Little Johnny

Steel confetti lie over the ground. In one corner to the left of an industrial stamping machine, a pair of overalls. A horrific pair, stuffed full to stretching seam with the mangled corpse of little Johnny. Inspector Huzit turned, puked, wiped her mouth and grimaced.

Hard Rain

Three days of hard rain, acid rain, could not wash away that blood soaked image etched into the sandstone causeway; that mangled mash that was once a human being; a human being that carried a consciousness, of which all that is left is this electronic imprint… in e-space… me.

Raiders

“They’re coming!” cried the old man as he staggered into the village. “Run, run! They’re coming, raiders from over the sea!” And so it was they came, raiders, corporate mercenaries, devourers of private enterprise, true believers in a “flat earth, level playing field and harmonized taxation codes...” resource greedy, rapacious and hungry… we didn’t stand a chance!

Wang 'Eight Eggs'

The Chinese New Year had once again, come and gone: a hungry Nian, again chased off by a combination of lights and loud noises. Wang ‘Eight Eggs’ sat in a satisfied happiness, his full belly bulging slightly over his belt, as he leaned back from the table.

Murder!

It was the middle of the rest period, quiet time, the mid-day naptime; the time when the whole city’s official machinery takes a break from its soulless, mind-numbingly goalless endeavors. She shot her, with a 4” pipe gun, and a white rodent as the projectile. “Happy New Year, you Rat!” screeched the Horoscope Serial Killer

Oral History

There was a time once, when cliffs rose high above the crashing waves; gulls and harriers and eagles soared over the water and swooped the sand; fish were in abundance for the catching; and fresh, spring water filled the well… but that was long ago, before the time of my grandfather’s grandfather…Hear well now, a tale of the death of the world!

Paradise Lost

Still are the pools of Huafa in the morning. Narry a ripple, even as the reflections of security guards pass over them. I sit and watch as the day unfolds and people go about their morning routines of exercise and social walks. The cats chew grass. I drink coffee. Just another bloody day in a paradise with a rotten heart.

A Paragraph

A paragraph is a writing device which organizes one’s writing by way of several elements. It contains as a minimum three sentences, which wok together to establish one idea. With proper use, at an advanced level, the paragraph can also influence how a reader responds to the idea.the sentences in a paragraph are usually called Topic, Exposition and Linking sentences.

The frog

A long time ago there lived a frog. His home was deep in the forest, under a rock, on the edge of a crystal clear, pond of mountain spring water. There were lilly-pads and lots and lots of froggy food. Everything a frog could want, except he was alone and very, very lonely.

Reef Sign

The currents flowed strong through the ancient channels, ancient even in ancient days past. Natural? Man-made? No-one knew. The island realigning itself with the lunar calendar. The island, a small remnant of a larger, buried temple complex. A fragmentary glimpse of the once “Great Hall of Hermes.”

A Rush Job for Teagan

A phone rings. It’s the middle of the night. Footsteps recede in the stairwell. The phone stops for a moment and begins its insistent peel again. No-one answers. Teagan Wanabe, in a deep chesty voice says, “I think we’re too late. We’ve gotta get those codes, before the launch!”

Sentient

Batwing-eared faces stare down from the wall, the way they have for thousand of generations. Criers in the street call the believers to prayer, and buyers to the hawkers. But the energy is wrong, something has changed in Temple Street. A flicker of color shimmers across the eyes of the ancient, watching faces. Something awakens.

Drought

It was the eight hundred and fifty second day of the drought. The bush fires had all exhausted their natural fuel. Water that once stood in vast, deep lakes, now no longer even ran through artesian streams. It was “The drought we had to have,” or so the Prime Minister said. All the coal beds were burning beyond any hope of control in the ground. The hydro-electric systems defunct and monolithically useless. It was just as well we gone nuclear.

Kasimir and the Rogue

The skimmer beat its gossamer thin wings at polka time, as it flitted down the tunnels in search of ‘worm-sign’. Kasimir, brooding at the controls as the General Secretary’s words echoed in his mind, “Mars Colony can ill-afford another terra-forming catastrophy! The rogue worm must go!”

The Monk of St. Clair

In a darkness only broken by the periodic swaying, to and fro, of a head-mounted light, he wrote. He wrote as if demons or madmen were chasing him, as if his very life depended upon it, this monk of St. Clair; or so it seemed in the video surveillance footage that caught his furtive efforts, moments before the quake hit. Destroying everything in its path, except that room.