Use the photograph above as the inspiration for your flash fiction story. Write whatever comes to mind (no sexual, political, or religious stories, jokes, or commentary, please) and after you PROOFREAD it, submit it as your entry in the comments section below. There will be no written prompt.
Welcome to the Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Challenge. In 250 words or less, write a story incorporating the elements in the picture at left. The 250 word limit will be strictly enforced.
Please keep language and subject matter to a PG-13 level.
Use the comment section below to submit your entry. Entries will be accepted until Tuesday at 5:00 PM Pacific Time. No political or religious entries, please. Need help getting started? Read this article on how to write flash fiction.
On Wednesday, we will open voting to the public with an online poll so they may choose the winner. Voting will be open until 5:00 PM Thursday. On Saturday morning, the winner will be recognized as we post the winning entry along with the picture as a feature.
Once a month, the admins will announce the Editors’ Choice winners. Those stories will be featured in an anthology like this one. Best of luck to you all in your writing!
Entries only in the comment section. Other comments will be deleted. See HERE for additional information and terms. Please note the rule changes for 2016.
Fear The Button
“Relax Sally, it’s a boneyard.”
“I’m afraid…these aren’t bones. They’re missiles designed to kill!”
“Sally…’boneyard’ means that they’ve been DE-weaponized. They can’t explode — they can’t hurt us !!”
“I don’t care, Bobbie. So much potential destruction. Why were they ever built in the first place?”
“To ensure the peace, silly.”
“So the threat of death guaranteed peace?”
Well…that was the thinking.”
“Does that mean there’s no longer an arsenal of missiles?”
“Well no. These are obsolete…actually they were replaced with much more powerful ones. Thousands of them.”
“Bobby, who controls all of these weapons, huh?”
“Sally, people do. Someone, somewhere, has the power to launch any of them if ordered to do so.”
“Umm…’ordered’ by whom?”
“Other people. You know…those in power”
“You know what all this reminds me of? The Rolling Stones.”
“Huh?”
“You know the song ♫ ♫ ♫ …”War is just a shot away…♫ ♫ ”
“Umm, Sally. Now YOU’RE scaring ME !!”
“Cheer up; things could be worse,” a friend told him at the time. Well, guess what? he thought. I cheered up and things got worse. I was fired. Thanks a lot!
The day was decidedly not going well for John Amleth. In looking back, he should have seen the signs of impending disaster. Take, for example, the accusations a co-worker made earlier that week regarding his lack of support on a critical deliverable. In truth, it was she who failed to finalize the financial calculations so critical to their analyses.
“That’s outrageous!” he had bellowed at her after they briefed their boss. “You know damn well it was your responsibility to run the numbers! Yet you threw me under the bus, knowing damn well he’d support you. This is madness!”
Of course, he’d support her, John thought. Why fight it? Hadn’t they been lovers for more than a year? Everyone knew it. Everyone despised her. If they could, they went out of their way to avoid her.
He had no choice. An assignment was an assignment. And after all, given his boss had elevated her to the position of executive assistant in the finance department, it was inevitable they’d end up working together on the cost proposal for the Israeli’s Arrow Missile Program.
Three months passed without the offer of a new job. But one day, things got better. The headlines announced his old boss and his lover had been indicted for embezzling $3 million from his former employer.
“They are onto us.”
“Ssssh! Don’t summon the evil eye!”
An elongated missile with a comical orange blotch on its face attempted to blink alongside two fellow weapons that were nestled on their launch pads that summer day. The scorching heat was ruffling the sunlight, the air stagnant from tireless clouds of dust that howled in each direction without notice.
“Will the two of you calm down? I’m trying to rest.”
“Give me a break Blimey; you’re just chilling out because you have more days left to live.”
“Perhaps it’s true that I was trying to enjoy myself which was ruined from your blatant obnoxiousness.”
“Like you would care!” Interjected a robust green missile with a white tip.
“Will you stop hating yourself Tomada? They are going to send you to that pacific island. I wished I could perish in such a pleasant place.”
The dusty compound became invaded by the unsettling sound of metal grinding against the hard soil from the booming of sirens. The three missiles suddenly shrieked.
“It’s happening! They are going to launch one of us!”
Tomada tried to frenetically release itself from the restraints in vain whereas the second missile attempted the same without success.
And then something completely unexpected occurred. The unusually calm Blimey was covered by a cloud of smoke and shot into the air without notice. Before the trembling missiles could ponder where their doomed friend was going, it self-destructed in a blinding beam of light.
“How does it look to you? Authentic? The missiles are all randomly placed, although the ground is a little too smooth. Send a prop guy to churn it up. Make it look like a battleground.”
“What about having some bodies scattered around. Maybe a bit of blood. No missing parts though. We’re only going for a PG13 rating.”
“Sounds good. The editing department can put them in later. Now about the general atmosphere of the place. I thought we could enhance the feel of the desert. Highlight the red tints. Give the impression of almost unbearable heat.”
“I like that. Okay, let’s get ready to roll! Get that truck off the set. Bring those story boards over here. Are the actors ready? Yes? Okay, roll!”
The actors, most of them former soldiers, unshaven and wearing dirty camouflage, crouched low and scurried onto the set, weapons ready. Then the first chuckled, sputtered, and laughed aloud. Soon all the other actor/soldiers were laughing too. They had all dropped their weapons and were upending a missile.
“What are they doing? That’s not in the script! You there! What do you think you’re doing!”
“Fixing your authentic battleground,” the soldier laughed. “Missiles don’t land butt-first, General.”
Brother Jacob opened the ancient tome, and read aloud from the thousand-year old sacred text, “With all missiles of mass destruction to be destroyed by all nations, the earth and all its inhabitants were blessed with the Great Peace. For the first time in the history of mankind peace was at hand,” He asked, “Are there any questions on this passage?”
Brother Markus, a new student inquired, “I don’t understand sir, how did the Last Great War happen, if there were no missiles?”
Brother Jacob instructed, “There was no war. The rest of the passage explains man’s foolishness: In the twenty-second year of the Great Peace, all nations prospered. However, there grew great discontent among all men in Merica, and they fell into ignorance and chose a fool to rule them all. When shown the Great Football of State, he demanded to be the one to kick it off. The fool opened it and discovered a red button the size of a toe. Thinking all missiles of mass destruction destroyed, laughingly, he kicked that red button, and all missiles still armed were launched.”
Stunned, Brother Markus thought for a moment then it dawned on him, “Oh! That’s why: at the end of every year, we hang mistletoe in our doorways and hug and kiss under it, so no one kicks it off with their foot.”
Just then the class bell rang, Brother Jacob grinned from ear to ear, “Class over! Remember, it’s bad luck to kick missletoe.”
Wilson, still among the living, felt the sun bleaching his bones white. Cane in hand, he crept through a desiccated forest of metal, of great white trunks with stubby black limbs, some upright, some leaning impossibly, some lying prone. Signs identified the remains of each, naming, explaining, talking history.
“Which is yours, grandpa?”
Wilson smiled down at Connor, all of nine, running ahead of his parents and older sister, oblivious to the desert heat and the brown mountains in the distance. The others took time to read, but Connor cared nothing for signs. He wanted to claim his heritage, to lay his hands on the missile his grandfather had helped design.
“This one here.” Wilson pointed a shaking finger at a sleek skyscraper of a weapon bristling with fins, piercing the cloudless sky.
“It’s the best!” Connor ran, touched a stabilizer, stroked it. “Does it go into space?”
“Not quite. But it has range. Thousands of miles.”
“What does it do?”
Wilson rubbed his chin. “Carries a bomb.”
“Did you kill people with it, grandpa?”
“No, Connor. I just designed it.”
“But it’s yours.”
He’s only nine, Wilson told himself. He’ll understand someday.
The child caressed the belly of the missile. His eyes traced its body up, up, into the blue. “If it were mine, I’d use it on all our enemies.”
The sun bleached Wilson’s bones a bit more. “They teach their children the same.”
Connor turned a grim smile on Wilson. “Good thing you made it, then.”
“Missiles are armed and ready to launch,” I announce.
Our commander paces heavily behind me, glancing again at my screens. “How close are the rabble?” he asks.
“The main group has just entered striking distance,” answers the lieutenant. “But some of the leaders have already reached our gate.”
“Then blast the mob now,” the commander orders. “That should make the rest of them retreat.”
I enter the codes. But instead of flying missiles I see endless error messages. “They’ve hacked our system,” I report. “Our launch codes are compromised.”
“Impossible,” the commander sputters. “No one can access this system but us.”
I swivel my chair around to face him. “That’s true, sir. Only an insider could breach our security.”
The commander glares at me. “Fix it now,” he orders.
“Oh, yes sir. We are fixing everything.” I wave my hand toward the lieutenant who points a weapon at the commander. Then I punch in the door release password.
The lieutenant urges the commander toward the cell we’ve prepared as the children pour into our compound. They laugh and dance while we, their mothers, hug them.
“This revolution is over,” I say. “You will not kill any more of our children.”
“One more left, “Jeff remarked looking up, admiring its cone-shaped head. “Take that sucker down.”
“And to think, these babies were aimed at Russian and Iran..”
“Duds, soon to be scrap metal.”
“Never thought we would’ve gotten that contract.” Fletcher remarked to his business partner.
“Uncle Sam got plenty dough to throw around.”
“Figured some big-shot company in bed with those Washington suits had this one for sure.”
“We lucked out.”
“You think?”
Jeff shrugged, then secured a thick metal link-chain around the bottom of the rust-patched missile and gave Fletcher the thumps-up.
“Patty would love this one planted in our backyard.” Fletcher said.
“Shut up and step on it.”
“Hey, this one won’t budge.” Fletcher Said, feverishly moving the controls of the caterpillar.
“Fifth gear.” Jeff instructed, standing near the base of the projectile.
The caterpillar massive tires spun, like a Ferris wheel, without traction; the intended tow remained erect, unfazed from the tug to prostrate it.
“Tough SOB.”
“Let’s call for backup?” Fletcher said.
“Hell no! That will cut into our pay.”
“What’s, that?” Fletcher said, looking to the sky, pop-eyed, then wiping the sweat dripping from his brow.
“What?” Jeff yelled.
“The head. Watch, sparks.”
“Sparks?”
“Smoke now!”
“Holy Cow.”
“It’s shaking.”
“Abort! Abort!”
Both men bolted for their truck and sped off, leaving billows of sand in trail. A flare ignited the skies and a thud ensued, swaying their vehicle.
“We really lucked out,” Fletcher remarked, watching Jeff shake his head.
The scent of her wafted across his nostrils, a bouquet so subtle, refined, and distinct it stopped him in his tracks. Cupid’s arrow had struck.
“Did you not smell that?” he asked, turning to his friend, a wizened old veteran.
“Of course, I did. I’m not dead, you know. But you fall in love at the drop of a hat. Why only last week we went through this same exercise . . . the scent, the chase. Look what happened? You barely escaped with your life.”
“Ah, yes, everything you say is true,” remarked the young suitor. “But recall how silly her protector looked, arms flailing in the air and all, as I stole her away.” He laughed as they moved closer.
Soon they encountered the source of the young suitor’s lust. She had a beautiful countenance, with an earthy appeal. Her skin, with its pearly shine, was striking against the room’s rich furnishings, enhancing her delicate and fresh features.
“This one looks like trouble,” said the wizened one. “She could cost you an arm and a leg.”
“Whaddya talking about?”
“I’m talking about all that metal jewelry around here. She’s an expensive one, all right.”
“I think you’re losing your edge, my friend,” said the young suitor, laughing. “Watch this!”
“Ah, yes. ‘Watch this!’, the two most dangerous words in the English language. You know what I think? I think this one could cost you dearly.”
SNAP
Hank wasn’t sure how his dad had handled it, but he knew a sales rep position wasn’t going to be his kind of gig. Especially not after this trip.
It was enough to be the new man and draw the lousiest route, but to have car trouble on top of that? Jumping ship was now at the top of his ‘to do’ list.
His life was quietly going down the drain. Cindy’s ‘get married or get out’ ultimatum as he loaded his car was just the tip of the iceberg. Nothing had gone right since.
Three days, zero sales. Now car trouble in the middle of nowhere. Plus, no cell service. Nothing but wheat fields as far as the eye could see. And with the roads as flat as his sales calls, he could see plenty far.
His only good fortune was finding the umbrella. It was coming in handy to keep the glaring sun out off his eyes.
As he grumbled, kicking at the loose gravel on the side of the road; cursing Cindy, his boss, his job, his life in general, his despair grew in proportion to the size of the storm clouds forming on the horizon and heading his way.
‘At least I have this umbrella,’ he thought, scant seconds before an unexpected gust of wind tore it from his grasp, sending it through the air like a tomahawk missile.
“Crap,” was all he got out, as the first golf ball-sized raindrop hit him in the face.
During the Cold War, the federal government developed a set of missiles called Nike. Strategically placed all over the country, they were intended to protect and defend the heavy industry of fuel refineries and steel mills. The southern shore of Lake Michigan was feared to be a prime target of a nuclear strike. With six steel mills, two refineries, 20 percent of the earth’s fresh water in Lake Michigan and the city of Chicago just around the southwest bend of the lake, several missiles were hidden in plain sight throughout Northwest Indiana.
Jake had heard the stories from his grandfather, who was stationed at one of the Nike Missile bases in the Calumet Region. At the end of the Cold War in the 1990s, the property was offered for sale. Most of the locations were still barren, but Jake purchased 500 acres of scrub and woodland for development.
Upon inspection, it was discovered there were still missiles buried underground. The military cordoned off the property and removed them, transporting them to a secret desert location in New Mexico.
Sgt. Wiley was in charge of that base and ordered the transport vehicles to a flat area where several missiles were arranged, standing tall as if they were waiting for someone to light a fuse to send it skyward. There was no fear of these projectiles being launched as all the weaponry and electronics had been removed. Once ready for display, Wiley affixed a new name onto each missile: ACME.
They stood there like frozen mannequins, surrounded by the music, not knowing what to do. The rumbling of the 18-wheeler grew louder as it crossed the desert.
“Hey, you guys, I hear them comin’,” the largest rocket called out. “They’re bringing more to join us.” The others couldn’t move. They were strategically anchored into the sand, pointing in different directions.
As the sun began to set, the music grew louder and the orgy of thousands of revelers grew noisier and more wild in front of their crackling fires. Their joyous howling, growling, dancing, made the ground tremble.
The semi rolled into the parking space behind the crowd and quickly began setting up its cargo of hundreds of multi-colored rockets in between the others, aiming at the same target, and finished just in time.
The emcee screeched, “It’s almost midnight! Hold onto your fangs and start counting. One…..” The air filled with a hideous uproar of screaming counters, “Two…..”
The largest rocket shouted to the eager army of anxious rockets, “Okay. Glad you’re all here. We’re the new, smaller, non-nuclear bombs. We’re set by remote control to go off at the same time.
“We’ll shoot up to about 1000 feet, dazzle them with our sparkling fireworks, turn around, and explode into this horrifying yearly gathering of celebrating vampires, werewolves, zombies and used car salesmen. We’ll finally wipe them off the face of the earth this time. Let’s get ‘em.”
“…..Nine…..Ten!”
Whoooosssh.
“Ooooh!” “Aaaah!”
BOOM!
Mankind was finally at rest.
“Vanessa?”
“Hey, Tracy. Guess where I am.”
“I give up.”
“I’m sight-seeing.”
“Aren’t you headed to Reno?”
“Well, I just saw a bunch of missiles—huge ones—right next to the freeway.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Nope. Check the pics.”
“Woah! Lady, you just blew my mind. They’re huge. You’re nothing but a speck of dust.”
“Uh huh. You know, some of these things are pretty ugly. That’d be some makeover. Hey, I bet you could do better—when you’re an engineer, I mean.”
“Bomb’s away. I want to make things safer—not prettier.”
“Fun in the sun, baby. That’s me.”
“Hmph.”
“Tracy! A minivan rammed into a semi! It’s fish-tailing. Oh! It bounced on three wheels, and started to roll over…”
“Call 9-1-1.”
“Oh my gosh.”
“What happened?”
“It slammed through a mailbox into a field. Now it’s spinning out. It looks like a crash-up-derby on a pincushion.”
“Huh?”
“Tracy, what am I going to do? I’m gonna die. It just missed the fat missile with the round tip. All these people. We’re dead—all of us.”
“You’ve got to get out of there, Vanessa. If one missile goes off, who knows what could happen.”
“They’ll rename the freeway crater-95. And I’m toast. That’s what.”
“Vanessa.”
“Uh, Tracy. I can’t move. I’m shaking all over.”
“Can’t you get away?”
“Not anymore… “
“Wait! It’s slowing down. It stopped! I’m alive.”
“Vanessa, you just got so lucky.”
“Uh, Tracy?”
“Yeah?”
“Could you text me the URL for that college application?”
The Harvest
by William Weiss
“Even as I have seen, they that plow iniquity, and sow wickedness, reap the same.”
– Job 4:8
Everyone thought it was a prank at first. But as the months passed by and the phenomenon spread, the laughter stopped.
Things turned downright grim when the hunger began.
Starvation is no longer a baby with a bloated belly on television in some far off land, as distant as Mars. No sir. Hunger, real hunger, now looked back at you from the mirror.
No amount of money could save you. Rich or poor, food is unlikely.
Theories about the changes in the world’s crops ranged from divine judgment to secret government nanotechnology gone wrong. Did it matter? The planet had stopped producing food, and what remained was scarce.
Chaos is the new normal.
On a small plantain farm in a remote part of Ecuador, a farmer crawls to the window of his ramshackle home. He knows he doesn’t have long to live, and since he lost his wife and children to starvation, he has little reason to continue. First, though, he wants one more disbelieving look at the vista that doomed the human race.
His fields, once a brilliant green with foliage, has more in common with a desert. There are no crops. No plants. In their place sprout missiles of every conceivable variety.
Crops planted for thousands of years – war, and destruction – had come to fruition.