Which short short story do you prefer?

The Journey
2 (40%)
Ash to Ashes
3 (60%)

Total Members Voted: 4

Voting closed: June 08, 2010, 02:47:45 AM

Author Topic: Flash Fiction 18 voting time  (Read 1084 times)

Offline cally2

  • Jr. Member
  • **
  • Posts: 50
  • One of these days I'm going to procrastinate.
Flash Fiction 18 voting time
« on: June 01, 2010, 02:47:45 AM »
The Journey

Each morning it happens, I wake and then I think of it. My Journey. Each morning I want to put it off, please, today let me put it off.

I try to think of an excuse, what could it be today? Thinking, thinking, thinkingÖ. But no, there is nothing, no excuse. Damn I wish there was. Why me? Why do I have to do it?

Why canít he do it for me? Even if he could he wouldnít, heís even lazier than me. Just look at him lying there, he doesnít care about my dilemma. There he is just snoring away not a care in the world. Bastard! Why couldnít that be me?

Oh, Iím going to have to do it. I canít keep putting it off. Itís just not fair.

Fine then, if Iíve got to do it then I guess Iíve got to do it. I suppose once my journey is complete I can come back here. I guess itís not so bad.

Who am I kidding, yes it is. It sucks. I hate it. All I want to do is go about my business without having to do The Journey. If I donít make The Journey though I want be able to get back to what I want to do.

All right, Iím going. Here I go!

Ahh! Thatís so much better, now I can get back to what I want to do. Sleep! Damn I hate that early morning journey to the toilet.

Ash to Ashes

In my turn I am released and I float through the air, born along by the shifting breeze. I hit the soft ground, yet make not a dent, now the rain and sun must help me. Breaking out of my shell I begin my journey downwards, knowing that soon I will be growing in all directions. The earth is cool as I slide into it, like a protective blanket it covers me and feeds me. My handhold on life, my birth.

Time has passed and I stand tall looking at those around me, swaying in the summer winds. Seasons have come and gone and I have grown, discarding foliage each year and starting again the next. Sleeping through the cold winter months, I reawaken in the freshness of spring. The warm summer days feel good on my rough skin; my voice whispering, created by the gentle breezes. But autumn brings the storms sorely trying my strength, and that of those around me. But I persevere, I survive. I continue my journey without moving from this place.

A familiar noise, one Iíve heard each year, sometimes near, sometimes far away. Eventually I hear it all around, and with it comes death to me and my kin. My parent was taken years ago but like his seed mine has also spread, witnessed by the birth around me. As big and as strong as I stand, I can do nothing but wait for that first bite of pain, knowing my cycle is ending.

Paul Callaghan.


Why is dyslexia so hard to spell?