Kevin Carlin's Blog - Posts Tagged "flash-fiction"
Fire
The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:
Prompt: Fire
“Ready. Aim.”
“Hold on, hold on,” cried out the marksman on the far left. There were nine of them in a line, all pointing their high caliber rifles at my center of mass. Only five of them have live rounds, I'm told. The other four have blanks, so none of the marksmen know for sure if they fired the shot that killed me.
The ropes on my wrists chafed as I squirmed uncomfortably. I squinted into the sun as the errant marksman opened the bolt and fiddled with his firearm. What is the problem? I thought to myself. Is this guy for real? Can they not just do it with eight? Surely four live rounds will get the job done. It's not like any of these guys are going to miss.
“Okay, I think I got it, said the executioner on the left.” My left, not theirs. Stage left, I suppose you could say. “Yeah, I think I'm good,” he said, but his voice was less than confident.
The warden rolled his eyes, but he once again raised his right arm high. “Ready,” he began again.
“No, wait, sorry,” said the same marksman as before. “No, this is all jammed up.” He resumed wiggling the bolt.
The warden slumped his shoulders. I honestly felt bad for him. I'm sure he's got better things to do than babysit this incompetent executioner.
What a weird rule about the blanks, I thought to myself to kill the time. Why do these guys need to have a question in their mind whether they were the one who killed me? If they're willing to participate in this execution, surely they've made their peace with the taking of a human life. If they haven't, they have no business being on this firing line at all. Just cowgirl up, load your own gun, and accept the moral consequences of intentionally ending someone's life.
Also, I doubt being a member of the firing squad is a once in a lifetime kind of thing. If they're in the position that gets asked to do this, they probably get called out to every execution. If you've got a better than 50% chance of having a live round each time, then by the time you've done four or five of these you're all but guaranteed to have used deadly force. I mean, that's just math. So why bother with blanks? Why not just pump me full of nine live rounds? It just doesn't make any–
“Okay, I got it,” said the marksman.
“Fire,” cried the warden.
Prompt: Fire
“Ready. Aim.”
“Hold on, hold on,” cried out the marksman on the far left. There were nine of them in a line, all pointing their high caliber rifles at my center of mass. Only five of them have live rounds, I'm told. The other four have blanks, so none of the marksmen know for sure if they fired the shot that killed me.
The ropes on my wrists chafed as I squirmed uncomfortably. I squinted into the sun as the errant marksman opened the bolt and fiddled with his firearm. What is the problem? I thought to myself. Is this guy for real? Can they not just do it with eight? Surely four live rounds will get the job done. It's not like any of these guys are going to miss.
“Okay, I think I got it, said the executioner on the left.” My left, not theirs. Stage left, I suppose you could say. “Yeah, I think I'm good,” he said, but his voice was less than confident.
The warden rolled his eyes, but he once again raised his right arm high. “Ready,” he began again.
“No, wait, sorry,” said the same marksman as before. “No, this is all jammed up.” He resumed wiggling the bolt.
The warden slumped his shoulders. I honestly felt bad for him. I'm sure he's got better things to do than babysit this incompetent executioner.
What a weird rule about the blanks, I thought to myself to kill the time. Why do these guys need to have a question in their mind whether they were the one who killed me? If they're willing to participate in this execution, surely they've made their peace with the taking of a human life. If they haven't, they have no business being on this firing line at all. Just cowgirl up, load your own gun, and accept the moral consequences of intentionally ending someone's life.
Also, I doubt being a member of the firing squad is a once in a lifetime kind of thing. If they're in the position that gets asked to do this, they probably get called out to every execution. If you've got a better than 50% chance of having a live round each time, then by the time you've done four or five of these you're all but guaranteed to have used deadly force. I mean, that's just math. So why bother with blanks? Why not just pump me full of nine live rounds? It just doesn't make any–
“Okay, I got it,” said the marksman.
“Fire,” cried the warden.
Everyone Needs a Spare Accordion
The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here. This story is fiction, but is a mashup of several stories told by my grandfather, who did indeed learn to play the accordion as a POW in Germany:
Prompt: Everyone Needs a Spare Accordion
“Miller, you're up.”
I started to move, but not fast enough for Remington. He grabbed my arm and shoved me violently through the hole in the barracks wall. The Nazi guards had just come through for their nightly headcount. They counted 15, the correct number. On they went to the barracks next door, where 14 men were engaged in singing raucus sea shanties. The 15th member of that barracks was currently ten feet below ground, digging a tunnel to freedom. That's where I came in. I fell backwards through the tunnel and into the adjacent barrack hall, ready to be counted as their 15th man, Nazis none the wiser.
I scrambled to my feet, and Fitzpatrick shoved an accordion into my hands. "Drunken Sailor in G," he whispered. I slung the strap over my shoulder and squeezed as hard as I could, just as the door opened.
“Attention on deck,” shouted the Nazi lieutenant. “Line up for headcount.”
It had only been a month since I'd arrived in the POW camp, my Boeing B-17 having been shot down on Valentine's Day. The camp band had an accordion, but no one knew how to play it, including me. How hard could it be, I had wondered, sizing up the piano keys on the side. I'd been playing piano by ear since grade school. By the end of my first week, I could no longer remember not knowing how to play the accordion.
“Shave his belly with a rusty razor,” I belted. “Shave his belly with a rusty razor.”
“I said line up,” shouted the guard, but I loved this song too much to stop now.
The next day, Jones tried to help me patch up my black eye, but no one could patch my accordion. No matter. The guards never figured out they'd counted me twice.
Prompt: Everyone Needs a Spare Accordion
“Miller, you're up.”
I started to move, but not fast enough for Remington. He grabbed my arm and shoved me violently through the hole in the barracks wall. The Nazi guards had just come through for their nightly headcount. They counted 15, the correct number. On they went to the barracks next door, where 14 men were engaged in singing raucus sea shanties. The 15th member of that barracks was currently ten feet below ground, digging a tunnel to freedom. That's where I came in. I fell backwards through the tunnel and into the adjacent barrack hall, ready to be counted as their 15th man, Nazis none the wiser.
I scrambled to my feet, and Fitzpatrick shoved an accordion into my hands. "Drunken Sailor in G," he whispered. I slung the strap over my shoulder and squeezed as hard as I could, just as the door opened.
“Attention on deck,” shouted the Nazi lieutenant. “Line up for headcount.”
It had only been a month since I'd arrived in the POW camp, my Boeing B-17 having been shot down on Valentine's Day. The camp band had an accordion, but no one knew how to play it, including me. How hard could it be, I had wondered, sizing up the piano keys on the side. I'd been playing piano by ear since grade school. By the end of my first week, I could no longer remember not knowing how to play the accordion.
“Shave his belly with a rusty razor,” I belted. “Shave his belly with a rusty razor.”
“I said line up,” shouted the guard, but I loved this song too much to stop now.
The next day, Jones tried to help me patch up my black eye, but no one could patch my accordion. No matter. The guards never figured out they'd counted me twice.
Ice
The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:
Prompt: Ice
Come on down to Crazy Tim's Indoor Ice Climbing Emporium. We've got membership packages for the whole, adventurous family. Is the regular rock gym just not giving you that fluttering feeling in your loins anymore? You need something more extreme? Well, check us out today. We're right here on the corner of Colfax and the North Gatdang Pole. Bring your ice climbing boots and your ax, and we'll send you up the most insane indoor ice climbing wall you've ever seen.
You think we're not extreme enough? We had three people break their femurs just this week.
You think we're just a regular indoor climbing gym that forgot to pay our heating bill because we were so jacked out on edibles last month, and the front window got busted out by the guys I was trying buy meth off, which then let in a crapton of this good old fashioned Colorado January ice storm, and so I'm trying to just roll with it and pass myself off as an indoor ice climbing gym instead of sucking it up and fixing the window and making good with the power company? Is that what you think?
Well, you're dead wrong, because my name isn't even on the mother effing power bill. I'm squatting here, okay? The real owner of this place skipped town when the pandemic hit. He went back to one of those states where people cry about their freedoms. He's probably hospitalized with the virus by now, but who cares? All that matters is us extreme ice climbers finally have a place to hone our skills indoors.
Prompt: Ice
Come on down to Crazy Tim's Indoor Ice Climbing Emporium. We've got membership packages for the whole, adventurous family. Is the regular rock gym just not giving you that fluttering feeling in your loins anymore? You need something more extreme? Well, check us out today. We're right here on the corner of Colfax and the North Gatdang Pole. Bring your ice climbing boots and your ax, and we'll send you up the most insane indoor ice climbing wall you've ever seen.
You think we're not extreme enough? We had three people break their femurs just this week.
You think we're just a regular indoor climbing gym that forgot to pay our heating bill because we were so jacked out on edibles last month, and the front window got busted out by the guys I was trying buy meth off, which then let in a crapton of this good old fashioned Colorado January ice storm, and so I'm trying to just roll with it and pass myself off as an indoor ice climbing gym instead of sucking it up and fixing the window and making good with the power company? Is that what you think?
Well, you're dead wrong, because my name isn't even on the mother effing power bill. I'm squatting here, okay? The real owner of this place skipped town when the pandemic hit. He went back to one of those states where people cry about their freedoms. He's probably hospitalized with the virus by now, but who cares? All that matters is us extreme ice climbers finally have a place to hone our skills indoors.
