Long Ago

The tour guide stops and sighs, “this is one of my favorite exhibits in the entire museum.

You’ll notice there’s an actual outside beyond that window. It’s not just a picture, this little girl’s bedroom overlooked Broadway and Sixty-Sixth street. If you listen carefully there is a soundtrack playing of long ago New York City. Do you hear the traffic and the sirens? My favorite part is coming up. There it is! A horn honk… and a crash… then two men arguing. That is an actual recording of a minor auto accident.

Oh, what a world to have lived in.

The toys and furniture are all made out of natural elements like wood and actual cotton and wool.”

“Was this child rich?” a little girl with purple hair interrupts.

“Not even.” In early 21st century all of these things could be made by hand, or even store bought. No 3D printing was even needed.”

 


 

#writephoto

Thursday photo prompt – Child – #writephoto

Wish Granted

With a deep bellow the mountain raises and the Earth shakes. The ground is torn. Large roots and rocks pour from the being’s undercarriage. It moves its head, swiveling it from side to side, its mouth opening and closing, bits of stone chipping off its gnashing teeth, crashing into the forest below as its tongue attempts to work a word. Yellow eyes glow bright in the gloom searching for the one who called.

“Mother!” The twenty-billion-tonne creature bellows.

Mother stands in a small flowered glen in urine soaked garments.

The book worked.

“Come,” she stutters unsure, but her progeny obeys.

In Loving Tribute

Things die. That’s what they do. They die and rot and new things grow. Benjamin put the bench on the grounds over the place he buried his wife because things that once lived here would one day start to die.

And she would live.

He knew the woman, black-hearted and proud, would find a way back.

That was the promise she made with her last breath.

He trekked for miles into the back-country. Dug the red clay deep and planted her coffin under a headstone he bought expecting questions.

None came.

He waited.

Until today.

Today things started dying.

 


 

frost-on-the-tombstone-liz

Photo prompt courtesy of:

Liz Young

Tale of the MacGuffin

The writer taps his fingers on the keyboard, but not actually typing any words. He has a problem. His characters have nothing to pull them through the world he built. It is too perfect. Every convenience is accounted for. All wants satiated.

Money is not needed because of the nano-tech he painstakingly constructed that builds everything out of a special kind of atomic stacking.

Antagonism has been ruled obsolete due to the complete reverse engineering of the human brain.

The worlds exploration and history has all been pre-created.

The writer leans back in his chair and sighs. He built the perfect world and sadly he realizes, perfect worlds make sad settings for fantasy.

Then it dawns on him.

He will make a character whose job it is to search for something to be excited about. The character will lift every bed curtain, look in every drawer, peer into every closet and cave and hole in the ground. He will make problems if he cant find one.

The writer cackles madly as he types the words, The MacGuffin Hunter, deciding it is the best title he has ever written.

Three days later his wife checks him into the hospital, “for some rest.”

Degradable

The hum of industrial strength air-conditioning keeps the insane summer heat at bay.

Tristram sweats anyway. He needs this sale and has been nervous all morning for a meeting that seems to be over before it really got started.

“These cups are 100% biodegradable, fossil-footprint responsible.”

“Can you beat a thousand for seventy-eight,” The fat-manager with a shiny pink scalp, dressed in an over starched white oxford-button down, asks with a smirk. His little name badge, hanging from the tip of a monstrous left tit, says assistant-manager.

It might as well say gatekeeper.

Tristram dips his chin and shakes his head no.

The fat-man laughs derisively, turns from the table he did not even sit down at and walks away with his pants riding up into his buttcrack.

Tristam curses, wishing his brother-in-law had never convinced him to invest in his paper-cup business.

He stands to make his next appointment across town, his thoughts returning to the idea of an insurance scam.

A slip and fall.

A nice little warehouse fire.

Suicide by cop.

 


FFfAW Challenge-Week of April 25, 2017

 

A Work Untitled

She puts the black heels with the ribbon lace up next to the ancient copy of the Oxford dictionary her grandfather bought her.

The dictionary smells of thrift store.

Dusty and used.

Since her grandfather died it reminds her of him.

She put the shoes next to the giant heavy book, because one day she might wear them. They make her look tall. They give her legs a shape she assumes men might enjoy. Maybe she won’t shirk from the attention if it’s the right type of guy.

Maybe, like one day she might start her novel.

 

The Presumed Execution of Eric Roth

It’s the area in New York once known as Five Points, a sunken ghetto with a history of untenable violence covered up by white cement. It’s here an angry mob is kept at bay by an army of federal cops and NYPD’s finest. The two million strong, near riotous collection of United States citizenry, stretches down Perry St and Worth, filled in the streets around Columbus Park stopped traffic on Canal and pours over into Brooklyn down both the nearby bridges.

They rave behind blue barricades. They scream in unison, “blood for blood.”

Everyone is hoping for the best.

None expect it.

The crowd’s energy is palpable and the noise raucous.

Their chant vibrates the windows in the federal court building. The same place, just last week, where Eric Roth was declared guilty of espionage.  

Eric Roth stood his trial stoically. He had become an untenable public hero. And all this before he was even eighteen years old.

He was a genius from the Riverdale neighborhood in the Bronx. A self taught hacker and grey-man. His father, a political science professor at Fordham, trained him in covert tactics before dying two years ago on a research tip to Russia.

Some thought he sent his son the bulk of the information he used to bring to light a corrupt cabal’s intentions.

He could have buried it. He could have sent it to someone else in authority.

Instead he strengthened what his dad sent him with pictures and video and now the people of New York wait for the verdict that will decide the remainder of the young hero’s life.

Eric lived with his Mom and baby sister on the ninth floor of the Kenneth Lee building on Riverdale Ave.

He made his claims online under the name The_Shadow and he was probably right. He posted pictures had recorded a voice conversation that’s nuance suggested a conspiracy to fake a war between Russia and the USA was at foot and all for the benefit of a few ultra rich patrons.

But millions were in jeopardy of being brutally killed.

The worst part of the tape was the portion of the recorded conversation that went, “the world is too overpopulated anyway. You bomb Detroit we bomb Grozny. We bomb Syria you bomb Israel.  Tit for tat and together we shrink the world’s population by a few hundred million end the war and send our kids to live in utopic and a happier future.”

The American president’s voice was unmistakable.

All was denied, proof was given, charges brought up on Young Eric and now, today, was the day many hoped to  save young Eric’s life.

But maybe this was too big to turn the course on.

Its starts out a whisper.

Death.

He got death.

They are going to kill Eric Roth.

The frenetic tumult builds steadily until it shakes the very cement buildings around them. People forced to stand and wait on the brooklyn bridge said they felt the one-hundred and sixty-eight year old structure sway in response.

Witness will one day say the vibrancy was painful.

The crowd surges forward. The crack of assault rifles echo. Blood spills and screams echo, but neither still the lust of the riot. The courthouse is breached. Men in uniforms are ripped to pieces.

Vital fluids flow liberally.

And this is only a beginning.

Eric Roth was removed from the courthouse through an underground tunnel before the sentencing announcement was made.

He will be killed.

A video of the execution will be leaked.

And ironically his death will start the very war he had hoped to prevent.