There’s four historical artefacts tucked away in this story. Four that I’m aware of putting there, anyway. One of them is the building where the bell is found. I’m curious if readers can name them all.
In Freedom’s Name Do These Bells Ring. There it was, a little inscription tucked away on the inside lip of the bell. Geoff and his team had been searching for these bells for weeks. And now they were going to melt them down. The damn things had been held up as a symbol of what was right. Well, this symbol was going to die, and never be found again. And look at it, cracked. Geoff struck the bell with his rifle butt. A barely heard sound.
What kind of idiots think a cracked bell that cannot ring is a symbol? Next thing they’ll be telling stories of a drum that summon ancient admirals. Geoff jerked his hand, and the bell was lifted onto a truck and carted away. That was the end of that.
Next, he waved the demolitions team into place. No building which had housed fugitives or fugitive objects would be allowed to stand. It wasn’t his directive, but he loved the work. Seeing all these hideous old buildings going up in smoke was one of the highlights of his work. Like that damn fake Grecian temple down south. The resistance had put up quite a battle not to have that one destroyed. In the end, the air force had had to come in and level it with bombs, because getting near it on the ground was too damn dangerous.
Well, the resistance was crumbling now. Their symbols were all but destroyed, their history was written out of the textbooks and would die off in a generation, and even their race was being bred out of existence. Resisters were sterilized whenever they were found. Inferior cretins, not recognizing our right to rule, and our long legacy of supremacy.
After disease had ruined their population and climate change had thickened the clouds in the northern sky, they had come all but begging to us, asking to be saved from the predicament they had caused. Only those south of the equator had survived intact, and what a wonderful opportunity that had been. Geoff loved to listen to the stories his grandfather would tell, the great masses of infantry and mechs sweeping north, pacifying and eradicating all serious resistance. He wished he’d been alive then, to march alongside his old man, gather some of that glory to himself.
Geoff looked at his watch and gestured to his team. It was quitting time, another good day’s work done. Only the demolitions to go. Outside, Geoff popped the champagne cork, and served it up to his team. With that, the building rumbled and collapsed, to a cheer and a toast. Not as glorious as the Great Conquest, but good enough.
A second, a third, a fourth, a fifth rumble followed that of the collapsed building. Geoff spun about, and saw great pillars of fire arcing upwards into the sky, curving over onto a southerly track. He wondered what the columns were. He was still wondering when a sniper’s bullet smashed his brains onto the pavement.
Guidelines
- Maximum word count of 1,000
- Any type of flash is acceptable
- Up to three entries allowed
- Post your entries on your own blog, titled like this: Writer’s Carnival: Flash Title
- Add your stories to the collector
- Once the blog carnival post is up, please link to it from your blog
- Place these guidelines at the end of your entry posts
3
Sep
“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore… Oh what is this crap? It’s as occult as a cheeseburger. I wanted to do real magic.” Tim’s nasal whine cut through the dark room.
Jacob answered. “It is occult, it’s from the witch trials of ancient North America. The writer of this got burned as a witch. That means it was occult.”
“It just sounds like bad poetry to me. Who talks like that now, really?”
Amanda glared at both of them. “Shut up, both of you. You’re spoiling it.”
“While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door.”
“He must have been visited by a ghost!”
“You’ll become a ghost if you don’t shut up!”
Timothy and Jacob withered under the glare, and Amanda continued reading from the book of occult lore. She droned on and on, her voice flat and unemotional, attempting an Old American dialect and failing miserably.
The three teenagers sat in a room pitch black except for the dim candles at the five points of the pentagram. It was the basement of Amanda’s mother’s house, but it felt occult to the three of them. It was an old house, all concrete and steel and it never creaked once, and that always spooked the children at night.
“On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore – is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!”
“Would you children stop butchering my poem and disturbing my rest! I can’t sleep with you nattering on like this! And you, young lady, that is the worst reading ever attempted. Five year old school children have done better.” Standing in the middle of the pentagram was the ghost of a dark gentleman, his forehead high and his face covered by a thin moustache.
“Who… who are you?”
“What! You’re reading my poem and you don’t know who I am? I wrote The Raven, that beautiful poem you’re butchering. Are you children really sunken that far?”
“It’s not a poem, it’s an occult spell that got a witch burned at the stake in North America!”
“Oh dear… you have fallen far, haven’t you? No history, no nothing.”
“We know our history, and we’re right! It is an occult spell!”
The ghost shook his head. “Children these days… You want occult magic? Fine. I’ll show you real magic.”
“Really? That’s great!” The children all squealed with glee.
“Oh yes.” The ghost grinned. “Your souls from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted – nevermore!”
29
Aug
The Writer’s Carnival is a bi-weekly blog carnival celebrating flash fiction, and spreading the word about as many writers as possible. The next will take place on September 8th, as we ramp up for the winter season. Guidelines for entering the Writer’s Carnival can be found below. If there are any questions or ideas, please feel free to post them as comments on this blog.
For those who don’t know what a blog carnival is, this is the initial Writer’s Carnival.
Guidelines
- Maximum word count of 1,000
- Any type of flash is acceptable
- Up to three entries allowed
- Post your entries on your own blog, titled like this: Writer’s Carnival: Flash Title
- Add your stories to the collector
- Once the blog carnival post is up, please link to it from your blog
- Place these guidelines at the end of your entry posts
25
Aug
Welcome all to the Writer’s Carnival. We’ve got eight stories for you to read today, excellent pieces of one and all. I’d like to thank all of the authors who participated, and made this such a success. I’d especially like to mention John Wiswell, and send my best wishes to him and his family.
A brief notice before I get you to the stories. The next Writer’s Carnival will take place two weeks from today, which is the 8th of September. I will be posting the collector post for that this weekend.
The Fate of Arthur by John Wiswell
When Le Fay saw Arthur stir, she grabbed his magic scabbard and fled from the tents. One nurse pursued her, but the other two remained with the wounded king. Without their help, he was sure to–
_
City of Sadness by The Four Part Land
It was the city of sadness, where men wore their hearts on their sleeves. It was the city of sadness, where bells tolled a long lament. It was the city of sadness, where mourning was in vogue.
_
Festival of the Lift by Mike Robertson
None of us knew why they called it the Festival of the Lift. Word went out, be ready on this date. Settle whatever you need to settle because we’re lifting off. We didn’t really care what it meant, Jackie and me. It was a party, no question. We were ready for that.
_
Running with Shadows by Yolanda Knight
The nocturnal critters were the only witness to the young woman’s trek through the dark woods. Kristin had always bragged she could find her way on the wood path blindfolded but as she stumbled through the darkness, she realized it had been a hasty boast.
_
Redeem by Heather Madd
She’s always been there, not exactly sleeping, but biding time in dark spaces and watching the world march forward, with a hurried leap into the future as it shrugs away its undesirable past.
_
Lonely Wanderer by The Four Part Land
I am the lonely wanderer, so distant and so strange. I am the lonely wanderer, but a passing phase. I live on the outskirts of society. I leave no memories, no sign to mark my passing. I live a life alone, a life apart. I chose it this way, once, and now that choice has become me, has enveloped me, has made me its own.
_
Wells Versus Quantum by David D Sharp
Herbert checked his pocket watch again, polishing the face on his trouser leg before slipping it back into his waistcoat pocket. Behind him the fax machine blurted out a series of abrupt beeps and clicks, startling him slightly. Everything seemed to startle him here, from the hideous clothing the people insisted on draping themselves in to the waves of motorcars curdling the roads outside (surely not a sustainable method of transport in such ridiculous quantities he thought to himself).
_
Life’s Surprise by The Four Part Land
Life had been fairly hard on me lately. My company had gone bankrupt, I was out of a job, and I was wondering what to do. Sitting in coffee shops firing off pleading emails to any job opening that looked remotely suitable was not working, and my funds dwindled. Sad story, I know. Just like half the people in this damn country.
The third of my three entries into the Writer’s Carnival. This one was inspired by a comment from RCMurphy about life’s surprises.
Life had been fairly hard on me lately. My company had gone bankrupt, I was out of a job, and I was wondering what to do. Sitting in coffee shops firing off pleading emails to any job opening that looked remotely suitable was not working, and my funds dwindled. Sad story, I know. Just like half the people in this damn country.
I wanted a surprise. A good one. Not the kind it usually threw at me. I didn’t want my aunt to die, or my car to break down, or a water main to flood my apartment. Although I suppose that last one would have a twisted humour to it. No, what I was looking for was a miracle.
I’d had small surprises that put a smile on my face: the shy glance of a serving girl, catching up with an old friend, an email that made me laugh. They were nice, but I was looking for more. And I was prepared. I had a rabbit’s foot, four leaf clovers, an Irish hat, and Lucky Charms (the cereal, that is).
My phone chirped with an email. I read the first few lines. Guess the rabbit’s foot wasn’t working. Another job application to throw in the trash, another X to make on the board at home. Sighing, I picked up my coffee, slugged it back, and walked out.
I’d made it across the street when I realized I’d forgotten my laptop. Bugger. I looked at the Lucky Charms in disgust and dumped them in the trash. They didn’t taste good anyway. Back I went, grabbed the PC, and stepped onto the avenue again. There was a thump, and a bit of a noise.
I came to with my laptop dropped on the ground next to me, with the case cracked. Really? This was what happened when I brought good luck trinkets with me? I tossed the rest of them to the ground and sat up. My head rung a little bit, but whatever.
‘Need a hand?’ I looked up at a beautiful girl, clothed in white. I grinned like a fool. Throw away the charms and this is what happens? I’ll be tossing them whenever I get the chance! Gladly taking her proffered hand, I stood up and grabbed my laptop. ‘So… what are you up to?’
She smiled. ‘Taking care of you.’ My heart leapt, and I slipped my hand between hers, and we walked into the light together. Some surprises are good.
Guidelines
- Maximum word count of 1,000
- Any type of flash is acceptable
- Up to three entries allowed
- Post your entries on your own blog, titled like this: Writer’s Carnival: Flash Title
- Add your stories to the collector
- Once the blog carnival post is up, please link to it from your blog
- Place these guidelines at the end of your entry posts
The second of my three entries into the Writer’s Carnival. The third will appear tomorrow.
I am the lonely wanderer, so distant and so strange. I am the lonely wanderer, but a passing phase. I live on the outskirts of society. I leave no memories, no sign to mark my passing. I live a life alone, a life apart. I chose it this way, once, and now that choice has become me, has enveloped me, has made me its own.
I wear a mask, not upon my face, but upon my being. It is a shield, for you, for me. Emotions are a dangerous thing, and I long ago forsook them. I wish you the same goal in your life. It stings at first, but after a time, the mask is all there is, and the emotions go away. Without pain, without fear, life is a free thing, free to wander through mankind, observing all there is to see.
But what of human contact, what of humanity itself? A brief brush will suffice. A touch, a wink, a stolen kiss. That is enough, and then away once more, before emotion can build and crack the shield which holds it down, holds it back.
I walk the paths between men, around men. I slip between lives, leaving dim marks, faint memories, the barest of remembrances. Life is glancing, indirect, the briefest of touches. Again, it is enough.
I am protected from the pain of life, the hatred of life, the shame of life. No more can a man mock me, for he does not know me. No more can a woman twist my heart and cause it pain, for she cannot reach me. And for this I give up but a trifle.
Some nights, that trifle comes in the dark, hidden inside the damnable phrase “What If?”. It passes, soon enough, and your soul is tempered in the heat of those moments. You and I, we become stronger, more resilient, and can resist the sadness that inhabits humanity. And with enough time, the trifles and the “what ifs” disappear, and we accept our situation.
I am the lonely wanderer. It is my choice, but it should be yours.
Guidelines
- Maximum word count of 1,000
- Any type of flash is acceptable
- Up to three entries allowed
- Post your entries on your own blog, titled like this: Writer’s Carnival: Flash Title
- Add your stories to the collector
- Once the blog carnival post is up, please link to it from your blog
- Place these guidelines at the end of your entry posts
20
Aug
I walked through the ashes of my life, and I cried as I sung. I sung for my prayers and my hopes, and I cried as I picked each hope out of the ash where it had fallen, and cradled it lovingly. I would then put them in a rucksack, and carry the hopes with me once more.
The arsonist had been my lover, when he had broken up with me. It had been cruel, and painful, and done in a heartless manner. Especially as he had done it while some blonde trollop hung on either arm. He’d found twins, he told me, and was much happier with them. Between the two of them, the girls didn’t look like they mustered more than five brain cells. But fine, whatever makes him happy.
And so here I am, walking through the ruins of my heart, the crumbled remnants of my dreams. The empty structure there was the home where we would live together. The laughing ghosts are our children at play. And above all this is a black hole in the sky, pumping black bile across the land. That, that was our love.
My heart, wounded and sore, lies elsewhere, locked away inside a box, waiting for the day when it might be safe to come out once more. This has cost me much, many friends and acquaintances, for how could I face their happiness, their laughter, their smiles when I lived in a world of ash, a world shattered?
Friends went in search of my heart. Some spent many days trying to reach it, and those lucky few that did I treasured and gathered close about me, entrusting myself to their love and company. And day by day under their tender care the ashes blew away, and green shoots flowered where there was once ruined earth.
And in the months and years that followed I experienced a flowering of my person, nurtured and tended by love and friendship. The crop grew high and strong, and my hopes danced in the air above, their golden wings shimmering in a bright sun. Dreams scudded amongst the clouds, playing with the small white puffs, and in the distance I could hear bells of laughter.
One fine day I met a shepherd, out tending his flock. A man of the land, he was weather-beaten but kind, and I warmed to his touch. Life became an entangled fantasy, and our dreams flew high together, as our hopes watched. But then thunderclouds began to stir on the horizon, and the land rumbled, and I pulled back, frightened. The shepherd became angry and red, and flame lit his person, and his dreams and hopes turned foul and putrescent. The sky turned black and bilious, and my wishes became ill, and fell to the ground, where they crumbled away in moments. Then a great volcano bestirred itself, and lava and flame fell about the land, and all was ash again. And then I walked through the ashes of my life, and I cried as I sung.
This particular story was inspired by a friend of mine, and is as much poetry as prose. Or at least tries to have tendencies in that direction. It’s also rather short. I do hope you enjoy it. It’s also the first of my three entries into the Writer’s Carnival.
It was the city of sadness, where men wore their hearts on their sleeves. It was the city of sadness, where bells tolled a long lament. It was the city of sadness, where mourning was in vogue.
Men walked to and fro along the busy streets, murmuring kind passages to one another. Men walked to and fro along the busy streets, heads bowed and tears streaming. Men walked to and fro along the busy streets, united in their grief.
Along a street of silken glass, the tears they all did flow. Down and down through the city they ran, slipping out to sea. And there they were lost and swept away, a gift to the bright blue ocean.
Men wore robes, lists of what they mourned. Some were long and some were short, and all were black as night. They grieved and questioned and wondered why, and read one another’s robes. And then they stopped and argued by the merits of great sadness.
Merits they came and merits they went, and the argument it wandered forth. And some men found that sadness helped not at all, and so they excised it from their conscience. They danced and laughed and swore and fought, and mocked those in robes of night.
And so the city split apart, in blocks of day and night. Sadness waxed and sadness waned, ever hidden from light. And those without the heart’s great gift, they pandered and they prayed, yet found life ill fulfilling.
And so one by one they slipped away, into their robes of mourning. And thus the city of sadness stood evermore, a citadel against the morning.
Guidelines
- Maximum word count of 1,000
- Any type of flash is acceptable
- Up to three entries allowed
- Post your entries on your own blog, titled like this: Writer’s Carnival: Flash Title
- Add your stories to the collector
- Once the blog carnival post is up, please link to it from your blog
- Place these guidelines at the end of your entry posts
The Writer’s Carnival is a bi-weekly blog carnival celebrating flash fiction, and spreading the word about as many writers as possible. The next will take place on this blog two weeks from today, on August 25th, as we ramp up again for the winter season. Guidelines for entering the Writer’s Carnival can be found below. If there are any questions or ideas, please feel free to post them as comments on this blog.
We are also running a logo contest for the Writer’s Carnival. Details can be found below the guidelines. Questions should be directed to the judge’s email address provided.
After this Carnival is complete, we will be opening a list to pick the next hosts. It will be first come, first serve, and each entrant will host the Writer’s Carnival in turn. We will notify interested writers via Twitter when the hosting list goes live.
For those who don’t know what a blog carnival is, this is the initial Writer’s Carnival.
Guidelines
- Maximum word count of 1,000
- Any type of flash is acceptable
- Up to three entries allowed
- Post your entries on your own blog, titled like this: Writer’s Carnival: Flash Title
- Add your stories to the collector
- Once the blog carnival post is up, please link to it from your blog
- Place these guidelines at the end of your entry posts
Logo Contest: In addition to the regular Writer’s Carnival, we’re looking offering up a logo contest. Entries should have a stylized W and C or in some represent a collection of writers. Entries should be emailed to the judge. Reward to be decided in consultation with the winner.
10
Aug
I walked through the city of my life, and I stopped in at the convenience store. A few moment’s search found me the drugs that I wanted, and I was off again. I flew like a kite above the urban landscape, and looked down at the parks that contained my happy memories, the devastated areas in need of urban renewal, and the prisons. The prisons… I didn’t like to remember what was stored there. Perhaps I couldn’t any more.
The drugs stole away with worry, and I pranced and danced on the thermals until they wore off. Then I stopped in at another convenience store and turned myself into a frog, and hopped down main street. No one moved here, no rush hour in my life. Instead, a lassitude overlay the city, broken only by my ribbiting.
Soon my skin began to dry, and I jumped into the local swimming pool. That ended with a thump and a yelp. It was dry and full of old trash. As I wondered how to get out, the medicine wore off, and I was humanoid again. I decided to try being human again, and climbed out of the pool and wandered around.
An explosion turned my head, and a skyscraper fell across the road in front of me. Damn construction crews. The skyscraper had broken another two buildings. I guessed they’d have to come down soon.
Clambering through the ruined building, I found every chair filled with a manikin in suit and tie. I shrugged and walked on.
After an hour I looked up from the ground. Here, the buildings were decayed, ruined facades of an older generation, their brown stones littering the street. I recognized a few, but couldn’t remember why, or what might have driven me here. I found a little boy on a corner and asked if he had something for me. The boy looked back, featureless and sightless, and shook his head. I patted the kid and wandered away.
I needed more drugs, and I wandered in search for a convenience store. It took a while, but then I was a horse, galloping down concrete streets. The ground hurt my hooves, and I neighed in frustration. The whispered breath of hot air. Damaged buildings crumbled in the distance.
I found a park and nibbled on the grass. A bum tried to ride me, but I bucked him into the dirt and galloped away. A mother screamed for her child as I thundered by, but she mattered not. My hooves left prints of burning fire, and I snorted black ash. I cantered for a wall, and then turned upwards, climbing the outside at speed. Soon I stood atop the derelict skyscraper.
The city of my life spread beneath me. Parks of brown and grey, buildings of the same shade, people faceless and crying. I was no longer a horse, and I lay down to sleep. Then the building under me was dynamited. It was a long way down.