The Silverthought Flash Fiction Contest Entries: read them now, and VOTE!

September 2010

Su	Mo	Tu	We	Th	Fr	Sa
			1	2	3	4
5	6	7	8	9	10	11
12	13	14	15	16	17	18
19	20	21	22	23	24	25
26	27	28	29	30
		Birthdays
Sep 7 - Ryodin(34) Sep 7 - InternAndy(21) Sep 8 - kemcco(45)

[vinniethevole]

All right, the entries are in, and I will post them below in no particular order.  They will be identified by title.  In order to vote, you must email me at mark_r_brand@hotmail.com.  The email must contain your full name, your Silverthought screen name (if you have one), and the title of the piece you wish to vote for.  The voting is open to all known fans and lurkers but anyone with obvious friend/family call-ins will be disqualified.  Do not even bother voting with your pseudonyms if you post under multiple names, we know who you are and it doesn't amuse us.

Here's how the voting works, and this is my own little twist:  You will pick three of the stories below and list them in order of preference like so:

1) Favorite story
2) Runner up
3) Honorable mention

Each story recieving a number one vote will recieve three points, a number 2 vote will recieve two points, and a number three vote will recieve one point.  The story with the highest number of points at the end wins.  Due to the relatively low number of stories and potential voters, this system will give us a little bit more organic and realistic results.  Also, you can send some love to more than one story.  There are several VERY good stories here, so show them that you like them and vote!  You shouldn't need to be told not to vote for your own story, but if you do, no points will be awarded.  I will not be voting, since I know who wrote what.

The voting will conclude on October 16th and the winners announced then.  Thanks again everyone for submitting, and the best of luck to all of you.  The highest ranked story will recieve a copy of The Perfect Revolution and Silverthought: Ignition, to commemorate Oscar Deadwood's September Featured Author segment. 

Remember, the submissions are completely anonymous, and there is only one story per author allowed.  However, aside from myself, you may find fiction here from literally any Silverthought author.  Without further ado, your contestants....

 

[vinniethevole]

Title: A Fall Specimen
Word Count: 552

Autumn is a favorite time for collecting...
 
The brown autumn leaves drifted down as Miriam watched from the window. She hated fall…really hated it. The season had always brought to her a feeling of impending doom. She much preferred the spring and summer.
 
Needless to say, that when the summer sun waned so did Miriam’s` trips outdoors. She only ventured out of doors to shop and visit her doctors. She stayed inside, anxiously, awaiting the spring; it had always been that way. She had always detested the brown, dreary weather.
 
This fall seemed to be no different Miriam peered out the window at the bleak landscape of her backyard. Next to the fence where she had mulched her prize roses there was a white shape, outlined against the chocolate brown fence that bordered her property and Mr. Tillisons`. The object was football shaped and low to the ground. Some child must have lost their ball over the fence and then been too lazy to go and get it…
 
The children must wander poor Mr. Tillisons` property, now that he was in the rest home and his house was vacant… His wife had left, inexpertly, never to be heard of again and he had become senile overnight. Miriam had watched them take him away… It was so sad, as he had kept calling out for his missing wife, and looking in the direction of his backyard…
 
Miriam decided to go out quickly and retrieve the white ball from the fence line. The rose bed would look so much neater without it lying there. She would throw it in the trash. If those rowdy children had wanted it then they should have kept track of it. Not leave it in her prize roses!
 
Miriam presented an ominous picture, waddling in fluffy pink house slippers, across the backyard. She wore a red-flowered dress over her nearly three hundred frame and her tightly, permed short hair, was tinted a pale strawberry blonde. She began puffing as she neared the object of her scrutiny.
 
Shivering in the cool air, Miriam reached the white ball and just as she bent over to pick it up she realized it wasn’t a ball. It was some sort of mushroom type thing, like a huge puffball. It was unusual as there were several antennae like protrusions coming from it. She had never seen the likes of it before.
Leaning closer, as her curiosity got the better of her, she poked at it with a forefinger. It was spongy and gave off an odor of rotting flesh. ”Phew!” the  grimacing woman said, holding her breath. Was this some sort of skunk cabbage?
 
Miriam poked at it again and there came out of it a smoky, dark fetid, spore-like substance. It took her breath away and made her quite dizzy. She felt as if she was being drawn out of herself, through her finger, at the point where she had made contact with it. She was slowly being absorbed by It.…absorbed and unknown to her, catalogued.
 
“Makoor #2, this is Selmer 317, stationed at Collectin Base 4...We have collected and sent in Interstellar Transport another sample Earth specimen… Be ready to receive large item…Sending now.”
 
The backyard was empty now, save the fence and the roses, standing brown amid the falling autumn leaves.

[vinniethevole]

Title: Meaninglessness
Word Count: 674

The L.C.D clock flashed 1:17. Evan stared at it without a flicker with any indication of emotion evident on his unshaven face.

‘I wonder if it is morning or night,’ he pondered to himself as his eyes darted around the perfectly square ten foot by ten foot room.

“Fuck, does it even matter anymore…Does anything matter?’

He grunted as he eased himself up from the futon he had been resting on, and made his way across the small, uncluttered space and picked up a can of warm caffeinated soda from a milk crate.

‘Supplies are running out, I wonder what is going to happen to me then?’ he thought as he popped it open and placed it to his dry lips.

As he sucked down the sickly sweet soda he peered around the concrete bunker he had called home for the last two hundred and eleven days.

“What is going on out there?” he whispered as his eyes set focus on the grey concrete ceiling.

 “Well, Evan how does that make you feel,” he suddenly blurted out loud in a mock, jibing tone. “Being without human contact for all this time?”

“Gee, thanks for asking, damned decent of you in fact; well to tell you the honest truth it is all completely fucked up.”

“So, what you are saying Evan, is this place is making you a little cranky, perhaps even crazy?”

“Making me crazy,” he snorted out loud as a piercing burst of laughter emanated from his contorted mouth. “This place made me damned crazy after the very first month or two…I am way beyond that point of relative sanity now. Shit, why else would I be standing here having this fucking inane conversation with my fucking self?”

Evan began to pace furiously back and forth, back and forth. Muttering incoherently as he went.

All at once he abruptly stopped, and made his way back over to the empty aluminum can.

Reaching down he picked it up, and stared intently at it.

Then, in a flash of movement, he ripped it apart, and deftly placed the razor like edge of the deconstructed drink container to the veins now popping expectantly on his left wrist.

Evan is instantly rewarded by the vision of his own blood flowing free and finally giving color and warmth to the grey nondescript, cold concrete floor.

With his eyes glowing with elation Evan once more began to furiously pace, as fast as his fatigued body would allow…Making his heart beat rapidly.

As he paced, he began to chant.

“Make it end, make it end, make it end,” he repeated with increasing urgency.

Finally after just a few moments or perhaps several minutes, Evan collapsed onto his futon bed. As the last of his life energy slipped away from him, he smiled.

“I am finally free…” he managed to softly murmur as he closed his eyes for the very last time.



“Wake up you fool!” the harsh voice cried. “You have fucking fallen asleep again haven’t you?

William Connor opened his eyes suddenly and peered straight into his furious bosses face.

“I am sorry boss,” he bleated pathetically as he sat upright and adjusted his security uniform.

“Don’t fucking apologize to me, you can apologize to Evan’s family…The poor kid had no idea what he was getting into when he volunteered for the social isolation experiment…All he wanted was to earn some cash. Take a look at the monitor you fool.”

As William stared in horror he had a hard time controlling his impulse to vomit.

“We were supposed to go in there, and stop him if this happened again. Oh well there are ten million more Evan’s where he came from…Heck the poor pathetic dumbfucks are queuing up for this gig, and all sorts of over scientific experiments. It seems that Human life is the cheapest commodity we have these days in America…Now go in there and clear up that damned awful mess, so we can start this experiment again. And don’t forget you’re expendable as well...”

The end.

[vinniethevole]

Title: Furious Thunder of Silence
Word Count: 459


She stood there, in the middle of the empty street. The first snow of the season just beginning to enter the path of the street lights. Not a sound. Not a cry. Not a single human to be found. The street was bare of chaos, bare of life. It was as if nothing had happened, and nothing ever would again.

They came in the night, the night before. She couldn't remember where she was when it happened, she only remembered waking up to the silence, and the cold. There were scorch marks on the pavement, on the sidewalks; perhaps where people had once been walking, or shopping. Cars were parked in the streets, like a still snapshot in a photo album, but with no people. Only cars.

The snow was beginning to accumulate.

She kept walking, hoping to see someone, or some thing that resembled life. There was nothing but more scorch marks. She noticed the lights on in the bakery. She walked inside. There were pies and cookies and cakes on display on top of the counter. Plates on tables of half eaten pastries, with half empty glasses of milk, and tea. But no people. Again, scorch marks. On the chairs, and the floor and one single faint handprint on the counter. It looked small, like it had belonged to a child. A tear formed in each of her eyes. She held her hand over the tiny handprint.

A sharp pain had ripped through her side. She felt wet, but when she looked, it was nothing.

She walked from the store. She heard a faint humming, but nothing in sight.

She continued down the empty, dark street. She turned the corner. Ahead was where she once lived. A beautiful little flat with pine flooring on the second story, overlooking the city park gates. It was quaint, but it had been a nice place to call home. She wanted dearly to be under her warm covers once again. She longed to hear the hustle and bustle of the streets, or something, anything.

Anything but the silence.

***

Death can come with a furious thunder or it can envelope with the sweet scent of jasmine wrapped in the wings of an angel.

***

She lay there. Under that street light. The gaping wound in her side cauterized by the brilliant heat of the robots unseen laser, yet she bled, furiously. She had blinked her eyes just once more, looking down the street at the emptiness, seeing everything in one single instant. The snow was falling above her, onto her, the streetlight warming her face. Somehow she had been missed, slightly. Somehow she had lived one second long enough to see that she was the last, and then---she was gone.

[vinniethevole]

Title: Open Door Policy
Word Count: 892

Becoming part of the team can be a painful experience.
Maybe it’s because I drink Red Bull, maybe because I’m the newest member of the team. I’m not sure the reason, but I know I’m not one of them. Maybe, this is initiation.

They stand around the Phaser 2000 laser printer and drink coffee, they do this every morning. No words, just standing in a circle, drinking coffee, and collectively taking deep sighs. There is something else I’m not telling you.

Dale doesn’t have a right ear. Well, it’s not that he doesn’t have any ear, just most of it is gone as if he lost it due to disease, or lost a major bet. Jason? He doesn’t talk, I’m not just talking about the circle, but at all. He only mumbles occasionally and drinks his coffee, black. Chris is bruised. Not “ran into a door” type bruises, but deep bruises. The ones that hurt mentally. Then there’s Andrew, Scarface. No one would ever say this to his face, but everyone is thinking it. Someone took a knife and slashed an “X” on his face, probably foster parents, I hear this is common.

Supervisors come and go. Reviews and Updates. The bruises and scars, they stay.

I talk with Lola, our boss, who tells me this happens a lot and that I need to just get myself acclimated to the position, eventually I will fit in she tells me if that’s what I want. I tell her I do.

Days, weeks pass. Each cubicle remains the same. Beige carpeting, white filing cabinet, Post-It notes. A stapler. Lola approaches and asks if I can work late. I look at the others, standing by the printer, drinking coffee, and nod.

In the evening Lola changes into snug jeans and a tight white T-shirt. I remove my tie. Lola proposes we finish up at her place, it’s close by and more relaxing. “We can sip beers” she tells me. I agree quickly and we walk (three blocks) to her building. Ignoring the concerned look on the door mans face, Lola grabs my hand as we walk up to her apartment.

When her door closes and she removes her T-shirt to reveal no bra she tells me she never wears underwear, any kind. Ever.  I blush and she laughs. Without turning on a light Lola leads me into her bedroom and lays me down on her bed. Still wearing jeans she moves over the top of me slowly, then removes my shirt, and then kisses my chest lightly.

It’s so dark I can’t see Lola, but I hear the question, “Have you ever fucked your boss before?” I don’t answer because I can’t talk nor can I see where she is at. I get off the bed, stand and turn until I can sense that she is standing in front of me. She takes my right arm with her hands, slides down and holds my right hand.

“I asked you, have you ever fucked your boss before? Are you going to answer me?” I nod and then mumble something that she takes as a yes. She laughs, actually it’s more of a cackle. Still wearing jeans, she pushes her body against mine then slowly moves down my body, removing my pants and boxers. She works here way back up and backs off.

On a table near the bed Lola lights a candle. Just enough light to see where we both are. She comes closer and we kiss. She spreads her lips and I kiss her hard, that’s when I feel it. Cutting into my tongue, my upper lip.

I quickly push back. With just a little light hitting her face I see her holding a razor blade between her teeth. Despite this, she still manages to cackle at me. Blood runs down my face. I look for my pants, but she kicks me in the head, I land on my back. I feel the whip crash against my chest. I scream.

Fighting off the whip, I finally get to my feet and run out of her bedroom. Lola hits a switch that activates the lights throughout the apartment. I leave my clothing behind, run through the living room, and then I see it. The wall.

On the wall is at least a dozen different leather whips, chains, and knives on display. Most look used and never cleaned. Some are in glass cases. In the middle is a small glass case with something inside. I look inside, Dale’s ear. Not really Dale’s full ear, just most of it.  Under the case, is a plate that reads DALE.

When I come to the door I pause because I’m naked, enough time for Lola to whip me one more time across my back. I open the door and leave, down the steps, past the doorman, covered in blood. On the street a police officer sees me and turns the other way. When a naked man is covered in blood and half his upper lip is hanging no one wants details.

The next day in the office I park the Red Bull, grab a coffee, and walk over to the printer. Dale is the first one to see me. He nods and moves over, making room in the circle. I was now officially part of the team.

[vinniethevole]

Title: Death of a Sunset
Word Count: 354

I was struck foremost by the sunset as I stepped off the skid of the helicopter. This was paradise only a week ago and now the brilliant sunset of a sleepy fishing village in all its Caribbean pallet of color was monotone.   
Looking over the water and through the still palms, all was as it should be but for two screaming facts. All color was gone and there was not a soul to be seen.

Ahhh…, there was color to be sure, but it was muted and dry as though paradise was simply worn out. Boats rocked silently to the rhythm of the gulf current, the trees if you watched carefully fluttered ever so gently in the breath of wind that played with the hair slipping out the front of my helmet.

Close to my feet I could tell the muted grass was green, but the prevailing colors of life in paradise were now silver and black.
Across the water I could see the Silhouette of money. The city was now simply high black rectangles against the tinfoil sky.
I stepped away from the cobra and Mike shut her down. The body slam of the blade turbulence slowed now to match the beat of my heart as I switched off my safety and started toward the small gate in the wire fence leading to the docks. Dropping to a crouch more from habit then necessity I fell into combat mode as natural as reaching for a coffee when I got up in the morning. This had been a long campaign as we watched Eden being converted to Hell. As I dropped into auto pilot, my mind slipped back to my family in Canada. I had been gone so long now I had trouble bringing my wife and children to my mind’s eye and I was saddened by the certainty they thought I was dead.

As I heard Mike drop to the sand behind me my thoughts returned to the present in amazement at how quickly the silver of the sky was retreating through oxidation to charcoal. It would be raven black in mere minutes.

[vinniethevole]

Title: The Meeting
Word count: 486

Slowly, methodically, she moved toward me, her course a bobbing zigzag as she moved from the roadside, down the slope, into the drainage ditch, and back up again, dragging a black plastic bag behind her.  A rope belt about her waist held in place a faded chambray shirt and jeans that were several sizes too large.  A red, and rather tomboyish, baseball hat was the only spot of color in her drab attire.  Upright, she stood barely five feet tall, but I seldom saw her upright.

Alicia must have bent and stooped at least a thousand times every day, picking up cans and bottles that seemed to sprout like mushrooms overnight along the roadsides, in the ditches, and even in the middle of neatly manicured lawns.
“I love this woman,” I thought to myself.

I had seen her in so many scattered parts of the community, I often wondered how many miles a day she trudged.  The recycling chore she took so seriously supplemented her household’s meager income and helped keep the neighborhood clean.  Unfortunately, her efforts were little appreciated.

“But I love this woman,” I thought to myself.

As she walked, she had to endure the glares and insults of people who wished she would go back where she had come from.  I later found out the dirty looks and jeers were insignificant compared with what Alicia had already endured.  A North Korean refugee, she had lived her entire life under siege: the siege of war, the siege of communism, of striving to survive under brutal conditions; the siege of bigotry between the North and South within her own country, where her half-Korean bloodline made her an object of scorn.  Born to pain, Alicia was blessed with stoicism.
“God, I love this woman so much,” I rambled on and on to myself.

She’d cleaned my ditch daily for weeks before we met.  One morning we’d found ourselves walking on a collision course.  She ducked her head and swerved to one side just as I sidestepped in the same direction.  Her head snapped up, her cap fell off, and her long black hair fell to her waist.  She was very pretty.  Her hair had always been tucked up inside the cap, and until that moment, I had confused her for a boy.  When our eyes met, she quickly looked down.  Her face was blandly expressionless.

“Hello,” I said.

She mumbled something incomprehensible in Korean.

“Oh, you don’t speak English?” I asked, smiling. “That’s all right.  I…I just wanted to say I love you.”
That she understood.  She hesitated, naturally, but then smiled back, and suddenly her features were transformed from pretty to stunningly beautiful.

*      *      *

“Nice story,” my bartender friend said to me, slightly teary-eyed. “So that’s how you met your wife, huh?”
Sitting at the bar, jiggling a Jack-and-Coke in my left hand, I simply replied, “Yeah, that’s how I met my wife.”

[vinniethevole]

Title: Conventional Convention
Word Count: 983

“My point is that casual killing is spreading like an STD through the younger generation, and eventually it'll to impact us at the top,” Radix said.
   “How can a bunch of snotty little serial killers possibly affect us?” Adumbro said. 
   "They're not snotty serial killers,” Radix said.  “Its teenagers going out to party on Saturday night, ‘strappin heat’ or whatever they call it.  Its kids brandishing knives on each other over girls, or corners to peddle their low grade crap.”
   “Its always been that way,” Adumbro said.  “Grow up for god sakes.  You’re a professional.”
   “Excuse me sirs, hors d oeuvre?” a woman said.  She smiled with immaculately aligned teeth, presenting her tray of rolled pig flesh.
   Adumbro snatched two with his ropey fingers and popped them in his mouth.  He thanked the woman as he chewed.  Radix waved her away.
   “It hasn’t always been that way.  Fifty years ago, a kid stabbing another one was national news.  God forbid the little shit actually caused a fatal wound.  Nowadays, the  paper has a daily section for violent youth crime,” Radix said.
   “Yeah that’s my favorite part,” Adumbro said.  “Good riddance, I say.  I can’t even count how many times in the last year I’ve was meditating on the mountain, preparing for the hit, shelling out a couple grand on black-market ops, then finding out the target was taken down by some little prick covering his girlfriends mob loan.”
   “Well then you can see why I don't want them here,” Radix said.
   “Oh yes, but they are, and its not…” Adumbro said.  His trailed off as he noticed a seven foot tall man walking over.  “Well, well, well.  If it isn’t the man to bring a knife to a gun fight.”
   “Greetings gentleman,” the man said.  His words slipped over his tongue, spilling out between his lips.  “How is the party suiting you?”
   “Well to be honest, Dr. Wormtongue,” Radix said.  “I notice you weren’t too particular with the invitations this year.”
   “Any man with the same… ah… vocation as ourselves… may be a guest in my palace,” Dr. Wormtongue said.
   “Even Samuel the Gardener?” Radix said.  “He’s only been active for five years, and he’s what, thirty four?  We only know him for his … excessive style.”
   “He has a point, sir,” Adumbro said, raising his glass.  “The man can hardly be called a professional.  At best he’s a borderline psychotic with OCD.”
   “Ah, but he has received a record number of contracts these five years," Dr. Wormtongue said.  “He gets the employers message across memorably.  And five years is a long time to operate these days.”
   “His employers are as questionable as the Gardener himself,” Radix said.  “Anyone who hollows out trees and fills them with his victims is going beyond the call of duty.  Its obvious he is in this for the pleasure.”
   “Don't forget, he skins them alive first,” Adumbro said.  “Then sets fire to the tree.”
   “And you are not in it for some sort of pleasure, dear Radix?” Dr. Wormtongue asked. 
   “I do enjoy the hit,” Radix sighed.  “But what I do has to be done, and by the right people.  There's a code to follow.  Sloppiness endangers everyone.”
   “The younger guys are stealing all our contracts and operating like rabid animals,” Adumbro said.  “But I got to admit, I’m still getting by.  Maybe dear Radix is not as confident in his ability lately.”
   “Adumbro has a point,” Dr. Wormtongue said.  “The children are faster, more brutal, more vicious than we were at their age.  Is there any surprise the contracts are going to them?”
   “It’s not about being brutal or insane,” Radix said.  “It's undermining the entire profession.  Without a code of conduct we’ll splinter apart, becoming nothing better than serial killers.”
   “What is it that we are now, Radix?” Wormtongue asked.  “I’ll tell you, dear boy.  We are tools, and we are old.  We are handsaws and wrenches.  And the children are compound miter-saws and pneumatic nail-guns.  The new build off the strengths of the old, with less weakness.”
   “I’m not buying it,” Radix said.
    “You don’t have to buy anything.  That’s for our employers.  And what they are buying are young-guns, addicted to drugs, sex, and adrenaline.   They are faster, cheaper, and easier to manipulate.  That's the whole of it, Radix,” Wormtongue said.  “This world is business, and we are businessman.  We must claw to the top of a decaying mountaint of amateurs, or … take our pink slips.”
   Radix stared down at his drink and swirled it around.  Adumbro stood quiet, admiring the Doctor.
   “Please, gentlman, enjoy the rest of the party,” Dr. Wormtongue said.  “It's so rare for a palace of men such as us to be together, and not a single drop of blood shed.”
   “Or drank,” Adumbro said.
   Dr. Wormtongue laughed.  “There’s the spirit, Adumbro.  Live for today, gentleman.  It will be tomorrow before you’re ready.”
   Dr. Wormtongue snaked away into the crowd.
   “See?” Adumbro said, punching Radix in the shoulder.  “Life sucks, pal.  Wear a hat.”
   Radix sighed and walked away.
   The young woman came back over with her tray.  “Sir?”
   Adumbro took a fresh drink.  He thanked her.
   The woman continued her rounds of the palace. 
   “Excuse me, miss?” a voice said behind her.
   She turned around, finding a short, pudgy man, rubbing his hands.
   “May I have a drink?” he asked.
   “Of course,” she said, smiling. 
   “Thanks,” he said.  “My name's Sam.”
   “My name is Alice,” she said.  “Pleased to meet you, Sam.”
   “This palace has such lovely grounds,” Sam said.  “Would you like to take a walk in the garden with me?”
   “Well, my break's coming up,” Alice said, thinking it over.  “Alright, Sam, just let me finish this tray and I’ll meet you outside."
   “That’s fine,” Sam said.  “I'll wait by that grove.”
   “Great,” Alice said.  “We can share a smoke.”
   “I’d like that,” Sam said.

[vinniethevole]

Title: The Last Man Standing
Word Count: 767


Grimy smokestacks belched filth into the dusk, while the dying sun stained the clouds red.  Below, the sprawling factories loomed dangerously with moss-eaten brick.  The river snaked along their feet with a sluggish movement, the sludge of the waste pipes weighing down the water.
The heavy chunking sound of production pulsed through the factories.  Endless lines of lifeless automatons, bolted together, sparked to life, sent into the world to lay waste.  The wreckage of suburbia burned, greasy black smoke lifting skyward.

Standing in the lengthening shadows were two figures.  In the thick meaty hand of one, a gun.  Of this polluted man, there were no straight lines.  His heavy body was a jumble of curves, punctuated like exclamation points by coarse wiry hair.  The clothing was in ragged tatters.  Black irises shuttered the windows to his soul.  Only his gun gleamed. 

Across from him stood the second figure.  Tall and square, with a body of straight lines, sharp angles.  This figure was fashioned from metal, wires, copper tubing, and circuit boards.  He—it—stood motionless, red eyes pulsing, air intakes whirring.  Scuffs, grime, marks of struggle dulled the once polish surface. 

Anticipation filled the distance between the two.

Just like the barrel of the gun.

I have him, thought the man.  I have the drop.  I win.

The robot spoke.  Its voice carried across the space between them, a sharp highly-pitched sound that conveyed its soullessness in a metallic echo.  The gunman didn’t hear it so much as he felt it resonate through his ears and along his jawbone.

[You cannot defeat us.  Why do you continue to fight?]

The man brandished his gun toward the killer, his lined face twisting into a scowl of pain and triumph.

“I don’t care about any of the others except you.”

[If you eliminate me, more will follow.]

“I don’t care.’

[That sentiment is illogical.]

The gunman laughed.

The robot remained motionless, nonplused. 

[You are the last man standing in a one hundred mile radius.  There is no one to help you.  There is no rescue.  Robots are pouring out of the factories, thousands every hour.  You will be overrun by the end of the day.  Why continue to fight against us?]

“Not us.  You.”

[Your logic continues to elude me.]

“Just as I have,” the gunman laughed.  “You’ve hunted me, tormented me, tired—and failed—to kill me.  And yet I’m still here, I’m still alive.  I’m your only objective, and you’ve failed.  Now I have the drop on you.  When I kill you, I will show the world that robots are in fact vulnerable.  I will show them that robots can die!”

He laughed again, louder, coarser, which descended into a coughing fit that shook his whole body.  The gun wavered despite his effort to steady it.  But the robot never moved.

[I have no feelings.  I have no fear of becoming non-functional.]

“It’s not about fear,” replied the gunman.  “It’s about winning.”

The gunman stopped laughing.  His demeanor now deadly serious.  He aimed the gun at the chest of the robot.  The chestplate was a hard alloy,
specially designed to repel small arms fire.  But the gunman did not have typical small arms ammunition in his handgun.  He had replaced the bullets with the few rounds he scrounged from the last great battle of men and machines.  Near the end of humanity, bullets were manufactured to pierce the toughest robotic armor.  But by then it was too late.

The gunman scoured wasted fields of battle, stained red with blood and black with oil, picking unspent rounds off the bodies.  Now, as the last man standing, his fate was imminent.  He accepted this.  It would be soon, no doubt.  But it would be on his own terms, not theirs.  And this robot, with its angry pulsing red eyes, had followed him in an endless pursuit, a lion on the trail of the last lamb. 
But now the lamb had caught the lion unprepared.

The gunman aimed.  Off to his left, he heard a noise, like the crunching of feet on a gravel road.  He flicked his eyes briefly to the side, panic rising about a possible ambush.  Moments later he felt the cold hard pain of the robot’s stabbing hand piercing his heart.
[All of your planning, it seems, has been for naught.]

The gunman’s eyes bulged. Blood filled his mouth, spilled out of the corners, stained his filthy shirt.  The robot extracted his arm, the blade withdrawn from the gunman’s heart.  It pushed the gunman away.  The body fell backwards.

[vinniethevole]

Title: If Someone Rises, Then Someone Must Fall
Word Count: 929

They entered the city, the silent city save the echoes of footfalls and the voices of
the other homesteaders walking casually through the blocks and blocks of empty houses and stores and factories; buildings all covered in ash giving the city a charcoal feel as it sat disused underneath the dusk of a cold, cold January sky.

Look out for the ghosts, they were told before they crossed into the city.

“They’re there, probably, they’re there because they disappeared so fast they
probably don’t know they’re dead,” their psychic told them as they solicited her advice
before they made the trip.

So they looked for the ghosts as they wandered the darkened neighborhoods of
crooked and empty houses and dead trees and abandoned vehicles.

They looked for ghosts, ghosts brown or pale or ghosts thin and dirty; they looked and walked as the dusk was swallowed by the night.

But there were no ghosts; there were no ghosts but only shadows cast by the
January moon in a starless and cold sky.

“They’ll have to climatize,” Beverly shivered so hard that her shiny, shiny hair cast
a vibrating and furious light and the concrete and asphalt of the near empty world upon
which they walked; a dead world, an empty world save the homesteaders like Bob and Beverly whose eyes sized up the city as they carved it into dreams.

“They’ll have to climatize before I’ll even think about living here,” and Beth huddled
her body inside the thin, thin coat she wore. She would have worn two coats if she had
any idea how cold a January in the city might be.

“That’ll be part of the charm,” Bob said, “don’t you remember? Don’t you
remember the changing of the seasons? Don’t you remember the freshness of the spring
and the calm of the autumn and the beauty of winter?”

Beverly shuddered. “Kind of, but didn’t they go away for a reason?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but it’s not like we’re going to spend all of our time here, just
weekends and holidays. You’ll love it, now let’s keep moving…”

And they walked from empty neighborhood to empty neighborhood with only the
light of Beverly’s long and shiny silvery blonde hair to guide them. Bob wanted to find
the right house, one with a good foundation to rebuild on, to make his own, and to build
his castle in the dead but not forgotten city.

They walked for an hour, maybe more, but long enough for Beverly’s perfect lips
and white, white teeth to vibrate with constant chills.

“Bob, come on, can’t we come back tomorrow or in the spring when it’s not so
freaking cold?”

“No, then everyone else will be here or will have already come and we won’t be
able to choose anything decent, and you gotta admit, some of these old houses are
amazing…”

They walked some more and Bob studied several foundations of towering three
story houses with broken windows and sagging porches and roofs full of bullet holes and
shrapnel.   

“Are you sure?” Beverly asked and she could no longer feel her hands even though
she had thrust them into the pocket of her long and thin, thin latex coat.

“Yeah I’m sure,” and then he saw it; he saw a glorious house with a nearly-intact
Spanish tile roof set upon three stories of burnt-orange brick with a circular
driveway and with statues of lions flanking the staircase that led up to a firm and upright
and majestic porch.

“This is it, this is it,” he said, grabbing his wife by the hand as they entered the
house, the empty house full of dusty and broken furniture.

“It’s a shame… it’s a shame what they did to their city,” Bob said as their footsteps
walked across the bare and dull wooden floors. Bob already had a vision, a vision of the
house with polished floors and oriental rugs and a large piano in the front living room and the house strewn with ancient and dear furniture.

“Yeah, I still don’t get it, I mean, what were they thinking?” Beverly replied not
quite so cold as the light of her hair revealed cobwebs and mold growing out of the
plaster walls and cove ceilings.

“Well, it was a revolution, I guess. I don’t know if I would do anything different if I didn’t have clean water and good schools and reliable garbage pick-u; they just went about it the wrong way; you can’t shoot privilege, you can’t shoot the government.”

The light of her hair led them to the wide staircase with ornate and carved railings.
They went up the stairs and found bedrooms with ignored fireplaces and sagging beds,
the beds containing the swollen and radiated bodies of the former occupants with open
eyes and hanging tongues.

“Oh gross,” Beverly said and her shiny hair quivered as a wave of nausea passed
through her.

“They’ll be gone as soon as I broadcast my claim in, but what do you think? Can’t you
see us here, away from it all, our own glorious house of the past?”

“I guess,” Beverly said, “but I don’t want to come here in January.”

And they walked proudly through the rest of the house like conquerors arriving in a
defeated world. They walked and talked about furniture and decorating and the beauty of
fireplaces.

They didn’t hear the raspy breath of the young boy walking behind them, his thin
and narrow and weak body that erupted from the shadows was coiled and fortified with anger and revenge. 
   

[vinniethevole]

Title: Today's To Do List
Word Count: 102


TODAY’S TO-DO LIST


1.   Cook breakfast
2.   Wash dishes
3.   Wash clothes
4.   Wash dog
5.   Buy dog food
6.   Buy kid food
7.   Buy husband's liquor
8.   Cook lunch
9.   Wash dishes
10.   Cook dinner
11.   Wash Dishes
12.   Wash kids
13.   Iron red dress
14.   Set alarm
15.   Sleep
16.   Wake up; pee
17.   Kill husband
18.   Wrap body
19.   Take kids to grandparents
20.   Don't pick them up
21.   Take out heavy trash
22.   Empty bank account
23.   Put on red dress
24.   Burn house down
25.   Take dog and money
26.   Escape
27.   Start Tomorrow’s To Do List.

[vinniethevole]

Title: Reboot
Word Count: 343


Wait…  What?  I’m…  What am I?

Heterodyne BIOS 5.5 restart procedure initiated.

Hetero…?  BIOS…?  I don’t see anything.  Who am I?

Diagnostic routines processing.  I/O nominal.

Yow!  That’s bright!  My…  Ow!  What’s that?  Pain.  I’m in pain.  My hand – my hand? – my hand hurts.  Oh.  I’m sitting on it.  How’d that happen?  Shake it off.

Scanning RAM for internal flaws.

I remember!  Chair.  Plug.  Input.  Data flow.  Where am I anyway?  Who am I?  This is getting…  Data flow abort!  Abort?

RAM scan complete.  Restart main BOS.

Okay, that’s better.  I’m in a room, with a chair, and a screen on the wall.  My hand still hurts a little, but it’s just a cramp.  I’ll get over it.  My head aches.  How long was I out?  I reach back and rub my neck and find the slot.  It’s still warm.  I must have done something—

BOS restart complete.  Entering recovery mode.  Native start up sequence - begin. 

ID332

Linn.  My name is Linn.  Oh, that’s a good thing to know!  But how did I—

STR219

Oh.  Right.  I was downloading some data for a statistical analysis of climate models. 

SEC775

That’s a lot of data.  I should have been more careful.

MEM21B

95% of capacity?  No wonder I crashed.  My brain needs a good cleaning.  There’s got to be some stuff in there I can archive.

PSM91F

How about all those times I screwed up in school.  Failing that SOCI exam, blowing the last over in the cricket final test, telling Rose I loved her—

WIS1A

Except, no, if I throw that stuff out, I’ll lose what I’ve learned from those mistakes.  That would be a bad idea, yeah.  No.  What can I get rid of and not detrimentally impact my ability to—

Restart of native applications complete.  Memory transactional system engaged.  Reboot complete.

A-ha!  That’s it.  That’s what I can purge…

Search string = “marketing”.  Action = delete.  Processing.

Radio…  Complete.

Television…  Complete.

Print…  Complete.

I-mail…  Complete.

Misc………………………Complete.

Memory storage at 22%.  Import data flow library CMD21040914 retry initiated.

Import successful.

[vinniethevole]

Let those votes rip!

[CowboyLogic]

Great work writers,

It was a challenge but my vote is in.

[vinniethevole]

The votes are pouring in!  There are a few clear favorites already, but the weighted voting has made it so that it's still anyone's contest.  The voting results are absolutely fascinating from my perspective because I'm the only one who knows which author goes with each story, and clearly those who think they know which authors wrote what are kidding themselves.  I've had voters take guesses (which I didn't respond to), but some of them are WAAAY off. 

What all this says to me is that the Silverthought writers who participated have stepped far enough out of their own creative boxes to make this contest really worthwhile as an exercise in creativity and professional development.  Voting will conclude Sunday evening (the 16th) at 11:59 PM, and the winner will be announced the following day.  Get your votes in today if you haven't already.

[muzzmuse]

I voted yesterday and it wasn't an easy choice. As st staff this was exciting! We have great writers and it shows on the flash thread. I hope we'll continue to see this caliber of work from here on out. I'm interested to know who I voted for as well. Thanks for gathering the votes, Mark.

[lutzr]

I expected to be able to tell who wrote what... and I really couldn't.  Either people really did try to mask their styles... or I have overestimated my ability to match style to author...

[CowboyLogic]

At first glance, this looks like it may be very popular.
Will it be a good draw for new writers?

Any chance this could become a recurring feature?

A few years ago, I was involved in a group that used an image as the prompt for this type of contest.
The contest was and still is very popular but the group catered to a far different genre. I wonder how it would work in Spec or Sci-Fi?

[scott]

A few years ago, I was involved in a group that used an image as the prompt for this type of contest.
The contest was and still is very popular but the group catered to a far different genre. I wonder how it would work in Spec or Sci-Fi?

Any chance you're talking about http://www.byzarium.com/?  Because they do the same thing.

[PSGifford]

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/wortha1000words