Issue 61 October 2018

Table of Contents

Purchase Issue

All Strange and Terrible Things Are Welcome

by Suzanne Vincent

October 1, 2018

Editorial

Cleopatra (yes, that Cleopatra), is quoted as saying, “All strange and terrible things are welcome, but comforts we despise.”

When it comes to life in general, I’m not sure I can agree with her. I like comfortable. I like easy. I prefer not to have terrible things happen.

I have to admit, however, that I tend to lean toward the strange. My little world is filled with oddities.

For example, in my herb garden I have an unusual plant called Egyptian or Walking Onion.

 

It’s an actual onion, but not terribly useful as an onion. It costs more time than it’s worth to harvest and peel the actual onion bulbs from it, though I do use the greens like scallions.

The plant grows narrow leaves and large 3-foot-tall stalks. It’s at the top of these stalks that the onions form, something like a head of garlic with 10 to 20 tiny onions all clumped together. Each of these tiny onions puts out a small leaf and flower stalk of its own. It’s called a Walking Onion because as the thick stalk dries and grows top-heavy from the bulb of tiny onions at its top, it bends and topples over, leaving the bulb of onions in contact with the ground. Left to its own devices, that onion bulb will root into the soil, and a new plant will grow, repeating the process, propagating new plants farther and farther away from the mother plant.

I’ve also grown fuzzy tomatoes, striped beets, kohlrabi, dragon-tongue beans, and dozens of other things most people either haven’t heard of or didn’t know you could grow in a home garden.

But I don’t think Cleopatra is talking about life in general, or about gardening.

I think she’s talking about fiction. We love the strange and terrible in the stories we read, watch, and listen to. This explains the popularity of Stephen King, campfire stories, comic books, Stranger Things, Guardians of the Galaxy, Star Trek (“… strange new worlds…”).

We read a lot of strange stories at Flash Fiction Online. This month we have four of the strangest.

Apes companions and angsty superheroes and aliens obsessed with the number three and a woman who wants to be buried alive.

We hope you enjoy them as much as we do.

Leave a Reply

Words I’ve Redefined Since Your Dinosaurs Invaded My Lunar Lair

by Stewart C Baker

October 5, 2018

Science Fiction

Terror

I always thought The Paleontologist was a goofy superhero concept.

Your obsession with fossils. That silly tool belt…

What were you going to do, brush dust off me? Stab me with your tiny shovel?

But you’ve really upped your game. When those velociraptors bounded off your ship, screeching like deranged kangaroos, I was so scared I almost forgot I had an army of unstoppable nanomolecular deathbots.

Almost.

 

Never

Back when I was just a clueless underling, the first Doctress Death told me never to dream up elaborate deathtraps. She said they were foolish and that a raygun to the face failed less often and was every bit as permanent.

And yet, here we are!

You stuck inside a moon-crystal box surrounded by deathbots in a room slowly draining of oxygen. Me on the other side of an impenetrable labyrinth.

What’s a little foolishness between old enemies, eh?

 

Purpose

When I first got into this business, I only ever wanted to be respected. To be somebody.

I tried out for the Super Team, but they said I was dull. Uninspiring.

So I signed up as Doctress Death’s minion. I never thought she’d kill everyone I’d ever loved and tell me she’d just made me hostage-proof.

After that, I made it my life’s work to avenge my family, my friends. Oh was it sweet, how her face contorted when I shoved that nano-steel blade into her sternum during her takeover of the Royal Museum. How she died knowing it was me that she should have been paying attention to instead of stupid Captain Primus.

But revenge is a funny thing, you know? After that, I didn’t know what to do next. I couldn’t go home because I no longer had one. And I couldn’t give up evil because who would believe me?

Then you showed up a few days later demanding “justice for the dead,” and while I thought it was hilarious that you turned out to be talking about the dinosaur skeletons she’d destroyed, I also thought, well, why not pick up the Doctress Death mantle, at least for a little while?

I guess I’ve kind of lost sight of my old self in the years since then. Of what it was I ever wanted.

 

Friendship

You know, we’re not so different, really. Neither of us have ever fit in.

Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way Captain Primus reacts when you suggest ideas. The way Lady Supernova looks at you like you’ve crawled out of some hole on those digs you’re so fond of.

It’s the same way everyone always looked at me, back before I was Doctress Death. Back when I was…

Back when…

I’m sorry, I’m not crying. It’s just… There’s moon dust in my eyes.

Anyway, I’m proud to call you my frenemy.

 

Celebrate

I always used to destroy things to celebrate, but you’ve inspired me! I’m going to change.

I’ll open that moon crystal box you’re stuck in. Turn back on the oxygen. Dissolve my impenetrable labyrinth. I’ll even command my deathbots to disperse to the kitchen, to bake a cake we can share. Just to show there’s no hard feelings.

That’s right…

Out of the death chamber…

I’m just down that corridor.

 

Corridor

Okay, you got me.

This is the airlock.

 

Justice

Seriously, though. I do feel like we’re kindred spirits. Both of us have been wronged by our supposed allies, and both of us have a strong sense of justice.

I can tell you disagree.

And okay, sure. Some might say that by pushing you out an airlock to die, I’m continuing the evil ways of my predecessor. That I’m stamping out the hero who saved those kids in Montana from falling into that resurfaced tar pit—even if you were just trying to preserve the fossil record.

Those people don’t understand how to take the long view. How to make sure justice lasts.

And that’s where we differ. You’re like Captain Primus and the others: content to take action when evil concerns you, content to save the things you think need saving. Heck, I used to be the same.

But when your raptors came bounding at me, incisors flashing, I had a burst of insight: Good, Evil—they’re two sides of a coin, endlessly spinning, completely inseparable. A matter of perspective.

It doesn’t matter whether the side you’re on is labeled “hero” or “villain.” Both do terrible things in the name of justice. Don’t believe me? Just look up how many minions Lady Supernova’s killed. How many people she’s left missing family members, lovers, mentors, friends.

So really, I have to thank you. You’ve inspired me to stop my petty villainy and tear down the whole damn system.

Speaking of which, that airlock door’s going to cycle open any second now.

 

Victory

I can see the despair in your face as you wedge that pick of yours into the wall, holding your breath in the vain hope the outer doors will shut again before you asphyxiate and die.

You think you’ve lost. You think I’ve won.

But while we’ve been chatting, my deathbots have been busy. By now, they should have already meshed with your raptors, and when your corpse is cooling out there on Mare Imbrium, they’ll be eviscerating all the heroes they can find, starting with Captain Primus.

Then, when the Society of Nefarious Persons, Machines, and Other Entities invites me in to celebrate, I’ll turn the raptors on them, and when they’re gone I’ll self-destruct my moon base in one final glorious doom-filled blaze.

It’s funny, really. It’s only because of you that I can bring about a new era. An era where no single being is powerful enough to decide who’s good, who’s evil, who gets to call the shots.

Even though you’re about to die, you’ll be instrumental to the end of all villainy.

I hope that brings you solace.

Leave a Reply

Three is a Sacred Number

by Carrie Cadwallader

October 12, 2018

Science Fiction

K’loth bends his face to the basin and washes. The first washing of the day is for the Gods. One is the Goddess. Two is the God. Three is the Shadow. The water drips from pale blue tentacles above his mouth that move in the motions of prayers he has said every day since attaining his majority.

Three is a sacred number.

K’loth bends a second time. The second washing is for family. One is the ancestors. Two is the family of today, though they are long dead. Three is the descendants he will never have. He prays they find peace. And forgive him.

Three is a sacred number.

K’loth reaches into the basin the third time. The third washing is for self. Past, future, present. He says no prayer for himself. There is nothing left to hope for.

He does not reach for a towel. The water of prayer must dry in its own time.

K’loth stands at the cell door, awaiting the signal. Above the cell door hang nine large black markers and nine small white markers. They show his victories. Nine and ninety wins. Nine and ninety times the God and Goddess have granted him life, and The Shadow has taken his opponents. He is the longest survivor in many seasons.

Nine is a sacred number. Three threes. Nine and Ninety is the convergence of all sacred numbers. Holy. Complete.

All know the tradition of one hundred. One hundred wins to be free. Many speak K’loth’s name in the same breath with that of Slamon of Ceti who survived one hundred bouts and became an Overlord. He now owns the lives of a dozen competitors and sits among the elite.

One hundred is not a sacred number.

At one hundred kills, K’loth would be free. At nine and ninety, he is content, but it is not his choice to fight or quit. His life belongs to his Overlord. Like the scores of other competitors in cells beside, above, and below him, the Overlords came to his homeworld many seasons past with their slim silver ships and their guns and chains. So far as K’loth knows, he is the very last of his kind. He fights when told. Sleeps and eats when allowed. Prays daily.

The cell doors open. Some competitors push and shove. Some hang their heads in despair. K’loth stands tall, sacred water still dripping from his mouth tentacles. A gang of Avids push to the front of the ration line, their red feathers bristling at the slightest touch. Others give way, letting the Avids pass. Their beaks are strong enough to crack bone, and they are quick to anger. No one wishes to be in their path.

No one but K’loth. He stands in his place and will not be moved. The Avids stop their advance. Even they do not challenge K’loth.

K’loth takes his ration to the side. White-fur is waiting for him there. K’loth has no way to make the sounds of White-fur’s language, and White-fur cannot speak the language of K’loth’s people, but they make do. They are an unusual pair. K’loth, dizzyingly tall, with blue skin and mouth tentacles, long fingers and thick, muscled legs. White-fur, half K’loth’s size, covered with thick hair. His tail and long retractable claws enable him to climb and swing. That, and the quick-acting paralytic poison in his spit, have allowed White-fur to survive two and twenty bouts in the arena.

“Last fight today,” White-fur says to K’loth in his native tongue. White-fur’s voice is high and his speech very fast. It takes K’loth a few seconds to understand each statement. “You are happy to be free, no?”

K’loth shakes his head. He holds up three fingers, then folds two of them in and hangs his head low.

“Is not three, I know. But is freedom. When free, you will be Overlord. Own three competitors. Nine competitors. More. Like my Overlord, Slamon of Ceti. Big hero.”

K’loth’s tentacle bristle at the mention of Slamon’s name. He has grown tired of the comparison. He does not understand the compulsion to own others and force them to fight, but he has no way to make White-fur comprehend his meaning, so he only eats.

After rations, it is time to prepare for the day’s battle. K’loth has been told he will fight one of the Avids today. It will be a good show. He allows the Supervisors to wash and oil his skin and dress him in armor. He chooses spear, knife, and net. Three weapons. Always three.

The gates open and K’loth steps onto the field. Sun shines on his oiled face-tentacles and glints from the metal tip of his spear. The Overlords cheer. K’loth sees Slamon of Ceti in the place of honor. Though he is seated high above the arena, K’loth sees the hatred on Slamon’s face. He has long been a unique fixture. The only competitor to survive one hundred bouts. He does not want K’loth to win.

The crowd is beyond capacity. All wait to see if K’loth will achieve his freedom.

The opposite gate opens, and K’loth prepares to face his Avid foe. But it is no Avid that steps onto the field of battle. K’loth looks again to Slamon and sees the smug satisfaction on the former slave’s face. He knows. He has manipulated the draw to put his own slave, White-fur, into this battle. Even from such a distance, K’loth can almost hear his victorious laughter.

White-fur is scared. K’loth does not have the words to comfort him, nor would he know what to say if he did.

Nine and ninety is the culmination of sacred numbers, but one is the most sacred number of all.

K’loth signals that he is ready for battle to begin.

Previously published in Daily Science Fiction, 2013. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

Leave a Reply

What I Understand Now

by Lauren Ferebee

October 19, 2018

Fantasy

Molly was twenty-four when she woke up one morning, discovered she was already dead, and shortly thereafter asked me to bury her alive. Our paths had diverged after Ole Miss: she got a house and a husband amongst the ancestral oaks of Oxford, while I jetted off to San Francisco for a job in tech.

Being back in Oxford one weekend, I texted her, curious about her charmed life. She met me at a wine bar, impeccably coiffed and dressed in starched white linen, the kind of Southern woman you might imagine extinct if you didn’t know one personally.

She seemed distracted when I outlined my urban life, too-expensive apartment, cutting-edge job. “Technology,” she said, lazily waving her hand over me in some genteel form of conversational exorcism.

Then she leaned over and told me she had discovered she was dead, in the same tone she had once told me she was engaged. “I’m already skin and bones,” she said, pushing a hair out of her face. “No organs. No blood.” Then she smiled, in a way that wasn’t really smiling at all, just pushing her mouth up at both ends.

Molly had pledged Tri Delt like her mother and her grandmother and like me, except unlike them, I was no Southern-bred society girl. I was the accessory, the friend who danced at their debutante balls and again at their weddings. I had lost track of most of the white-dressed girls whose milestone nights I’d whirled away, but Molly had always been the strangest one somewhere underneath.

“Are you unhappy?” I asked her, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Unhappy?” Her laugh was warm but dry, like a practiced handshake. “I’ve never been happier. I always hated it, you know, the feeling of blood running through my veins. Don’t you hate it? Don’t you hate your heart?”

I felt the shameful thump in my chest. In college, she had eaten rarely: cottage cheese, boiled egg. I had followed suit, then gorged myself in my dorm room with chips and chocolate, a secret disgrace.

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I managed, suddenly aware of my own sweat glands, my own breathing. She eyed me over.

“I thought since you were in town, you could be my gravedigger.” She leaned over conspiratorially, as though we were planning her wedding all over again. “I’ve already picked the spot. We could do it tonight.”

This was the moment I could have told her no, that she ought to get help, talk to her husband, see someone. What can I say, except that when she said it, suddenly I felt like it wasn’t normal to live, that I felt special to be asked on this insane errand? I found myself nodding instead.

“Good,” she said. “You always were the one who understood.” She poured me more wine, and I drank, sealing our bond.

The next thing I remember, I was holding a shovel, standing by the moonlit silhouette of an old, dead tree on campus, whose insides were so hollowed out it was just a shell of itself. It was a place we had come to scare ourselves with stories of ghosts.

In the moonlight, I swear could see straight through Molly’s skin, and she was, indeed, empty, as empty as the tree we stood by. Had she ever been alive? Had she ever been herself? I tried to think back to her wedding, her coming out, dances, parties, and found that I was suddenly unable to see her, save as a blur in white.

“Where did it all go?” I asked.

She looked at me then, sad and wise, a hollow much older than her body.

“Start digging,” she said.

Leave a Reply

I Will You Back to Time and Space

by Dafydd McKimm

October 26, 2018

Science Fiction

You are ten years unborn on the evening of the day that will soon become known as G-day. I am washing dishes in the kitchen of our newly bought terrace, cleaning the residue of dinner from our finest boot-sale porcelain. I bring two glasses of wine over to the sofa, where your mother is yawning contentedly, and touch my glass gently to hers. The clink sings through the stuffy air.

“Cheers, fellow homeowner,” I say.

Your mother grins, takes a sip of her wine. Then her eyes focus on something behind me. Her glass falls; she screams; I turn to see them for the first time: two hulking things, arms thick as tree trunks, barrel-chested, those beetle-browed primate eyes focused so intensely on us. I shout, curse, push your mother back, my head ringing like the resounding clink of the wine glasses but an alien moment ago.

Soon enough, we find out the gorillas aren’t just there for the two of us. They’re everywhere, following every living person, and they’re here to stay.

#

Everyone has a different theory about what exactly the gorillas are: outward manifestations of our souls; angels, watching, but forbidden by laws of free-will to interact. According to one TV physicist, the gorillas are higher-dimensional beings that manifest for some reason in our time-space continuum as great apes.

Each person’s gorilla is like a fingerprint. Mine, whom I call Gordon, is a smaller-than-average silverback, with a forehead as dark and cracked as a loaf of over-baked sourdough. Your mother’s, Selene, is a pot-bellied female, with warm caramel-coloured eyes and a white moon-shaped patch above her brow-ridge.

Whatever they are, we soon get used to their perpetual presence, their inscrutable stares. After all, what’s one more form of surveillance in this day and age?

#

For years, life goes on, our joys and sorrows no less intense for being watched over by the hyper-apes. The tears your mother and I cry over not being able to conceive are no less bitter, the toll of fertility treatments no less destructive, almost but not quite tearing us apart. The joy when we finally see those two blue lines is no less wondrous, and the embrace we share, pressing that pregnancy test between us, is no less an outpour of all our pent-up hopes that everything will surely be all right.

#

It is a Wednesday in the March of G10 when you come into the world, screaming your woeful head off like any other Wednesday’s child. Your mother and I cannot stop grinning like two mad fools, but our grins fade as the realization seeps through the room, permeating each of us, the nurses, the midwife, in turn. Gordon and Selene are present as always, but a third gorilla, one that should be yours, is nowhere in sight.

#

They probe your little body as if you’re some thing from another planet, mapping your neural activity, scrutinizing your bio-chemistry. When you’re older, they measure your IQ, ink-blot you until your eyes ache, perform every kind of exam imaginable, hoping to find some glitch in your makeup that will explain why you lack what every other living person has. They find only that you are a sweet, smarter-than-average girl who likes making collages and reading Roald Dahl books. We try to keep prying eyes at bay, but short of locking you indoors, we cannot keep you away from the whispers that follow you wherever you go, your lack of a watcher like a beacon drawing the world’s attention, and its judgement.

When you ask us why you don’t have a gorilla, we give you a plush one instead, and you clutch it to you as if nothing has ever fulfilled you more.

Every day I pray for just one other person to be born without a watcher, but you remain alone, more so with every day that passes. I see it, that swelling loneliness, as you sit by the window clutching Charlie, your toy gorilla, watching everyone walking by accompanied. I see it opening up like a cavern inside of you, and I wonder if you’ll ever feel you belong in this world, and what will happen when that loneliness overcomes you.

#

It happens on a sunny afternoon in June of G20, the air full of wildflowers and the drone of bees. We’re home-schooling you, but you’re ten now, curious as a naturalist, and curiosity burns so fiercely at your age. When I leave our books to make peanut butter sandwiches, out you go, sneaking like a fox into the field, Charlie, your gorilla, tucked beneath your arm.

What happens next I can only guess. I imagine a crowd, children who have grown up always knowing their gorillas, knowing only that you were a freak for not having one. I see them tearing away Charlie, ripping his head off and laughing as you scream, imagine how intensely you must have yearned to disappear.

And then, in a flash that fried every device for half a mile around, you were gone, leaving behind a tear in the universe, the shape of a scared little girl.

#

Your mother trawls the news every day, quietly hoping to find an extinction-level disaster—an asteroid hurtling unstoppable towards the Earth, a supervolcano dead set on blowing us all to smithereens, so we’re forced to go through that portal, forced to take that leap into the unknown, into some utopia where we can all live happily ever after, all thanks to you, our misunderstood savior.

Maybe it’s the plan those apes—who, when you disappeared, vanished too—had in mind all along.

Well I say fuck that. Fuck all of it.

I won’t resign your fate to hope and hunches.

Because, you see, there is one thing I do know for sure: that in a world where gorillas can appear out of nowhere and a little girl can will herself out of time and space, I, her father, can sure as hell will her back.

Leave a Reply

Join the 
Community

Support

Become a member of our Patreon community

Support

Subscribe

Subscribe via Weightless Books

Subscribe

Submit a Story

Submit your story using our Submittable portal

Submit a Story