• Fiction

    Drabble: Learning to Fly

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    Throw yourself at the ground and miss. That’s what Arthur Dent had done, what the Whale and Petunia hadn’t managed. Satire, wonderfully brilliant and completely appropriate as Alyssa watched the ground rising to meet her.

    After the inevitable Tom Petty, a horrid lyric leapt to mind. He jumped from 40,000 feet, forgot to pull the cord. She hadn’t forgotten, it just hadn’t worked. Same with the backup, and she didn’t have much faith in the automatic release right now.

    Alyssa stretched out her limbs to slow her descent.

    She might as well enjoy the view as she learned to fly.

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  • Fiction

    Drabble: It’s Full of Drones

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    It’s a drone-filled world.

    Military drones. Expensive, solid, better all the time.

    Commercial drones. Delivery models beat the media drones to market by a few months.

    Toy drones. Cheap, crappy things with minutes-long battery life. Proliferation led to better quality, better batteries, better cameras. Easy, high tech voyeurism.

    Privacy concerns fought back. Legislation, protests, and, eventually, tiny hunters. A quick electric shock knocks most over-the-counter pre-fabs out of the sky. Scratch one spy.

    But my hunter didn’t come home last night.

    The last frame of video catches a hazy image of something bigger, darker, menacing.

    Begun, the drone wars have.

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  • Fiction

    Dabbling in Drabbles

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    The drabble is an interesting length: a story told in exactly 100 words. I’ve played with this length before, but most often as a side project to keep being creative while I worked something else, something more important, out in my head.

    I’m going to try working at this length for its own sake for a bit. Not constantly, but maybe one or two per week for a while. Here’s a recent attempt.

     

    No one ever looks under the flowers. People admire them, stop and smell them, even pick a few sometimes, but no one actually looks under them. After all, there’s nothing there but dirt and a few worms, right? Maybe a mole or some weird little grubs.

    They really should.

    You really should.

    Sometimes, there’s something waiting.

    Sometimes, I’m waiting.

    Eater of dreams, devourer of lives, consumer of flesh.

    Waiting for the right moment. Everything you are, everything you were, everything you ever might be will become part of me. I’m waiting, patiently, quietly.

    Under the flowers.

    Where you didn’t look.

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  • Fiction,  Writing

    The Doorbell Rang

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    A quick little bite of fiction for Friday…

    The doorbell rang.

    Harvey stared at the front door, dreading what might stand on the other side.  What horror might await the unwary?  A salesman?  Perhaps one thinly disguised offering a prize or special discount.  Or the young variety, fundraising with chocolate or magazines.  Perhaps someone canvassing for charity?  A politician?  It might even be the dreaded invitation to a local church.

    The doorbell rang.

    It could be worth a man’s wallet, life, political allegiance, or immortal soul to answer the door. 

    The doorbell rang, but Harvey didn’t answer.  He didn’t even bother to bark.  The rug was too comfortable.

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