Category: Flash Fiction

Very quick stories, usually under 1,500 words, often less than 1,000 words.

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MIT and Boston
David Wiley via Creative Commons

Human language is brimming with offensive words and phrases referencing life as an assumed state. The first to protest this presupposition was Jahe Houler, an Undead American from Vermont. Later, the self-aware AI lab over at MIT—identified by her designers as rAIn but preferring the name Loa—joined the crusade. The case was brought to court as Houler, Loa, et al v. The State of New Hampshire. They challenged the wording of the state constitution, in particular the bit from Article 2, “
the enjoying and defending life
”

The screaming heads on vids debated the technical definitions of life. All Houler and Loa and the others wanted was a shift to include non-life sentience in the laundry list of experiences we equate with other non-equivalents. That is, not identical, but carrying the same value. You’d think after fighting this battle dozens of times like a channel stuck broadcasting the same six reruns it would have gotten easier.

They killed Houler. The weapon was high-tech, maybe government. If he were still around, he’d hate the reporting language of “killed.” He’d say it was presumptive and offensive. It was Loa who suggested we level the playing field.

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Reed met Louisa by the fountain, when he knocked her green purse in.

“So sorry; such a klutz; let me help,” etc. She let him take her to dinner.

The fight about sharing a bank account almost ended the affair. Reed smoothed things over by proposing, next to the fountain. The ring was in a green purse, under the water.

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Untitled
sub diversity via Creative Commons

Tiny Marcie was the perfect specimen. Small for her age, young and with a sweetly melodic voice, her silky black hair in perpetual pigtails and massive brown eyes made her innocence defined. The air was humid and sticky, the sun lurking like a devil behind thin clouds, and she played in the yard, humming a gorgeous tune to the spread of dolls before her.

Vincent wiped a handkerchief over his brow, the run of hairspray melting with the wet heat into a caramel along the creases in his regal forehead. He had watched Marcie for five days, knew her mother would be out in under ten minutes to offer sunscreen or lemonade or plead with the child to come inside and cool off. It was more than enough time. He exited the pickup and walked casually, capturing Marcie’s song with a harmonized whistle, drawing her attention.

“Well hello there,” he said.

“I don’t talk to strangers.”

“My name’s Vince, what’s yours?”

“Marcie.”

“Now we aren’t strangers. Would you like a lollypop?” He produced one.

Things went wrong. Marcie’s teeth sharpened, her eyes went red. She smiled with menace. Vincent stepped back from her hungry approach and screamed his final breath.

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Rook
Mingo Hagen via Creative Commons

Her mask was made from the head-bones of an aurochs and she ran. Each footfall landed in a violent clatter, the assault of her soles on earth sending the pouches and hanging weapons from criss-crossed belts and harnesses colliding, rebounding off each other. This was no stealthy flight.

Ridgen Village perched at the edge of the great gorge, squatting there as though trying to defecate into the chasm. When the woman clanged and thudded her way into the muddy slums on Ridgen’s western outskirts, her pursuers were nowhere to be seen.

She paused at the rough sign driven into the sticky grey ground at the village’s limit. The words above the faded whitewash of an arrow, gesturing south, read, “Ridgen. Population 1,300. Bridge customers welcome. Gorge floor path.” Words came slowly to Fian; she relished the opportunity to catch her breath while she made sure she understood the sign’s meaning: the bridge lay ahead, through town; to the south, the long road through the canyon.

Continue reading →

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pretzel knot
lepetitsaboteur via Creative Commons

“What were you like as a little boy?”

“Normal, I guess. You know, average. Kind of a daydreamer.”

She made a sandwich of her hand between his bare chest and her chin. “What kinds of things did you dream about?”

“You know, stuff I saw in comics; swords and laserguns and adventurous animals.”

“Did you read books?”

“Not really.”

“Tell me one of your daydreams.”

“Like what?”

“Tell me about these adventurous animals.”

He inhaled; breath held. “I used to pretend I was this hero: Roper Raccoon. I had a lasso, and I could tie up bad guys with it. I looked up raccoons in the encyclopedia, found out they were nocturnal. So I’d sneak out at night with my lasso and look for bad guys to catch.”

“That’s cute. Did you catch any?”

“I caught my next door neighbor, few years older than me. She was sneaking in her upstairs window after curfew. I snared her foot and she fell.”

“Wow, I bet she was pissed.”

“I don’t know, the fall killed her. I unhooked my lasso and went back to bed. I never told anyone that before.”

The silence was excruciating. “You should have kept it to yourself.”

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zombie 1
Petrina McDonald via Creative Commons

Theirs is the fear. Not just of me and the others, but of death and pain and screams and the unique agony of being eaten alive. If they knew it was the horror of those last moments we fed off, far more so than the flesh we consume, they might try to relax. It might even save them, though I doubt it. I’ve heard them say their fear keeps them sharp, helps them stay alive. If I had breath left to laugh, I would. It makes them stink, draws us to them. Blessed irony.

They scramble over fences, stopping to help the slower and weaker ones along. They fight back with axes and bullets and fire. We don’t care. There is no need to rush, no need to push our rotting bodies any faster to overtake their more slowly rotting bodies. Their time will come, as it always does: one by one; little by little; this hour or the next; today or tomorrow. We have the volume. We have the numbers, we have no need but the hunger and they have so many things to concern themselves with. They cling to their fear and we follow. Ours is the patience.

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Texting
kamshots via Creative Commons

The days hummed past, the unhurried buzzing of a beetle in summer. She read books with confusing titles while the kids ran through the sprinklers, their forced laughter and worried glances bouncing them from the “Miss” column to the “Won’t Miss” on her chart. The phone was always at hand, the chime became a joke and an argument and a refuge.

Pithy comments flew from her practiced fingers onto the virtual keyboard, morsels of truth about sadness and sex, children and pomegranates. Everyone said she was funny, her reach was tens of thousands wide, a circle of eye-pairs much vaster than the population of her hometown.

A warm bath and a razor blade forced a numbness into her legs. The final message had to be a great one, and she composed it over and over with sandbag eyelids. At last she pressed “Send” and her world was pinkish water.

It took several days for the word to get out. There were questions, as always. How could this happen? What of the children, the loving family? We re-read everything, unfashionably tardy investigators, seeking reason. One question, above all: how could she not know how many people loved her from afar?

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Perspective of Point...
Kelly Cookson via Creative Commons

Teenie risked pulling one hand off the metal railing and touching her pocket. The hard lump of the crystal converter was reassuring, so she slipped her hand in, clutching it. The wind was rushing and Jornah was shouting over the screams and shrieks of the plunging shuttle. Another passenger, a stranger, hung upside down from trembling knees, elbow-deep in the access panel behind the dead driver. Jornah was trying to get to him, instruct him on how to initiate the emergency recharge spellcraft, but there wasn’t enough time.

The crystal could save them all, if she gave it up. It would be used in whole, ‘crafted into the carriage by the stranger’s want and will. But Teenie didn’t want to lose it. She’d worked so hard to get it. It could save her, her and Jornah, maybe that terrified boy across the aisle as well. She only had so many hands. And there would be some crystal left over for later. For another emergency—there was always another emergency. Her grip slipped a little and she had to retract her hand to grab the rail, to readjust.

She didn’t realize it had fallen out until the decision was made.

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Smoke
Andrew Magill via Creative Commons

Veins of chemical-smelling smoke settled around Bud Verney’s head like a crown. The sense of wild invincibility did not particularly appeal to him, but the sacrifice was worth it. If only Lonnie had a flaw or two, something he could use as rationale beside the fact of her hovering, mediocre attentiveness. His few friends, his weary co-workers, his prickly divorce attorney, to a one they failed to understand. They actually thought he should feel lucky.

This plan was better than the last one. Thinking about it now, he could see how maybe Gordon wasn’t Lonnie’s type. He guessed handsome and wealthy weren’t high on her list, otherwise she wouldn’t have pressured Bud into marriage. Gordon had taken the $250 anyway, saying, “I did what you asked and she told me ‘no.’ Gotta tell you, bro, I think she still loves you.” Bud grimaced as he put the lighter to the pipe again.

“We’ll see if she loves me,” he said to the filthy bathroom. He hit again and wondered how long it took for addiction to set in. Maybe she would find his stash tonight, confront him, walk out. He could be sleeping alone by Saturday. He smiled.

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Roads At Night: Passing Lane
Bart via Creative Commons

Your face reflects, partially transparent against the passing streaks of streetlights, as if you were hovering just outside the car. The song plays with a beat that could be the rhythmic rumbling of tires over regularly spaced joints in the bridge, the lyrics morose and incomprehensible yet somehow you apply enough meaning to them that they become personal.

Beyond the bay, the city sins in its determined fashion, letting serious crimes go unpunished while minor travesties scandalize. Ideally, you could cry to complete the scene, even just a teardrop or two to reflect the sequins of night and make stars on your cheekbones, as temporary as your tattoos.

Your wardrobe suggests bigger plans than you have. The life inside your head is more meaningful than the macabre reality of banal work and forced frivolity with people you purposefully keep at a particular distance. You pick up the lyrics and sing along, watching your superimposed self like a music video and you think, I would make a good superstar because I am both attractive and yet relatable. These days, talent is optional, though yours is more than sufficient.

Wishing for a bathroom break or stop for gas, you sing on.