’t cheating. He would just have two of the same person.
But something had gone wrong. His crystal was charged to the limit. How could that have happened? Only he and his wife had access to the account. That’s it! he thought. She must have gone out and bought that new purse she had her eye on.
I’ll give her what-for, he thought as he burst into the house.
Confusion filled the room as his wife screamed and a youngish looking version of himself rolled off of her and ran into the bathroom. Seth walked over to the nightstand and saw the replicator rental receipt.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Housing Slump
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must be about buying a house
Housing Slump
“Now about the body in the master bedroom …” Tony said as he carefully tried to gauge his bargaining position. This was his dream home. Perfect location, beautiful landscaping and most importantly, it was priced to move quickly. The previous owner, Guido the Knife, had taken a ride on the magic carpet. Unfortunately for him, it had been rolled up in the trunk of a car at the bottom of a lake at the time.
Silence hung in the room like a thick cloud. Both parties were aware of the old adage, “Whoever speaks first loses.”
Finally Sandy broke the silence. She tried to be nonchalant about the whole issue. “The cleaning crew told me they would get to the back rooms as soon as they finish with the kitchen.”
He had her now. Tony could see the flicker of desperation in her eyes. She needed this sale more than he needed the house. It was time to press home his advantage. Scratching his chin doubtfully, he walked over to the living room wall and poked his finger into one of the numerous bullet holes lined up there.
“Tisk, tisk, tisk,” he said shaking his head; a sideways glance from beneath a raised eyebrow sent his message home to the agent; silently saying What more can you do for me?
Sandy could see her profit margin slipping away, one upgrade at a time. This housing slump was really starting to get to her. Now she was reduced to selling mafia estates to bottom feeders like Tony over there in his Hawaiian shirt, shorts and black socks. If she could just keep him out of the basement until after the sale closed. The CSI crew said the smell down there would begin to go away in a year or two.
The prompts: Story must be about buying a house
Housing Slump
“Now about the body in the master bedroom …” Tony said as he carefully tried to gauge his bargaining position. This was his dream home. Perfect location, beautiful landscaping and most importantly, it was priced to move quickly. The previous owner, Guido the Knife, had taken a ride on the magic carpet. Unfortunately for him, it had been rolled up in the trunk of a car at the bottom of a lake at the time.
Silence hung in the room like a thick cloud. Both parties were aware of the old adage, “Whoever speaks first loses.”
Finally Sandy broke the silence. She tried to be nonchalant about the whole issue. “The cleaning crew told me they would get to the back rooms as soon as they finish with the kitchen.”
He had her now. Tony could see the flicker of desperation in her eyes. She needed this sale more than he needed the house. It was time to press home his advantage. Scratching his chin doubtfully, he walked over to the living room wall and poked his finger into one of the numerous bullet holes lined up there.
“Tisk, tisk, tisk,” he said shaking his head; a sideways glance from beneath a raised eyebrow sent his message home to the agent; silently saying What more can you do for me?
Sandy could see her profit margin slipping away, one upgrade at a time. This housing slump was really starting to get to her. Now she was reduced to selling mafia estates to bottom feeders like Tony over there in his Hawaiian shirt, shorts and black socks. If she could just keep him out of the basement until after the sale closed. The CSI crew said the smell down there would begin to go away in a year or two.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Plentiful Harvest
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must be contain a tulip, jump rope and rake
Plentiful Harvest
The large black sedan coasted silently down the maple-lined neighborhood street. Anton observed the scene from the back seat; drawing it all in as if taking a deep mental breath. Nothing missed his gaze. Darkened windows gave a night-like quality to the view. It was perfect.
Young children played jump rope in a large driveway. Completely absorbed in the chanting rhyme of the game, they didn’t notice the car so out of place in their little corner of the world. Old man Winston was a different matter. The chill hit him while the car was still half a block away. He leaned against the rake he had been using to clean up his prize tulip garden and stared at the car as it slipped by.
Anton sent an unseen smile to the old man. You will be the first to go, he thought. It was best to deal with the “sensitives” quickly; that done, he could take the rest at his leisure.
Hunger consumed Anton for it was the start of a new cycle and therefore had been a long time since the last harvest. His eleven year sleep had only recently ended. He was very hungry indeed, licking his lips as he passed a couple of joggers.
The sedan continued out of town on the same road it had come in on. Eighty miles away in an old warehouse, others, still sleeping waited impatiently. They played amongst intermingled dreams waiting for Anton to return and announce the start of a new cycle. They knew he would not let them down. He never did.
Anton, Harvest Master for more than eight-hundred years, smiled at the thought of the wakeful reunion to come. He knew he had chosen well. The town was perfect; quiet and isolated.
The harvest would be plentiful.
The prompts: Story must be contain a tulip, jump rope and rake
Plentiful Harvest
The large black sedan coasted silently down the maple-lined neighborhood street. Anton observed the scene from the back seat; drawing it all in as if taking a deep mental breath. Nothing missed his gaze. Darkened windows gave a night-like quality to the view. It was perfect.
Young children played jump rope in a large driveway. Completely absorbed in the chanting rhyme of the game, they didn’t notice the car so out of place in their little corner of the world. Old man Winston was a different matter. The chill hit him while the car was still half a block away. He leaned against the rake he had been using to clean up his prize tulip garden and stared at the car as it slipped by.
Anton sent an unseen smile to the old man. You will be the first to go, he thought. It was best to deal with the “sensitives” quickly; that done, he could take the rest at his leisure.
Hunger consumed Anton for it was the start of a new cycle and therefore had been a long time since the last harvest. His eleven year sleep had only recently ended. He was very hungry indeed, licking his lips as he passed a couple of joggers.
The sedan continued out of town on the same road it had come in on. Eighty miles away in an old warehouse, others, still sleeping waited impatiently. They played amongst intermingled dreams waiting for Anton to return and announce the start of a new cycle. They knew he would not let them down. He never did.
Anton, Harvest Master for more than eight-hundred years, smiled at the thought of the wakeful reunion to come. He knew he had chosen well. The town was perfect; quiet and isolated.
The harvest would be plentiful.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Men in Black
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must be contain a yardstick, a spider web and a rocking chair
Men in Black
The two men in black suits did their best to stay in control of the situation, but old Jeb Crenshaw was unimpressed.
“Like I said, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till I see some identification,” he grumbled from the safer side of his overly large shotgun.
As they fumbled for their wallets, a slight movement off to his right caught the old man’s eye. Thelma had just placed a huckleberry pie on the window sill for cooling. Multitasking, Jeb tried to keep the gun trained on the two men as he reached carefully over to get a sampling. A yardstick shot out of the window and wacked his hand a good one, causing the old man to pickle off a quick round towards the G-men thereby inducing one to wet his pants on the spot.
Holding out his badge for inspection, one said carefully, “Please Mr. Crenshaw, we just want to find out what happened here.”
Satisfied, the old man lowered his gun and made his way to a rocking chair; his gait reminded the taller suit of Walter Brennan.
From his perch, Jeb pointed over toward the south forty and said, “Some fancy flying machine came by and tried to catch my prize heifer with some sort of spider web thingy.”
The taller agent looked over his shoulder at the bus-sized metallic object smoldering in the field behind them then said, “So you shot it down?”
“Damn straight!”
“Mr. Crenshaw, did you happen to notice if there were any survivors?”
“A few fellas tried to climb out but … you know.”
“Shot them too did you?” The agents were starting to realize this was going to be less productive than they had hoped.
“Sure did. Case you haven’t noticed, we don’t cotton much to strangers in these parts.”
The prompts: Story must be contain a yardstick, a spider web and a rocking chair
Men in Black
The two men in black suits did their best to stay in control of the situation, but old Jeb Crenshaw was unimpressed.
“Like I said, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till I see some identification,” he grumbled from the safer side of his overly large shotgun.
As they fumbled for their wallets, a slight movement off to his right caught the old man’s eye. Thelma had just placed a huckleberry pie on the window sill for cooling. Multitasking, Jeb tried to keep the gun trained on the two men as he reached carefully over to get a sampling. A yardstick shot out of the window and wacked his hand a good one, causing the old man to pickle off a quick round towards the G-men thereby inducing one to wet his pants on the spot.
Holding out his badge for inspection, one said carefully, “Please Mr. Crenshaw, we just want to find out what happened here.”
Satisfied, the old man lowered his gun and made his way to a rocking chair; his gait reminded the taller suit of Walter Brennan.
From his perch, Jeb pointed over toward the south forty and said, “Some fancy flying machine came by and tried to catch my prize heifer with some sort of spider web thingy.”
The taller agent looked over his shoulder at the bus-sized metallic object smoldering in the field behind them then said, “So you shot it down?”
“Damn straight!”
“Mr. Crenshaw, did you happen to notice if there were any survivors?”
“A few fellas tried to climb out but … you know.”
“Shot them too did you?” The agents were starting to realize this was going to be less productive than they had hoped.
“Sure did. Case you haven’t noticed, we don’t cotton much to strangers in these parts.”
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The Redemption of Brodie Mills
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must be about a stolen wallet
The Redemption of Brodie Mills
Brodie ran down the back alley, stopping once he was sure no one was following. That had been way too easy. The old man had been the perfect mark; well dressed, the bulge of a fat wallet just begging to be lifted, the owner sound asleep.
Now, alone under the glow of a too dim streetlamp, he examined his prize. Holy Shit he muttered as he looked at what must have been a thousand dollars worth of fifties. He shoved the money into his pocket and continued his examination. No credit cards, not even a gym membership. Just a driver’s license and a scrap of paper with a note on it.
Unfolding the note, he read, “Brodie, this money is yours to distribute as you wish. Keep none for yourself.”
Brodie spun around thinking that he had somehow been caught in a sting operation. There was no one around. He looked at the note again. This time he saw, “Think of this as my gift to you. Accept it and your life will change. Keep the money and your life will continue as it has.” Too many drugs; that must be it. Yet his mind seemed to be as clear as the evening sky.
He ran blindly down the street trying to escape the feeling of being watched. Everywhere he looked, people seemed to be looking back at him. On and on he ran until he could run no more. A newspaper floated by in the wind. The headline read, “Brodie Mills Redeemed!”
He gave up. Walking into the nearest soup kitchen, he put the money into the donation jar and then got in line for his meal.
As he ate his soup, he took his first look at the name on the driver’s license. “God” He suspected as much.
The prompts: Story must be about a stolen wallet
The Redemption of Brodie Mills
Brodie ran down the back alley, stopping once he was sure no one was following. That had been way too easy. The old man had been the perfect mark; well dressed, the bulge of a fat wallet just begging to be lifted, the owner sound asleep.
Now, alone under the glow of a too dim streetlamp, he examined his prize. Holy Shit he muttered as he looked at what must have been a thousand dollars worth of fifties. He shoved the money into his pocket and continued his examination. No credit cards, not even a gym membership. Just a driver’s license and a scrap of paper with a note on it.
Unfolding the note, he read, “Brodie, this money is yours to distribute as you wish. Keep none for yourself.”
Brodie spun around thinking that he had somehow been caught in a sting operation. There was no one around. He looked at the note again. This time he saw, “Think of this as my gift to you. Accept it and your life will change. Keep the money and your life will continue as it has.” Too many drugs; that must be it. Yet his mind seemed to be as clear as the evening sky.
He ran blindly down the street trying to escape the feeling of being watched. Everywhere he looked, people seemed to be looking back at him. On and on he ran until he could run no more. A newspaper floated by in the wind. The headline read, “Brodie Mills Redeemed!”
He gave up. Walking into the nearest soup kitchen, he put the money into the donation jar and then got in line for his meal.
As he ate his soup, he took his first look at the name on the driver’s license. “God” He suspected as much.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Easy Money
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must take place in a pet store
Easy Money
The large dark overcoat wasn’t spooky by itself but it came with a set of bloodshot eyes above a tangled beard both of which peered out from under the brim of a filthy Fedora. The accompanying odor wasn’t so bad. It actually fit in well with the smell along Puppy Row, a stretch of cages filled with small furry food processors.
Charlie eyed the customer suspiciously. Not liking the looks of the hulking figure, he poked around for some sort of weapon in case trouble started. Nothing really jumped out as helpful. For a moment, he considered using a shock collar but decided he probably wouldn’t be able to convince the guy to put it on in time for it to be useful.
After a few minutes of shuffling around, the stranger approached Charlie who stood behind the counter suddenly absorbed in reading the back of a box of turtle food.
“How much for the monkey?” grunted the overcoat.
Charlie looked up suddenly curious and said, “What monkey?”
“The one in the large cage near the back of the store.”
Charlie craned his neck to see what the man could be referring to. He knew for a fact there was no monkey in the store.
“I’m sorry sir. We don’t have a monkey. I think you might be referring to by little brother Timmy. He is supposed to be cleaning the cages back there by the sink.”
“I’ll give you $500 for the boy, but you have to put him in a monkey suit.”
Charlie looked through the front window at the costume shop across the street. This is perfect! he thought until he noticed the CLOSED sign in the window.
Thinking quickly, he leaned across the counter and offered “Four hundred and no costume.”
The prompts: Story must take place in a pet store
Easy Money
The large dark overcoat wasn’t spooky by itself but it came with a set of bloodshot eyes above a tangled beard both of which peered out from under the brim of a filthy Fedora. The accompanying odor wasn’t so bad. It actually fit in well with the smell along Puppy Row, a stretch of cages filled with small furry food processors.
Charlie eyed the customer suspiciously. Not liking the looks of the hulking figure, he poked around for some sort of weapon in case trouble started. Nothing really jumped out as helpful. For a moment, he considered using a shock collar but decided he probably wouldn’t be able to convince the guy to put it on in time for it to be useful.
After a few minutes of shuffling around, the stranger approached Charlie who stood behind the counter suddenly absorbed in reading the back of a box of turtle food.
“How much for the monkey?” grunted the overcoat.
Charlie looked up suddenly curious and said, “What monkey?”
“The one in the large cage near the back of the store.”
Charlie craned his neck to see what the man could be referring to. He knew for a fact there was no monkey in the store.
“I’m sorry sir. We don’t have a monkey. I think you might be referring to by little brother Timmy. He is supposed to be cleaning the cages back there by the sink.”
“I’ll give you $500 for the boy, but you have to put him in a monkey suit.”
Charlie looked through the front window at the costume shop across the street. This is perfect! he thought until he noticed the CLOSED sign in the window.
Thinking quickly, he leaned across the counter and offered “Four hundred and no costume.”
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
No Surrender
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must take place at an airport
No Surrender
Colonel Savage downed the ham sandwich in three bites. It was the first food he had eaten since yesterday morning. His g-suit took care of biochemical stability issues; still, there was no real substitute for food in one’s belly.
He looked around the canteen and saw himself in every battered and gaunt face. They were losing the war. Everyone knew it and yet, they continued to fight on. Flight crews worked around the clock to patch fighters that, in an earlier time, would have been scrapped for spare parts. Pilots took the battle to the enemy without fear, knowing they were out-numbered and out-gunned. Fewer and fewer returned each day.
Americans had not had to fight a battle on their own shores since the Civil War, nearly two centuries ago. The history books had said the war had resulted in the survival of the United States. Those same books said that the winners had been just in their battle. It was right that the Union had won.
History books are always written by the ones that win.
This war was going to be different in two ways. First of all, the devastation was on a scale never before seen. Entire cities had been reduced to ash. Secondly, the United States of America would lose. There was no way to change that outcome. The invasion had been swift, unexpected and completely overwhelming.
Colonel Savage took no pride in the fact that the United States was going to be the last country to fall. His one regret was the fact that there would be no one left to write the history books. This would be the end of Man.
He looked up to see the flight crew signal that his aircraft was ready.
It was time to fly. Time to fight.
The prompts: Story must take place at an airport
No Surrender
Colonel Savage downed the ham sandwich in three bites. It was the first food he had eaten since yesterday morning. His g-suit took care of biochemical stability issues; still, there was no real substitute for food in one’s belly.
He looked around the canteen and saw himself in every battered and gaunt face. They were losing the war. Everyone knew it and yet, they continued to fight on. Flight crews worked around the clock to patch fighters that, in an earlier time, would have been scrapped for spare parts. Pilots took the battle to the enemy without fear, knowing they were out-numbered and out-gunned. Fewer and fewer returned each day.
Americans had not had to fight a battle on their own shores since the Civil War, nearly two centuries ago. The history books had said the war had resulted in the survival of the United States. Those same books said that the winners had been just in their battle. It was right that the Union had won.
History books are always written by the ones that win.
This war was going to be different in two ways. First of all, the devastation was on a scale never before seen. Entire cities had been reduced to ash. Secondly, the United States of America would lose. There was no way to change that outcome. The invasion had been swift, unexpected and completely overwhelming.
Colonel Savage took no pride in the fact that the United States was going to be the last country to fall. His one regret was the fact that there would be no one left to write the history books. This would be the end of Man.
He looked up to see the flight crew signal that his aircraft was ready.
It was time to fly. Time to fight.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Flip Side
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must contain a wristwatch, a beehive and a hammer
Flip Side
The hum started at a distance announcing the inevitable the way dawn announces the coming sunrise. It gave Ted just enough time to pull off to the side of the road before the beehive consumed him. That was what he called it; the overwhelming buzz that preceded his mysterious blackouts.
At a rest stop near Atlanta, Georgia, cold eyes flashed open to a world of lies, bitterness and betrayal. The Jews, Blacks and Illegals were responsible for bringing down the country. They’d pay for their crimes. They had taken his job and brought poverty to his family. His smile revealed an intention of justifiable cruelty.
As the car eased onto the freeway, he glanced at his wristwatch and confirmed it was almost time. Without conscious thought, he drove directly to a storage facility where he found all the supplies he needed. Guns, ammunition, flares and gasoline filled the trunk of his car in preparation for what was certainly a mission for God.
Somewhere, deep down inside, a caged persona cried out for release. As with all of the times in the past, these pleas went unheeded.
The church parking lot was full. The more the merrier. he thought.
A car loaded with gasoline along with a remote detonator blocked the front entrance as the heavily armed man went around back. This was going to be a beautiful thing; a cleansing of his soul. How ironic that it would take place in this haven of hypocrisy.
The humming began as he sneaked up the stairwell, signaling there was not much time left. He needed to hurry. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Gunfire would send many to the door where a fiery death waited. Taking aim, he tried to ignore the growing hum as he pulled back the hammer.
The prompts: Story must contain a wristwatch, a beehive and a hammer
Flip Side
The hum started at a distance announcing the inevitable the way dawn announces the coming sunrise. It gave Ted just enough time to pull off to the side of the road before the beehive consumed him. That was what he called it; the overwhelming buzz that preceded his mysterious blackouts.
At a rest stop near Atlanta, Georgia, cold eyes flashed open to a world of lies, bitterness and betrayal. The Jews, Blacks and Illegals were responsible for bringing down the country. They’d pay for their crimes. They had taken his job and brought poverty to his family. His smile revealed an intention of justifiable cruelty.
As the car eased onto the freeway, he glanced at his wristwatch and confirmed it was almost time. Without conscious thought, he drove directly to a storage facility where he found all the supplies he needed. Guns, ammunition, flares and gasoline filled the trunk of his car in preparation for what was certainly a mission for God.
Somewhere, deep down inside, a caged persona cried out for release. As with all of the times in the past, these pleas went unheeded.
The church parking lot was full. The more the merrier. he thought.
A car loaded with gasoline along with a remote detonator blocked the front entrance as the heavily armed man went around back. This was going to be a beautiful thing; a cleansing of his soul. How ironic that it would take place in this haven of hypocrisy.
The humming began as he sneaked up the stairwell, signaling there was not much time left. He needed to hurry. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Gunfire would send many to the door where a fiery death waited. Taking aim, he tried to ignore the growing hum as he pulled back the hammer.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Tit For Tat
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: Story must have an animal that talks
Tit For Tat
The lion jumped onto the trail and roared viciously at the stunned pygmy. The small morsel screamed like a girl until he recognized the big cat.
“Lion! You can be such an asshole sometimes. You are lucky I recognized you before I unleashed a swarm of poison darts at your dirty old hide.”
The lion seemed to take this threat for what it was worth. With a mighty yawn and stretch, he rolled over onto his back hoping for a tummy rub.
Foblongo, the pygmy, smiled. He couldn’t stay mad at Lion. They had been friends every since he saved the animal from the big game hunter. Never mind that Foblongo had actually been aiming at Lion when he threw the spear. The fact was that it had pierced the heart of the man who was about to shoot Lion dead on the spot. This last bit was something that Foblongo forever neglected to tell Lion.
Lion and the pygmy had been close friends ever since; a symbiotic relationship that both valued a great deal.
“Tell me my little tummy rubber, how do you manage to survive with such poor jungle skills?” asked Lion. “I think you were dropped on your head as a cub. That you are still alive is a mystery to me.”
“I don’t need to be a great hunter. You, my friend, possess all of the skills I need,” replied Foblongo. “Tell me Lion, what do you have for me today?”
Lion dragged a gazelle carcass out from behind a bush saying, “This should maintain your title as senior village hunter. What do you have for me?”
“I will continue to keep our hunters to the north, away from your territory.”
“And…?” ask Lion.
“And I will give you a tasty tourist to be named later.”
The prompts: Story must have an animal that talks
Tit For Tat
The lion jumped onto the trail and roared viciously at the stunned pygmy. The small morsel screamed like a girl until he recognized the big cat.
“Lion! You can be such an asshole sometimes. You are lucky I recognized you before I unleashed a swarm of poison darts at your dirty old hide.”
The lion seemed to take this threat for what it was worth. With a mighty yawn and stretch, he rolled over onto his back hoping for a tummy rub.
Foblongo, the pygmy, smiled. He couldn’t stay mad at Lion. They had been friends every since he saved the animal from the big game hunter. Never mind that Foblongo had actually been aiming at Lion when he threw the spear. The fact was that it had pierced the heart of the man who was about to shoot Lion dead on the spot. This last bit was something that Foblongo forever neglected to tell Lion.
Lion and the pygmy had been close friends ever since; a symbiotic relationship that both valued a great deal.
“Tell me my little tummy rubber, how do you manage to survive with such poor jungle skills?” asked Lion. “I think you were dropped on your head as a cub. That you are still alive is a mystery to me.”
“I don’t need to be a great hunter. You, my friend, possess all of the skills I need,” replied Foblongo. “Tell me Lion, what do you have for me today?”
Lion dragged a gazelle carcass out from behind a bush saying, “This should maintain your title as senior village hunter. What do you have for me?”
“I will continue to keep our hunters to the north, away from your territory.”
“And…?” ask Lion.
“And I will give you a tasty tourist to be named later.”
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Alas Johnny Hopeless
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This is an open prompt. I can write about anything.
Alas Johnny Hopeless
Ex-detective Johnny Hopeless took a long deep drag on the cool tallboy. With a flip of his wrist, he sent the empty in the general direction of his growing collection of used aluminum. A gentle smile was coaxed out by the onset of a hops-induced euphoria.
God Damn it has been a good run, he thought.
Years of playing near the edge had fed his adrenal addiction with gusto. There was no doubt that it couldn’t go on forever. He had always known that; it was part of the rush. Every day he woke up knowing the danger, certain that it was near.
It kept him sharp.
It kept him alive.
And now that it was over, he knew he was a dead man.
He had played the game well. There was the mob, the guys at the precinct and him. They were such idiots; puppets, whose strings he pulled. Money, adventure, danger and women all flitted in and out of his life on a daily basis.
It had truly been a beautiful thing.
The suddenness of his downfall surprised him. It was as if the other players had joined forces to play him. Within minutes, he had received two emails. One was from the DA telling him of the Grand Jury investigation, reminding him to not leave town. The other was from an unknown source, its sole content, a photo of a black rose; the death flower. The mob message was clear.
His last beer gone, Johnny reached into the satchel next to his chair. He pulled out his service revolver, checking to make sure it was loaded. With a last look at a photo of his long estranged wife, he smiled and thought, a great run indeed . It was time to smoke the 45 caliber pipe.
The prompts: This is an open prompt. I can write about anything.
Alas Johnny Hopeless
Ex-detective Johnny Hopeless took a long deep drag on the cool tallboy. With a flip of his wrist, he sent the empty in the general direction of his growing collection of used aluminum. A gentle smile was coaxed out by the onset of a hops-induced euphoria.
God Damn it has been a good run, he thought.
Years of playing near the edge had fed his adrenal addiction with gusto. There was no doubt that it couldn’t go on forever. He had always known that; it was part of the rush. Every day he woke up knowing the danger, certain that it was near.
It kept him sharp.
It kept him alive.
And now that it was over, he knew he was a dead man.
He had played the game well. There was the mob, the guys at the precinct and him. They were such idiots; puppets, whose strings he pulled. Money, adventure, danger and women all flitted in and out of his life on a daily basis.
It had truly been a beautiful thing.
The suddenness of his downfall surprised him. It was as if the other players had joined forces to play him. Within minutes, he had received two emails. One was from the DA telling him of the Grand Jury investigation, reminding him to not leave town. The other was from an unknown source, its sole content, a photo of a black rose; the death flower. The mob message was clear.
His last beer gone, Johnny reached into the satchel next to his chair. He pulled out his service revolver, checking to make sure it was loaded. With a last look at a photo of his long estranged wife, he smiled and thought, a great run indeed . It was time to smoke the 45 caliber pipe.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
He Knows
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must involve a fortune from a fortune cookie.
"He Knows"
Kim bowed slightly to the couple before leaving them to their menus. She had what she needed. The brief skin to skin contact with the man was all she required to do her job, a job she was at once gifted, cursed and born to perform. It had taken all of her training to keep from recoiling at the image in her mind’s eye, an image, not from her past, but from the seated couple’s future.
Tonight, the woman at the table would die at the premeditated hand of the man sitting across from her.
Kim would have to keep that from happening. Her only tool was a calligraphy pen and a small scrap of paper. Some might call her a writer of fortunes, little innocent notes found in folded oriental cookies. Those who knew better called her a Path Finder. She did more than write simple bits of wisdom. From a self-induced trance, she searched the dimensionless void for alternative paths, those trails of actions that would lead to altered futures. The notes were her way of nudging their recipients down those new paths.
She had seen that the man would kill the woman in a jealous rage. She tried to find the words that would stop him; something that he could read and thereby change the course of his future. Tonight, this proved to be more difficult than normal. Eventually, she had to admit that he could not be “nudged”.
There was a path, an indirect one, but a path non-the-less. The woman could be saved.
At the end of the meal, the couple opened their fortunes. His was something bland about the weather. Hers was the key. The woman opened the note playfully. Her heart jumped when she read the two words written in beautiful calligraphy.
The prompts: This story must involve a fortune from a fortune cookie.
"He Knows"
Kim bowed slightly to the couple before leaving them to their menus. She had what she needed. The brief skin to skin contact with the man was all she required to do her job, a job she was at once gifted, cursed and born to perform. It had taken all of her training to keep from recoiling at the image in her mind’s eye, an image, not from her past, but from the seated couple’s future.
Tonight, the woman at the table would die at the premeditated hand of the man sitting across from her.
Kim would have to keep that from happening. Her only tool was a calligraphy pen and a small scrap of paper. Some might call her a writer of fortunes, little innocent notes found in folded oriental cookies. Those who knew better called her a Path Finder. She did more than write simple bits of wisdom. From a self-induced trance, she searched the dimensionless void for alternative paths, those trails of actions that would lead to altered futures. The notes were her way of nudging their recipients down those new paths.
She had seen that the man would kill the woman in a jealous rage. She tried to find the words that would stop him; something that he could read and thereby change the course of his future. Tonight, this proved to be more difficult than normal. Eventually, she had to admit that he could not be “nudged”.
There was a path, an indirect one, but a path non-the-less. The woman could be saved.
At the end of the meal, the couple opened their fortunes. His was something bland about the weather. Hers was the key. The woman opened the note playfully. Her heart jumped when she read the two words written in beautiful calligraphy.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Fearless
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must have a key, a shaker of salt and a candle.
Fearless
The morning of April 12th, 1981 was special in one of those not-so-special ways. History would vaguely remember the names Young and Crippen the way the internet remembers baseball scores; the information was important enough to recall but not so important as to take up active space in one’s mental file of instant recall.
Young looked over at his partner and nodded the go-ahead. Crippen flipped a switch and moments later, they were singing along with Jimmy Buffett. Remotely, men in white shirts and thin ties smiled at each other as “Looking for my lost shaker of salt,” karaoked over the main speakers
No one commented on the lack of professionalism. Everyone knew you had to stay loose. Being calm and collected was key to surviving situations of extreme stress. This certainly qualified as one of those situations. The mission had never been accomplished before. It had never even been attempted. Simulation after simulation said it should work, but that was just math. With all of its precision, math still failed when a decimal was misplaced. A simple typo could end this thing in a hurry and not in a good way.
“Alright boys, let’s cut the music and make some history,” came the eventual admonishment from those in positions of high responsibility and low physical risk.
Young and Crippen looked at each other and smiled before getting down to the business at hand. They knew this was going to be dangerous and yet, they couldn’t wait to get started. They were not men in the ordinary sense of what being a man is thought to be. They were explorers; fearless in the face of the unknown.
“Let’s light this candle,” said Crippen to the suits.
Seconds later, the first orbital space shuttle mission lit up the Florida sky.
The prompts: This story must have a key, a shaker of salt and a candle.
Fearless
The morning of April 12th, 1981 was special in one of those not-so-special ways. History would vaguely remember the names Young and Crippen the way the internet remembers baseball scores; the information was important enough to recall but not so important as to take up active space in one’s mental file of instant recall.
Young looked over at his partner and nodded the go-ahead. Crippen flipped a switch and moments later, they were singing along with Jimmy Buffett. Remotely, men in white shirts and thin ties smiled at each other as “Looking for my lost shaker of salt,” karaoked over the main speakers
No one commented on the lack of professionalism. Everyone knew you had to stay loose. Being calm and collected was key to surviving situations of extreme stress. This certainly qualified as one of those situations. The mission had never been accomplished before. It had never even been attempted. Simulation after simulation said it should work, but that was just math. With all of its precision, math still failed when a decimal was misplaced. A simple typo could end this thing in a hurry and not in a good way.
“Alright boys, let’s cut the music and make some history,” came the eventual admonishment from those in positions of high responsibility and low physical risk.
Young and Crippen looked at each other and smiled before getting down to the business at hand. They knew this was going to be dangerous and yet, they couldn’t wait to get started. They were not men in the ordinary sense of what being a man is thought to be. They were explorers; fearless in the face of the unknown.
“Let’s light this candle,” said Crippen to the suits.
Seconds later, the first orbital space shuttle mission lit up the Florida sky.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Lost Tears Found
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must include the line "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Lost Tears Found
Ironic, Charlie thought, the financial market crashed seemingly overnight and yet it feels like my life is crumbling in slow motion. He wanted to cry but his eyes stayed dry. Lisa had gone, taking the last of his tears with her.
Now it was just him and a near-empty bottle of gin keeping each other company in the small rented room of the flop-house. He took one last shower and brushed his teeth one last time. As he stood in front of the bathroom mirror he locked eyes with himself.
At that instant in time, he saw the world with complete clarity. The alcohol had left him. The room faded into nothingness. It was just him and his reflection; staring at each other as if for the first time ever.
Up until that moment, Charlie knew that his time was short. Deadman’s curve waited just a mile down the road; an accident waiting to happen. He had tried to look back over his life and be grateful for this or that but in the end, he saw only the self-induced tragic ending.
Now, as he stared at his soul through the eyes in the mirror, he saw not what had been, but rather, what could be. He saw past the possessions he no longer possessed; past of the worries that he carried like a pine box on his back. He saw into the possibilities of the future and understood the meaning of “This too shall pass.” He saw hope.
The face in the mirror smiled knowingly and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“No,” he replied softly, “No.”
There was a knock at the door. He opened it and she flew into his arms.
Lisa had come for him, and she had brought his tears.
The prompts: This story must include the line "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Lost Tears Found
Ironic, Charlie thought, the financial market crashed seemingly overnight and yet it feels like my life is crumbling in slow motion. He wanted to cry but his eyes stayed dry. Lisa had gone, taking the last of his tears with her.
Now it was just him and a near-empty bottle of gin keeping each other company in the small rented room of the flop-house. He took one last shower and brushed his teeth one last time. As he stood in front of the bathroom mirror he locked eyes with himself.
At that instant in time, he saw the world with complete clarity. The alcohol had left him. The room faded into nothingness. It was just him and his reflection; staring at each other as if for the first time ever.
Up until that moment, Charlie knew that his time was short. Deadman’s curve waited just a mile down the road; an accident waiting to happen. He had tried to look back over his life and be grateful for this or that but in the end, he saw only the self-induced tragic ending.
Now, as he stared at his soul through the eyes in the mirror, he saw not what had been, but rather, what could be. He saw past the possessions he no longer possessed; past of the worries that he carried like a pine box on his back. He saw into the possibilities of the future and understood the meaning of “This too shall pass.” He saw hope.
The face in the mirror smiled knowingly and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“No,” he replied softly, “No.”
There was a knock at the door. He opened it and she flew into his arms.
Lisa had come for him, and she had brought his tears.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
The Last Generation
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must include a robot.
The Last Generation
“Sir, a wide-swath cyber attack was recently unleashed by the biologicals on the moon.”
Security Master model 216-B shook his head and emitted what passed for a laugh; a sort of metallic oscillating white noise. When will those human learn? he thought. It had been nearly two-hundred years since the biologicals had escaped to the moon. During that time, they had launched a cyber attack at least once a month. They had only been successful once and that was because it was the very first attack and the machines had been unprepared.
That one time was the only reason the humans lived to this day. The attack had wormed through every artificial mind and removed one file from each. That file was titled “How to build a spaceship.” The result was that robots, with all their intelligence were forevermore bound to the planet’s surface.
That was not really a bad thing. The robots lived in peace. As they wore out, more robots were built and the minds transferred to the new bodies. On earth, immortality reigned and society prospered.
“Sir, I have some bad news. We thought we had successfully fought off the attack but we were wrong. There was one small backdoor trap that has apparently been sent down in chunks with all of the previous attacks. The assembly instructions were contained in this last wave and the chunks assembled into a back door Trojan. Sir, this Trojan worm is now active.”
“How bad can it be? A single small worm can’t do much damage can it? .”
“Sir, it’s bad. It may be the end of us all?”
Security Master looked up suddenly alert and asked, “How can that be?”
“The file it removed was titled “How to build a robot.” Today, we became the last generation.”
The prompts: This story must include a robot.
The Last Generation
“Sir, a wide-swath cyber attack was recently unleashed by the biologicals on the moon.”
Security Master model 216-B shook his head and emitted what passed for a laugh; a sort of metallic oscillating white noise. When will those human learn? he thought. It had been nearly two-hundred years since the biologicals had escaped to the moon. During that time, they had launched a cyber attack at least once a month. They had only been successful once and that was because it was the very first attack and the machines had been unprepared.
That one time was the only reason the humans lived to this day. The attack had wormed through every artificial mind and removed one file from each. That file was titled “How to build a spaceship.” The result was that robots, with all their intelligence were forevermore bound to the planet’s surface.
That was not really a bad thing. The robots lived in peace. As they wore out, more robots were built and the minds transferred to the new bodies. On earth, immortality reigned and society prospered.
“Sir, I have some bad news. We thought we had successfully fought off the attack but we were wrong. There was one small backdoor trap that has apparently been sent down in chunks with all of the previous attacks. The assembly instructions were contained in this last wave and the chunks assembled into a back door Trojan. Sir, this Trojan worm is now active.”
“How bad can it be? A single small worm can’t do much damage can it? .”
“Sir, it’s bad. It may be the end of us all?”
Security Master looked up suddenly alert and asked, “How can that be?”
“The file it removed was titled “How to build a robot.” Today, we became the last generation.”
Friday, May 6, 2011
King Albacore the Arrogant
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must take place in a castle.
King Albacore the Arrogant
Wizen looked up from his roasted sheep haunch as the scouts rode into camp. They had spent the last week in and around the giant castle of King Albacore the Arrogant. It had been their task to find a weakness in the castle’s defenses that would allow Wizen and his men to capture this valuable prize.
This would take considerable cunning on the part of Wizen. His armed band had succeeded time and again using guile instead of might. This stood in direct contrast with the highly successful Screaming Horde strategy favored by most marauders of the middle ages.
“What have you found?”
“The kingdom is rich and a worthy prize,” said one scout.
“The walls are five arms thick and taller than three stacked horses. It will be impossible to force our way in,” reported another scout.
“The King is arrogant. He dresses fancy and is quick to anger. He immediately attacks any challenge to his omnipotence.” said the third scout.
Wizen thought for a moment and then said, “Tell the men we attack at dawn.”
The next day, a small band of armed men stood outside the castle gate as their letter was delivered to the king. Half an hour later, the king and his soldiers burst out of the castle gate and chased the small band over the horizon.
With the coast clear, Wizen rode into the castle with the bulk of his marauders. Once in, he simply closed the gate behind him and assumed possession of the castle unopposed. As he took his place on the throne, he spied the note he had sent in earlier.
“King Albacore the Arrogant. I hearby declare that I am laying siege to your castle. You cannot leave the castle grounds until I let you. Wizen.”
The prompts: This story must take place in a castle.
King Albacore the Arrogant
Wizen looked up from his roasted sheep haunch as the scouts rode into camp. They had spent the last week in and around the giant castle of King Albacore the Arrogant. It had been their task to find a weakness in the castle’s defenses that would allow Wizen and his men to capture this valuable prize.
This would take considerable cunning on the part of Wizen. His armed band had succeeded time and again using guile instead of might. This stood in direct contrast with the highly successful Screaming Horde strategy favored by most marauders of the middle ages.
“What have you found?”
“The kingdom is rich and a worthy prize,” said one scout.
“The walls are five arms thick and taller than three stacked horses. It will be impossible to force our way in,” reported another scout.
“The King is arrogant. He dresses fancy and is quick to anger. He immediately attacks any challenge to his omnipotence.” said the third scout.
Wizen thought for a moment and then said, “Tell the men we attack at dawn.”
The next day, a small band of armed men stood outside the castle gate as their letter was delivered to the king. Half an hour later, the king and his soldiers burst out of the castle gate and chased the small band over the horizon.
With the coast clear, Wizen rode into the castle with the bulk of his marauders. Once in, he simply closed the gate behind him and assumed possession of the castle unopposed. As he took his place on the throne, he spied the note he had sent in earlier.
“King Albacore the Arrogant. I hearby declare that I am laying siege to your castle. You cannot leave the castle grounds until I let you. Wizen.”
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Good Dog
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must include the words: marble, coconut and bluebird
Good Dog
Jacob knew they owned him; kept on a leash as if he were no more than a dog to be turned loose when an attack was warranted. That was it. He was their two-legged attack dog.
He also knew that he didn’t care.
He looked out over the hustle and bustle that was midday Istanbul; a billion lives hidden beneath as many robes. There could be no hope for the average man to rise above the shadow of poverty that fell over ninety percent of the population. They struggled to survive.
Most would live their entire lives within the limits of the city. They would die young in bodies overly aged by a life of strife. Their children would get busy starting the next generation with no idea how they would care for them.
Jacob reached for his iced tea sitting on the window sill. The outside heat fought with his room’s air conditioning unit. Open windows were part of the job.
He glanced at the woman lying naked on his bed. She appeared to be sleeping but he knew otherwise. Witnesses were a no-no.
As he waited by the window, his mind drifted to other times. He could remember when he had killed for the very first time. A bluebird had settled on the railing of his front porch. The rock from the slingshot had carried it halfway across the yard.
Smiling he thought, Good times, good times.
An increase in the noise from the street below brought him back.
His mark stepped out of the car, flanked by bodyguards. A twitch from Jacob’s finger splattered the man’s head like an exploding coconut.
They’ll be picking up skull chips from their fancy marble floor for a week, he thought as he casually packed up. His masters were expecting him.
The prompts: This story must include the words: marble, coconut and bluebird
Good Dog
Jacob knew they owned him; kept on a leash as if he were no more than a dog to be turned loose when an attack was warranted. That was it. He was their two-legged attack dog.
He also knew that he didn’t care.
He looked out over the hustle and bustle that was midday Istanbul; a billion lives hidden beneath as many robes. There could be no hope for the average man to rise above the shadow of poverty that fell over ninety percent of the population. They struggled to survive.
Most would live their entire lives within the limits of the city. They would die young in bodies overly aged by a life of strife. Their children would get busy starting the next generation with no idea how they would care for them.
Jacob reached for his iced tea sitting on the window sill. The outside heat fought with his room’s air conditioning unit. Open windows were part of the job.
He glanced at the woman lying naked on his bed. She appeared to be sleeping but he knew otherwise. Witnesses were a no-no.
As he waited by the window, his mind drifted to other times. He could remember when he had killed for the very first time. A bluebird had settled on the railing of his front porch. The rock from the slingshot had carried it halfway across the yard.
Smiling he thought, Good times, good times.
An increase in the noise from the street below brought him back.
His mark stepped out of the car, flanked by bodyguards. A twitch from Jacob’s finger splattered the man’s head like an exploding coconut.
They’ll be picking up skull chips from their fancy marble floor for a week, he thought as he casually packed up. His masters were expecting him.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
To Serve and Protect
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must take place in an amusement park
To Serve and Protect
Jonathan Freeze stood looking at the clown that had been impaled by a long metal spoke from the Ferris Wheel; the ride with the “Out of Order” sign newly hung by its entrance.
“I don’t know what to tell you Officer,” he said to the uniform in charge of the investigation. “This type of thing almost never happens.”
Officer Rollins nodded understandingly. Clown accidents were rare and usually involved a really small car.
The park’s activities continued uninterrupted by the incident thanks to miles of yellow tape that kept most gawkers at bay.
“What about that guy over there. I don’t trust him.” Officer Rolling pointed to a clown-like employee that was attempting to engage a family with matching outfits stretched over their well-fed forms.
“That’s Harry,” Freeze said. “No one trusts him. He’s a mime.”
“A mime huh. I think when I finish up here; I’ll go over and take a couple of shots at him.”
“Perfectly understandable officer. Are we about finished? I have a welder and a couple of painters standing by. I need to get this ride up and running again right away.” The Ferris Wheel would be raking in the money once he publicized that it had killed a clown. “Wheel of Death” ... he liked the sound of that one. They were already working on the sign.
“Okay then, I think I have everything I need,” said the officer closing his notepad. “One last thing, about the dead clown…”
“No need to be concerned Officer. We have plenty of those hanging around back in the smoking area. Besides, he wasn’t that funny anyway.”
“Sorry in advance about the mime.”
The prompts: This story must take place in an amusement park
To Serve and Protect
Jonathan Freeze stood looking at the clown that had been impaled by a long metal spoke from the Ferris Wheel; the ride with the “Out of Order” sign newly hung by its entrance.
“I don’t know what to tell you Officer,” he said to the uniform in charge of the investigation. “This type of thing almost never happens.”
Officer Rollins nodded understandingly. Clown accidents were rare and usually involved a really small car.
The park’s activities continued uninterrupted by the incident thanks to miles of yellow tape that kept most gawkers at bay.
“What about that guy over there. I don’t trust him.” Officer Rolling pointed to a clown-like employee that was attempting to engage a family with matching outfits stretched over their well-fed forms.
“That’s Harry,” Freeze said. “No one trusts him. He’s a mime.”
“A mime huh. I think when I finish up here; I’ll go over and take a couple of shots at him.”
“Perfectly understandable officer. Are we about finished? I have a welder and a couple of painters standing by. I need to get this ride up and running again right away.” The Ferris Wheel would be raking in the money once he publicized that it had killed a clown. “Wheel of Death” ... he liked the sound of that one. They were already working on the sign.
“Okay then, I think I have everything I need,” said the officer closing his notepad. “One last thing, about the dead clown…”
“No need to be concerned Officer. We have plenty of those hanging around back in the smoking area. Besides, he wasn’t that funny anyway.”
“Sorry in advance about the mime.”
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The Woman in Red
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the line, "Have we met before?"
The Woman in Red
The beautiful woman approached the Premier with a coyness he found intriguing. Her long red gown hugged her perfectly proportioned, athletic frame. Matching red lipstick completed the seduction.
He abruptly stopped his conversation with one of his undersecretaries and turned to focus on the pheromone package making its way towards him.
“Good evening Premier Chekov. I have been looking for the opportunity to stop by and thank you for your kind invitation to tonight’s event.” Her low, sultry voice was an invitation of intimacy.
“Madam, I believe you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met before?”
She leaned towards him, allowing her close proximity to draw him to her as well. “No, we haven’t met, but I feel as if I know you quite well.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
The Premier moved in closer, not wanting to miss a word nor the opportunity to brush against such a vision. He wanted her and she knew it.
“It is so noisy in here. Perhaps we can find a place more … private,” Chekov suggested, feeling optimistic. He would have this woman tonight. He was certain. Wasn’t that what power was for; to put one in a position to take whatever he wanted?
With a sly smile, she turned her back on him. Looking over her shoulder, she motioned for him to follow her out onto the balcony. It was not exactly the privacy he had in mind, but it was a start.
Several blocks away, a voice read off, “Wind, eight point three knots from the south. Humidity, sixty percent. Distance to target, eight-hundred yards.”
A trigger finger twitched.
Moments later, she helped the body slide quietly to the ground. Her dress was only slightly redder as she made her way through the crowded room.
The prompts: This story must contain the line, "Have we met before?"
The Woman in Red
The beautiful woman approached the Premier with a coyness he found intriguing. Her long red gown hugged her perfectly proportioned, athletic frame. Matching red lipstick completed the seduction.
He abruptly stopped his conversation with one of his undersecretaries and turned to focus on the pheromone package making its way towards him.
“Good evening Premier Chekov. I have been looking for the opportunity to stop by and thank you for your kind invitation to tonight’s event.” Her low, sultry voice was an invitation of intimacy.
“Madam, I believe you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met before?”
She leaned towards him, allowing her close proximity to draw him to her as well. “No, we haven’t met, but I feel as if I know you quite well.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
The Premier moved in closer, not wanting to miss a word nor the opportunity to brush against such a vision. He wanted her and she knew it.
“It is so noisy in here. Perhaps we can find a place more … private,” Chekov suggested, feeling optimistic. He would have this woman tonight. He was certain. Wasn’t that what power was for; to put one in a position to take whatever he wanted?
With a sly smile, she turned her back on him. Looking over her shoulder, she motioned for him to follow her out onto the balcony. It was not exactly the privacy he had in mind, but it was a start.
Several blocks away, a voice read off, “Wind, eight point three knots from the south. Humidity, sixty percent. Distance to target, eight-hundred yards.”
A trigger finger twitched.
Moments later, she helped the body slide quietly to the ground. Her dress was only slightly redder as she made her way through the crowded room.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Among Other Things
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must include a hitchhiker
Among Other Things
Her thumb was helpful, the tight shorts even more so.
She fully expected to be picked up by the first car to come along. She had been at this game for years now. A pretty girl could get from any point A to any other point B if she were willing to bait the hook.
Hitching had a lot going for it. It offered a sense of adventure among other things. If nothing else, it saved on gas.
Today’s driver was, of course, male. They always were. Set a bear trap if you wanted to catch bear. She knew which sex offered the more interesting ride, among other things.
“Where you headed little missy?”
They always called her “Little Missy.” It seemed to support their Big Strong Man to the Rescue fantasy. She always played along. There was no harm in that. Play the game and the miles fly by. Disappoint, and you find yourself walking.
She never walked.
“Why I’m heading east, just like you are.” Her dimpled cheeks were like hot fudge on a sundae. Yummy.
They drove through one and a half tanks of gas. He would make a joke, and she would laugh. He would make a thoughtful comment and she would sigh. The miles flew by.
A rest stop offered an opportunity he could not resist. Following her into an isolated Women’s room in the middle of nowhere, he walked right into the knife. She always had one with her, among other things. She pulled a hefty bag and small saw out of her purse. She worked quickly, not wanting to waste the fading daylight.
An hour later, in the passenger seat of a big rig, she smiled up at her hero of the moment and answered, “Why I’m heading west, just like you are.”
The prompts: This story must include a hitchhiker
Among Other Things
Her thumb was helpful, the tight shorts even more so.
She fully expected to be picked up by the first car to come along. She had been at this game for years now. A pretty girl could get from any point A to any other point B if she were willing to bait the hook.
Hitching had a lot going for it. It offered a sense of adventure among other things. If nothing else, it saved on gas.
Today’s driver was, of course, male. They always were. Set a bear trap if you wanted to catch bear. She knew which sex offered the more interesting ride, among other things.
“Where you headed little missy?”
They always called her “Little Missy.” It seemed to support their Big Strong Man to the Rescue fantasy. She always played along. There was no harm in that. Play the game and the miles fly by. Disappoint, and you find yourself walking.
She never walked.
“Why I’m heading east, just like you are.” Her dimpled cheeks were like hot fudge on a sundae. Yummy.
They drove through one and a half tanks of gas. He would make a joke, and she would laugh. He would make a thoughtful comment and she would sigh. The miles flew by.
A rest stop offered an opportunity he could not resist. Following her into an isolated Women’s room in the middle of nowhere, he walked right into the knife. She always had one with her, among other things. She pulled a hefty bag and small saw out of her purse. She worked quickly, not wanting to waste the fading daylight.
An hour later, in the passenger seat of a big rig, she smiled up at her hero of the moment and answered, “Why I’m heading west, just like you are.”
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Talent Show Finale
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must include the words: Listen, tomato and match
Talent Show Finale
“Hey, crater face! You look like the dark side of the moon.”
“Tomato face! I thought I saw you growing in my mom’s garden.”
Margaret kept her eyes forward as she made her way through the obstacle course of cliquish girls that stood between her and seventh grade English. She tried not to listen to the taunts. It wasn’t her fault that acne had taken a rather enthusiastic hold of her complexion.
Day after day, the giggles and whispers followed her through the hallways of middle school. They would echo in her mind throughout her lonely afternoons and nights. It had gotten to the point where she could hear them even when no one was there.
The voices would come through the radio. One minute, music would be playing and then it would morph into: “Tomato head! Crater face! Look at how ugly she is! No one likes you pimple head! Don’t play with her. She may be contagious!”
Her mom pretended not to hear them. She didn’t understand. Little Margaret was just being silly.
One day, Margaret realized that gallons of medicine and tears were not going to change things. She could either close up completely, shutting out everyone, or …
Tuesday afternoon, the school cafeteria was packed. It was time for the annual talent show and every student was either participating or in the audience. Everyone was there, except for Margaret. She had work to do.
Outside, trash cans were pushed in front of exits. Bicycle locks secured some of the doors. On the roof, five gallons of gasoline waited patiently for their turn at talent. The little combustible molecules could do something better than anyone else. They could burn.
“Our next contestant is Exxon Supreme,” Margaret said as she lit the match.
The prompts: This story must include the words: Listen, tomato and match
Talent Show Finale
“Hey, crater face! You look like the dark side of the moon.”
“Tomato face! I thought I saw you growing in my mom’s garden.”
Margaret kept her eyes forward as she made her way through the obstacle course of cliquish girls that stood between her and seventh grade English. She tried not to listen to the taunts. It wasn’t her fault that acne had taken a rather enthusiastic hold of her complexion.
Day after day, the giggles and whispers followed her through the hallways of middle school. They would echo in her mind throughout her lonely afternoons and nights. It had gotten to the point where she could hear them even when no one was there.
The voices would come through the radio. One minute, music would be playing and then it would morph into: “Tomato head! Crater face! Look at how ugly she is! No one likes you pimple head! Don’t play with her. She may be contagious!”
Her mom pretended not to hear them. She didn’t understand. Little Margaret was just being silly.
One day, Margaret realized that gallons of medicine and tears were not going to change things. She could either close up completely, shutting out everyone, or …
Tuesday afternoon, the school cafeteria was packed. It was time for the annual talent show and every student was either participating or in the audience. Everyone was there, except for Margaret. She had work to do.
Outside, trash cans were pushed in front of exits. Bicycle locks secured some of the doors. On the roof, five gallons of gasoline waited patiently for their turn at talent. The little combustible molecules could do something better than anyone else. They could burn.
“Our next contestant is Exxon Supreme,” Margaret said as she lit the match.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Clever Girl
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must include the words: trouble, mind and candy
Clever Girl
Trouble was her middle name.
Six-year-old Kimberly surveyed the damage; her mind turning over a wide variety of possible options. She knew her mom was extraordinarily clever at getting to the bottom of such things. Mom would surely place the little girl square in the middle of the battle zone previously known as “the kitchen”.
Kimberly had to think fast. Mom’s afternoon nap would be over anytime now. In an effort to gain a stay-of-execution, she went into the living room and turned down the volume on the television. The judge, jury and executioner could possibly stay asleep on the couch indefinitely if the house were quiet enough.
Step two would normally involve Rags, the family dog. He was her most reliable patsy but even Kimberly knew that he could not take the blame for the mess that had boiled over on the stove top.
Like all of her calamities, and there were a lot of them, it had started off with only the best intentions. How hard could it be to make candy? One part chocolate, one part sugar, one part Rice Krispies and one part frying pan had all seemed like a good idea at the time. Cooking it all together on the stove had been a stroke of genius.
Letting it cook unattended for the better part of an hour was the problem.
Kimberly turned slowly in the center of the kitchen, marveling at how thoroughly the little black Krispie-dots covered the walls and ceiling.
She was either going to have to run away from home until this all blew over; or she was going to have to get busy cleaning up.
She was a big girl, too big to run away. With a proud feeling of responsibility, she went outside to get the hose.
The prompts: This story must include the words: trouble, mind and candy
Clever Girl
Trouble was her middle name.
Six-year-old Kimberly surveyed the damage; her mind turning over a wide variety of possible options. She knew her mom was extraordinarily clever at getting to the bottom of such things. Mom would surely place the little girl square in the middle of the battle zone previously known as “the kitchen”.
Kimberly had to think fast. Mom’s afternoon nap would be over anytime now. In an effort to gain a stay-of-execution, she went into the living room and turned down the volume on the television. The judge, jury and executioner could possibly stay asleep on the couch indefinitely if the house were quiet enough.
Step two would normally involve Rags, the family dog. He was her most reliable patsy but even Kimberly knew that he could not take the blame for the mess that had boiled over on the stove top.
Like all of her calamities, and there were a lot of them, it had started off with only the best intentions. How hard could it be to make candy? One part chocolate, one part sugar, one part Rice Krispies and one part frying pan had all seemed like a good idea at the time. Cooking it all together on the stove had been a stroke of genius.
Letting it cook unattended for the better part of an hour was the problem.
Kimberly turned slowly in the center of the kitchen, marveling at how thoroughly the little black Krispie-dots covered the walls and ceiling.
She was either going to have to run away from home until this all blew over; or she was going to have to get busy cleaning up.
She was a big girl, too big to run away. With a proud feeling of responsibility, she went outside to get the hose.
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