#VisDare 91 : Reverie

I waved my hand at the buildings around the small courtyard. “Ain’t much hope here. Just concrete, and rust.” I looked at the reporter. “And death. Ain’t much hope here.”

He didn’t move. Just sat on the bench, and looked around.

He’d never visited my part of town. There were no stores, no restaurants, but you could buy crack on every corner, and get shot for no damn reason. And if you died on the street, your body could be there for days.

I leaned back on my bench, held my trumpet up. “People need hope, and I do what I can to give them some.”

I played. A lonely voice. A ray of light. A thread of hope. In a concrete hell. The only sounds beside my trumpet were a mother’s cries at the loss of her son, and every now and then, shots fired from a gun.

149 Words
@LurchMunster

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Another story I pieced together for Angela Goff’s Visual Dare. I’m writing more, and that feels good. Please read the other entries in this week’s Visual Dare challenge.

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#MondayMixer Round 30 : Bunnies

Terry opened his eyes to total darkness. He realized his bed was gone, replaced by a cold, harsh concrete floor. He wasn’t in his bed, in his home. The vagary of his change of location scratched at the back of his mind. “Where am I?”

He heard scurrying, like mice or rats. Every few seconds, a light flashed. His eyes searched the room. He saw the glint of steel, several times. A glint of white teeth. The blade of an axe. The shanks of drill bits. Something stood against the far wall. A figure.

The light came on. Rabbits. Hundreds of rabbits. They carried drills, axes, screwdrivers, knives. Anything with a sharp metal edge. The figure on the far wall was a little girl. Her voice echoed in his ears. “Bunny murderer.”

An axe blade sank into the shank of his leg. He screamed. His world went blood-red, then black.

150 Words
@LurchMunster

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This is my entry into week 30 of Jeffery Hollar‘s Monday Mixer flash fiction challenge. Please, go enjoy all the gems created by artisans of the written word.

#VisDare 14 : Normalcy

At the end of the walkway over the lake, we came to a set of tiny houses scattered along the shore of the lake. She stopped in front of one. “This is my home.” Inside, we sat down on a sofa, facing a white wall. I heard her in my head, “History. Start before the fall.”

Black and white Images appeared on the wall. “Taran. This is our history. Mine. Yours. everyone’s.” The images were absolutely terrifying. Huge buildings. Miles of them. No grass anywhere. Concrete and asphalt and glass. And people. Thousands upon thousands of them. Some of them had animal slaves, held to them by leashes, wrapped around their necks. Machines on wheels, filled with people were everywhere.

“Our ancestors believed they could do whatever they wanted.”

“But,” I finally spoke, “that’s insane!”

“It was. And it nearly lead to the end of all life on Earth.”

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This is the 11th piece in a continuing story I’m working through for Angela Goff’s Visual Dare. Please read the other entries in this week’s Visual Dare challenge.

#ThursThreads Week 63 : Any Questions?

His stark naked body rested on the warehouse floor, his blood no longer in it. His blood was slowly seeping into the concrete. It would leave a bitch of a stain to remove. She’d probably stabbed him thirty times. The knife stuck out of his body where it had been sunk between his legs. That would have hurt, except he was probably already dead.

She sat on the warehouse floor, maybe ten feet away, not a stitch on. Her knees tucked up to her chin. Dried tears all over her face. She sat there, rocking back and forth, mumbling, “He wouldn’t stop. I asked him to stop. I said no. I did. He wouldn’t stop.” What was obviously his blood was all over her.

There was no doubt she’d killed him.

Next to her was a manilla envelope with beg red letters on the outside that said, “Any Questions?”

The envelope was full of pictures of him, pushing her around, touching her, stripping her. Of him pushing her up against crates, shelves, the wall, even the floor. And doing anything he wanted.

I took off my coat, put it around her shoulders, and made sure she heard me. “He got what he deserved.” Then I called for a lady doc to come help her, knowing the legal system in the country would soon make her life hell, and some lawyer rich.

Life sure can be a bitch sometimes, can’t it?

245 Words
@LurchMunster

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I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 63. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.