Welcome to my stop on the FMB Blog Tour for FeedBack! I have a special flash fiction piece for you today, as well as a giveaway! But first, the stats:
Author: D L Richardson
Genre: YA Paranormal
Publisher: Etopia Press
Release Date: 10/5/2012
Ethan James, Florida Bowman, and Jake Inala need organ transplants. When they receive the organs of a dead CIA agent, Dylan Black, they take on more than the task of completing the mission of deactivating bombs that threaten millions of lives. Kidnapped, their lives under threat, the memories stored in the CIA agent’s mind begin to awaken within each of them, except the one piece of information they are abducted for – the location of the bombs.
Thank you to Tricia for hosting me during my month long blog tour. I am so grateful to bloggers who help promote books. Without you guys, authors would have a tough time reaching readers. 5 star review from YA fiction author D L Richardson. I hope your readers enjoy this flash fiction story written exclusively for Musings of a Writing Reader.
“Fear of flying” by D L Richardson
“I don’t know what all the fuss is about?” my boss shouted down the phone line. “You go skydiving all the time. Either you’re on the plane to London or you’re looking for a new job. Got it?”
The line went dead. So did my insides at the thought of a plane trip.
That night during dinner Susie put down her cutlery and said, “You look like someone’s died.”
“I’ve got to go to London in the morning.”
She’d resumed eating. Susie never let anything spoil her appetite since falling pregnant with twins. “So go to London.”
“You’re not afraid of flying. You go skydiving every month.”
“It’s not that.”
“You have a passport, though god knows why, it’s not like we can afford to go anywhere.”
I pushed the plate away and reached for the bottle of cheap wine instead. “It’s not heights I’m afraid of, Suse. It’s x-ray machines.”
Susie’s face froze mid chew. Her cheek looked stuffed like a squirrel’s. She gulped and looked me square in the eye. “Craig. If x-ray machines were dangerous they wouldn’t use them.”
I managed a weak smile. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
She sighed. “I’d love to leave this huge belly at home and come with you. Christ knows I’m dying for a few days off from carrying these boys around.”
I said nothing.
“Look, if you really don’t want to go, don’t go. You’ll get another job.”
“Napier Insurance. How may I help you?”
I was calling from a public phone so the call couldn’t be traced, but I had to call, for Susie’s sake. “I have a question about my life insurance policy. Do you have to have the body as proof of death, or does a disappearance count?”
“What do you mean by disappearance?”
“Well, if there are witnesses to a disappearance, would the policy still be paid out?”
The cab pulled up at the airport. Why London? Why not Chicago or Texas? I could drive through the night and make the briefing.
Inside the terminal, everything went against me. No long lines. No problems issuing tickets and checking in the luggage. No choice left but to confront the x-ray machines and hope my worst fears didn’t come true. I placed my carry-on onto the conveyor belt and stepped through the body scanning machine. And that’s when everything went dark.
A TV screen flickered on and a face came into view.
“Welcome back, Argaron. You will be pleased to know you are no longer wanted for treason. There was a change in government and all escapees have been pardoned. You are free to return to your old life.”
My old life? I could barely remember it. I’d escaped the war on Tetron 5 as a boy, an act punishable by death. A band of us had escaped via the portals our government used to steal knowledge from other planets. Because my father was head of security for Tetron 5, I knew the portals to capture escapees would be installed inside airline x-ray scanners on Earth, where I’d fled to. I’d lived amongst the humans knowing I’d be safe, as long as I didn’t have to fly in a commercial airline. To avoid that, I’d stayed in low paying jobs to ensure I’d never be able to afford to fly anywhere. Six months ago Susie had fallen pregnant, she’d lost her job, I’d been promoted by threat, and yesterday I’d been ordered to London.
“What if I don’t want to come back?”
“If you don’t wish to return, the portal will remain open for two minutes and your time here will be reversed so it will appear as you have not disappeared.”
I didn’t wait another second. I turned around and ran.
Susie picked me up at the airport. “You’re alive so you obviously overcame your fear of x-ray machines.”
I kissed her on the cheek and smiled. “I don’t know what all the fuss was about. And from now, we’re going on a plane trip every year.”
Wednesday, November 9th, Ethan James
AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” blared through the speakers. Apt music considering the weather conditions. Rain pounded the windshield of the Lamborghini. Crushed beneath the noisy rain, the music took a beating, too. I flipped the volume control to the max, drowning out the steady slap of water on the roof.
The dark shroud of night cloaked the striped lines to my left and right. Street signs blasted yellow warnings to drivers to slow down on wet roads. I ignored them.
Instead, I pushed the car to 120 miles per hour. Coming around a curve in the road, I flew up on a van and sharply jerked the wheel to avoid ramming the Lamborghini up its rear end. I owed my life to my quick reflexes.
I drove for another half mile at suicidal speeds, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the guitar riff. Another half mile. Then another. Just when the buzz of the ride plunged to a level of indifference, the car hit a pothole, veered me across three lanes, and like a punch from nowhere, it was game on.
A tsunami-sized wave of water fell from the sky. Momentarily blinded by the useless wipers, I sucked in my breath when two rows of lights cut through the haze. Two white lights on the bottom and six or more yellow ones on top—the bright circles headed straight at me.
Semitrailer. Not good.
Gritting my teeth, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The truck swerved at the last second, missing killing me by about half that length of time. The driver blasted four long bleats of the horn.
I laughed out loud as I spun around.
I accelerated till the car caught up to its former 120 miles per hour. The chorus kicked in, and I helped with the backing vocals. “Thunder. Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na. Thunder.”
Whether driving under a dome of blue, or a sky darkened by storms like tonight, I liked to push cars to their limit. It didn’t matter what sort of car, but slow cars tended to break apart sooner under extreme pressure. Fast cars handled the punishment of driving at stupid speeds much better.
Speeding made the rush last longer. It filled a void and carried me to a place where I let go of the angst over a waste of a life spent waiting to die of kidney failure. The rush reminded me that seventeen-year-old kids should wish for a professional ice hockey career instead of wishing to still be alive by Christmas.
The song ended, and in that second of silence, my thrill took a dismal nosedive. Images of the hospital I attended every week flickered across my vision. So, I increased the speed. Bad enough the bleak place filled my head and haunted my dreams, but to interrupt my fun—not going to happen.
The next song on the CD kicked in, and it did the trick of hauling me back to the driver’s seat, where I replaced the hospital corridor for a rain-slicked freeway. I figured if I had to die young, I’d do it on my terms. No doubt the doctors would have something to say about this philosophy. If I crashed the car and ended up in the hospital, I’d tell them I reached out to touch life. Better than dwelling on my postpubescent life spent hooked up to a dialysis machine.
I’d probably get pulled over by the cops first, and I couldn’t have that. Aside from speeding, I’d stolen the Lamborghini from a mall parking lot half an hour earlier, and I didn’t have a license.
A crack in my concentration appeared like the lightning bolts streaking the sky. The car drifted into the next lane, and I let it go. A set of lights rushed toward me, and I expertly got the car under control, but at this speed, and despite the car’s sporting capability, the Lamborghini was all over the shot.
Buzzed from pushing the car, I kept going.
At 120 miles per hour, streetlights floated like satiny, white ribbons. The rain-slicked road made it impossible to judge the lines marking the lanes. Curves were hard to anticipate.
Sometimes I oversteered; sometimes I didn’t steer enough and had to yank the wheel to the left or right at the last second. Other drivers blasted their horns. I didn’t care about the rules of the road. Rules were for pussies.
For each minute I survived this suicidal cruise, I’d get two points. So far, I’d accumulated over two hundred. Fifty were up for grabs, if I made it home alive. I had a lot to lose if I crashed the car. I had nothing to lose if I killed myself.
I jumped in surprise when a car came up on my left and honked its horn, whizzing by in a blur of chrome. “I don’t think so, buddy.”
I accelerated. If the cops wanted to stop me, they’d have to use air support. Getting myself on TV only added to the thrill of the chase.
Concern over my reckless driving should have registered, but it didn’t. The speedometer now read 140 miles per hour. AC/DC screeched about “Hells Bells,” and the rain didn’t lessen. If I lost control now, I’d smash into the concrete barriers lining the highway. It’d be game over. No way I’d survive the impact. What a shame this last train of thought wasn’t on whether I’d survive or not, but on whether I’d care.
Lightning bolts exploded across the sky and lit up the windshield. In that brief flicker of visibility, I spotted the plane on fire, blocking the highway—and the spaceship blowing up a bridge with luminous green laser beams. I let go of the wheel, idly watching the Lamborghini plow into the concrete barrier. Metal fragments and orange flames danced in front of me. The sound of something exploding boomed through the speakers. The words GAME OVER flashed across the television screen.
The plane had been okay, but the spaceship insulted me. For sure, the makers of the game reckoned it’d be a hoot to throw unrealistic obstacles in my path.
I tossed the Xbox controller aside and scratched my numb backside. My life couldn’t get any worse…might as well go to school.
This giveaway is for a swag give pack! Check out the image, then click the link below to enter! The contest will last for 2 weeks. Good luck!
About the Author:
Music first captured the creative interest of D L Richardson. She got her first acoustic guitar at age ten, and in high school she sang with the school band. When she left school she helped form her own rock band where she sang lead vocals, played bass guitar, and wrote all the lyrics. At age 26 she realized she wanted to write novels for the rest of her life, or die trying, so she sold her equipment, quit pursuing a music career and began writing instead. She currently lives in Australia on the NSW South Coast with her husband and dog. When she’s not writing or reading she can be found practicing her piano, playing the guitar or walking the dog.
This tour was put together by FMB Blog Tours