Nate Fleming's Blog

Window

Prompt: Window
Genre: Slice of Life

6:52 am.

Dougie ran through his bedroom, toothbrush in mouth, carelessly jamming his things into his backpack: his chemistry textbook that he was yet to crack at the end of the first semester, his chemistry notebook filled with drawings of sports cars (and a few stray drawings of her), whatever pencils he could find under his desk, his iPad, barely functioning and on its last legs, but his mother insisted he make do with it instead of buying a new one.

“Take care of what you have!” she would insist.

The sound of screeching brakes drew his attention out the window down to the street outside his house where the school bus was supposed to stop every morning at 6:55. The one time he’s running late, and the bus has to be running early?

There was a line of kids, and his heart skipped as he saw that she was at the end of the line. If he hurried, he might be able to score a seat next to her.

“C’mon, Dougie!” He growled, tearing out the bedroom door, open backpack in hand.

The teenager vaulted over the overflowing clothes hamper in the hall, his momentum carrying him down the three steps to the top of the staircase in just two strides. But the same momentum betrayed him – his socks slid on the slick faux hardwood, sending him careening down the stairs. He landed in a heap at the base, limbs sprawled and pride bruised.

“Dougie! What was that?” his mother called from her bedroom just off to the side of the staircase. She would also be rushing to get herself ready to go to work.

“No time,” he yelled, pulling himself up and glancing out the sidelight window, fumbling with his Reeboks at the same time.

Through the narrow pane, he caught a glimpse of her – hood up against the December chill, her breath fogging in the air as she lingered at the end of the line. She glanced toward the bus, her hand tugging the strap of her backpack tighter, oblivious to his chaos. The bus doors hissed open, and one by one the kids filed in.

Dougie froze for a moment, the small window cutting off everything but her. If he hurried, he might still make it.

Shoes on, he threw open the door and snatched his backpack from the floor. The unzipped bag bucked in his grip, spilling its contents in every direction—his chemistry book thudded onto the porch, his notebook flipped open to his most recent sketch of her, stray pencils scattered like pickup sticks, and his battered iPad skidded into the doorframe.

In the cold morning air, Dougie watched the bus pull away and through the school bus window he could see that she sat by herself.

“Mom,” he called out, and then he sighed.

“I need a ride again.”  

This is a part of my Daily Writing Challenge, where I write a short story inspired by a single word and genre prompt each day. The goal is to rekindle my creativity and try to reignite the storytelling embers.

Survive2025

Every January, millions of us pledge to change our lives with New Year’s resolutions, but by February, most of those promises have fizzled. Why do we keep setting ourselves up for failure?

Forbes Magazine conducted a survey in 2023 that found only 8% of people stick to their resolutions for a month, and just 13% make it to four months. Resolutions may start with good intentions, but they rarely lead to lasting change.

A couple of years ago, I decided to try something different: 30-day challenges. Unlike open-ended resolutions, 30-day challenges are short, specific, and manageable. Anyone can commit to trying something new for a month, right? Some changes stuck, like the plant-based diet I adopted during Meatless May. Others didn’t. But every challenge left me feeling like I’d made progress.

This year, as I thought about what to focus on in the new year, I had an epiphany – one sparked by two stark realities. First, Hurricane Helena’s devastating impact on my home region in Western North Carolina this past October was a wake-up call. Second, the increasingly unpredictable state of the world has made it clear that none of us can afford to be unprepared.

That epiphany? To dedicate each month in the upcoming year to learning a new survival skill. By the end of the year, I’ll be better equipped to face whatever challenges the world might throw my way. I’m calling it “Survive 2025.” Catchy, right?

Now, before you imagine me as some rugged, grizzled survivalist, let me set the record straight: I’m the guy who’d probably get lost in a big city park. Once, on a camping trip, I struggled to assemble a pop-up tent. A pop-up tent! If there’s a single skill I’ve mastered, it’s finding the nearest exit. But that’s what makes this year’s challenge exciting – I’m starting from square one.

If you’re anything like me – someone who’d probably use a compass as a paperweight – I’d love for you to join me on this journey. Do you want to learn basic survival skills alongside someone who’s about as outdoorsy as an IKEA catalogue? If so, I invite you to subscribe to survive2025.wordpress.com (Coming soon…). Over the year, we’ll tackle skills like starting a fire in any weather, purifying water from natural sources, building shelters, navigating without GPS, and even preparing a bug-out bag.

So, let’s do this together. By the end of the year, I might just graduate from “wouldn’t survive a picnic” to “probably could handle a weekend camping trip.” Baby steps, right?

Echo

Prompt: “Echo”
Genre: Drama

Private Nick McDonald lay in a small, wet ditch, covering his aching head with his arms. The shockwave of a shell exploding just a few feet away had blown his helmet off, even with the neckstrap. His ears rang so loudly with the echo of the shell that he could barely make out the sounds of gunfire, cannons thundering, and soldiers screaming orders at each other and obscenities at the Huns.

He chanced a glance at his watch. 10:56. Just four more minutes. He looked to his right and saw his helmet on the ground, just out of reach, with a pronounced dent in the side. He touched the right side of his skull and winced.  

“Nick, you okay?”   

Kelsing the medic was pressing on someone’s bleeding chest just to his left. Nick gave a thumbs up and glanced at his watch again. Three minutes. Just stay on the ground for three more minutes.

“Private! Let’s go!”

Nick looked with disbelief over at Lieutenant “Weenie” Wilkerson, standing behind the smoking remains of a tree, Trenchbroom clutched tightly to his chest like a teddy bear.  

“Sir?” he called out over the crash of explosions and rat-a-tat of several MG 08 machine guns.

“Grab your weapon, soldier! We’re going after Gerry in that pillbox on the hill!”

“We have two minutes, sir!” Nick called out, the plea in his voice obvious even with the mayhem all around.   

“That’s two minutes to send a couple more bastards to hell!” Weenie screamed. “Move it out!”

Weenie made the sign of the cross, kissed the St. Jude medal hanging on the chain with his dog tags, and charged around the tree – only to be cut down instantly by machine gun fire from the pillbox.

Splattered with his lieutenant’s blood, Nick pressed his face into the fallen leaves and dirt, as if trying to disappear into the earth itself. The sounds of battle grew louder with every passing second, like everyone was desperate to empty their ammo before 11:00 struck. ‘Wait out the clock, wait out the clock, wait out the clock…’ he muttered, his arms shielding his head once more.

A curious whistling sound cut through the chaos, distant and familiar, yet terrifyingly real. He could also just make out Kelsing yelling in a panicked voice but he couldn’t tell what the medic was saying.  

“Wait out the clock, wait out the…”

Nick’s blood froze in his veins. He recognized the sound. It was an incoming Daisy-Cutter shell launched his way from a distant German position. That meant…

It happened in an instant. The explosion tore through the air above Nick, white-hot shrapnel ripping into his flesh – merciless and final.

Then, silence.

The explosion of the shell that killed Private Nick McDonald echoed through the Argonne Forest – one of the final acts of a brutal war that had ravaged Europe for too many years and claimed too many lives.   

As the smoke cleared, Nick’s watch read 11:00, but there was no one left to see.

This is a part of my Daily Writing Challenge, where I write a short story inspired by a single word and genre prompt each day. The goal is to rekindle my creativity and try to reignite the storytelling embers.

Candle

Word: Candle
Genre: Fantasy

The icy night wind of the high Xīn Suì Mountain range lashed against Ēnzé’s wings as he stood on the rocky outcrop, gazing up at the snow-shrouded peak of Mount La Zhu. Sleet stung his scales, and the swirling snow made it nearly impossible to see.

Normally, conditions like these would mean nothing to a dragon, with heartfire blazing through its veins. But this was far from normal.

Ēnzé’s heartfire was gone.

“To reignite your heartfire, you must journey to Mount La Zhu in the far north,” the wise old Zufu had said. “At its peak lies the entrance to the chamber of Tiān Lóng. Within, you must breathe the flame of the eternal candle. Only then will you be healed. If the task proves too great, accept your fate and learn to live without it. Or… give up and die.”

“I can do this,” Ēnzé growled to himself, barely able to make out La Zhu’s silhouette on the distant horizon. It was so far away, but in his mind’s eye, he saw Chúnjié smiling at him, her warmth giving him strength.

With renewed determination, he spread his wings, ready to launch into the night sky. But the moment the sleet struck, he winced and stumbled back, the icy needles peppering his wings like hundreds of tiny elf daggers. Without the heartfire to protect him, what chance did he have?

Ēnzé shook his massive green head, huffing in frustration. In better days, the motion would have unleashed a four-meter billow of white-hot flame into the sky. Now, his fire was gone. Lowering his head, he retreated to the safety of the rockface, where the relentless elements couldn’t reach him.

Chúnjié suddenly appeared before him, just as she had a few weeks earlier, her eyes sparkling with joy. She shimmered in the glow of his memory, so radiant that she made Ēnzé feel like a youngling again. “I want what’s best for you,” she had said. “But you have to want it too.”

Her voice rang in his mind, clear and vivid, as if she were standing there. But when he met the reflection of himself in her deep, dark eyes, he felt only emptiness where his fire once burned.

Ēnzé closed his eyes and leaned against the jagged rock wall, feeling trapped in the crosswinds of opposing forces: one pushing him toward hope, the other dragging him into despair.

“Just breathe…” Chúnjié would say whenever he felt overwhelmed or anxious. He obeyed the memory of her voice, drawing in a deep breath. The cold air filled his lungs, its icy touch numbing him – but also, in an unexpected way, calming him. He’d never truly understood coldness before. Now, here in one of the coldest places in the land, he stood breathing deeply of the frigid air. And somehow, he felt better. Clearer. Stronger.

“I want what’s best for me,” he said, the words carried on the icy wind, as if Chúnjié herself might hear them far away.

With that, he stepped back to the edge of the rocky outcrop. The wind howled, the icy sleet stabbing at his wings once more. Pain rippled through his body with every movement, a stark reminder of how far he’d fallen.

But he pressed on. Bracing against the piercing weather, he spread his wings and launched himself into the stormy sky. Each beat of his wings was a struggle, but it carried him closer to what he had lost.

This is a part of my Daily Writing Challenge, where I write a short story inspired by a single word and genre prompt each day. The goal is to rekindle my creativity and try to reignite the storytelling embers.

Storm

Word: Storm
Genre: Comedy

The waves lapped against the side of what remained of the Daddy’s Child, making a repetitive *plat* *plat* *plat* that made me want to thrust my head in the water and hold it there.

“They’re coming. They’ll find us.”

I looked at Rick and it was all I could do to not swim over and thrust his head in the water and hold it there. It was because of Rick and his stupid Rick-ness that I was here in the middle of Lake Cranston, surrounded by bits of Rick’s stupid-ass boat, waiting for some divine “they” to come and find us.

“My father will make sure,” he added, cementing my plan to make sure that Rick wouldn’t be breathing within the next ten minutes.

I took a deep breath and conceded that this was partly on me. I should have known that getting onto a boat called “Daddy’s Child” with Rick was not a great idea. But Rick had talked all through university about his prowess on the open water, how his father had taught him everything, and I, like some gullible teenager, had bought into his brags. All for the hope of getting Rick to support my improv troupe.

His dad was loaded, after all.

What really sucks is that the storm hadn’t really been that big. The waves couldn’t have been more than a few feet, but Rick had panicked and aimed Daddy’s Child towards what he had thought to be an island but turned out to be big outcrop of rocks. Really sharp rocks.

And now Daddy’s Child was in bits, and we were clinging to the stupid bits that were big enough to cling to, hoping for “they” to come and rescue us. And a thought occurred to me. “If I’m going to die on Lake Cranston, at least I’m dying for improv.”

And then another thought. “That is so dumb.”

I hate Rick.  

This is a part of my Daily Writing Challenge, where I write a short story inspired by a single word and genre prompt each day. The goal is to rekindle my creativity and try to reignite the storytelling embers.

Threshold

Word: Threshold
Genre: Science Fiction

“Denonation in ten seconds…”

The doorway was less than a meter away, but it might as well have been light years. Stuck in the body of the gelatinous being known as the Glorn, Tizzy didn’t know how he would make it. He had to make it. His entire race was counting on him.

I have to press on, he thought, struggling to breathe as the Glorn’s viscous essence clung to him, its suffocating grip tightening with every step. This star base is about to explode in a yellow flower of antimatter, and if I don’t get through the doorway, my atoms will become part of that flower.

The problem with being trapped in a Glorn is that you move in their time, not in yours. But still, Tizzy pressed on, forcing his four legs forward, swimming each of his six arms in a motion towards the door, churning his tail behind, every fiber of his being focused on the doorway.

“Detonation in six seconds…”  

Come on, Glorn… we can do it…

There they were… on the threshold…

And the flower bloomed, brilliant and consuming, swallowing everything – or perhaps nothing at all.

This is a part of my Daily Writing Challenge, where I write a short story inspired by a single word and genre prompt each day. The goal is to rekindle my creativity and try to reignite the storytelling embers.

Key

Word: Key
Genre: Fantasy

The cave was dim, the air stale, but Ulrich the elf grinned nonetheless.

It was finally hers. All hers.

She hovered over the open trap door, gazing down at the chamber below, filled to the brim with gold, platinum, sparkling jewels, and countless other treasures. It was almost too much to comprehend. The light, filtering through the dust from the hole she’d descended through in the cave roof, made the riches shimmer and glow on the smooth walls—like fairies dancing through a meadow at night.

“What will you do with it all?” Phoneom said, standing close behind her. Too close. He always did that.

“Can you back up?” she hissed, irritated that he’d broken her from the spell of her treasure with his banal question.

“Sorry,” he replied. She could sense him take a step back. “But what will you do?”

“You bloody know what I’m going to do,” she murmured, staring down. There was so much. One could divide it into two and still be wealthier and more powerful than imagination would believe. One could have half and do anything they wanted to do. Help or hurt anyone.

But it was all hers.

“Are you sure?” the voice seemed quieter. More thoughtful. Or maybe it was just her imagination.

“I’ve never been surer of anything,” she replied.

“You’re better than this, Ulrich.” The whisper of his voice, the heartfelt, pleading, whisper, quietly echoed around her. It was more than she could bear.

She whipped around, drawn sword in one hand, trap door key in the other.

She was alone.

Of course she was. It was all her mind playing tricks.

Phoneom lay dead up at the lip of the hole, her dagger in his heart. He’d been a good friend, had helped her find the key, but he’d never understood her need for revenge. He would have just gotten in the way.  

She turned back to the treasure. Her treasure. As she looked down, the glow faded, and for the first time, it felt less like her answer – and more like her prison.

This is a part of my Daily Writing Challenge, where I write a short story inspired by a single word and genre prompt each day. The goal is to rekindle my creativity and try to reignite the storytelling embers.

Lantern

Word: Lantern
Genre: Mystery

Sidewalks in Chengdu are cold, especially when you are flat on your back on one, dressed in a silk robe, drenched in rice wine, feeling the sting of the lovely Jingyi’s slap, and regretting your life choices.

“That’s for my sister!” Jingyi screams at me.

Which one was the sister? The fog of eight shots of baijiu that led to my current predicament aren’t helping. The short one? 

She storms away, and I take a deep breath. Above me the yellow glowing lantern shaped like a chicken gazes down at me with the characteristic disinterest of an actual chicken, and I smile.

I love the lantern festival.

—

This is a part of my Daily Writing Challenge, where I write a short story inspired by a single word and genre prompt each day. The goal is to rekindle my creativity and try to reignite the storytelling embers.

My Underwhelming Jimmy Buffett Story

I have exactly one Jimmy Buffett story, and be warned… it’s underwhelming.

I moved with my brother’s roommate to Key West in September 1991. My life had become unmoored. My father had died the year before, graduation and circumstances had separated me from all my college friends, and I had no money and four years of college debt to pay.

I needed a change of scenery.

“Let’s go to Key West and wait tables!” Rich had encouraged me. “We’ll clean up during the tourist season! And the girls there are amazing! It’s paradise. Right?”

Say no more, Rich. I packed up my 1990 Ford Festiva and headed south. We arrived in Key West and very quickly found that renting a flat in Key West was way more expensive than we’d thought.

But, we told ourselves, once those fabled tourist season tips started pouring in, we’d be set. So we found a little house we couldn’t afford, put down our first and last month’s rent, and started job hunting.

In 1991 there was no internet that could easily tell us when the tourist season began in Key West. If there had been an internet, it would have told us that September is NOT the tourist season and that restaurants were not staffing and we should stay in Virginia where housing is reasonable and lots of jobs are available.

But, we kept looking. Rich had some waiting experience and was able to find a position at a waterfront hotel restaurant. The best I could do with my Fine Arts degree was a part time job in the same restaurant – bussing tables.

Not exactly big money, even if it had been the tourist season. I needed a second job.

I scoured the want-ads and I saw it: Assistant Manager at Blockbuster Video. That was kind of putting my Fine Arts degree to use, wasn’t it?

I interviewed and got the job. It was a steady paycheck, which was good, but with all my bills it also meant I wasn’t going to be getting rich from generous tourists. And I also wouldn’t have much time to meet amazing girls.

It turned out that paradise was lost. The Key West I thought I was going to experience was a mirage.

Cue Jimmy Buffet.

One of my jobs as assistant manager was tediously going through the late video list every day and calling patrons to remind them of their growing late fees. This day I was working my way down the list when I came to the name “Buffet, James – Weekend at Bernie’s” and a phone number.

I gulped. There couldn’t be two James Buffets in Key West, right? I called over a couple of my co-workers who’d lived there longer and they said that yes, it was indeed the man.

What could I do? How could I call Jimmy Buffet to tell him that he owes a couple of bucks for Weekend at Bernie’s?

But then again, how could I NOT call Jimmy Buffet to tell him that he owes a couple of bucks for Weekend at Bernies?

With my two co-workers looking on, I took a deep breath and dialed the number.

The phone rang, and I reminded myself that Jimmy Buffet had this image of being a laid back guy, and it would be fine. He’d probably answer the phone, listen to my message, laugh, and invite me to have a cheeseburger and a margarita at his house when I got off work.

The phone rang again and another image flashed through my mind. Buffet answers the phone and lets loose. “You snot-nosed punk! I’m Jimmy frigging Buffet and you waste my time with a call like this?!? I’m going to have your legs broken and get you kicked out of the Keys!”

The phone rang a third time and everything suddenly came into focus. A warm wind blew across my face… I could hear the sound of the surf crashing on the beach… a sea gull called overhead… the sun warmed my skin as I lay in the sand… come Monday, it’ll be alright…

The receiver clicked on the other end.

Someone answered the phone.

“You’ve reached the Buffet house. Please leave a message at the sound of the tone. BEEEEEEP.”

I stared at my co-workers.

They stared at me.

I gulped and spoke.

“Hi, this is Nathan from Blockbuster video. Just reminding you that you have a late movie. Please return it as soon as possible to avoid more late fees. Goodbye.”

I hung up the phone. My co-workers shrugged and returned to their job of putting movies back on the shelves. I looked back at the list and saw that I still had twenty two letters to get through. I picked up the receiver and dialed the next number.

My time in Key West was short. After about six months, I realized that I was in over my head with my finances and needed to get back north to lower rents and a better job. I went out on exactly one date the entire time I was in Key West, with an amazing girl that had been a dancer in a Marky Mark music video, and I learned an important life lesson: JFK is not a good date movie.

But the highlight of my time in Key West was the time I called Jimmy Buffet’s house to tell him his copy of Weekend at Bernie’s was overdue and spoke to his answering machine.

I told you it was underwhelming.

Rest in peace, Jimmy Buffett.

Captain Cod & The Cosmic Drain • A Short Story

Instead of writing a novel over the month of the National Novel Writing Month, I’m writing the first draft of a short story a day. Using a random genre generator and a list of words for the month, I’ll get a bit to go on, otherwise I’ll write the story that wants to be told. Enjoy!

November 2, 2022

CAPTAIN COD and the COSMIC DRAIN

Word:“Cod”Genre: Kid LitSetting: Deep space

It might be fun to listen to this music from an outfit called “Space Cod” as you read:

“Turn off that blasted alarm!”

Captain Cod took a moment to breathe as Finn, his ship’s computer, doused the alarm that had been blaring, alerting them that the Barracuda was in danger of exploding. An exploding ship is never a good thing for a captain, especially when you’re the captain of a ship exploding in deep space.

But the silence helped, and it was good to feel the fresh water on his gills as the oxygen cleared his brain.

“Think, Cod, think!”

Captain Cod had been in tight spots before, but this might just be the tightest. The Barracuda was trapped in the gravitational pull of a cosmic drain, and was in danger of being reduced to atoms if he didn’t figure out how to escape.

“Finn, what is the status of the babies?”

“As far as I can tell, they haven’t gone anywhere!” the computer sputtered. “We’re doomed! Can I turn the alarm back on?

“No!” Captain Cod shouted, regretting for the millionth time that he’d opted for the computer with emotional output. Although it was helpful when working through his issues of being abandoned as an egg. Not many therapists in deep space, and Finn was actually a good listener.

“Can I at least activate the red flashing lights?”

“No! Finn! Please! Just zip it and let me think!”

Even if he were able to escape from the cosmic drain, the babies were waiting, and the last time he’d checked his torpedoes were offline. They’d be sitting flounder.

“You do know the torpedoes are still offline, right?” Finn whispered. Captain Cod glared at the bubble that housed Finn’s camera and glared at him in a way only a fish can glare. Finn got the point and zipped it.

Captain Cod unbuckled the straps that held him in place and quickly swam back to the navigational screen. He quickly keyed in a few different equations, but they all returned a big red X on the screen.

“Blast!” he exclaimed. “Nothing works. Finn, what is the status on the Whirlpool Drive?”

“The Whirlpool Drive? Why?” the computer asked, concerned.

“Just answer the blasted question!” Captain Cod shouted, slamming his fin on the console.

“The Whirlpool Drive is online but activating it in a cosmic drain would not be recommended,” Finn replied, emphasizing the not be recommended part. “You’ll likely end up as fish paste, spread all over the cosmic drain. And there won’t be enough left of me to play a game of cherubfish checkers.”

“Never tell me the odds,” Captain Cod snapped.

“Um… I didn’t,” Finn replied. “I’m just saying…”

“I know what you’re saying!” Captain Cod said, swimming over to the controls for the Whirlpool Drive. “And we are out of time and options. When I tell you, activate the swisher and set coordinates for H2O.3928.”

Captain Cod grasped the Whirlpool Drive control with his fin and started counting down, “Five, four, three…”, when the alarm started blaring again, this time with the flashing red lights.

“What the fish, Finn!” Captain Cod exclaimed. “I told you to turn it off!”

“It wasn’t me, Captain,” Finn whined. “It’s the proximity alarm! Another ship has entered the drain near us!”

“Is it the babies?” Captain Cod asked, alarmed, looking out the porthole but seeing nothing but the squeezing of reality down into the drain. Certainly, the babies wouldn’t risk being pulverized just to get their hands on the few clams he had in storage.

“I don’t think so,” Finn answered. “But it’s hard to tell with all the reality squeezing going on out there. My sensors are useless.”

The sound of metal scraping the outside of the ship shut up both captain and computer. Captain Cod followed the sound of the scraping as it went from port to bow and when it finally made a “chunk” sound just to his right, where the mast would be, he realized what he was hearing.

“A harpoon?” Captain Cod asked. His question was answered by his ship jostling and knocking even more than before, as if they were being yanked up on the end of a fishing line.

“It seems like someone is pulling us out of the drain,” Finn said, guarded excitement evident in its voice.

“Yeah, but are they friend or shark?” Captain Cod asked. “Either way, we need to be ready. Do we at least have the fishhook?”

“Aye, Captain,” Finn answered. “But I don’t know the last time it was used. Before my time.”

“Any shell in a storm,” Captain Cook answered. “Get it ready.”

Artificial gravity immersed in water was a challenge in the best of times, but when being pulled out of a singularity, it was an extremely stinky feeling. But Captain Cod held on to the straps floating close by and rode it out.

“We’re clearing the threshold of the drain,” Finn said. “I think we’re going to make it.”

“Yeah, but make it into whose clutches?” Captain Cod asked, more to himself than the artificial intelligence that he spent the majority of his time with.

But still, it was a relief to know that time had been bought. And so he steeled himself for what might come next.

Pulling out of a cosmic drain takes time, and so Captain Cod eventually got tired of steeling himself, and instead swam laps around the bridge, hoping to keep sharp when he learned who’d pulled them out of their deep problem.

Eventually, swimming laps grew boring, and so he focused on a game on the computer where a smaller fish ate bigger fish until the smaller fish became a bigger fish.

Then, he napped.

*** This is as far as I got. My 9 year old liked it, so I’ll come back to it later and try to wrap up the story. Warning, my 9 year old wants there to be a twist at the end. So…