No text this week, just pictures. Still 100 words exactly though.
copyright Georgia Koch
Tidings by Tide
Tag Archives: fiction
The Battle of New Semester
I’ve been busy lately with work so I wanted to write a post explaining why I haven’t been around as much as I would like to be this week. This is what came out of that. My wife says I’m being silly and, of course, she’s right.
(For those of you who don’t know, I teach ESL at a university.)
Destination: Inbox (Source)
The Battle of New Semester
I knew it was coming for months before it hit. I watched it appear on the horizon like a tsunami viewed from the relative ease of a tropical island beach. Over the weeks and months I watched it get closer, with anticipation at best and at worse, resignation.
Then, on January 5, it hit.
The invasion of the new semester.
It started slow. The first wave was mostly Administrative Duties, buzzing in from above, peppering me with emails. “Re: re: re:!” went their machine guns. “FYI! FYI!” They were slow moving and I could pick them off easily enough, but as the week progressed, each progressive wave got thicker and closer together.
The 5th Division Placement Tests made an amphibious landing on Thursday and I was busy for two days putting down that threat, until finally everyone was in their place. Unfortunately, we weren’t without casualties. Our general went down with the flu and a few NCOs as well.
Of course, this was just the vanguard attack. The main invasion force came the next week and the battle settled down into the daily slog.
The Class artillery is not that bad. Every morning at 8:30, the shelling begins, with 30mm Grammar shells coming in from the right and Writing mortars whistling in from the left. You just have to endure and after a couple hours they slack off before a shorter American Culture attack in the afternoon.
Worse are the Lesson Plans. The sneaky blighters sneak up and sabotage your defenses and equipment, making you unprepared for the daily Class shelling. Sometimes I can pick them off with a few well-aimed shots but other times I spend hours hunting them down, the battles going on into the evenings and spilling over to the weekends.
It will get better though, after a few weeks. I’ll set up anti-aircraft batteries to knock down the Administrative Duties and dive-bombing emails as they appear. I’ll establish a wider perimeter to take care of lesson plans from a greater distance and the daily shelling of Classes will become routine. Things will settle down soon. Soon.
That’s teaching for you.
Stare – Friday Fictioneers
copyright Jan Wayne Fields
Stare
Adam stood by his tenth story apartment window and stared at the woman across the road, their gaze locked as tight as lovers’ lips, their expressions as vacant as the honeymoon suite at Hotel Cholera.
Suddenly, two pigeons collided between them. Their beaks locked together and one tried to fly up while the other went down. Back and forth they went, the commotion resembling two mimes having a screaming match in a washing machine.
Adam’s mouth twitched.
His phone buzzed.
“Hello?”
“You smiled.”
“Dang it! How did you not?” He looked away and blinked his tired eyes.
“Another round?”
A Ghost of a Chance of Success
A Ghost of a Chance of Success
Honestly, I only tried it because my wife said I couldn’t do it.
She gets me to do all kinds of things that way. “I’ll bet you don’t have the guts to marry me,” she said one indolent afternoon 27 years ago, when the summer crickets were in full concert.
I sure showed her.
The challenges started with the mundane: “Bah, you couldn’t mow the lawn if you tried.”
You’d think I’d learn but I had to show her who was boss. Soon I was doing most of the housework while she watched TV and occasionally called out her disbelief in my ability to do various small tasks that I had forgotten.
Eventually, her challenges crossed over into more exotic realms but I never backed down for a second. I spent most of 2013 trying to build a time machine but eventually just built a very small museum and declared victory.
For this latest challenge, I’ve assembled all the things I might need: a large glass bottle, a tombstone, a Bible, a copy of the Necronomicon (just in case) and a liter of ectoplasm.
Now how on Earth am I going to make a ghost ship in a bottle?
The Summer of Subtraction on Sixty-Six – Friday Fictioneers
copyright Jean L. Hays
The Summer of Subtraction on Sixty-Six
It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime ideas: five guys driving Route 66 from Chicago to LA.
Dennis didn’t even make it out of the gate. After a 5-hour delay, we said screw him.
Marcus fell hard for a greasy spoon waitress near Carthage, Missouri; named Dido, no less. After a bitter battle, we sailed, another man down.
Aziz got drunk and fell into Oologah Lake in Oklahoma. He was busted up so bad they had to air-lift him to Tulsa.
John got bad news about his grandfather and flew home from Albuquerque.
I drove on. Best summer of my life.
It Appears I Have a Zombie Car
Upon my word, I’m not sure how to say this but I believe I am the owner of a zombie car.
Braaaaaaakesss…braaaaaaaakesss. [Source]
It all started a week ago with the accident. I was coming up Route 43, just north of Springersville. It was foggy and you know how the road curves left just over the river? Well, straight ahead is the gate for Granger’s scrap yard and I just missed the turn completely in the fog and plowed right into that chain-link gate with my 2002 Corolla. It was an honest mistake, I can assure you; no drink was involved. You can take an old woman’s word on that point.
Well, I ran through the gate and before I could even touch the brakes, I ran smack into the rusted hulk of some big, old truck. I was lucky not to set the airbag off. I was so shook up, I just reversed and drove on up the road. It wasn’t like there was much I could do there at that time of night.
It really hit me when I got home and I just started shaking. I checked the front of the car. It was a bit banged up and had rust all over it. I left it and went in for a nice strong cup of tea.
The next morning, the rust had spread all over it. I brought it into the shop and they got the rust off and repainted it, but the next day it was the same as before. And, when I went to put my groceries in the trunk, there was part of an engine block sitting in there. Imagine that! That really steamed my vegetables. I went and gave Gregory a piece of my mind. He gave it right back, with change, but while we were arguing, I saw Michael listening in and checking the car.
“I know what’s wrong,” he said. “You got a zombie car.”
“What’s that?” I snapped. I was not in the mood for foolishness.
“It’s just like a zombie person,” Michael said. “You have a lot of decay and it’s eating brains, or engines in this case.”
I was about to whack him over the head for being an idiot, but he was giving me more than Gregory had, so I didn’t. “How do you fix it then, if you’re so smart?” I asked.
“With zombies, you can’t fix it at all. Usually, you just shoot them in the head.”
“And what’s that with a car, the head gasket?” I asked, about to whack him anyway. “Good luck explaining that to the insurance company. ‘My car turned into a zombie so I shot it in the head gasket. Give me money.’ They’d laugh themselves silly.”
He shrugged. “Just saying.”
I drove home in my zombie car. Kids these days.
The problem was that it kept disappearing at night, sometimes coming home at dawn and sometimes not. I followed it once. It wasn’t hard, since it just sort of shambled along in first gear. I watched it pop its hood and eat the engine out of Dr. Patel’s Ferrari down the road. I would have stopped him but I didn’t know how and Dr. Patel always lets his dog crap in my yard anyway.
Finally I had enough. Not sure what to do, I drove it out to Thompson Road and parked it on the train tracks as the train was coming.
“Good bye, old boy,” I said. It seemed more effective than shooting it in the head gasket.
The train was almost on it and blowing its horn like an angry elephant, when suddenly my car put itself in reverse and backed off the tracks. The last I heard of it was a low, grumbling blast of its horn before it disappeared down the road.
I told the insurance company that it was stolen. It’s not technically a lie and even if it were, what was an old woman supposed to do?
Blind Angel Luck
Today is my birthday, although this story has nothing to do with that.
Blind Angel Luck
The angel in my hand was blind, projecting an air of bland, unfocused benevolence out into the world. That was how I had envisioned it when I bought it: a chunk of divine plutonium, radiating good luck and positive vibes to all those nearby. It hadn’t really worked out that way.
“Hey, is this for sale?” my friend Phil asked, picking it up. People were circulating through my apartment, looking over the price-tagged items. I told people I needed to de-clutter. No one was fooled; I could barely buy food.
“Just take it,” I said, “if you dare. I bought it for good luck, after all.”
“Ah.” He put it in his pocket, then slipped $20 into my hand. “I’ll take my chances,” he said with a wink.
Two hours later, the sale was over and I was just sitting down in my much-emptier living room when someone pounded on the door. It was Phil.
“It worked! It worked!”
“What worked?”
“The angel. I went to the corner shop to buy a Coke and I was coming back when I got mugged.”
“How is that good?”
“I threw the angel at him when he turned around. It knocked him out cold. The police are giving me a reward. I’ll split it with you.”
I still don’t believe in good luck charms. But I might start carrying a stone angel around with me anyway.
The Biomes of My Life
“Do you have a blog, grandpa?” the boy asked, kicking his legs against the stool rungs in the nursing home.
“No, I don’t do much with computers,” the old man said. “We didn’t have them when I was growing up and I guess I just didn’t find the need afterwards.”
The boy considered this. “What was life like for you, growing up? What was it really like?”
“It’s hard to explain,” the man said after a moment. “You’re too young to understand and there’s a lot of it.”
“Then you can start a blog and write about it.”
The man smiled. He pointed at the boy’s open backpack. “What’s that?”
“My social studies book. I got homework. We’re studying biomes.”
“Let me see it.” The man flipped through it, then handed it back. “Come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you about my life.”
The next day, when the boy came to his grandfather’s room, the man handed him several pages covered with a firm, flowing script, made shaky at the ends by age.
“Can you read it to me?” the boy asked. “We don’t learn that kind of writing in school anymore.”
“This time,” the man said, looking more put out than he really felt. “Get your mom to type it out for you. Okay, here we go: The Biomes of My Life.
“I was born in the jungle, emerging from my cocoon into a world bursting with life. At first, I was amazed at the bright colors and variety around me but unaware of the dangers that stalked through the shadows. There were jaguars and tigers in the trees that watched as I climbed and swung through the trees. One day, an old tiger caught me and mauled me badly and that ended my career climbing trees. I stayed, stifled, on the floor of the jungle, and it felt like the trees were pressing down on me. I longed for fresh air.
“When I was a teenager, I finally found the savannah and reveled in the open space and air. I ran and jumped and played, unrestrained by anything. I saw the groups that moved around: the zebras and antelope, the lions and hyenas and remembering the old tiger, I allied myself with the hyenas. I was not going to be a victim. I was the killer now, preying on the flighty animals that ran in front of me. It was a glorious existence while it lasted, but the lions reminded us who were bigger and in the end, I took more harm than if I had run with the zebras.
“My early twenties were a desert. I had run from the lions and leaving the savannah, I wandered for long periods of time in areas devoid of life with just the rocks and sand as companions. The sky was large and although life seemed wide open, it was empty in every direction I tried. The scorching sun and wind burned me, crushing my young will. I could have died in that barren place if I had not found a tiny trickle of water that led to a river, which led to the ocean.
“It was in my late twenties that I embarked on the great ocean. It was as wide open as the desert but finally I was going places and life was all around me again. The crests and troughs followed in quick succession but I rode every one and although I was never satisfied, I went further and faster than I ever had.
“It was during this time, in my early thirties that I found my tropical island. The air there was heavy with the scent of flowers and luscious fruit was everywhere. It was the first time in my life that I was truly happy and I could lie on the beach for hours, just drinking it all in.
“But after a while, the lure of the fast-paced ocean life lured me back. I went back to the island when I could, but the visits became less frequent as I traveled further and further on the wild waves. Finally, I came back to find that half the island had burned. That was a shock. I gave up the ocean and spend the next several decades restoring the island back to life. It was never what it had been, but it became my home.”
The old man stopped reading. “What do you think?”
“I don’t understand,” the boy said. “You were born in a jungle?”
“It’s a riddle,” his grandfather said. “You will need a key to unlock it.”
“What’s that?”
“Experience. Then you will understand my story. But for now, let me tell you the lessons I have learned. Watch out for tigers and hyenas. Run from them. They are not your friends. Avoid the deserts but if you find yourself in one, never give up. There is more out there. And finally, if you find your tropical island, take care of it. It is more precious than you think.”
“Okay, I’ll try to understand it later.” the boy said. He looked uncertain and the grandfather gave him a hug.
“I hope so. Then you can tell your story to your son and grandson. You can even blog about it if you want.”
Kid Logic – Friday Fictioneers
Merry Christmas to everyone from the Green-Walled Tower! There is no snow touching its ivy-covered sides since this year has been unseasonably warm where I am, although it is still Christmas inside. I have been surrounded by young children and Christmas themes this weeks: thus, this story.
copyright Bjorn Rudberg
Kid Logic
The boys charged up the steps of the old castle, glad to be free of the car.
“The steps are lava!” Jack yelled.
“But they’re green,” Henry said. “They’re like little Christmas trees. Maybe there are tiny people there who decorate them at Christmas.”
“And Santa delivers presents, riding in the Catbus.”
“And then a dragon comes out of the ground and fights the Catbus and the people hide in the Christmas trees.”
“Yeah, they climb inside ornaments and use them for their houses.”
At that moment, Batman ballerina ran between them, crushing innumerable imaginary Christmas trees under her feet.
my little Batman ballerina
The Amber Man – Friday Fictioneers
Isn’t it interesting how a story can change when seen through the window of a hundred words? Last week’s story, Holding the Bridge generated a lot of interesting ideas about what had happened to the guard on the bridge, which fit with the hundred-word version. Click here to read the longer story about what really happened on the bridge.
copyright Douglas M. MacIlroy
The Amber Man
The lights came on, treacling back to my retinas.
“Here’s where we keep him, gentlemen.”
Humans. Real people, at last.
Squeeze their throats. Burst their brains.
“How is he not dead?
“Someone this powerful? If he could die from starvation, this setup wouldn’t have been necessary.”
Help me! For God’s sake, don’t leave me again!
Kill them. Kill them all!
“It’s a shame. His advances saved billions of lives.”
“He also slaughtered fifty million with his bare hands.”
“He looks so peaceful.”
“Thanks to the drugs. Inside though it’s a war: like an angel and demon caught together in amber.”
Welcome to the Tower
Giselle: A Short Story
Blogs I Like to Read
The Green-Walled Tower 
