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Friday, 9 December 2016

The Button - [Redacted] - Dead Man's Bar

Flash Fiction / Micro Fiction
Length - 100 words each

Three pieces written for the competition theme 'America'.
* '[Redacted]' finished 3rd Place in the competition!


The Button

It started as locker-room banter. The big 'What if?' Now he's President.
                His first tour of the office, he nervously bides his time until they show him the button, and the old man breaks free of his handlers to slam reset.
                It's not a flex of power. It's not about building walls, or breaking them. 'What if?' has graduated to 'What now?' and he simply wants out.
                'These people can't look after themselves anymore.' I whisper into the microphone hidden inside my sleeve. 'Things have gone nuclear.'
                We gave you your chance, but the joke is over. Democracy has failed.


The report, said to have been leaked following an alleged 'incident' at the infamous Area 51, has since resurfaced.

'Attention to all residents of [Redacted]. With immediate effect [Redacted]. Until further notice [Redacted]. If you suspect [Redacted]. If symptoms persist [Redacted]. Avoid the elderly. [Redacted]. Do not attempt [Redacted]. Serve your country, be vigilant, and remain indoors.'

In light of the outgoing American President's directive, some of the following words have been recovered, though their order or placement within the document remains unknown:

Outbreak. Virus. Host. Candelabra. Execution. Global. Defenestration. Airborne.

The truth is out there. Have a [Redacted] day.


Dead Man's Bar

'Hicks' hangs above the saloon door on a wooden sign, but the locals know it by a different name. It's empty, 'cept for one man propping up the bar.
                'They credit me the man with the fastest hands in all America,' I tell him in warning. I reached into my pocket for my warrant and immediately decided to take a seat right there in the doorway instead.
                'Fastest man.' I heard, as the cold crept out from a hole in my soul, and dumbly I looked to its dealer.
                An unturned head. A smoking gun. And lipstick on the glass.



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