6
Aug
My first Friday Flash in two months. Rather glad to be back to it.
I wept. It was a waste of water, but all the same, I wept. My tears hit the body of my wife, warm only because of the midday sun. She had fallen victim to desert fever and mirages, and we had searched for her, only to find her too late. And so I wept, while the others around me, faces shielded against the heat and light, kept a respectful distance.
My wife was the fifth we had lost to the desert on this great trek of ours. Three had gone in like manner, crazed by the terrain and the lack of sustenance, and fled out into the desert, seeking miracles. No miracles were ever found. The last had the misfortune to irritate a sunbathing snake, and that death was swift and agonizing, the venom turning limbs black as it coursed through the blood.
We were here because we had been chased from our land, our ancestral home. A great plague, of men and disease both, had swept over us, slaying our kind and forcing us to flee in front of the flood. I use the term men loosely, for these were foul creatures, humanoid and possessed of some of the features of men, but hideous and foul and lupine in appearance, and as they strode forth, their very essence befouled the land upon which they stood, and crops withered, and trees rotted, and so even if we, true men, had stood and fought, there would be no sustenance, no life for us.
And so we fled across the desert, hoping that its great expanse and relentless heat would make of it a shield against the foulness that washed up against its borders. And it did. We lost many on that trek, perhaps a third of our people, but on the other side of that barren land we found a new home, a land of wet greenery and freely flowing water, and we laid out our sacred city once more, and built it anew from wood and from wattle. We lost more to disease as we adapted to that land, but our people’s prosperity and fecundity soon strengthened our kind.
We became a great nation once more, with more cities being chosen and erected, and trade in all manner of devices and precious materials flowing between our great edifices. And I have grown old here, old and decrepit, but I am honoured, as are all those who led our people across the desert wastes. And so I spend my days reliving the past, telling stories, being wise, and enjoying the warm summer sun as it heats my frail body. It is a good life, and one I have enjoyed.
Today, the city packs its belongings and manufactures carts and wagons and rafts, for we are to scatter once more. Our shield desert has turned black with the countless multitudes of the crawling plague, and we flee before them once more.
3
Aug
A science fiction piece for you today, involving a rather interesting little critter, one that makes me chuckle.
I stepped down from the shuttle ramp, and looked about me. All the eye could see was swamp. Foetid, hideous, swamp. Vines curled about one another, making mazes of impenetrable layers. The murk bubbled with released gasses, and the smell was exquisite in a way that rotting corpses can never achieve. I had been sent to this godforsaken sore of a planet because it might, might, contain precious minerals. Yeah, and I might be the virgin goddess herself. One look around told me that unless this planet had a core of molten beryllium and uranium, trying to land, build a base, and dig through the layers of swamp mess was not cost effective. The company knew it too, but had to go through the motions, so they send me, a junior prospector with cheap tools in a broken down shuttle on my own in the ass end of the galaxy. Sometimes, I hate my life.
And how the hell was I supposed to prospect when there wasn’t even enough space for me to land the shuttle properly? It’s sitting on a tilt, one wingtip dragging in the water because there isn’t enough solid ground. So where does the equipment go again? I’m tempted to just through a few samples from around here into the machine, call it good, and bugger off. There’s nothing here.
Oh bloody hell, what is that? This planet bred the world’s largest mosquito! Bugger this place, I’m going home. I climbed back into the shuttle and shut the door, my heart pounding. The mozzie that had tried to stab me with it’s feeder was over two feet in wingspan. Damn thing would have killed me, but veered away at the last minute. Guess I didn’t smell right. Ugh. Sod this planet. I’m taking a nap then piloting out of here.
You know, something occurred to me while napping. That damn insect was glowing. That sickly green glow that was used in old 2D entertainment to show radiation. I wonder… Ok, I’ll check it out. Might give me something to talk about. I grabbed a Personal Defence Kit™ (yes, even in my own brain it’s got that little trademark), turned it on, and walked outside. Now all I had to do was wait. Zap, zap. Two glowing mosquitoes came too close to me for the PDK™ to be happy. Now to bundle them upstairs and into the analyser.
These creatures are heavy, I’m struggling to lift them, and they aren’t that big. And they’re glowing, even when dead. I wonder how they fly. Short, stubby wings, big feeding tube, and holes over a lot of their lower bodies. Hmm. Strange is what they are, very strange. Oh well. I’ve tossed one in the analyser, the other’s locked up in a storage bin. I’ll find out what they are after a night’s sleep.
All right, that wasn’t a night’s sleep. And something is banging away in the lab. What the hell is going on? I’m getting my PDK™ before going in there. Oookay, the storage bin is on the floor and bouncing around. How in the goddess’s name did that stupid mosquito survive the shock? It’s supposed to kill anything up to one tonne, and this stupid gnat is still alive. What a bloody mess of a planet. Well, at least the bug can’t dent the bin, so it can stay there. Now, the results on the dead one. Trace minerals, primary construction, yes, yes. Wait, WHAT?! The computer is telling me I just fed it a fusion plant. A small one, but a fusion plant. Umm… no. I fed you a mosquito that tried to stab me. It’s a bug, not a high tech device. Right, I’m turning on the PDK™ and feeding you in the bin into this stupid machine. Zap, zap. Idiot. In you go.
Waiting, waiting. I hate waiting. Well, I’ll go catch a few more of your friends and lock them into storage bins. Maybe this planet is more interesting than I thought. It’s still a smelly, foetid, goddess-forsaken hell of a planet, but a mildly interesting one. Zap, zap, zap. Three more insects, three storage bins filled up. And… yup, the machine still thinks you little guys are fusion plants. And I’m beginning to think it just might be right. Your wings can’t lift your weight, and you have venting holes on your torso. So, I’ve found the galaxy’s first nuclear-powered jet propelled mosquitoes. Oh boy am I going to be a laughingstock at base when I report this. And rich, once they believe me. My first prospecting alone, and it’s a perfect find!
My, my, what wonderful little insects you are. I could almost kiss you. Of course, then you’d try and eat me. So, you guys have a nice trip in those storage bins, and I’m going to file a report, because I want to see my colleagues faces when I step off the shuttle carrying you lot. This is going to be fun.
2
Aug
My first new piece of writing in two months. Hopefully, I haven’t completely lost the touch.
I fell from a cloud. It was a long way down, and I had some time to think, to reflect. Life had been pretty good to me on that cloud, full of joy and happiness and friendship. But then the cloud soured, and turned grey, and I knew that it would soon be time to leave. And when the cloud turned black and begat a thunderstorm, well, then I walked to the edge, looked over, and walked off.
I’d been on a high cloud, way up in the sky, riding near the sun, and so I’d thought to hit another cloud on the way down, find a new place of friendship. Of course, the damn rain had cleared the sky out, and the only thing beneath me was the ground. I tried steering for the clouds I could see, but they shifted and moved and dodged away, and so I was left falling towards the earth, wondering what would happen when I got there.
The ground hurt when I hit it. I’m not sure if the ground hurt more or I did. The impact made a crater, and left me at the bottom of it. Then I had to deal with the horrible realities of the earth. Crushing pain, fear, anguish, pestilence, hate. They swarmed over me, dragging me further down into the ground, digging a pit from which there was no escape. I became a hollowed out shell of my former self, a ruin hidden away in the ground.
Eventually the earth-bound creatures became bored of me. They had had their torture and their fun. The foul beings filled the pit in over my head, and left me there to rot in the dank earth. And so I stayed there for some time, biding, recovering, until I was strong enough to climb out of the dirt. When they came for me again, I ran, and such was my recovery that I out-distanced pestilence and hate and anguish. Only fear could keep pace with me, but my endurance outlived its, and so it fell behind in the end.
Now I was left looking upwards, wondering how I might once more climb onto a cloud. They had strange movements, and might dip to the earth, but it was easier to go climb to their heights, and so I headed for the mountains, seeking a way to the peaks. The realities had gone there before me, hoping to catch me, and once more I had to run. This time I ran at them, and their moment of amazement let me burst through their filthy hands and climb high into the mountains.
There, I climbed onto a cloud and let it drift away. I made mocking faces at the realities of the earth as they hooted and howled and called out from their lowly location. I smiled and relaxed as the cloud drifted onwards, knowing I would soon be back in the lap of friendship and joy and happiness. Many a blissful day passed on that cloud, and I made friends and lovers under the night sky, as the stars twinkled above. It was a heavenly time, full of dancing and song.
No good time may last, and the cloud began to turn grey and ill, and thence to black, and the revelling stopped, and the friends became enemies and the lovers quarrelled. Seeing this, I fell from the cloud.
21
May
It was the end of an age, and the coming of the night. A new dawn had been promised, and for one shining day, it had stood out proud and bright, the hopes and dreams of the mortal world enshrined in the brightness that had followed the night. And there it had stayed, one shining moment to hold against a thousand black ages, the hope of man compressed into a single, fallen star, streaking across the heavens and then disappearing, bringing man ever downward into the despair and the hatred, left only with a single memory, a day that made the night seem all the darker and all the more cruel for the mirror to which it had been held.
Love, purity, valor, these things had been made manifest, a flare of all that was worthy, reduced only to a sliver that could be hidden at the bottom of a heart, buried beneath the layers of oppression and brutality that deadened the senses of all those who now lived. Each who held that sliver felt it dig and grind and gouge away, each painful stab a reminder of what could have, what might have, what may yet still be.
Yet none dared to lift their heads high, to look full into the dawn and to see the light as it might yet be, for in their souls they feared the unknown, the change, more than they feared death, or the thousand tortures of the dying. For now they grasped certainty within their hands, a grubby, small, and sickened certainty, and yet they caressed it and kissed it as if it was the most precious gift in all the land, a boon from the angels who flitted above them in a world they could not comprehend.
Within that certainty they held their whole lives, each step placed as that of the day before, and as that of the day after. A life lived in the crushing grip of routine had stunted them, fitting their growth into a box already provided, men’s souls pruned like so many shrubs, dancing to the biting sheers of the gardener. Aye, they all had souls, but they were shriveled things, dying of ill-use and mutilation. Only that one, little, sliver kept the soul alive, and in some men even that died out, and they were lost from the realm of the living, their bodies moving in determined pace, but with no spark, no fire, no inspiration. They reveled in nothing, took joy from no act. Grey, emotionless, stripped of all passion, each of these sought to batter down, to crush and to rend all acts of selflessness, of pity, of piety, even of spite, for to them, to feel was an abomination beyond all others.
And so they above all others had become the heralds of the new night, ushering in blackness not with trumpets and fanfare, but with quiet words and bowed head, so many downtrodden and beaten men, devoid of will and of feeling. There had remained some few dim glows, the after-images of that one pure moment, but like the last rays of the sunset, caught high on a peak above, they had been unattainable, and soon vanished, and the light of knowledge and of wisdom had become stilled, sucked down into a mire filled with the hatred, ignorance and bigotry of the men who stood forth most proudly, morals corrupted and twisted into a perversion of what was right. And it was here, within the hearts of men, that blame lay forth, and so it always shall be, for when truth was offered, and the light shined free, men shielded their eyes, and ran to caverns of certainty and caves of routine, preferring ever more the dark of night to the light of day. And so it was that light passed over man, and left him laid low.
20
May
So, after the wonderful success of this week’s Writer’s Carnival, we’re looking to continue by starting on next week’s. We’re always looking for debut entrants, and I know there’s people who’ve expressed interest but weren’t able to contribute this week. We’re looking forward to having you.
First up, the host: The blog carnival rotates around, with different writers hosting each week. If you want to host, sign up here. This list is first come, first serve, and each writer will host the Writer’s Carnival in turn. I will delete double entries, so please don’t.
General rules:
1 entry per writer
Flash Fiction in length
Have fun!
And now, on to next week!
Theme: Fallen Angels. Please note that while the entries do not have to follow the theme, we appreciate it if the stories do.
Collector: Enter your stories for Wed 26th.
19
May
Welcome all to the initial edition of the Writer’s Carnival. We’ve got 14 stories for you to read today, excellent pieces of flash fiction one and all. I’ll be linking each in the order they were entered, as well as providing a brief introduction and excerpt. I’d like to thank all of the authors who participated, and made this such a success.
A few administrative details before I get you to the stories. I will be opening a list tomorrow morning to pick the next hosts. It will be first come, first serve, and each entrant will host the Writer’s Carnival in turn. I will delete double entries, so please don’t. This last caveat also applies to story entries – please don’t submit more than one per week.
For next week, Emma from the Split Worlds has suggested a theme of “Fallen Angels”. Comments or other suggestions are most welcome. Please note that while the entries do not have to follow the theme, it is appreciated if the stories do.
Red-Cap, Mad-Cap by Maryland Goatman
An excellent piece of mystery. The mind spirals inward, following the story until its conclusion.
I awaken, gasping and heart pounding. Something sharp is cutting into my hand and I look down. It’s a knife! Startled, it drops and clangs to the ground. Frantic, I scan the room. Why was I holding a knife?
_
The Roulette by Diegosietesoles
A gamble of mind and reality, concentrated around a single game.
It was crowded as usual around the roulette table, and Edvard was seated on his accustomed chair, next to Vladimir, watching how the wheel turned and turned. His head rested on his right hand, his lengthy black beard coming out between his fingers. He was tired and it was late, but the wheel kept on turning.
_
Bathroom Monologue: Paved With by John Wiswell
What is the road to Hell paved with, anyway?
Virg pulled Dan by the wrist until they were out of the woods. It seemed like there was nothing but woods until they set foot outside it, when the road burst into glory. It glittered like gold and platinum, with the intensity of the sun streaming up between the bricks.
_
Lotion by Paula Johnson
What magic may hide in a little bottle of cosmetics?
Bethany stood at the baggage carousel at New Orleans International Airport willing her suitcase to appear. The last of the passengers were gone, leaving her to stare at the silent metal chute. Here it comes, she thought. Now! It’s coming…now!
_
Belinda’s Birthday by Petrea Burchard
A story of poignant loss.
Damn hot flashes.
Belinda Marvel rolled over onto the empty Cheetos bag, blowing orange dust in her face. Her pajama pants pinched at the waist. Her stomach growled.
_
The Old Ways Never Die by Becky Wilson
Where do old religions go? Do they die, or do they carry on?
My work took me to the old Viking city of the north, York. I had been there many times before and each time I always struggled to decide whether it was better or worse. Yet in the sunshine of August my mind didn’t have time to dwell on such decisions. I sipped my hot cappuccino in Starbucks and crossed off another name on my quota.
_
Fast Folly by Carrie Clevenger
Fast, tightly paced writing, much like the cars that inhabit the story.
I had a tail on the way to my apartment from the office one night.
A black-cherry Mustang in my rearview, twisting through traffic like a head-lit cobra snake, looming there. I cut a quick right, wheels cutting into the pavement when I gunned the engine. It was a strange sensation to see it there: the distance kept immaculate but intimidating.
_
New View by Kilian Conor
One of Kilian’s exquisite pieces.
No quote for this one, it’s too short. Click through and take a look.
_
The Saxon Chronicles by Karly Kirkpatrick
Teenage ninjas and unspeakable horrors, mixed up with a German teacher
Sam and Aaron raced through the empty hallways, hoping a hall monitor didn’t stop them to ask for a pass. They’d made sure no one had been looking when they emerged from the doorway under the stairs. The students that passed by were blissfully ignorant of the dangers that lurked beneath their feet.
_
A New Hobby by T.S. Bazelli
The three voices of fate take on a new challenge, with interesting results.
“Are you not bored, sisters?” Chloe asked.
The triplets sat around the wide table, working away as they’d always done. Asia gently set down a battered pair of shears, a gift from Zeus at her birth. She knew them better than she knew the calluses on her fingers.
_
The Five Step Plan to Surviving a Merger by David Storey
The future of corporate acquisition, laid bare in all it’s bloodthirstiness.
From the executive office of SGB Enterprises, Gloster had a commanding view of the City sprawling out below him – the Gherkin, Canada Square and beyond, a flawless, April sky. But it was the single, mocking grey hair he’d caught in his own reflection that held his gaze. His first grey hair.
_
The Shopkeeper Returns by Emma Newman
How does one go on vacation when there is no one to trust? Part of the excellent Split Worlds series.
The tinkling bell above the door made the shopkeeper smile as he returned. The smell of the Emporium of Things in Between and Besides, made new and interesting once more by a day out, released the tension in his shoulders. It was good to be back.
_
Sanctuary by James Tallett
When the world changes, where do you go for peace?
This was a precious place, a hidden place. This was a sanctuary, a place of peace, a place of joy and of contemplation. For millennia, it stood, hidden away amongst the ferns and trees of the deep jungle. Those who did not know its ways feared it as a strange place, a place of lost time and sudden sadness. They did not understand the gift the sanctuary offered.
_
The Writer by Jeremy Cai Yixin
A spirit comes to give inspiration, of a most sinister kind.
Today, when I woke up, everything felt different. It was like someone had punched me in the gut and I was feeling the aftereffects. I was also conscious of a strange force choking me to death, distant and strange. But I couldn’t put my finger on what it was; I just knew it was there and that it was real.
19
May
And here is my entry for the blog carnival. I’ll have a lot of posts up relating to it today, including the carnival itself. In the meantime, enjoy.
This was a precious place, a hidden place. This was a sanctuary, a place of peace, a place of joy and of contemplation. For millennia, it stood, hidden away amongst the ferns and trees of the deep jungle. Those who did not know its ways feared it as a strange place, a place of lost time and sudden sadness. They did not understand the gift the sanctuary offered. Within the bounds of the hidden, there was no time, no disease. Mortal concerns were stripped away, discarded like so much waste.
Those who left the sanctuary arrived in a different time, a different age, and many were struck low by longing, by change. Only a few could withstand the passage of the aeons, but all too often they would be hunted down and placed in a museum, a trophy displayed on a wall.
Those who stayed gambolled and swung under a sunlit sky, living an orgy of passion and fire. Men tossed away memories as if they were old clothes, worn out and needed no longer. Food was bountiful, free and abundant. It was a garden of Eden for all who stayed. They returned to a happier age, freed from the shackles of their mortality.
Once, these sanctuaries had spanned the world. Stone circles, hidden groves, desolate peaks, lost valleys, all had held the charm and the grace of peace and solitude. Now this was the last, a single great oak standing guard, weathered and cracked in its old age.
The sanctuary overflowed with animals and men, refugees from time immemorial. As other groves had fallen, supplicants made their way to this, fleeing that which chased them. Now they lived with the haunted eyes of the doomed, for each had seen their end, and that memory they could not shake.
The dancing was sorrowful, frantic, exotic, for all who spun and gyred knew that each day might be their last. And so the sounds reached higher, the dancers spun faster, the lives burned brighter, as each celebrated. Lovers cried in another’s arms, passion and pain and pleasure, and animals cavorted through the trees, the lion laying down with the lamb.
The sanctuary stood silent now, for all the creatures had gone. The grand old tree lay in pieces, chopped down by an axe. Nary a breeze nor a breath whispered, for the leaves had fallen, and lay on the ground in winter snow. Death had come for them all.
The collector is open! Click here to enter your link and view the list of entered links. Remember, you can enter any short story or flashfiction you’ve written. I’ll be putting together a new flash tonight for the carnival.
To tweet your links, please use #WritersCarnival as the hashtag. I’ll be running a search on that and adding any links that weren’t added to the collector.
We’ve got until Wednesday morning to get this off the ground, so please spread it far and wide. I’ll be posting the final set of links sometime Wednesday afternoon.
So, this got a decent amount of feedback and comments, so I’m going ahead with it. I will be posting an open collector for the posts Sunday night or Monday morning, and closing it Tuesday night at midnight. Wednesday morning, I’ll post the links to all of the submitted entries. Those who want to do the hosting and the publishing of the blog carnival the next time, please contact me sometime early next week (I’m away all weekend).
Remember that stories posted for FridayFlash or TuesdaySerial are accepted, as are any other stories.
Thanks again for helping to get this off the ground.
13
May
Didn’t write the JNY update I wanted for today, so here’s one from the archives to make up for the missing post.
I am aged. I have known it for quite some time, but it has only occurred to me now to put it down into writing. My mind is not so clear as it was in the days before, and it has taken me longer to frame these words than I would have liked. Still, I felt it imperative that I pass them down to those who would come after, as a word of warning and a word of council.
And please, do not speak false platitudes to my face. I am old, and I know it in no uncertain terms. The first blush of childhood is merely memory for me, while the robust good health of youth resonates only as a pleasant dream. Even the compliance and comfort of advanced middle age is denied to one such as I. It is apparent in my very skin and bones, for they are mottled and loose, hanging where they once stood firm. Thin and frail muscles now command the body of what was once an expert swimmer, and hair that was the pride of my ladyfriends is grey and straggly, and most has long since departed my pate.
As you can tell, I have lost nearly everything, and, although I put these words to the paper with good form and proper diction, it has taken me longer than it would have even five years ago, both because of the physical act of grasping the pen, and the trouble that I take to shape the words. My mind is still active and healthy, but it is declining, and the lucidity is gnawed upon at the edges of the day, slowly shrinking as it takes longer and longer for me to fully arise and come to my senses. There is a suspicion of Alzheimer’s from my doctor, but I tell him it does not matter. At this age, time will claim my body well before that particular disease can claim my mind, and so I do not worry, although I do regret the loss of the memories I make today. I will not be able to hold and cherish them as I would those of five or ten years in the past, ones that are firmly rooted in my head.
That is what they do not tell you about old age, and the blessing and the curse that comes with it. Everyone knows of the body becoming weak and the mind slowly failing, but there is one, and only one, aspect of life that grows sharper and clearer with each passing day. Where once I would have struggled to remember what I had done some two weeks in the past at a particularly exciting dance, I can now recall the events of that evening with perfect clarity, down to the names and the faces of the women with whom I danced.
Unfortunately, this holds equally as true for the days that were bad as the days that were good, and often those that were bad are the ones that spring most readily to memory in a quiet time of contemplation. I can remember the dances that I loved, but I can also remember the sicknesses, the illnesses, the losses of kith and kin. It is a gruesome joke, but I tell myself I will make an itemized list of everything I have lost, and hand it to St. Paul at the gates as proof that I should be allowed to enter. I can certainly recall them better than he, now. One day, perhaps sooner than I like, I will see myself bandying Tehranian street names with the nurse who stands at the side of my bed. I was there sixty some years ago, and I remember them more clearly than I do the food that I had last night for dinner. That, I cannot name at all.
Still, it has brought back the sweet and dear times that I spent with those that I loved, and I had forgotten far too many of them, forgotten to cherish them as I should have. That is the other gift of the aged, and like the memory, it is a blade that can sooth and sting, perhaps in the same quick pass. I can see what has gone before, and realize what I did not do, and should have done, and what I did do, and what I should not have done. But I push that aside, and concentrate on the good things, the pleasant things, that reside still within my memory. The present offers me little, for I am old, alone, with my wife departed and my children scattered across the globe in pursuit of their own lives, and so most days are spent between me and my memory, where they still live, little children seeing the ocean for the first time, dancing and bouncing along a damp sandy spit, too young to do anything but enjoy the scene before them. I think I appreciate that more now than I did then. Or take the time I took my daughter’s hand and marched her down the isle to see her groom, who blushed well more than she did at the ceremony. They are still together, and doing well, and from their last letter, not only am I a grandfather, but I am soon to be a great-grandfather. That news will stay with me, and will not be lost into the ravages of an aged mind, I tell you. I must have them up soon after the child is born, even. There are a few privileges that are bequeathed to those of ancient form, and I take full advantage of them.
As you can see, my mind has already begun to wander a little from the topic of memory that had been the purpose of this epistle, and to force it back to the course would take enough out of me that I would not truly recover the skien of thought. I shall just admonish those who read this letter to think carefully on what it says and what it contains, and to wish me well, wherever I may be.
I bid you adieu, and I go now to seal this with my will.