"She died doing what she loved - swearing profusely.”
I'll have the prompt show up in bold in the flash so you can see where it falls out. The Muse perked up this morning and gave me a hint of an upcoming story in the Bad Boys of Beta Squad series. I've been waiting.
“She died doing what she loved.”
The memory resurfaced out of the dark haze where he floated, and Martin frowned. Where the hell was he? He searched his memories, but the most recent appeared blank. This memory, though, blazed brightly and he grasped it with his mental fingers with desperation.
He found himself gazing down at a dead Husky. She had the distinctive markings of her breed with a dark gray mask and blanket over her back, but now she lay so still in the snow.
“What happened?” Martin knelt beside the body, stroking the soft fur.
“Her heart gave out. She was just old, son.” The person speaking resolved into the figure of a man who wore Martin’s face, but with heavier shoulders and more silver in his hair. “She gave her all and loved every minute.”
“Are you gonna bury her, Dad?”
Dad. That’s who the man was to him, but Martin couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to him. Why is that?
“Yeah, we’ll give her a nice space overlooking the bay.” His father turned at the squeak of brakes and scowled, swearing profusely. “Take the body and get behind the shed, son. I’ll deal with these jokers.”
Martin grasped the dog’s body and carried her toward the shed as his father marched to meet the newcomers. The word PETA had been painted on the side of the van and people boiled out, screaming awful things about harming sled dogs and unsafe living conditions. His father took the time to grasp his shotgun as Martin set the old bitch down behind the shed and peeked around the corner to see what his father did.
Why the hell are they yelling at Dad? He was never cruel to the dogs.
His father cocked the shotgun and held it at the ready when the memory rippled like water sliding down a pane of glass. Martin wanted to rub his eyes, but he couldn’t seem to move. His vision resolved into another memory with dogs, but the environment held old military vehicles from the 1970s and palm trees. I’m definitely not in Alaska anymore.
Alaska. That’s where his father and he had lived.
A tropical breeze rattled the palm fronds and brought the sounds of dogs barking. Martin held his hand up in a fist and everyone behind him froze. The scents of ocean, rain-heavy air, and cigar smoke drifted past his nose and he crouched as a guard ambled past the edge of the compound.
Why were they here again? He frowned. Something about rescuing a high value target from a terrorist cell. But something wasn’t right. His squad had gone in and found the cell. But not the high value target. Martin frowned. Had they searched the compound? Yeah, they’d searched, but they hadn’t found anything but a skeleton crew and a mockup of a weapons cache. What the fuck?
Gunfire broke out and adrenaline spiked. The squad leader signaled to retreat and he pivoted ed, following the dark bodies through the foliage and trees. The memory became confused with screaming and gunshots, but excruciating pain shot through his legs and something clobbered him across the skull. The world went black and he shot awake, an incessant beeping filling his ears.
Where the fuck am I?
White walls, white bed covers, the beeping machines.
And the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. I know those eyes.
“Hey, big man. How’re you doin’?”
That's it for me this week. Check out how the prompt worked for the other flash fiction authors below and happy reading.