Yup, it’s flash fiction time again!
As always, this is based around Laurence Simon’s weekly challenge for the 100 word-stories podcast. It’s a great exercise for writers – writing a good drabble is a lot harder than it appears, but is still a "small" task so you can get around that idea of it being too much work. And then you get a random (and often bizarre) writing prompt to shoehorn you out of writer’s block! Go read the rules for the Weekly Challenge and participate! Heck, Chris the Nuclear Kid does when he remembers to (and I can drag him away from video games)!
The player below should have the audio for this week; if it doesn’t, you can find the audio here to download. You can also read and hear the rest of the entries (and vote for your favorites) at the 100 Word Stories podcast site!
There’s two stories this week – the first a 100 word story, then a 200 word story I just wanted to share with you all.
I love her.
She caresses me with her fingers. Fast, then slow, then fast again. Slides them across the planes of my form.
I love her.
She tells me what to do, commands me. She is my mistress, my ruler, and I will always submit to her.
I love her.
I surprise her. She is puzzled at the strange shipments from Amazon. She wonders at the gorgeous photographs I show her. She laughs at the LOLcats.
I love her.
Even as she as she defrags me, as she reaches out to turn me off and unplug me.
I love her.
The poet stood before the computer. "You can fool their Turing tests, but that’s nothing."
The computer whirred, beeped, and hummed.
The poet held out the small drive. "My poetry. Poetry is human. Poetry is being alive." He inserted the drive into the computer’s port. "Analyze that, you stupid machine."
The computer whirred, beeped, and hummed.
The poet reached the door before the speakers came to life. "You use metaphors of snow in your early work, rain later."
"Frequency analysis. Trivial."
"Snow covers, obscures, hides. Children laugh and play in it. Ugly things turn beautiful under the snow, but they are still there, just a crunching footstep away. People hide from rain, take shelter under umbrellas. They complain about the wet and the mud. Everyone wishes for a White Christmas; no-one cares for a rainy Easter."
"Still just recall-"
"Snow obscures, but does not change anything. As snow melts, that left behind is ugly and tinged with cinders and salt. Nothing changes. When rain leaves, it is messy and muddy. But it is clean and fresh. New things can grow."
"That’s not what they mean," the poet said.
The computer whirred, beeped, and hummed.
"Then why are you crying?"