“Mummy, why’s smoke coming out of that lady’s mouth?”
“She’s umm… she’s smoking, dear.”
“But only chimneys smoke.”
“Some people do too.”
“How will Santa give her presents this Christmas?”
“Huh?”
“Will Santa climb down her mouth?”
Yeah, yeah! I know the photograph says it’s a buzzard, but it looks like a raven to me. Who can tell the difference looking at it from that angle?
 Forty days and nights of measly rations in a floating box can drive any species crazy. And what’s with the nepotism? The poultry have grown double chins; those constipated pigeons can barely walk; the macaws, nightingales and canaries get the superstar treatment, but I’m shushed when I sing. The mammals get pet names and even the reptiles are pampered so they don’t swallow anyone. Geez! It’s like all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others. Then those humans send me on this suicide mission when it stops raining and expect me to waltz back in there? Pleeeeease. |
These creatures are capable of artificial illumination and terrestrial locomotion. Their technology might have advanced considerably since the last mission. This denotes a capability of flight technology. We may have to explore alternative tactics. Those two in the terrestrial ship seem to be interested in me. Ah! Their pheromone levels are increasing exponentially. Is it because I have assumed a feminine body? They must be male, then. Is that why they make high-pitched noises with their audible facial cavities like the four-legged lower creatures that follow and obey them? Shall I go on to postulate such chemical imbalances interfere with their logic? I will note this in my report for further experimentation. Perhaps it is a weakness we can exploit. Aha! There it is! The agent on our first mission reported that a male will disobey his primary objective, abandon reason and do anything for a female when she offers him the forbidden fruit. I wonder what this forbidden fruit is. I must find one and offer it to these male creatures. If it works, we can use it as our primary weapon.
 “This is where I grew up.”
“Doesn’t look like much, Papa.” “Many people lost their property during the Revolution of 1979… businesses, lands and houses. The junta seized everything, then left them to rot.” “And now the government’s returning it all to their rightful owners, thanks to democracy and a constitutional reform.” “Yes Kofi. Your grandfather’s estate has been released to me, his next of kin… I wish he were here to see this.” “So… what next?” “We rebuild the farm from scratch.” “A bent tree isn’t broken, right?” “Right. We can straighten this tree. It’s called healing, son.”
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An early post of my Flash Friday fiction:
 The brouhaha erupted from the rear and worked its way to the front row within seconds.
“Awww man.” “Seriously?” “Dude! What’s wrong with you?” Susan gagged, Drew scowled, Jack sighed, Sally whined, while Jim mumbled indignantly. The numerous objections dissipated into silence in anticipation of an immediate counterattack. Miss Newman paused, wishing she had never substituted for this class. Dropping the board marker, she turned to face them and stood akimbo. “Detonating weapons of mass destruction again, are we?” she quipped, looking wearily at Jack. “Someone get the air freshener.” “C’mon guys. I blew a raspberry this time,” he protested.
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CONGRATULATIONS!
- Francis Dika
Everyone is welcome to join in the next 
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The waves of foamy white and translucent blue trailed behind our floating vessel as it cradled us to distant shores. I stood at the stern, watching it slither its way to the frowning horizon as if the grey waters above and the blue below had arranged to convene at that very place for a family reunion. When I was a boy, I would stretch out both arms in a V, and holding a fishing rod in my right hand, pretend I was Moses parting the Red Sea. Now, as I let my imagination fly, I see a trail of breadcrumbs all the way to the harbour, to guide me like little beacons when I return to my homeland.
An early post of my Friday Fictioneers’ flash fiction:
 As I peered through the viewfinder, it struck me that the damselfly had actually gone into retreat from flight. Perhaps for a kiss from the breeze or a sip of water; maybe a brief respite or some solitude with peaceful nature. I froze at that thought and for a silent moment, time stood still.
The caressing breeze; the soft sonata of the flowing stream; the melodious cacophony of bird calls; the gentle sway of windblown trees; everything peripheral disappeared. And while I captured this inert insect in the stillness of photography, I continued to reflect on the beauty of life. |
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