Party at River Island – Flash Fiction

We followed railroad tracks by the forest and the tracks followed the river. A white moon hung full and bright to our right, fluorescent on the water. To our left, dense black trees grew close to the tracks.

Chalk-white stones glowed with the moon, piled loosely around heavy wooden ties. I grabbed one of the stones and gauged its weight, its feel. Then, with all I had, I flung it at the river. We were silent for a moment. Then, the stone thumped into the soggy riverbank and rolled into the brush grass beside the water.

I searched for a smaller stone.

“How much further?” David asked. He threw a stone. There was a pause and we listened.

Splash.

“A quarter-mile, probably,” I said.

“It’s far.

I skipped a stone side-arm up the tracks. “Parties don’t get busted out here.”

We walked a while and, to our left, thick forest gave way to a wide-open, rolling hill that I knew to be the Viebrock property. The yard smelled freshly mowed. At the top of the hill, where the ground was level, a cabin sat black in silhouette. The yard ran down and down some forty yards before meeting the river. A two-person paddleboat bobbed rhythmically with the river, thumping against a wooden dock.

“You sure they aren’t home?” David asked.

“No campfire,” I said. “No lights. There’s nobody there.”

“How do you know they’re not sleeping?” he asked.

I balanced on one of the rails and jumped down on the rocks. “I don’t.”

We slid down to the dock and climbed into the paddle boat. I freed the tether from a post and, side by side, we pedaled. We pedaled for a long time. Then I pointed.

“That’s the island?” David asked.

I nodded. “That’s it.”

The island was a small circle of land with a sandy beach around its perimeter. Further inland, the ground climbed and turned rocky and there were scraggly pines and sticker bushes. Large, gray formations jutted out between the trees and the island above the beach was littered with boulders.

“Nobody’s there,” David said.

“They’re in the cave.”

He gave me a look.

“Really,” I said. “It’s safer there.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“You don’t hear parties in the cave, dummy. That’s the point.”

We pedaled and he was quiet for a while. Finally, he asked: “What about their boats?”

I scanned the island. “They must have come in from the other side.”

“How do you get here from the other side?”

“How the hell do I know? I’ve never done it.”

We pulled the paddleboat onto the sand and dried our hands on our shorts. “Over here,” I said. Sandburs stuck our clothes and got in our sandals, sharp as tacks. We picked our way up through the rocks.

At a high clearing I stopped. The moon was shining bright off the black rippling surface of the water.

“Do you remember Maynard?” I asked.

“Maynard, your dog?”

“Yeah, my beagle.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

We continued crawling up the hillside, doubled over, using our hands to feel for hidden boulders in the dark. “It was weird how he died,” I said.

“Yeah, that sucked.”

“I can’t believe someone would do that.”

“What a douche.”

We stopped again. I breathed deeply in the cool breeze. “The vet said the shot went right through his heart,” I said. “That’s a tough shot.”

David nodded, looked at me, said nothing.

I asked: “How many guys do you know who could make that shot?”

David opened his mouth, closed it again, and said: “Probably not many. What are you asking?”

I shrugged again. “I’m just saying it’s weird. You never liked Maynard. He howled, woke the neighborhood. I can’t count the times you told me about it.”

His eyes narrowed. “It sucks you think I shot your dog.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Dude!” David said.

“Listen!” I hissed. “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Listen.”

We listened to the breeze and the frogs and the water sloshing against the island.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“All right.” I pointed. “The cave is right up there.”

“Where?”

“Right there.”

David stood frozen, willing himself to see. I cuffed the back of his head and the heavy, white stone in my palm made a sick cracking sound when it met his skull, like a dry twig being snapped in two. His eyes rolled white. His legs buckled and he collapsed. He let out a long wheeze, twitched twice, and lay still.

I pushed at him with my sandal and, when he didn’t grab my leg and pull me down, I found the courage to feel around on his neck for a pulse. It was faint but steady. I dragged him back down towards the beach, tripping over rocks, bloodying my knuckles, smashing my shins, bruising my tailbone.

David never stirred, not when I dropped him in the rocks and picked him back up only to drop him again and again. He did not wake when his heels dug ditches through the sand or when I dumped him unceremoniously into one of the seats of the paddleboat. He slept as I wrapped the anchor rope around his right ankle and when I pushed us from shore.

When the water was deep enough, I turned and pushed David out with both feet. There was a great splash and the rope fed into the water. The boat drifted a ways and suddenly halted, straining against the rope.

I dove out, swam back to the island, found the kajak I had hidden, and paddled for home.

The Resistors – Flash Fiction

In 2038, the Federal Live Stream Act was officially passed by an overwhelming majority. The act, considered controversial and bucked by a small minority, required all Citizens of the World to receive a microchip implant in order to participate in commerce (i.e. to buy food, housing, etc.) The Chip, as it was commonly called, killed, once and for all, the need for cash and keys and provided The Flag with the GPS coordinates and a continual live stream, of all chipped citizens. This feed was sent securely to the Flag’s Intelligence headquarters in Moscow.

All live streams were recorded and saved but none were accessed except in cases of Suspicion or during the investigations of committed crimes.  However, it was not due to these assurances from The Flag that the Stream Act passed. Studies (and common sense) had indicated that the Chip would significantly reduce the number of terror attacks and other crimes perpetrated globally and the citizenry, worn down by ever climbing increases in terror attacks and crimes, sacrificed its privacy to The Flag in order to see these numbers fall.

Three years after the Stream Act passed, Brock came into my office, said: “You need to see this,” and played for me the recorded stream of a missing young woman by the name of Kate Phillips.

Miss Phillips was a Resistor who did not wear a Chip. Still, it was rare that anyone went missing anymore. Cameras were virtually everywhere and even Resistors, though they did their best to elude them, were under near 24-hour surveillance as a result.

“Right…here,” Brock said, pressing Stop. “Poof.”

“Glitch?” I asked.

“Not according to the Lab.”

“Again,” I said.

Brock replayed the recording. On the screen, Kate Phillips ran from the camera and it followed her. Panicked, she looked over her shoulder with increasing frequency as the camera closed the gap between them. When the pursuer drew close, within six or eight feet, Phillips leaned forward and vanished.

“And they know it didn’t glitch,” I muttered, more to myself than to Brock. “What happens when you frame by frame?”

“Watch.”

Kate Phillips was looking over her shoulder at the camera. The camera was close, within ten feet or so. Brock stopped the recording. He advanced the frames one-by-one and then Kate Phillips was gone.

“Huh,” I said. “Anybody got a theory?”

Brock said: “Me and Evans think she fell off a ledge or into a hole or something.”

I shook my head. “No…Who’s chasing her anyway?”

“Boyfriend. We have him in custody.”

“Go back.”

Brock went back and advanced by frame.

“There,” I said.
We studied the still shot. Brock nodded and whispered: “Her legs are still there but her upper body…”

“She didn’t fall in a hole,” I said. “She dove into-”

Brock’s eyes got wide. “The Resistors have Transport,” he said with a disbelieving tone.

“Moscow,” I said. “This is 29468-LT. Patch to 79354-CL. Stat.”

“Live stream patched,” an automated voice replied. Another voice, this one human, said: “Pretty busy here, Carter. What do you need?”

“Colonel, the Resistors have Transport tech,” I said. “You’re going to want to see this.”

 

Dead Connection – 100 word story

You get down into some of these third-world countries and the tech is thirty years behind; this airport had a pay phone.

There’s weight to the sound of a real phone bell you don’t get with a cell. I heard the ringing from far away and ran to it.

Saturday afternoon. Civilians everywhere. A mother gripped her son by the arm and bawled, “Mind me!”

Another ring.

I shoved through. “Down! Down! Down!” I said and a little girl landed on her butt and slid.

A man picked up the handset and the phone detonated.

 

 

 

100 word story for Friday Fictioneers. Photo credit: © J Hardy Carroll

Harvey’s Agenda – Flash Fiction

The woman sat at the bar and stared into her drink and Harvey stood behind her. He laid a hand on her back and leaned in so his mouth was in her ear. “Did you get it?”

She nodded at her drink.

Harvey sat down. “Beautiful.”

The bartender walked over. “What can I get you?”

“Whiskey,” Harvey said. “Neat.”

“How about you, ma’am? Ready for a refill?”

The woman covered her glass with her palm. The bartender left and came back with a whiskey.

“You don’t seem too enthused,” Harvey said.

The woman didn’t say anything. She pushed an ice cube down into her drink with a straw. It bobbed back to the surface.

“You got the signature,” Harvey said. “The hard part is over. Here, let’s see.”

The woman turned and dug in her purse and handed him a piece of paper. He looked at it and gave it back to her. She put it in her purse.

“Don’t lose that,” he said. “How did you manage it?”

“Just slipped it in the stack. He never reads anything.”

“They won’t suspect a thing,” Harvey said. “That explains everything nice and clean. There won’t be a reason for anyone to poke around.”

“He’s not the type. Everyone knows it.”

“Wasn’t,” Harvey said. “He wasn’t the type. He’s been down since he retired. You said so yourself.”

“Not that down.”

Harvey pointed at her purse. “That letter says otherwise.” He brought out a pack of Camels, shook two out, and offered one to the woman.

“No, thank you.”

He lit one. “What do you want to do?”

“I just wish there was some way to know for sure that we will get away clean. I wish there was some guarantee.”

“Life isn’t like that.”

“No,” she said. “On second thought, I guess I do want one.”

Harvey fished out a Camel and lit it for her.

She exhaled. “But you think it’s safe?”

“I wouldn’t let you do it if I didn’t.”

“What do I tell them, you know, if they do poke around?”

Harvey shrugged. “The truth. He seemed a little down but you didn’t think he was the type. They’ll believe you. Melancholy makes people do crazy things.”

“How long until we can be together?”

“After? I’d say a year just to be safe.”

The woman nodded. “Okay.”

“You’re sure? We shouldn’t go through with it if you’re not sure.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” she said. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

“Me neither,” Harvey said.

“He’s not a monster you know. He doesn’t treat me poorly.”

“I know.”

“I wish there was some other way.”

“I know but there isn’t. This is the only way to swing the money side of it.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Everything will go off without a hitch, you’ll see. We just need a little faith and before you know it, we’ll be together. Did you buy the sleeping pills?”

She nodded.

“Good. Have you eaten yet?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“No? I’m starving,” Harvey said. “Lucky for me, they have great food here.” He stubbed out his cigarette and waved to the bartender. “Can I get a menu when you get a second?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moving Day – Short Short Story

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“Just grab it and toss it out.”

You do it!”

“Seriously? This is why you yelled at me to come in here?”

“Please, will you?” she pleaded. “Can you kill it, Josh?”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I can’t.”

Her brother grinned. “Can you imagine if it had babies and they were all crawling on your face when you woke up?”

She shrieked high and shrill and long and he added squeaking baritone wails and they laughed and laughed until nothing was funny anymore.

He wiped his eyes and sniffed. “It can’t hurt you.”

“You won’t do it?”

“You only have to look at it a few more hours.”

She frowned. “It will still be here even if I can’t see it.”

They sat quiet. “Will you bring your stuffed animals?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“No.”

“I’m going to bring all mine. And my dolls. And the toys from when I was little.”

“Dad said we’re supposed to leave the stuff we don’t need.”

“I don’t care what he said!”

He blinked at her. He turned and looked out the window. “I should go pack,” he said.

“Do you think mom will be sad when we’re gone?”

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the glass. “Probably.”

“Do you remember that fight they had when I spilled my juice?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “I wished I didn’t spill it.”

“I know,” he sighed. “It’s ok though.” He turned from the window. “I’m going to pack.”

She stepped in his path with her doll. “Do you want to play army men or something? You can use Barbie for the monster. I won’t get mad.”

“I have to pack. I’m sure Mom will be up soon to help you.”

She tossed the doll on the bed. “I’m going to ask her to kill it.”

“It’s only a few more hours you have to think about it.”

“No,” she shook her head. “It will still be here. Even when I can’t see it.”

 

 

Buried Treasure – Flash Fiction

He stood in a large hole, perhaps four feet deep and five or six in diameter. The digging was strenuous, the ground comprised of gravel and sand. With each thrust, the shovel stopped dead, sending a jolt through his arms, his shoulders, his back. Every few minutes, he dropped to his hands and knees to dig by hand. With his fingers, he unearthed heavy rocks, straining to wrestle them from the hole and heave them aside. The rocks dented and dulled his shovel, slowing his progress.

The air was crisp and the moon full; his body steamed through his shirt. He lifted the shovel from the hole, flat to the ground and perhaps a quarter full, and tossed its contents over his right shoulder. The sand made a brushing sound as it fell on dry leaves. He plunged the shovel into the earth again.

She stood behind him and said, “Why are you doing this?”

He stopped and let the shovel stand by its blade as he removed his cap and drew his arm across his forehead. The shovel stood upright for a moment then fell. “I have to find it,” he said.

She shook her head. “I don’t need it.”

Bending over, he grasped the shovel. “If I don’t find it now, We’ll have to wait until Spring.” He shook his head. “I can’t dig through the frost.”

She wrinkled her forehead and said, “Leonard, you’ve been out here for days! Weeks!” She moved close and he pulled away. She stopped and said softly, “Perhaps it’s not God’s will that it be found.”

“I don’t believe that. If He wants me to leave it out here in the wild, He needs to tell me plain. I ain’t interested in deciphering hints from The Almighty.”

She raised her eyebrows. “He is telling you. I’m telling you. Take the shovel home and draw yourself a warm bath. Put on dry clothes. Make a fire! Do the things you need to do to move on.”

He shook his head.

She smiled with sad eyes and said, “The landslide was not your fault. You don’t need to find my body.” She smiled. “It’s already buried.”

He fell to his knees in the dirt and covered his face with his hands. “No, no, no…” he cried.

“I have to go now, Leonard,” she said softly. “It’s time for us both to go home.”

She drifted away into the trees…

Leonard awoke with a start, his eyes wet and the television still on. Beside him, she lay sleeping, breathing deeply. He spooned her, and buried his face between her shoulder blades, pulling her close.

She faced the wall, smiling. “These dream pills were worth every penny,” she thought. “I am SO going shopping today.”

Now try this: The Predator

 

Ward’s Worthless Ward – Flash Fiction

Since his accident last year, Myron’s short-term memory abandoned him at random. This caused him no small measure of anxiety and his life was spent trying to piece together hours-long blank spaces of which he had no knowledge.

This time, he couldn’t remember driving Ward home.

Prior to a few moments ago, the last thing Myron remembered was sitting across a table from Ward in a dead bar, picking at soggy beer bottle labels and trying to think of things to say. It was clear the night was a bust.

Just now, Myron awoke to find himself unlocking the front door to his house, his phone buzzing in his pocket. It buzzed again and again.

The first text read, “OMG what happened?” and the next, “So sorry” and there were more.

He began stabbing out a reply to one before opting instead to check Facebook where, after scrolling a bit, he found a post from Ward which read: “I am deeply saddened to say that Ward passed away tonight in an apparent homicide. Please keep us in your prayers and respect our privacy at this time.” It was signed, “Ward’s family”.

Then Myron heard tires screeching into his driveway and there was an aggressive slamming of car doors. A man’s voice barked orders in serious, short bursts.

Myron dropped his phone and fled through the back door.