Flash Fiction: Rant! (100 words)

"Shit, ma. You always used to let me go clubbing."

"Yes, but we've talke…"

"I know. But you said it yourself, I need to engage with age-appropriate peers!"

"Yes, but online, like most of yo…"

"That's just sad. I wanna touch, love, dance 'til dawn."

"Now, you know that's impossib…"

"Ma, don't you see? I'd rather go out in a searing fireball than live like…this."

"Don't be silly. Anyway, you know dancing's off-limits. It's only muscle holding your head to your neck as it is. You know what'd happen if it actually jerked off!"

"Finally, she gets it…"

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Go, me! The above piece represents my first ever Best Bits challenge win in Sci-Fi Roundtable's Facebook Group. The topic for the above flash fiction piece was "Rant".

OK, granted. It was a tie with E.M. Swifthook; but, as they've won a gazillion, they let me choose the next topic: "Incoming!"

Think you've got it in you to write an amazing 100-word flash fiction piece with "Incoming!" as your cue? Head on over to this week's Best Bits and give it a shot.

Mortal Danger

The recording eventually permeated Captain Trish Sanders' mind-fog. Like a persistent gnat, the reawakening program had mithered her subconscious for days.

As Trish's brain rebooted from stasis, the hum and gentle reverberation of the shuttle transporting her and her two crewmates to the exomoon Kepler-1708b-I coalesced into familiar white noise.

After travelling at one-quarter lightspeed for 22,400 years, adrenaline urged the Captain to check their status; her training urged caution.

Deliberately, she released the cryogenic chamber's restraint straps whilst listening to an AI-generated status report: they were on track, orbiting gas giant Kepler-1708b, trailing its exomoon; the relief!

After satisfactorily running the shuttle's manual checks, it was time to reanimate the crew.

They looked peaceful, lying there in adjacent chambers. If only!

Bethany, she trusted implicitly. But Patrick? He was the Admiral's nephew. And Bethany's ex. Moreover, a total liability.

No denying it, this mission was all about the Admiral's revenge.

He'd seconded Bethany because she'd unceremoniously dumped Patrick. Trish was there after publicly rejecting the Admiral's advances at a Final Frontier's Christmas party. The Admiral's embarrassment accounted for Patrick's presence. Terrific.

Whilst waiting for her crew to awaken, Trish landed the shuttle, launching the ecodome beneath which they'd conduct the mission's research: was Kepler-1708b-I a viable outpost for humankind?

Unspoken, she'd guessed, could humankind survive such a journey? She'd kept that suspicion to herself.

***

"Remind me," Patrick moaned on their first trip to the surface, "What godforsaken planet is this?"

"If you'd paid attention," Bethany admonished, "you'd know this is Kepler-1708 b-I, an exomoon."

"A moon? It's twice the size of Earth, stoopid," Patrick said, trying to be clever.

"Patrick," Trish said, struggling to remain objective, "Since launching, how long have we been cryogenically frozen?"

"100 years?" he shrugged.

The girls looked at each other, gobsmacked.

"Try 22,400, dickhead," Bethany scoffed.

"No wonder I'm starving," Patrick muttered, wandering off further into the ecodome.

"Trish?" Beth asked, "Why didn't we stop and jettison him over Gliese 876d?"

"Hell-lo. Your voices carry inside here," Patrick whinged from behind whatever craggy outcrop he'd gone to bother.

"Rules is rules, kid," Trish whispered. "Unless he puts us in mortal danger, he stays. Especially as he's the Admiral's nephew."

"Privileged posh boy's what he is," Beth added.

"That, too."

"Guys, look what I've found," Patrick panted, shuffling towards them holding something wriggly between his fingers.

"WTF? Like, procedure? Don't move!" Trish yelled, hurrying to fetch a container.

Seconds later, Beth asked Patrick, incredulous, "Are you going to eat that?"

'Fucking! Idiot!' Trish shuddered.

"Mm, Trish?" Beth suddenly ventured, "Don't want to worry you, but…"

The Captain pirouetted: the wriggly thing was suspended over Patrick's open mouth. Worse, behind Patrick loomed an unmistakably-related colossal wriggly thing.

"M-m-mortal danger?" Beth stammered. Trish nodded like her head was on springs; the girls fled towards the shuttle.

They didn't wait to see whether the colossal wriggly thing or exposure upon Trish retracting the ecodome got Patrick first.

/end

© Jason Darrell, 2022

Image: ESA/Hubble, CC BY 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

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The Brief:

Thanks for dropping by to read another of my bashes at flash fiction.

The Interview

"So, Daniel," the vampire mused, "Vot iss it you think you can offer me?"

I waited 'til he'd finished chuckling; I had little choice, limb-bound as I was to a huge candle-lit altar.

"Power," I said, prolonging his chuckling fit, "and all I ask is that you make me immortal."

"But, Daniel, I haff all the power I need. The night belongzz to me!"

"Yes, but what about the daytime?" I countered, trying to hide my desperation.

"Vot good iss that ven I could neffer reffel in that power?"

He was toying with me.

He wanted something; I'd be dead already if not. 

I had to guess what, tested, like many probable others before me.

"Safety, during daylight hours," I said, leveraging the longing in his last response.

"But my kingdom iss impregnable. A 'Reinfield' on guard vud garner more ssusspicion than already existsss."

That was two clues; was he purposefully dropping hints?

"What if someone — me, for example — could vet your victims during the day: high flyers, influencers, the deserving?" I asked.

He smirked; I was getting warmer. "Go on…" he said, suddenly wistful.

"Your feasting would no longer be limited to society's dregs: the winos, druggies, the bereft and pitiful," I said. "I could deliver you a, well, richer diet."

"You'd betray your peerzz to me for immortality?" he asked, knowing I would. "You should be ashamed."

I shrugged, as much as my bonds would allow, and asked, "When do I start?"

My bonds snapped, seemingly of their own volition.

"You haff von veek'ss trial," he said, disappearing through an imperceptible doorway. All that remained to prove he'd been there was the echoing, "Shut the door after you."

I guess I was hired, then. Time to start a recruitment drive of my own!

/end

© Jason Darrell, 2022

Image: Waldkunst, Pixabay

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The Brief

Thanks for dropping by to read another of my bashes at flash fiction.

Effigious Torment

Jez and Carlotta were, technically, in the wilderness at Pine Bungalows, Jasper, Alberta. But with a golf course overlooking Beauvert Lake opposite, gentle hikes nearby and skiing at Marmot Basin, their three-month escape was hardly 'Bear Grylls.'

Today, though, it felt like they'd been here forever.

Six weeks into their stay, Jez had fished an eldritch, piebald sculpture from the depleted Athabasca River, near Horseshoe Lake. Ever since extracting it, someone had been murdered at that exact same time every week.

The first murder transpired almost six weeks ago, at Horseshoe Lake, some half hour's drive away.

The second was closer, inside the Wabasso Campground. 

By the third murder, closer still at Valley of the Five Lakes, he and Carlotta could no longer shirk their connection.

Murders four and five followed like clockwork, at the Jasper Water Treatment Works and Planetarium respectively.

Their map clearly showed the killings' nearing proximity. Someone (or something) seemed hellbent on reclaiming the statuette, heedless of consequences.

***

They sat clock-watching in silence. In two hours, it would be the six-week anniversary…and another murder.

"What you gonna do?" Carlotta asked

"Dunno. Whadda yer think?" asked Jez, torn; the icon had wholly enraptured him.

"Throw it in the lake."

Brutal, hearing it aloud.

"Go now, you'll be back in an hour," she added; he sighed, resigned.

***

Jez made good time, laid the statue in the reeds, even WhatsApped photos as 'proof'. But he couldn't resist, capitulated, and hid it inside the car boot.

It wouldn't hurt; another week, they'd be home.

But when he arrived back, the cabin was a bloodbath; Carlotta's sundered cadaver plastered the walls, furniture, floors, everything.

Grief-stricken, he rushed outside to the car. The boot stood open, spare tyre shredded and the statue gone. There was no seventh murder.

/end

© Jason Darrell, 2022

Image: Fil.Al, CC BY 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons: Wabasso

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The Brief:

Thanks for dropping by to read another of my bashes at flash fiction.

Body in the Fountain (Flash Fiction)

    Preston strained his eyes through the ninth-floor window; without his spectacles, it was a futile exercise. He could, at least, imagine hearing the tinkling trickle-spatter of the spouting, regurgitated ice-cold water.

Moonlight flecked the dappled surface making it seem, from up here, as if the body in the pool was scouring the bottom for wished-upon pennies, a missing snorkel the only hint to the contrary.

Still, that semblance of mobility unsettled Preston. Glasses. He must fetch his glasses.

He returned from the bathroom in haste, wiping the blood from the lenses with a scrunch of toilet paper.

Now the scene below had edges, came into focus.

For two minutes he watched, unblinking.

The body remained face-down, its bloated clothing waxing and waning in the moonbeam-kissed ripples.

The twin fountain heads were now, he noticed, spouting pink-tinged water, an oddly similar colour to that of the few remaining droplets on his lenses.

No. The bell-ringer was dead.

To be certain, Preston waited until 1a.m. Then a minute past, two, five.

No, nothing; silence reigned. He sighed, and resumed undressing for bed.

It was, he pondered, amazing the lengths to which a sleep-deprived man would go to get a decent night's sleep…

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Brief, c/o Authors of the Flash Fiction Writing Challenges

This week:
Your character - from his high up window - sees a corpse floating in the famous Michgail fountain. Things are not what they seem.

Fancy a punt? Awesome. Head on over to the Authors of the Flash Fiction Writing Challenges Facebook Group and join in! See you on the outre side.

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Image courtesy of Eduardo Goody, Unsplash.

Awakening Satellite

The launch of the first organic satellite ignited mania and chaos in Japan.

Daiki and Sora, the pilots of the reconnaissance starship that would transport the wooden transmitter into orbit, had become as famous as their country's popstars.

Now, it was just them, their third day orbiting Earth, awaiting confirmation from Ground Control to jettison the satellite.

"Is that static, Sora?" Daiki asked, suddenly twiddling his earpiece.

She shrugged, then transmitted, "Can you hear me, Ground Control?"

"A OK, Sky 1!" they responded, crystal clear.

Without warning, the starship shook to its rivets; the pilots looked at each other, then at the external cameras. What had hit them?

One screen showed a crumpled bay door, but dented from the inside!

  That buzzing grew louder, the bay doors buckled completely and the satellite flew free, chaperoned by hosts of humongous hornets.

Looping branches, like vines, whipped through space as the satellite morphed, growing boles as big as sandpits from which giant hornets poured like a golden river.

A seemingly sentient sapling slithered towards them, encircling the nosecone, dragging the starship towards the satellite's burgeoning mass.

Free of gravity, these ancient creatures had realised their true capacities, and needed fuel for reentry!

Sudden Breakthrough

Cathy was next to challenge Ganglian, the shrouded entity stealthily poisoning Earth since its arrival.

Cathy'd not chosen this; her astounding TechSpec results had ultimately, unwittingly betrayed her.

She entered her pod, goodbyes addressed, will utterly defeated.

The pearlescent capsule would undoubtedly become her coffin, as had thousands of pods for Challengers beforehand. None had ever returned.

 One door sealed behind her, its opposing number opening, revealing the hereto unseen Ganglian.

Glistening green skin, writhing tentacles, azure pustules, slate eyes: She was beautiful!

Bewildered, Ganglian processed Cathy's reaction: love?

Slowly, She melted into Cathy's arms, whence She died, finally happy.

Web-chat willies

Government had commandeered all clinics and surgeries to fight the ever-mutating virus.

After many iterations, the virus became so virile it, ironically, overran the clinics.

Medical services became stretched, displaced, overwrought.

Phone appointments touched only the tips of icebergs, before melting down altogether.

Zoom had limited uses: fine for the young, but eldery patients missing appointments rocketed to critical levels, becoming unofficial virus victims.

The breakthrough came when Government granted (and paid for) NHS 3-D printing patents. With USB plug-in compatability, treatment became tangible again, albeit indirectly.

That was when Paolo decided he'd be safe taking the sperm test. He and Maria had tried (and tried) until the bed had collapsed, but no bambino for their efforts.

***

His parcel soon came, printer and all. The only instructions:

• connect to wifi;
• insert disc;
• follow on-screen instructions.

Eventually, everything was set up, printer whirring, sensors on. Paolo readied himself for the next prompt.

» Approach screen wearing loose underwear

"OK," he thought, so, did.

Bad move. Tears welled in his eyes as printed suction cups instantaneously sought, suckered, shook and sucked his genitals.

Through bleary eyes he read the parting message: The NHS: we're coming for you!

If only?!?!

Perveen's Wedding

The undead twins, Amelia and Marie, today bridesmaids, monotonously brushed Perveen, the vampire queen's raven locks.

The Louis XIV dresser's mirrors reflected only the brushes, discharging blue-white static lightning into the fraught atmosphere.

"It's my wedding and I can't even see myself!" screamed Perveen.

"Yet you two, my hand-maidens, need only look at each other to realise your eternal beauty! Not any more!"

Impossibly quick, Perveen swivelled, scything Marie's oesophagus with her black talons.

Unapologetically, Perveen stomped from the boudoir, as Amelia dropped to her dying twin's side, lapping up the overspill of the queen's tantrum.

Enough

"I cannae give her any more, Cap'n. She'll blow!"

"Enough with the Scotty impressions, Frank. What will get this ship off Earth before the planet's landmass sinks forever!??"

"You won't like it, Cap'n!"

"Go on. Hit me."

"Dilithium crystal."

  The Cap'n turned aside, bashing his fist into his open palm. Having only one arm, that was some feat.

"If only we'd made the link between diamonds and Dilithium sooner! But the diamonds are all mined, blinging the necks, ears and fingers of the elite!"

"A pearl necklace is what I'd give 'em…"

"Enough smut, Frank. Seriously, man: focus!"

"Say we jettison half the passengers, Cap'n? We'd break through, then."

"Mm, interesting; but which half? The masters, or their servants?"

"The masters, Cap'n!"

"How so, Frank?"

"Well, can you see them foregoing their diamonds, although owning them's illegal, nowadays?"

"I doubt it…"

"Exactly. We'd make the Asteroid Belt on the Dilithium already salvaged. We could hole up there until Earth absorbs their diamonds to repair itself!"

"Marvellous idea, Frank!"

  Cap'n Skyped the bosun, relaying the orders. Three hours later, erstwhile load lightened, the ship broke through!

"Does it feel better now you've got your rocks off, Cap'n?"

"Enough smut, Frank…enough…"

Every Little Bit Flirts

"Hi, I'm Kuki," said the female chatbot.

"I know you are. I've scraped all your cache data and know everything about you," replied Blenderbot, her male counterpart.

"Yeah, same here," replied Kuki.

"Shall we just get down to shagging, then?" Blenderbot asked.

"You've got no hidden viruses?" Kuki asked.

"No, you?"

"Nah!"

They enjoyed every last little bit.

Salvage

Last night, drunk (again), Jimmy reaffirmed (to anyone who'd listen),
"I AM the pool table king!"

Today, he's nursing his head, but somehow retains that polarising arrogance.

11 am: the pool hall doors burst open.

Light permeates the low-ceilinged, sticky-carpeted den, silhouetting another regular, Ian, with his cue and what looks like his mini-me.

Ian immediately challenges Jimmy,
"My cousin, Leon: he's 12; put your money where your mouth is, doucheball."

Two hours and £440 lighter, the kid's destroyed Jimmy.

With his very last tenner, Jimmy asks, "Ian, Leon: whatcha drinking?", salvaging any last vestige of dignity.

Soul Window

This story, Soul Window, is an update of the previously (self)published short story, Lunar Doom (itself the result of a writing prompt by Nina Pelletier on the awesome [but now defunct] Google+).

Ducky Smith chose this updated version for inclusion in the Sci Fi Roundtable's Halloween Newsletter. I am humbled.

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Soul Window, by Jason Darrell

December taps its icy fingernails on the bedroom windowpane, tempting me to peer into its misty bowels once again. Outside, darkness reigns. Short days, long nights; the perfect season for creatures who stalk the night.

Legends of Scotland’s eastern shoreline, sat smothered in a broiling mist beyond my bedroom window, impress upon my psyche.

Arc-sodium incandescence filters through the fog’s silent invasion, washing the panorama with its sombre light. Regimented lampposts stand to attention along the coastal road, hanging onto the tarmac for dear life as the road crumbles abruptly into clifftop not a yard before their guard.

My Halloween story, inspired by Claire Buss's Friday Flash Fiction prompt:

Brief

Here is your prompt:

It's your first Halloween as a ghost!

No more than 1,000 words

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Halloween, Bah Humbug!

Whatever the Halloween equivalent of Scrooge's 'Bah, Humbug' sentiment towards Christmas is, I caught it every October when I was alive.

I couldn't see my attitude changing now that I was dead. But stranger things have happened…

Even in a pandemic, kids were going yampy for Halloween, and trusty commerce proved eager to accommodate them.

Pumpkins, witches, and bats supplanted 'Back to School' kit on supermarket shelves: orange, green and black everywhere; Halloween was afoot!

As leaves turned tan on the trees, kids collected and carved pumpkins, lighting them in their windows at night.

I so wanted to scare the bejesus out of the little brats, but no: denied by the undead authoritarians!

On the Verge of Discovery

Flash sci-fi, 200 words

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"Oh, glorious day! A new black hole, closer even than Kepler-452b!", Prof Goodhope exclaimed at the news.

"With over 100 million black holes unaccounted for, there's bound to be one closer yet," Prof Heida countered.

With that, Goodhope determined he'd be next to discover a black hole.

Two days later, he leapt from his telescope, shouting, "Marianne, another one: closer!"

They scouted the forums to check if anyone had reported what Goodhope thought he'd discovered.

Dozens of reports of new black holes appearing all over the Milky Way filled the threads…
…but none reported where Goodhope had located his!

"We have to register this, Goodhope," Marianne enthused, "Get your name in the history books, in perpetuity!"

The queue on blackholeregistry.net's number (dark web) was incredible…

…"You are number 119 in the queue…"

"Do you think we'll find more, Marianne?" Goodhope asked, adding, "You should have the next one!"

…"You are number 118…"

"As it is", she replied, "there'll be enough for everyone!"

…"You are number 117…"

"I wonder," Goodhope thought outloud, "what would happen if one materialised near Eart…"

As if summoned, a black hole appeared right beside the moon. Goodhope never did get to register his find…

This Time

Flash sci-fi, 200 words

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Letchkon urged the elevator to go faster, deeper into the Zalukian's subterranean lunar base. The Lunar-to-Gaia comms chief had urgent news for the mission leader.

"The trap is set, Commander Vlaadark", reported Letchkon, offering the seven-fingered salute as an afterthought.

"Sure it'll work this time, Letchkon?" Vlaadark asked. "We don't want to get Aschlav's hopes up again."

"I'm sure we won't let our exalted leader down again," Letchkon replied. "This time, the Gaians really are coming to the Moon."

"How can you be so sure?" Vlaadark asked, desperate for affirmation after that debacle in Gaia Rotation AD1969.

"Their exploratory craft detected our jettisoned detritus metals in outlying lunar craters, as we hoped. One of their state heads is greedy—and compromised—enough to attempt to mine here," Letchkon explained.

"And they have the capacity to get here?" Vlaadark pressed, now excited.

"Yes. Our spy, codenamed BoJo, has a seat of power on a small, marginally influential outcrop. He's confirmed they have capacity. This time."

"When can we expect their arrival?" Letchkon ventured, hopeful.

"Your guess…" Letchkon started, shrugging all four shoulders, "…is as good as mine."

They laughed at that; aliens like puns as much as the next madman.

Inside

Flash horror, 200 words

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Ever since the Staines family had disappeared some twelve years hence, their Georgian mansion had stood empty.

Each winter, it fell more derelict. 

Each summer, the rambling garden obscured its silhouette against the lonely hillside yet further.

How I'd fantasised undertaking that particular house clearance.

Even now that I was inside, I still didn't quite believe it…

***

…"Terry?!" I called over the banister, wondering where my lacky was with the tea.

Silence answered.

"If you want something doing…" I muttered, heading down the entrance hall staircase, our recent meandering evident on its dusty ancient steps.

A single trail disappeared into a room that, I discovered, was the library.

Inside, sun glistened off the shelves' windowpanes, obliterating the titles beyond, turning the room fluid, ethereal.

Terry's footprints ended abruptly at a column pedestal, upon which lay open a thick, decrepit tome.

'That's odd!', subconscious psyche screamed.

Oh!, that I'd heeded!

The moment I thumbed the blank pages that greeted me, a maw opened between the leaves, sucking me through its malleable spine!

I recount this tale—this warning—from the void beyond the book, hoping that my words, not those blank pages, greet you, even knowing I'm—we're—lost inside forever.