Tagged: flash fiction
The Last Transmission
“This is the last transmission we received sir,” General Moberly informed the President.
“Play it.”
Click
“I feel so immature, but if you must know, my last thoughts here are of the ending of the most recent War of the Worlds film. The one with TC. You know the part I’m talking about, right? The part when nature does what man couldn’t do. Yep, that’s what I’m thinking about right now. It’s kind of funny really. Three nine-month one-way trips to a distant planet. Three successful landings. And we’ve been here for six years, nearly thriving. All twelve of us. And now this.
“No, it’s not martians that are going to wipe us out. No, it’s not bacteria. No, it’s not a lack of supplies. What’s killing us is an asteroid that’s arriving in a few minutes. Of course, it’s not going to hit us directly. Instead of a nice clean death, we’re being told that we’ll see it, feel the Mars shake beneath our feet, and then within minutes the aftermath of debris and shock-wave will rip apart everything we’ve worked so hard to build. First, the dust will erode the domes, then our suits, then our skin, and finally our bones. Apparently the cosmos doesn’t like us humans squatting wherever we damn well please. Well, I say fuck the cosmos. Sorry ma. But whoever’s listening needs to know that everyone here knew the risks and is content with this end. Don’t stop exploring. You can’t let this change anything.
“Okay, this is it. Wow. It’s so bright. I didn’t expect it to be for another two-minutes. I’m sorry for everything! I don’t want to die!”
Click
“Is that it?” asked the President, “Everyone’s dead? The base is destroyed?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, then. It seems to me there’s only one thing to do,” the President continued.
“What’s that sir?”
“We’re going to honor their wishes. Get me NASA. And schedule a press conference. We’re going to Mars.”
“Yes sir!”
Mac ‘n’ Cheese’s Home Date
“How’s your mac’n’cheese H-?”
“It’s far away,” she responded matter of factly.
“Huh? How’s your mac’n’cheese?”
“It’s far away. It’s in Townsville,” she said, finally elaborating.
“Wait what?” he asked, shaking his head. More curious than ever to discover where this would lead he again asked, “How’s your mac’n’cheese?”
“I told you daddy. It’s far away. It’s in Townsville. On May 10th. That’s my birthday,” she said, nodding her head while staring at the dish. Searching eyes exposed her thoughts more than words ever could. “How can I be more clear? I think I’m being clear,” she thought.
“Your mac’n’cheese is far away, in Townsville, which is on May 10th?” he asked, attempting for clarification.
“Yep,” she answered, delighted by his demonstration of understanding.
“Oooookay then.”
High Class
“Do we have cauliflower?” she asked after he mentioned broccoli.
“Nope, just broccoli,” he answered.
“Why don’t we have cauliflower?” she persisted.
“Because I didn’t buy any,” he said, not giving in.
After finishing her broccoli, she watched as he slid the grilled chicken on to her plate. Together now, they began to eat.
“Oh,” he interrupted, “did you want barbecue sauce?”
“Yes,” she said, “the new sauce.”
“I know, I know. You didn’t like the hot stuff.”
“Hot stuff?”
“Nevermind. Here’s your sauce. And here’s my sauce.”
To the sound of silverware squishing into chicken, they returned to the task at hand. Suddenly, she let out a shriek.
“What?” he asked, fearful that even the new sauce was too hot.
Spitting out the chicken, she replied, “I don’t like the roasted ones. That one’s roasted.”
“Huh?”
“See daddy? Roasted,” she said, pointing at the grill marks on the chicken.
“Oh. You don’t like the burnt part. Excuse me, the roasted part. Okay, you don’t have to eat it,” he allowed. “High class H-, you’re high class,” he thought, pride swelling.
“To Forgive Divine”
“But you know that there’s more to the quote than ‘to err is human’, right?” his friend pressed.
“Certainly. That’s the whole point. The full translation is “To err is human, to forgive divine.’ But it seems like forgiveness is a lost art. One mistake, one err, and you’re done. As the random soldier in Last of the Mohicans says, ‘And I will not live under that yoke.'”
“What am I? Chopped liver? Shit man, I’m still here.”
“I know you are. That’s because you’re my friend. You know how to forgive. You’re dee-vi-ine.”
“Whatever. You know what I meant. Are you done? I have stuff to do.”
Needs
“I need things, you know?” he said, as his friend’s eyebrows raised and eyes widened. “I’m serious.”
“Oh, I know you’re serious.”
“One thing I need–I mean this is a prerequisite to life no different than air–is to be able to make mistakes,” he explained.
“I guess I can buy that. Don’t you have that?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I do. But then there are times when the pressure to not err is so great that it’s asphyxiating. Have you ever felt that?”
“Uhm…I don’t think I understand what you mean.”
“I mean that there is a feeling, something ethereal, maybe it’s not even real, but I feel it just the same. There is a peculiar feeling I get when I know what the right thing to do is, the right course of action, but at the same time I don’t really want to take that route. It’s like I can see a bunch of infographic style arrows pointing to the right decision, and yet another option, one that is not highlighted, holds greater appeal,” he continued.
“Okay, I think I can say I understand what you mean. If you’re simply trying to describe that you feel like always choosing the right thing makes you feel less than human, or that always choosing to do the right thing makes you feel not alive, then yes, I have felt that feeling. For me, I think I can relate on the patience virtue. I know when I need to be patient, but there are some times I can’t help but ask myself, “‘What am I even trying for here? Most perfect man ever?'”
“Exactly. That’s exactly it. Didn’t someone famous say, ‘To err is human?’ I feel like that sentiment was taught under the premise that erring is only something that happens by accident. What does it say about me if I err on purpose?”
“Uh…that you’re human.”
“Oh. Good point.”
Sounds of Life
His fingers slid along the front side of the envelope. He recognized the sender as one capable of bearing no news or bad news. The fear of bad news might be why he heard his fingers as they slid, a sort of low hiss. He was near his breaking point. His body was on full alert. Finding a slight opening near the seal, he heard the envelope tear as he wondered why anyone would ever buy a letter opener. He unfolded the pages, hyper-extending the crease with a pop. Next, the sound of paper against paper filled his ears as his left hand unveiled the second page.
Then, there was no sound.
In that moment, in that void, he did what any good soul does when receiving bad news. He used the limitless silence to escape. He filled the silence with questions, with doubts, with denial. That led to him filling the silence with Lawrence Fishburne’s voice. “You have to let it all go Neo. Fear. Doubt. Disss-Bee-lief.” Finally, he filled the void with a smile. Because the truth was–the truth was that from rock bottom there is only one way out. Up.
Then, as always, laughter broke the silence.
Sadness
The buzzer always startled him. This time was no different. Alone and lost in thought, he sat with his fingers resting lightly on the home row when it sounded.
“Shit that’s loud,” he cursed, hoping to keep his man card after the fright.
The words not coming, he decided to go ahead and do now what had to be done at some point or another. The hardwood floor reminded him that he had been standing all day; the carpet, that he needed to vacuum. Pulling open the dryer, he hoped no socks would fall into the below washer as he removed the ball of clothes.
Back in the living room, he pulled his work clothes out first. Once folded, he laid them on the couch. Looking into the hamper, he saw her clothes.
At first he chuckled, never ceasing to be amazed by the sight of how small they are. Then he laughed at the memory of how excited she gets when putting them on herself.
Hating that he was laughing at memories, he didn’t laugh again for a while.
Review of Eight Acres by A Mugwump
A difficult, challenging, and generally confusing collection of 3,000+ words–that is “Eight Acres.” The title and opening line prove to mislead the reader. Surprised by our being caught off-guard, we read on. The quick-to-read staccato dialogue encourages giving the story the benefit of the doubt, and before too long, we reach a full paragraph which acts as a barely legible legend to the story’s map and provides the basest of hopes that our travels will end safely. As we hit the first set of asterisks, we’re certain about only two things. It is war. The characters are pilots. We also are given a big clue that this Mugwump is attempting a post-modern writing style. This means that as we enter a WWII veteran named Jerry’s basement, we don’t get stuck on the question “Why?”, we simply read on.
The writing is decent enough that our curiosity begs us to give the story a chance. Continuing on, as the story jumps around, we quickly warm to the idea that, like building a jigsaw puzzle, we won’t see the picture until the end–at least that’s our hope.
As “Eight Acres” settles in, a distinct, though unconventional, picture begins to emerge. The picture gains even more clarity with the use of sparsely placed details which arrive just in time to prevent our motivation from completely diminishing.
In the end, “Eight Acres” is not light reading. It cannot be read quickly, and it does not hold the reader’s hand. But there is definitely a theme, and it is definitely one a child won’t understand. The question is will an adult?
The Small Things
“Can you turn off the car daddy?” she asked.
“Oh. Yes I can. Thanks for asking,” he responded. “Looking to get into the house, eh? Sorry, I just was enjoying the song. Here we go.”
Racing to the door, she called out her victory upon touching the glass. He proceeded towards her, fanning out the three keys necessary to enter the house.
“Daddy, can you turn on the light?”
“You can do it H-. You’ve done it for over a year now. Just reach for it.”
They each began to remove their jackets and begin their respective rituals. Stopping his, he realized he hadn’t hugged her yet today.
“H-,” he called, squatting down low, “what haven’t we done today?”
Only just a little, she bent her knees, unsure if mirroring him was necessary. Then it hit her.
“Hugged!”
Walking briskly towards him, her head mechanically assumed the cocked-right position as she opened her arms. They embraced. He stood, lifting her into the air. She let her legs hang.
Upon putting her down, she immediately beckoned, “Pick me up daddy!” He complied. This time, she was intent on staying and said so.
He hadn’t seen her for days, and wanted to be sure she knew the meaning of a hug. Taking a moment to get the lesson right in his head, that a hug is a way to say “I love you” without words, he was interrupted by her.
Pointing towards the counter, she said, “My phone!”
Wonderful Weather – A Sestina
A Sestina is form of poetry. A restrictive form of poetry. It has six stanzas of six lines, then a three line stanza. The last words of each stanza are the tricky part. After the first stanza, the last words have been chosen. The full pattern is as follows:
- ABCDEF
- FAEBDC
- CFDABE
- ECBFAD
- DEACFB
- BDFECA
- ECA or ACE (called envol or tornada–it must also contain the other end-words, BDF, in the course of the three lines so that all six appear in the final three lines.)
Wonderful Weather
Leaves horizontal foretold stormy weather,
Foretold darkened skies. Danger lingered in the air.
Standing together, the two, a pair
United in disgust,
They heeded the captain, and ventured to the bow.
Remaining anchored would prove too intense.
Remaining anchored would prove too intense,
The port must be abandoned in search of fair weather.
Cracking, breaking, crunching sounded the bough,
Unable to stand the force of the air.
Leave they must, no other option need be discussed.
Trust me, he said, and so complied the pair.
Trust me, he said, and so complied the pair.
The swelling sea stopped short of intense,
Honeymoon over, hidden from each other was disgust.
Such an event, to be ruined by weather,
It seemed that love was no longer in the air–
At least, until he took that fateful bow,
At least, until he took that fateful bow.
Fading from view, the trees, the storm began to pare.
Not upon them yet, water was in the air.
Only yesterday, they were in tents
Deciding whether or whether
Not to follow through with what they discussed.
Not to follow through with what they discussed
Was the decision they made. Her hair bow
Was loosed by the weather,
A light green, the green of a pear.
The deck dropped out from under, intense
The moment became, as they hovered in the air.
They hovered in the air,
Their eyes absent of disgust.
The moment was intense.
Port side, starboard side, stern and bow,
All dashed away, all left the pair.
Never before this feeling, never before this weather.
Over too quickly, the air vanished; feet returned to the bow.
Disgust gone for good, the pair
Called to the Captain whose eyes were intense, “Wonderful Weather!”
Captain’s Log 