Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge: The Devil's Doorstep

This week's challenge is to create fiction in a -punk genre, preferably one that hasn't been done before.  I give you hellpunk, a world of stolen energy and malicious invaders.

Chuck's blog is here - http://www.terribleminds.com/ramble/blog

The Devil's Doorstep

"The most important thing to remember here is that lunch is from 12 to 12:45, no earlier and no later.  You follow, rook?"  Rory paused his brisk pace to glance back over his shoulder.  The new guy was right on his heels, nodding and tugging uneasily at his loaner uniform.

"12 to 12:45.  I got it," he replied as Rory started moving again.  "But my name is Greg."  Rory waved a meaty hand at that.

"You're rook until you get through the probationary period.  I've seen too many fresh-faced kids wash out to learn names any earlier than that." They stopped next to a facility map mounted above a water fountain.  Rory tapped the display and it zoomed in to follow his motions.  "Main entrance is here, where you came in.  We came this way through the locker room." Greg tapped a large room in the center of the image.

"Is that..." he began, only to have Rory cut him off.

"Central siphon and storage.  That's where it all happens, and where it sometimes goes wrong."  Rory took a moment to look the kid over.  No more than 23, probably fresh out of vo-tec.  "You understand your job?"

"Maintenance and containment.  Fix what's broken, trap what gets through." Greg said, his face lighting up and then falling in response to Rory's stone faced stare.  "Right?"

"That's a textbook answer, rook."  Rory said, stepping away from the map and moving down the corridor.  "We're dealing with dimensional exchange.  We're sucking power straight from the devil's own doorway.  So yeah, we fix what breaks and we trap what gets through but that doesn't cover it.  We deal with demons.  Not those branded reformed types they let roam the streets.  I'm talking genuine, hell-on-wheels, free-willed demons."

"Well..." Greg swallowed hard as he formed the words.  "I've seen orientation sims."  Rory grunted and ran a hand through salt and pepper hair.

"Sims don't bleed acid.  They don't belch fire and they sure as hell don't smother you with their skin.  You've seen movies, rook.  Things out here are real."  Greg straightened up, the oversized uniform falling limp around his shoulders.

"I've been fully trained.  I scored 273 on my licensure exam."  A chirp from Rory's radio ended the conversation.  He tapped the button and one of the surveillance tech's began to speak.

"Hey, we've got a rank one blip in the east siphon chamber.  Looks like an imp came through on the last pulse.  You free to check it out?"  Rory shot Greg a glance and shrugged.

"Looks like we'll see that training in action.  We're on it."  A second tap on the radio killed the connection and Rory began the trek towards the east wing.  He didn't pause, just jumped right into the next speech.  "Imps are cake.  Small, quick but pretty harmless.  Irritants more than anything.  Pulse spikes tend to frazzle the safeguards and imps are already weak enough to slip through on bad days."

"So is this a standard incap and deport?" Greg asked, trying to keep pace.

"As standard as it gets when you deal with other-dimensionals.  But yeah, we'll shriek it and toss it.  Your shrieker is your best friend here.  Harmless to humans, hellish to demons.  Even works on devils if they aren't leeched."  A flight of stairs and two left turns brought them to a pair of reinforced metal doors.  Two men in black and grey security uniforms stood at either side, rifles slung over their shoulders.  One nodded and worked the locks, pulling the door open.

"Don't let the guns fool you.  They're here to scare away angry protestors and terrorists.  A gun won't slow down a devil, andeven  demons can laugh them off for a few shots."  Tapping the radio, Rory cleared his throat.  "We are headed in to the east siphon now."

"Anything I should expect?"  Greg asked, his confidence clearly suffering now.

"The secondary siphon chambers aren't too bad but you can expect to feel some changes.  Pressure behind your eyes, a cold hollow in your chest, nosebleeds...all common.  If you start to feel numb head back to the hallway.  Don't wanna risk a seizure in there." Rory said as he pulled the shrieker from its holster.

"Got it."  Greg said, peering into the ochre glow.  A push from Rory got his feet moving and they both stepped through the door.  The door closed behind them with an echoing *thud*.  Rory tapped his finger against the shrieker in his hand.  It always reminded him of an electric razor, the kind they had before laser shavers became the rage.

"You go around the left side, I'll go right.  Keep your shrieker ready."  Rory said through gritted teeth.  They split, each going their own way around the large central collection tank.  Standard issue work boots came down loud on the metallic flooring.  Greg disappeared behind the collector and Rory turned his eyes up towards the vent pipes.  He spotted the torn grating easily, a perfect fit for an imp.  The collector shook as another pulse rippled through it and Rory strained to listen past it.  Was that a grunt?  A gasp?  He picked up speed, darting towards the other side of the tank.  A shriek cut through the air and he circled around in time to see Greg standing over the writhing form of an imp.

"Well, well.  Nice catch, rook," he said as he stepped up to them.  The imp was small, a runt even by their standards.  It clawed at the air as the shrieker assaulted it's heightened senses.  "Keep it centered for a few more seconds."  Moments later the imp gave up, collapsing into an unconscious heap.  Rory took the feet and they carried it over to the deportation port.  A swipe of his badge opened the eye, a shimmering oval of blue energy rippling behind it.

"One...two..."  The duo heaved the body into the pool, watching it vanish in a crackle of sparks and a puff of ozone.  Wiping his hands on his pants, Rory spared the new kid a smile.  "Not a bad first day."  Greg holstered his shrieker and started towards the door.

"It wasn't as bad as I expected." he replied.  As they moved toward the door something caught Rory's eye.  A breach in the separation tank, large enough to fit a human if they hadn't eaten in two weeks.  The possibilities flipped through his mind and his eyes narrowed.  Tapping the radio again, Rory let Greg gain some distance before whispering into the receiver.

"Central, do we have any rank 3 blips in the east siphon chamber?"  A moment passed before the tech came back with a negative response.  Stepping up to Greg, Rory put a hand on his shoulder.

"Looks like it's 11:20.  Lunch?" he asked.  Greg smiled, that same proud grin as before.

"Great.  I'm starved."  he replied.  Rory exhaled in a sigh before smacking the wrench at the base of Greg's spine.  The kid went down with a startled howl and Rory was on him in a flash, pinning both arms with his knees.

"I know you're in there kid, so hear what I'm saying.  When a devil gets through it's bad business.  Fortunately they can't really grasp sorting short term memory when they first leech."  A flicker of violet in Greg's eyes revealed the presence of a rider.  "Unfortunately, once they leech there's no getting them out."  The rookie's eyes alternated between violet rage and sky blue terror.

"No...stop...wait..." It was all Greg could manage in his struggle with the monster inside him.

"I'm sorry, rook," Rory said, his voice soft as he lifted the wrench above his head.  "Today just wasn't your best day."  The wrench came down with a wet crunch and the screams of a thousand damned souls.  Rory pushed himself to his feet, letting the wrench fall next to the twitching corpse.  He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, smears of blood tracking his skin.

"Not my best day either."

Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge: Civil Disobedience

This week's challenge is to incorporate one choice from a list of fifteen opening lines presented by readers in the previous week's challenge.  I've opted for Valarie Valdes' excellent opener:

"Once James accepted that he had no choice but to burn the books, the question became which to burn first."

I also chose to go outside my wheelhouse for this one and present you with neither violence nor death.  Instead, I give you a tale of dystopian youthful mischief.

Chuck's blog is here - http://www.terribleminds.com/ramble/blog

Civil Disobedience

Once James accepted that he had no choice but to burn the books, the question became which to burn first.  The colors on the covers weren't helpful, as each was a drab black or brown or gray with scuff marks on the corners and dust thick on the spines.  Their pages were universally yellowed by age and exposure, some brittle enough to flake off when they were touched.  It wasn't a question of the content, either.  Like most eleven-year-olds, James had never seen the inside of a copy of A Farewell to Arms or Ulysses.  In truth, the fact that his parents felt they were worth saving was the only thing he knew for sure about them.

He decided by shoving his hand into the pile and yanking out a thin, brown book.  No title was etched across the front of his one.  He fanned the pages and found them lined with words he couldn't decipher, just like the others.  The Old Tongue they called it, a collection of languages from the times before the Ecclesiarch provided the people with a universal dialect. 

"Here ya go, Magpie." he called out, releasing the book with a side-arm toss that sent it spinning across the attic and into the girl's waiting arms.  She scowled but even that effort did little to diminish the cherubic nature of her features.

"I hate it when you call me that.  Why can't you just call me Maggie like the others?" she asked, setting the book on the window sill and taking up a box of wooden matches in its place.  A few strikes of the match set it ablaze and filled her nose with the stink of sulphur.  She paused for a moment, staring at the dance of light at the end of the stick, and then tossed it into the metal wash tub.  Lighter fluid caught fast, a rush of heat and then the sticks inside were burning.

"Maggie is a boring name.  You're Magpie.  Smart and quick and...stuff." James replied as he pulled two more books out of the pile.  He weighed them, forming a scale out of his arms, and opted for the musty copy of The Great Gatsby.  He gave this one an arc and it hung in the air for a moment before plummeting into the flames.  Sparks kicked up in a flurry of tiny flares and Maggie covered her eyes against them.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asked even as she picked up her book and let it tumble into the tub.

"Gotta teach 'em a lesson," he said, scratching at a mosquito bite on the back of his hand.  "Besides, they don't even read these.  Just let them sit up here and get old."

"Yeah but...I dunno.  My grandma told me about a place they used to keep these.  She called it a liberry," she said, pausing long enough to catch the next book thrown her way.  "Kinda seems like they're important if your folks went to such trouble to hide them from the Censors."  James shrugged at that, looking at the wall they'd had to break open to get to the books.  It did seem like a lot of work.

"Well, maybe they shoulda thought of that before they told me I couldn't join the Acolyte's Choir.  Anyone over 10, that's what the recruiter's say," he bristled, walking over and setting a thick tome on the edge of the tub so that it would balance beneath his palm.  "My dad hates them.  Calls them Loodites or something, but I don't wanna be him.  I wanna travel the country with a rifle and a list like the Censors do."

"And what about me?" Maggie asked, her nose wrinkling.  "My grandma loves the old books.  I think they smell nice and I can even read the Old Tongue sometimes.  Are you gonna put me on the list, too?"

"No way, Magpie.  You can come with me and hunt traitors.  You'll be better at knowing what to burn anyways." James replied with a laugh, releasing the book and letting the flames claim it.  Maggie smiled, her eyes bright at his acceptance, but something inside her didn't feel right about any of it.

A sharp buzz from outside interrupted her worry.

-zzzzttt-  Attention Sunnybrook residents.  The time is now 8 pm.  All residents must return to their homes within one half hour.  Anyone caught breaking curfew will face a mandatory two month imprisonment.  That is all. -zzzzttt-

The loudspeaker hummed for a moment longer, then fell silent.  James grabbed a few more books from the pile.

"We gotta hurry.  My folks'll be home soon." he said, concern creeping into his voice.  Maggie reached out and scooped up a few more, several slipping through her arms and clattering onto the attic floor.  James stopped to pick them up and when he smiled back at her she knew he hadn't seen her tuck one of the books into her waistband.  She didn't like to steal from her friend but she just had to know what Frankenstein was about.  It gnawed at her, teased her like glittering gold even as she tossed the other books into the fire.

Maybe I am like a magpie, after all. she thought, wiping her hands on her blouse as they turned to go.

Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge: The Wrong Man

This week's challenge is incorporate one choice from each of three lists; subgenre, element and conflict/theme.  I let the random nature of the dice decide my fate here and the rolls provided me with a detective tale about imprisonment involving surgery.  Let's see how this plays out.

Chuck's blog is here - http://terribleminds.com/ramble/

The Wrong Man

It occured to me as the Pennywell Surgeon loomed into view that it often feels like someone is writing my life.  The situations I've gotten into, and out of, would fit perfectly in the page of some dogeared adventure novel.  It was exactly that fact that kept me from feeling fear as he tested the edge of a scalpel on his thumb.  After all, when you've escaped unscathed from a mobster's basement interrogation and put a bullet in the throat of a respected political assassin, knives tend to lose their power.

"Why can't I move?" I asked, testing my limbs for responsiveness.  The man leaned over the edge of the pine box he'd laid me in, the overhead light casting curious shadows across his bespectacled face.  He didn't look like a killer, certainly not one who'd kidnapped and harvested the organs from fourteen women in half a year's time.  He was pushing fifty with a receding hairline and patches of gray in his beard.  The papers had assigned him the nickname but my research had turned up the truth.  Walter Demroe, board certified neurologist and surgeon, had been very careful to keep his nocturnal exploits separate from his professional life.

"Simple anatomy, shamus.  I've clipped the tendons and ligaments that would allow you motion in your limbs." he said, as calmly as if he were lecturing to a class.  I felt my lips pull into a frown despite my effort to stay stoic.  He turned away and I could hear the clink of metal tools.

"Did you do this to your victims, too?  Left them paralyzed while you scooped out their innards?" I asked, the disgust rich in my voice.  I didn't need to know the answer.  I was stalling, you see, as I'd realized he'd missed something.  My right hand twitched as I struggled to move it.

"Some.  Others I used injected chemicals." he replied, a sigh punctuating this words.  "I'm rather surprised you even took an interest in this case.  They were whores and junkies, after all.  The police never gave them a second thought."

"They never gave me a second thought either.  Maybe that's why I felt inclined to dig."  My fingers balled into a fist, pins and needles shooting through my arm.  I could feel the weight of my pistol pressing heavy on my ribs.  I eased my hand slowly upwards.

"And dig you did.  I was content to let you stumble about checking bars and roughing up thugs but once you'd found my office I knew something had to be done." he said.  Light gleamed off a saw as he held it up, the teeth jagged and bent.  Another inch brought my hand closer to the weapon.

"So you set me up?  Used my ex-wife's cell phone to get me to the park.  Where is Marianne?" I asked, fingertips grazing the carved wood of the gun's grip.

"I'd imagine she's at home, sleeping off her night out with the girls.  Only a careless woman leaves her phone unattended when ordering drinks." he replied, pulling a pair of gloves off his hands.  He turned back to me, something gripped in his left hand, and found the barrel of my gun shaking in his face.

"Sorry, sicko.  Nobody's gonna take my organs."  It took all the strength I could muster to level the weapon and squeeze the trigger.  The hammer fell on an empty chamber.  CLICK.  I squeezed again.  CLICK.  My strength faltered and the gun slipped from my fingers, falling into his open palm.  He smiled, gleaming teeth almost monsterous in the dingy, yellow light.  He set the gun aside, opening his left hand and letting the bullets slip between his fingers onto my chest.

"I am not an amateur, detective.  I know my craft well enough to empty my victim's weapons.  Well enough to know your organs are riddled with rot and disease.  Alcohol and cigarettes and putrid diner foods...you aren't fit to transplant." he said, and this time it was his voice that held disgust.  As he hooked a hammer into his belt and hoisted the coffin lid I felt the bitter taste of fear.  I tried to move, to kick or punch but all I could manage was a strangled scream.

"No!  This isn't right.  My stories don't end like this!" I gasped, choking the words through gritted teeth.  He stopped, light flashing across his glasses as his smile faded.  In that moment his expression held only pity.  I hated him for it.

"Well, gumshoe, what you've failed to consider is that this isn't your story.  It's mine." he said as he pushed the wooden lid into place, plunging me into blackness.

As I drove the first nail in, I heard the detective scream.  Those screams continued until six feet of packed earth drowned them out.  I waited for a minute, trying to pick out his shouts from the wailing of the wind, then walked back up the path to the parking lot.  The park was my favorite spot, so empty and sprawling in the dead of night.

Brushing soil from my hands and tossing the shovel into the back of my truck, I smiled.  I flicked open the zippo, taking a moment to read the inscription.  I knew you'd ace the detective exam.  With love and faith, Marianne.  The flame danced excitedly until I snapped the lid closed.  A trophy of a different sort from this one.  There were days when my hobby felt like work but this...this was not one of those days.

Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge #2

This week's challenge is to take a classic fairy tale, fable or nursery rhyme and bring it out of the past.  It can be set in this century or beyond, which left me with a lot of setting potential to chomp on.  It took me a bit to settle on a story but I decided that the Pied Piper needed a modern retelling.

Chuck's blog is here - http://terribleminds.com/ramble/

The Price Gets Higher

"I call it Sweet Melody," Piper said as he dangled the plastic baggie over the counter.  "You can smoke it, inject it or snort it.  You won't find a smoother high."  The boy reached out and Piper let the baggie drop into his hand, crystals bouncing around inside.  The kid ran a finger over the sticker on the back side, a small gold flute on a blue background.

"How much?" he asked, straightening up and setting his face in a somber stare.  Piper smiled, noticing again how talk of money always made kids try to act older.  This one couldn't be but 13 but he was trying to project a businessman's aspect.

"The first bag is free.  Call it a sample.  Don't worry, though.  It's the cheapest drug out there." Piper replied, rising from his chair and walking around the counter with his usual bouncing step.  The boy looked uneasy, glancing through the shop window and back to the baggie.  Piper laid a hand on his shoulder, urging him towards the door.  "Go on.  Tell your friends."  As the boy pushed the door open and stepped out onto the street, Piper heard music from a passing car.

Take on me...take me on...

His eyes narrowed at it, a sneer on the corner of his lip.  That song was like an obsession to people these days.  You couldn't even go an hour without hearing that shrill refrain.  Piper crossed to the door of the shop and swung the sign to read 'Closed'.  Across the street he could see the brick facade of the Hamelin Arms projects.  He watched the children milling about the sidewalk, acid washed jeans and leather jackets and boom boxes.  As he made his way back to the stock room he paused to snatch a baseball bat from one of the shelves.  The tag, which read 'Piper's Pawn - $2.50', peeled away from the chipped surface.

The door swung inwards and the dim glow of an overhead light illuminated the figure in the center of the room.  The man was heavy set under workman's overalls, but the chain that bound him to the metal chair was the most prominent feature.  Piper let the door swing shut behind him, stepping over and kneeling next to the man.

"You know, Marcus, I find that this decade doesn't sit well with me.  The music, for one.  So lacking in any true effort,"  Piper said.  Marcus looked up, one eye swollen shut from a previous beating.  "Despite that, I do admire how easily this generation's children are taken in by a quick fix for their unfortunate situations."

"Fuck you."  Marcus spat, blood on his lips, though the words came out slurred.  Piper frowned, his lips narrowing to a line, and he stepped back a bit as he tested the weight of the bat in his hands.

"You did, my friend.  You and all the other parents in the Hamelin Arms."  Piper paused long enough to slip the tri-colored denim jacket from off his shoulders and toss it onto the desk.  Blood stains were always tricky to get out of denim.  "We had a very simple arrangement.  One that you and your people initiated."  Leaning back, Piper brought the bat in a sideways swing.  Marcus' knee snapped violently at the impact, followed by a howl of pain.

"Stop...please...we didn't..."  Marcus begged, his muscles tightening against the chain.

"You didn't what?!"  Piper shouted, dropping low to bring his eyes in line with his captive's.  "Expect me to survive?"  He jabbed at Marcus' chest with the bat.  "You made me an offer.  Twenty-five grand to get rid of the dealers that were hooking your kids.  What did you call them?  Rats...vermin...scum?"

"You don't understand."  Marcus interjected, but a quick right hook split his upper lip and choked him with the words.

"I fucking understand!  I killed a dozen men for you.  A dozen deserving men, but that blood doesn't just wash away.  I did my part and you screwed me."  Leaping back, Piper swung the bat high and sent Marcus' head to the side with a hollow 'thump'.  A moment later the anger was gone and Piper was smoothing out the wrinkles in his grey Polo.  "That's alright, though.  I have a new price and you have no choice but to pay it."

"No...you can't..." Marcus said, his good eye wet with tears.

"I already have.  Sweet Melody is on the streets now.  Your kids will come to me one by one begging for more.  They will come with their minds clouded and their bodies screaming for a fix.  And when they do?  When they do, I will take them.  Do you have any idea what kind of money I can charge for a relatively healthy child?  Factories, drug dens, whorehouses...they will all pay."  Piper drew in a slow breath, resting the bat on his shoulder.  "But don't you worry, Marcus.  You're one of the lucky ones.  You won't be around to see it."

The bat did its work, accompanied by screaming, and the heavy brick and mortar of the building swallowed the noise.  It was the kind of music that Piper could really appreciate.

Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge: A Tree Far From Home

I've titled this post with every intention of creating more of these.  We'll see how that pans out.  Chuck Wendig is a writer who I became familiar with years ago for his work on Hunter: the Reckoning, a White Wolf tabletop RPG that ranks to this day as my "all-time #1, run-at-the-drop-of-a-hat" system.  He has a blog (link at the end) through which he hands out all kind of free awesome for people interested in telling stories.  Every Friday he puts up some kind of flash fiction challenge to keep the creative juices overflowing and I thought I'd start participating because a) I love writing flash fiction and b) I need something to keep this blog moving while I struggle with my own writing issues.

Chuck's blog is here - http://terribleminds.com/ramble/

A Tree Far From Home

"Charles Donovan Pierce, you put your respirator on this instant!"

The voice was shrill through the amplification speakers.  Charlie pulled the clear plastic cone off his belt and slid the straps over his head, tugging it through straw blond hair until he heard the soft hiss of a seal being made.  The smell of ozone faded as the device did its work, filtering out the elements that might be troublesome.  The taste lingered, though, like sucking on a penny that had been electrified moments before.

"Sorry, Ma." he said, his own speaker amplifying the volume.  Tearing his eyes away to look at her was so difficult, so unwanted.

"Damn right, you are.  We haven't been here a week and already you're traipsing around like you're on the back forty." Vivian said, her frown visible but twisted unnaturally by the plastic of her mask.  She crunched through the grass, her suit slick with moisture.

"It's just..." Charlie began, his mind struggling for the words as he turned back to the tree, it's bent form swaying so soothingly in the soft argon fog.  "It's so like home, ya know.  The grass, the trees...well, most of them."  His mother reached his side and motioned upwards with a sweep of her hand.

"What color is that sun, boy?"  Charlie didn't have to shift his eyes to know the answer.  He'd stared up at it for hours when they first arrived, amazed at shimmering light it created.

"Blue, ma'am." he replied, reaching out towards the twisted branches of the tree in front of them.  His mother's hand was on his wrist in an instant, pulling it back.

"Right, because this isn't Earth.  You don't know what is out here.  How dangerous it could be." she said, her fingers tightening.

"But, Ma, the scientists said it was ok to breathe here for an hour." he said, his eyes locked to the thin green foliage on the spidery boughs.  A quick tug pulled his attention back to his mother's face.

"I don't care what no scientist's say.  You don't leave the tent unless your father or I give you permission."  she said, her voice tight with anger.  Charlie's eyes seemed to focus at that, pupils constricting as fear of his father's anger flooded his body with hormones.  "Are we clear?"

"Yeah...yes, ma'am.  I understand." he managed between deep gulps of air.  Her hand slid loose of his wrist and she set it on his shoulder instead, the rubberized plastic of his suit rippling at her touch.

"We just don't want anything to happen to you, Charlie.  This isn't home.  We have to be more careful here."  A slow push turned him around and he spared a glance towards the tree as they started back.  It was strange...he couldn't see now why he'd found it so fascinating.  He smiled to his mother as she continued.  "We have a few more holes to dig before he can plant the supports for our habitat but once that's done I thought we might break out the ice-cream your father freeze-dried before the trip."

The tree watched them go.  It slowed the swaying of its branches and let the mist dampen them again.  The chemicals in its leaves ceased to mingle, breaking rapidly down into their respective components.  It was a missed opportunity, to be sure.  The boy had been so close, so deeply entranced by the pheromones.  A minute longer would have been all it would need to finally see what these new creatures tasted like.

The tree sighed, though it only appeared to shudder in the wind from the outside.  It had been new to this place once, too.  Fresh from across the blackness of space when it was but a child, eager to plant roots and entice prey.  The setback was of little consequence.  They would be back, poking the ground with their strange devices and it would be there waiting for them.  So eager to explore, these beings were.

It would sleep until then.  Sleep despite the gnawing in its roots, the pangs of undernourishment.  Hunger did not sit well with its kind, and it had waited so very long for a meal.