Flash Fiction

The Interview

“All right then Mr. Jones, everything looks good. We’ll be contacting you within the next two weeks to let you know if you’ve got the job.”

“Thank you so much. I look forward to hearing from yo…”

“Oh! One other thing. I keep forgetting to ask this question. New protocol and all.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me, Mr. Jones. How many times per day do you urinate?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How many times per day do you urinate?”

“Um… about three?”

“Excellent. We’ll let you know then. Thank you for applying for a job at Google.”

Superpower

At the fish market, Jim decided that his choice of superpower – the power to smell any pussy at less than a hundred yards – wasn’t necessarily the best choice.

…because, you know, cats like to hang around fish markets, and most of them have bad breath…

Apocalypse

I read the story in the car, in a parking lot, while my husband went into the building for an interview. The story was set in an apocalyptic world. Two people, believing the world was about to end, made love like there was no tomorrow. And then they lived to tell about it.

The World is My Oyster, Really

“Have you ever noticed that geese, from a distance, sound like dogs barking?” he asks me as he lifts his glass of wine to his lips.

“No,” I reply, thinking him stupid. Really I want to stab him through the heart, but not really. I know I’ll regret it if I do.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” he asks.

“I don’t know, dear. We’re on vacation. The world is our oyster.”

Maybe I’ll strangle you while you sleep and then I can go out on the boat by myself tomorrow and not have to listen to you whine about how much the cottage costs us per month and how much your shoulder hurts when you paddle.

“Maybe we should go out in the boat,” he says.

“That sounds like a good idea, dear,” I reply.

Day 18 Prompt – The Limbo Bar

Day 18 Prompt – Write a story set in a ghost town.

There’s a Hole in my Bucket – A Contemporary Version

Liz and Henry were as childless as a couple could be, meaning they’d been trying for years, but according to the doctors, Henry’s ‘swimmers’ just weren’t up to the task. They’d been living on the farm for a few years, raising goats and chickens, but as the years passed, so did the chances that they’d be raising young ‘uns.

One day, as Henry limped over to the trough that held the goat’s water (Henry had twisted his ankle the day before when he slipped in goat shit) he noticed that his bucket was getting lighter as he walked.

“Shit,” he said out loud.

“What is it?” Liz asked, making Henry jump. He hadn’t heard her sneak up behind him.

“Would you please announce yourself instead of scaring the bejeesus outta me?”

The tension between the couple had been rising like an snail on a year long sabbatical meaning to get up a mountain, but Henry was almost at the peak. He was this far away from dashing back down the hill.

“Sorry,” Liz mumbled. “So why’d you say ‘shit’?

“There’s a hole in my bucket,” Henry grumbled.

“So fix it.”

“With what?”

“I don’t know. A straw.”

Henry stood, water dripping from the leaky bucket onto the sock which encased his sore ankle, and glared at his wife.

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I don’t know, I heard somewhere that you can fix a bucket with a straw,” she shrugged.

“But it doesn’t make any sense!” Henry took note that his voice was reaching a soprano pitch and made the effort to bring it down. “How in the hell can I fix a bucket with a goddam straw?”

“I dunno. Here,” at that point she pulled a paper wrapped McDonald’s straw from her back pocket and handed it to him. “It’s all I’ve got on me anyway.

“Fold it over or something and stick it in the hole.”

“Whatever,” Henry grumbled, plucking the straw from her fingertips and heading back to the barn with it.

“What if it’s too long?” he called over his shoulder.

“Cut it!”

He could almost hear her eyes rolling around in her head.

Bitch, he thought.

Five minutes later Liz came into the barn. She stopped by him to see what he was doing.

“How’s that cutting coming along?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

It was a McDonald’s straw. It shouldn’t be taking five minutes to get through with a hammer.

“Um… no. Why don’t you use a knife?”

“Oh for fuck sakes. The knife is dull!”

“It can’t be any duller than a hammer.”

She was staring at him. He hated it when she stared at him that way. It made him feel stupid.

Liz sighed as if she was tired. Of him. Yeah, well he was getting tired of the whole, ‘Make me a baby or I’m leaving you,’ too. She whined it in his head at least fifteen times a night while he was trying to get to sleep.

“Why don’t you sharpen the knife?”

Henry felt the blood pressuring up in his veins like someone had pumped a shitload of heat through his pores and inflated him like a balloon.

“Because,” he growled, turning on her with his eyes bulging from their sockets, “the sharpening stone I have here,” he held the object an inch from her nose, “is too fucking dry!”

She looked him right in the eye. Without blinking, hell, without batting a friggin’ eyelash, she said, “Wet it.” Just like that.

Henry lost it.

“Wet it? FUCKING WET IT? I’LL FUCKING WET YOU!!!”

Nine months later their son was born.

The Man in the Mirror

Chain mail

“How does your chain mail feel?” I ask him from the driver’s seat.

“It’s heavy,” he scowls.

*****

It all started one day when I was sitting in the parking lot of a Tim Horton’s, eating ham and Swiss cheese on a croissant with lettuce and tomato. I was half-way through my sandwich when I heard a knock on the back window of my mini-van. I thought at first that maybe it was someone I knew. I looked in both side mirrors to see if someone was approaching the front of the car but I saw no one on foot. When I looked in the rear-view however, there he was. Needless to say I jumped – I’d thought I was alone.

“What are you doing in my car?” I shrieked at the diminutive green man in my farthest back seat. I hopped out of the van before he could answer, which was silly, because I’d left my keys in the ignition. When I reached in through the window to retrieve them he spoke.

“You asked for me!”

“I did what? Who are you?”

He puffed up his chest and gave me a wide multi-cuspate-toothed smile. “I am your prince charming!” His sharply pointed ears twitched and his finely pronged nose lifted as he said this. He was obviously quite proud of his appearance.

“But you don’t look a bit like a prince charming to me!”

“I don’t?”

“You’re green!”

“Oh my!” he exclaimed, and he disappeared.

****

Three days later I heard a knock on the window of my van. I was driving at the time.

“I can’t look right now,” I said, because I was concentrating on the road.

“That’s okay,” came the same voice I had heard from the little green elf-like man.

As soon as I came to a stop light I tilted my head so I could see into the farthest back seat of the car. He wasn’t there. The light turned green. I started driving.

“Pull over,” he said.

“You’ll have to wait.” I was getting annoyed at this strange being I’d been anticipating for three long days.

Just as I got to a driveway, I heard, from directly behind me.

“Oh dear. I’m still a bit green.”

By the time I pulled over I was alone.

***

It was two weeks before I heard the knock on the back window of my van again. I had just pulled into the parking lot of the local mall, and was looking for a spot. It was raining heavily and I lacked an umbrella, but I needed drugs. From the drug store for a change.

“Are you still green?” I asked.

“No.” His voice was as smooth as silk and as deep as dark chocolate.

I found a spot and backed in, hoping for a glimpse of my prince charming. When I put the van in park I saw him leaning between the front seats, in my rear-view mirror. He was stunning. Everything I had ever imagined in a man and… that voice…

“I’m yours to do with whatever you wish.” 70% Cocoa.

“Stay here then, I just have to run in…” The store was about to close.

“I also belong to your van,” he disclosed in a timbre fit for only the bedroom.

“What the…”

“I can’t leave your van.”

“So what’s the use of having a prince charming?”

“We can go parking.”

When I came back from the drug store he was gone.

**

“Why do you even bother with the chain mail?” I ask him.

“I failed as a prince charming, I thought maybe you’d like a knight in shining armor.”

“Well there was that one time…” We’re at a stop sign. I look in the mirror and see the grin I’ve come to love more than life itself.

“That was fun,” he smirks.

“Why can’t we do that again?” I ask, starting to move down the street.

“Because regardless of what you want, you NEED a knight in shining armor now.”

“What for?” I ask.

*

I open my eyes and there is a light shining above me. Florescent. A face with a mask.

“How are you feeling?” I masculine voice with raised, groomed, eyebrows.

“My van…” I croak. I barely recongise my own voice.

“Ma’am, your van was totalled. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“No!” I screech.

I want to die.

Puppet Master

My mind is a playground full of weird and wonderful toys. People. People are my toys to play with. They are my puppets. I am the puppet master, that’s what I am. My control is complete and the utter trash that I spew is unrivaled.

I am not God. I’m not a deity of any kind. I am Lord of my self-absorption. My will encompasses millions upon millions of souls and they aren’t even sure I exist.

I am a ghost. I have no empathy for the living.

I am Ouija. And I am bored.

Frustration

Lacking the resources to fund a circus is something I find most frustrating. I want orange and black tigers jumping through flaming hoops, clowns riding miniscule unicycles and wearing costumes of red and yellow and blue and green; I want enormous gray elephants and tightrope walkers in white spandex against the indigo blue of the big top tent, and scantily clad girls in chartreuse sequins standing up on the backs of horses with crimson plumed headgear.

But mom says maybe when she gets a new job… Then all I’ll require is a back yard to host my spectacle.

Image from freedigitalphotos.net

Image from freedigitalphotos.net

Blondes in the Woods

She was one of those characters that you just know she’s going to die soon. You know the ones. They’ve invariably got blonde hair and huge tits. And they’re always running, looking over their shoulder at the guy trudging through the woods behind them.

That’s exactly what she was like. Only difference, she went to work every day in an office. She was a lawyer’s ‘secretary’. (I put that in quotes because the only useful thing she did was lit the boss’s ‘cigar’, if you know what I mean.) And every afternoon when she left the office she would walk–practically run–to the bus stop, looking over her shoulder. Sidewalks were always crowded that time of day, so you never knew which guy she was watching for or who she might think was chasing her.

Anyway, this one day it happened. He caught up with her. She wasn’t watching where she was going (duh) and she tripped over her own damned high heel. She was so scared when he grabbed her by the arm that her mouth opened but no scream came out. All the legs of the people walking past were like the trees in the movies and you just knew it. Just knew that right there and right then, just like all the rest, she was going to die. Hell, even she could hear the music reach it’s climax. And sure enough, right there on the damned pavement, the bus only a quarter mile up the road, she gets freakin’ strangled. And just like the trees in the forest, nobody sees it. Why?

Because nothing fucking surprises us anymore. We’re all blondes in the woods.

It’s too bad about those characters.