We Believe in Charity

We Believe in Charity

June 12, 2123: 10:33 AM

Our unit staggered through the ruins of London, covered in dirt and bloody bandages. The latest skirmish with the Earth-Isolationists had been brutal. A precision blast from a fission gun had destroyed my uniform and two good officers, and the only indication that I was the woman in charge was the unit still following me. I owed it to them to not let my injuries show or let them know that with no supplies and only a few fission weapons of our own we were open targets. We turned south out of Piccadilly Circus, taking cover behind one of the meter-high cracks caused by the bombs in the early decades of the war.

Fiction: Season Reason

Dan’s foot slipped as he was putting up the large inflatable Santa. His foot sank several inches into the earth before he pulled it back out.

“Darn hole,” he muttered, “Every year. And of course Marie’s gonna get on me again about filling it in…”

On the porch his wife, Marie, stood with a critical eye next to the inflatable turkey he’d just taken down. Across their small lawn, various-colored Christmas lights, reindeer statues, multiple Santas, and a plastic snowman playing a flute were strewn around.

“Dan,” Marie called, “Do you think we have enough decorations?”

“I dunno, honey,” Dan said. “I can get some more at the store when I go into town.”

"Yeah, you do that,” Marie said. She looked out at the reindeer, the snowman, the Santas, and the lights. She continued, “It just feels like we’re missing something.”

Fiction: Christmas Pageant Chaos

The children’s Christmas pageant rehearsal was going splendidly so far. Mary had punched Joseph in the nose, they were missing both a shepherd and a wise man, and one of the cows wouldn’t stop crying.

“Um,” the girl playing Gabriel said, raising her hand. “Miss Amy? The brooch on my costume broke and my wings fell off.”

Amy muttered, “Jesus help me,” into her hands, then went to fix the costume.

“It didn’t break,” Amy said. “You just didn’t fasten it to begin with.”

“I did so,” the girl pouted.

  
The toddler playing the cow gave a loud, piercing wail.

“Miss Amy,” Joseph said, “She punched me again.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Mary replied, and hit him with the Jesus baby doll.

“Please don’t hit anybody with Jesus,” Amy said, and closed her eyes to dream of the scotch waiting for her back at home.

Fiction: Sunday Morning in Harville Place

Sunday Morning in Harville Place

The roar of the motorcycle caught the attention of everyone in town. Harville Place was one of those small towns where everyone was known to each other by sight, if not by name. And so, since everyone knew that the only inhabitant of the town who owned a motorcycle was Mr. Frederick, who was in Florida for the month, there was an immediate curiosity about the person on the Harley Davidson.

“I bet he’ll cause trouble,” Mrs. Higley said as the bike screeched past the grocery store.

“You think every stranger will cause trouble,” her daughter said, rolling her eyes. Still, she kept a wary gaze on the back of the leather jacket.

The mayor prayed that the rider would behave, the sheriff prayed that he wouldn’t, and the Women’s Auxiliary Club prayed that he wouldn’t run over any of the decorations for the annual street fair.

Fiction: Propaganda & Horizon

Propaganda

Ezra slammed the article down on her boss’ desk.

“This is wrong,” she hissed, “This whole article is just-“

“Propaganda?” Her boss smirked. “Ezzie, that’s the point. We print what the party tells us to. That’s the way it’s always been, and the way it always will be. Get used to it, or you’ll never get anywhere in this business.”

Ezra blanched. “I could never,” she said, “We’re supposed to tell people the truth, not fill their heads with lies.”

He laughed. “Like they care,” he said, “As long as they’re entertained our readers will read anything we feed them. They’re like pigs, in a way.”

Horizon

The dirt fell onto the coffin. Clump after clump it clattered onto the wooden surface, eventually covering it from view. Elle closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, pulling back the aching sensation in her throat. As she opened her eyes again, she turned and walked away. How could she stay with the reminder that she would never see him again?

She turned and walked to her car. She climbed in and started it, but before she could put it into gear the ache caught up to her and she gasped out a sob. This couldn’t be happening. It didn’t feel real. She couldn’t go on.

A warmth seemed to spread through the car. A golden light started to glow around the car, and Elle looked up to see the sun dip into the most beautiful sunset she’d ever seen. It highlighted a solitary dogwood tree, giving the white flowers a golden, sacred glow. She breathed in deeply. He was still with her. It would be okay.

Fiction: Appalachian English

Appalachian English
            Y’all better lissen up ‘cause I gotta  few werds to say on the subject of mountain livin’. Yep, there are a few things you gotta know if you want to live here in Frawgtown, Virginya. First awf, the people round here are real friendly. They ain’t like them city folk, all talkin’ to themselves and drinkin’ Starbucks. Starbucks. That ain’t even real cawffee. Real cawffee’s blacker’n coal’n picks up your day.

            Anyway, like I was sayin’, round here people treat ya like a best friend, even if they ain’t never seen you before in their lives. If you go on an’ drive down the road, people in the cars you meet’ll wave at ya, nice as can be. Now, there’s three diff’rent kinds of waves, ya lissenin’? First, them there’s the index finger. Jest lift up one index finger awf the wheel, and give a little nod. Next one’s the four-finger wave. This one here’s the most popular. All you do is left up four fingers of one hand awf the wheel, keepin’ your thumb hitched on there. Last one’s the full hand wave, which is stupid-lookin’ and dangerous on these here curvy mountain roads. There’s deer everywhere here, and if you hit the varmints they hurt your vehicle more than you hurt them more often than not.