Wasted (Micro-Fiction)

We lived beneath the piled trash skyscrapers. Antlike, generations of our families had carved their own spaces into the towering structures, into every nook and cranny, every subterranean hole; we dared not build above the waste. Eking out a living, we lived like the rats we’d replaced scurrying around without real purpose just trying to survive. Some said, what a waste of a world. I said, what a world we’d wasted.

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50 Word Stories: This Trash Can Life

Deep down beneath the chewed pizza boxes, under the banana skins and last night's takeaways, there is a survivor. Hiding because they have to, they exist, nothing more, nothing less. If you asked them how they managed, they'd shrug. Persist, and they'd blame this trash can life. They're only children!

In Disbelief 

In Disbelief
Acerbic tongues sting this flesh 

like a million tiny bee stings;

the barbs embedded in my skin.

I shake and quake with hidden fury,

so very English, so polite,

and rankle, and rile, and bite

at the unforgiving pain of it all.

Disbelief, I tell myself.

It’s utter disbelief.

But the cold hard truth,

these clients of the devil

market and peddle through unsanitary smiles,

who push and prod the badness under my entrails;

they know, they know it’s not.

They seek to conceal 

and I want to believe the lesser of two evils:

it all stinks:

accept it.

I’m beyond acceptance

beyond their views of this world

and all we should stand for.

Instead, I mire in disbelief.

I would have it no other way,

for my universal fury waits to spill over

to those other ninety-nine percent

who agree.

At least, I hope so.

God, I hope so!
 

Lifeless (Micro-Fiction)

It was never the way of the forest, never the way of the trees, but life moves on and so did they.
They vanished overnight in cascades of spilled foliage leaving nothing but carpeted colour in their wake. For a week, our world glowed, then the winds came.
In gusts of kaleidoscopic brilliance life blew away. Now, we live on a lifeless rock. Every day is grey.

The Archipelago

What happened? I’ll tell you what: everything.
There’s nowhere to start because it started all at once. Everything they predicted, the scientists, meteorologists, and the man with the placard on the corner of our street, came to pass. Let’s just say there was a lot of water.
But being paranoid had its benefits, and where others squabbled over what to pack, what to save, which kid deserved life most, I disappeared with my little, brown bag of stuff and left them all behind.
It took me three months to blag my way across Europe, then down through what should’ve been desert sands — it turned out to be mud — then back up into the mountains. Like a monkey on steroids, I climbed and climbed and climbed. By the time I’d finished, I looked down from the Tibetan Plateau as the world flooded.
I expected it to take years, or at the very least a few more weeks; it took a day. The world became a swimming pool. India flooded before my eyes as though God had left the tap on, his bath spilling everywhere. For one long night I thought it wouldn’t stop, a mania set upon me and I ran around like a headless chicken before a Yeti, or a Sherpa, or something in a woollen jacket gave me a slap. That settled me down, and I realised the rain had stopped.
The Archipelago was beautiful, especially for a quick dip in between those Himalayan peeks, Everest and Annapurna separated by a choppy strait. The few others and I, who’d attained such a height, did the best we could. Fishing was easy, but you had to watch out for any African cats that had survived the swim to our altitude. It’s odd to hook a lion when you’re fishing for a trout.
Crazy story, I hear you saying. What’s old man Ankers been taking? My answer: the same as the man with the placard, and we all know he was right.
The End.