Flash Fiction: Digging Up Dirt

In response to a past prompt from Charli at the Carrot Ranch

Months wasted. The evidence piled up, but it was piling the wrong way – Marianne Gillespie was proving herself to be a frustratingly upstanding citizen.

So why was she blackmailing me?

The solution seemed so simple: I could no longer afford to pay her, so I had to dig up her dirt. After all, blackmailers should be shifty right? Honest people don’t blackmail you. Honest people go to the cops.

After all, what she had could put me away for a long time… and she’d been sitting on it for a long time…

…long enough to make her an accessory.

Digging Up Dirt

Flash Fiction Challenge: Schoolies

In response to Charli’s Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge: Vice

They expected it to be exciting since it was so forbidden. To be fair, the drinking was fun, but only to a point. Dehydration was a bitch, which made you her bitch.

Cigarette smells lingered in their clothes and in their hair. It smelt nice at first, but the novelty quickly lost its lustre. Ash was ash, and vomit was vomit: the facts could not be sugar coated.

Halfway through, one washed their clothes as the other booked a room and their train tickets. Trading one coast for another, they left schoolies behind to go swimming and bushwalking instead.

April 22

For those who don’t know what schoolies is.

Flash Fiction: Neighbourly Garden

In response to Charli’s Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Prompt: Neighbourly

It was the first summer she’d noticed the little garden hadn’t been tended. The flowers were still managing, but the ground was cracked and the leaves had begun to dry. It was always a highlight on her walk, and she’d always wondered who tended to the strangely well-kept garden that sat outside the old apartment block.

So the next day, she came back with a watering can. The day after, someone had tipped fresh soil around the flowers, but it hadn’t seemed properly tilled. She smiled and came back with trowel and fork to finish what her neighbour started.

April 15

Flash Fiction: Drop the lemons and run

In response to Charli’s Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge

I had a plan. It was a plan that I kept to, even when it was messing me up.

The plan was failing. I was failing.

It took a lot to admit I couldn’t handle it anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I did something brave or unique. I, essentially, gave up.

Giving up can be good.

I’m not exactly proud of it, but I don’t regret the decision; I have nothing to regret. I’m relieved, and I’m hopeful for the future. Giving up was the best thing I ever did.

I am excited about life again.

MdD

And that is the honest truth, right there. Thank you Charli, for reminding me that we can make lemonade from lemons, and sometimes dropping the lemons and bolting is a better course to take.

April 8

#FlashFiction Challenge from @Charli_Mills

In response to the Carrot Ranch’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Symptoms

Symptom: change in voice. Diagnosis: pharyngeal cancer.

He knew it.

The crossing turned green and pain jolted up as he stepped forwards.

Symptom: jarring pain from little toe. Diagnosis: broken toe.

Staring at the answers from dr.net, he gave little notice to the standstill traffic picking up around him. What about that strange itchy bump?

Symptom: lump under left buttock. Diagnosis: fungal infection.

That couldn’t be right.

Head bowed to his phone, he heard the crossing signal and stepped out onto the road. Nothing more could be said about him now, except…

Symptom: Self-absorbed in minor ailments. Diagnosis: Hypochondriac.

MdD

I decided to go back and use some of Charli’s old prompts. Since I haven’t done this prompt before, I figured there was no harm 😉

March 18

To see other entries of this challenge click here.

 

 

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Flash Fiction: Second Time’s the Charm

In response to Susan Lattwein’s Flash Fiction Prompt

No matter how much I kicked, no matter how much I screamed, no noise was loud enough to attract any attention. He must have parked in the middle of nowhere, or else the enclosed boot of the car was muffling everything I did. No one was coming for me.

The minutes ticked by, my ears settling to catch even the faintest noises, but there was nothing to hear. The inside of the boot stank like old meat. I wondered if I should try kicking again, maybe trying to focus my attack on the lock? I rolled over and tried to finger my bound hands across the lid, trying to locate something I could target. The crunch of footsteps on loose gravel froze me. I managed to take a deep shuddering breath before the boot popped open and harsh yellow light blinded me from above.

I snapped my eyes shut as he grabbed my elbow and wrenched me out of the car. Somehow, I managed to stay on my feet as I was half-dragged away from the solitary light. The fresh air brought the smell of salt and humus. I opened my eyes.

A road overgrown with weeds led to a little pier jutting out over the mud bank. It reminded me of the boardwalks I used to take when I was a kid, looking for guppies, frogs, and toadfish. This was a proper lake though, not just a little billabong. The water had to be deep.

There was no doubt in my mind why I was here. My whole life had been innocent, inconsequential. I’d made sure to anger nobody, learning from mistakes long past. The man didn’t speak, but I knew what he wanted.

“You want revenge.”

He took no notice of me, his gait unchanging. My shoes hit the wood and he pushed me in front of him, holding me at arm’s length.

“Look, you’re either just a psycho-killer, or you remember as much as I do. Which is it?”

Ever forwards, unrelenting.

“Okay, let’s say you do remember. That was the past – I can’t do anything about it now!”

We got to the end of the pier. I turned to him and opened my mouth to speak, but he just dived in, dragging me along with him.

Salty water rushed into my mouth, eyes, and ears. My hands still tied behind me, I was helpless to fight against him. This was exactly how it had gone. He was weaker than me back then, our roles reversed, and I had held him under until he stopped moving. It hadn’t even been anything personal – he was an old man who was taking too long to die, and he was making the country sick because of it. Everyone had turned a blind eye.

Before I lost consciousness, I wondered vaguely if he’d kill the others too, for what we did in our past lives.

 

Flash Fiction Response: From the Heart

This is in response to Susan’s LOVE GONE WRONG flash fiction prompt, and it is bang-on 500 words! “From the Heart” is a steampunk romance for your enjoyment:

I stared at the present my love had given me. I always knew he was unique but this…

“You do not like it?”

I did my best not to cringe – I had forgotten he could now read my thoughts. When I created the formula, I thought it a romantic idea for a St Valentine’s Day present. Now it was now simply an invasion of privacy.

“It is a symbolic gesture,” I gave my answer politically. “And I do appreciate the symbolism. However, the reality is… a little unpalatable.”

He smiled and closed the box. “Then you do not need to open it again. You now know the depths of my commit to our love.”

“Very deep indeed, if you had to break open your ribcage.” I eyed his chest carefully, looking for scars, but his unnatural healing ability must have already knitted over the wound.

He laughed, actually laughed at me. “I did not need to break any ribs. The way to a man’s heart is up and under his ribcage.”

My fingers reached out and instinctively traced his stomach, before trailing up to where his heart should be beating.

“How are you still alive?”

“That is a very good question, my dear apprentice.” He took my hand in his and brought it to his lips.

“I am serious.”

“Then you should propose a hypothesis.”

My brows furrowed as I sorted the facts from the bias. “Well, since you performed the surgery without my knowledge I expect you operated on yourself – you would not trust anyone else with such a task. The obvious conclusion to draw is that you rigged yourself to a machine that could pump blood consistently while you removed the heart. Something that harnesses perpetual motion, or clockwork? Obviously you are not connected to this machine now, so I expect you have since replaced your heart with some smaller device that could maintain the flow of blood without the act of pumping, which is why I felt no heartbeat.”

He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Well done.”

“I trust you had the foresight to fashion this new invention out of rubber?”

“Some of it had to be, but it is most copper. It could not possibly work otherwise.” He smiled until he caught my expression.

“With all that metal in your chest, what will happen the next time you are caught out in a thunderstorm? You will not only burn your feet and your hands, but your lungs too.”

My love considered this briefly. “You are right. Burned internal tissue is particularly difficult to treat, and for a vital organ such as the lungs it would be… hmm… I will have to find a way to replace my lungs with rubber balloons. Oh, it will be tricky though, yes, to ensure the oxygen gets to the blood. How shall we go about this new project?”

“Just put your heart back in your body please. And next year? Flowers or perfume, darling. No more nonsense with hearts.”

Author’s note: I first read the phrase “The way to a man’th heart ith up and under hith ribcage” in a Terry Pratchett book (spoken by Igor, I remember that).  I have since seen the phrase elsewhere in various forms on the internet. It is not an original phrase by me, and I expect Terry Pratchett was the first person to popularise it, if not the the first person to think of it. So credit where credit’s due.