Set Your Clock

Each day he stands by the window and watches, his eye upon the hands of the watch. The lamps flicker, casting shadows across the street. Footsteps echo on the cobbles. A spider scuttles across the cobweb, long legs dancing on thin threads.

Each day, the times are the same. Everything in this world happens on a schedule, regular as ticking clockwork.

And this means that none of it is real: not the cobblestone streets, not the sky overhead, not even the spider on the windowsill. All of this is a trap, a lie, designed to keep him placid.

“It won’t work,” he whispers. “I’ll escape.”

Far away, They watch him on the monitor. One of Them sighs and taps at the black-and-white screen.

“This unit’s gone wrong.”

“We’ll have to reset,” his supervisor says. “Again. That one breaks down so often you could set your clock by it.”

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Word Count: 148

This is for FFfAW. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Enisa for providing the prompt photo!

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The Future is Green

A breeze whistled between the branches.

No. Not a breeze. Just the whirring of the fan overhead.

He had to remind himself of that. It all seemed so very real.

The Garden spread out before him, rows of green, trees lined up like soldiers heading off to war. He found it hard not to think of Eden. And not to think of serpents.

There were no windows in the Garden, just layers of corrugated metal. And beyond that – cold black void, dotted with stars, stretching out over the pale desert of moonstone.

He preferred not to have windows. He didn’t want to have to see the Earthrise and Earthset, to see the fires still burning and the dark clouds roiling.

The world was over. Every person, every beast, every seedling turned to radioactive ash.

It was up to him to keep what was left alive.

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Word Count: 145

This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Yarnspinner for providing the prompt photo!

Infiltration

Nothing grew here that wasn’t supposed to. Each species of plant had been carefully selected, its seeds packaged, and meticulously planted in place under the bright, droning lights of the Botanical Lab.

But when Stackpole did his examination, he found strands of webbing.

No spiders had been selected for transport and there were certainly none on the surface outside the lab – a barren, wind-swept desert of marbled silver.

That meant a stowaway, a wrench in the delicate clockworks of their artificial ecosystem.

Stackpole should have reported it, but never did.

After all, even spiders deserved to see the stars.

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Word Count: 99

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Victor and Sarah Potter for providing the photo prompt!

Doctor Who Discussion: We Agree on The Last Jedi, But Not On This

It’s the end. But the moment has been prepared for.

Not very well prepared because it took us a couple days to get this up. But, y’know, prepared-ish.

Join Jaden Kilmer (JC) and J.A. Prentice (JA) on this, our last journey in the TARDIS with Peter Capaldi and Steven Moffat, as we bid farewell to an era in our discussion of Twice Upon A Time.

There are Spoilers ahead.

The Town Wakes

The town wakes with the dawn. Scarlet sunbeams dance on marbled sea. A salt-laced breeze wafts between brick houses and through white-framed windows. Butchers, bakers, fishers – all go to work, waiting for the tourists.

And they come – more trickle than flood, a steady drip-drip of mothers and fathers with shrieking blond children, old women crooked as old trees leaning on daughters, laughing women with bright handbags who drift towards alcohol like compass needles towards north.

The people of the town greet them, always with a smile, always with that pleasant sense of ‘isn’t it quaint?’ mingled with ‘it’s so peaceful.’ Seabirds cry out, circling the high rocks.

The tourists leave as the sun slips from the sky, sinking beneath the sea, and the town bids them farewell.

The town loves the tourists – loves their laughs, loves their phone calls and their hugs and all their precious feelings, bright and rare as pearls. All this is for them, for those fleeting moments of life.

As night falls, the town goes to sleep, drawing back its people, turning off its lights.

And it dreams – of growing up, of becoming a city, becoming a world, growing and growing and never stopping.

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Word Count: 198

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.

Her Cup Runneth Over

“Seriously,” Jenn said, holding up the goop-laden cup, sticky brown liquid coursing over her hand, “what does corporate think coffee looks like?”

Walter sighed. Reclined in his chair, he threw his ball up in the air, watching it bounce against the ceiling.

“I’m sure if you sent a complaint,” he said, “they’ll get right on it.”

“Right on it.” Jenn rolled her eyes. “Six months time, then?”

“If we’re lucky.”

“And if we tell them productivity’s down twelve percent?”

“Layoffs.” The ball landed in his outstretched hand and he tossed it up again. “And because of budget cuts, no new coffee for sixteen months.”

Jenn shook her head. “Stupid corporate.”

She picked her up cup and went to the window. The Earth was rising, just over the grey, rocky horizon, a blue light amongst the canvas of stars.

“They’ve got no idea what it’s like out here.”

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Word Count: 147

This is for Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and artycaptures.wordpress.com for providing the photo prompt!

Party Above the Clouds

Laughter echoed through the dirigible. Wine corks popped, letting foam splash into thin glasses. The band played on and the party swayed with the music.

Anna pressed her nose up against the glass, looking at the ground far below, almost lost in the wreath of clouds. She remembered looking down before, when the cityscape had spread out in a mosaic. Bright lights had shimmered amongst mile-high skyscrapers. Other dirigibles had drifted in the wind, like floating lanterns burning bright. When the third moon had risen, everything had lit up in waves of blue.

There was no light below now, only a marbled darkness beneath the churning clouds. Lightning flashed and she could almost hear the crack of thunder through the soundproofed glass.

“A toast!” her father cried, her hair hanging in disarray, his tie undone.

He climbed onto a table, tapping his glass. The dancing stopped and the music slowed as every head turned to look at him.

“A toast to our home!” He raised his glass and the blue wine shifted like an ocean tide. “To Beovorn!”

“To Beovorn!” the others echoed.

Anna watched a cascading orange cloud, moving slowly towards them, reaching out with tendrils of fire.

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Word Count: 199

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.