Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must be about someone hearing a strange noise in the middle of the night.
Too Lucid
I need to get that memo out. No, damn it. Focus!
Darkness.
That new girl in the office is really – No! Let it go, let it all go…
Empty space, devoid of time, closed around the peripheral vision of his inner eye and Thomas finally slipped into an alpha state of consciousness.
“He’s there.” The lab assistant looked up at the doctor for the signal to proceed to stage two.
Dr. Samuelson peered through the observation window. He could see the deprivation tank with its neutrally buoyant subject floating just beneath the surface of the conductive fluid. He nodded to the assistant who began slowly turn a large dial clockwise.
The trickle current entered the tank, quickly finding the microscopic equivalent of lightning rods attached to Thomas’ scalp. The electrons jostled each other excitedly for the chance to follow the rods into the depths of Thomas’ cerebral cortex.
Project Lucid Dreams was Dr. Samuelson’s brainchild. He saw dreams as an untapped playground; one where anything was possible. He believed that if you knew you were dreaming, you could safely call up any experience you wished. By inducing an electrical current during sleep, he could wake his subject within a dream. Once “awake”, the subject could play as he wished.
Sure, there had been some failures, but that was to be expected.
Thomas opened his eyes as fear gripped him. He was naked in a cheap, dimly lit, hotel room. His mind raced for reason and rationale. Memories that weren’t there a moment ago filled the void. A single window offered only a perfectly black night. A scratching at the door made him cringe. It was here!
His mind left him as he curled in a corner screaming.
The assistant muted the tone and reported the obvious.
“Another flat-line Doctor.”
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Townies
Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: cotton, freckles, necktie
Townies
“We don’t cotton to your type round here.”
Bob looked down at the voice. It turned out to belong to a pie shaped batch of freckles mounted atop the body of an eight-year-old boy.
Kneeling down so he could talk eye to eye with the young boy, Bob said, “What do you mean by that? Is it that you don’t like strangers?”
The boy sneered with a maliciousness that caught Bob off guard.
“Elder folk like you don’t belong. Gang ain’t gonna like this when they hear.”
With that, the child ran off down the empty street. Bob watched until the boy rounded the corner about a block down.
Weird kid,
He looked back at his Porsche parked over alongside the road just at the edge of town. It would be safe there while he looked for a mechanic. Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long. He needed to be in Los Angeles in four hours.
Twenty minutes later, he sat on a curb, his necktie loosened in response to the midday sun which beat down on the empty streets. It was unbelievable - an entire town with no one in it. Stores were left open and unattended. The few houses he bothered to approach were unlocked and empty. Even freckle-boy was gone.
He looked up at the unmistakable sound. His Porsche was slowly cruising down the street towards him. Behind the wheel sat a boy that couldn’t have been more than fifteen. The car stopped right in front of Bob.
Bob strode out to the car.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? What’s going on here?”
“Mister, we don’t cotton to your type around here.”
Bob spun at the sound of a slamming door. Emerging from every corner, they soon filled the streets. They were coming for him.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: cotton, freckles, necktie
Townies
“We don’t cotton to your type round here.”
Bob looked down at the voice. It turned out to belong to a pie shaped batch of freckles mounted atop the body of an eight-year-old boy.
Kneeling down so he could talk eye to eye with the young boy, Bob said, “What do you mean by that? Is it that you don’t like strangers?”
The boy sneered with a maliciousness that caught Bob off guard.
“Elder folk like you don’t belong. Gang ain’t gonna like this when they hear.”
With that, the child ran off down the empty street. Bob watched until the boy rounded the corner about a block down.
Weird kid,
He looked back at his Porsche parked over alongside the road just at the edge of town. It would be safe there while he looked for a mechanic. Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long. He needed to be in Los Angeles in four hours.
Twenty minutes later, he sat on a curb, his necktie loosened in response to the midday sun which beat down on the empty streets. It was unbelievable - an entire town with no one in it. Stores were left open and unattended. The few houses he bothered to approach were unlocked and empty. Even freckle-boy was gone.
He looked up at the unmistakable sound. His Porsche was slowly cruising down the street towards him. Behind the wheel sat a boy that couldn’t have been more than fifteen. The car stopped right in front of Bob.
Bob strode out to the car.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? What’s going on here?”
“Mister, we don’t cotton to your type around here.”
Bob spun at the sound of a slamming door. Emerging from every corner, they soon filled the streets. They were coming for him.
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