The old town clock struck five as she screeched into her driveway. Meg was late, and Jenny was not a patient child. Her chants of ‘We are going shopping,’ still rung in Meg’s ears.
It was an hours drive into town. An hour of Jenny’s non stop chatter. But it was their first Christmas since freedom, and Meg was determined to enjoy it.
Until she saw ‘it’.
And then she knew.
After all she had been waiting in dread for this very day.
Jenny flew into her arms the moment she stepped in. ‘Shall we go? Shall we go?’ She was so excited.
‘Yes we have to go. But first we must pack.’
‘Pack what, momma?’
‘The little suitcase we discussed about. Remember what I told you.’
The colour drained from Jenny’s face. ‘Did he find us already?’ she squealed.
I pointed at the wreath on the door. They very same one. The last thing that we had seen when the social worker had helped us out of there.
‘Rush baby. Before he comes back. Rush.’
In response to Priceless Joy’s 163rd Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge
Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby…
You’re going to love it, honey. A week at a remote home-stay, out in the middle of nowhere, living the life of a farm-hand, free of pollution or technology.
Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true…
They don’t even have cellular coverage, so no urgent messages from the boss. And it’s so cheap. He said that we are his first guests and he’s planned everything perfectly.
Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me…
Why are you doing this? Please. We’ll give you whatever you want. Just let us go. Don’t touch her. I’ll do whatever you want. STOP. STOP.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me…
NO. NO. O GOD. NOOOooo
If happy little blue birds fly beyond the rainbow
Why oh why can’t I?
In response to the 150th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge.
This week’s photo prompt is provided by @any1mark66. Thank you Mark!
The story is intertwined with the lyrics of Judy Garland’s “Somewhere over the rainbow”. My thanks and apologies for the same.
Jim walked through the almost desolate museum. Except for the curators and their obviously bored grandchildren, there was no one to be seen. Not even the lure of free tickets and popcorn had worked. As of now, the museum housed more extinct species than living ones.
‘Museums are becoming extinct,’ he lamented to his grandson.
‘Pops, you need to change with the times. Who wants to see some inanimate bones, when they can experience everything in n dimension in the Virtual Reality museums.’
‘Flying with the Pterosaurs and being chased by a T-Rex is not science, it is science fiction.’
‘Maybe, but at least people pay to see that.’
In response to the 146th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, based on a photo by Yinglan Z.
I don’t normally rummage through garbage. Specially not if its a filthy cardboard box in what could potentially (read that as probably) be a bio-hazard dumpster.
Today I did.
I rolled up my sleeves, looked around for anything that could substitute for gloves, managed to find one plastic bag, looked for another, eventually gave up, and simply dug in with two bare hands. After all I have 24 hours to take a tetanus shot.
There are laws against driving with a kitten without a carrier, but I’d rather pay the fine than leave her behind.
Something tells me that after one look into those beautiful yellow orbs, the cop’s gonna give me a pass.
In response to Priceless Joy’s 144th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge based on a picture by Enisa.
Grasshopper rubbed his feet in displeasure. This was a convention for herbivores, and he was not permitted.
“Your not a pure herbivore. You eat insects at night.”
“Rubbish, that would be my cousins, the crickets.”
“All the same.”
Just his luck that they post a donkey at the entrance.
“Not the same. Whose in charge?” he demanded.
“Well, Mr. Huge Elephant, I suppose, or perhaps Mr. Bison or Mrs. Camel. But your too tiny to interest the likes of them.”
Right then he spotted Mr. Elephant. Before Donkey could stop him, he leapt onto the elephant’s head, where he started rubbing his feet and wings together to make that awful chick-chick-chick.
“Stop it,” roared Elephant.
“Not until you let all the herbivores in, irrespective of species, size or colour.”
“Let him in,” permitted Elephant, helpless before his sensitive hearing.
And that is how Grasshopper got his bright yellow dignitary flower.
In response to the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge based on a photo provided by Mark of @any1mark66 blog.
The sun peeked over the horizon, languidly stretching to bleed brilliant gold and orange hues across the dark lavender sky, revealing a shimmering lake of lapis, glistening as the occasional spear of light pierced through the wisps of clouds and danced over the surface. Bit by bit, the sun rose, covering the pearl morning haze with a pale, pure white light, transforming the honey drenched sky to a gentle blue, its rays bringing warmth to a new day.
Neil could almost picture the fresco as he lay on his bunk. For the last eleven years all that he had seen was a ball of fire whose blaze he dared not look into. Perhaps if his parole was granted…
In response to the 142nd challenge of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, based on a photo by Footy and Foodie.
Steel dragons. As dead as the relationship that I called marriage. As cold as the man I called husband.
Everything unwanted should be recycled, he always said. So everyday, every moment, I strived for perfection. Always afraid that if I let up for even a moment, then I would be unwanted, discarded. Just someone to be recycled.
Reused. Refused. Recycled.
The security tapes and backup have been deleted. I always told him not to use birthdays as passwords. The man was too arrogant to listen. He never did understand technology. Never understood that the cameras recording the employee movements, recorded his movements too. Never understood the concept of remote monitoring.
In the forge, the furnace simmers leaving no evidence of its greed and rage. No bones. No ashes. No evidence of sweaty undulating bodies. No evidence of blood soaked steel.
Everything unwanted should be recycled.
Karma. The ultimate recycle.
In response to the 140th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge based on a photo provided by Enisa.
What’s that? Sam asked me.
An ant hill.
What’s an ant hill?
A place where ants live.
But ants are tiny. Why do they need such a big house?
Cause the entire colony lives together.
What’s a colony?
A place where many ants live.
But why do they need such a tall apartment?
Look, it’s a really tall ant. OK. Lets go home. I have tones of work to do.
The next day I am met by an amused teacher, when I go to pick Sam up from kindergarten.
Did you tell Sam that Ant-Man is real, and that his apartment is right near yours? He’s invited the entire class next weekend to visit!
In response to the 139th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, based on a photo by Yarnspinnerr.
Her name was at the bottom of the list.
He had warned her. Unless her GPA improved she wouldn’t get any apprenticeship. No apprenticeship, no job. End of the road. Maybe he was right. She was not good enough. They were all right. She was useless.
Suddenly her chest constricts, like something tightening her rib-cage, making it difficulty to breathe.
She stares at the hot pink wall, and remembers Mrs. B’s psycho babble. Pink represents caring and sharing. Pink asserts strong sensitivity. Bullshit sensitivity.
Even the smiley taunts her.
Should she go talk to the professor. Cry. Beg for help. Her body was 70% water. Certainly enough to cry for hours. Then when she was all done, she could drink a glass of water and start all over again.
Surely she was at least capable of crying!
“Excuse me,” a gentle hand nudges her. “I need to put up the second half of the list.”
In response to the 137th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, based on a photo by Grant-Sud
The Coast Guard Ship was on a standard patrol run.
Captain Manoj would have probably not noticed anything had it not been for the fact that he was on the deck for a smoke and just happened to spot a kindred soul on the barge.
But what was that? Was the dude actually asleep with a lit cigarette. On a barge carrying fuel!
The Captain decided to move closer and hopefully get the guy to wake up before something dangerous happened. Any more smoking related accidents and they might just implement that smoking ban that the papers had been hinting at.
That’s when he noticed the ropes going overboard.
The barge had not dropped anchor. His gut told him that something was not right, and Manoj had learned to trust his gut.
It was when the coast guard boarded the barge and hauled up the ropes that they found the vacuum sealed boxes of narco.
He couldn’t wait to tell his wife. Some good could come of smoking. She was not going to like that!
In response to the 136th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge based on a photo by BarbCT/Gallimaufry.