FFM 09: A Gentleman's View“I must’ve been Greek in a past life,” Arty grunted through a mouthful of Gyro. I didn’t pay much attention. We both knew he didn’t believe in reincarnation anyway. “This’s amazing. Oop, hey, new guy’s here.”FFM 09: A Gentleman's View1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It was another long night, wasting my life at the tavern. I was on the money-making end, rather than one of the Orcish bikers or shady Elves that shoveled their money at me in exchange for a sympathetic ear and a bottle. I was lucky in that, but I always felt like there was more to life than keeping the family business afloat. Always that sense that something was missing.
In this part of Harlem, it was the same characters every night, but the new guy had shown up a week ago, claimed a stool at the counter, and made himself comfortable there each night since. Arty called him ‘the rich faggy type’ and insisted that he’d be dead by the end of the
The Most Wonderful ThingsThe Most Wonderful Things1 year ago in Philosophical More Like This
Sometimes you look up at the sky and think, just think, like something in the stars or that great blue open sky councells you, and you ask questions, discovering. Thoughts come seeping out of your brain like a faucet turned full force. Worlds and people flash through your vision that you swear you've never seen before, but have created first hand. The writer stares through open windows not of boredom, but of deep thought, his or her mind creates an entire universe, an infinite playground of twice infinite wonders and adventures that only they can enjoy, until they use those ideas, they use the ink in their very veins, pumping through their heart to create art, to create beauty, and then they gain a tiny speck of control in their own little realities, creating smiles and memories for others in their lives. They are their own gods, a pillar of self worship without an iota of narcissism. And they are the creators of great things. Wonderful things...
One Hour of UsefulnessThe girls are the hour.One Hour of Usefulness5 years ago in Scraps More Like This
In their fleshy prime - sweet and nubile.
The girls are forty-five minutes.
New dresses and new make-up - take those pictures.
The girls are thirty minutes.
Agencies and parties - book them up.
The girls are fifteen minutes.
Mister wants her to come over - she'll say yes.
The girls are so...
Not so pretty.
Get the fuck out.
Tick, Tock | Time, DistanceHow do you bridge the gapTick, Tock | Time, Distance2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
between time & changes in a tap?
Everything comes to pass
Nothing is meant to last
All you can do is look back
Revisit, reminisce, recall the fact
That every tick, every tock
always runs with the clock
In your memory lane, you may go down
with a smile, a smirk, or a frown
the what was, that what is, the what will
woven together by an instant you can't kill
The past may be too far to reach
focus more on what it tries to teach
The future, a stone's throw away
dream, stand firm, persevere you may
SquirmA cool breeze blasted Jack in the face. Shuddering, the young man shifted his merchandise to one hand and pulled his turtleneck up so it covered his chin. Better, but still cold. What was winter weather doing in autumn, anyway?Squirm9 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
His breath came out in short, wispy puffs as he strode toward the benches. “Come on, guy,” he murmured. “Show up already. Lemme go home.” The things he did for his clients.
Funny thing was, though, he couldn’t pick his client out of the handful of people. The benches by the tracks were nearly empty. There were a couple of men and one lady, all waiting patiently for their train to arrive. But none were dressed nicely enough to be his buyer. Not rich and classy- just ordinary. Jack sighed, releasing more warmth into the morning air.
“Excuse me.” A man brushed past him, fumbling with a suitcase of his own.
Jack perked up at the voice. There was a slight accent in it, though he couldn’t identify it for the life
It's a Wonderful Spoof“Goodbye, cruel world!” Greg prepared to take a long jump off edge of the bridge—he didn’t want to bump into the side on the way down.It's a Wonderful Spoof1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light. Barely managing to stop himself falling off in surprise, Greg looked to his right. A glowing, winged figure was perched on the railing. “No, stop, don’t do it,” he said, not particularly enthusiastically. He took his cigarette out of his mouth for a moment to have a swig from a three-litre bottle of cheap cider.
“Who are you!?”
“I’m your guardian angel.”
Greg just stared.
“I’m not being sarcastic. I literally am.” He put the cigarette back in his mouth, freeing up a hand to offer to Greg. “The name’s Lawrence.”
Greg shook his hand. “Greg.”
Lawrence screwed his face up, as if talking to an idiot. “Yeah, mate. I think I picked that up at some point over the last forty or fifty years. N
The Trouble with Dreams (non-fiction)I wouldn’t recommend killing your dreams.The Trouble with Dreams (non-fiction)1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Most kids are afraid of growing up and having their dreams die. That kind of death is the most common one – the slow suffocation under the weight of reality, or the gradual atrophy as you get distracted and stop feeding the poor things. There’s the other common cause of death – you try, and you fail.
My death was similar to this.
And failed. And failed. And failed. And failed. I kept failing. Nothing was ever a success. I was worthless. My artwork was worthless. My stories were incomplete. My comics were pathetic.
But I couldn’t turn off the desire to create. Art was part of me. It was everything I wanted to say, all I wanted to show, the little splash of individuality and tiny little change in the rhythm and din of the world.
But I couldn’t show it. I couldn’t say it.
It was literally driving me mad.
I couldn’t keep living that way.
So I killed my dreams.
I re-discovered t
Zombie ApocalypseCreeping CrawlingZombie Apocalypse3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Blood spilling, tears falling
They hungrily moan and groan
With a hunger that remains unknown
The police advising:
Stay inside and lock the doors
Cover your ears to silence the roars
Run and find a place to hide
Quickly! Please come inside!
You are safe for now but what can you do?
Don't you realize i am hungry for you too?
I want your flesh, muscle and bone
Once i am done i will leave you alone
The world is falling swiftly from grace
And is becoming an undead place
RefugeeWhen Craig dies, you burn every letter he ever sent you. You donate all of his gifts and delete his number from your phone.Refugee9 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
You go to visit his mother, just once. There, she keeps Craig’s room like a shrine.
This used to be your place of refuge. You came here when your parents fought, when you did badly on a test, when you had no reason at all.
It isn’t safe any longer. It still smells like him. You feel you could fall backwards onto his bed and find his body there beside you, his back warm against yours. Pictures of the two of you together stare at you from the walls.
You catch movement from the corner of your eye and turn, quickly, to the mirror. For a minute you see him standing behind you, his shoulders rolled forward and his hair hanging in his eyes. When he lifts his head to meet your gaze, there is nothing—only blackness.
You walk outside at once. The sun is so bright you have to stop, wiping your eyes.
The stacks in section 200, Religion, are glowing, sick
The Revolution KidsJeff knew it had been a bad idea to buy those pills. Not because he thought anything bad would happen—quite the opposite. He’d been suckered in by some vague mumbo-jumbo. “They’re new,” the guy at the stall had said. But then he’d got them home and read the little leaflet—as he always did—and there it was: “homeopathic.” He’d just spent thirty quid on sugar pills. Chucked them out the window.The Revolution Kids1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It was eleven thirty when he noticed the fox out on the patio, crunching the pills with its mean little teeth and licking up the crumbs. Jeff had thought it was funny at first—at least someone was getting something out of them—but then he wondered if it might not be good for the fox. What if they made its stomach swell up? Or something? He opened the door, and the fox bolted. He swept up all the little white pills with his hands and dumped them in the bin in a plastic tub.
The fox was there again the next day, li
Come With Me if You Want to Live“Are you Sally Connal?”Come With Me if You Want to Live1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
“Do I know you?”
The musclebound gentleman stared through his sunglasses. “That is improbable.”
“Because you look kind of familiar. Aren’t you the Governor of somewhere?”
“This is not a productive area of discussion. Are you Sally Connal?”
To Sally’s surprise, the man slowly drew a large handgun from his coat pocket. To her even greater surprise, a motorcycle crashed through the café window next to her, knocking him through a similar window on the opposite side of the building. The rider of the motorcycle did a tight lap of the room, brought the vehicle to a dramatic halt and stretched out an arm.
“Come with me if you want to live!”
Sally glanced over at the first guy who had spoken to her. He was already standing, the glass under his feet crunching dramatically, as it would under the feet of an implacable bad guy in an action movie.
Sally set do
The Talking Dead “If you thought it was alright to be a zombie...” Bruce pumped his shotgun for emphasis, “you were dead wrong.”The Talking Dead1 month ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
“Aaah!” yelled the zombie. “Not the face! Not the face!”
Bruce jumped in surprise, accidentally pulling the trigger, but only after he had also made an ungainly flailing motion with the shotgun. The result was that he not only missed the zombie, but the recoil caught him completely by surprise, prompting further flailing. All in all, it didn’t really fit with the badass action hero persona he had been trying to cultivate since the start of the zombie apocalypse.
“Stop! I’m not a zombie!”
Whether or not this was true, the slightly-rotten figure in front of Bruce was cowering, and since he had already ticked “shoot first” off his mental list, this seemed like a good time
salt (FFM 1)When she moved to the tiny beach town in the north, she was young, poor, and vibrant. The seaside was like a promise lingering on her breath; it seemed to symbolise everything she would achieve. She’d walk along the shore every morning in her two-piece skirt suit, pumps in hand, bare toes glorying in the chilly 7 AM water. The incongruity of it all delighted her; the rush of the wind at odds with her perfectly coiffed hairdo, and the salt spray filling her lungs, daring her to take one pace closer, one pace further into the ocean.salt (FFM 1)1 month ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
There were some days when she’d succumb; arrive at work dishevelled, damp, and smelling of salt. She enjoyed these days the most, even when the sand frustrated and worried away at her feet, even when her hair dried awkwardly in tendrils to the back of her neck. There was something bewitching about giving in to the immense body of water, about carrying the Pacific through her day, in her shoes and on her skin and inside her veins.
The Last Tattoo“I get a tattoo every year before the Forgetting,” Eira told her trusted tattoo artist.The Last Tattoo1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Five years ago, Eira had been hiding out in abandoned neighborhoods in the vast City of Angels. One day she miscalculated the distance she had to leap from one rooftop to the next; Eira had fallen into a pile of discarded boxes. She had not been hurt, but the noise alerted a nearby patrol and she was re-captured.
The Plutocracy of the City of Angels had decided that Eira was still useful. They repurposed her as a maid, wiping most of her memory and giving her a new housing assignment at the end of each calendar year. The Memory Police maintained that the memory wipe was to keep Eira’s hard drive from getting too cluttered, but Eira knew better. If they kept wiping her memory, she would not be able to gather the information she needed to be free of the government’s reach forever. She would never be able to leave the city and look for her true maker.
“I knew it! Thought I
EthrelochI used to believe that the spirits were there to protect us, to keep us safe from those who sought to harm us. That is before I watched some women drag Mother into the street and beat her until the purple in her veins throbbed and heaved red. They had stormed the palace, made father and I bear witness to her punishment for upsetting the spirits. Two years after, Father had Mother drowned when she spat on the graves of his ancestors. At least that is the tale Father told me.Ethreloch10 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
He had warned me, "Mind yourself, child, or your time will come too."
But I knew that spirits didn't exist to carry out the whims of my Father or the people. Our people had punished Mother, and Father had killed her, but they were still unhappy and vengeful. They were out for more blood. Mine.
Nira paced across her room, hands quivering at the sound of footsteps approaching her door. Oakwood pressed up against her ear as she listened to the noises and the voices of those she feared: her own people. Her terror
Gas mask Gas maskGas mask1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
Now, these days were tough. It was the blank ages of a brutal war. The steamy hots of battle rise, the livid gun-shots being heard with sickening cracks of poor people's flesh being ripped apart from bullet's crusty edge. Families were huddled against the wall, praying too their lords that safety would be with their hope. The poison gas rising with the tension. Many citizens coughing with no health. The cruel diseases killing each person slowly with their gruesome effect too the insides.
One family called the Nicks didn't settle for this. Not one bit. The group of cousins counted too be three were squished in their basement, a endless supply of water and food trapped inside with them. Their feline named Mr.Hug was purring tentatively in the youngest's lap, it's throat vibrating in response of simple strokes on the Siamese's silky pelt.
Susie, the teenager of the group worked tiredly every day too keep her kin safe from anything that dared too hurt their delicate sk
ParallelIt's 2014 and you've spent the better part of the last four years dealing with a diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder. Your head is more full of noise than ever, and your skin still feels like it's the wrong size far too often, but life is slowly starting to improve as recovery begins to take shape within you.Parallel1 week ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
You are touching the mirror, nose to the glass and examining your face in minute detail when it happens. The floor shudders beneath you, your forehead hits the reflective material and a crack forms. Something in you likens the crack in the mirror to the crack of your fractured personalities, and then there is nothing.
The silence wakes you, and you take stock. All your limbs are there, and except for a bump on your head, you seem unharmed. Whole. The word seems to want to connect to something, but you're still a little muzzy. Pieces of the puzzle gradually come back to you - the mirror, the ground shaking beneath your feet. The mirror.
You try to see how the glass fare
The Room on the Bottom FloorDear Sir,The Room on the Bottom Floor1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I have been most disappointed with the way I have been treated while staying at your establishment. My room does not have its own thermostat, nor even a window, and the heat is unbearable. This is entirely unacceptable. If this is how you treat a prestigious lawyer, I cannot imagine what the regular riff-raff must have to put up with.
Furthermore, I would like to lodge a complaint against your employee, one “Miles.” He wouldn’t give me a last name—which I think says something about the level of professionalism among your staff. When I implied that I was strongly considering taking my business elsewhere, he had the audacity to laugh at me.
Given the appalling quality of service I have had to endure, I believe some form of compensation is in order.
Oswald Alexander Humphries, LL.B.
I am pleased to hear your review of my hospitality! My minions prepared your room just for you, and I'm glad you have found it in
A Bold Stratagem July 5th, 1944:A Bold Stratagem3 weeks ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
They will give me the Dickin Medal for this.
I have intercepted a report indicating that reinforcements are to be sent to the 4th Army, east of Mogilev. I cannot allow that to happen. Though my actions in Berlin have drawn a significant amount of attention already, I am determined to hold my position. The ground I have chosen to make my stand is exposed. Every day, things get a little more uncomfortable. The enemy is just feet away. But I will persevere.
I will prevail.
“I was going to write important Nazi stuff, but there’s a cat sitting on my typewriter.”
“Can’t you just shove it off?”
RenovationsThey will come again, and when they do, the others will hide.Renovations9 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Mr. Brown will curl up in his hole in the eaves. The Wife in the crawlspace, and I'll be here, clutching my dear ones close. I'm wrapping my legs around them, and I can hear them fidget against the soft sac, their little tremors not unlike the desperate throes of flies, but warm, beautiful. It won't be long now. Now is the tender time. Soon I'll wear them on my back, and we can leave this place. But not yet. Not yet. Now is the time when a swift strike would kill them, and me with them. I will not leave.
I can't leave. I've hidden as well as I can. A small shadow between the braces under the mantel, where their lights don't penetrate. At least not yet.
Too much light. Too many sounds. They come with their sounds, with their fangs at the ends of their legs, shooting explosions into the walls, toppling everything. They are giants. They grumble at each other, tear up the floors, rip down the lights. Destroy everything that has
count to ten Close your eyes and count to ten.count to ten1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I glanced at all of the displays in front of me, double checking pressure, fuel levels, generator power. Everything came back green.
In the silence there was a moment to breathe. I closed my eyes and put my hand on the empty seat beside me, one of thirteen now vacant. This journey was never supposed to be two-way. Fourteen people were supposed to come out here and never come back. Of course, we were supposed to have support, aid, and supplies sent to us until we were secure, too.
Nothing had gone the way it had been planned. Command stopped communicating two weeks after the ship had landed. Gorsky died of some kind of allergic reaction to the local flora at the same time.
And then there were the razors. I opened my eyes and shivered, staring up through the canopy of terrorized looking trees. How many bullets did you send with fourteen people tra