target

WDYS — A Target on My Back

Fandango26 Comments

A light coating of snow and freezing rain slicked the platform, turning steel and concrete into frosted mirrors that told the truth whether you liked it or not. The train hissed in, tired and late, like it had secrets to unload. Don’t we all?

He told me to wait under the rusted girders, where the lights flickered and the cameras pretended not to see. Funny thing about cameras — they never blink, but they miss plenty. I pulled my collar up and watched the mist swallow the tracks, each rail a thin promise going nowhere good.

The train’s doors slid open. She was supposed to be on this train, he told me. Red coat. Cheap perfume. Troubled dark eyes. Instead, all I got were commuters with faces stamped from the same gray mold, clutching briefcases like alibis. The train exhaled its living drones, nobody looking back. Soon, the doors closed and the train pulled away, taking its answers with it. I stood still, watching the fog swallow up the departing train.

I lit a cigarette I didn’t need and thought about the call that started this mess. His voice was like gravel in a glass, saying her name like a confession. She’d apparently crossed the wrong people, and now everyone wanted her found. Each for different reasons. He needed to find her first.

In professions like mine, you don’t always catch what you’re chasing. And in this case, I was okay with that. I didn’t know what the dame did, but I felt sorry for her. Turning her over to a fate that I am sure would be about as pleasant as a stick in the eye was not an assignment I should have accepted in the first place.

But while I was not that bothered about her being a no show on that train, I knew that the guy who hired me was not the type to be trifled with. I worried that I had just painted a target on my own back.

Written for Sadje’s What Do You See prompt. Photo credit: Tobias Reich @ Unsplash.

MLMM Saturday Mix Lucky Dip — Up to No Good

Fandango11 Comments

I swear living with you is like rolling the dice at the craps table. I never know if you’ll roll a seven or a snake eyes. You told me — no you promised me — that you had turned over a new leaf. But here you are, down in the basement, hunched over your laptop and searching the internet for instructions on how to make a bomb.

And is that a hand grenade I see? Is it live? What is that mask for? Oh my god, what is wrong with you? Are you aspiring to be a masked bomber or something? Are you planning to explode a bomb somewhere in the city? Do you have a target in mind?

Your school? Okay, that’s it. You’re grounded for the rest of the month. I’m taking your laptop and I’m shutting down WiFi. I don’t know who you’re talking to online, but I’m putting this to a stop right now.

Written for the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Saturday Mix Lucky Dip, where the story cubes are dice, leaf, mask, grenade, laptop, wifi/signal, target, and bomb

WDYS — Bullseye

Fandango15 Comments

The instructions were crystal clear. It had to be large enough to be visible from space. A bullseye constructed of natural stone would be surrounded by concentric circles, ultimately covering the entire valley floor. It also had to stand the test of time, because it could be eons before it was actually required. Or maybe never. That depended upon the evolution of the dominant species that inhabited the planet.

It also had to look natural, so that the dominant species would not see it for what it really was. In other words, it had to blend in, as much as possible. Yes, it might be seen as a phenomenon, and potentially become a tourist attraction or a holy site upon which religious rituals were held. After all, the dominant species was comprised of spiritual creatures who invented supernatural beings to answer what to them was unanswerable.

But the time had finally come. There was an imbalance that the dominant species had created on the planet. It took billions of years, but the planet was beginning to decay, and should that be allowed to happen, the effects upon the solar system in which the planet exists would be devastating, possibly even leading to adverse consequences throughout the galaxy.

“Our ancestors did what was asked of them,” the captain said. The target is clearly visible from deep space. “It’s time to engage the photomagnitron that will send the electromagnetic pulse directly to the center of the target. Upon impact, it will set off a chain reaction causing the planet to almost instantaneously implode.”

“Everything is ready,” the gunner said. “I await your orders, Captain.”

The captain took a deep breath. His order would destroy the planet and the civilization that inhabited it. What he was about to do was unprecedented, but his orders were clear. The dominant species had left no choice, having created an environment that would soon be unable to support life forms. Like a virus, it had to be destroyed before it infected the rest of the universe.

“Engage,” the captain said. He and his crew watched as, moments later, the electromagnetic pulse hit the bullseye and the third planet from the star named Sol disappeared.

Written for Sadje’s What Do You See prompt. Image credit: Robert Lukeman @ Unsplash.

FOWC with Fandango — Target

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FOWCWelcome to December 11, 2018 and to Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (aka, FOWC). It’s designed to fill the void after WordPress bailed on its daily one-word prompt.

I will be posting each day’s word just after midnight Pacific Time (US).

Today’s word is “target.”

Write a post using that word. It can be prose, poetry, fiction, non-fiction. It can be any length. It can be just a picture or a drawing if you want. No holds barred, so to speak.

Once you are done, tag your post with #FOWC and create a pingback to this post if you are on WordPress. Or you can simply include a link to your post in the comments.

And be sure to read the posts of other bloggers who respond to this prompt. You will marvel at their creativity.

FFfAW — Pull

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B8F45964-7C00-42C2-8335-79A305E063D0“Omigod, Hank. You couldn’t hit the floor if you fell out of bed,” Jimmy said, trying to control his laughter.

“Pull!” yelled a determined Hank. As the clay pigeon became airborne, Hank pumped the shotgun, took aim, and fired. Once again, he missed the target. “Dammit,” he said.

“With aim like that,” Jimmy said, “I pity your wife when she has to clean the floor around your toilet.”

“Hey, cut the dude some slack, Jimmy,” Mike said. “This is his first time going skeet shooting.”

“Yeah, Jimmy,” Hank said. “How many targets did you hit your first time?”

“Every damn one, Hank,” Jimmy answered.

“That’s a load of bullshit, Jimmy,” Hank replied.

“Oh yeah? Watch this.” Jimmy yelled, “Pull!” and as the clay pigeon catapulted across the sky, he pumped the shotgun, tracked the disc, and fired. The target broke into tiny pieces.

Hank was enraged. He turned toward Jimmy, raised the shotgun, aimed it at him, and said, “Who’s the clay pigeon now, asshole?” as he pumped the barrel. “Pull!”

(171 words)

Written for the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt from Priceless Joy. Photo credit: Yinglan.

Friday Fictioneers — A Fish Out of Water

Fandango15 Comments

img_0069“Bloomingdales?” Clarissa said. “Seriously, Mom?”

“Why not, Sweetie?” Alice asked. “Bloomies has beautiful clothing and exquisite accessories that would be perfect for your new job. And the shoes there are fabulous.”

“Mom, I am a programmer,” Clarissa explained. “I can wear jeans and sneakers at work. ‘Beautiful, ‘exquisite,’ and ‘fabulous’ would be overkill.”

“But they have professional shoppers at Bloomies,” Alice added.

“Sheesh, Mom, I’m a Ross Dress for Less and a Target kind of a girl,” Clarissa said. “I’d be a fish out of water at Bloomingdales.”

“I’m paying, Sweetheart,” Alice said.

“Okay, fine, Mom,” Clarissa said. “Bloomies it is.”

(100 words)

Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Marie Gail Stratford.

Pot Shots

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“You’ve got to hold it steady, close your left eye, aim, and pull the trigger,” explained Brian to his little brother.

“I know,” said Neil. “I’m not stupid.” Neil aimed the BB rifle toward the teacup and saucer mounted atop the first spindle. He took a deep breath, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

“Swing and a miss!” laughed Brian. “Give me the gun and let me show you how it’s done,” he said, grabbing the gun from his younger brother’s hands.

Brian put the butt of the BB rifle up against his shoulder, lined up the cup in his sight, and shot. “Boom!” He yelled out as the cup shattered into tiny pieces.

“Give it to me,” Neil pleaded. Brian handed him the gun and said, “Just do it like I did it.”

Neil mimicked his brother, pushing the rifle’s butt into his shoulder, closing one eye, squinting, aiming, and shooting.

Both boys started jumping up and down and shouting when Neil’s shot his its target.

And that’s when the shit hit the fan. Their father, hearing all the ruckus, ran into the backyard.

“Your mama’s gonna whoop your asses,” he said. “Them cups was a wedding present from your great grandmama.”

(202 words)

Written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt.