A Sticky Dollar

Prompt: Four sentence short shory. AAAAAAND, GO.

Fromr/writingprompt

The boy could not believe his luck as he peeled the sticky paper from the wet concrete. He stared at it in his hand, his heart barely beating, or perhaps beating too hard, for his couldn’t quite accept his miraculous fortune. Oh, what he could buy for a dollar, what riches would be his in exchange for this one, beautiful, magnificent dollar! The gun clattered carelessly to the ground as the boy wiped the blood off his prize, stepped cautiously around the shattered skull at his feet, and skipped toward home.


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The Well

Prompt: The map was clear: this is where he would find it. He just hadn’t expected that he’d have to get wet. Reluctantly, he swam out to the giant concrete circle. He looked down into it but couldn’t see the bottom. He sighed, took a deep breath, and dove in.

Word Limit: 300

From: Big Universe Blog

Winner atBand of Dystopians Authors and Fans

The liquid was almost imperceptible. He forced his eyes open and almost gasped at the blinding light. He shut them again and was plunged into darkness.

His lungs felt big and sharp as he kicked, hard, downward. His chest seared with every slowing heartbeat. He struggled to maintain consciousness as one last, fleeting picture swam in his mind: Sam.

Sam’s yellow curls bouncing. Sam hitting me in the arm for a stupid joke. Sam throwing a dirt clod at my bike. Sam lying face down. Sam, bleeding. Sam, dead.

His hand had found an empty place where there was no more concrete and he pulled himself down through the bottom of the water. He fell to solid ground, gasping, choking, coughing, and opened his eyes. The world was dim once again. He looked up and the black water floated about his head. The moonlight shimmered through the water and cast a barely perceptible glow on the vast concrete slab.

In the corner was a shape. He knew it, even with half its head missing. He knew those curls, still clinging to the remaining pieces of skull. He knew that back, hunched, arms wrapped around knees, feet bare.

He stood up. He could no longer feel the pain in his chest. There was only one thing he could think:

Sam.

He walked and sat down next to the figure. He put his arm around him, and the boy turned. Even with the hole where his eye used to be, the eye the bullet had ripped out, Sam looked like Sam.

“Alex?” The boy’s voice was familiar, though odd and distant. “Is that you?”

Alex let his lips touch the boy’s cheek. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Can I go home now?”

“No,” Alex said.

“But I can stay here.”


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Ninety Seconds

Prompt: “This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but with a whimper.” -T.S. Elliot

Word Limit: 300

FromBOD Facebook

Winner atBand of Dystopian Authors and Fans

They’d come so far. Her tired head rested on his lap. She had started fat, strong, covered in white hair that shimmered in the ceaseless sunlight. Whether the sun had faded with her, or her with the sun, no one knew.

What they did know was that she was going to die.

He watched as the heartbeat that had pulsed beneath her translucent skin for a millennia slowed, as its light evaporated like the water and the food and the sun, as breath left her lungs.

He hadn’t meant to cry, not for her. He had one job. In thirty generations of masters and apprentices he, and only he, had one single, coveted job.

Dear god in heaven, he didn’t want it.

He wept, shocked at his ill preparedness considering all his preparation, and eased her beautiful, lifeless head into the snow. The sun was almost dark. He began to count.

He had ninety seconds.

He stuck the knife in below her rib cage and yanked upward, tearing apart this majestic beast who had fed humanity with her heartbeat for a thousand years. He drew it out, faintly glowing, barely beating, and flung it far out to the hungry sea. The waves rose to swallow her sacrifice and the light was lost to the water.

Twelve.

Eleven.

Ten.

The ocean brightened as her heart began to beat for the earth, and the sun rose and shone warm, and the ice began to melt, and he knew that hundreds of miles away, wheat and corn and apples were shooting up to feed the few starving millions who remained.

He was glad. She would have been glad.

But he couldn’t go to see it. Not yet. He just sat down beside her, put her ancient, cold head in his lap, and cried.


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