'Flying to Aotearoa' by Val Harris

Above the land of the long white cloud, where the sky is blue, and it laughs aloud; where a sunshine path arcs east to west. Moving on and on, until the world has spun around and the moon and stars have found new ground. Then the earth’s eyes flash and wink and moonshine paths wind where lakes and rivers are silver strands. Then rippling fingers creep and dwell at the end of all that lies, beneath our ever-seeking eyes. They watch the clouds and the world fly by as steadily above we go until the curved horizon flattens out at the ends of the earth where the sun is out!

'Coming of Age' by Sue Smith

When Luke is five his mother gives him a picture of a tree. Silver brown branches carry a myriad of leaves. Luke traces the outline with his finger. “If I looked out of the window would I see one?” 

“Not from here, sweetheart.”  

“Can I look out of the window?”

His mother shakes her head.  “When you’re older.  Not until then.”

There isn’t a window in Luke’s bedroom. The only one is in his father’s workshop, and it’s covered by a shutter that is always closed. “To keep out the sun,” his father says, but never explains why.

Every birthday follows the same pattern. His mother gives him a picture of something growing; a plant, some flowers, fruit. Every year he asks to look out of the window. Every year she says not until he’s older.

At night he dreams of hilltops covered in trees, and seas that stretch into the distance. When he wakes in the morning he feels a sting of disappointment that it was only a dream.

Then on his fifteenth birthday his mother and father come into his room together.

“We think you’re old enough,” his father says.  

“To look out of the window?” 

His mother nods.

“To see the world?”

His parents exchange looks. 

They stand in front of the window. His father presses the button and the shutter creaks and complains but inches upwards.

The light is blinding. “Just a few minutes,” his father says. “No more or we’ll overheat.”

Luke screws his eyes into the nothingness  All he can see is white. “Where’s earth?”

His mother points. “There. Near the sun.”

Luke follows the line of her finger and sees something black and lifeless.  

When he looks back at his mother a solitary tear is sliding down her cheek.  

'The Rose at the Ends of the Earth' by Donna M Day

If you find it, it’s because you’ve been asleep for so long, you’re not going to wake again, at least in this world.

You will know it on sight, because the petals are the colour of the most treasured memory you’ve forgotten. Reflect that the smallest things are the most precious.

The number of thorns correlate with the number of times your heart broke. Count them and realise you’ve forgotten at least half.

The roots are as deep as the love of those who will miss you. You will never be able to dig deep enough to find their end.

Inhale its perfume and remember.

'The Last Day on Earth' by Cheryl Markosky

She doesn't put chia seeds on her yoghurt or go to the gym. She doesn't do downward dog, the Sudoku or sort the recycling. 

She ignores toothpaste splats on the sink, the Today programme and renewing her parking permit.

She doesn't wear her best dress. Slouches in her comfy, elasticated joggers. But she does wear clean underwear. (You never know).

She won't bother writing a thank you letter or meditate. She never got the hang of it anyhow.

No point in cleaning gunk out of the tiles with a toothpick. No point in wondering if God is dead.

She never asks what the third rail on a railway is for. How the last episode of Succession ends. Why Lime Scooters are allowed to clog up the pavement.

She doesn't hear trumpets sound. Or what will happen to Alice Carter, who's struggling with alcoholism, on The Archers.

She won't eat a special last meal, like a condemned prisoner on Death Row. Instead, she binges on a bag of Quavers and miniature Milky Ways. She refuses to share the last Skittle with her husband.

She can't be arsed to dust bust crumbs from the floor, deworm the dog and apologise to the neighbour for fly-tipping an old mattress in his garden.

She won't vote, write to her Member of Parliament, go on a protest march.

But she will listen to the rain, more rain falling. And put on her cagoule. Just in case. 

'Rewilding' by Rosaleen Lynch

We watch Ma crying at the telly, not a soppy movie with someone in happy-ever-after-love but it's about a farm with problems that a cartoon or a famous TV presenter can't fix, a farm that once grew crops, a farm that’s now growing wild, the end of an era, they say, and it kills her, with sobs so strong she can't breathe, and we've not seen her this bad, but she's out cold on the sofa, and I call emergency services, we've prepared for this day, and you shake her, try to wake her, and on the phone, they say to check she’s breathing, and she is, and they say maybe she's asleep, and I want to be rude but I need their help so say, she didn't fall asleep, and I answer their questions, as I watch Ma's chest rise and fall, and then her eyes flick open to see me on the phone, grab it out of my hand, saying hello, I'm fine, I was just asleep, and shout, she wasn't, she's lying, but they’re not listening to me and Ma's laughing, saying, thanks for your understanding, have a great day too, and she gives me a look, says she's OK now and continues to watch TV, as the farm is saved by letting it go back to the wild, sustainable tourism they say, and she turns to the dead plant on the windowsill and back to me, my arms crossed, and she switches off the TV, asks if we want to go to the park, and you scream yes, hug her, run to get your shoes, and I say sure, and think about maybe picking some wild flowers for the windowsill, maybe some with roots that can grow in the empty pots on the balcony, maybe.

'And Now It's Here' by Allison Renner

We line up two by two, ready to board the ship. There is no flood this time, only parched land beneath our feet. Crunch, crackle, as we step forward, two people closer to our turns.

We’re surprised no one is pushing or shoving, but no one has the energy. We didn’t realize we’ve been training for this for years. Taught to expect the worst. 

'Karaoke' by Melissa Flores Anderson

We’re at karaoke for some team-building event. I like to sing but not in front of people. It’s kind of my worst nightmare to be up on stage with people staring at me. I was ready to use my kid as an excuse to duck out early, but then Charles smiles at me and asks if I want a drink, his treat.

He doesn’t strike me as the karaoke type, but he is a team player so he gets up on stage and picks that R.E.M. song about the end of the world that is too fast to keep up with. I laugh as he stumbles over the words. If I’d chosen a song, it would have been the other one that was a hit when I was in high school, the one about Michael Stipe having a crush. I told myself what I felt for Charles was just a crush, but it’s been a year and it’s something more than a temporary distraction to fill my days at work.

Charles hops off the stage and puts his hand on my shoulder.

“You’re up, Lilly.”

“I don’t sing.”

“I heard you sing that time we drove together to that fundraiser. You sound great.”

Now he’s got both hands on my shoulders, like a coach offering a pep talk.

“Fine,” I say, and I flip through the binder with the list of songs.

I find one I know well, a slow, mellow tune, something obscure that most people won’t know.

The first notes to the “Ends of the Earth” by Lord Huron start to play and Charles smiles up at me like he might be willing to follow me there.

'A million tiny cuts' by Lucy Brighton

I walk to the end of the earth. It’s only twelve steps. Step thirteen would take me Beyond and I can’t go there. I’ve tried. 

Before my world shrank to these three rooms, there was Upstairs. And before that, Fresh Air. That was a long time ago now. 

The shrinking was so slow that at first I didn’t’ even notice it. Just a tingling in my lips when the supermarket was busy. The occasional ‘sorry I can’t make it’ to a party invitation. The fluttering in my chest when someone knocked on the door. Millions of tiny cuts. 

People were kind. At first. But it morphed into ‘snap out of it’ and ‘you can’t carry on like this’. Like the remedy was in a vile and all I had to do was drink it. Soon the comments dried up altogether. No more cajoling, bargaining or pleading. It was like someone switched off the radio that had been playing all my life. The silence was heavy. 

I fill my glass with water from the tap and look out of the window, past the end of the earth. Beyond there is the galaxy, all the people floating around the gravitational pull of each other. Clustering together like atoms. Bonds made of laughter and shared experience. 

I drink the water. I can’t go there. I’ve tried.

'Come on in, the water’s radioactive' by Madeleine Armstrong

The spills began on the first day of August, the start of the summer holidays, but we didn’t find out until weeks later.

As soon as she finished school, Keira was at the lake every day, arrowing through the water, rainbow droplets spraying off the spears of her hand. I watched her through the kitchen window while doing the dishes, wondering if I’d ever had the same grace. My beautiful daughter. My world.

At first, it just seemed like a stomach bug; not enough to stop her training.

Then, strands of golden hair clogging the plughole, our bath filling with scummy water.

By the time she was in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, the news began to filter through. Insincere-sounding apologies issued. A clean-up operation started. A helpline number provided. Hours listening to hold music, picking my fingers to shreds before finally a click, then a robotic voice answering.

I hung up the phone and ran to the lake and along the jetty, my bare feet slapping the wooden slats, barely noticing the splinters. Watching dying fish flopping at the water’s surface, I heaved in a lungful of sulphurous air and screamed into the smothering mist.

'Repent at Leisure'' by John King

As catastrophes go it wasn’t that bad.

Yet.

Was I the only one on the peninsula who knew there

was a countdown? 9 years to zero, decade, tops.

In stinging air, on cracked earth people laughed at 

me - ‘Kill Joy’.

Almost all visitors arrived by road, petrol, diesel, 

the hybrids and electrics an afterthought.

Nowhere to go back to. Derelict buildings were

brought up. Camper vans became static.

This paradox paradise. Those attracted by the

remaining beauty killed it.

The authority’s response? Re-sign the outbound

motorway, make 6 lanes in.

Some liked it hot, a mono-season, black Christmas on

the beach, the perma-attire of flip-flops.

Manufacturers of woollen goods failed, suppliers

migrated to the new industries of desalination and 

aircon, wind turbines as fans.

When the sea decided we were an island it was beyond

time for action.

We cycled to the gates of the complex expecting

to be resisted by security.

A lonely guard, his asthmatic face illuminated by a 

screen put down his tablet.

‘Join us,’ I said.

He offered me two electronic keys, one for each Dome:

‘Tropical or Mediterranean?’

The biodomes of the leisure zone had completed their

inversion. ‘Exotic’ plants that flourished inside

them were outside, inside were oaks and firs.

I felt so at home in the first Dome I wanted to

rename it. Beneath the oak in my old wool coat

calling a meeting:

‘Agenda, first item, updating our Dome designation.’

The old guard rose: ‘first item, electing our 

leader.’

'Bhoomi Devi, the Great Earth Mother Has Had Enough' by Sumitra Singam

Bhoomi Devi found a pull in her jumper, and because she was out shopping, she didn’t attend to it immediately. This meant the pull caught on the gold claws of her diamond ring as she scratched her right breast – her skin not being what it once was. The snag unravelled further, and there was no fixing it. She considered snipping it off, perhaps patching it over to prevent further pulls, but sighed at the shopping yet to be unloaded, the washing machine yodelling its call to her, the dishes in the sink. Bhoomi Devi gave the pull a yank, and found it so satisfying that she kept pulling. She watched as animals, birds, fish, insects, fungi, trees, bushes, plants unravelled into an unwieldy skein at her feet. The jumper was almost at its hem when she felt resistance. Peering down, she saw a great knot of humanity playing tug-of-war with her. She considered a moment, but her skin, her lungs, her arteries all cried out with the abuse she’d endured. She gave one great tug, and in a moment it was all over.

NFFD 2024 Prompt #7: Ends of the Earth

 

 

Prompt #7: Ends of the Earth
EARTH prompt B

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2024 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of The Classical Elements - Air, Earth, Water and Fire. Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from 00:00 until midnight (BST), for a total of 25 prompts in all.  You have until midnight on Sunday (BST) to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In.  We'll start posting responses on Sunday, 16 June 2024....

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Write a flash in which someone (or something) encounters the end (or ends) of the earth.  This could be the the end of an overland path, the end of our planet as we know it, the heat-death of the universe, or a metaphorical take on the theme.  Feel free to be creative in your interpretation!

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 7: Ends of the Earth.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 16 June 2024 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt by visiting the badgifier here (hosted by the NFFD website).

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Photo by wirestock via freepik