FlashmobWrites gives you a choice of two different prompts, both taken from the lyrics of a song (which you can also use for inspiration, or ignore as you see fit).
For Week 1.08 the prompts were
Cara Michaels: “maybe she isn’t real”
Ruth Long: “I don’t need it, I just want it”
A Last Throw of the Dice
No matter your stance, the science behind most attempts was tenuous at best. But we’d run out of options. Many pointed the finger at corporations and rampant greed, but humanity as a whole was to blame.
Surprisingly at the last moment we rose above our baser nature. Instead of going out in petty squabbles over the final scraps of resources, cooler heads prevailed and scientists were given free reign. No matter how crackpot the theory, they received a cut of what was left and told to have at it. Time machines, faster than light drives, matter transmission, you name it, they all had their adherents.
Everyone whose work wasn’t instrumental to everyday survival of our species was dragooned into work teams for one project or another. I ended up on a real whack-job, left field one. But I didn’t mind – it meant that my incompetence was less likely to screw up anything important. I don’t think the guy in charge even had a degree, I think he was just some stoned old hippie trying to make his flashbacks a reality. We had some real sharp fellas from Silicon Valley in on our team too, they ended up doing most of the grunt work, some code that would link every wifi router into one big network sensing array. My job was contacting all the radio telescope arrays around the world, and working out a time we could hook our super network into theirs.
On the morning of our allotted day, our office was jumping. Even though money wasn’t really worth anything any more, I had some sizeable bets going with the code jockeys that we’d been wasting our time. I don’t know if they’d ended up drinking the koolaid, or were just so up themselves that they didn’t think they could fail, but they eagerly accepted. We were shushed into silence and the head honcho picked up the mic and blew into it.
“Hello? We need your help.”
That’s all he said. And waited.
“Who are you talking to, aliens?”
“I’d accept their help too, but I’m trying to get in contact with Earth’s Infinite Essence.”
“She has many names. Gaia. Mother Earth. She’s spoken of in many enlightened texts from a range of belief systems.”
“Maybe she isn’t real.”
Over our network came a shuddering roar.
“Or maybe she’s pissed off!”