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
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–
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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).
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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
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.
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?
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.