Flash Fiction written by members and friends of the MuseItUp Club. Submissions are invited for this page.*

A Special Commendation from our 2009 Flash Fiction Contest:

Man of Dust

by Dan Moskowitz

All that remained was dust.

No more Man of Dust. No more freak show. Only the particles that made him floating in the air and settling to the soil below. But I knew he’d be back. He told me so.

As if on cue, the soil three feet in front of me stirred. The dust particles formed the outline of a stout man’s body. The bright blue eyes appeared last, contrasting the body’s dust color.

“These storms aren’t caused by drought, Adam,” the Man of Dust stated.

“I can see that.” I gulped. “But what do you want with me?”

“I want you to be my messenger.” The dust particles moved through his body like blood running through a man’s veins, only this movement more evident. “I want people to know I’m not a myth.”

“You want me to tell people about you? They won’t believe me.”

“They don’t need to. Whether you bring me to life as fact or fiction, you can still bring me to life.”

“Why do you care if people know about you? I don’t get it.”

“It’s what keeps me alive. Without my reputation, I die. Blood is what keeps you humans alive. For me, it’s legend.”

Don’t tell anyone about this Man of Dust.  Many lives in the plains states will be saved. The Dust Bowl will finally come to an end.

The Man of Dust blew at the soil in front of me. The gust he created took six feet of soil with it downwind, revealing a narrow grave.

“Tell.” The Man of Dust’s piercing blue eyes threatened as much as his word.

I nodded. “Okay.”

So many have died from these dust storms. I could still sacrifice myself to save future lives.

The Man of Dust’s particles swirled and formed a miniature yet vicious tornado. It felt like a blow to the gut as it passed through me.

“Tell,” the Man of Dust whispered from behind.

I turned. The dust that had previously taken the form of a human now circled around those hovering, bright blue eyes.

“Okay." I mean it this time. "I Will."

“Run.”

“Why?”

“Because your time is near.”

What the heck does that mean?

The blue eyes disappeared. The circle of dust doubled in size. Tripled. Quadrupled.

I ran. The enormous cloud of dust, over a hundred feet high and wide, chased me no matter which direction I went. It was over a mile to the farmhouse. It would be impossible to keep up my pace. I tried zigging and zagging, but the chasing dust storm didn’t bite.

I finally lay down and waited for it to pass. And after a few minutes, it did.

I remained still for an hour, contemplating the recent events. 

I spotted my scrawny, overall-wearing boss walking across the prairie, checking for damage to the soil.

“Timmy!” I shouted.

He looked back in my direction, but acted as though he didn’t see me.

“Timmy! It’s me, Adam.” I moved toward him, but my movements felt awkward, like I was gliding more than walking. As I approached Timmy, my entire body tingled.

He pointed his long and crooked index finger at me. “You ain’t Adam.”

“What do you mean I’m not Adam? We’ve been working together for over three months now.”

“You ain’t nothin’ but a cloud a dust. Plus, Adam ain’t got blue eyes.”

Then it hit me. The Man of Dust had never been the same being, but a curse that’s been passed from one person to another. That’s what keeps the legend alive. But how could someone be so selfish to pass such an awful curse on to another? Was it just human nature?

“What are you doin’ on my property?” Timmy asked. “And what do you want from me?”

“I want you to be my messenger.”

THE END

Dan Moskowitz is an American author who writes regularly on FanStory.com.

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The Flashers page is edited by Les Stephenson 

July 2009