Cora stretched her long neck, beak pecking the fast moving clouds in the pale sky. Twisting, she at last freed herself from her heavy, confining carapace. It’d been necessary protection against wicked solar radiation, brought on by the forebears of those singing blessings to the thin creek twisting through desert, below. Continue reading “When the River Rises and the Wind Blows High”
Above the timberline, stunted trees of high altitude are little more than memory. As far as the eye can see, reindeer moss is sparked with tiny white flowers and golden clusters of cloudberry. Continue reading “Homeward Hike”
We’d started loading at the dawning of the third moon. Triage overflowed after the fifth wave from the Kipstanian Crisis. We tried to get the word out to all survivors; transport off our doomed planet ended today. Continue reading “Before The Gold Rush”
Lula’s Full Moons 40 Saloon, nestled into the western-most corner Zeta-5’s Rest and Rehab Station, was half full of the usual hands, lounging in leathers and 10-gallon hats, or tipping back shots in titillating bustiers and full ruffled skirts. Or jeans and flip flops. Lula didn’t care, just so long as folks were respectful and they paid their bar bill.
There’d be no dancing in the pub that night. Air quality alerts had been on “Severe” for the past three months, and the popular Sorrowing Gnome, with its airtight construction, was filled with exhausted workers. Pub owner Tommy Finn leaned an elbow against the bar and stared at the TV above.
“I swear, if you sing that one more time, I’ll push you out the hatch myself.”
“Aw lighten up, Schmitty,” Dirk laughed at his co-pilot. “I just can’t wait to get home!” Continue reading “Earworm”
(Response to the second Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Rodeo: Humor)
“There’s a payphone in town. We’ll take you there,” the farmer nodded from under his straw hat as his wife peeked around the edge of her bonnet.
So how’d I land here, sharing the back of an Amish wagon with two piglets, a smelly sheep, and a drooling farm dog? Continue reading “Love in the ’80’s”
Blat of mule’s bray, and Nanjo rattled into the village square. People grumbled, crowding the buckboard wagon. They’d been waiting since dawn. The stench of unwashed clothes hung heavy in the morning heat. Continue reading “The Real Nanjo Castille”