Posted in flash fiction, Word Prompt

What Really Happened to the Dinosaurs

We came here on the backs of our ancestors greatest invention. The ability to cross among the paths of time has been an integral part of society but, as with any great discoveries, it was coveted.

Facing extinction we gathered our prized possessions, animals, science … and sent them across realms.

We would have returned for them sooner but …

George didn’t write down the coordinates of where he sent them.

Right, we would have returned sooner but … were unable to.

We believed our ideas, our species, our discoveries were safe. We believed there would be reprieve from a world too far gone. We’ve been driven nearly to extinction in the name of progress.

But this, this is not what our people left behind. Where are the animals? The science?

Maybe they ate it.

Perhaps they are far more advanced than we think? Did they somehow find the exact coordinates before we could recover them?

Hear me out. Maybe they are our science, our discoveries. We did save a number of cellular organisms. Perhaps they ‘evolved’. This proves their significance at least.

Significant? They are killing themselves. This is not what our ancestors wanted. A planet of intruders? No. 

Theus, you’re getting a little worked up.

Millenia of progress has been bastardized.

It rarely goes any other way. Perhaps this is for the best. Remember, change is the very essence of everything we know.

I’m going to blow it up. 

Theus …

The command has been activated. We can find another planet to maintain our civilization on.

RDP: Extinct
FOWC: rarely

Posted in flash fiction, Word Prompt

Permit for Hope

Every full moon we’re given permits. On occasion they’ve felt like rocks, weighing down our souls. Sometimes they function as population control. 

The abstract isn’t something we’re terribly familiar with but I remember what it’s like to feel. When I was first brought here sadness compounded fear. Anger settled in next. A long lost cousin staying despite what I insisted. 

They dangle these permits, inspiring us with lust and greed. 

What shall we receive?

The paper melts away in my hand but not before I can read. A permit for hope, emotion I no longer crave.

Ragtag Daily Prompt: Hope
Fandangos One Word Challenge: Permit

Posted in flash fiction, Word Prompt

Apparitions

When I’m stressed I don’t really sleep. It’s not that I don’t want to but I just can’t, not when I’m coiled like a rocket. One slight trigger, a breeze that feels a little malicious, and I’m off towards the stars.

My dreams, in an effort to help, mill around my room.

Bernie, my oldest apparition, is the most sensible of them all. He peaks in through my door and offers milk and cookies. He pads along the halls in a robe errantly open. He pats my arm in efforts to talk me down.

Reasonable is seldom what I want. 

Harry has a devilish grin and hair molded into flaming tufts. He’s the demon on my shoulder pushing me to indulge. He slips his fingers along my skin, careful not to scratch. He whispers in my ear, oh the things he says. But when I slip back to consciousness he’s never there.

Hilda is my warrior princess, my inner child gone sideways. She sits at the end of my bed, broad back and silken hair framed by her tri horned helmet. In a flagrant disregard for the boys, she tells me how she ransacked a town killing all the men and picking them apart piece by piece. It’s the same story every time but I wouldn’t dare remind her.

I’m going to write a story called “the great interrupted life”. It’s going to be a mom trying to say 1 sentence throughout and never finishing it.

Posted in Word Prompt

When Lightning Strikes

What an amazing coincidence.

That I’d be standing here when lightning struck. 

Sure, it stings a little at first but the results?

It turned me into a multifaceted shimmering disco ball of flame. 

I’m enchanted

I glow. 

I’m Glinda the good witch if she were slightly damaged

Which I think we could argue she was …

But I can’t concentrate on these things right now.

It’s getting hard to breathe.

And I’m coming apart at the seams.

Posted in flash fiction, Word Prompt

Green Milk

That over there is Henry.

Henry is currently neck deep in a bowl of lucky charms. I’m not sure if he’s sleeping. I’m not sure he’s even alive.

I’m not sure I care either way. 

I sweep back and forth, not really cleaning so much as biding my time. Any minute now these little monsters will rise with the bell, a fastidious cult. Once they’ve filed away into classrooms to be pumped full of information, whether it’s right or wrong, I can get on with my day. 

“Get a job at a prestigious private school.” They said. “It’ll be great money.”

Have I got news for them. 

“Think that spots clean enough Maude?” 

The principal is this little round man. He covers his smattering of graying hair with weird hats and always wears a cartoon tie. Today’s tie is Marvin the Martian.

And now he’s shuffling me to another corner of the cafeteria.

“Jimmy spilled his milk.”

He puts me to task cleaning up Jimmy’s failed science experiment. I swear there’s something unearthly in this milk. It’s green and doing a little jive. I’m no scientist but I’m pretty sure that’s not right. 

The bell rings summoning the demon spawn towards the halls. 

I watch them go with not one bit of regret but notice Henry, still head down in his lucky charms. I suppose I have some obligation. I poke him with the end of my broom. 

His head lolls over sending milk strangely tinted with green splattering over the floor. 

Shit, is Henry dead? I think he might be the richest kid at this school. That’s no good. 

As I’m sorting my alibi and evidence that I had no hand in this event, Henry opens his eyes. Jet black pupils take over leaving only thin edges of white. He throws his head back, emitting a punctuated screech. 

Huh. Well Henry’s not dead. I’m not sure what he is but I’m not sure I care.

Word Count: 327
Words from FOWC (Fandango’s One Word Challenge) – task – and Ragtag Daily Prompt – fastidious

Posted in stream of consciousness, Word Prompt

Jagged Edges

I exist in jagged spaces. Like the frayed strands of jeans ripped between my thighs or the breaks in the outlines of unfinished tattoos. Art that doesn’t cover my walls, instead propping up dust in corners, or bits and pieces of a life I forgot to throw away all speak to my permanent displacement.

I exist in the breaks between puffs on a cigarette, in the spaces between words. Never fully pulling myself up and away. I remain suffocated by the sheer amount of air. I exist for no one, not even myself, and fail to connect the lines between here and there.

My reflection, red lips curled around a cigarette or smoky eyes hiding thoughts much more sinister, feigns surprise though I don’t feel anything more than recognition. 

I’ve become so accustomed that I can’t even claim myself anymore.

Not very deep (RDP)