FREE STORY: What We Become, by Leo McBride

I was a shame to my father as a child. 

He wanted me to be a warrior - he said I was too soft. Instead, I played in the court gardens at Argos. I chased butterflies as he scowled and said I would amount to nothing. 

He might have been right if it hadn’t been for Demetrios. My father boasted of ruling kingdoms - but the gardens were the realm of Demetrios. He was the chief gardener, and he took me under his charge. He took my whimsy and shaped it into love. He showed me how to sow, to prune, to cultivate. He showed me that things grow - as did I. 

My youthful arms became muscular. I stood tall and strong. My father had discounted me for so long in my youth - now he saw new possibilities for me. He put a sword in one of my hands. He told me to stand with the Hero of Argos. He told me to write my own legend. 

I missed the gardens as we sailed, and talked long about them to my companions as the winds and waves buffeted our ship, while we huddled below and waited for Poseidon to find another target for his wrath. Finally, we reached Sarpedon, and our Hero led the way. 

Perseus surged ahead of us into battle, the sun gleaming off his mirrored shield, his sword aloft, stabbing the sky in defiance. How could we lose? 

I could not imagine failure - until the tunnels, and the whispered stories of the horror of Medusa turned out to be true. One by one, we fell, until only a handful of us were left.

Medusa was ready to spring upon Perseus as his back was turned. I shouted a warning, and her gaze fell on me instead. She turned me to stone. 

And yet, inside I still existed. Motionless, I waited. Motionless, I lingered upon my failure. Motionless, I remembered. 

I remembered those days as a child, running freely in the gardens - back when I knew only happiness and my father knew only shame. I was a failure then - to him, if not to me. Was I a failure now? I had fallen - had Perseus triumphed?

I remembered something else too. I remembered what I learned in those gardens. “Aren’t they beautiful?” I shouted as I chased those butterflies. Demetrios laughed. 

“Not always,” he replied, and showed me some grubs on his fingertips. “This is how they start out.”

“But how?” I asked, with the simplicity of the child I was. He showed me the husk of a cocoon, explained how the grub changed. 

“Things change,” he said, “things grow. Just like you will. What you are now isn’t what you will become.”

I sit, frozen inside my stone cocoon. I begin to feel the stone flake. It crumbles away from my eye. I can see. 

I am becoming. 

THE END

Author's note: So hey, how did this flash fiction piece come to exist? Well, there's a smashing group on Facebook called Rhetoric Askew. Lovely people, and with a friendly group of writers, artists and more. Quite often, they post pictures with a challenge to members of the group to write something - a poem, a flash fiction, etc - inspired by the image. You can see the image that inspired this piece here - though you might need to join the group. Which would be a fine way to discover all that the group has to offer. Have a good weekend, all! 

Leo

FREE STORY: How I've Come To Hate The Sky, a flash fiction by Leo McBride

She was the first. But not the last. They found her body in a New York park, surrounded by her killers. A Murder of Crows, screamed the headlines. It was an oddity. An unusual event. At least, it was then.
The reporters turned to the scientists, asking how could this happen. The scientists brushed them off. It was a million to one incident, they said. All but one scientist, who quietly pointed out that crows were among the smartest of animals and asked what if they had learned something new.
The next day brought two more killings, both in the same incident. An old man was attacked in the street. A police officer tried to go to his rescue. The crows killed him too before they fled, taking his eyes with them.
A curiosity became a shiver of fear throughout the city. Scarecrows appeared on the lawns of the people who had them, in the windows of apartments for those who did not. The talk shows were no longer talking about how weird the first killing was, but rather filled with the voices of worried callers, asking what was going on.
The mayor said it was just a rogue group of birds, and experts were being consulted. Not that there were experts in this.
Day three brought ten deaths. All separate incidents across the city. This wasn’t one rogue group of birds - or at least, not any more.
The mayor issued a bounty, $100 reward for each dead crow. The environmentalists cried out, the hunters showed up.
The fourth day was the bloodiest yet. The hunters took to the streets, loaded up with their rifles, and the crows came for them. All the deaths that day were among the hunters. The crows suffered casualties, but there always seemed to be more. 35 hunters died that day.
People shut their doors, peered out their windows and listened to the TV news. The governor declared a state of emergency that night, and called in the national guard.
They called it the Central Park Massacre. The national guard rolled right into town, lined up neatly on the grass of the park, and began to die. The troops were trained to fight other soldiers, not the quick arrows that gathered above, so many that the midday sky grew dark. Then they fell, in a rain that turned red as they struck their targets.
The only survivors were those sealed inside their armored personnel carriers, and they fled from the screams of their comrades. The crows stood attendant above the massacre, massed on the trees of the park, defiant.
People didn’t dare to go out after that - and when they did, they were picked off one by one.
The president boarded Air Force One to come and take charge of the situation personally, but the TV anchor, stranded in the studio for days now, reported the plane went down - all four engines hit by a bird strike.
Trapped indoors, starvation and shortage of medicine started to take its toll. No more deaths one by one, now they came faster. Risk the birds, or die indoors.
Those who were lucky enough to get to their cars found they had no way of getting out to refuel. They couldn’t drive far enough to get away from the birds. The lucky ones were those who managed to get to indoor garages of malls big enough to find shelter.
The remnants of government started a rescue operation. Where to go? There was only one option - the underground shelters, stocked up on military rations long enough to consider alternatives. The few survivors reached there. Most didn’t.
 We live underground now. Cultivating food where we can, and peering out reinforced windows at the surface world denied to us now. They say we’re lucky, that we ought to be grateful. But I sit and stare out the windows each day. They ask me if it’s because I miss the old world, the way it used to be, but it’s not. I come to remind myself how I hate the sky.

By LEO McBRIDE

FLASH FICTION: Where You Last Expected, by Leo McBride

It's Friday... so here's a short flash fiction for your evening's reading. Enjoy!

Where You Last Expected

By Leo McBride

The taxi driver wouldn't shut up as we made our way past streets named by number and with little imagination. Every road we passed he had another story about; how this person was killed here, how that drug raid was made there. 

“Why even come out at night, sir?” he complained, as if he was trying to talk himself out of his fare. “You see these kids on the street? They're devils, you trust to a guardian angel to look after you? You think if there were such things they wouldn't look after those kids first?”

Sure, he was right, it wasn't safe, but his concern for me ended with the passing of the dollar bills. His taxi spat me out by the park. I didn't want to be out here either, but work is work and I had papers to drop off with a client. 

I saw some of those kids as I got out, watching me as they sat by a playground in the dark, and switched my briefcase to my other hand as I headed the other way. Dammit, why'd I have to do the crappy jobs?

I barely got 20 yards. The red lights of the taxi's rear were still in sight when the mugger came at me from a side alley, knocking my briefcase down and scattering papers everywhere. 

He had a metal bar in his hand, and it cracked my arm as I tried to protect myself. I cried out as the bar swung down, again and again. Jesus, the pain was too much. This was it, I was going to die. Why didn't I listen to the damn taxi driver?

I curled into a ball, shouting for it to stop, shouting for him to take the papers, take the money, take any damn thing he wanted, just leave me alone. I raised my hand one more time to try to make it stop.

And it did. 

Blinking, I looked up. We weren't alone. The mugger stood there, his hand raised, his mouth open. 

Around us, they stood. Four of them, their wings enfolding us in shadow. “Guardian angels,” I gasped, through a broken lip. 

The mugger stammered an apology, dropped the bar, and ran. 

One of the four reached out a hand to me, and pulled me to my feet. 

“You're real,” I whispered, in awe. “You're angels?”

“Close enough,” replied the one who held my hand.

Then anger overtook me. The words of the taxi driver rang in my head. If there are such things, why don't they look after those kids first? “Dammit, you're real and you only help now? This city is a mess! Where are you all the time?” I spat blood. 

The angel smiled patiently. “On the streets,” he said. “Where we've always been.”

With that, they folded their wings away. And then, just kids again now, they walked back to the playground and sat in the dark. 

FREE STORY: A Matter of Perspective, by Leo McBride. Inspired by artwork from Ian Bristow.

Ian Bristow is a very talented artist. He's an author too - and an active member of the Sci-Fi Roundtable Facebook group. One of that group's activities is a regular flash fiction challenge - one of the group's artists posts one of their creations, and the writers try to concoct 200 words or so to live up to the work. And that's how this flash fiction piece came to be - as I was intrigued to explore this unusual encounter. Read, enjoy - then check out the links below to find out more about Ian's work.

Artwork copyright Ian Bristow

A Matter of Perspective

by Leo McBride

"You're amazing," said Jenna as she cradled the winged being in her hands. "What are you?"
A tinny voice chirped back, "I'm an explorer."
"An explorer?" said Jenna, "But you're so small! How can you get anywhere?"
The creature shrugged, and with a buzz and a glimmer of light, the wings on her back fluttered. She raised a little from Jenna's palm, then drifted down. 
Jenna gasped in shock, the gust of air almost knocking over the tiny figure. Jenna raised one thumb to stop it tumbling over the edge of her hand. 
"Where do you come from? Are there others like you? Are they tiny too?"
The questions came in a rush, until she was halted by the creature raising a hand. 
"Wait, wait," said the tinny voice, "too many questions. My translator is having trouble keeping up."
"Your translator?" asked Jenna. 
"It's... it lets me speak to you, it's part of my suit," said the explorer. "But yes, there are more like me. We come from a planet called Earth and - well, you see, we're not tiny. They call this the Planet of the Giants - you're as tall as a... well, we'd call it a mountain. You call it a chair."
"And," it said with a tinny laugh, "we come in peace."

Find out more about Ian's work here: http://iancbristow.com/

Or check out his novel, Hunting Darkness, at the link below.

FREE STORY: Killer App, by Leo McBride

He stepped out of the bustle and heat of the plaza into the cool air of the restaurant. The maître d’ raised his hands in protest.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” sighed the maître d’, with a plausible attempt at an expression of genuine regret on his face, “Reservations only today. It’s terribly busy, today’s ceremony, you know.”

The man smiled. “I’m sure it is,” he said. “But I have a reservation. Name of Calvi. Table for two.”

“Aha!” the maître d’ said, accompanied by a small clap of his hands. “Say no more, sir! Please, follow me.”

In moments, Calvi was at his table. “A window seat,” purred the maître d’, “you’ll have a perfect view of the ceremony. Would you like some water now or would you rather wait for your companion?”

“I’ll take a glass,” said Calvi, with a nod of thanks, and the maître d’ was away. The glass arrived, the cool water soothing his dry throat, and he placed his phone on the table, his fingers gently tapping as he waited.

It was a few minutes before he picked up the phone. He swooshed through the applications, and tapped a logo with four letters under it. BOTS.

The bots appeared on the screen. A collection of tiny robot creatures nestled in a box. With a single tap of his finger, Calvi stirred them into life. Up they rose, forming a chain as they helped one another out of the container. Their new surroundings appeared on the screen, huge walls, giant cobblestones. Calvi’s little bots were lost in the land of the giants, awaiting his instructions.

He paused for a moment and flagged down a passing waiter, asking for a coffee while he waited but declining the menu for the moment.

Order made, he returned to his screen. Killing time, while his companion’s chair remained undisturbed.

The coffee arrived as he was busily steering his bots into the opening at the bottom of a drain pipe. He nodded thanks to the server as he swiped the screen, instructing the little creatures to form a bot pyramid, bracing themselves against one another and the inside of the pipe to climb their way upwards. It got trickier partway up, with part of the pipe crumbled away, but some careful tapping got his bots stacked neatly on top of one another across the missing section, then firmly putting themselves back in place when safely back in the pipe once more.

Calvi paused for a moment to take a sip of his coffee. It was excellent, rich and almost strong enough to make him gasp. He glanced out of the window, at the crowds gathered outside, then set the cup down again to concentrate on his bots.

It wasn’t long until they had reached the top of the pipe, and he navigated them into the gutter that ran along the side of the building they were climbing. From there, it was a simple piece of navigation to the rooftop itself.

“Would you like to see the menu while you wait?” asked a helpful waiter. Calvi set the phone down, furrowing his brow as he looked at the empty chair next to him.

“Sure,” he said, with a slight tone of annoyance. The waiter smiled at him sympathetically. Not the first person he’ll have seen stood up on a date, thought Calvi.

He drummed his fingers for a moment, his attention caught again by the activity outside the window. The crowd was cheering now. It must be getting closer to the time for the ceremony to begin.

Calvi picked up his phone again. The bots were sitting patiently where he’d left them, waiting for his instructions. He tapped them back into life, and off they marched, a tiny convoy of miniature machines, across the rooftop. Each had a slightly different shape, but all followed his instructions neatly and with ease. It really was a very well-designed app, Calvi thought.

They reached the far edge of the roof, and the bots quickly swarmed up the parapet there. Once there, he opened up a sub-menu. A range of actions were available there, and he tapped the “Assemble” button.

First, a quartet of bots at the front braced themselves against the parapet, while a group at the back formed a pillar for the others to rest on. Then, one by one, the rest formed a bridge, clicking into place until they started to form a familiar shape. A long tube formed, with a single bot inside, and another bot clambered on top, before lying in place with a click.

A pop-up appeared on his phone screen, but Calvi set the phone to one side for a moment as the waiter arrived with the menu. He leafed through it for a moment, then ordered a steak, and a glass of red wine to go with it. He smiled and handed back the menu.

Outside, the cheering had quieted a moment, as the crowd stilled enough for the speakers at the ceremony to be heard. Calvi returned to his app and tapped the pop-up.

The bot at the top provided a camera view. Calvi found himself looking down on a square. A joystick control at the bottom allowed him to move the view around. With each movement, the pillar of bots at the back shifted position accordingly. Finally, Calvi was happy with the location. He was looking down at a stage, and as he watched, a man stepped onto the central platform, waving to the audience gathered there. With a tap of the button, the camera view became crosshairs. Calvi took another sip of his coffee and then, with the man located in the centre of the crosshairs, he tapped a red button on the screen.

Outside the restaurant, the sounds of cheers turned into the sound of screams. Calvi glanced out of the window at the panic and horror as people ran, or pointed in shock at the ceremony platform. Satisfied, Calvi clicked the disassemble button. The bots slowly took themselves apart, breaking up the rifle they had been moments before. They would retrace their path, and later Calvi would pick up the box they had been placed in at the bottom of an old drainpipe. All but one, the one from the rifle barrel, which was now nestled in the heart of the president, where he lay on the stage outside. That bot was following its own programming, moving inside its target to maximize damage.
Smiling, Calvi turned off the app, and finished the rest of his cup. It really was excellent coffee.

THE END