Friday Fictioneers: The Blight Cometh: Part Two

© Lura Helms 2012

The Blight Cometh: Part Two

Two weeks passed. Two horrifying weeks as the blight began to spread across the area. Bill and Steve began hearing reports from other parts of the state being overrun. It was relentless.

Ever changing. Ever growing. Ever destroying.

When they met the biologist, Rebekah, in the capital, she insisted on coming with them. That's when they made the harrowing discovery.

"It's just destroying everything in its path," Rebekah said, dazed by the dying landscape.

Steve sighed heavily. "Yeah. This used to be nothing but trees. Now all that's left is the one in the middle."

"Which is peculiar, don't you think?" asked Rebekah.

A loud snort came from behind them. The duo turned to look at an eye-rolling Bill. "This whole thing is peculiar."

Rebekah regarded for a moment, and then turned back to Steve. "Can I borrow your binoculars?" she asked. Steve handed them to her and lit a cigarette. She zoomed in on the solitary tree. "There seems to be an odd growth on it."

"Not surprising," Bill replied. "Oaks like that sometimes have weird branches growing out from crooks."

The binoculars fell from her face, her eyes like saucers. She turned slowly to Bill. "Do they usually move?"

Steve's cigarette hit the ground unnoticed.

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Prompt For For This Week's Friday Fictioneers

Here is this week's prompt for Friday Fictioneers, courtesy of Madison Woods. Come join us over at her blog.

It'll be fun fun fun!

My Friday Fictioneers entries.

Friday Fictioneers: Down By The Beach

By Susan Wenzel

Down By The Beach

"You're right," Charlotte said. "I am bored. I think I'll go for a swim."

"But none of us brought our suits," Rose stated.

"I've got knickers and a camisole on. It's not like I'm naked," Charlotte said, eyes rolling.

Rose stood, arms crossed, as her sister, sans the dress she had been wearing, bolted towards the warm water. Patrick wrapped his arms around her waist and placed his chin on her shoulder.

"What?" Rose asked testily.

"I'll give it thirty seconds before you're in that water, too," he replied smiling. Rose glared from the corner of her eye, but her attention was quickly diverted to Charlotte's laughs.

Rose huffed and started taking off her dress. Patrick could only laugh.

"Oh, shut up, will you?" Rose said annoyed. She looked him up and down, eyebrow quirked, before taking off toward the water.

Patrick rolled his eyes and began shedding his shirt. "There is no such thing a quiet day at the beach when the Landy sisters are involved," he said to himself.

30 Days of Flash Fiction: Day 3 "15/08/1998"

"15/08/1998"

It was nothing but chaos. People in the street were screaming for help, for their God, for anything that would bring them peace. He could see the bodies of those fortunate to have died when the Vauxhall exploded. They didn't have to suffer the fate others would.

He felt a wave of nausea and dizziness hit him, but he scrambled to his feet anyway. Making his way through the rubble, he came upon a teen boy, his ginger hair stained dark from the blood.

The boy's eyes radiated the fear his body could no longer show. The man stooped low down, trying to hear the words struggling from the boys crimson stained lips.

"Help," the boy rasped. "Help me please."

The man didn't know what to do. The RUC were running around, coming from the direction of the courthouse.

He started to yell out, but a grip on his arm made him turn back to the boy. Blood coughed up from the boy's mouth, the hemorrhaging in his body becoming too much.

"No," the man said in vain. "No no no. Stay with me, lad. Stay with me." His efforts were of no use. The light fading from his eyes, the boy stopped trembling, finally coming to peace.

The man sat for awhile, staring at the vast emptiness in the boy's orbs. He tried to rationalize the event. All the death and carnage. All that he saw when this poor boy passed. But he could find no fairness. Nothing was just about it. The revelation made nauseated. The pounding in his head increased until he could take it no longer. He turned and heaved onto the pavement.

A medic stooped in front of him. "Sir, I'm going to need you to come with me," he said. The man looked up, his vision hazy and unfocused.

"What of the boy?" the man asked.

"He's passed, sir. There's nothing we can do for him," the medic replied.

"What about his body? Will his family know?" he asked.

"We'll notify any family he has," the medic said.

"Good. Good," replied the man hazily, the medic pulling him away from the street.

Many weeks after, the man thought back to how that boy had fade in his arms, the lighting going out despite his worthless efforts.

They say 29 people died that day in the Omagh marketplace, but if you told that to the man, he would call you a liar. He'd say another life laid next to that ginger headed boy, wishing that there was fairness in this dark world.

30 Days of Flash Fiction: Day 2 "Un Tranquilo Día en la Playa"

"Mad Dogs" Jack Vettriano

"Un Tranqilo Día en la Playa"

It was fun being out on the beach, Rose thought. Even Charlotte wasn't being too much of a bother. If Patrick didn't mind her joining them, Rose saw no reason to be looking for trouble with her eccentric sister.

They started by looking for shells, but hadn't much luck on that front. Patrick had found a hermit crab shell, but the crab still calling it home hadn't been to keen on going into his pocket. Other than their crustacean friend, it was a never ending supply of broken oyster shells and sand dollars.

It was at this point that Charlotte became restless. She heaved a sigh and took languishing steps. Rose held her tongue until Charlotte started twirling her umbrella into the air.

"Are we boring you, Charlotte?" Rose asked lazily.

Charlotte narrowed her eyes at her sister. "Not like it takes much, and why must you always call me that? Everyone but you seems to get that I prefer to be called Charlie," she whined. "I don't see you going by Rosalyn."

"There are plenty of times where she is adamant about being called Rosalyn," Patrick corrected, staring off at some seagulls.

Rose's jaw dropped, and Charlotte's brow furrowed with puzzlement.

"Patrick!" Rose exclaimed, smacking him across the chest. It was then that Charlotte realized the meaning behind Patrick's words.

"Oh I don't need to know about my sister's..." Charlotte waved her hand through the air as if swatting away an unpleasant pest. "I'm sure it's boring anyway."

Rose scoffed. "I assure you, Charlie, our love life is anything but boring," she retorted arrogantly.

"Okay," Charlotte shouted. "I don't need to know." Rose sported a smug look at Charlotte's retreat. A few moments passed before anyone broke the silence.

"You're right," Charlotte said. "I am bored. I think I'll go for a swim."

"But none of us brought our suits," Rose stated.

"I've got knickers and camisole on. It's not like I'm naked," Charlotte said, eyes rolling.

Rose stood, arms crossed, as her sister, sans the dress she had been wearing, bolted towards the warm water. Patrick wrapped his arms around her waist and placed his chin on her shoulder.

"What?" Rose asked testily.

"I'll give it thirty seconds before you're in that water, too," he replied smiling. Rose glared from the corner of her eye, but her attention was quickly diverted to Charlotte's laughs.

Rose huffed and started taking off her dress. Patrick could only laugh.

"Oh, shut up, will you?" Rose said annoyed. She looked him up and down, eyebrow quirked, before taking off toward the water.

Patrick rolled his eyes and began shedding his shirt. "There is no such thing a quiet day at the beach when the Landy sisters are involved," he said to himself.

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Friday Fictioneers: The Blight Cometh

Photo courtesy Madison Woods

"The Blight Cometh"

"Is it moving?"

Bill's voice pulled Steve out of his thoughts. The fungal, oozing thing most definitely looked like it had moved. Or had it, thought Steve. He eyed it warily, not getting too close. 

"Did you hear me?" Bill asked. "Is it moving?"

Steve continued staring as he replied, "No. It's not moving." He hurriedly grabbed his camera and started snapping photos.

"If it isn't moving, then what is it doing?" Impatience laced Bill's question.

Steve lowered the camera from his face, and slowly turned towards his brother. "It's growing," he replied quietly.

Bill could only stand dumbstruck as Steve continued taking pictures.

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30 Days of Flash Fiction

Since I started doing Madison Woods' Friday Fictioneers a few months ago (not as consistently as I'd like), I've been wanting to do a big flash fiction project to push myself to write more often.

And now I'm finally going to do it.

The initial plan was to do the entire month of August, but I got caught up in other, more pressing matters, and I didn't have to time to get to it. Luckily for me, August has 31 days, thus "30 Days of Flash Fiction."

I'm just going to write whatever comes to mind. If I have a prompt for the piece, I'll be sure to post it.

If anyone wants to join in, feel free to post their links in the comments section. Use whatever you want inspire you. No subjects are off limits, but if it is explicit, a warning would be thoughtful.

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Madison's Blog: http://madison-woods.com/
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30 Days of Flash Fiction: Day 1 "Price"

This is an excerpt from a work in progress...

The heat was starting to become oppressive, but the land didn't care. There was no shade or water in sight. The mules were becoming weary and slowed. All of this happening, but we still plowed ahead. We had to get to California. Had to get to the gold.

"James," one my fellow travelers called out. Jacob was his name. A younger man, near my age, traveling from Georgia. Rumor was his father was the Governor. Why he had decided to go West, let alone travel through Texas and Mexico, was something I had never understood.

"Do you need something, Jacob?" I asked, my irritated brogue rearing its ugly head.

"Is the heat causing you to wilt, my friend?" Jacob was also an educated man, which confused me more. He wasn't like myself or the others, poor immigrants or laborers, some even criminals, looking to find their riches in the mountains.

He dressed well, or at least better than the rest in our group, and was always reading a book when we stopped to camp or rest. And he always seemed to be of the cheerful sort, but if you caught him in a moment when he thought himself alone with his thoughts, you could see a deeper pain that seemed to at his insides.

I looked at him for a moment before answering. "Aye," I replied. "Ireland is nothing like this."

"Do you miss it?" he asked.

"No," I stated. "There was nothing for me there. I was nothing there. Famine and the English killing people everyday, and I was the bottom of the heap." We rode quietly for a moment, just the sound of the horses and mules echoing in the desert. "But America is a new start. A new life," I said. "A man can be anything here. There's no fancy families living of their name to keep me down. I can be as important as I want."

Jacob nodded along, listening. "That's why I'm going to California," I exclaimed, pointing towards the west. "To find my riches, go back to Texas, and get the respect I didn't have in Ireland."

I looked back at Jacob. He was pensive, rubbing his hand across his beard. "That life," he said finally. "All that money and respect you so desperately crave? It comes with a great price."

"I'd pay any price not to have my life in Ireland," I replied adamantly.

"Your resolve is greater than mine then," he said, a distant look on his face.

I mulled over that remark. "Why are you going to California," I asked eventually.

I don't know if it was him measuring his response or if he just hadn't truly thought about it, but Jacob took his time answering. "I'm not going to California," he finally let out. "I'm running away from Georgia."

"Why?" I asked, confused.

"Because, James, sometimes the price is too high to pay." With that, Jacob urged his horse into a trot. He rode on ahead of me, leaving me to ponder his words, and, as he put it, wilt in the heat.

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Friday Fictioneers: Last Cigarette

Amanda Gray "Outside Pecos"

Last Cigarette

I could feel the chipping stucco on my back, still hot from the pounding desert sun. So this was how it was all going to end, I thought. At least I was going out with a bang. Or six bangs, really.

I was warned that this was the likely outcome when I started doing business with Pancho. Too late for regrets now, I supposed. The crunch of soldier started moving away from me.

“Don't I get a last request,” I queried.

“Like what,” the leader asked, his accent worsening the sick thrill in his voice.

“Cigarette,” I replied.

The leader hastily shoved the cigarette in my mouth, lighting it. I took a long, glorious drag, savoring the spicy tobacco taste.

I heard the cocking of six guns. I never heard the shots.

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Friday Fictioneers: Out of Body

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. They were humans. Boys. There was absolutely no way this was happening.

“Dude! What are we going to do?” Steve looked over at Billy. He couldn't tell his brother was 13. Or that he himself was 15. He still couldn't believe this was happening.

“Steve! What are we going to do?!” Billy was growing frantic. Steve couldn't blame him. If there was a time for frantic panicking, it was now.

“I don't know, Billy.”

“What do you mean you don't know? This is your fault!” This was true, Steve thought. It really was his fault.

Billy puffed, “I should have never let you take me to that Voodoo priestess.”

“Look on the bright side, Billy. At least we're at McDonald's.”

Friday Fictioneers: Pot of Gold

Pot of Gold

“Look! A rainbow!”

Steve stopped dribbling the ball to see where is his little brother was pointing. The rainbow stretched across the sky, curving down to settle in a thicket of trees at the back of the field.

“Let's see if there's a pot of gold at the end of it,” his brother said excitedly.

Steve rolled his eyes, “Billy, there ain't gold at the end of a rainbow.” Billy really could be a gullible kid sometimes.

“I'm looking anyway. And if there is, I ain't sharing it with you,” Billy hollered while sprinting across the field.

Steve dashed after him. “Not if I find it first,” he yelled. If anyone was going to find that gold, it was going to be him. He was the older brother, after all.

Flash Fiction: Preserving the Story

 

 

It was banged up. Badly. Faded, too. But it was original, and she just couldn't bring herself to tear it down at the moment. The wall held stories too precious to destroy.

A young couple dancing, celebrating their new wedding bliss. The first day home from the hospital. Her first steps. Celebrating straight A's on the report card. And Junior prom, a bundle of nerves, anxiety, and pure unadulterated joy. The day the acceptance letter came. The day she brought him home, and they knew she had found the one.

When her husband came in later, he found her carefully cutting a large swath of the wall paper. “What are you doing,” he asked.

She just smiled at him and turned back to her work, saying, “Preserving the stories, dear.”
_________________________________________________________

I forgot to add that I was actually really excited when I saw the photo prompt. My wife is addicted to housing rehab (her favorite "housing show" is Rehab Addict), so I was imagining her when I started writing. She loves old houses for the stories, and I can see her using the wall paper as a piece of art to base the room decor.

Petticoats *updated*

So just like with M.D. Pearce, Druggist, Petticoats had to undergo some final revisions.

Just some minor grammar and cast issues. This truly is the final draft.

Also, I have the dates for the two performances for this one as well. It will be performed May 12th and May 19th. This too will be videotaped, so I'll be uploading the performances after some editing.

I'm really excited to see this one in its fruition.

M.D. Pearce, Druggist *updated*

So I had to do some updates to this one.

Isn't surprising.

Not exactly my best work.

Anywho, this is the updated, last, final draft of this short play (unless told otherwise ... again).

Also, the dates have been set. M.D. Pearce, Druggist will be performed May 5th and May 19th. It will be videotaped, so look forward to seeing me put the performances up here sometime shortly after. The cast is volunteer so don't expect Oscar worthy performances. Just a warning.

Petticoats

This is the second of my short plays about Maud Duncan. This is about the "Petticoat Government" of Winslow, AR who held office for two terms from 1925-1927.

Carl Webber is a fictional character. To understand some of the context, Maud wrote in favor of going to war with Imperial Germany during WWI. Carl Webber is a German name, but he fought for the US and the Allies when he was 18-19.

Where It Went Wrong

Yes, I'm breaking out the red pen.

At this juncture in my life, no one is going to confuse me for a successful writer. Outside of two short plays to be performed in the near future, none of my works have ever seen the light of day. I don't have a degree in creative writing. Or literature. Or even English. Some people might think this would disqualify me from passing judgment on others whose writing has been more successful, both commercially and critically. They may even be right.

M.D. Pearce, Druggist

So The Winslow Museum in Winslow, Arkansas (run by my mother) has decided to put on a couple of short plays (and I do mean short) in the spring about one of Winslow's most prominent citizens in its history: Maud Dunlap (Pearce) Duncan. The plays will be centered around Maud's becoming the third woman in Arkansas history to pass the Pharmacy exam in 1906, and with Maud becoming one of the first female mayors in the United States and the head of the second all-female municipal government in the country, aptly named "The Petticoat Government", whom ran Winslow from 1925 through 1927. Since I'm a burgeoning writer trying to get as much on my rather thin (nonexistent, really) resume, and I'm also not above trying to play off my mother's nepotism, I've been commissioned to write said plays.

Why I'm Starting This Blog

At one point, I had four blogs. I know. Excessive. It stems from my incessant need for compartmentalization. My first blog, One Man's Liberty, was political. I discussed every and any thing involved with politics, from the Federal Reserve and monetary policy to immigration to drug policies to foreign policy. Some people even read it! (Not many though)

My second blog, Jake's Studio, was about my writing. I posted original stories and reviews of any TV shows that I felt like reviewing along with any TV, movie, or book news I found interesting. Some people read it too. Mainly Russian and Chines bots.

As for the other two, Just 4 U (MIL's and SIL's invitation/fancy stuff business) and Academy of Free Thought (my education blog), I haven't actually posted any content to them yet, and I won't unless my MIL and SIL decide they want to start the website.

What I want to do with The Rantin' Arkansan is condense these blogs into one, plus add other areas. Basically, anything that interests me. I'll discuss politics. I'll discuss philosophy. I'll discuss education. I'll discuss writing. I'll discuss TV, movies and books. I'll discuss sports. I'll discuss family, life, and emotions. I'll post stuff bragging about my son (because he's awesome!), and I'll post stuff bragging about my wife (because she's awesome too!). I promise you that I won't always write like this. I am quite capable of varying sentence structure and syntax. I think.

WARNING: I will piss people off! Sometimes I curse. Sometimes I curse a lot. I'm a market anarchist. I will explain that later. I can be arrogant, indignant, and a complete jackass sometimes (or so my wife says). I hold many unpopular opinions, and I'm not afraid to put them out there. I will not kowtow to politically correct language. But, I also won't try to say things that are mean or overly insensitive. I do ask, when (more likely if) commenting, please don't attack people. I also do not tolerate trolling.

Essentially, I started this blog because I feel like I've got stuff to say, and my wife is tired of listening to me bitch about it all. I look forward to some fun discourse (if anyone ends up ever reading this).

-Jake