Out of Gas

Juan and Catalina were on their way home from Morocco. Two weeks on the road, meeting interesting people, eating delicious food. A culture so close and so different at the same time. Soon they would be home in Granada. They were tired and in love.

On the highway, somewhere close to Almuñecar, a larger village by the coast, they ran out of gas. They stopped between two tunnels, by a bridge. They called the tow truck.

They waited in the car. Other cars went by fast. It probably would be safer to stay outside of the car, outside of the highway, but Catalina already had her hand in Juan’s pants. The tow man arrived way too soon.

The tow man went out of the truck, left the yellow moving signal lights on. They explained the situation. He went over to the car, opened the door on the driver side. The lights of a big truck was seen in the distance.

It didn’t change file. It did not slow down. It accelerated.

Well, said the tow truck man. We need to… The truck took him away. Both he and the car door flew several meters. He bounced a couple of times then stopped. He was twisted in an impossible position.

The truck slowed down for a moment, as if it wanted to stop. A tank truck. It accelerated out of sight.

Catalina ran over to the body. He’s dead! She said, crying. Stating the obvious. This isn’t happening…

Juan pulled out his phone, called the emergency number.

The police arrived first. The tow man was dead, all right. One of the police officers were asking questions, the other securing the area with poles. A car arrived. La Guardia Civil, the Spanish military based road police.Then the ambulance.

Lights in a distance. A truck, going wrong way on the highway. Fast. What the… Started one of the policemen. The truck came closer.

Stop that truck! Said the officer in charge. The other grabbed a red flash light and went out in the road. The truck didn’t slow down. Juan suddenly knew it was the same as before.

Out of the road! Shouted Juan, grabbed Catalina and pulled her over the auto protection. They fell on the other side. The truck crashed into the tow truck. The tow truck smashed into the fence and over the road, taking two policemen with it. The tank truck fell over. Slid into the ambulance. The tank broke, caught fire. Exploded. It was raining fire.

Juan and Catalina stared at the inferno. Everyone was dead. This was going to be a long night.

https://kyrobooks.com/2016/12/18/the-first-ride-is-free/

https://sammacleod.wordpress.com/2017/01/30/little-mermaid/?platform=hootsuite

Kill a Killer Clown

Fear of Strangers

fear-of-the-unknown

I used to hitchhike a lot. It’s a wonderful way of travelling. You meet new people all the time, you get to be taken places you never knew existed because the people who picked you up are going there. Sometimes you are invited to dinner, or to a party. Sometimes you can even get laid.

Hitchhiking (Fear of the Unknown) is about a boy hitchhiking through a territory of monsters. The story takes place in some kind of twilight zone, but I’m imagining he is travelling in central USA somewhere. Can’t really tell you where, I’ve never been there. Seen a lot of movies, though.

Usually when you hitchhike you camp, and if you want to move fast you sleep under the stars. Sometimes you hear a sound. A dog is a good companion.

Hitchhiking is not riskless, and sometimes, when you sit in the car with some stranger, you find this stranger a bit strange. You know there are psychos out there, and you want to be careful, of course. I’m a great believer of trusting your instincts when it comes to strangers. If they seem or feel like good people, I usually go with the flow. If they don’t, I’m more aware.

I have at a couple of occasions thought of getting out because my new and very short term friend was acting strange. I never did, though, and they always let me off with no problems.The only real danger I’ve experienced is people driving like crazy. Friendly people driving like monsters.

https://thisisyouth.org/2017/01/11/nepal-59-an-awkward-taxi-ride/

https://memoirpool.com/2016/04/04/hitchhike-to-the-mystic/

 

Closed Borders

closed-borders

They had been waiting at the border for weeks. No one was let pass. Soldiers guarding the fence with violence. Children crying, people shouting. Hunger. Illness. This was hell, but even so it was better than what they had fled from.

Ever since the nuclear bombings started the madness had been spreading. It seemed the extreme blasts, the radioactivity and the huge amount of humans and animals dying in horrendous suffering had cracked the walls of reality. Some kind of new entities had emerged. Dark souls, spirits of another world, or maybe another dimension of this one. Maybe they were ghosts, maybe they were demons. No one knew, but they where terrifying. Murderous. Evil. People fled in fear.

They said they needed pain to move. Moving with people, between them, around them. Inside them. The more people around, the more powerful they became. They fed on suffering, urged for murder.

Ali was fifteen years old. He had fled from his home when his family was destroyed. Now he was stuck here. There were people, tents, misery as long as his eyes could reach. A great electric fence blocking the border was between him and safety.

He asked himself why. Why they were keeping them out when they needed so badly to move on. Why were they so afraid? New people were still coming, and there wasn’t even room for the ones who were already here. If they only could let them cross, the danger would be over. The evil creatures would no longer have their prey.

Rumours went. People said the darkness was coming this way, that the spirits were no longer bound to the radioactive zones.

One day, when the sun set, Ali could see them. A great darkness in the south east. He new it was too late.

A wave. A tsunami of death and horror went through the huge overpopulated area. People being thrown into the air. Hundreds of thousands of people. Ali grabbed a little girl, alone and lost in the masses, and hid underneath a big rock. As the wave passed, the rock shook. Soon it was over.

Everything was destroyed. People were lying around, broken, torn. Most of them were dead. Some were moaning, dying. Together Ali and the little girl crossed the broken fence. They had reached their destiny, but it was too late. There was nothing there. They walked into the the land they had longed for for so long, but the town which was once there was gone. The houses demolished. The people all dead.

The fence they had built to protect themselves had become their doom.

https://spillastory.wordpress.com/2016/12/19/gazing-stars-of-the-desert/

https://zindagitalkies.wordpress.com/2017/01/13/remembering-aleppo/

Pesticide

 

Deep Underneath

deep-underneath

The workers were doing their jobs well and the drill was moving steadily down the tunnel. A highway was going to go through here, and they had been working for several weeks. It would be the deepest tunnel in the country.

Suddenly the drill made a strange sound, as if it choked on something. It stopped. Howard, the boss, was yelling. George and Johnson, the mechanics, opened the cover to the engine.

The drill was ripped into a dark abyss. George fell in with it. His scream stopped abruptly.

For a moment there was silence. Howard moved closer to the hole. No sound. Not even echo. Total darkness.

Howard picked up a rock and threw it in to see how deep it was. Nothing. It didn’t seem to touch anything. A tentacle shot out. Caught him. Pulled him over the edge.

Some workers backed away. Others did not move, paralysed. Johnson moved closer to the edge in astonishment. What the… he said. He was trying to look into the abyss. Nothing to see.

A scream. A horrible scream. Like a giant bird, a demon lion. A monstrous roar of another world.

A face appeared, screaming towards them. A face of evil. A breath of death. A monster, hairy yet reptile like. Johnson fell back, behind a carriage.

There was panic, men running towards the exit like rats from a flood. They didn’t get far. The monster moved up the hole, ripping everyone in it’s way to pieces. Workers running around, bodies being thrown. The monster continued upwards.

Johnson looked up from the carriage. He could hear noise and screams far up the tunnel. Then silence. It had left the tunnel, moved out to the world above.

He had survived! He walked out, looked up the tunnel. He couldn’t hear anything. The monster was gone. He turned, looked to the black hole. Did he hear a sound?

Another tentacle came shooting out, grabbed his trout. Pulled him into the hole. In the darkness he was penetrated by several huge spikes and died.

https://flash-365.com/2017/01/22/once-upon-a-time-in-russia/

https://apokraliptihkal.com/2016/12/15/veins-like-sentences/

The Evil

Consumed

Written by Neil Dinsmore, reblogged from on The Book of Hangman

The Book of Hangman

jeff-easley-astral-dreadnought-1987“Astral Dreadnought” by Jeff Easley (1987)

This is a short piece of fantasy flash fiction about another time and another place, and the powerful and inescapable force that resides within its disjointed folds.  Originally written on the 9th September 2016.


Consumed

The Outsider coursed through the astral realms like a virus in the blood. The burning of a dim, spectral light glowing in the thing’s eyes, it traced a serpentine path through the in-between worlds in search of its prey.

Its arrival in the deeplands was announced by an unshakable and powerful dread, the beings in this pool of the void knew well what was approaching. There was no escaping it, no fleeing from the insatiable hunger. It took what it wanted, wherever and whatever that may be. It had done so for all eternity, and would continue to do so until the threads fell apart and time…

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A Dark Curse

a-dark-curse

The Witch Doctor is a story about oil drilling in tribal territory. For some strange reason, human kind has built a system where people can buy other people’s land from people who live far away from that land, even if the territories have been in the possession of local tribes for centuries or more.

Multinational corporations are guilty of vast numbers of extreme crimes against natives around the globe, often with help from police and national soldiers. How do we justify a system that gives someone the right to take the rightful land of other people? Why is money more important than reason?

We like to think that we somehow have advanced, gotten beyond the unjust systems of the past, where slavery and repression was accepted as divine rights of the ones in power. Things haven’t really changed that much.

Today the privileges come from national belonging and wealth instead of noble blood. What before was regarded as God’s will is today a question of money. Poor people in poor countries are just as suppressed as they’ve always been. Tribal communities are often treated like animals.

The real curse is not the one of the Witch Doctor, but the one of human greed and indifference. By doing nothing we are all part of the problem. Let’s start doing something.

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2010/jun/13/oil-fuelled-sudan-war-crimes

https://intercontinentalcry.org/perus-amazon-tribes-will-risk-lives-stop-oil-drilling/

http://www.ipsnews.net/2014/05/bagua-massacre-test-justice-peru/

Private Property

Domestic Violence

domestic-violence

He beat me again today. A lot. It’s just getting worse.

He seems to be doing something in the basement lately. He’s down there all the time. He doesn’t want me to see what he is doing. I’m scared.

Jessica closed the diary. Held it to her chest. She felt that for the first time in a long time she had a friend. A friend that understood her.

I’m home! She heard from upstairs. She ran up. She’d better not keep him waiting.

Where’s my food? He said. He seemed angry. Smelled of licker.

Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I haven’t had the time! She said, trying to explain.

Hadn’t had the time? He looked at her with a sceptical look. I bet you haven’t, you fucking whore… He turned the TV on, sat down at the table. What are you waiting for?

She hadn’t been out of the house for months, he didn’t let her. He kept beating her, insulting her. She couldn’t see any way out. She accepted it, suffering.

The diary gave her council. Marion Winston had been living the same hell many years ago. She knew she was not the only one.

She used to love him. He had been so strong, so charming. That was a long time ago now. She detested him. Every time he came home she felt how she hated him. Every time he called her whore, every single time a day, she wished him dead. But she feared him. His strong hands. The beating had gotten worse. Slowly she had lost everything. He pride. Her hope. Now she was to weak, to insecure to get away.

She got his food on the table. They sat down to eat. How was your day, honey? She asked, trying to cheer him up.

Horrible, he answered.

Horrible. Horrible meant danger. After food she cleaned the dishes, and went out to the hallway.

Where’ you going? She noticed the typical irrational jealousy in his voice.

She stops. Just down to hang up the laundry, honey. He grumbled and scratched his balls. She suspired. He was unpredictable when he was in this mood.

She went down the wooden stairs in the basement. It was an old house, more than hundred years. The basement had stone walls, built with rocks from the area. That’s where she had found it. The diary. In a crack between two rocks in the wall.

She took it out of the hole where she kept it. One of the rocks moved. It was loose. She took the book out. Her treasure. Her friend.

She sat down, started reading where she had left off. Mary was a young woman living in the same house many years ago. Her husband had been rich and powerful, and everybody was looking up to him. At home he was evil.

He’s been down there forever now. I hear sounds of rocks being moved. Of digging. I asked him once. He got angry. Said it was none of my business. I won’t ask him again.

Jessica was living the words. She felt she could her her lost friend talking through the walls, a voice whispering the words in the air.

I’m afraid. This secrecy. What is he up to? I need to get down there to have a look some day. I need to know.

Jessica looked up from the book. The voice. Was it real? It sounded like it came from the place she’d found the diary.

She put the book on the table, went over to the hiding place. She pulled the loose rock. It was moving. She had to coax it out, but slowly she got it. Behind there was darkness. A cold draft came from somewhere within. It smelled like a cave, of dirt and fungus. Rot.

The door to the stairs opened. What are you doing down there? He asked. The book was lying on the bench. She took it, wanted to hide it. Her shaking hands dropped it to the ground.

What’s that? He said, at the down end of the stairs now. ‘You hiding something?

It’s just a book, she said, scared.

A book? Who gave you a fucking book, you whore? What have you been doing? He was standing in front of her.

It was here, I… He punched her in the face. She fell to the ground.

Don’t lie to me bitch!

Please, baby… she pleaded.

He picked up the book. Read out loud.

He beats me all the time. He’s getting more and more…” Did you write this? Are you writing about me!? He hit her. Are you fucking someone? Hu? Bitch? He hit her again.

No one, I promise! Tears running down her cheeks.

He pulled her to her feet by her hair, pushed her over the table with her face down. Pulled her panties down. Started opening his belt.

I don’t know who you’ve been fucking, but I’m gonna fuck you like no one ever fucked you before, you fucking whore! You gotta learn who’s boss around h…

There was a metal bar lying on the table. She grabbed it, hit him in the face. He stumbled back.

You God damned… He was standing there, with one hand on his face. He looked crazy. She was terrified.

He hit her with his fist. She fell back. He pulled the bar out of her hand. She was holding on to the bench not to fall. He picked up the bar. You fucking hit me! His eyes were glowing with hatred.

Some strange smoke were coming out of the hole in the wall. Like a shadow. Abstract, dark.

That’s it, bitch, he said. Calmly now. Your dead. Looking into his eyes she knew he meant it.

Lifting the bar he said: I’ll bury you right here, and no one will ever…

The shadow grabbed his arm, stopped the strike. What the… Another shadow rounded his neck.

He was pulled with incredible strength through the wall. The big rocks were torn down and he disappeared into a dark hole.

She heard a scream. A stump sound. Then silence.

She waited. She waited for quite a while. Honey..? Honey? Are you OK? She heard the whisper again. Laughing silently. It’s over…

She grabbed a torch, tried to light it. It wouldn’t. She hit it a couple of times. Light.

In the end of the tunnel there was a room. The smell got stronger. A big bench were situated in the centre. Chains were attached to it. All kinds of knives and utensils where scattered around. A torture bench. Upon it lay a skeleton. The flesh was gone. There she had died. Marion Winston. Naked. Tortured.

On the floor lay the man who once was the love of Jessica’s life. His neck was twisted in a strange way. Broken. Marion had gotten her revenge. She had avenged them both.

Jessica left the room, went upstairs. She was going to need some cement to fix the wall.

http://www.studymode.com/subjects/women-and-domestic-violence-in-the-19th-century-page1.html

http://www.globalissues.org/news/2013/05/30/16679

Witchcraft

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Existence

existence

The weekend was coming to an end, it was already late Sunday afternoon. The speed was wearing off, the acid kept kicking in like never before. Colours moving around in chaotic harmony, beautiful and scary all at once. The floor was moving back and forth like on a boat, and the walls seemed to bulge outwards.

Steve was looking at the curtains in the window. The forms were moving in strange ways. Creatures moving around, doing unexplainable things. One of them kept staring at him. A horned one, like a demon, yet it was a plant as well. And some kind of shoe.

Hey, man… Said Steve. Do you think they can see us?

Er… Who? Said Jim, without taking his eyes off the ceiling. Something was going on up there, but Steve didn’t care. He was too occupied with the creatures in the curtain.

Them, man, he said pointing. The… Colours. The… monsters, man. Do you think… Do you… Maybe they can like, see us, man! That’s all I say.

Sure they can, said Jim, still staring at the ceiling. He moved his look to Steve’s curtain. Maybe they’re the ones that are looking at us, man. Maybe they are the ones tripping.

That’s deep, man, said Steve. That’s… fucking…

They sat in silence. Steve was trying to figure out the consequences of what Jim just said. He was doubting his very own existence. The horned flower shoe was laughing at him in an uncomfortable way.

He was hoping the acid would wear off soon.

https://www.ontology.co/existence.htm

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychedelia

Beyond Faith and Reason

 

Male Glarghs Roam Alone

male-glarghs-roam

Rhoom was a Glargh. As all male Glarghs, he roamed. He roamed the world alone, just like his father, and his father before him.

The World had been at peace for a long time now, ever since the great moon was blown up to stop the Garsan invasion. But there were change in the air. The signs were undoubtable.

Rhoom had read it in the flight of the Snagbas. He had seen the signs in the sand of the shores of the great Sindt. They were coming, and nothing could ever stop them.

His four legs carried him fast over desert and mountains, through forests and jungle. In his hands he held his long spear, although he knew it would not be enough to defend anyone. He ran to reach his loved ones. To protect them, although he knew he could not. To say goodbye, or die with them. His mother. His aunts. His sisters.

They were creeps, small as Tox. Their technology was of another world. No one really knew were they had come from. It did not seem to be any neighbouring planet. They where too different. Too advanced.

He arrived to the hills. His home. The village was destroyed. His family. All that was left was purple blood on the ground. Millions of small, disgusting monsters had ripped them into tiny pieces to feed their spawn.

Ruuuuhaaaa!!! He screamed. The sound of his voice pounded between the rock walls around the valley. If the invaders could hear him, he did not care.

Flashes of his life went through his mind. His childhood in the pack. He had been so happy. Life so different. His brothers had left like he did. His sisters were now all dead.

He thought of how all these years could have been if he had stayed. If he’d never left his beloved family. He knew it could not have been. He was a Glargh. Male Glarghs roamed.

Now he roamed in pain.

http://fantasy-faction.com/2014/five-common-mistakes-writing-fantasy-flash-fiction

https://kavarastories.wordpress.com/2017/01/09/borrowed-space/

The End of Days

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Wheel of Time

wheel-of-time

Marcus turned the machine on. It shook, lights were flashing. He was not too sure if he dared enter. He swallowed, straightened his back, and opened the door. Inside he pushed the green button. There was a hell of a noise, then silence. Had it worked? He didn’t know. He opened the door, went out. Looked around. His house was gone. His neighbours house was there, but it looked a lot newer. It had worked. He had travelled back in time.

He walked down the street, looking at people. Their out-of-date styles. He was thrilled. A real time machine! Haha! And Runar said it was impossible to travel time. Now he was going to see! After a while he saw a girl sitting at a bench, crying. There was something familiar about her. He went closer. She was his mum! She was about his age, and beautiful.

He asked why she was crying, what was wrong. Nothing, she said. Then she said: My boyfriend’s an asshole. Marcus’ father. He sat down. They talked for a while. It was exiting. She really couldn’t have any idea! They got along instantly, which was natural, after all.

Why don’t you come with me for a cup of tea? She said after a while. My parents aren’t home.

They sat in her living room drinking tea. It was his grandparent’s house, but it smelled different, and the furniture was new. They talked and laughed. The atmosphere got better and better. Suddenly she got quiet. She kissed him. He didn’t know what to do. He got perplex. He’d never kissed a girl before, and she was more beautiful than he’d ever imagined, even when the Oedipus complex had been beating at it’s worst. He let him self go, returning her kiss. It’s just a kiss, he said to himself.

They were making out passionately, and she started undressing them both. Touching him. He couldn’t resist. She moved herself over him, slowly slipping him inside her. He knew it was wrong, but he let it happen. She rode him, first gently, then faster. He didn’t last long. He came with a loud moan, squirting her full.

Shame bubbled up inside him.

He had shagged his own mother! And she didn’t even know who he was. He felt like a rapist. A monster. He got on his feet, red as a tomato.

Are you OK? She asked, confused. Didn’t you like it?

He said he was sorry, that, yes, it had been wonderful, but he had to leave. He pulled his clothes on fast and rushed towards the door. She looked despaired.

Will I see you again? She asked. He stopped, looked at her. You definitely will, he said and got out of there.

Back in his own time he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. His head was spinning through contradictions and paradox. The date he had travelled to was nine months before his birth. He didn’t look anything like his father.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time

http://www.iep.utm.edu/par-log/

Beyond Faith and Reason

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Temple of Doom

temple-of-doom

Temple of Death is a story about nuclear waste. In a distant future, a group of archaeologists finds a nuclear storage tunnel, closed thousands of years ago. The last remains of a lost civilization.

They believe it’s some kind of temple, and the warning signs just give them another reason to enter.

We do not have a good plan of what to do with the nuclear waste we are creating, and we are creating a lot of it. We can dig it down, we can put on all sorts of warnings, but if the reason we dug it down is forgotten, people will not stop because of threats. Lots of ancient graves has been equipped with warnings of doom and curses, but we’ve opened them anyway.

There’s no reason to believe the same will not be the case in the future. It might as well be interpreted as something of great value. A hundred thousand years is a long, long time.

https://www.ft.com/content/db87c16c-4947-11e6-b387-64ab0a67014c

http://www.globalissues.org/news/2016/01/13/21753