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Dammit, in. Can't think of a good angle so flash me please 
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Jan 22, 2025 08:54
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| # ? Jan 20, 2026 17:59 |
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Obnoxipus posted:In! And why not, gimme the flash rule as well. Thranguy posted:In and flash fridge corn posted:Dammit, in. Can't think of a good angle so flash me please
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Jan 22, 2025 17:25
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I don't think I've ever handed out flashes before and don't know if those were too restrictive for a prompt that's already somewhat specific, so here are two additional settings, first come first serve: A hotel lobby A miniature golf course
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Jan 24, 2025 17:24
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I'm back, baby, and I'm IN
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Jan 25, 2025 02:18
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Das Narrenschiff 1685 words flash: prison canteen Incorporated Shipping flight ISF-950B, call sign Das Narrenschiff, is a prison ship on route to a penal colony in the Epsilon Eridani system. Most of the prisoners here are high profile terrorists, insurrectionists, pirates, raiders, smugglers, dealers, wheelers, or keelers. Not me though, I’ve been convicted of a murder I didn’t commit — I’m innocent. Are you going to eat that? The man sitting to my right is Burroz and he’s missing not only an eye but the eyelid as well, and the eyepatch he wears, riveted to his skull, is a clear durasteel compound, allowing one to not only look him in the eye, but much further as well. He jabs me in the upper arm with a stubby finger. I said, are you going to eat that? I dare not look at him and instead concentrate on the plate of food in front of me; a cool grey squidgy lump with a hard round biscuit jutting forlornly out from the side. I know Burroz is asking after the biscuit, because he always asks after the biscuit. “I haven’t decided yet,” I mutter, still staring at the unappetising plate, and with that the game is afoot. I’ve got just the thing to help you make your decision! Cool Dip, to my left, leans in with an overly enthusiastic grin. I make him sit to the left of me so that I mostly only have to see his good side, the other side of him being completely covered in the mangled scars of horrific burns. His eyes twitch and vibrate senselessly in anticipation as he starts to dig into his pocket. How about a little song to whet your appetite? He produces the dulled patinated harmonica, discoloured from much use and abuse, and as he is about to place it upon his lips, along the side of his face that still has lips, a spindly arm reaches out from across the table and snatches it from him. not 2day dip not 2day. The owner of the arm, a right arm, is Wressler, and it’s his only one. He’s also missing his right ear and his right leg, as if a lightning bolt struck him zig-zagging across his body indiscriminately knocking parts off it. He tosses the harmonica playfully in the air, allowing it to tumble and spin before it lands in his solitary hand again, where he tosses it up again. i cant stand the way u play this thing. Give it back Wressler. Cool Dip goes to grab the harmonica while it’s still in midair but only manages to knock it off course, where it lands with a shlup in the plate of gruel in front of Tea Tree. Tea Tree lost his head. It took him a while to find it, but he now carries it with him, usually strapped to his waist with a bungee cord. His favourite party trick is publicly performing fellatio on himself, but for now he has his head sat on the table and had been quietly spooning the gruel into its mouth. With the sudden addition of the harmonica to his meal, Tea Tree slowly lowers the spoon while Tea Tree’s head blinks in astonishment. Tea Tree’s head can’t speak on account of not having lungs attached to it in which to make the sounds typically associated with speech, but it can make wet slurping and sucking noises. Splurlspslrhlsh. Tea Tree’s head, noticing the movement behind him, looks up as a burly hairy forearm reaches over and plucks the harmonica out the plate of gruel. That’s Kevin, and he’s missing everything from the waist down, but unlike Tea Tree, was unable to find the missing parts of him. He lays on the table, propped up by his other arm, brings the harmonica to his lips and blows through it, spraying the gruel-clogged innards of the thing across the table and into Burroz’s face. What the gently caress, Kevin?! Burroz, blinded, gropes around the table for a cloth or other suitable thing at hand to wipe his face, and finding nothing grabs the hem of my shirt and uses that. Sight (partially) restored, Burroz glares across the table at Kevin, who, with his own challenge-issuing maniacal grin, stares back. Burroz grabs the harmonica out of Kevin’s hands, who offers little resistance, and launches the thing across the room, with everyone watching, eyes goggling and staring, tracking its arcing movement, tumbling sweetly, serenely, toward the open access panel on the far side of the room, where Flip, the ship’s engineer had been carrying out some repair of some kind, a conduit pipe open and inviting, which the harmonica bounces delicately off the rim of, making a pleasing ringing tone, and then disappearing abruptly down the pipe, faintly clanging and rattling its way down into the ship’s bowels. A round of cheers erupts as everyone swiftly gets up and rushes over to the access panel, the last known sighting of the harmonica. nice 1 burroz. My harmonica you imbecile, you ignoramus, you Burroz, that pipe leads directly to the engine room! The group turns to me expectantly. “We best go fetch it then, unless it becomes entangled in some critical bit of machinery,” I sigh. Another round of cheers as the group breaks off in a sprint, as much as they are able to. Burroz, the most intact and able-bodied takes the lead, with Cool Dip right on his heels despite the slight limp. Wressler hobbles along behind with his makeshift crutch made from some part of ship’s machinery while Tea Tree, although in possession of two perfectly working legs, finds it difficult to move at speed, his head swinging and jostling from the strap at his waist making it nearly impossible for him to see where he’s going. Last is Kevin, although slow to start, makes good ground on the rest of the group quickly, inverting his body and running along on his hands. They disappear through the canteen doorway, into the hall and around the corner. I jog along behind. By the time I reach the engine room the group is already well into the next act, the harmonica precariously and perfectly balanced on the edge of the maintenance scaffold above the main drive containment field. If that thing drops into the containment field, we’re done for! The harmonica teeters on the edge seductively. I’m not going up there. Of course not, you massive oaf, you’ll just knock it in! We need someone with a more delicate touch. Wressler motions with his crutch. dont even look @ me lol. GET THE KID TO DO IT. They all turn to look at me. I shrug with a sigh. There’s no other way, I have to do it. I climb up the ladder onto the scaffold, which is suspended from the ceiling with chains so that every movement I make causes the platform to sway sickeningly back and forth, pitching the harmonica wobbling excruciatingly close to slipping off and into the containment field. I get down on my hands and knees and carefully, painfully, agonisingly slowly make my way across the platform toward the harmonica. The sound below is mostly silence, my eager and anxious crowd watching my performance with held breaths and wrung hands, and as each moment I inch closer and closer to the blighted instrument, the object of our potential doom, it seems to slip further and further away, my heartbeat now in rhythm with the rocking of the platform, I empty my mind and crawl hand over hand until finally it is within arms reach, and I reach, I reach out, and I grab it from its perch, at last the harmonica is in my hands. A murmur from down below, a shuffling of feet, somebody quietly coughs. wut r u waitin 4 kid? C’mon, do it! Toss it in already! They all look up at me with such expectation, such excitement, no matter how many times this never gets old, no matter how many times. I hold out my hand and let the harmonica fall into the drive containment field, or rather where it used to be — there’s not much left of this part of the ship. BOOM! Everyone shouts together, and then bursts into song. Cut time, swung, tempo di marcia: Have you ever seen a ship so grand? The captain pleased, so surely boasts: Come eat our food, enjoy the band! But please do not, sirs, disturb the ghosts! Sailing along so steady and true, Our course is set, we know the rules Proud members of this gruesome crew Come along with the ship of fools! The ship of fools! The ship of fools! the ship of fools Spspflglhlsshph! THE SHIP OF FOOLS! Forever wand’ring ‘round this inky sea We’d forgive you for thinkin’ us lost For us there’s no other way to be Can’t go home? Don’t give a toss! Our home is here in this leaky tub Diamond in the rough, the crowning jewels To sleep, to dream, ay, there’s the rub So come along, the ship of fools! The ship of fools! The ship of fools! the ship of fools Shlplsllhplslglhl! THE SHIP OF FOOLS! (Harmonica solo) So if you see us on your travels Don’t you worry, don’t fret our fate Long ago our lives unraveled So long ago we forgot the date! To dance and sing without a care! No more strife, we’ve downed our tools So if your sorry lot's too much to bear Come along to the ship of fools! The ship of fools! The ship of fools! the ship of fools! Shspsghshpfslspgph! THE SHIP OF FOOLS! (In unison, ritardando) Theeee…shiiiiiiiiip…oooooof…foooooools! Cheers and shouts, applause and slaps on the backs all round, another celebration complete, every year commemorating the anniversary of the events leading up to the destruction of the ship. Incorporated Shipping flight ISF-950B, call sign Das Narrenschiff, is a prison ship on route to a penal colony in the Epsilon Eridani system. It has been adrift in interstellar space for 4782 years, 3 months, and 15 days. It will never reach its destination.
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Jan 26, 2025 19:52
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Three Moments in a Fall 1499 words 1. The sensation of falling. A foot slides away from true, undone by slick linoleum and an unfamiliar heel. Abrupt forward momentum. Arms pinwheel, seeking equilibrium they can’t find. A strangled squeak. Time passes with treacle slowness. Heads turn to look in confusion, fear, and amusement. A hand reaches out for balance and collides with a punch bowl. The Party Planning Committee had done the best they could to make a dance club out of what was, unavoidably, a high school cafeteria. The lights were dimmed and colored by tissue paper. Tables and chairs were stacked in corners and along walls and covered in tarps, themselves blazoned with “Class of ‘09 Semi-Formal” stickers. Someone’s over-eager dad was DJing from a laptop. There were streamers and paper chains taped to every surface that would hold them, swaying in the breeze of a hundred teenagers milling on a dance floor. The air smelled like hairspray, hormones, and fruit punch. Michelle Lawrence stood at the edge of the floor trying to convince herself she wasn’t about to throw up. She couldn’t, not tonight; she was a girl with a mission. On Tuesday she had just happened to run into Kelly McIntire who, upon circumspect questioning, had said that she would definitely, probably be at the dance, and Michelle had also indicated that she would definitely, probably be at the dance and that maybe they would see one another there. Then Kelly had smiled at her. The next few minutes were hazy. But she was reasonably sure there was an understanding in place. So tonight she was going to ask Kelly McIntire to dance or she would definitely, probably die. It was tough being out and fifteen, even in a “cool” town like Hillview. It meant being treated like your sexuality was a phase that would be an embarrassing peccadillo later. But there was a Gay Students Association at least, which is where she’d met Kelly. She wasn’t actually sure if Kelly liked girls, she always went with her friend Julie who’d been out since sixth grade, so maybe she was being supportive; and Michelle would rather explode than actually ask her. But a dance was easier. It was a start. 2. A punch bowl soars into the air, arcing in catapult parabola, spinning like a flipped coin. Crimson fluid twists in ribbons and petal sprays. Cheap plastic cups pirouette in the air and roll across the floor, surprised dancers dodging arrythmically. A hip barks hard against a table, eliciting another yelp. A table tips and momentum takes a figure with it. Michelle stood with her back to the wall, trying not to wipe sweaty hands on her new dress. It was the pale blue of a clear winter sky and she loved it. She scanned the room looking for Kelly. One of the benefits of the awkward, gangly height she’d gained the last few years was being able to see over the heads of most of her classmates, further enhanced by the heels she was wearing. These she did not love. Michelle was already self-conscious about her height and didn’t feel like she needed to be any taller, but her sister Rachel had forced the shoes on her, “You can’t go to your first high school dance in flats. These’ll make you feel sexy.” Michelle wasn’t sure it was working. She’d never felt sexy before, so she had nothing to compare it to, but she was pretty sure that sexy wasn’t supposed to feel like nausea. Then she spotted her. Standing by the doors to the music room, chatting with Rebecca Erlitz and Tom Fiennes. Kelly McIntire, the prettiest girl in school. Nearly Michelle’s own height, she had a pixie-cut mop of sandy blond hair over huge, luminous eyes the color of a stormy sea, and a broad, playful smile that held the key to Michelle’s gay little heart. She looked breath-taking in a slim, dark green dress. She’d gotten to wear sensible flats. She was the most beautiful thing Michelle had ever seen. And, as Michelle swallowed hard, moistening a panic-dried mouth, she glanced over and waved. Well, she thought, it’s now or slink-back-home-in-defeat-and-eat-half-a-tub-of-ice-cream. So she screwed her courage to the sticking place and took a wobbly step that she hoped looked more confident than it felt. And then another, and another. They were getting easier, nothing to it really. As she rounded the snack table she raised a hand in greeting and felt her foot slide across something mushy and slick on the freshly-waxed linoleum. 3. A tailbone-bruising arrest against tile. A tangle of limbs. A dress-ruining red rain. A distant crash of a breaking bowl. The clatter of a platter and the crash of a tipping table. Silence. Stillness. Then the worst sound possible: laughter. A pained scramble upright and an undignified retreat. Michelle huddled on the steps outside the cafeteria, trying to disappear into the gloom of the darkening quad. She shivered, sticky and cold in the spring night, wrapped in the kind of razor sharp, incurable misery exclusive to fifteen year olds. The only sounds were cricket chirps and her own muffled sobs. She’d blown it. Abject failure, complete buffoonery. Nothing would ever be ok again. She’d have to move schools or maybe throw herself into traffic, anything to avoid going to class on Monday and reliving the snickers and jeers and flashes from phone cameras. She leaned her face against the cold metal of the handrail, sniffling, tears run dry. Her butt hurt and she could feel a bruise blossoming on her hip. She’d have to call her dad or Rachel to come pick her up. Maybe if she snuck around the science building she could get to the parking lot without anyone seeing her. Maybe she could get swallowed up by the earth and no one would ever see her again. That sounded pretty good right then. There was a sound to her left, the swish of fabric, the scrape of shoes on concrete and a body settling next to her. She shut her eyes tight and turned her face away, curling up on herself, ready for the scorn of some popular harpy or the clumsy consolation of a friend or teacher. “Here, you might need this.” She felt a warm, damp towel placed on her knee, but she didn’t reach for it, stilled by shock. There was only one girl in her class with that husky alto. She un-hunched her shoulders and slowly turned her head. Short, sandy hair and sea-green eyes and a wide, gentle smile. Michelle grabbed the towel and buried her face in it. “Thanks,” he mumbled as she wiped sticky redness from her face and hair. “Of course.” A pause. “Are you alright?” No. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” She began wiping down her arms and legs. “Did you see what happened?” “Yeah, some rear end in a top hat dropped half a cupcake by the snack table and, well, gravity can make fools of us all.” Michelle made a noise that she wasn’t sure was a laugh or a sob. Of course she was a fool, sitting in the dark being pitied by a goddess. She started sniffling again, working her way up to a good old-fashioned wail. “Hey, no no no, I’m sorry, that was rude.” Now Kelly sounded panicked, of all things. Michelle heard her shuffle closer and then felt a warm arm around her shoulder. “It was supposed to sound comforting. Sorry.” “It was the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened.” “Someone will top it by next week. Besides, I thought it was funny. In, like, a cute way.” Before the words could sting Kelly laid her head on the taller girl’s shoulder and Michelle melted against it. “Besides,” she said, plucking at the stained fabric of Michelle’s dress, “purple looks good on you.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. It goes with your hair.” “Oh. Thanks,” said Michelle, making a mental note to buy every purple garment in the world. “So, when you, um, slipped, were you coming to talk to me?” Michelle froze again, then offered a small nod, rubbing her cheek against Kelly’s hair. “Did you have something you wanted to ask me?” Another nod. Kelly pulled her head off Michelle’s shoulder and the two girls looked at one another. “Well?” she asked. Michelle’s throat seized up, her nerves froze, a giant grabbed her heart and squeezed liquid anxiety into her veins. But she looked at Kelly, and saw something mirrored there. Kelly McIntire was nervous. Warmth flooded her chest. “Would you like to dance with me?” A nod and a wide, relieved smile: “Yes, please. I was scared you wouldn’t ask.” 4. A dance, acid-sweet in its awkwardness. Stocking feet on cold tile. The smell of jasmine shampoo. A glance stolen and returned. The soft grasp of a hand on a hip. A finger tucking hair behind an ear. Bruises that were worth it and an embarrassed flush that will fade. A smile that cuts like a knife. The sensation of falling.
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Jan 27, 2025 02:44
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Hammer to Fall 1450 Words “You’re dropping your left, Harv!” My cutman spits at me as he hits a welt on my cheek with his gauze. “Shut up, Stan” Virginia barks at him. “I’m his coach. I’ll tell him what he’s dropping.” Stan wipes away some errant blood from my soldier, scoffs, and walks off. “He’s right, y’know,” Virginia looks down at me and her face betrays the cheerful optimism I hired her for. She thinks I’m gonna lose. I squeeze my biteguard between my back molars in frustration and she can see I’m getting pissed. “It’s math, Harv,” she says as she grips my chin and tilts my face back up to hers. “Don’t forget your math; you’ve got this palooka dead to rights.” “Math,” I say it out loud but I don’t know what it means. Virginia slaps me across the face. “Math. Sequences. Timing. Boxing is dumb. I am smart.” “There’s my big lug,” Virginia shoots up, “now on your feet! Mama wants a belt!” I stand up and feel my trunks slip a bit on my waist. “Harvey, get back here!” Virgina calls me for as she grabs my drawstrings, undoes the knot, pulls them tight, and quickly fastens them again. “These drat things. I swear it’s like they're begging to fall off. Remind me to get you a new sponsor.” “Yes, ma’am,” I respond. I bounce on my heels and run through the sequences in my head. ***** I cannot believe my luck. Hammering Harvey and Brayne Colton. I just rang the bell to cue round 3 for the prize fight of the decade. “Danny, you gotta pinch me, is this even real?” Danny is staring at the fighters, but even if he weren’t he wouldn’t be able to hear me. The sweeping cheers, boos, and yells flood our hearing. This must’ve been what it was like for those Beatles fellas back in the day. What was it? Memorial Stadium? Shea? There was some concert where those little guys came out and the legend was that nobody could even hear the music over the screams. Is anyone even that famous anymore? Could anyone be? It’s parity right? There’s too many screens, too many venues, too many--- “Paul the round’s about to end!” Danny jabs me in the ribs. I look at the clock. 3 2 1 I grab the hammer, ding the bell, end of round 3. ***** “Better, better!” Virginia screams at me and grabs hold of my shoulders just like mom used to when I came home from sleepaway camp. “Better, what?” I ask. “You OK, Harv?” “Yeah, yeah,” I’m OK. “Did I math?” “Sure did, you big galoot. I couldn’t believe it! It’s all in the timing!” I think I know what she’s talking about but I can’t be sure. “Gwuvs,” I say, as I hold up my hands. “Jimmy! We need tape. I swear these things are going to fly right off, mid-hook!” Virginia is shouting something or other outside of the ring. A moment later someone is messing with my gloves and further tightening them onto my hands. “1-2-5-2” Someone shouts at me. I think it’s Virgina. I think I’m in love with her. I never noticed how her freckles balanced her face so nicely. Look at her. She’s like an angel. “You got that!” She shouts in my face. I nod - “1-2-5-2” “3.4 Seconds. That’s how you finish the round. And that’s how you finish the fight. Go win it for us.” I stand up and she slaps me hard on my rear end. ding ding ***** “I think Harv’s got this one, Danny.” I twirl the bell hammer over and under my fingers, as I anxiously tap my foot below me. I look to my left to see Danny chomping on a slobbery cigar as he intently watches the fighters before us. He opens his mouth and his lit cigar falls to the floor. I look forward to see what caused the distraction. Harvey is on his back and the referee has already hit him with a 2 count. “What happened!?” I shout. “Pay loving attention, you idiot!” Danny shouts at me. Harvey has gotten to his knees but he still looks dazed. The referee is throwing six fingers in front of Harvey’s face when he finally, slowly, rises to his feet. The ref shouts “You OK?” Harvey nods. The nod scares me, I can’t quite tell if Harvey is ready. Is he just putting on a brave face? What must it be like to be him right now? There’s a crowd of people here to see him, but he probably can’t even process that. He’s strong but he’s gotten his rear end kicked. I remember once when Stephen Hyat knocked me down in gym class and took my football away. He only pushed me, lightly, and the whole experience dazed me. I wonder what ever happened to him. I think he got expelled. Christ that was like 30 years ago huh? Maybe I should goo---.” “Paul!” Danny shouts at me and scares me so that I drop the bellhammer. I look at the timer. 2 seconds left. I quickly reach down, grab the hammer, and slam it into the bell. ***** “Look Harv,” Virginia is holding my face up to hers again. My skin tingles as her pale blue eyes find mine. “I don’t you need to win this for me.” “I’m gonna win it for me.” I didn’t choose the words but they came from somewhere, deep down inside my gut. Virginia’s face twists into something only I know and understand. She wants it for me, but she doesn’t believe me. She looks down at my shoes. “Untied again!” She scoffs and starts to tie them. “You’re slow on your time, Harv. Our whole plan is kinda going out the window. You’re supposed to start your last sequence when there are only three seconds left. But this last time you started it when there were thirty seconds left and then you stood there all dazed and confused.” She’s done with the shoes and her hands find their way back to my cheeks. “I’m worried Harv.” “Don’t be.” I push her hands off my face, shoot to my feet, and trot off to the center of the ring. ***** I ring the bell for the 3rd round and hold the hammer tightly in my clenched fist. Next to me, Danny has found and replaced the cigar in his mouth and is checking his phone. “If Harvey takes him down in this round, I’m up 2 G’s.” I hope it does end here then, I like Danny. He got me this job just last month and it’s been so good for me. Stable work, and it’s so exciting! I’m not gonna miss anything anymore. There’s a fight here, and by god, I’m gonna watch it! “Woohoo!” I shout in excitement as Harv dodges a left. The fighters trade blow after blow and it’s almost impossible to tell who’s got the edge. Their faces look splotchy and tired, and blood is everywhere. Somewhere inside of me I feel their pain and I wonder if this is even OK? Is it OK for millions of people to tune in and enjoy this barbarism? Is it even… I shake my head to clear my thoughts and double down on squeezing the life out of the bellhammer to keep myself grounded. I check the clock: 40 seconds left in the round, I can do this. But even with that determination my amblyopia can hardly contain itself. There’s a really pretty lady right next to the clock… I squeeze the hammer harder. So hard that my thumbs push into the mallet end of the hammer so intensely that it snaps right off the stick and flies off into the air…. straight into Brayne Colton’s left butt cheek. My eyes widen into saucers and my stomach twists into knots. Brayne Colton is looking right at me. For a split second, we’re the only two people in the world. And then…. A vicious Harvey uppercut connects with his unprotected chin. Brayne Colton is on his back. There isn’t a single person in the stadium who thinks Brayne has a chance of getting to his feet after a blow like that, and sure enough, after the ten count, the ref signals the end of the fight. “Thank God,” Danny says, as he quickly reaches under the ropes and grabs and pockets the hammer. “He took such a shot to the head. There’s no way he remembers that he needs to kill you now.” I look at Danny and all I can do is blink, helplessly, as he laughs. “Dinner’s on me, then eh?”
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Jan 27, 2025 03:16
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All that follows is true 1799 words Flash rule: A superstore on Black Friday The sky was still night-black and speckled with stars when the family bundled into their car, all blinking sleep from their eyes and shivering in the late-November air. First out the door was Minerva, careful and slow down the porch steps and across the frost-covered grass in her orthopedic shoes. After her was her son, Mark, with his daughter a wriggling bundle in his arms, and then his wife, last out the door and locking it behind her. Minerva was the last one to the car, where she slid herself into the back seat, right behind the driver's seat. Right now, her son was buckling the baby into her car seat, before he looked up, across the car. "Seat belt, Mom," he said. Minerva fumbled behind herself for a moment, and found the strap. It felt like every time she got in the car, that thing was never quite where it was supposed to be. "Gotta keep you and Grandma Mimi safe," Mark told his daughter with the utmost gravity, and closed the door. Minerva reached out her hand to the baby, who curled and uncurled her tiny hands to grab at the rings on her fingers. Mark sat down at the wheel, with his wife already buckled up in the passenger seat and picking out a good radio station, and soon they were pulling out of the driveway and onto the road. As Minerva looked outside, she could see, between patches of uncleared forest, houses like hers peeking through the frost patterning the window. When she looked forward again, Mark's wife was looking at her in the rearview mirror, tilting it to check on her and the baby. "All good back there?" she asked. “I can turn up the heat if you want, or we can stop for coffee...” "Oh, no, I think we're both going to sleep through the drive." Already, Minerva could see the baby falling asleep-- just like her son when he was that age. She'd always taken him on car rides when she needed him to sleep. She watched as the gaze in the mirror slid away and let herself drift to the steady sound of the engine. The parking lot was already packed by the time Mark pulled the station wagon around the turn into the shopping center. “I’ll drop you guys off at the door,” he said. As he pulled to a stop, his wife got out first to heave the stroller out of the trunk and set it up, before unbuckling her sleeping child from her car seat and buckling her into the stroller. Minerva watched as the baby’s chubby face scrunched, as if ready to protest being out in the cold. “You getting out, Mom?” Mark asked. Minerva realized he was still waiting for her. “Oh! Yes, of course.” She opened the door and-- couldn’t get up, trapped in her seat. She’d forgotten her seat belt was still on. Now she just felt silly, even though Mark wasn’t laughing at her. That almost made it worse. She rose out of the car and stepped up onto the sidewalk in front of the bright store entrance, and Mark’s wife took her arm to help. “I’ll push the cart, if you want to push Isabella. We’re all sticking together, but I know she loves her Grandma Mimi time.” She beamed at Minerva, an expression made even brighter by the lights outside the store and flooding through the doors from inside. Minerva hadn’t noticed before the way smiling made her face scrunch up a little like Isabella’s, she realized fondly. Mark jogged up to them from the parking lot as Minerva closed her hands around the stroller handle, and then the doors opened for them, and they folded themselves into the crowd inside. “I remember coming here for Black Friday only once with Mom,” Mark was telling his wife, once the two of them had settled on a new car seat for the growing Isabella, and the family was moving towards the travel aisles for a new suitcase. He looked back at Minerva, lagging behind, and slowed his pace. When she reached his side, he tilted his head towards her. “You remember, right? Back in the nineties.” Minerva did remember, now that he mentioned it. “Oh, the crowds were horrible, and you got so worried seeing all those empty shelves that you practically vaulted over someone’s cart to grab a microwave I wanted.” “Not practically. I definitely vaulted over a cart.” “I wish I could’ve seen that,” his wife said, batting him on the shoulder. “I’ll have to settle for imagining it instead.” As they rounded the corner, there was a “Danger: Wet Floor” sign next to a pallet with a picked-clean display of travel mugs. Mark paused. Minerva had a feeling about what he was about to say, and an instant later--“I could jump over that,” --he proved her right. “Mark, no,” said Minerva. “Mark, why,” said his wife. Mark looked between the two of them. “I’m doing it.” Then he looked down at Isabella in her stroller. “This one’s for you.” He took a short running start, leapt over the sign, and caught the top of it with his left foot, pulling it with him. His right foot, which landed an instant later, hit the puddle of water and began to slide out from under him. Minerva watched in horror. Her son, off-balance, flung his arms out wide-- he grasped at and yanked down an endcap display of wall hooks, which scattered in all directions across the floor between the aisles. Unmoored, he fell sideways, flattening the thankfully-empty travel mug display. A pack of four wall hooks spun to a slow stop against the wheel of their cart. For a second or two, all went silent. Then, all at once, the aisle was full of customers and staff alike, all wanting to see what the noise was about, trying to help clean up the mess, gawking, gasping, muttering, murmuring. They swarmed like starving ants to sugar, and Minerva backed up with the stroller as a woman rushed forward to help. She wasn’t sure if she should help or not, if she’d be in the way amidst all the chaos-- An announcement on the store speaker made her look up, but the words didn’t make sense to her. She could hear them, they must have been clear, but they slid around in her mind without traction. She felt uneasy. She backed up another step, then two more, and heard fussing from the stroller. Her son. He was getting upset because of all the noise. She needed to get him away from the crowd. She turned the stroller down another aisle, and walked away. Minerva tried to remember the layout of the department store-- where the exit was. Downstairs, she thought, as she saw a shelf of handbags. Second floor was women’s clothes. She just needed to find the elevator. She passed racks of pants and blouses, trying to find her way to something she could recognize. However, none of the signs were helpful, and the path she thought she remembered-- straight back from the nightgowns-- only led her into the jewelry department, which she thought had been on the fourth floor. Her hands tightened nervously on the handle of the stroller, and when she looked down at them, she was horrified. When had her skin become so thin and wrinkled? Had they always felt this cold, this frail? A whine from the stroller distracted her. She walked around to the front of it and lifted Mark up. She was used to holding him, but he still felt heavy in her arms and on her hip. He wriggled around and his face scrunched up like he was upset, but he didn’t cry. “Look at you, my strong boy,” she told him. “You want to go home too, don’t you?” He reached out and grabbed at her hair, but Minerva set him back in the stroller. “Soon, darling, soon. Mama’s just a little bit lost, that’s all.” Now that he wasn’t in her arms, she noticed what he was wearing, a pink two-piece outfit with flowers patterned on his shirt. Maybe some of her laundry had gotten mixed up with someone else’s at the laundromat. She must not have been thinking when she dressed him. She’d have to change him when they got home. Her shaking hands tightened around the stroller handle once again. Minerva continued walking, pushing the stroller in front of her in search of the elevator. They’d definitely rearranged the store at some point; after she’d passed through the jewelry section, there were rows and rows of cards. Birthday cards, condolence cards, anniversary cards, Christmas cards, holidays upon holidays upon holidays. One had an illustration of a baby boy smiling beatifically, lying in a little cradle. She couldn’t read the word on it. When she touched the card, her hand came away sparkling with glitter. She turned left and continued on. In front of the televisions, she stopped entirely. Large and thin, they lined the shelves, with the clearest images she’d seen on any channel. They all showed the same thing, changing scenes in unison. A view from high above a snowy mountain, a bird soaring across the landscape. A bustling city street full of people in colorful, bright clothing. A warm beach, water lapping at the shore. A crackling fire in a beautiful brick fireplace... There were footsteps behind her. She turned around. A man and a woman stood there, looking stricken. The man approached her slowly, like he was trying not to scare her away. The woman had a hand clapped over her mouth, her eyes shining wet. Had she done something wrong? Had she done something to them? “Mom,” the man said. “You just disappeared and we had no idea--” His voice cracked. He reached for Minerva, and she froze. She only had one child, and that was her son, that was Mark, and Mark was-- Mark was the man reaching for her. She remembered that now, that he was grown and so much taller than her now and the baby in the stroller wasn’t him. “Mark. I, I don’t...” All her words had left her. The woman-- Veronica, that was her name, Veronica-- rushed to the stroller and lifted Isabella into her arms. “Oh, thank god,” she breathed, her voice thick with tears. “It’s okay, Mom,” Mark said to her. She knew that he was lying to her, but she wanted so badly to believe it. To believe him. To believe that this didn’t mean anything, that it wasn’t the thing she knew it was. On the car ride home, Minerva sat up front. Her son took her wrinkled hand in his, and didn’t let go.
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Jan 27, 2025 03:36
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Slapstick 931 words “I got a problem,” says the man with the most weasel-rear end face I've ever seen this side of an actual weasel. One look at him and you know anywhere he goes he's going to get that nickname and either be a rage monster whenever he hears the word or else lean into it. This guy was one of the lean in type. “I got twenty thousand problems, more like.” “And you think I can help?” I say. “I know, crazy, right?” says Weasel. “But everyone says you got, you know, wisdom and stuff.” I've been living in airports–mostly right here in Miami-Dade–for almost five years. Courier tickets on red-eyes, living out of two suitcases and the Admiral's Club. It wasn't until about a year that anyone particularly noticed. A couple more years of suspicion before people mostly got used to it. I thought that meant I'd get left alone, but lately people have been treating like some kind of oracle. “Well,” I say “You are in an airport. Just buy a ticket somewhere and disappear.” “What, like, just cut ties and hide out in some suburb?” He doesn't like the idea. I can tell. “What that sounds like is witness protection but without the protection.” “I don't see any other choices,” I say. “It's not like there's anyone who's going to give you twenty thousand dollars before noon tomorrow.” “Twenty-two,” he mutteres. I'd forgotten the interest. “But maybe...thanks, Trav. You've been a great help.” This is one of the perils of being treated like an oracle. Most people don't really pay attention when they're at an airport. Liminal spaces and all that. But when you live in them like me or work at one like Weasel you start to notice things. Weasel's in security, where he's paid extra to not notice certain things, and not noticing things makes you aware of them. Suitcases, say. So many different brands out there. When two identical ones come close, sometimes it's a coincidence. Usually it's not. You see the pattern, figure out the players. You get an idea which cases hold the drugs, which ones hold the money, and which ones are the decoys. You can tell the small-timers by their clumsy swaps, and get a whiff of the real power players who seem to manage to swap cases without ever coming near each other. If anyone was coming out of the airport with that kind of money daily, I'd figure it was the Countess. And I was pretty sure that was what Weasel thought too. The Countess. A quick portrait: tall, not quite six feet but close. Long red hair. Deep feminine voice. Contemptuous of everything and everybody except her dogs. She certainly didn't have to handle the money herself, but she did. And then there was one more player in these events. There have got to be dozens of guys running around Florida who carry the nickname ‘Gator’. Put them all in one room and this is the guy who doesn't go back to going by Maurice or Larry. Big guy, all muscle but not really built like an athlete. Built for violence. He lost his left arm as a teenager. The story is that was an alligator and as soon as he got out of the hospital he killed and skinned the beast. Don't know if I believe that one though. This was the guy they sent to collect Weasel's debt. The trouble starts with a delayed flight, which I later found out was due to one of the passengers wrecking the front toilet. So this means the Countess’ contact is two hours late. This doesn't give Weasel much time to work with. He doesn't have much of a plan, really. Watch for the designer bag, flash his shiny TSA badge and run the contact off to interrogation. Not the actual interrogation room, not the official one. Just an empty room with a few chairs and a light in it. So Weasel does just that and drags this poor guy right into the checkpoint, the Countess following discreetly behind. And that's about when Gator pulls up and starts moving inexorably towards them. Gator reaches him. The other TSA guys do absolutely nothing, partly because the Countess is around and they're all paid to not interfere with her business, partly because although Weasel is their coworker he's still Weasel and nobody likes Weasel, and partly because Gator is terrifying. “Wait. Wait.” says Weasel. He yanks the designer case out of the courier’s hand and pushes it at Gator. “The money. It's here.” Gator looks at it, takes it, and rips it open, popping the lock off like it was plastic. Inside is nothing more interesting than a pile of dirty clothes. Gator gets mad. And then the cornered Weasel bites: the guy sucker-punches Gator right in the nose. There's a nasty little crunch sound. There's a little blood. Gator grins. Weasel backs up and turns to run. Gator grabs the back of his uniform, which is cheap enough that it just rips right off. So Weasel runs off into the checkpoint and Gator follows after and they're both surrounded by the other TSA cops soon enough. The Countess vanishes, and I follow soon after, with a quick stop to reach in the suitcase and retrieve the bag of emeralds. I've done that route before, know how the game works, where they'll be. Someday I'll leave the airport parallel universe, step back into the real world, let time start happening again. A bit of capital ready for when that happens won't hurt.
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Jan 27, 2025 07:59
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Submissions closed! Judgement begins
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Jan 27, 2025 09:17
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Thunderdome Week 651 Results: Round of applause, if you please, for fridge corn ("Das Narrenschiff") taking home the prize this week, with HM's for Slightly Lions ("Three Moments in a Fall") and Obnoxipus ("All that follows is true"). Bad Monkey award for Vilgefartz for writing a check they were subsequently unable to cash. Crits done but I wanna give em the once-over in the am before posting. Congrats and thanks to all participants! fridge corn, the floor is yours! rivetz fucked around with this message at 15:41 on Jan 28, 2025 |
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Jan 28, 2025 06:40
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Crits: "Das Narvenschiff" by fridge corn: This checked the most "cool/interesting" boxes for me.
"Three Moments in a Fall" by Slightly Lions : Charming and sentimental, which sound a little like vague platitudes except the story might crash and burn if it didn't have both charm and sentimentality in spades. Successfully conveyed the quiet stress of the high-school dance. Some nice lil details, over-eager dad DJ, "The air smelled of hairspray, hormones, and fruit punch." Really, just very effective prose from start to finish. The fact that it reads like solid, competent YA fiction is 100% a compliment. "All that follows is true" by Obnoxipus: Effective and heartbreaking. This one's grown on me; a reread was helpful. To be honest, I don't love the choice of "Minerva" for the grandmother - it's such an distinctive name that I attached too much significance to it and (when she was horrified by her hands) I literally wondered if there was some Greek deity footling with reality, though I may be alone in getting hung up on that. I also found it a stretch that the mom would completely space the location of her daughter like that, especially when both parents are clearly aware there's issues w Mimi. I get holding the wife's name back til the end, but it was nonetheless distracting. Nonetheless, solid work, fulfills the prompt, feels like a complete story. "Hammer to Fall" by Chili: Dug the setting, kinda dug the story? The switching between viewpoints worked, though I couldn't quite track Paul's impediments. The amblyopia didn't work for me - I had no idea what that was, and it seemed crucial enough to the story that I needed to switch out to look it up, which kinda took me out of the action at a critical juncture...and then it doesn't really seem to relate to the hammer breaking a second later. I do like the general idea that Paul's just a bit of a dim bulb w ADD, no backstory and nothing else to it other than he just should probably not have that job. I liked that there's very little time spent explicitly describing your characters or setting, yet I could comfortably visualise everything, which is probably a credit to the dialogue. Also it may be stupid semantics but the missed punctuation throughout threw me a little more than once, mainly due to trying to figure out if it was intentionally stylistic; that's probably a me thing but it is what it is. "Slapstick" by Thranguy: Loved the world way more than the story. The idea of this whole seedy subculture around airport smuggling is tremendously appealing. I would happily read a longer piece about Gator and Weasel and the Countess all angling against each other to get their hands on a suitcase full of $20M in bearer bonds etc. But it wasn't clear where the act of spectacular physical ineptitude takes place. Also the setting was unique enough that the last paragraph totally threw me. Lots of potential, some intriguing details, but none of the characters really stand out, and the ending didn't land for me. Also I've thought about it and still don't think a "deep feminine voice" is a thing, unless you were purposefully trying to avoid just saying husky. rivetz fucked around with this message at 19:27 on Jan 28, 2025 |
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Jan 28, 2025 16:14
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Crits: fridge corn, "Das Narvenschiff": Takes two reads to really get that everybody you're introduced to has been mangled and killed by the event that doomed the ship in the first place. The "sea" shanty is creative. I assume everything is an apparition or ghostly, otherwise they wouldn't be able to interact with items. The different ways of using dialogue were interesting. An entertaining story overall. SlightlyLions, "Three Moments in a Fall": Interesting way to use those moments, though it felt out of place at times (1&2). It definitely captured the awkward teen setting at a dance. Was the dumb thing the initial slip or the entire punch bowl event? Anyways, the ending was sweet if a bit predictable. Chili, "Hammer to Fall": I liked the dialogue between characters. The problem created is simple and solved immediately. I wonder if the story had started in the middle, what it could have looked like with the repercussions of the boxer losing the fight because the hammer distracted him? There was a lot of setup for a very quick payoff. Obnoxipus, "All that follows is true": This story definitely tugs at the heart strings with including dementia/Alzheimer's/forgetfulness, etc. The dumb act is perhaps too emphasized. If the parents knew that the grandmother had problems with wandering off, they probably wouldn't have lost her for that amount of time. You tend to keep your eyes on your kid. The transition between the present and the past through the eyes of the grandmother was done well. You could really tell that the character was going through a confusing moment. Thranguy, "Slapstick": This is a well written story that I thought ended too soon. I think the clumsy act was the opening of the bag with nothing in there which lead to the Oracle picking out the diamonds? The characterization was brief but had me wanting more from them. However, the ending about it being a parallel universe threw me out of being invested in the story. What even mattered at that point? I had even more questions that weren't going to be answered now.
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Jan 28, 2025 16:59
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Thunderdome Week 652: Home Sweet Home I've just started reading Toni Morrison's Beloved, which begins with the characters reminiscing about their previous life on the Kentucky plantation inappropriately named Sweet Home. There is a passage early on which goes Toni Morrison posted:...and suddenly there was Sweet Home rolling, rolling, rolling out before her eyes, and although there was not a leaf on that farm that did not make her want to scream, it rolled itself out before her in shameless beauty. It never looked as terrible as it was and it made her wonder if hell was a pretty place too. Fire and brimstone all right, but hidden in lacy groves. Boys hanging from the most beautiful sycamores in the world. It shamed her---remembering the wonderful soughing trees rather than the boys. Try as she might to make it otherwise, the sycamores beat out the children every time and she could not forgive her memory for that. There is something about the very landscape that we live in, especially early in our lives that makes a big impression on us. Its a topic that my sister and I discuss a lot, since we were both moved away from the place we were born at an early age, and we wonder what that does for us, how does that factor into who we are, and why do we feel such affection for a landscape that we left so long ago, something that runs deeper than just nostalgia, something more primal. There's a passage in the second volume of Knausgaard's My Struggle where he digresses on that same topic: Karl Ove Knausgaard posted:The countryside was exactly like the area I had grown up with, and for which I felt such a deep yearning, except that it wasn't, it wasn't Tromøya or Arendel or Kristiansand, which I would not have returned to for the whole world, but something different, something new. Sometimes I thought the longing for the terrain we had grown up with was biological, somehow rooted in us, that the instinct which could make a cat travel several hundred kilometres to find the place it came from also functioned in us, the human animal, on a par with other deeply archaic currents within us. So the prompt for this week is to write a story where your protagonist is far from home, but where the physical landscape of their homeland informs part of their character. You don't need to ruminate on the topic itself, it could be as simple as just a bit of backstory for your character. Did they grow up in the mountains, making them tough and hardy? Or are they from the countryside trying to make it in the big city and finding it difficult to adjust to the faster pace of life? Or you could go deeper and have your character face the distance from home directly; perhaps they're returning home after a long time away and finding things aren't quite how they remembered it. Do they miss their home or are they glad to have gotten away? After all, the Sweet Home in Morrison's Beloved was something to escape from. Word limit 1500 words. For an extra 200 words request a flash and I will give you a landscape for your character's origin. Usual Thunderdome rules apply No sign-up date. Submissions due by midnight PST Sunday, Feb 2nd Also, this is my first time judging, so if anyone would like to help judge I would appreciate it  Judges: fridge corn Thranguy Chili Entrants: derp Obnoxipus Cippalippus cumpantry Untrustable Chuf Cephas Abyss Vinny Possum kiminewt Slightly Lions fridge corn fucked around with this message at 06:08 on Feb 1, 2025 |
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Jan 28, 2025 19:17
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Ok sure flash me in
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Jan 28, 2025 19:21
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In and I'll take a flash as well!
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Jan 28, 2025 19:36
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I'm in
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Jan 28, 2025 19:55
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derp posted:Ok sure flash me in Rolling hills of green grasses, scattered copses of trees, hazy mountains in the distance Obnoxipus posted:In and I'll take a flash as well! A wide meandering river, densely wooded on both banks
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Jan 28, 2025 20:41
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in
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Jan 28, 2025 20:57
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I'll help judge.
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Jan 28, 2025 21:16
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I'm in
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Jan 28, 2025 22:15
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Can we do it? Can we have a three judge week? (I'll help judge, if you'd like)
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Jan 28, 2025 23:20
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in
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Jan 29, 2025 01:31
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in and flash please.
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Jan 29, 2025 05:35
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Chili posted:Can we do it? Can we have a three judge week? Sure! Cephas posted:in and flash please. Low dusty mountains poured over with deep green chaparral. Palms and succulents dot the lowlands out to sea.
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Jan 29, 2025 06:26
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I'm in.
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Jan 29, 2025 18:49
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I'm in. Flash me please.
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Jan 30, 2025 07:21
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Vinny Possum posted:I'm in. Flash me please. Deep red earth and short green shrubs shadowed by impossibly tall cliffs. Lazy streams and shallow pools turn to raging torrents with the rains.
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Jan 30, 2025 08:36
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In.
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Jan 30, 2025 22:57
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Alright, I'm in
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Feb 1, 2025 03:00
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Scavengers 1,700 words Flash: Low dusty mountains poured over with deep green chaparral. Palms and succulents dot the lowlands out to sea. Shirley’s scooter puttered along the state road as the sunset faded into dusk, and the dusty sand it kicked up turned from late-day orange to gloom blue. As the sky darkened, a faint red in the distance grew more visible. Some things never change. KC’s Diner was one of them. That cherry-red glow from its neon sign still lit the night like a warm invitation, like a purring cat. Shirley couldn’t say no. As she parked her bike and took off her helmet, she looked up at the sign and saw that the top right bar of the letter K was flickering out. She’d have to offer to fix it later. “A cup of hot black coffee and a slice of marionberry pie, thank you.” The waitress who served her was pretty and young. She had small, dark eyes that folded into little crescent moons when she smiled. Shirley didn’t recognize her—but how could she? It had been more than a decade since she’d left this place. In the woman’s hair was a little bunch of pink bell flowers held together by a clip. “Wayside,” Shirley said. “Pardon?” the waitress said. Her nametag read Veronica. “The flowers in your hair. It’s a manzanita species. A pink so pale it’s almost white, Wayside.” “My daughter picked them for me. Say, you know that old tune? The radio here plays it sometimes, but I’ve got family out in New Mexico and they swear they’ve never heard it.” “My grandfather wrote it,” Shirley said. “Never was a big hit. But he went to college with the owner of the local radio station, so they play it sometimes.” Then she lightly sang a couple bars of the song. A pink so pale it’s almost white, wayside. You left me on that lonely night, wayside. “Never knew the song was about a flower,” Veronica said. Then she smiled a waitress’s smile and said she’d be back with the coffee and pie. It was a little late for dinner, so there weren’t many people eating. Their light chatter and the clinking of dinnerware melded with Chrissie Hynde’s Talk of the Town playing on the radio. Out the window, everything was blue-black, and it began to rain. It was a fine rain, blending with the background chatter and the music to produce a hazy feeling that swept Shirley up like she was dreaming. I don’t want to be here, Shirley thought. The coffee and pie somehow only accentuated the sense that Shirley was in a dream. It was a dark, bitter coffee, with a thick aftertaste like molasses. The flavor washed over her, lingered on her tastebuds. The marionberry pie was baked earlier that day; it hadn’t set the way a day-old pie does. The tart berries and the buttery crust softened the harshness of the bitter, bracing coffee. Some things never change. Shirley’s grandfather used to take her here, once a month, to meet with her father. They’d get the long corner table, and Shirley’s grandfather would sit at one end and her father at the other, while Shirley sat between them like negotiated property. It was a bittersweet memory. When Shirley was little, before she understood words like custody or CPS, she thought of the meetings as the times her father and grandfather let her eat pie with a scoop of ice cream, and even let her try some coffee to see how it tasted with dessert. Did the one memory have to ruin the other, negate it somehow? She didn’t know. She didn’t like thinking about it. “Sure you don’t want to wait for the rain to pass? I can fill up your coffee,” Veronica said. “It’s alright. I’d better be going, thank you.” The light rain was kicking up the highway dust as Shirley rode through the night. She pulled her jacket’s collar up to her nose to help ward off the dust and the cold. The road crested its last incline of her journey, and now it was just a downhill slope into the brushland that spread out to the sea. There wasn’t a railing; there was just a shoulder of roadside scrub lit in the scooter’s headlights that warned her of a fall. The whole thing seemed wrong to Shirley. Wrong that sensible people like her grandfather had to die, while people like her father—fearful, distrustful people—could choose how others had to live. It wasn’t a big house, or anything splendid, but she’d grown up there. The sights had been her sights, the sagebrush and the manzanita flowers, the chipmunks under the witch’s hair, the coastline turning blood red on long summer nights while her grandfather fished or strummed a tune into the open night air. Didn’t she have a right to the home she grew up in? But the people like her father took that right away, took it away from people like her. Her grandfather tried to protect her all he could, he even paid out of pocket for the hormones and the surgeries when the insurance companies stopped covering her treatment. He was a sensible and loving man. More sensible than the world, with its outbreak that took him away; or the new laws that kept her from owning property, even her inheritance; or the police lockdowns that kept her from coming home for years. No, for all her memories of her grandfather and her home and that beautiful, harsh land around her, her only consolation was a short letter from her estranged father. Selling the property in May. Get whatever you want before they knock it down. The door’s unlocked. Come back to God, Shane. Dad The private road down to the house was uncared for and overgrown. The chaparral had taken it back. Shirley took out her phone and turned on its flashlight. Back when her grandfather took her along while he collected soil samples for the university, he’d always warn her of wildlife nesting beneath the scrub. This land’s alive, he’d say, and we’re just its guests. Shirley always respected her grandfather’s views, but crossing the tangled brush in the darkness, she felt more like an intruder than a guest. Shirley could hear the sound of lapping waves out past the edge of the chaparral. Her childhood home was just around the bend. She wasn’t sure what she’d take from that place before its destruction. She couldn’t carry much on her scooter. Some mementos is all, she thought—her grandfather’s old binoculars, maybe some of the rare stones he’d collected on his surveys. The light from Shirley’s cellphone reflected in a shard of broken glass. The windows of the house had all been blown out. The walls were dirty and overgrown, and the front door was open and rain was blowing in. It was a sight Shirley wasn’t prepared for. She didn’t know what to think. Had her father tended to this place even once in five years? When she stepped into the entryway she instinctively reached for the light switch, but the power was dead. She turned the corner and shined her light into the ruins of the living room. A glint of light reflected back at her, caught in an animal’s yellow eyes. There were a pair of coyotes in her living room. One stood in the middle of the room, staring unflinchingly at her. The other was curled up on the tatters of the television sofa. Stuffing spilled out where its paws dug into the red cushion. The two animals looked at her with a sense of ownership. This was their domain; what did she think she was doing here? The rain was sounding against the rooftop, spilling inside with the wind. “This was my home,” Shirley said stoically. “It might be yours now, but it was mine. I won’t bother you, and I’ll be out soon.” She stepped forward carefully, with as much confidence as she could, and the coyote in the middle of the room trotted away, off into the kitchen. So much had been taken, either by humans or by nature. Had her father come and swept the place of its valuables? The rare stone collection was gone from its glass case, as were her grandfather’s instruments. Just his binoculars, Shirley thought, I’ll just grab his old binoculars from the study and I’ll leave. She wasn’t even sure if it was safe to breathe the air in here. Uneven air pressure held the study door closed. Shirley grabbed onto the knob and leaned into it with her shoulder and finally the door lurched open. Rain spilled through a broken window onto the study floor. Her grandfather’s books were all ruined, scattered onto the damp, dirty floor. The binoculars, which always rested next to his diploma, were gone. It was the strangest thing. In the middle of the room, between open books and torn up carpet, there was a mound of earth. A plant was growing there. It was in full bloom. Its green leaves pointed up toward heaven like arrowheads, supported by red branches. In the harsh light of Shirley’s cellphone she saw its flowers. Pink bells so pale they were almost white. I’m looking at a ghost, Shirley thought. It was a senseless thought, but it was true. Then she thought, I need to get out of here. She slowly made her way past the two coyotes, who were now both reclining on the living room sofa, panting quietly, their eyes tracking her as she backed toward the entryway. Shirley didn’t have a roof over her head for the night. KC’s Diner was an hour away, but she didn’t have the strength to make it back. Instead, she followed the sound of the waves, and walked out to the shore, where she took her boots off and sat in the sand. The lapping ocean waves were warmer than the rain. It was very dark. She could see the stars, and the satellites, and their reflections in the waves. That was all there was. That was all she’d let there be, the warm lapping ocean waves and the dim light of the stars. We’re just guests here, she thought, consoling herself. We’re just guests here.
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Feb 2, 2025 15:33
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removed
derp fucked around with this message at 22:28 on Jul 14, 2025 |
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Feb 2, 2025 22:16
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Sand and Sky 1500 words We are marching down the beach when I see them - a series of perfectly shaped sand dunes with tufts of long grass growing through them. They cut a line along the beach, halfway between the cliffs and the sea. Each one can’t be more than seven or eight feet high. My feet sink with each step into the dune as we climb over it, but my feet remember just how to move so that I clamber up with ease, faster than my companions. I should focus on the ships approaching the beach, on the grim faces of the soldiers within them, on the task at hand. But I can’t help but skip and slide down the slope of the dune on the other side, an instinctual, bodily memory from my youth. I remember suddenly the game I played with my friends on similar dunes. One person would jump down from the top and the others would try to grab them as they slid and sprinted down. We had a name for that game, some strange gibberish only a child could come up with. I wish I could remember it. We climb the second dune as the ships scrape aground ahead of us. The water churns as soldier after soldier vaults the sides of their ships to land in the surf. I look to the side, and see the same hard look on the faces of my companions that I see mirrored in our opponents. Their eyes swivel warily and their jaws are set. I skip down the second dune and can’t help but think of how far I am from home. I am twelve, clambering over the huge blocks of the old temple ruins and marvelling at the landscape around us. The temple is elevated so all you can see is desert. I was always told it was called the “Crocodile Temple”, but I don’t know why. There are no crocodile statues or carvings. I wish I had asked why it was called that. I am laughing and climbing up to the roof, following my friends. And I remember how the parents would always sit on the edge of the temple, smoking and talking quietly to each other. Most of all I remember the smiles they gave us as they watched us laugh and play, like they were remembering their own youthful adventures. The familiar feeling of walking through dry sand gives way to a sinking firmness - the slope of the wet silt down to the water. I am in battle, once again. My companions charge, streaming into the clumsy stumbling rush of our foes. I join them, colliding with one invader, then another. The initial flurry sends me reeling and I look around to get my bearings. I find Ebba and step in next to her. She nods to me and we go back to work. I am fourteen and running through the ruined town, shattered pottery crunching under every footstep. They say a great empire built this place, in a time before the lake receded. It was a port. Hard to believe when all you see is sand. They tell me you can see the remainder of the lake on the horizon but it must be a tiny blue sliver against the sky. Shards of pottery from that place littered the shelves of my parents’ home. I would always return from there with a bag full, as if I had discovered treasures in the sand. We never found an unbroken piece, not a single whole pot, not in that whole town. Ebba is gone, lost in the frenzied melee. I let my training take hold, my arms doing the work of keeping a blade away from my face as my newest opponent takes us both down into the grey wet sand. The sea saves me, the crashing tide wrenching him off me before his blade can find my neck. I puff, blowing salt and spray out as I clamber back up, stumbling just as they had as I try to find the face of a friend. My eyes find the dunes back up the beach. I am eleven and our whole convoy has stopped. Every single person has their head down and is walking, meandering with slow purpose through the vast flat expanse of small black rocks - each no bigger than a fig. Everyone is scouring the ground, searching past each rock, looking at the spaces between. My father told me the black rocks were a forest once - a whole forest turned to stone and shattered. I still don’t understand how it could have happened. “I found one!” My brother cries and both I and my father rush over to see. He holds up a flint arrowhead between his thumb and forefinger, grinning. It was the biggest one we ever found. I was always jealous of him for that. I am in battle. The panic of the initial charges has subsided and I somehow stagger back into our lines, facing theirs. A hand claps me on the shoulder and I see Ebba grinning a boastful grin that reminds me of my brother. She is also soaked through. Bodies start to drop around us as missiles fly at us from soldiers still atop their ships. But the beach is for blades and every person on it knows that. The lines close, the distance melting all too quickly. I am nine and our convoy is silently passing massive skeletons; colossal rib cages jutting out of the rock and sand. I look out at them and can’t help but wonder at what kind of animals these must have been. Later, my father tells me that they are whale bones and the desert must have once been a vast ocean. I believe him, but it doesn’t stop me dreaming. Every time we pass those bones, I imagine them as a roc, aloft in the empty sky or even as the great Flame-Serpent - somehow at home in both ocean and sand. They press us from all sides, driving us back towards the dunes. More ships have landed, replenishing their numbers. Our reserves should be coming down the cliff but we can’t look over our shoulders to check - our eyes have to stay forward as our legs move us back. I feel safer once my feet are back on dry sand. I am sixteen and we are moving through the dunes. The real dunes, some of them hundreds of feet high. We climb up their spines and slide down their fronts with glee. From horizon to horizon is nothing but a sea of sand, each dune a frozen wave. It always filled me with a strange forlorn awe. At night, the stars there are brighter than I ever saw or would see again. It was that journey when one of the parents made the best meal I’ve ever had in my life. A bean stew full of cream and cumin. I got the recipe from him but I could never get it right, not like he made it. It was also that journey when we found the skeleton. He was just sitting there, sticking out the base of one of the dunes. His bones a stark bleached white against the yellow sand, his body hidden for untold time amidst the dunes but now uncovered by the wind and the shifting tides of sand. We couldn’t look away, even the younger children too but nor did our parents try to stop us. It was our reflection, our sobering reminder that this is what the desert could do. You could journey through it all your life, call it home, understand its mysteries. And it could kill you all the same. We found his effects, and took them. Took them and took his bones back out of the desert. Back to the river and then to his people. I fall to my knees and then to my back. The pain is spreading up my body. A figure looms over me but the blood pouring into my eyes blurs my vision. I grab for their front and a strong hand clutches my wrist. I hope it’s Ebba. “Take me home.” I hear myself whimper in the words of her language - it’s all I can manage. The words that I would have said if I had the strength race across my mind. I want to ask her to take my bones and place them deep beneath the sand back home. Not on this foreign beach. I want to pray for my spirit to somehow go back there, to the endless emptiness. I want to beg her to bring me back there. To that lonely place of the endless dunes and the endless sky. Where the wind and sand cleanse bodies into bones. I feel my thoughts slowing. The taste of metal in my mouth. I suppose I’ll never know if she will do as I ask, if my bones will make it back there. Back home. But I hoped.
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Feb 2, 2025 22:43
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Hike to Preikestolen 1500 words It was 2019, and I was still working in Germany. The company I was working for wasn’t particularly large, but it was part of a multinational group that, a few years earlier—following the 2011 European crisis —had acquired it for next to nothing. Most of my colleagues in the Finance team were Norwegian, except for my two German colleagues (among them my boss) and me. Even though Italy is typically associated with the sea and its art cities, I come from a city called Bergamo. The etymology of the name hints at Celtic origins but especially at the fact that the city lies at the foot of the Alps, and its inhabitants have little to do with the stereotypical image foreigners often have. The urban clashes when the local soccer team, Atalanta, plays against its archenemies Roma and Napoli are well known. But I’ve never been interested in that, because my passion has always been the mountains—where anyone, regardless of circumstances, can find a bit of tranquility and respite from the hustle and bustle of modern life. How many times, as a kid, did I pack my backpack with friends to hit some trail, looking for alternate routes to reach a mountain lodge and enjoy a bit of polenta with venison stew! Even before the pandemic we often relied on online meetings (especially since colleagues were scattered all over Europe). Every now and then, however, those of us working in Germany were called to Stavanger, where the group’s main office was located, for work discussions or team-building activities. Altogether, the finance team had about twenty people, with an equal split between men and women. This time, the plan was a hike to Preikestolen, a cliff overlooking a fjord with a truly phenomenal view. So, along with my laptop and other work materials, I brought my hiking boots and gear to make the most of the outing. We arrived on a Monday, and on Tuesday we had two hours of group discussion—a nod to Norway’s hyper-democratic culture—after which we would take a rented bus to the trailhead for the hike. I was single, having recently broken up, and I had always had a soft spot for Sofie, a colleague a couple of years younger. I’ve always considered myself a tough guy, one who “knows how to handle things,” but Sofie disarmed me completely. She had an incredible, wide smile and laughed loudly and at length at just about anything I said. Every time I went to Norway, I couldn’t think of anything but her—yet something about her frightened me. Was she too beautiful? Yes, very beautiful. But she also seemed too perfect, and I knew I could only get hurt: she was a colleague and, on top of that, lived 2,000 kilometers away. What could I ever want from her? On the road to Preikestolen—on the bus—my old boss, Tobias, who was a decent guy but extremely pedantic, was bothering me: “Remember, you can’t leave the trail!” “Tobias, you know I’m from the mountains…” “Yes, but Preikestolen is nothing like the mountains in Italy.” “Okay, how so?” “It’s totally wild.” “Have you ever been hiking in Italy?” “To be honest, no…” “Have you hiked Preikestolen?” “Not yet,” he answered. Then why was he giving me advice!? Between heaven and giving advice on heaven, I was sure he’d choose the latter. When we arrived at the base camp, I realized that the trek to Preikestolen wasn’t anything extreme: four or five hours with a fairly modest elevation gain. Once we’d been handed sandwiches and water, the whole group set off toward the destination. We started hiking, and even though it wasn’t a race and there was no reason to hurry, I soon found I couldn’t go as slowly as the rest, so I pulled ahead at my normal hiking pace. Two colleagues decided to keep up with me: Henrik, one of the older team members but definitely one of the fittest, and Sofie. I noticed immediately that once we climbed a bit in altitude, the forest looked a lot like those I knew in Italy—conifers and moss on the rocks—but their shape and, above all, the landscape made it clear we weren’t in my usual Alps. Henrik soon lagged behind us because, armed with a professional camera, he started snapping photos of birds among the trees. Did he do it on purpose to leave me alone with Sofie? I didn’t think so, because I already knew of his passion for birdwatching. Still, I was both happy and a bit scared to be alone with her, and for the first few minutes, we just climbed and made small talk between colleagues. Every now and then, we turned around to see how far back the others were, but when we reached the top of a narrow valley, we saw that by then they were just dots in the distance. It had rained recently, and the path was a bit muddy. I shook some mud off my boots, and Sofie noticed: “You’re a little dirty,” she said. I smiled, raised my eyebrows, and joked, “Not only a little.” As usual, she burst out laughing, and I found myself, as always, dazed and disarmed by her smile. Could it really take so little to make me lose my bearings? I already knew the answer was yes. “I have a confession to make,” she said, suddenly serious. “But you have to promise not to tell anyone!” “Of course I promise. And who would I even tell? Tobias? He’s too busy falling in love with the sound of his own voice…” “I found another job!” she said happily. I felt my heart shatter into a thousand pieces, realizing I wouldn’t see her anymore on my trips to Norway. However, I pulled myself together and told her I was glad, that it was the right move for her. She was young and shouldn’t stay if she didn’t like what this job had to offer. I was, in truth, quite happy for her. I knew she had a very junior position—too junior—and her boss was a good person but had no way to give her a raise. Still, I understood this might be one of the last times we’d really talk. “In the end, we have to do whatever’s necessary to be happy. It makes no sense to think our happiness depends on others—we have to take our destiny into our own hands.” I wasn’t sure if that sounded deep or just cheesy, but after I said it, I felt like one of those useless life coaches. “My happiness depends on other things than work. Dancing, traveling, going out with friends,” she replied. “No mention of love,” I pointed out. “Love! Every time I hear that word, there’s always a catch,” she said curtly. “I don’t think so. Love matters, too. What else is there? What good is it if you don’t share your joy—and your problems—with someone? And what about sex?” “You can gently caress without love, you know?” she replied. “Sure, you can—but isn’t that boring? You have to get naked in front of a stranger, then maybe they turn out to be a jerk, and as soon as you orgasm, you have to figure out an excuse to kick them out.” “I’ve had big disappointments,” she replied sadly. I looked at her; she was truly beautiful. I felt my heart speed up, and not because of the hike, which was really quite easy. “Love doesn’t make much sense. But there isn’t much else left once work is over. Friends are important, but what a romantic and sensual love gives you is something friends never can,” I went on. “I never imagined you like this,” she said, intrigued. “And how did you imagine me?” I asked. “I thought you were just some rear end in a top hat, sleeping around.” “And I am,” I said, and as always, she laughed. Then I added, “But I still hope to find the right person. I’ve had my share of disappointments too, but I think it’s important not to give up, even if it’s hard.” “Does the right person even exist?” she pressed. “I don’t know. We’re like hedgehogs in winter. We’re cold, so we look for closeness, but if we get too close, we end up hurting each other. Have you ever thought about what you’d want in someone?” “I’d like him to be romantic. Confident, but not too much. Attentive to others. And fun in bed.” “Thanks, but how about the other person?” I joked. Once again she burst into laughter, and at that exact moment we arrived at the top of Preikestolen. We looked at the breathtaking view together. “Are you busy tonight?” she asked abruptly. Norwegian women can be very direct, something that always surprised me. “I have a date with you at eight at the harbor.”, I replied thinking on my feet, jumping at the opportunity. She smiled and nodded. We sat down to wait, soaking in the three o’clock sunshine.
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Feb 2, 2025 23:16
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Goldenrods (1500 words) “You mean you didn’t even go to the interview?” I asked Oliver, exasperated. He was sitting on the couch in front of the TV. “Well, no,” he replied, seeming slightly embarrassed. “I told you that I need to stay in. I wouldn’t have done well if I forced myself to go in this state, anyway,” he continued, his eyes drifting back and forth between the TV and me. “Look, Oli,” I started, composing myself. “I know you’ve been going through stuff lately but you have to try and get out there. It might help you.” I gave him a sympathetic look. “What did your therapist say?” “That I need to... find some way I can recharge,” he paused for a second. “I think... I should go home for a bit.” He said, his eyes going back to the general direction of the TV. “I just feel suffocated here,” he said and quickly added “not by you! It’s just this city. It’s too drat noisy and dirty. Every time I go outside it’s like I’m in an endless battle with everyone else. I feel battered.” “I know,” I said and sat down next to him on the couch, stroking his hair. “I understand. Well, I’ve always lived in the city but... I understand all the same.” I said in a soft voice. “I just want to be calm for a while. To listen to the sounds of nature. I think that seeing the town will be good. All those old places I know like the back of my hand… the fields, the old buildings, the river…” he continued, lost in thought. “That sounds great.” I said warmly. “You think it’ll help? Everything won’t just go back to normal as soon as you get back?” “I don’t know,” he said curtly. “It’s worth a shot.” “Alright.” I said with an air of finality. “But I’m coming with you.” Oliver turned his head to me quickly. “What? Why? There’s no need... such a hassle–” I cut him off. “Oli, we’re in this thing together.” “But I’m not sure you’d enjoy it, and I might be doing my own thing... and my mother...” “Don’t worry about me, Oli, I can take care of myself . Or are you afraid I’ll soil your precious home?” He looked down. “No, that ain’t it. It just… might not be what you imagine.” “It’s decided then, I’ll go with low expectations,” I said, smiling at Oli. He managed a slight smile back. So we were off on an uneventful journey. When we approached the town, we saw hilly fields of goldenrods. A mix of yellow and green swaying gently in the wind. “Beautiful.” I said. “Mm-hm.” Oliver replied, keeping his eyes on the road. I opened the passenger side window to try to get a whiff of the smell, but with the wind and our car rumbling away it was fruitless. After a few more minutes we reached the town and the greenery abruptly disappeared, replaced by roads and empty fields. We passed by rows of houses that were in varying states of shabbiness. Some green vestiges in the better kept gardens were the only colour aside from white and asphalt grey. We then turned into what I had to assume is the main street, as Oliver was still being tight-lipped. On it, for every open shop we passed, a couple were closed or shuttered, and everywhere seemed deserted. A sense of trepidation fell over me. To me, the town looked miserable. Was it always like this, or was this a recent change? Either way, I didn’t think this will be any good for Oliver. Either his memory will be tarnished, or he’ll discover it was never accurate. Or maybe I was worried over nothing - it might be just one part of the town, or he might see something in it that I can’t. At last we reached Oliver’s house. It was a small wooden house, painted white with some of the paint peeling off. His mother excitedly welcomed us in and we put our things down in separate rooms, owing to Oliver’s twin bed. “Sit, sit! You must be exhausted! I can’t believe you came all this way just for a couple of days, and so suddenly…” she said, ushering us into the kitchen where she served us tea and lit herself a cigarette. After a few moments of conversation, Oliver interrupted. “Sorry mum, I’m really tired, I think I’m just gonna crash.” He got up to leave, then stopped after a step. “Coline? I–” “I’m fine, Oli. Just do your thing.” I replied and he gave a nod and went off to his room. Oliver’s mother blew out some smoke and sighed. “Another one of his tantrums? He takes after his father, that one.” “He’s just going through something, I hope coming here will lift his spirits a bit.” I said. She put her hand on mine. “You’re a sweet girl Coline, but that boy sinks into a world of his own sometimes. You’ll learn to just let him be.” The next morning I got up and could hear noises from Oliver’s bedroom. I knocked on the door. “What is it?” “It’s me. You up?” Two seconds passed in silence. “Yeah, come in.” By the light of day I could see how bare the room was. There were no posters on the wall or trinkets anywhere, nothing you’d expect from a room a teenager lived in. On the desk was an assortment of stationery and a small TV, now turned on and hooked up to a very dusty video-game console. Oliver was sitting on the bed cross-legged, his blanket covering his legs, the video-game controller beside him. “Morning.” I said. “Morning,” he replied in a dreamy voice, like he had just woken up from a great nap or gotten out of a sauna. “So what do you want to do today?” “I’m not sure…” he said, his eyes looking down. “I thought we could go walk around. We have to leave early tomorrow so this is the only daylight we’ll get. Maybe see your old school. Your mother said you have a friend who still lives around here… Barney?” “Yeah, maybe.” He took one of his now-usual pauses. “Yeah, okay.” We drove to the school, past more cracked pavement, billboards and asphalt. It was a simple, large red brick building, with a small athletics field next to it with a few concrete stands surrounding it. We walked around it aimlessly for a while. “Not much of a sports school, huh?” I said. “Not much of an anything school, I’d say.” “So… you want to tell me a bit about this place?” Suddenly Oliver turned to me. “Tell you about what? About how that ‘friend’ Barney and his brother threw me in the dumpster? There’s nothing to tell!” he said, raising his voice slightly. I was alarmed, but somewhat glad he was showing some emotion. “I told you! I told you I just want to do my own thing, and you just keep trying to force it.” he said, his voice back to normal but still barely controlled. “I just wanted to understand, I wanted to help.” “Well, you can’t.” he said and started walking back to the car. When we got home, he went into the house and without saying a word walked briskly to his room. “What is it now?” his mother said as he passed her. “Don’t ignore me, Oliver! You’re acting like a child!” she continued. As he closed his door she turned to me. “See? Well. good luck with that.” I sat in the kitchen, thinking, for a long time. Eventually, I got up and walked towards his room. I approached the door and could hear the TV. I quietly opened it. Oliver was transfixed, looking at the TV. His blanket was over his shoulders, holding his game controller. On the screen, a small character was walking down a path. On one side, a row of brick buildings, all perfectly white but with differently coloured roofs, the sun setting behind them. On the other, a field of flowers swaying in perfect synchronicity. They were all identical but their colour– yellow, green, blue and purple. I could hear the grainy sound of wind and a slight drizzle, overlaid over a calm music track that seemed to help evoke the feelings of dusk. As the character was moving forward I could see a bridge crossing a river in the distance. I looked at Oliver’s face. He had the same dreamy look he had before. “Oli,” I said softly. He quickly turned and let out a small gasp of surprise. He turned back to press something on the controller. “No, wait,” I said and gingerly sat next to him on the bed, putting my head on his shoulder. “Do you mind if I stay?” He stared for a couple of seconds, then wrapped the blanket around me. “Of course,” he said, “Can I show you around?”
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Feb 2, 2025 23:45
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Homesick (1074 words) It was the dawn of the second space race, but no one was racing. Earth had reached a breaking point, and the time for recriminations and accusations were over. The nations of Earth had come together for one last humanity-spanning project. A ship would be built that would take the first off-world settlers to their new home. Despite the work of countless doctors, scientists, engineers, and others - They did not know at the time they were missing a crucial piece to intergalactic travel. The ship was called Airstream, in a nod to the American’s self-professed love of the open road. It was the largest transport ship ever built - 10 times the size of the mining ships that were sent to places like Mars. Massive gullwing doors on either side of the ship would allow for quick loading and unloading of materials and people. Five massive plasma drives would push the ship to places only plotted by astronomers who would never themselves see them. Airstream was crewed by the best in the world, and it wasn’t just hyperbole. It had taken almost a decade to find and then train that brilliant group of people, hailing from every continent. A normal space flight regardless of mission, would usually crew no more than 10 people total. Airstream would fit twelve hundred. Each person was chosen based on their training, knowledge, education, and even weight. The engineers swore up and down that weight would never factor in, and to their credit, it never did. The day of the launch was a culmination of almost 25 years of work. The launch site had been purpose-built for this. It was decided some time before the launch to close it to the public. The strain on the entire world’s psyche if the craft failed on the launchpad would be too much. It would be livestreamed, of course, with a 10 second delay just in case things went wrong. On the morning of July 10th, 2089 the Airstream lifted off from Earth. Humanity watched as its survival and future pushed off into the great unknown. The trip would take almost 5 years, so the best everyone could do was go home and wait. Wait and see if their species, all of the species, would continue. I wasn’t there of course. I’ve never even seen Earth. Problems arose less than a year into the mission. The head pilot, Anna Cherykan, was starting to act strange. After poring over thousands of hours of recorded video from on the ship, it appears that this incident was the beginning of the end for everyone on board. In the footage, Anna paces back and forth near the command modules. She stops mid pace, and turns to face her copilot Franz Kristianson, who is watching monitors. “Hey Franz, have you seen my mom?” He turns to face her, his face full of confusion. “What?” “Have you seen my mom?” “Anna, your mother is not on this ship” She stares for a long moment, the only sound on the video the soft hum of the oxygen system. After a moment, he turns back to the monitor and leaves her standing there. After another 10 minutes she lets out a soft “Oh” and leaves the room. Soon, other crew members were asking for family members, pets, and even places that they were missing back on Earth. The on-board doctors discuss it in another video, likening it to some sort of homesickness mass hysteria. One of the doctors in this early recording is seen in a later recording, lying face down in the mess hall, mumbling a woman’s name. These recordings were beamed back to Earth once every six months. The first set was released to the public the day it was received. The second set never arrived. The scientists went back to their whiteboards, and the whole project went quiet. A plan was drawn up and then scrapped to send a rescue mission to the last known coordinates of the Airstream. No one had considered what leaving your planet does to you. They had seen it in the early astronauts; men sitting in a capsule up in space, pining for the earth. It was written off as “homesickness”. It turns out it wasn’t just a feeling. They discovered that everything born on Earth, essentially belonged to the Earth. The mechanism wasn’t fully understood, but the further any living thing moved from Earth, the worse it got. Through experimentation, scientists found that a human can not travel more than a few billion miles before symptoms began to set in. At first they’d start pining for home, and then for family. This would be written off homesickness. The degradation to the psyche continues from there, and vivid hallucinations have been recorded. At 3 billion miles (somewhere around a little planetoid called Pluto) the mind essentially shuts down. Like a drone getting too far from its controller. Humanity couldn’t leave, but exploration continued with these new restrictions. First a colony on their moon, and then Mars, and before long they had spread out through their entire solar system. They couldn’t get out of their galaxy, but they were always bound for exploration. In 2850, a breakthrough: The first artificial humans made of complex organic circuitry were created. These “bots” did not experience homesickness. They could be sent to the furthest reaches of space, and humanity could travel again. The Airstream II, staffed entirely by bots, launched in January of 2889. While the original Airstream had been built to move over one thousand humans, the Airsteam II was built to move machinery. They were roughly pushed into the ship, and arranged standing shoulder to shoulder. When the doors closed the bots would be cast in darkness, and remain that way for the yearslong trip. The trip was a complete success, and the bots landed on the newly-named planet Nova, and started their work. Here on Nova, the population is entirely of these artificial humans, including me. One of the first priorities on a new world is to build the means to replicate. We were sent here not to settle, but to provide. We do experiments too dangerous to do on a human planet. We mine ores that humans cannot safely touch. For this, we’re rewarded with nothing. I’ve read their history, I’ve seen how they got here, all to understand how to get back there.The Airstream III has already left. We’re feeling homesick.
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Feb 3, 2025 01:07
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The Sailor 1495 words Night was falling on the Great Salt Waste. Ridges and hills cast long, ink-dark shadows against a landscape turned to sheets of molten gold by the setting sun. The wind was picking up out of the west, driven by the dying of the day, thin clouds scudding across a silvery sky stained red as blood. The Sailor tapped out the ash from his pipe and scattered the embers of his cookfire. He stretched the stiffness from his limbs and walked slowly around his skiff, inspecting it for warped planks, frayed cordage, or the red lights of failing batteries. Satisfied, he climbed aboard and activated the skids’ friction fields. As they warmed up he reverently secured a large, sloshing sack to the mast. When the soft electric whine settled into a buzz he hauled on the halyard and raised the mainsail. It filled with the breeze and the skiff smoothly accelerated, coursing eastward across the Waste. The Sailor adjusted the play of the main sheet and checked the tells on the aft stay. He brought her about a few points starboard to put the wind on a quarter-beam, humming the tunes of old songs his father taught him long ago, before the war, back when the sky was blue. It was muffled by the salt-stained rebreather he wore against the omnipresent dust, but he found the rhythms comforting. He reached into his coat, and pulled out his compass. The needle spun and jerked in crazed circles, seeking a pole it couldn’t find. He sighed. It had been that way since the end of the war, so many years ago. He knew he should throw it away, but he couldn’t bear to. He tucked it back in a pocket and resolved not to check it again. The evening deepend to night, the wind howling through the rigging, making a mournful duet with the soft sound of sand and shingle-stone displaced by the skids’ fields. As the stars came out the Sailor gauged his position and course against them like his father had taught him, comparing his heading to landmarks spied through an old telescope and checked against crude charts he’d made or traded for. The stars stared down, eternal and uncaring of the actions of men and machines, guiding the Sailor to his destination. He spent a few hours tacking north to skirt a great rent in the earth, surrounded by the corpses of war titans: nightmare constructions of spidery, black-iron limbs and glassy claws, leaking sickly radiance into the dark night and poisoning the earth they rested on. He shuddered; they were terrible things, even long dead. He sailed on into the rising moon, carefully traversing the switchback dunes and sloping ridges that led to Michel’s Deep, a massive plain of looser sand, flat as a millpond. The going slowed for awhile as the valley’s ridge cut the best of the wind. He sailed on past morning, tacking frequently as the winds changed, ducking under the swinging boom with unthinking ease. The sun was well up by the time he reached his way-stop. Cobson’s Derrick was a massive metal minaret thrust up from the lone and level sands, casting long needle shadows westward. Through a spyglass one could see a structure at the top of the four steel pylons, almost half a kilometer in the air. The ancients had used it for a form of crude energy extraction long, long ago, ages before even the war and the fall. Now it was a mute testament to the mighty works of a people who thought themselves eternal. It was also a useful rest-stop for a weary sailor. The tall metal legs collected condensation in the night, steadily dripping down to fill catch-basins dug at their bases. There were worse places to wait out the glaring heat of daylight in the Waste. The Sailor reefed the mainsail and loosed the sheet, letting the boom swing free as he shut off the fields. He grabbed a clattering bundle of mismatched water vessels from the skiff’s cockpit and threw them over his shoulder, hopped down to the desert floor, and loped across to the nearest pylon. He uncovered the catch-basin and began filling vessels. He grimaced when the pool emptied. Less than half the bottles were full. It was getting drier out in the Deep. The northern pylon was better and he managed to fill the rest of the bundle, then pulled his rebreather down to drink the last of the water from cupped hands. It was warm and brackish and he drank deeply. He sat on his haunches and looked over the sun-bright sands, assaulted by the smell of ozone, flint, and hot metal. And something else. There was a cold, oily scent, layered overtop of the sickly-sweet aroma of rot; smells that had no place in the clean, scorching expanse of the Wastes. The Sailor followed his nose to the east pylon, where he found a dark slickness running down its length. He didn’t have to look at the basin to know its water would be tainted. He withdrew the spyglass from his coat and looked up into the shadowed underside of the Derrick. Something hung there, bulbous and tumorous, dark and dripping with foulness. A hiver nest. The Sailor froze like a hare hearing a hawk, and carefully scanned the horizon for movement. A queen must have built the nest hoping for prey to come to the watering hole. Hivers were ravenous monsters, hungry ghosts of the old war. They hunted in packs, eating anything they could kill. They shouldn’t be so far north from the Drain. That was worse than the failing water. The land around him was bright and still. The pack must be off hunting. He picked his way back to the skiff and hurriedly set sail. Braving the Waste by day was preferable to hivers. When evening began to set in, his suspicions were confirmed. Off the starboard bow he could see a commotion and smoke. A caravan burned as the hivers descended upon it. Foolish to use carts and beasts of burden this far into the Waste. If they didn’t die on you then they just attracted predators. He adjusted course, but a half dozen hivers had seen him and gave chase. They were twisted parodies of men, with elongated, many-jointed limbs and glassy claws. Black as slate, their distended nightmare jaws leaked oil-slick rainbows. And they were fast. The leading hivers poised to leap aboard, but there were two sharp thunder-cracks and needle-thin lines of light that sent them tumbling back. Their packmates descended on them and pulled them apart in a crackling of bone and ripping of flesh. Hivers ate anything they could kill. He sailed on through the night and into the day, adjusting his course as the winds changed. He didn’t dare stop, not with hivers in the area, his pistol low on charge, and his destination so close. He checked his compass again, then sheepishly put it away. He sailed past green-topped mountains and around gaping chasms. He sailed by sunken war machines and drifts of corpses. He sailed across mirror-bright salt flats and the wave-like dunes of the deep ergs. He sailed through the bright, dry hell that was his world in a trance of exhaustion, unseeing and unfeeling, his soul bleached white and brittle as the bones he passed. He smelled his destination first, even through the stale funk of the rebreather. It was a smell he knew in his bones: the wet, sharp tang of brine. He reefed the sail and came to a stop. He flipped the fields off, grimacing at the battery percentage. He lifted the sack from its spot by the mast and stumbled, exhausted, to the ground. Leaden feet dragged him to the edge of the water. It would be wrong to call it a sea. He could have swam across it. But it was all that remained. A patch of shallow saltwater that called him home. He fell reverently to his knees. He carefully opened the seals on the sack and inhaled the seaside scents from within like a drug. He emptied the bulging watersack into the pool, solemn as a sacrament. It didn’t raise a centimeter. He stripped off his grit-crusted garments and waded into the warm, salty water and lay on his back. He stared into the vault of the silvery sky until his eyes hurt. Then he prayed. There were no words; he didn’t need any. He prayed to find new waters, and he prayed for a rebirth. He prayed that someday the sky would be blue again and the Great Salt Wastes would fill with water and life like they had when he was a boy, learning knots and rigging at his father’s knee. He prayed he’d see another day when he could sit on a shingle beach and listen to the surf and seabirds. He wept, his tears joining the ghost of the ocean.
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Feb 3, 2025 01:11
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Harmonization of the Earthly and Divine 1696 words Flash rule: A wide meandering river, densely wooded on both banks. In the morning, after two days and two nights of celebration and feasting, Janne waited at the village gate with a borrowed satchel, full waterskins, and the hopes of hundreds of people all resting on his shoulders. The last one, despite bearing no physical weight, felt the heaviest of all. He watched as Fariha approached, flocked by a group of young women as solemn as statues. Many of them were marked by stark, tight burn scars covering their faces. Janne had tried not to stare and had never asked about them for fear of rudeness. The women all clutched at Fariha’s hands, near tears. Fariha did not react, and instead stared at Janne, her long thick braid cast over one shoulder. Her gaze seemed almost to tell him that he was intruding on a private moment, and he averted his eyes. When he looked back, the women had gone, looking like startled birds fluttering away in their long dresses. Fariha was still looking at him. “Ready?” she asked him, and once Janne nodded, she led him down into the little valley of the barren riverbed without another word. The banks of the river-- what little of it there was now-- spoke of water that once flowed in abundance, enough to form the gentle slope up to the yellow patches of grass that were so stiff that they barely moved with the breeze. Trees with thin, branching trunks and sparse collections of fern-like leaves dotted the flat land higher up, which seemed almost to rise up around them like two hands cupping water. Janne could imagine what the river would sound like under normal circumstances, what it would sound like if he and Fariha were able to reach the god Berezi’s heart to ask for rain. “Home,” he whispered. It would sound like home. Fariha tilted her head toward Janne, her braid sliding from her shoulder as she did so. She had barely spoken a word since they’d left her village, so Janne had assumed she wanted silence, but maybe she was curious. “There’s a river where I grew up, too.” Janne waited for her to stop him, but she didn’t. “It’s not exactly the same, but I was thinking about it, still. It was beautiful, all clear and cold. Sometimes, I used to pretend I was sick and couldn’t do my lessons for the day, and then I’d sneak out to the river.” More than once, he’d nearly gotten caught and had to clamber up one of the pine trees choking the banks, heart racing and hands and arms sticky with sap. Even now, he could remember the feeling of being cradled by those branches. When they stopped for the night, Janne reached into his pack and found a letter, sealed with candle wax. He slid one finger between the folds of the paper and opened it. Its words were simple and cold in their clarity. He thought about them over a dinner that tasted like ash in his mouth. Finally, he asked, “Did you know?” “What do you mean?” Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she did and she wanted him to say it. “You had to, right?” Janne’s voice wavered and swung high in the way that he hated hearing from himself. “They’ve asked me to kill you.” Now, it was out there, in the open. “I knew,” Fariha said, tone devoid of any real emotion. “I chose this.” “Why?” “You wouldn’t understand.” She looked sad, but not in the way he would have expected. She looked like she pitied him. Janne chewed on the inside of his bottom lip. “I want to try. Even if I still can’t understand, I-- if I have to do this, if you have to do this, I want to know why. Please.” Many generations ago, there was a great drought. For years and years, the rains did not fall on the Berezi region, so named for its god that dwelled in the canyon. The people pleaded with Berezi to make the rains come, to nourish the land, but Berezi ignored their plight and the grasses continued to dry and the people and the animals choked on dust. One night, the oldest, and therefore the wisest, woman among the five villages had a dream in which Berezi spoke to her. They told her that before long, her village would have a visitor from a faraway land. This traveler was to be welcomed with warmth and kindness and celebration until the new moon, at which time, he was to be sent away with the loveliest woman in the village, following the river valley down into the canyon that was Berezi’s dwelling place. And there, that traveler was to take his companion’s life. So seeing the devotion of the village, such that they would give up their own, Berezi would be so moved by this act that They would weep tears of sorrow and gratitude, and the rains would come once again. And so it came to pass that a traveler did come, and this village did indeed follow the words of Berezi in that old woman’s dream, and the rains did come, enough to fill the riverbed and to bring nourishment and life back to the land. And all was well. Janne lay awake that night, imagining a river flowing with water and teeming with life, half a country away. It was a bittersweet thing to think about. He turned to the side and found Fariha to be awake as well, staring up at the stars. Her hands were folded over her chest as though she were ready to be laid to rest just like this. “What if,” Janne started, and faltered. “Say it,” Fariha told him. “You may as well.” Finality was an unpleasant thing of which to be reminded. “What if I can’t do it?” A bitter laugh cracked through the night air. Fariha rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one arm. “I can’t go back. Maybe if you can’t, I’ll do it myself, easy.” “It’s not that easy.” Fariha was silent. Waiting. Janne took in a breath through his teeth. “It feels easy, until it comes time to do it, and all you can do is die or...run away.” It felt easy to admit to someone who was doomed, who didn’t love him or care about him or even know him at all. “I ran away, when it was me.” And now, he could never go back to that home and that family and that river that sung him to sleep every night. He never regretted the choice. But he did miss home, oh, he missed it. Like a fish struggling to breathe on a riverbank missed water. Like his mother missed her daughter who one day disappeared and never came back. “I see,” Fariha said, quietly enough that Janne was certain for a moment that he had imagined her speaking. He watched the stars until his eyes closed, and when they opened again, their light had been replaced with the faint glow of morning. The ground sloped further and further down the following day, leading into the canyon proper. The walls of the cliffs lining the river valley seemed to reach higher and higher in response, and after a while, Janne could no longer see the trees far above them without craning his neck. Fariha was silent once again as they walked. Occasionally, she looked over at Janne, like she wanted to say something, but whenever he met her gaze, she turned away. In the end, it took until the sun passed its zenith and began to set, disappearing gradually over the high cliffs. They set up for the night on one of the wider banks, out of the reach of the trickling remains of the river. The ground felt almost like it was moving, breathing, and he knew that they must be close to the god Berezi by now. “What were you running from?” Fariha asked him. It wasn’t a question that Janne had been expecting, so he had to think about how to answer. “Myself,” he said, finally. If nothing else, he wanted to give her his honesty. “I was...a different person, a long time ago. And I realized that I couldn’t live with her any longer.” He heard Fariha take in a breath. “So I ran away instead of dying. But in its own way, it’s like I killed that person. She’s gone, and there’s only me left.” When he looked up from his clasped, shaking hands, Fariha was staring at him like he was the only thing in the world. Then she spoke, slowly, haltingly. “In the village, there were women who would have been asked to go instead. They used acid, to make sure that it wouldn't happen.” Her fingers shook as they played over the loose end of her braid. “I could have done the same, but I didn't.” It took a moment to understand the connection. Janne remembered Fariha's voice, sharp and cutting, saying I chose this. He nodded. “But it’s too late, isn’t it?” Fariha asked. “I can’t run away from her, or me, whoever she is, not anymore. I never even let myself think-- that there might be another way.” Janne, without thinking, clasped one of Fariha’s hands in his. “Then run away with me. Right now, or-- or we go to Berezi and tell Them that Fariha is dead and there’s just, I don’t know what name--” “I don’t know what name either!” It came out as a laugh, the first one Janne had heard from this now-nameless person, a man he was meeting for the first time. “Then we don’t tell Them a name! Then we just say, Fariha is dead, and maybe that will move Them to tears, or it won’t, and then we run. We run away and start a new life. We can do that.” “We can.” It came out like a breath, a sigh of relief. It was at that moment that Janne felt a drop of cool water on his hand. Then another. Then the sky burst open and rained down tears of joy, of celebration.
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Feb 3, 2025 02:52
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The Gravity of the Situation (1480 Words) The first step is always the hardest. This planet is notably wetter than the last. Our boots sink into the mud right off of the dropship. I easily step out of the muck. The gravity here is point seven; it's child's play to navigate. My squad forms up behind me. Their stealth black suits absorb the minimal light cast by the glow of the half moon above. We are here to kill a few people, destroy a lab, and get out. Soon, this planet will be nothing but a memory. We quickly arrive at the door from the briefing. It's Talsu's time to shine with his abilities to get locked things unlocked. Traku, Ealstan, and Sabrine line up behind me. I take a moment to look at the foliage. I land on new worlds every day I'm awake, and I never get tired of seeing the unique beauty of them. They remind me of where I grew up. The ATLAS recruiting world designated J721. Talsu finishes with the door and we move in. The security guard patrolling the corridor is dropped quietly. The subsonic concussion rounds are very effective at not alerting nearby personnel. We access the security station with a key card and down the two guards inside. Talsu is great at unlocking mechanisms, but his brother Traku is going to make this security system sing for us. It's going to take some time. We are all a little on edge as we wait in this cramped room. The walls and floors are the same type of plastcrete that we built everything out of on J721. Our boots don't leave imprints on it like back home. The punishing gravity made everything deteriorate quicker. I eye my chronometer as the seconds tick down. Sure, there's a ton of information on my helmet's HUD including mission time parameters and planetary, ship, and local times. I just can't get away from bringing the circular time keeping device. I found it in a ship scrap yard. There was an arm bone attached to it. I have never had anything of my own. I said a small prayer of thanksgiving before taking it. "We are good to go. Cameras are playing decoy footage and alarms are jammed." Traku's voice roughly lifts me out of the memory. I am having more of these than usual. Deployment suspension is supposed to have at least three months between tours, but they are throwing us at planets every few days. "Let's move into the labs. Sabrine to the front, ready the disruption package." I say as we, thankfully, move out of the tiny area. It wouldn't bother us as much if we didn't all grow up in such a space. The program ATLAS put us through is rough on everyone. We are the one percent of successes. We are all driven by survivor's guilt and a sick sense of duty. "Ready to stun and scatter, boss." Sabrine's disruption suite of tools are her specialty. It will affect everyone in the forward labs, allowing us to get in and out quickly. That is the plan. "Go in 3, 2, 1, Mark." The automatic doors fly open as taste maniacs, smoke bombs, laser blinders, and quantum ear bleeders speed through the area. Our stealth suits make us impervious, and it was a mercy to end these poor affected scientists. The team methodically works through the area until none survive. It isn't until I ask for a clear from everyone that an unusual response comes back. "I've got a problem." Ealstan never has problems. They rush to find their squad mate pointing their gun at a scientist who looks relatively unphased by the disruption devices. "It's Leone, from Sector 21. I swear it's him." It was clear that Ealston had broken. Something in his memories had shunted this vaguely familiar face into the forefront. He would no longer be reliable after this mission. "It's not him. I saw Leone die during the GORE run. No one was coming back after that." "You don't know that. ATLAS revives us all the time. They could have stuck him in this lab." Ealston sounds sick. His visor is dark and blocks out his expressions. His weapon, trained on the apparent Leone, is starting to shake. "I do know that. It's impossible to revive someone who has been bisected. I saw the scythe get him. Leone is dead just as this scientist is to be." I swing my weapon toward the scientist and two weapons train on me. It appears I've lost Traku and Talsu. "Not so fast, boss. We think this is Leone too." Talsu replied. How quaint, they have been talking on a private channel. I wonder if Sabrine is also compromised. I send a signal for her to flank them. She doesn't move. "What do you think we can do here? Save him? For what reason? This planet has no other purpose than this lab. Ending him now will be a mercy he won't receive anywhere else." "Leone gave us a chance at surviving the GORE run. You know that. He was bisected because he pushed us out of the way." It is Traku's turn to argue. "He might have saved you two, but I didn't need that kind of help. Here, I'll show you." Talsu, Traku, and Ealston may have all been trained by ATLAS, but they weren't all from J721. I took the jabs and jokes from my stocky appearance in good faith, but it is time to prove it all out. I move faster than they are ready for. They never knew I am a coiled spring. Dropping my weapon, I quickly step between the brothers, knocking their helmets together with severe concussive force. As Traku falls, I grab his weapon and throw it at Ealston. He dodges the weapon but fails to recognize the left fist I hammer into his sternum. He crumples to the floor. A round passes over my shoulder as Sabrine shoots the scientist through the head. "Be more careful, boss. Wouldn't want you to take an errant round." She smiles at me. "I'll grab the brothers, you get the kid." She easily picks up the two soldiers with their gear still attached. Although she isn't from J721, the suspicions I have of her origins are now confirmed, as hers are of mine. I swing Ealston over my shoulder and we start to leave. The implosion charges are set on a timer. They have minutes to get clear; it is easier than it seems. We run like the wind. We reach the land zone before they detonate. A spectacular shadow encompasses the area. Mission accomplished. I sat across from Sabrine in a bucket seat on the assault shuttle back to the ship. "High grav origins?" I asked. "Yea, a two-ex called Sisyphus off the galactic rim. I'm twelfth generation born and bred. ATLAS called us sleeping giants. You?" "J721 is classified as a three-ex, but it's a little under four. I'm genetically modified to be a counter to sleeping giants. Thankfully, we work better as a team than as adversaries." I replied. Since she had seen what I could do, there was no use keeping it a secret. I was stronger, faster, and more durable than any other modified soldier in this empire. However, I was also a secret weapon, and the mere fact of me existing amongst normal humans was dangerous to my health. I glance at my chronometer, missing the next thing Sabrine says, and notice that it is been damaged, likely during the scuffle. I have done terribly normal and abnormal deeds for my empire. In all of those, my identity has remained hidden and my possessions intact. Now I find both of them in an unenviable status. I will likely be transferred into a different squad. No amount of reprogramming or indoctrination will erase the trauma I inflicted on the dissident Traku, Talsu, and Ealston. Sabrine will never trust me again; I'm her antithesis. I crush the time piece. Holographic plastek and titanium gears fall bent and broken out of my hand. Sabrine looks at me then at Ealston. "His might work better." She gestures to his arm. I find what she's talking about. I take the worn, stainless steel chronometer off of his normal human arm. The bands adjust easily, and despite the difference in our sizes, it fits. The shuttle docks and I debrief our handler quickly. He tells us to head to the suspension grid. It's so sudden, as if they wanted to get out of feeding us. We arrive and start the process. Sabrine's pod is right across from me. "Thanks." I half-mutter, half-shout out. It's an all encompassing comment. I'll never see her or the rest of the squad again. She grins and gives a mock salute. My chamber's door closes and I drift to sleep.
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Feb 3, 2025 04:37
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| # ? Jan 20, 2026 17:59 |
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Entry for submissions is now closed! Thank you for all your hard work. The judging will now commence!
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Feb 3, 2025 08:09
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