Yesterday I dutifully wrote my 200 words at 10pm Pacific time, but my account timezone is Central time, so it didn't register as the correct day and my very short streak was broken. Again. C'est la vie.
Read and greatly inspired by Another Summer With More Microfiction From Dallas Authors.
This new editor on 200wad is shite. There, I said it.
Anyway, I was inspired to write "microfiction" by the above linked-to collection. I was also inspired to put more of my local surroundings into my work.
So, with 100 words left, let's give it a try.
"It's L.A.," the Teenager said for the 100th time. He's been here before, on his own, to visit his dad, when his dad lived here. This makes him an expert on this area of the world. It did take a lot of explanation to convince him that this was still Los Angeles, despite not being the same part of Los Angeles he had previously visited; that Los Angeles, like our own Dallas, was a large metroplex comprised of many smaller neighborhoods.
"That's L.A...Only in L.A...L.A. is better at...L.A. has..." it was a reliable rhythm of the trip. And when we got home, it turned out he was right. From the rear-view window of our oddly retro taxi, the airport disappeared behind us, never to appear again. What was once a shining downtown full of skyscrapers was just a haphazard collection of short stone structures. Agricultural fields stretched as far as you could see from just north of Mockingbird. We no longer had any technology. We were in a new dark ages. Our fiber internet was gone; hell, we didn't have dial-up. Our cars wouldn't start, their computer-controlled ignitions deemed irrelevant. My job didn't exist. I couldn't even publish this account on the Internet. We had only one choice.
"Five tickets to California," I told the woman at the the train station.