#ThursThreads – “A Fate Worse than Death is Better than Dying” (Update WINNER!)

UPDATE:

I won! Here is the official announcement.

And here’s my badge:

20130809-192008.jpg

#ThursThreads is an odd flash fiction compo, because a line chosen from the previous winner is chosen as the prompt for the next competition. This week, the phrase “That wasn’t really the worst of it.” is it.

Here is my entry, if you don’t want to see the original piece:

“A Fate Worse than Death is Better than Dying”
by Dr. Mike Reddy (@doctormikereddy) [250 words]

Whoever she was, she had been medically trained. I’d given blood many times – civic duty and all that – but her handling of the hypodermic was exquisite. In and out with a quick swipe of alcohol. No venous bruising.

My silent captor slipped the rubber tube tourniquet through the arm restraint, taped some cotton wool over the puncture wound, then inspected her watch and made some notes on an Android tablet. A geek then. No iPad. Something to use to connect to her.

“Not an Apple fan then?” I smiled as empathically as I could, tied to a gurney.

“Please don’t attempt to engage my sympathetic side, because I had it surgically removed. Now, I’m going to ask you for some observations as the injection takes effect.” She picked up her tablet expectantly.

“You’re kidding me, right?” I tested the restraints again. Still just loose enough to allow circulation, but little more. “What is it you’ve dosed me with anyway? Vampire blood? Werewolf spit? Radioactive spider venom? Super Soldier Serum?”

“Very amusing, Mr… ah… Carter,” she scrolled through the data on her screen, “and uncannily accurate, if perhaps lucky in your deductions.”

“You were right with one of your guesses, but…” she paused for effect, “that wasn’t really the worst of it.”

My grin dropped to the floor, and rolled away under the trolley somewhere. “Which… one?” I asked, totally sure she was not joking. I was not sure I wanted to know.

“Now, are you feeling any… er… ill effects?”

#FiveSentenceFiction – Learning: “A Flower for Algy”

Lillie McFerrin Writes

Lillie McFerrin hosts a Five Sentence Fiction competition on her blog. This week’s theme is Learning.

Here is my entry:

“A Flower for Algy”

Dei sei dat wen du oprashun is dun ai wul be abel to raez mi hand an get pikd to anseh keschons to.

Mi hed hurts todaey, but I got picked and gaev gave the riteght answer to Miss Kinnian s qukestion.

Alice is pleased with my progress, but the exponential rate of development frightens her, unless it is just an excuse for suppressing the feelings we have for each other.

Alice, being intelligent teaches you a lot, but lerning, I hav fownd, taks hart not hed, and aim sad dat it tuk so long to no how ai felt abowt yoo bekos ai no its to laet.

Dei sei de oprashun werkd fo a waeil but it dint stik, so Miss Kinnian is sad to and kries wen shi seez mi.

#FinishThatThought – “Get it? Got it. Good!”

Here is my (ineligible) submission if you don’t want to see the original piece:

[500 words, special challenge accepted]

Title: “Get it? Got it. Good!”

“His son watched as he was snatched away.”

“What? Wait… Who?”

Vague pronouns? Seriously? Not the best start to a school report.

“Ghandi.” the word came out half chewed. I glanced at the term paper in front of me. Yup the red ink surrounded the title.

Who’s gHandi?” I asked. The H forced out deliberately, like the scrape of a hastily opened curtain.

“Whatcha mean ‘Who’s Ghandi?’ You know. The Guy… the guy we had to write about!”

A general chuckle of approval from the other students seemed to bolster the young man’s resolve to dive into the water of education and yet remain completely dry. He smiled to his audience, especially those he thought were the hottest chicks. Idly I wondered if their lack of clothing was cause or effect. Either way, no one had their minds on one of the greatest political thinkers of the last century.

“By any chance, do you mean Gandhi?

“Huh?”

“G A N D H I” Each letter alliterated in chalk on the board. “There is no ‘Ghandi’.”

“There is no… Is this some Zen thing, Mr Coulter?”

“No, Mr. Carter. Although Gandhi was influenced by many religions, his practical philosophy of passive resistance was based on Hindu and Jain teachings”

“Who’s Jane, Mr Coulter? And what’s a hen d…”

“Zac. We aren’t doing the ‘What’s a hen do?’ joke again are we?”

From the back of the class “Lay eggs!” was heard from various quarters, accompanied by titters of intolerance. Clearly we were doing the ‘hen do’ joke again.

“Who can tell me what ‘passive resistance’ is?” I scanned the auditorium hopefully.

“Ask Sandy. She’s pretty passive in her resistance most Friday nights!”

Zac high fived his nearest conspirator, as most of the males in the room hooted their approval. I expected to be warmed by Sandy’s reddened cheeks, but she simply hooked arms with her neighbours in sisterly silence. Something, I wasn’t sure what, was brewing.

“That’s ok, Mr. C…” she silenced me before I had the chance to admonish the boys, “If we have to ‘put up’ we won’t ‘put out’ will we girls…”

A chorus of ‘uh uh’s, ‘na hah’s and ‘no way’s swept across the classroom. I shouldn’t have laughed, but the boys were slower on the uptake.

“What’s she saying?” Zac gazed round the room. His compadres were suddenly more interested in the floor or the window. They got it.

“Without wanting to put words in Miss Lawson’s mouth, but I think she’s wanting an apology, or none of you will have… er… dates this weekend. Is that correct, Sandy?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. C.” Sandy flicked round expectantly to Zac. “We’re waiting… Mr. Carter…” she smirked conspiratorially at the other young women. They got it.

“Ok. Sorry.” Zac slowly deflated.

“Sandy, a perfect example of ‘passive resistance’ if I ever saw one. You get ten out of ten.”

“Gee, Mr. C! That’s my first ever A!” she grinned up at me, “Awesomes!”

“Sandy, you deserved it.”

Mid-Week Blues-Buster #MWBB – “…”

Mid-Week Blues-Buster is a “music prompted flash fiction challenge.”

Here is my entry this week, if you don’t want to see the original submission:

Title: “…”
[500 words]

Eireann (Ireland) was the prima facie, but before The Silence there were reports from parts of Africa and France too. Wales went so quickly that only reports from the border confirmed that territory as being part of the initial wave of quiet that washed over the World. At first the rest of the planet assumed technical problems, or cyber terrorism, to be the cause.

When the phenomenon we now call The Silence took 99.9% of 7.2 billion souls, the few of us unaffected learned quickly to mask ourselves. The alternative for those not pawky enough to – how did they used to put it? – see the writing on the wall was quite horrific. Slavery at best. Mutilation or execution in the worst cases. It never ceases to amaze me how little communication a mob needs to become a mob.

We few (who can) call ourselves Muties. A bitter irony. The rest have no words for us, for they have no words. The Silence saw to that. At first it was like listening to a song from another land. People spoke, but the meaning had been stripped away, leaving just the melody. In all the confusion, it took a while to realise it wasn’t like a stroke depriving individuals of language. Hearing words as words was the first thing to go. The second symptom was loss of word formation. Other Muties I have contacted confirmed the same thing: loss of comprehension then composition. And it was not limited to vocal communication. People just stopped being able to write, then read, then for the majority to think.

Confusion spread like a plague, followed by conflict and combat. Maybe the World being so dependent on the Internet and its ubiquitous instant connection between nations was what rendered the lack of the concept of communication so horrific. Overnight entire cultures imploded. Dominant survivors emerged as the new leaders. The power of alpha males (and, in fact, females), seemed to not need the nuances of language. The fist and the foot quickly spread as the new punctuation in our lives.

Eventually, a form of physical gesturing began to emerge; Muties were particularly effective at this, but that was a two edged sword. Ownership of books, or any knowledge storage device, became dangerous to all but the most powerful. Yet the thuggery of the dark years of The Silence eventually passed. Without words to worry the weary fear became a useless tactic. The lack of difference in interpretation levelled the population in a single generation. A new peace descended on the scattered hamlets of the inhabitable continents. The Silence proved mightier than the pen and the sword.

That is when the true deliverers of our salvation made themselves known, coming wordlessly among us, signing a new dawn. Revelation. A becoming of beings worthy to be brothers in a shared future. They thought we would be grateful for this cosmic lesson in humility. Were we ready to begin again, they asked simultaneously across the Globe?

We said “No.”

#55wordchallenge – “From Trap to Pot” (UPDATE Honourable Mention)

UPDATE
Got an Honourable Mention for this.

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In Lisa’s own words “the 55 Word Challenge is a contest to write a story in 55 words or less.” Each week writers pick one of three images as inspiration. Here’s mine if you would rather not see the original version:

“From Trap to Pot”
by Dr. Mike Reddy (@doctormikereddy) [55 words]

Elana Jane had a lot to answer for. We’d had fun as kids. Kids ended all that. Kids and bills.

Lobsters enter the pots willingly, then can’t escape. So it was with me and Elana Jane. Sure, we still had fun now and again, but I couldn’t help feeling I was in the boiling pan.

#TicckleTuesday a 30s audiovideo #flashfiction compo Tomorrow

I learned a lot from the relatively small start of #ticckletuesday (details at http://doctormikereddy.com/2013/07/31/what-have-i-learned-from-ticckletuesday/)The second #ticckletuesday will happen tomorrow. There are a number of ways that flash fiction writers might be involved. Firstly, Ticckle (the 30s video blogging service) is not required; it was what gave me the idea of doing something other than text, but is inspiration more than respiration. So, if you would like to write a really short story – about as much as someone could reasonably recite/perform in 30s (I’m keeping the physical limitation) – the prompt will be given, at 12am UK time, and you have a day to submit. Once you have written your story, you have a number of options:

1) Respond to the Ticckle video that provides the prompt over at http://ticckle.com/ (look out for #TicckleTuesday #2 in the title. This will be a 30 second video, and either needs an iPhone/iPad App or a flash enabled Mac/PC to record. You can review attempts until you are happy. Posting a link to the original text would be good.
2) Upload a video to the FaceBook Group (You will have to request to join first, so do that now if you can to help me avoid a rush). Try to keep this to the original 30s, but so long as the story itself is within those limits, you will be ok. Again, posting the actual text of the story as a comment would be useful
3) Use SoundCloud or AudioBoo to create a FaceBook sharable audio file (again remembering to fit your story into 30s), and then share the link with the FB Group. There are tutorials on how to do this, if you don’t know how. Remember to attach a link to the original text of the story.
4) Post your text either as a comment on the FaceBook Group or on the relevant blog page, on my blog

So long as there aren’t too many text only stories, and they aren’t too long for 30 seconds, I’ll record any that aren’t spoken. It’s all for fun. Hope you can come by.

#mondaymixer – “Piece Work”

#mondaymixer is an interesting flash fiction compo, requiring exactly 150 words and at least one thing, verb and adjective, chosen from three of each. Today’s list is:
Things: 1) zephyr 2) plonk 3) billhook
Verbs: 1) ruminate 2) sparge 3) blench
Adjectives: 1) pawky 2) somnolent 3) insular
Overachievers, those who use at least five can receive a special prize. Here is my entry:

“Piece-Work”
by Dr. Mike Reddy (@doctormikereddy) [150 words, overachiever award]

The long untended wood rendered every wind into the lightest zephyr. Its thick canopy of foliage filtered every torrential downpour into a sparging of the forest floor. From sunrise the woodsman had single-handedly cleared a section of fern, bramble and hated honeysuckle. Then discarding all but shorts, he felled with axe, lopped with bill hook and laid the stripped trunks of ash and hazel. Not all, mind you, but the rotted, the crooked and the too numerous, leaving the straightest, aloof, insular, unfettered by competition. They would fetch the best price at market, but the profits of his labour would be his son’s reward.

The Sun could now penetrate a little into the wood. So, at 9 o’clock he plonked himself down against an oak to eat his lunch, then basked, naked and somnolent, in its burrowing warmth. Piece-work, the woodsman ruminated to himself, was Peace work also.

#satsuntails – “Killer App” (UPDATE Winner)

UPDATE

It appears I won. The official announcement is here.

In my never-ending search for more opportunities to write, I’ve discovered #satsuntails.

The stories were based on the idea of “sleeping giants” and the following image:

Here’s my first entry, but please check it out in its original location (to read other entries) too:

“Killer App”
Some wore them as earrings, or nose studs, or even spectacles. At one point there had been a ridiculous early fashion for pretentious earpieces, apparently named after a pirate, no less. Bluebeard? However, those early models were not able to Jack(R) nearly as well, being mere data visualisation conduits. Sylvi had her Giant(tm) in a simple hairpiece, easily overlooked when most preferred their attachments on the side or front of the skull, for easier neural integration. Sylvi just wanted hers out of the way for everyday people business. It annoyed her how few could resist tapping, touching or even stroking their Giants when they were clearly Jacking.

“Giant: the Jack ‘Killer’ App…” ran the slogan, its irony lost on most.

“…Without one you’re sleep walking.” warned the posters.

Lately, Sylvi had been wandering who was asleep and who awake. At least she took hers off at night. Mostly.

#flashfridayfic – “Warning: Only Industry Accredited Workers May Adjust The Special Machine”

Friday Fiction #35 entry here if you don’t want to look at the original entry.

This story was based upon the following image, and needed to be 100-200 words:

“Warning: Only Industry Accredited Workers May Adjust The Special Machine”
by Dr. Mike Reddy (@doctormikereddy) [111 words]

#132678operativeneurallog20130801065123
347891 is watching as I adjust the special machine.
I am not allowed to know what it does – I have only just been rated – but it is very important.

#347891operativeneurallog20130801065134
132678 is nervous. He should be. This is the Special Machine! 132678 is too ol…[UNERWÜNSCHTE-GEDANKEN]. He should never have bee…[UNERWÜNSCHTE-GEDANKEN]
132678 must have worked hard to be rated at his age.

#321568operativeneuallog20130801065156
The adjustment is proceeding well. 132678 was a necessary addition to correct 347891. It is fitting to see him supervise 132678 in adjusting the Special Machine. Once 132678 has completed the adjustment, 347891 will need to recyc…[UNERWÜNSCHTE-GEDANKEN]reassigned.

#0110110specialmachinelog20130801065199
347891operativeUnGed2013080165147
347891operativeUnGed2013080165149
321568operativeUnGed2013080165172

Dr. Mike Reddy