20 responses to “Microcosms 6”

1. 

   Bill Engleson

   5 February 2016

   Mountain Justice

   The eighteen booster trans-universe rig glides to a stop just above me. It hovers down and the passenger portal swings open.

   “Hop in, traveller,” the driver beckons and no moss grows.

   I clamor in, sit back, breathe the mint air.

   He blasts up the mountain grade.

   “Much of a wait?”

   I straighten my robes, give him a sagacious stare and decree, “No, you arrived as expected.”

   “How far am I taking you, sir?”

   “Half way down the other side. A little hideaway called the Affinity Lake Diner.”

   “Will you be long there?”

   “No. A quick hearing; the sentence, as always, expiration.”

   “Good. Time enough for a cup of Joe then.”

   Judge; truck stop; sci fi
   110 judicial reviews
   @billmelaterplea
   http://www.engleson.ca

   Reply
2. 

   D. E. Park

   5 February 2016

   Scarlet Teacup

   D. E. Park @ParkInkSpot

   110 words. Judge/Truck stop/SF (ahem…sci-fi…purists would eat you alive for that expression, you know)

   —

   The fossil somehow managed to dodder his way into a booth. Margot’s approach confirmed her suspicion that the fetid stench arose from the cheek-sucking old invalid.

   “What can I get you, hon?”

   “Tea.” His palsied hands trembled as he placed a large copper coin on the table. “Please.”

   “Buddy, do you need a doctor?”

   He met her gaze directly for the first time. “I am furious, not ill. I would have you pilloried for such scandalous attire, exposing so much…” He indicated her skirted server uniform with a gesture, “Limb.”

   “Just what century do you think this is, Bub?”

   He paled. “I fear that might be the fundamental question.”

   Reply
   1. 

      Daisy Warwick

      6 February 2016

      ‘Cheek-sucking old invalid’ what a great description!

      Reply
   2. 

      Geoff Holme

      13 February 2016

      Great take on the elements, Dave, and great dialogue.

      Reply
3. 

   Voima Oy

   5 February 2016

   Years Like Snow
   @voimaoy
   109 words
   translator/mansion/romance

   “I fear I shall go mad,” the Duchess said, “Professor Sato said you were his best student.”

   Daniel admired the library, the high shelves of books, the view from the windows. It was an old place, and the Duchess of Alba was an old woman. “I did my dissertation on Heian poetry. Not much call for translators, these days.”

   “It is an art. I need an artist to help me.” she unrolled a decorated scroll, covered in calligraphy. “You know this poem?”

   “It is attributed to Murasaki Shikibu.” His hand brushed hers, briefly, as her hair fell over the lines. “Years like snow, it says.”

   Outside, snow was falling.

   Reply
4. 

   Cath Barton

   5 February 2016

   The Finishing Touches
   @CathBarton1
   110 words
   Elements: hairdresser-mansion-drama

   The Great Hall is decked out in silks and satins for the ball. Everything that shines is polished. The ladies’ dresses are pressed; they await only their coiffures. As a bell echoes the length of the corridors a servant glides to open the front door. The ladies twitter. Some of them remember when coiffeurs used scissors but this, the top man, is renowned for the sharpness of his fingers, the skill with which he winds and twists their shiny locks. He needs no old-fashioned tools.

   He does his work quietly, his hands strong and confident. The ladies, in the end, are supremely decorative. And as silent as the men desire.

   Reply
5. 

   Firdaus Parvez

   5 February 2016

   @firdausp
   (110 words)
   Translator/mine/sci-fi

   ‘Duct-taped’

   As a translator of ancient scripts and maps, I accompanied a team searching for lost treasure. We didn’t find any, but we bathed in the spring of immortality, laughing at the myth.
   Now two hundred years later, all twelve of us are the only ones alive on earth. Disease and hunger has claimed most of our organs, we’ve lost our skin, and use duct tape to keep what’s left from falling out. We wait for death but it never comes.
   Hiding in this old mine from harsh elements, we stare at each other’s deformed bodies. Our tongues have dried. Silence is all we speak, and that doesn’t need a translator.

   Reply
   1. 

      Rebecca

      6 February 2016

      A very enjoyable, creative story Firdaus.

      Reply
      1. 

         Firdaus Parvez

         6 February 2016

         Thankyou Rebecca 🙂
6. 

   Sal Page

   5 February 2016

   Decade after Decade

   Pete lies on his back, pain pinning him to the ground.
   He looks up into the dizzying sky,
   a swathe of cloud, an aeroplane.
   He recalls his mother, crying in chapel,
   for his pilot brother, killed years before.
   Hijacking, bomb, the plane falling from the sky.
   He’d left and become a hero,
   while Pete ran the farm. Day after day,
   month after month,
   decade after decade.
   Endless milking, mucking out & balancing the books.
   Evenings of mind-numbing paper-work,
   jumping through hoops for supermarkets.
   With his last breath, Pete laughs.
   Never set foot on a plane.
   Ended up here, with his head in a cowpat.
   How would she manage without him?

   Farmer – House of Worship – Poem
   @SalnPage
   108 words
   #FlashDog

   Reply
   1. 

      Sal Page

      5 February 2016

      Correction. 110 words. Last minute changes. 😉

      Reply
7. 

   Casey Rose Frank

   5 February 2016

   Repetition Drives the Lesson Home

   “You called yourself an honest man.”
   “I did,” he replied to the voice that came from everywhere.

   Pitch black night in the parking lot.
   One lamp shining down on the truck.
   Click, boom, body hits the pavement.
   He’s holding the gun.
   It all reverses in slow motion.
   He sees the agony, the droplets of blood drawn back to the source.
   The man who had escaped his courtly justice.
   Again
   Click, boom, body hits the pavement.
   Reverse, and again, reverse, again, reverse, again.

   He cries.
   He is a murderer.
   This is no court but he is being punished all the same.

   @caseyrosefrank
   100 words
   judge/truck stop/sci-fi

   Reply
8. 

   A V Laidlaw

   5 February 2016

   @AvLaidlaw
   107 Words
   Judge / Truck Stop / SF

   The Last Days of Rome

   The metal behemoths arrive in a clouds of dust, the fury of their engines only tamed by the priests of the automobile, the worshippers of Ford and Peterbilt. They drag out a boy by the chains around his wrists, his eyes swollen by bruises.

   “Stealing gas,” they say. No charge more serious; stealing the last blood drops of their tattered world. They sit in their cabs and smoke cigarettes as they await the judgement.

   The judge turns on the neon signs as he pronounces. The light flickers across the chrome grills, and on into the desert darkness.

   “Death by hanging.”

   In this way, they save their civilisation.

   Reply
9. 

   Stephanie Ellis

   5 February 2016

   Buddha’s Jewel

   96 words
   Elements: religious leader, airport, poem

   @el_Stevie
   #FlashDog

   He smiles, a permanent sun
   Against the grey frown
   Of the runway
   Beneath sweeping mountains
   Whose snow-capped peaks
   Bring memories of home

   Once he stood high above the world
   Watching the flames of the day
   Play across a peaceful sky
   Now he must look on
   As others burn for him
   Transient torches
   In the Tibetan darkness

   Disciple of peace,
   He stands in exile but not alone
   A reincarnation of the six tribes
   Gentle adversary of those
   Who seek to crush freedom
   A crimson-robed thorn
   In the Red Dragon’s side
   Buddha’s jewel
   From the Land of Snow

   Reply
10. 

    A. J. Walker

    5 February 2016

    After Bacon
    A.J. Walker

    John could just make out the faded words on the sign ‘Ana’s Greasy Spoon’.

    “It’d be illegal this place now. Fat, oil, carbohydrate. More fat. Bet it was lovely.”

    Simon looked at his dad bemused. “It actually advertised having greasy spoons? Bizarre.”

    John sighed. “Before everyone was chipped you wouldn’t believe what was acceptable.”

    “Criminal. Killing people.”

    “This place here’s a truck stop. Imagine that. How many gas guzzling giants passed through here? Killing people with their carcinogens.”

    “Weren’t you a judge?”

    “Aye, crime was more complicated – grey. The chips stopped all crime. Black and white. It’s permitted or not. Recorded, downloaded.”

    “No judge required.”

    “Maybe a bacon sandwich though.”

    —-
    WC 110
    Judge/Truck Stop/SF
    @zevonesque

    Reply
11. 

    Emily Clayton

    5 February 2016

    Emily Clayton
    @emilyiswriting
    elements: waitress, limo, mystery
    109 words

    The Green Dragon Room

    “Eww, is that a dead body?” Anita recoiled from her dive across the limo’s cushions. She glanced at the other passengers, the “would-be murderers” who gazed with innocence pasted on haggard faces.

    The party had been a blast, but now it was time to crash. Home? Boyfriend’s? She couldn’t stomach waitressing, serving any more of the thick, syrupy concoctions bubbling up from behind the make-shift bar.

    And now, there was a dead body.

    Little did she know her fellow passengers had committed their own crime. They were innocent of the limo murder, but not that of her boyfriend, who was no longer sleeping off drinks at a downtown bar.

    Reply
12. 

    thebatinthehat

    5 February 2016

    This is just for fun, obviously. 🙂

    religious leader / factory / horror

    The Foreman
    110 words
    @thebatinthehat

    Dismembered limbs traveled down the conveyor belt at a breakneck pace. Younger brothers sorted through them; they tossed misshapen ones aside, saving the premium appendages for their gods.

    The foreman strolled along the factory floor, hands knitted tightly behind his back, lips continuously pursed in disapproval. “Halt!” he called, stopping at the station of a silent cenobite, who quivered as he approached.

    He peered over the shaking man’s shoulder, then leaned in to assess his work. He twisted toes and tugged on nails, finally murmuring his approval.

    The young monk sighed deeply, the hollow where his tongue used to be a constant reminder of the last time he failed inspection.

    Reply
13. 

    Roya

    5 February 2016

    The First King of Crete
    Roya Carmelle (@royacarmelle)
    Judge/Truck Stop/Fantasy
    110 words.

    His breath stilled, and he could visibly see the falling snow stop before his eyes. The normally fluid flakes melted at his touch, his hand reaching upward toward the phenomenon. He felt something sweep through him, and he sighed quietly as he left behind the decaying space.

    The horned creature watched as tires screamed, a man fell, a crack resounded, and blood pooled.

    And the snow began to sway again, coating the tattered truck cabin, warm air still blowing from the vents, keys still hanging from the ignition.

    And Minos approached him, drinking in the death for which he prayed, judging the memories that he saw through the lonely eyes.

    Reply
14. 

    Craig A

    5 February 2016

    Judgebot 3000

    These meatbags are very good at deleting each other.

    This time it’s a dead trucker at some backwater truck stop. It has all the trademarks, the same rope fibres, similar victim, same time of day. It’s definitely the work of a serial killer.

    I stare at the accused man before me and listen to his testimony. I parse out key phrases while performing voice stress analysis. Theres a 99.3% chance he’s innocent. Wrong place at the wrong time.

    I bring down the hammer and pass my verdict.
    “Guilty. Sentenced to death.”

    He screams as they drag him away.

    Between me and the serial killer, these meatbags don’t stand a chance.

    110 words
    @todayschapter
    Judge/Truck Stop/Sci Fi

    Reply
    1. 

       Geoff Holme

       13 February 2016

       “Meatbags” – brilliant!

       Reply

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