Flash Fiction 40
An Anthology of 40 Winning Flash Fiction Stories
Sponsored by Editor Unleashed and Smashwords
Published by Smashwords, July 2009
INTRODUCTION
In May 2009, Editor Unleashed and Smashwords partnered to sponsor The Flash Fiction 40 Contest. Any writer could post a story of 1,000 words or fewer on the Editor Unleashed forum, and the members would get a chance to read and rank all of the stories.
More than 280 writers took up the challenge and posted a story. It was a dynamic experiment in what is quickly becoming the new wave of publishing: crowd sourcing and open review.
Both the forum members and editors who made the final cut chose the same story as the Grand Prize winner—a dark, astonishing piece of magical realism titled “Fairy Tales” by Laurel Wilczek. You can read about Laurel and her inspiration for her flash fiction in profiles on both Editor Unleashed and at the Smashwords Blog.
In this anthology, you’ll find “Fairy Tales” as well as 39 other winning stories from the Flash Fiction 40 Contest. These stories encompass every genre—from literary to horror and beyond—and are 40 outstanding examples of the rapidly evolving flash fiction form. Savor the stories one at a time or spend a few leisurely hours reading the collection in whole. I know you’ll enjoy reading these 40 great flash fiction pieces as much as I did.
-Maria Schneider, Editor Unleashed
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Grand Prize: Fairy Tales, by Laurel Wilczek
At Last, By Nina Perez-Bauschka
Being a Cop, Langley McKelvy
Blind Justice, Jessica A. Weiss
The Brain Eaters, Terri Lynn Coop
Buck and the Twee Fairies of Interstate 20, Gary Cuba
Circles, David Gillett
Defection, Linda Wastila
Dreaming Lies to Change the Truth, kaolin fire
Fate’s Heavy Hand, Jim Bernheimer
Food of the Gods, judy b.
Frangible Choices, Kemari M. Howell
Grief Observed, Laurita Miller
Guardian Demon, Jeanne Tomlin
Mirror, Mirror, Greta Igl
Monday, Selena Kitt
Night Becomes the City, M.P. Berry
In the Nuthouse, d o’brien
Parklife, AlanBaxter
Pirated Twinkies, Shannon Esposito
Pure White, Stephen Book
Reflection, R.J. Keller
Rough Trade, Stephen Nicholson
Running on the Iron Rooster, Michael J. Solender
Sales Call, Graham Storrs
Savor the Moment, Greg Stoll
Sign Language, Linda Courtland
Sportsmen, John Towler
Ten One-hundreds of a Second, Deborah Bundy
The Distraction, Donald Conrad
The Mercantile Exchange, Kim Beck
The Nearest Thing, John Wiswell
The Vial, Tom Bentley
The Vigil of Clouds, Eros-Alegra Clarke
Time for a Change, Carol Benedict
‘Tis the Season, John Marfink
Unscrambling Love, Angel Zapata
Wake up, Please, Jemma Everyhope
What’s in a Name, Mark Souza
When Don Cristobal Eduardo Stabbed his Wife and her Lover, Christopher Sutcliffe
Fairy Tales
By Laurel Wilczek http://www.ravenlaw.wordpress.com/
She knows it won’t be long before they come. Once they’ve discovered the abandoned bed and the unraveled bandages on the floor. They'll figure she's running loose, having escaped the hum of round-the-clock monitors, the clatter of equipment pushed up and down the corridor and the sobbing breath of the battered woman who shares the room with her. They'll know she slipped out the emergency door and up the stairs to the roof, when a patient down the hallway, an old man unwilling to die no matter how tired his heart might be, pressed the call button and summoned the nurses away from their work areas.
Moonlight crawls over the city, its brightness filtered by grey-bellied clouds. Her feet are numb, her arms and legs riddled with goose bumps under the hospital gown. She inhales. Cold air flows into her nose and mouth. It hurts. It hurts. One hand presses against her abdomen, the other floats in space. Her legs are spread like tent poles. Her toes dig into the concrete ledge.
Down in the stairwell, a door opens.
“She’s up on the roof. I told the nurses to stop taping the latch. Goddamn nicotine addicts."
"Shouldn't we wait for the doctor?"
“Screw that, he'll write me up on a safety violation even though that's not part of my job description. I'm a janitor, not security. What's her name?”
"Jane Doe."
She hears their footsteps on the stairs and thinks about the night when the midnight fairies found her. Years after her father's curfews ended. A decade after her mother whispered tales about evil fairies who kidnapped little girls under a full moon. She remembers feeling astonished that—just after she walked two city blocks and arrived, without incident, on the doorstep of her apartment, just after she glanced up and down the street and saw nothing but a ginger cat hunched against the base of a trash can, just as she slipped her keys out of her purse—fingers tangled in her hair and yanked hard. She toppled off the steps into strange hands. Her keys clinked onto the sidewalk. One of her shoes popped off as they dragged her around the corner of the building and into an alley.
"Be careful, Freddie, she's drugged to the gills."
"I know what I'm doing. Hey there, Janie."
That isn't her name. She would tell them if she could, but the fairies are snarling deep-throated notes and her voice is locked inside her chest. They surround her, submerging her in the odor of stale cigarettes and beer. She sees their faces. Eyes black as licorice. Slack mouths, huffing steam into the refrigerated darkness.
"Stop Freddie! She's too close to the edge."
“You stand still, Janie Girl, you hear?”
The moon above the alley is a hollow eye gouged out of the face of night. The fairies take her wallet and toss the purse aside. They ride her down to the ground. Tear at her clothing until her breasts and thighs are iced by moonlight. Laughter falls like sleet upon her nakedness.
"Oh man, I think she's crying."
"Shut up, Bobby! Here, girlie, take my hand."
She touches her mouth, her cheeks and her forehead. Probes the stitches zigzagging through her flesh. Tries to scream. But her jaws are wired shut and all her terror, all her fury, all her grief, pools beneath her tongue. She swallows, tastes blood and wonders who will ever love her now that she is broken?
A spurt of wind slips under her gown. The thin fabric rustles like paper wings.
"Don't you do this on my shift," Freddie whispers.
Two stories below the ledge, a man stands on the sidewalk, the tip of his cigar a firefly caught in the sheath of wintry lamplight. He's wearing his best Sunday suit. The one he wore for her First Holy Communion. The one he was buried in after her sixteenth birthday.
"Come along, Grace," her father calls in a wisp of smoke. "It's late. Your mother is waiting for us."
At Last
By Nina Perez-Bauschka
He sat at his usual table—second row, far left. It afforded him a clear view of the stage. It was Thursday night, and he arrived at 7:30 sharp as he had every Thursday night for the past three months. She didn't go on until 8:30, but he liked to get his table and order two drinks before she did. He would have another two while she sang, but never more than that.
He wasn't the only regular there.
Two tables to his right was Kris Kringle. It wasn't his real name, of course. Just a nickname given because of his perpetually rosy cheeks and wet eyes as if he had just entered from the cold. It was 7:45 and Kris had been there at least an hour. He would look like that way the whole night—red-faced, and watering eyes, shaky hands tossing back drink after drink. He remained sober through perhaps half of the set and sat through the rest in a whiskey-induced fog. Shortly before closing, Silus the bartender would close out his check and put Kris Kringle in a cab.
He found this most undignified.
At 8:15 he felt her before he saw her. Her presence was as palpable as a heartbeat. She entered the room from the blue door behind him marked, "Employees Only."
He heard her before he saw her. She was greeted by Rachel, the waitress with the buck teeth and crooked nose. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and then she laughed at something Rachel said. It was a laugh that washed over his arms and caused heat to rise up his neck. He tightened his grip on his cocktail glass, hoping the ice cubes would reverse the effect up his arm, across his shoulder, through his neck, and over his face which was as red as Kris Kringle's.
The owner, a short repulsive man built like a fire hydrant, slid from his bar stool and put an arm around her waist. He could see this from the corner of his eye and it caused him to grip his glass tighter.
"Are you ready, doll?"
Doll. What an insult. She was an angel. She was perfection. She was too good for this place with its chipped tables, smoky interior, and menu that consisted of Buffalo wings, potato skins, and a curious dish called an Onion Bloom.
She walked by him in a wave of lilac. He inhaled deeply hoping the scent would last until she passed again. Some nights she'd walk the tables as she sang, occasionally pausing to pay special attention to a fortunate male patron. In three months, she had never stopped at his table. He did not mind. Unlike the others, who fawned over her with unabashed adoration, he did not need special attention. In fact, he preferred it this way. Anonymous. Special in its own way.
She began to sing promptly at 8:30. She sang the blues with the experience of someone twenty years her senior. She sang the blues as if her heart had been broken a thousand times. He wanted to protect her. Mend her heart. Right the wrongs. From the look on the faces of the other men in attendance he was not the only one. She cast her spell with each note. A spell that lasted long after the final song.
Tonight she was covered in a sea of jade that complemented the red flames that cradled her face and fell to her shoulders in a cascade of curls. She was curvaceous and full as a woman should be. Soft and vulnerable; yet, filled with passion and fire. With the lights dimmed low, and a soft light behind her, her silhouette was outlined in a halo. She was indeed an angel.
He signaled for Rachel to bring another drink. Though he wanted one more after, this would be the last. Routine and order were important. It made life predictable, and he liked that. Morgan's on Thursdays to hear her sing. Fridays he visited Mother at the home. On Tuesdays he ate pork chops. And should he ever sway from this order, and try something new, he corrected himself by making it a part of his routine. Like the first night he had followed her home. It was so unlike him. So spontaneous, yet she had asked him to. Not directly, but the night she changed her final song to "At Last," by Etta James he knew.
"At last, my love will come along …," she sang, and he knew.
She may have piercing green eyes, and a confident demeanor, but he knew underneath she was like him. Shy and polite. She would never be so undignified as to ask him to her home. Instead, she sang to him in code. She sang to him in secret. And though to the others it may seem as if she were singing to them, he knew otherwise.
"My lonely days are over and life is like a song …"
The first time he followed her he watched the windows of the first floor garden apartment from his car. He watched until the last light went out. The next time, he stayed a little longer, and the time after that a little longer still. Before long, he was watching till the sun rose and she left to run her errands. He would visit mother soon after with eyes red from lack of sleep and smelling of cigarette smoke and regret.
This night, as her set came to a close, and Kris Kringle clapped loudly before stumbling to the bar, he decided that tonight he would approach her window. Just to get a better look. He would not intrude. He would not be so undignified. Not this night. Tonight he would silently watch, and next Thursday, well maybe next Thursday he'd enter.
Being a Cop
By Langley McKelvy http://www.langleymckelvy.blogspot.com
David paused near the stoop of an aging brownstone long enough to ruffle the hair of a small boy playing jacks on the sidewalk. He returned the child’s broad smile with one of his own and continued down the street. He had not been a policeman long, and was new to this beat; consequently he was in the process of learning his way around the neighborhood.
“I like being a cop,” David said aloud to no one.
The child was one of many people he encountered this morning and all of them had treated him with courtesy, if not outright kindness. He recalled policemen from his youth; their dark blue uniforms sprinkled with glittering buttons, the shiny badge and, of course, the hidden power of the gun safely in its holster.
Perhaps, he mused, it really is the uniform that makes the cop.
He glanced down at the badge on his chest with pleasure and noticed how it caught and reflected the sunlight. An equally reflective name tag balanced out the traditional accouterments, but one small detail marred the otherwise iconic fabric landscape. A neat round bullet hole was visible about a half inch in from the badge, over his heart.
David touched the torn fabric gently, remembering the incident. He survived the encounter, but decided not to repair the hole. It reminded him of the fragility of life, and served as something of a cautionary tale about keeping one's eyes on the hands of people who solicit directions from cops.
He walked into Hargrave Park, admiring the natural beauty of the place. His plan was to make a full circuit of the many greenbelt trails, which turned lazily through the trees, occasionally fetching up to one of four large ponds. He selected a path at random and as he approached the first pond, David heard voices coming off the trail to his left. One was raised in anger, the other fear.
After a moment’s consideration, he stepped off the trail and made his way into the underbrush toward the source of the disturbance. He reached a small clearing and observed two men. One man was on his knees, clutching a briefcase to his chest and begging for his life. The other was a rather large, ugly man who held an equally large and ugly pistol. David immediately realized he had stumbled upon a robbery that was deteriorating rapidly into a murder. He drew his pistol and advanced carefully.
The victim caught sight of his uniform and stopped pleading; his eyes flew open wide with a mixture of surprise and relief. The robber immediately spun around, but far too slowly. David’s Glock 23 expelled two rounds of fiery copper, striking him first in the chest and then in the center of his forehead. He went down without making a sound.
The other man dropped his briefcase and began to weep, thanking him between sobs. David walked over to him, stopped and picked up the crook’s weapon and tucked it into his waistband.
“What’s your name?” David asked, trying to put that man at ease.
“R … Roger … ,” the man choked out “Roger Coleman.”
“Are you okay, Roger?”
“I… I think so. Thank you… God! He was going to kill me!” His breathing was starting to slow down now, but he kept glancing down at his assailant.
“Don’t worry, he’s dead. What were you doing out here anyway?”
“I was cutting though the park, running late. I was going to try and catch the number 36 bus to work.” His voice was nearly back to normal now.
“Really? What kind of work do you do?”
“Real estate … I’m a real estate agent.”
David then raised his pistol and shot Roger Coleman, once in the chest and once in the forehead. The man slumped to the ground with a look of astonishment frozen on his face.
“I like being a cop,” he said aloud to the two bodies. He holstered his pistol and picked up the briefcase. Then he knelt beside Coleman’s body and began unbuttoning the man’s jacket. He smiled and gently touched the bullet hole next to the pocket.
Yes, he thought, I like being a cop. Tomorrow I think I’ll be a real estate agent.
Blind Justice
By Jessica A. Weiss
You look like a beaten dog, shaking and nervous. Don't be scared, this is what you've been wanting from me for years. Sit down and relax, let me give you what you came here for. See the clock? Time's running out and we've got business to finish.
You're here because you believe I shouldn't be treated this way, that I don't deserve this. By the law of man I am where I belong and must be punished. You think I'm innocent but I'm telling you that I'm guilty of murder. I turned myself in because I have blood on my hands.
Best to start at the beginning. I can't give you all their names, there were too many and it was years ago. With some research you can fill in the gaps. That is what you do, isn't it? Dig up juicy stories for the public.
Anyways, you know the carnival down by the mouth of the river, along the marshes? The one that is actually built there and never closes? That's where I grew up and that's where all of this madness started. All those young kids acting like fools, having a good time, not a care in the world. Their laughter was like a drug; their sweet faces candy for the taking.
The haunted house was the children’s favorite. Outside the faded building, the barker, who'd worked there for decades, would draw them in with promises of real ghosts and spooks. Local legends of murders and suicides thrilled the kids. The boys would act tough to impress the girls and the girls would act scared so the boys would protect them. In the end, they all screamed. Some louder than others, those were the unlucky ones.
When the first girl went missing, there was mild panic. She'd been on a trip with the local orphanage. With no parents the search died down quickly. Officers wrote it off as a runaway. As if a twelve year old would run away.
The second girl caused a bigger stir. She'd been visiting with her parents from out of town. Lots of questions that time, the search for her lasted a few months. Thought the cops would find her for sure. But again, not one clue found, no trace left behind.
Over the next three years, ten beautiful little girls disappeared. Some were locals, others tourists, some were runaways who'd run the wrong way. Besides their age and gender, the only connection they shared was the last place they'd been seen alive, the haunted house.
If only the police had looked harder, they would've seen the truth.
See that place was really scary, looked like the Mad Hatter had a bloody tea party in there. Blood on the walls, body parts scattered about. Furniture made of bones, even a few heads popping out of cabinets. Only not all of it was fake.
Are you alright? You look a bit pale. Do you need a drink of water? Maybe a cigarette? You sure you want to hear the rest?
Okay. So for years I'd been telling the police who was taking these precious girls. I'd seen every one of them go in and not come out. When a disappearance happened, I'd go to the police. But they didn't believe me. They said I had no proof. Without proof they wouldn't investigate. They even accused me of having a personal grief against this person.
What could I do? By the time I could get a cop to come with me, there would be nothing to find. All evidence gone by the time they got there. After awhile they started to investigate me! Can you believe it? I was the one under suspicion because I knew too much about each victim.
I guess I did. I knew what each of them had been wearing the day they disappeared. Even the fact that every one of them had long, beautiful hair with hair clips. Their smiles had been beautiful with voices sweet as the spring. Anyways, for being innocent I knew too much.
The cops wouldn't arrest the guilty one, they were focused on me. I knew others would die if someone didn't do something. I've never thought of myself as a vigilante, and killing a person wasn't something I thought I could do. So I waited and I searched for proof.
They say that all killers keep trophies from their kills, to revisit the thrill. I've only had experience with one murderer. I don't know why the locks of hair were kept in the hair bows, but I found a box full of them. I'd finally found the evidence to put him away.
I was on my way to the cops when my whole world changed.
Coming down the stairs, sprawled on the floor like a forgotten doll, I found the body of my daughter, April, in my living room. Blood seemed to come from everywhere, puddles and rivers all around. I don't think there was any left in her little body.
On the floor next to her, a lock of her blond curls clasped neatly in a hair bow.
Blood. Anger. Pain. Fury. All of them red. Red is all I saw as I made my way to the kitchen. The smug bastard sat there eating a ham sandwich, calm as can be.
Death was too good for him, but putting that knife into him made me feel good. Watching his blood spill was a release for me. As the good book says 'an eye for an eye' and all that.
So you see, I am guilty. I killed my husband, but not those little angels.
His body? Oh, I put it with the bodies of his victims, so their ghosts can torture him.
The clocks run down, it's midnight and man’s law states it's time for me to die. Ironic, don't you think?
Reporters Note: The bodies of serial killer David Fellman and several young females were discovered deep in the marshes, exactly where Kaitlynn Fellman said they'd be.
The Brain Eaters
By Terri Lynn Coop
It took me seven years to decide to kill my husband.
Before I get to “the how,” let me briefly tell you about “the why.”
I met Kevin in college. We were literature majors and fell in love over Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. We talked endlessly of writing husband-and-wife "whodunits" that would reflect the best of suspense fiction. Our wedding reception was on the Orient Express Mystery Murder Train. It was a dream come true.
Until "The Brain-Eaters."
The what?
Let me explain. We were poor. Few make a living writing fiction, and we were no exception. We sold some short stories, and won a few contests, but that didn't pay the bills. I took a job teaching high school English, and Kevin took any freelance job he could find.
That's how he met Rick. That bastard.
Kevin and Rick regularly freelanced for a heavy metal rag called "Slimy Groove." They reviewed records by bands such as "Smashed Flat Shit," and "Necrotic Virginity." They reported on rock concerts and wrote advertising copy for head shops. It was disgusting, but it paid the bills.
One night, they got together and wrote a short story called "The Brain-Eaters." It was about a heavy metal band made up of cannibalistic zombies. It was the perfect gag. The band only worked at night, and had no problem getting victims to come backstage after the show. I'll leave the rest to your imagination.
It sold.
It sold tens of thousands of copies. The magazine ended up doing twenty reprints of the initial story. A first edition of the story sells for up to $800 in mint condition.
"The Brain-Eaters" spawned several generations of demon seed. "Brain-Eaters II: Zombies Gone Wild," "Brain-Eaters III: Revenge of the Zombies." All the way up to "Brain-Eaters X: Zombies Go to College."
Did I mention the franchise was picked up by Hollywood and made into movies? Dreadful movies. Movies played to packed houses of stoned and screaming teens and college students. Disgraceful.
At first, I was fine with it. The money was good and Kevin was happy. We didn't talk as much, and instead of spending Friday nights cuddled up with our well-worn copy of "The Maltese Falcon," Kevin usually had a promotional event. I willingly put aside my own literary aspirations to further Kevin's career.
However, I knew that it had to end the day I went into the butcher shop and asked for two pounds of pork chops. The butcher leaned across the counter and said, "We don't have any pork chops, but we have some incredible BRAAAAAIIIIINNNNNSSSSS!" He then held out a copy of Slimy Groove and asked me if Kevin would autograph it for him. I smiled and found another butcher.
That's the first time I fantasized about killing Kevin. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. It's not like I knew him anymore.
It wasn't just about the money. In fact, Kevin and his zombie franchise was probably worth more to me with him alive than dead. It's just that I was disgusted by our life and the man that I'd married.
But, how to do it?
I went about it in my best Agatha Christie fashion. An obscure poison would be best. Preferably one that accentuated Kevin's mild heart condition and would pass for a heart attack.
I studied and studied and finally found the compound I needed. A rare plant from India produced a poisonous seed that when baked into bread caused heart failure. Bless the Internet. In less than a month, I had the seedlings in my hand.
However, I wasn't content with just the seedlings. As a mystery writer, I studied crime and police procedure. I knew how sophisticated forensics had become and that I would have to be crafty to produce an undetectable poison.
Well, I won't bore you with details. I crossbred the original plant with another and another and in a few generations had a toxin that when bonded with the gluten in wheat flour was as close to undetectable as a poison could be.
I practiced on stray animals. At first, they convulsed and foamed at the mouth. Too much. Then, the animals revived and recovered after a day or so. Too little. Finally, a dog ate my bread, shivered for a few moments, yelped, and fell still. Just right. I took the dog to a vet in another town and ordered a necropsy and toxicology screen on the pretense that I believed my evil neighbor had poisoned poor Fluffy. The results? No toxic substances. Death by heart attack.
I was ready.
Kevin liked home-baked cloverleaf dinner rolls. In fact, he swore by them and insisted on them at every meal. I was an expert. Every stinking day, I rolled out dough, and dropped three little dough balls into each compartment of the damned muffin tin.
Except last night, I added a special surprise ingredient.
I put out the pot roast, potatoes, salad, and rolls. I hadn't served pork chops since my visit to the brain-loving butcher so many years ago.
Kevin took two helpings of meat and some salad. I passed him the rolls and he said, "no thanks."
"NO THANKS?"
When I asked him why he doesn't want any of the rolls he has insisted on every damned day for the last ten years, he answered, "Atkins."
"ATKINS?"
He then told me he'd put on some weight and was cutting carbs on the Atkins Diet until he slimmed down, and that I could stand to lose a few pounds as well, and would I like some pot roast?
I insisted he have a roll.
He resisted.
I insisted.
He resisted.
I won that argument, although it took a baseball bat to do it. And you know what, Mr. Detective? When licked off your fingers, brains aren't all that bad after all.
Buck and the Twee Fairies of Interstate 20
By Gary Cuba http://www.thefoggiestnotion.com
Buck Logan pulled his semi off the side of the road, brought it to a lurching halt, and heaved his bulky body out of the cab. It was time to scrape the latest accumulated layer of splattered fairy carcasses off his windshield.
He'd been forced to do the same thing only ten miles back. They were damned thick along this stretch, all the way between Aiken and Atlanta. His windshield washers couldn't keep up, and only ended up smearing the stuff into a near-opaque coating. He muttered to himself as traffic streamed by, slipping and sliding on the slick roadway of Interstate 20, which in spots was covered over completely with fairy guts.
"Damn things are gettin' to be a nuisance around these parts. Worse than the love bug season in Florida. A real twee pestilence, ya ask me!"
The air was thick with them, thicker than dragonflies on a stagnant Carolina pond in the springtime. One of the critters landed on his ear, apparently having fallen in love with its fat, fleshy lobe. The thing whispered something to Buck, which, by the time it crossed his corpus callosum and registered in his higher brain centers, got interpreted there as a very indecent proposition.
"Like hell I will, you … you prevert!" Buck said, swatting at the fairy. "Besides, what would my dear wife Ida think, if she ever found out? Ya'll need to take your twee niminy-piminy asses back to wherever ya'll came from. You're costin' me money, here!"
And that was a fact: miles defined his livelihood, and he wasn't racking them up quickly enough along this stretch. And Ida? Well, that was always a thought worth serious rumination. She'd slap him silly if she ever found out about him messing around. Hell's fury, she outweighed him by a good 50 pounds!
Buck pulled himself back up inside his cab and arranged his massive, protruding belly properly and comfortably behind the wheel. Shoot, he thought. There's a truck stop ten more miles up the road, might as well stop there, drain the dragon, take a shower, get some grub, shut down. Closing in on the day's log limit, anyhow. Today turned out to be a real bust, no twee ways about it.
Buck shook his head vigorously. Two ways! Jeezus.
***
Buck cleaned himself up and headed to the truck stop's restaurant. He paused outside the cafe's entrance for a moment and farted loudly there before entering, exercising a modicum of thoughtfulness for any of his colleagues who might be chowing down inside. Not that the food in this hash house was any more appealing than a good juicy fart, he thought, chuckling.
He spotted a trucker friend inside, Myron Smoat, who he knew ran a route for Sysco, delivering cheap consumer goods to cheap discount stores, earmarked for consumption by cheap people living equally cheap lives. Myron looked up and hailed Buck over to his booth.
"Looks like you're off-schedule too, Buck," Myron said.
"Goddamned fairies. Somethin' oughta be done about 'em." Buck hitched up his jeans and eased his buttocks onto the sticky bench seat opposite Myron. The foam padding already trying to escape its cracked vinyl covering made another increment of progress toward ultimate freedom.
Myron wiped his beard with his napkin, missing a spot of mayonnaise. "I know they tried fogging this stretch with insecticide. Didn't do squat. And I also read where some scientists down in Atlanta are trying to concoct a designer hormone spray that'll make the things sterile."
Buck knew that Myron was once a professor at some fancy college, although he couldn't remember which one. Was it Georgia Tech? In Buck's book, he was definitely a smart guy—not the least for realizing that medium-haul trucking could bring him a hell of a lot more income than babysitting rich kids. Buck had always been impressed with Myron's intellectual grasp on things. "The things do seem a might overly interested in sexual matters—or so I've noted."
"Best to maintain a withdrawn attitude about that, Buck."
"Anybody know where they came from?"
Myron took another bite out of his BLT sandwich and stared into space, somewhere in between here and there. "Where, indeed? Or more importantly, why? I have some ideas on that score. But since they're strictly in the realm of speculation, I hesitate to share them."
"Oh, come on, Myron! I ain't one of your ivory tusk-tower cronies. I'm just askin' you casual-like, one buddy to another. Sheesh!"
Myron's eyes fixed on Buck. "Some species of cicadas only come out every seventeen years. Fairies? Maybe they gestate for a lot longer, maybe a millennium or more. It's just their time, friend. Their time to do whatever Mother Nature intends for them to do. That's all I'll say on the matter. Don't let the things get under your skin, is what I advise. However twee they may be."
***
Buck lifted himself back into his truck and prepared to ease off into slumberland as he nestled back into his sleeper. He called to check in with Ida, then cut on his LCD TV and watched a little bit of the nightly news. All of it was people killing each other in one fashion or another, so far as Buck could tell. He grunted and shut the thing off, set his alarm clock, turned off the tiny cab light, and pulled a spread over his portly frame. He belched one time, a long, wet one. Damned hash. He closed his eyes.
And somewhere in that mystical gap between waking apprehension and unconscious reverie, he thought he heard a buzzing. A buzzing with a mincing lilt to it. A twee sound, inside the cab. But he was too tired to care. The dream he began having was too lucid, too exquisite to ever want to wake up from. Ida would kill him, if she only knew.
***
Myron noticed Buck's semi on his next run, still parked in the same exact spot it had occupied the week before. After banging on the door and checking the truck stop thoroughly, he notified the Highway Patrol. They jimmied open the cab, but found no trace of Buck inside.
Myron shook his head sadly. The twee fairies of I-20 had claimed another one.
Circles
By David Gillett
Earl pushed back his chair from the kitchen table and bent down to pick up his knapsack. His wife glared at him from the full sink, arms clasped, and not caring that soap suds dripped off her wrists. He had seen the look before and it never ended well.
“Honey, I’ve got to do something. We’ve talked about this a hundred times,” he explained. “We’ve called the police and you know that they can’t do anything about it. It’s going to cost us thousands of dollars just like last year and the year before. I’m not going to take it anymore.”
“What are you going to do if there are a dozen of them? What if they are armed?” she asked and looked out the window into the expanse of cornfields beyond the tractors. The sun had set hours ago and the tall stalks were only swaying shadows now.
“I’ve got my phone with me. Besides these are just punk kids. They aren’t the type to have weapons. I’m going to scare them off and that will be it,” he swung the sack over his shoulder. She didn’t look convinced.
“What if my brother is right?” she asked.
“No offense but your brother is a little off his rocker,” he said and opened the door.
Stepping off the porch, Earl headed down the gravel path towards the cornfield. He rummaged through the sack for the loaded revolver and jammed it into his jacket. Taking a deep breath, he turned on the flashlight and headed into the darkness. He knew where to go.
Cupping the end of the flashlight to dim the light, he made his way down the narrow rows of corn, listening for any noise. Within minutes he heard a distinct snapping of stalks and he turned off the flashlight. His heart pounded and he forced himself to relax. The sound grew louder and he noticed that it was coming right at him. He fumbled for his gun, but it was too late. Someone crashed through the corn and knocked him over. He grabbed the person and they both tumbled to the ground. He felt fists strike him in the head but he had the leverage and held the figure down. It was too dark to see who it was, but he leaned all his weight on the man’s arms.
“Don’t you move,” Earl yelled. “I’m armed.”
“Earl? Is that you?” asked the stranger and Earl instantly recognized the voice. It was Junior, his neighbor and cattle rancher.
“What are you doing here?” Earl asked.
“Get off me, you big buffoon. I can’t breathe,” Junior harrumphed. Earl got up and dusted himself off. Junior coughed as he rose and proceeded to circle around him. “What’s in the sack?”
“Why?” Earl answered and held the bag to his chest.
“Just show me?” Junior asked and Earl complied.
“It’s just some bullets. I had my gun and flashlight in it. Now why are you in my field?”
“I’m chasing someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know but someone has been slaughtering my cattle.”
“You saw them run in here?”
“Well no, but the last couple of years my cows have shown up dead on this exact day. The only way they could get to them without my dogs getting wind of them is through this field. I was going to catch ‘em in the act,” Junior said.
Just as Junior finished, a whirling noise came from the center of the cornfield. They both looked at each other and ran towards the sound. As they tiptoed towards the noise, a light shined through the stalks. They came to a row of cornstalks that formed a circle. In the center of the circle hovered a round silver craft. Two humanoid figures with elongated necks and large dark eyes waddled about in the dim light emanating from the ship’s base. They dragged a box and placed it near a hole in the side of the craft. One of the creatures opened the box and smoke rose from inside it. The other figure grabbed what looked like bloody steaks and began to load it into the box. When they finished, they stuffed ears of corn into the box. When that was done, they closed the lid and the box floated into the ship. They followed the box through the hole and in a flash the craft was gone.
Earl looked over at Junior whose mouth was wide open. He didn’t know what to say.
After a few seconds, Junior said, “I think that I’ll head home.”
“Yeah, same here. Nice seeing you,” Earl replied and put the gun into the sack.
“See you in church?”
“We’ll be there. Say hello to Darlene for me.”
“Will do.” And with that Junior disappeared into the pitch.
Earl slumped up the porch steps and into the kitchen where his wife was putting the dishes into the cupboards. He put the sack down and bent to take off his shoes.
“Back already?” she asked, still wielding the glare. “Is everything alright?”
“Everything is fine, honey. Just fine. I’m tired. I think I’ll head to bed,” he said and made his way towards the liquor cabinet.
Defection
By Linda Wastila http://linda-leftbrainwrite.blogspot.com
Life feels tiny 35,000 feet over the Atlantic. Unencumbered for the first time in a decade, I travel to Italy for an international mental health summit. Once there, I will check into the Grand Hotel et du Milan where, after two days of silk suits, pumps and polite shop talk, I will pack two smaller bags of necessary items—laptop, notebooks, a small photo album, jewelry, and bank account information—and board the Cisalpino. The train will carry me over viaducts spanning ravines and through tunnels forging ages-old granite to Geneva.
I left husband and daughter well prepared for my departure: lasagna in the freezer, lunch money taped into envelopes, clothes laid out for the school week. The month's bills slid into stamped envelopes.
Ellie was disconsolate.
“It’s only a trip,” I told her. “Just like Mommy's other business meetings.” But there was something about journeying over the wide swath of sea, which her five-year self could not fathom. Her apprehension was instinctive and prescient, reminding me of deer crashing through our brambled forest before a storm’s onslaught.
Yesterday we sat at the kitchen table with pink construction paper, purple markers, and smiley-face stickers. Chubby fingers gripping the felt-tip, Ellie drew the shaky outline of a calendar. Today is Saturday. Every night before bed she will dutifully plop a sticker into the correct square. I return home in six smiley faces.
Jonathan was more sanguine. Although terrified of being the lone parent, expressing fears of spiking fevers, refusals to eat dinner, and night terrors, he appeared relieved at the prospect of my absence. I wondered when he would squeeze Sandy into his busy schedule— while Ellie was in kindergarten? Would he spare time away from his precious lab? Would he desecrate our bed? I kept these worries to myself.
“You’ll get used to the routine,” I said, interrupting his morbid line of ‘what ifs’. “And don’t forget the spring concert Wednesday night. At six. Ellie will wear her flower dress, white tights, and pink Barbie shoes.”
The man beside me snores a comforting background melody, today's La Republica folded over an ample stomach swelling with exhalations. Black curlicues wedge through his shirt collar. The chest hair, the noisy sleeping sounds provide familiar comfort—I might get some sleep on this cramped plane. To make sure, I contemplate the amber liquid swirling in the plastic cup before bolting it back. The liquor sears my throat before fading to tolerable warmth. As a rule, I don’t drink Scotch, but this is my second and rules are made to be broken. On top of two glasses of Amarone quaffed with dinner, I feel nicely anesthetized.
The attendant approaches. I raise my index finger, point to the empty cup. The leather seat envelopes me. Outside, the plane’s lights reflect on the murky dark of the ocean.
There is something about turning 49 that makes everything loom as question marks: the future, the past. Lost loves, decisions made. Regrets, of course. Always regrets. A younger friend, an astrologist in between writing memoirs and waiting tables, tells me my angst is due to the confluence of birth date and planet alignment. My more practical gynecologist blames whacked-out hormones and pushes medical miracles to build bone mass, reduce depression, and calm the constant thrumming of my heart. I refuse medications, preferring my raging libido and the way my mind has suddenly burst from its rational confines into a Technicolor-infused existence of words, meaning, and sensation. I feel alive, the way I felt when I was Ellie's age. Still innocent, still questing. I feel … bold.
Well, I’ve always been brave. My pluck is one reason for my mother’s cool distance, or so asserts my shrink. I only hope I wasn’t what drove her to drink. But Mother was courageous in her way—she raised me on two bar-keeping jobs and the paltry contributions of the occasional man passing through. She passed on her gallantry through genetic code and her three-point credo trumpeted so frequently she may as well have tattooed it on me at birth: you can do anything you want, you can have it all, and you don't need a prince. I’ve adopted these inviolable principles as my own. For they are truths, truer than taxes, than grief, than God; only death is more certain.
So tell me—why am I, esteemed professor, prolific poet, devoted mother and wife, sitting on this wide-body jet hurtling through the heavens to Geneva? I giggle at my audacity, giddy from booze, hormones, and the knowledge my thoroughly modern mother was mostly right: I can do anything and have everything—including a Prince.
And I have found him.
The next drink appears. Golden nectar filters through me, imbuing me with a grace not otherwise present. I open the Moleskine resting on my lap. A picture of Ellie drops out; she’s in the garden hiding in the peonies, lips strawberry-stained, blond hair wispy in the sun. Pressure slides beneath my breastbone, just below the granular smudge highlighted on last week’s CAT scan. I slide her photograph into the back flap pocket, click my Montblanc, and soothe my fears, my hopes, my depraved desires.
I close the journal, bookmark the entry with my one-way Alitalia ticket.
Dreaming Lies to Change the Truth
By kaolin fire http://www.erif.org/
She wove lies of leaves and fruit as she crawled about the tree; it had rotted and split, but her webbing held it whole. She wove eight-faceted apples that glistened like negative prisms, sucking in all heat and life. Her manifold legs danced swiftly, all angles and jabs; chitin claws embraced, for brief moments, dry and cracking branches; her bulbous body swayed slowly in counterpoint.
And as she wove, she dreamed. She dreamed of truths, dark and gruesome; dreamed of fruit she should have never sampled–that cold stone of clarity in her heart. Her love was gone, long gone into the world of men, and dead, and she had not changed so much that she did not miss him–she had pulled his rib from her body, and she dreamed of an ache in her chest where it once had lain.
Outside, abandoned, she had tried to work her way as God, in his anger and disappointment, had intended. She’d been a wife, a mother, and much more–but the knowledge in her had burned and chafed. Her knowledge of good and evil went far deeper than she could admit–even to herself, at first; and she saw its depths with awful clarity. The knowledge, like a beast, had gnawed on her bones and soul, made malleable her flesh and her very being.
So when the one she had been made for was gone and buried, her grief and passion strengthened knowledge; and she bent under its weight. And bent, she had followed its path, and made its path her own. She left the rib to rest beside him so that no other would know her to have gone; in death, she made him whole again.
Centuries passed while she called the powers of creation to remake her. Beliefs came and went, and she became other: something outside God’s realm, that had not been, could not be, banned. The angels, alert only for man or woman, said nothing when she scampered in on the eight dainty legs that held her heavy body. And so she strode into the garden, Queen as anything, and surveyed the shambles.
Around the tree, she found serpent sheddings, long decayed. The adversary had stayed in the garden for a time, but he too had done God’s bidding in the end, had left to test those souls damned to roam the world outside. Finding no one, then, she fell once again upon the forbidden fruit—and finding its taste and truths unpleasant, she gorged herself on them, seeking to silence the noise with cacophony. Good and Evil was only the simplest fruit it had to offer—further in the flesh, in its very proto-soul like marrow, lay the foundations of knowledge itself.
And then—all-knowing and nigh all-powerful, it came to her. She had sucked the tree of knowledge dry and had the power of knowledge itself. She wrapped her tree in silken lies, spun promise-dreams of innocence, beguiling the fetid flies that were the souls of her progeny generations upon generations gone. And one by one, those souls crept to her bosom through the deep roots of pride and lust, no angel left in those depths to notice or care—and she made of them eight-faceted apples that glistened like negative prisms, each soul gone leaving another dreamless automaton alone in the world outside.
The tree itself fed upon those fruits, transmuting her dreams, their dreams, to substance—to truth. And when it had fed upon all the souls of man, when naught was left but empty fleshly vessels, a new fruit would appear. And she would feed on that, and either time would cease or it would run back and be undone—she did not care—such was the dream that she sang.
Fate’s Heavy Hand
By Jim Bernheimer http://www.jimbernheimer.com
The woman entered the empty chapel just as the minister was speaking. His monotone voice said, "If anyone present can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now; or forever hold your peace."
Coughing, she cleared her throat and drew their attention.
"Who are you?" The groom demanded.
"Why Sir Byron," the woman said stepping into the faint light, "don't you recognize your wife?"
The pronouncement brought a startled cry from the woman standing next to the groom. "Liar!"
The woman threw back her hood causing yet another gasp. Her face was older and the raven tresses were beginning to lighten with age, but the woman was the spitting image of the bride.
"Technically, you are right. I'm not your wife yet, and if I get my way, I never will be!"
While Sir Byron and his intended gaped, the Minister and his wife both made protective signs. They stepped back and the holy man spoke, "This is witchcraft and it has no place in the house of the Lord. Be gone!"
"Aye," the woman agreed, "it is witchcraft that has brought me to the past. Holding my peace forever was becoming tiresome. But tell me, man of the cloth, if I sacrifice my immortal soul to save my immortal soul, am I truly dammed?"
She let the Minister ponder that riddle and turned her attention to the knight and the pretty maiden at his side.
"It isn't all you hoped for dear. There are those long, lonely nights in that drafty manor, as he spends months laying siege to a castle for some cause you never understand. And the children, he treats them either like a burden or servants and promises are broken without a second thought. Take a good look, Victoria. This is what your happily ever after looks like."
"Impossible," the younger woman stammered. "You can't be me!"
"Trust me, I wish I wasn't," the cloaked woman answered with a leer, resting a hand on one of the pews, while shaking a single finger from the other at the young woman, like she was correcting a schoolchild.
"My love for Victoria is true. I would do anything for her."
"Oh there was a time that I would have believed that drivel, Byron, but that ship has sailed. I was just the wife on your arm, a symbol of status. You should have just hired someone to manage your estate! But you got out of that by marrying me. Still, I'm not here for you! I'm here to talk some sense into me and stop myself from making a mistake that will lead to a dark path."
The uncertain bride-to-be stepped closer, "I don't know what to think ... "
"You deserve better than this lout. Anything would be an improvement! Don't marry him. He might look promising now, but I am proof that he will ruin you!"
Byron also stepped forward, but he was angry and grabbed the hilt of his sword in warning.
He spat, "Do not listen to this creature! It speaks lies."
"See how quick he is to anger. If you don't, you will soon, but I know how to convince you once and for all. He says he will do anything for you, so it's time you take him up on it."
Glaring, the knight hissed his answer, "There is nothing you can demand of me."
The older Victoria answered his accusing look and said, "Very well, dear Byron, renounce your title. If your bride means more to you than everything else, prove it! Aren't you here, getting married ahead of schedule, because of the rumors that war will soon be on the land? You're already putting your king ahead of her ... me. Are you to be a husband first or a knight of the realm?"
"My word is my honor! To ask me to betray it is too much, Victoria."
The young woman protested, "Byron, I'm not asking you, she is!"
Her older doppelganger laughed, "But you are. Allow this marriage to be consummated and I am the result, a bitter, angry woman, driven to witchcraft. Is this what you want for your new bride, Byron?"
The man appeared torn. He stared long at the family crest emblazoned on his tunic and reached a decision. "Perhaps it is best that we do not proceed. If this is your future, I care for you too much to see you end up like this."
"Byron! No! Wait!" The younger woman called out, but Sir Byron broke from her desperate grasp, marshaled his pride, and walked out the entrance leaving four people in his wake. A moment of stunned silence ensued before the jilted bride collapsed, sobbing her pain for the world to hear. The Minister and his wife continued to stare at the woman in the cloak.
She shrugged off their frightened gazes. "I have delivered my warning. The past is changed and soon I will be gone. Goodbye."
Turning, the woman walked out into the night. After a hundred paces, she looked back at the chapel to make certain no one was watching. The witch allowed the illusion to disappear. She was lucky. The prophecy that a child, born of their union, would cause her downfall would never be fulfilled. The knight could be eliminated easily enough in the coming war. There would be no reconciliation. Her safety was assured.
Cackling, she mounted her broom and flew into the night.
Back in the chapel, Victoria slowly regained her composure. The Minister and his wife offered what comfort they could, before vowing to never speak of the night's events.
Victoria thought about a life without Byron and how she would go on. She didn't even have a chance to tell him that she was already pregnant. Their child would be born out of wedlock and her life was ruined … all because of witchcraft! She would never forget this and neither would her baby.
Food of the Gods
By judy b. http://onzeproductions.com/Site/Home.html
Austin knows he'll have to make up for this, storming out before the argument is over. They'll have to talk about it, which means he'll have to listen—again—hear how insensitive he is, how he belittles her work, her goals. It's true: he doesn't like to listen. He's a professor; he imparts knowledge. He likes to talk. OK, hold forth. Well, she knew that when she took up with him. She knew what he was like.
Austin has a Ph.D. in American History from one Midwestern university and he teaches at another. He met Josie his first night in town; she was waiting tables at a nice restaurant someone had told him was a good place for dinner. He'd flirted with her, thinking she was younger than he and not as wise. After a year, he's still not ready to concede the latter point.
His route to the U never varies, though his mode of transport does. He sometimes rides his bike, more often walks, but today he is piloting a 10-year-old import, because of the rain. Cold rain that in a month will be snow. He is starting his second year at the university, entering his second year of life with Josie. She moved in last month.
Their argument was over, of all things, fruit.
Austin made a remark about the persimmons Josie had in a blue bowl: "Ah, persimmons," he'd said, "food of the gods." Then he'd offered a short history lesson on how the English couldn't wait until winter to eat the bitter fruit the American Indians called "pessamin," didn't realize it ripened and sweetened in the cold. How the Native Americans shared with Hernando de Soto a kind of bread made with what the conquistador thought was prunes. Austin had picked one up, and Josie told him it wasn't ripe.
"I wasn’t going to eat it."
"Of course not. You were going to pontificate on it, ruminate over it to the point that I no longer want to look at it, let alone bake a tea bread with it—which I definitely won't want to give you a taste of, because I'd just get a lecture on the history of tea, the beverage, the meal, the ritual, the … the … oh, fuck it, Austin, just go to work. Go lecture the people who don’t know anything yet. Talk to the people who want to listen." She threw a handful of spoons into a mixing bowl filled with water in the sink and walked away.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-35 show above.)