Here is a randomized selection of the latest Flash Fiction Challenge parameters from Chuck Wendig over at Terribleminds.com - generated by my patented word-press plugin designed just for these shenanigans.

Your parameters are:

NOTE: If you don’t like them…refresh the page and you’ll get another set!

Thanks,

Stephen

Here is a randomized selection of the latest Flash Fiction Challenge parameters from Chuck Wendig over at Terribleminds.com - generated by my patented word-press plugin designed just for these shenanigans.

Your parameters are:

NOTE: If you don’t like them…refresh the page and you’ll get another set!

Happy New Year.

Stephen

Here is a randomized selection of the latest Flash Fiction Challenge parameters from Chuck Wendig over at Terribleminds.com - generated by my patented word-press plugin designed just for these shenanigans.

Your parameters are:

NOTE: If you don’t like them…refresh the page and you’ll get another set.

Another flash fiction challenge from Chuck W over at terribleminds. Technically this one is a failure because its just too long (1516 words) – but I can’t condense it any more and time is a’runnin out. Constructive criticism always welcome (what the hell am I saying…i’ll take anything…somebody talk to me…pleeease).

~”#3 where are you? I cannot see you and have urgent news.”

Four legs gripped the walls, locking hisbody-frame into position, two acted as retractors, holding aside recently cut skin and, of the remaining two, one massaged the pump heart and the other cauterised cyst nodules that lay on its surface …always when I’m in the middle of something.

“Two secs, I’m off-grid”. He spawned a mind-thread and asked it to continue the op, but interrupt him should higher thought became necessary. It got a little sniffy at the mention of deferring in a crisis – but started immediately. Once satisfied his protégée wouldn’t damage more tissue than it saved, #3 gave #ship his full attention.

“What’s up? I’m busy”

~”I am ninety eight percent certain #2 has been lost.”

#ship’s even delivery and soothing tones were perfect for everyday life but gave bad news a disturbingly surreal quality – it took #3 an entire second to digest and react.

“What the fuck happened, where is she?”

~”Her last registered position is e#f3-ac; however, in the previous two minutes we have suffered approximately three hundred minor impacts over #f3 and surrounding sections. Subsequent to the impacts I have not been able to communicate with #2 using any medium, including emergency micro-vibration protocols. I surmise that she has encountered at least one, possibly more micro-meteorites and is currently either fully incapacitated or brain-dead.”

#3 thought quickly. The pump would fail if he walked away now, its vital juices leaking out through the very incision he had made to save it. They couldn’t afford another major pumping outage and he knew that #2 wouldn’t thank him for causing one. Save the mission, not the man was probably the most irritating of all her maxims.

“I can’t leave for at least another minute, where’s #1?”

~”I alerted #1 in tandem with yourself. He is now in close proximity to #f3 primary hatch and will surface shortly to retrieve #2″.

#3 relaxed a fraction. #1′s current augmentation better suited a search and rescue, and it sounded like he’d be on the scene quickly. There was nothing further he could do but gather and analyse information.

“What hit us?”

~”An mass of approximately three tons, composition unknown. Its energies were, for the most part, dissipated by our ablative”.

Well duh, we wouldn’t be here if they weren’t. #3 noticed the alternate mind-thread had removed all visible cysts and lapsed to a cycle of heart massage. He shut the thread down without bothering to contact it,  argumentative prick, and let the heart beat unaided. ”Much damage?”

“Minimal. One hundred and forty three hull punctures and five registered system failures – all non-essential. The forward roach hive is in a directed-repair frenzy – eighty percent were released three minutes ago. Given the  localised nature of impacts and their microscopic bore, I expect hull repairs to complete within five standard hours and full systems restoration within ten.”

“What about the ablative” said #3, the heart had maintained a pumping rhythm unaided; he began to stitch the cut skin, resealing the heart into its protective cocoon.

~ “The remainder of forward hive are on recon-repair to within a click of the ablative bow. I’m channelling liquid water from rear storage, but as yet the repair effort is an unknown.

“Ok, tell #1 to meet me in #f3 workshop. You know if #2 is out of action – we’ll need a sleeper?” Had #3 possessed lungs he would have held his breath.

~”A candidate has been chosen.”

The sleeper woke to a featureless grey ceiling. We’re here,…I’m alive. He sat up and looked about him, surprised to find his muscles and joints supple and willing to perform – as if he’d just taken an afternoon nap. The room was empty except for himself and the sleeper coffin. This wasn’t the waking ceremony he’d been promised, and panic rose in his throat, this isn’t right, what’s going on? where is … somebody? He thought about calling out, announcing his return to consciousness, when a voice broke the silence.

“Welcome Arnelan Ethessan, Spatial communications engineer 1st class” The voice was calm and lacking emotion, Arn realised it was an AI, probably the ship’s persona.

“Hello, have we arrived?”

“We are currently one point six years from Alpha Lyrae. You have been awoken early – we require your assistance”. The even tone made the statement sound more like an order than a request.

“What’s happened?” said Arn, feeling disoriented. He had no sense of time passing since entering the coffin, yet clearly they were near the goal of their journey.

“A meteor strike incapacitated one member of the maintenance team. You have a maximal skills-match quotient across her primary field and are needed to provide both knowledge and experience during repair duties. Your transit contract stated you would be willing to assist should the requirement arise.”

Arn remembered the contract: pages and pages of turgid legal bullshit just to get a ticket. He’d signed up immediately, lucky to have an in-demand profession and desperate enough to volunteer for star travel as a means of escape. It seemed his fresh start would begin a little earlier than expected.

“um…ok, what do you want me to do?”

The voice did not reply and, as the silence lengthened, Arn sensed invisible eyes were studying him, watching his reactions. Well, he didn’t have a problem with doing a little work, even if it meant a year and a half spent alone on board. He tried to look as neutral as possible, eventually the voice spoke again.

“First you must be tested – to ensure your memory and experience has not fallen below acceptable levels. Degenerative hibernation sickness is an incompletely understood phenomenon that only empirical analysis can quantify. Please be seated and follow on-screen instructions”. As the voice spoke a chair extruded from the floor on the far side of the room and an adjacent rectangular area of wall flickered into life. Arn sat down, wondering what would happen should he fail.

The borg used all eight legs in locomotion as it and Arn made their way through the ship. Effectors at the end of each arm beat out a rhythmic accompaniment to an otherwise silent march. Arn couldn’t tell if the borg was sentient. It hadn’t spoken since coming into the testing room to take him away, merely gesturing with an arm whenever he needed to change direction.

The testing had been laughably simple. His memory had been unaffected by hibernation and his skills as an engineer were well above the threshold set as a passing mark. Arn knew he was good at his job and was pleased to able to demonstrate it. He felt relief that the hibernation hadn’t damaged him – and looked forward to taking up the omission of that little info-nugget with the company rep – when they thawed her out. The voice had explained that, had he failed testing, he would have returned to hibernation, sleeping away the remaining journey time while the next best candidate was woken and tested in his place. This had been explained only after proving himself capable. Arn wondered whether the room set-up – the utilitarianism and disembodied voice – were there to disrupt clear thinking in the recently awoken, thereby keeping their answers honest.

His companion gestured to a side corridor and Arn saw a door barred their way several meters ahead. Sensing their presence, the door opened, allowing Arn to step through – the borg following behind him.

Inside the room was a bright, sterile white, with an array of machinery lining the far wall. Arn didn’t recognise it as comms gear and wondered if he wouldn’t need some training before starting work. Two borgs waited inside the doorway to the right, one a giant mechanical gorilla, the other a spider design, similar to his companion from the corridor, but slumped and lifeless on the floor, its carapace was open to the world and conspicuously empty. Ah, the fallen companion.

Suddenly he was held from behind by the borg that had followed him in, two sets of legs wrapped tight around his arms and torso, immobilising and lifting him from the floor. The gorilla came forward, a syringe held delicately in one massive paw. Arnelan Ethessan screamed as he was sedated and cried before unconsciousness claimed him for the last time.

#2 awoke to find herself in the organic infirmary, surrounded by #1 and #3.

“Welcome back” said #3, one arm signing  ’concern for health’.

“What happened?” said #2, rising up from the deck and responding with ‘reassurance of good-health’.

“A meteorite when adjusting comms antenna – a direct hit” said #3, cycling ‘relief/reassured/affection’  in quick succession.

“My last primary memory is readying to exit the #f3 hatch – does that tie-up with your records #ship?”

~”Hello again #2, and yes, a neo-cortical backup was taken prior to your exiting of the #f3 hatchway. You have irrevocably lost one hour and twenty minutes of primary consciousness. I completed basic interface testing between your new inorganic and organic substrates during the melding operation. Please continue testing organic memory/experiential access and report abnormalities for analysis.”

#2 turned to view the corpse, its head split in two and a huge, bloody gash that ran from neck to anus. She wondered who he was, then tasted his memories and realised she already knew.

This post was written to a flash-fiction spec supplied over at Chuck Wendig’s site terribleminds.com. His sideways examination of the writer’s art is a constant source of tasty titbits and rip-roaring profanity; ahhh…just the way I like it. 

If you read the following piece and think “hey, this shit has no plot, no tension… no oomph” then I’d have to agree. However, other than some expense claims, it is the first piece of fiction I’ve written since secondary school. Please bear with me whilst I try to become a writer that doesn’t suck.

Mrs. Glorious arrives home after a day at work. She walks through the front door, the same door that graces a thousand carbon-copy homes in the area, but she stops on the boundary. A gentle sigh escapes and her shoulders slump just a fraction before she bends to retrieve something. A cape. She lifts it, daring a puddle to be lurking beneath those carefree folds. There never is.

Mr. Glorious is at the stove, his broad shoulders and narrow waist scream out his working life: lumberjack? Steel worker perhaps? All the same, he wears a pinafore to stop oil splashes – they would ruin his spandex.
“Hi baby”. He leans in for a kiss, and the homecoming ritual begins.
She removes her gloves and abandons them atop the breakfast bar. He hands her a margarita.
She slips off her work-shoes, climbs into a stool and savours just a moment of alcoholic bliss.  “How was your day?” she asks, eying the newspaper before her.
“Dull” he says, flipping a hamburger. He’s never counted calories and he’ll never need to.
“Five muggings, two attempted homicides, a bank job and that Jewellers on Wilson” he gives a tiny snort, it seems ludicrously ineffectual for a man of his stature.
“Honestly, he’s been hit so many times I’m surprised he doesn’t get a super to work the counter”
“Hmmm” she barely hears him and picks up the paper, turning to the front page. Senator McClusky is in headlines once again: a newborn love child, conceived with a classy-looking Vegas pro. She guffaws.
“This true?” she angles the paper toward him.
Mr Glorious lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, the children are next door after all.
“Nah, I called Fabulouso earlier, he sorted it late yesterday. Apparently the Senator’s twin had a grudge and knocked her up.”
“Hope she got something for her trouble?” she whispers back, arching an eyebrow at him, knowing that Fabulouso would have extracted every detail for his ‘archives’.
“Nope, he cut the condom and screwed her in some cheap motel. Had a guy go through her trash trying guess her –” he pauses, face strained with the effort of finding the right words “– her right time for babies. Played the Senator card right up to the birth and then blew her off. Bastard knew she’d go straight to the press.”
“Brotherly love huh?” she puts down the paper and takes another pull on the margerita. She knows It’s her turn to tell-all.
He’s right on cue with his prompt. “Anyway…how was your day?” his eyes shine, he faces her, dinner forgotten for the moment.
“Pretty good…” she says, stretching for a full five seconds. She’s teasing him and he knows it.
“Come on, I want to hear”. He flashes his super smile and she’s powerless to resist.
“Ok, ok. I got in this morning and Mr. O’Leary had given me a ton of filing work.”
“Awesome, did you –”
“Yes, in triplicate, copies to on-site, off-site and local cabinets”
“Awww man, a whole morning with the copier, you get the best jobs” he’s practically green.
“I had lunch with Cindy, we got subs and sat in St. James’ park. She said she’s definitely going to finish it with Ralph, she doesn’t think he’ll ever leave his wife, and she knows that she has to be the one to end it.” she pauses, letting him digest the latest installment of the current office soap opera.
“Did she say how she was going to do it?”. He’s gently clapping his hands – he likes to know every detail.
“Nope, just that she couldn’t take it any more and she needed someone who respected her”. She rolls her eyes and he grins. They know the series is coming to an end.
“What about the afternoon?”. He suddenly remembers the burgers and resumes flipping.
“Nothing too special – just a load of data entry for accounts”. He doesn’t like computers – this will bring him down gently.
“Oh…I thought maybe you’d save some of the filing?”
“Nope, just the morning i’m afraid baby”. She smiles at him, and stands – closing out the ritual by draining the last drops from her glass and throwing it towards the open dishwasher. She doesn’t even see him move, but suddenly the glass is neatly stacked next to its dirty compatriots.

He pulls the fries from the oven and begins wrapping the burgers in their buns. The plates already have a miniature salad serving.
She moves to the doorway between kitchen and living room -hearing Oprah on the television. Before she reaches the entrance, her children (two boys) bowl through the doorway. Johnny is running and jumping up at his brother who is flying and holding the tv remote just out of reach.
“Bobby Glorious you stop that this instant and come down – you know the rules”. Her voice is stern but calm. Both boys can be a handful, but they know better than to argue with their mom – especially when pops is home.
Bobby sinks to the floor, still clutching the prized remote control. “I just wanted to watch Oprah. Johnny’s had transformers on for ages.” he says quietly, always keeping his eyes towards the floor.
Johnny gives his brother a little kick, but she knows that it won’t have hurt. Johnny will never be capable of hurting his brother physically.
“Johnny, stop it. Anyway, its dinner time now – both of you go wash-up” she glances over her shoulder to check Mr. Glorious is on schedule with the burgers. “Then come and get your dinner”.