Flash Friday

“39,691 operations performed, Lee,” she said, trailing fingers through her hair. Numbers flashed across the screens and her glasses as Charmaine smiled, leaning forward on her creaky stool. “Now we’re configuring,” she chirped and her hands went to the keys.

“Still not Lee,” Kyran answered. She had one chair in her “workspace”, which was only a cramped cove she carved out for herself in the warehouse. Why she picked the most difficult place to set up computers, no one wanted to know.

She only laughed as he conducted coins through the air, using kinetic spells to line them up and form a small dragon. He had to splinter some coins for the finer details likes horns and eyes, but he had hours before Charmaine remembered he was there. And not as Lee.
[Copyrighted © June 12 2015, J.M. Blute]

Flash Friday

This week’s 100 words (ish) is also snippet of a larger piece, like a second slice of literary cake. One per week, we should probably get used to that. Anyway, enjoy.

TRIGGER WARNING: Implied violence and poor dental hygiene.

“Keep in t’hold,” the captain ordered, pouring his payment into his pocket. A smile split his rawhide face and a scar followed the curve of his left forearm. Four crewman on deck grinned with tombstone teeth or whistled a seafarer tune. Their bond was one of men who raped, stole, and murdered together and lived to sing over it in a tavern. There could be no men more predictable than these. “There, y’ll be outta the way.”

“Aye,” Raie answered, meeting his eye. A wolf, you could look away from, surrender to, and he’d leave you be. Let these men see you weak and they’d never back down.

[Copyrighted © May 22 2015, J.M. Blute]

Flash Fiction Friday

Here’s to the first! This week’s 100 words (ish) is a snippet of a larger piece, like a slice of literary cake. Enjoy.

“He’s in the kitchen,” the voice spoke through his earpiece. Nexus was an automated system, and he was sure the person who recorded it had no idea what they were part of. Like Susan Bennett and Siri.

Daniel passed the staircase to the door on his right, his tranquilizer gun going first. Take him alive, sure, but don’t be stupid. The beanpole artist stood over a mostly sliced apple, a bowl of Nutella on the counter beside him. Brown hair, a little long by Daniel’s standards, fell in front of his eyes as they stared at each other.

“Let’s make this easy, Mr. Preston.”

[Copyrighted © May 15 2015, J.M. Blute]