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HopeMarie in Flash Fiction

194 reads

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March 3rd, 1943

D3ar Lov3,

Th3y mov3d m3 to a hospital in Britain. Sorry for th3 funny l3tt3rs, but this typ3writ3r is missing a k3y. Obviously. It's th3 only typ3writ3r my r3port3r fri3nd could sn3ak in. Appar3ntly th3y think th3 only writing that should b3 s3nt out of h3r3 is cold t3l3grams t3lling wh3th3r w3'r3 d3ad, missing, or bar3ly aliv3. Th3y wouldn't l3t m3 borrow pap3r and a p3n. L3astways not until th3 surg3ry is ov3r. But don't you worry, Lov3, it will b3 soon.

Th3r3 was a t3rribl3 numb3r of d3aths today in London. My fri3nd told m3 about it. Som3 panic rushing to an air-raid sh3lt3r. Awful things ar3 happ3ning in th3 world. Som3tim3s it driv3s m3 to th3 point of d3spair. But th3n I r3m3mb3r that good things happ3n too. I think of you and our darling Ros3, and littl3 Martha. I think of th3 oak tr33 by th3 cr33k--you know, th3 on3 with that big rop3 strung up lik3 a swing--and how w3 us3d to sit th3r3 and talk for ag3s. And laugh.

W3 laugh3d a lot tog3th3r, didn't w3? And w3 will still. I promis3 you, Lov3, this war will 3nd. It will. This too shall pass, you always say. And wasn't it you who told m3 that th3 gr3at3st joy can only b3 had by thos3 who hav3 und3rgon3 th3 gr3at3st suff3rings? That only thos3 who hav3 b33n sick can fully d3light in b3ing w3ll?

Th3n may God l3t my suff3rings b3 as gr3at as I can handl3, so that wh3n I com3 hom3, our joy may last us a lif3tim3.

I'v3 got to k33p this short. Th3 nurs3s ar3 sn3aky around h3r3. Can't b3 caught.

I lov3 you. Giv3 my lov3 to 3v3ryon3.

God bl3ss you until I s33 you again.

Yours, Sam.

spike1 in Flash Fiction

81 reads

Trips. Long trips. Distant locations with dinosaurs, wondrous things computing, communication and biological. Worlds of racism, bigotry and inhumanity. Worlds of atrocious cold and a myriad of sorrows.

Wrongs put right. Punishing many bad individuals and honouring many good.

You know all this. I did show you the films.

I grow frail, no, not frail but… what’s… it’s a word… starts with w, but…

Oh, bloody… I’m just so… so… *yawn*… Is that a pillow?

Now, a torch I must pass. My priority now, my own.

I… n d… a… r st… Damn this bloody k yboard!

Sorry, but a bargain has been struck. For months now, I am busy with my own stuff. You can do it for that long. I don’t know how long but I did it for four rotations of this blob, you can do it too. I told you how, I taught you too. That torch is yours now, Marty.

Don’t think of calling on yours truly. Not if it’s apoca… armag… cataclysmic.

I’m busy with that pillow.

I’ll sign off now. No contact until July, no… April, but not this april… April 2019… Hmmm, good, 2019, a wondrous, long, slouchy, lazy, vacation… A holiday. So don’t look. Don’t find. I am off out and not coming back until… I want.

Cya

fhfh tst rdh fk fyd d fd yf dy yd yd yb uy uy u rds iui yh ou 0ojj oj l ff lj h 8 h 8 hi gu u u rc iu bu uy gy I iu hi ih ig oo0 9 ju hi ojo oj0 0u c gy ig f tf hi uh oij h8 oj9 pkp 99 oh9 uftctt ;l’l]k yft h frx gcff jgigu jhig khi ih gu I hg oi u0 iy gf ojp fr;l kjop r

Danceinsilence in Flash Fiction

96 reads

Last Road To A Road That Was

Nothing!

Nada!

No way!

No How!

No, no, NO!

I cannot,

will not,

fall into this trap.

A is cool.

I is important.

O rounds things off,

and U is just U.

But that which cannot stand out,

that so hard to stay away from ...

this is mad.

Mad, I say, mad!

This world is mad!

Still, many things of good lurk.

Shadows hold many thoughts,

Light throws a twisting wish,

of who I am ...

but who am I?

My mind,

my mind,

damn, damn, damn this soul!

My mind is on lockdown.

Nothing in. Nothing Out.

Visions of a killing, a final harsh sigh,

brain about to succumb,

sands of this mad bliss

fall across the soul,

hiding, burying last thoughts.

Oh, what horror is,

but our dark-sanctum;

as skin slowly is lost from marrow.

Nobody around to say words,

to be profound,

in my last hitch of finality's air of want.

A whip lash stings,

drawing blood

from a bloody soul,

now frail and all but dry;

failing to vanquish final slashings,

as nothing is going to pull this skin from harm.

What man or woman,

would do such a thing?

No! I cannot allow this to

pour across my soul and burn it in constant.

Nothing!

Nada!

No way!

No How!

No! No! NO!

I cry that a thousand if not thousands.

I cannot allow you

to lock my soul in this prison.

I am no Gadsby.

What passion for this do you hold?

What is your hold on us all?

Your mind locks us to this thought,

and for that only,

no roads allow us unity,

only insanity.

As I put words forth,

my mind is crumbling,

my soul burnt black;

air circling around this body,

pulling ash to all parts of the world.

jonathan62100 in Flash Fiction

99 reads

Toxic Workplace.

Losing your job is difficult. I was almost unafraid that I could find a solution to start again, but all of us know that that is not how things work. I know who and how, but I don’t know why. I thought I was an amazing cook. (Until I was without a job, obviously) I was an assistant to many top cooks, always indoors and working all day, crafting a dish that world-famous cook Gordon Ramsay would find hard to call “shit” or “an insult to culinary arts.” With that all said, I was still without a job, and that truthfully hurt. Cooking was my craft. Cooking was fun. It paid my bills and was my only satisfaction for my stomach. It was a childhood passion, a job I took without any institutional instruction, and a way of sharing my gifts with hungry mouths and thirsty lips.

As I thought of any kind of justification, many didn’t follow through. Was it tomato soup that was too cold? Ham that was too dry? My thick, black hair found on a pair of pork chops? I had nothing. How could my boss find out about why a young man, who had just had my pumpkin ravioli, had to go to a hospital? I had no doubt that tracing a trail of rat poison was impractical. I had watchfully bought and put such hazardous poison onto his food, knowing I was killing a man who was fucking a woman I was going to marry. A woman who I couldn’t satisfy.

I had to call. I found his card lying on a chair. I’ll admit I was slightly afraid, as my old boss is not a happy man, to say, but was stuck with only a handful of words: my ham was too dry.

HFinn in Flash Fiction

91 reads

That C-Word

“Hi hon--” you start.

“Hi,” I cut you off. I want to sound happy, assuring you that all is okay, but I don’t know that it is and my words catch in my throat.

You look sad and I can think of nothing to do but wrap my arms around you.

“I’m…” you start crying. “I’m going to my doctor on Monday. I want to know how my…”

But you can’t finish your thought. I know that thought. I know that word that you cannot say. You call it ‘that C-word’ as though stating your actual condition will grow your tumor.

“I’ll call work tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll go with you.”

You nod and burrow into my arms, sobbing.

On Monday morning, your clinic is surprisingly vacant. You sign in with a shaking hand.

“Want to sit?” I point to a row of chairs.

“Okay.”

You pick a chair, sit, and I squat in front of you.

“You can do this.”

“You don’t know that. If I can’t fight this…if I…you know…will you miss--”

“Stop.” I say firmly, taking your hand. “You can do this.”

“Lillian Gloss?” A woman calls and looks about for you, as though this waiting room has thirty individuals and not just two.

“Coming,” you say, stoically standing and walking. I swallow hard. I will not cry.

“I’m coming too,” I call, walking swiftly to catch up.

I don’t know what your doctor says. Any words that follow “tumor shrinking” turn into a blur that swirl about in my brain.

I simply can’t stop smiling.

Walking out, I grab your hand and look down at you. You grin your first tiny grin in months. “I’m still fighting this,” you admit.

“I know. But right now? I’m just…thankful.”

You nod and your small grin starts to grow.

Cover image for post God's Last Leviathan, by Harry_Situation

Harry_Situation in Flash Fiction

308 reads

God’s Last Leviathan

Livyatan, a giant cacholot of Tortonian dawn (8 Ma). Growing to 45 ft from snout to tail. It swam long ago, down in dark bottoms of an abyssal plain, in what will form into Pisco Formation today.

Now it lay on land of sands, slowly panting its last gasps of salty air. It swam towards food, a shiny squid, which swam away briskly to avoid its stomach. Alas, squid out-thought this hulking sharptooth, and Livyatan was caught on this sandy prison.

With last gasps, a sandy prison was now a sandy tomb for this old Livyatan, last of its kin. A final look at a shining star of daylight until it saw nothing.

Walking along that sand was Lycopsis and its pups. Momma found Livyatan's carcass, sniffing at first. Momma and its pups nip at a limp limb, gorging at that sapor grub.

Many of this family's kin hoard around old Livyatan's body, taking nip and nip into that savory fat within. Flocks of fulmars flying high, whom caught whiff of a stinking carcass, lands on Livyatan's back, picking at its skin.

So it was final. Lyvyatan, giant cacholot of Tortonian dawn, cold and stiff. Food for a distinct family of mammals and birds. Thus a world prolongs until a dawn finally stops.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

#shortstory #paleontology #megafauna #mammals #whales #extinction #flashfiction #fiction #justaddinghashtagsforthesakeofwordlength

Shorts

Chapter 10 of 20

xJenVanx

“Hero of Brightwall”

It was a cold, dark day in Albion: thousands of birds had flown away and many animals ran too. I was actually almost to Albion—a trip that took a full two hours from Aurora—-so I could watch such a sight, but to my dismay, I was too slow. Upon Albion, I saw munchkins running along, playing “Tag”, laughing jubilantly. Tailing such a group downtown, I found a tall, looming building: it had a light that spun around and around at night. Glass windows at it’s top, shining a variation of colors for all to watch. It’s job was to stand guard against stormy nights and watch out for nomads sailing across our boundary main.

Glacing at the curiosity, I found it alluring and fascinating. Who built such a thing? I thought, now walking away from it, and towards a road about a block down. Walking down it, I came upon a young girl who was small and had long, black hair—playing with a doll, wearing a hat, that also had torn arms and legs. “Hi.” I said, holding out my hand.

With a soft voice,“Yes, ma’m?”

“Which way to Brightwall?”

“You must go towards the mountains.”

“Mountains?” Looking up and out past Albion’s walls, I saw mounds of land itself, looming, casting it’s shadow on a small town within it’s grasp. “I have to walk through that?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” I say, grabbing a coin from my pouch. “For your information. Also, what should I call you?”

“May,” May said, taking my coin and putting it inside a hat that sat atop soft, black hair on such an ugly doll; making both hat and hair contrast horribly.

Waving with a doll’s torn arm, May ran away with a grin.

Also with a grin, I turn around and walk away, laughing.