Friday, May 6, 2016

Flash Fiction Contest #14

Hi guys - Time for another #OAFlash Fiction contest! Rules can be found here. We're going slightly longer than last time, but only by a bit.

Flash Fiction Prompt For Friday, May 6, 2016

When posting, remember to include your name and your Twitter handle.

Come back on Sunday night to find out who the winner is!


Unknown said...

Title: Clone problems.
Word Count: 248

Bill Western Jr III: “Dale, it’s great to be interviewed for your show, thanks for having me”.

Dale: “Yep, Clones eh?”

Bill Western Jr III: “If one can afford it, why not? The advantages are numerous. Firstly of course, they are available in the event of medical emergency. Having the same DNA and blood type means no rejection in the event of a transplant. They’re also handy body doubles – one in each car of my convoy and no one will know which is which”.

Dale: “How rewarding is clone life, day to day?”

Bill Weston Jr III: “Oh They keep busy, they have a schedule of fitness training, and manual jobs. People really like “Handmade” crafts like hand sewn clothes or individually painted dolls. The clones enjoy doing them. Most of them tend towards the lower end of the intelligence scale, which is for the best really, they’re our body, but they’re not US. Can you imagine a clone as smart as me?”

Dale: “Indeed. Clones impersonating their Originals is becoming a problem.”

Bill Weston Jr III: “Well, we keep them safely within the compound walls. Plus, they’re marked with an abdominal tattoo and microchip, which resolves most ID issues.”

Dale: “Yes 3, Indeed you are.” He lifted the clone’s shirt.

Bill looked down and saw, “Bill Weston Jr. Clone #3” tattooed on himself. “Oh”, was all he could manage. “But I….”

“I know, you, have to get your limousine. Come on, this way, back to your pen”.

Quentin Christensen, Twitter: @QChristensen

Laura Rueckert said...

You aren't supposed to move like that. Clones are supposed to sleep until revived. Not flutter their eyelashes when I stand before your pod. It's bad enough seeing my inanimate face through the milky glass. Seeing you move, seeing you twitch, is worse.

A knock. Your right pointer finger banged against the pod. I'm sure of it.

My hands shaking, I call the hotline, pressing 6 for *I think my clone is waking up*.

"The pod is filled with a sedative, nutrient gas that keeps the clone alive and in a coma-like state," the recording says. "Less than 0.000001% of clones awaken prematurely."

A scraaaaape fills the air behind me—I whirl around but you still—and the telephone voice rambles on. I press 7 for *My clone is making noises*.

"The gas filter in the pod makes a hissing sound once per hour. Beyond that, you may hear a pop when a new canister of sedative is punctured."

That wasn't a hiss or a pop. Now your hands are sliding against the glass, pressing so hard I can see your fingerprints.

You're crying. I have to help you, get you out of there. I press 4 for *Emergency revival*.

I fetch the transponder and—click!—the door swings wide.

"Do not attempt to revive your clone on your own. Improper revival can lead to dangerous results.

With a deep breath, you emerge from the pod. Your eyes are focused. Your stomach growls. You open your mouth.


Unknown said...

Michelle Wheeler
Title: The Affair
WC: 249

The year I turned fifty my husband had an affair.

It’s not lipstick on a collar, long hair on his sleeve; not the scent of unfamiliar perfume like an omen in the air - not in real life. After twenty-five years of sleeping and waking beside the same human, it’s the tiny that tips you off.

He began to reminisce, and he has never been a sentimental man. At night, holding hands beneath the covers, he stopped asking for more, and sometimes I found him gazing at old photos, bleary with age, and grinning like a fool, his thumb stroking my photograph.

When I confronted him, he denied it, as I knew he would.

“I’ve never loved anyone but you,” he all but smirked. “I swear it.”

“Who is she?” I insisted. “The woman you daydream of.”

“Only you,” he sighed, and his eyes went dreamy. But when I pressed my sagging body against his, he turned away, cold.

Later, I pressed harder.

“I see you,” he whispered in the darkness. “The old you – or, the young you?” He laughed like a loonie.

“Are you tripping?” I hissed.

“I think I’m time traveling,” he whispered back.

That was the week I got the certified mail. Inside, the typed letter reminded me:

"It has been twenty-five years since our first successful human cloning endeavors! Thank you for being one of the first volunteers. To find out where your clone is now, please visit the website."

That won’t be necessary.