1. Lewdog
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    Lewdog Come ova here and give me kisses! Supporter Contributor

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    Current Contest Flash Fiction Contest #11- "Moonshot"

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Flash Fiction Contest Archives' started by Lewdog, Aug 7, 2014.

    The newest and greatest Flash Fiction Contest #11 is "Moonshot" as chosen by previous winner @FrankABlissett in memory of the 1969 moon landing. Please keep in mind the word limit of 150-450 words. All entries must be posted anonymously in this thread by 6:00 pm EST August 24th (extended two more weeks) and make sure to include the number of words and any warnings. You can also make your entry private simply by clicking more functions before posting, and click the box that makes the post viewable by "Members Only."

    Thanks everyone and good luck!
     
    Last edited: Aug 15, 2014
  2. Charisma
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    Charisma Transposon Contributor

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    Radical [416 words]

    This place chokes me. It reminds me of the scorching symphony of human voices and laughter. It rattles me to the point of utter insanity, and yet I snap back to reality when I feel his hand graze my knuckles.

    It’s over, isn’t it? It’s finally over.

    “Izzie, it’s time. Are you ready?

    I suck in the dry, hostile air around me and burrow myself deeper into him. He strokes my shoulder and kisses me gently, before whispering: “We can’t wait. I’m sorry.”

    He doesn’t sound too different from the President, five years ago. “For this country to progress and lead the world into the future, we need moon shot thinking: radical ideas, innovative solutions, for big problems. We cannot wait to be daring, for the future is now.”

    Dare to destroy, because humans cannot create. And what we create, we cannot protect. That was the notion raised by science and governance, a mission to cleanse the race of aberration. Every single DNA molecule which didn’t fit the system, had to be eradicated.

    It started with sterilising people who didn’t seem fit for reproduction, to spare the new generation from mediocre. The select few, on the contrary, were given incentives to repopulate in their place. Harem upon harem, and somehow every developmental psychologist forgot to mention the absurdity, the fiasco. Of course it was going to fail. Those captives of their barren bodies couldn’t stay reined, and those burgeoned by responsibility weren’t such idyllic parents anymore. And what survived, didn’t matter now. It is finally, going to end.

    “Elegua,” I whisper, my lips nearly touching his ear, “I love you.”

    We kiss, long enough to make my hairs stand on end, to make the fact of imminent death fall into the background. Once our lips part, my cheeks are damp, and his eyes are bloodshot.

    We are the only ones left. The only ones who haven’t taken to anarchy. Only we, have the courage to finish the job the President started.

    “I love you too, sister.”

    I take a whiff of the frigid air, a harrowing hollow growing deep inside me. My heart falters—is this necessary? Has mankind played all its cards? I want a different answer. There must be a different answer.

    Except there isn’t.

    I sigh and let the whispers of the last living city on Earth, penetrate me; the fear has absolved itself. I keep my eyes steadily on Elegua to the last moment, as I push down on the bomb switch.
     
  3. Lae
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    Lae Contributing Member Contributor

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    Moonshot (388)

    “What to do with the 21st century paedophile, sexual predator or rapist?” asked Mr Frisk

    “That’s your task for next week. I want a small essay about how we deal with today’s offenders, I want you to consider what system we have in place and what we should change”

    “Now” he said rubbing his hands and bringing up the blackboard display “if you look at your boards you will see our current method for correction, affectionately known as Moonshot by the criminal fraternity”

    A murmur of excitement spread across the classroom.

    “This is one of three Class 5 correctional facilities based on the Moon, the nickname for the largest of the three is the Warehouse”

    The image of a large complex lit up the blackboard behind the professor.

    “This is the stungun the correction units use to take down perps” he said as he manipulated the student’s displays and brought up images of a large rifle.

    “When fired into a criminal the rifle sends a mixture of signals directly into the nervous system effectively shutting down the body’s ability to respond, the impact of the projectile creates a large cross shaped scar, usually on the targets chest, as seen here”

    A young man in the front row put up his hand

    “Yes?”

    “Is it true sir that when the rifle is used the person can suffer from vomiting, diarrhoea and long term musculoskeletal conditions? “

    A few giggles could be heard amongst the students, some people visibly disgusted at the idea of a person vomiting and suffering from diarrhoea

    “Ah, that’s a good point Anthony.” The professor paced back and forth in front of the class

    “Define humane treatment, we send them to the moon, its cold, dark and lonely, and as Anthony pointed out; we subject them to involuntary vomiting, diarrhoea and possible long term nerve damage. Is this warranted? Is this treatment to protect society or punish the individual? What lengths do you go to protect and to punish? These are some of the questions I want you to address”

    “Being ‘moonshot’ is a effectively a branding is it not sir?” said a young girl to the professors right

    “Very good point Sarah, a lifelong punishment, a lifelong stigma even after a term is served, that is something to consider.”

    “Is being Moonshot right?” he asked

    “Dismissed”
     
  4. criticalsexualmass
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    criticalsexualmass Active Member

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    Harmon (365 words) *minor bad language*


    Harmon Ferguson drove his 1979 Chevy Silverado across the boundary between blacktop and gravel without taking his foot off the gas. The gravel road was smooth, as gravel goes, and the loose left headlight only occasionally winked in the darkness. He had driven the same truck down the same gravel road since ’80, when both man and truck had fewer dings.

    He casually leaned toward the passenger seat and patted the butt of his double barreled 20 gauge. “This’ll be the last night.”

    He rolled the window down and spit a stream of tobacco into the darkness, adding another layer of juice to the stains on the side of the truck. He didn’t bother to wipe the dribble off his lip, there was no time. The bridge was just around the bend.

    From his pocket he pulled two earplugs, shoving one in each ear. His buddy Andy down at the gun shop had fixed him up with two “special” shotgun shells. “Those little pricks won’t bother me after tonight.”

    He slid the two special shells into the gun and levered it closed. The bridge was just coming into view. They always came at him there. He slid the barrels of the gun through the window, clamping down tightly on the butt with his armpit.

    As the truck bounced onto the bridge, the headlights illuminated three pale and pimply bare asses. It was the Morgerson brothers, showing him their good sides again. His lips stretched into a grin, whiskey-colored teeth revealed in the dim glow of dashboard lights.

    Harmon didn’t slow down. He didn’t have to. As the truck passed the three boys, Harmon pulled both triggers. The gun bucked in his hands as three ounces of rock salt, travelling at over a thousand feet per second, exploded from the truck window and embedded itself in three bare teenaged asses. He didn’t hear the screams over the thunder in the cab or through the earplugs, but he saw the boys jump and he knew his shot had hit the mark. As the truck bounced off the bridge and back onto the gravel he cackled out his window, “How’s that for a moon shot, you little shitpokers?!”
     
  5. PensiveQuill
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    PensiveQuill Contributing Member

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    Moonlight Fish - 339 words

    A sack dropped onto wet sand and bare feet pressed into the shore. He sang while sizing up his catch.‘All for a name, a nameless none. None have a name, save for one.Fingers too long for the palm worked against the sky, spacing and measuring. One eye squinting between the handspan framing the moon. ‘Ripe for the one, the nameless none, none have a name, a name will come.’ His voice lilted high and low, pleasing to the ears; his misshapen form cast grotesque shadows on the sand.

    Reaching into a pocket the imp drew forth an obsidian egg and caressed it with the pad of his thumb. Armoured legs extended across his palm as it rocked and shifted. A cluster of eyes mirrored his face in glassy frames. Shiddow, the dream spinner. The spider worked over his hand, precise motions weaving threads between finger and thumb. When the wreath of silk was complete, she scurried to his shoulder and he cast the spell like a fisherman casting a line. Gossamer floated towards the moon unravelling and tracing elaborate patterns in the sky. It sailed until it touched the horizon and winked out of existence. One long thread of spider silk now stretched from the moon to the imp; moored elegantly to the knobs of his wrist.

    ‘Test it, test it.’ Shiddow urged. The imp pulled his wrist backwards drawing the thread taut and the moon bobbed in response. Shiddow danced on his shoulder. ‘It is good. Now bring it.’ she insisted.

    He readied the sack with his foot then raised his wrist. In a whiplash movement the imp flicked his hand backwards and snatched something out of the air. Iridescence peeked out between fingers, cold radiance burned his palm. We have it. Bundling his catch into the sack he tied it closed with water weeds, setting the knots twice, then departed the lake under a moonless night.

    ‘Moonshot, that’s who you are.’ Shiddow announced.
     
    Last edited: Aug 23, 2014
  6. Patra Felino
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    Patra Felino Active Member

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    Moonshot [450 words]

    The towering slab of concrete jutted upwards into the smoke and the filth and the grey. The regular pattern of holes, window panes long since shattered, was the tell-tale sign that, before, the structure had formed one side of an apartment block. Yards away, a smouldering crater belched yet more smoke into the permanently overcast sky.

    As the view faded into blackness on the big screen, papers rustled and the twelve occupants of the room shifted in their seats. All around, a thin veneer of steely determination vainly masked a keen, writhing fear, and brows glistened more than one would expect in the air-conditioned conference room a quarter mile beneath the London streets. General Bower stood and a deep, solemn tone reverberated around the room.

    “A reminder of what awaits us, gentlemen, should we fail in our endeavour. As you know, the Centaurian spacecraft will intercept Earth’s orbit in just over three days. During the next seventy-five hours, we must stumble not once.

    “I’ve just had a final meeting with Professor Older, and everything is in place. The electromagnetic sling is ready to fire. They’ve quadruple-checked the data, and as long as our timing’s spot on, the Centaurians’ ship will be unable to avoid the impact: all 640 quintillion tons’ worth. Let’s see how those slimy reptilian bastards react when they see Mars coming towards them at 10 miles per second.

    A sandy haired man in glasses coughed and raised his hand.

    “Um, sorry sir, but don’t you mean the Moon? We’re going to fire the Moon at the alien spaceship, aren’t we?”

    “Damn it, man. What the hell are you talking about?”, growled General Bower.

    “Er, it’s just that I’m the author and I’m writing a piece of flash fiction called Moonshot. We’ve got to shoot the Moon at them. It won’t work with Mars.”

    General Bower glowered down at the smaller, bespectacled man before him.

    “Son, I don’t give a damn about your story. You will cease to speak or you will leave this room.”

    “But…”

    A stern-faced woman stood up to interrupt.

    “So if you’re the writer, this whole electromagnetic sling nonsense must be your idea. Quite frankly, it’s ludicrous. It clearly isn’t realistic to fire a planet or moon at a spaceship at ten miles a second. What’s wrong with you? You’re making a fool out of yourself.”

    “Yeah, and why are we in London?”, an American accent thundered. “If anyone’s firing planets at spaceships, it’s the US of A.”

    The sandy-haired man began to sweat.

    “Just change it to the Moon. Please! I’m almost at the word limit already!”

    “No.”

    “ButifIdon’tmakeavalidconnectionwiththesuggestedthemeIcan’tenterthecontest.”

    “That’s cheating. Grow up, for Christ’s sake.”

    “Well, bollocks to you then, you absolute…”
     

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