Flash Fic Challenge: Rose Tinted Lenses

 Rose Tinted Lenses

 Tap. Tap. Tap.

Alex flattened themself behind the ancient rollercoaster. Six feet away, everyone was going about their usual business, up and down the road, in and out of shops, chatting to friends, without ever glancing in Alex’s direction.

Three feet away, thin black tentacles tapped on the first boards, soft as dripping water, relentless as clockwork, and coming ever closer.

Alex edged sideways, their eyes darting to find somewhere safe.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A new set of tapping came from behind them, and Alex’s breath came faster, even as a whisper crawled across their skin.

“Silly human, you could have been safe. You should have followed the crowd. You should have worn your contact lenses.”

Alex wanted to shout back that they didn’t have contact lenses, that they had never worn contact lenses, that they didn’t need them. Shouting would give away their location though. They bit down on their lip instead.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A tentacle came down within inches of Alex’s shoe and they flinched. One elbow clattered noisily against the rollercoaster.

Six feet away, nobody took any notice. It was as if none of the people could see or hear anything out of the ordinary.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Alex broke and ran for the crowd. Surely they could get away from all of this, lose these - these tapping things - in the everyday world.

A tentacle curled lazily around their ankles, and they crashed to the ground right next to the road. Alex stretched out a frantic hand, begging for help, begging for someone to stop, to see what was happening. Pink-tinged eyes looked blankly through them, feet stepped over them as they thrashed, placid voices discussed the weather over their head.

Tentacles tapped up Alex’s body, pinning them tighter in place.

“No one will help you,” the whisper drummed. “They are all good people, nice people, obediently wearing their contact lenses. They can’t see you, no matter what you do.”

A tentacle wrapped around Alex’s throat. Three more bound their mouth shut. They tried to writhe, but even their hair was pinned down, immobile. Instead, they screwed their eyes shut.

“Oh, silly human, that won’t help you. But don’t worry, we’re going to be so kind to you. We’re going to give you lenses that you can’t take out, and you won’t see us ever again. You’ll just remember. Isn’t that nice of us.”

The tentacles were tap, tap, tapping on their eyelids now, thinner than ever, twining around their eyelashes and forcing their eyes open.

The last thing that Alex saw clearly was a rose-tinted lense approaching their eye, held by yet another tentacle.

#

It was a normal day. The weather was pleasant and the shops were crowded. And somewhere, just out of sight, Alex could hear water dripping.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

 

Flash Fic Challenge: Come Play With Me

 Come Play With Me

The hall stands cold and empty now.

The tables all lie bare.

Yet still across the darkness colours flare -

Ghosts of games long gone.

Bright baize faded down to grey.

Glass shards upon the floor.

Yet still, I tell you, there is more -

The cues and clues remain.

The knives that shaped these broken cues

Have crumbled to rust-red grime.

Mould creeps up walls like frosty rime

But the bones of the hall still stand.

For it is with blood and with bone

That all the ghosts now play.

Balls made from blood across the table spray,

Sent flying by cues carved from bone.

(We make our own,

We break our own,

We bind and bleed

And take our own)

The hall stands cold and darkened now.

The tables all lie bare...

Won't you play a game with me?

You, who entered on a dare?

Flash Fic Challenge: (Don't) Mind the Dumpster

 (Don't) Mind the Dumpster

Don't mind the rattling sound, it's just the dumpster out back. It's where we put the costumes that become – unusable. Yes, there's a chain on it, it's to stop the lid coming open, obviously. You wouldn't want wild animals nesting in there, would you?

Don't mind the thumping sound, it's just something falling over in the dumpster, it's what happens when you pile things in there haphazardly. Oh, is there a sleeve sticking out? That happens sometimes, I'll go banish it in a bit.

Never mind what those old costumes used to be, it's what they are now that counts, and that's “not allowed in here”. Too much personality, that's the problem. People used to know how to cleanse things properly. These days they just throw them in the washing machine, and that's absolutely no use for keeping these costumes usable as clothing.

Do you ever wonder why so many odd socks turn up? It's because they get worn so long that they get infused with personality along with the sweat and dirt, and then they walk off on their own. Same thing happens with the costumes we hire out.

Except that, when a full clown suit acquires personality, people will scream. Do Not Sniff the Flo- too late. Now you're soaked in blood. Just grab the other broom and help me shove it back into the dumpster before it tries to take over anyone else, will you? Then you can go try and clean it off.

(It never comes off, it just slides under your skin, and you end up like me.)

Just one of the hazards of working in this costume shop, you know?

Flash Fic Challenge: Grind Their Bones

 Grind Their Bones

It all started when my Walkman broke. It helps me get through the day. It was mid-morning, and I was at work when it happened, though, so there wasn't anything I could do.

At first, I didn't notice anything was wrong. The tapes I've got for it are old and a bit crackly anyway, so the increased static just sounded like wear and tear. The music faded out, but there was still sound there, still singing voices.

There were words there, too. Not quite distinct enough to make out, rising and falling in numbing repetition. As numbing, to be fair, as the data entry I was working on. I tried to focus on the data, of course. Make sure it got in the right column. The Walkman was just background noise.

Then one of the voices said my name. I definitely didn't have any tapes with my name in them, so that got my attention.

I couldn't make out most of the words. Something about soon, and a grind, and food.

I checked my latest entry, corrected it, and moved on to the next one, with a subtle glance at my watch. Nearly lunch-break. And yes, I quite agreed, the work was a grind, but I'd get to eat soon enough. At least I wasn't on an assembly line and could sit down.

Still hope, muttered the dying Walkman. Grind her down further.

I flicked a look along the row of workers, trying to see who was talking, and nudged the headphones off one ear. No, the words were definitely coming from the Walkman, not from reality. I slid the headphones back on and let my mind drift a little. It brought more of the speech (if that's what it was) into focus.

Not ready to eat yet, they murmured. Not enough despair.

I grimaced silently. True. I never had been one to despair, though this sort of job was enough to drive anyone to it. Deadly monotonous, never enough pay, always hungry, always tired, never done with the never-ending data.

The screen flickered, and just for a moment, it reflected something else, somewhere else. Some kind of factory, some ghostly thing full of writing tentacles tending it, boxing up snacks that looked like me, like my work-colleagues.

An assembly line formed from dullness and despair, grinding slowly away until we were all in the desired form.

I leaned forward and wiped the screen, then reached for the next piece of work. Incomprehensible beings focused on grinding us all down, and extracting everything they could? That was just capitalism personified. 

Old news, really.

In other news, it was Thursday.

Flash Fic Challenge: Whosoever

 Whosoever

The sword waited.

Someday a hero would come seeking it again. It didn't matter to the sword that it was at the bottom of the ocean and might have to wait a long time. Magic kept it from rusting and from dying and from changing. The runes along its blade gleamed softly.

Whosoever draws this sword from this [mud] shall be rightwise....

Rightwise target for the sword to take over. To slide silent tendrils of mental control into the wielder's mind. To encourage mistrust. To encourage swiftness to anger. To persuade into more wars and more fights and the resulting higher dependency on the sword itself.

To quietly erode any other support, turn friends against them, create too many problems to solve any other way. To destroy kingdoms. To destroy lives.

Up on the surface, divers splashed cheerfully over the side of the ship.

Below them, Excaliber waited, the runes along its blade gleaming softly.

Flash Fic Challenge: All Ticked Off

 All Ticked Off

The tick board in the old pawn shop hung from a length of rope. Customers came and went. Some turned goods over for a little cash. Some paid outright for the items they wanted or wanted back. And some paid on tick, returning each payday to hand over the next installment of payment for the purchase they were already using. Each installment was duly ticked off on the tick board until it was fully paid off.

Every time someone paid off something bought on tick, the rope grew a little thinner, a little more frayed, as if each tick cut through a single fibre. Every time someone had to default on something bought on tick, the rope grew a little thicker, a little sturdier, as if it was taking what was owed it in a more direct fashion.

It went on year after year like that, the rope waxing and waning in response to the fortunes of the customers, but never quite breaking even at its thinnest, until a loan shark moved in next door.

The loan shark lured in customers, wrapping them in debts they could never pay back while he fattened on them like the rope. Nobody could afford to pay on tick anymore, and the board hung empty, the rope gathering dust rather than strands.

As the customers' debts grew, they brought more to be pawned and bought less, until the shop was paying out more than it took in, and the loan shark smiled, and smiled, and smiled.

The owner of the pawn shop took the board down and unfastened the rope. It swung lightly from his hands, like the twitching tail of a snake, as he told it softly, "We had a bargain, you and I. You collected what was owed, only what was owed, and I pledged my honesty against yours. But now there is one who takes with a smile, until they owe their lives and their souls to him. There is no honesty in him, and he seeks to drive me out and take you over. He owes us the truth. He owes us an apology. He owes us an explanation. I call on you this final time to collect what is owed."

The rope slid from his hands to coil on the floor, and one frayed end caught the light of the setting sun, turning it into strands of shadow that stretched out across the floor towards the loan shark's building.

Next door, the loan shark began to scream. The sound grew thinner and rougher and more frayed as it went on, as if he was unravelling from the inside out.

Nobody ever found his body.

When the owner of the pawn shop hung up the tick board once more, the rope was thick and strong and fresh, as if had never been frayed at all.

Flash Fic Challenge: Run, Run, As Fast As You Can

 

Elsie was making gingerbread people when it began.

"The baker is nothing but unbaked dough!" a child's voice cried, and the blob of dough under hands twisted away from her. It stretched and folded itself into a small, faceless humanoid and started towards her.

Around the room, a dozen finished gingerbread shapes stirred, rising from their trays and baking racks, echoing the words as if they were the truth.

"I'm not!" Elsie protested, groping for the large wooden spoon to defend herself. It skittered out of her reach. "I'm NOT!"

Other voices drowned her out. "Bake the baker!" came the cry. It rattled from dozens of throats, then from scores, and every bit of the gingerbread people she had made turned on her as one massed body. Their faces were blank save for the iced mouths shouting her down. "Bake the baker! Bake the baker!"

"Nooooooo!" It came out as a rising scream and she backed away as they came on, grasping hands reaching out to clutch at her, to pin her, to drag her over to the giant oven. She lashed out, knocking hands away as hard and as fast as she could, but there were more of them. So many more of them, and she couldn't swing fast enough to clear all the hands away.

Then her back came up hard against a stone wall, and the faceless crowd surged forward. She couldn't flee. She couldn't escape. There were more than she could fight off. They overwhelmed her every defence, driving her down and down and down until she was curled on the kitchen floor like the ball of dough they called her. She wept, slow tears of terror sliding from her eyes and soaking into her skirt.

And so they shouted in triumph and hoisted her up and carried her to the oven. They threw her in there, among the glowing coals, and sealed the door.