Writing : The Rough House: Prompt of the Week #8

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I think so. It took me awhle to realize Panda switched out the pic in the first post (as indicated with the new dates beneath the picture).

It's seven fifty-eight and her hips are tick-tocking straight into seven fifty-nine. She wears robin’s egg blue; she’s fragile, like a bird’s egg—easily crushed, easily ended. Steam bursts from grates. Horns bleat as all the traffic-sheep clog the city's veins. 

Eight o'clock rolls in and rolls back out with a wave of nausea and sweaty palms.

I've been following her for twenty minutes, now, through Little China.

I wouldn't have to do this kind of stuff, if they opened more jobs to humans. Lately, the machines get all the work.

'They're just better at it,' the business owners say. ‘Better at it,’ meaning they’re more trustworthy, less likely to make mistakes. They don’t need to take lunch breaks or smoke breaks, and you can buy most of them for eighteen easy payments of insert the proper price-range for your model, here. 

As far as human-suitable jobs go, the Observation Labs are packed with lab rat people who sit for hours and hours, every day, picking out details in pictures. These details are too small for the mechs to catch. Too small for the mechs to catch right now. You can make a pretty good wage offering yourself up for medical, cosmetic, and organic testing, or building, programming, or training bots. Mechs aren't allowed in the science fields. At least not yet. People still get these types of heavy-service-required, detail-oriented front jobs, like customer service, aesthetics, and other 'art' and 'science' driven crap. Corporations are run by people.

Flashing neon signs scream, 'The Future is Here!' Giant, telescreen billboards play the same commercials over and over, again, making the smog and hissing steam glow blue, pink, green, and yellow, Pedestrians talk into nearly-invisible headsets as their mechs whir stalwartly behind them, toting their groceries, shopping bags, and children. 

The big-wigs are on the brink of creating almost-humans. They've got that Artificial Intelligence in testing. I saw it on the cover of a magazine, when I was walking by a vending machine. Give it seven more months? And mechs'll be able to do more than generalize colors, shapes, letters, and numbers. They'll be able to do more than spit out shitty magazines, feed you automated news announcements, and carry your stuff.

I ain’t exactly personable, and I ain't exactly pretty, so they won't hire me to greet customers. I still got a rash from my last medical test. I don't know nothing about 'art' or 'science', and all the Observation positions got filled up a long time ago. The best I--like most other 'working class citizens'--can do is wait around for some geezer to drop dead, then try to claw my way into a job. 

Ever seen domesticated dogs after a natural disaster wipes out a city? The way they start forming packs and turning against each other? Getting wild? Fighting over scraps? That's what finding work's like. You have to get vicious. People kill people over minimum wage.

One thing people learned about business? There're certain things people can do that mechs can't. At least not yet. They can lie, cheat, and steal. They can skim a few dollars off the top, or be full-blown serial-raping-torture-killers whose mommas didn't treat them so good as kids. That means politics, lawyering, banking, and entrepreneurship are all booming 'people' business.

But I ain't got a formal education. I mean, I got 'library access', just like every other Howard or Huey, but I ain't got diplomas to show nothing. 

Criminal activity puts food on the table. Puts food on my table.

Waiting on the outskirts of this electro-charged boomtown is Rogtaka--I'm not so good at making those weird hacking and clicking sounds, so excuse me if I don't pronounce this guy’s name right--and his gang of thugs. Recently, our city got swallowed by the blazing lights of New York, New York. Jamesburgh went from just another suburbanite hub connected with the Big Apple, to part of the blustering, sky-dwelling machine.

Her wheels turn, gears crank. Intergalactic-nationals and mechs flood in. The homeless, jobless, morally sound? They flood down into the Understreet.

I take off my hat and fan my face. I should move to the rural south. I hear it’s less mechanized. Everything’s supposed to be more natural, there.

It's hard finding a good, symmetrical girl in a city full of slugs, machines, and rumbling intergalactic jackasses.

But a good, symmetrical girl's what Rogtaka wants. 'They sell best,' he says, 'everybody likes symmetry.' He slobbers all over his asymmetrical suit, when he talks. If everybody likes symmetry, it makes sense that nobody likes Rogtaka.

Another thing machines can't do? At least not with passion or reaction? At least not yet? Is fuck.

The 'fuck' business is as hearty as any other criminal enterprise, here. It's a gurgling, sucking bitch of a beast, and Rogtaka's slug-ass is riding it hard.

Eight fourteen. She walks into a grocery store.

I lift the plastic flap and vomit into the ice machine's porthole, while I wait. The ice machine's lights blink, "We're sorry. This is not legal tender. Please remove the items and insert your barcode for processing. We're sorry. This is not..."

Eight forty-five. She'll be out, soon. I can feel it. I should've snagged her in the alley. I can do this.

I'm sweating like a white guy at an Indian restaurant. I open the flaps of my jacket to fan myself. How long is she going to take? I'm starting to lose my nerve; did I ever really have it?

"...the items and insert your barcode for processing. We're sorry. This is not legal tender...."
 

Can't let Panda down now can I?  jk

I was on vacation all week - so forgive me.

Here she is - for what she's worth.

Edit - took it out

I'm glad you guys liked it. I've never finished a story, before.

I was really proud that I just got through something, you know?

I was thinking about trying to expand on it, especially since it seems like one, huge info-dump to me.

That first story you wrote, Fritz? The post-apocalyptic one with the strange-looking creatures and the gun? Was what made me want to write something science-fictiony.

It's a lot easier than trying to write right-here-right-now realism, and a lot more fun!

I envy your ability to plot, and the concepts you've got going. I especially liked the story you just wrote. It thrilled me, because I stare into space, a lot, thinking about how humans are viral.

And then the crickets took over...

It's fun to be writing again

Ouch i fixed the glaring grammer error! @Fritz maybe i will m ake this story longer and Mr. Cota pursues her more, and she does cave, then she kills Mr. Cota for molesting her girls, and is in an American jail wearing the same blue dress.... I dunno...

I'm familiar with La Emme's work, I've read half a dozen pieces or more by her now and I can tell you this prompt is right up her ally. Excellent fantasy writer that one. She will submit. For me the picture hasn't sparked anything yet. I'm still working on my Flash Fiction smackdown and Flash Me submissions and a third prompt between me and a fellow writer. My hands are full at the moment but hopefully I can think of something next week, becuase I've falling in love with short fiction.

@Sean. I haven't thought of anything for this now. I'm done with my Smack Down piece save for a couple lines that I hate and can't figure out how to fix yet. I know what I'm doing for Flash Me but hadn't started yet and I'm writing a piece now that I'm about a quarter of the way through.

@Panda. How long is #8 going to be up for? I'm guessing since noone submitted yet, atleast another week. I might be able to pull that off. If it's up for the rest of the month I think my chances of submitting will be better. Let me know. Thanks

I am 630 words in with no end in sight, so this is going to be bigger than 1000 words, I'm sure. Or should I just pop in what I've got so far?

'gets you to write' - awesome sentiment...  freakin awesome.  And true.

as to timeline - stick with the griffin for one more week - I'd like a shot at it.  I've been busy finishing a short story for an upcoming contest sponsored by... hell, I'm not telling you guys, the few who enter the better my chances - ha....!

The Way Station

The Trinity had laid waste to Penzance but it was still solid ground, and Gaschen needed a rest after his flight from Galway. Dust and debris from the bombardments had entered the air already,  wreaking havoc with instruments and choking the gryphon Cavalry out of the sky.

Elidor reigned him up more sharply than she intended in her haste to dismount and access her pack; the geiger device in her goggles rattled against her cheekbones as it picked up the radioactive residue on the ground. Gaschen turned and nipped at her thigh as she slipped from the saddle, missing intentionally.

She cranked back the gear wheel of the copper hypodermic and braced herself for the sting of the fat needle that would deliver protection into her bloodstream. That done, she replaced the hypodermic in her pack and held her scarf against the puncture to staunch the insistent trickle of blood that always followed. Gaschen screeched and raked the ground next to her. He felt the ghosts of the fallout but it wouldn’t physically harm him; gryphons were immune to the effects of radiation.

Atop her head the needle of the geiger device continued to rattle against its housing, but its sound was obscured by the rumble of the JAAF dirigibles overhead. It didn’t bode well that they crossed paths here; she bound for the fields at Nantes and they surely for London. It was the only destination for a force that size, the force that should still be in Nantes.

Gaschen stretched like a cat and bumped his beak against her, restless to continue.

“This is your last rest until the mainland, old man; use it wisely. The winds will be even tougher across the Channel.”

He made the menacing trill that meant he agreed and curled up on a patch of bare soil, his saddle listing to one side. Elidor took a seat on a pile of rubble that could have been a smashed crate, an old fence, or someone’s home. A bone protruded near her foot, shocking in its whiteness, and she turned away. 
Her mouth was dry from the trip and she took a long pull from her canteen, knowing it was probably a bad idea. One of the other couriers had told her that the Alchemy Corps was working on a tablet that would purify tainted water; he was new and she didn’t have the heart to tell him that the same rumour had gone around the barracks six months ago.

The dirigibles continued their steady stream up across the Channel from France, Dragons and the occasional Camel squadron weaving between them. That there were Dragons going into battle meant the cavalry had been fully grounded. When she’d received her order in Galway the Joint Anglo forces had been struggling against the Trinity’s much stronger detachment. Exodus meant either retreat, or something worse had happened that demanded their attention. Elidor suspected her errand to Nantes no longer mattered but had no wish to go to London now.

Although the sky was nearly black it was just past midday, and home in Cardiff her mother would be at the schoolhouse—if it was still standing. If her mother was. Curse the Colonies for taking so long to provide relief. The Mid-Atlantic Shipyard had failed to produce its quota of skycraft for the last two months and the Under Minister was a breath away from the word secession.

Elidor coughed and hawked out a ball of black-laced phlegm, scowling at the JAAF emblem on Gaschen’s crinet as she wiped her mouth. Her father never trusted the bloody Colonials to make good on their treaties and promises; perhaps he’d been right. Times like this—and like when she joined the JAAF—she was glad the steam engine had blown all those years ago, sparing him from the future.

She began checking her tack and barding in preparation for takeoff, hitching the girth another notch tighter around Gaschen’s ample belly. He squawked when she nudged his ribs, forcing him to expel the air he always tried to hold in during the process. The gryphon was getting on in age, maybe another year or two left in the service before he was honourably retired. His increasing age and weight had knocked him down from Cavalry to Messenger Service about the time Elidor had signed up. They’d both had chips on their shoulders and, as such, bonded easily.

The tinny sound of fighters exchanging fire erupted overhead and Elidor could see the muzzle flares reflected and amplified in the clouds. It sounded like perhaps a scout or reconnaissance flight had come upon the JAAF birds; she desperately hoped so, or else there was little hope she’d be leaving Penzance any time soon.

“Hold still. You’re not going to want to deal with me if I end up dumped in the Channel,” she said, swatting Gaschen on the neck. He cooed a surly reply but stilled, kneading the loose dirt with his talons.

The tack secured, Elidor pulled an apple from her bag and sliced it in two. Half she placed on her outstretched palm, and Gaschen deftly took it between his tongue and the hook of his beak, crunching around the bit. Elidor ate her half, core and all, trying not to think of what future damage she might be doing to her insides with the irradiated fruit.

It was the gryphons that lured her into the service. Once they’d been pets; mounts for the rich, but nonetheless, pets. But now all domesticated gryphons had been drafted into the service, and were bred for military use as well. It was less altruism or patriotism that had brought Elidor here, but the childish desire to ride one of the great winged beasts.

She was about to pull herself back into the saddle, the fire overhead moving north and away from her flight pattern, when Elidor chanced to look up and catch a flash of red in the sky. Gaschen’s keen eyes saw it too and the gryphon became instantly skittish, dancing away at the end of his reins as Elidor fought to control him.

It was as though a great flaming leaf were falling from the World-Tree of her father’s stories: a blaze not controlled enough to fly but not exactly falling, either. As it descended it painted the grey clouds red and orange, leaving an afterimage not unlike a vapour trail. Elidor slipped her helmet and goggles back on, the counter once again rattling her brain in her skull, and adjusted the aperture of her sighting lens. It was a phoenix falling from the sky, clearly injured and out of control.

Elidor swung up into the saddle and lashed Gaschen’s flank with the tail of the reins, urging him to where the phoenix was headed. Her knees and free hand gripped the saddle as she tossed atop the galloping gryphon. Gaschen was an excellent flying mount but made for an uncomfortably bumpy ride on land. Thankfully he took flight when they reached the razor wire and was able to glide the rest of the way on low thermals.

Over the next rise they found the phoenix where it had landed near the blackened, haunting remains of a once-great oak. Elidor pulled Gaschen up and leapt down from his back, ordering him to keep his distance with a gesture as she ran toward the injured bird.

The phoenix was hardly distinguishable from the dying embers of a campfire, its glow diminishing in time with its life force. Elidor began speaking in a low voice as she approached, afraid of spooking the poor bird in its condition and sending it into shock.

“I saw you fall; were you hurt when the Sopwiths were exchanging fire? Is there something I can do for you?”

There was a brief rustle of movement and a momentary flare as the bird raised its delicate head from beneath one wing. Its wide, almost human eyes were stained green with tears. Elidor clutched her side as she felt its suffering.

I am lost. Please spare me any further pain.

Elidor knelt and ran a gloved hand along the bird’s spine. Already it grew cold. “I will. Tell me first, are you flying a mission? What news of the battle of Nantes?”

The phoenix closed its eyes once more and its flames dimmed to a simmering crimson. A long moment passed before Elidor felt it speak once more, and in the silence she heard Gaschen’s beak clacking.

I know not of Nantes. London is taken. All units are to fall back to York to cover the refugees’ escape. All messengers are recalled to York.

Elidor clenched her jaw to keep her lip from trembling. London was burning; the tower and Old Bailey in smouldering ruins, blackened bridges crumbling into the Thames. She slipped her dagger from its sheepskin sheath and tested the edge against the thumb of her glove.

“You came from London, then?”

The bird fluttered one eye open and closed it just as quickly. Elidor cradled its head in her hand.

Blackpool.

She paused. “By way of Cardiff?”

The bird went limp but its plumage continued to burn. Elidor chided herself for allowing it to suffer even a moment longer, but she had to know.

Cardiff...lost...

Elidor tucked the bird into her lap, noticing how much lighter it was than she would have expected. With her left hand she felt for the breastbone, then counted down: one, two three, and held a finger there as she’d been taught.

“I will see you again soon, friend. May your journey continue,” she whispered before plunging the blade into the bird’s heart.

What had been a bird became a ball of white flame, and Elidor hopped up and away from it, wiping her blackened palms against the front of her breeches. Where the ball landed it burned the ground, settling into a crater that shone like volcanic glass. Elidor knew it would burn for days before producing the gold-speckled egg, and that it would remain undisturbed in this dead place at the end of Britain.

She turned her back on the phoenix’s corpse and wiped the blade on her cloth. In the light the bird’s blood glittered like rubies, and she folded the square of fabric carefully, stowing it in one of the empty pockets of her pack.

Gaschen watched her with wide eyes, his great bulk more still than she’d ever seen it. He nuzzled her briefly as she swung back into the saddle.

“York, Gaschen. By way of Portsmouth.”

Gah!  Zombieman, you now go on my list of people to be randomly assigned to some conference in WAR2 that is not mine.

Goddamit!  Did she just leave him?  Get an abortion?  Commit suicide?

What happens at the end of this story?

O.K. So this is a rough draft inspired by both Panda's prompt and Sean of the Dead's story. I even slipped in the word evacuation for Sean's reading pleasure.

That Little Girl from the Story

“I’ll call you Toto, because we’re in Kansas. Well once upon a time anyhow.”  The little girl with braided pigtails combs the young griffin’s white hairs with her resilient fingers.  The griffin’s wings flap like a happy puppy tail.  His moan between a squall and a purr.
 

“That’s Nikko,” The little girl points at the largest export ship in the sky. “She’s the leader of the Winged Monkeys. They get their orders direct from the W.W.W. and drop us off here. Don’t worry though, you’ll get used to this place. The weather’s nice. I only wear this leather jacket and these goggles to keep the smoke from my eyes and skin.”
 

The ship’s engines sound like vacuums sucking air out of the sky to replace it with sheets of greyish white, making each night and day not dark or light.

“Do you remember your father Toto? I remember my father’s voice. He spoke like a saint. Sure, he had his flaws but he loved me so much. He told me stories about a little girl from Kansas and about her dog Toto, and how they rescued baby lions, and scarecrows, and tin men from the wicked witch of the west, how the little girl helped them realize they were smart, and brave, and compassionate, and how they didn’t need the help of any bogus wizard.  I like to think I’m like that little girl. I’m brave. I help children like you and Glenda. Oh, you haven’t met Glenda yet.”
 

The excited little girl pets a young phoenix perched on her forearm.
 

“She looks a little scary with the fiery wings and all but she doesn’t burn. Nothing really does here. Kansas is full of magic.”
 

The little girl descends down the wood retaining wall of an infinite trench.
 

“Tonight we hide in here. The second pass is the trolls and gremlins. Don’t worry though, as long as we're down here they won’t get scent of us. They usually head south and avoid the dugouts.”
 

The obedient griffin climbs in and nestles up to the little girl with the phoenix, sanctifying their trinity.
 

“You look like a king Toto. King Toto. Do you like the sound of that? I do. Together the three of us can make it to Oz one day. Oh, I haven’t told you about Oz yet. It’s this wonderful place with roads paved in golden brick. I think it smells like roses and lollipops. When my father talked about the little girl from the story, she was in Oz trying to make it back to Kansas. Ironic don’t you think? Here I am a little girl in Kansas, desperately searching for Oz. I haven’t found it yet but I believe it’s there. I won’t give up either. And now that I have you and Glenda I’m certain we can make it. Glenda’s fire can guide us through the smoke. You’ll be able to fly soon too. We’ll head east; pass through New York on our way to London. I’m just certain that Oz is somewhere near London. Doesn’t that sound lovely Toto? ”
 

The Winged Monkey’s expel hundreds of grungy goblins. They parachute to soil and scurry south with exact determination.  Toto and Glenda cower behind the little girl until the thunder of steps reduces to the faint patter of rain.
 

“They're gone now. Don't be scared. Just stick with me and everything will be O.K.” The little girl glares at Toto with the comfort of a deep brown.
 

Toto whimpers and leaks a tear.
 

"Oh, I can see it in your eyes now. That shudder of a dream. Poor thing. I had that a lot when I first got here. Give it time, it will pass.”
 

Toto places his head on the little girls hand and gently nudges her shoulder with his beak.
 

“You’re wondering when you get to meet your parents aren’t you. There's really no way to sugar coat it and I certainly don’t want to break your spirits but I must tell you something,  something I wish someone had been around to tell me when I first got here. We’ll never get to meet them. This is where they eject us when we die before we’re born."

The last evacuation completes its cycle.
 

“I know it’s hard to swallow Toto, but we can always dream of rainbows.”

@Emma. I want more.

@Dave, Grocery lists drive me to the bottle too.

@Sean, I like what you did with the prompt, I hate what you did to your character, which means I love the story. 

@Utah --BRAQUETS

@ Fritz. It's awsome the photo inspired something, it sucks you can't share it with us yet. Your summary sounds inticing, would like to read some when you have some chapters drafted.

http://litreactor.com/workshop/sub/my-rough-house-8-submission-a-999-word-flash

Here is the link to my workshop submission dedicated to prompt #8

Hope you all read it.

You rock Panda - look forward to number 9.

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