#SwiftFicFriday W130 – Vote!

#SwiftFicFriday W130 – Vote!

Another prompt, another round of great stories to choose from. Check the stories out below and vote for your favorite!


Akimbo Morning

“You’re kidding, right?”
Gronsky was talking to himself.
The lot of a hermit writer.
“Can’t be…” he answered himself back.
“It’s just not right…or write.”
“Face facts, buddy.”
And the facts were as clear as they could be in this time of wavering truth.
There was no Friday prompt.
It was a freewheeling Friday…
The Twittersphere, at least the small flash fiction one he occasionally sought out, or rather, sought him out, confirmed the worst.
WRITE WHATEVER YOU FEEL LIKE!
Never had his creative juices felt so alone, so abandoned.
For a second he even thought tears were welling up in his bloodshot eyes, but he looked up and saw that the rainstorm last night had exposed a dribble in his ceiling.
“Right! Gosh darn it,” He cursed.
He quickly placed a call to Ergo, his plumber. This was not the first time his roof had sprung a leak. Global warming was surely real. He finally had to admit that nature was on his case and seemed unrelenting.
Ergo was out, no doubt avoiding his call.
He hung up and returned to the more pressing problem.
THERE WAS NO PROMPT!
In his short few years of writing flash, there was always a prompt. A phrase! A picture! A concept! He had become dependent on the encouragement, addicted to the stimulus. Almost to the point, this point, of having no ability to write without one.
It was pathetic. He couldn’t believe the power of the addiction.
“Heck,” he cursed a Gronsky curse as he noticed that he was having a Eureka moment.
Addiction and Fiction.
They rhymed.
He wondered if that meant anything.
“Probably not,” he decided. “It‘s hopeless. Back to bed.”
As he drifted off to sleep, he prayed that there would be a Saturday prompt.

298 words by Bill Engleson (@billmelaterplea)

Kerri White looked wistfully toward the silent alpine lake. The teal-haired teen didn’t like being this close to Lakeview Abbey; religious types tended to dislike her even more than the city council did. Still, the lake was lovely. She wouldn’t have minded meeting there.

But no, Mirro insisted on meeting in the cathedral at the heart of the abbey. The towering stone architecture was impressive and as stiff as its inhabitants. Kerri sighed. Things seemed too quiet. This late in the morning, there should be monks and nuns around.

The main gate should have at least been unbarred. Making her way around to a side entrance, Kerri’s stomach knotted at the sight of the heavy oak door hanging partly unhinged. Drawing her mother’s sapphire-tipped wand, the young sorceress approached the aperture.

“Hello? Is anyone there? Mirro?”

Stepping into the darkened chamber, Kerri covered her nose with a grimace at the overpowering stench of blood and viscera. Illumination from her wand revealed mauled bodies splayed across the ruined room. Even the sandstone was gouged with deep claw marks. The flesh and bones of the faithful had fared far worse.

All the corpses conspicuously lacked hands.

Taking a bracing breath through her white-gloved hand, Kerri proceeded cautiously into the cathedral. This happened recently. The blood was still tacky, and no scavenging animals had moved in. Whatever did this was still here.

“Mirro? Is anybody here?”

There were plenty more mauled bodies. All missing their hands. Kerri didn’t expect any survivors. The remains of rushed barricades suggested whatever did this came from within.

Kerri followed the sound of familiar humming up a central staircase. She found her dark-haired friend harvesting the hands of a mutilated monk.

“Mirro! What happened here?”

“What do you mean?”

“What killed these people?!”

295 words by David A Ludwig (@DavidALudwig)

Tormonian Ally

Margoth heaved a sigh, its gelatinous body rippling with the exhale. Hidden in its accommodations—apartment Margoth seemed to remember the human telling it—Margoth deactivated the hologram that let it pass in human society.

“These life forms are too primitive for Yagaroth to form an alliance. Surely there are other sentient species than humans on this minor planet,” Margoth muttered to itself as it stared at the box before it. Something about that box unsettled it, though it entered this arrangement willingly.

“Perhaps this creature humans call cats may be of better strategic value. Many humans seem to have formed alliances with them.”

The box twitched and wiggled. A furry paw poked out one hole. Margoth rippled with color as its tentacles waved about its body. When the boxed creature made a sound, Margoth squelched back a little.

“Hello, creature in the box. This being is Margoth. What should this being call you?”

Nothing.

“Perhaps another frequency?” Margoth tried again at a lower frequency, then a third time at a higher frequency.

That got a reaction. The box jumped and crashed as cat inside tore around inside it. Margoth retreated farther from the box, its tentacles waving faster as a myriad of colors rippled across its moist skin almost too fast to see.

Then, the worst happened. The cat bashed open the top of the box. It burst forth, hissing. Margoth slid to the nearest wall and climbed up it to hide in the upper corner. It wanted to stay far away from the cat.

The cat raced around the room, at one point climbing part way up the curtains near Margoth. It slid to the opposite corner, turning ashen.

“Pliknes save Margoth from this lethal creature!”

288 words by Stacy Overby (@dontpanic2011)

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