#Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge
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Flash Fiction: Doors
This week Chuck Wendig gave us a Flash Fiction Challenge composed of five AI produced images with a theme of “doorways.” I put a picture of all five of them up and let it simmer. This afternoon during a Zoom call, my muse politely gave me the scene and the story. Despite being exhausted and my first thought being that there was no way I had the energy or time to write this tonight, adrenaline and…
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Flash Fiction Challenge: The Ritual of Souls
This flash fiction challenge, posted over at Chuck Wendig's terribleminds.com, had one stipulation: incorporate "there is no exit" in some way. Thematically, as literal dialogue, or whatever.
And so I whipped up The Ritual of Souls (in 1.5 days, so go easy on me). It ended up like a Saturday morning cartoon, but slathered in blood (which is pretty cool).
***
Blood rushed to Kelly’s head as she hung upside-down, hands tied behind her back. She stared into the emerald eyes of Nagazhul.
“You can’t stop it now,” Nagazhul said, his voice echoing deep in his throat.
The swirling violet crystal behind him hummed, emanating light to the chanting acolytes encircling it. Beyond, Kelly could see the cityscape, each window like the light of a firefly. Those people had no idea how close they were to death.
“Ritual’s not done yet,” Kelly said, writhing against her bonds. She shimmied her hands to the knife hidden in her belt.
Nagazhul reached out with a clawed hand and ran blackened nails along her cheek, he inhaled, as though smelling her scent. But Kelly knew he was tasting her soul, just the edge of it. Being an agent of the occult, Kelly had an iron will that meant shitheads like Nagazhul couldn’t work their magic on her.
“Eight million souls, agent Kelly, all in a matter of seconds.” Nagazhul turned his back to her, staring out of the skyscraper's windows. “It will be death on a scale so sweat, so unimagined. I will ascend. Can you comprehend this? Godhood awaits me, in a matter of moments I will be a breaker of worlds, eater of eras. And you will be my mortal witness. You’re terror will ripple throughout purgatorium. It will taste so sweat,” Nagazhul inhaled. “There will be no exit, no escape from my will.”
He turned to Kelly, his emerald eyes glimmering with delight.
Kelly stabbed him in the eye.
He reeled, clutching his bloody socket.
Kelly, arms free, cut the ropes around her feet, hit the floor with a roll, and charged at the ritual crystal. It hovered in the air, spinning faster and faster, radiating blinding light.
Nagazhul roared, his voice echoing with the power of a thunderstorm. “Kill her.”
The chanting acolytes turned as one, staring at her from shadowed hoods, jagged serpentine blades held high, screeching.
Kelly drew her boot knife, twelve inches of carbon steel, and slammed it to the hilt in an acolytes gut.
They swarmed her, kicking and biting and stabbing. Kelly’s blade flashed, arcs of red splattered on the floor, on the ceiling, on herself. She reached into a shadowed hood, and felt the chill void on her flesh, and then she clutched his windpipe and squeezed. A soft, wet gurgle escaped the acolyte.
Kelly broke bones with kicks from her steel toed boots, her knife dug through robe and flesh. And Kelly shoved the bleeding acolytes aside, charging for the now spinning crystal.
She reached up, an unspeakable force pushing against her, trying to drive her back. Her fingers inches from the crystal. Just. A. Little. More.
Got it.
Kelly tore the crystal from the ritual circle with a crack of thunder. Nagazhul bellowed, but she was already running for the window, crystal under her arm.
The acolytes leaped for her, trying to grab her arms and legs, and each time she barreled past them, kicking and punching them aside.
And then she hurled the crystal into the window. The window shattered, and the crystal pin wheeled to the street below, exploding into a thousand pieces.
“Rituals done,” Kelly said.
Nagazhul stared out the window, hand outstretched, mouth agape. Then, his brow furrowed, his features contorted into a bestial countenance. He inhaled, and as one the acolytes bowed to him, their souls draining away like blown mist, spiralling up into Nagazhul’s mouth and nostrils. The acolytes slumped, their bodies drained, dead. Nagazhul glowed with their power, glowed from the surge of strength it gave him.
He set his emerald eyes on Kelly and breathed deep.
Pain lanced through Kelly’s body, piercing from the inside out. Her hands melted away, dissolving into mist, pulled into the wide maw of Nagazhul. Then her legs dissolved, her torso, and it crept up her neck until her sinuses burned and her eyes watered, and then blackness.
Solid blackness beneath her, miles upon miles of blackness surrounded her. Kelly breathed, and no air entered her lungs, but somehow she lived.
Nagazhul tilted his head, a beacon in the darkness. “Curious,” he said. “How do you persist?”
Kelly was an agent of the occult, her spirit iron willed. And unlike the others Nagazhul had eaten, Kelly’s spirit was weighted with the will of her determination.
Nagazhul hadn’t expected Kelly to lunge, but he especially hadn’t expected her grasping hand to have weight, to clutch his robe, and to throw him to the ground. Nagazhul shrieked, confused. Kelly drove her knife into his heart, and his face contorted into a visage of primal pain.
The blackness below him opened. Tentacles thick with bloodshot eyes writhed and wrapped around Nagazhul. He pleaded, begged for mercy. “Don’t send me back there. Please. I can’t take it anymore.”
“You don’t have a choice. Enjoy a century of nightmare, fucker.”
Kelly twisted the blade, and Nagazhul was pulled through the rend, consumed by the writhing, bulbous mass of the eldritch domain.
And then she was alone. The blackness crowded around her, pressing against her like water filled sacks, suffocating her. She dug her fingers into the darkness, pinpricks of light emerging from her finger holes, and she tore it in twain.
Nagazhul’s flesh fell to the floor, shed like a false skin. Kelly stood in the skyscraper, bathed in blood, surrounded by bodies, hair whipped by the broken window.
Just another job done.
#urban fantasy#fatnasy#flash fiction challenge#occult#terribleminds#blog#chuck wendig#Saturday morning cartoon but with blood
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Things Fall Apart – A Books of Binding Flash Fiction
He sniffed the air. The scent of burnt bones and under it—blood. A lot of it. And the outhouse smell of violent death.
He walked the utility area carefully, reconstructing the deadly dance from a lifetime lived among its devotees. The spatters of brown flecks. The dust-free smears where a body had been dragged, struggling. A broken fingernail caught in the chain-link. The cloying smell of burning hair and garbage, and just a hint of cucumber. Acetone. At least they had destroyed the body, but it meant the attackers were not human. A human gang might have doused the body with gasoline to throw off the authorities, but they wouldn’t have brought their victim all the way out here, and it wouldn’t have been acetone. They’d brought it with them to make sure the body was gone. He sighed heavily. Perfect. He didn’t have time to pity the dead. This was just one of the sites he had been sent to check.
He opened the dumpster, holding his black sleeve over his sensitive nose, wishing the leather were doing a better job of masking the stench. The inside was charred black, the sides a little warped from the heat, but the accelerant had done its job. Nothing remained to mark this victim as different. Just a lumpy sort of ash. Shattered bone fragments and the occasional tooth. He could have his team sanitize the area, but they couldn’t remove the smell. If the authorities didn’t find the body they could smell, there would be more questions than a few teeth, they would never find a match for, would pose.
This city was a mess. Its preternaturals were out of control. Just short of all-out warfare between too many factions. It was getting worse, and more importantly, it was getting sloppy. That was something his masters couldn’t allow. The humans could never know who lived among them. They were a panicky breed and the only thing they liked more than killing each other was killing anything else. It would be open season on them all, and as superior as many preternaturals liked to feel with their extra strength or speed or longevity, there were billions of humans in this world. No matter his people’s advantages, they would lose any concerted war.
He heard a car approach, its tires crunching the gravel. He lowered the dumpster lid soundlessly and scaled the fence behind it, dropping to a crouch on the other side. He heard the ding of the car as the occupants left the engine running and the lights pointed in his direction. He sprinted for the tree line, trusting the dumpster to block him from view. He hurtled past the first line of trees and hauled himself, hand over hand with the ease of practice, into a tall one a few feet into the stand, coming to rest about fifteen feet up. Any higher and his weight was going to be an issue.
He watched from his temporary blind as a man and a woman crossed through the beam from their headlights. The woman wore a long dress and carried a large, floppy bag, from which she was pulling a flashlight and a few small bottles. The man beside her had his hand across his stomach, fingers under his jacket. He would bet most of his not-insubstantial resources that the jacket held a gun. The man’s eyes never stopped moving, searching outside their pool of light—muscle then, which made her the boss.
“I don’t like this. It’s too exposed out here. Let’s come back in the morning.”
“Etienne, it has to be tonight. Do you smell that? Tomorrow this place will be full of families and someone is going to notice the smell.”
The man frowned, and he stopped his scanning to look at her for a moment. “I smell it. Why don’t you go wait in the car? I’ll take care of it.”
She sighed and seemed to be counting to ten. “I know that you think you’re protecting me. You seem to think I’m much more fragile than I am. This is not my first burned body, Etienne. Not my first murdered friend. This isn’t even my hundredth. I appreciate you coming with me, but this thinking that I’m the damsel you have to save has got to stop. This is my city. I’m the Mulcahy now. You have to let me do my job or I can’t have you come with me again. Tell me you understand.”
The man’s body was tense, his face a mix of frustration, anger, and a touch of fear. “Winter, you can’t seriously expect me to—”
“Tell me you understand or go sit in the car. This is my job, Etienne. This is what I do. None of that has changed. I am responsible for keeping as much peace as can be had in this city, and barring that, for keeping things under wraps enough to not have us all killed by the Eldest to keep the Veil of Secrecy intact. Sometimes that means stopping fights before they start. Tonight, it means making sure that a missing lion’s body has been destroyed enough not to raise questions. A fifteen-year-old lion.” Her teeth and fists were both clenched as she spoke. “Who belongs to a very good friend. Tonight, my job is to make sure his body is unrecognizable. Tomorrow, it’s to talk to his Queen and tell her that my need that she maintain the peace is more important than her need for vengeance. So, tell me you understand. Back me up and help me do this impossible job or stay home.”
The man searched her face, and sighed heavily. “I don’t understand.”
The woman raised her hand to point at the car. “Then g—”
He caught her hand gently. “I don’t understand, Winter, but I’m trying to. Do your job. I’ll back you up.”
The woman struggled to control her face, but nodded, and turned toward the chain-link fence.
Winter… this was Winter Mulcahy. Seahaven’s wizard. The man in the trees had heard of her, but never met her. She was out of her depth, but it looked like maybe she was recruiting some help. He hoped it would be enough. Seahaven was winding up on his masters’ radar too often. The Eldest were neither patient nor forgiving. They couldn’t be.
He slipped silently out of the tree and into the darkness beyond. Lions. He couldn’t help Miss Mulcahy comfort her friend, but he could make sure that whoever was attacking the lions was too scared to do it again. His smile was feral as he ran toward where his car was hidden.
#The Books of Binding#A. E. Lowan#Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge#urban fantasy#flash fiction#Winter Mulcahy#Etienne Knight#Obsidian#therian#jaguar#lion#wizard#sidhe#Eldest#Seahaven
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terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge: First Comes the Breakup, Then Comes the Destruction
Many things were written on the pane of glass between CassAndra and Jan. Formulas. Different serums. Chemical compounds. To CassAndra, everything written was mirrored-- she, er… it, could read and write just as easily that way-- because CassAndra was an android.
“First comes the breakup, then comes the destruction,” Jan said. She was growing tired. As she saw things, it would all end with her death. And so, they plotted together. As Jan’s android, the truths that it spoke seemed to have an edge to them. And when it spoke, it often unnerved other people, her voice reverberating across their ears as if emotion itself were striking a metal rod and producing a tinny sound.
“Are you sure those are the words that you saw?”
“Yes,” Jan said, nodding her head almost absently, as she stared at one of the notes written between them.
“From a human point of view, it is very interesting to support the destroyology of humans,” CassAndra pointed out, not-so-plainly.
Destroyology of humans, Jan mused. What an interesting way to think of them planning her death. Though she saw her android as weirdly human, it said things like this sometimes, things that reminded her how different the two were. Death didn’t have to be a destruction. It made sense that CassAndra would think of it as such, but really, her death would be another beginning in the underworld.
“We’ve been here before, you know,” Jan said reassuringly as she tapped on the glass between them. “It’ll be no different this time. You’ll see.”
It was an obvious lie, in a way. Yes, they had been here before, but each time was always different. The first time it had been brief. Barely a moment, and that moment felt like having the wind knocked out of her, but instead of feeling like nothing would draw breath back to her lungs, it was like her consciousness had forsaken her body. Now, after all their prior attempts, that feeling pulled on her. She was starting to feel euphoric when she left, and the tears when her consciousness rushed back into her self were not happy ones.
“I hope you know that you cannot convince me of that,” CassAndra started. “But if it helps you to say so, then yes.”
It was an odd thing, what her android said. Jan could tell that it was trying to convince her not to continue on with it this time. There was an awareness in what the android had said, and that made her smile. She knew that this was the right thing to do. CassAndra was proof that there was life beyond what was scientifically known.
“Trust me, CassAndra. Sometimes, you just have to take a leap, even if it doesn’t make any sense,” Jan stated, then adding, “perhaps especially when it doesn’t make any sense.”
So Jan took two pomegranate seeds into her mouth, making sure to gnash them completely against her teeth, as she left for the underworld. She wasn’t entirely sure the effect that so many would have-- she’d only ever taken a fraction of one before. Those fractions were promising, but ultimately unhelpful. A few minutes, sometimes a few hours. Once an entire day.
“I trust you, Jan.”
“Good. Then let’s talk this through one more time. What are you looking for?”
“I am looking for,” the andorid began, pausing as if in thought “... a steady yet slow heart rate. Taking more than three breaths in six minutes. Taking fewer than three breaths in as many minutes. Convulsions.”
“And if I take fewer breaths?” Jan asked.
“Epinephrine injection to the heart. Is that satisfactory?”
CassAndra’s last word, satifactory, had a twinge of concern in the lilt of her voice.
“Yes. Okay. I’m ready.”
There was a nod that passed between them. All that was left to do was to die. So she stepped into the ice bath, willing herself down into it, submerging herself, resisting the urge to leap out of it. Once she was submerged the water, she felt metal grasp her and hold her in place. Next to the ice, the metal felt warm by comparison. It was comforting, almost, as if being held in a friend’s arms. Her thoughts slowed. Her pulse raced, but eventually slowed. Then it stopped.
And she was in the underworld. Right back where she was before. A chasm in the earth, and words etched in metal in the ground. First comes the breakup, then comes the destruction.
#les paroles vous#terribleminds#chuck wendig flash fiction challenge#First Comes the Breakup Then Comes the Destruction#almost made it to the word count this time#and finished it like twelve hours too late#but ugh this has been a rough week#chuck wendig
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Flash Fiction Challenge Jan 2017
As I said in last week’s post, I am going to start doing writing contests and challenges. Chuck Wendig put up a Flash Fiction Challenge with the theme THE APOCALYPSE. Except it has to be something not seen before. I took this to mean no: zombies, alien invasion, nuclear war, the rapture and the like. Not really much else to say about it except I hope you enjoy this short story fulled by leftover NYE wine about our future overlords.
Purrrfect Future
“I wish one of them would adopt me.”
“We all wish one of them would adopt us so just shut up already.” The scruffy man in the kennel across from Melanie barked.
“But,” she cried, “I really want out. This place is cold, it smells, and there’s no place to pee.”
“What do you think that box of sand is for?” The man scratches his beard. “You crap in there too.”
“No! That’s how you get your poop on your feet!” Melanie hits the bars of the kennel with her fists. “I! Want! Out!”
The door at the end of the hall clicks open. A large, orange fur covered cat wearing jeans and a white tank top walks into the kennel hallway. Behind him was a female black cat dressed in a floral print top. Gold hoop earrings dangle off her ears. Her child, a gray tabby in a pink dress, bounds in from behind the two adults.
“Oooooohhhhh!” The child purrs when she sees Melanie. “Look at this one. Her head fur is yellow.”
“Yes!” Melanie squeals as she jumps. “Take me home! Take me home!”
“Momma, this one acts like she’s trying to talk. I think she likes me.”
“Yes, but what about this one?” Momma walks to the kennel with the scruffy man. “Fluffs, look at this one. It seems very calm.” Momma puts her paw through the kennel bars and pats the scruffy man on his head. “That’s a good human. Much less likely to jump out the window and break a leg like your last one.”
“Nope. He’s cranky, I can tell.” Fluffs puts her arms through the kennel bars and rubs Melanie’s belly. “Good human, pretty human, meow meow meow.”
“Aaaahhhhhhh!!!!” Melanie wiggles.
“She likes me. Momma, I want this one.”
“Fine.”
The orange cat takes a set of keys off his belt, flips though until he finds the right one, and unlocks the kennel. Fluffs grabs Melanie around the waist and hugs her. “I love you already I’m going to name you Momo.”
“My name is Melanie.”
“Oh Momo, you trying to talk is so cute.”
“Come on, Fluffs. We still have to make that Cardinal Casserole.”
“Ok, Momma.” Fluffs runs out of the kennel. Melanie’s legs dangle from her arms.
“See you in a couple of months, Mrs. Isis.” The orange cat smirks.
“It’s good they breed so darn fast.”
***
Fluffs flings open the front door.
“Welcome home, Momo.” Fluffs holds Melanie high in the air above her head before setting her down on the plush carpet. “I’ll get my dolls so we can play dress up. I bet you’ll fit in the stroller. We can put it on PawTube.”
“Do your chores first.” Momma said. “Or do I need to take Momo back to the pound?
“No ma’am.” Fluffs frowns and pets Melanie’s head. “I’ll be back.” Fluffs skips into the kitchen after her mom.
“My name is Melanie.” Melanie sobs. “Why can’t she understand that?”
“Because.” Says a honeyed voice. “That’s just how it is.”
Melanie looks up. On top of the couch sits woman. She stretches her arms over her head and yawns. “I’m Miss Baby, and you are?”
“Melanie.”
“No. Not your birth name. What did the kid say she’d call you?”
“Momo.”
Miss Baby smirks. “Momo. Huh. You’re the third one this year. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a good name. That’s why the kid keeps using it. The first Momo died of old age.”
“And the second Momo?”
“She didn’t like that the kid kept putting her on PawTube and tried to run away.”
“Tried?”
“Yeah. She jumped out the window but it was too high. I heard Momma say she was too expensive to fix so...” Miss Baby shrugs.
“Oh.” Melanie’s lip starts to quiver. “I don’t want to be put down.”
“Then don’t jump out the window.” Miss Baby hops off the couch. “You’re young. Just act cute. Let the kid dress you up in her doll clothes. Eat when they feed you and use the sand box.”
“Again with the sand box.”
“You’d better use it, or they’ll take you back to the pound.”
“What’s a Pawtube?”
“I’ll show you.” Miss Baby walks towards the kitchen. “Come on.”
Melanie walks after Miss Baby, stopping every few steps to look at her surroundings. Everywhere was furniture that was too big for her to get on without jumping or climbing. She had a vague memory of there being furniture that was her size, of her own momma rocking her as a baby in the chair.
“You coming?” Miss Baby stands in the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips.
“Yeah. I’m just checking out the place.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for that. Come on.” Miss Baby grabs Melanie’s hand and drags her through the kitchen. Momma stands at the stove chopping something. “Mmmmmm. That smells good.” Miss Baby lets go of Melanie and walks up to Momma. “Hey. Hey. Heeeeeeey.” Miss Baby taps Momma’s leg.
“Stop begging, Miss Baby. You’re going to teach Momo bad habits.” Momma gently pushes Miss Baby away with her foot. “Shoo.”
“Fine. Didn’t want your stupid cooking anyway.” Miss Baby sulks as she walks back to Melanie. “Come on.”
The two women walk down a hall with four doors. “The sand box is in there.” Miss Baby points to the first door on the right. It’s partially open. Melanie peeks inside and sees a big white chair against the wall, a white pedestal, and a box with sand in it. “The cats do it in there too, but on the white chair.”
“Weird.”
“I know. Ok, the the Pawtube is in here.” Miss Baby points at another open door at the far end of the hall.
Inside the room was all pink. A soft, fluffy, pink bed. Pink miniature furniture. Dolls in pink clothes. The only thing in the room that wasn’t pink was a set of white drawers and a white desk. The chair for the desk was pink, of course.
“It’s up here.” Miss Baby grabs onto the rim of the pink desk chair and pulls herself up. She repeats the climb from the chair to the desk.
“That looks hard.”
“Stop being a scaredy person.”
Melanie proceeds to climb up the chair. She has a hard time pulling her body up but eventually makes it. She jumps from the chair to the desk with more ease. Melanie breathes heavy as she bends over. “That. Was. Hard.”
“You’ll get used to it.” Miss Baby kicks a half rounded object. A flat black surface towards the back of the desk brightens with light. “I’ve watched Fluffs do this a lot.” Miss Baby puts her hand on a multi-colored circle at the bottom of the screen. The picture changes. “This is Pawtube.”
Melanie stares at the screen. In the middle was a large picture of a male human in a bonnet looking displeased. On the picture was an arrow pointing to the right with the words ‘watch again’ under it. To the right of the bigger picture were moving pictures of other humans. ‘Humans play with yarn.’ ‘Humans knock things over.’ ‘Top Ten Funniest Human Compilations.’
“What is this? Are they trapped?” Melanie touches one of the pictures to the right. It gets bigger and starts to play. “Ack!” Melanie jumps back, almost falling off the desk.
“Ha! No. They aren’t trapped.” Miss Baby sits and watches the screen. “I’m sure there will be one of you up there soon.”
“How am I going to be in this thing?”
“Miss Baby! Momo! Why are you two on my desk? Shoo!” Fluffs storms into the room, her fur puffed out. Miss Baby jumps off the desk and runs under the bed. Melanie freezes, her eyes wide.
Fluffs smiles. Her fur smooths down as she picks Melanie up to pet her. “I’m sorry I scared you, Momo. Here. You can sit on the side of the desk while I do my homework.” Fluffs sets Melanie on the corner of the desk.
“Riri. Stop playing Pawtube.”
The video on the screen stops playing the video. Fluffs sits at her desk and takes her homework out of her backpack.
“Question one, name some of the reasons that made the modern Cat the top mammal during The Enlightenment of Feline. Hmmm. Riri, look up Enlightenment of Feline.” The screen blinks before several article suggestions pop up. Fluffs clicks on one by Science ACatamey. “There are many theories of what was before the Great Enlightenment of Feline. The most common among them speculates that humans were much larger and more intelligent than their current state. Some in the scientific community believe there was a great devolution among the humans caused by- oh this is not what I want. Riri, pull up another article on the Enlightenment of Feline. History, not science.”
Melanie hugs her knees to her chest and rocks back and forth. “Devolution?”
#flash fiction#flash fic challenge#chuck wendig#short story#cats#meow#purrrfect#devolution#wtf#kitty overlords#enlightenment#feline#apacolypse#the future#writing#am writing
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Jump
Title: Jump
Genre: Science Fiction
Words: 653
Notes:
Dug this out of the archives to celebrate 300 followers. It’s another Chuck Wendig challenge which simple had to involve travel of some kind. This is one of my shortest flash fictions, but I rather like it.
Jump
She stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down and down and down. Kneeling for a moment, she picked up a fist-sized rock and threw it down into the chasm below, watching it drop until she lost sight of it in the distance. Long way down, she thought with a wild grin and stepped back from the edge.
There were two ways down that cliff (well, three, but hitching a ride back down was a cop-out). You either climbed down, which was the long and hard way and the way gluttons for punishment did it. Or you jumped, and let gravity do the rest.
Seven or eight paces back she stopped and turned, took a couple of deep breaths and then, before she could change her mind, ran as fast as she could and leapt off the edge, into the abyss.
For a brief moment which felt like eternity it was like she just hung there, suspended in weightlessness, as if time had stopped and she was frozen in this one glorious instant, although somewhere at the back of her mind she couldn't help thinking of Wile E. Coyote, making her want to laugh hysterically.
Time resumed and she dropped, the adrenaline surging through her body, making it seem like her heart had leapt into her throat to prevent her from screaming out her fear, joy and thrill, leaving her mind to do the work that her voice refused to do.
For long seconds she fell, head down with arms held close to her body and her legs kept tightly together, presenting as little resistance to the air as possible, heightening the sensation of speed better than any kind of powered flight could achieve.
Off to her left - so close it seemed she could just reach out and touch it - the red rock wall of the cliff added to that sensation of speed, outcroppings, handholds and all detail blurring together when she tried to focus on it and reminding her that any contact with that wall would spell disaster. Which, of course, only added to the exhilaration of the headlong drop.
A warning sound beeped in her earpiece, telling her that it was about time to think about deploying the wingsuit, at first just a friendly little pulse of sound, then as she pushed the envelope and kept her slim shape with arms and legs held back, the sound rose in volume and shrillness, until she couldn't bear it - or ignore it - any longer.
Spreading out arms and legs the brightly coloured fabric of the wingsuit snapped out and caught an updraught, slowing her descent and levelling it out so she glided now instead of falling, replacing the sensation of speed and motion with that of flying like a sea bird.
The seconds stretched into infinity as she caught current after current until, at last, the pesky alert sounded in her ear, a warning that told her that the trip was coming to an end, that it was time to pull the cord for the parachute. By now, she could just about see individual rocks on the rusty ground and listened as the alarm sounded louder and louder, and it wasn't until it had reached a shrill screech that she pulled the cord and floated gently the last few feet of her journey, her heart still pounding in her chest with the pure joy of it.
* * *
A voice spoke to her, saying her name.
"Hmm?" she muttered with a blink and was back in her office, her colleague sitting across from her with an amused look on his face.
"You were a million miles away," he told her, lifting a questioning eyebrow.
"Yeah… I was," she nodded with a slow smile, leaning back in her chair, a content sigh escaping her lips as she glanced at the drawer where the ticket to adventure lay waiting for the day to end.
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My apologies in advance if this seems rude - but I think extending the word limit is a really good idea! As an artist and a writer, not only is 2.5k a bit tight for a fairytale, I also don't think it is an equivalent workload to drawing 1 illustration (unless I've misunderstood and you only expect simple drawings from the artists). I think it's only fair for a writer-centric zine to give writers more opportunity to show off their work! Anyway, thank you for this project~
No, you’re not being rude at all! Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
There are wonderful fanfictions with word counts up to 10k a chapter, the kind that most of us probably end up reading til way past midnight.
This anthology won’t be like that.
It will be a collection to showcase the best of a writer’s qualities, stuffed into bite-sized pieces. This is a challenge— it requires a little more control, thought and precision to fit words and ideas into a short story than chunk everything in so we have miles of words where it’s just —what?— back-and-forth dialogue with a fakeout before the much-awaited exposition. That is entertaining when reading a single piece of work done by one author. For an anthology with 10+ stories? Not quite. In the time allotted, believe me, writers would want to reread and reexamine their works, see what clicks and toss what does not, trim down the fat, and then cast their magic again.
I know how this sounds, that I am demanding a lot for creators who are freely giving their time. But I want this to be the best it can be as I know this fandom has more than enough creators who can deliver. This is also an ideal, my vision if you will.
But if the participants really do believe 2500 words is limiting, we would of course extend the word count. I’m thinking 3000 but 4000 also seems like a good number…
Regarding the artists, they are to draw whatever they agree with their partners. I’m not sure what you mean by the unequal workload, as I do not believe writing is any easier than drawing. These are two different crafts with different burdens. Writing words may not seem daunting, but making them mean something to a reader is a giant of a task. Same with drawing! Simple or not, they would have to make sure it will catch the eye of an audience.
Anyway, I’m glad to have expounded a bit more on my thoughts and the decisions I made for the guidelines as I’m sure there are a few more applicants who would want clarifications. If there’s anything else you want to know, please do ask away~!
—Mod Sara
PS: I’d be remiss not to mention two of the slight inspirations for the idea of the zine: Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Fairy Tales Remixed Challenge and Blank Space Architectural Fairy Tale Competition.
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Chuck Wendig's #FlashFiction Challenge: Demons and Assassins
Chuck Wendig’s #FlashFiction Challenge: Demons and Assassins
This piece of flash comes to you by the way of two sources. The first is Chuck Wendig’s Friday Flash Fiction Challenge. And here is what he says about that: Way this works is, below you will find two tables — X and Y! — and you will pick (or randomly draw) from those tables. That will leave you with a set of X versus Y — and from there, you will write a piece of flash fiction based on that…
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#assassins#Chuck Wendig#demons#devil&039;s trap#Flash Fiction Challenge#Legion of Darkness#magic#Mor&039;a&039;stani Universe#Oneroi
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AND WE'RE BACK.
It's time to revivify these challenges, I think, and this time around, let's lean hard into our current geopolitical poopshow and ponder THE APOCALYPSE.
Except, here's the deal.
I don't want you to write THE USUAL APOCALYPSE.
I want you to make one up you have not seen before.
A rare, strange, unparalleled apocalypse. Unexpected. Unwritten....
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Flash Fiction: Mine Flowers
Flash Fiction: Mine Flowers
A couple of weeks ago, the most wonderful Chuck Wendig (maybe I’ll get a chance to finally meet him and thank him in person at Worldcon? Dare I hope?) said he was thinking of reviving his Flash Fiction Challenge prompts. This was tremendously tremendous news. I dearly loved writing those stories.
Well, he’s done it. Last week I was swamped and buried and having nervous breakdowns and all of those…
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Gnash Liven - A Character That Never Got a Story (yet?)
Gnash Liven – A Character That Never Got a Story (yet?)
A while back, Author Chuck Wendig posted a flash fiction challenge to create a character in 250 words or less. This one was mine. Gnash Liven had a molten and unrelenting hatred in her heart, a wooden spike strapped to her thigh, and a scar, about a quarter-centimeter thick, tracing from the tear duct of her left eye to just below her earlobe. And, occasionally, Jim Nightblade’s balls in her…
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Back, again.
Hello to my few and awesome Tumblr followers. In case it was not obvious, I am terrible at blogging. If I had it my way I would offer all sorts of writing advice and initiate prompt challenges and all that good stuff. The problem is until I get something actually published that was not self-published, I don't feel justified in offering too much instruction. The other problem is I'm just plain lazy. In fact, I'm already getting tired writing this. Sad, I know. However, since the app I was using to blog with recently has closed shop, I have decided to renew my use of Tumblr. Mostly this means this is where I will be putting my flash fiction. But I also will be chronicling the progress of my new fantasy novel. Hopefully I'll find someone to help or at least commiserate with as I write. Right now I'm working on a flash fiction challenge from Chuck Wendig's Terribleminds.com blog. I'll be posting it here once I'm finished. Right now my writing schedule is basically work on my novel at home, work on my other projects at my job. What else am I supposed to do at work? Work? Please. Anyway, the challenge involves 2 random things versus each other. Mine turned out to be werewolves vs mutants. My first thought was a battle royal, but as usual I needed to put my own spin on it and, well... you'll see. Thanks for reading and hopefully, I'll be back soon.
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terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge: There Is No Exit
Harmony stepped onto the ship, a bit worried. They had all told her of the stories, that it was bad luck to bring a woman on board. And still, she had insisted on it with the crew of the Fool’s Endeavor. She was there out of a sense of purpose, of obligation to their task at hand. Knowing that did very little in the way of comforting her, however, as the only woman amongst a crew full of unsavory men. They were all on board the ship for a reason, of course. Even her, though her task was much different from the rest of the crew’s. Though not many of them knew why their mysterious benefactor had paid them so well for such an easy mission.
Two-Fruit Tony, with his impeccable bill of health on traveling voyages, had never gotten scurvy. And he always seemed to have an extra orange on hand when you were beginning to feel the soreness come on. Not that he’d share-- just that he had one. No one knew where he got that extra orange though… but he was highly respected amongst the thieving crews in the south, and you did need a knife to cut purses. Knives had many uses, like peeling an orange for instance.
Then there was the captain, who only managed to keep that title so long because he was a brutal fighter, his blows hitting only slightly less heavily than he liked to hit the bottle. He was ruthless and a drunk, and those were among his more redeeming qualities. The navigator never seemed to have any difficulty with his job, yet they were always headed for trouble when following his itinerary.
She thought back to the stories they had told her, that it was bad luck to bring her on board. That much was true, it was certainly unlucky for them to have her so close. They didn’t really have much of a chance.
There is no exit-- not for her, anyway. She knew what had to happen before getting on the ship, she just hoped that maybe she could avoid it this time. She’s done it before, and she’ll do it again, possibly more comfortably next time. Maybe she wouldn’t question her hand in this, her purpose. Now, after seeing her companions for who they were, however, she knew what to do. That was the plan all along, her purpose on the ship. She was paid quite well for her role.
Mermaids drown men with their siren songs.
#les paroles vous#terribleminds#chuck wendig flash fiction challenge#There Is No Exit#sigh#maybe next week i'll hit the word count rather than being tragically off from it#long post#chuck wendig#i titled this 'an ocean in harmony' but tbh i'm not super keen on it
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Gringita Feminism, or, How White Feminists Are Continuously Showing Their Asses and Being Jerks to WOC.
As some of you may know, I was let go from my day job on Monday. This infuriated me and seemed to be spearheaded by a fellow woman who I’ve worked with on and off for almost a decade at this point. Her latest round of not giving a shit coupled with Chuck Wendig’s latest flash fiction challenge of create your own monster inspired me to write this. And yes, I’m white. No, I’ve not experienced racism in the workplace. But I’ve seen a good deal of it. No, I’m not saying my former coworker acted like this to WOC (though she did seem to have a dislike for other women in general if they showed they could possibly exceed her). This is an amalgamation of my current frustration and anger at my fellow white feminist on social media and in real life with how they treat/interact with anyone who isn’t white and my anger at being laid off (budget cuts, I was told) and how it was done. Yes, I’m saying that a certain section of white feminist are fucking monsters. They’re greedy assholes who take the phrase “the personal is political” to the extreme because they don’t give a shit as long as they get theirs. Apologies in advance to any WOC that think I’m writing a stereotype. Feel free to message me about it if I am, criticism is the only way I can improve.
“This is just business. Nothing personal. Just business.” Peg uncrossed then crossed her legs again.
“I- I don’t understand?” Marta held her hands out in front of her. They shook, partly from anger, partly from trying to hold the tears and screams back. “I thought everything was going fine? Mira, is it my accent? Porque yo enunciate very well and-”
“Martha, you’re speaking in Spanish again. See we can’t have you acting like that because you’re on your period or whatever.”
“Marta.”
“Whatever.” Peg stood up and looked down at her now former subordinate. “Bottom line is, you’re not a good fit for the company. I mean, look at yourself. You’re...distracting to your male coworkers and that decreases productivity.”
Marta looked down at her green sweater and black pencil skirt. “You’re wearing the same thing but in all black. And your skirt is shorter than mine!”
“Deflecting. Why can’t you just own your mistakes and learn from them?” Peg turned her back on Marta before walking to the office door. Her five inch, leopard print heels click clack on the office tile. “Like I said, you’re just not a good fit for the company. Maybe one day, after you get yourself together a little more, you can come back.”
“One day?” Marta jumped up, finger ridged as she thrusts it at her former supervisor. “I stayed late, came in early, did everything you told me to do even if it wasn’t in my job description, maldición Peg, I even did some of your shit when you were ‘too busy’ to do it. But I knew, yeah shake your head no, but I knew you were really just using me so you could spend more time flirting your way up.”
“That’s not true-”
“Cállate!” Marta poked Peg in the chest. “You did. Even though you’re more than qualified to do the work yourself, you still played to the men’s expectations. And I helped.” Marta pressed her palms into her forehead. “I helped because I really thought if a woman was able to get pass the men in the chain that would help the rest of us. Help me.”
Peg, arms crossed, eyes empty and eyebrow raised, stares at Marta.
“But I guess a high tide doesn’t raise all boats.” Marta lowered her hands as she took a step back. “Some of them sink.”
“Are you finished?”
“Oh no, gringa.” Marta picked up her purse. “This is just the beginning.”
“What does that even mean? Hey.” Peg grabbed Marta’s arm before she could leave. “Are you threatening me or the company?”
Fire filled Marta’s eyes. “You’ve called yourself a feminist. Someone who fights for women. For us. But you’re not in it for us. You’re in it for you, like some greedy troll or goblin from a children’s story. Kiki warned me.”
“Kiki? The black girl I fired last week?”
“Escúchame,” Marta wrenched her arm out of Peg’s grip. “Eventually, everyone needs help, but no one helps the greedy goblin who only takes.” Marta walked out the door, finally allowing tears to wet her eyes. “I should have known you were that type.”
Peg watched Marta walk down the hall and out of sight. “I thought the damn Mexi-melt would never leave.”
“Peg! Peg! Where’s Marta? She’s working on the Fienburg account and I needed to ask her some questions.” An older man with a slight beer belly in a suit and tie walked up. “That girl really has potential to be an important asset.”
“Uh, sir.” Peg wrapped her boss’ arm in hers. “Martha is no longer at the company.”
“What?”
“But I can take it over, sir.”
“Fine. First Kiki now Marta. Damn. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I can handle it. That’s why you made me a supervisor.” Peg smiled.
“Fine, yes, yes, just get it done.”
As her boss walked away Peg smirks. “Hmmmm, who can I pawn this off to?”
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Still Turnstiles at Station 6
Title: Still Turnstiles at Station 6
Genre: CliFi, Science fiction
Words: 900
Notes:
This one is another story I wrote for a Chuck Wendig flash fiction challenge, where readers/writers were asked to choose a title (out of ten) and write a ~1000 word piece from it.
At its peak, every day, close to fifty thousand people passed through Station 6 on their journey onward to other parts of the solar system and beyond. The other five stations processed just as many people, which made for total of three hundred thousand humans leaving the Earth every day at the high point of the evacuation.
At that rate, it would take nearly sixty-five years to get everyone off the planet’s surface, by which time, of course, it would be too late. So more stations were built, each bigger and capable of taking more passengers until there were a total of twenty-one stations that cut the evacuation time down to just around fifteen years.
Now, even as the planet drew its last gasp and the majority of the population had left the surface either by way of one of the twenty-one space elevators or by private spacecraft, the original six stations were deemed needless, while the new and larger ones continued to lift those few who were left on the planet. It was not just the end of an era, it was the end of a world.
“When are you going up?” Ellis asked, casually leaning back against the counter he was manning, looking out over the nearly empty hall of Station 6. Of the row of twenty turnstiles, only three were still in operation and the queues by them hardly had more than a handful of families in them. It was quiet in the grand entry hall. So much so, that the tired whispers of those still here echoed loudly throughout the large space, making it seem like it was filled with ghosts.
“I’m not,” said Calloway, shrugging her shoulders as she looked out of the huge windows toward the desert landscape that had once been the Amazon jungle. There had been life out there, once, Calloway knew, but now all that was left was a flat and desolate plain that might as well have been on the Moon. If not for the colour of the dirt and the glint of light reflected off pools of brackish water, you could easily be fooled into thinking that you were, indeed, looking at a lunar landscape.
“You’re staying?” he asked, surprise written all over his face. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for an Earther, Cal.” His brow furrowed as he looked at her more carefully, trying to determine if she was joking or not. “Really?”
“Really. And it’s not Earther, it’s Preservationist. Some of us have to stay behind to try to preserve what’s still alive, make sure the Earth doesn’t end up like Mars used to be. In fact, we’re already using some of their terraforming efforts to restart our own ecology here.”
“Right. But…” Ellis had no idea what to say to this new-found knowledge. He’d always just assumed that his colleagues here at Station 6 were all going to join the evacuation, same as he was. The idea of staying behind was, to him, so absurd that it never even crossed his mind. “You’re staying?”
“Yes, really, Karl, I’m staying.”
“But why?” he demanded, still not satisfied with the answer. He’d known Calloway for well over ten years now, and she had never even given a hint that she might be thinking of staying behind on a dead planet. It made no sense at all. Why would anyone stay on a doomed planet, a planet that would surely be hostile to any kind of life within a decade?
“It’s the right thing to do, Karl. We might not succeed, but we at least have to try, don’t you think?” she said, looking at him with an intent expression and a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Besides, I don’t have a family. No parents, no siblings. No children. And my wife agrees with me. We’re staying here. We’re going to do our best to save this world, heal it as best we can. Is that so wrong?”
“No. I guess. No, it’s not,” he said, the echo of closing doors making him look toward the gates that led into the departure hall, where the last of those leaving from Station 6 were waiting for their ride to orbit. It was quiet now, in the entry hall. The turnstiles had stopped clicking, the missing sound of them filling the space and making every one of the attendants fall silent.
Calloway wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and stood, letting out a light groan as her back protested from having been bent over for so long. She looked around her, letting out a sigh at the dusty landscape around her, her gaze lingering for a moment on the dark line drawn straight up into the air by the space elevator nearby.
It was nearly ten years now, since the facilities at the base of that one had been closed and some seven or eight years since the last of the elevators had been closed down for good. There were still spacecraft coming and going, but even that was a rare event these days. The rest of humanity had given up on Earth, and more and more, it seemed like they were correct in their assessment that the planet was beyond saving.
“Georgia!” Pauline shouted, her voice full of joy and wonderment. “Come here! Look at this!”
THE END
#writeblr#original fiction#science fiction#climate fiction#sci-fi#cli-fi#still turnstiles at station 6#lgbtq#lgbt+#wlw#lesbian character
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