This week’s prompt comes from last week… OK, I always say I generate random images from Unsplash, and I do. But I’ve started collecting the ones that I find more appealing, and this one, by Charly Pn, looked terrific, so I kept it (along with a few other!).
This poor raven (I say it’s a raven, though I’m not sure) looks so miserable! I’m sure it has lots of stories to tell, or there are many stories that can be told about it. We’ll see, we’ll see.
If you want to tell yours, just do it! Write it down, short or long, and post it in your webspace of choice. And let me know, I live in Twitter. Or better yet, leave a link in the comments!
But it cannot be. Not down here, it’s impossible. I know I’m alone. I made sure of that.
People expect nuclear waste storage sites to be so full of radiation that we have to dress in hazmat gear all the time, but that’s not true. The waste arrives here from the nuclear power plants in sealed canisters that are checked for irregular radiation levels in origin and en route. I’ve never seen anything beyond normal when I’ve checked them. Hell, the counters get higher counts from the walls of the tunnels than they do from the canisters.
Fact is, we just dress for the cold down here. We have colour coded coats, and that’s basically all. Outside emergencies, that’s it. I’ve only worn emergency gear during compulsory drills.
“Sara.”
There it is again. Or is it?
The tunnels are empty. I made sure.
Engineering. Solid, bullet-proof engineering. Years of experience, the best brains thinking of the problem of radioactive storage. It’s really amazing, when you think of it. Only a few elements can be used as fuel for nuclear power plants, and they produce radioactive waste. What to do with it?
Send it back to the Earth where it belongs, that’s what. It makes sense: the radiation was down there, in the first place. But we put it in sturdy boxes inside of sturdy boxes inside of sturdy boxes, so it cannot escape when we handle them, move them and store them.
“Sara.”
Damn. Am I going mad? Has all the tension finally caught up with me? That was always a risk. Adn this goddamn breathing mask doesn’t let me see.
Another thing people ignore is that there are several types of nuclear reactors. And some of the newest ones can actually use waste from previous generations to produce even more energy. It’s almost like a miracle. But you know, scientists knew that could be possible years ago, so they didn’t want to simply, say, throw that waste down a deep chasm or anything. Hence storage facilities.
Oh yes, not all waste can be used, but it’s still sort of wondrous when you think of it.
What didn’t they take into account?
People.
“Sara.”
“STOP!”
My voice carries, and the echo answers. The corridor, excavated into the mountain, just stays there as I stare back. Nothing happens, nothing moves.
Nothing speaks.
It’s the tension. It’s my imagination.
Screening. Of course, they apply screening. But, and here is where this may look like a lie, they cannot really screen out sleeping beauties.
The term is mine. I like it. I am the Sleeping Beauty. I don’t know if there are any others, to be honest, but it doesn’t matter. Not any longer. Not now.
I am a sleeper agent. But not any sleeper agent: I’m a third-generation sleeper agent. How could anyone possibly screen that?
Grandad never got the call. Dad didn’t, either. I did. The fact I am a certified nuclear engineer was the icing on the cake.
“Sara.”
Now it’s real. It has to be.
No-one. There is no-one. And the control room is so close.
I check my watch. I can take the mask off, the gas effects must be over now. I am cautious, anyway. One breath, two breaths. I wait. No sign of nausea, I’m safe to ditch the mask. I run now.
What will they say? That I had some kind of crisis? That I went mad? No, it will be years before they can even enter the place, there’s no way they can know it’s me. It doesn’t matter. This is my duty.
The control room is ahead. Everyone in there, the skeleton crew of the graveyard shift, must be asleep on their boards now. All of it timed so I can approach and do what I have to do before any alarm goes off. Not that it would make any difference.
“Sara.”
“Get off my head!”
But it doesn’t. It doesn’t.
“Sara.”
Not when I use the stolen ID card to enter the control room when it’s not my shift.
“Sara.”
Not when I push the guy -Martin, he’s nice- off the central chair.
“Sara.”
Not when I disable all the alarms. Something that, I know, sends alarms off. Outside.
This week’s prompt image is by Paul Garaizar. I chose it, as usual, generating random images from Unsplash. Then for a second or two I doubted whether to use it or not, then I decided to follow my instincys and plunged in. We’ll see what stories can de crafted from it.
Remember, if you want to take part, just use the image as inspiration and write something: a tweet, a flash story, a short story, a novel, whatever you feel like. And use the #ImageFlash hashtag, and let me know, also if you feel like it. Or not, your choice.
Elliot performed all the tasks with the kind of precision gained with the years. Check course, check sails, check radar beacon, check emergency gas levels. Hands on the helm, he finally allowed himself to stare out into the distance.
It was one of those beautiful sunsets where reds and oranges and yellows bled into the blue above and below, and moisture in the air made it difficult to tell the sea from the sky. Elliot imagined Poe writing some terrible tale about a sailor getting caught in between both realms.
He sighed.
Damn, it had been hard. Surprisingly hard.
The plan was easy. Being a forensic expert, coming up with ideas that would work and keep him out of trouble, finding out what he really needed, was not that much of a trouble. Actually obtaining some of the components, so that he could deny knowing anything, had been complicated.
Still he had managed to.
But the most irritating part had been money. Damn but money is easy traceable these days, and he knew it really well. The actual lengths he had gone to so that he could obtain enough money for his plan almost drove him mad. Of course, it was not the money itself but making it not point back at Elliot what was almost unachievable.
Almost. But Elliot wasn’t a certified genius for nothing.
Compared to that, finding and hiring the guy who would actually do the job and rid him of Mei had been a piece of cake, all the while maintaining anonymity. The deep web was your friend if you had the know how, and Elliot did have it. In fact, he was so good nobody else knew about it.
And now. Now he was finally free, the wind in his sails, the horizon his limit.
It made him laugh out loud, here where nobody could hear.
He heard a noise coming from the cabin. Something had toppled? In this weather? Impossible.
This week’s gorgeous prompt is by Daniele Colucci, taken, as always from Unsplash. I think it’s a great photo, full of hidden stories.
And you? Will you unravel some of those stories? If you do, please let me know! Just write your story, post it in your web space, use the #ImageFlash hashtag, and poke my shoulder.
As he stares at the horizon, waiting, he remembers the way things used to be. The ashen desert where he is standing now was sand back then. Yes, there was a temple here, with tall columns as wide as five men side-to-side, and at least ten times as tall. He searches his memory and brings it back from its heyday, the priests scurrying to their duties, some civilians visiting and paying their respects. He nods. Time moves forward, and other people move in. They look widely different, their clothes and technology a stark contrast from the temple builders. Time shifts yet again, and the desert comes and claims its tithe.
He sighs.
It is always the same. It has always been, and it will always be. And not for long now. He, of all people, should know.
When she comes, she does so with a casual stroll. She has worn the same form for a long time: a young brunette woman dressed in black. He finds it funny that she wears his sigil. Who would have thought?
“Hello,” she says.
“My lady,” he answers, and nods.
“You were always so formal,” she smiles.
“One is as one is, my Lady. One cannot change.”
“Oh, anyone can change,” she says, and starts circling him, examining him.
“Anyone, perhaps, but not me.”
“Really?” She points at him. “You are wearing a full human form now.”
“Indeed. Humans earned my respect… at the end.”
“Ah. A pity. I liked the jackal. In fact, if I just squint, I think I still can see…”
“I am always here, my Lady. If you prefer…”
“Ah, no, just whatever you like. I was… teasing you. For a bit.”
“Before the real end?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Do we have time for a walk?” he asks.
“Time. It was always an interesting concept, wasn’t it? Even more so, right now.” But she starts strolling again. “This is a nice temple you got here.”
He doesn’t look surprised. She knows what he has lived, what he has just seen.
“It was magnificent, my Lady.”
“The only one ever fully, solely dedicated to you.”
“Certainly.”
“That’s why you chose this place for this. Even if nothing’s left.”
“Well, one has to make use of what one has.”
“Do you plan to fight me?”
He stops and stares at her, puzzled. And then, he laughs.
She smirks.
“Are… are you serious, my Lady?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Wait. Do you mean… someone has fought you? Actually fought you?”
“Oh yes. You see, it was expected from some, of course. After all, it was part of their… nature, shall we say? But there have been a couple of instances… Well, they actually made me angry.”
“I would never fight you. Not ever. Not before, and certainly not now. Why would I? That would be pointless.”
“Why the walk, then?”
“I always enjoyed your company, my Lady. I wish we had more time.”
He smiles as he says it. She smiles back.
“You could have said it before, you know. We could have… explored that.”
“Yes, my Lady, I know. But how could I? No matter my position, I am but your humble servant, as we all are… were. My feelings are mine, and mine they have remained. But now… I can speak my heart.”
She actually looks down, at the ashes, and picks at a lump in the dirt.
“I think… Deep inside, I’ve always known it. The way you always gazed at me, no matter what I wore.”
“Well, it is too late now, my Lady.”
“It certainly is. Come here for your hug.”
He turns, and she is no longer a small, fragile human, but a force that embraces him, a strength that encompasses universes and blows up galaxies.
And at the same time, a mouth whose lips kiss his for a moment that lasts for all eternity, just before everything blinks out.
****
Regarding today’s story, I’ll just utter one name: Neil Gaiman.
Today’s been one year and one day since the lockdown started here. Just you know.
Here’s a beautiful image from Egypt by Mayer Maged. Ancient Egypt has always fascinated me, yet my (real) knowledge of it is marginal. What can we do with this, then?
We’ll see, we’ll see…
Join me in this writing game if you feel like it! Use the image as your prompt, and write your story. Make it long, short, whatever you want. Post it in your website, Twitter, or wherever you want. And let me know here or in Twitter @VicenteLRuiz, if you want, of course!
“Today,” and she pauses for a second, “we’re going to wrap up your class on flash fiction with an exercise. After all, you’re here for that, aren’t you? Practise!” She says it with a smile, and with a click, the slide changes.
“We will use an image prompt. This image, to be precise. And, in case anyone’s worrying,” she smiles again at the bearded guy in the corner, who promptly blushes,”the image is not mine, but it’s free to use. I’ll give you all the links at the end of the session.”
She expertly hits the image with her laser pointer over her shoulder, then stares at them and asks, “What have we got here?”
“A building,” the really young girl in the first row ventures.
“Anything else?”
“A photograph of a building!” someone in the crowd shouts. There’s laughter.
She laughs, then raises her hand. “That was a joke, I suppose, but… a valid one. Why?”
“It looks like a polaroid,” the girl says again.
“Yes?”
“Polaroids… are not normal photographs. I mean, nowadays everyone carries a smartphone around and can snap a photo, but back then, these were… special. A polaroid, of all photos, said ‘I was here’. Like one graffiti, only in images.”
Silence.
“Very, very good. And so true. I do remember that about polaroids, you know? I do have an age.”
More laughter.
“What else, may I ask? Something like… where is this?”
“New York?” another girl, raising her hand in the middle rows.
“Why New York?”
“It sort of looks like that building there? The Flatiron? Only, this is not so flat. The other buildings surrounding it are also really tall. So, skyscrapers… New York.”
“Could be somewhere else?”
“Vancouver!” says a young man from the back, who apparently has just been named speaker of his group of friends.
“Why Vancouver?”
“Because it is not New York. Everything happens in New York!”
“Interesting. Could it be somewhere else, not in America?”
“Shanghai,” the girl from the first row utters. “During World War II, right before the Japanese invaded. Shanghai looked truly Western. It was a land of opportunities, then the war came. The other buildings are perhaps a bit too tall, but…”
“What made you think of Shanghai?”
“It’s black and white. and the architectural style reminds me of the… thirties perhaps? It made me think of classical movies, the golden age. And I remembered a couple of movies with the action being located there, in that era. It seems more intriguing to me.”
“Hm. What if we try to make it more intriguing?”
There were some murmurs.
“Look at the photograph. Look at it. What do you see? What do you not see?”
“People! There are no people!” says Flatiron Girl.
“Why?”
“The angle, obviously. They’ve left street level out.”
“How can we work that to our advantage?”
“We already have,” Front Row says, “in a sense? We can place it anywhere, because we see no people, no signs. Nothing can point clearly to one place or another. Unless one knows a lot about architecture, I guess.”
“Indeed. Anything else?”
“Is that a flag?” Speaker Guy from the back says. “Down there, close to the building on the right?”
“Could be.”
“We could enhance the image, see what it is. I know a guy who does that kind of thing with old images like this one.”
“Yes you could. But let’s use our eyes, and our imagination. What did you just say?”
“That I know a guy…”
“That it was an old image,” Front Row interrupted. “And yet…”
“Yes?” she smiles, her eyebrow raised.
“Well, I guess this is just manipulated or something, okay, but let’s say for a moment that this… this is really an old image. An old photograph. From the thirties. But it’s a polaroid, which was invented… I don’t know, but I guess later? So, the whole image means…”
“Time travel!” Speaker Guy exclaims.
Front Row looks mortified, but she smiles again and points at her.
“Time travel, indeed, as our friend here would undoubtedly have concluded. From here, you can go anywhere. Where was this photo found? Who found it? A descendant of the time travellers? Or… and ascendant? Time travellers from a different team?”
She paces up and down.
“Obviously, and I hope you’ve noticed, we have just had a brainstorming session. One directed by me, yes, but after all, I only have myself to poke when I sit down to write.”
She stops and stares at her audience.
“I’m going to give you homework. Did you expect otherwise?” Laughter. “You’re going to write a story using this picture as a prompt. Say… about 750 words, and that’s not a hard limit, but don’t go much beyond that. You can use the ideas we just brainstormed, or you can come up with new ones. And remember: have fun!”
****
And that is how you cheat at your self-imposed writing exercises!
Thank you for coming to my TEDTalk. Drink water and remember: practise your writing and have fun!
