Last #CCC

He walked down the dirty road, the only sounds his movements and wind in the grass. He had been out hunting – if you could call it that. In his rucksack were rusty cans of vegetables, stewed meat and bottles of clear river water which he still had to boil before drinking.

Arriving back at the farm house, he checked on things – animals and crops good – then he sat at the worn table and ate a tin of peaches. He found them good but too sweet, still he savored them, knowing they could well be the last just like he was.

 

(Inspired by; https://crimsonprose.wordpress.com/2019/07/10/crimsons-creative-challenge-35/ with thanks).

 

 

Under Smoky Skies #TwitteringTales

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From the first day of the aliens arrival the skies across the world had been darkened by clouds of smoke. Wars raged but in the end the invades won and mankind fall to death and slavery. The sky started dark forever more.

 

(Inspired by; https://katmyrman.com/2019/05/07/twittering-tales-135-7-may-2019/ with thanks).

Dustsceawung #atozchallenge

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Dustsceawung; contemplation of the dust. Reflection on former civilizations and peoples on the knowledge that all things will turn to dust.

I dreamed again last night. Everything was gone. Dust storms blew through empty buildings and burnt out cars. The wind howling like a dying animal, the sound amplified.

I walked, face wrapped in a scarf. There was a children’s playground. A skeleton against the wire fence. Didn’t like real. Reminded me of models in classrooms. The skeleton had yellowed bones. Fingers curled around holes in the wire fence. Empty eye sockets staring. Mouth open in scream.

Instantly, the skeleton crumpled. Dust at my feet which the wind blew away from me. Crying out, I ran away. Tripped and fell. Dust in my eyes, nose and mouth. Dust suffocating me! Wind deafening me. Gone. Gone. Gone.

We are all dust. We come from dust and we return to dust.

Thus, the circle goes on forever.

 

(Join in the challenge here; http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com)

Old Tech #3LineTales

three line tales, week 138: an old television set

Walking through the houses of the Old World, Peanut was always fascinated by the items they could find.

Today, she had turned up a dial TV which Grand Pops explained was used to show information in moving pictures with sound direct to people, but it had also been a part of the Old World’s downfall because it had forced everyone to stay inside.

The tale was easy to believe because generations of the last humans had remained behind the steel door and it was only now they were adventuring out to see what they ancestors had left them of the world.

 

(Inspired by; https://only100words.xyz/2018/09/20/three-line-tales-week-138/ with thanks).

Artificial #FridayFictioneers

The unreal moon rose, full and dull white, shining in a too sea wash blue sky. I moved the netted curtain and opened the window. There should have been the sounds of the town; the cars, the people, the too loud TVs and crying children, but there was hardly anything.

I looked out, wasting more seconds, as I vented silent hatred over how this had all come about. The Government said it was for our own good, war was on, everything was being faked for our protection. I didn’t believe it, but what could one man do against all of this?

(Inspired by; https://rochellewisoff.com/2018/09/05/7-september-2018 with thanks).

 

 

Postcard #49

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Dear Lilac,

I was lucky to find this postcard in an antique shop and I thought you’d like it. No one living now can remember season changes, it’s always summer. (Of course, you know all of this!) How is your museum of the Old World doing? Busy, I hope! I’ve found a few things for your collection but I can’t post them to you whilst I’m flying! It’s letters only. In a few days, we will have reached the Drown Tropic Islands and then I can find an airship who will deliver.

Always remember the Elders are watching,

Pot.

 

Flag #FFfAW

The take over had been slow at first but now it was sweeping all over. Everyone left from the alien invasion could see they had no choice but to unite as one country, one world.

The strips and stars flags appeared everywhere; houses, skyscrapers, ancient structures and mountains. Whilst anything that might divide people was temporally removed.

Humans needed to be as one at this time or they might not survive the next attempted invasion. Despite what some believed, another war was bubbling into life on a distant plant that would challenge the fate of humankind.

(Inspired by; https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2018/06/25/fffaw-challenge-171st/ with thanks).

The Last #FridayFictioneers

I looked around at the people surrounding me in the museum’s hallway. The realisation hit home; we were the last humans on earth and there was just over a hundred of us.

I flipped through the register again whilst I tried to convince myself that more people might have survived. It wasn’t a very good likelihood but I wasn’t going to be able to handle this if I couldn’t hold on to something.

A man came up to me and said, ‘so, what do we do now?’

Quietness fell and eyes turned towards me.

‘I guess we try to start again,’ I answered.

 

(Inspired by; https://rochellewisoff.com/2018/06/06/1-june-2018/ with thanks).

The Library #TaleWeaver

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Poetry knew it as a fine-able offence to take off her breathing mask whilst on the surface. But that was only if the Constables caught you and you were still alive afterwards to pay. Plus, Poetry reasoned there were green trees here, so the air must be okay. Taking a last deep breath of filtered air and oxygen, she pulled off the heavy mask and held that breath till she couldn’t anymore.

The next breath she took in was clean enough though it was tinted with the nuclear poisons that made the earth’s surface uninhabitable. Things weren’t so bad this far away from the core but Poetry knew she’d have to put her mask back on soon to avoid getting sick.

Being careful, where she placed her feet, Poetry edged into the building. A strange sight met her eyes; there were trees growing from the floor out of the roof of the room before her. The tree trunks were white and flaky as if they were wrapped in crumbing bandages but Poetry knew that was how those kind of trees looked naturally. Along the walls of the room were bookcases and most of the books were still in place.

Poetry tipped her head back and looked up at the balcony which formed a second floor. There was a staircase on either side leading up there. More bookcases and books filled the space and she breathed deeply in the old papers. On the floor there were broken tables and chairs, rotted by the incoming weather and time.

She was just about to step down when a voice called her name and she felt the brush of a gloved hand on her shoulder.

‘Where’s your mask?’ a muffled and gruff man’s voice asked her.

Poetry turned fully to her older cousin, Legend. It was thanks to him that she had been able to come on this surface run. He and his work colleagues were collecting salvageable items and also anything edible which could be decontaminated when they got back to the Hive then sold on.

‘Here. It’s fine,’ she added quickly, ‘there are alive trees in here and I just wanted to breath probably for a moment.’

‘And leave me to have to explain to your mother why you died?’ Legend cut back in.

He grab Poetry’s mask and shoved it back on her face. She tried to stop him but he was stronger and it was painful. She wrestled his hands away and put the mask back on herself.

‘There’s nothing good here,’ Legend spoke, ‘we’ve all ready been through.’

‘But the books,’ Poetry pointed out, shocked that her cousin couldn’t see the value in them.

He shrugged broad shoulders, ‘hard to decontaminated and only a few buyers.’

‘Hey!’ a man’s voice yelled and they both turned to look back, ‘Over here. I’ve shot a deer!’

Legend took off, jogging over to where two other men where heading into a clump of trees. Poetry watched him go then seized her chance. She rushed in and pulled a few books off the closest shelf. They were heavy, weighted down with damp and mould.

Unhappily, Poetry dropped them to the floor and went to seek any shelves that were sheltered from when light and rain come inside. Her heart was racing and she knew at any moment Legend would come back and drag her away. She only wanted a few books though, something new to read that wasn’t like the other stories she had.

There were bookcases at the back in corner which were in shadows. Poetry pulled a few books out and found they were drier. Not bothering to read the titles, she put her rucksack on the floor and stuffed as many inside as she could.

‘Poetry!’ Legend’s voice called from the distant doorway.

Poetry swung her bag back on, almost toppling under the weight of it. Then grabbing two last books, that were the biggest ones of the shelf and hurried back to him.

‘They are dry! Please!’ She gasped, her voice rasping through the mask.

‘If they don’t get through it’s not my fault,’ Legend huffed.

Poetry grinned, ‘they will,’ she said, ‘Conner the guard really likes me.’

Legend shook his head and turned away.

With a last glance at the library, Poetry followed him back into the long abandoned city.

(Inspired by; https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/05/24/tale-weaver-172-libraries-24-may-2018/ with thanks).

Doors #twitteringtales

Seven doors; six things that would kill me, only one that would free me. I had reached the final part in this biased life or death ‘game show’ which was a reality in my country. I choice the middle one. Grabbing the handle, I opened the door and faced my destiny.

(Inspired by; https://katmyrman.com/2018/05/01/twittering-tales-82-1-may-2018/ with thanks).