Four-Sentence fiction

Author’s note: This began as a recreational writing exercise we did as a family back before we got TV cable. When the kids got old enough to have their own laptops, we would all set up in the living room. The mission was to craft a spot of fiction consisting of no more than four sentences. The story should be coherent and compelling. Restricting ourselves to four sentences encouraged focus and brevity, something that is a perennial challenge for most any writer. Once we had crafted a few, we’d go around the room and read them aloud. That was such a fun time.

         The sun came up the following morning just as it always had. The man lay in bed staring at the ceiling, memories of the previous evening’s announcement playing back and forth in his head like some sentient thing beyond his control. He rolled over onto his right elbow, turned on the light, and lifted his alarm clock. There underneath the clock was the lottery ticket, right where he’d left it.

         First there was the compressor failure then the fire and the survival gear had gone down with the plane. It was legitimately miraculous that he had made it clear of the wreck intact with a lifejacket and waterproof radio. A sense of relief washed over him like a rejuvenating cataract as he heard the voice of the Coast Guard Petty Officer crackle in his headset. Then he felt something quiet, dark, and large brush against his leg.

         Bereft of hope, the empty man dried his eyes with his sleeve, retrieved the handgun from his desk drawer, and stumbled out onto the street in search of a secluded place. The terrified woman tumbled suddenly out of the apartment building next door and into his arms, a nasty bruise marring her otherwise perfect cheek. Past her beautiful eyes wide with horror the man saw her assailant burst from the same door, a wicked knife in his hand. Without conscious thought the man stepped around the injured woman, pushed her safely to the side, and drew his pistol.

         For some success was a Wall Street boardroom, for others perhaps simply a beer. For this man professional success was far more complicated. He let his mouse slide of its own accord down the list of names until it fell upon one at random. Jotting the address down on a Post-It note, he checked his pocket for his car keys, hefted the bag with the zip ties and duct tape, and headed for the door.

         The door to the Oval Office opened authoritatively, and four armed men in combat gear stepped inside. “Madame President, you know you need to come with us,” the team leader said flatly. As she left the room the President passed another large man in fatigues, his gray hair shaved close and four black stars on his blouse. As the defeated woman disappeared down the hall, the professional soldier settled into the heavy leather chair behind the Resolute desk and spoke to an aide, “Set up the press conference for half an hour.”

         The words he had rehearsed so many times turned furiously in his head as he undogged the hatch. Red-tinted sunshine cascaded through the opening, and he placed one booted foot onto the top rung of the Mars lander’s crew ladder. His heart raced and his mouth went dry at the gravitas of the moment. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement in the sand.

         The kid had an irrational affection for virgin shoes, so he eschewed socks. The natural evolution of capitalism had driven most textile jobs to undeveloped countries with cheap labor and jungles. Tearing into the Amazon parcel, he hefted his new sneakers, admiring them from several angles. As he thrust his bare toes into the darkness there lurked within dozens of multifaceted eyes both terrified and angry.

         The cruiser’s tractor beam captured the derelict Voyager deep space probe and moved it into the shuttle bay. The ship’s captain smiled thinly as he perused the messages of peace decoded from the laser disk stored inside the probe.

“Commander, we have analyzed the probe’s trajectory and extrapolated its origin,” his navigator announced.

Running his bifurcated tongue across rows of tiny sharp teeth, the hulking reptile hissed, “Excellent, ready the legions.”

         The days ran together such that the man no longer kept track. He had become a feral thing after so long alone with no one for company. There was food aplenty, but it was the desolate aloneness that so threatened his sanity. After a while he began to regret having refused the coronavirus vaccine.

         The island was the culmination of a lifetime’s toil and graft. As price was no object, he had the place outfitted in trappings suitable for a prince or sultan. As the contagion swept the planet, his staff had fled the place to be with family or friends at the end. Now thoroughly alone, he was surprised one afternoon to spot a sail on the horizon.

         The man was more scavenger than predator, and he gave little thought to the shallow breath now coming deep and wet from his inert victim. He rifled through the dying woman’s purse, snatching out cash and cards before discarding the pictures of loved ones whose love the man might never comprehend. Standing up while carefully avoiding the growing pool of blood, he smiled at his modest take. Suddenly his heart stopped at the deep guttural growl emanating from the shadows behind him.