Posted in friday fictioneers

Shelley Robotics

Will had built robots and explored AI since he was a boy. This new project presented new challenges but Will was ready to tackle them.

This one looked just like Sheila. Sometimes Will had to remind himself S2 was different. As she stood, unblinking, in the garage Will didn’t need reminding. 

Her arm fell to the floor with a soft thud. Will stared at the fleshy decomposing mass.

“Well, the robotic one is almost ready.”

S2 pulled her crumbling lips back like a scared dog baring teeth.

“We’ll work on that smile next. Sheila had the most beautiful smile.”

Copyright –Douglas M. MacIlroy

Frankenstein was first published in 1818. 

Word Count: 99

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers as always.

Posted in flash fiction

Four Feet Deep

Maybe that’s all there is.

Maybe one day you walk out of the office heading for nowhere and end up here. Eye to eye with everything that’s left of Bessie the desert cow you never knew you cared about.

Until now.

You waltzed out of the gas station, one brain cell on reality and the rest playfully baiting eternity, when three pairs of hands and a graying beard shove you into a rumbling cargo van.

Who knows really how long your face will remain plastered over crumbling brick walls and flashed ever sparingly across the bottom of nightly news screens.

Like Bessie it could already be long gone. A skeleton in some rattled detectives closet, only to be unearthed when ground is broken for that new shopping mall in ten years time.

For now you’re flung four feet deep with dirt and desert bugs collecting in the folds of your skirt. Broken blades of grass and decades old Bud Light cans settle into their rightful place nestled among your bruised arms.

Caressing your hair, chopped and dyed, the slow harness of time takes hold.

And you have no choice but to sit with Bessie, the eyes which see it all, and wait.

skull

Image and write photo challenge via Sue Vincent

Posted in stream of consciousness

The Grave Robber’s Dress

Sunday Funday … or something like that

Prompt – Fabric

Music – City of the Sun on Spotify shuffle

July passed the light fabric between her thin fingers. Black with big brush stroke sunflowers, how odd.

The skirt flowed down from her grip, a dark waterfall with pops of yellow and brown to remind everyone that this wasn’t what it seemed.

It couldn’t be.

The young woman’s make up seemed to accent the point. Ruby red lips and a smoky eye, the oddity continues.

Her dirty blonde hair was carefully styled in robust curls which tumbled from her crown just brushing the straps of the sundress.

Perhaps the most perplexing part to July were the shoes. Even in heaven she’ll be tripping over those heels …

They were adorable though, a dark gunmetal gray laid with some kind of iridiscent shimmer.

Not too fancy … But greatly helped by the presence of gray bangles and meteorite necklace on her fragile extremities.

“July.” Her partner’s rough voice sent a shock up her spine. “Come on.”

“I want this.” Behind her the team of two other men sighed.

“What?” Red leaned over her shoulder. “You want what? The girl?”

“The dress …” July let her glance linger over the gentle girl. “I want the whole outfit.”

Red pinched the bridge of his nose and his grumbled. “We got what we came for, leave Jane Doe clothed.”

“Just take a picture then get on Amazon like a normal person.” August chimed in.

“He’s got a point. Boss man will want to know why we took longer than necessary and I don’t want to explain how July wanted to shop.”

With a stomp of her covered converse and a sigh July pulled out a phone. “Fine.”


Time technically ended as I was typing “linger over” but I wasn’t done yet so I broke my own rule. 

Posted in Photo

Numbered Days 4/365

My heart could be filled

But truth be told …

My days are numbered here.

This disease is terminal.

The doctors don’t know what to do.

“Well,” he says as he raps spindly hands

“You can’t stay forever in the land of the damned.”

Indeed Father Time.

It appears I’ve been diagnosed with life.

I can’t stop my feet from wandering

Or my mind from pandering

The sweet effects of a sunset over the sea.

I suddenly, it seems, have things

I need to be

Rather than this old burnt out bag of flesh

And crumbling calcium deposits collected for me.

So tell me dear, tell me love

You know our days are numbered here …

Posted in Word Prompt

Ticking (Again)

I’ve posted this here before, in fact I think it was one of my first posts back in early 2016. It fits the prompt today so I’m reposting it. 

WordPress Daily Prompt – Mercy

Sometimes I hear the ticking, loud as can be in my head. The incessant ticking. A time bomb that waits years to release its poison, but when it does it is my time. I know then, when I hear, that I must go to work.

My work is dirty, faithless, but it is my work . . . it is beauty, by my definition. Yes, it is loveless, taking the souls of the few good men who are mixed with the souls of the hated. It is safe to say that he has his hands in good here, he knows what he has done and lately the ticking does not stop.

I sweep away one after another, whisking them to the hidden realms. I sometimes pass War, he is at his best these days. The creation of atomic bombs and nuclear weapons have set him astride a metal cannon of a horse.

Faster than lightening he descends and he does not leave until his work is utterly done . . . and mine is just beginning.

Occasionally I hear Kindness and Hope crying, locked away in our master’s dungeon. They are my sisters yet I feel no love or despair; I feel no emotion. Mercy is the only one left, she alone has not been caught.

Every day he draws closer to her, every day she saves one more soul that should have been his. Her work is small, but greatly aggravating for our master.

Still I hear the ticking, the clock telling me that someone else has run out of time, that someone worse has survived.

I glide in on the darkness, the deafness of those last few moments. I laugh out of fear; the fear pasted across their faces as they feel my cold breath on their skin. I give them one second, just one, to decide; then they are swept away with me.

Down we go, through the realms, down to the very bottom where the underworld lies. Where one shall be judged and await the future of their soul.

They will all go back, they will all be deposited once again. Only a few, a select few, stay. These are the good men, the wise men . . . the enemies. Indeed, our master has his hands soaked in the blood, just the way he prefers it.

I rest until I hear the ticking, but these days it is constant. Yes, indeed, the ticking never stops.


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Posted in Word Prompt

The Faint Voice

WordPress Daily Prompt – Faint

I’m sitting at my desk when I hear the faint little voice behind me.

“Come on mommy, let’s play today.”

I know she’s looking at the mess around me. I really should be cleaning today. When’s the last time I washed those dishes or changed my clothes anyway?

“Come on mommy, let’s play today.”

My friends don’t come around much anymore. They say they’re just busy but I know the truth. My house kind of smells from all of the food.

“Come on mommy, let’s play today.”

Really I know that they think I’ve gotten a bit more strange lately. Sometimes I waltz outside in the dead of night, leaving my door standing wide open.

“Come on mommy, let’s play today.”

Together we dance through the flowers and across the streets. We’re not always careful like I know we should be.

“Come on mommy, let’s play today.”

We dodge the bright lights and blaring horns. It’s a mighty fun game but it can make you a little sore.

“Come on mommy, let’s play today.”

I chase her through the park and down the hill, right through the cemetery gates so she can dance on her grave.

“Come on mommy, let’s play today.”

The dirt here is growing over with grass and the flowers are dead. But there stands her stone, peeking just above her head.

“Come on mommy, let’s play today.”

Her faint voice giggles as she spins in her gown. The bloodied spots have turned a dark brown.

“Come on mommy, let’s play today.”

My friends don’t really come around anymore. They say it’s because they’re busy but I know the truth. They don’t hear the faint voice like I do.


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Posted in Word Prompt

Moonlight Glow

WordPress Daily Prompt – Succumb

Lying here with you tonight,
You look so perfect in the moonlight.
I’m not sure how long
This will last.
How long have you been gone?
Silence greets me,
An old friend in a familiar coat.
Your dead eyes keep staring,
Into the perfect moonlight glow.
The rusty metal above
Rattles and rumbles,
Symptoms of the train hauling troubles
Over the beaten track.
Needles like pine
Litter the ground,
There’s no one else around.
I pluck the needle from your arm,
Like a mouse nursing the injured lion.
You make no move,
Your dead eyes just keep staring,
Into the fake moonlight glow.


There are some amazing insights to poetry over at The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch! Go take a look! There are posts up by me, Beckie, Grabbety, Wanji, Pradita, Brett and more!

Posted in Word Prompt

It’s Only April

WordPress Daily Prompt – Cloaked

The darkness cloaks some bullshit.

Mari stared at the paper.

The darkness cloaks some bullshit. There’s some fucking noise outside, a siren. It’s all bullshit.

She pressed her temples. She really didn’t want to fail this student but he had turned in papers like this all year. This was shaping up to be the most ridiculous one yet.

The darkness cloaks some bullshit. There’s some fucking noise outside, a siren. It’s all bullshit. The jackass took off through the back door about an hour ago. It took the god damn cops an hour to get here.

“Jesus, I’m going to need some wine.” Mari had sat this particular student down just a week ago and explained that he really needed to knock it out of the park on this paper. They made a deal that if he could make an A she would pass him in the class. He knew the material and Mari knew he could pass if made the effort but the effort seemed to be completely lost on him.

The darkness cloaks some bullshit. There’s some fucking noise outside, a siren. It’s all bullshit. The jackass took off through the back door about an hour ago. It took the god damn cops an hour to get here.  I’m trying to tell them to turn off the god damn siren. Little bro is in the back sleeping. Somehow I’m threatening and now I’m face down in the mud with some fat white fuck breathing down my neck about Miranda rights. 

Mari poured two glasses worth of a red blend into her glass. “Ok, let’s power through. This is the last one.”

The darkness cloaks some bullshit. There’s some fucking noise outside, a siren. It’s all bullshit. The jackass took off through the back door about an hour ago. It took the god damn cops an hour to get here.  I’m trying to tell them to turn off the god damn siren. Little bro is in the back sleeping. Somehow I’m threatening and now I’m face down in the mud with some fat white fuck breathing down my neck about Miranda rights. I’m trying to tell them it wasn’t me. Now little bro is awake and his footsteps are covered in fucking blood. Wanna see cops get real? Show them a four year old with bloody fucking footsteps. I tell them the jackass took off and who knows where he got to since it took them a god damn hour to get here. Little bro is crying in the backseat but they won’t let me sit with him because they want my alibi. Fuck them, I work two jobs and they can call my bosses to verify. Fat fucks. Little bro keeps asking why and you know what? I don’t fucking know. But I graduate this spring and I’m already eighteen. Thank fucking god, or whatever, mom had a will that named me legal guardian. Just give me an A Ms. Vargas. It’s been a long fucking year and it’s only April. 


Don’t forget to head over to our collaboration blog, The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch! We have beautiful poetry and wonderful insights to writing it this week

Posted in Word Prompt

Millie’s Gone

WordPress Daily Prompt – Fraud

Moira packed each picture away carefully. Eventually Levee Harolds family would want some things but boxes of wedding pictures featuring his soon to be missing widow? Those weren’t likely to be the best souvenirs of his life. There would be some story about sweet Moira Harolds spinning out of control in the wake of her husband’s death, perhaps she would disappear to begin another life. Those were details that the former Mrs. Harolds didn’t have to bother with.

No, the only concern Moira had was packing boxes that would be eventually picked up by someone and her new packet of papers.

Moira ran a thumb over a silver and gold frame holding a particularly stereotypical wedding shot of her and her now deceased husband. When she looked at it through the eyes of her new persona, one Vera Milguy, she felt little. There was perhaps a twinge of sadness for the former Mrs. Harolds, after all Vera Milguy wasn’t a complete monster.

Beyond that though there was something else brewing. A feeling that neither Moira nor Vera could quite place. A deep unsettling sadness was threatening to take hold.

“Maybe it’s better to set these to the side for now.” The woman dropped the frame back onto the soft carpeted floor and stretched. The former Mrs. Harolds had been quite sentimental. It made sorting through things a chore. None the less it was something that had to be done in some capacity. She smiled to herself as she thought of the guidebook. People would shit themselves if they knew there was a guidebook. 

Crossing the room she surveyed the few things left on the walls. Two large paintings, a collection of ornate masks and a rather decorative full length mirror. The former Mrs. Harolds had fine tastes, perhaps Vera could learn a thing or two from her. She turned in front of the mirror letting her black skirt swirl around her waist.

For a second she caught sight of herself, giggling like a child as her curls bounced around her shoulders. Without warning that deep unsettling grief leapt from the darkness and took hold of the woman.

She struggled to understand who stared back at her from the mirror. Was it the former Mrs. Harolds? Her new prospect Vera Milguy? Perhaps it was any one of the many others.

No, the blue eyes swimming in tears reached even further back. Her lips twitched and trembled as the sobs threatened to overflow. There was no longer a woman crying in her reflection but a child, the timid and shy Millie.

Without thinking she lifted a finger to her lips and bit it gently, it did little calm her but the pressure satisfied a nervous tick Millie had nursed since she was a toddler. Sweet Millie was filling with sorrow over the passing of Mr. Harolds. She was filled with fear over the path life was taking. The small timid Millie wanted to run home and cry in her mother’s arms.

“No.” It wasn’t the former Mrs. Harolds or Vera who spoke. “No!” Millie, a grown woman now, stared at herself with fists clenched. “Millie’s gone! Do you hear me! She died with her love when her father shot him the head!”

With force that surprised every persona she’d ever taken on, Millie slammed her fist into the delicate glass sending shards flying around her. The cracking and crashing echoed through the hallways followed by the clip of Vera Milguy’s high heels. Blood dripped from her bruised knuckles as she slammed the front door behind her.

“It’s better this way.”