Flash Fiction: Angel’s Field

Dreamlike, you know. Harold walked among those stalks of grass and moved them as they whipped at his skin. Dry and somehow sticky—and somehow coating his mind too in that dryness. He was mentally warm, uncomfortable. But he kept going.

Up in front of him, something white and fluttering was there. Something that was the size of a person, but glowing. Pale skin. Bare and nude except for a small patch of fabric across the midriff. Wrapped loosely with jewels.

He should have been embarrassed, or at least aroused—but he was simply drawn forward. Continue reading

Advertisements

Flash Fiction: Cut And Stabbed

Knife into the chest.

“Oh…”

“What does it feel like?” she asked, stepping into the stab. Pushing into her husband harder and harder.

She grinned.

“How does what feel?” he asked, his eyes growing darker.

“Do you understand what you did to me?” she asked. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Foolish Bravado

An uproar shook the social fabric when the young upstart had challenged the Flame Master to a duel—but that paled in comparison to the reaction when he had fixed the upstart with a haughty glare and nodded in acceptance.

And, by the rules of the Mage Academy, that was enough—that was all that it took.

They set it for twilight. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Crunch

When they had brought Charlie in, when they had told him they were going to get the information out of him, one way or the other, he had no idea that this was the method they were going to use.

His superiors had trained him to not squeal any information even if they were attacking him in the genitalia. But, this, he had never expected something like this. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Sky Tear

Mackenzie had her hood pulled down and her eyes stayed hard on the sidewalk. She ran, but cautiously. Avoiding bumping into anyone. She did not want to risk falling over.

Shadows warped and elongated. It was getting dark fast. This was going to hit right now.

She glanced up, but not too far, and spied a bakery. The patrons of the restaurant were peering past her and would for a very long time. She shoulder-checked open the door, even though it was not locked, and ran for the bathroom. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: The Most Frantic Of Deadlines

What sleep had he got so far? Is it important? So much to do. Is it important at the end of the day how tired a person is?

Faced with it again, and again—and time was warping around him as he did what he could with the time he had and the chemicals that made it all possible to pound more and more words out in the frantic way of the life that he wanted. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Star Walk

They walked on the roads, because past midnight, in that sleepy town, no one, not the cops, not the neighbors, would be out and about. Sure, the occasional screen, the occasional person driving along would be there, but, for the most part, the town may as well not have been in existence.

“Is it pretentious if I say—?”

“Yes.”

Howard laughed. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“If you have to ask,” Charlie said, “then it is pretentious.” Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Do You Ever Wonder?

On the stage, decked in small ribbons and garish clothing, stood two men, and they both strummed their guitars with passion and grace. One of them was short and fat, the other tall and thin. A generic pair, to be sure, but one that had played for a very long time, in a lot of places.

The day’s patrons did not seem to like the show, however, as they paid little mind to them, walking along, talking amongst themselves—even as a true master, two in fact, went to work.

Well, most did not like it. Though it would never see publication or media attention, the Royal Child was in enraptured attendance. He was toward the back, pretending to be interested in the fruits his handler would offer to him, but only eating them out of habit. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Life, Huh?

“Millennial, huh? I hate that word.”

“I’m just using the term as shorthand.”

“I get that, but, they’re just people. You know? I hate those terms. Baby boomers. Latchkey kids. All of that. I don’t even know what they call the newest one.”

“The iGeneration.”

“Disgusting.”

George stared down his drink and picked it up, only to put it away again. Half-sipped, and mostly unwanted, but drunk all the same. Drunk the drink, and soon enough drunk in the general sense. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: What Wakes Is Not You

“That’s the problem, you see,” someone said, and Joseph rose with a start. He glanced around, and it was nothing behind his eyes.

And then, there was.

His lips smacked; eyes appeared glassy and out of focus. He scratched his head and pushed the blanket off himself. In the back of his mind, moving faster than any computer could calculate, images slotted in and linked and sparked with ignited connection.

“I’m… yeah…Joseph” he mumbled and went to the bathroom. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Punchline

Of one thing they were certain: they were not driving themselves that night. On the table was more booze than a man could feasibly drink, more wine than a Grecian of the olden, way olden days, could ingest—and they drank it like water. An alcoholic would have a pain in his liver at the sight.

And they were having a blast. Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Alcohol/Nicotine/Caffeine

“We are not real living beings, you know,” Caffeine said, then jerked his head to the side, looking at the door to the room.

“Yeah—but it doesn’t much matter. It’s nice being as we are, at least,” Alcohol said, and sat down on his chair. He stared up at the other two and smiled goofily.

“It matters a little bit,” Nicotine said, parting back his ginger hair. “I, for one, like to be flesh.”

“Oh, well…so do I, but that does not mean that we are.” Caffeine’s words came out rushed and flowing—like he had rehearsed it, but not well, and was trying to get them out as fast as possible before he forgot.

Alcohol laughed. “I did not get that at all.” Continue reading

Flash Fiction: Anticlimax

“So, you’re not going to press the button?”

Jim shrugged. “Nope.”

Cathy pursed her lips. She opened her mouth to say something and then did not. She looked at the red button on the table. They’d woken up to it being there in their kitchen.

“But,” Cathy began, “I feel as though we are supposed to do something with it.”

Jim considered the button again, rubbing his chin. He reached out to touch it, finger by finger, then he pulled away. He too felt the odd presence of someone, or perhaps many people, frowning. Continue reading