Issue 1 October 2013

Table of Contents

His Brother’s Bite

by Gillian Daniels

September 23, 2013

 

Maurice showed me his twin brother by lifting up his shirt and pointing to the teeth growing out of his stomach. They were in a half circle: five, firm, small pebbles. The edge of an ear protruded above them like a fish gill.

Maurice dropped his sweatshirt back over it. “There’s a bunch of cells from his face there. We were supposed to be twins when I was in my mom, but then it was just me.” Maurice smiled, proud.

“Was he trying to get out?” I looked at his stomach uncertainly. As a girl, I didn’t know why he had cornered me to say this. He could have told any of the boys in our class.

Laughing, Maurice said, “I didn’t eat him. We fused when we were eggs, like two pieces of wet gum.”

I told him I had to get home for dinner. After he explained the twin to me like that, though, I didn’t feel very hungry. My bike was leaning against the fence post. I edged my way toward it backward but Maurice followed.

He loomed. I had read what looming was in books but I had never seen it in real life, not the way Maurice did it. “The teeth started growing when I began to lose mine.”

“Uh huh.” The heel of my sneaker touched the front tire of my bike.

“I thought it was going to be a whole mouth straight to my guts!” he said.

I watched Maurice’s dark eyes getting wider as if they were going to eat his entire forehead. Feeling sick, my elbow hit the handlebars. “You want a mouth there?”

He shrugged. “Not really. I’d have to take care of him. Feed him. He’s my brother, you know?”

I got on the bike slowly, wedging myself onto the seat. I imagined more teeth growing and Maurice’s stomach turning into another face. Sweat ran from my armpits and down the back of my shirt. Instead of riding away I said, “So it’s not done growing?”

Maurice looked down, scuffing his shoe along the sidewalk. “It’s done. There haven’t been anymore teeth for years. Mom’s taking me to the doctor’s to get them all removed next Friday. I get to miss school. That’s where I am if anyone wonders, but don’t tell them.”

I nodded quickly. Maurice wasn’t unfriendly, but he was bigger. He was probably the biggest kid in our class except for Alison, whose parents didn’t know the difference between a boy’s and a girl’s name. “Why didn’t your mom do that when you first started to grow them?”

“I’m taking swimming lessons this summer. I gotta get rid of ‘em.”

“Even though they’re part of your brother?”

Maurice stopped and looked up at me, lost.

When he didn’t say anything, I figured it was okay to leave.

He said goodbye and waved as I rode away. It wasn’t an enthusiastic wave. He just lifted his hand, his fingers held out like he was going to pull on some invisible threads to stop me from going.

I didn’t have nightmares about the second mouth, or anything, but that was mainly because it kept getting into my head while I was trying to go to sleep. I hated him for doing that.

Maurice, on the other hand, thought we were friends now.

He didn’t try to hang out after school or anything, but when we would pass in the halls, his head would jerk upward and I would copy him sometimes with a smaller nod. That seemed to satisfy him because he would smile and walk away.

I didn’t even want to know about his stupid teeth.

During the day when Maurice was supposed to have his operation, though, he was still in school. Maybe it had just been Halloween make-up, I thought, and I was too dumb to see that. The thing with the brother had sounded mostly real, though.

I was wondering about this when I ran into Alison in the hall. He was as big as ever and must have been having a pretty bad day—the seventh graders from the middle school down the road liked to throw their lunches at him from the school bus—because he gave me a hard push when I walked into him.

Because my gut told me to and because a bruise the size, shape, and color of a rotten banana started to form on my arm, I pushed back with my math book.

Alison didn’t move but he frowned and laid me out flat, the back of my head hitting the floor. Today, it was tough to feel sorry about the orange peel in Alison’s hair.

I hadn’t even seen Maurice, but he must have been just down the hall, because he ran up and tackled Alison. I’m pretty sure that if the gym teacher, Mr. McKillian, hadn’t been the one on hall monitor duty, Maurice would have gotten suspended.

Instead, Alison pulled him over his head and slammed him down so that he was laid out on the floor like me.

Alison, standing over us, reached around to touch his back. “You bit me!” he said to Maurice.

Mr. McKillian touched his shoulder, told Alison that Maurice had done no such thing, and took him to the office. Later, I think he got Alison to join the wrestling team.

At lunch, I sat with Maurice.

“I thought you were going to be gone today,” I whispered to him.

He shook his head and grinned. “They’re putting it off.”

“Not taking swimming lessons?” I took a bite of my sandwich.

“Nah. They want to run some tests. There’s a new tooth!”

Thankfully, he didn’t offer to show me this time. Instead, he happily pulled out two sandwiches, one for him and one for his brother, and started eating both. After a while, I went ahead and offered some of my chips as a thank you.

Comments

  1. Emily Lubanko says:
    I really love this quite a lot.
  2. gregg chamberlain says:
    okay… that was weirdly interesting and good… nice way you maintained the young person point of view for a surreal story.
  3. Anne Pinckard says:
    Love how creepy and quirky this story is.
  4. Joanne Kwoh-Maysami says:
    Haven’t read it, but that reminds me to submit my Halloween story.
  5. Flash Fiction Online says:
    Read it, Jo! And today’s the last day to squeak in a seasonal story. 🙂
  6. Joanne Kwoh-Maysami says:
    But I thought it just opened up on October 1? Isn’t it October 1 today? You sure know how to make us crunch…. (Running for my laptop and USB drive…) 🙂
  7. Flash Fiction Online says:
    Seasonal stories close on October 1 and regular submissions open. Lol. Tricksy hobbitses we are….
  8. Joanne Kwoh-Maysami says:
    Ah, I thought we weren’t allowed to submit till today. And I can’t find my flash drive…
  9. EC Sheedy says:
    Not sure if I wanted this particular imagery in my head. LOL But very well done. I’d actually like to read more in the adventures of Maurice.
  10. MereMorckel says:
    Definitely reacting to this story like the POV character to the teeth! Nicely written.

Comments are closed.

Swan Maiden

by Barbara A. Barnett

September 23, 2013

The windowless theater makes it impossible to keep track of the days, but I am certain that years have passed since Fyodor’s last visit. I fear that he has died while his magic has not, for here I still stand, a swan maiden poised forever on pointe. Forever cursed.

I often wonder how our Swan Lake tableau looks from the seats: a circle of ballerinas in white-feathered skirts, one arm raised, the other swept down and back, the entire body mimicking the curve of a swan’s neck. The other swan maidens are like ghosts lurking in my peripheral vision, hinted at, but never fully seen. My gaze is fixed on the principal dancer at the center of our circle, Roksana in the role of Odette, her hair’s tight, perfect bun partially obscured by a sliver of my outstretched arm. Fyodor froze her in arabesque penchée, with her expression radiating an elegant strength I used to envy. But I’ve come to learn that her strength was as affected and fleeting as any dance pose.

When Fyodor cast the spell, the audience of course gave him a standing ovation. It would have been deemed rude not to applaud a man’s artistry in his own theater.

The parties he threw to celebrate his triumph were maddening. High society flocked around us, ran their hands over us, gushed over the new artistic direction Fyodor’s work had taken. Yet for every stranger’s hand that molested me, I felt nothing. I watched counts and countesses strike lewd poses with Roksana. I heard their laughter, but had no voice of my own with which to object. I never dreamed that I would long for the cold, sticky feel of spilled champagne until some baron admired the way it trickled down my leotard.

“You will never age, never hunger, never thirst,” Fyodor once told us. “You will be forever young, forever dancing.”

What could we say? People like us had no voice, even before Fyodor’s spell ensured that we would never speak again. When the alternative was starvation, you accepted the contracts you were offered, no questions asked.

And so now our fates are like that of Odette in Swan Lake: we are helpless, waiting for someone to rescue us from our curse. Yet in a way, it is poor, pitiable Odette–or Roksana, rather–who has given me enough hope not to go mad. All this time, Roksana’s expression has been changing, the muscles in her face moving in barely perceptible degrees.

Fyodor’s grand parties thinned after time, as did he. His skin grew wrinkled and sallow, and all that remained of his once-dark hair were scattered wisps of gray. He seemed to crumple in on himself, neck and shoulders curved in a mockery of our swan-like poses.

During his last visit, he stroked the curve of my raised arm and admonished me for not holding it as high as the other swan maidens. Then, for the only time that I can recall, he admonished himself as well.

“The perfect spell would have allowed me to correct such a flaw. But magic isn’t perfect, is it?”

That was when I noticed the marks on Fyodor’s arms–the kind of puckered red sores left by a doctor’s leeches.

“You are family,” Fyodor told us before leaving that day. “The only family this forgotten artist has left.”

As more unmarked days pass, I suspect that must be true. The few who come to the theater now speak to each other of plans to purchase, yet they never do. They say the neighborhood is no longer what it was. They say Fyodor’s lingering spells are all that keep the vagrants from piling their filth into the aisles.

What I can see of the theater has fallen into disrepair. The velvet curtains are tattered and thick with dust; fabric that was once the vibrant red of fresh blood is now the tired, mottled brown of a scab. The luster has faded from the proscenium’s golden trim. The theater’s chandelier isn’t visible from where I stand, but I would not be surprised to hear it come crashing down. The vagrants are probably safer outside.

Roksana’s expression has finally finished its slow transformation into a look of madness and despair. Whereas my arm is unchanged, Roksana’s skin, once so smooth and pale, has taken on the cast of stone. And that stone is chipping.

Unlike her, I will not make the ballet heroine’s choice. I will not dive into the lake to drown myself as Odette did, all hope lost. I have begun to move my foot. Every prolonged, infinitesimal motion inspires excruciating pain, pain that demands a scream I cannot release. But before this theater collapses to the ground, I will take my first step in years.

Comments

  1. Chris says:
    Beautiful, Barb.  More, more, more.
  2. kings_falcon says:
    Lovely story. It’s really hard write a compelling story when your main character can’t move but this was well done. I love the strength of this character.
  3. Joe Iriarte says:
    Oh wow. A great concept, well-executed.
  4. gregg chamberlain says:
    agreed.
  5. EdgarAPoeChick says:
    Wonderful
  6. IdaSmith says:
    Nice. I like the initial ambiguity and eventual realization of the narrator. I like how you have voice to the art.
  7. MereMorckel says:
    Lovely story – creepy and beautiful.

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Bats at Dusk

by Jorie Daniels

September 23, 2013

Bats at Dusk
“Peter could keep up with the bats now because he let them fly in and out on their own terms. He didn’t need to follow them; they would come to him.”
Picture courtesy of Rachel Sanchez, Ever After Pictures LLC

The bats were always getting us into trouble.

Dusk was a warning– time to head home. If you could still see yellow, you weren’t late. Every day you pushed your luck, just a few more minutes as the sun reached out one last time.

It was worth the risk, because that’s when the bats came out, emerging from shadows like sprinters set loose by the crack of a pistol.

Peter walked Mia home every night, even though he had to pass his house to get to hers. Mia knew it wasn’t really to talk. He risked being late to watch the bats with her.

When they were six, they sat in the yard pulling up grass absentmindedly, stretching their necks to watch the race.

“Those are funny looking birds.”

“They’re not birds, dummy. They’re bats.”

“Ew.”

Mia watched. “I think they’re beautiful.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “What are they doing?”

“Eating.”

“Oh.” And then, “ew.”

They watched the dizzying dance for bugs. As soon as Peter focused on one, it flipped back the way it came and disappeared. He saw another, but it blended into the darkness and was lost to him. Frustrated, he shook his head, pushed himself up, and walked home.

When they were ten, they sat in the front yard until Dad yelled at her for spending too much time with the queer kid. Peter’s parents didn’t call him in anymore.

#

When lanky teenage legs made sitting on the ground awkward, they reclined on the grass and watched the bats dart convulsively from one invisible target to another. Peter could keep up with the bats now because he let them fly in and out on their own terms. He didn’t need to follow them; they would come to him.

Dad still yelled at Mia about hanging out with the queer kid, except now he wasn’t the queer kid, he was that faggot and if Mia knew what was good for her, she’d stay away from him.

#

“My dad won’t let me get my license,” Peter said to the bats.

“Why not?” Mia asked on their behalf.

“He says I’m too fruity.”

Mia pondered Peter’s fruitiness.

“My dad won’t let me get my license either.”

“Why not? You fruity too?”

“No, but my friends are.”

They lay in silence until Peter said, “When I die, I want to die at dusk.”

Mia frowned. What an odd thing to say. “Um…” She decided the best response was none at all.

“I want the bats to carry me away.”

“Oh.” Mia thought about it. “Well, then me too.”

“When the zombies come, you and I can go to the cliffs. We’ll jump and the bats can snatch our souls away before we hit the ground.”

“God, you’re such a weirdo.” And then, “It’s a deal.”

Someone’s feet crunched the gravel in the driveway. Probably one of the zombies. Neither of them looked up.

“Hey Fairy Boy,” the voice attached to the feet said, “Dad’s looking for you.”

Peter sighed.

“Hurry up.”

Peter lay still.

“Think I should go?”

“Probably.”

Peter stayed until dark.

#

Mia watched the bats. Peter couldn’t see well with two black eyes.

“Why did you let them hit you?”

“You obviously don’t understand the mechanics of getting beat up.”

#

The peppered air of dusk in June was uncomfortable. She found him at the cliffs, the cheap white material of his gown billowing around his legs as the winds tried to claim him. It was their last day, their finale. And he was at the cliffs.

“Have the zombies come, Peter?” she asked, only half jokingly, as her heart thundered in her throat.

He turned, not surprised by her appearance, but with his head tilted in curiosity.

“You said when the zombies came, you wanted the bats to take you away.” She spoke quickly, afraid that if she thought about what she was saying, her heart would swallow her nerve.

“Oh.” He just smiled.

The wind kicked up a tornado of dust and last years’ trash. Mia’s breath caught in her throat. Would that be him? This year’s discarded trash?

“Peter…”

He reached out to her, his palm facing up, a gesture of friendship with a hint of desperation. “Stand with me,” it said.

She did. She’d promised.

They stared out over the town, where the zombies gathered. Where the zombies had always been. The town glowed like a bonfire.

Mia struggled to find her words, maybe for the first time in her life. “Peter, are you… is this…?”

Peter looked at her, his eyes glimmering with mischief and amusement, a frightening contradiction of what she’d expected to see.

“Today, we jump,” he said.

Mia scowled. He couldn’t be serious…

“Peter…”

“Ready?”

Panic seized her voice. Mia gripped his hand, ready to yank him back or drag them both to the ground or whatever it took to stop him.

Peter sucked in a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and hopped once in place. Turning an expectant gaze to Mia, he smiled. “Well?”

He was serious, wasn’t he? Mia’s forehead wrinkled in confusion, frustration, no…just confusion. She slowly shook her head.

Well, what the hell? She hopped.

“There,” he said proudly. “We jumped.”

A wet laugh broke free and Mia giggled until she cried. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she said, “And the bats?”

Peter nodded toward the yellowing sky. “Right there. Ready to take us wherever we want to go.”

“You’re leaving, then.”

Peter sighed heavily, looking down on the town, a somber scowl overcoming his mischievousness. “Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “I am.”

Real tears tickled her eyes. She looked at her feet to keep from looking at him.

“They’ll take you anywhere, Mia.” He turned to her, his eyes dancing with excitement again, his voice urgent. “Anywhere you want to go. And if you want to go somewhere else, they’ll take you there instead. Do you see?”

She finally looked up at him.

“So,” Peter said, “where do you want to go?”

Comments

  1. Serene says:
    Heart-achingly beautiful.
  2. IdaSmith says:
    Oh wow. So much feeling. You’ve captured the anxiety of being young. The things said, often without words. Your ending keeps me thinking. Hoping.
  3. MereMorckel says:
    Lovely moments between two people.

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A New Perspective

by Anna Yeatts

September 30, 2013

I am excited to begin this journey as publisher of Flash Fiction Online.  I truly believe stories give us the opportunity to deepen our understanding of the human condition.  Flash Fiction Online will always support authors, artists, and readers from all walks of life. We’re here to learn from one another through well written stories of any genre that engage heart, mind, and soul.  We will never discriminate based on race, sex, gender, sexual orientation, age, or religion.

Bats at Dusk” by Jorie Daniels is a poignant literary piece that is more relevant today than ever. “His Brother’s Bite” by Gillian Daniels is a creepily fun fantasy piece just in time for Halloween.  And we’ve included a third story this month, Barbara Barnett’s “Swan Maiden“, a beautifully told fantasy about clinging to hope against all odds.

We’ve also added a Support Us page.  Your donations keep Flash Fiction Online free, but there are other ways to help out as well.  Every little bit counts!

Most of all, spread the word. Tweet, pin, share, like, comment.  We love to hear what you have to say.

Thanks ever so much.  Now go read!

Anna Yeatts

Publisher, Flash Fiction Online

Comments

  1. peverett says:
    All three stories this week were wonderful: very well written with concise, precise imagery that caused me to audibly gasp at each well-turned phrase.
  2. Joseph Kaval says:
    Hello Anna
    your editorial. true. pleased. katha kshetre literary quarterly on line follows the same rules. why not we publishe storie in your journal as well as you publish storie for KK. No restrictions
    J.Kaval M.A, B.d, D.G
    editor-Publisher
    Katha Kshetre
    joseph.kaval@gmail.com
    1. Anna Yeatts says:
      Thank you for the kind offer but I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to open our pages to another magazine. But I applaud the work of your literary magazine for promoting equality and your interest in Flash Fiction Online! Much love — Anna
  3. AnnaY says:
    Thank you for the kind offer, but Flash Fiction Online is unable to publish jointly with another publication. Best of luck to you with your own publication, keep up the fight to better promote diversity in literature, and thanks for your support. — Anna

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