I love this time of the month of my marathons. Right in the middle is where things cruise, and a lot of stuff is getting loosened up. It’s wild where stories come from. Random memories, and snippets of anecdotes. I like it. Thanks for your interest in Flash August Fiction. If you have not seen it, I really like yesterday’s story called The Torrent. I strongly suggest it. You want to know what’s wild? Where I am, last night, there was a major storm. What if I manifested it, or maybe I merely sensed subconsciously that it was coming. Pretty cool, regardless.

Here is today’s story, called Hovering

Plinio had finished his little hedge clipping and window washing business for the day. He made a cool $75 doing these little weekly chores in some neighborhoods near his. Now he was going door-to-door, seeing if he could add to his client list.

He walked down some new streets, places he’s never seen. Although they were close to a couple of his other regular stops, it was just like a brand-new opportunity for him. These were smaller houses than the ones where he usually worked, but in some ways they seemed more opulent, and they had more yard space. He saw a man washing his car, and having a cigar.

The man asked him what he was doing, and Plinio explained that he was exploring new streets to see if he could find more yard work and increase his income. The man liked that answer, and apprised Plinio that just down the street, a widow, who the neighbors had been helping out, is about ready to get back on her own feet again. He told him he should definitely stop by there, but to not mention that he knew she was a widow, because that would be bad social form.

Plinio was glad to know this information, and thanked the man, and he asked him if he needed any help with his car. The man told Plinio that washing the car was a project he enjoyed, and it kept him busy, and gave him an opportunity to enjoy a cigar, but, he thanked him for asking.

Plinio kept going door-to-door, speaking with whomever he could, and leaving his business card, otherwise. He was mindful of the house where the widow lived. Finally, after traversing the circuitous suburban street, he was at the house of the widow.

When she answered the door, Plinio let her know about his skill set, and that he was available for doing hedges, windows, and other odd jobs. He complimented her on her nice house in the lovely neighborhood.

She thought for a moment, and informed him that there was some business in the garage that needed some attention. She instructed him to meet her in the backyard, near the garage. Plinio was glad to oblige, he had time to kill, and he enjoyed this pleasant neighborhood.

The nice widow asked Plinio to open the garage door, which he did. She asked if he would like to clean and organize it for her. She told him it was mostly her husband’s things, and she wanted to get it sorted out so she could decide what should stay with the house and what should be sold, or given away. Plinio was happy to do that, and he began, posthaste.

The widow set herself out a lawn chair, so she could see what was what in the garage as Plinio worked. It was a simple process really, and then Plinio uncovered something very odd, and unique, and puzzling.

As he was removing items from a shelf and laying them out for the widow to make her determinations, he came upon a wooden box. The box was hovering.

“What is this?” Plinio asked excitedly, “I’ve never seen anything just float like this, what is this, ma’am?”

The woman got up from her chair quickly and said, “There it is.” She came over to Plinio, handed him two crisp hundred dollar bills, took the box from him, and asked him if she was going to have to worry about him making a big deal out of this. Plinio explained that he didn’t see why it would be necessary for him to do, or say anything, and that probably, no one would believe such a weird story anyway.

“But, can you tell me what it is?” He asked her.

She told him not to worry about it. She said he could come back the following weekend to complete the work in the garage, and that he should leave for now, and perhaps in the future she could explain it to him. He agreed to those terms.

Plinio was befuddled by the whole thing, even though he was glad to have $200 for doing practically nothing. He continued his marketing efforts in the neighborhood, and on his way home he stopped at every house that he could that he hadn’t approached up to that point.

The End723 Words

When the levee breaks. Right? Sometimes things have to get to a certain point, and then it all just gives. Thanks for your interest. This one is really, very short.

The sky had been teasing rain for a week There had been some rain during the season, but it’s never enough. Evening would build cloud cover, there would be heat lightning, some thunder, a few sprinkles. Could this finally be the storm we need? Maybe even just a shower? That would be fine at this point. The other end of the valley was getting all the rain. People were jealous.

Mikey had been procrastinating. He had a lot of work to do. It wasn’t the kind of thing he was accustomed to, letting things sit. It was swelling up inside of him. He would find so many other things to do besides the work he really needed to get done. He knew he was doing this. Putting off the important personal work he needed to complete, in favor of any other chore, or work, or volunteering around town. Anything that would keep him from the work he knew that he needed to do.

He had finally set up his desk to get into the work he had been putting off. It was just sitting there, accumulating dust. He was sitting around instead. Watching movies, eating snacks, wasting time, all of his puttering aside from this was exhausted. He decided to go out for a night hike.

As Mikey reached the top of the hill out back of the house, the night air filled up, and there was some of that light rain that had been teasing all season. He continued on to the other side of the hill, and off in the distance he saw lightning. Then it came closer, and as he reached the bottom of the hill, it came closer, and the rain picked up as well. The rain steadied, and the thunder intervals had tightened. He figured he’d better head back on up the hill again, and make haste back toward the house.

As Mikey reached the top of the hill, there was a simultaneous crash of lightning and thunder. This was a legitimate storm, and it began coming in sheets. His headlamp couldn’t help him, as the rain was so heavy the light just reflected, and made the night less navigable. Lightning showed him the way back to the house.

He was soaked through his clothes as he reached the house. Mikey gathered himself, soaking wet, and reached his desk. It was a torrent.

The End398 Words

I’m having fun, things are grooving along for my Instant Fiction Marathon that I call Flash August Fiction. Thanks for the reading, and the listening, and the sharing, and the liking, and believe it or not, this weird little niche podcast is growing, slowly but surely. I mean, I have stories about everything, so you’re bound to like something I write. You may as well just subscribe and deal with it.

Clancy’s cubicle was immaculate. He wasn’t the type to have tchotchkes, or a lot of flair. Drawing attention to himself was not his thing. He had a photo of his wife and daughter to the left of his computer, usually fresh flowers from his wife’s modest backyard garden to the right. Against the beige wall of the cubicle directly in front of him, a blank, dark blue board. This helped to keep his eyes relaxed as he stared at his screen all day.

Things around the rest of the cubicle are sparse and clean along the tops of the desk. Each responsibility for the physical actions he has to perform, has its own station, like divisions of a company within his cubicle. He’s squashing minutes. Work sucks, but he thinks of it as a game to help him get thorough it.

He uses CEO time management techniques for his personal scheduling. He’s a pretty focused guy. Even though he’s a middle guy in the hierarchy. He sets it up so all his daily tasks represent the activities of a company. Then he organizes for efficiency. Using this method, he is very productive, and he ends up with a lot of time on his hands because of organizing the way he does, he gets more done in less time.

His company tracking reports are very consistent in that way. His personal tracking reports that he sends himself from within each of his divisions of separate work responsibilities as the CEO of his cubicle, are far more detailed. That helps him pare steps and time, and he’s making a lot of time for himself.

So his dilemma is clear. What does he do with the extra time? If he does more for the company in the time he has left, he won’t likely be compensated for it. Either that, or his supervisor will claim the credit for it. It makes Clancy work, mostly, just as much as he has to, and a little more to secure bonuses, and when the heavy work comes in, he can complete it all before the weekends, so he can stay at home.

Clancy has to get real here, though. He has to find a way to make use of the extra time he has at work because of his efficiency. He works on a couple of side entrepreneurial things. He can’t do that at work, though, because he can’t bring his personal computer to do that activity at work, and he can’t do personal work on the company tech. So that’s off the table.

What he decides, is to start using the extra time to be more productive for his company, but to send his own personal tracking reports and efficiency techniques to his supervisor and also the Department head. This way his supervisor can’t claim his work, or take credit for the efficiency. Clancy’s production increases by 16%, while he’s sending his own logs and tracking reports two places up the chain, instead of one.

A couple of weeks later, he gets a complimentary email from the Dept. head, telling him what a novel tracking and organization style he has. On the same day, his supervisor tells him at his cubicle, that it’s not necessary for him to send those reports to the Dept. head. Well, obviously, Clancy’s not dumb, he knows the supervisor is jealous and intimidated. He returns an email to the Dept. head, telling him he’d be glad to show the others in the Dept. what he’s doing.

What ends up happening is Clancy does a seminar on how to better organize cubicle activities to think of the cubicles as their own, mini economic engines. Over which each employee is a CEO. And, to organize it as such. In the months following the seminar, the overall production of the Dept. grows by 15%.

Clancy is given the opportunity to replace his Supervisor. What he negotiates instead, is to continue to work his regular position at his current salary, but to consult on the organization techniques and tracking, separately, to be sure it’s optimal, on a contract basis. In exchange for maintaining his current salary otherwise, he will have the option to work from home for up to 20 hours per week.

Now, he can spend a little more time with his wife and daughter, and he’ll have the freedom to integrate his entrepreneurial aspirations into his daily CEO cubicle activities. He’ll be able to maintain his proficiency at work, and work on his own life and projects, simultaneously.

The End756 Words

I think I was having fun with alliteration and descriptive language, and probably craving some ice cream. Thanks for checking out this less than 6 minute story on my Flash Fiction marathon that I call Flash August Fiction. I’m sorry, not sorry, if I made you hungry.

Marly is having a nice day in the park. She has a spot on a bench, the temperature is comfortable, and she has her knitting bag. First, she’s going to enjoy some ice cream. Her ice cream is from the little store across the street. It’s made right there.

She reaches into her knitting bag and pulls out the long sundae spoon she brought for the occasion. Long sundae spoons are a great way to eat ice cream, even if you’re not having a sundae. When holding the spoon close to the end of the handle, it’s really hard to make a mess of one’s hand and the container. All that space between the handle and the ice cream creates a smear buffer. A mess free zone.

That’s really smart, she’s a smart lady. Now, she opens the container of ice cream, with the branding, These Three Things™. Their natural base product consists of cream, milk, and sugar, then whatever flavor they make, she sees a nice layer of pecans and with sparsely placed butter-maple sauce. Just ridiculous, she pries one of the pecans up and samples it. The rest of them, she begins pushing down into the ice cream to properly mix it in.

She’s delighted as she uses her spoon to scrape the lid of the container. That’s the soft, sweet stuff with some sauce and melted cream stuck to it. She then gently pulls some little frozen rolls of plain ice cream onto her spoon. It’s not teeth shatteringly sweet, and the vanilla is not over applied. It’s quite pleasing.

As she dives in deeper, she pulls one of the maple butter sauce laden pecans and an equal amount of ice cream. She smiles like she’s emerging from a cool lake on a hot day, and sees one of her neighbors, across the street, passing by the ice cream shop with his dog. She waves gleefully with her long sundae spoon.

Marly is having a hard time taking her time, but she does it. She controls her urges, and she tries to construct and experience each spoonful differently. She applies ice cream to the back of the ladle, with a pecan inside it, she covers the ladle in ice cream and then presses a pecan, affixing it. She can try as many ways as she wants. The long sundae spoon handle protects her from any stickiness or insect attraction. As long as she keeps the handle of the spoon at a higher elevation than the ladle, she’ll be fine. That’s what she does.

She’s finally at the bottom of the container, saving a particular pecan for the end. She scrapes down the sides of the container, and pushes all the leftover melted cream and sauce into a pool with the pecan, and in a singular swipe, scoops up, and cherishes the chewiness. She places her container and spoon on the bench next to her. Then, in a side pocket of her knitting bag, there is a moist towelette package. She wipes her hands and the spoon. She places the towelette waste in the ice cream container and covers that, placing it to the side, and places her long sundae spoon back into the knitting bag.

Then, from bag, she pulls her knitting. She is safe to knit with all delicate and woolly yarn as she would like. There will not be a sticky, scratchy, unwieldy mess. There is not a sign of ice cream or sauce on her hands, or wrists, or arms. She brings her long sundae spoon for these occasions, as she is a smart lady.

The End601 Words

Aren’t you glad she didn’t have sticky hands, and then start with the yarn?

This is the live reading from Sunday’s Easytopian Discord. 4 stories from earlier in the week and Sunday. I write an instant fiction, or flash fiction story every day and podcast it. they take 5-7 minutes to listen to. Join me on Sunday to read and listen. DM me.

I recorded this during my Live Reading Show on Sunday. I included links to the other stores where the scene is in a fictional town called Buckway.

VOTE HARDER

Aug 10, ‘25

Jimmy Jack George has been campaigning for three months, he has it all figured out. He knows what’s on the people’s minds. He has market analysts and AI combing the people’s communications through all their technology, and he has studied all the best salesmen and linguistic programming (brainwashing) experts. He knows exactly what people want to hear and what they want to believe.

Coming out to chants of his slogan Vote Harder, Jimmy Jack speaks at a campaign stop, from a podium in Buckway:

“These politicians have a knack for telling you what they want to hear, don’t they? They tell you all the things you’ve been saying, right back to you, so you think they agree with you. Then, when they get into office, they can just keep the gravy train rolling and do whatever the heck they want.”

The crowd, again, erupts with chants of Vote Harder! Vote Harder!

“Republicans invented identity politics and the Democrats perfected it. Democrats introduced the concept of white replacement theory, and Republicans perfected it. But, as we know, it's the people who do not want us talking who are the problem!”

And the crowd screams Vote Harder! Vote Harder!

“The media, Oh boy, don’t get me started on them, and their divisive tactics. The same people who write the TV propaganda, who talk so terribly to rural people about city people, and push those Norman Lear stereotypes, the bread, and butter of the political class, are the same people who speak so terribly about the rural people, and push the 1970’s Norman Lear stereotypes, the bread, and butter of the political class, to the city people. Again, it’s the people who don’t want us talking who are the problem.”

Vote Harder! Vote Harder! The throngs cheer wildly.

“You know it and I know it. The people in the cities don’t have a lot of access to healthy foods. They want healthy foods. The only thing they are allowed to afford are the subsidized corporate poison foods. It’s keeping them sick and obese, and all the time, never feeling full, and it’s shortening their lives. The rural people, the ones growing the food, are forced by the big corporations to modify the food, and to lambaste the crops with all sort of chemicals and fertilizers, because if they don’t, the way they have the deals cut with the banks, they’ll lose their farms. The farmers are over a barrel, and because of their exposure to these substances, are getting all sort of blood problems, early strokes, and heart attacks, and neurological disorders, and it’s shortening their lives too.”

“You’d think the solution should be obvious. You have a market that wants access to good food. You have suppliers who want to grow good food. It seems like it would be a natural alliance and process to just develop those relationships and make adjustments in the supply chain, don’t that make sense?”

The rally, again, loudly begins their chanting. Vote Harder! Vote Harder!

“All they do is reward the pundits who maintain these stereotypes and keep pushing the lines written for them by mega corporations, banks and foreign interests. It seems that there is more of an interest in Washington to work against the people who are from here, and live here, and on behalf all these external forces. Whose government is this anyway?”

The crowd is in a frenzy, because they can relate to this man who thinks and speaks like they do. Vote Harder! Vote Harder!

“All they do is belittle you with their talk that AI is superior to you. They tell you as you work harder and harder, for less and less money, that you’re lazy, and you expect too much, and that you can be replaced, if you discuss these issues. And this, coming from people who do not work for a living, and neither do their donors who control their messaging!”

People are fainting, and crying while they yell the slogan of the year Vote Harder! Vote Harder!

“They have every slander they can use, from both sides of the aisle, that if you want to put your own country first, that you are a bigot, or you are a chauvinist, or that you are an isolationist, or that you are anti-business, and anti-trade. They have every excuse and every red herring in the world to think they can distract us from their crimes!”

The crowd is becoming uproarious. Vote Harder! Vote Harder!

As much as they are trying to belittle you, and destroy you, and to make you think ill of your own fellow countrymen and countrywomen; as much as they try to tell you there is no hope, and they poison you and gaslight you and to make you feel like there is no hope and that the land they have destroyed is worthless because of the desertification that their corporate policies have caused… you have to figure that somebody wants it. It must look good to someone, because otherwise, why would they be trying to kill you off of it!

Vote Harder! Vote Harder! The fans go absolutely bananas.

“Now get out there and do what you know you have to do. I love you Buckway! God bless you, and God Bless the United States of America!”

Vote Harder! Vote Harder! Vote Harder! Vote Harder!

Jimmy Jack George knows exactly what he’s doing. He has all his corporate suitors and his insider investment schemes and crypto coin launchings all lined up. It’s just a matter of waiting until the election for him now.

The End928 Words

Thanks for being here on Day 9 of Flash August Fiction. The writing is kind of automatic, and it seems like the stories are improving. Getting into the groove a little. It was cool seeing Sirius in the sky this morning, but it was gone before the sun came around. We are in the dog days now.

If anyone doesn’t know. Each day I wake up and begin writing without a premise or a story in mind, and see what happens. It’s a great writing exercise, it’s kind of Jungian, and sometimes you come up with things that you want to continue working on. This is probably one of those.

Overlooking his town, from atop the vacant business building, the tallest structure in his town, Pete Phillips chews on a piece of fried chicken. It’s been an uneventful day. He walked around a lot, kept his eye on things; had a couple two- tchree sandwiches.

It’s twilight, the shadows are waning, it’s been a little warm. It’s Thursday, it shouldn’t be really busy tonight but maybe a little.

He notices a guy on the street below, struggling with a flat tire. The jack he’s using isn’t sufficient for the task.

“Oh, what the hell.” Pete says, as he drops a chicken bone into the fast food bag with the pieces that are left, rolls it up, and stuffs it into the pocket of his old trench coat.

Pete straightens out, his arms down to his side, and cups his hands. He begins to levitate as frequency waves obscure his body, bending the light around him, making him almost invisible. He lifts himself over the parapet wall and descends to the street, a few storeys below.

He emits a belch as he lands on the sidewalk, across the street from the man with the car issue. He crosses the street wide of the car, he remains obscured in the plasma illumination, and leans against the building behind the guy.

“I gotchya buddy.” Pete says , as he sends an orb of light near the car to hold the car in place so the man can get the tire on.

“Thank Uncle Plasma!” The guy says.

“Sure, no problem.” Pete says. “But hurry up, that orb is hot, you don’t want it close by for a long time, and I gotta take a leak.”

The guy reaches out to shake Pete’s hand.

“You kiddin’ me? C’mon, clownpants, you wanna melt?”

“Thanks again.” The guy says.

“Yeah, no problem kid, hey, you got any of them little mayo packets in your car?”

“No sir, I don’t.”

“Alright then, have a good rest of the night, kid.” Pete says.

As Pete turns away from the young guy, he deplasmifies and pulls the chicken bag out of his coat. “I really need some mayo for this, and I gotta find a place to take a leak.” He says under his breath.

Pete turns the corner at the next crosswalk, and he sees two local policemen. They notice him, and they stand up straight with alert, anxious looks on their faces as he approaches.

“How you boys doing tonight, you OK?”

“Yes sir Mr. Plasma, we’re OK, yes sir.” They respond, somewhat fearfully.

“Yous guys remember to do your jobs the right way tonight, right? You respect the people and the stuff in the Constitution, right? Due process and the whole business, right?”

Nervously, the two young cops answer him. “Absolutely, sir, we will. Yep, by the book, mm hmm.”

“Okay, good boys… hey, you got any of them little mayo packets, you know, the ones they give you for sammiches?” He asks them.

The two young cops pat themselves down, as though it’s normal to just walk around with mayo packets. “No sir, we don’t nope, nope.” They say.

“Well, OK then. I’ll just go over to the gas station and get some, I gotta take a leak anyways.”

“Goo... G’night sir…” They say as he walks away.

Under his breath, Pete says. “I’m gonna spring a leak if I don’t move fast.” He plasmifies, shoots up above the rooftops, and projects, as the crow flies, directly to the gas station, for a leak and some mayo.

The End595 Words

This story is dedicated to my really great pal, who we lost many years ago. You’re a great pal, Pete. I love you and miss you.

Pretty fun time this morning. Yesterday was fun, too. I had been reading up on the astronomical dog days, and the dog star, because today is the day that the central sun, Sirius, rises before the sun and is visible as such in some locations. I could always see it when I lived in the Great Lakes region, but here in the Southwest, I guess not. Anyway, that’s probably why the first word that came to mind yesterday was dog, and I wrote this story.

And here is today’s story. Thanks for tracking my Flash August Marathon progress. Listening is best, but you do you.

Ballcannons came onto the scene and blew the thing up. It was incredible, the album art, the make-up, the concerts. It was remarkable. They started in High School Cafeterias and Gymnasiums, and in less than 10 months, they were in arenas.

Their biggest song, their first hit, as it were, Clownapine, was hated by parents and authorities, because it belittled the issue of drug abuse and addiction. The band argued that the point was missed. “The point of the song is ‘don’t be a clown’”. Said lyricist, guitarist and lead singer, Harold. “Drugs should not be mishandled, you can die.”

“Everything is For Me”, BallCannon’s first release, was, according to their media packet, an homage to honesty. It is tearing down the facade from life. According to bassist Bill Iscomon, “Of course we’re going to tour, of course we’re going to make a buttload of money, and of course, every opportunity we have to sell out, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

As for their stage appearance. The band cuts no corners, making their point. “What we lack in musical talent, we make up for in pretense and contrivance. This is a business, and we’re in a hurry.” Says Drummer Moody Milk. “The best thing we can do is get through all the stages of being a huge sensation as quickly as we can. We want to become a parody of ourselves as soon as possible.”

Keyboard player Phil Moore explains. ”Look, the first record is good, but it only sounds like we know what we’re doing because we work hard. The second album will probably suck, because we’ll have too much time on our hands, and we’ll overthink it, but it will sell like crazy off the strength of the first one. Then, by the third record, there is a chance we’ll learn something about music, and it may be interesting.”

A South American leg was added to their world tour once they finished up in Japan, after doing the US and Europe. There were no survivors when their plane crashed in Central America, because, of course it did. Or did it?

The End371 Words

I think I wrote a story about dogs for the Dog Star. Because it is the dog day of Summer, in case you didn’t know. Wow. That’s Sirius. (I’m sorry). Do you see how these Jungian methods for writing, like Flash Fiction, kind of evoke things? Pretty weird. And fun. Day 7 of Flash August Fiction (look into it). I’m releasing this at a different time of day, just to see what it does in terms of downloads and all that.

A pack of displaced dogs have escaped a kill shelter, and are winding their way through a sleepy, bedroom town, just before sunrise.

“This is awesome!” One of them shouts.

“What are we going to do with our newly found freedom, we can’t waste it by getting caught again!” Yells another.

“I can tell you right now, I’m dumping the name those people gave me! My new name is Wolf!” Says a dog formerly known as Bunny, and they all bark and howl in approval.

“My name is now King!” Proclaims a dog formerly known as Teddy Bear.

“I’m Zena!” shouts one of the three dogs formerly known as Daisy.

“I’m Hungry!” says another, and they all howl with laughter and agreement.

They have to determine how they are going to eat. They huddle in the alley of a nearly abandoned industrial area.

“I can smell stuff in some cans back here. I think we can get to it.” Says King.

Zena responds, “That will do for now, but if we get used to this easy stuff, around the people, we’re going to get caught again.”

“It’s definitely a double-edged sword, if we are going to stay free, we are going to have to use these strategies as a last resort, and in the dark.” Wolf says.

“You know there are bunnies and birds and other stuff out there, just over that hill, and there are the campsites, away from all these houses, where they hate us.” Says Hungry.

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Says Wolf. “Bunnies.”

“There are coyotes out there too, they know what they’re doing, and they see us as food.” King reminds them.

“Well, we can watch them, work as a team, learn from them, and also protect ourselves that way.” Zena asserts. “For now, though, before the sun finishes rising, we should knock over these cans and see what we can find, get some energy, and then get out into those woods during daylight.”

They get some nourishment from leftover sandwich parts, a couple of roast chicken carcasses, and fast food remnants. Then they head out over the local hill for their first foray into the wild.

They settle for a rest on the other side of the hill. Some immediately begin digging boroughs, as their genetic instruct them. Some are sniffing around, catching the scent of rodents.

“Oh yeah.” Says Hungry, “We’ll have meat when we need it, for sure.”

“Smells good.” Says Zena.

They spend the day getting oriented, determining the routes of the local coyotes, and marking their territory. Hopefully, enough of the strong ones can survive to make a go of a decent life.

As night falls, they cuddle together in their boroughs, in groups. There is some anxiety in the smaller dogs, while King and Zena keep watch as long as they can, before drifting off to sleep.

The End478 Words

Thanks for staying with me through Day 5 of Flash August Fiction. We goin Flash Science Fiction today. You’re welcome. Thanks for sharing and all the things like that. This effort is showing some growth and support. Thank you. If you didn’t know, listen for the full experience.

The evidence of the pole shifts appeared before the occurrence. Plates were moving, there were earthquakes, erratic pole behavior and other magnetic anomalies, and dormant volcanoes had resurrected. Radiation levels had increased somewhat due to the magnetosphere protection weakening. The shape of the Earth had been changing, not over millennia, but even in a generational span there were islands forming, while existing island receded.

Those who knew hoarded land and goods, built underground, and claimed ancient underground regions for themselves, for in most cases, a futile effort to be preserved. It finally dawned on the susceptible, why the political class was deceiving them. Another Sisyphean cycle had completed, an epoch had ended, and a new one began.

The clouds had cleared, the dust had settled. The new equatorial lands were melting, the new poles were adjusting. God knows what sort of DNA would emerge to reassert its evolutionary path; what new iterations would arise. There were pockets of people, the hidden underground, surviving on Mountains, the fortunate… and unfortunate.

Then, there was the humming, the resonance. All over the planet, ancient structures, vibrated loose their overgrowth. It was like dormant re-powered factories coming back online. Built at a time when the Earth was in this position, they were once again relevant. The pyramidal structures came back to life. Their purpose was finally understood.

The End229 Words

My calendar colors made me think there were only 29 days this month, but there will be 31 stories. How dumb is that. LOL