WELCOME to Flash! Friday! I’ll have you know — and I’m quite sure this is all your fault — that after last week’s prompt I searched high and low for some sort of magnificent coconut ice cream, but failed to find anything more inspiring than a can of coconut water “with pulp.” Not that chewing on soggy pieces of mysteriously aged coconut meat isn’t fun, but, yknow.
Judge update: I’m delighted to report we have an official, brand spanking new panel of judges for the bottom half of Year Three, yes, we do! Y’all already love these writers; you will soon love them even more. ♥ We’ll be ready to announce their names by May 29; the new (game-changing!) term starts June 26.
Spotlight Interviews: What a romp Tuesday’s interview with superstar Tamara Shoemaker was! Congratulations to FF newcomer Bill Engleson (Denmaniacs4) for winning the copy of Tamara’s newest novel, Kindle the Fire. A reminder the Spotlight feature’s open to any of you in the FF community with a project coming out (indie, traditional, hybrid, web — we’re crazy about it all!). We’d love to hand you the mic to let you chat about it! Contact us here.
♦♦♦♦♦
Judging today is Dragon Team Three: Captains Carlos Orozco & Eric Martell. Carlos’ favorite thing is unpredictability, for which he assigns Bonus Points. Similarly, Eric hopes your stories will captivate him with interesting characters or worlds. And, of course, that they will have been beautifully proofred proofread.
♦♦♦♦♦
Awards Ceremony: Results will post Monday. Noteworthy #SixtySeconds interviews with the previous week’s winner post Thursdays. Now let’s write!
* Word count: Write a 200-word story (10-word leeway on either side) based on the photo prompt.
* How: Post your story here in the comments. Include your word count (min 190 – max 210 words, excluding title/byline) and Twitter handle if you’ve got one. If you’re new, don’t forget to check the contest guidelines.
* Deadline: 11:59pm ET tonight (check the world clock if you need to; Flash! Friday is on Washington, DC time)
* Winners: will post Monday.
* Prize: The Flash! Friday e-dragon e-badge for your blog/wall, your own winner’s page here at FF, a 60-second interview next Thursday, and your name flame-written on the Dragon Wall of Fame for posterity.
AND HERE IS YOUR TWO-PART PROMPT:
(1) Required story element (this week: setting. If you want your story to be eligible for an award, your story must take place in the below setting “Downtown”.)
(2) Photo prompt to incorporate:
Tamara Shoemaker
@TamaraShoemaker
Word Count: 210
Weathered
The dust of sixty-plus years coated his bronzed face as he stared down at the town from his perch. The rest of his skin had grayed with time, but his lips had never cracked a smile.
His feet rested on a pedestal at the edge of a used car lot, and he glared across the river at the school beyond. They’d named the mascot after him—the Chiefs, until a court case banned the term and replaced it with the innocuous Eagles.
He’d become a landmark in this town. Tourists hugged a brown leg while they posed for a camera; tired Main Street meanderers paused for a break in his shadow. Gangs graffitied spray-painted tattoos on one bare calf; girls kissed interested boys behind the pedestal.
I worked in his shadow, operating my store where I could see the rigid profile. The eyes faded more each day, and rumors swirled that the city might give the old guy his final rest.
On a drizzly day, I nestled a set of books more snugly on a shelf, pulling the window closed to bar the rain from my merchandise. I traced the rivulets on the glass.
“Will that make you happy?” I whispered.
His cheeks dripped moisture below his empty, empty eyes.
LikeLike
A mournful tale telling us that everything passes, eventually.
LikeLike
Thanks, Clive! Appreciate it. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
beautiful x
LikeLiked by 1 person
So beautifully sad. a great story, Tamara!
LikeLike
Aw, thanks so much, Rasha! I grew up in a city with just such a statue (it’s still there, I believe). It’s the first thing I thought of when I saw the picture. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Beautiful! Love the detail about the mascot name change. 😉
And those “empty, empty eyes” sound haunting.
LikeLike
Thanks, Foy! 🙂 True story about the mascot name change – the same was the case in my hometown. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is lovely!
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Holly! 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
A wonderful story, left me feeling melancholy. Nicely done 🙂
LikeLike
I appreciate it! Thanks!
LikeLike
Such a sad, sad last line (brought a lump to my throat).
LikeLike
Aww, thanks, Steph. You’re always so kind. 🙂
LikeLike
Oh, so sad!
LikeLike
Thanks, Margaret! 🙂
LikeLike
Very nice story.
LikeLike
Thank you, Michael! 🙂
LikeLike
Wow! This is incredible writing. I’ve just joined and posted my first story here. You guys are so talented. I’ve read each and every story. Love being here.
LikeLike
Thanks so much! Wow, I’m thoroughly impressed that you’ve gone down through and read them all. Kudos! 🙂
LikeLike
Wow. That’s amazing you’ve read them all! Thanks again for your feedback on mine, positivethoughts1.
Great story, Tamara! I, too, was very moved by it. Last line is perfect.
LikeLike
Haunting last line, Tamara. Reminds me a of a local Indian statue for a car lot. Some jerk shot arrows in it. You make this figure mythic, and alive.
LikeLike
You don’t by any chance live in Asheville, NC, do you, Eliza? It’s my hometown, and I got my inspiration from a statue there that overlooks a car lot… 😉 Thanks for your kind words! 🙂
LikeLike
sad story Tamara and well written too….
LikeLike
Thank you, Stella! 🙂
LikeLike
Yinglan Zheng
@yinglangao2003
Word Count: 207
Wannabe
There is a museum downtown. Just take a right on Main Street and it’s there. I would visit the museum every time I go visit my grandma. There would be a new exhibit every time. The one I remember best was the Native American exhibit.
It was the first day of the exhibit, I remember, and the museum was especially crowded that day. I didn’t know it until I spotted the sign as grandma was cruising her car through town. I immediately begged her to let me visit but she insisted another day. “Please grandma.” I begged with my sad puppy dog face.
One look at me and she caved and quickly, she found a parking in the museum parking lot. As I strolled through the museum, I took in every fact and breathed in the history that was surrounding me. It was amazing, so much better than sitting through a history lesson in a classroom.
At last, I stopped at this photograph. It was a photograph of a Navajo man. So much emotion, I gasped. The picture was taken in 1904 before Photoshop and digital technology. As I looked deeper and deeper into the photograph, the more it was making me want to be a photographer.
LikeLike
It’s funny what things as kids move us to do what we do now, or want to do. Nice piece on motivation.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Inspiring piece. I enjoyed discovering how the narrator found his/her true passion. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLike
Nice take, I like the ending 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLike
Nice to know that some people see and feel beyond the digital. Photoshop does not rule ok!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Lovely and inspirational!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Beautiful and inspiring story. Well-done!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLike
Nice!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLike
It’s sad that so many children see Native Americans in museums. This has a poignant feeling that lingers.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Josh Bertetta
“Modern Problems”
210 Words
@JBertetta
Jerry plopped into his EZ-chair, turned on his laptop, and said “God damn it” when it read “Updating.” The microwave beeped. He said “God damn it” again, got out of his chair, and fetched the pre-packaged dinner he’d bought from the convenient store a whole elevator-ride down from his top-floor downtown condo. He sat, kicked back, ate his dinner. He washed it down with bottled spring water.
Jerry deserved to be a little irritable. It was a long day. After work he had to brave traffic only to spend 30 minutes in line at the pharmacy. Eventually he got his pills.
His home-screen finally up, Jerry, smiling at the picture of the Indian he set as his wallpaper, wished he could go back to that simpler time, when life was easier…
Haseya ground corn for hours today after walking, thanks to the current drought’s sucking the river dry, five miles under the blistering heat to the spring to collect the day’s water. After checking the withering corn for worms, Hastiin and others buried four more bodies. The medicine man said there was no cure for the sickness the White Man hid in the blankets they gave the People. Afterward
everyone danced for rain.
Tomorrow they’d do it all over again.
LikeLike
it took a couple of reads to get the way the story switches. but nice juxtaposition of difficulties in life.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Clive. I appreciate you taking the time to read it more than once. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
The juxtaposition of “…to that simpler time, when life was easier…” with “…no cure for the sickness the White Man hid in the blankets…” It makes me so, so sad. That last line brought tears. Well done, Josh. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Tamara. And your use of the old “cigar Indian statue” resonated withe as well
LikeLike
Thanks! 🙂 Appreciate it! 🙂
LikeLike
The definition of “first-world probs”. Great take. I found myself thoroughly irritated with the MC by the second paragraph. 😛
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes, what a jackasd
LikeLiked by 1 person
Great story, and a good point.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Holly 🙂
LikeLike
Great story – I like the “now and then” you have going on. Really, what a tough life Jerry has in comparison… LOL
LikeLiked by 1 person
A definite case of rose-tinted glasses. Liked your use of ‘brave’ when braving traffic as it adds an extra link to the Native American Indian picture referenced in the next para.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is good!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks positive thoughts 1 🙂
LikeLike
I love the tone shift here. Catches the reader, and forces an emotional switch that really adds power in short fiction. Good stuff.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks for the thoughtful comment. 🙂
LikeLike
loved this!! I’m always saying we should marvel at how easy our lives are…. turning a tap on and clean water pouring out… Well done Josh
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Stella and you’re right we have it pretty damn easy.
LikeLike
When the God Awoke
(208 words)
When the Grandfather God came to check on his people, he realized his cloud sleep had been a long slumber. The red land he knew so well, its towering cacti that raised their green prickly arms to the cloudless sky—this he recognized. This was home, the land of his people.
But now lights blazed like a valley of fallen stars. There was a beauty in the lights, and he marveled at the tall structures full of glowing squares of light. But the smell of the smoke of the valley assaulted his nose, the stench of a fire consuming some strange beast for which he had no name.
Things hummed, beasts of metal, thundering like buffalo in endless lines along dry rivers of grey rock. He moved amid the man-made mesas, searching.
The people in this place had the faces of strangers. Faces of the worshipers of other gods, men and women who had no name for him.
His children were gone from this valley of the sun. They did not dance until dawn, singing for him their Bluebird song.
When he stopped and wept, an unexpected rain fell upon the desert city. He had overslept. Grandfather God went away, in search of someone who remembered his name.
LikeLike
I think this is excellent – for me it strikes the right note of nostalgia without being too sentimental
LikeLike
gorgeous
LikeLike
nice first nation mythology feel to this story
LikeLike
Wow. Wow!!! This is so, so good. Strikes a chord deep inside me; it was what I had wanted to do with my pieces, but just couldn’t come up with how to do it. The beauty of this line: “But now lights blazed like a valley of fallen stars…” It’s all gorgeous, and sad, and absolutely stunning. Brilliant!
LikeLike
Touching. I love the colors in the first paragraph. You can almost feel the dry heat on your skin as you read. 🙂
LikeLike
This has a lovely tone, well done!
LikeLike
Thank you for all the kind comments!
LikeLike
This is wonderful. I especially loved the line – “But now lights blazed like a valley of fallen stars.” Such powerful imagery.
LikeLike
Love this. (Researched the Navajo Yeis for my piece and came across Grandfather God so I recognised your references.)
LikeLike
Powerful writing. Well done.
LikeLike
I love this. One of my favourites this week!
LikeLike
Brilliant!
LikeLike
Acceptance
Ian Martyn (@IBMartyn)
203 words
He was a proud man. He believed in the ways of his ancestors, their connection to the land and a balance with nature. The city dwellers had lost that. They had manufactured their own concrete order to the world. They paved their streets and blocked out the light with tall buildings. They relegated their trees to designated parks as they’d done with his people. He didn’t resent them now, there was no point. Change came, the young swept away the old. That was also nature’s way and who was he to say it was wrong.
In his youth he had he had given his anger free reign and rejected everything these city dwellers stood for. In his middle years he realised that the salmon could not swim against the flood for ever. That he must find quiet waters and be at peace with the world his god had seen fit to place him in. In his elder years he realised that good and bad were not black and white, in any sense. So now he strode the streets with calm acceptance. His body was not what it once was, his feet ached and a pair of Nike Air trainers would sure feel good.
LikeLike
interesting meshing of cultures, nice write.
LikeLike
‘Ain’t that the truth! Acceptance is a mark of (the wisdom of) age and awareness of the world and its workings. Like the very human touch at the end with the Nike trainers.
LikeLike
much enjoyed x
LikeLike
great sketch of how age changes our perspective
LikeLike
This sentence kind of wraps the whole piece up: “In his elder years he realised that good and bad were not black and white, in any sense.” Quite well done; a feeling of nostalgia. I enjoyed the reference to Nike Airs in the last sentence. Gave the story a nice little punch at the end. 🙂
LikeLike
You did a great job of explaining his mindset in so few words, well done!
LikeLike
Very thoughtful piece. The last line made me smile.
LikeLike
Good write!
LikeLike
I like this take on the prompt, in a modern setting. “Salmon could not swim against the flood for ever” is a great phrase here.
LikeLike
loved this one too…. attitudes do change as you get older… loved the lines salmon could not swim against the flood for ever and good and bad were not black and white… Well done Ian
LikeLike
(210)
@Viking_Ma
Travelling Spirit
More taxis than stars in the night honked and barged, squabbling for lane space. The people on the pavements pushed and elbowed to force their way through cracks in the mass. Downtown was packed, heaving, smelly. The skyscrapers leaned in menacingly, blind window-eyes watching.
Behind it all the sky was a putrid yellow, the clouds dull smog wisps. Nobody had seen a tree for six years now, and the only greenery downtown was in the tang of the acid rain.
Even the lowest weeds were grey, scrabbling through the dust and grime. Car tyres kissed the shining roads, and enormous advertising hoardings screamed the next big gleaming things.
These people have chosen their gods, thought the Indian. He had walked through time, seeing the future of his lands with increasingly worried eyes.
He moved his head slowly, observing all he needed to see. The pavement people walked through him, a ghost from a forgotten past. They chased their dreams, frowns and sad eyes discouraging kindness.
He spread his hands and rose above them all, sniffing the sick sky and feeling the dirt in the very air.
There was a loud CLAP! And he whooshed back in time and space to the meeting and the Elders, with bad news to tell.
LikeLike
Oddly, I heard Big Yellow Taxi when I read this. Love the ending, and it gives huge scope for something bigger.
LikeLike
brill x
LikeLike
This is brilliant! Love every word in this story!
LikeLike
Great take, I like the time-travel element – well done!
LikeLike
Very bad news indeed. But perhaps we might turn full circle and return to a more enlightened view.
LikeLike
Oh! This is good!
LikeLike
Some really beautiful lines and phrases in this short piece. Lovely writing.
LikeLike
@AvLaidlaw
201 Words
Chief
The other guys call me Chief. That’s not so bad. I’ve been beaten up a couple of times, so Chief’s not so bad for the money. Better money than you’d get in the Nation.
We’re sent downtown to the construction site, down to the banks and advert agencies, the concrete and the glass. The steel skeleton’s already half up so we walk along the girders some hundred feet high and get riveting. “You’re really not afraid of heights?” Some white guy asks me. That’s the Mohawk. Different people. Me, I nearly pee myself every time I get up here but I’m not going to say that. We’re macho guys up here.
We move up. It’s going to be the tallest skyscraper in the world, they say, taller than the ‘scrapers going up all over those hot countries with the oil. Forget about the last few years, they say, America is back, baby. They’ve put up all these Stars and Stripes all over the site but they kind of hang limp because there’s no wind.
“We’re making history,” he says.
For a few years. Then someone will build something taller, then another even taller. They think they’re going to reach heaven someday.
LikeLike
nice. futility. good last line too.
LikeLike
nice x
LikeLike
It’s the last two lines which nail this one for me. nicely done.
LikeLike
Brilliant! Amazing interpretation of the prompt.
LikeLike
Gorgeous last line! Love the pace and tone of this. You feel the MC’s jaded worldview so well at the end.
LikeLike
I agree with the others, fantastic last line!
LikeLike
Great story and a wonderful character!
LikeLike
And so it goes on, always someone ‘making history’. Nice take.
LikeLike
You’ve given your character such a distinctive voice, nicely done.
LikeLike
I like your take on the prompt!
LikeLike
Great story telling. Such a large story, and I love the authentic feeling of voice here.
LikeLike
The Bright Lights
200 words
Music spilled from the bar. Opala almost didn’t go in, but she needed to be around other people, no matter the freneticism. The walk from mid-town had allowed her to drink in the city, to reconnect. Neon signs spilled adverts into the night sky, a wash of increasing color. Her loft apartment was high above the traffic and she’d forgotten how melodic the revving engines, squealing brakes, honking horns, and slamming doors could be.
The barman acknowledged her and she exchanged a note for a glass of wine. Thinking was impossible so she let go, closed her eyes and drank in the atmosphere. She’d finished her crying, her moping, had got to the point of feeling empty. It was time to recharge.
“You want to dance?”
A man, young man, with wide eyes and a feather head-dress stood nose to nose with her. Did she? She nodded without thinking and he grinned. They gyrated together until she claimed fatigue.
The air was cooler, the streets quieter.
“I’m Kitakima,” he said.
Opala raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, Adam,” he smiled. “Look, I know a little place that’ll still be open. You want to eat?”
“Sure,” she smiled back, feeling better.
@Clivetern (after Petula Clark)
LikeLike
cool, a happy one!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Haha! Loved the switch from mysterious man to…”Adam.” Felt the life in this. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Love the happy ending 🙂
LikeLike
Very cute piece!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Nice optimistic story.
LikeLike
I like the transition from the dance club to the quiet streets. It seems as if Opala’s mind is calm again after recharging on the dance floor.
LikeLike
Sweet! Well written.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Neon signs spilling adverbs into the night sky. Wow. Love this one.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Honour restored
@geofflepard 210 words
His earliest memory: the man in the hat giving him a dollar and his mother’s anger that he didn’t understand. Every change in the moon, she’d sit, head bowed, humming for an hour. Always on the corner of 6th and Bright while he danced for rain like his uncle taught him. He learnt, if people gave money to keep it.
At eight they made him go to school but he skipped classes. His mother said nothing, just went alone. She died when he was twelve; no one said what happened but they’d boarded the site and she could no longer sit.
By fifteen he was in a gang, scraping for bucks, working on construction. They began redevelopment and found a burial site. TV made him famous, with his tribal tattoos.
It was his spot, the corner he dealt from. The cops, the other gangs tried to shift him but he always returned. He was the chief.
His uncle, ancient and hooked as an old crow, came. ‘It’s time, son.’ When his uncle died, he found an ancient tribal costume.
The pressure built – the mayor declared war, the money-men saw condo opportunities. He dressed carefully; the full moon shone as he, the last proud warrior went to met his foe.
LikeLike
‘ancient and hooked as an old crow’ – is brilliant. nice piece.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Carolyn
LikeLike
great write x
LikeLike
a tough read, because we’re made to really think about the twin story of the MC as modern citizen (though not a respectable one) and traditional warrior (with pride and honor).
LikeLiked by 1 person
thanks Clive; I hoped that came through!
LikeLike
I also liked “hooked as an old crow.”
LikeLiked by 1 person
“ancient and hooked as an old crow” powerfully descriptive. Great job presenting a life in so few words! I wonder if that was a war he won…
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is tragic, and I wonder what happened to him. Beautifully written.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ooh, love all the dimensions to this. Lots to think about.
LikeLiked by 1 person
A very tragic story with great imagery. Creative use of the prompt too!
LikeLiked by 1 person
A conflicted life in so many ways, nice to see that the ‘honourable’ side won out in the end.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Good job! Well written.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This sounds like a tale you could add a lot more to? I want to know what happens next. You’ve got me hooked.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wrong Turn at Albuquerque
210 words
With a flash of blinding light, the portal opened up in the cave entrance and the trio of explorers emerged, blinking, into the New Mexico sun.
Priscilla looked at the rough desert landscape, disapproval causing a sharp little V to appear between her carefully pucked eyebrows. “Honey, I thought you said your device worked with doorways to be sure we always landed on a civilized world.”
Professor Hendriks checked the readouts on his PAD. “Sorry, dear. It seems that the Portal Access Device has a wider range than I thought. This cave entrance could also be considered a negative liminal space. In fact, because it’s a cave, the liminality factor is greater than any man-made doorway by at least a factor of ten. We’ve been pulled off course. We just need to find an electronics store to add a restriction limit and prevent a reoccurrence.”
Mariela tugged on her father’s jacket. “Daddy? We’re not alone.”
“Excellent,” Professor Hendriks said. He approached the Navajo man with the ceremonial garb. “Could you please direct us to Downtown Albuquerque? We have some urgent business to conduct.”
The man looked at the three strangers and said, “Where have you been? Ever since the Yellowstone Caldera erupted, this is all that’s left of Downtown Albuquerque.”
LikeLike
ach! I love stories that play with the threat of Yellowstone’s mega eruption!
LikeLike
Great story, and great title!
LikeLike
I loved this one! Nothing like a traveling through space and time! Wonderfully done.
LikeLike
Like the way this makes you wonder whether their mis-timing saved their lives or the urgent business could’ve prevented the eruption in the first place.
LikeLike
Nice twist. At first I thought they may have traveled back in time until the last paragraph.
LikeLike
I like this one. Well done
LikeLike
Oh that last line! This one is Syfy channel movie crying to be made. Good stuff.
LikeLike
Business as Usual
(204 words)
@elaine173marie
Downtown, he drafts insurance documents. In the confines of a cubicle, constrained by white collar and the nine to five, he pins down words with precision: weights them down with correctness.
The vocabulary of life and death and drama dulled with clarity.
He feels pity for himself, and for the stuffy, firm words of commerce that he commits to paper.
On lunch breaks, he avoids Main Street sandwich bars; instead, he ventures into his imagination. He relieves these earnest words of their burden, rips them from their long established contexts, and lets them float above partitions. Transformed, novel now, they cast off their mask of ceremony.
Pretty words bejewel the air in affecting delicate shades above him. Transcending corporate definition their association rises. Plump vowels form, their bulbous, fertile curves expanding into assonance until they pop, one by one, with a string of exclamation points, raining down their freshness upon the room.
He is awash with new meaning. He ensures that this new found treasure, this vibrant prose that’s been coined will never again be neglected. He jots it down in his notepad for fear he might forget the value of those connotations that, in giant office blocks, are contracted to terminology.
LikeLike
This is gorgeous, well done!
LikeLike
Thanks , Holly.
LikeLike
lovely write x
LikeLike
Nicely done – your writing is very melodic.
LikeLike
Thank you. I really appreciate that.
LikeLike
Getting in touch with his inner writer – nicely done.
LikeLike
Thanks.
LikeLike
Thanks for taking time to read and comment. ‘Downtown’ is a term I hear on television, not something I had a natural affinity with. Needed to look it up actually! (Financial sector seemed to be dictionary definition.)
LikeLike
Write on!
LikeLike
Lol. Thanks!
LikeLike
That is such a lovely take on the prompt!
LikeLike
Thank you so much!
LikeLike
Gorgeous prose.
LikeLike
THE RAIN MAKERS (210 words)
Amherst, Massachusetts, 1733. Five Rivers sat on a dusty orange crate outside the Deerfield Saloon and set up his shell game on a beer barrel. Patrons waited for their turn to try their luck.
Austin Dickinson had watched the rigged game for months. He saw how the old Indian would place his thumb on the pebble while lifting the shell that the duped player picked. Five Rivers noticed Austin and gave him a wink.
At the end of each day Five Rivers would leave one shiny coin on the gate post in front of the Dickinson house. Austin would then casually walk by on his way to the candy store downtown.
……………………………………………….
Amherst, 1998. Rivers sat in the observation room of Weatherhead Casino surrounded by flickering closed circuit camera screens. He looked at the blackjack table and saw that the college kid was back. Gambling is luck of the draw, but not for him. He counted cards. He could beat the house.
At the end of each week Rivers would unlock his car door and keep walking through the parking lot. Minutes later the kid would casually walk to the car and place a manila envelope on the seat.
Tradition was important to Rivers. He always sought to honor his elders.
LikeLike
Interesting tale, I like the twist.
LikeLike
Love the angle here on the heritage. It rings true.
LikeLike
Very cool tale! Makes me want to read more!
LikeLike
Very nice mirroring of past and present.
LikeLike
Very clever. I like the mirroring too. Very well done in such a short word count.
LikeLike
Very interesting. Good job!
LikeLike
Tamara Shoemaker
@TamaraShoemaker
Word Count: 210
The Hunt
This one is for courage, the Great Warrior had said in the smoke of a thousand fires. The deep boom of drums had underscored the cracked timbres of his voice.
In the mirror, my hand straightens the hammered silver plate I’d reconstructed into a belt buckle. It had once decorated the belts of my ancestors as they raced with wolves. Today, I will chase a different wolf pack.
This one is for valor.
The furs decorate the cuffs of my suit jacket. Once, they had signified strength, the skill of hunting. Today, my ambitions hunger for different prey.
This one is for victory. I slide the necklace under the collar of my shirt and tighten my necktie, glancing over my image once more in the mirror.
Up until now, the sun-bleached grasses had been my pavement, the mountains my only horizon. Now the cacophony of car horns and taxi stops, buses and construction hammer through the thin glass of my window. The city hums with energy, a million ants building their colossal anthill.
My ancestors had strapped their courage to the bare backs of their ponies as they rode on the wind. Today, I bind my courage in the hard-knuckled grip of my briefcase and step through the open door.
LikeLike
Love the image of the MC putting on another “suit” beneath his modern day attire. Dressed for the hunt without anyone knowing.
LikeLike
Good eye, I’m glad you caught that! Thanks! 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
again great x
LikeLike
Beautiful story, I love “strapped their courage to the bare backs of their ponies.”
LikeLike
Thanks, Holly! I admit that I love that line, too. Might try to work it into a book or something… 😉
LikeLiked by 1 person
Feels like the struggle to integrate, and how appearance and adornments play a role. Very cool.
LikeLike
Thanks, Betsy! Sure appreciate it. 🙂
LikeLike
I love the ending of this one. Great job!
LikeLike
Thanks so much! 🙂
LikeLike
‘A million ants building their colossal anthill’ – quite an image. Like the way past traditions are incorporated into the new.
LikeLike
Thanks, Steph! Glad you enjoyed it. 🙂
LikeLike
Love the contrasting imagery here.
LikeLike
Thanks, Margaret! 🙂
LikeLike
Another incredible write!
LikeLike
Thanks so much! 🙂
LikeLike
KINGBIRD’S CURSE by E.F. Olsson
@EFOlsson
208 words
It was the last time they held ‘Pioneer Days’. The old town square downtown was packed. They labeled it an ‘historic district’ but since that day, it has been historic if a business could last two years there.
They blamed old Mr Kingbird for the curse. On the final day, he walked on the stage. The marching band noticed him first – the drums and horns died to an awkward stop. Mr Kingbird was in full Native American warrior dress – red and white face paint, beads dangled from his neck, feathers hung from his belt. I didn’t recognize him at first.
Once he had everyone’s attention, he leaned into the microphone: “You are here to celebrate this town. You enjoy this land. But I want to remind you of who you took it from. It was my ancestor’s land.”
“Look at you! Who wouldn’t want you out of here!” Yelled Mr Rose. “Go away!”
The mayor ran to the microphone and pulled it away from Mr Kingbird. He muttered something to him. Mr Kingbird started to chant. The mayor jestered to the band and they started playing again.
For a day, things were normal. Then, Mr Kingbird died. But he still walks the town square reminding us.
LikeLike
I think a reminder is a good thing, even in ghost form. Great story.
LikeLike
Thank you, Holly!
LikeLike
great
LikeLike
This piece is great. I saw the old town square and heard the music come to a stop when Mr. Kingbird arrived. Great writing.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
The ever-present ghost at the party. Nice story.
LikeLike
Very well written.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
Title: Painting
words: 208
@RTayaket
Margaret’s eyes pierced the oil painting of the Navajo man. The Downtown Art Festival had so many other paintings to look at – the Indian man was boring.
“Come on – there is one with dolphins and ships further down.” I said starting to walk. But Margaret didn’t follow me. “Ugh, it’s like you have a crush on this guy or something!” I sneered and went on my way to look at the cooler art.
Later that day I was having a coffee at the end of the festival, waiting for Margaret to make her way down the line. When my phone rang I wasn’t surprised it was Margaret.
“Finally! What…”
“I need you to pull your car around behind O’Charleys and pick me up.” she demanded.
“What’s wrong? I’m on my way!” I said worriedly. I ran to my car and drove faster than the speed limit to the lot behind the restaurant. Margaret was there with a large painting in her arms.
“What the hell, Marge?” I shouted rolling down the window as she pushed the painting in my back seat.
“He doesn’t belong here!”
“You stole that stupid painting?”
Margaret’s eyes flashed at me, her dark brown eyes and Cherokee skin igniting in fury. “He deserves respect.”
LikeLike
Really liked this, Rasha. It works well that you don’t reveal Margaret’s heritage until the last line.
LikeLiked by 1 person
nice one
LikeLike
Love the reveal in this one. Go Marge.
LikeLike
Lovely story, I like the twist.
LikeLike
Sounds as though she deserves a little respect too!
LikeLike
Interesting read. The twist at the end, incredible.
LikeLiked by 1 person
loved the last line “He deserves respect” nice story Rasha
LikeLike
HERITAGE
Brian S Creek
209 words
@BrianSCreek
#FlashDog
I remember I ordered the Kobe Beef.
The firm had just closed a big deal and the bosses wanted us out celebrating. It was a nice day and the piazza was bustling. Everything was New York and normal.
And then the Native American Indian turned up.
A crowd started building just down from our restaurant so a couple of us went to check it out. A Native Indian was stood there wearing next to nothing. People took pictures, someone called the police.
And then he started touching people.
Nothing violent or crass. He just touched their foreheads with the tip of his finger. And it wasn’t everyone, either. He was choosing people from the crowd as if he had a purpose. Those touched just stood there with an odd look of realization on their face. It was a surreal thing to watch.
And then he touched me.
My world changed. He’d awakened something in me, in my blood, and I saw the world for what it really was. My heritage rose up inside me. Looking around I could see the others he had chosen, the others like me. Each one was nuzzled by a red halo. Each one knew what they had to do.
And then we were many.
LikeLike
this is beautiful! We all come from somewhere, nice that the MC found his heritage.
LikeLike
great x
LikeLike
Love the ending!
LikeLike
Perhaps we all need a reminder of where we come from..
LikeLike
“New York AND normal.” Is that possible?
LikeLike
Surreal! I liked it.
LikeLike
I want to read more Brian !! 🙂
LikeLike
SIDE EFFECTS
Brian S Creek
209 words
@BrianSCreek
#FlashDog
Maurice’s heart was beating fast. He’d talked the talk and now he was walking the walk.
“There you go,” said the teller as she nervously placed the last money bag on the counter.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” said Maurice. He tipped his hat because manners are important, grabbed the bags, and walked out of the bank.
“Hold it right there!” yelled a vulture dressed in black.
Maurice spotted the Sheriff’s badge and cursed. His trigger finger itched. “It don’t have to go down this way, Sheriff.”
“Drop the money and the gun, and lay on the ground,” said the vulture.
Maurice smiled at a fine looking crocodile in a pretty dress across the street. She smiled back. In the blink of an eye his pistol was drawn. Each thump of the hammer sent a small Native Indian flying through the air, little axes swinging. The Sheriff dived for cover as Maurice backed away down the street.
Maurice could taste freedom. His horse was just across the street. He made to run, but failed to see the stagecoach barreling down the street.
+ + +
“Dispatch, the bank robber’s down. Hit by a bus on the corner of Fifth and Eastwood. Looks like he was high on something. We’re gonna need a coroner.”
LikeLike
Another great ending. I love the vulture and the crocodile. It’s a shame he didn’t make it.
LikeLike
I don’t think I’ve ever had a moral in my stories before. I can picture the old 80’s He-Man coming in at the end;
“Remember kids, don’t do drugs!”
(A public service announcement brought to you by Flash Fiction)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Fifth and Eastwood – love it. Living out his fantasies – and unfortunately dying for them! Great story.
LikeLike
I was picturing Rango and then it flipped. Great job! 🙂
LikeLike
The wild wild west and Eastwood came into mind. Good job!
LikeLike
Let the Battle Begin
(210 words)
Tehmomneh’s grieving spirit flows through the hard-walled canyon that swallowed up the land of his ancestors. Towers of cold stone now point upwards where ochre and mustard painted tepees dotted sweeping plains. Mechanized metal carries warm bodies over sacred ground foot-fast ponies roamed.
He clothes himself in the trappings of his holy office. Fire inflames his blood. Vengeance boils to the surface of his very being. No more the silent swift shafts of death bowing to hard pellets of flesh destroying balls which brought his mighty people to nothing.
Head held high he strides into the center of town. The white man stands before him. He represents his people. Tehmomneh represents his. Here in this place of meeting he’ll take one last stand to settle their fate once and for all.
Father sun silhouettes the painted warriors behind Tehmomneh . Wind-kissed feathers ruffle slightly. They raise their weapons and . . .
The sound of instruments being tuned jolts Johnny from his reverie. He hoists the drum major’s staff high and prepares to lead them into competition in the Annual Indian Heritage Day Festival parade. Drumbeats echo through the concrete canyon like war tom-toms. Johnny taps the pavement and the Navajo High School marching band steps proudly down Main Street.
LikeLike
Very nice 🙂
LikeLike
Nice to see the spirit is still inside him. Sad in a way that this is only allowed expression in a marching band.
LikeLike
This is brilliant! I love it.
LikeLike
Forget All Your Troubles
“When you’re alone and life is making you lonely you can always go…” he sings in a sweet falsetto, swinging his fringed hips back and forth.
I keep walking down the gum stained sidewalk just trying to get to work.
His face appears over the edge of my cubicle, slashes of paint on his face. He tips his head from side to side singing into my grey space, “Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city!”
I scrunch my shoulders down and keep typing.
He stands behind me at the urinals, step-touch, step-touch shuffling behind me, shoulders thrown back, fingers snapping, belting, “JUST LISTEN TO THE RHYTHM OF A GENTLE BOSSA NOVA!”
I grit my teeth.
He stands next to the fruit cart on 14th street, caressing a stack of limes while I pay for an apple. He croons out, “So maybe I’ll see you there…” to the vendor who hands me my change.
He hums next to me, our hands side by side hanging onto the metal rail of the 6 train home.
We get through the front door. I slump against the wall inside and wish with all my might to no longer be haunted by delusions of a male Navajo Petula Clark.
210 words
@CaseyCaseRose
LikeLike
Awesome, I love this! (That song’s been stuck in my head all day too)
LikeLike
lol very nice x
LikeLike
‘A Navajo Petula Clark’ – wonderful image.
LikeLike
Petula Clark, I was just trying to remember her name.
LikeLike
I could really picture this. So well written! Amazing write!
LikeLike
love this…. made me smile…. never a fan of Petula Clark…. sorry Pet 😉
LikeLike
Hunter and Trapper
(210 words)
Sunday downtown. No bustle. No business. Just aimless out-of-towners running out their clocks. And me.
Weekend gear simpletons gather in the plaza to hear some huckster Navajo pitching his show. Feathers and paint. Beads and bones. It’s cheesy and degrading, but opportune. I lurk in the crowd with my own agenda.
I hear the Navajo selling it: “This is an ancient purification ritual….” I smirk. Sure it is, chief. He drones on. Coins splash into a hat at his feet, while I prowl the spontaneous hunting ground.
I’m patient. I’m particular. I circle and scan methodically before spotting succulent game. She’s blond, leggy, alone, and definitely not local. My groin aches. My knife whispers. The Navajo starts drumming, and the pursuit begins.
Rhythmic chanting. Heads bobbing. I brush up against her. She smells like apricots. The Navajo howls. Pulsating intonations rock the crowd. She moves, and I’m right behind her. Craving, I can practically taste her blood on the blade.
It’s all so predicable before I’m suddenly yanked backward, gasping furiously while my prey slips away.
Confusion. Compression. I’m rising above the crowd, gripped by an unseen force. No one sees me, except him. The Navajo. Watching. Commanding. Purifying.
Contracting in pain, I laugh spitefully as the trap closes shut.
LikeLike
What a scary tale! I loved your imagery.
LikeLike
Thanks! The prompt delivered the scene pretty quickly.
LikeLike
great
LikeLike
Wow, creepy, well done!
LikeLike
Thanks!
LikeLike
There is still a place for the Navajo, watching out for the corrupt. Nice story.
LikeLike
This is just ‘WOW’ !
LikeLike
Title: The Artist
words: 206
@RTayaket
“Paint me like one of your French girls!”
“You aren’t French. You aren’t a girl.”
“I mean like in the movies.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Oh come on, Percy! You painted Abigail like a mermaid, that’s not a thing either.”
“First off, stop lying on the couch like that – I’m not painting you as a French Girl. Ok turn slightly to your left. Hands by your side. Actually, left hand up. Ok don’t move.”
“Ok, man! What’re you thinking? “
“Just stand still.”
“OK! Still. I got it. I can do that.”
“Stop talking.”
“Right, sorry.”
“Let me work through the vision. How do you feel about becoming a historical figure?”
“Yes! Like Zeus! Or Bob Marley!”
“I was thinking more of nameless figures in history. A bit more general.”
“Like…General Robert E. Lee? That’d be cool!”
“No. That’s not the general I meant. With you standing there – if I ignore everything coming out of your mouth – I can picture a Native American Chief. That’s what we’ll do.”
“Eh, I don’t know Percy….”
“Keep your mouth closed and trust me.”
“Ok you’re the artist. Paint me like one of your Chiefs! Think this painting will be famous enough where people will say that in the movies?”
LikeLike
completely omitted the downtown aspect when cutting words…. whoops.
LikeLike
Still, it’s a fun story 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Enjoyed this – regardless of the effects of cutting!
LikeLike
This made me laugh. If only it were a saying… 😉
LikeLike
You made me smile there!
LikeLike
Religion Fest
@hollygeely
210 words
Downtown MegaToronto (formerly the city of Peterborough) was packed with a myriad of species and subspecies. Representatives from every known religion were dressed in the traditional garb of their god(s)/goddes(es) etc.
The council had appointed Robin as Head of Security. Robin thought Religion Fest was a bad idea. Religion was a sensitive topic and getting them all together was bound to spark debates.
“I don’t like it,” Robin said.
“Yeah, this cotton candy is disgusting,” Mel said.
“You’re eating spider webs from Kor.”
“Oh. Crap. I paid 80 credits for this.”
“Something bad’s going to happen. I can feel it,” Robin said.
“Calm down, Chief. You’ve got guards everywhere, and the carnival atmosphere should stop things from getting nasty.”
As if on cue, a screaming match broke out. A circle of robed, feathered, naked, etc. attendees began to circle around the argument.
This is it, Robin thought, as he pushed his way through the crowd. This is how the intergalactic war begins.
“Give me back my donut!” bellowed the High Priest of Pluton.
“Try and take it!” hissed the Spider-Monk of Kor .
I was wrong. Robin was relieved. It’s just two idiots arguing.
Unfortunately, as it turned out, he’d been right.
The Donut War lasted three hundred Earth years.
LikeLike
An intergalatic war would begin at a Religion Fest! Great story, loved the bit about the cotton candy spider webs.
LikeLike
😀 Thanks!
LikeLike
I just ate some leftover salad for lunch. A do-nut would hit the spot right now but none are within reach and war is not much in my nature. Perhaps a cookie from the cupboard. Fun story, Holly; I’m sorry that poor old T.O. had to be the flashpoint for intergalactic troubles…
LikeLike
lol great fun write Holly x
LikeLike
This is great! Love the Spider Monk of Kor and the High Priest of Pluton, and the whole scene that seems so absurd–and turns so tragic.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you 😀
LikeLike
Ha, I really enjoyed this piece Holly. However, isn’t this akin to a regular day in a city in Ontario. I’m Canadian (out here in BC where everyone is normal 😉 and it seems like if you changed the “high priest of Pluton” to “mayor Rob Ford” and “Spider-Monk of Kor” to “Prime Minister Steven Harper” and your story doesn’t seem all that far fetched, lol.
LikeLike
I don’t spend much time in Toronto but I agree 😉
LikeLike
A three-hundred year doughnut war – can just imagine them flying through the air!
LikeLike
Deliciously dangerous or dangerously delicious?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Fabulous! Kept me laughing as always. Hey, donuts are important, man. They might be worth a 300 year war. 😉
LikeLike
I based the spider guy on myself 😀
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love it. Very funny.
LikeLike
Thanks!
LikeLike
What a fun read, yet sobering to think that “two idiots arguing” is all it takes to start a war.
LikeLike
Thanks! 🙂
LikeLike
What a colourful scene! Your writing always has great energy. And, yeah, really funny but a poignant ending.
LikeLike
Thanks!
LikeLike
I’d go see a band called “Spider Webs From Kor.” I bet they would rock.
LikeLike
At the very least they could wear interesting costumes!
LikeLike
As always, your world building (- galaxy building) is spectacular. Each time you write a piece of Flash, you seem to create settings that would nurture hundreds of stories.
As for Candy floss = spider webs; i’ll be hesitant at the next fairground I visit.
LikeLike
Thanks so much, it means a lot to hear that 🙂
LikeLike
Nice take on the prompt. Good job! I want to have a donut now!
LikeLike
Thanks!
LikeLike
For Sale
209 Words
@EmilyJuneStreet
Jim—whose real name is Hoke’e Yaabini’ii, though he never tells that to anyone—sits in the shop on the main downtown drag. The shop is squashed between the Tibetan store that reeks of Nag-Champa and the ice cream parlor.
Faux animal skulls, bronze statues made in China, and sage smudge sticks from New Age Imports, Inc. clutter the shop shelves.
A woman pauses to peer in the window. The mask in the display has caught her attention.
Jim frowns. He should put that mask away. It doesn’t belong here in the shop, but it always draws people in. Real things always do.
As though impelled by unseen forces, the woman crosses the store’s threshold.
Jim keeps his face as stoic as granite. “May I help you?”
“That mask,” the woman says. “How much is it?”
“It’s not for sale,” Jim says. “But I have these.” He pulls down other masks from hooks above him, masks made for just this purpose: to be sold.
“Why won’t you sell the other?” the woman asks.
“That one’s real.”
“Aren’t they all real?”
“My grandfather wore the one in the window,” is all he says. He can feel the old man’s angry ghost spinning above him. Sacred things have no place downtown.
LikeLike
“Real things always do” gave me chills. Great piece!
LikeLike
great
LikeLike
Nice atmosphere, spooky ending – great story!
LikeLike
Spooky atmosphere.
LikeLike
Good piece of writing. Well done
LikeLike
A haunting, atmospheric take on the prompt, that left me wanting to know more. Thanks!
LikeLike
Nightway
by Tony Amore
@plaguedparent
203 words
Merger negotiations broke up after the CFO stormed out. He was distracted, restlessly waiting on news from home. He really should have been on the first plane back but his wife insisted. “Waiting there; waiting here,” she had said. “No difference. Waiting is waiting.” While riding his bike home after dark their son was hit by a distracted driver. Bones had been broken, his spleen pierced. Surgery seemed to take forever. Aimlessly for hours, he wandered this unfamiliar city.
The November light tricked him. Was it morning or evening? Lost among unfamiliar street signs, he wandered into a park near an unexpected river beneath a stretch of desert highway. A low pulsing hum drew him towards a park where people danced in rhythmic chanting circles adorned in traditional costumes of skins and feather, fur and paint.
Transfixed, exhausted, he watched. An old voice spoke, “Been at it for three days now.”
“Three?”
“Yep. Seven more to go.”
“Why?”
“It’s a healing thing,” he said donning his mask. “I’m on.” He trotted off to join the dance.
“What’s a healing thing?”
Turning back he replied, “The dance of course.”
He felt what he thought was the pulsating world around him; it was his phone.
LikeLike
What a great ending!
LikeLiked by 1 person
The nine days ceremony, great interweaving with present day problems.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Gripping! I like it.
LikeLike
Long Walk
200 Words
@EmilyJuneStreet
If you go west, to Albuquerque, to Santa Fe, to Phoenix, you’ll see the same strip malls, cement construction, and fast food chains that you can find on any downtown drag in America. You’ll find at least one gun shop and at least one tourist trap exploiting a canned vision of the American West.
Maybe you will walk away from these downtown districts. Maybe you will pass the suburbs by and keep on going, out to where the red land flattens and the bright sky opens and the history of a land unfolds.
Out here the wind carries ghosts. Prairie hawks scratch the sky, opening new worlds. Magpie tricksters taunt sly coyotes in a spinning, age-old dance. Out here life emerges in layers of color: brown rocks, iron red land, blue sky, glittering white sunlight. All creation.
Out here the earth remains scorched by memories of slaughter and surrender. The people on the wind whisper their histories: We died from smallpox; we died from flu; we died from starvation; we died from impatience and greed; we died from human failures. We have nothing left but our stories.
Listen and do not forget.
Out here every walk is a long one.
LikeLike
Boy, this really rings true. And I say that as someone married to a person from Flagstaff and who has spent an enormous amount of time in that part of the world. Really great.
LikeLike
great
LikeLike
Haunting piece!
LikeLike
Chilling and ringing with truth.
LikeLike
Wow. This is a fantastic piece. I love how you bring the desert to life in a burst of color and movement, then turn it on its ear to whisper the tragedies of the past.
Well, well done!
LikeLike
Fantastic writing, It sent a chill down my back!
LikeLike
This is gorgeous. Particularly like the phrase “Out here the wind carries ghosts.”
LikeLike
Fantastic imagery and that last line, so reminiscent of the long walks the Native Americans were forced to take.
LikeLike
Oh, I”m glad you got it! I worried people wouldn’t!
LikeLike
I’ve got ‘Buried my Heart at Wounded Knee’ on my bookshelf!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Simply lovely, Emily. Paced slow just like that walk. The last line is killer.
LikeLike
‘Prairie hawks scratch the sky.” Nice.
LikeLike
Beautiful writing!
LikeLike
Word Count – 198
@susanOReilly3
Standing Tall
Downtown noises fill my ears
Boisterous revelers roar their jeers
I’m not as mild mannered as I appear
They’ll feel the weight of my spear
Proud and strong my ancestors
Would turn in their graves at the stares
I advertise the shops wares
My weapons stave some glares
Originally from New Mexico
To New York we decided to go
No need for our arrows and bows
Could not foresee the woes
I sit here on my wooden horse
I can’t think of anything worse
There flashing cameras whore
Disdain seeping from my pores
My hair braided with dignity
Its length praised in history
Bills keep me in captivity
I long to be roaming free
My name is Chaske first born son
Shoppers call me ‘chief’ respect is gone
Their laughter and pity I shun
In my head I have already won
I’ve expressed myself on the totem pole
Each etching a piece of my soul
The carving fulfilled a role
It gave me back a semblance of control
I wish I was back in my mountain state
Eating my supper of a homemade plate
These people make my teeth grate
Poverty becoming the seed of hate
LikeLike
Nice poem 🙂
LikeLike
thanks Holly x
LikeLike
‘Poverty becoming the seed of hate’ – such a true line.
LikeLike
glad you like that line steph thanks x
LikeLike
Another good one Susan
LikeLike
thanks very much Steven x
LikeLike
That’s a remarkable poem. Love it!
LikeLike
thanks a mil positivethoughts1 glad you like x
LikeLike
210 words
@billmelaterplea
Ode to Paige
The Chatter
“The Downtown Eastside was a humongous chipper that slowly sucked Paige down and ground her up.”
“Oh so many times, anyone of us could have scooped her up, comforted her, taken her home, protected her.”
“Many tried. Social workers, cops, street workers, family. Her mother was a drunken disaster. Hell, for those last 4 years, she was on a roller coaster of housing. At least 50 different places. FIFTY. Foster homes, Detoxs, a furniture stores worth of spare couches, SRO’s.“
“She was a bright Aboriginal kid but she was forever drowning in the wake of her mom. And then, overdosing in a bloody public washroom in Oppenheimer Park. Crappy place to die.”
“So, who’s to blame? Everyone who did just enough and not one bit more? The few who pulled their bureaucratic hair out trying to do the right thing, not even sure what that was at any given moment; or what about the sludge hole that is the hard-edged Downtown Eastside?”
“There’s a life’s worth of pain and sorrow there; hundreds of helpers, agencies, everyone doing their bit, gnashing teeth; moving molehills when it’s the goddamn mountain that needs shifting.“
“There’ll be others, you know!”
“I wish I didn’t, but I do.”
LikeLike
Tragic, and too real. Well done.
LikeLike
Oo! Love the title. After reading it, the name gave it so much more depth. Lovely. 🙂
LikeLike
Grim. And so true in so many respects.
LikeLike
This is a sad piece. So well written.
LikeLike
Touring Atlanta
@laurenegreene
210 words
“And this downtown area sprang up from the blood of Indians, after they were forced on the Trail of Tears,” the tour guide said.
They were standing in downtown Atlanta, traffic blaring, and all Hope could think about was getting a nice refreshing glass of coke from the Coca-cola museum.
“Native Americans,” Rocky said.
Hope rolled her eyes. “Here we go again,” she thought.
“Excuse me?” the tour guide asked, with a flip of her hair.
“You should call them Native Americans. It’s politically correct.”
“Is that right, young man? Have you ever talked to an Indian and asked them what they’d prefer to be called?”
Rocky stuttered. “No, can’t say that I have.”
“Well—I’m married to one. Indians. They prefer to be called Indians.”
“That’s ludicrous. They’re not from India,” Rocky said.
Hope could practically feel the fizz in her mouth. And here Rocky was arguing about something stupid, once again.
“They’re used to be calling Indians. Why do you insist on arguing?” the tour guide asked, with a stamp of her foot.
“Don’t take it personally. He argues with everyone,” Hope said.
A taxi cab swooped by splashing dirty water all over Rocky’s new khaki pants.
“Can we move on?” the tour guide asked with a smile.
LikeLike
This has a lot of personality, well done 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Well done, the ending gave me a good chuckle!
LikeLike
The last line made me laugh! Nice move away from the PC brigade to find out what someone they’re supposed to be ‘respecting’ really feels.
LikeLiked by 1 person
A strong message coming through. Good job!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Free Day
@voimaoy
209 words
Every day, at the Art Institute of Chicago, the works of art come to life, under the gaze of thousands of eyes. The Museum has free days, but the works of art have free days, too.
On this particular free day, five artworks were chosen to go out and about among the living people. They were–“Navajo Man,” by Edward S. Curtis, George Seurat’s “Le Grande Jatte,” Grant Wood’s “American Gothic,” Salvador Dali’s “Venus with Drawers,” and a sculpture of a tree by Charles Ray called “Hinoki.”
The Museum is right downtown and near Lake Michigan and Grant Park. The party of Le Grande Jatte and the tree called Hinoki set off to see the lakefront and the trees.
American Gothic, Venus with Drawers and Navajo Man decided to explore the downtown streets. They found them bustling with life and tall buildings. Venus wanted to go shopping. The couple in American Gothic felt strange in this crowded and noisy place, where everyone was holding phones. Navajo Man noted that they all seemed to be lost, in a hurry to go nowhere.
At the end of the day, they returned to the quiet Museum. “Next time, I’ll go to the Lake,” said Navajo Man.
“I’ll bring shoes,” added Venus with Drawers.
LikeLike
Beautiful 🙂
LikeLike
Thanks, Holly! 🙂
LikeLike
Great piece! I love how American Gothic, Venus with Drawers, and Navajo Man react to the downtown streets.
LikeLike
Thank you so much. 🙂
LikeLike
Brilliant as always, Voima! A fresh take and something I never would’ve thought of. Genius. 🙂
LikeLike
Thank you! So glad you liked it! 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
I really liked your take on this week’s prompt voimaoy, loved the last line!
LikeLike
Thank you!
LikeLike
Surreal but strangely enjoyable!
LikeLike
Thank you Steph! Glad you enjoyed it!
LikeLike
A great concept.
LikeLike
Thanks for reading, Michael.
LikeLike
I had such fun mental images of the artwork walking down the street!!! This was a terrifically unique take on the prompt!
LikeLike
Thank you, Amberlee. Much appreciated.
LikeLike
I was born in Chicago and lived there 20 years. You totally brought me back with all the details. Obviously you’ve been to the museum! I love the place. Go Bears!
LikeLike
Thank you, Steven. Yes, I worked at the museum, in the bookstore. It’s great museum, and a fabulous location. So glad you enjoyed this! Go Bears, Blackhawks, Cubs and Sox, too. 🙂
LikeLike
What an interesting concept of art sneaking into life! And then passing judgment, of course.
LikeLike
Thanks so much for reading, Aria!
LikeLike
Good job! Nice piece.
LikeLike
Thank you for reading!
LikeLike
loved this, great take on the pic prompt, loved the last line “I’ll bring shoes” 🙂 ( I love shoes)
LikeLike
Thank you Stella! Yes, good walking shoes 🙂
LikeLike
Last Stand
He pauses, disorientated as always at first.
He sniffs the wind, but stinking, fetid odours of exhaust fumes, discarded fast food, and industrial smoke wrinkle his nostrils.
He looks for the sacred mountains, but a shroud of haze blankets the city, blotting out the far horizon, stinging his eyes.
Sunset brings no respite as, everywhere, harsh yellow beams carve out stark pools of territory. Incarnadine pulsing lights and screaming sirens reveal the murder of the peaceful, innocent night.
Effortlessly he avoids scurrying people, seeking their sanctuaries of home before hazardous night blankets their neighbourhoods.
Even in the quiet, secret shadows, the wind does not sing to him, corralled as it is within unyielding parade ground files of buildings.
He lopes cautiously past somnolent suburbs, disdaining to acknowledge snarling dogs, captive behind their walls and gates.
The shining, obsidian asphalt abrades his pads.
He has seen enough.
Gathering his spirit, retracing his mystic path, he resettles, soft as blown thistledown, into his resting body.
Rising, uncurling his gnarled, knotted limbs, he faces the assembled warriors.
“Coyote spirit has foreseen the future. Better to fight and die than to die and not fight. These new men will despoil the Land.”
“To victory!”
“Who promised victory?” he mutters to the setting sun.
___
210 words
@nickjohns999
LikeLike
Great ending, very emotional.
LikeLike
Thanks Holly!
LikeLike
Intense imagery of our time. Such a harsh reality; to fight even though you know there will be no victory because you know what’s coming is worse.
LikeLike
Yes, the prompt took a bleak turn for me 🙂
LikeLike
Some wonderful imagery here – ‘corralled … within unyielding parade ground files of buildings’ was a particular favourite. Emotive ending, a quiet acceptance of defeat but still preferring to fight with that knowledge in mind.
LikeLike
Glad you liked it Steph!
LikeLike
Very good imagery! I like it.
LikeLike
Thank you!
LikeLike
Traveller
(210 words)
Nobody really noticed Ahiga as he stood at the street corner and watched. Some people stared for a few seconds and another asked him if he’d lost his teepee, but for most part he was invisible to the people scurrying about.
Ahiga looked around but failed to recognize the world surrounding him. Gone was the stillness of nature. It was replaced by harsh sounds, putrid smells and sights that assaulted Ahiga’s senses. The Bilagáana were everywhere, it was as if Ahiga’s people had been erased from existence.
When the smoke from a passing diesel truck enveloped his face, Ahigia closed his eyes and choked. The world began to spin and Ahiga felt himself falling though time.
When he opened his eyes, Ahiga was once again sitting on the ground in front of a campfire. He was relieved to hear the sounds of Navajo chants and drums as warriors danced behind him. Ahiga was comforted by the familiar faces of his tribesmen and sights of the encampment.
“Ahiga,” one of the elders sitting across from him began, “What did you see? Did Zahabolzi speak to you?”
Ahiga knew that the fate of his people rested on his ability to convince Hoskininni to fight the Bilagáana that were coming for their land.
Note: Bilagáana is the Navajo term for white people.
LikeLike
Beautifully done–so vivid and real. Stunning story!
LikeLike
Thank you voimaoy
LikeLike
This is beautifully written, well done!
LikeLike
Thanks Holly!
LikeLike
Wonderful story! I loved your take on this prompt.
LikeLike
Thanks asgardana!
LikeLike
Apparently he was successful 😉 I enjoyed the sensory details in this!
LikeLike
These stories really make you feel that perhaps the modern world is not so wonderful. Lovely story.
LikeLike
It was fun trying to sound out the names in my head. Nice story.
LikeLike
Were we twinned in another life? I loved the authentic details in this tale and the stark depiction of the modern world.!
LikeLike
This is an incredible story. Well done!
LikeLike
A Moment
210 words
Conchita arranged her full skirts as she sat down on a bench along Santa Fe’s main street. She snapped open her fan to ward off dust that rose up as wagons passed by, harnesses creaking. Determined to have time alone, she sent her maid after ribbons for her wedding nightdress. Conchita gazed around at her vibrant new home, taking in the wooden buildings with many shops, the clatter of boots on the boardwalks, and the friendly faces underneath the warm sun.
A young man with the shiniest long black hair she’d ever seen leapt off his horse. He tied up the reins and stepped lightly up to the boardwalk. As he glanced her way, she looked down feeling her cheeks redden. A curious fluttering began in her chest and her parasol dropped. In two strides he was beside her. As he picked it up, his piercing dark eyes seemed to recognize her.
“Here you are miss.” Her maid placed the package in her lap and the young man drifted silently away.
***
Alone after finishing the ceremonial dance, the Navajo gazed down on Santa Fe. As he had often done for the past twenty years, his piercing eyes sought a certain bench and imagined the girl with the lace parasol.
LikeLike
Lovely tale 🙂
LikeLike
ahh so romantic lovely
LikeLike
Aw I loved this. A fleeting romance.
LikeLike
Like that you placed him in a historical downtown 🙂 Sweet story.
LikeLike
Thanks for your nice comments. Historical fiction is my favorite read and if there’s a romance, even better!
LikeLike
Nice story. I can see the two of them finding each other again, even after twenty years.
LikeLike
Aah the romance in it. Such a sweet tale.
LikeLike
The Journey
@agardana09
(209 words)
I watch the droplets trail down the window from inside my boyfriend’s car. The water makes rivers across the glass, distorting the gray skyscrapers.
We’re tripping on shrooms.
I know, I know, we shouldn’t be driving. I told my boyfriend this, so that excuses my own irresponsibility. I nod at the skyscraper as if they can nod back in agreement. The festival is downtown, so downtown is where our journey takes us.
Plus, the shrooms haven’t even kicked in yet. We’ll not entirely.
We pull into a spot. My boyfriend slides his hand into mine as we walk along the gray sidewalk nestled between the gray skyscrapers and gray street. The rain soaks our hair and clothes and leaves me with the desire to twirl on the sidewalk, so I do.
“What is a rain dance when it’s already raining?” A man asks me from inside my own mind. It’s a gravelly voice and for a moment I smell campfire smoke.
My thoughts flutter, from gray to vivid, colorful images. As we approach the festival, the man’s voice returns, the shrooms kick in. “No river can return to its source, yet all rivers must have a beginning.”
I nod with the man in my head and enter the festival.
LikeLike
Cool take 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks!
LikeLike
very nice
LikeLike
I love your lighthearted tone, I can see her twirling…
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks! Nothing like a good twirl in the rain. 🙂
LikeLike
LOL, I really liked this piece, the line “We’re all tripping on shrooms” made me chuckle.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks! I felt like taking a psychedelic approach this week.
LikeLike
Love the tone of this. And I too love the twirling. Like the repetition of gray set against their psychedelic experience.
LikeLike
Thank you!
LikeLike
Nice contrast between the greyness of everyday and the colour of the past.
LikeLike
Thanks 😀
LikeLike
This brought a smile to my face. Rain, dance, twirling in the rain. I loved it.
LikeLike
Thanks 😀
LikeLike
Bringer of the Rain
@talithaarise
208 words
You may not recognize me, but you know me.
I am there when “those boys” collapse in silent giggles after hitting every doorbell in the entire high-rise. The eye-roll and head-shake.
I am with the tiny, almost-women, sitting with their mochas, tittering over boys outside. The once was.
When your child makes emphatic declarations that the dog will learn to drive when he’s “ibber” and it’s hard to tell your lover through the laughter, that is me. The imagination that is.
When the entire floor erupts in groans because your dad sent a company-wide one-liner, that is me. The day-lightener.
When the examinations conclude and your street-hardened student’s impromptu rap reduces you to tears, that is also me. The joy because of pain.
Yesterday, it was me who broke your technological haze with the street jammers rhythm. The pause in the “have-tos”
Today, it is me when mall floor makes her stilettos slip and your joke invokes her laughter. The learning to relax.
Tomorrow, it will be me when you chuckle over the bobbing dancers at the “Party in the Park”. The freedom wish.
My face you may not know, but my heart is in you always.
For I am Zhadolzha, Bringer of Laughter and Bringer of Rain.
LikeLike
I love the way you wrote this, it’s great!
LikeLike
Thanks, Holly! I was really challenged to make something NOT creepy 🙂
LikeLike
bril x
LikeLike
Great spirit in this beautiful story–love it!
LikeLike
Thank you, Voima!
LikeLike
love love love this! What a great take on the prompt – written in the voice of the legend.
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Peg! It was fun to write!
LikeLike
I like your take and how you incorporated Zhadolxha as the voice.
LikeLike
Thanks, Reg! My brain can usually only come up with one possible story…I usually just write and hope I manage to hit both prompts. Glad it worked.
LikeLike
Arrggghhh. No matter how many times you read it… Oh dear Dragoness? May I have an apostrophe after “jammers,” a period after “have-tos,” and the word “the” inserted between “when” and “mall”?
Grr… I even had my husband read it, and he’s usually the first to catch those mistakes. Sorry!
LikeLike
This is so creative. I especially like the last paragraph.
LikeLike
Thank you, Jill!
LikeLike
Beautifully written.
LikeLike
Loved the whole concept of this piece. The most original take on the prompt this week!
LikeLike
Oh! This is great writing!
LikeLike
WITHIN/WITHOUT
Next time you go downtown, take a minute.
Slow down and be there with the slice of humanity who happen to be there too. These are your partners. The crew hand selected by fate or happenstance for this bit of pavement at this moment in this spin of the Earth.
A one-of-a-kind collection of human beings. You shall not look on its like again.
Every person you see, anyone who has spent any substantial time cruising around this planet, walks that sidewalk without someone. Each body bears invisible negative space, like Peter Pan’s shadow tucked away in minds or pockets.
Or DNA. Maybe it’s hair the exact color of mother’s. Or a lack of hair, like grandpa. A song sung by elders once at the family picnic. A photo stuck to a plastic wallet sleeve. A paper face, once a reminder and now a flat, lifeless shape with nothing to say.
For some it sits heavy like a dull black stone in the ribs. The final trip to the vet. The phone call that came last week, last month.
For others it’s a fork in the road they never saw. A historic battle on the plains.
Watch it walk around you.
———-
200 words
@betsystreeter
LikeLike
Beautifully done!
LikeLike
great
LikeLike
Great piece, reminding us all to slow down for a moment and observe.
LikeLike
This is wonderful! Love the pacing – and adore the message.
LikeLike
Love it! “Each body bears invisible negative space” – what an exquisite image.
LikeLike
Ate this up! So many beautiful phrases and images. 🙂
LikeLike
Lovely piece. Almost an urban version of ‘What is this life, if full of care/We have no time to stand and stare’.
LikeLike
A wonderful, rich, lyrical tale that made me go back to re-read more than once. Thanks!
LikeLike
‘Slice of humanity’- I loved this. Beautiful writing!
LikeLike
For so Long as One Remembers, We Shall not be Forgotten
210 words
personalvapes@gmail.com
Silent. Unmoving.
Only the breeze running slow fingers through the feathers in his hair betray his composition is flesh and blood, rather than stone and determination. The traffic buzzes around him and his carefully cultivated square of earth, grass, tree and bush. He, and the meticulously-designed park in the center of town, appears curiously out-of-time.
Memories. History.
He remembers the Great Spirit crafting a beautiful blue-green jewel; proudly displaying it within the sterile blackness of all. The Sky Woman shaking the Water of Life from her shawl. The Breathmaker again sculpts his figures out of clay while the Trickster tempts the pale ones from across the great Ocean. The devastation visited upon the Earthen Mother.
Knowledge. Wisdom.
The child at his side, a waxed paper cup of water, sugar, and unnatural chemicals in her outstretched hand – a kindness for this strange figure clothed in the furs and feathers of his native dress.
Their hands touch around the offering. The child’s eyes widen and age as memory flows.
Torch. Passing.
The ancient man – a figure appearing from time long forgot – fades to nothingness in the afternoon sunshine bathing the downtown park square.
The child, her head full of old memories, will carry forward the History of the People.
LikeLike
Lovely story.
LikeLike
Thanks Holly!
As soon as I saw the Indian picture – I knew this one was going to be steeped in Native American mythos.
LikeLike
agree lovely x
LikeLike
Great work, I like the way it flows and how you ended it with the people’s history moving forward.
LikeLike
Yea…I got to end on a happy note for this one, instead of getting all dark and brooding. Thanks for the read!
LikeLike
The warmth shines through this story, lovely moment between the child and the man.
LikeLike
I love the pace and structure of this piece, and it has my favourite opening for ages!
LikeLike
You paint such a pretty picture with words! Love it
LikeLike
Fool’s Contest
“Tahoma, why are you wearing that?”
“I’m Navajo.”
“So? You were Navajo yesterday and wore a suit.” He watched his wife’s eyes . . . wandering.
“It makes me comfortable.”
“It looks comfortable, other than the hat.”
“The headdress of Zahadolzha, it goes with the body paint.”
“Hmmm. Body paint.” She was studying his chest. “Are you showing off for me?”
His eyebrows rose up suddenly. “Let’s go with that. Is it working?”
“You didn’t think of me at all when you put that get up on, did you?”
“No, but if you like it, I could wear it more often.”
She circled around behind him under the pretense of getting another cup of coffee, carefully checking what else was exposed.
“Oh, I like it, but you are not going to attempt to wear that on the subway into town.”
“Why not?”
“You’re carrying an arrow.” She said dryly. “They won’t let you on with a weapon.”
“I have to carry the arrow,” Tahoma said thoughtfully, “Maybe I’ll hide it.”
“Where?”
“Maybe I should leave it here.”
“Tahoma,” she said, making her voice firm, “You’re a legal clerk, what makes you think that outfit is appropriate?”
“It’s casual Friday, and last week MacDonald wore a kilt.”
@CharlesWShort
203 words
LikeLike
Love this!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Glad you liked it.
LikeLike
lol very nice x
LikeLike
Lovely tone, really enjoyed this.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks for commenting. Had fun writing it.
LikeLike
Love, love, love this! I could so see this couple and they sound adorable. 🙂 Brilliant.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks. Always fun to write a couple sparring.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I’m relieved he didn’t try to hide the arrow :O
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wouldn’t be good. LOL.
LikeLike
OH! this was funny! Loved the ending – it made me giggle. Thanks for sharing.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Glad you liked it. Was shooting more for guffaw than a giggle, but I will take what I can get.
LikeLike
Wonderful 🙂
LikeLike
Thanks.
LikeLike
Good to see you back Charles. Always like your stuff.
LikeLike
Always glad to be here when I can make it. Nice to be noticed, surprised to be remembered and noted.
LikeLike
Quite entertaining 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Glad you liked it.
LikeLike
This really made me smile! The dialogue really flows and brings two real people to life. Thanks!
LikeLike
Thanks for commenting.
LikeLike
I love this! Made me smile. Good job
LikeLike
Glad to hear it. Thanks.
LikeLike
this one made me laugh out loud….. wonderful…. Great take on the prompt Charles
LikeLiked by 1 person
So glad it made you laugh.
LikeLike
Finding Harmony
@ciacono1973
201 words
As the bus made a left turn, the sunlight covered the black, embossed text on the business card and made it nearly as white as the heavy card stock it had been printed on. Just like that, the name and title — “R.J. Collins, Music Producer” — nearly disappeared.
However, when the bus slowed down in front of the stop, they came back. Ernie sighed. He wished he hadn’t met R.J.
A week ago, the producer had shown up at one of his performances. When Ernie was done, R.J. bought him a drink and asked him some questions, including “Do you write your own material?”
No, he didn’t. His repertoire included what the Navajo tribe considered “popular songs,” although everyone else would label them “traditional.”
R.J. chuckled. “Well, how would you like to make them truly popular songs?” he asked. “Let’s meet next week.”
Now, next week was here. Ernie stepped off the bus and then strolled down the shaded sidewalk.
A few blocks later, he arrived at R.J.’s building. He looked up at the top of this behemoth, which seemed to block the sun. He grabbed the cold, metal door handle, but as he was about to pull it open, he stopped.
LikeLike
Well done—love the details in this–how the sunlight blocks the letters, and the building blocks the sun. Great ending. Excellent story!
LikeLike
Love the ending!
LikeLike
Agree with Voima, the details make this! Great job. 🙂
LikeLike
The universe was definitely trying to tell him something. Glad he stopped.
LikeLike
So good! Well done.
LikeLike
Firdaus Parvez
203 words
@firdausp
‘About potatoes and other things’
Long ago, in a far off land, Lone Wolf is hunting when he stumbles upon a strange metal monster. He drags it to his settlement, and presents it to his Chief. One day, while tinkering with it, Chief Snow Owl, pushes the right button…
*
“Good afternoon viewers, I am Shreya Rastogi, reporting live for NDTV. Right now we are in downtown New Delhi. There is complete chaos here. A strange man has been holding up the traffic for the past fifteen minutes. His clothes look a lot like the Red Indian displays in the city museum. Has the museum come alive?! Let’s take a closer look.”
The camera pans over the snarling traffic. The level of honking is earsplitting. There- in the middle of the road Chief Snow Owl sits; legs crossed, eyes closed, chanting a strange song.
“Mystery solved folks. Apparently, there was a breakout in the psychiatric ward of the city hospital. An ambulance is on its way. So much for the museum coming alive!”
Somewhere close by a strange machine beeps-
‘Back to origin in one minute.’
A young man places a sack of potatoes on it and bends to tie his shoelace.
BEEP
That’s how potatoes got to America!
LikeLike
LOL, thanks for making me chuckle.
LikeLike
I’m glad I could. 😊
LikeLike
great fun write
LikeLike
Fun story.
LikeLike
Thankyou! My very first 😊
LikeLike
LOL! Great, quirky take on the prompt.
LikeLike
Thanks 😊
LikeLike
Highly original and fun. Well done.
LikeLike
Zahadolzha
(210 words)
Zahadolzha stands at the intersection of 39th avenue and Carter way. Nobody sees him or hears him.
The power of the gods to be felt is only possible through the belief of man. Gone are the days of the old gods, for man no longer sees or hears the world around him. Man no longer listens to the words Zahadolzha once whispered on the wind. Man no longer turns his gaze inwards to see that which surrounds him. Man no longer takes advice from ancestors, spirit guides or mother earth.
In the old days Zahadolzha would shake the earth or open the sky, dousing man in a torrent of rain.
Man would stop and listen. They would become fearful and ask Zahadolzha what they had done wrong. Great councils would debate the best way to go forward and resolve the mistakes.
“Zahadolzha,” man would cry, “we hear you; we thank you for your wisdom and your patience.”
Now man just scurries when the earth shakes or the sky opens and tries to explain it away. Man thinks he is all knowing and master of everything. In reality, he understands nothing.
Zahadolzha had come to shake the earth and open the sky one more time to see if man would listen.
LikeLike
Powerful last line.
LikeLike
Powerful story–beautiful writing!
LikeLike
Sad tale and beautifully written. Love the ending. It gives hope.
LikeLike
@bex_spence
200 words
The number five bus
Downtown what’s that? An American dream, far from the streets of my rural village. The kids in my school talk about going downtown, like they know what’s there, what it’s all about. Our nearest town is a bus ride away and all it has is the usual high street shops, WHSmith, Boots, a record shop if you were lucky. There were no bright lights, no neon signs.
The weekly market sells laminated posters, you know the ones, New York skylines and Native Americans in mood lighting. Something to make you feel like you’ve been somewhere, make you feel like you have a clue. Truth is none of us do. We try to paint a picture of ourselves, a kaleidoscope of colour exciting and vibrant. When really we still paint by numbers, and most of that is in shades of sepia.
Still we go, we run the rituals, join the tribe. Same each weekend. The number 5 into town, get off at the library. Walk to the fountain, hangout. Maybe buy some sweets or a bottle of pop. So long as you fit in. So long as you’re seen.
But today, not me. Today I ride the bus out of here.
LikeLike
Nice take on the prompt/setting. I love your last line.
LikeLiked by 1 person
great
LikeLike
‘We still paint by numbers, and most of that is in shades of sepia’ – great metaphor for life.
LikeLiked by 1 person
A lovely, evocative, descriptive piece with a vivid feel of the claustrophobic feelings of small town British youth.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, really appreciate the comments.
LikeLike
I like this. Good job!
LikeLiked by 1 person
love this take on ‘Downtown’ wish I’d written it…. write what you know about is a good motto especially if you live this side of the pond 😉
LikeLiked by 1 person
So many good stories already, but here goes!
Song Remembered
by Wakefield Mahon
Alexander GreatHeart, threw on a polo shirt and Dockers and stepped out into the city street. The photo shoot was his niece’s idea. “People need to be reminded of the culture that we’ve lost, Uncle Alex.”
He shook his head. Lost indeed, he had been raised to be a singer, a healer, but since he’d left the reservation and moved into the city. All of that seemed futile and foolish.
The cement, rock landscaping and asphalt magnified the already oppressive heat of the Tempe sun. When he glanced down, he noticed a single blade of grass struggling through a crack in the sidewalk.
“Ha! Little plant, you don’t want to grow in a lawn but you’ll grow in this place?”
That’s when he heard the song. It was faint at first, but then it came back to him, for it had always been inside. The beat, the melody, and finally the words. An ancient rain dance.”
For a moment he let himself go, oblivious to the people gawking, but they stopped laughing when the water came crashing down.
He smiled. No matter the actions of the Earth Surface People, the Holy People still remain, waiting for harmony to be restored.
200 Words
@WakefieldMahon
LikeLike
Great story, nice to see he still had the words and the dance inside himself.
LikeLike
love it
LikeLike
Loved the natural, easy flow of this tale and the sense of untold back story.
LikeLike
Nice. I liked your take on this.
LikeLike
@colin_d_smith
200 words
“Street Warrior”
The pathway is warm to my feet, yet still I walk. I will make my journey’s end despite these people staring, stopping me, trying to talk to me. I don’t understand their strange tongue, their strange skins, and wonder why they too are not hurrying. I see their bundles. Are they, like I, not on an important journey, one that has taken many hours?
I wait at the edge of the path. We, my entourage and I, must permit the metal wagons to pass before we may proceed. Yet still I am harassed by the people around me. Have they not encountered my kind before? Again they try to make conversation, but the noise from their mouths is as the babble of birdsong to me. If they only knew me as my tribe do: the mighty warrior of a thousand hides. They would fear me as they ought.
The loud beep noise is familiar. Now I may take my leave from the path’s edge and cross to the other side in safety. I feel a hand upon my head, the gentle scratching of my ear, and the voice of my sightless servant that brings me such pleasure: “Good boy, Zahabolzi!”
LikeLike
Love the different POV!
LikeLike
nice
LikeLike
Great twist! Also loved the voice of the MC.
LikeLike
Interesting piece. Good job!
LikeLike
Nightway Ceremonies and Peaceful Take-overs
Maven Alysse
Curtis snapped photo after photo as the Dancers whirled through near empty downtown streets in Phoenix, Arizona. His heart pounded in rhythm to their steps; breath catching in his throat at the sheer joy and peace that emanated from their voices uplifted in song. Along with those who braved the cold, he prayed this would work.
Seven years ago, the aliens had arrived, blackening the sky and sickening Earth’s inhabitants.
Within two years, every human had a computer chip implanted that kept anyone from attacking the aliens. It kept everyone docile, but inwardly they seethed.
Nine days ago, the Navajo leaders began the Yebichai Dance which would, hopefully, cleanse the world of the interlopers, restoring balance and harmony.
The sun lightened the sky and Curtis could see the ships that filled the sky wink out one by one.
A great should of jubilation rose from the spectators. It was working.
The Dancers continued to chant.
Curtis’ camera clattered to the ground.
The Dancers finished their song of celebration. Their leader, Zahadolzha, smiled at the cleared skies and streets. Finally, all the interlopers were gone. Balance had been restored and his people’s lands returned to them.
(195 words)
LikeLike
Nice to see that the Nightway can even get rid of aliens 🙂
LikeLike
Nice
LikeLike
I watch the city people glide over the marble floors, moving from one exhibit to another. The past is enclosed in glass with stuffed animals, fake woods, and a painted background.
“Look, kids,” one father says to his three boys, “there’s an Apache. Think he’s gonna get a buffalo?”
He does not know the difference between an Apache and an Iroquois.
“I think you made the Apache sad,” says the smallest, a blond boy.
“Don’t be silly. He’s wax,” the father says. “Look. There’re some arrowheads over there.”
The boy stands in front of me, and squints at the square legend, his lips moving as he reads. “Iroquois,” he says. “You aren’t an Apache. You lived in New York.” He smiles. “You look very brave. Did your people march on the Trail of Tears?”
I want to reach out to this boy who has come all the way downtown to visit this place, but already his father is returning to reclaim him.
“Come on, David. Come see the arrowheads.”
The boy looks back at me, and waves. I hear him say, “Dad, he’s an Iroquois not an Apache. There’s a difference.”
I want to wave back but can only watch them disappear into the crowd.
LikeLike
nice work, I like your spin on the story. It’s too bad that I can actually see people not understanding the difference in first nations cultures!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
nice
LikeLike
What a lovely little boy, despite his father’s ignorance.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Aww that was sweet. Kids are smarter these days. Loved it!
LikeLike
Thank you.
LikeLike
Foy S. Iver
@fs_iver
WC: 206
Untitled
I am the heart. Do you hear me beating? Pounding thrum thrum in this open-air chest?
“Temp 97.4, pulse 111, respirations 12, and BP at 117/88. O2 Sat. on room air 98%.”
There’s much I could tell you. I see everything there is to see – everything that shouldn’t be.
“Patient’s pupils are constricted and non-reactive.”
The untitled, the unclaimed, shivering in discarded blankets, as they scavenge for grates to warm half-living corpses.
“Skin is cool and cyanotic.”
I know their suffering, feel it in my alley-veins and concrete-bones.
“Glasgow Coma Score is 3.”
Their toothless grins chase fear through your enamel. You cross here before reaching them.
“Glucose 55. Establishing an IV.”
Can you hear them? Rasping breaths fighting for their share of oxygen?
“Lung sounds coarse.”
They come frequently now, seeking shelter in my sanctuary arms.
“Administering dextrose and 5.2 mg of Narcan.”
But I’m not the only one to welcome them. Keen-eyed vultures sell them security, normalcy, oblivion, at the prick of a needle.
“Sixty-nine year old male found with altered mental status. Unresponsive on arrival.”
You fault them for their weakness but have you walked in their moccasins?
“We’re en route. ETA 10 minutes.”
I am the heart. Do you see me bleeding?
LikeLike
The contrast between the matter-of-fact medical reports and the beautiful, poetic language between is striking.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Margaret! I’m glad you liked it. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
great
LikeLiked by 1 person
Excellent! I really love this line: “The untitled, the unclaimed, shivering in discarded blankets, as they scavenge for grates to warm half-living corpses.”
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Christopher, for reading!
LikeLike
My wife would appreciate the doc-speak. Nicely done.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks! Is she an MD? 🙂
LikeLike
Wow – loved this, from ‘alley-veins and concrete bones’ to ‘seeking shelter in my sanctuary arms’, beautiful phrasing.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! 🙂
LikeLike
Believable dialogue. Fun to read.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ridiculously talented indeed! Fantastic write!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! 🙂
LikeLike
Another tale I’d wished I’d written….. great writing as usual …. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Aww that’s sweet, Stella. 🙂 Thanks for reading!
LikeLike
@stellakateT
197 words
#Flashdog
The Wind Blows
Touching her cheek she sucked in the sounds and smells of downtown. The curried food of the Indian take-away, the stale beer of McCarty’s bar, her own sweat no longer the sweet fragrance of the deodorant she had sprayed over her vast armpits some seven hours ago. The wind glanced the left side of her face, whisking her golden curls into a frenzy. Flicking the hair from her one good eye she surveyed the territory. The graffiti announced she was entering Fun Boys Land. Cartoon characters larger than life leered out of alleyways enticing paying customers to join in and play the game of life and death.
With a mission to complete she dodged the zombies, people with no aim in life apart from living as long as possible in the status quo. It would be hours before she found him. His body firm; resilient against those who valued him no more. Waiting just for her, he stood proud, chanting his war cries into the wind.
He would charm her enemies, protect her friends if she had any and save her from herself. In the corner of her bed-sit the wooden Indian statue dominated. He was home.
LikeLike
Fun bit of zombie-fic.
LikeLike
Love this, Stella! So dark, such vivid descriptions–especially like Fun Boys Land and “no aim in life apart from living as long as possible in the status quo.” Great story.
LikeLike
thanks for the comments Michael and Voimaoy
LikeLike
A lovely piece of writing. Loved it
LikeLike
Downtown in Down Town
@making_fiction
209 words
Downtown in Down Town, the devil makes work for idle hands.
And we watch the box-sets on Netflix while the world outside burns.
Downtown in Down Town, the devil smiles as we forget her. She is just a myth, and she likes it that way. Her eyes glean knowing we are the believers of false gods and we’ll soon toil the streets of sulphur beneath, down deep beneath the Down Town.
And we watch the countdown to the product launch, anticipating the aroma of the shrink-wrapped packet. The strap on our wrist feels worthy. The glass face reflects our status. We cannot not smell the exhaust fumes from the diesel machines as labour, they chug and they bury our old, perfect, products in the nightmare pits of landfill.
Downtown in Down Town, the devil knows apathy is atrophy. The sirens are the concertos of the concrete, a lullaby to the lackadaisical.
And we pay the charity directly from our salary, and slumber knowing our coinage is helping to save the world from behind our fortress of triple glazed windows and memory-foam pillows.
Downtown in Down Town, the devil remembers the Navajo who believed in good and evil, in the sun, the earth and the sanctity of all that exists.
LikeLike
Beautiful. The repetition of “Downtown in Down Town, the devil…” is hypnotizing. I was looking forward to yours this week, Mark (well, that’s not new), but especially this week because I love your past descriptions of cities personified. Always wonderful. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
great
LikeLike
A beautiful piece of work.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I wish I could steal whatever is in your brain that thinks the way it thinks. This is sooo good! Love this line: “The sirens are the concertos of the concrete, a lullaby to the lackadaisical.” Gave me the shivers. And the last line is perfect. I didn’t expect anything less. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Stunning! So dark and lyrical. Great stuff. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Absolutely brilliant Mark….. loved it ….
LikeLiked by 1 person
Fantastic writing!
LikeLiked by 1 person
“No Escape”
by Michael Seese
210 words
Our town has a Main Street. Correction: our town is Main Street, and not a whole lot else. I doubt much has changed since the days when the wooden Indian keeping watch over Connor’s Cigar Store was alive and kicking.
Boredom here is a low-hanging fruit, plentiful, ripe, and waiting to be plucked by anyone young enough to be restless. My friends and I all had escape plans. The lazy ones turned to alcohol or TV-induced coma. Others thumbed a ride out on a semi passing through; their inevitable response to “Where you headed?” being “Anywhere else.” A few of the radical kids studied hard, and went away to college.
As I haunt Main Street, I see the next generation sitting around, wasting their lives, languishing in the same stupor we did. I want to grab them by their shoulders, shake them, and say, “Wake up! There is something beyond.”
But I can’t.
You see, most exit strategies allow for a round trip. Mine – jumping off the water tower – did not. But somehow, even in death, I’m still here. Devoid of life, just like Main Street.
In the movies, lost souls are told, “Go to the light.” But which direction does one go when there’s no light to be found?
LikeLike
“our town is Main Street” <- where I live. Brilliant take as always, Michael! Love the uniqueness of this.
LikeLike
““our town is Main Street” <- where I live"
Me too. see http://media.cleveland.com/insideout_impact/photo/11100678-large.jpg (Or Google Chagrin Falls, OH)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Nice! In some ways I like it better than a medium sized city (couldn’t do the big city).
LikeLike
This is great. Love this line: “Boredom here is a low-hanging fruit, plentiful, ripe, and waiting to be plucked by anyone young enough to be restless.”
LikeLike
wasn’t expecting the twist in the end…. Great writing Michael
LikeLike
Such a good piece. Hauntingly so!
LikeLike
Nightway (Yei Bei Chei)
209 words
@el_Stevie
#Flashdogs
This is the first day
Of frost glittering on crumbling pavements
Beneath broken windows that weep for light
And I must start my song
This is the second day
Of frozen bodies huddled in doorways
On steps not theirs to climb
And for these dispossessed
I must sing my song
This is the third day
Of flesh bought and sold
In life-stained rooms
And for these bartered souls
I must sing my song
This is the fifth day
Of mute beggars, hopeless causes
Walking dead-end roads, deaf to my words
And to these closed minds
Still I must sing my song
This is the sixth day
Of madness walking, empty-eyed
Howling their lunacy into the void
And the wind cries in chorus
As I sing my song
This is the seventh day
Of darkness dressing neon lights
Bright coverlet setting a sordid stage
And to them
I sing my song
This is the eighth day
Of a dying world, sick at heart
Decaying, corrupt
And with breaking heart
I sing my fading song
This is the ninth day
That I have sung for the Talking God
Turned East and South, West and North
To heal a world that did not listen
Where no one hears me
Sing my song
LikeLike
Terrific.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you 🙂
LikeLike
brilliant
LikeLike
A poignant poem/song. ‘life-stained’ – brilliant.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
This is beautiful. Love the last stanza.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much for your comment 🙂
LikeLike
Impressive! You were clearly inspired!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
This is a powerful piece, with a particularly strong ending.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you 🙂
LikeLike
I love this. great writing
LikeLike
Till the Stars Grow Cold
@mishmhem
202 Words
#FlashDogs
“Look around you,” the tour guide said as he gestured around the heart of New York City’s downtown area. “Think about it, 750 years ago, everything around you was forest, or waterways.”
He let them take everything in before he continued. “And our ancestors arrived and bought the land from the natives. Every rock, every tree, the waters below and the heaven above were ours… ‘Till the stars grew cold’ they told us, and so it has been.”
He smiled and started the bus, preparing to pull into traffic when he realized nothing was moving.
He looked around trying to find out what was going on and frowned when he saw a large procession of first peoples. He shook his head, realizing they looked like they had walked out of a history book’s pages.
He watched in the rear view mirror until the procession was even with his window.
The leader of the procession looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time.
“You have changed much,” the native said as he looked around the city.
The driver frowned and asked “Who are you?”
The man bowed. “I am Stars Grow Cold, and I am here to claim my home.”
LikeLike
I think that would be the appropriate time to end the tour. Quickly. 🙂
LikeLike
Sounds like a plan to me.
LikeLike
Lets get off that bus now! Good job!
LikeLike
Ignorance Is Bliss
Margaret Locke (margaretlocke.com or @Margaret_Locke)
205 words
My dad and I, we loved going downtown.
Sometimes we’d stop in the five-and-dime and buy a tomahawk or a big hat with feathers, and pretend we were Indians, hunting the White Man and chasing buffalo.
We didn’t worry about being politically correct. That didn’t exist then.
Sometimes we’d eat lunch at the local diner, chowing down on hamburgers and malted milkshakes to our heart’s content.
Nobody cared about cholesterol or calories or fat content or sodium levels.
Occasionally he’d take me to the hardware store, and we’d buy nails and lumber remnants. We were gonna make a treehouse better than anything Swiss Family Robinson ever had, until lightning split the backyard oak in half.
We climbed the gnarled trunk anyway, never thinking twice about broken bones or insurance issues.
The last time we went downtown was after dad lost his job. We stopped at the bank, where he showed the teller my peashooter. She was so impressed, she gave him wads of cash.
I didn’t understand he’d committed armed robbery. I just knew he was my dad, and I loved him.
Life was much simpler then, before I learned about jails and the justice system and poverty and crime.
I don’t go downtown anymore.
LikeLike
Love, love, love this! So much flavor and nostalgia. 🙂
LikeLike
Thanks, Foy!
LikeLiked by 1 person
brilliant write Margaret
LikeLike
Beautiful conclusion.
LikeLike
Thanks. I wrestled with it forever – and then had to whittle the story down significantly, since the first run was over 250 words.
LikeLike
Made me think of my own childhood. Well, except the armed robbery part 🙂 Well, and my dad was more the teacher than the player…and I didn’t own a peashooter…Okay, so it was just sweet and (mostly) what every child would want their daddy to be like. Sad she had to lose her innocence that way though
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Amberlee. 🙂
LikeLike
So good, Margaret, although I must take issue with the idea of building a better treehouse than anything the Swiss Family Robinson had. Such a thing does not exist. 😉 I love your stories; they always draw me in immediately, easily and without effort, like sliding into a warm bath. “Readability” is such an elusive thing, but you’ve got it in spades. 🙂
LikeLike
Oh, you are too kind, Ms. Shoemaker! 😉
LikeLike
I love how this flowed. So much in so few words.
LikeLike
Thank you!
LikeLike
I was reading an article just this morning about how different things where. I nodded to everything you listed above (although I was never racist or any good at constructing tree forts).
Very sad how the story slowly flows from happy memories to what is probably a defining moment in the main characters childhood.
LikeLike
Love the feel of nostalgia mixed with bitterness that you created here, before even the final punch of the ending.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks so much, Aria. 🙂
LikeLike
loved this too….. So many talented writers gathered here 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Nicely done. Nostalgic and a nice twist at the end. Loved it!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Downtown Colour
A.J. Walker
David supped on the coffee like he wasn’t enjoying it. Coffee was becoming an expensive habit. Cheryl watched intently, loving seeing him lick his lips, before her gaze shifted to the street.
“Downtown at night is so different,” Cheryl said. “Once the offices are empty the real people come out.”
David nodded. “Real indeed. Some right whack jobs too.”
He looked at his watch.
“Should see Spindly in a few minutes.”
“Spindly?”
David looked at Cheryl as if for the first time, briefly wondering if she fancied him – he was never any good at reading that.
“You must know Jeremy the ginger Navajo? If you don’t you are in for a treat.”
Cheryl looked up and down the street seeing only couples promenading or heading out to downtown’s trendy bars and restaurants.
Then Jeremy appeared; tooth pick thin, ginger with pasty white skin. He was wearing a home made outfit, it looked like it was made from bits of cats and birds.
“What did I tell you? He does five minutes of dancing here to ward off evil spirits. Says the city will fall if he doesn’t.”
“Local colour. Love it.” Cheryl said.
“Looney.” David said, slurping the last of the coffee. “Come on, let’s go paint us some town.”
(210 words)
@zevonesque
LikeLike
Nice little sip of life here, A.J. (see what I did there?) 😉
Coffee might be an expensive habit but one I’d never quit!
LikeLiked by 1 person
The ginger Navajo. Love it. 🙂 I also love that David is so clueless…
LikeLiked by 1 person
this is definitely the Downtown I know 😉 Great writing as usual
LikeLiked by 1 person
This was nice
LikeLiked by 1 person
BALANCE
My dad says, “Don’t lean.”
We’re in front of the liquor store, six-pack of Budweiser swinging from his handlebars.
The metal parts of the bike seat get hot in the sun. I sit with my knees up to keep from touching them.
Bonk, bonk, two wheels over the curb. Off we go.
I have a bad leaning habit. I want to see what’s in front. Dad will remind me plenty more times on the short ride home that leaning is bad for balancing a bike.
I stay close to dad in the liquor store. There’s a mynah bird, high up in a cage in the corner. Yells out words. I know it can’t get me, but I still flinch.
Downtown is where indigenous folk dot the sidewalk, sitting with paper bag bottles. “Hi girly,” they say when we come out, bell ringing on the door. I’ve got on my white sandals with buckles and bathing suit tan lines.
Dad lifts me into the hot seat.
“Don’t lean,” he says, and we take off. I turn and look back, trying not to lean. Just to see the dot people and the paper bags recede behind us. They watch as we go but their faces don’t change.
———-
205 words
@betsystreeter
LikeLike
Wow, I could feel the hot bike handle bars on my skin. Both touching a disturbing, the father-daughter outing to the liqueur store. Lovely story, though. 🙂
LikeLike
Love the imagery in this. I agree that the outing is a bit disturbing, Better than leaving her alone, I suppose…
LikeLike
Everyone has those moments when they are younger, those things you do with one parent or the other; baking cakes, playing catch, watching football. I liked that this father and daughter had something. It was their time together. I can picture them getting home, mom cooking the dinner while father and daughter settle down to watch the game; Bub for one and Cola for the other.
A beautiful snapshot of the characters lives.
LikeLike
Oh I could picture the whole piece. Great job!
LikeLike
Downtown
Visiting an art gallery isn’t something you do on a sunny afternoon. In fact, she honestly does not know what the sunny afternoons are good for. Sunlight torments her. There is no safe place to hide her thick witchy hair and her disfigured teeth. There is no place in the sun for her absurd pain. Art galleries are the bane of her existence. The well-groomed, well-spoken women eloquently expounding the paintings, the impeccable corridors, and exquisite paintings highlight every inadequacy in her being. But her accidental station in life demands the she be seen as a sophisticated woman.
“Downtown!” the song on the radio urges her to go downtown. “And you may find somebody kind,” the song promises. She doubts that she will meet a kindred spirit on the Main Street among the trendy art galleries, eateries, and boutique shops.
The flamboyant sculpture of a Navajo man outside the Indian Store jolts her out of her doldrums. Santiago, she cries out. A name she hasn’t heard in last ten years, much less has seen the face. A face so similar to hers! The ladder of years tips and collapses in her mind. She runs through the pedestrians on the narrow streets to the river of pitch darkness, the unresolved past.
210 words
@needanidplease
LikeLike
Awww poor dear. I hope she finds her resolution…
LikeLike
great
LikeLike
I’m definitely curious about this- why must she be so sophisticated? Who sculpted Santiago? What horrible thing happened? So many questions… 🙂
LikeLike
I want more!
LikeLike
Wonderful! Keeps me curious
LikeLike
Emily Clayton
@emilyiswriting
200 words
Ooljee
We hang up a dream catcher today. For Ooljee. The community hogan, that gathering place of gossip, work, and laughter, buzzes with the joy of completion. Grandmother Doli, her skin lined with laughter and love, beams at the praise. Such skill. Such power in her gnarled beautiful hands.
Ooljee is a daughter of the moon, born when the lunar tide was cresting. An ominous sign. Ooljee may bear the taint of darkness, but her dreams, her spirit, must be calm and peaceful.
Our other daughter, Nascha, never slept. She cried at all hours, drilling her shrieks into our ears. Nascha was relentless, like an arrowhead assaulting a hare. Her spirit was never happy; it couldn’t settle. Nascha had a wandering spirit. It demanded to hunt, to flee, to soar through the night sky. One morning, our Nascha was gone.
Ooljee’s third month is approaching. We hold our breath. Is that laughter?
The First Laughing Ceremony is nigh. We gather in the hogan, all the families, to plan this joyous day. At last! At last our Ooljee is part of our world. Her spirit is content here, settled. We mourn for Nascha, but we know her spirit now circles the sky.
LikeLike
Loved the feelings of family and community you conjured here, even within the sense of loss.
LikeLike
Thanks 🙂
LikeLike
lovely
LikeLike
Very nice. Wonderful imagery
LikeLike
Navajo Street Spaceport
206 words, @pmcolt
“A thousand years ago, my people lived on these lands.” From the downtown street corner, the shirtless drifter shouts at passers-by. Humans and aliens alike ignore him; walking, slinking, and slithering past him toward the great marketplace across from the spaceport. There they trade in cultural trinkets, speak inscrutable tongues, and give no thought to the native inhabitants of this land.
“Today, no remnant but a name on a street sign, corralled by the towering skyscrapers. An ignoble tribute to a proud people.” He sighs wearily and plops down onto the curb. A medusoid creature shuffles around him into the crosswalk, in defiance of the “Don’t Walk” sign flashing in five galactic languages. Hovercars honk their displeasure at the jellyfish alien.
I toss him some spare credits before entering the market. Throughout the market square stand the Statues of the Fallen: a gallery of peoples subjugated and defeated. Khmer and Celt, Inca, Aborigine. Even the vagrant’s own Navajo nation.
In the center, amidst the merchant tables of the trading post, stands an empty concrete pedestal: waiting patiently for the next to fall. Climbing upon it, I look around at the sea of faces, terrestrial and otherwise, and wonder which will be the next to stand here.
LikeLike
Not one, but two well-played fantasy (I’m starting at the last and going forward) pieces! This one is very thought-provoking.
LikeLike
I think the pedestal now has its next statue, even though the narrator doesn’t know it.
LikeLike
A strong message here. Very well written. I could just picture the scene so well.
LikeLike
In The End
I froze the moment I saw him. Paint streaking his torso gave him away before my eyes even noticed the ancient artifacts cradled by his hands. I’d played with replicas when I was young, when New York was nothing more than a distant mystery, calling me away.
Skyscrapers, taxicabs, rude gestures, even the scents of the city I’d traded my soul for faded into nothing as we locked eyes. His hair was bound, but mine whipped around me in the eerie burst of air the moving bodies around me didn’t notice.
A certainty I’d never known before poured into my chest. One blink, and he would be gone.
One blink.
I knew it, feared it, prayed for it, though I doubted he would listen. My eyes watered, and then burned.
Zahabolzi gazed through me, into me, and not at me at all. Everything I’d done, and he’d still come. My knees hit pavement, sending up a spray of golden dust from home. My throat closed against the trite words that clawed at my insides. A tear slipped from my eye.
It hit the dirt together with my head, and hands pushed through the haze, shaking me as others yelled.
Forgive me.
Zahabolzi turned away.
And my eyes closed.
(208 words; @AriaGlazki)
LikeLike
Oh wow. If it weren’t for my sleeping family members, I so would have yelled at the screen for that ending 🙂 Way to invoke emotional involvement. Well done.
LikeLike
Thanks, Amberlee! I’m glad it evoked a response 🙂
LikeLike
A God turning away, such a sad ending.
LikeLike
Yes, it’s not my happiest piece… Thanks for reading!
LikeLike
Woops, I didn’t notice but “Forgive me” was actually supposed to be italicized. Guess I’m really out of practice at posting.
LikeLike
Ahh the sadness this piece evokes. Lovely writing.
LikeLike
Thanks so much 🙂
LikeLike
Gone Native
The deeply tanned man stood on the street corner, his neck craned back as he stared at the glistening towers that surrounded him. A gaggle of white coats crowded around, eager to interrogate him. They had finally achieved the impossible, resurrecting an ancestor from the old world. It had only taken thirty years and $200 million.
They all wanted a turn. A spotty kid with glasses sidled up next to him, clipboard at the ready, “What are your impressions of the year 2104?”
The subject sniffed, “Air smell wrong. Smell like campfire just put out.”
The kid scribbled frantically, “Don’t worry, it’s just the pollution. Anything else?”
He gestured to the skyscrapers, “How you move these giant wigwams when Buffalo migrate?”
“Actually they stay where they are. People don’t move their houses anymore. Also, all the buffalo are gone.”
“This make no sense. You have power to create life, yet you take beautiful plains and turn them into lifeless wasteland? Where all the plants and trees go?”
“Sorry Chief, all the parks are gone, we paved over them. This city is your new home. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”
The Chief shook his head, “I think I return to Mother Earth.” With that he stepped into traffic.
209 words
@todayschapter
LikeLike
So this week represents a milestone for me. This is the two year mark for me being a part of the Flash! Friday community. In one of those ironic twists of fate my very first story here was about a cowboy called Skinny Pete, and here I am two years later writing a story about a Native American. Here’s a link to my very first Flash! Friday story – https://todayschapter.wordpress.com/2013/05/17/flash-fridays-may-17th
I’m not normally the sentimental type, but I wanted to take a moment to say Thank You to everyone that is part of this fantastic community. Life has been supremely busy these last two years and there are any number of excuses for me to not be writing, but I keep coming back week after week because of how friendly and supportive everyone here is (not to mention supremely talented writers!) I’ve learned a tremendous amount from all of you. A huge thanks to Rebekah for keeping this wonderful community alive, and to all the judges that give up their precious time each week to perform the impossible task of figuring out who ‘wins’. Even two years on, I still get excited every Monday morning to see who’s rocking out on the podium!
I look forward to writing another note like this in 2017 😉
LikeLike
Congratulations on two years, Craig. It’s because of you that I found this amazing community. Very grateful.
Keep writing and keep making my chuckle.
(PS – if anyone hasn’t read Craig’s book, GETTING LUCKY, I highly recommend. He doesn’t just write good Flash!)
LikeLiked by 1 person
great
LikeLike
Your stories always make my love. I love the abrupt ending to this. Brilliant take on the prompt.
LikeLike
And a whole bunch of scientists just lost their lunches… 🙂 Well done.
LikeLike
Great story for a two-year anniversary!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Loved it!
LikeLike
Title: Quite the Dude!
Word count:210
“You can tell from the bones that he was a tall man, well muscled. Quite the dude!”, Andrea sighed, dusting the dust off a life long turned to dust.
“Probably a chief”, Burt, her colleague ,added, zooming in his lens on the skeleton. They were working for months now in the desert, away from their own civilization.
“How can you tell?”
“Tall men have an evolutionary advantage”.
“Look at these patterns around the torso . Ceremonial beads? This looks like an arrow “,Andrea continued caught up in her discovery
“What do you think this place is?”
“Just by the layout of the ruins and the proximity of the structures it seems like their downtown”
” I don’t think they had downtowns in ancient civilizations ”
“It’s the law of cities. There is always an downtown …looks at the shards of pottery…there isn’t so much in other parts. This clearly was their bar”.
“The chief in a bar?”
“Maybe he got free drinks”
“Maybe he wasn’t a chief . Maybe he was a male dancer.”
“Stop it both of you . We need a good story for the press tomorrow on our findings of this major archaeological site. Understood ?” Barked their boss towering over them.
“Yes chief” they both echoed in unison.
“Where were we?”
LikeLike
“Maybe he got free drinks.”… “Maybe he was a male dancer” 🙂 Loved the banter between them!
LikeLike
Like their superimposing of modern ideas onto a past life, especially moving from chief to a male dancer!
LikeLike
Made me chuckle! Good job
LikeLike
Morgan Vega
@MorganVegaWrite
Foreseen
199 words
“Buildings shoot up to the heavens and slice through the clouds.”
Bodies huddled together inside the longhouse.
“People. Masses of people. Millions of people.”
Smoke wafted from hollow-gourd bowls and rose to the wooden ceiling.
“They swarm silent streets. They’re blind to each other.”
In a circle in the center of the room, the tribe leaders closed their eyes. Dried, white paint covered their bodies in geometric designs. Blue masks rested at their sides. Faces of their Holy People carved into wood, decorated with paint and feathers and fur. The smoke summoned their spirits, and the leaders roamed a futuristic world.
Only the chief spoke. The white mask of Yeibichai, the Talking God, rested beside him. “They value oil over corn. Profit over friendship. Power over life.”
Bone beads rattled on hoop earrings, as the tribe shook their heads in disgust.
“Our people do not belong. No one belongs. No one survives. They bury themselves in the earth they covered with pavement.”
Shaking hands reached for shaking hands.
In unison, the leaders’ eyes snapped open. Bound, dried grass waved through the air, spreading smoke above the people’s heads.
“Tonight, we dance to remove this doom from our future.”
LikeLike
Parts of me wish their dance had been successful. “Our people do not belong. No one belongs.” What a telling line.
LikeLike
I wish the dance had succeeded.
LikeLike
I loved this. Very good imagery.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Baseball
@FictionAsLife
197 Words
A million suns shine on the grass. Many suns illuminate a stick, a rock that flies with the speed of a stallion. In the nighttime, people do not sleep. They laugh, they shout, they hiss, all to what purpose? This is no god that they worship, but a pastime that is given the weight of religion.
The beasts herd like buffalo, colorful in their skins. They stampede away, all charging at the exit at once. Like buffalo, they would follow another off a cliff. Unlike buffalo, these beasts have armor that cannot be pierced with a bow and arrow. They yield no meat, no leather for clothing. Their hides make poor shelter. Despite their failings, they are given care worthy of horses.
People are strangers. They do not know one another by name, have not watched their children grow. Their circles have no center; distance, travelled so swiftly, separates each from his neighbor.
Give me the land as it was, with rivers running clear, space for beasts to graze. A symbiotic relationship, not the parasites people have become. Taking everything for themselves, giving nothing back, discarding waste like dandelion seeds. Here, even the dogs cannot run free.
LikeLike
Loved the imagery in this. You can hear the longing in the narrator’s voice.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you.
LikeLike
great write
LikeLike
Very strong condemnation of what we have become. Great imagery; I took the beasts to be cars – clever analogy.
LikeLike
Thanks. Yes, the beasts were meant to be cars. Our life today is so very different from what life here used to look like, and we forget that too easily.
LikeLike
Wow! What a powerful write! Good job!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
West Meets East
208 words
@rowdy_phantom
The savage stumbled, skin boots slipping on polished stone. Courtiers lifted draped sleeves to veil their smirks.
The frogmarch through the city spins through Kilchi’s head. Strangers crawling over hill-carved dwellings like the frenzied denizens of a broken anthill. More than the long voyage across the Western Ocean, that swarming sight makes him queasy.
Emperor Jiajang signaled a eunuch. Normally formal audiences bored him, but this dour-faced creature from the new continent held his interest.
The clove-spiced air claws at Kilchi’s lungs. Like all foreign kings, this one wants something. Kilchi strains to understand the pidgin of the translator.
“His majesty wishes the assistance of your gods.”
Jiajing had a Mongol problem. A raw infusion of divine energies could drive back the horde.
Kilchi snorts. He knows what “raw” means to these people.
“What do our gods care of your causes?”
“Convince them. Or die.”
Jiajing let him choose six concubines and six eunuchs to perform a nine-day ceremony. On the ninth dawn, word came that Khan’s forces had amassed outside of Beijing. Jiajing ordered Kilchi’s slow death.
Life oozes from Kilchi out a hundred cuts. The earth shudders beneath him. He grins into the dust. The swarming hillsides are about to get a taste of raw energy.
LikeLike
Love the ending! What an intriguing take on the prompt! It makes me want to hear more of Kilchi’s back story!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! I wanted to find a non-standard “downtown” for this one. So, natch, I go with a 16th century Chinese capitol.
LikeLike
Like Amberlee, I definitely want to hear more.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks!
LikeLike
Brilliant!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
Yanahah
206 words, @pmcolt
Long ago, when the blue moon eclipsed the white moon at the edge of the blood-red Colorado Nebula, the evil god escaped and scourged the cities of the planet. With our technology destroyed, our people fled to the mountains.
There, Yanahah came to us. By day she carved arrows from spruce branches. Under the light of the two moons, she hammered stone arrowheads. When she left to battle the evil god, her family lit candles on the boughs of a blue spruce, and wept.
The evil god raged against Yanahah, scouring her with a blizzard of ice shards. But Yanahah lured him onward, away from his halls of power. Just when it seemed the fearsome enemy would crush Yanahah beneath an avalanche, she shot her last arrow between his eyes. His death roar rattled the mountain valley.
Yanahah lopped off his head, raising it high for everyone to see. They cremated the evil god upon a communal bonfire; a divine wind scattered his ashes to the four corners of the world. In celebration, our people vowed to rebuild a great new city on that very spot.
Even today, a millennium later, in the heart of the downtown skyscrapers, the monument of the heroine Yanahah proudly stands.
LikeLike
Yanahah – one who confronts her enemy.
It’s nice when an author picks the name of a character with meaning. It adds depth to the story.
This piece feels like it was lifted from the pages of history; a tale passed down through the generations. Epic in 206 words.
LikeLike
This was so cool! Flash Fantasy often frustrates me because it feels too rushed… but you did it so effortlessly! Well done!
LikeLike
This legend seemed so real, I actually googled Yanahah to see if the place existed! 🙂
LikeLike
Epic indeed–what a great story!
LikeLike
This is really good. Got caught up in the story. Well done!
LikeLike
HER METTLE
WC = 210 (05-15-15)
Royal shade for weary travelers, two with walking sticks and one with bairn; shade providing respite in the center of cross paths in a small town. She with the young one squints into the eastern sun, at this town on the horizon of history, at the burgeoning of new citizens, at cities to come. She has heard the tales of hope from her two companions. Her cognizance of the large picture spurs native guiding skills. And she counsels the two as they map on parchment while quenching parched throats.
A cross of paths: to be choked with heavy car traffic, yet now portrayed with choking grasses, wild flowers, and native trees. Buildings loom saliently in the distance of its future. The town, a princess’s namesake and a young president’s home. The foresight of the players now cast in a solid bronze memory at the downtown cross roads.
She wears her papoose proudly, richly fed, as rich as the knowledge she imparts for the journey from this place. Her strong arms reflect the morning sunlight. Almost fluttering in morning breezes, her buckskin reveals intricate details: the tribal beading of her people.
And I reflect on her gift to us as I drive on the downtown cross roads in Jefferson’s Charlottesville.
Sacagawea.
LikeLike
Ah, historical fiction. My first love. 🙂 Way to incorporate the two time periods and teach us a little history at the same time!
LikeLike
Thank you!
LikeLike
Bringing past and present together, nicely done.
LikeLike
Thank you!
LikeLike
So well crafted. Loved it
LikeLike
Thank you!
LikeLike
EVERYTHING’S WAITING FOR YOU
210 words
@jes3ica
Look, there’s Flora, our protagonist! See her there in the subway, wedged sadly between that mathematician and that dog trainer? Part of her character backstory is that she hates city living, but won’t give those smug meatheads back home the satisfaction. There’s also a poignant childhood thing about a horse, but I can’t get into that now, because look—she’s seen the first photo!
Wow, did you see how pale she got just now? Next to the ads, it’s a picture of her great-grandfather, a Navajo man, holding a mask. She keeps this photo double-locked in a lead box under her floorboard, except when doing the ritual. She knows each set of eyes that sees it weakens the spell. I can just imagine what she’s thinking, like: holy hell I might literally turn to dust any second!
Now she sees the photo is on billboards all down the street, and…yeah, she’s totally losing it. Running to her apartment. Getting into bed? She is! Under the covers and everything. Closing her eyes, counting to sixty. Now she’s sitting, stretching, saying “It was only a dream!”
Nice try, Flora, but that didn’t work at all.
Now she’s prying up the floorboard.
Oh, Flora. You won’t like what you find.
LikeLike
Humorous way to use the narrator.
LikeLike
Love the voice of this piece and that’s one chilling last line.
LikeLike
The darkness of the last line washes gives the story a completely different tone – and makes me want to know more.
LikeLike
Clever and effective. Great last line!
LikeLike
The narration is awesome. Love your style.
LikeLike
Tickling the Rainbow
209 words
@rowdy_phantom
“Can this day get any more wrong?” Samuel wondered tracking puddles off his Italian wingtips.
“Is it raining?” Clarice asked in the sweet alto he’d hired her for as he dribbled past her into his office. A roaring migraine followed him in.
The headache had started with the toothpaste blasting from the tube and smeared down his chest like ultra-mint lightning bolt.
Then there were the suicidal rodents. He’d lost layers off his drywalls veering around their furry martyrdom. Even so, some muskrat melded itself to the hood ornament.
The clincher was being doused by that freaky mime.
Clarice slipped in with a towel, warm and smelling like musty Christmas trees. The pain in Samuel’s forehead eased but the roar continued to roll against his eardrums.
“I postponed your meeting until after lunch.”
More than just a pleasant voice. Samuel inhaled the stale evergreen scent of the towel again and puzzled over its familiarity.
——
Water-Sprinkler Clarice hummed to herself as she tucked a spruce branch into the filing cabinet next to her face paint.
The seed had found purchase. It was only a matter of time before the concrete of the God-Talker’s long urban sleep cracked open and together they could reestablish harmony to the land of the Diyin.
LikeLike
A fun twist to have the Water-Sprinkler be a woman. And the bizarre nature of Samuel’s “bad day” makes me wonder if her comic relief side was “helping” his day. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks! I love trickster figures.
LikeLike
A mischievous Water-Sprinkler!
LikeLiked by 1 person
: )
LikeLike
Liked it very much. Well done!
LikeLike
Thanks, I’m glad you enjoyed it.
LikeLike
New History
200 Words
@msbbrumley
Maggie stepped into the dinner, just off the downtown square. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim lighting. Old pictures were pinned to walls, newspaper clippings and letters pinned alongside each of them.
A wave caught her eye. Her cousin, Jayme, motioned her over to a wall. As she walked, Maggie replayed the mysterious message in her mind. “Mags, meet me at the old timey diner downtown. I found something researching our genealogy.”
“Look, at this.” Jayme pointed to a picture. A Navajo stood, three quarters to the camera, bedecked in furs. The rich, brown tones of his skin were echoed in the surrounding.
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Special trip for an old photograph?”
Jayme shook her head, pointing to the paper beside. “Not just that. Read this.”
“Kilchii – beloved of Maggie O’Hare”
“Maggie O’Hare? Wait…” Maggie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Is that the Maggie I was named for?” Jayme nodded, excitement shining in her eyes. “We’re not Navajo.”
“Grandma always said her mother lost her first husband trying to settle in Utah and that the Navajo saved her.”
“Wow. How did you come across this? Here?”
Jayme grinned. “Internet’s amazing, isn’t it?”
LikeLike
I really like your take on the prompt! Just like an old diner to have a piece of history that no one else does!
LikeLike
Letters pinned to a wall alongside old photos and clippings make a poignant image.
LikeLike
You paint a very intriguing picture. I’d like to know more about the history… this sounds like a good intro to their Great Grandmother/Grandmother’s story.
.
LikeLike
Interesting read. Loved it!
LikeLike