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Flash Fiction: The world is ending

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All my life savings, that’s all it took to save me from the end of the world. I still can’t believe my luck, that I managed to get away. The boat was the most expensive thing in the end, I had to buy it. No-one was willing to rent, everyone was too scared…

Fortunately I was able to buy supplies. Not food of course, food wouldn’t last. A harpoon, several knives, water filters, purification tablets, first aid kits… The real essentials.

I steer the boat carefully through the reef, conscious that this is my only means of transport if I ever want to leave this island again. White sand stretches in a bow ahead of me, gradually widening around me as I approach the shore.

Looking over the side, I see sand under the aqua green water, almost luminescent in the sunlight. A fish and then another and then a whole shoal of them swim underneath the hull.

Unless they succeed in poisoning the oceans I’ll be able to eat for a long time.

I run the boat up onto the shore, it’s flat bottomed so it doesn’t tip over. I pull up the engine and secure it, take a rope and tie the boat to a rock that serves as a useful anchor point.

My new home for the rest of my life.

The first few days I set myself busy building a shelter, getting used to the routine of fishing, trying to get used to the silence.

I’ve brought large plastic containers to store rain water. I cut down large leaves from the islands palm trees to put a roof over my shelter and try to arrange them so rain water will flow into the containers. I won’t know if it works until it finally rains.

One of my most precious supplies is a carefully sealed container of matches. Thousands of them. As long as I can keep them dry I’ll be able to boil water and cook the fish I catch.

Day 5

I sit on the white sand, looking out to the surf. It’s possible that others will come to this island, fleeing from the war and troubles that I’ve left behind. The world is ending and while I may have been one of the lucky ones, I hope there are more who got away.

Day 10

I’ve walked round the whole island now. Checking to see what resources are available. Mango trees and coconut will supplement my diet. I’m already starting to weary of my daily portion of fish.

Company is what I miss most. It’s been growing inside me each day.

I sit on the beach, the sand that hasn’t been trodden on for who knows how long.

The sand stretches out under the water for at least a hundred metres, maybe more, changing eventually to a dark blue, slightly darker than the sky in the distance. White clouds periodically block the sun, but here at the equator the temperature remains constant.

It is paradise and I have no-one to share it with.

All I can think about is what I’ve left behind, about what must be happening back home. So many have died and here I am living a dream vacation I might have killed for twenty years ago.

I never wanted to kill anyone.

But I knew if I stayed I would have to.

Day 14

I haven’t eaten all day.

I don’t even feel hunger, just lethargic. The motivation drained from me over the last few days. Yesterday all I did was sit on the beach waiting.

We were all to blame. Sure it would have been easy to blame the politcians, the leaders, but each of them represented us, each of them came from us. We got the governments we deserved and it seems we deserved to die.

At least no-one had pressed the button, at least before I left. Some semblance of rationality kept anyone from launching a pre-emptive strike, but who needs nuclear missiles when you can poison. When your conventional weapons are just as powerful as the smallest nuke, when you have a million men at your command all of whom seem to care nothing about their lives.

I left my family, I left my friends knowing that they would die.

Pleading with them to come with me, but none of them would.

It seemed like they were locked in to some strange feeling of destiny.

So I left. And every day I wonder what has happened to them. Is there anyone left?

Day 18

Today I forced myself to eat. Made myself sleep. I should be able to relax by now. I take long walks. I busy myself, building a stronger shelter, preparing for the long haul, but all I can think about is home.

I longed to come here, ever since I saw a poster of this view, heard about these islands, but I am not able to enjoy it.

Day 21

I don’t look back.

I doubt I will ever be able to return.

Maybe some lucky soul will find the shelter I left behind, the supplies buried under the floor, but for me, I realise that I was not destined to die alone.

The longer I was away, the greater my desire grew to do something, to try and stop the madness.

Maybe the world is ending, maybe all I can do is help it end faster, but I have to try.

I have to do something…

Copyright Mark Anderson Smith 2017 http://www.dragonlake.co.uk/ You may link to this post from http://www.dragonlake.co.uk/2017/06/flash-fiction-the-world-is-ending/ or share on a non-commercial website so long as the full copyright notice and this statement is included.

If you liked this story, or if you didn’t, let me know…

Flash Fiction Friday: The Lost Ring

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“That’s it, Mum. Your room’s finally tidied.”
“Thank you, love.”
Janet folded her arms and gazed round at her Mum’s bedroom. “I don’t know how you and Dad put up with that mess for so long.”
Her Mum put down her dusting cloth and stood beside her. “You just get busy. You know, chasing after you lot…”
“Which room’s next, then?”
“Wait a minute… Did you tidy up my dresser table?”
“Of course.”
“Where did you put my engagement ring?”
“It’s on your finger, Mum.” Janet smiled.
“No, not that one, the first one your Dad gave me. It was right here…”
“I didn’t see any ring there.”
“Well, it wasn’t a proper ring. He didn’t have one when he proposed. Just a can of ginger. I must have told you the story, how he pulled off the ring-pull and put it on my finger…”
“Oh.” Her smile faded.
“Did you see it?”
“I just thought it was rubbish. I put it in with the recycling…”
“Today’s recycling day…”
“I know…”
They both looked at the window.
“I’ll go!” She ran downstairs, in the distance she could hear the sound of bins being uncerimoniously dumped down, of a lorry engine revving.
The blue bin was still where she’d left it on the pavement. She hurried over and opened the lid, looked down at a dangerous mess of sharp tin lids, crushed plastic bottles and paper.
She remembered the ring pull. Remembered throwing it in with empty drinks cans left over from the previous night and carrying them outside. Cans that had had their ring pulls removed almost as a habit.
She carefully lifted objects out, watching for sharp edges. Wondering if the ring pull might have fallen down the side to the bottom of the tall bin.
She saw the bin lorry turn into their street. She could always wheel the bin back to the house…
All for a ring pull…! Was her Mum really that sentimental? Actually, yes, she probably was. Part of the reason the house was so full of stuff, she never liked to throw anything away.
She lifted a box out and… There! She saw it. Or was it?
She lifted out the ring pull and examined it. Was it the same one from the dresser? They all looked the same.
The bin lorry drew closer. Making a snap decision, she pocketed the ring pull and shoved the box back in the bin along with the rest of the recycling she’d extracted.
Back upstairs she forced a smile. “Found it, Mum!”
“Oh, well done you! Time for a cuppa, I think.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She carefully laid the ring pull on the dresser.
Later that evening she managed to get her Dad alone while he washed the dishes. “I think I might have thrown Mum’s engagement ring out today, you know the ring pull you gave her,” she told him in a quiet voice.
He gave her a strange look. “Does she know?”
“Well, I…”
He hushed her. “Just take another ring pull from a can. She’ll never know the difference.”
“But, Dad…”
“I don’t know how many times I’ve had to replace that thing…”

Copyright Mark Anderson Smith 2017 http://www.dragonlake.co.uk/
You may link to this post from http://www.dragonlake.co.uk/2017/06/flash-fiction-friday-the-lost-ring/ or share on a non-commercial website so long as the full copyright notice and this statement is included.

Ginger: Scot’s slang for soda pop

If you liked this story, or if you didn’t, let me know…

Flash Fiction: Iron Brew

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“But why did the cancer come back, Dad?”
“Diesel cars. That’s what they’re saying now.”
“Why would that give you cancer?”
“I don’t know, Son. Make me a brew would you?”
“Another one? How much tea do you drink all day?”
“At least it’s good for you, not like you with that ginger. Full of chemicals that is.”
Angus smiled as his Dad put on a posh accent…
“Tea has been scientifically proven to have health benefits.”
“Aye, right.” Angus looked away as the kettle boiled, not wanting his Dad to see he’d welled up. He blinked the tears away as he poured the steaming water in his Dad’s favourite mug and then stirred the tea bag, noticing the orange tinge to the brown.
“Three sugars remember, Son.”
“Three, Dad? That’s a lot of sugar.”
“Still not as much as in that ginger you drink. Anyway, sugar is good for you.”
“How d’you reckon that?”
“They always give me ice-cream after my chemo. They wouldn’t do that unless sugar was good for you.”
Angus thought back to the sugar cubes he’d been given to make his vaccinations more palatable.
“No, I guess not, Dad.”
Angus took a dry spoon out the drawer and heaped a spoon with the white grains. Hesitated before pouring it into the tea. It wasn’t like his Dad was obese. Skinny as a rake he was. He let the grains tumble off the spoon and repeated again and again…

Copyright Mark Anderson Smith 2017 http://www.dragonlake.co.uk/
You may link to this post from http://www.dragonlake.co.uk/2017/05/flash-fiction-iron-brew/ or share on a non-commercial website so long as the full copyright notice and this statement is included.

Ginger: Scot’s slang for soda pop