photo credit: Sam Ili?

nebulous/tenacity/birthplace

from Steph’s prompt

The road trip down to the farm started out awkward. The radio tuner on my ute doesn’t work and my sister has always had a bit of trouble with silence, so she determinedly filled the air up with stories about her job in the city, and kept filling it up until I had to wind down the window just to get a breath. At that point she looked at me sideways and apologised. She didn’t say anything for a while and and neither did I, though I knew it killed her. Just when I knew she was about to burst from the fidget of her hands, I asked her about someone or other that she’d been gossiping about before the silence, and she picked it up just as if she’d never stopped, smiling gratefully at the chance to talk.

We were making the trip because we hadn’t in a while. That was it, really. My father and mother were still in good health, and the farm was still doing okay though they had a lot more farmhands than they used to, to make up for the creaking of bones. The reason for our visit was simply the fact that it had been almost a year since we had; our family, while small, wasn’t particularly close knit. Thanks to my sister’s water-cooler tirade, I now knew more about her co-workers than I did about her.

This fact brought me up short. I took my hand from where it guarded the gear stick and rested it on her shoulder. She quieted. “Sis, that’s great and all, but how are you?”

I learned more about my sister on the rest of that trip than I ever knew before.

photo credit: freefotouk

falling man/closed room/two-heads

from Amber’s prompt

“This,” the detective-inspector said, with as much gravity as he could muster, “is what’s called a `closed room’ mystery.” He paced the perimeter of the crime scene, a basement in the suburbs. “A door that can only be locked, and formidably so, from the inside. A head like a punctured melon, decapitated from a body like a piece of beef jerky.”

“It certainly looks grim, sir,” offered one of the constables.

“Of course it looks bloody grim! No way in or out, no murder weapon. I mean, just look at his face; except you can’t because he doesn’t have one any more!” The D-I spun on his heel and approached the body. “Yes, definitely signs of a struggle, though I dare say he was surprised by the attacker. Just look, there’s barely any evidence of defensive tactics. No knife wounds on the forearms, only the body. How much would you say the victim weighs, constable?”

“Oh, I don’t know. One-ten, one-twenty kilograms, sir?”

“I’d say closer to one-forty, but right you are. He’s a big lad, and built too, not just flabby. Yes, you’d expect he’d have had a good go at any unknown assailant. Which means this must have been someone he knew, or at least trusted enough not to suspect an attack.”

“What are you think, sir?”

“I’m thinking…” the D-I sat down on his haunches behind the constables turned back and took out a small metal object. “I’m thinking that the victim’s future-nemesis came through a time portal around about here, stabbed him to death with an electrical whip dagger of some kind, then used a remote wormhole generator to escape.”

The constable blinked and turned around. “Sorry, just what did you say your division–?”

But the D-I had disappeared.

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photo credit: Pro-Zak

potential/consider/light

from Jaime’s prompt

The day was so sunny and warm that Carl had decided to sit outside to eat his ham and salad sandwich. As he relaxed his buttocks into the grooves in the park bench and took great, cheek-stuffing bites of his sandwich, he closed his eyes and considered himself completely at peace. That peace was interrupted some seconds later as a short, sharp crack to the side of his head rammed his eyelids open and caused him to swear bits of lettuce onto the path.

Carl looked down and saw that a tiny chunk of light had landed in his lap. It squirmed there, alternating between its wave and particle natures, before settling into a half-state akin to that of a glow worm. Carl set his sandwich aside and picked up the light delicately between thumb and forefinger and placing it on his palm. `Poor little guy,’ he murmured. `Can’t decide what you want to be, eh? Never mind, we’ve all been there.’ The chunk of light continued to roll around miserably. Carl sighed. `Listen, you just need to take stock of your options and make your decision to the best of your knowledge. And keep in mind that making these decisions doesn’t necessarily close the door on anything you might want to do in the future.’ The light paused mid-wriggle. `In fact,’ continued Carl, `quite often you’ll open doors to places you might never have considered. Probably the worst thing you can do is not make a decision.’

The light stayed stationary for a moment, and then rolled onto its side and thinned out, becoming a two-dimensional wavelet and scooting off into the air. Carl waved and sat back on the bench to continue his moment of sandwich. It really was about time he handed in his notice.

photo credit: SpirosK

Byzantine/refrigerator/alley*

from Matt’s prompt

The lights of Vegas dribbled across the alley, reflected as they were in the oily juice that seeped out of garbage bins and assorted boxes lining the walls. Sifting through this detritus were two men engaged in a constant chatter as they wrecked fingernails prying open tin cans in search for items of some vague value.

“Do you think perhaps we will uncover the famed secret gold of Lord Ganasse tonight, Roger?” said one, his words slurring together even as his eyes drifted apart.

“I deem it most likely, Damien. Most likely,” the other replied, listing in his stride until he ended up falling sideways into a stack of mouldy newspapers. From his newsworthy recliner, Roger pointed at a rusted refrigerator with its door lolling open. “There, Damien, a cold case for you to open.”

“Right away, sir,” replied Damien, and stumbled towards the fridge. Upon reaching it and yanking it sdoor open, he stood stock still and, in a voice that sounded slightly less like his words were cars in a highway pile-up, said “Roger, my dear fellow, I think you’d better come here.”

After a few failed attempts, Roger gained his feet and wandered over to where Roger stood transfixed. He gasped as he saw what was contained within the whitegoods. A man, dressed in Roman garb, bloodied and broken in as many places as was presumably necessary to fit a six-foot-tall human into a space much less than that.

“Good Lord, I think you’ve stumbled onto something here, Damien. A Byzantinian Emperor, preserved in a freezing box in order to preserve his life until he could reanimate and resurrect his legions of power!” Roger’s voice rose to a shout and he slammed the door shut, grabbed his friend by the hand and fled the imagined wrath of a murdered ex-employee of the Caesar’s Palace casino.

—

*Characters shamelessly based on That Mitchell And Webb Look‘s Sir Digby Chicken Caesar and co.

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photo credit: `?ccdoh1?

platypus/starving/vintage

from Irene’s prompt

It’s about ten minutes until my year eleven ball and my mother is coming as close to swearing as I have ever heard her.

`Geoffrey, honest-to-goodness why didn’t you wear the towel while you ate like I said?’ She is bent over the wreckage of my suit, examining it for any salvageable material. ‘The cummerbund and pants are okay, but the rest is ruined. We’re going to have to fix you up with something else.’

That something else emerges from the bags of my Grandpa’s clothing that are still stored in the tops of the hallways cupboards. A faded grey waistcoat and jacket that is completely at odds with my black dress pants. `A shirt,’ says Mum, `we still need a shirt.’

At this point my father steps in, offering a dark blue dress shirt. I take all the clothes and stalk into my room, slamming the door shut in a burst of self-pity. I change into the my new outfit and stand back to admire the damage. I look like some kind of kid-man-grandpa hybrid. A generational griffin. Or a platypus. I am a fucking fashion platypus.

The doorbell rings downstairs. I traipse down to where my date, Lucy, is waiting. Upon seeing her I forget that I look like a complete tool. She’s stunning. Absolutey.

She looks up at me under painted eyelashes and laughs. `Oh my, Geoff. You’re going to be popular.’

I laugh and blush and shuffle down to where she waits. `Yeah, well, so are you. Just for all the right reasons.’ She hooks her arm through mine and we head out towards the limosine; the platypus and the swan.

photo credit: IslesPunkFan

mekons/sunset/pines

from Zak’s prompt

Daniel was scared. His father sat at the dinner table, arms spread out and hands set as if to get up from his seat. But he was frozen, breathing deeply with his eyes downcast at the knotted wooden tabletop. His mother, so relaxed only moments before, was nervously stroking her apron down over the length of her dress. She looked over at Daniel and gave a weak smile, `Go play outside for a moment, honey. Daddy and I have to talk a while.’ Daniel asked his father’s permission to leave the table and was granted it in a gruff whisper. Daniel raced to his bedroom, snatching the comic book he had borrowed from his best friend at school, before running out the back door and towards the tall pine forest that stretched out behind their property.

It took him some time traipsing across the carpet of pine needles to find a seat in the form of a fallen bough. Once there, he stared intently at the cover of the comic book, eyes gliding over the stark red and yellow lettering. `Dan Dare–World’s No.1 Space Hero‘ it said, and `His Most Dangerous Mission Yet: To Infiltrate The Evil Mekon’s Lair On Venus!‘. The bulbous green head of the alien contrasted against the square cut of Dan Dare’s chin. Daniel flipped open the cover and began reading the adventure. When he finished it, he read it through again, and once more before the sun set and there was no longer any light to read by. As he heard the front door slam and his father’s truck grumble into life, Daniel searched the night sky for the bright beacon of Venus, starting at it until his eyes watered and his lips shook.

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photo credit: BUR?BLUE

water/comets/Cambridge

from Dino’s prompt

It was Summer, and my cousins and I were swimming in Lake Karapiro on the North island, a perennial family gathering favourite. There was Marcel, the oldest cousin, Thomas a year or two older than I, and Julianne, whom I shared a birthday with. Thomas, Julianne and I had been splashing at the edge of the lake while our parents cooked the barbeque. Marcel sat on the sand, digging up the ground with a stick and watching us mess about. I had just been dunked by Thomas and when I resurfaced, spluttering and giggling, Marcel was standing and pointing his stick behind our heads.

`A comet, a comet just landed in the lake!’ he said.

Thomas, ever the pragmatist even at this young age, sighed dramatically and said, `No, it’s not a comet. It’s a meteor. Comets are in space.’

I immediately jumped in line behind him, always eager to get one back on Marcel. `Yeah, it’s a meteor, dummy.’ I said.

`Fine,’ said Marcel, throwing the stick out to where the celestial streak had supposedly landed. `But it’s still cool and I bet none of you can get it.’

For the next hour or so, Thomas and I took turns scrabbling our bodies further and further down into the silt-ridden dark. Even little Julianne, whose delicate lungs were nowhere near up to the task of reaching the bottom, tried her best. I didn’t even know what a meteor looked like, but I imagined it might glow a warm orange. Marcel wandered away, bored by our ignorance and unsatisfied with the lacklustre results of his joke. Eventually our parents called us in to lunch and we forgot all about the meteor in the rush of sausages and soft drink.

photo credit: SixRevisions

insane/lapel/augury

from Aditi’s prompt

Chris was on his way to a meeting with his financier, striding briskly through the plaza. His face was dug into a deep furrow, the cause of which could be seen spreading across the front of his suit jacket; a coffee stain, milky brown. It had resulted from the driver’s foot slipping off the brake as Chris had exited the taxi. No doubt a rebuttal to the tip he felt he was entitled to, but which Chris had not given.

As he crossed the plaza, a shadow detached from a distant pillar. Chris checked his stride to avoid crossing paths with what was obviously a filthy bum, but the bum adjusted his course correspondingly. Within a few steps, Chris found himself face-to-face with the foul-smelling creature. He was already reaching inside his trouser pocket to retrieve the few coins jingling there when the bum surged forward, gripping Chris by his jacket front.

Chris was too shocked to do anything but gasp and mutter as the bum stared intently at the coffee stain that marred his lapel. After a few seconds, Chris regained enough of his composure to wrestle the bum’s hands off. The bum cried out and pointed a finger—blank, bloodied flesh replacing nail—at Chris. `Plaguebearer! Plaguebearer!’ he shouted, before loping away. Chris, shocked at the obviously disturbed man’s display, adjusted himself and, when nothing else jumped at him, continued on to his appointment.

Days later he would cough in the middle of an important presentation. The long silence following it would puzzle the investors, and worry his managers.

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photo credit: jurvetson

raptor/carnation/JC Denton

from Johanne’s prompt

The falconer stood on the edge of the roof, watching his protégé spiral down towards the graveyard. Gripped gently in her beak was a splash of red, the falconer’s contribution to the masses of wreaths and bouquets that already adorned the headstone. The body buried underneath that headstone had once belonged to the falconer’s wife, Jennifer, before she was selected to be the recipient of a consciousness transfer.

Nearby to the grave the reception was still taking place. Far from being a sombre affair, many of the guests were drunk and singing to the music that smashed the characteristic silence of the graveyard. The reason for revelry was seated at the head of a long dinner table, surrounded by security personnel. She was, outwardly, a stunningly attractive woman. But the falconer knew the truth. He knew that the mind of whoever that woman had once been was gone, erased in the same procedure that had stolen his wife from him.

Which was why, as the silver streak of his falcon released its payload above the party, the falconer took shelter behind the lip of the roof. The explosion was deafening. He waited a few minutes while the anguished shouts and moans quieted, before holding up his arm and whistling to the distant speck circling above the crater. The grace with which the falcon flew back towards his glove always stunned him. As he took the weight of the landing and fit the hood over the beautiful predator’s head, he leaned in and whispered. That’s it, Jen, time to go home.

photo credit: the noggin_nogged

man/swims/upstream

from Jon’s prompt*

The pale wash of dawn soaks the morning, rendering everything in an flat monochrome. The gentle push of wavelets caused by the man’s side-stroke is the only sound to break the stillness. His movements are not quite graceful, restricted as they are by the clothes he must drag with every extension of his limbs. Attached to his trailing arm is a rope, which is in turn attached to a makeshift raft that follows him in jerky spurts of movement. A box full of bottles, a spare change of clothes, a notebook, a pencil, and a knife. All stay afloat on planks of wood tied together with nylon fishing line.

He shifts course slightly; up ahead is a copse of treetops not yet rotten enough to disintegrate in the push of the current he is swimming against. As he passes them he notes the species of pine tree for recording in his notebook. Sugar Pine, Pinus monophylla. Pine trees have fared well in the floods, probably due to their soft wood and flexibility. But even their resilient fingers couldn’t offer a place of rest in the mirror-flat landscape stretching towards the horizon in each direction.

He knew there would be land soon. The hills that had defined his childhood would come into view by the end of the day if he kept up this steady pace. He could rest in an hour or two, beaching himself on his raft for a few minutes to let the burn fade from his arms. Not too long mind; he was swimming upstream and had no intention of taking two steps forward only to take three steps back. Perseverance was the key, that was what his father had always said.

—

*As a side-note, I did initially consider trying to write something that wasn’t about a man swimming upstream as a ‘fuck you’ to Jon’s evil mindfuckery. Eventually, though, I gave in and acceded to my brain’s constant referral to the scenario, but with the caveat that I would try and twist it a bit. So there you go.

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