Duck Hunting

Photo by: Lucy Fridkin

Photo by: Lucy Fridkin

The U.S. President’s new helicopter (Marine One) included the very latest in stealth technology. It was not only invisible to radar, it couldn’t be seen by the naked eye. Just one spot remained visible over the critical exhaust ports. A spot about the size of a large bird.

The chopper spiraled over the bay. “We’re gonna crash, Mr. President,” said the pilot, “Long as we don’t get hit again, we’ll survive.”

***

Down on the ground, Ned said, “Never seen one smoke like that.”

“Biggest dang duck ever,” said Ewen, and he raised his shotgun to finish the bird off.
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Written for the Friday Fictioneers.

Author’s notes:

The Air Force operates several specially designed aircraft for the POTUS (President Of The United States). However, any time a POTUS boards any Air Force plane, that plane becomes “Air Force One.” Similarly, the US Marines operate special helicopters. When the POTUS boards one, that helicopter becomes “Marine One.

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The Naughty

Photo by: Jade M. Wong

Photo by: Jade M. Wong

Their fruit glowing with light, the rarest Christmas trees in Human space rose above them, and Ethan owned an entire grove. “You don’t pick out trees,” said Ethan. “The trees pick you. They look into your soul and know evil folk from good folk, the naughty versus the nice.”

Walter Nasser sighed. Ridiculous new age crap, he thought. They’re just plants. No plant can do that.

“I see you’ve got no security,” said Walter.

“Don’t need it,” said Ethan. “Never had a tree stolen.”

You idiot! You’ve never seen a career criminal like me, have you? Each of these trees is worth half a million credits. With no security, I’ll just crack your head open take them all!

“Interesting. Do you fertilize them?”

“Nope. They feed themselves.”

Yeah, sure.

“The trees are predatory, you know.”

While Ethan turned away, Walter raised a deadly club to strike. Bye bye, you…

“But don’t worry, they only eat the evil men,” chuckled Ethan. He turned around. “Hello? Mr. Nasser? Mr Nasser, where are you?”
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Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers writing challenge.

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The Horrors of Modern Life

Photo by: Al Forbes

Photo by: Al Forbes

He sat in the break room with his coffee, long chin upon his fist. He smiled at a memory.

***

He recalled a frost covered branch, crystals forming upon it like miniature mountain ranges. Jack walked away feeling good at the art he’d created. He hadn’t strode far before a man in a suit handed him a slip of paper.

“What’s this?” growled Jack, unaccustomed to interruptions.

“It’s a bill, sir,” said the man. “For the cooling costs.”

“A bill? You can’t bill me! Do you know who I am?”

“I do, sir. There’s no mistake. We at Central Electric aren’t human enough to make human errors.”

Jack’s eyes bugged at all the zeroes. “You must be mad! I don’t have this kind of money!”

The man shrugged. “Sorry, sir. There’ll be no more cooling until it’s paid.”

***

“Jack! Jack!”

Jack awoke from his reverie to see his wimpy boss standing over him. The 140-pound little prick never got respect anywhere else. He loved throwing his supervisory weight around wherever he could. “What, Stanley?” growled Jack.

“Coffee break’s over, lazy bones.”

“Piss off, Stanley!”

“You want to keep your temp job, Jack? Want to pay your bills, Mr. Frost? Get back to work!”
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Written for Sunday Photo Fiction

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A Frustrated Beast

Photo by: Jan Wayne Fields

Photo by: Jan Wayne Fields

After frantic calls from Naturalists for Environmental Research and Development Studies (NERDS), a park ranger set out in search for Dr. Perrimore.

He found the camp, and it was an ugly scene. He carefully avoided stepping on the scattered body parts.

At first, he was thought a grizzly had mauled the doctor. Then he found the doctor’s diary in the tent. The last entry read:

I’ve perfected the mating call of the peaceful and intelligent Sasquatch. Testing it today. Thing is, if it arrives, no females will be present. I’m certain the gentle creature will forgive my deception for science.

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Written for the Friday Fictioneers: https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2016/11/30/2-december-2016/

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The Intervening Years

Photo by: The Storyteller's Abode

Photo by: The Storyteller’s Abode

Ashley received a letter from Victoria after many years of silence. She rested in the drawing room with it. It read:

Darling Sister,

The rift between us must end. We are so different. I’m certain little has changed in our years apart. I command a squadron of fighting airships battling the Teutonic Empire. You, the loveliest girl in Londonium, married Britannia’s wealthiest weapons contractor. A trophy wife, perhaps. Though I hardly understand you, you’re still my sister.

I’m sorry your Rupert passed on. You’re getting help? You’ve always been a desert flower, unable to survive without a stranger’s generosity. Now I fear for you. Teutonic forces march upon Londonium with their villainous steam-powered walking tanks. Run away! I should hate that the horrors of war be visited upon your fragile soul.

Your adoring sister,

Victoria

Ashley stood up, her filmy dress fluttering in the breeze. She approached the 37mm anti-tank gun standing at the window. Expertly, she loaded and aimed it.

“Not to worry, dear sister,” she murmured. “Things have changed in the intervening years.”
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Written for the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers writing challenge.

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The Ultimate Defense

Photo by: Al Forbes

Photo by: Al Forbes

Patrick possessed a very rare and unusual mutation: he never got angry. In some ways it was a disadvantage. In one critical way, it ensured his survival. His son’s mutation was far different. Young Jeremy manifested his ability early in life. His first elementary school collapsed in an earthquake. The next one went up in flames. Weber Middle School? It blew up. King Junior High? Nothing but a crater remained.

Eventually, the military caught wind of Jeremy. At 16, the DoD attempted make him into a weapon. A shouting Sergeant and military-style were included. Mere hours later, Fort Johnson and two nearby towns disappeared in a blast that darkened the sky for a week. Luckily for Jeremy, he had a second mutation. He was indestructible.

Patrick always explained how to easily avoid catastrophe. Unfortunately, he never spoke sharply to anyone, so no one took him seriously.

Jeremy was 19 when a mile-long alien battleship appeared in orbit. The aliens demanded that Earth provide soldiers for their war, hundreds of light years away. Earth refused and fought back, but the ship seemed indestructible. Even nuclear blasts had little effect.

Eventually, Earth gave in and offered up their first recruit to the aliens: Jeremy.

Patrick didn’t get upset. He didn’t even worry. As he walked by an office building, mocha in hand, he could see a reflection of the sky. Somewhere above those clouds a supposedly indestructible battleship cruised. It had great armor on the outside, but what about the inside? Idly, Patrick thought: I wonder how long it’ll take before an alien yells at him? In answer, the sky suddenly erupted. An explosion, signalling the death of a battleship, surged in the sky for long minutes.

Patrick just smiled, and he waited for his indestructible boy to fall out of the sky, in time for dinner.
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Written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

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The Bane of Hubris

Photo By: C.E. Ayr

Photo By: C.E. Ayr

Valerie Huxley opened the grey doors. Inside rested…The Machine.

Simon Petard brushed aside his greying hair. “So. This will restore my youth?”

“Entirely,” assured Valerie.

“And you, a mere woman, invented it?”

“I have four degrees!” protested Valerie.

Petard ignored her and began fiddling. “Let’s give it a go.”

“Please wait, sir.”

Petard growled, “Miss Huxley, men have a superior understanding of machines. I know what I’m doing.”

“But the side-effects…”

Petard pulled the lever.

*poof*

“Aahhh!” screeched Petard in a high voice. “What have you done?”

“Right,” sighed Valerie. “Still haven’t worked out why it switches the gender.”
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Written for the Friday Fictioneers.

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