An Experiment in Flash Fiction: Part 2

This part of the experiment was inspired by my Uncle's comment, wanting something to do with zombies, and a prompt from +Writ's new community page.

If you haven't yet, make sure you read Part 1, otherwise things won't make sense.

Enjoy and have a Happy New Year!

     Jeff kept looking at his smartphone while the helicopter flew over the bay. He was looking forward to this assignment, the first in his freelance career. The ad called for combat experience, something Jeff knew thanks to his countless years of martial arts. Now the waiting game, Jeff was briefed on the assignment countless times.
 
    “So we’re going onto this ship…thing,” He said. “And investigating what again?”
 
    Simon sighed, “The reports from the rescue crews. I thought you had experience in Resident Evil and zombie films. Viruses, mutations, that sort of thing?”
 
    Sophie nudged his shoulder, “He looks more Deep Fear than Walking Dead if you ask me. Guts, yes. Brains, not so much.”
 
    Jeff sighed and swore under his breath. He put the smartphone back in his pocket and looked straight at Simon, grinning.
 
    “Good! Now I’ll go over this again,” He said.
 
    It was a pretty straightforward assignment; go investigate a naval ship where reports indicated some members of the crew mutated into something else. This was what Simon called Operation Typical Day. Jeff rested his head on his own fingers during the umpteenth explanation.
 
    “So what’s your job in all this, Sir?” He asked.
 
    “Recording and writing down the whole thing,” Simon replied. “My friend here will be taking pictures and provide you with backup.”
 
    Jeff started laughing uncontrollably. All those tournaments, the street brawls, the studies under a highly respected teacher. All for this assignment.

    “So I’m pretty much your bodyguard,” He said. “While you and her investigate some dead, messed up bodies that could kill you at any time. The government must be desperate if they’re hiring journos for the military.”
 
    Sophie quickly took out her laser pistol and aimed it at his head. Simon pressed his feet down on top of Jeff’s, only softly.
 
    “So it’s a fraud then?” Simon asked.
 
    “What is?” Jeff replied.
 
“The resume you sent us.” He leaned in closer to Jeff. “Claimed that you were highly literate, a well to-do member of some mafia skilled in various martial arts, and a banker’s best friend. An air of a dreamer, I think.”
 
    Jeff stammered, “It’s real, Sir.”
 
“Then why…did you say that I’m from the government?”
 
“B-because you are.”
 
    Sophie sighed, “Then it’s all mad fake! Should I fry him?”
 
    “Not yet,” Simon replied.
 
    He took out a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and unfolded it. He passed it towards Jeff who recognized it as the flyer that started all this.
 
    “The hell’s this for?” He asked.
 
    “Simple question,” Simon replied, pointing down at the small text. “How is Neath a part of the government?”
 
    “Screw this one up and zap goes your life,” Sophie replied.
 
    Jeff grunted, “I don’t freakin’ know!”
 
    Simon grinned, “Then think on it. There’s plenty of time before we land.”
 
    Jeff sighed, this first day on the job receded back into the interview. Now the job and his life were on the line.

An Experiment in Flash Fiction: Part 1

Note: You may also translate the title as: A Short Story in Small Parts.

This was not intentional by many means, I was writing a flash fiction piece with some familiar characters and then I petered out by 766 words. While my flash fiction usually wraps itself up without any hesitation, this one ended abruptly, begging the question, "What's going on here?". So with that being said, I've decided to split this one into parts. Unfortunately, I don't know how many yet considering that the idea for this flash fiction just came into mind.

While this gives me a good excuse to play around with Scrivener, which I installed in October, I also want to know your thoughts. Where should the story go?

Let me know in the comments here or on my Google+ profile with any additional suggestions. Without further ado, my flash fiction experiment begins!

Edit: I cut it down to 526 words to make things more intriguing. Also, if there's an absence of suggestions I'll use a picture prompt from writing communities like +Writ and +Flash Fiction Project to further the story.

    “The battery still works,” Russell said, popping through the door.
 
    Dana woke up from her nap and turned to the door. Yep, Russell was still working on it; a battered Lincoln from the back-road’s pothole. It took him hours of waiting just for a tow truck to bring it back to his house. Considering this recent discovery, it was hours well spent.
 
    “Wha,” Dana asked, attempting to lift her head.
 
    “There’s still hope for that stallion,” Russell replied. “No matter how old and screwed up it is, I’ll raise it from the scrap heap.”
 
    Dana grumbled, “Yeah, you and your bad self. Fixing cars like it’s nobody’s business.”
 
“Ah,” Russell jumped back. “Do you doubt your mechanic?”
 
    Dana grunted and put her head back down. Russell laughed and went back to the garage.
It had been a long day aside from the Lincoln. Dana had her hands full on her day off thanks to Simon. He had been going through a sort of throes that even she could not understand.
 
    “Why is it so hard for you to say something,” She asked.
 
    Simon told her he felt there was no way to say anything, whatever it was sounded like a top secret something plus an extra dose of hush-hush. Dana tried to get this secret out but to no avail, “You’d think I’m mad!”
 
    She woke up to a series of sharp pangs on her shoulder. She finally stirred and turned her head around to look at her suspect.
 
     “I know you got this thing down,” She said. “Just go get me some yoghurt will ya?”
 
    “That’s funny,” The suspect said. “Russell told me you loved mac and cheese. You know, the instant Kraft things?”
 
    Dana rubbed her eyes, she did not realize that the person was Russell’s customer. Dana slowly lifted herself out of her seat.
 
    “Russell’s full of himself,” She said. “I got tired of that stuff months ago.”
 
    “So that’s why his shelves just…bare,” The client said. “So sorry for what you have to go through.”
 
“Nah! We’re cool!”
 
    The woman just smirked, “And yet you complain about him. Just doesn’t add up.”
 
    Dana huffed, “So dense!”
    
     She decided to go grocery shopping for breakfast. Scrambled eggs, sausage, and hash-browns were consumed with Russell gorging through most of the seconds. They mostly remained silent except for Russell who was explaining the repairs to his customer. She nodded throughout his ramblings regarding the new doors and essentially the entire hood.
 
     “When?” She asked.
 
     “I’ll have it online by sundown,” Russell replied, grinning. “You’ll be cruisin’ before you know it!”
 
She nodded, “Cool!”
 
    She left Russell and Dana alone in the dining room, with Dana giving a scowl Russell’s way. She remembered the first time he got a car online. She could barely figure out the controls and driving it was out of the question.
 
    “Relax, girl,” Russell said. “I’m just doin’ as she says. To the T!”
 
    “Well, fine,” Dana sighed. “Just don’t screw it up.”
 
“Definitely don’t wanna! She’s been scaring the crap out of me.”
 
    Rushing back into the garage, Dana was puzzled by his newfound fears. Who was his customer?

Flash Fiction: Sense of Taste

    “If you knew that was tasteless bread,” Peter said. “You would have never taken the whole loaf.”
    “But it looked so much like corn bread,” The android replied.
    Peter was getting tired of teaching the logistics of taste. It had taken weeks for his android, a Humanics 180, to activate its taste buds.
    Peter had tried making breakfast that morning, some pancakes and an omlette. But the android just ate them like usual, no recognition of maple syrup or cheese. So it was back to the programming and Peter played around with its binary code.
    Turned out that a section of the code for taste was garbled thanks to a corroded chip. He took it straight from its head and slipped it into his overcoat. Back to the shop, in the corner, where all the Humanics chips were hidden from makers and breakers.
    180, being a discontinued model from recently, had an abundance of replacement chips. Each being full of updated firmware. Overwhelmed by the mass of compatibility, Peter left with a box.
    He plopped it on the workshop bench, sorting the chips from interpretation and recognition. He connected them to his desktop, trying to find the mint condition that would last for the android’s lifespan. Most turned up aged or corroding worse than the chip it already had.
    There was one chip that Peter was pleased with, a fresh recognition fragment. He plopped the chip into the android without further analysis, booting it back up.
    “Good evening, Peter,” It said, grinning.
    Peter exhaled a sigh of relief, “Lovely isn’t it?”
    “…Yes. If that’s what you believe.”
    “The sunset I mean.”
    “Ah! Makes sense now.”
    Peter took out the loaf of bread, a combination of grains and pepper baked from long ago. In Peter’s case, long ago was usually two weeks when he wasn’t programming casual games.
    He set it out on the table, sliced clean from beginning to end. Feasting on one slice each, they slowly made it through the loaf. Peter observed the android’s face, watching the twinges from its lips.
    When its face winced with distaste, Peter smiled, “If you knew that was tasteless bread, you would have never taken the whole loaf.”

For Writ's Summer Writing Challenge , extended to the end of September.

Flash Fiction: How Many Times?

            How many times?

            The same guy kept showing up at the cafe, armed with complaints. It never stopped; everything was a target for scrutiny.

            Yet I was stuck with him again. Good old Turner. Man of his word, if that word was in his favor that is. He was also politically passionate, an armchair pundit more or less.

            “So can’t wait for these elections to be over,” He said. “Time to get rid of these clowns and get a real politician.”

            He was on a non-stop tirade about some convention of politicians that ticked him off. It all had to do with the ties, always with the ties.

            “A true politician never wears a snap-on,” Was his favorite lesson. “To tie a tie is true dedication to this country.”

            The fact that he could pinpoint the type of tie a politician was wearing from a television screen would be surprising to most. But I was the only one who knew his TV-watching habits. Always in HD. Always in widescreen. Always on a channel I never heard of.

            How many times?

            His complaints about everything else were exactly the same. He darted the guys from work and school that were different from him from neckwear to personality.

            “So you remember Seamus from Marketing,” He said. “That lazy slob never did work on those group projects.”-He then put on a funny voice.-“I can’t do that. Ma won’t let me.”

            How many times?

            And if he wasn’t complaining politics or putting a bad name on everyone else, he was working on one thing.

            “Look, Ian,” He told me, taking out his tattered notebook. “I’ve got some good stuff going on in Act 3.”

            This was the only time he beamed, telling tales of the characters partying in some pavilion, or how ridiculous they all were on paper.

            “So once Act 1 gets finished then we can finally start that journey to Hollywood,” He said. “I’m still waiting, Ian.”

            How many times?

            That was a question that I’ve asked for years when it came to Turner. The grating finally broke as I snatched that notebook and strolled off back to the house. He never ran after me and I haven’t seen him since then.

            How many times did it take for me to realize? Why did I give myself up in the first place?

For The Knights of Microfiction curated by Kathy and Jessica McKendry

Friday Flash: Fear Messenger

            My RSS feeds told me the worst was yet to come. Every shooting and looting, every disaster that struck the town next door, and every missing persons report prophesied it. Nothing was over for too long as the mean world was just around corner.

             

           “Get your head off that machine,” My grandpa would tell me. “The work’s not gonna do itself you know.”

            

            But I couldn’t bear to leave the Messenger. Someday it would save my life and even the family. Yet I pried myself to the so-called real life.

            

            All those people and their newspapers. Such smelly ink and banter ruled the day even if the beer remained untouched. I could still recall that debate over some opinion piece on property rights.

            How could those suits be so lax in a time of constant crisis? A criminal could be released from court thanks to corruption. With the disease being disguised as a request for a bathroom break. It would fester despair for many years knowing that Louis ‘roll-up’ Coe is still at large; released from prison after five hours.

            The Messenger knew how to solve my worries no matter what it was. Surviving many a year from killers, drug dealers, hurricanes, and even that strange man across the street. It definitely was no easy feat.

            And just yesterday I finally met someone who realized the insanity of it all, someone who knew the Messenger. He took me through downtown so I could meet the protector of day-to-day humanity.

            However, I was disappointed to find out who…it was. Multiple monitors were on display behind the windows, playing the reports I watch on my feeds.

            “You may just want the basic package,” He said.

For Flash Fiction Project prompt #42.

Flash Fiction: Friday Night Frustrations

           Andy walked into Mark’s apartment as a waterlogged fisherman who caught a school of disappointment. Mark paused his game of bus simulator still on the first level.

           

           “Did you find it,” He asked, taking a sip of his green tea.

           

            Andy sighed, “The rental store’s been gone for years now.”

           

           “Yeah,” Mark agreed, grinning. “But what about that Redbox?”

            Something clicked inside Andy’s brain and the door slammed behind him. Mark shrugged and returned to his game where he navigated through intersections. Every bus stop had Mark biting his lower lip, sweating.

            He muttered to himself, “C’mon. C’mon.”

            All he had to do was brake and turn precisely in short taps and flicks. Then victory would be achieved with his passengers disembarking for the mall. It was just within his reach and…

            “Found it,” Andy said.

            Mark jumped in shock, his game docking him some points for slamming into the bus stop.  He got up and walked towards Andy in a stride of stomping.

            “What was that for,” He asked, snatching the DVD case from Andy. “I almost had it.”

            “What do you mean almost,” Andy said, pointing at the case. “You have it now, thief.”

            Mark growled and gestured Andy to follow. They sat at the sofa where the TV screen blinked, “Game Over”.

            Mark lifted his palm towards the screen, “You do not know how frustrating it is to drive a bus. Took me about 15 tries before now just to get near the end of the level! Had to break out the instruction manual just to get the hang of driving it and now you ruined everything!”

            Andy looked at the screen, baffled. He could not understand the importance of the video game that made Mark sulk from reality into the television.

            “Does George Clooney drive buses now,” He asked.

            Mark just shrugged back to reality, “Maybe People magazine knows something about it.”

            He continued on into the kitchen and took out the lasagna from the oven. They ate and discussed Andy’s discovery of online shopping and the countless speedo swimsuits he ordered. He then took out the Redbox’s latest bounty, battered and bruised from the laptop bag.

            “Great thing about my laptop,” Andy said, booting it up. “Takes on DVDs and plays them.”

            Mark exhaled in relief. This time he would be able to see Ocean’s Eleven in its full glory. Even when Andy inserted the DVD into the optical disk drive, Mark was starring at the computer screen ready for the movie to begin.

            “It’s a shame about the graphics card,” Andy said.

            Mark jerked his head from the monitor, “Huh?”

            “I mean, it can do YouTube and play high-res games,” Andy said. “But it has this strange…thing going on.”

            Mark frowned. The same situation with his TV played through his mind on repeat. He took out a frying pan, and prepared his throwing hand.

            “Relax, Mark,” Andy shouted. “It can read the disc, but…ah! There’s the problem!”

            They spent the rest of the evening watching Oceans Eleven with the Rat Pack in all their glory. Andy spent the following morning calling the computer shop trying to find a specialist in optical temporal disk drives.

              

For Flash Fiction Project prompt #44.

Flash Fiction: Serviced Comsumers

           The priest gestured for his following to be seated. He took out a cooking pot and placed it on a nearby column; a small one painted black from top to bottom. He squatted down and fiddled around with the column.

            The audience was looking at him, baffled. The priest kept lifting the pot up and down, looking down at the column when the former happened. It was all there, the red rings of the burner operating as usual. He placed the pot back on the column and addressed a confused mass.

            “Seems that Sir is out of range,” He said. “Let’s try the prayers again. Reach out and pull Sir back in.”

            The prayers were like any other in the Order of Serviced Consumers. Starting with “O’ great Sir”, then something about domestic goods and being blessed to use them, and ending it with “Have a nice day”. The church prayed, their sound amplified throughout the architecture of large spaces.

            The pot remained silent. No boiling and certainly no mobile phones were going to pop out at this rate. Out of range was definitely the problem.

            “Manager McGuffin,” a girl called out. “Maybe Sir prefers landline.”

            McGuffin walked forward and leaned out, searching. Then succeeding after trying to squint through forests of six-foot one, “What do you mean, lady?”

            “Well, you remember back to the Founding,” the girl said. “When everyone was hooked on smartphones.”

                The early days of Serviced Consumers mostly consisted of crowdsourcing through social networking and flyers on café bulletin boards. Some of the founders used smartphones to ease the tedious booting up business they were annoyed with. Easy and portable, they worked for the Founders.

            Problem was their early followers. Some of them had a fondness for playing with computers.

            Manager McGuffin smiled, “Most landlines are immune to the dark arts. Good mind, lady.”

            He then walked from the nearby pews to an ambry. He looked through the self with the Etch-a-Sketchs, beta max tapes and a Dreamcast until he found a landline. It was just a standard one from the late 20^th century with the phone cord, receiver, and square buttons.

            He took it out and plugged it into the column, opening a small hatch for the phone cord. The prayers happened again while McGuffin dialed some numbers. Moments later, his face became pale.

            “Employees of Sir,” He asked. “Any idea where the nearest phone company is?” 

For Flash Fiction Project: Prompt 40.