The process goes something like this: Write 5k on a whim, sometimes more sometimes less. Leave that nugget in my rando file on a computer. Like something about it and dig it up roughly six months later. Write book.
Take a break from book to write more flash fiction.
Flash fiction doesn't have to be long, doesn't have to be complete, doesn't have to be more than a flash in a pan. It's just fun. It's a great way to start the weekend. :)
Today's flash fiction is inspired by this pic:
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| It's by Michael-C-Hayes (http://michael-c-hayes.deviantart.com/art/Fallen-Angel-191770656) |
The old bones of a destroyed church arched high over Lo's head. The inky black sky loomed over her punctured by tiny stars. She didn't look at them. There was no point in asking questions of the stars. They were as they always were: silent.
She ducked under the yellow tape line, nodding to a uniformed officer there. People would start to gather soon, the press, the neighbors, the dregs of a leftover society. Since the angels came life had been clinging to the facade of normalcy.
Police officers wore uniforms and tried to keep peace where there was only chaos. Lo was a detective, plunged into the role when no one else wanted it and the department desperately needed one. That's why she was up under the blanket of stars, staring down at the newly dead angel.
Dead. Angel dead. No one knew exactly how they died. There was even a theory that they couldn't be killed. Impossibly strong, miraculously fast, heavenly charged, these winged creatures were not the stuff of dreams. They were the spawn of nightmares.
Lo squatted next to the corpse. No blood. Just a long set in rigor mortis. No pulse, but did these things have a pulse anyway? Snapping on a pair of gloves, Lo took the angel's pulse. None. The skin was rock hard. How long had it been dead? Months? Days? Minutes?
She lifted the edge of the elegant gown the angel had on. Lines spread down her side. Old script written in scar tissue. Lo pulled out a camera and snapped some photos. That was interesting. These things could be scarred. By what? When angels came down, the world had tried everything save for nuclear war. Slowly the world fell, super powers humbled by heavenly force.
Society had stabilized, if you could call it that. Mostly people just tried to go on living. No much else to do. Either get busy living or get busy dying. She'd forgotten who'd said that, but it always stuck with her. A leftover bit passed down to her from her father.
A whoosh of air that made her short hair flap around her face, made Lo pause. She didn't need to look up. The calvary had arrived. The iron fisted angel government. An Arch maybe? Perhaps someone higher. Perhaps not.
Slipping the camera into her pocket Lo stood up. She stretched tired muscles. It had been a long day and a short sleep of a night.
"I'd like the photos, Ms. Riley." The voice was smooth cultured, and completely void of an Earth accent.
"File the paper work and they're yours." Paper works. Systems. Hierarchy. The angels lived by it. Sometimes what you lived by could turn on you.
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And that's all folks! Join me with some Flash Fiction!
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