Fire

She used to be fierce. She used to tear across the fields like wildfire, shouting and laughing. But then winter came and she was given away to a man she had never met.

She sat day after day by the window, watching the snow fall and build, feeling her fire dim into embers. Until one day she stood. She swept her cloak over her shoulders, slipped on her boots, and stepped out into the snow.

She knew that embers can still grow into a fire.

She knew that, just as snow snuffs out a fire, enough fire can melt snow.

Pest Control

“What are we looking for here?”

They descended the stairs into the basement, switching on their flashlights and sweeping the beams over the corners of the room.

“Typical pest problem. Stuff missing. Hairpins, wires, circuitboards. Ah, there.”

Something scrambled away out of his lightbeam. He pointed the light into the AC vent the thing escaped into.

The vent was teeming with bots. Hundreds of tiny little skittery bots with little skittery legs. And they were building more, in a nest of circuits and wires and bits of metal.

“That’s what we’re looking for. Hand me the EMPulsar.”

Shatter

It was a novelty at first, building robots out of glass. They were quite lovely, bright and shining, delicate and intricate, but novelties only.

Until I built her.

She was odd, gazing at the flowers and trees with an interest, watching me with fascination, listening to my every word. Being made of glass, she couldn’t smile, but I felt her smile as she spoke with me. It was in her voice, and in her every movement.

If only I hadn’t made her out of glass. One day she might stumble, something might hit her, she will fall. She will shatter.

Let You Run

I failed to make this one a drabble.  Sorry.

Flash Fiction: Sci-Fi

I’m on the rooftop, scanning the ruins of New York and the overgrowth spreading over the concrete, when he joins me.

“It didn’t always look this way.” It’s the start of one of his stories. The ones he tells without realizing he’s told me them already. But this time he says something else. “I’m not going to be around to see it much longer.”

“I know.” I do know. I’ve watched him age while I haven’t.

“Would you like me to shut you down before I shuffle off the mortal coil?”

I consider the question, though it takes the circuits in my brain only a nanosecond. “No.”

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Gigantic

You’d think it was the wind howling, if you didn’t know any better. But even as a newcomer to this town you know about the ghost.

You’ll see it. If you haven’t already…

You haven’t?

Just got here?

Okay, then prepare yourself, because this ghost is gigantic. It walks the hills at night, Fifty feet tall, ice white, crying and moaning, thrashing and stomping, whipping the trees into a frenzy ’til you think they’ll blow right over.

It’s interesting at first, but you’ll get sick of it pretty quick. It’s not that great having a giant’s ghost in your backyard.

Screech

A screech of tires, a screech of a woman, an impact and I’m flying. I land in the gutter, and people begin crowding around me, pressing close and muttering.

I wave them away, push myself up, then stand. I’m not injured, of course. As I brush the gutter dirt out of my clothes and face, the circle of bystanders around me groans and disperses.

“Oh, it’s just an immortal,” says the woman who screeched.

“How boring,” says a young boy.

The driver is climbing out of his car, shouting “You dented my hood!”

Can’t I get any sympathy?

Crooked Fingers

The man’s crooked hands struggled to flip the book’s pages. His frame shook with excitement and the infirmity of old age.

“Here it is.” He pointed with a twisted finger. “This is the incantation. The spoken words, the hand signs.”

Geoffrey looked at the words and the drawings of hand sigils the old man could no longer perform. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

He was terrified.

He was no caller of demons, but the old man wanted so badly to see the things. He would have to do this. For the old man, he would do anything.

Shy Shy

Shy boy, I am just a shy girl. I could never talk to you. I can only take your picture, as you dress, as you leave your house, as you stop at Starbucks, as you walk to the very street I live on. To the very house I live in. To my backyard…

Shy girl, I am just a shy boy. I wish I could speak to you. But I can only grab my morning coffee and journey to your yard, hide in the tree outside your window. I can only wait with my camera for a glimpse of you.

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An Old Weapon

Concept for this based on an awesome dream I had.

Drabble

“I have something to show you.”

The old man moved boxes out of his way, dust puffing up around him. Whatever it was, he had kept it well hidden. Or well forgotten.

“It’s an old weapon. We’ve lost the knowledge of how to create it. But it is powerful.”

“More powerful than a gun?” Bernard asked. “Or a lasershot?”

“In the right hands, incredibly dangerous.” The old man held up a large box, setting it on the table.

Bernard opened it, and couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d heard of the weapon, but never seen a sword.

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A Long Story

This is a long story I have to tell you. It could take years, decades, a lifetime.

People won’t listen when you have a story this long. They start talking over you. They leave in the middle of it.

They don’t understand; this story’s important. It has to be told.

I have to make sure you won’t interrupt. I have to make sure you won’t leave. I have to tell this story. It’s eating away at my insides and wants out.

So sit there, no sounds, get as comfortable as you can with those bindings.

This is a long story.

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