DailyFlash: Crawling the sands

Inside the forward cockpit was a beep. The metal detector had detected something large; it stretched long and metallic left-to-right, or perhaps right-to-left, before them. Walker brought the crawler to a stop and the last few track revolutions dug into the sand before finally halting.

                He sent Caia out to investigate. She dropped to the sand, blower on back and sand-boots on feet, and walked forward, sweeping the blower in arc before her. The sand swirled up and became a red mist around her. She pulled the scarf around her face a little tighter.

                A shiny green surface appeared just below her. The more sand she cleared the clearer the pipe became, arching over to the other side. She removed her hands to touch it and felt vibrations running through her arm, and when she placed her ear to the cool metal, the sound of gushing water bellowed.

This flash fiction was inspired by the world of Neon Sands, the first in a trilogy currently accepting nominations on Kindle Scout. Like this world and want to read more? Please vote for Neon Sands on Kindle Scout and get a free copy!

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DailyFlash: Anubis

When the death throes scuttled through his murmuring lungs and chuckled down his carotid, it was finally over. A restless night was day; the dewlight of dawn blued the thin curtains, lighting the empty eyes. The jackal's head distended over the corpse's mouth, jaw unlocking and teeth glistening. Its human stomach rippled and something within it gurgled until a clear amniotic expelled from within, cascading into the dead man. As his body filled, his body emptied; blood dripping up from bulging eyeballs into the nostrils at the end of Anubis' snout. When the embalming was complete it howled a morning howl.

DailyFlash: Terraform

The martian river flowed red. The rising temperatures caused by the nucleonic clouds, and the sub-mantle explosions, were working! Mars shook and cracked, it's semisolid core heated from all sides, waking the titan. Expedition leader Guinan watched from the safety of her shuttle floating in the atmosphere. Below her, molten geysers erupted, and on the feeds in front of her she watched as similar scenes played out across the planet. She took the controls and steered the shuttle down, a flyby of the surface, swerving left and right as red flames licked up - and, she smiled, more importantly: steam. Great, bilious, clouds of unlocked gasses to sweeten the air. It had begun.

DailyFlash: Bathpod

The space station spun with the living quarters at the outer edges to get the most benefit from the centrifugal force. On downtime occupants could retreat to their cabins for the required daily exercise, then cool off in the viewing pod. With the windows at their feet, the viewing pod was a half bulb and doubled as a bath. You could run water into it, turn off all the lights, or dim them, perhaps have the television on in the background, or the stereo with its pumping sound display flashing; and step down into the window. Recline, legs outstretched, ass pressed against the cool solar glass of the pod, mooning the world as you rotated past.

DailyFlash: Behind the Curtain

Faced with the curtain, he froze on the spot. Later he was able to laugh it off, thinking back to the sudden shock of panic that bolted down his legs, setting roots in his feet. He felt suddenly heavy, unable to even bend his knee; and his throat constricted with dry, sandy swallows. He was going to suffocate, drown in his own fear, his heart throttled by a tightening chest and lungs suffering nascent rigor mortis. Already, the fluid of decomposing enzymes dampened his palms, slipped like great sticky slugs down his temple.
     He heard his name, heard "What's keeping your daddy?" Such a sweet, but tired sounding voice.
     Daddy. Just like that, air swelled in his lungs until he was floating, whatever atmosphere his head was in was thin; was moist too, burning where eyes met lids until he blinked with life.

DailyFlash: Mushrooms

Once upon time ago, an eon far gone, pre-Mesozoic and further still, the vertebrates unlinked and the tetrapods unlimbed; pre the branching colours of coral undersea, grew fungi: in an alienscape, all shapes at sizes small as thought or large as time, hooded umbrellas spreading wide canopies in burning yellow light as saturated as the skies back then. Spores barely spores in the great shadowcast, clinging to whatever. Altogether, nuclear clouds, not the meteroric first or atomic last, but a blast offing of the future.

DailyFlash: The Boss

I wonder how much longer he can keep up the pretense. How much longer before everyone heeds my words of warning about him. He's not on the level I tell them: Pat in Accounts, who just nods and types away with fingers that never stop moving; the warehouse operatives going about their heavy lifting, grunting dismissively and lumbering around in their steel-toe-capped boots; the Sales team jabbering with one ear on the customer and the other on the gossip. You're in danger, I try to tell them. The Boss has flipped and you need to get out. But they can't hear me. My old office in the basement is locked. I messed up sure, and received my final notice. But I messed up again and got my marching orders; a pair of hands around my throat. We can merge your department with Marketing, the Boss said, to himself more than me. Yes, moving with the times, he said. He has cold hands, I shriek now, but no one comes down here any more.

DailyFlash: Wailing

1056 Mitton Street. Every day, the same crying, the same high pitched wail followed by sobs sad enough to melt a Republican heart - no offense to Republicans. "Some taken, actually," he says to himself with a smile. A smile that immediately turns back into a look of concern as he looks over his shoulder to the basement grating.
     1056 Mitton Street; a red-brick townhouse, one of many down this block. He walks past every day on his way to work, and every day for the last two weeks, that he has noticed (lost half the time in his phone) a baby has wailed from the basement. Today he stops, and turns back towards it.
     Looking down into the grating, he sees nothing but darkness, but the baby cries on. He stands there a moment, looking around and at his phone, looking for answers, wondering about making a decision that will take him out of his daily routine. The baby cries on.
     He sighs and steps up to the front door of the townhouse. He knocks to no avail, waiting five minutes before really banging on the door. No answer, yet the baby cries on. No answer, so he turns the doorknob. The door opens inwards, so he calls out down an empty hall. No answer, but the crying has stopped.
     He steps inside, listening, but there's nothing to hear. Smells like there'd be nothing to hear: fetid - dusty, damp and musty. No-one's lived here for ages, he thinks. And then he steps quickly to the basement door, and he's just about to open it when the wailing begins again, causing his hand to freeze. That wailing, it ain't no baby, It ain't like nothing I've ever heard before.

DailyFlash: Bathtime

"No, not yet," said Gemma, flattening her pink body in the bath, submerging herself and sending waves up the sides.
     "You have until the water's gone," said her Auntie Maisie, pulling the plug. "Then out, out, out."
     "Alright," sulked Gemma, sitting back up and grabbing the plastic jugs. She began to pour water from one to the next, the sound like feet shuffling along gravel. Ssccchhhht. Ssccchhhht. "The water's going, Auntie Maisie."
     "That's right," she agreed. "Do you know where?"
     Gemma looked up, a confused expression on her face. "Under, ground?"
     "Almost. The house is thirsty."
     "Oh," smiled Gemma. Picking up the plastic toy duck, she squeezed it under the water and then let it enlarge again, sssucking the water in. "Look. Duck is thirsty too," she laughed.
     "That's right, sweetheart. Just like the duck." Auntie Maisie hovered, and began to twist the towel she was holding between her hands. The water circling the drain began to gurgle like the last dregs of coke at the bottom of a straw.
     "All gone," said Gemma, standing as the last bit of water began pulling, pulling towards the drain. Pulling, almost sucking around her tiny feet. She could feel a tugging sensation, like octopus feelers clamping to her skin.
     "And now the house is hungry," said Auntie Maisie, watching as Gemma's legs were upended by the almost tidal pull towards the now gaping mouth.

DailyFlash: The Wedding Speech

James stands, champagne glass in hand, and looks out at his friends and family waiting for him to speak. So many eyes on him, so much expectation; from those who know him best to Melissa's cousins, aunts and uncles whose faces he has seen today for the first time (and in them, the uncanny of the bloodline).
     "We met," he begins, smiling and turning to Melissa, "in first-year molecular biology. I said something along the lines of how beautiful your chromosomes had combined, which degenerated into the worst gene-related jokes we'd heard. But it was enough to break the ice." He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a remote, pressing a button. As a projector screen descends behind them he continues. "But you know. You've never really understood how truly the girl of my dreams you are."
     Melissa turns, a confused look on her face, to look at the screen. James can almost feel the weight of eyes shift from him to the screen. Another button, and the lights dim slightly and a video is projected onto the screen. "Is that?" says Melissa, clutching James' hand. "Is that you?"
     "Yep," says James of now. "Hi, everyone," says James of fifteen years ago. "If you're watching this, you're at my wedding. Well, not my wedding - our wedding."
     "Aww, you look so cute," says Melissa.
     The boy on the screen continues. "So thank you for coming. I must've said that already, right? No? Where have my manners gone?" The boy smiles, and then breathes deeply, straightening his face. "I'm so impatient. I've imagined this day since - well, since I was a boy! I've imagined marrying you. I can see you now; you're blond, most of the time." Small gasps in the crowd.
     "Good guess," whispers Melissa.
     "Blue eyes. My height. Most of the time. You like a lot of the same stuff as me, but you're more of a rocker than me."
     "Hmmkay," Melissa furrows her brow, looking up at her new husband, and then back to his boy-self.
     "You like it when it rains, more when it snows. Oh, and when it's cold you get a little cramp sometimes in your hip. We should get that looked at."
     "What the?"
     "But Melissa, you know, I just can't wait to grow up and find you. The man standing next to you right now is the luckiest man alive."

DailyFlash: Neon Knight

The police waves are static white noise broken by intermittent code-words and numbers, all of which he knows. One hand on the wheel, with the other he flicks through different channels, cruising at speed on the urban highway, slashing the asphalt of the night with tires blazing a trail from one scene to the next. It's raining, of course it is, this damn city would be underwater if not for the storm drains letting it all run away. No one overtakes, instead he glides quietly past fellow travellers with glowing advertisements running down the sides of their vehicles; goddamn sell-outs. He is a void on the tarmac, a shadow weaving through the neon. The homicide frequency whispers "Ten-fifty. Perp go, sight on foot, T with BC. BH." He flicks a switch and the car rises above everything, no longer a shadow.

DailyFlash: Bloody Knuckles

His right hand is shaking - his small child hand - still balled tightly into a fist at the end of a hairless arm and thin wrist. The knuckles are red and raw with bits of white skin torn away. For an instant he sees his father's face as he reacts to the news, gearing into a rage. Not now, man, he thinks, pushing it aside with deep breaths, quelling an urge to pant.
     The other boy, the one on his haunches, is looking up at him, one eye beginning to puff up. He glances at the girl who started it all and then shuffles backwards, inadvertently putting his left hand in the sticky, bloody residue left on the tarmac by the second punch he'd dodged. Had I dodged it, though? Didn't he just punch the ground?
     To the girl, it's as though the sun has just broken through the clouds. Which it had, funnily enough; it settles over the scene casting shadows. From behind, she eyes her saviour's fist as it shakes, and reaches out to grab it. As she takes it, it stops shaking, and the boy stands taller somehow, stretching his shadow until it reaches and covers the hopscotch pattern chalked into the pavement.

DailyFlash: Youth on Fire

Where the residents of Halbrook Street were in agreement was the need for extra policing. You can't turn the lights off and close youth centres and remove apprenticeships and not expect school leavers and younger not to get up to mischief! It was common sense. Worse, unnecessary. And yet, here they were, barricading themselves in at night in fear of youth-on-youth 'games' - the reality being streets on fire and music blaring loudly from bluetooth speakers connected to phones. No need for street-lighting with substance fires cutting up the streets like road-markings.
     Damn this fucking State, pushing blame onto the parents for their own failings! Greedy fatcat politicians, tearing it all down just to build it all back up again, lining their own pockets. Look at the kids out there with nothing to do but smash mailboxes and crush the souls of anyone who dares to walk the streets! Laughing, dancing and drinking in the orange glow, leather jackets and denim two-piece blends and halter necklines. We don't blame them. We want to join them. Maybe not too long from now we will.

DailyFlash: Monolith

The gravity was heavy underfoot as I climbed the incline to get a better view. Boy, was it spectacular. The ancient alien monolith even more mysterious against the backdrop of undulating, barren hills, punctuated by faux-cacti and shrubs. It glistened irregularly, humming audibly; I could feel its vibrations in my fingertips. The shadow of its tall pillar stretched taller still, a thick black block of darkness reaching for the hills, as though running from the sun. It was happier, more at home, in darkness I sensed.
     The dusty ground at my feet began to move; slowly, the tiny grains of sand, stone and dirt rolling around my boots and between my legs and away from me, in ever increasing swells, towards the now-blinking light of the monolith. Not a breath of wind whispered in my ears. It was pulling me in. It was pulling everything in.

DailyFlash: Paint the Playground Red

Years of school playground games of tag, football kickabouts, rounders and training, and we're finally ready for the real thing. A lottery selected the two captains: Jerry and Samantha - two mid-grade players at best, now taking turns to choose their teammates. Friendships mean nothing at this point: Jerry's best friend is Mark, but he can't shoot for shit and his weapon of choice is a Samurai sword; lethal, for sure, but not when looking down the dark end of a barrel of lead.
     "Felix," says Jerry, meeting his eyes gravely. Felix, the sharpshooter, smiles and joins ranks.
     "Samantha, your turn," says the Sergeant.
     "I..." she looks at Melissa, her hands and voice shaking. After a swallow she looks away, looks down, and says, "Jason."
     Jason, all six-foot-seven of him, strolls with long strides to stand behind Samantha.
     Uniformed, we are picked, one-by-one, and then given coloured bibs to distinguish the teams.
     "Now go," says the Sergeant. "Team Red, go west. Team Blue, go East. Find your HQs. Find your supplies. You have thirty minutes, and when the klaxon sounds, it's time. Last team standing wins."

DailyFlash: Torn

Something elastic stretches from inside the broken flesh, pulled by the coyote's clenched jaw and bared teeth. It snaps with a wet slap and splats blood on his stained muzzle (from years of successful scavenging). Each rebirth recalls the faint red dye of blood around his chops, his human eyes betraying his heritage as he morphs. He licks his lips and looks down at the drifter, soft guts spilling from the torn flesh of the belly. Blood seeps into the yellow sand and between the copse growing by the side of the deserted highway. A tent sits empty 20 metres away; what was once the drifter's is now his until the desert sun calls his name again, demanding that the scavenge continues.

DailyFlash: Peeping Tammy

Part one: Peeping Tommy

The girl drops her arm and leans forward on the windowsill, the night air like cold hands on her shoulders. It cools on her brow.

     “What is it?” asks her pa down in the yard, turning his head.

     At the outer edges of the yard, where the security light fades into the bushes, she’s spotted a hunkered mass of ginger hair and a face burying itself in the dirt. Poor little fella. Pa’s gonna tear you a new one. “Under the bush there, Pa,” she shouts down. “We got us a peeper, I reckon,” she smiles.

     Pa follows her pointed finger with his eyes, squinting at the line of bushes. "Alright," he says. "You got five seconds, pal. If I gotta come git ya, I really will wring ya."
     A ginger-topped head emerges from the top of the bush, face streaked with dirt and tears. 
     "Step out, boy."
     Leaves part as the boy moves forward. 
     "Hey, don't I know ya?" shouts the farmer's wife. She's a silhouette in the doorway with a hand clasped round the dog's collar.
     "Good God, Jesus, would ya look at that," laughs Pa. "He's pissed his pants." He points, looking back to his wife and daughter, who join in the laughter.
     "Please," starts the boy. "I ain't done nothing-"
     "Quiet, boy!" The farmer barks. Then takes in a deep breath. "You gettin an eye-full there, boy?"
     "No, sir."
     "What you gonna do, Pa?" shouts the girl. 
     "You! Get your tits back in the house now, and draw the damn curtain." He begins to pace.
     The girl, looking disappointed, withdraws back into her room, closing her curtains.
     "What shall I do, boy?" The boy opens his mouth but the farmer raises his hand to silence him. "I ain't asking you," he says. He looks back to his wife for help, and smiles. "You smell that, Buck?"
     The dog barks.
     "You smell that piss?"
     The dog barks again.
     "You better start running, boy." The farmer looks around to the boy, who just stands there, shivering. "Don't say I didn't warn ya! Sic him, Buck."

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DailyFlash: Peeping Tommy

The boy is crouched in the bushes surrounding the back of the farmhouse. There's cloud coverage so it's pretty pitch black, the only light glowing in the yard is from the windows and the half open dutch farmhouse door: the top half that is. Indistinct sounds float on the air.
     The boy catches his breath as she appears in the upper window. She swaggers in, removing her shirt and closing the door behind her. He praises Lord she don't pull the curtains like she sometimes does; the farm is isolated but it's always a lucky toss. She stands there combing her long blonde hair - he assumes there's a mirror there somewhere - letting it fall over her shoulders and the cotton of her bra. A familiar feeling rises in the boy's pants.
     Distracted, he doesn't note the rising noise level; the barking and shouting - not until the bottom half of the back door kicks outwards and the farmer comes out. He's clutching something to his chest. Behind, the farmer's wife is shouting at the dog to stop barking, holding it by the collar.
     The farmer drops his bundle as the yard light comes on.
     Heart thumping, the boy cowers, in more ways then one, convinced he can be seen. But he dare not move.
     The farmer walks calmly over to the shed, leaving the wriggling brown bundles on the floor. The dog in the house barks on, and the girl is at the window, looking out.
     From the shed, the farmer grabs a bucket and starts filling it with water from an outside tap.
     The boy squashes himself closer to the ground. There's no way they wouldn't see him if they look in his direction. Over his heartbeart he can hear a low mewling and realises the wriggling bundle in the middle of the yard are puppies.
     "You don't need to do this," yells the farmer's wife.
     "Already too many goddamn mutts," is the reply she gets.
     The farmer, in the middle of the yard again now, drops the bucket. Then, as cold as you like, he picks up the newborn puppies, one by one, five in total the boy counts as they are lopped into the bucket, but not before a twist to the neck that sends a crack through the night.
     The boy coughs involuntarily, and he thinks he could die right there, right then. It might be preferable if he did.
     "Who's there?" shouts the farmer, tossing the final dead puppy into the bucket. He takes a step further, wiping his filthy hands on his trousers. "Come out or I'll wring your neck too!"
      The boy had expected damp pants that evening, but not the piss that now spreads down his thighs. He wants nothing more than to be gone from here. He has a momentary thought that even as he's thinking it, he knows is crazy: he is about to be caught peeping, and will surely be in for a hiding, if not from the farmer than his Pa, and yet he thinks, If I stand and run I'll be giving my game away. The game will be up. No more farmer's daughter for me. While the chance of riding it out exists, he cannot move.
     "There, Pa," points the girl from her window.


Read part 2: Peeping Tammy

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DailyFlash: Eden Day

"What's wrong, Annie?" asks Mrs Monroe.
     "Nothing," she says, staring down at the blue planet. The sun is a distant ball of light, its glare and power absorbed by the solar glass.
     "Then get back to your desk," orders Mrs Monroe, offering the empty seat.
     Annie turns away and slumps in her chair. "Yes, Doctor Monroe."
     "How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not a Doctor."
     "About the only person who isn't," mumbles Annie. It's not fair, she thinks, looking back to the blue planet. The solar glass stretches across the entire wall; the entire side of this pod constantly facing the sun. Looking back at Mrs Monroe, who continues her history lesson, she stares into the vastness beyond The solar tubes arc for miles, connected in grids, like highways, with family pods linked like roads.
     "... and there came a point where all the petty fighting and squabbling became too much; the danger of death over oil or territories too likely. So we developed our technology, and on Eden day, we fled, leaving all the war behind."
     "It's not right," says Annie. "What we did. They needed us. They need us. If everything you've said is true."
     "They do. And one day, when the time is right, we will share with them what we have learned, and it will be Eden for everyone."

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