Friday Flash Fiction: What Happened?

2 Feb 2012

(Friday Flash Fiction, from The One Minute Writer (oneminutewriter.blogspot.com). Prompt: You're walking down the street on a beautiful day. Maybe doing some shopping, maybe hanging out with friends, maybe going to see someone you love, maybe doing nothing at all. Suddenly there is a loud noise... and it is the last thing you remember. Several hours later, you regain consciousness in a pile of tangled metal and broken concrete.

What happened?)

Groan. I can hardly move. There’s scarcely any light around me. Was daylight before, so how long has it been? I hear sounds of some kind, maybe machinery, maybe voices. It’s all a fog, so I can’t really tell.

I make slight movements to see what works. Neck seems okay, although sore. Both arms move, left wrist is throbbing but no sharp pain when I move it. Legs seem functional, no wait, right knee is definitely not okay.

Not finding any serious damage, I start looking and feeling further around me. It seems I’m enclosed more than trapped. There’s enough light that I can see a structure of sorts about two feet away, all around where I’m lying. Some of it looks like twisted metal, maybe those steel two-by-fours they use in buildings now. There are also some I-beams curving over me. I can see broken concrete piled around, further away. I seem to be in a cage that’s protected me from being crushed by the rubble.

Have to climb out of here if I can. There’s some kind of mechanical sound in the distance again, a truck or something going past? It sounds different, though. Might just be my ears, still murky but clearing a little. I slide over to the edge of my cage and feel around in the fading light. Right there, a section I can probably squeeze through.

Another machine moving out there, outside? Not sure where I am, exactly, so it’s hard to tell what’s inside and out. This time, along with the sound of machinery, there’s a pounding I can feel reverberating through the ground. Almost like heavy footsteps. Too heavy.

Now I’m outside the cage and climbing up a pile of concrete toward an opening where there’s more light. It seems a bluish twilight, but not entirely natural. The day was so beautiful earlier when I walking to that new guitar shop downtown. It was early afternoon then, but who knows what time it is now. I feel my wrist: no watch. I pat my jeans pocket and find no cell phone either. My knee is complaining but still works.

Another ten feet and I’m at a larger opening. I can see the street now. It’s dark enough that streetlights should be on, but it still appears to be twilight with something extra. I have this urge to get out onto the sidewalk, but something else in my mind holds me back.

Just then I hear another one of those machines, pounding toward me from up the street. It comes into view, and my blood freezes. Looks like a mech straight out of a video game, but this is no game. It’s shining a bluish searchlight this way and that as it stomps past, shuddering the ground with each step. I can’t see who or what is operating it, but I have a lingering dread as the sound and vibration fade.

Staying in here seems a bad option. The building has to be unstable, and might collapse at any moment. But getting caught out there seems much worse. I’m mulling over what to do when yet another one of them stalks down the street. The blue searchlight swings over toward me. 

Character has "genre savvy"

16 Jan 2013
(from The Write Practice (thewritepractice.com): prompt is to write story with a character who has "genre savvy")

Malone ran from her car over to the victim. A quick look at the bullet wound and it was clear the murder weapon was a .45 handgun, just like in the other shooting. She knew this because, well, detectives were just good like that. Hearing footsteps off to her left, she looked over and saw a large man, dressed all in black, pounding around the corner of a building. That had to be the perp.

Sprinting to the corner took no effort at all, even in heels. Malone skidded to a stop in front of what turned out to be the opening of a dark alley. Well, not that dark, since alleys like this were always nicely lit. A shot rang out. Malone didn’t flinch. The first shot always missed. Making good use of the long pause between shots, she darted behind a dumpster just as the second shot ricocheted past.

She heard footsteps again, coming closer. Crouched and ready to spring, she waited for the guy to step around the dumpster. There he was, just within range. Malone lunged at him and knocked the gun out of his hand. The weapon slid conveniently out of reach, and now it was time for all that Krav Maga training to pay off.

They started raining deadly blows on each other. Punches, kicks, elbows, whatever. Malone smiled grimly as the fighting continued. She knew they could keep this up all evening with only fat lips and bloody noses to show for it. Except for that last kick to her knee, which laid her out flat on her back. Oops. He picked up the pistol and aimed it at her. Double oops.

Before shooting, though, the man launched into a description of how carefully he’d planned his crimes, how smart he was, all the usual stuff. Malone heard a car squealing to a stop down the street. That had to be her partner coming to the rescue. Heading toward this alley, which was obviously the right one due to its nice lighting. She grinned at her attacker as he kept talking. Plenty of time.

Friday Flash Fiction: The Confession

5 Jan 2013

(Friday Flash Fiction on The One-Minute Writer (oneminutewriter.blogspot.com). Prompt is “The Confession":

You relax into your seat, book in hand, as your plane takes off. The stranger sitting next to you fidgets - he has seemed unusually nervous. A few moments later, you feel his hand on your arm. You turn to see his eyes pleading with you.

"I'm not supposed to speak to anyone," he begins, "But I have to clear my conscience.")

My eyes narrowed and I started feeling tense also. “Why do you need to clear your conscience?”

“I’ve started something that’s spinning out of control, and it’s eating me up.” He went on to explain he was a CPA who managed investments for a number of wealthy families. He had tried to boost one account’s returns with a risky move that didn’t work out. It was easy enough to cover that with money from another account, but soon he was shuffling money all around to make the books look okay. With the recent drop in the stock market, it was unraveling.

“I think at least one of the families has, you know, connections”, he said. “I’m meeting my attorney in Chicago this afternoon. I don’t think anyone is on to me yet, at least I hope not. He thinks we might be able to work something out. Said not to talk about it, but it’s killing me. I just wanted to tell someone that I never meant any harm. I’ll make things right if I can.”

I smiled and patted his arm, noticing the contrast between my red nails and his light blue dress shirt. He relaxed a bit, although his brow was nearly dripping with sweat.

“You know, it’s usually best owning up to things. I admire you for trying to make it right. I’m sure it’ll work out OK.”

Wiping his brow, he glanced at the small gold cross I was wearing and seemed to relax further. “You think so?”

“Yup. Positive.”

“Well, thanks for listening.” He leaned away toward the window and closed his eyes.

I put my paperback in the bag and pulled out my laptop instead. Connecting to the Gogo wireless took a couple of minutes. Once into my Gmail account, I sent a carefully worded message to a colleague in Chicago, then closed up the laptop and put it away.

I leaned my seat back and closed my eyes. We’d grab this guy at the airport.

Words on Wednesdays - "Toxic"

3 Jan 2013

(from The Write Practice (thewritepractice.com), “words on Wednesdays”. This week's word: toxic)

Arriving home from work, Susan saw the TV had been left on again. Looked like an interview with Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. Good thing the Toxic Twins had cleaned themselves up years ago, or they wouldn’t be sitting on that couch.

Heading upstairs, she stopped by Brian’s room and knocked. Could he even hear that over the music?

“Yeah?”. Apparently he could.

She opened the door and was greeted by a power chord assault from…   Toxic Holocaust? That’s whose poster was on the wall, anyway. “So, are you going to cut the grass before it gets dark?”

Brian spun his chair around and gave her that snarling dog look. “I’ll do it in a while, okay?”

“Okay”, she said while retreating back into the hallway. Hmmm, he’d mentioned borrowing the car this evening. Maybe that wouldn’t work out so well.

Moving down the hall past Melissa’s room, she heard music again. Was that Britney Spears? Yup, “Toxic”. Susan thought she’d gotten that tune out of her head for good, but now it was back.

Downstairs, the TV now had a news alert about a toxic waste spill out east somewhere. She turned off the TV. Between work and home, “toxic” aptly described the day. Susan wished she could jump in the DeLorean, go back to this morning, and start over!