bekindrewrite, creative writing, flash fiction, good short stories, grow your business, horror, inmon, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, Sci Fi, writer's block, writing help, writing ideas, writing prompts
I can hear my mother telling me, now, that I would like brussels sprouts when I got older, they would grow on me. She was right, I do like sprouts, specially with a turkey dinner, but they have never grown on me.
Apparently you can grow a business these days. I always thought it was a bit more involved than that. I thought you had to invest, expand, develop, promote … to ‘grow’ was an organic process, involving compost, dirt, water and waiting for something to happen – but, hey ho, it is one of those trendy buzz words that is all the rage, these days, with business people. Perhaps it is only us poor, literary types that cringe every time they hear it.
I hope you find my submission to this week’s Inspiration Monday suitably cringe-worthy … it will grow on you …
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“No it won’t! That’s just one of those things our parents tell us.”
“Are you sure? We’ve been stuck here for weeks because of what’s out there. “
“We won’t have a choice soon. Supplies are getting low, and we will have to move out, or die.”
“The next tribe is a day’s walk away. We can see the smoke on the far side of the valley, but how do we get there without it finding us?”
The problem was that they didn’t know what it looked like. Others had gone looking for food and fresh water, and were devoured. So far six, none returned. Only their screams reached the cave, and they went on, long into the night. All they found was bleached skeletons. No flesh nor sinew, no gnaw marks. Just clean bones.
The next day they were ready. A small bag with enough food, and water from the condensers, for one day, and some tokens to offer the other tribe – if they get there. They carried old style weapons, a machete and a large kitchen knife, to fend it off, should it attack. To mask their human scent they smeared themselves with old oil from the long silent generators. They left the safety of the cave at first light.
The cool morning air was good, a touch of dew on the grass and leaves. But once the sun was above the trees, the heat and humidity was difficult to bear. Wiping the sweat from their faces kept it from washing the oil into their eyes. For an hour around noon they took shelter under the trees.
They made it to the stream in the bottom of the valley by mid-afternoon. The coolness of the water flowing down from the mountains was a blessed relief from the heat. They washed their faces, the oil came off – and was replaced by a fizzing sensation – then burning. They looked at each other, and watched as their flesh bubbled and oozed. Blood and pus dribbled down, washing more oil from their skin, exposing more flesh, then bone. They screamed. They could no longer see what was happening, as their eyes had burst … and the purple fungus was growing on them.
After all, parents always know best.
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© K Patrick Moody, 2015