It won’t surprise anyone who follows this blog that I entered Cracked Flash Fiction’s weekly competition. This week the prompt was
He dug his fingers into the dry ground.
As you can see, I did change the title a bit (but I got permission first!) At the time of writing I don’t know how my story did yet but the more I think about it, the more unimpressed I am with my choice of title. Too late now though. Let me know your thoughts in the comments.
I dig my fingers into the dry ground. The soil feels soft and real but I can’t be sure. Nolan said the only way to be sure was taste. They can’t control taste. Not yet. My tongue dashes out and in like a lizard tasting the air. I taste sweetness.
“Thank you.” I threw back my arms and scream at the sky, not caring who is listening. Survival instinct replaces elation. They’ll know I’ve escaped by now. I need to get away, far away. I pick a direction and run and run and run. I gulp down as much air as he can to keep going. Soon it isn’t enough. I need to stop, to shelter. My legs smack against something hard. I crash into the hard ground. A log, I’ve fallen over a log. Perfect. I dive inside. The wood cold through my prison clothes. A yawn turns into sleep.
Prison. I’m not. Her. Blood. Guilty. Sex. Escape. Blood. Psychological. Knife. Blood. Entrapment. Blood. Blood. Blood. Beeeeeeeeep.
The sound long and piercing. Electronic, like the prison. But I escaped. The same three word thought, over and over again. Reality, but which one. I lash out, don’t know why, maybe instinct again. Fist into wood, wood becomes pixels, crying away. Wood becomes metal and glass. Behind the latter is Nolan in full prison uniform. She is smiling, why is she smiling?
“Prisoner 20122015 your exercise time is over. Stand away from the door. We need to return you to your cell.”