The Onslaught

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This was last week’s prompt for Sunday Photo Fiction – couldn’t help myself when I saw it..

The Onslaught

The first assault came without warning. On a clear winters morning, a large lemon tart exploded into Sydney Harbour, answering the question whether we’re alone in the universe, in spectacular way. The tsunami which followed flattened the foreshore, and covered most of the business district with meringue.

Since then, the attacks have come more frequently. Last month, a volley of tiny apple filled assassins pocked the surface of Britain while she slept. They were small enough to go undetected by the GPDS –the global defence system set up to protect us from our tormentors.  Before that, the Red Sea was soaked up by the shell of a meat and cheesy number cocooned in pastry. Where they come from, we still don’t know. Or how they’re even possible. What we do know for certain is that they will come again.

And so we wait, with our eyes searching the skies. Waiting for the pies.

The Itch

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This is my response to this week’s prompt from FFfAW brought to us by Priceless Joy, and photo by momtheobscure.

The Itch

“And that’s how our world was created.” Professor Whimple swirled his hands like he did when he was making a particularly important point, before resting both knuckles on the table.

“Kronos scratching his back?” A brave soul tested the waters without identifying himself.

“What? Who said that? Speak up!”

The Brave Soul sealed his fate by standing up to repeat his question.

“Er.. Professor so does this mean that the world was created by Kronos? Because ah.. there doesn’t seem to be any scientif..”

“GETOUT!” The front row was sprayed with flecks of Whimple Special.

“Yes. As you can see from this archival footage, Kronos was scratching his back against this ancient temple, causing a series of earthquakes which resulted in the formation of the continents as we know them today.” The knuckles returned to their place on the table.

“Any more questions?”

Words: 144

The Feast

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Here’s my go at this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt, with a photo provided by Graham.

The Feast

The Lady Orla sat watching her guests savour the delights laid out before them. Each table set with a sumptuous feast for the senses. Pink, juicy meats roasted to perfection, and oozing wheels of cheese served on pillows of soft warm bread. Exotic fruit from unknown places – and endless glasses of wine, glittering like liquid rubies in their hands.

She watched them eat and drink and laugh, listening to the clink of knives on plates made of gold, as her own plate sat untouched. Her slender, gloved hands resting softly in her lap.

She sat as the chatter grew quiet, and her guests feel asleep where they sat, waiting until the last hand dropped lifelessly against its owner before she moved. Her guests were arranged as she needed them to be, and only when they were ready did she bare her own hands.

The Lady Orla walked amongst her guests and caressed each one gently, pausing a moment to watch them turn slowly to gold.

165 words.

 

The SlipStream

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In response to last week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt..

The SlipStream

“What’s the only thing you need to remember?” Ash kept pace with his leader, eyes pasted on the thick yellow line beneath his feet. He was trying not remember anything, least of all about what lay inches from his feet.

“Don’t black out.” He mumbled, without looking up. Don’t black out. At least he remembered one thing from giving up five years of his life to the academy.

“Don’t sound so excited, kid.” Blayne looked over at his new recruit.

Ash’s visor was pulled down over his face, shoulders bunched up over the small backpack- the life kit which would keep him going for at least three days- depending on where he landed. He wasn’t a talker, this one.

“Most people will never come close to dreaming about the things you’ll see. So cheer up.”  He leant over and jabbed a playful finger into him arm. Ash grabbed the jump bar to steady himself. His next words drowned by the scream of an alarm, as yellow light flooded the room.

“Here we go” Blayne pulled his visor down and stepped over the yellow line onto the gridded metal floor.  “Hold on tight kid. Got your pills?”

Ash nodded. He rolled his tongue over the tiny balls serum inserted into his teeth, as a countdown sequence started up somewhere in the room.

Here we go.  He gripped the bar tight as the floor dropped open beneath his feet, filling everything with a blinding white light. His hands were glued onto the bar as he hung suspended over the gateway to the multiverse.

Just close your eyes and jump. His heart was about to burst out of his body, as he fought the urge to run. He would have run, but if he let go now he’d end up in the void.

Blayne was signaling to him as a voice in his earpiece told him to go.

He ground his teeth, breaking the tiny pills which would keep him conscious during the ride, and let go.

The Time Eaters

Stay indoors at dawn they say. Keep safe at dusk. When the time eaters are at work, turning night into day and day into night by eating away the layers in between. Keep still as they slip through the spaces between the seconds, as I’ve heard that sometimes the time eaters can be indiscriminate about their food. Time to them is just time, regardless of its source.

They care not for your attachments or for your affections, only for the time which you are yet to use from your years. They are enticed by your youth, and tempted by its promise. So stay safe in the twilight hours, and pray they don’t notice you, or the time which you don’t have to give.

Cold Feet

*on my way in to work one morning, I was asked a rather unusual question by a stranger – which provides the inspiration behind this little piece..

“Her?” 

“Yeah, pink shirt. Go!” Freddie nudged him forward. His prey drew closer, weaving through the crowd without breaking her pace.

He stood frozen in place, heart pounding in his chest as he watched her walk past, close enough for him to smell her perfume. Taking a deep breath, he moved towards her, jogging lightly to catch up.

“Excuse me.” She was only a few steps ahead now. “Excuse me, Miss.”

She turned to look at him, hand raised, ready to swat away his sales pitch. “No thanks. I’m in a hur..” She stopped when she saw that he wasn’t selling anything, and he jumped in for the kill. “I was wondering if I could…could I smell your feet?” She stared at him, synapses struggling to stack the words into order.

“What?”

“Could I smell your feet?” She glanced down, feeling exposed in a pair of flip-flops.

No. um.. No.” Before she said any more, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, heading back towards his friend.

Ben! Over there! Freddie was on the move, signaling towards a woman in a green dress who was walking towards Town Square. He pulled out his notebook and etched another line on the page. Five.