Some of My Stuff

These are early entries in Madison Wood’s Friday Fictioneers’ essay prompts.  Comments are entered after the last entry before the already done comments.

I have changed the format so that new entries are separate posts in my blog. The last entry on this page was for 9/7/2012.  Thanks.

Scott

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Start of a Day

By Scott L Vannatter

September 6, 2012

He took her hand and walked carefully over the rocky terrain.  She giggled at him when he almost fell into the nearly non-existent stream.  The old, rusty wheel didn’t turn much anymore, but its need to be there wasn’t functional.  For that matter, neither was theirs.  She sang to herself, almost a hum.  He smiled, kissed her and began exploring a bit.  The rocky terrain was hard on their feet; they hardly noticed.

“It’s good to be back where we first met,” she smiled coyly, loving the touches he gave.

“Yes, what’s it been? Almost sixty years now?” He sighed.

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Ordinary Day

By Scott L Vannatter

August 30, 2012

He lay quietly on the patio looking out toward the clouds. They swirled slowly, shifting patterns constantly in the upper breeze.

His mind saw the whirlwind in the fluffy off-white mass that foretold the alien invasion.  He watched as the clouds parted, ripping cleanly, and the dull colored metal, elliptical ships floated down one by one.  Their number must have been in the dozens.  He realized this was, most likely, happening all over the world.

It was here!  Life was over!

“Joel, come in.  Dinner.”

He blinked, looked at the quiet cloud cover, got up, and went in for dinner.

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Approaching Battle

By Scott L Vannatter – August 24, 2012

He sat still on the hillside watching the fog lift as morning approached.  His muscles rippled, a move to show off for the ladies and discourage others.  He stretched to show his lack of fear at it all.  Eight times his world had been invaded; and eight times he had turned the invaders away.  He was the champion, sole heir to all around.  Yet, he knew he was about to be threatened again.  This time, they would not fight fair, would not adhere to the rules.  This time it would be ruthless and deadly.  This time they would be human.

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Talk of the Trees

By Scott L Vannatter

Aug 16, 2012

The mighty elm looked happily around the forest.  The maple was shaking its leaves, whistling.  The other elms were standing tall.

The oak seemed to be the only tree unpleased; he looked lost in thought.

“What’s the matter, brother?”  He queried.

The older tree looked up and tipped a branch toward his main fork.  In it was deeply embedded the skull of a cow.

“It made me realize we are descended from bovines,” he bellowed.

The elm shouted out in disgust.

“Why?  We look nothing like them.”

“True,” the old tree began, “but if you go back to our roots…”

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Bomb Shells

By Scott L Vannatter – Thursday August 9, 2012

“That’s not true,” little Tommy sputtered.

“Yes, it is,” retorted Marvin.  He was three years older and let Tommy know it.

“The shells look like clams, but they come from space.  When they hit the atmosphere there’s a chemical reaction and they become just like shells.  But, they have little aliens in them.  When enough fall into the sea and they come out, there will be an invasion.”  He was smug.

“I don’t believe it,” Tommy continued to argue as they walked away from the beach.

If Marvin had known just how right his information was, he would be worried.

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One for the Money

By Scott L Vannatter – 8/2/2012

The small, dirty boy dragged the college student by the hand.

“Come on,” he urged.

They came to a small, open spot in the woods.  The urchin pointed a chubby finger at the mass on the sticks.  The student was fascinated.  The growth, if that is what it was, didn’t move.  It appeared to drip and ooze, but nothing ran off.

His finger reached forth.  The mass, with a gravity all its own, pulled him just a bit too slowly into itself.  Then, all was quiet.  The others young denizens came out from hiding.

“Do it again,” they all chimed.

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Faucet/Tap

By Scott L Vannatter

Geohn’s hand shook as he held the small tin cup beneath the faucet’s mouth.  With the other, even shakier, hand, he turned the tap handle.  It creaked dryly with a deep groan. He could almost hear the contents of the barrel move as the precious liquid trickled into the cup.  He quickly drained the container in his hand, using his tongue to get the misty remnants.  His parched throat screamed for more. His gritty eyes then went to the body lying next to the small barrel.

“Never should have tried to take it,” he said, to no one in particular.

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