Practice

by Peter Newman


The radiance forced his eyes shut, humble. “Are you…” he whispered, “…the one who made us?”

“I am.”

“Please, tell us why.”

“Well,” she mumbled. “We all had to practice.”

He frowned, trying to understand. “There are other Makers?”

“Yes, twenty six in my class. I was supposed to scrape you all out afterwards. I forgot. Sorry.”

“Wait, we’re a failed experiment?”

The light became warmer. “Err... I learnt loads growing you. My latest world is inspired by yours.”

“You made a new race of man?”

“No, cats. Cats are awesome. We love watching cats, way more fun than humans.”

Author bio: I love writing, running, roleplaying, gaming and cats!

Stories and blog here: www.runpetewrite.com

Banter here: @runpetewrite

Editorial: Thank you.

To everyone who read and everyone who commented, thanks for making June a great month.

To the writers, a double thank you.

The first contributor story, Dismissed, is the most viewed story this site has ever had, and rightfully so: it's fantastic.

I'm taking my Wednesday slot to pause and say thanks, and for two more reasons.

One is that my blog, the xeroverse, is two years old, and I'm celebrating by having some guest flash fiction every day this week. I urge you to go on over and check it out, there's some great writing, and some of it by 101 Fiction contributors.

The second is to mention my new book, This is the New Plan. It collects 33 of my best short and flash fictions and is available on Amazon (US & UK).

And in case you missed them, June's 101 word wonders:

Dismissed, by Peter Newman. "I tire of them..."

Reconciliation, by Lily Childs. "I was eternally earth-bound..."

Body-art, by Sandra Davies. "I sat unmoving, hypnotised by the patterns..."

Majordomo, by Dom Camus. "When we met, she smelled of cardamom..."

Footprints, by Miranda Campbell. "Drowning in sound colour..."

Dismissed

by Peter Newman


I tire of them.

Generation after generation, all the same, always asking, never listening. Humanity fails to inspire.

Arms reach upwards, spindly spears, brown and pale, bruise-mottled, desperate.

“Help us!” they say.

Obligation weighs deathly on my shoulders. With great power comes great drudgery. Once an oracle now a shepherd, I show them the only paths left.

One mouth moves, shaping the panic of many. “We’re running out of time!”

Reflected in my eyes are the husks of stars, stillborn.

I could have made worlds with them, unfolded minds into dream sails, glittering.

The clock ticks, too late.

“Class dismissed.”



Author Bio: I write, I run, I work, I sometimes remember to smile.

Stories & Blog here: www.runpetewrite.com
Banter here: @runpetewrite