Time – Mid-Week Flash Challenge

Time

Time was irrelevant.

We thought time would give us hope – but it didn’t.

We’d become godless, we thought we were gods, but time saw to that.

It became apparent that the scientists were right – when the ocean gave up its dead. No longer did the choked seas harbour a food source safe enough to eat. Presidents and Ministers and affluence, the gods of our world, had mocked the warnings. They’d ploughed through fields and homesteads and sacred ground to plunder from that which gave us life. They’d buried pipes and channels deep beneath the hallowed mantle before draining it dry. The skies showered invisible rain full of unseen toxins through manufactured billowing clouds. Forests and jungles lay slaughtered to make way for ever growing consumption and herds of fat, cash-driven bovines, without a thought for how we’d breathe.

So, when the cracks appeared, fracking across our lands, time was spent.

The gods of our world had drowned and poisoned and suffocated us, and we’d let them.

Time, when we were gone – eradicated from the surface of this glorious orb – was of no consequence to us.

But to Mother Earth, time is everything.

Time is relevant.

Jumping in with another Flash Fiction Challenge from Miranda at Finding Clarity. This image of a clock tower in Finale Emilia, Italy, appeared uncredited in Newspapers after an earthquake which struck the area May 20, 2012.

Write up to 750 words, inspired by the image posted.

Blues Buster: From Black Gold to White Diamond

© Lisa Shambrook

The blood-red Ducati growled between his thighs. It surged forward, the front wheel lifting off the tarmac then the tire bounced back to the ground and Trent’s stomach flipped as the bike roared beneath him. He flew down the road, leaving his rebel yell in a cloud of dust.

With nothing to see but the endless road ahead, he let his mind wander.

She’d giggled as he’d run his dirty fingers up her leg, she’d shaken her head in mock irritation as his rough fingernail snagged her stockings, but she hadn’t stopped him. Instead she’d downed the glass of bourbon and rearranged herself into a more pleasing position. The diamonds about her neck had sparkled amid the shaft of silver moonlight, pooling like provocative stars in the swell of her bosom, but he sought more than a string of gems.

A lone, wild dog loped across the road in front of him and Trent was back in the present, gripping the bike with muscular legs and swerving to avoid disaster. As his pumping heart settled, he cast his mind back again, reliving that night’s delights.

When morning had arrived and white light had flooded the penthouse, Trent nudged Camille and grinned. Her head lolled on the satin pillow, hair mussed-up from the night’s fun and her eyes, smudged like coal, closed. The bottle on the nightstand stood half empty and amber liquid puddled beside the overturned glass. He’d moved quickly to the safe, behind the portrait of her oil baron husband, and input a series of numbers. The door swung open and Trent swiped the small velvet pouch. Yes, he was after way more than a string of diamonds.

Once dressed, he drizzled the white stones between his fingers, then scooped them into his palm and slipped them into his leather jacket’s pocket. He emptied a vase of tiny pebbles and replaced the velvet pouch.   

Now on the road, he glanced down at his zipped pocket and grinned. The sun shone down on the road, and in his mirror he could see the black tarmac behind shimmering like a sea of diamonds. His heart flipped just like his stomach had, he was set for life. Her face flickered before him, and for a moment he regretted leaving her behind, but he’d sworn only to take what was rightfully his, and the diamonds would cover that. He knew she’d take punishment for his actions, but he’d been through too much to care. When you’ve done all you can and had everything stripped away, your spirit of vengeance rose faster than your conscience.

The road snaked on, black as far as the eye could see, like a river of shimmering oil. It had been Trent’s intuition, Trent’s knowledge that had discovered the reserve, but he’d been violently elbowed out of any deal. In turn he’d driven into Camille’s lonely heart and taken his revenge, as cold as the white stones lining his pockets.

The bike sped on and the states blurred until the lights of LA twinkled in San Bernadino, and Trent pulled over. The Ducati throbbed as Trent unzipped his jacket and grinned. He cast his gloves aside and dipped his fingers into his pocket. The delight he’d felt, the freedom of the road, and the escape, suddenly chilled. His mind leaped backwards, frantically rewinding, until he saw the river of black tarmac shimmering in the midday sun, like a trail of sparkling diamonds…and the hole in his pocket turned his heart into frozen stone.

(584 Words)

A tale for Jeff’s Blues Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files…it’s sparkly for Christmas, even though the song is not! Prompt song Man on the Run by Cowboy Mouth.