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Category Archives: Flash fiction

1000 words or less. Nom.

Running Out of Flashy Titles

Running Out of Flashy Titles

Hungry

WOWEEEEEE POPSSS!

Honeydew Holiday! Green Explosion! Brown Jungle! Volcano Crunches and Southside Strawberrybombs!

WOWEEEEEE POPSSS!

October Orangewhistles and Chocothunders! Pineapplicious Thunks and Cocoboom Contraptions!

WOWEEEEEE POPSSS!

The rainbow light that pinned him to the vending machine smelled like Diggable Lemon and as his Volcano Crunch flopped through the chute, Rogik thought, maybe, he might have a problem with finding someone to get him inside the WOWEEPOPSSS factory, because that stupid cow Tenille said she knew some knuckledriver, but she flaked and he knew, as he tore into the Crunch, as the soursweet burn of it flipped all his totally greased-up switches, that unless he did find a way to get inside, he was going to Lep-out, and probably today, and as he jammed another Five Red Bux into the machine, smashing the Volcano Crunch button again, he could feel the twich starting to ride him now, all his perception amping up, all his rage flowing away, all his time slowing down and that second Crunch just fueled the burn, letting him ride the jittery intensity in a long, restless tremor from Boonie Heights down through Scat and the Ultra Ave Estates, until he had to stop and Crunch again, and when the sun found him passed out on the rim of East Continual, by the chicken shack, he had already started to change.

The smell started to rise from him. Sour and Sweet. Most passersby gave him a wide-berth. Some took photos and whispered and pointed. Some lingered in shadow. Some fled.

The day waned, and the smell from him was now enough to sting eyes and drive animals away. As the sun died, a multicolored spotlight snapped into existence, hard-focused on his prone body. It played back and forth, as if there were a soundtrack playing and the jaunty light was only doing its part to liven up the festivities.

The birds fell silent. The wind stilled.
Rogik stirred. He made a sound in his throat that he would not have recognized.

The spotlight stopped screwing around and narrowed to a tight cone, shifting to a bright orange color, nailed on Rogik’s now rising form, and a very faint sound could be heard on the wind, screams perhaps, or music, and as he stood, he howled with a voice no longer human, and bounded into the dark city streets, raw with hunger.The spotlight kept up, jumping and jerking as once-Rogik, now just another Lep, hunted the city.

Volcano Crunch – Feel the Rush™ VC4LIF!!!^$^%!!!!!!!!

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Jenkins & Hesperly

“What is that thing?”

“A moth I think.”

“A moth!? That big? Can’t be. Must be some kinda…..I dunno, but that ain’t no moth.”

“Well, yeah actually it is. See the antennae and the fuzzy little mouth thing…that’s a moth, dude.”

“But what the hell is it doing in here?”

“Dunno. Maybe it got lost.”

“Lost? Pfftt…yeah, ya think?”

“Well how do YOU think it got in here?”

“I think someone brought in here and put it there for a joke.”

“A joke. Bro, its 8 feet long!”

“Yeah? So?”

“So?! How is that a jok—”

“WHATS GOING ON IN HERE?”

“Uh..n-nothing sir, nothing at all.”

“WHAT IN GODS NAME IS THAT?”

“We think its a….a moth sir.”

“A MOTH?”

“Yes, yes sir.”

“CANT BE. MOTHS AREN’T THAT BIG. MUST BE SOME KIND OF …. I DONT KNOW BUT
THAT IS NO MOTH.”

“Yes sir, something else, not a moth. Understood. Well, back to work.”

“GOOD IDEA JENKINS, GOOD MAN.”

“Yes sir, thank you sir.”

“GODDAMN BIG ASS MOTH. LOOK AT THE BASTARD. MUST BE A JOKE.”

“Yes sir, going to go now sir.”

“YES ON YOUR WAY GENTS, LOTS TO DO, BUSINESS AND ALL.”

“Yes sir. Sorry sir.”

“SORRY? WHAT ARE YOU SORRY FOR HESPERLY?”

“Well, sir, for… for looking at the moth I guess.”

“NOTHING TO BE SORRY ABOUT. BIG DAMN MOTH. WAS LOOKING AT IT MYSELF.”

“Yes sir.”

“DAMNEDEST THING IVE EVER SEEN. DIDNT KNOW THEY GOT THAT BIG”

“Yes sir”

“EVER SEE A TREE FROG? THOSE SUCKERS ARE TINY. MINISCULE EVEN”

“Tree frogs? No sir, cant say as I have had the pleasure.”

“PLEASURE? GOOD GOD JENKINS, ITS NO PLEASURE. LITTLE BASTARDS NEVER SHUT UP.
DRIVES MY WIFE CRAZY”

“You’re married sir?”

“MARRIED 42 YEARS THIS AUGUST. GOOD WOMAN, BUT TINY. NOT LIKE THIS GREAT BIG
BASTARD.”

“Yes sir, if you say so sir.”

“I DO, JENKINS I DO. ALRIGHT. BACK TO WORK!”

……

“Afternoon sir, on your way back to your office?”

“YES I AM, HENDERSON. HAVE A GOOD AFTERNOON.”

“Yes sir, you too.”

“Holy crap, what is that?”

“Is that a moth?”

“Can’t be a moth, its too goddamn big!”

OPs note: I have no way to end this. Its a Seinfeld episode circling the drain. Pretend it was taken behind the woodshed and given a quiet bullet to the head.


Unchained

Ghosts.

I hate them.

No really, I hate the motherfuckers.

Weak. Impotent. Full of rattle and chain. And always with those sad faces? So fucking pathetic.

I stare at the ceiling, hearing the god awful tick-tick-tick of that fucking cuckoo clock.

And then I hear it. The slithery slink of spectral chain, wending its way towards me. Like goddamn always.

With a sliding slip sideways the fucker materializes.

A new one this time.

I remember him. Face slashed into ribbons, one arm dangling uselessly by his side.

Wrapped in ethereal chain. His burden. Not mine.

His face is torn and bloody. And somehow still finds a way to frown. His guts gape like spools of purple ribbon.

He works his jaw furiously, no doubt haranguing me with foul curses and promises of revenge.

I laugh.

“Didn’t I kill you last summer, you fuck?”

He stops his jawing and stares.

“Yeah that’s right, I remember you, you useless fuck.”

He rattles his chain silently, looking rather comical and sad.

“Fuck off. Go haunt someone else. Leave me be.”

He tries to return through the wall, but his arm, the one I nearly severed, gets stuck.

I laugh again.

What a moron.

After five ridiculous minutes, he finally pulls his arm through. He disappears without so much as a whiff of sulfur or brimstone.

I hate ghosts.

The cuckoo clock and the keen of the wind are all that’s left to me now.

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Posted by on July 18, 2017 in Flash fiction

 

Double Dutch

Double Dutch

These crazy stories are all up in my shit, poking me with sticks, breathing hot, stinky breath in my face, “C’mon dude. Wake up. Time to write.”

Gary Was A Sandwich

Its cold.

Been snowing to beat the devil for the past 6 weeks.

Paper says the spring thaw will be a month late, looks like I’m going to be stuck here for
awhile. At least I am not alone.

Satellite dish won’t work through this blizzard.

Nothing but static on the radio.

I have food and enough cut firewood to last me to the thaws if I am careful.

I have enough books to stave off boredom for awhile.

 

I check in on Gary.

He looks peaceful enough.

Don’t want to wake him.

He hates being woken up early.

I pass the time.

I read.

I masturbate.

I try in vain to get something on the radio.

I cook my food and eat without pleasure.

Gary doesn’t talk much.

He just lays around, staring at me.

Sometimes I just want to throttle him.

Went out today. Needed to check the petrol in the truck hadn’t frozen solid.

Was gone awhile.

Musta left the front door ajar.

When I came inside, stamping my feet to get the snow off my boots I noticed something was wrong.

The cabin felt strange.

As if there was someone here who shouldn’t be.

When I went into the kitchen a shriek of horror escaped my lips.

“GARY! WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO YOU!”

Gary lay there, torn apart.

Tomatoes and cucumber mingled in runny mustard.

I felt ill.

He had been eviscerated.

His bread was torn, his filling spilled all over.

I sunk to my knees and wept.

My best friend was dead.

Gary. Gary. I will miss you my friend.

I scooped him up and made him as comfortable as possible.

I rearranged his filling in his bread and tried to make it seem as if nothing had happened.

I went to the pantry and got a bag of potato chips.

I put them on a plate.

I added Gary.

Sobbing, I dug in.

I miss you Gary.

Coins

A shattering spray of gold and silver jumped from his outstretched hand, as if he had flung them away, unwanted!

He hit the ground a second later, sprawled –chin first – across the razor ripshred of cinders and sun-baked concrete.

HahhahaHahahhAhahaHa Whatta Doofis!

Jimmy and the Snakes – ever the enemies, ever the rock-thrower-motherfuc–.

Mercifully, the drone of the barker and packs of giggling girls drew them off.

He stung and ached – he was bleeding and torn.

Slowly he picked himself up while old folks and kids and dogs and families walked, ran, trudged, skipped, bounded past him unkind, unhelping.

His eyes dropped to the dusty, patchy turf and dirt. He scanned for gold and silver, there! he leapt, and there! and scrabbled, there! but the powdery earth had taken its tax and he was missing over half his coveted treasure – a few golds and a clinky mess of silver, a summertime’s bounty of chores and endless errands.

He looked up at the neon sign strung across a seemingly endless wooden fence and saw the shuffling line of people and pets funneling into a single breach, a clown danced nearby clutching a fistful of balloons, capering and waving to all.

He ran to join the line.

The endless summer waited.

 
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Posted by on July 18, 2017 in Flash fiction

 

Flash! Bang! Pow!

Flash! Bang! Pow!

War Never Changes

They had us pinned down for three nights.

The rain was relentless.

Sheets of flat white would crack the sky and for a split second all was frozen in time – the soldiers lying dead in the craters, eyes full of water, the division of fighters winging overhead on their way back to base, a squad of boys leaping over a stone wall to escape the murderous enfilade of a machine gun nest, and the whole, eerie frozen scene was washed with a billion drops of rain, like a photograph under glass left out in a storm.

We had defilade. It wasn’t much, a few fallen logs and the bodies of our enemy piled atop them.

It was enough to keep us alive if we didn’t move.

The hole stunk of our droppings and misery. The rain couldn’t wash that away.

Oberleutnant Sommer had ordered us to blow the machine gun nest atop a stubby little hill that had been blasted free of cover weeks ago. It was like trying to climb a hill on the moon while it rained lead.

We couldn’t go forwards, we couldn’t go back. Unless we got some reinforcements we were probably going to die here.

I felt in my pack for the spare cigarettes, hoping they were still dry, even if I had no matches.

I couldn’t risk checking to look, the sky was throwing down wet ropes of rain.

I heard a whine, like a huge mosquito whizzing past my ear and Köhler cried out in pain.

I rolled over and saw a big red flower on his jacket. It was growing.

He looked at me with big brown eyes and he tried to speak, but all that came out was a bubble of blood.

We had no more medical supplies. They were gone before we even got here.

As he pumped air from his lips it grew larger and larger until I couldn’t look at it anymore.

I looked away. When I turned back Köhler’s eyes were fixed and dilated. The flower still bloomed.

I dropped my head and said a prayer. I closed his eyes.

I looked at Ruschke and he looked at me.

We were thinking the same thing.

We stripped off Köhler’s shirt and waved it over our heads.

We stood up, arms up, guns discarded.

The enemy soon came, all swagger and bravado, unfiltered cigarettes drooping from the corners of their mouths, even in the deluge. They smelled of baked beans and fried chicken and Coca-Cola. They spoke in rough vowels and splintered consonants, the very picture of Yankee-cool. They took our surrender. They bundled us into a half-track and we spent the next few hours bouncing through the ruts and puddles.

When we were taken into the prisoner camp one of them pressed a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes into my hand and patted me on the back.

I looked at his name tag. “Granger, L.”

I saw he had looked at mine, “Granger, H.”

Funny old world.


Jack and Jill

“JACK! Jack where are you, you lazy sonuvabitch? JACK!”

Out in the shed Jack puts the engine he has been trying to coax back into life down on the worn wooden workbench.

He rubs a calloused hand over his aging face and counts to 10.

Outside the banshee’s voice calls him again, a shrieking that rattles his very bones.

He has learned long ago that yelling back at her will have no effect.

Speaking calmly makes her nuts.

He grins at that.

He steps out into the bright sunshine and walks to the back of the house.

“Jill? You called me?”

She turns from the sink where she is stacking the lunch dishes.

“You damn right I called you, you lazy good-for-nothing. Playing with your tools again, huh? No, don’t say nuttin’, I don’ wanna hear it! You promised me you’d go and refill the water tank, didn’t you? ANSWER ME!”

Jack stands quietly, looking at his feet, knowing the question is rhetorical, and she is far from finished.

He waits.

Patient.

“Mister man, you best getcher booty up dat hill and fetch me some water. Now!”

“But Jill, you know I got a bad back. I can’t carry that water all by myself. I’m gonna need help.”

She shoots him a look that would make the devil wince.

“You such a lazy, lazy good-for-nothing. Why da hell did I marry you anyways? Fine. Let me get my boots on.”

They trudge together up the grassy hill, not touching, not speaking, not looking at each other. Each lost in their own thoughts

Jill thinks “Damn-that-man-he-so-lazy-why-the-hell-dinnit-i-marry-that-boy-my-mamma-wanted-me-to-marry-i-am-so-damn-mad-i-could-spit!”

Jack thinks “Wonder if Joe’s got that spark-plug wrench I need? Should be down home by now. Have to check when I get back.”

At the top of the long steep slope is an ancient well, its stones mossy and green with age.

A single wooden bucket is perched on its lip, a brand new rope connecting it to the framing above the deep cool hole.

Jack reaches for it at the same moment Jill does. For a moment they are looking into each other’s eyes, each too stubborn to let go, each too stubborn to let the other help.

“Let. Go. Of. The. Damn. Bucket. Jill!”

“Why? Sose you can drop it agin like last time? YOU let go!”

They start to wrestle for the bucket when Jack loses his footing, twisting his ankle on an errant rock. He starts to fall, but stubborn Jill won’t let go of the bucket.

In the morning the police mark off the area where their bodies are found. The report is marked “Death by Misadventure”.


A Murder of Crows

A murder of crows gollicked in the Stoning.
A huddle of ancient walls thrown up around them, protecting them from the eyes of the rabble.

Inside, smeared by fragrant smoke, a clutch of priests chanted the ancient words and swore fealty to dark and bloody gods.

Below, cramped into the inky dark, wild-eyed prisoners scrabbled in the dark, howling their profanities at the unfeeling walls.

Above, in the Stoning, the gollicking gives way to gobbling crimson strips of flesh torn from the decaying rot of a prisoner’s gaunt form. The crows cries sound of endless night, of mournful, tuneful wind in the skulls of the dead, of the echoing lost cries of a child in the woods.

A mad king tears out his eyes in the high tower, the sound of the feasting crows driving his sanity over the edge.

The bloody fingers of the faithful, scratching at the crumbling walls, howling their frustration at the uncaring walls. Desperate to be close to the unholy flock, desperate to be torn bloody, to be rended and devoured.

Covering all, like the putrid smoke from the fire of a thousand burning corpses, the unholy chanting fills every ear, turns every eye inward, turns every heart black.

Midnight in the shadows.

 
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Posted by on July 18, 2017 in Flash fiction

 

3 is the Magic Number

3 is the Magic Number

Here They Come

“Shitshitshit! I think thats the last of them! Is that the last of them?”

“I think so, I don’t know, is Lothar down? Fuck!”

“OhfuckithurtsfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKingshit……..ohgodohmother”

“We’ve got incoming! Klem get on the door, do NOT let any of those fuckers through!
Lothar? Lothar! Can you stand? Ok, you’ve got our backs.”

“I see one, no, two more hordes heading this way! SHIT! They’ve got trolls! FUCK!”

“Trolls…godsdammit!…ok….Aziz, you’ve got about 5 mins to memorize Fireball! Hurry the
fuck UP! Jelnon we need you to lay down covering fire, ok? OK? JELNON OK? Ok! Shitfuckpeople, we don’t have time to fuck around! Dammit I’m bleeding, Eric, get over here! Yeah hurry up, just a Cure Light Wounds will do. NO! We DONT have time for you to Commune.”

“WHAT? NO! Get up with Klem, make sure those fuckers don’t have any undead with them”

“Captain! CAPTAIN I see Ravagers behind the trolls! Ohgodohfuckingshitidontwannadieinthisshithole! CAPTAIN!”

“YEAH OK I HEARD YOU! Get this barrier up now! NOW! Eric see what you can do about
those Ravagers, and I don’t care if you have to burn every godsdamn spell you have, make sure!!”

“Captain they are running now! DAMMIT! I can see swarms of stirges with them! FUCK I hate those blood-sucking little fuckers! Lothar! LOTHAR! We need your sword!”
“JELNON I NEED COVERING FIRE NOW!”

explosion

“Captain? CAPTAIN? GODSFUCK! THE CAPTAIN’S DOWN! ERIC GET OVER HERE! HEAL HIM GODSDAMMIT! I DONT CARE WHAT HE SAID WITHOUT THE CAPTAIN WE DON’T STAND A CHANCE! JUST DO IT!”

“Klem the swarms are advancing! They look ………..oh gods oh FUCK! They are undead stirges! WEVE GOT UNDEAD! Eric! Hurry up with the captain! They are almost on us!”
“GET READY HERE THEY COME!”

Leave Me Alone

Quiescense – dripdripdripping through the autumn haze.
Birdsong and cricketscree fill my head with buzzing white noise.
I stuff snail shells into my ears – drowning sound.
I clutch soggy events of days past round my slippery ribs and shudder at the thought of icy dawns soon to come.
Torn down broken bones of houses long tumbled are my only friends.
Not the dog nor the cat nor the rabbit nor the mouse come near.
I stink of death and blood and ancient ways, and I am fear to them.

Long have I tarried in this quiet place where man races above
neither seeing me nor hearing me nor wanting to know of me.
At night, when the moon sleeps, I put sharp brokens on the black road.
When I hear the monster smash into the trees I eat what remains.

Once I found a looksee dropped by a child’s hand.
It was scrawled in graffiti and runes, in the new tongues.
It had a picture of me. Of me. Of my kind. Of my race. Of us.
I am the last.
I am the bones of the earth. I am smoke. I am moss. I am dust and stone.
I am TROLL.
Do not go trip-trapping on my bridge.

Surly

The demon was surly.
It had every right to be.
On its home plane it was known as X’lax’Ich’mtomn-the Unholy, sometimes called X’lax-the-Unclean, or X’lax-the-Impure.
But this ugly bag of mostly water that had him imprisoned insisted on calling him “His Most Unholy Irreverent Scourge of Pureness”. The very egotism of it unnerved him.

Being a mid-level T’anarri he was entitled to certain respects and honors, but even he bowed to the power of the Glabrezu and the Vrock, and the Pit Fiends, they saw him as nothing more than meat-fodder. One more soldier in the Eternal War. If they caught one whiff of this impudent human’s slithering, sickening servitude they would chain him to the top of Mount Agony and laugh their collective horns off for millennia. He would probably never be allowed to enter the Palace of Fuck and Death again!

X’lax rubbed his cloven hooves over his face and swore in Infernal. Bad enough that this summoning circle was cramped as Heaven, but it was drawn poorly, the efforts of a low-level dabbler, pathetic really.

How could he have been captured by this fool? He could remember a time when only the most powerful necromancers and diabolists would dare speak his name aloud. When the mere sight of him slew over a dozen virgin sacrifices chained in some dank cave, sent there for his hunger and pleasure.

He wanted so badly to speak to this mortal, but the spells of binding would not let him speak. He could move, cramped as it was, but could not sit down or stretch his tail. Fuck he wanted a cigarette badly, too. He had promised his brood-mate (a delicious piece of damnation that he purchased from Ythrak-the-Unyielding during the last Cycle) that he would stop, but the temptations of the mortal plane were too great and he found himself craving a smooth blast of nicotine followed by one or two virgins on which he could feast and sate his eternal appetite.

The mortal was drawing closer. He held some arcane tome in his hands, glass-rimmed eyes squinting at some sigils drawn in child’s blood 1000 years before the birth of the Enemy’s son, that crown-of-thorns-wearing-dupe. X’lax looked up, wondering what humiliating task the mortal was going to force him to do, when the mortal opened his mouth and began chanting in Infernal.

X’lax smiled. The fool’s pronunciation was pathetic. It wasn’t even worthy of brood-spawn who have yet to devour their mothers. With the botching of the ritual, X’lax was free to ignore both the spells of binding and the summoning circle that confined him. He reached out one taloned claw and reveled in the smell and sound of fresh blood pouring across his flesh.

Maybe after he had lunch he could dominate some weak-minded mortal into grabbing him a fresh pack of Marlboros.

 
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Posted by on July 18, 2017 in Flash fiction