Fine

“Entirely unacceptable.” She planted her heel and spun back around. “It’s today, for God’s sake, you can’t just...” She paced back up the length of the room, head down and cocked slightly to one side, her fingertips white on the phone pressed against her face.

He watched from his chair, coffee clutched between two hands. He was trying to catch up with what was going on. It had started with a problem with the caterer, but that had moved on to something with the locally-sourced fish market; he was almost entirely sure she was currently talking to the captain of a fishing boat.

PROMPT: A disaster, first thing in the morning.

Improvised Solutions

I had just finished a routine shift, handing off the on-call baton to Ashley on the morning crew when the call came in. I literally had my jacket on and was walking out the door, but the first words out of Ashley’s mouth made me stop and take a seat to listen and maybe be helpful.

Ashley’s perfectly competent, but first shift is where new people go: absolutely nobody wants to be in first thing in the morning, so the new person gets the gig, and for most of their shift the senior staff is in to back them up.

For two hours, though, from six or so to eight, they’re mostly on their own; which is generally fine, it’s the lowest call volume of the day and it gives the newbies a taste of what it’s like to be on your own. But it means that first thing in the morning is the worst possible time for something to go wrong.

“NOC, this is Ashley,” said Ashley, and then, “Calm down, speak slowly, tell me what’s wrong.” She reached for a notebook and pen to jot notes with; I usually open a ticket at this point and type directly into the input field, but some people think better with a pen in their hand.

PROMPT: An unhappy ending.

Yadda yadda yadda.

Arrival

Carlin stepped off the boat onto the stone pier, turning to watch as the coxswain hefted his trunk up beside him. There were maybe a hundred people standing around on the pier, all seemingly vying for his attention.

One of the other passengers seemed to quickly strike some sort of bargain with some of the standers-around, who hefted his several trunks onto various shoulders and heads and then squeezed his not-inconsiderable bulk into a palanquin and off they went.

The air was muggy and smelled like something had died or sweated on it right before it passed into his nostrils. The heat was oppressive, but he’d expected that; the crowds were no worse than they’d be in a similar stretch of the city where he’d embarked, though they were more... uniformly exotic.

PROMPT: Getting fired.

This is a formatting experiment designed to drive Ian mad.

Payment In Advance

“Dude, I have always, always wanted to meet you.”

Dave nodded and smiled politely, wondering what the fuck the guy was talking about. He’d seemed a little bit... weird... when he sat down next to Dave at the bar, and now that he was drunk he was even weirder.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “I’m a delivery driver for a bread company, if you want to meet me just hang around in back of a supermarket and eventually I’ll show up...” It didn’t sound as clever out loud as it had in his head. He’d heard a guy who delivered a keg to the bar say something similar, but it was funnier when the beer guy said it.

PROMPT: Someone learns the exact future date and time of their death.

This is a formatting experiment designed to drive Ian mad.

The Catcher at Dover

“What did he just say?”

“He said ‘Americans love to fight.’”

“No shit.”

The two men sat in the back of the big hall, watching as the General paced back and forth on the stage. Occasionally they generated glares from others as they kibitzed.

“Killed off like flies? Really?”

“Um. Yeah.”

Prompt for Monday, August 25

A Pre-Battle Speech

Faust Is Dead

“5cc of mouse blood?”

“I’m telling you, that’s all that’s required.”

“I don’t know, it sounds... chincy.”

“Well, I don’t know what to say, we can sprinkle gold flecks in it if it makes you feel better...”

“Just do the... the thing.”

There was a brief pause, then the rhythmic sound of chanting filled the low, dark space, and there was a brief flurry of action.

Prompt for Sunday, August 24

An incorrect way to summon the Dark God.

Making History

“What’s a reactionary?”

The two men stood beside the plaza, at the front of a large crowd watching another large crowd face off against a smaller crowd of police. The spectators were alternately cheering and jeering each side; the police were standing quietly in a two-deep line, looking impassive but radiating the nervous energy of people who are about to be in a fight.

The big crowd of protestors were chanting, but not very well. They’d get a chant going in one localized area, and it would start to spread, and then it would fall apart in an uncoordinated mess. It seemed like a metaphor for the whole exercise.

Prompt for Saturday, August 23

Civil unrest in the city.

How I Went To Jail The First Time

It was a lot of hot sauce. I could feel my eyes start to burn from across the huge room. I opened my eyes wide to stretch the skin I could feel puckering.

“Oh my God.” Carl turned around, as though he was backing into the wind. “I can’t believe...”

“I know, right?”

Carl and I were making our regular rounds; the complex was large and spread out over several acres of typical industrial wasteland, and we were supposed to go look at each building every hour, making sure that potential miscreants don’t have an uninterrupted night of pillaging. To that end, we were equipped with flashlights, keys, and a golf cart.

Prompt for Friday, August 22

A lot of hot sauce. A. Lot. Of. Hot. Sauce.

The Hookup

“I’m up for it.” He sat back in the booth, sideways, and took a drag off his cigarette. “I mean, if it’s everything you say I’d almost have to be, right?”

“Dude, that’s what I love about you, always up for a new experience.” Carlo pulled out his phone and started tapping. “I’ll text the dude, and then we’ll wait for him to get back to us.”

“All right.” Freddy took another drag, then leaned forward and grabbed his empty coffee cup and looked around for the waitress. “How long does this dude take to get back to you?”

“I don’t know, man, this is the first time I’ve dealt with him. He’s a friend of a friend, you know?” Carlo set the phone back down on the table and leaned back against the padded back of the booth. “Jay says he’s OK, so...”

Prompt for Thursday, August 21

I want a new drug.

Treasure

“You’re kidding.”

“I... it’s good news, really. There’s a ferry from the other side of the island to Ponce, we just have to walk there...”

“What, all of us just walk out of the jungle?”

Josh shrugged. He’d gone from “we’re all going to die in a plane crash” through “we’re all going to drown” and “we’re trapped on a desert island” to “we have to walk to the ferry” and was pretty pleased with that progress, on the whole. Explaining how they’d gotten onto the island seemed like a detail, a minor problem, and not really to be compared with “how do we avoid being eaten by sharks.”

“I don’t think...” He looked around. “We swam,” he said. “We’re part of a race, or a rally or something, and we swam out here as part of...”

Carlos looked around at the soaking wet crew of computer security experts standing, sitting and lying on the beach. 

“Swam,” he said. “We. Swam here. In cargo shorts and...” He waved his hand in the general direction of other people. “Jason is actually wearing a pocket protector.”

Josh shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Nobody’s going to ask. We’ll be dry by the time we get to the ferry, nobody is going to ask. It’s a tourist ferry, we’re on a nature preserve. It’s not like there’s customs.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “Fine,” he said. “What about that?”

He pointed to where Dave was sitting on top of an extra large duffle bag. It was the only piece of luggage they’d salvaged from the plane.

Obviously, they hadn’t swum here with it.

“How...” Josh paused. “Okay,” he said, “Everybody puts as much as they can in their pockets, and we stash the rest of it somewhere.”

“Stash it.”

“Preferably somewhere close to the damned road.”

“There’s a road?”

Josh looked down at the map he’d had in his pocket. It was wet, on the verge of becoming mush.

“It’s that way,” he said, pointing generally west.

“So,” said Carlos, “You’re proposing that we bury a bag of money on a Caribbean island, draw a map of where we buried it, and come back for it later.”

“Basically.”

“I expect there will be a big X where we buried it.”

Josh grinned. “I expect there will be,” he said.

Carlos sighed. He looked out to sea, and then at the group on the beach. The fact that they weren’t all about to die was finally catching up with him.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get everybody gathered up and start walking.”

Prompt for Wednesday, August 20

Fifteen men on the Dead Man's Chest

Cheers

I looked up when it happened, but I didn’t see it; the sound was what made me look up. I was deep in whatever I was working on -- a paper for some class -- and by the time I’d registered that something was happening, it was basically over, and there was a car parked in the bar.

There was dust everywhere, and pieces of broken wall, and chunks of plaster and decorative artwork.

And, of course, the car. It was a nice car, too, something I didn’t recognize the make of except in a vague “it’s one of the really expensive ones” sort of way. It didn’t really look that much the worse for having driven through the wall, just covered in plaster.

Prompt for Tuesday, August 19

A writer sits hunched over a table in a bar, staring at a blank page, when suddenly...

On Scene

“Was he... eaten?”

“I don’t know, detective, I just secured the scene and called it in.”

“Huh.” He scratched his head, pushing his stupid-looking fedora back on his stupid-looking head. “Okay, run me through it one more time.”

Prompt for Monday, August 18

A policeman who's seen everything confronts something outside their experience.

Game Theory

“No, seriously, it’s running water.” Hector punched a series of buttons on his console. “In pipes,” he clarified. “Not like a stream. The audio signature is... pretty distinct, the computer puts it at above ninety-nine percent.”

“Meaning, it’s definitely water, and it’s definitely flowing through an artificial system of some sort?”

“Yes.”

Astor Martin sat back in her couch, desperately wanting to rub her face. The space suit’s helmet and gloves prevented even that basic comfort.

Prompt for Sunday, August 17

The sound of flowing water, closer than expected

Sugar and Spice

“You what?”

“I... Look, you’ve just got to try it.”

“Um.” She looked down at the brown, granular concoction in the little bowl. There was a spoon.

“Just take a small spoonfull, you’ll see what I mean.”

She fastidiously knocked the spoon against the side of bowl, then took a small amount of the brown stuff on the end of the spoon. She looked up at her friend with a certain amount of trepidation, then back down at the spoonfull of...

Prompt for Saturday, August 16

A novel new use for sugar

Thumb On The Button

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re asking me?”

They stared at the sign on the locked door of the bar.

“Two men enter, one man leaves.” The larger of the two men scratched his head. “Isn’t that from some movie?”

“Yeah,” said the other one, “Fight club, maybe.”

Prompt for Friday, August 15th

A door that was open before is now locked. A new sign on the door provides no real insight into why.

Prompt for Thursday, August 14th

Seven Men, Six Cookies, and a gun.

Prompt for Wednesday, August 13th

Running away in headlong, panicked flight, thinking not of what's ahead but only of what's behind.

The letter

She sat across the table from him, the air between them thick with silence.

"Did you get the letter?" he asked.

"Betty gave it to me," Annette said toward her hands, clenched under the table.

"Oh, good."

The truth is that she had only skimmed the letter. It made her too angry to read it. It was a letter that should have been written ten years ago.

------------

It was New Year's eve. Annette's ringtone went off and she looked at who was calling. Her father. She answered and he launched into a stream of banality. After a minute or so, Annette interrupted.

"Dad, do you know how long it's been since we've spoken? It's been almost a year."

"Well, yeah... that's partially my fault, too -" he began.

"No, Dad. It was a conscious choice on my part not to contact you, and it didn't occur to you to call me in all that time until this moment. And then, when you call, you act as if we'd just left our conversation off yesterday."

"Well, sure - "

"No, Dad. I can't do this. I can't be an afterthought, or a toy to play with when it's convenient for you. I'm done here. I'm angry at you. Really angry. You've been a really crummy father and I just don't want to talk to you anymore."

"Now wait a second - "

"No. I'm done waiting for you, like I waited with my coat on for hours for you to show up for your scheduled visits when I was a kid. I'm done.

He scrambled verbally for something to say. The excuses poured from him. Annette gathered herself.

"Here's the deal, Dad. I am superstitious about New Year's eve. I do not want to ring in my new year feeling this angry. I'm going to hang up. If you think you have any right to have a relationship with your daughter, write me a letter telling me why. I'll read it. We'll see where we go from there."

Annette hung up the phone.

------------------

So here they were, ten years later. He had written the letter today, and given it to her sister to give to her, so they could meet and have lunch. Those weren't the terms, but Annette capitulated. He's not going to be alive forever, she thought. Can you let him die with this unresolved? Can you live without regret if you didn't reconcile when you could have?"

She looked at him across the table from her, babbling away about banalities, just as he had ten years prior on the phone. She shook her head and tamped down her frustration.

It wasn't New Year's eve, at least.

Swarming Behavior

“It’s good to see you again.” He sat on the curb, looking sideways at her.

She glared back at him, suspicion and hostility plain on her face. She held onto her knee, which was scraped up pretty badly; the effect of the posture added to her air of closed-off hostility.

“Listen,” he said, “I really, really am sorry about your bicycle, I really didn’t see you coming out from between those cars...” He laughed, a little painfully. “And what are the odds, really? One blind date, months ago, and I’ve been thinking about you on and off ever since, and then... there you are, sprawled across the hood of my car.” He grinned, a charming, boyish expression. All innocence.

Prompt for Tuesday, August 12th

An awkward reunion

Indiana Jones and the Failure to Pass the Torch

No fiction today.

The assignment here is “A different ending for a movie.” I started by looking up some top-ten lists: I was drawing a total blank. Even though there are several movies whose endings irritate me, I couldn’t really think of them right now. Googling for “10 worst movie endings” seemed like a place to start, and sure enough, there seem to be an infinite number of click-bait top-ten-movies... so I spent some time clicking through them.

The movie that turned up on just about every list was a surprise to me: “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.” It surprised me because the movie irritated me so badly when I went to see it on opening night, and has continued to irritate me each time I’ve seen it since; my son is a big Indy fan, so we’ve watched all four movies en marathon a bunch of times.

Prompt for Monday, August 11th

A different ending for a movie

Claptrap

It was exactly like every other school he’d attended. The though gnawed at him as he made his way back to the dorm. He was wearing a fancy uniform and the teachers made a big deal of how special and smart they were to have been accepted here, but it went exactly the same way it had at his last school, and the one before that.

You sat in a class room, the teacher told you stuff, you wrote it down, you did exercises, you took tests. The ‘specialness’ of the school, the ‘advanced curriculum,’ came down to the teachers being better at telling you stuff, the students being faster at picking it up, the exercises getting harder faster.

He held out his hand and flexed it in a specific way he’d been taught in his orientation; a pig, old-fashioned iron key appeared in his hand, the puff of displaced air tickling his palm. He fitted it into the lock, turned, opened the door, removed the key; then he flexed his hand in a different specific way, and the key vanished.

Prompt for Sunday, August 10th

First day of school

Specialist Chen's Last Stand

This, she thought, was the dumbest thing that had ever happened to her. She couldn’t believe that she was in this position. Had let herself be in this position. Fuck.

The Texans came up over the rise, and she settled back into her chair. It was just as uncomfortable as it had been the first time she sat down in it. The big screens on the wall of the semi-trailer were lit up with ranges and windspeed and time-on-target figures, as well as several rapidly cycling views of the big tanks and APCs climbing out of the wadi.

Her fingers flew over the big touch-screen in front of her, dragging fire-source icons onto the out lines of the lead tanks; when she was finished allocating fire, about two-thirds of the tanks were hilighted red; none of the APCs were covered, and the infantry advancing in the big vehicles’ lees were still mostly uncovered. Soft kills, she thought; once the tanks were all taken out, she could reallocate fire to the APCs and hope it would take out the infantry.

Prompt for Saturday, August 9th

California secedes from the US

Tablecloth

Hey, what’s this? I seem to be some sort of cloth lying on a table. Perhaps one might call me a tablecloth. Fascinating. I’m always surrounded by food, yet I only really get to keep the discarded crumbs. Life sucks.

The Animator

"I work in animation," Charlie said as he sipped the vintage Merlot.

"Really? Who do you work for?" Jessica asked, completely enthralled. He was successful, that much was evident by the brand suits and the nice car. Charming, successful, and smart enough to be into Jessica. Everything she wanted.

"I'm freelance. I animate a little bit of everything. I'd be happy to show you some of my work sometime if you like." He was looking at her bright red hair, and matching lipstick. His eyes betrayed that she had won him, and she smiled like a blushing schoolgirl. She was painfully aware of this weakness, but she didn't care after this night. She had a pretty good buzz going, and they were alone, sitting at a little breakfast nook in her living room.

She put the wine down, and began to contemplate her move. She looked him up and down, looking for the best angle, the best approach. He locked eyes with her and she was paralyzed for a moment. He had caught her. He's so clever, she thought, He can see right through me. He leaned in and kissed her passionately. It was the first time they had kissed. It was electric, unlike any kiss she'd had in her adult life. It was like the sort of first kisses she had experienced in her high school days. The kind where you weren't quite sure how both parties knew to lean in at that exact moment. The kind where you're not quite conscious of the signal of intent, but that your body was moving of it's own volition, without needing to be told.

It was the kiss that initiated the best sex she had ever experienced. She forgot herself in it; lost herself in it. She was an animal with her conscious mind replaced by sheer ecstacy. She lost track of time, lost track of her thoughts, and had the most effortless orgasm she had ever experienced, and it lasted for what seemed like an eternity in the throes of such pure and unadulterated pleasure.

Afterwards, he slumped back into the chair and she lay there, her bare back on the table, and it occurred to her that at some point he had removed everything from the table and placed it on the shelf behind him. As the world came slowly back into focus, she smiled at him weakly, drained. He didn't have any bullshit pillow talk. He didn't feed her some line about how it was the most incredible sex he'd ever had, or even inquire as to whether or not she enjoyed it. He had a confidence, a strength that she was unaccustomed to finding in men. She felt like she should speak to fill the silence, but no words came to her, and she didn't want to risk losing such an amazing high by talking, or even getting off of the table, for fear that she might somehow fuck it all up.

Suddenly he began buttoning his shirt and fixing his perfectly groomed black hair, reaching for his coat. She moaned softly, "Don't leave?"

He waved his hand over the table, closing his eyes and... saying some sort of prayer? Oh god, she thought, No no no no, please don't fuck this up, Charlie. Please! Suddenly a shiver ran up her spine as the tablecloth itself seemed to be lifting up, wrapping softly around her, almost caressing her. Her mind went blank. She couldn't understand what was happening. And then suddenly, the tablecloth was wrapped around her neck and began constricting, blocking her airway. Charlie simply stood watching, smiling.

It was too late when she finally decided to accept that she was being strangled by a tablecloth. She kicked and tried to gasp out a scream as she clawed desperately at it. But it was too late. She heard the beautiful voice of the Animator speak softly as the world began to fall back away from her and the ambient noise all became metallic and unreal.

"Good night, sweet Jessica."

i cover, therefore i am?

what are these heavy things on me?

they feel roundish. some of them smell tasty. sometimes they are gone. they move around.

i am on top of something. it is not round. it has corners and it is bigger than the round things.  it is almost always here, except when it is not, and then everything gets hot and wet and misshapen, and then hot and dry and misshapen.  then flat again, and hard and cornery underneath.

i remember being folded.  it was dark and quiet when it was folded, and i had some friends who seemed a lot like me....flat and soft and folded up. some of them were thicker and smaller, different colors, embroidered. one was stiff and shiny ("plastic"?), and had stories about a place where it got very bright and then very dark, warm and cold, over and over, and sometimes water fell from the sky.

what is this big roundish shaggy thing? it has teeth. wait, what are "teeth"?  it is putting the teeth-things in a bit of me.  make it stop. ow.

The Smell of Sentience

“Oh, my God, what is that stench?” She covered her nose with her elbow as soon as the door opened. The house seemed... coated... the air thick... She felt like she was pushing through it as she went in.

He followed, not covering his nose but his face registering the same awful scent. “Jesus,” he said. “Something... it smelled like this when a raccoon died in the chimney, when I was a kid...”

Prompt for Friday, August 8th

A tablecloth becomes sentient

Prompt for Thursday, August 7th

A terrible stench

The Smoking Pun

“You’re... smoking.”

“No I’m not, I gave it up years ago...”

“No, you’re... smoking...”

She pointed. He turned and looked behind him... smoke was billowing. 

“Fuck!” He started batting ineffectually at his rear end. 

“Turn around.” 

He turned, dancing a little. She reached into his back pocket and pulled out a lit smoke bomb, attached to a battery and some sort of circuitry. She flipped it to the ground.

“Oh, shit.” he looked down at the little device. “It wasn’t even hot, I didn’t feel it at all.”

“Well,” she said, “It looks like someone has friends with an odd sense of humor.”

“Yeah.” He looked up at her and grinned. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem.” She grinned. Their eyes met.

The elevator dinged, and the door opened.

“Well,” she said, “That’s my floor...”

“Wait,” he said, “I didn’t- Can I get your phone number?”

She paused in the elevator door, looking down at the smoke bomb and back up at him. “Much as I like a guy with a smoking ass,” she said, “I need to get to work.”

She stepped out of the doorway. An older woman got on the elevator; the door closed.

The older woman looked down at the still-smoking bomb and up at him.

“You can’t smoke in here,” she said.

Prompt for Wednesday, August 6

Someone is smoking where they're not supposed to smoke.

The Nature of My Game

“Please, allow me to introduce myself.” He held out his hand and I shook it, despite my reservations. His skin was warm and he smelled faintly of... something. Spice of some kind, and smoke. His teeth were a little too long for the smile he was wearing to set me at ease.

“I know who you are, Mister Iblis,” I said. “What I’m wondering about is...” We sat down on either side of the huge conference room table. I made an all-inclusive gesture with my hands. “Well, why you’re here. I honestly haven’t been able to work it out.”

Prompt for Tuesday, August 5th

"Sympathy for the devil."

Do whatever you want with it!

Unprompted

There are things far too terrible and far too terrifying to reveal in any other way than fiction. No one would understand, let alone would even believe me, if they knew the things I keep hidden.

I am the secret keeper. Always have been. I kept secrets for one man for 32 years. I hate lying, but it’s all I ever seem able to do. I wonder if that’s why I don’t talk much.

My friend tells me her son has begun speaking like a baby when he’s not around children his own age. She tells me he spits in her face and throws toys at her. She can’t imagine what the problem is. All I can do is stare at her, but I couldn’t say it, even if I wanted to. How do you tell someone you think their kid is showing symptoms of PTSD because all she and her husband do is drink and use drugs?

Her dad drank too, so she’s a secret keeper, just like me. You can always tell them. They look almost too sad to be real.

There’s a home video of me, just a bit younger than her son is now. We are at my preschool graduation. The kids are singing and at first I sing with them, but eventually I see myself withdraw into my own head, and it makes me sick because I know what is happening to that kid, to that little girl, to me, and I can’t stop it.

If I were to write a true fictionalized story of my life, it’d come out a lot like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series. At some point midway through the second book, the reader would think, “Wait a minute. How could all of this really be happening to one person?” The answer, of course, is that victims get re-victimized. I was always so weak, so vulnerable, so easy to take from. So people kept taking. And that’s how you make someone like Lisbeth Salander. Take away all her desire to make ties to the world and then, surprise, she stops trying to make them. I listen to all the women talk tonight, all of them victims of sexual assault, and I can’t fathom telling them how many times it’s happened to me, how many different men, how many different ways, how many different worlds of denial I tried to wrap myself in to make it all feel not real, make it feel like fiction, take away its power.

But I don’t say anything. I am the secret keeper.

Proprietary Data

“Oh, Christ,” said Calvin. “They found us again.”

“Shit,” said Luther, “I guess it’s time to move.”

The two of them sat facing each other across a huge table in a smallish room with three hundred sixty degree windows. Both of them hunched over the keyboards of old-fashioned large-screened laptops, typing furiously.

Prompt for Monday, August 4th

"Robots vs. Pirates." :-p

Do whatever you want with it!

Undo

“So who’s this Hitler character?”

“German, born 1889, served in the Great War and afterwards active in German Military Intelligence. Rose to be deputy head of intelligence for the Reichswehr; early recipient of Prolong treatments in the late 60s, career with Reichswehr Intelligence stretched all the way to 2000, when he finally retired.”

Kierman leaned back in his chair, watching his superior across the cafe table. He’d abandoned his chai, the way they made it here tasted more like Christmas than like India.

Prompt for Sunday, August 3

An intrepid band of time travelers go back to 1993(!?) in a desperate bid to kill Hitler.

Terror

Everyone just sat there, that’s what I’ll remember. Ali was slumped on the floor of the train car, unconscious, hands clenched around his chest, and everyone just sat there, staring at him.

Then, almost as though they all thought of it at the same time, they all looked at me.

I raised my hands in a placating gesture. “It means ‘God is Great,’” I said. “Think of it as the equivalent of someone saying ‘Oh my God.’” I could tell that my accent wasn’t helping things.

As one, they all looked back down at where Ali was laying. I could have kicked him, the stupid bastard; of all the things to shout when you’re having a heart attack.

Prompt for Saturday, August 2

A man suddenly stands up on a commuter train and says, "Allahu-" then clutches his chest and falls over.

Just as interesting as Coffee and Cigarettes

“It’s too bad someone else isn't here,” Laura said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat in the middle of the coffee shop.

“Why’s that?” asked Sandy.

“Because I’d sure like some coffee.”

“Yes,” Sandy agreed. “If there is literally no one else here but us, that means there is no barista.”

Gone Fishing

Harold was sitting on the seat of his tractor, tuned out, letting the rumble of the engine and the jolting of the suspension move his body without trying to resist, carefully steering the thing back and forth across his field, turning earth. Nobody else was visible for as far as he could see, which was all the way to the horizon; he liked it like that. Harold’s war had been rough, and he didn’t do well with strangers.

He was just making the turn at the end of a row when he saw it come down, maybe half a mile away: something streaking downward, an impression of red, a cloud of dirt where it impacted. Harold resisted the urge to jump off the tractor and burrow into the soft, freshly turned soil; all his nerves screamed “barrage! barrage! barrage!”

Prompt for Friday, August 1

Set piece: two women sit in a coffee shop; no-one else is in the shop.