This, in case you somehow missed the title of the post, is 5MinuteFiction. You have been assimilated.
And welcome to 5MinuteFiction. That means we write fiction. In five minutes. Shocker, I know.
The Rules
* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose in any style or genre
* You must directly reference today’s prompt: replacement
Note: The prompt is the word, the picture’s just for decoration and/or inspiration.
photo by: sean dreilinger
* Post your entry as a comment to this post.
That’s it. I’ll close the contest at 1:45. I think we know how this works, but if you are confused or just want to whine, feel free to email me.
At the close of the contest, this week’s guest judge, T.L Tyson @TL_Tyson will nominate five finalists. I’ll put the nominees in the poll on the side of the page, and at 9:30 PM EDT I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.
For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS Feed, or follow me on twitter.
What’s the prize? Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.
A Few Notes:
* In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email me sometimes comments go into the suspected spam folder and I have to dig them out.
* I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.
* This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.
She stuck her finger in the socket.
“Nothing.”
She looked around the living room, waiting. She needed to run the vacuum. So much cat hair.
“How about now?” he shouted.
She stuck her finger in the socket.
“Nothing.”
She really just wanted a replacement bulb. The lamp itself was fine, she felt certain of that. The bulb had simply burned out.
She glanced around the room again. The couch needed reupholstering. The walls needed paint. The fading faux-wood end tables needed to be tossed on the curb.
She thought about the car, still not running. She thought about the smell coming out of the sink. She thought about the funeral.
“Okay,” he shouted. “I turned the power back on.”
She stuck her finger in the socket. She held it there. She held it as long as she could.
@thatneilguy
“I’ve been replaced,” Josh cried.
“Awe, come on man. She didn’t dump you. What could possibly be so bad that you’re over here hoovering pizza like it’s going extinct.” Will watched his friend, completely unable to comprehend what was happening.
Another slice of pizza disappeared before Josh looked up again. Red ringed his eyes. Tears gathered along the brim, threatening to fall if he blinked again. He coughed and then began to make a buzzing noise. One hand hovered in the hair and shook violently.
“Oh, shit.” Will shook his head and nudged the pizza box closer. “Yeah, you’ve been replaced, dude.”
“At least I know all I have to get her for Christmas is fresh batteries.”
@RCMurphy
I will replace the teapot. That you threw on the floor that night with the mud and the lights.
I will replace the light in the living room, that I knocked off the table that night with the wine and the headache.
I don’t think I’ll replace the blanket that lived on the back of the couch, the one from my mother, that you poured bleach on that night with the phone call and the neighbors.
I won’t replace the hairdrier, nor the tile on the next walk over because I don’t think Mrs. Hurst knows that was me the night of the danceclub and the man and the bass that pounded the memory into my skull.
I’ll replace the set of glasses, the ceiling fan, the paint in the hallway.
And someday, when it doesn’t hurt just to think of it, I’ll replace you.
@JulesCarey
She started moving in before I had even gotten my stuff to the car. I was only allowed to take three boxes, a suit case, and my floor fan. He told me he was saving the rest for her.
Starting today, someone new would be, literally, walking in my shoes, because she even gets my closet full of clothes. Not the stuff I bought over the last few months, but the older stuff I used to wear. Tonight, my kids would cuddle up on a new lap for storytime and my husband would breathe into in someone else’s ear. At least he could’ve waited till I had left the driveway, but all he said was that this is what I deserve for getting fat.
Maybe he’s right.
@noellepierce
He stared as she turned and walked out of his life forever.
“We want different things,” she’d said. “We’re not the same people we once were.”
Disagreeing, he remained silent. He didn’t want her to see him as desperate, longing. He wanted her to turn back and run into his arms, saying she was crazy for even considering leaving. But she didn’t.
His heart ached for her, thudding in the hollow of his chest. Thump. Thump. Each beat matching her retreating steps, like the clicking of her heels on the parquet floor.
They’d been high school sweethearts, falling in love so young, with a world of possibility stretched before them.
Then various stressors crowded their contentment, urging them farther apart. Children, Work, Travel, In-laws.
“Go find someone else. Someone you can be happy with.” Her words echoed in his mind and he smirked. As if he could ever find a suitable replacement with only a tenth of his heart still in his body.
The other ninety percent just walked out the door.
Forever.
A tall man in a trench coat stood between the potatoes and carrots of the Winn-Dixie swearing into his Bluetooth.
“You can’t do this to me. I’ve been on this case too long to just be thrown away like some moldy,” he looked around for a good noun, “cucumber.”
The other shoppers kept their distance.
“What do you mean he’s already on his way?” the man continued.
Another man in the same trench coat but wearing a goatee stood beside the livid man, “It’s time,” he said.
“Twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years and this is how it ends?”
“‘Fraid so.”
A muffled shot ripped through the first man’s stomach.
“Clean up in produce,” the intercom buzzed five minutes later.
@briefconceits
My name is Peter Wesley. Yes, THAT Peter Wesley.
Maybe you read about me in Scientific American or Time. I was their ‘Man of the Year’ a few years back. Or maybe you read about me in Fortune.
Anyway, you might be wondering why the world’s first multi-trillionaire is writing his last journal entry on a smartphone while standing over a fire under the Brooklyn bridge trying to keep warm.
Well, there are a lot of people trying to kill me. It’s only a matter of time before one of them finds me. If you have been living under a rock for the past decade, I’m the guy who invented MolTran–Molecular Transportation System ten years ago. I wanted to call it a ‘”Transporter” but the good folks at Paramount objected.
I wanted to change the world.
You know what they say. Be careful of what you wish for.
See, the MolTran worked. Perfectly. Basically in one night I put the big shipping companies out of business. Moltran was a perfect and cheap replacement.
FedEx, UPS, DHL were gone within a year.
The car companies and trucking companies were next. The Teamsters and UAW weren’t happy about that.
Next came the cheap labor. I sold the MolTran for 10k a pop. So pretty much every third-world government bought them for their people. Commuters using my system could transport themselves from Mexico to New York and back again. The high salaries disappeared.
The richer individuals purchased a MolTran for their homes. My invention ended up everywhere. Seventy-five million units were sold in 18 months. Even the criminally-minded could get one on the cheap. The banks and secret government facilities were pissed about that. Basically a man from Mumbai could, with a little bit of research, transport himself into a bank in Chicago, clean it out and be back in time for lunch. Or one of those UFO nuts could materialize in the middle of area 51 and hunt for UFOs.
It kind of went crazy for a while.
An Israeli Special Forces unit materialized into the Iranian presidential palace and assassinated the nut job. North Korea transported a nuke right into the Texas home of a former president…and an hour later the entire 101 Airborne transported themselves into the Presidential Palace in Pyongyang and killed everyone. Hell, I even heard a rumor that the Russians transported an opposition leader from Uzbekistan into the middle of the Indian Ocean.
And I won’t even tell you what Conan O’Brien did to the LA Lakers cheerleaders.
I made a lot of money. I’ve spent a lot on security. I thought things were ok until someone transported a bomb onto my private 787 Dreamliner. Fortunately for me I wasn’t on it at the time. Not so fortunate were my wife and kids.
I’ve been running scared ever since.
I wanted to change the world. I never counted on the fact that the human race wasn’t ready for the change. So I’m going to try to disappear…go someplace where I hope no one will ever get to me. And I’ll watch the whole system come down on itself from a distance.
So. To anyone reading this I say good luck. And fuck you for taking something that I made and turning it into a servant of your petty desires. Signed, Peter Wesley.
I sent the entry to my attorney for immediate publication and felt a sense of relief. It was done. I was done. I could try and disappear to my well-prepared secret bunker while laughing as the people of the world destroyed themselves.
That’s when I felt the familiar vertigo that accompanies the MolTran effect…oh God…they found me…
Twitter: rbwood
Blog/Website: http://www.rbwood.com
No one understood how terrible it really was. Here he was, a grown man, with no identity of his own. Not his name, not his birthday, not any one of the million little facts that made up the lie that was his life for the last thirty years.
Odd how these things come to light. Here he thought the trip they were planning was a new beginning, a fresh start, as it were. Instead it was the end of everything.
He looked at the piece of paper in his hand again. It was his name all right, his date of birth, his city, his parents even. There was no doubt about it – as far as the government was concerned he had died at the age of three. No wonder he was currently ‘in custody’ and suspected of horrible crimes. Why else would a dead man need a passport?
I’m nothing but a replacement, he realized. He couldn’t curse his parents, whoever they actually were. He’d had a good upbringing, all the latest luxuries, the best education. Somehow they just failed to tell him he was someone else.
@SesshaBatto
I lifted my tear-stained face as my husband came back into the room. He was carrying something. I sniffed and wiped a hand across my face, smearing snot. I didn’t even care. It matched my tangled hair, splotchy skin and disheveled clothes.
He crossed the massive bedroom to where I was curled on the four poster bed. “I have something for you,” he said softly. I sniffed again. I didn’t want anything. No, that wasn’t true. I wanted something very much, but he could never give it to me.
“Don’t want it,” I mumbled and reached to pull the down comforter over my head. He sat down on the edge of the bed effectively pinning the blankets down. I scowled at him.
“I think you do,” and he held out the bundle in his arms. A tiny fist waved above the pale blue blankets.
My heart skipped a beat. No, several. “How … but, I don’t … what…” No coherent thought would come.
“The doctor was wrong. She survived.” His eyes glowed intensely, begging me to believe him as he settled the bundle in my arms.
I gazed down at the perfect porcelain skin and allowed him to convince me, wanted to believe. But deep down in my soul, something true, something I yearned to repress whispered to me. Replacement
@SonshineMusic
Woohoo! This was the first time I could actually join in with the 5 minute fiction! such fun!
oh yeah, I forgot. @SesshaBatto
When my I lost the vision in my right eye last week, I went out shopping for a replacement.
Mottleby’s is the only place in town that cares about quality, so I didn’t even bother going to Jerry’s Eye Emporium or Butler’s Best. The piece of junk my brother-in-law got from Jerry’s last year was a joke. He still can’t see properly on his left, but it makes our paintball games a lot more fun.
I wandered the brightly lit store in wonder, caressing the glass counters with the diamond-ringed irises and garnet colored pupils. No way I could afford one of these, especially with the latest salary cut at the station.
I settled on a lilac-colored beauty with a plum center. Simple with a touch of flair. Perfect.
The saleswoman helped pluck my old eyes out. The sensation of removing eyes always makes me queasy. I sit down for a moment with my head between my legs.
After the nausea wanes, I take a stroll down the foggy streets even though it makes my new eyes water. No doubt they will wear out in another year or two with all the hazardous chemicals in the air, but for now, the newness of sight is refreshing.
Twitter: @saraheolson
Blog: http://saraheolson.blogspot.com
Josh wasn’t supposed to replace Jane, he was only supposed to cover her work while she was out of town. Some of the data entry was tedious, but he made a few upgrades to her spreadsheets so he could search and sort faster, and by Tuesday afternoon he had finished tasks that usually took her all week. Unfortunately for her, his boss noticed and started to poke around her computer. He found a bunch of personal pictures, which led to checking her Facebook page, and next thing Josh knew she was getting canned.
Some of the other folks at the office wanted to have a going away party, and it didn’t occur to him that he wouldn’t be invited. It wasn’t really his fault, after all. He showed up at the bar after work to see everyone else having a grand time, including… his girlfriend Petra, sitting in the stool next to Jane.
“Petra, what are you doing here?” Josh asked, just loud enough to be heard above the music.
“What are YOU doing here?” she asked back. Jane turned around and shot him a look that would have wilted flowers, and then frosted them over.
“I came to…” He wasn’t sure. Why had he thought this would be a good idea?
Jane smiled. “As you can see,” she said, slipping an arm around Petra’s waist, “you’ve been replaced. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
@valerievaldes
http://candleinsunshine.com/asthemoonclimbs
I wake to him slipping into my bed. He settles between my body and the wall, drawing me back into him. From his arms around me, his leg hooking over mine, I can feel him relax. He is never relaxed unless he is with me.
We say hello. I hear the tired smile in his voice. I feel his hands shake as they cover mine. It has been a long six months. We are tired, weak, broken. But today was the end. Our replacements have taken over. They are not as good as we are, but we have done our part. Now we have the peace of our bodies falling asleep side by side.
There is pain in my back, my bones, my blood. As I trace my fingers over his arm, I feel the rough slices of scalpels. I know that if I were to peel back the sheets and spoil him as I have always wanted to, I would see where they inserted the teeth and fed him the chemicals. They would look like angry tattoos beneath his skin. It probably hurts him to hold me this close. I want to cry for him, but I am too tired to allow myself tears.
The most I can manage is, “Are you in pain?”
He laughs a little, or maybe sobs. The sound is confused, just like everything else. Through the drapes, I see a yellow-green sky. Past the sound of his breath at my neck, I hear the drums of victory.
Victory. I guess you can call it that.
I close my eyes, but what I see on my lids throws me into a tiny panic. I will never stop seeing the dark balconies above me, myself in the bright white center, the pain of teeth, the touch of the children’s hands. On the colder nights, I nestled into their corpses for warmth. At points, there was applause.
I try to stop my whimper, but it comes out anyway.
His arms tighten around me. He kisses my cheek and says there is nothing to be afraid of anymore. He is here.
I know it was worse for him. Many nights, clutching a lifeless, chubby hand for comfort, I heard him scream.
Last week, they welcomed us home with cameras and smiles. They say they will give us medals. We will never have to work another day for the rest of our lives.
The sky erupts into purple and white. Fireworks. Everyone is celebrating. They will use bits of bodies to decorate buildings. They will paint walls with the blood of the dead.
I am not sure if I like the idea of the rest of my life.
He has become very quiet. His eyes shine with blue light from outside. Yellow light. Green light. I cannot remember what color his eyes really are. I cannot remember anything but teeth and poison.
He tells me to hush. I wonder why and realize I have begun to cry. He wipes my cheeks and kisses me. It does not take long for the kiss to deepen. I have always wanted this, and so has he. But it has never been a good idea. Too risky.
It is better than I imagined, although our bodies are so frail that I wonder if this will actually kill me.
After, I turn away and become a child in a womb. I close my eyes and see people turning into monsters. I am a white light, burning, buzzing, peeling away the flesh of little freckled girls, little blond boys. Even moving with him in a bed of colored stars isn’t enough to make them go away.
I do not like the idea of the rest of my life.
He knows it. I see us in the corner mirror. We do not look human, especially in the twirling lights. We are already dead. I am therefore not afraid when I see the glint in his hands and feel the blade chill my belly. He puts his mouth to my ear. His voice shakes as he tells me what I had already guessed.
We have not won. It is a ruse to put everyone at ease.
They are sending us back. We are the best. We have always been the best.
“I won’t let them,” he says. He kisses me. His face is wet. “It won’t hurt.”
He is right. It does not hurt.
@clairelegrand
Oh I forgot.
My Twitter name is SonshineMusic 😀
@Dennis_Frymire
“Don’t apologize for your work before you present it. You’re giving yourself permission to suck.”
Tracey was, to put it lightly, not prepared at all to make this presentation. She got the call 10pm the night before, informing her that she was Myers’ replacement. He had had a breakdown – the third team member this week – and it was now up to her to pitch the idea to this very attractive potential client.
The catch: In his final act, Myers completely annihalated all of his own research, plus the research of the person he replaced, and the person that person replaced, and on down the line.
Tracey had been up all night preparing this presentation from scratch, and she had the bags under eyes, and the migraine behind her to show for it.
She ducked into Don’s office ten minutes before the meeting, to apologize in advance for her failure.
“Don’t apologize for your work before you present it. You’re giving yourself permission to suck,” he reminded her. This is an idea he drove home to his subordinates time after time after time.
“They’ll understand if our proposal is still a bit rough, right? Surely, they have to know what kind of demands this project will take.” She was seeking any assurance that she could, but Don was having none of it.
“This presentation must be absolutely the best work of your life, Tracey. It’s absolutely imperative.”
“But I just got-”
“No ‘but’s, Tracey. I raised my daughter to be better than that.
Tracey walked defeated out her father’s office.
___
The meeting began only ten minutes late. This was the time it took Don to process the news of her daughter’s utter collapse, call 911, and briefly scan what she had prepared.
After he won the client’s business, he began her funeral arrangements.
The man in the brown bomber jacket sat and waited. He had already finished two pints of Guinness and had already read the newspaper that sat in front of him. Now, there was nothing for him to do but wait.
As he sat in the small bar, he took off his jacket and noticed that the cut on his arm was still bleeding. A giant red blotch covered the lower half of the right sleeve of his blue button-down dress shirt. The sight of blood was nothing new to him, but he knew that it would definitely stand out to any of his fellow bar patrons.
“Hurt yourself?” the lady asked. She was about 6 feet tall and wore a red and white peasant girl shirt and khaki capri pants. Her long blond hair brushed against his shoulder as she walked by.
“No. Just a little work-related injury.”
“Oh, really? What do you do?”
“I’m a chef.”
“Oh, really,” she said, dragging out the last word. “So how’d you get that?” She pointed to his bloody arm.
“Had some issues with the last thing I tried to cut,” he said. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
“My name’s Rachel. It’s great to meet you, Terrence.”
“How’d you know my name?” he asked, stunned.
“Sven sent me.”
“What?”
“You’ve done great work, soldier. Your family’s proud of you. Now go home. I’m your replacement.”
@matthewschulz
@Shells2003
I locked the door to my brownstone, pulled my purse strap over my shoulder, and turned to walk down the steps. My feet weren’t listening to that simple comand, though.
There, leaning against a tree in front of my brownstone stood Tim. For a few precious seconds, my heart thudded in my chest for him.
And then, I remembered the reason why he wasn’t around anymore.
Rolling my eyes, I quickly took the steps, and tried veering to the right so I could avoid him.
“Jess, now wait a minute!” he took three large steps and successfully cut off my escape route.
He slid his arms around my waist, took a deep breath and rested his forehead against mine. Part of my mind revolted against my wishes of pushing him away from me. That’s the only reason he was still this close. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look into his.
“Jess…Jess, I made a huge mistake. And I want to fix that.”
“What’s the matter, Tim?” I managed between gritted teeth. “My replacement wasn’t good enough for you?”
He sighed heavily, tightening his hold on my waist. “Jess, don’t look at it like that.”
“How else am I suppose to look at it?” My eyes opened quickly, glaring into his beautiful face. “Isn’t that what happened three months ago? Didn’t I discover you were also with Emily? And didn’t you tell me that we would be together, no matter what?”
“Yes, but-”
“And then, when we were all standing together, after you broke up the sparing match between your precious Emily and me…what happened then?”
He shuddered, trying to place his fingers on my face. I moved away. “What happened?”
“Jess-”
“No! Don’t you ‘Jess’ me now!” I screamed, pushing my way out of his embrace completely. “I told you to tell Emily everything you told me. To tell Emily that you loved me, and that we were going to be together forever! And what did you do?”
His shoulders sagged and he looked down at his feet for just a second before looking at me again. “I told you that I loved Emily. And that we were going to be together. But can’t you see how I made a mistake?”
I shook my head and chuckled cynically. “No. Tim, I really don’t see the mistake here. Isn’t she what you wanted?”
“Yes, but-”
“So, she’s my replacement?”
“Jess, it’s not like that anymore.”
“So, did she leave you?” I folded my arms around myself.
He shook his head quickly. “No! Not at all! I left her!”
I chuckled louder. “So, this is how you express your love. And just how many months will you stay with me when you decide Emily is really the one? How many times are we going to be replacements for each other?”
He stood there silently.
I took that as my cue to leave.
@matthewschulz
Boy, this contest is tough. Fun, but tough.
There were no windows in the flower room, and no flowers – not living ones, anyway. Even my bouquet soon wilted to a mess of shrivelled brown.
The others were still, the only noise the rattle of my sickening lungs. It was a long time before I heard him return. There was a woman, too, who played the harpsichord in the room below us, trilling her French and Italian songs with the shrill voice of a girl. This one was young.
We had all played that harpsichord, once – if only she knew how many had smoothed those ivory keys while he watched, smoking those cigars-beyond-price.
I could not have imagined how long a year and a day would feel. It time, purely time, with none of its mechanical or celestial markers. Each day was suggested only by the distant sounds of the life I had once led, replaying. First the lovemaking, then the arguments. All planned so meticulously. Our husband was a cruel husband.
I do not know if I was still living when she came to the flower room. Perhaps I was a remanant, waiting for the tying of the knot which would seal my death and begin hers. I knew only that I could not speak or move, and I noticed for the first time the silence of my lungs. He had dressed her in her wedding dress, pressed that old bouquet into her hands. Roses, this time, blood red. Mine were once lilies.
“Bluebeard, my Bluebeard,” she pleaded. I wanted to tell her it was no use; her sarcophagus was provided, her resting place sealed – her replacement, no doubt, already selected. The were many empty slabs left in the flower room.
Time’s up kids! I really liked this week. I pulled out something not-crappy, I think.
Now I’m off the read yours. Finalists and the poll will be posted by 3:00. And thank you again you wonderful people for making my day with your incredible talent. 🙂
Argh!
It should have read…
The meeting began only ten minutes late. This was the time it took Don to process the news of *his* daughter’s utter collapse, call 911, and briefly scan what she had prepared.
“Put the replacement in the basement.”
“The basement?”
“Yeah, the basement is the best place for the replacement.”
“Where in the basement do you want me to place the replacement?”
“Place the replacement next to the encasement next to the sump pump near that pile of spilled gobbledy gunk.”
“Near this pile of gobbledy gunk with the dead bug and stuff?”
“No, the other pile of gobbledy gunk without the dead bug and stuff, but with the eminating stank of month old stunk. Yeah, that one. Thanks Mr. Mover.”
They’d been chasing him in his dreams, again. The incense didn’t work, the mantras didn’t work, the drugs had only worked until he acclimated. And then the knives, the fangs, the snicker-snash of vorpal ideas he was helpless to defy. He ran, or fought–and so far, he’d always woken up–saved from evisceration, mutilation, deconstruction. But they were coming, always coming, and one of these days he knew–he’d be replaced. Some other self would come, victorious, to rule his waking days, and, at best, he would fade to the back–to be wiped, refreshed, and built again. And he would again join the hordes fighting for that prize of self-determination.
[came late to the party =/ ]
It’ll be up to our esteemed judge, but I’m rather inclined to let the three “late” ones count. What with the fickle internets and all.
I sure hope so. I’ve tried to remember for 3 straight weeks to get here on time. This time I show up with 3 minutes left. 🙁
#greasethejudges
Oh, and I forgot my twitter handle @shanearthur
Great fun.
He hated that word; “replacement.” Whenever he got a new job, that word would inevitably come up in conversation. He could picture the scene in his head, being introduced to a new co-worker… “Hey, Jim! Meet Wayne; he’s Mike’s replacement.”
Strangely, in this new job, the word hadn’t come up. Well, it hadn’t come up *yet*, he told himself.
And so, he sat at his desk up on the second floor, with a stellar view of the factory. When we wasn’t pecking away at the keys, he would pause and watch the machines as they chewed metal and spat out parts. Sometimes, he’d even get up, walk to the rail, lean over and watch the huge gears of “The Monster” (as they called it) as it shredded copper in its massive maw.
Two weeks in, and Wayne hadn’t been referred to as the “r” word. He was pleased at this turn of events. Perhaps folks here were more accepting. Maybe they wouldn’t compare him to some seemingly super-human worker of days gone by.
Three weeks passed by. Then four. And then…
On a particularly boring Tuesday, Wayne got up from his desk and leaned over the edge. He looked down and saw The Monster being disassembled. Before he could go search for a reason, two co-workers walked up. They were talking. They stopped at the rail so Wayne just listened to them.
One of them looked over the rail and said, “God. Can you imagine?”
The other responded, “No. I don’t even want to look.”
“What makes a man want to kill himself? Let alone throw himself into a machine like that?”
“I don’t even want to think about it.”
“What’s the company going to do?”
“Get a replacement, I guess.”
Wayne wanted to scream. But found, strangely, that he couldn’t make a sound.
@erong