By Date

I’ve seen a lot of dives in my line of work. Tonight’s bar was no different. The sign over the door identified the place as Beyond The Pale, and from the condition of the lounge it was clear this one lived up to its name. A dingy film covered the linoleum floor, giving it the color of bile.... But the décor, or lack thereof, was of little concern. I needed a drink, and I needed it fast. Read more: HTML PDF 

“You have to be the best in the world at something.”

My father couldn’t have made his point any clearer if he’d spoken in all caps. Maybe he had.

I must have been about eleven, which would shuffle my brothers’ and sisters’ ages from thirteen for Maria, twelve for Joaquin, then myself—the bridge between older and younger—and so on to Bell, little Boo, and Miguelito, who was only ten months old.... Read more: HTML PDF 

He just wants to go home. He just wants to go home. He just wants to go home, but he can’t go home so he bounces. Boing. Bounces to pass the time. If only he were a year older he could go to school and he wouldn’t need to be dropped off here. He wishes that were the case. Because Roger doesn’t yet know that schools can be much worse places. Read more: HTML PDF 

Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron. Read more: HTML PDF 

I’d just turned the key in the ignition when I saw the birds.

They’d swooped past my car into the alley in front of the bank parking lot. When I looked up, I could see the pigeon on the ground, at the base of a brick building. It was in trouble, trying to get up onto a windowsill; flap as it would, it couldn’t get enough lift. One wing was hardly moving. Read more: HTML PDF 

Green metal beetles filled the sky. Electric death crackled off their deadly antennae and fell on the city below. It played up and down the crowded streets, shattering buildings, boiling asphalt, vaporizing cars.

Dull olive-drab shapes huddled against the crumbling remnants of a wall. One of the men cursed under his breath. Read more: HTML PDF 

I’m spending my week off fighting traffic jams, three tightly compacted lanes each morning. I bought the convertible special for this week—traded in the Taurus for a shiny Mustang—and I’ve got the top down. A sparkly red car. The kind of car Rutger will notice. Read more: HTML PDF 

This Classic Flash from 1915 is, yes, the old tale, but retold with a political flair and a funny and cynical twist at the end—as good as any modern commentary might be. Read more: HTML PDF 

Peg said to me, “You’re sure you want to come? They don’t always know until the blood tests come back.” But I wanted to take the day off. This was an occasion. Besides, it was a beautiful day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. We took a streetcar, then walked two blocks.... Read more: HTML 

Things started disappearing on a Thursday. At first, it was only food. Angela left three cookies on a plate in the kitchen, but when she turned around, there were only two. She set a glass of soda on the coffee table, but when she left the room and came back, it was gone. She had no roommates, no friends to speak of, no pets—there was no one to blame... Read more: HTML PDF 

“Stupid.” He took a moment to savor the word. “God, but you’re stupid.”

She stared back mutely. That, at least, he didn’t blame her for: what could she say, after all? Any intrusion would only make things worse. He’d established the rules for this long ago, and she hadn’t fought back, which he considered as good as consenting. Read more: HTML PDF 

The Chief Surgeon sat in a padded leather chair, and I sat in a hard plastic one. The wall vents behind him blew fresh, filtered air, which dissipated into wisps before it got to me. Even on the top floor of Darber Institute, stale air smelled of ammonia. I coughed. He didn’t.

At last he said, “Mr. Jones, dozens of faster-than-light candidates arrive at the Institute every year. . . .” Read more: HTML PDF 

In the middle of the day, the frogs held a council. “It’s unbearable,” said one. “The herons hunt us by day, and the raccoons prey on us at night.”

“Yes,” said another. “Either one is bad enough, but both herons and raccoons together mean that we never have a moment’s peace.”

John Mortonson was dead: his lines in “the tragedy ‘Man’” had all been spoken and he had left the stage.

The body rested in a fine mahogany coffin fitted with a plate of glass.... At two o’clock of the afternoon the friends were to assemble to pay their last tribute of respect to one who had no further need of friends and respect.... Read more: HTML PDF 

Donny Ray and Jim-Jim straddled their bikes on the bank of the stream and stared at the old Patterson Mill. Mr. Kent, the school janitor, had told them it had been haunted by a little girl named Sarah Tibbett since long about the 1920s. . . . Standing in the old mill’s shadows, Donny Ray could believe this was a place spirits dwelled. Read more: HTML PDF 

“Broken robutt,” Kent said. He picked through a bin of replacement body parts, but couldn’t find an exact fit. “Crap. I’ll get my butt kicked off, too, if this assembler’s not back on the line within the hour.”

Sarah rummaged through the manufacturing stock and found a curved copper part with about the same dimensions as the flat plate that Kent needed. “Can you make this work?” Read more: HTML PDF 

“Tell him I’m not here.”

He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm’s length, and examined it with his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the little waiting room.

“He says you are, too, because he can hear you.”

The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the table with the finished work did he say: “So much the better.” Read more: HTML PDF 

This game is called Is Love Possible? It’s a virtual game—real cutting-edge interface software—that (1) draws on your life, hopes, and fears; (2) may or may not, my therapist says, have any therapeutic benefits; and (3) costs over two grand with my therapist’s discount, and needs three more in hardware from Circuit City, Best Buy, wherever.

“Okay,” I say, to make him happy. Read more: HTML PDF 

I usually let the first part of a story draw in readers on their own. If I did that with Ron Richardson’s “Bus Ride”, it would probably use up half the word count—at 175 words, this is most likely the shortest story that Flash Fiction Online will ever publish. It rings true to me, too, having once served in the U.S. Marine Corps. So kick back and give it a read. I promise it won’t take very long. —Ed. Read more: HTML PDF 

So there we were: myself and Hannibal and Genghis Khan. Hannibal had the hill, while Genghis was sneaking round the rear.

Only for the lizard to call for another halt.

“What is it now?” I shouted.

The avatar appeared, all Greek robes and long flowing hair. He stood between me and the alien lizard and translated.

“He thinks you should choose only from the last three hundred years.” Read more: HTML PDF 

When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victims body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods.... Read more: HTML PDF 

We recognize that some who cope with dyslexia will think we’re making fun of them. Please read Carl’s forward. —Ed.

Entry: The DOG (Dyslexic Geek Organization): In these climes of specialized tubs, it snot atoll surprising there’s a club for...

Nate finished reading the entry, closed the Dyslexicon, and left the library with a growing realization that he must become a part of the DOG. This is his tale. Read more: HTML PDF 

Savage, wild, the pack of Stockbrokers tracks its prey, loafers swishing in the shifting sands. For eight days they have been on the move without a kill. For eight days they have barely slept. Gray linen slacks keep them cool in the sweltering days, warm during the bone-chilling nights. Old tickertape streams from worn pockets and drifts to the sand, criss-crossing the terrain like icing on a fiery bun. Read more: HTML PDF 

“You both have a very rare condition,” the doctor said to my twin brother and me. “In fact, you two are the fourth and fifth cases ever recorded in the hundred years of Martian inhabitation. It might be caused by something in the well water that effects a small number of people.”

“Can you cure it?” Tommy asked. Read more: HTML PDF 

It’s no joke trying to find performers for a stage play since the end of the world. Who’d want to be a casting director in the zombie aftermath?

We’re supposed to be putting on Macbeth at the Royal Theatre. Not my choice; gloomy bloody play if you ask me, but it’s still all the rage for the survivors. You’d think they would want something more upbeat after all that putrid resurrection hoo-hah. Personally, I think half of them are such gormless twits that nobody will notice the difference once they start to zombie, too. Read more: HTML PDF 

This is a quaint, odd science-fiction story from 1961 about a composer who goes off-world looking for peace and quiet. I’m still not sure what happened to his piano along the way, but regardless of the reason I’ll still feel less like the ugly American next time I travel to distant lands. —Ed. Read more: HTML PDF 

“Oh, for the love of...” Seamus shifted from foot to foot, one pudgy hand fingering the clover in his shirt pocket. The thought of using it sent his heart fluttering, but his fellow leprechauns were dying all around him, cut down by a swarm of chittering fairies.

“Aieeeee!” the winged pests cried as they flitted through the air, slashing with their sword-like wands.

“You’re going to have to use it,” Seamus muttered to himself.... Read more: HTML PDF 

Parker kept a sun in his desk. He fed it gravel and twigs, and once his gum when it lost its flavor. The warm varnished desktop felt good against his forearms, and the desk’s toasty metal bottom kept the chill off his legs.

Today Mr. Earl was grading papers at the front of the class, every once in a while glancing up at the 3rd graders to make sure none of them were talking or passing notes or looking out the window. Read more: HTML PDF 

Act II: A single eye stared back at me, its somberness swept by a long-lashed blink. On the top bunk, my step-son lay on his side, head sunk to his nose in a pillow, and watched me get ready to state my position. A comforter snugged up to his smooth jawline and humped over his slender shoulder as it spread over the bed and smoothed away the rest of his body. Read more: HTML 

Everyone knows the great desert is hot by day and cold by night. But that heat and cold is something you must know to understand. The midday sun seems to burn through your eyelids, so that outside the shade you cannot escape it; it pricks at your skin like a thousand needles, and sweat offers no relief because you could never sweat enough. It is harsh and cruel, and without water and a good guide you will not live long. Read more: HTML 

Consider that a conversation by telephone—when you are simply sitting by and not taking any part in that conversation—is one of the solemnest curiosities of modern life. Yesterday I was writing a deep article on a sublime philosophical subject while such a conversation was going on in the room. I notice that one can always write best when somebody is talking through a telephone close by. Well, the thing began in this way... Read more: HTML 

You can’t harvest a crop without killing something. A combine ain’t particular, it cuts whatever’s in its path. There’s no malice in it, just a part of the season, like rain and heat. Food or nesting draws critters in, but come harvest the combine keeps rolling. Some run and live. Others don’t, and don’t. Read more: HTML PDF 

“Daddy!” Rachel shouted. “There’s a robot at the door.”

Winston Sinclair hoped it wasn’t one of those sales bots. They were danged near impossible to get rid of. He picked up Rachel and raised the viewport she had used. The robot was three feet tall, grey, squat, plain-looking.

“Robot, what do you want?” Read more: HTML PDF 

I lie on my cot, staring at the pine rafters. They treat us like children here, keeping us to a schedule, always requiring an afternoon nap.

A few cots over, Olive is coughing. Anyone would, with every window open and the dust blowing in. I wonder how much the doctors really know about our ailment. Dust makes us cough more, but still the windows must be kept open. Read more: HTML PDF 

This story is from the November 1962 edition of Analog Science Fact - Science Fiction.

It was written at a time when communication required much more effort, and this story is, as a result, a little bit difficult to read. Be prepared. But it pulled me along, and I hope it does you as well. Enjoy! —Ed.
Read more: HTML PDF 

Dr. Albrecht woke from his afternoon nap to find himself on fire. At least, that’s how it felt: like someone had taken an acetylene torch and given his body a good talking-to. In the seconds it took him to wake, scream, and leap from the cot, tearing off his nightshirt and batting wildly at flames that, to his surprise, did not seem to exist, Albrecht came to the conclusion that the source of his agony went deeper than a bit of charred flesh.

His reflection in the bathroom mirror gave him his first clue: his skin shimmered. . . . Read more: HTML PDF 

Stu is driving to South Lake Tahoe to take his post-partum-strained woman to the snow, to take his nine-week-old infant through a storm, to take his neglected dog in a five hour car ride, and to take himself into his woman’s good graces. And he’s hungry. Even though Stu has considered, more than once, stopping the car on the whitened highway and plunging himself over a cliff so he could plop into a cozy pile of snow and hide until his wife is logical again or the baby is able to tend to itself, he’s not dressed warmly enough for months or years in a snowbank, he has no snacks in his jacket, and he must focus on The Family. Read more: HTML PDF 

Every morning, the Human Clockwork arrived at the park promptly at 6:25. He’d set up his clock face behind his pedestal and then he’d arrange himself in front of it, and by 6:30 he’d have his arms just so, pointing straight at his feet. It was his duty to keep perfect time, and he never failed.

But this morning, there was a woman in his spot when he arrived at the park. He blinked at her, as if blinking would make her disappear, but no matter how quickly he blinked, she was still there. In his spot. Immovable. Impossible. Read more: HTML PDF 

“I can do this,” I told my squirrel. If Babycheeks—my totem and spirit-guide—answered, it was lost beneath the bar’s raucous gabble of small talk and pick-up lines.

A hostess with shiny teeth and a clipboard approached. “Are you here for Insta-Date?”

“Yeah.” My voice squeaked. “I pre-registered. Joseph Ahanu.”

“That’s a pretty name. Hawaiian?”

“Algonquin.”

“Go ahead and sit at table H. . .” Read more: HTML PDF 

One time I happened to be in Puławy with a certain botanist. We were seating ourselves by the Temple of the Sibyl on a bench next to a boulder grown over with mosses or molds which my learned companion had been studying for several years.

I asked what he found of interest in examining the irregular splotches of beige, grey, green, yellow or red?

He looked at me distrustfully but, persuaded that he had before him an uninitiated person, he proceeded to explain. . . Read more: HTML PDF 

Next to the casket, I leaned on my cane and admired the work my brother practitioners had done on Elizabeth Fordham Roth. She had died at 80, but she did not look a day over 60 and might have only been sleeping. Physical reconstruction. Cosmetics. Those are the easier mortuary arts. It is the work of an afternoon to sew eyelids shut with invisible stitches, to close a slack jaw, to smooth out wrinkles and rouge pallid cheeks back to seeming life. My branch of the discipline is far more subtle and is never finished in a single afternoon. Read more: HTML PDF 

I’m in Hell. That must be what this is. I can’t fathom a god who would possibly interpret this as heaven, crammed in this damned steamer trunk; me and twenty three other Wayang Kulit shadow puppets, entombed with the smell of ox hide and musty bamboo.

I dream of a life before this one. A life in which I spoke a language other than the one the Master speaks for me. A life in which I could move my own vulgar arms, speak my own profane will, make my own damning decisions. I’ve been here so long I can’t remember what I did to deserve damnation, but a shadow of that life tells me I do. Read more: HTML PDF 

I hate the moon—I am afraid of it—for when it shines on certain scenes familiar and loved it sometimes makes them unfamiliar and hideous.

It was in the spectral summer when the moon shone down on the old garden where I wandered; the spectral summer of narcotic flowers and humid seas of foliage. . . Read more: HTML PDF