Flash Fiction: The Moment -004

I'm participating in a story-a-day challenge from a Reddit writing group. My story is based on this prompt.

~~~

Although there was nothing, there was a lot of it. Then some god or another popped in accidentally after drinking far too much on another plane of existence. Deciding that He had a throbbing headache and enjoyed the quiet, he went right to sleep, dreaming of whatever gods dream of.

What gods dream of, of course, is creation, and while he slept, he dreamt of a universe so vast that even He, a god, could find a quiet place to take a nap if He so chose, and gods, to be frank, quite often choose to take a nap. He dreamt of a funny little thing called a Human, and He found the Human so hilarious that he made other silly creatures to go with it: Dogs, Cats, Rhinoceri, and the like.

Unfortunately for the Humans, etc., what the god had drunk was a Hel-brew, a foul-smelling intoxicant brewed in the very pits of a dark, evil plane. The first and only ingredient was a large helping of the souls of the damned, tormented until they drowned in their own burning tears. It was quite delicious, very hearty, and had no side effects whatsoever except inebriation and the tremendous guilt one feels in drinking such a potable.

But our sleepy god also suffered from acid reflux, and His full belly began spurting stomach acid into His esophageal tract, causing an unpleasant burning sensation, which in turn caused Him to have bad dreams. And as I mentioned before, than meant that the entire Human experience of existence soon became a nightmare for the duration of His dreaming. The good news is that He is a light sleeper, and is expected to awaken in about 755 trillion years or so.

World of Pawncraft -003

I'm participating in a story-a-day challenge from a Reddit writing group. My story is based on this prompt.

~~~

RICK HARRISON: Sometimes we get strange stuff that comes into the store; it's just one of those things that happens when you work on the Vegas strip [laughs]. But even I'd never seen anything quite like this guy.

[INTERIOR: Gold & Silver Pawn Shop]

RICK: Hey, what can I help you with today?

MAURG THE DESTROYER: I have many goods that I wish to sell. I need gold pieces to purchase a weapon that will destroy the dark lich Chellios!

RICK: Okay... ummm, let's see what you've got.

MAURG: This is a double-headed +5 flaming vorpal axe of justice, crafted in the heart of a Dwarven mountain and weaved with Elvish spells. It has seen more war and blood than any creature living, and it is said that the possessor of this weapon will never fall in battle.

RICK: Okay... well... you were right about it having seen a lot of battles: it's in terrible shape. If you look here, you can see where the axehandle leather is starting to fray and come unwound. I don't know about any Elvish spells... and it looks like the steel is starting to rust and pit at the edges.

MAURG: Because I have slain many demons and hewn many heads with it!

RICK: But did you clean the weapon after you did that?

MAURG: ...

RICK: And... I mean, to be honest, it really doesn't matter how many demons or Dwarves you've slain with it--

MAURG: I have slain not one of the Dwarven race! They are my allies in my quest to rid Darkmount of evil!

RICK: Okay, but no one on this plane of existence knows who you are, so... I mean, it really doesn't make a difference in the price.

MAURG: But it is a flaming axe! Observe the magic within! [IGNITES AXE]

RICK: You know every time you do that it knocks about $50 off the price, right?

MAURG: ... [EXTINGUISHES AXE]

RICK: [NARRATING] I don't know that many people who would be interested in a flaming vorpal axe, but if it looks like I can get a good price for it, I may even be able to attract a new market to the Gold & Silver Pawn Shop. That's always good for the bottom line.

RICK: I tell you what, how much are you looking to get?

MAURG: I paid 5,000,000 Gold Pieces for this from an ancient Dwarven Temple. Give me 2,500,000.

RICK: [SIGHS] I really don't know what something like this is worth; two-and-a-half million sounds a bit high. Listen, I got a buddy who knows everything about extraplanar weapons, let me give him a call, and we'll see what he says, okay?

[EXTERIOR: PARKING LOT]

SKAGGOR GIMBLEGLOVES OF WESTFORDSHIRE: My name is Skaggor Gimblegloves, I own and operate the Magick Shoppe on the interplanar vortex in Westfordshire, and whenever Rick gets something that originated on another plane, I'm the one he calls.

[INTERIOR]

RICK: Hey, Skaggor, how's it been?

SKAGGOR: Good, good. So, what do you have for me today?

RICK: Well, the customer says that it's a flaming axe of justice--

MAURG:  a double-headed +5 flaming vorpal axe of justice!

RICK: Right, and I was hoping that you could kind of give it a look, tell me what it's worth.

SKAGGOR: Sure. [EXAMINES AXE] Well, I do have some bad news: it seems that there were definitely a number of Elvish spells wound into this axe, but I'm afraid only a few are left. The spells of protection and blessing have definitely expired.

MAURG: I was not aware of that when I last used it to slice a Goblin in half.

SKAGGOR: It's definitely Dwarven craft, and good work at that. Probably made in Darkmount according to the maker's mark here.

RICK: So... it's legit?

SKAGGOR: [PAUSE FOR COMMERCIAL] Yeah, totally legit. Even in the shape it's in, it's a good piece.

MAURG: As I've been telling you all along.

RICK: So, what do you think it's worth?

SKAGGOR: I'd say... 3 million gold.

RICK: [NARRATING] Wow, this piece must really be something special. I'm really interested in it now, but I gotta play it cool, and hope that it doesn't walk out the door.

RICK: Alright, you heard what the Gnome said. How much do you want for it?

MAURG: He said 3 million...

RICK: Yeah, but look: I'll be lucky if I get 2 million out of it, and I have to pay to list it at auction, it's going to sit and take up space for a long time.... I think 1.75 million is a good price.

MAURG: I understand that you have costs, but there is truly no weapon like this in the world. It is designed to remove any enemy's head from his shoulders with the flick of a wrist.

RICK: Really?! Hey Chumlee, come here for a second!

CHUMLEE: Hey, what's up, Rick?

RICK: Stand right there for a second [DECAPITATES CHUMLEE WITH THE AXE]. Okay, I'm convinced.  How's 2.2 million sound?

MAURG: I will accept that offer.

RICK: Great, we have a deal [SHAKES MAURG'S HAND]. Let me get this mess cleaned up, and we'll go do some paperwork.

A Snowflake in Norway... -002

I'm participating in a story-a-day challenge from a Reddit writing group. My story is based on this prompt.

~~~

Allison didn't know it, but the most fateful event that day in Oslo wasn't the sightseeing, nor was it the time spent with her new husband on her honeymoon. She was sitting on the veranda of a coffee shop, browsing through pictures she had taken the day before. John was inside, attempting to order in the broken Norwegian his grandfather had tried teaching him years ago. As she waited, she noticed that the temperature had fallen significantly in the last half hour.

On his way home from a long day of delivering produce, Emil received a phone call from his very pregnant sister, Fatima. She'd begun having contractions, and although she stressed that there was no need to hurry, Emil gunned the engine of his Volkswagen Jetta and began speeding through the rural farmlands of Central Turkey.

Jin-Ho Park watched the sun setting over the Demilitarized Zone along the 38th Parallel between North and South Korea. He was chosen to be a guard at the Joint Security Area-- a compound straddling the DMZ which was built to allow North Korean and South Korean diplomats to meet on (technically) neutral ground-- because he was six feet tall. His superiors wanted him to tower over his South Korean counterparts; due to years of widespread famine and malnutrition, North Koreans on average were four inches shorter than South Koreans, and it was something that the diminutive Kim Jong-Il had been sensitive about. For years, Jin-Ho had stood opposite a number of young South Korean soldiers, studying them intently. But something was different today, and he wasn't sure what it was; everything just seemed... off.

Bao Li was trying to stay awake as he watched the Chinese Military satellite feed. Right about now, Harmony One would be somewhere over the Middle East, programmed to detect heat signatures from known NATO and American missile sites.

Finally, John set Allison's espresso in front of her. As the two of them discussed the places they'd go and the distant relatives they'd visit, a single snowflake drifted down from the overcast skies over Oslo, landing in Allison's drink. She furrowed her brow upon seeing this interloping precipitation, then pulled her coat tightly around her shoulders.

"Are there any seats inside?" she asked. John craned his neck for a moment, then stood up.

"There's a table in the corner; let's grab it." They stood up, grabbing their drinks and their other belongings. Unbeknownst to Allison, as she scooped up her purse, he iPhone tumbled to the ground, landing just under the table.

Francois hated his job. He was a French soldier, stationed with NATO troops in Turkey, babysitting air-to-air missiles which kept a close watch on the southern skies. Originally, the fears had been of an Iranian attack on NATO troops, which had precipitated the placement of these missiles in the first place.  But then some intrepid journalist had noticed that the Iranian state-run media had photoshopped those "leaked" photos of Iran's suprise long-range missile test; now the missiles were pointed at nothing more specific than "south".

Cenk had just spotted an empty table in the corner of the cafe when a young African couple sat down. No, probably black Americans, he thought. He scanned the cafe for another table, but the only open one was outside. Making his way out there, he was just about to take a seat when he saw something white and squarish on the ground. Bending over, he picked it up and held it for a moment, not believing his luck.

The last of his counterparts had only arrived a week or so prior, Jin-Ho realized, and as they stared at each other across 75 meters of open courtyard, he suddenly saw what it was that had been bothering him: this soldier-- no, all the South Koreans-- were more muscular, more fluid in their motions. Jin-Ho's father had been a Taekwando olympian for North Korea in the 1980's; these soldiers weren't draftees like the others, they were built like his father was at his prime.

Cenk walked as quickly as he could through the narrow alleyways toward his cousin's house, the iPhone planted firmly in his pocket. His sister, Fatima, was due to give birth any day now back in Turkey, and he had promised to send money to her for the baby. Until now, he had worked a few odd jobs here and there, but an illegal Turk in Norway was unlikely to find something permanent, and everything he'd earned had gone just to housing and feeding himself. But now.... He knew a man, another Turk, who would buy this from him, and would offer a fair price at that. First, though, he would call Fatima to see if she'd had the child yet. He hoped that if it were a son, perhaps she and Emil might name it after him.  He dialed her number from memory, hoping that she'd understand why he hadn't sent any money yet.

"Have you seen my phone?" Allison asked John as they left the cafe.

Francois was patrolling the perimeter fence that ran alongside the highway, watching the traffic as it raced past. Turkish drivers, he reflected, were just as crazy here as they were in Lyons.

Jin-Ho heard the commotion before he saw the general. A high-ranking official and Party Vice-Chair, Jin-Ho recognized him from previous inspections of the facility. Jin-Ho was too disciplined to turn and watch him as he lorded about; instead, his focus was still on the South Koreans across the yard. They seem awfully tense, he thought. The general stopped about 10 yards to Jin-Ho's right, just in his peripheral vision. The general chased his entourage away with a wave of his hand and walked up to Jin-Ho. Nervous, Jin-Ho snapped to attention as the general asked him a few rudimentary questions; he was so short that Jin-Ho towered over him. And as he looked down at the general, he saw something odd: the general was wearing running shoes, painted to look like dress shoes.

Emil was already passing the other cars on the highway at a furious speed when the phone rang again. Without looking, he reached over, but the damned thing fell into the gap between the passenger seat and the door. Emil wrenched himself over to retrieve it, and as he sat back up, he suddenly found that he was headed right towards the fence of the military base.

Francois was watching a pair of NATO soldiers attempting to change a tire on a jet fuel truck when he heard a number of cars honking and swerving. He saw the grocery truck driving the wrong way, straight toward the 

Bao sat up straight suddenly. It looked too cold to be a missile launch, but he wasn't certain. Rocket fuel burned at a certain temperature when it mixed, but then, a lot of other substances burned in that temperature range as well. Still, it was his duty to log the incident for the Chinese intelligence agencies to investigate. He did that quickly, then he turned on his stashed cell phone and dialed, informing his handler in Pyongyang, North Korea, about the suspected launch.

Jin-Ho watched as the general slowly meandered about the courtyard, almost imperceptibly drifting closer and closer toward the other side. The South Koreans didn't seem nervous about such a high-ranking official getting too close; Jin-Ho thought that they seemed too uninterested, actually. And that was when he realized what was happening: the general was defecting. It must have been planned out: the South Koreans were anticipating this, and had probably planned it out. Jin-Ho didn't have a rifle-- firearms were outlawed at the DMZ-- but there was a secret stash, of course, and the South Koreans were known to keep one as well (both stashes being as close as allowed by the armistice without technically violating it).

Cenk stared at the phone for a moment. It had rung four or five times, then cut off.  Oh well, he thought as he stepped into the trader's shop.

Jin-Ho instinctively bolted as soon as the general began making a run for it. He was fifteen or twenty yards behind, but he was taller and younger, and he tackled the general just before he could cross the painted line that divided the nations. The two men struggled, and in the melee, the general managed to wiggle to the point that he reached a hand across the line. That was all the South Koreans needed; a dozen of the Special Forces soldiers joined the fight, followed by the North Koreans. Batons were pulled, and Jin-Ho found himself engaged with three South Koreans. And that's when someone pulled a handgun. Jin-Ho felt a bullet rip through his chest. Just before he blacked out, he saw the general's head explode in a shower of blood and brains.

Kim Jong-Un was woken from a very good dream in which he was playing golf with his father again. He liked golf; he didn't really like being Supreme Leader. He angrily picked up the offending phone, a hotline from the intelligence services. He listened impatiently as they wove a story about missile launches in Turkey and a firefight on the DMZ. Irritated, he simply barked, "well launch something!" and rolled over to go back to sleep.

And that's how a snowflake led to the nuclear holocaust that killed 5.2 billion people.

A Village Called Defiance -001

I'm participating in a story-a-day challenge from a Reddit writing group. My first story is based on this prompt.

~~~

We called ourselves Defiance because we were so certain that we could hold out until God's Kingdom arrived. We'd heard the trumpet call of the Devil-- the roar of artillery, the constant clatter of machine guns, the dying cries of thousands of men-- but we still hadn't convinced the Elders that what we young men had seen and heard was indeed the work of the Devil himself. It wasn't until Josef came back, every breath sounding like a wet gasp, that we learned of the very smokes of Hell. You call it mustard gas or chlorine gas; we know it to be an evil unleashed upon the Earth.

Josef spoke of thousands of soldiers choking to death in seconds because he turned a knob on a steel canister. He told us that they literally drowned in the liquified remains of their lungs, gasping for air, burning on the insides. He told us how the winds changed one morning, how he barely crawled out of the trench where that toxic green cloud settled. About the months in the infirmary.

It was because of Josef's story that we took the name Defiance, and thanked God for seeing fit to give us the perfect place to hide. Defiance, a walled village on a small island in a tiny lake in the inhospitable heights of the Carpathian Mountains; what better place, save perhaps the deepest jungles of Belgian Afrika or Borneo, could He have made to seal ourselves off from the dying Human race?

It was easier than even we had suspected. The Elders went out into the world and hid us from prying eyes. Corrupt government lackeys, easily bribed, erased us from the official maps. Census workers spread the news that Defiance was no more, abandoned. The lone mountain road that led to Defiance was torn up, soon covered in thick-growing mosses and grass. The ferry was sunk after one last trip, returning the Elders to us; with no other villages for miles, we were finally alone. We thought we had beaten the Devil.

It was on Century Day that we learned how foolish we had been. 1 January 2017 by your calendars. One-hundred years to the day that we'd locked ourselves away from the world. It was a celebration of our prosperity and good fortune. You say that we are anachronisms, forever trapped in a world without modern medicines and technology, without money, even. But we are happy and fulfilled. Our lives may be short, but we are all the more joyful for it. But we became prideful.

Young Nicholai, a newborn babe when the gates were closed, turned 100 on Century Day, and the entire village (many of whom were now related to him in some distant way) came out to celebrate his life. He told us stories of the first years, of how Defiance had learned from Joseph's interpretation of Pharaoh's dream and stored away food during the fat years so that no one starved during the lean. How the land was divided and given to the people of the village to do with what they chose. How labour-hours replaced money as the means of payment. It was only fitting, then, that he proved to be our downfall.

It was during the Century Feast that the man was first spotted. He was coming up the old road, now so overgrown as to be nearly indistinguishable from the sparse forests on the mountainside. He wasn't the first, of course; others had dared the mountains and had even spotted our settlements. But none had been curious enough to come across the narrow strip of lake that separated us from the world. This man, however, was not to be dissuaded. He carried with him the instrument of our downfall, a small black device the size of a sheet of paper. He touched it constantly, which we found curious, but never wrote on it with pen or quill. Instead, he simply headed back down the path. Many of us ignored the man, but I felt uneasy.

He returned the next day, followed by two other men carrying a light boat (a canoe, you call it). The men rowed toward us, and stepped out onto the shore. He had that black device in his hand, and on the front of it, shining in the sun like a mirror, was a map of the lake and the surrounding forests. Strangely, whenever he touched it, it appeared to shift, growing larger and smaller or moving under his fingers. I was enchanted with this device already, as were many of the villagers. He touched the screen with his fingers and made boxes of words appear, even a typewriter's keys with which he wrote!

"Is there a Nicholai Romanescu here?" he asked, finally speaking. He touched the device again. "I'm here as an agent of the Government of Romania." His words were strange to us; we understood them, but it was as if he was speaking a strange dialect. It was then that I realised how much we had grown apart from the world in a century; our language had evolved in different directions, it seemed. That's when the revelation struck me: the world hadn't ended, we had sealed ourselves away for nothing.

"I am Nicholai," the old man said, tenatively raising his hand.

"Good," the man said as he withdrew a piece of paper bearing a wax seal I didn't recognise. "On behalf of President Crin Antonescu and the proud people of Romania, congratulations on reaching the hale age of One Hundred." He handed over the paper then wiped his brow. "You know, I had a hell of a time finding this place; it wasn't on any of the post-war maps, the Communists hadn't marked it, either, and even before then, there was nothing. Hell, I had to go back to the archives of the Principalities to find a map that had this village on it." As he said that, he touched his device a few times, and it transformed into an ancient map. "We probably never would have found it if you hadn't turned 100; we'd just digitised our archives, and you're one of the first that popped up automatically upon reaching that age. Here," he said, handing the device to one of the children to hold for him. He shook Nicholai's hand, took back his device (with some resistance), and left us.

More men came, more than we'd ever seen in generations. Some came with wires to connect telephones for us, others came to photograph us with strange cameras that bore no film. Great machines like the tanks of the war dug out a new road, carved so smoothly that we thought nothing would grow there again. Strange cars came to the other side of the lake, and people in bizarre fashions would come just to look at us. A historian rented a house so that she could teach us of the history we had slept through.

But most importantly, the Devil came to Defiance. I had thought that he would return to Earth dragging pestilence, death, famine, suffering, greed, wrath, and hatred behind him. And from what I've learned, that still exists in this world today. No, he came to us as temptation, as a device which pulled information from the very air we breathe, which promised us instant connections all around the globe. Such a temptation was too much for the people of Defiance. Most have moved on to the world outside, and only a handful of us remain. There are no more children; Defiance is a dead village.