How her heart fluttered at the very thought of him. This beautiful, wonderful man: tall, dark and handsome with olive skin and deep, probing brown eyes. She couldn’t believe that he’d chosen her. Never had she been so truly, madly, deeply in love. Her life was perfect. Complete.
Cliché after cliché toppled her reason. He lit up her world; he made the sunshine brighter, made her weak at the knees with a look. He made the earth move for her. Naughtily, especially with that tongue of his. She blushed at the thought. With total abandon he’d loved her and she’d loved him back. She’d explored every nook and cranny of his gorgeous, lithe, strong-limbed body. Felt the warmth of his breath, the strength of his heartbeat. The intimate tingle, that lingering consummation, together so perfectly ravished.
I’d been late leaving school that afternoon. I’d stayed behind because nice Miss Leibrandt had been helping me with my poem.
On the way home I’d been kicking a can along the dirt pathway between the shacks when I heard shouting over on the main road. Then there was the explosion. Flames shot up into the air, all red and angry-looking. Black smoke billowed upwards.
My house was the other way, but I had to see. I peered out from the end of the lane. People were jumping up and down in the street, arms waving angrily. They were chanting.
Flames licked out of the little corner shop. My friend’s shop. Mr Kabongo whose skin was as black as night, who came from another country further up the map of Africa. Mr Kabongo who told me stories about the animals of the forest where he grew up and the people who lived there before the war in his country. Mr Kabongo who gave me sweets when I went to fetch a half-loaf for my mother.
And now his shop was destroyed. I wondered if he was safe. Had he run, as he’d run before?
I watch the time countdown on my screen. My shift is about to start. I run my fingers over the keyboard. I’m ready.
The workload has been increasing. So far I’m keeping up. The monitoring is continual. From the moment you are woken until the lights and screens are turned off: when to shower, when to eat, when to take a break.
It’s all about production, efficiency, the bottom line.
Clock in, clock off, clock out. Thank you for your contribution.
At least I’m only writing ‘soapies’ to entertain the masses. Imagine the pressure if I was doing something crucial.
In case you missed it…
What a nice surprise I had the other day. I love the way Jason has presented my winning piece – as with all his work. Take a look if you haven’t already discovered his dark and humorous little stories!
Storyteller and Accidental Blogger Chris Hall of luna’s on line grabbed the win for the March 13th Aether Prompt with tendrils of terror and her piece “Cepha’s Revenge”:
Cepha observed the two galleons turn broadside. As greed and hatred erupted into sea-churning canon fire, she flung a tentacle into the pool beside her, summoning the sisterhood.
They came, they writhed, and the sea boiled. They pulled timbers apart with zealous suckers. Masts crashed onto splintering decks. Water gushed in.
For the humans must pay: creatures, so new to old Mother Earth, now plundered her riches and fought over them.
Cepha stirred the pool again.
Coins and trinkets emptied from chests were gathered up by eager tentacles, while sailors sank into the murky depths.
Calm returned.
Congratulations! Now you’re in the running for the 2019 AETHEREAL ENGINEER WRITER SUPPORT PRIZE PACKAGE! How might she, or possibly you, perchance win such fabled…
Everyone fled for the old, deserted places; to the caves, the ruins and the ancient abandoned settlements. The cities had long gone; collapsed in on themselves. All modern infrastructure wiped out.
No-one understood why, but there was no longer anyone to ask or to explain. The politicians, the scientists and the specialists had long retreated into their state-of-the-art doomsday bunkers. Much good would it have done them. All technology had fried when the black hole came into view.
The inevitable came, although it took months. Quite a number of us survived. There had been long enough to prepare. But then the time came. The skies grew dark. There were flashing lights, the rushing of wind, a strange hollow feeling that seemed to gnaw on the soul.
When it was all over, we awoke to a bright new dawn. We opened our eyes, felt our limbs, went outside and looked at each other. Then we noticed. Everything was reversed like in a mirror. Our hearts were beating on the other side of our chests. It took a little getting used to.
We carried on, improvised. Crops grew. The water in our wells was sweet. Everyone felt good, younger by the day. We were more vigorous, more robust, we were quicker and stronger. And then we realised. We were actually getting younger, day by day. And the process was speeding up. What would become of us as we hastened to youth, to childhood and earlier?
The Foremost Developer had taken the bait: 100 acres of rain-forest, ripe for replanting with oil palms. He rubbed his hands. His bulldozers were ready. But this time Gaia had been awakened; she too was ready for destruction. This time the earth would revolt. It would not be the last.
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