Fiction|Writing Challenge|Sci-Fi
Who DO I Choose?
75 of 💯 — “You can raise one person to life. Today only!”
Deleting the entire paragraph, once again, I sat back in the oversized office chair and stared at the challenge requirements, then the deadline, as minute dust particles floated in and out of my vision. Choosing to procrastinate, I opened my Ghoul-mail account to a notification, “You can raise one person to life. Today only!”
Leaning forward in curiosity and excitement, almost nose to the screen, I quickly skimmed the e-mail. Mumbling, “One real-life person…one day only…read disclosure information.” I sat upright for a brief moment, “Pft, who reads the fine print?” Hovering the mouse over the click here to summon button for just a moment, I took a deep breath and clicked. “What could possibly go wrong? It’s not rocket surgery.”
A page opened with a text box with one simple question above on the otherwise blank page. “Who would you like to summon?”
Fingers paused above the keys, I considered the question. Who would I like to summon?? With a smirk, I type in the name then firmly click Summon.
Cranking my head to the left, then to the right, I look to my dog lying near the couch, “Where in blazes is he??” My dog only lifted her eyes at me.
Suddenly, her head lifted off the floor and looked towards the kitchen, a deep, chilling growl emanated from her chest.
In walked a ghost, drinking a glass of water — which only spilled all over the floor. “Clive! What are you doing?!”
He cast a glance at me, “What? I’ve been dead 59 years! I’m parched.”
I shook my head in unbelief. “You’re a ghost! You don’t need water.” I paused my rant, actually looking at him and the situation. “Are you wearing my socks?!”
“They are quite comfortable. Look,” he turned his foot for me to see. “I’ve never had socks compress my feet be — “
“Stop spilling water all over the floor.” I interrupted taking the glass from his hand, setting it firmly on the counter. “And take my wet socks off. You’re tracking water all over the place.”
I lay a towel on the floor to soak up the water before turning to walk back to the computer, “I could use your help writing this piece, Clive.”
He picked up and refilled the glass, ignoring my demands, as he took another drink that left a trail of splashing water on the tile floor as he followed me. “You can call me C.S.”
Plopping into the chair, the dog looked on in confusion. “What, Mercy? Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t summon a trans-dimensional entity to help me avoid my problems. And don’t look at me that way. This will be easy as a piece of cake.”
Looking over my shoulder at the screen, C.S. Lewis took another drink of water. “What is this contraption?”
“It’s a computer. Can you help me write this story, please?”
“Your notes are a mess of chaos. Put them in order first.”
I began to copy and paste my outlined notes in a more coherent order as directed by Master Clive when Mercy began growling and barking.
Tilting my head and breathing deeply a few times, “Is that smoke?”
I leapt from my chair, leaving it spinning in my wake, as I raced to the kitchen in a panic.
C.S. stood before my ancient stove. Cooking! He was very effectively burning the food, and my house! Standing there, unperturbed by the growing flames, he grabbed the hand towel draped on the oven door that read Don’t go bacon my heart and began swatting at the hungry flames in a losing battle.
The flames clawed their way up the towel as C.S. tossed it into the sink. “What are you doing, C.S.?”
He paused to look at the hand towel, then at me, the glow of flames passing through him and illuminating the walls. “What? It’s only on fire a little bit. You can still use it.” Next, he grabbed a container from the back of the counter, dumping some of the contents on the flames.
An explosion of sparks and ravenous flames erupted. C.S. looked at the container in confusion, “What is this stuff?”
“It’s sugar, C.S.! You just put the fire, ON FIRE, with that stuff!” I was clearly in panic mode and not thinking clearly as I ran to the sink to fill bowls of water to douse the flames.
He cast a glance at my frantic figure, “Who doesn’t keep a container of baking soda beside the stove for emergencies?”
C.S. picked up the wet towel from the floor, heading towards the laundry room when my dog grabbed the other end, put off by our ghostly visitor. Each yanked and tugged, with C.S. losing to the dog — whipping her head like a shark in a feeding frenzy.
Viciously yanking the towel from his hand, the dog shook the towel like a rag-doll. Releasing the wet cloth mid-shake, it flew through the air, landing on the flames.
Within the span of eternity, which was likely a few minutes, fire trucks arrived in front of the house. Men suited in reflective black suits barged into the house with axes and a water hose.
One of the men grabs me, asking in a voice sounding much like Darth Vader through the suit, “What did you do? You need to get out!”
“But I didn’t do it! I’m a writer!” Then more quietly, “I’m only a writer…”
2 pts - BOTH prompts
1 pt - I'm only a writer
1 pt - C.S. wearing my socks, walking on wet floor
1 pt - Fire on fire
1 pt - the dog fights for the wet towel - tosses on fire
2 pt - Malaphor - It's not rocket surgery. AND This will be easy as a piece of cake.
1 Bonus pt for point box
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