Trumped Again

The workers climbed in the scaffolding, attempting to bridge over a small section of the construction north of Matamoros. They lacked the marvelous tools and technology of the previous century, and the wall resisted their simple hammers and chisels. Without explosives, the current plan called for going over the top, but progress was slow and food supplies short.

The Monsanto plague wiped out the breadbasket crops and worked its way into the soil and ecosystem. The dust clouds made the construction effort more difficult.

All of the remaining arable land on the continent lay south of the Folly, in Mexico.

100 words. For this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

See also: Trumped

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When You’re Falling

I started falling just about thirty hours ago.

The orbital pilot training program was supposed to teach us how to deal with weightlessness, but some pilots never successfully adapt. It’s not any fault of the pilot. It’s just my inner ear won’t stop screaming: “Hey help we’re falling do something save us save us save us!”

My semicircular canals have teamed up with my vestibular nerves to urge me to run screaming, every moment. Doc wants me to go under, anesthesia, before my adrenals shut down permanently.

Perhaps I should have listened and accepted my severance when they washed me out of the program? This stowaway idea was terrible.

Without gravity I can’t even tell which way is down. Through this airlock?

Now I’m strapped into the commander’s seat and drugged, that’s better.

I may be screaming. Somehow, I don’t hear a sound.

143 words, in response to this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

My apologies to Peter Gabriel and Afro Celt Sound System, unfortunately some of the lyrics just fit the tale perfectly:

Light up

The kids just stand quietly and stare with open mouths. I can’t imagine what it must be like to see the Pacific for the very first time.

At home on Mars, “oceans” are empty wastes of iron oxides and dust. These kids struggle to stand at one G, and they look horribly emaciated by our standards. Here in Malaysia, the gravity is triple what’s normal for them, and I fear a fall that snaps one of their Martian-thin leg bones.

Just one more stop before they go back to the military hospital. “O.K. kids, who wants some McDonalds and Marlboros?”

100 words. Inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

It occurs that a little explanation may be in order–in Malaysia, kids are actively encouraged to become smokers. The cigarette companies wield enormous political and economic power over the Malaysian economy.

Ask not for whom the mystère hunts

Simon tried to apply pressure to the crude bandage on his ribs without slowing down. Blood was seeping slowly through the cotton and every step brought a fresh knife of agony from the gaping wound.

Thrashing in the trees—they’re still coming. Grinding his molars, he kept moving as quickly as his feet could stumble. A break in the jagged wood ahead revealed a miniature white building, some sort of tiny chapel. A church meant hallowed ground.

Simon grinned and lurched at the chapel, shuffling his way to salvation.

The shadows closed in violently. The brass placard at the door read: “The First Reformed Church of Voodoo Pharmacology.” Deliverance denied and Papa Legba laughed.

114 words, inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

My Papa’s best fishing yarn

Papa often took us punting along the shores of Lake Flathead. Spreading his tall tales and teaching my brother Jackson about fishing. “I found a dozen arrowheads under that hollow log just there. With an old scalp and two beaver pelts.”

“Really, Papa?” asked Emilia. Gullible as a newborn puppy, my youngest sister always had an unwavering faith in Papa.

Jackson was more skeptical. “Scalps? It’s not the Civil War.”

His “Honest Injun” poker face was how I could always tell when Papa was fibbing a little. At their ages I don’t think my siblings had caught on yet.

“Strike me down if it ain’t so,” Papa glibly lied. “We saw a big ol’ gator out there once, too.”

“There aren’t any gators in Montana.” Jackson was quite certain.

“Probably ain’t. But what’s that shadow under the water, just there?”

Jackson nearly fell out of the boat when the scaled back of the Spinosaurus broke the surface in the deepest part of the lake.

Papa laughed. “Guess it were mebbe a wee bigger’n a gator.”

175 words. Inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

© Ady

It’s always your choice

“In fiction, every person decides for themselves what type of story they want to live in, Darla.” Captain Koopmann indicated the island currently off the ocean liner’s starboard railing to young Miss Slater. “If you wanted to live in a fantasy, that island is inhabited by Dragons. If you wanted to be in a stirring Pirate yarn, Cutthroat Island is bound to be its name. Given no other data, your imagination is always free to choose.”

Darla mutely nodded and examined the island thoroughly before deciding.

“I don’t believe it’s either of those.” Darla observed the enormous sea bird, climbing slowly above the island’s central mountain peaks. It was comfortably larger than a passenger airliner. “I’m pretty sure that this one’s going to be called Monster Island.”

Inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

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The King of Everything

Life is quiet for the last man on Earth.

Other people have only irritated me since Jeannie passed and I paid extra to leave them out of my Virtual. I wanted all of the trappings of civilization, without any arseholes. My Virtual includes my home and my street, duplicated exactly, but without people. I can smoke, drink, swear, and even walk around naked on my front lawn. There’s not a soul around to bother me.

I was enjoying catching up on my reading and studying mechanical engineering. I thought I might even build a windmill someday.

That is, until this morning. When I glanced across the street, at the blue house where Jones used to live.

The red flag on the mailbox is up.

124 words. Inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

Photo © Dawn M. Miller

 

Instantaneous Verdict

Clotho dove under the awning, escaping the sheets of horizontal rain pelting the fairground. He panted and shook drops from his over-sized boat shoes. This was not a gentle, whispering rain. It thundered down so viciously that every raindrop shattered through the canvas into mist. Lightning slashed down against the coaster and an ear-splitting roar echoed through the darkness. This savage wasn’t taking prisoners.

Rubbing his hands against his sodden and drooping puffed sleeves, Clotho yearned only for warmth and comfort. That’s all he’d ever really wanted. The lost days wasted sleeping off hangovers, all of the boisterous, bright circus evenings and intoxicated, empty nights. He never sought fame or fortune, just a little simple kindness.

“Is that too much to ask, damn you?” Clotho the Clown shook his white-gloved fist at the uncaring clouds.

Wiping away his tears, he wobbled unsteadily through the rain toward his tent. The rapacious storm pounced eagerly with an actinic flash.

157 words. Inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

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