Search the Community
Showing results for tags 'flash-fiction'.
Found 4 results
-
The woman trudged up the snowy incline, a settler of disaster on her way home. The canvas satchel thudded against her back, though numb as she was with cold, it did not bother her. An owl cried out amongst the snowflakes. She stopped and turned her back to the wind, glaring towards the chilled breeze. The owl called again. She turned in a circle slowly, searching for the source of the hooting sound. No sign. She began to walk again. Up the incline, then down again, meandering purposefully through the snow. The colony was barely visible, obscured as it was by the white sheet that Nature had laid; merely a few small huts clinging to the white plain. This colony was aptly named Disaster; monikers like Safety and Fortitude only seemed to encourage strife. This was the way things were, as they knew it. They had come here many months ago, looking for fertile land after their last several plots had run dry and frozen. But Nature had forsaken them, as they now knew, for each land to which they ventured soon became crushed by drought, seared by fires of the forest, or cocooned in winter’s harshness. The people of Disaster were hardy farmers, tough, and they knew how to survive this pain, for a time. Sooner or later they knew that something had to change; Disaster would hold no more, and a new settlement would be needed. They would move on, they would adapt. - - - The woman trudged up the grassy incline, a settler of disaster moving on. The canvas satchel thudded against her back, though joyous as she was with hope, it did not bother her. A bluebird cried out amongst the raindrops. She stopped and smiled. Slightly less "meh" than some of my other entries- I actually like this one, although it was cut a bit short by the time limit. I'm also posting this as one of two entries for this week's Fortnightly Flash Fiction Contest.
-
The man slumped, tired, into the third chair from the left. The usual bustle of the law firm’s waiting room was withdrawing for the night, until its return at seven o’clock sharp the next morning, always stylishly prompt. He sighed and ran two fingers through his dark hair. It had been a long day. The next employer had fired him, just like the last two. Can’t take money from me, Mike, he’d said. I don’t care how many mouths you’ve got to feed. And then he was out of work yet again. And so the pattern of misfortune would continue like it had. The faded tan of his coat contrasted the deep red of his shirt, bought only last week, after his previous one had been too threadbare to tolerate. His denim jeans were headed down the same path, an obvious conclusion upon taking a single look. At last the door opened and the man stood up, straightened his coat and the already-straight-enough tie, made a half-hearted effort to tuck in his shirt, and walked into the office. The lawyer sat there, left arm placed on the corresponding armrest of his large office chair, the brown leather pleasantly reminding the visitor of an elderly man’s worn face. The pen click-tapped on the wooden desk and then alighted on the lawyer’s ear, both arms now up on the desk, his right hand supporting his chin. “So,” he asked, “what brings you here tonight, Michael?” and smiled emptily as if he didn’t already know. Playing along with this charade of obliviousness, the visitor replied, “Looking for a job.” “Well, I’m sorry to tell you,” the lawyer winced with false sympathy, “I don’t run a hiring agency, and I’ve already got a secretary. Oh, and a janitor, too.” “Yes, I know. Are you sure there isn’t any small way I could help a very competitive man like yourself in his endeavors?” “Now that you mention it, the Burton - Graham case is getting a little out of hand. Of course that simpleton isn’t innocent, but he did hire me and now I’ve gotta clear him.” Michael looked across the mahogany desk at the lawyer. He knew that it’d be like this before he had entered. That didn’t make it any easier to accept; but when you were as close to broke as you can be, you had to do some things you wouldn’t want to otherwise. The system was his scapegoat, the target of his blame; the judiciaries were the ones responsible for his troubles. If only the defendant hadn’t hired the best lawyer in the state, he’d be fine. Of course, the best lawyer in the state was, and had been, Jason Nichols. But there was nothing Michael could do now, really. “Then how would you like me to help?” he grudgingly asked. The lawyer eyed Michael from across the desk, and sighed as he spun his pen between two fingers. “Well let me see…” the lawyer trailed off, looking at the bland grey ceiling while mumbling to himself. “Ah, that’s it- here.” So saying, he handed a small round pill bottle to his visitor. The white cylinder was unmarked save for three carefully made green dots on the lid. “Graham’s lawyer, rival of mine, takes regular medication for a minor liver condition. Perhaps there would be unexpected side effects if, say, his prescription were to be changed?” As he said this he reached into his desk and removed a pair of perfectly smooth, crisp fifty-dollar bills, then handed them to Michael. The visitor nodded and sighed. Pocketing the cash and the blank bottle, he stood up and bowed his head. When he next spoke Michael’s voice was choked by a sudden biting resentfulness. “You know I wouldn’t be doing this, Nichols…” “Of course,” replied the lawyer who had taken apart Michael’s life, arguing against an innocent man, five years before. His mock sympathy had returned. “I know just why you’re doing this, and of course, you have my sympathy.” Jason grinned coldly. And Michael noiselessly left, hands in his pockets. Four days later Jason Nichols was dead. The scene of the crime- his office- was sealed off in accordance with police protocol. The old leather chair had recently acquired a red-rimmed hole from which leaked sickly yellow cotton. On the desk there was a bullet shell, a scorch mark, and fifty dollars, forlorn and crumpled. Under it there was an empty pill bottle with three green dots on the lid. Michael hadn’t wanted to do it- he wasn’t one for revenge- but Graham’s lawyer had paid him four hundred. That would be enough to feed his family for a month or so. It would be fine, for a while at least. Some say that in a time of crisis the need outweighs the guilt. And at the end of the day, are we only human after all? I've had this in progress for a little while, and honestly I do like it. This has gone through a lot of changes and edits to the point where I'm satisfied with it; and it sort of fits the theme for this week's FFFFC, so I'll be entering it for that, too. So, tell me what you think, if you want.
-
The wind died suddenly, as if ashamed of its ferocity and the damage it had wrought. The fire borne upon it faded as well. Along with the danger so too, gradually, ended the fear of the villagers. They rose from their ruined town to rebuild what they could, although they knew the wind and the fire would return. It always did. The one structure untouched by the tempests every single time was the old Brotherhood fortress in the western hills outside the village. This understandably led to rumors that it was the source of the winds, and everything else for that matter. And it very well might have been; the word was that Rahkshi were periodically unleashed from the foreboding edifice, sent to run free and wreak havoc on the town.The diversity of these monstrosities meant that the damage was always different; be it plasma-charged tornados, a weakening plague of silence, or any other terrible result, the people of the village feared it all the same. These attacks were meant perhaps to keep the Matoran in check, although thoughts of rebellion of any sort had long ago been eradicated. Even hope of peace was merely a fiction to them now.This truth was unanimous save for a single person. He wore a weathered grey cloak, and nobody had seen him at all, save for his granite-hued feet and hands. The being’s voice was low and carried the weight of ages. The Walker, they called him. He was not of the same village, a nomadic traveler; still, he had remained there for a few weeks, his road onward being blocked by the ferocious windstorms, as well as their source.But at the end of the storms, as the villagers emerged, the Walker set out with a purpose, striding stoically through the rubble, off west towards the hills and the fortress. Nobody knew what he intended, nobody knew why; but they all stepped aside as he walked on. Straying from the village, though they knew not why, the Matoran silently lined the windswept dusty road into the hills. The path ended, and the traveler walked on; and still the Matoran followed in his wake. At last he reached the hills, not slowing down. Unblinkingly he drew a black, roughly triangular stone tablet from within his cloak, and continued on, clutching it in his right fist. Coming briskly and purposefully to the dread black gates, he raised his left arm across his chest without slowing, still a few bio away. Fingers splayed, he threw his arm horizontally away from him; the old iron flew open with a tremendous clang, and the Walker continued unfazed. His entourage slowly spilled through behind him, fanning out to either side.The being went on. The Matoran of the decimated village continued behind as if in a trance. At last the Walker stopped, immediately at the vast black doors. There was a flawless silence. Finally a great creaking of rust and blight cut the quiet off, as though of a beast unwilling to be shifted; but the great black doors began to slide apart. The crowd and their leader held like stones. Only darkness emanated from within the fortress; no light, no joy.The Walker noiselessly raised his arm, and held up the Tablet of Transit that he dared to carry. It was pointed towards the fortress, or rather the unseen occupants that no doubt lurked inside.Another rumbling sounded from within. This was undoubtedly movement, not the stationary weight of the doors. A large form stepped into the light, though it remained clothed perfectly in darkness. Bifold points flared to life, bright lavender in the dark, though they lit nothing but themselves. Whorls of pure emptiness, the essence of the dark, spiraled out from the imposing figure, shadowed eddies reaching toward the Matoran, creeping along the ground like baneful smoke towards their feet.Emboldened by the courage of the Walker, they remained where they stood, though whether this was truly foolishness or bravery, they did not know. The figure in the door still did not change his position, but an intense vibe of malevolence shone off of him. The Walker and his people did not move as black winds swirled around their heads. The tail of his cloak billowed to one side, though his hood stayed up, as did his hand, with the Tablet.The barrage of umbrage and dark power ended abruptly. The Makuta had clearly seen the triangular stone. He blinked and spoke, his voice rich and deep, echoing wisdom and earth, rather than the corruption and fear that his species was associated with.“You bear a Tablet of Transit. You... are a friend of the Makuta. I ask you, wise one, what is it you wish for these people?” He gestured to the Matoran.The Walker had had enough. "Life. Harmony. No more destruction.”“Perhaps I can do this. Give me the stone.” The Walker stepped forward. The shadows swirled thoughtfully about the rock, before it was lifted into the doorway and enveloped by the dark. The being in the door turned and walked inside. Before he was fully out of sight again, two lavender points gazed back over his shoulder. “You must know, wise one, that there is a price for using this.”“I know. That’s why I brought it.”The gates rumbled slowly shut. The Matoran began to slowly walk back to the ruins of their village, though the Walker stood right where he was. Nobody was still around that night to see him traipse off into the hills again.Two years had passed from the day of the Walker’s excursion. The village was prospering, the fortress was abandoned, and the attacks had ceased.A herald sprinted into the home of the town’s leader bearing melancholy news.An old Turaga of Iron had been found lying outside the town’s perimeter. He was dead, arms crossed on his chest, a cloak folded neatly beside him, and a smile on his face.Hope you all liked that. I decided to write another (better) entry, after my first one turned out poorly. Rings in at exactly 999 words! Decided to go with my strength- original, non-canon scenes and characters. This one portrays the Tablets themselves slightly differently than they are mentioned officially- more like a token than a free pass, if you know what I mean. Anyway, feedback is appreciated!EDIT- Just noticed I typoed the title. Son of a gun. Can I get that fixed somehow?
-
Something a Makuta Never DoesGali spun around, landing hard in the mud. She grimaced and rose, just in time to be blindsided by the Makuta’s Nynrah missile. Slamming to the ground for another time, the Toa of Water found that she was unable to move her mechanical components. The cacophony of the surrounding aerial battles was drowned out by the pounding in her ears. Despite this she could hear the next words perfectly.“Tsk tsk,” the spindly white Makuta muttered in a viciously calculating, yet somehow sympathetic voice. “I must admit I expected slightly better from you, as you are a Toa Nuva. Well then.”There was a slight rushing noise like a cold wind as Krika stepped elegantly next to the fallen Toa. Suddenly she whirled back up, preparing to counter his attacks, but he struck again swiftly, pinning her arms to the muck with his insectoid limbs. Before she could make another move, before she had time to concentrate, he had swung her unceremoniously onto his back and ascended into the mist, hovering over the brackish Pit water and the bizarre vegetation. As Gali returned to her senses she realized that they were traveling away from the other Toa and Makuta of Karda Nui. Where was he taking her? And why?Reaching a clearing ringed by sickly trees, Krika alighted on a mostly solid patch, and dropped Gali off his shoulders with surprising gentleness. The Ga-Toa rolled over and groaned, shaking her head. Then she looked up at Krika.“Why have you brought me here? Why not just… kill me?” She was not fearful, but somewhat curious; in her experience the Karda Nui Makuta usually were more brutal and direct, not insidiously plotting, like Teridax or Mutran were. Gali silently prepared to manipulate the mutagenic water to wash Krika away, but she decided to hear him out before acting. In a hushed voice that lacked his previous severity, he began. "I am doing something a Makuta never does… I am offering mercy.”Gali was momentarily confused by this apparent change in heart. Was Krika sincere? Or was he merely toying with the Toa of Water? But his offer continued.“Flee, Gali. Leave this place, go anywhere in this universe, but do… not… stay… in Karda Nui." Ah, she knew this was a plot, now. Feigning sympathy in order to get the Nuva out of the equation. A bit less violent than the majority of the Makutas’ plans, but that would just make it more convincing. She decided that Krika was smart enough to know that it wouldn’t fool six Toa; it must be directed specifically at her, then. Not the most solid idea, but the alternative was even more unbelievable, Gali thought. “Why do you want me gone? Or… do you just want one less Toa in Karda Nui?”Krika sighed. “You would have made a good Makuta, Gali.” Another attempt to fool her… though an odd one, to be sure. But the Makuta continued. “You are far too clever to be a Toa. I tell you this…” Ah, this wasn’t good. Krika knew she was aware of his plan. “You Toa Nuva are here to awaken the Great Spirit Mata Nui, a mission that requires all six of you… I tell you…” Had he hesitated then…? She wasn’t sure. Her concept of understanding the Makuta’s deception was being weakened. Krika continued with more conviction. “…And I tell you that if you do that, you and everything you know will be doomed to a future more horrible than you can imagine. Leave now, and that future… cannot!... come to pass.”Gali suddenly had radical thoughts. Was Krika really warning her of danger? Did he feel in some way compassion for the Toa in general, or just Gali? Was he rebelling against the other Makuta? Gali wasn’t sure what to say. Krika began to say something else, but suddenly he cried out and shot out above Gali, landing gracelessly in the swamp behind her. He hissed and pitched forward, a yellow haze smoking off his back. The Toa of Water turned back to see a foreboding grey and white titan before her, like some vision of terrible untruth. She tensed, ready to leap up and attack him. In his clawed hands, she saw, was a glowing blade of golden energy. Her eyes traveled up the being’s body to his mask. And to her horror it resembled… the Avohkii?“Takanuva?” Gali was quite surprised. “Is that really… you? But your armor, your mask…! What happened to you?” The warped Toa sighed much as Krika had not a moment before the Av-Toa’s own arrival.“I’ll explain later. For right now… we need to find the others. If I’m right, everyone in this swamp has only hours to live.” Gali reeled. Was Krika telling the truth after all? Or was some unknown suicidal plan concocted by the six Makuta coming to fruition? Gali shook her head to clear her thoughts. Right now she needed to meet with the other Toa. She decided not to share with them her encounter with Krika, however. - - - With a roar the three vehicles soared off out of the Codrex, the engines’ din reverberating around the giant metallic sphere. Gali, Tahu, Takanuva and Onua stood in silence, gazing off into the foggy swamp through the circular openings near the ceiling. The previous events had left Gali’s mind, preoccupied as she was by the task they were in the midst of.But outside the Codrex, in the middle of a newly vacant clearing, there lay a stone tablet half-enclosed by the murky water, bearing the seal of the Kraahkan upon it, lying just where Gali had unknowingly left it.So, there goes my first entry for this week, my second flash-fiction piece overall. (I may write another, hopefully better entry.) I've gotta say for this one... meh. I had a good idea which evaporated somewhere along the line, and I was left with an awkwardly expanded version of a scene from the comics. Decided to keep and post it anyway. This is based off the comics, by the way, taking the same dialogue and all that- I didn't work off the same scene's depiction in the books, as I haven't read 'em. There are nine-hundred-forty-something words in here, for the record. Anyway, tell me what you think, I suppose.
