Per a suggestion from  tillyjane, and with agreement from criada whose photo this is, I propose a flash fiction open round. Using criada's photo as your inspiration, write a piece of flash (500 words or less) and post it here in comments, or on your own blog, with a link here in comments. If I get a decent response, we'll have a voting poll later, with prizes. Go to it! Your story starter:  Photographed at the Whatcom Creek Estuary, in Washington State, by criada. © 2009. All rights reserved. Reproduced with permission.
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| etcet |
| 2009-09-01 16:37 (UTC) |
| (no subject) |
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The sun was cold that day. The water was quiet. Even the minnows had moved to deeper, slower water, as if to recognize and respect the old man.
I laid my hat where Hemingway had fished, and walked on.
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| etcet |
| 2009-09-01 20:28 (UTC) |
| (no subject) |
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Well, yes. I fail at verbosity, even of the two-page variety. :-)
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| etcet |
| 2009-09-01 20:33 (UTC) |
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... but it's still way too long for twitterfic. /shoehorns Aha! The sun was cold, the water quiet. Minnows had moved on to respect the old man. I laid a hat where Hemingway had fished. http://bit.ly/kH3Z0
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| etcet |
| 2009-09-02 13:25 (UTC) |
| (no subject) |
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There has been the occasional  metaquotes thread re: TXT-spk of various things (the bible, the ten commandments, deadly sins, famous literature). I am proudly ashamed of my contribution: Lk on my wks ye mghty & dspr. - Ozy (KofKs)
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Under the Hawthorne, the man in the blue hat cast his line into the fog-covered Willamette.
“Goddamn homeless pricks, you camp down here and ruin the fishing. I can't bring my boy here to teach him how to fish because of you.”
The man watching him sat on a rock, wearing a green army surplus jacket and looking older than a man should look, grunted.
“I'll bet you didn't even serve. Fake-ass vets begging for a handout. You make me sick.”
The homeless man looked at the patches on the jacked. “Vietnam? No.”
The fishing line caught and the man cranked the reel. It resisted. “Tough sonna bitch, this one.” He pulled hard, turning his body and pulling the line over his head. The rod swatted the ground, bringing the line out of the water. The line carried a black smudge of a fish. It hit the rocks and squirmed under what looked like oil.
The homeless man stood up quickly to get a closer look. The fisherman joined him, swallowing the small breakfast threatening to make a reappearance.
“Damn pollution. Your type did this, swimming in the river, making it foul...”
“I fought in other wars,” said the homeless man, finishing the more important thought. He knelt to the fish and produced a lighter. He lit it and moved the flame closer to the fish.
It squealed, a high, faint whine.
“Damn. What is that?”
The river moved. A large tentacled thing pushed itself onto the shore. The fisherman made a sound that could have been a scream or the sound of man whose bravado emptied with his bladder down his pant-leg.
“An old enemy,” the homeless man said, and ran to his small camp in the bushes, hidden from the jogging path.
“Cow … cow ...” the fisherman fell backwards, in such a hurry to escape he didn't watch his feet. A slimy black tentacle slapped against his leg and attached itself, pulling the man across the rocks, other tentacles joining in the task. The man screamed.
The homeless man returned., carrying a short spear made of ash. Its point glowed. He splashed into the river bank, waiting as the tentacled monster drug its prey into the river.
The homeless man paused. First, he had to wait until the beast was vulnerable. It was already preoccupied. Second, he considered if the man was worth saving.
The beast flopped backward, catching the homeless man off guard, and flinging the fisherman into the river. He struck the beast with the spear.
It carried both men into the water. The homeless man held fast, and scrambled for purchase under the water.
The fight was brief. He lost both the weapon and the monster. The fishermen never returned to the shore.
He knew he had to leave. Someone would look for him. He left the blue hat sitting where it had fallen, on the edge of the water.
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Poppa Spangle hovered over the dirty water, his pants rolled up to mid calf revealing two stark white legs that looked like they had never seen sunlight until now. He stretched his arms out wide and flapped them like he was a pterodactyl about to take flight, his baby blue imitation Indiana Jones fedora slipping over his eyes. The students giggled at his antics and pressed closer in.
“And so it was that the first creatures crawled out of the oceans and streams,” he said pushing his hat back on top of his head. “Evolution takes millions of years before a single effect can be seen. The process of natural selection at work—only the best and brightest will survive.”
“Well,” said Clark Davis leaning against a tree, a cocksure grin etched on his face. He looked cool in his “How the hell have you survived so long?”
Poppa Spangle half sat, half stood up. He looked like a martial artist in the horse stance, but his eyes grew real strange and funny. A chill filled the air even though the sun hung in a cloudless blue sky. Everyone stepped back and away. The laughter stopped.
Clark Davis laughed then, perhaps to fill the silence. “Yeah, you got all the answers. I bet you can’t even find a mate with your 60’s hat. Did that hat come with a blue tux too?”
Clark pushed himself off the tree and came forward. He was tall for a sixteen year old. Some said his father once played pro ball. He almost towered over Mr. Spangle’s five feet four inches by a good two feet. Almost.
Mr. Spangle stood up and laughed. The darkness left his eyes, but his hands were clenched tight. So tight the knuckles were white and the veins in his arms stood out.
“This is all bullshit,” Clark said looking around. “Evolution. Creatures crawling out of the primordial ooze. Prove it.”
Mr. Spangle shook his head. “Clark, what you fail to understand is…”
Clark wasn’t listening. He pushed Mr. Spangle’s hat off and into the water. “I know what you are. A chicken!”
Mr. Spangle’s face turned paler than his legs. His eyes grew big and words not English came from his mouth. Words never heard spoken in any language since the birth of the universe. Mr. Spangle began to change. His body expanded. The flesh fell away to reveal a smooth amphibian like skin that glistened in the sun. Most of the students screamed and ran. A few stayed behind to watch.
“I knew it,” Clark said.
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I found it's best to leave my hat on the shore.
It makes the best anchor. It calls me back better than the rest of any of my cloths, or my wallet.
My hat tells me who I am me. Who else wears a hat like that?
No one.
When the tide lets me go, and my time below the waves is done, I will find it there. Sitting in the sun, a little damp and perhaps a little worse for wear.
Like me.
Sometimes I wonder if someday someone will take my hat. Will I wander lost under the waves? Crawling till my time ends through the reef and rubble, tentacles probing crevices for for food?
Today is not that day though, for it's upon the shore when I drag myself out. Suckers fading, and beak becoming mouth. The eyes remain the same, and sometimes, I wonder how much of the mind remains as well.
Edited at 2009-09-02 06:15 pm (UTC)
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