No Shame

Valeria was alone. No one was here to see if she turned back. She flipped the switch on her sky skiff. The sail extended with a whoosh as the base lit up.  The familiar hum told her everything was working fine. She had done a good job rebuilding it.

She could power it off now. She could loan it to another rider so they could make the flight down the mountain and scavenge food or old tech from the cloud covered valleys below. Plenty of potential riders recently passed the qualifying tests, just as Valeria once did.

“There’s no shame in being a shaper,” Marco had said in a tone designed to needle her. But he had a point. Without shapers, there’d be no sky craft, and no way of getting the things they desperately needed. The other shapers also had been nothing but kind to her. It helped that Valeria had become quite skilled at building and fixing skiffs.

“There’s no shame in falling,” the head shaper had said. And that was true too. Better and more experienced riders had fallen during the sudden storms that popped out over the valley. A better one had the last time Valeria had gone wind-riding.

At that thought, the tears came again, just as Valeria knew they would. There’s no shame in tears, Marisol would have said.  

Valeria looked out at the sky around her, clothed in the purples and pinks of dawn. There was no pride in keeping from doing something you loved either. Marisol never let anything or anyone keep her away from the thrill of the sky.  

She could continue with the shapers. Valeria had made a place among them. But there was nothing to say a shaper couldn’t be a rider too.

Valeria wiped her eyes to get a clear look at the sky she adored. She felt the anticipation of being in the air eat the last bit of her fear and most of her sadness. In one quick move, Valeria got on the skiff and pushed off from the mountain. And then she flew.

Photo by Cody Board on Unsplash

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Song Choice: Back from the Dead by Halestorm

Liner Notes for This Groove: This piece of flash fiction was created for the Weekly Scribblings prompt at Poets and Storytellers United, The Last Time.

Testing the Foundation

It would hold. She was sure of it.

Mattea forced herself to take three deep breaths. She started going over her makeshift shelter, testing every joint and connection one more time while ignoring the bile-green color spreading over Evoris’s sky.

Some had liked to say it was a miracle she had gotten into the academy, let alone be chosen for one of the teams actually exploring the terran-like worlds. Mattea herself might admit that her surviving the crash that killed the rest of the crew could qualify as miraculous. But she had worked hard and learned well. Those lessons and her determination made for a rock-solid foundation, one she hoped was enough to ensure she’d built a shelter strong enough to make it through the rapidly approaching storm.

Mattea was inside before the full fury of it hit. The howling winds were unlike anything she’d ever heard before, but the shelter held. She allowed herself to give into her drowsiness once the storm’s cacophony died down. 

She’d told herself she’d make it through the night. Tomorrow morning she’d start comparing what she learned about Evoris in the academy to what was really there. And what she could work with until a rescue ship came. She hoped.

Photo by Nikolas Noonan on Unsplash

Song Choice: Have You Ever Seen the Rain by Creedence Clearwater Revival

This flash fiction was created for the prompt given over at Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribbling prompt, Foundation. 

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

No Exceptions

The mood of the encampment shifted as a scout brought in a whimpering Regarian. Jena flinched inwardly, but the healer in her stayed professional. “Is it the parasite?” she asked as the scout helped him onto a cot.

He pulled off his boot. The all-too familiar silvery growth enveloped most of the Regarian’s foot but the lack of smell told Jena it was still possible to save him.

“Please,” he whimpered. “Don’t let me die.”

Jena sighed. “You’ll have to follow our rules. That includes regular usufruit consumption.”

He wrinkled his nose but nodded. “Do I have to swear loyalty?”

“No, but if you don’t cooperate with the medicinal regimen you’ll have to leave. No exceptions.”

Another healer handed him a bowl full of mush made from the pungent fruit. Jena touched her bracelet and turned away. What would Joya say if she could see her treating a Regarian?

It didn’t matter. She hadn’t seen her sister in months, not since she refused to touch the fruit.

“Do what you want, little sis,” Joya had said. “But getting us to eat that nasty fruit is all part of a plot to make us weak.”

“That makes no sense. People have eaten the fruit long before the silver-death. Just not that much of it.”

“If you buy into that Regarian fiction about the silver-death, it just lets them know you’re easier to control,” Joya scoffed.

“The silver-death doesn’t care if you’re Regarian or Dyronese. Think, Joya! If the fruit doesn’t work, the worst that will happen is we’ve eaten smelly fruit and have bad gas. Think of what you risk by not eating it.”

“I risk nothing. I have my strength and the strength of our ancestors. Don’t worry, sis. I’ll leave without a fuss. And when I return, I’ll have stories of battles, and a new bracelet for you.”

Neither Jena nor the other healers showed a sign of the silver death, despite treating dozens of patients with them. The fruit purged all but the direst cases of growth. She hoped she’d see Joya at the end of all this. But for now, she had her wits and her ancestors' instincts of survival. That was, hopefully, enough.

Photo by Jed Owen on Unsplash

Song Choice: Stay Alive from Hamilton

This flash fiction piece was created as a response to the prompt given for Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings post, Writing as a Metaphor for Living. The words I used were mood, plot, and fiction.

By Rommy Cortez-Driks

Beyond the Boundaries

“Get back here!” she said.

Danny looked from his teacher, gripping the boundary rope around what she thought was a simple park exhibit, to the security guard briskly advancing towards him. It didn’t matter. He had made it to the communication cog first.

Danny stroked the spot he knew would activate it. “This is D’ynveh 5. I survived the Rylor expedition but am stranded. Send help!” His words were cut off by the guard pulling him away, but he saw the fine lines of energy light up on the cog’s surface, sending a beacon towards his home world. Danny smiled.

Song Choice: Theme from Invader Zim

Photograph by Jennifer Pendergrass

This bit of Flash Fiction was inspired by the picture prompt given at Friday Fictioners

By Rommy Cortez-Driks