Category Archives: flashfic
The prompts are over there, on your right.
I put my hand to my face and I wiped away a smear of blood and I stroked the stubble that had grown over the last three days and I got to thinking about how everything I ever thought I knew about myself had changed.
“Stop,” she said.
She licked her thumb and dabbed away the last bit of blood and wiped it on her pants leg.
“You had no choice.”
“Everything is a choice.”
“Not this time. You know it.”
I did know it, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. Where was free will in all of this?
“They would have killed me, Edward.”
She sat down on my lap and she looked at me with her deep red eyes and she smiled a smile so beautiful that my heart would have melted right then and there if I still had one.
“So what’s next, Bella?”
“Whatever we want.” She kissed me and she ran her hands down my back and she dug her nails into my cold, hard skin.
“This?” she said, stroking her thumb across my bottom lip. “It’s just the beginning.”
– a fucking retard.
– writing my name on a sticker and trying to come up with something to say that will not make me sound like a deranged stalker except I can’t because the line between deranged stalker and shy teenage boy who wants to ask you to dance but can’t because you’re too pretty is so fine that you can’t even see it unless you already know where it is.
– thirsty. Incredibly thirsty.
– walking up to you now.
– turning around.
– realizing that was a false alarm and breathing just fine.
– trying to smell my own breath, just to be sure.
– focusing inward for a moment.
– taking stock of my life.
– building my resolve.
– wondering why this is so hard and trying to figure out how the human race has managed to persist over these many thousands of years when boys like me are a significant part of it.
– focused. So focused.
– walking up to you again.
– calming myself down.
– imagining what will happen the moment I gently slip my fingers into yours.
– getting a boner.
I asked Twitter for a prompt, and. I got two: A man walks out of a bar into the fog, and green. This is what I did with them. For what it’s worth, I know it makes no sense.
A man walks out of a bar into the cold, green fog.
He trips over a twelve-pack of PBR, thinks, “I didn’t know that shit came in bottles” as he plunges head-first into traffic. Knocks his head on the side-mirror of a city bus as it passes by slowly.
The impact pushes him backward. He twirls his arms and tries to keep his footing and twists as best he can and gets turned around just as he starts to fall. He puts his arms out, but it’s too late. He lands face-first in the PBR and cracks a tooth on one of the bottles.
“Ow!” He fingers the tooth and pulls at it and he notices that it is cracked and he puts his face in his hands and he thinks, “Why is the fog green?”
A pale, blond man appears before him. He is wearing ski gear; a red knit cap, blue ski pants, and a red Gor-Tex jacket with a blue cross stitched on it.
“Norwegian?” the man says.
“It’s a dream,” the Norwegian replies.
“I’m depressed now,” the guy says.
“Reminds me of a joke,” the dream Norwegian says.
“Don’t tell me,” the man says, snapping up a cold PBR, twisting the cap off, and bringing it to his lips. “You’re Pagliacci.”
There once was a sad boy named Marcus
He tripped and fell, ruining his parka
He ran all the way home
and hid his spoiled clothes
Hoping this newest slight didn’t spark her
His mom was a mean old lady
Who he thought was kinda crazy
He wished she would leave
If only for a reprieve
So he didn’t do anything shady
But soon she found the clothing
And set about hurting and loathing
So the smart little boy
Did something very un-coy
Which set her corpse to bloating
He was finally, gloriously free
Only the smell made him say “shoo wee!”
So he packed his things
And with a prayer on wings
He bought a bus ticket, paying the fee
He would work hard to care for himself
Arrange all of his new food on a shelf
And wonder forever
About his endeavor
And why had had to do it without help
I’ve got my back to ’em, my back to the battlefield, and even I can tell there’s some kinda dark figure lurking out there.
Probably has an AK-47 with him. This is a war zone.
But what are these two Schmoes doing? Arguing over a girl. No armor, no helmets. They’re standing up, for fuck’s sake.
I leap onto the sandbags — away from the scary dark figure, of course. I may be a dog, but I ain’t stupid.
The dark guy is coming. Sure enough, he smells like a gunpowder factory.
I sigh. Squint. Shake my head. I’d smirk if I could.
Still, no one notices.
“Woof,” I say, and the shirtless dumbass scratches behind my ear. Normally, that’d be awesome, but not now. I rebuff him and snarl. I don’t want to do this, not in this heat, but I get up, turn, hunch down and bark, all mean and shit.
“Whoa, dude,” shirtless asshat says. He laughs and backs away.
I sigh, leap the sandbags, and hit the dark figure hard. I rip his neck to shreds, of course. It’s the only way to be sure he’ll stay down.
I am Jack’s lack of empathy.
His cold steel.
I am his raging adrenaline.
His unrivaled apoplexy.
I slide a round in and I take aim on the kevlar dome and I close my right eye and I make sure the aim is true and I squeeze ever so slightly and then more and just a little bit more and soon I feel the soft click and then the hard pull and I see it explode, the head inside the helmet. Boom goes the man who stood between me and my future.
I am Jack’s soldier of fortune.
His corrupt warrior.
I always said I’d do anything to make sure I got back alive.
I have a girl to get home to.
The old woman did not believe. She never had, and always vowed that she never would.
She lay in a hospital bed that had been installed in her bedroom two Thursdays ago. A hospice nurse sat by her side. The afternoon sun sneaked in the window; dust bunnies danced.
“May I read?” the nurse asked.
The old woman did not respond.
“For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep,” the nurse read.
“That’s Thessalonians,” she said. She smiled, but the old woman was silent. Her chest rose, and it fell, and the gap between the rising and the falling began to grow.
The nurse flipped pages and read more. “Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.’”
“That’s the Book of John,” the nurse said. The old woman remained quiet.
“What do you think you’re doing?” It was the old woman’s daughter, home from work now. “You know she doesn’t believe in fairytales.”
The nurse closed her book and she smiled peacefully. “You’re never too old to believe.”
I cannot stop. No one can stop. The light calls and we go because we cannot undo what has been done.
The world ended long before we knew it.
She calls us one by one. The light. She calls so sweetly.
My mother answered the call on June 12, 2007. My father a year and two days after that. My brother and my teachers and and my soccer coach and everyone I had ever known and would never know, now. They answered the call of the light.
I am the last.
I had fantasies of remaining. I would resist. It was just a light. The ships had landed oh so long ago, when I was a little girl.
Visitors from another world, they said. How exciting, they said.
Backdrops, they’d become.
Then the calling began.
It calls from the water. From the ships, submerged. A tunnel of lights.
On the day of my rebirth the light calls and I go. I strip my clothes and I toe the water and I submerge and I drift feet first toward the light and it is warm and it welcomes me with shadows on my body.
The light. She welcomes. So sweetly.
I approach the fence, peek in.
I can’t see inside the house, the glare turning the windows into mirrors.
She’s probably walkin’ around naked like whores do.
I slide my fingers through the gate, flip the latch.
She’s probably watching, wishing I’d break in, throw her down, do what a real man does to a woman like that.
They all wish for it, a strong man to take charge, fuck ’em like the whores they are.
A woman don’t leave an invitation like that without wanting it. I’ve been giving it to ’em for months now, reading the signs they leave, screaming billboards inviting me in. The cops can’t catch me.
A clothesline full of panties? Shit. Can’t say no to that request.
As soon as I’m through the back door I’m on the ground. There’s a gun in my face and some bitch slaps cuffs on me.
“Got him, sarge,” she says into her radio.
She puts a knee in my back so I can’t breathe. Says, “You’re done, motherfucker.” Flips me over, spits in my face.
I lick my lips and I wonder if the rumor’s true about what happens to rapists in prison.
It’s a dream
this dance we dance.
It’s a dance
the dream we dream.
I am atop a mountain
holding you and letting you go
and watching you twirl.
And you twirl.
“But I can’t.”
You smile so big.
“But I must
“The stars demand it.”
“The stars don’t
The stars exist.”
“Destiny wants it.”
Destiny is inescapable.
And that is right.
You embrace it.
And you twirl
and I watch you twirl
and I reach for you
as you twirl
but the twirling
and I know
I don’t want the twirling to stop
even though you’ll twirl away.
“The stars,” you say
out of breath though you are.
The sky calls you
and you answer and you look up and you gaze.
At the stars you gaze as you twirl.
“Yes,” I say
and I look upon them and I see
Our destiny. Mine. Yours. And I know your answer already.
so big you smile.
And so I watch you twirl.
I will watch and I will
while forever you twirl.