So, it’s that time again. Wednesday always creeps up on me with an unwanted helping of chloroform. I really need to stop being knocked on my hump by Wednesday, but I just can’t seem to figure out that it’s coming. Strange.
At Any Rate…
My #ROW80 Check In is first! As always, goals are found here.
Second week in a row with (semi) solid posts on time. I was almost late yesterday, but that’s because holiday weekends always throw me off (might be why Wednesday snuck up on me this week) and work was actually busy for once yesterday.
The hubbie’s birthday was yesterday, so I got him a guitar. This is one of those presents that is something he’s wanted, and something that gets me time I’ve wanted. We’ve made a deal that whenever he picks up the guitar, I will start writing. When he stops, I stop. It means that I’ll always get my words per day, because he’s very passionate about learning to play the guitar.
And while random sour notes are a bit distracting, the acoustic reminds me of my teenage years (I only seemed to ever date guys who played the guitar) and it becomes background noise.
I swear though, if he ever learns to play Stairway to Heaven… we might have to get a divorce. No joke. One of my high school sweethearts only knew how to play Stairway… and would – over and over and over and *twitch*
Look! A Demonic Duck of some Sort!
Oh, right! I’ve got a special treat for you folks today. Chuck Wendig over at Terrible Minds challenged readers to write a flash fiction using a random sentence generator as either the first or last line.
The first sentence I got was totally useless, but the second was a gem.
Without further ado, The Controller by Dahnya Och.
The Controller remembers the insect.
Such a small thing it is, crawling across the floor. Insignificant. It isn’t surprising he forgot about it. The bug is tiny in comparison to the towering machines that surround it. Dwarfing the already unimposing insect to near microscopic levels.
The insect makes no real ground. Its legs are broken, splintered. It struggles anyway, pulling itself forward by sheer will.
The Controller wishes to squash it. End its pitiful existence with the well placed heel of his boot.
Instead he smiles at it.
He knows that the bug will be useful. For the experiment. His experiment. So important. Needed.
He rubs a hand down the side of the nearest machine, grinning as a small electric pulse shocks his sweating palm. Raw power. Lurking under a thin layer of metal. It wants out. Wants to be used.
A sound distracts him. The insect has pulled itself up. It tries to stand on broken legs. It is crying. Begging for mercy.
Mercy! It begs and pleads, looking at him with swollen eyes. It thinks it is greater than his glorious experiment. That its life is worth more than the knowledge that will come from its death.
The bug knows nothing.
The Controller crosses the room with long, angry strides. He grabs the insect by its knotted, wavy brown hair and yanks its head back at a terrible angle. It can’t scream. Instead it mews like an injured kitten. Its eyes reflect the pain.
“I know that you are frightened. I’m sorry I had to hurt you.” He shakes his head. “Can’t you see? This is so much bigger than you or me.” He turns and looks to the dials. Little metal arrows point to green lines. “It is ready.” He looks back to the insect, trying to muster pity. “This will be over for you shortly.”
He smiles. He must not have been very reassuring; a look of horror crosses its face and it starts to cry again. He lets it go. It falls to the floor with a moan, but is then silent.
He returns to his machines. So much power in this room. He is the only one worthy of controlling it. He pulls a lever back. Presses a few dials.
She screams. Cacophony. Hesitant. Then nothing.
A small whistle blows. A light blinks on.
He waits for the printout.
The Controller forgets the insect.