RESULTS – Microcosms 99

Thanks to everyone who submitted a story to Microcosms 99. There were 14 entries this week.

 

Please keep returning to Microcosms, and retweet / spread the word about this contest among your followers and friends.

Don’t forget that Microcosms exists primarily to provide a platform for the flash fiction community to hone their skills, and secondarily to give entrants a chance of receiving an accolade from that week’s judge. We also have the vote button for anyone, not just fellow entrants, to register their favourite/favorite(s) and thus establish a Community Pick.

We encourage everyone to reply with a positive comment to any and all of the entries AT ANY TIME: It’s good to have feedback.

MC 98 Judge’s Pick, Sian Brighal kindly agreed to act as judge for this contest. Here’s what she had to say:

It’s great to see so many entries, and they were all wonderful reads. I will always be amazed at how diverse the outcomes from the three elements can be. It made judging one of the best and the worst things, but it’s always a pleasure. I loved the range of genres; you’re a crazy wonderful bunch of writers. Thanks to Geoff for the round-up of events and the prompts, and thanks for the stories.

Sian

Favourite / Favorite Lines

Alva Holland – Turns out the food is off, passengers are sick, would-be murderers haven’t the strength, the Marshall is murdered by a feather-wielding matron of honour, the cocaine gets flushed, the businessman saves himself by knifing the Russian, while the fed-up purser plans a future with the flight engineer.

So many fantastic lines in this, but I had to pick this sweet round-up of every nefarious plan and outcome.

Eloise – It says ‘Now your Goose is cooked’.

After reading the story, this sentence popped back. Does it suggest a deeper relationship? It became a very intriguing line.

Bill Engleson – The highway teases. None of us drives anymore.

There were many beautiful sentences in this, but this one really hooked me. The sense of things moving, destinations and ways to freedom, to escape, to life and adventure…all ended with the knowledge that they can no longer drive.

Nthato Morakabi – In the parking lot, I step into the white Datsun waiting for me.

This line puts conspiracy firmly back into the story.

Mark Sadler – “Then I posted a few unfortunate comments on social media that resulted in Ellis putting me on their ‘no fly’ list.”

Excellent line!

Geoff Le Pard – It was the least the wall could do.

Brilliantly gives a frame of reference.

Kelly Griffiths – Finally, when Bentley finished unloading every awesome facet of himself with the exception of his name, he extended his hand for a shake. “Bentley,” he said. “Ferguson.”

An amazing set up for the next line. Brilliant!

Angelique Pacheco – When the mist finally settled, rose-tinted bodies could be seen sleeping peacefully, arms and legs entwined like lovers.

Such a powerful line.

JK – Sometimes my life felt like a dream, other times my dreams felt like life.

This is a beautiful opening line.

Nancy Chenier – Immigrant bodies dissolve after three days, unlike the earlier human versions.

This line offers greater clues to what’s going on, giving some context to time period, the crimes committed, some evolutionary process, maybe some engineering.

Dana Faletti – Special welcome to celebrity guest – Jared Johnson – author of Iced Love – acclaimed romance series. I believe his real name’s Horace?”

The turning point of the story. A great line.

Nicolette Stephens – He wasn’t very good at dealing with customer complaints, not since people started expecting stuff for nothing, but Marge had practiced complaining on me for thirty-five years.

A brilliant observation and line.

Steve Lodge – He said he went out for groceries. So where were they?

A clever line, creating doubt, implying guilt.

Caleb Echterling – But you are free to read your statement, provided you remove your clothes and work in the weather report somehow.

A brilliant line, especially in combination with the closing lines.

 

Special Mention

Bill Engleson – Look! I Was Out of My Mind! I See That Now! But, Holy Hannah, It Was as Sweet as Drinking Cold Mountain Spring Water

Not only does this have the best title (which just makes you want to know what that one grand adventure was) but it’s full of these lovely little insights and keen observations: ‘The highway teases. None of us drives anymore’, for example, and ‘…gawking robotically out the windows at the manicured lawn that rolls down to the freeway.’ It’s a rich and beautiful read. Thank you.

Honorable / Honourable Mention

Alva Holland – Trip Advisor

I loved the manic pace of this, the sheer number of nefarious evildoers and the wicked plans all waiting to be unleashed. The descriptions of the characters were exceptionally wry and fun, and the summary at the end an ironic treat to read. A fun read. Thank you.

Second Runner-up

Angelique Pacheco – Rose-tinted War

The way the author creates this image of a young woman, defiant and mindful of her dress and her role as inspiration—to the point that she can order the others with a glance—was stunning. And then! Then, the last paragraph hits you, and the woman lies dead. But even in that, she and the other women cannot be beaten, as they lie in calm repose, to sleep peacefully. The use of rose-tinted was a nice touch, not only creating a sense of what stains the scene, but also to the allusion of seeing things as you wish rather than as they are. A great story. Thank you.

First Runner-up

Geoff Le Pard – In Its Shadow

I loved the descriptive quality, the heaviness of it and the strong language outlining the scene and the motives pushing the family onwards, and how viciously they had been used. It’s a gut-wrenching story of hope and desperation being manipulated. The last paragraph was beautifully written, showing that some care and respect exists in the world, even if it comes too late. The last line is crushing. A brilliant story. Thank you.

 

And now, without further ado, we present the winners of Microcosms 95.

 

(insert drumroll here)

 

Community Pick

Alva Holland – Trip Advisor

298 words
Author; Airplane; Crime

The skinny guy with the wannabe beard in seat 11B is about to be murdered by persons unknown – the occupiers of seats 12B and 12C who are in cahoots with the floozies unashamedly flaunting their wares in Row 34, partners in crime deliberately selecting seats as far away from each other as possible so no-one makes the connection, like the blue-rinse brigade in Row 35, all aspiring Jessica Fletchers, intent on solving a murder, maybe even preventing it, having convinced themselves of their superiority in the fields of observation and detection.

The clucking hen party spreading their feathers over Rows 10 to 15 inclusive have no clue about what’s in store for them when the incognito Marshall in 16A discovers their secret stash of cocaine, and radios ahead, arranging for their detention on arrival, thereby obliterating months of careful wedding planning as a cover for their illegal courier trade.

Slick businessman in his $2,000 Armani suit would be ill-advised to attempt conversation with the burly Russian-disguised-as-an-American-bouncer, for his expensive threads will be shredded mid-flight and his body stuffed between the flush button and the paper towel dispenser behind the locked toilet door.

Suspicious-looking crew, all furtive and yet full of feigned efficiency. For one of them, this will be their last flight. Which one? Near-retirement captain perhaps, nothing to lose except his wife and family when they hear about his covert operations with the female purser who tires of his promises and ruins his tropical-island-cocktail-umbrella dreams.

Turns out the food is off, passengers are sick, would-be murderers haven’t the strength, the Marshall is murdered by a feather-wielding matron of honour, the cocaine gets flushed, the businessman saves himself by knifing the Russian, while the fed-up purser plans a future with the flight engineer.

Time for Chapter Two.

 

Judge’s Pick

Nancy Chenier – Asperges Me

I admit that I couldn’t quite grasp what was happening in this story, but the language, the incorporation of religious concepts, the descriptive detail, the flow of it, the conversation between the two officers as they dealt with something horrific just swept me off my feet. The title and the last line worked together brilliantly, as though the officer had doubts over the nature of the righteousness of his role. Excellent story.Thank you.

299 words
Policeman; Texas; Crime

At least ten pieces, it’s whispered, otherwise they’ll keep coming after you. I’ve processed enough of these scenes to know the Immigrants don’t have zombie powers. But my testimony counts for nothing.

The truth will set you free.

—That’s just your opinion!—

The exposed innards always smell like flowers. This one, like hyssop and roses. My eyes burn.

“Hey, Merill, what are three things you’re thankful for?” Ryan’s flashlight beam plays over the quivering bits that litter the dust. He’s been on the force ten years. Too short to know what it was like before the Immigrants. Too long to lose his lunch over another decimated one. He drops markers like breadcrumbs.

“That you’re not my regular partner,” I say crouching by the Immigrant’s translation pod. Figure they ripped that part out first.

—Their siren song will lure you into sin!—

Let he who is without sin… I start on the string, strands from the CPU (the heart) to the components (her dismembered body parts). Good folk believe themselves akin to Beloved John, who stuck through the cruelty of the crucifixion. I used to believe it too.

“Two more thankfuls,” Ryan goads. We could feed every pigeon in the county with as many breadcrumb markers he’s laid. I’m going to need more string. I always need more string.

“They aren’t gods,” I mutter. What you do to the least of these…

“Like Osiris cut into pieces?” Ryan snorts. “So, what’s the third?”

“We don’t have to bury them.” Immigrant bodies dissolve after three days, unlike the earlier human versions.

Ryan nods. “Better than rotting meat.”

Better than…

“Get a warrant for Ben’s truck,” I say.

Ryan nearly steps on a glob. “Serious? Judge’s not going to grant it.”

I don’t care. I shall be washed. “On record. Request it.”

 

Congratulations, Nancy. As Judge’s Pick, you are invited to judge the next round of Microcosms this coming weekend. Please click HERE to let us know whether or not you are interested!

RESULTS - Microcosms 100
RESULTS - Microcosms 98

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17 comments for “Welcome to Microcosms!

  1. zwoodle
    26 December 2015 at 4:15 pm

    We’re going to do a soft launch on 1 January. We’ll be e-mailing everyone shortly. Stay tuned!

    1+
  2. 12 September 2019 at 5:20 pm

    What’s happened to all the stories from last week’s competition?

    0
    • KM Zafari
      12 September 2019 at 6:31 pm

      They’re all still in the system but not displaying on the front end. Part of the glitch I’m trying to resolve. :/

      0
  3. 13 September 2019 at 6:37 am

    Who is Stoner, please?

    1+
  4. 13 September 2019 at 11:20 am

    Ghost; Haunted House; Comedy
    298 words

    The Gang, Fifty Years On

    “Hey guys, it’s our anniversary. It’s fifty years since we got together and solved our first case.”

    “That’s right. Why don’t we do something to celebrate? We could stay the night in the old, haunted house.”

    “I’m not really sure. None of us are as young as we used to be, we’re all in our late sixties now.”

    “Yeah, and I’m not sure that I want to stay up past my bedtime.”

    “Oh, go on, it’ll be a bit of fun. It’s not as though any of us get much of that anymore.”

    “It just won’t be the same without the dog.”

    “You’re right about missing the dog. I even miss that annoying little one that accompanied us on some of our later adventures.”

    “OK, it’s a date then. We just need someone to drive us out there before it gets dark.”

    “I’ll organise some supplies. Some drinks, a snack, spare walking sticks, and a flashlight for each of us.”

    “I’m not sure that I see the point. We never managed to find any real ghosts or monsters, never in our entire career. It was always a scam of some sort, and always one carried out by ordinary, everyday losers dressed up in costume.”

    The overnight stay was uneventful until just before dawn when they heard someone moving about downstairs. Silently they crept down the stairs only to find a fat balding man dressed up in a sheet going, “Woo… woo…” As it was obvious something untoward was going on, they phoned for the police. When they arrived a few minutes later the police arrested the would-be ghost. As he was taken away the last thing the gang heard him say was, “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for those pesky pensioners!”

    2+
  5. 13 September 2019 at 11:52 am

    http://www.engleson.ca
    @billmelaterplea
    300 words
    Stoner; Ghost Ship; Comedy

    That’s Some Spooky Shit, Man–Sailing the Silvery Seas with Long Joint Spliffer

    Man, I had more wobbles than a bobblehead.

    Bobblehead?

    Bubblehead for sure.

    Or Stubble head.

    Like man, that cat had a gnarly beard. Facial hair all wiry and dense. I could feel it, man. Spikes shooting out of his face like fireworks.

    Bazooka hookahs, man!

    Reefer creepers!

    Maybe it was the Maui-Zowie? Or the BC Bud? Or, get this, the Alberta Muerta?

    Made that up, man. Killer weed, though.

    Whatever it was, it was some magic shit. Maui Cowie poop, eh.

    Hah! I don’t know what that is.

    Anyway, I’d been up all night zinging in the shower, tingling in the tower, baying at the full moon, a giant silver dollar beauty, when I got the urge man to go down to the waterfront, watch the river flow.

    You ever done that, man? The river! Love the river. Like its dark, man, and late. The taverns have all closed. Streets littered with the soulful. Sky’s storm ready. Clouds gathering like jumbled sheets on a bed that’s never been made. Guess you know where that metaphor comes from. Anyways, you can feel it. Something’s gonna burst. So, I go down to the river and I see it through the thick fog. Like its out of the movies, man, full masted, skull and crossbones flapping’ in the night wind, and that ain’t no Errol Flynn standing at the helm. Not on your booty. Its someone eerie as hell, with some yo ho hoing and a bottle of bong…and I’m thinking, Bong? James Bong?

    There I am, staring at this vessel, double o sevening away, and this dude starts walking the plank and says, “Sorry Mate, no gambling tonight. The Jolly Better’s closed tight. City ordinance.”

    “Bummer, man” I bleat, “and me with the munchies and a pocket full of pieces of eight.”

    0
  6. Geoff
    13 September 2019 at 7:32 pm

    Stoner, haunted house, drama
    295 words
    Gardening
    ‘Hi Pete. How’s it trucking?’’
    Pete blinked, hoping his neighbour was another bad trip.
    ‘Garden’s looking great. Not many weeds. Ho!’
    Pete sucked in air, disorientated by the lack of smoke. I need to cut back oxygen. ‘Hi Greg. You after a packet?’
    ‘I was just wondering how you get them so… leafy?’
    Pete licked the paper. ‘You planning your own? Take some seeds, man.’ He sealed another joint, willing him to go.
    ‘I don’t think so. What’s the secret?’
    Pete looked at the soil at his feet. ‘Peace and love, man.’
    ‘Seriously. We grew cannabis at college but that was inside in Cheltenham. You manage outdoors, in Scotland in January…’
    ‘I rely on my relatives.’ He kicked the dirt, exposing the head of a femur. ‘That’s Auntie Jane. The plants love her.’
    Greg’s eyes widened. ‘That’s your aunt?’
    ‘Think so. Hang on.’ Pete put down the Rizzla packet and bent to the bone. ‘Yeah? You sure? Right ho.’ He looked up. ‘Uncle Portius. They look the same at that age, don’t they?’
    Greg rubbed his eyes. ‘I must be passive smoking your product. Did you just talk to a bone?’
    Pete laughed. ‘Course not. Bone’s don’t talk…’
    ‘But…’
    ‘They’re ghosts. I you like I can do you some Mexican spicy and my second cousin’s torso as a starter kit…’
    Greg backed away. ‘Maybe later.’
    Pete started another joint and covered the bone. He’d need another dozen for the school run. ‘Thanks Ponti, I’ll get you that pint of Ruddles later.’ He looked down the rows of fecund and fullsome plants to a slightly saggy group by the hedge. ‘And I’ll pick up some dubonnet and lemon for Granny Emmaline. Wouldn’t do to let her crop get peaky, what with festival season nearly upon us.’

    2+
  7. 13 September 2019 at 10:25 pm

    http://www.engleson.ca
    @billmelaterplea
    300 words
    Stoner; Ghost Ship; Comedy

    That’s Some Spooky Shit, Man–Sailing the Silvery Seas with Long Joint Spliffer

    Man, I had more wobbles than a bobblehead.

    Bobblehead?

    Bubblehead for sure.

    Or Stubble head?

    Like man, that cat had a gnarly beard. Facial hair all wiry and dense. I could feel it, man. Spikes shooting out of his face like fireworks.

    Bazooka hookahs, man!

    Reefer creepers!

    Maybe it was the Maui-Zowie? Or the BC Bud? Or, get this, the Alberta Muerta?

    Made that up, man. Killer weed, though.

    Whatever it was, it was some magic shit. Maui Cowie poop, eh.

    Hah! I don’t know what that is.

    Anyway, I’d been up all night zinging in the shower, tingling in the tower, baying at the full moon, a giant silver dollar beauty, when I got the urge man to go down to the waterfront, watch the river flow.

    You ever done that, man? The river! Love the river. Like its dark, man, and late. The taverns have all closed. Streets littered with the soulful. Sky’s storm ready. Clouds gathering like jumbled sheets on a bed that’s never been made. Guess you know where that metaphor comes from. Anyways, you can feel it. Something’s gonna burst. So, I go down to the river and I see it through the thick fog. Like its out of the movies, man, full masted, skull and crossbones flapping in the night wind, and that ain’t no Errol Flynn standing at the helm. Not on your booty. Its someone eerie as hell, with some yo ho hoing and a bottle of bong…and I’m thinking, Bong? James Bong?

    There I am, staring at this vessel, double o sevening away, and this dude starts walking the plank and says, “Sorry Mate, no gambling tonight. The Jolly Better’s closed tight. City ordinance.”

    “Bummer, man” I bleat, “and me with the munchies and a pocket full of pieces of eight.”

    4+
  8. Angelique Pacheco
    14 September 2019 at 4:56 am

    Stoner; Ghost Ship; Comedy
    135 words

    Green Boo-ty

    I saw through the haze
    A ghost ship’s hallways
    Twisting and turning
    The maze was daunting

    A ghostly dancer beckoned
    “Get naked,” she reckoned
    My mind said, “Okay!”
    My body said, “Let’s play!”
    The scene was rearranged
    And the actors were exchanged.

    The captain wore coat tails
    He clung onto the rails
    He shouted for pirates
    And called us bandits
    Zombies took me to the ledge
    To walk the plank to the edge.

    When I came down
    We were back in Cape Town
    I found myself at the pool
    Standing starkers like a fool

    The mystical dancer
    Was a Trans performer
    Security was cuffing me
    No zombies could I see.

    Don’t ever take the green stuff
    It can be quite rough
    Make sure you buy local
    Not pirated forms of diabolical.

    4+
  9. 14 September 2019 at 6:19 am

    stoner/ghost ship/comedy
    WC: 365
    http://www.awalker.org
    @zevonesque

    One More Sausage

    Fred was hungry. It was his semi-permanent state. Always eating; yet as thin as a rake that had been split in two–his acquaintances assumed he was looking after some tape worms. His best buddy, Havant, had just as voracious an appetite. Being a dog it was expected.
    Their holiday to France wasn’t going well. The language was unfamiliar and the food was not as good as anticipated. It was four days before Fred discovered that they were in Hamburg. And, whilst it was just two letters shy of his favourite word, it wasn’t in France.

    Things began to look up when they went for a couple of currywurst after a big breakfast. They got chatting to a groovy guy by the wurst-stand about all things sausage related ,which had got them a) excited and b) hungry again. Being at the wurst-stand that had been easy to deal with. There was always room for one more sausage.

    They shared a funny cigarette with Groovyman, which made them giggle. He said he’d never seen a dog smoke before. Fred said it happened regularly, usually when he’d spilt cooking oil on Havant.

    Groovyman enquired why he was called Havant. Fred explained that it was short for Havant A. which left him none the wiser. He then told them about the sausage barge, where the price for a four hour trip includes an ‘All That You Can Eat’ buffet. They weren’t going to miss this opportunity, so they heading down to the docks with big loping strides and stupid grins.

    At the docks everything was a bit blurry. Clearly they were in danger of fainting from hunger. So they got onboard the SS Hamburger with expectant bellies and an aim to make the buffet their home. Havant A. realised something was amiss when their boat passed through a series of locks without the gates opening. The lack of taste to the buffet wasn’t an issue, but the lack of substance was. When the captain turned up minus his head even Fred thought something was amiss.

    Then they smelled the Sausage Cruise pass in the other direction. It was a good job Havant could swim and Fred could float.

    2+
  10. 14 September 2019 at 4:03 pm

    stoner; ghost ship; comedy
    287 words

    Oscar

    The USS Bronson departed the solar system on the first Wednesday in October, carrying 420 tons of prime marijuana for trade on the rim. Its wormhole jumps were automated.

    By the first jump, the crew, consisting of Oscar Slama, was baked. He sat in the captain’s chair with a bowl of chips in his lap.

    In front of him, he appeared.

    “Wha…?” he said.

    “Don’t freak out,” Oscar 4-6 said. “I’m just more you, in the fourth, fifth, and sixth dimensions.”

    “Whoa,” Oscar said.

    “Got a light?” asked Oscar 4-6.

    After a second wormhole jump, as the ship navigated n-space on its trip to the rim planets, Oscar 7-9 joined the others, who, using a bong, were now ozzy. He immediately commenced baking brownies, a smoking blunt held between his clenched teeth.

    Croned, the three talked about the meaning of life with others who joined them subsequently.

    “It definitely has something to do with this yup yup,” Oscar 64-66 said.

    “Dude, it’s like … like … life,” Oscar 90-92 said.

    “Having trouble finishing my sentenc… ” Oscar said. Oscar 99-101 refilled his bowl with organic, unsalted puffed peas.

    “How many are me?” Oscar said. “I mean, how many of dimensions of me are they …?”

    “Infinite,” said Oscar 19948892…

    More wormholes, more dank. Infinitely more Oscars, steetched.

    “Let’s all squeeze in together,” Oscar said. “Dudes, I am so fazed …”

    “Dude, not out here in n-space. You got to stay spread out in n-space.”

    “No, squeeze in,” Oscar said with the frown of the chonged.

    They burned the crops. They squeezed in, all infinity of them.

    The ship flew on, empty of Oscars and budda.

    The Oscars looked around.

    “Where are we?” they asked themself.

    “In this universe, we’re God,” said the part of Him most lit.

    “Dude!” they said.

    0
  11. Diego Piselli
    14 September 2019 at 5:04 pm

    THE BARGE
    Stoner, Ghost Ship, Comedy
    282 words
    The rumor had spread with lightning speed, fuelled by media coverage.
    A mahogany barge, loaded with Lebanese weed was floating somewhere in Amsterdam canals, unattended
    Smokers in coffee shops hotly debated the matter. Abe swore he saw it moored near Singel canal; Alwine claimed to be certain that the ship was far in the harbor; Rastafarian waiters fabled about an Iranian merchant, owner of the barge tugged along his princely yacht, vanished with a Circassian beauty.
    Eventually, on a warm summer Saturday night, the Quest had its beginning.
    Hordes of stoners, old hippies and weirdos of all kinds gathered in Dam square and started scouring all the canals, walking on the banks, boating or paddling in muddy waters: braver and youngsters went so far as to swim in the smelly current.
    The Quest was unsuccessful, but Saturday phantom barge hunting became a fixed meeting. If interest decreased, the press reported a new sighting and people got back to the endless hunting. Hunters set up groups and association named by famous weed smokers of the past. Each group had a leader, a hymn, a flag.
    And every Saturday evening Mr. Janssen, managing editor of “Amsterdam Today”, savored happily the silence of his flat in Central Amsterdam, a little nest in a medieval alley crowded with coffee shops. No more yelling, no more stoners’ noise. No more frantic strolling of excited people along the cobblestone street.
    All the smokers had gone away, searching for the barge.
    His little article full of question marks and drop hints about a mysterious barge had proved useful, and he could eventually savor domestic pleasures in peace. “Marijuana enthusiasts are like children,” he said to himself “they believe anything”.

    6+
  12. 14 September 2019 at 7:44 pm

    @the_red_fleece
    http://www.theredfleece.co.uk
    stoner/ghost ship/comedy
    Word Count – 260

    Clang! Clang! Clang!
    The sound reminded Midshipman Smythe of the death march if it was played badly by a toddler on kitchen pans. What was scarier was the lack of bodily panic symptoms. His heart hadn’t tried to explode. His stomach hadn’t emptied like a freshly flushed toilet. Nothing was doing nothing in fact. Peter, the welcome guy, had warned him about this but it took some getting use to.
    “Is that her Midshipman?” His Captain pointed at the blue haired girl hitting the ships pipes.
    “Yes Sir.”
    “Madam.” The captain pulled herself to the full height of her tall frame. “How did you get on board?”
    “I don’t know man.” She didn’t look at the captain. Instead she gazed off to the left, as if following an excitable fly.
    “Madam, I am very much not a man.”
    She blinked three times, each time she forced her eyes as wide as she could. “You are so pale…wo-man. Did I get that right? Wo-man.”
    She giggled to herself.
    The Captain did not see the funny side. “Madam! How did you get on board this ship?”
    “Space cakes.” Her hand becomes a rocket which follows the same trajectory as her imagined fly. She takes the same level of interest.
    The Captain groans. “Midshipman?”
    “Yes Captain.” He clips his heels together, disappointed at the lack of noise. Another thing he has to get use to.
    “Go find the Chaplin. Tell him to prepare for a bio-exorcism. I won’t have a breather on my ghost ship.”

    3+
  13. 14 September 2019 at 10:09 pm

    @EdenSolera
    150 Words
    Unmasked Villain; Spooky Location; Drama

    Inferno

    Flames flickered in the oppressive darkness, solitary among thousands. A tall woman strode around them, her high-necked red dress flowing dangerously close to the light. Watching her, bathed in the shadows, were hundreds of people, their breathing heavy in the air of anticipation.

    She spun to face them, her eyes flashing as they reflected the flames. Her voice thundered through the deadened space. Disdain blanketed the group, suffocating even the bravest of her followers.

    Weakness was unacceptable, this they knew, but they had still managed to disappoint her. All fell to their knees, bowing their heads to the shame brought on by her piercing glare.

    She reached down to grab one of the candles, holding it in such a way that her face was cast in a ghostly light. Swiftly, her fingers were enveloped in the burning wax. Everyone else hissed, shocked, yet impressed by her stoicism.

    Flames smoldered still.

    2+
  14. Lindsey P
    16 September 2019 at 9:48 am

    I guess mine didn’t get saved…oh well.

    1+
    • Lindsey Pittenger
      16 September 2019 at 9:51 am

      298 Words

      Bookworm; Mine; Mystery

      The Case of the Canned Canaries

      As they ventured further down the dimly lit tunnel, Miranda pulled her book closer to her face, squinting to make out the words, comparing them to her surroundings. Everything seemed to be just as she’d expected. The construction of the mine shaft seemed stable and matched the text, which eased her growing sense of claustrophobia, but there was something that still just didn’t seem right. She hadn’t noticed that she’d slowed to a stop until the man behind her nearly knocked her over.

      “Oomf—sorry about that. Need to watch where I’m going a bit more,” he said with a sheepish grin.

      “I’m fine,” she said, clutching the book to herself and waving him away. Ignoring the dismissal, he pointed at her treasured cargo.

      “So what are you reading down here that’s so important to gum up the traffic?” he asked jovially, lowering his pickaxe from his shoulder.

      “Oh, this?” She held up the book. “It’s just an old book about mines. I figured I’d bring it along for some good-natured analysis. This mine seems similar to the one in the book, but the thing that’s been concerning me the most is the canaries.”

      “Canaries?” he asked, confused, briefly glancing around the shaft as though he’d missed something.

      “There aren’t any,” she said matter-of-factly, reopening her book, “Here, they use canaries as a warning system for noxious gases to keep people from dying, but this whole time we’ve been here, I haven’t seen a single one.” The look on her face fell as he burst into laughter.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, pointing to a box on the wall. “I think this sensor is that canary you’re looking for. Don’t worry, we are monitoring the safety of the air down here. At any rate, hope you’re enjoying your tour!”

      0

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